Border Angels (19 page)

A throbbing sound filled the empty rooms of number 68. Daly looked outside and watched as a familiar black Jeep reversed up to the front door. He stood, motionless. The Jeep door banged shut, and a man with a shaved head jumped out.

Daly stepped onto the landing. He heard the man try the front door, rattling it in frustration, and then pause. Then he tried again. Daly listened carefully, trying to work out the caller’s next step. A lengthier silence followed as the man went through his pockets, fishing for keys. Then he knocked on the door and impatiently rapped the side window with his knuckles. Whatever he was looking for, it wasn’t the rent.

Daly slipped down the stairs and out the back door. He crept round to the front of the house. The caller had gone, but the Jeep was still there, the keys sitting in the ignition. He fumbled in the dashboard compartment and retrieved an Irish passport in the name of Frank O’Neill, and a folder stuffed with bank statements and letters belonging to Jack Fowler. At last, the nameless stalker that roamed the border country had a name. Daly had made the first step in relegating the man with the limp to the status of an ordinary criminal.

He was about to return to his car and radio for help when he heard a frantic knocking from the boot. He glanced up at number 68. Still no signs of life and the driver was nowhere to be seen. Daly reckoned he might have enough time to check what was making the noise. At the sound of his footsteps, the Jeep swung slightly from side to side. Something in the boot was struggling desperately to get his attention.

He popped open the lid and found himself staring into the dark, troubled eyes of Lena Novak. Her body had been bound with ropes. There was no noise from her gagged mouth. Only her ragged breathing, rising and falling. Her eyes fixed on his. They were frosted with fear. He untied her squirming body and helped her out of the boot. Her body was still in shock, shaking slightly under his touch. She felt cold, as though he had lifted her from a freezing river.

“You’re bleeding.”

“He held a knife to my throat. He threatened to cut me if I struggled.” She resisted his attention, but seemed reluctant to disengage from the safety of his gaze. “It’s only a small cut.”

Hearing a noise from the house, he grabbed her arm forcefully. Her eyes twisted up at him, anxious and surprised. “Get into the Jeep,” he whispered urgently. “We don’t have time to get back to my car.” They jumped into the front, and Daly reversed quickly onto the street. A minute later, they were on the main road back to Lough Neagh.

“What happened?” he asked.

She rubbed her neck; her cheeks were still flushed from the struggle in the boot. “After I spoke to you on the phone, the doorbell rang,” she said. “I thought it was you.” She shivered. “But it wasn’t. You were right. He was there all along. He wrapped his hands around my throat to make me stop screaming. Then he gagged me and tied me up. I blacked out. When I came round, I found myself locked in the boot. I shouted until my throat was raw. Thank God you came.” Daly detected a thread of affection in her voice.

Driving through Armagh, he rang the station on his mobile phone. He asked for a patrol car to check out number 68, Foxborough Mews. He relayed his suspicions that a group of women were being held in the house against their will. He also told the duty sergeant his car had broken down. A recovery vehicle was sent out to tow it back to the station. He put the phone down and glanced at the cut on her neck.

“I should take you to the hospital. Get you checked over.”

“No. I can’t take the risk. He might be waiting for me there.”

“There were some documents in his Jeep. In the name of Frank O’Neill. Does that ring a bell with you?”

“I’ve never heard of the name. Who is he?”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you he’s a professional. A trained professional who’s been given orders to kidnap you.”

“I got away from him,” she said defiantly. “Twice.” Her dark eyes glittered at him. “No man will ever take me prisoner again.”

“What were you doing in Foxborough Mews?”

“Hiding.”

“A ghost estate is a strange place to hide.”

“Everywhere’s strange to me. That’s what happens when you’re on the run in a country with no identity or past. I thought it would be the last place people would think of looking.”

“What about the other women?”

“What women?”

He explained how a group of women had been kidnapped from an illegal alcohol-bottling plant.

“Have you seen them?” The tone of her voice changed.

“I think so.”

“Where?”

“They were in number 68. I saw them look down from a window, but when I searched inside, they had disappeared.”

