Depth of Despair, page 7
It was only later that he was to regret that easy optimism.
Pearce returned late in the afternoon with confirmation of the pathologist’s findings. ‘Three more females, all young and each of them had been in the water a considerable number of years,’ he summed up.
Recalling this, Nash thought of the Russian teddy bear. It seemed none of the five victims was linked to the toy, so what had happened to its owner?
Vatovec was in a foul mood. The burning of two of his most lucrative brothels and the arrest of his informer, together with the bungled assassination were major reverses. The possibility that the Snow Woman would pay even greater attention to his operation was cause for concern. He was not in the most receptive frame of mind to hear more bad news.
When his deputy came into his office it was obvious he wasn’t about to tell Janko he’d won the lottery. ‘What now?’ Vatovec snapped.
‘I’ve had word from England. Three of our operatives in the north have been murdered. Their girl must have killed them. There was no sign of her. The fourth man returned, found the corpses and nearly shit himself.’
The deputy paused. ‘He stripped the house of all documents and his clothing, did a runner before the police arrived.’
‘Good thinking. How were they killed?’
‘She poisoned them, sliced their pricks and balls off and stuffed them in their mouths.’
Janko was hardened to almost all forms of atrocity. Even he paled at this description. ‘Hell! Which girl was it?’
‘One of the Moldavians we took a couple of years ago. We sold her to the Serbs.’
‘I take it there’s nothing to link her to us?’
‘Only if she or the survivor talks. He’s a gibbering wreck by all accounts.’
‘We can’t afford him gibbering to the police. I’ll have him eliminated and the girl as well. I only hope the police haven’t picked her up already.’
chapter five
Next day, Nash discussed matters with the chief constable. He needed sanction for the proposed course of action. The chief constable expressed her approval. Soon after, he met with Mironova and Pearce. ‘We’ve decided to call in MCU and I also intend to speak to that Russian policewoman.’
He was interrupted when the phone rang. ‘I have Chief Superintendent Armistead on the phone.’
Nash had never heard of Armistead but instructed the operator to put him through. ‘DI Nash, Armistead here, Major Crimes Unit.’
‘I was about to ring you.’
‘Really?’ the word conveyed disbelief. ‘We’ve had a complaint about you.’ The tone was frosty. ‘We’ve been running a joint operation with our colleagues in St Petersburg. That’s in Russia,’ Armistead added pompously.
‘I know,’ Nash’s interruption was deceptively gentle. ‘I visited The Hermitage a few years ago.’
‘What’s that got to do with it,’ Armistead snapped.
‘The Hermitage Museum. It’s in St Petersburg.’
‘It appears that when Commander Dacic asked for information regarding two murders committed in your area you were less than cooperative.’
The man’s supercilious tone and arrogant attitude irritated Nash. ‘Correction,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t Commander Dacic who was seeking information and it wasn’t about the murders. You should get your facts straight. I enquired about a teddy bear and she seemed to regard the transfer of information as a one-way street. However, matters have moved on. We’ve recovered three more bodies from the same location yesterday. The first two were of Eastern European origin; we’ll know in time if the same is true of the remainder. In addition, we’ve a young Moldavian girl in custody in connection with the death of three men whose appearance suggests them to be Slav or Baltic.’
‘Hell’s bloody bells!’ Armistead’s composure was blown apart by Nash’s revelations. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I rather hope you or Commander Dacic might shed some light on it. I’ve my own theory, which I’d share in exchange for some cooperation. My next call was going to be St Petersburg.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll speak to her and arrange for her to ring you. I’ll call you back. I’ll also get one of my most senior officers to you ASAP.’
Armistead left Nash in no doubt that his co-operation with Commander Dacic was essential. Nash replied, ‘I’ll be as helpful as you want but not if I’m being shafted. Either I get the co-operation I require or when your officers arrive here they’ll get sent back where they came from.’
‘You can’t do that.’ Armistead’s breath whistled alarmingly. He recovered his composure. ‘You’ve gone too far, Nash. I intend to speak to your chief constable and report what you’ve just said.’
