Depth of Despair, page 3
‘That should keep us out of mischief,’ Mironova muttered.
Sitting at his desk in Sarajevo, Janko Vatovec regarded the figures on the screen with satisfaction. Figures were a source of delight to him. He regarded them as the life-blood of his business, and for Janko, life itself was a business. Janko was born in Slovenia, raised in poverty by a mother who fed him when she was sober and when she could afford to. His father departed when Janko was ten, but he left a lasting impression. One characterized by physical and sexual abuse.
Janko learned early that people were of little importance. Their value lay only in what they could contribute to his prosperity. This enabled him to cast aside troublesome burdens such as family ties and scruples. In their place were the twin goals of power and wealth.
Seeking these, Janko entered the conflict between the warring factions of the former Republic of Yugoslavia. Not as a combatant but as a supplier. Janko didn’t ask which side the buyers of his military hardware represented. He merely counted the money and examined each banknote before he released the munitions. He asked no questions. If the arms were used to kill old or defenceless people, mothers or babies, it was of no concern to Janko. His wasn’t the finger on the trigger.
He’d been annoyed when the war ended. But he found that those who enforced the peace represented an even greater source of income. It didn’t take him long to spot a niche in the market. It was the supply of a commodity required in peace and war alike. He had a willing, eager customer base and a vast supply of raw material. Moreover, it was an operation he could run on a hands-on basis, with a little assistance from a few associates.
It was hardly surprising he was pleased by the figures.
Lulu was afraid. Unhappy and afraid. She could barely remember a time before the fear and unhappiness. Added to this deep well of misery, Lulu bore a sense of shame and self-loathing. These were part of her daily life, as was the violence and abuse from which it stemmed. So much a part that she’d almost come to accept them.
Almost, but not quite, for there still remained a tiny grain of something she might have called hope had it been stronger, or spirit, had she been free to express it.
It remained locked deep inside. It survived despite the abuse. She was only thirteen when it started. It came when three strangers entered her village in Moldavia and approached her parents. They said they’d heard good things of the couple’s eldest daughter. Their employer was a senior figure in the establishment, based in the capital, who required domestic servants. They would pay Lulu a handsome salary. They would provide her parents with money. Her parents were overjoyed. Lulu’s future was secure, and they would have one less mouth to feed, one less body to clothe.
Two years later that mouth was fed only the basic necessities and that body was clothed in garments totally unsuitable for a fifteen year old.
Lulu’s body showed the malnutrition and abuse she’d suffered. Her illusion of a well-paid job, supporting her parents and siblings, had been shattered the night she’d been taken from her home. She’d been heartbroken at leaving, but proud to help them, proud she’d been chosen for such high honour. The shattering of the illusion began before the car had gone five miles from the village. The driver stopped the car and the passenger from the front joined his companion in the back, one on either side of Lulu. As the driver continued towards their destination the others took turns to rape her. After a while the car stopped so the driver could change places with one of the others.
Lulu didn’t know if she reached the capital. Her pain and anguish was continuous. Terror at what would happen to her, the unmitigating shame and knowing she would never be able to face her family again. After the journey she was dragged into a building and locked in a dark, windowless room. The only light switch was outside the door. Sometimes it was flicked on so Lulu could eat the meagre food provided. More often it was switched on so someone could look at her through the inspection flap. Later a stranger, sometimes alone, often accompanied, would enter and the nightmare would begin again. A nightmare that would go on for what seemed endless hours. In which Lulu was repeatedly raped, sodomised and forced to have oral sex with strangers.
Disorientation and violent sexual abuse continued for weeks. She was even forbidden to use her own name as part of the subjugation process and had to suffer the corruption of it her captors foisted upon her. So Ludmilla became Lulu and Lulu became their property. An asset that would earn them money.