She said nothing. He wanted to ask her more questions, but her mood had changed. He was afraid that if he started to cross-examine her, she would run away at the first opportunity. She nodded off in the warmth of the car and then jerked awake, fighting sleep. She kept her eyes open and vacant, slipping into a trance that was neither sleeping nor waking.

He tried to catalog her emotional state, the lengthy silences in their conversation. He was on guard for ominous signs in her demeanor. The detective in him compelled him to do so, but the changes he should have been watching for were those taking place within him. Her close presence shed a different light on the investigation, like the subtle light of the moon, changing the shape and direction of his detective work. Some things were beginning to make sense to him, but many more remained in the dark. Who were the women hiding in number 68? Was it a coincidence that he had found them in the same estate as Lena and Michael Mooney? Where was Martha Havel? And what sort of a picnic required the instruments of kidnap?

It was dark when Daly pulled the Jeep up at the cottage. He nosed the vehicle deep into a small orchard at the back. The headlights lit up the first of the season’s apple blossoms. He helped Lena out of the Jeep and led her through deep grass overgrown with brambles. A necklace of bruises had started to discolor her neck. The sweet smell of her perfume filled his nostrils.

It struck him that Lena was his first female houseguest since he had moved into the cottage a year ago. Although the place was run-down and messy, it had been a sanctuary from women and work, the stricken victims and the burdened colleagues. He unlocked the door and tentatively invited her in.

The fusty dark barely revealed the cottage’s antiques, the Welsh dresser with its set of ancient crockery, a shelf of books, and the cast-iron stove. For the first time, he noticed the cobwebs that had gathered in the corners of the small windows.

She walked around the cramped room, inquisitive, brushing against the furniture, like a kitten with an arched back. She opened the door into the kitchen, took a peek, and then tried the bedroom door.

“Is there a toilet?” she asked, eventually. “I need a pee.”

When she returned, her face looked fresher; gone was the tiredness around her eyes.

“Why did you ring me?” asked Daly.

“I had a dream about you.”

“What sort of a dream?”

“You were standing on a shore, calling out to me. Then I woke up and heard the sound of a vehicle cruising through the estate. It was a black Jeep. I panicked and phoned you, even though I wasn’t planning to do so.”

“I’m glad you did.”

She sat down on a chair, her back still arched slightly.

“You should be worried,” she told him.

“Why?”

“Whenever men try to save me, they get hurt.” She crossed her arms in front of her and raised her chin slightly. He stared at the fine bones of her wrists. “When Jack visited the brothel, he was looking for some fun between the sheets, but then he met me. He thought he had netted something special, a woman that would excite him and make his life happier. He should have let me sink back to the bottom of the river.”

“How did Mikolajek find out about Jack and you?”

“Jack’s business empire was falling apart. He planned to do a runner to Spain or the United States, but we needed false passports. He was anxious not to alert any of his old associates, so we avoided the usual channels. He got in touch with a bunch of Romanians who specialized in false documents. They were meant to be useful and discreet. We met a man called Hedler. He was a pimp; I could tell right away. I think his instinct alerted him to something in me, as well. He took our photos, wrote down our details, and Jack paid him the money, about £4,000. Hedler winked at me while Jack’s back was turned and then he made an obscene gesture at him. The anger rose within me, and I spat at him. That was the closest I came to forgetting to play my part. He provoked me on purpose. We were meant to meet Hedler the following week and collect the passports, but instead he tipped off Mikolajek.”

She stared at Daly. “You probably disapprove of Jack. The type of man he was.”

“I disapprove of the way he died. Unless you can convince me you played no part in his death, I have to arrest you. Is that clear?”

She shrugged. “I can’t speak for the mental pressures he was under, but I’m no killer, nor a blackmailer.”

“But Fowler’s wife says you blackmailed him.”

“If that was true, you’d be my next victim. Besides, I already explained to you why I made that call.”

Her eyes bore into his, searching for any signs of doubt. It struck Daly that this was a skillful way to avoid the accusation. She sighed wearily. “If you used your imagination, you would realize that I didn’t need to blackmail or kill Jack Fowler to get money from him. What else did I have to gain? A return to the life of a prostitute?”

“I have to know more,” he said.

