Long Way Home (22 page)

She took her mobile out of her tabard and dialled, listening for footsteps in the hallway. All she could hear was the couple in the room opposite and the sound of music from the bar pounding up through the floorboards.

‘Yeah?’

‘It is Emilia.’

‘I told you it wouldn’t be ready until Tuesday,’ Skinner said. ‘I don’t just pull this stuff out my arse, you know? There’re protocols.’

‘But I need it today.’

‘No can do,’ he said.

In the background she could hear screaming; he was watching a film, she realised. Nobody screamed like that in real life, no matter what happened to them.

‘And the price has gone up.’

‘What? No, we agree price,’ she said. ‘You cannot do this.’

‘Think you’ll find I just did.’

‘Why?’

‘You know full fucking well why, so don’t come the innocent,’ he said. ‘It’s Tuesday and it’s five hundred extra.’

Emilia fell against the door. ‘I do not have five hundred.’

‘Why don’t you ask your boyfriend for it?’ Skinner said, and she could see that shark smile.

‘I have no boyfriend.’

‘Better get back to work then, hadn’t you?’

He killed the call.

GLEBE FARM SAT
huddled in a shallow basin at the western edge of Great Gidding, far enough from the village that no one would complain about the caravans or the bright orange shipping containers which looked fit for the scrapyard.

Zigic turned off the main road onto a rough track peppered with waterlogged potholes, slowing to five miles an hour to save the car’s suspension. The fields on either side of him lay fallow, a couple of forlorn shire horses in one, a dozen mangy sheep in another, no cover for them to shelter from the rain, which drilled down relentlessly, threatening to become hail.

He heard guns going off at a distance and wondered who would be out in such filthy weather.

The bottom end of the track was blocked off with a solid metal gate hanging from stone posts. A new addition since he’d been there last. He swore as he got out of the car, hunched his shoulders against the rain and hit the intercom.

‘What?’

‘Is that Mr Drake?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘DI Zigic. Need a word with you.’

‘Hold on, I’ll buzz you in.’

Zigic jumped back in the car, banging his knee on the steering column and cursed Bob Drake for his paranoia. As if anyone would come to Glebe Farm on the rob. He had a lot of expensive plant but there were dogs prowling and a couple of dozen men living on site who wouldn’t be slow to ask what the fuck you thought you were doing.

The gates closed behind him with a weighty thunk, reminding him of a prison yard. Or a cult compound. It was more like the latter, he decided, as a bald-headed man crossed the track in front of him, swinging a brace of pheasants in one hand, a rifle in the other, heading for the caravans lined up forty yards from the house.

There were more than last time Zigic was there. He counted eighteen, set out in two long rows, mismatched things bought cheap and patched up, some better than others but none of them good enough to make the grade at a commercial site. A few bore homely touches, a wind chime outside one, a pot of herbs near the steps of another, but these weren’t homes, they were somewhere to sleep and eat as cheaply as possible, save money to send back to the family or hoard it for an eventual return.

Inside they would be cold and grey, he imagined, and the rain battering down would drive you mad for the first few nights, until you learned to tune it out.

He pulled up outside the house, next to Bob Drake’s Mitsubishi pickup. The flatbed was empty, except for a rolled-up tarpaulin and a spray of broken plastic from one of the lights mounted on the cab. The side panel was neatly sign-written in understated lettering – Drake Engineering Ltd – and anyone who saw it would probably imagine it returned to a well-run yard at night, not somewhere like this. There were four transporters parked alongside it, no company logos on them, and they looked right at home.

The house wasn’t in a much better state than the caravans. A Victorian place tilting with subsidence, smoke billowing blackly from the chimneys. The gutter was leaking under the rain, and water poured out down the front of the house, following a well-worn route, the bricks streaked green with algae.

As he got out of the car Zigic glanced towards the outbuildings, a long run of brick and block barns which had once housed livestock; now they were tumbling down, with broken windows and rotting doors. The one on the end, where Bob Drake had locked up a murderer for them, had collapsed in the last two years, revealing the corroded skeletons of old farm machinery.

Next to the barns a new tractor shed had been erected, a huge corrugated building with CCTV cameras mounted above the doors and an alarm box which flashed blue and red. Drake had early form for ringing plant and Zigic could only smile at his security precautions – nobody had a better system than a thief.