Lulu was a prize asset but her homeland was not the best place to exploit it. They had ceased to think of her as her; she’d become ‘it’. Lulu was auctioned off through the wonders of the internet and transported overseas. She was sold on and her new owners were quick to realize a profit on their investment. Despite all she’d suffered, Lulu was still a good-looking young girl.
Lulu knew nothing of this. All she knew was her tormentors had changed. Her slavery was as complete as before. Even worse, she didn’t speak their language and they couldn’t understand hers. They managed to communicate their desires in other ways.
Lulu was held prisoner in a room containing only a bed. She was allowed out under guard, to cook and clean for her captors. That was how Lulu spent her daytime. At night at least one of the men would want sex, usually more than one, often whilst the others watched and commented. Lulu didn’t understand the words. The meaning was unmistakeable. Their desire for her seemed inexhaustible.
Lulu’s hope grew day by day, like a fragile seedling in a frosty climate, its hold on life precarious. She didn’t know where she was but at last she had something she’d not had since her captivity began. Lulu had a plan. She planned to escape. She knew how she was going to do it. She also knew what she was about to do was a terrible thing, but terrible things had been done to her. She knew she ran the risk of even more dreadful retribution. She didn’t care. Nothing could be worse than what she’d endured.
Nash was speaking to Ramirez. ‘Considering the state of the bodies, the place they were found and the length of time since they were dumped, I don’t think we’ve a cat in hell’s chance of identification unless you can come up with anything. I hope you can give us some sort of a lead. We’re going to be reliant on you.’
‘I realize that. I might be able to tell you a little, or again I might be able to tell you a lot. What you really want to know is the extent of what my examination will reveal. Right?’
‘I’ve never seen a case where deterioration is so complete. It’s a bit like being called in to investigate the murder of one of the pharaohs.’
‘I think you’ll find the remains of the pharaohs would be in better condition than those in the mortuary drawers,’ Ramirez told him dryly. ‘But I get your point. This is a far from normal enquiry. If we get lucky I could tell you their names, addresses and dates of birth. That relies on us getting a match from their dental records. For that we need them to have been British citizens who had regular dental treatment.
‘Failing that, given time I should be able to tell you their age, give or take a year or two. Where they come from, their ethnicity and any diseases they contracted. If your enquiries turn up someone who may be related to them I could either prove or disprove that also.’
Nash stared at the pathologist in surprise. ‘Are you joking?’
Ramirez smiled and shook his head. ‘I rarely joke about work. Let me explain. X-rays can show evidence of medical conditions such as stress fractures or broken bones that have healed after setting. There’s a standard procedure that can determine age. It’s particularly effective in pre-adults and up to the age of thirty, so we’re lucky they were young. We can also gauge conditions like anaemia or periostitis, that’s inflammation of the periosteum and soft tissue surrounding the bone. That’s usually associated with traumatic infection. That might mean injuries, more commonly of the sort associated with a physically demanding occupation. Iron deficiency, anaemia, is symptomatic of malnutrition and a high pathogen load, i.e. bacteria or viruses that can cause diseases. All of which is routine.
‘The most spectacular results stem from advances in DNA analysis. We can identify genetic characteristics and associate them with specific locations. The genetic signature from different regions is distinct. Although each individual’s DNA is unique, every locality has a broadly similar gene pool. That means we can trace someone’s origin to a specific region and with the advance of a new technique called “familial DNA” we can identify enough similarities to place someone within a family.’
Ramirez tilted his chair back so he was balanced on the back legs. He gripped the edge of his desk with one hand. ‘Of course, the jewel in the DNA crown is the ability to identify someone’s genetic forbears via mitochondrial DNA.’
He smiled at Nash’s look of bewilderment. ‘Mitochondrial DNA is passed from a mother to her offspring. It’s indestructible. If you provide me with a tiny scrap of mitochondrial DNA from your pharaoh, for example, I could tell you,’ Ramirez kept his face straight, ‘who his mummy was.’
‘I thought you didn’t joke about your work?’