Nash’s tone was sweetness itself. ‘Didn’t I make it clear? Those are the chief constable’s instructions.’
Five minutes later Armistead was back on the line. Although it was clear he and Nash were never going to be soul mates he was courtesy itself and promised the full cooperation of both MCU and the Russian authorities.
Nash told his team the gist of the conversation. ‘Perhaps we have been twinned with Vladivostok after all,’ Mironova observed wryly.
Nash scratched his head. ‘I hope the Dacic woman proves more helpful than last time.’ He didn’t sound optimistic.
Nash still had doubts on hearing Commander Dacic’s opening words.
‘Please fax all the relevant documents to me,’ she told him. ‘Superintendent Armistead assures me you’ll do this. That way I can study them as I travel to England. In return, I’ll bring with me all our information. I’ll brief you in full when I arrive in three days time.’
‘It’ll take a few hours to assemble the paperwork but I’ll fax it as soon as I can.’ Nash was now relaxed. ‘Has Armistead brought you up to date?’
‘I’m not certain how these things work in your country, but I guess Armistead is an administrator, not an investigator?’
‘I think that’s safe to assume.’
There was no doubting the laughter in Dacic’s voice. ‘I asked him about Yorkshire. He said, “It’s a sleepy region containing mostly agriculture and quiet market towns.” I’m looking forward to seeing Yorkshire, for it doesn’t seem quiet or sleepy to me.’
‘Perhaps that shows how serious the problem is.’
‘But perhaps Armistead was right in one thing. He said you’re an exceptionally talented detective. I’m looking forward to meeting you and working together.’
Nash stared at the phone after Dacic rang off. And perhaps that cuts two ways, he thought. He called Clara into his office and updated her. ‘You’ll have to stall anyone who wants me tomorrow. I’m having a day off. There’s not much more we can do until everyone’s on board.’
‘Anything interesting in mind?’
‘I’m going to visit Stella.’
‘Any improvement?’
Nash shrugged.
‘Speaking of Commander Dacic, Viv had an idea. He suggested looking her up on the internet. If she’s as prominent as we think there ought to be some mention of her.’
‘Might be worth a try.’
The escalation had far-reaching effects. Pratt was summoned back from holiday and Armistead rang to advise he’d be visiting Netherdale to greet Commander Dacic. In addition, two of his officers would be coming to liaise with their Yorkshire colleagues and the Russian.
When Pratt arrived back, he received a call from Nash. ‘Good holiday, Tom?’
‘It was until the Chief’s secretary rang. The wife went off the deep end when I told her I’d been called back. I explained the force would be paying the travel expenses but it didn’t pacify her. I wasn’t too bothered myself. There’s only so much sangria and weak lager one man can drink. Besides, if I’d had to sit through another evening of third-rate entertainment interspersed with bingo I’d have headed for the airport off my own bat. Anyway, you’d better bring me up to speed with what’s happened. Apart from your election as the patron saint of North Yorkshire Guild of Funeral Directors, that is.’
‘Don’t you start! I’m having enough trouble with Mexican Pete. He’s developed a dodgy sense of humour. Every time I ring him he asks, “How many this time?” The joke’s starting to wear thin.’
After he’d been updated Tom commented, ‘It’s clear this thing’s much bigger than a couple of isolated incidents. It makes you wonder how big the problem really is. It’s obvious both MCU and the Russians are treating it as a matter of extreme concern.’
Clara handed Nash a message, a phone number on a slip of paper. He read the name alongside it, ‘That’s the psychiatrist I want to consult about Stella. I’ll ring her now.’
‘Mr Nash, I can see this poses a problem but without conducting an assessment of the patient I can’t advise you. Any recommendation I made without having seen Miss Pearson could be fatally flawed.’
‘That complicates matters because interviewing Stella would give the game away.’
‘We seem to be at an impasse then.’
Nash had a thought. ‘Unless you could use the pretext that you’d been asked to talk to all my friends and colleagues, because my bosses are worried about me?’