The front door opened as he reached the house. Bob Drake, short and wide, stood with his arms folded across his chest, an inch of bare gut showing under the bagged-out hem of his Fair Isle jumper.

‘Summat I can do for you, Inspector?’

‘Invite me in.’

‘Depends what you’re after.’

A drop of rain found the gap between Zigic’s collar and his neck and he felt it run down his spine like a slick finger.

‘We’ve got a dead migrant worker on Holme Fen. Wondered if he’s one of yours.’

Drake stepped back. ‘Come you on in then.’

The house was stuck in a time warp, striped wallpaper to the dado rail, sponged paintwork above in the same deep burgundy as the carpet. Zigic followed Drake through a dining room with a china cabinet full of Royal Worcester and then a dark oak kitchen where an old brown Rayburn was chugging away, something simmering which smelled just as brown and past its sell-by date.

‘You not working today?’ Zigic asked.

‘Waiting on floor beams. Should ha’ been there day afore yesterday. Agent never bothered to ring us and let us know, so me and the lads went down there for nun’t. Just got in half-hour back.’

‘Where’re you working?’

‘North London,’ Drake said. ‘Spent three hours driving and never earned a penny.’

They went into Drake’s office. It was another new addition, lit by a single naked bulb, the concrete floor not yet carpeted, but there were two desks fully kitted out with phones and computers and the pink plaster walls were covered with maps and charts, work rotas and lists of phone numbers. On a corkboard he had passport photographs of his workers, their names underneath.

The room reeked of wet dog and as he moved to take the seat Drake offered, Zigic noticed an old grey lurcher curled up on a cushion behind Drake’s desk. It fixed Zigic with an intent yellow stare for a few seconds, then pushed its face into the cushion and went back to sleep.

‘What’s with the ramped-up security all of a sudden?’ Zigic asked.

‘A lot of unsavoury characters round this way of late,’ Drake said, and if he was being ironic he was very subtle about it. ‘Got a lot of money’s worth of machinery out there.’

‘You’ve got a lot of blokes too. That’d put off most people.’

‘At night it would, but my Davina’s here on her own all day. You want your missus out in the middle of nowhere like this?’

‘How’s she doing now?’

‘She’s alright. Knocked her sideways it did, young Marius getting killed.’ Drake frowned behind his beard. ‘She’s like a mother to ’em. Always fussing.’

Zigic remembered her at the trial, spitting at Marius’s murderer as the guard led him down to the cells. She was fined for contempt of court and asked the judge if he’d take cash since she didn’t have her chequebook on her.

‘So,’ Drake said, ‘what’s to do with this dead fella?’

‘Name’s Viktor Stepulov,’ Zigic said, taking the photograph out of his jacket. ‘We think he must have been working around here somewhere. Or maybe just dossing local.’

Bob Drake shook his head over the photo. ‘No, not one of ours.’

‘When you let me in I got the impression you thought he might be.’

‘Week before last a few of the old boys went into Peterborough clubbing,’ Drake said. ‘They get cabin fever stuck out here.’

‘And?’

‘Ferdi never come back. Went off with some old gel and we in’t seen hide nor hair of him since.’

‘Have you called him?’

‘Soft bugger left his mobile here,’ Drake said. ‘Last time they went out he got it nicked so he wouldn’t take it. Gel took it out his pocket while she were giving him a blow job.’

‘Have you reported him missing?’

‘He’ll be shagging himself silly.’

‘Or he’s had an accident?’

‘Hospital would’ve phoned us if he did.’

‘How would they know to call you?’ Zigic said.

‘Reckon he’d tell them, less he’s in a coma or summat, and if he’s in a coma we couldn’t do much for him, could we?’

The dog barked sharply and woke itself up, looked accusingly at Zigic.

‘Davina called PDH and City General, told them she were looking for her son. They hadn’t had anyone come in.’ The dog nosed at Drake and he scratched it behind the ear. ‘He’ll have fallen on his feet with some old scrubber. He’s a handsome-looking young lad, good luck to him I say.’

‘Why don’t you give me his details?’ Zigic said, taking out his notepad. ‘I can make some inquiries.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘He might have been arrested.’

‘Well, I’m not bailing him out if he has,’ Drake said, forced amusement around his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘He’ll find his way back when he’s ready.’