‘I couldn’t resist that. What I’m saying is by using mitochondrial DNA we could give as positive an identification of the victims as if someone had looked at them an hour after they died.’
Nash nodded, ‘The problem is going to be finding someone to provide a cross-sample.’
‘I understand that. Of course it takes a long time. You have to grow the strands that form the DNA chain.’
‘Where’s Clara?’ Mike asked.
‘Gone to collect the angling club membership list. How did your meeting go?’
‘Pretty well. Ramirez reckons the skeletons will tell us a lot about the victims, where they were from and how they died. The only drawback is it’s going to take time. I don’t suppose a few weeks will be critical.’
‘The press have got hold of the story. The Netherdale Gazette’s headline this evening is “Angler’s Grim Catch”. Their reporter was on earlier asking for a quote.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said I could confirm both victims were definitely dead.’ Pearce grinned. ‘Then I told him, “pick the bones out of that”.’
Nash winced. ‘I’ve noticed you’ve started making lousy puns. I’m afraid it’s infectious. Even Mexican Pete’s doing it.’
He looked round as Mironova walked in. She waved a sheaf of papers. ‘I’ve got the details of the members of the angling club, plus the retired ones and, those who resigned. All the keys have been returned. They have quite a neat system. You pay a joining fee, £500 at present. If you leave, that gets paid back but only after you’ve returned any club property. That includes the keys to the bothy, the boathouse and the boats.’
‘That’s not much help,’ Nash objected. ‘They could have been copied.’
‘That would only work for a year. The locks are changed before each season. Members only get their new keys once they’ve paid their subscription.’
‘That’s helpful. Do you know how long the club’s been going?’
‘About sixty years. Before the war, Bishopton Estate kept the fishing for themselves. However, the father and eldest son were killed in the war. The estate passed to the younger son and he’d no interest in either the estate or fishing. Several local anglers got wind of it and approached the estate manager. A lease was agreed and Bishopton Angling Club was formed. Angling’s become so popular the club’s gone from strength to strength. That’s why they’re strict on controlling guests. If someone’s name isn’t in the guest books it means they haven’t been to the tarn. The penalty for not recording all the information is expulsion.’
‘We ought to interview the landowner or whoever’s in charge.’
‘I reckon the estate manager would be the best bet. The owner is well over ninety and absolutely loopy fruit. That means—’
‘Thanks, Clara, I know what that means.’
‘The secretary told me there are no direct descendants and when the old lady pops her clogs—’
‘I know what that means too.’
‘—the estate will pass to another branch of the family. Apparently, it’s of great concern to the anglers. They’re worried a new owner might want to fish the tarn and the club would lose the rights. There are only two seasons left on the lease. They’re praying the old lady stays alive long enough for them to renew.’
‘Thanks, Clara,’ Mike said. ‘I’m off now. I’ll pop in the library on my way home; see what I can find out about the area.’
Nash called at the off-licence first and selected a couple of bottles of his favourite wine. Back at his flat the meal he’d left in the slow cooker would be ready when he was. He uncorked one of the bottles and took a leisurely shower. He settled down to read the library book written by a local historian. He was disturbed by the phone. It was Clara to confirm the search party had been organized for the morning. ‘Good, you can pick me up en route.’
‘I assume from that you’re about to open a bottle of wine?’
‘Wrong, I’ve already opened it.’
Clara groaned in mock despair. ‘How did you go on with your research?’
‘I was right about Cauldmoor. It does have an evil reputation. I’ll tell you the details tomorrow.’ He laughed wickedly, ‘When we’re there and you can soak up the atmosphere.’
‘Thanks a bundle. Just don’t soak up too much atmosphere tonight and don’t give yourself nightmares either.’
‘No, Mother,’ he mocked.