‘I could do that, but at some stage I’ll want to interview you.’
‘Is that necessary?’
‘For my own satisfaction, yes. I’d be interested to meet the owner of such a devious mind.’
DCS Armistead was big viewed from any angle. He was well in excess of six feet tall. This helped keep his girth in proportion. To use the local expression he was built ‘like a brick shithouse’. His frame dwarfed even that of Tom Pratt.
His companion was by contrast slim to the point of being slender, with small, almost fragile hands and feet. She was in her early thirties, extremely pretty, with dark hair, brown eyes and an olive complexion.
Nash eyed her appreciatively. He assumed her to be Armistead’s secretary until the MCU chief introduced her as DCI Jackie Fleming. After the introductions, Nash briefed the MCU officers.
Armistead watched him with an expressionless gaze throughout. ‘You’ve made a good start. You and your team have done well. I’m impressed with the grasp you have on the case. It’s only a beginning, though. Part of my brief is to sum up the strengths and weaknesses of the task force set up to handle the case. Although I’ll be overseeing the course of the investigation and liaising with police forces both here and on the Continent, I’m happy to leave the operational side in your hands. I’ve had a word with Pratt on the subject. Your team has a fine reputation. What you’re faced with is an enormous challenge. DCI Fleming will be here to assist you. You’ll also be joined by DS Thomas. He’s on his way to Heathrow to meet Commander Dacic. I suggest we leave the finer points until after her report tomorrow. Once you hear it you’ll appreciate what we’re up against.’
That evening Nash read the information Pearce had printed off. Commander Dacic, it seemed, was even higher profile than they’d suspected. The article suggested she was highly thought of in governmental circles. Nash sipped his wine as he stared at her photograph. Although the grainy image was far from clear there was no doubt the commander was an attractive-looking woman. He turned the page and found another news item, to which Pearce had stapled a note. ‘When I searched the name, this came up. I’m not sure if there’s a connection but thought you’d want to see it. Viv.’
NEWS REPORT: NOVEMBER. 1995
THREE-YEAR HUNT FOR MISSING OFFICIAL ENDS.
IFOR TROOPS GRIM DISCOVERY.
Sarajevo, Bosnia.
Last week, troops of the IFOR (Implementation Force) of peacekeepers searching for victims of the recent conflict, found a shallow grave in woodland close to Sarajevo which resolved a three-year-old mystery. It contained the corpses of three men. Forensic experts confirmed they were those of a former Communist regional governor and his two bodyguards. They went missing in 1992 shortly after Bosnia gained independence. All three had been shot at close range, probably within days of their disappearance. The IFOR area commander told reporters that tests had yielded a vital clue as to the possible killer. ‘Hair samples from the clothing of two of the victims has been analyzed and the results show it belonged to a female. This evidence will be passed to local police. How energetically they pursue the matter, given the unsavoury character of the deceased, is another matter.’
Local legend has already invested the area with a sinister reputation. It results from an incident in 1982. A local man, Bogdan Dacic, was discovered hanging from the same tree underneath which the bodies of the officials were found. It is believed he committed suicide following the death of his elder daughter who had earlier been abducted. His body was found by his younger daughter.
Nash closed the file. It was obvious Viv had printed the article because of the name, but was there a connection with Commander Dacic? Memory returned in a mental flashback. He pictured himself, as a much younger Detective Sergeant at Scotland Yard. That news item had caused some speculation. An older colleague had commented, ‘That’ll be a revenge killing.’
‘How do you mean?’ Nash had asked.
‘Stands to reason,’ the DI told him. ‘After all those years of repression there must be lots of people with an axe to grind. Who knows what sort of atrocities those blokes committed. Think yourself lucky you live in a democratic society, young Mike.’
Had it been revenge? If so, the motive seemed obvious. But was Commander Dacic related to the suicide victim? Was she perhaps the younger daughter referred to in the news item?
Nash gave up the puzzle and decided on an early night. He reached across the breakfast bar for his tablets and swilled the medication down with the last of his wine. As he drank, his mind was full of the events of the day. He’d barely fallen asleep when the dream began.