She raised her face toward him and gave him a steady look. Daly got the impression that a hidden part of her was maneuvering out of the dark.

“If you are ready for it, I shall give you something very special,” she said. “Something made from sweat and tears, something that I have given to no one else. My story. It is my gift to you.”

“I’m listening.”

She proceeded to recount her life in Croatia, and how she had been kidnapped by Mikolajek. She talked for an hour. From time to time, he interrupted her, guiding her into areas where she showed uneasiness. Sometimes he noticed she would grow voluble, especially when talking about the other trafficked women and their homes, and then she would suddenly stop as if overcome by nostalgia or something sadder.

She told him how Jack Fowler had helped her escape from the farmhouse brothel. He had set up an accident on the road to divert the attention of the pimp Sergei Kriich. The plan, however, had backfired when Kriich crashed his car.

“Mikolajek left something for me that night.”

“What?”

“A message. A warning.”

“How?”

“In the form of Sergei’s body, or whatever was left of him.”

Daly fell silent.

“It was Mikolajek’s way of showing how ruthless he was. He wanted to show he wasn’t prepared to forgive even a mistake like the one Sergei had made in letting me escape. How would he then respond to my betrayal?”

Afterward, she sat at the table opposite Daly and looked at him, as though expecting him to ask more questions or set out rules. Darkness thickened in the windows. Shadows from the dying turf fire stretched across the flagstone floor. He went outside to the shed to gather more turf. When he returned, he found her in the hall, going through the contents of his jacket pockets. He assumed that this came from her instinctive distrust of men, but he still felt a sense of unease. What other parts of his life was she going to rifle through?

“I wanted to know how much cash you had,” she explained.

“Are you planning to rob me?” A note of anger crept into his voice.

It was then that she explained her plan to him.

“I think it’s crazy and dangerous,” he said after listening carefully.

“If you think that, then arrest me, now, before I take your money and run.”

He felt a rush of resentment as he stared at her. She was calling the shots. He no longer had any way of influencing events, but, then, had that not been the case all along? The investigation had always been dependent on her accidental appearances, the only breakthroughs at her bidding. She stared back at him. The tension within him weakened. He looked at the ground and then up at her watchful face. It struck him there were worse ways of spending an evening than simmering in uncertainty under the attentive eyes of Lena Novak.

He walked over to the fire and dropped some turf onto the dying embers. He sat down and thought. He grasped for a different solution to the one she was proposing. He was reluctant to formally arrest her or report her as an illegal immigrant. That might create a trail for her pursuers to follow. There was also a serious risk that if she got bail, she would abscond and disappear forever. Besides, he had already compromised himself. There were enough irregularities in his pursuit of Lena to prompt a disciplinary investigation. No. His only way out was to trust her and go after the bad guys. And then, afterward, hope that she would quietly disappear and return to her homeland.

“I don’t want you to lose your job,” she said. “It would be better if I did this alone, rather than put you in danger. I will call you when I’m ready.”

“I have to think more about this,” he said, getting up to leave.

When he returned, she had taken off her boots and was sitting by the fire. She looked up. “You’re worried,” she said. “I don’t blame you. You’re risking a lot.” He nodded, perching himself on the edge of the sofa.

“We could find ourselves in a lot of danger.”

“Yes.”

He said nothing of what was worrying him the most, this wayward impulse of his to follow her along the dark passage of her life, to yoke her destiny with his.

“My head is telling me we should drop the plan,” he said.

“But does your heart want to?”

“No.”

He had already made his decision. It was based less on self-preservation than the simple desire to not let her out of his sight for more than a minute. That seemed more important than any dull strategy to save his career.

He made up a bed for her in the bedroom. Before he closed the door, she thanked him.

“For what?”

“I had forgotten what it was like to be alone with a man and not have to sleep with him,” she said.

That night as he lay in bed, the image of her body curled up by the fire gouged a hole in his sleep. After an hour had passed, he got up to go to the toilet. He stood outside her door, which was slightly opened. He listened to the sound of the rain outside intermingling with her breathing. The burden of his thoughts weighed heavily upon his shoulders as he walked back to bed. It was almost dawn before he slipped into a dreamless sleep.