Despite Clara’s warnings, by the time he’d finished reading, the first bottle was almost empty. Without conscious thought he’d opened the second. By the time he was ready for bed that too was half empty. He tried to remember whether or not he’d taken his tablets. To be on the safe side he took two, washing them down with the last few drops of wine in his glass. Nash was in bed by eleven o’clock. In the early hours he began to dream.
He was standing on a ridge overlooking water. Mist swirled round him. Mist, or was it smoke? He could hear screams, wailing, unanswered cries swirling round and round in his head. He saw flames rising and writhing, but there was no heat. He tried to leave, but was drawn, compelled, to walk towards the carnage beyond the fire. He fought against it, terror gripping him.
Burning timber, burning clothing, burning flesh, burning hair, burning, burning, everything burning.
He lay trembling, knew he’d been dreaming. A nightmare so realistic that the horror remained until morning.
Nash stared out from the bothy as daylight crept reluctantly over the tarn. A stiff breeze was blowing, ruffling the surface of the water into white-capped wavelets. Nash shivered, not from cold but from the sense of foreboding that had dogged him since his first visit.
Mironova came out to join him and passed him a mug. He nodded his thanks and continued to watch as members of the search party made their way down Misery Near and crossed The Grieving Stones towards Lamentation Tarn.
‘What’s wrong, Mike?’
‘Wrong,’ he said with an effort. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You look as if you’ve had little more than five minutes sleep,’ she smiled. ‘If things were different I’d suspect you’d been shagging all night, but you’ve hardly spoken a word since I picked you up, and now you’re here you’ve spent all your time staring into the distance. It doesn’t take a genius to work out something’s wrong. Is it a hangover?’
He told her what he’d learned of the history of Cauldmoor.
‘There was a settlement here in Saxon times but the inhabitants were massacred. The piece I read described how the Vikings slaughtered them. The men were killed first. Then the women and children were raped and murdered. In the middle of it the long hut caught fire and everyone perished. The rumour is this place is haunted. None of the locals will venture near.’
‘That explains a lot,’ Clara said. ‘I mean what Wardle told me. This place is beautiful so how come it isn’t the most popular picnic spot in the area? How come nobody’s built here? You’d have buyers queuing up, normally.’
‘Agreed, then to cap it off I had a bloody awful dream.’
‘I’m not surprised, having read that lot. I hope this was a one-off and that you’re not starting to have nightmares again. You haven’t got Stella at home to watch over you.’
‘It worries me too. I wish I knew how to stop them but I’m scared to talk to the medics. The last thing I need is them saying I’m not fit. I’ve been there once and I don’t want to go back.’
‘If it’s starting to affect your health you might think differently.’
Pearce joined them on the veranda. ‘Everyone’s here, Mike. Do you want a word before we start?’
‘I’d better. Gather them round the front.’
Nash looked at the assembled officers. ‘You understand the problem we’ve got. The victims have been in the water so long identification will be next to impossible unless we get really lucky. We need anything that might help us, might give us some idea as to who these young women were, where they came from, how they came to this desolate spot and were killed. What you’re looking for is anything that doesn’t belong here. Anything. No matter how insignificant or irrelevant it might seem. Anything that might have been left by the victims or whoever murdered them.’
The search took all morning and into the afternoon. The team was split into two sections. One, led by Pearce, quartered the slopes of Misery Near before moving on to The Grieving Stones. The other concentrated on the area immediately surrounding the tarn. The teams moved slowly, inching their way with painstaking care from the far distance towards the bothy.
Nash stood watching as the operation drew to a close. He felt a sense of disappointment. He’d hoped the day would have produced some result. He’d no idea why he expected this, a hunch, sixth sense, whatever. A weak autumn sun filtered down the valley providing light but no warmth. The wind had stiffened and swung to blow cold from the north. ‘Make a note, Clara. Sometime this week we ought to interview house owners on the road between here and Bishop’s Cross. I know there’s only a handful, and I realize it’s long odds against them remembering strange vehicles but we must still do it. Whoever killed those girls had to use that road to get here.’