There was a tree, or were there more? He could see two figures. He walked towards them, heard a woman’s voice, harsh with emotion, anger, fury and a deadly menace. The words sounded vaguely familiar but Nash couldn’t understand. She appeared young, with dark auburn hair. She might be attractive but the emotion on her face marred her looks. Nash was afraid. He thought she had a weapon, but he couldn’t be sure. The other figure could have been a man. He stood with an abject air of acceptance.
Nash wanted to intervene. He tried to move forward but was now rooted to the spot. They continued speaking; Nash felt a sense of distaste. He wanted to ask what was happening but the girl suddenly took a pace forward, the menace obvious. This time the man snarled a reply defiantly. This was no innocent victim. Without hesitation, the young woman stepped close to the man.
Nash watched the scene being played out in slow motion. It was a gun. He saw her finger curl round the trigger, saw the rush of expelling gases forcing the bullet down the barrel. He heard the loud report echoing through what had now suddenly become a forest and saw the bullet exiting the side of the man’s head accompanied by a red and grey stream of pulp that had been his brain. Nash watched in sick horror as the man crumpled and fell, not to the floor of the forest but beyond, down and down.
Nash stared straight into the girl’s eyes. She blinked as if she was aware of his presence. The impression was so vivid he recoiled as if she was going to shoot him. She seemed to gaze at him for a long moment, shrugged, then turned away. Nash watched her go. He glanced down at where her victim had fallen. The forest floor was carpeted with pine needles, beech mast and dead leaves. Of the victims there was no sign.
Next morning, Nash sensed an air of expectancy among his colleagues as they waited for the MCU detectives and the Russian. He told Clara about reading the news item and the resultant nightmare. ‘I’m not sure if the name’s a coincidence or if there’s more to it.’
Clara thought it over. ‘Dacic is a fairly common name.’
The meeting was scheduled to begin at 9 a.m. At 8.55 the door swung open and Armistead entered, followed by DCI Fleming and a male officer. Armistead introduced him. ‘This is DS Thomas. Commander Dacic has been delayed while she takes a phone call from her director.’
Tom Pratt had barely begun introducing his officers when the door opened to admit a young woman with striking good looks. She could have been anything from twenty-five to thirty-five years old. She wore a light-grey business suit and white blouse which served to enhance the effect of her lustrous auburn hair. Clara watched as the woman strode confidently into the room. Ever keen to see Nash’s reaction to a good looking woman, Clara’s gaze shifted to her boss. Nash was staring at the Russian as she advanced to greet the rest of the party. His face was drained of colour. He was clinging to the edge of the table, his knuckles white. Clara stared; this was an effect she’d never witnessed before. ‘Mike, you OK?’ she whispered. There was no answer.
The Russian sat at one end of the table with Armistead and Pratt at the other. Nash was next to Commander Dacic, with DCI Fleming opposite him. From her position alongside Fleming, Mironova was able to concentrate on Dacic’s address whilst keeping an eye on her boss. Nash’s attention was not divided; throughout the meeting he kept his gaze unwaveringly on the Russian. He’d recovered a little colour but still looked shaken. Whatever the reason it had not been a two-way effect. Dacic gave no sign of recognition, no indication that meeting Nash was more than a professional encounter. So what had caused such a devastating effect?
‘I’d like to start by telling you about myself,’ Dacic began. ‘Then I’ll give a detailed report.’
She held up a folder, ‘This will help to explain the reason for my being here. My department has put together a fact sheet. These will be available for you to refer to,’ she looked up and smiled. ‘Don’t worry; they are in English, not Russian,’ she smiled at Clara. ‘Although that wouldn’t be a challenge for one of you.
‘My name is Snjezana Dacic. Not easy for the English tongue, I know. Please call me Zena. It means “Snow Woman” in Croatia where I was born thirty-three years ago. My parents,’ she paused and then corrected herself, ‘my mother moved to live in St Petersburg when I was nine years old.’