‘Indulge me.’

Drake sighed heavily and raised his bulk from the chair, pushing the dog away with a big, flat hand. It slunk around the desk, all wiry grey fur and a muzzle like a werewolf, and started to sniff Zigic’s leg.

Drake slid open a filing cabinet. ‘Just smack him on the nose if he’s bothering you.’

‘He’s fine. Do you hunt with him?’

‘Few rabbits.’ Drake flipped through the files and finally found the one he wanted, dropped it on the desk in front of Zigic. ‘There you go. Ferdinard Kulic.’

Drake’s paperwork was more comprehensive than the stuff he’d been given by Pickman Nye. There was a large, glossy photograph of Kulic and underneath it a copy of his passport and his work permit – he was a Croatian national and Zigic recognised the name of the Dalmatian tourist resort he came from; Milan was conceived there, in the shadowed doorway of a baker’s two minutes away from their hotel. At least that’s what Anna said. It could have been the hotel room or the beach or the back seat of the hire car they drove out into the countryside one afternoon. She preferred that story though.

‘Why did he come over here to work? They’re building like mad where he’s from.’

‘But the local builders are all using Indian and Pakistani labour. Said he couldn’t get on a job over there.’

Everyone moved west, endlessly, Zigic thought.

Kulic’s bank account details were in the file, his tax number and the address of the doctor’s surgery in Sawtry where he was registered. Next of kin in Croatia and another in London.

‘You keep good records.’

‘Davina’s very particular about it,’ Drake said.

He rocked back in his chair, hands closed around his gut, sovereign rings on three fingers but he wore a cheap plastic watch which couldn’t have cost him a fiver. He was a strange one, Zigic thought, twenty or thirty men working for him, making better than decent money with his civil engineering projects and shiny new plant, but he lived like he was on the point of poverty.

He thought of Andrus Tombak in his cramped semi, living cheek by jowl with his men to keep them in line, and wondered if Drake was any different. He was polite and open but maybe he was just intelligent enough to realise it was good business to act that way with the police.

‘This fella, was he murdered?’ Drake asked.

‘Too early to say. His body was found on the train tracks at Holme Fen.’

Drake grimaced behind his beard. ‘But you don’t reckon he found his own way there?’

‘His leg was badly broken,’ Zigic said. ‘It looks unlikely he walked there himself.’

‘I’ve heard of unscrupulous gangers getting shot of injured workers that way,’ Drake said. ‘Bit public when you could drop him in a dyke.’

‘Is that what you’d do?’

‘Now you listen to me, I run a fully legit operation here, Inspector,’ Drake said. ‘We’re doing work for the MoD, the Church – you unnerstand? I’ve got health and safety up my arse every two minutes, right footwear, wear goggles, walk here, don’t walk there. I’ve got five millions pounds’ worth of public liability for fuck’s sake. I don’t go dumping my boys on train tracks if they get bashed up, I take them to a hospital where they belong. You go out there and ask them yourself you want confirmation.’

‘Mr Drake –’

‘And on Holme Fen and all,’ he said, the colour rising in his weather-worn cheeks. ‘You reckon I’d be soft enough to leave some bugger ten minutes away from my house? We haven’t had a job round here for nigh on four years, you reckon I’d drive some old boy all the way home from north London and leave him on Holme Fen?’

‘No, Mr Drake, I don’t, but someone left him there and I want to find them.’ The dog shoved its muzzle into Zigic’s hand and he felt the sharp points of its canines against his fingers, heat and drool on his skin.

‘Cassius, come here.’

The dog paid no notice.

‘Cassius. Here. Now.’

‘He’s fine,’ Zigic said, drying his hand on the dog’s matted grey fur. ‘Whoever did this is local. Or they’re on a job nearby.’

Drake shook his head dismissively. ‘I don’t know. There’re a lot of new boys set themselves up the last coupla years.’

‘Like who?’

‘I don’t keep track of them,’ Drake said. ‘Every farm round this way’s got migrant workers on for them. Could be anyone.’

Drake wasn’t going to grass anyone up, Zigic realised. He’d help as much as it suited him but now they were getting into territory he felt uncomfortable with and Zigic was sure shouting and threatening wouldn’t shift a man like Drake. He was too old-school for that.