Baby Lies (Reissue)

  BABY LIES

  A gripping detective mystery full of twists and turns

  DI Tom Mariner Book 4

  CHRIS COLLETT

  Revised Edition 2018

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  FIRST PUBLISHED BY PIATKUS 2007 AS “BLOOD MONEY”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

  We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to corrections@joffebooks.com

  We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.

  ©Chris Collett

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  CONTENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  DI MARINER SERIES

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS AND OFFERS

  Glossary of English Slang for US readers

  CHARACTER LIST

  To my sister, Judi.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is the fourth mystery featuring Tom Mariner. It is set in the 2000s, when the internet was in its infancy, mobile phones had yet to evolve into smart phones, and people still read print newspapers.

  Chapter One

  Mariner was already awake when the digital alarm flipped over to three thirty a.m., a murmur of anticipation rippling through his stomach that was reminiscent of childhood, when getting up at this hour — the sky outside still inky black — meant it was either Christmas or the start of a long journey. He slid out of bed, careful not to tug the duvet and disturb Anna, only switching on the light when he was safely out of the bedroom. His clothes were where he’d left them last night, folded over the banister. Eyes grainy from lack of sleep, he stood under the shower and let his thoughts focus and sharpen in preparation for what lay ahead.

  The wet spell they’d been having had temporarily abated, and the morning was still and dry, but there was an autumnal nip in the air as he crept from the house. Noticing that the For Sale sign positioned by the fence — now pleasingly covered with the word Sold — had fallen sideways, Mariner straightened it up before getting into his car. Five minutes later he drew up outside Tony Knox’s house. His DS was looking out for him and appeared immediately. ‘Good day for it, boss,’ Knox said, climbing in beside Mariner and fastening his seat belt.

  ‘Any day’s a good day for this,’ said Mariner, ‘though the code name has to be someone’s idea of a joke. Ocean Blue? Operation Open Sewer would be more accurate.’

  ‘Won’t you miss all this, boss?’

  ‘I’m only on leave for a week. I think I’ll manage.’

  ‘No, I mean when your transfer comes through.’

  ‘I’m sure they have their share of excitement in Herefordshire. If what you read in the press is accurate, rural towns are worse than anywhere for drugs and vice these days.’

  ‘Won’t be the same though, will it?’

  ‘No, but I think that’s the point. At least, it is where Anna’s concerned.’

  ‘You’ve got the whole of next week off too?’

  ‘All seven days of it. The christening isn’t until next Sunday.’

  ‘The godfather, eh?’ Knox hummed the opening bars of the soundtrack to the Coppola film.

  ‘Only nominally,’ said Mariner. ‘I think Anna and I would have to be married to get the official title. But it’ll do me. It feels like enough of a responsibility as it is.’

  Up until now, and unsurprisingly at this hour, the traffic had been light. But passing the arts centre and turning into the outward-bound Pershore Road, they joined a steady queue of cars all turning right into Tally Ho, the police training centre. They must have looked like arrivals at some bizarrely timed party, but on the walk across the car park the mood was sombre, with just a few of the younger lads larking about as if they were going on a school trip. Around one hundred and fifty officers gathered from all over the West Midlands in the main conference hall. Chief Superintendent Marston kept it simple. Covert operation Ocean Blue had been months in the planning and anyone who wasn’t clear on their role by now would face a disciplinary for sleeping on the job. ‘Let’s keep it swift and clean. Good luck.’

  * * *

  Curled in a foetal position on her grubby bed, Katarina lay with her hands locked together between her thighs where her body was sore. She should feel grateful. The night was over and she could relax, if that was what this state could be called. Waves of exhaustion lapped over her, if only she could stop shivering for long enough to drift away into blissful oblivion. But the room was damp and cold, and through the flimsy net curtains the light from the outside streetlamp lit up the condensation that crept down the window pane, collecting at the bottom of the rotting wooden frame. Despite the portable electric radiator, her shallow breaths steamed the air and the end of her nose tingled as she huddled in the blankets still in her clothes.

  In search of some comfort she reached out, opened the drawer of the cheap bedside cabinet and took out her most precious possession, a much-handled photograph, one of the few possessions she’d retained from what now seemed like a whole other life. Even after all that she endured night after night, this was the most exquisite torture of all, as she considered what might have been, but for her own naiveté. With a will of their own, her thoughts ranged over her home and parents, her brother and sisters, as her chest contracted, forcing out a sob. She wondered if Alana in the room next to hers was suffering the same torment. It was impossible to tell if she too was awake. This was the time of night when the house fell silent. The last of the clients had been and gone and, but for the occasional passing of a distant car, the outside world seemed deceptively at peace.

  Katarina must have dozed off because she was woken by a terrifying bang and shouting, followed by heavy footsteps stomping up the stairs. Scrambling to the end of her bed, she pressed herself against the cold wall in an attempt to make herself invisible, praying that this time she’d be left alone. But the door burst open and a man, a stranger, was framed in the doorway. Different from the others, clean and well dressed, he spoke in soothing tones, but in her panic she couldn’t untangle the words to understand what he was saying. She saw his gaze take in the squalor and she closed her eyes to hide from the shame.

  * * *

  As the ram hit the door, bursting it open, it was the smell that hit them first: a combination of rising damp and the stale animal stench of sex and cheap perfume. Mariner, Knox and two uniformed officers stampeded up the stairs, flinging open doors as they went. In the first three rooms the occupants, two women and a man, were roused from their sleep, blinking uncertainly in the sudden glare of the bare light bulbs.

  At the top of the house Mariner thought at fi
rst that the fourth room was empty. But as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw the bundle at the far end of the bed, eyes wide and terrified. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’re safe.’ He held out his warrant card. ‘I’m with the police. Polizei.’ The girl shrank back further from him. Advancing slowly Mariner saw some kind of jacket slung over the chair, matted fur around the hood. He picked it up and held it up to her. ‘You have to come with me.’ When he was close enough he gently lifted the thin grimy blanket from her and took her bony arm.

  Down on the street in the chilly dawn it felt like they were part of a freak show. Curtains twitched aside in the houses around them as the girls were bundled as quickly as possible into the waiting cars, one car containing the two arrested males sped away. Ocean Blue, for them, accomplished.

  * * *

  Emma O’Brien chuckled at a joke made by the radio presenter. ‘What a silly man,’ she said, gazing down at her baby daughter in her car seat beside her. Jessica rewarded her with a gummy grin, kicking her legs vigorously, and yet again Emma marvelled at the physical reaction that beautiful smile could evoke. The traffic ahead inched forward and she eased her foot off the clutch. Eight thirty. God, fancy having to do this journey every day. She’d known it would be slow getting into the city, so she’d allowed plenty of time, in fact she’d surprised herself at how relaxed she was feeling. It was down to motherhood, no doubt about it. Everyone had commented on the change. Six months ago she’d have been in the lecture theatre at the crack of dawn checking her presentation, making sure that all the AV technology was functioning and mentally rehearsing her opening remarks. ‘Your mummy is a changed woman,’ she told Jessica with another indulgent smile.

  ‘Ghee,’ grinned Jessica.

  As Emma got nearer to the nursery, the first twinge of nervous apprehension kicked in. She tried to tell herself it was because she’d be standing up in front of a full lecture hall for the first time in six months, but part of her also acknowledged the true source of her unease. It was the prospect of leaving her seven-week-old daughter in the hands of relative strangers. Terrible things happened with tiny babies. Only recently she’d read in the paper about a nanny convicted of manslaughter for shaking a baby to death. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said out loud. The crèche had been running for years, the staff fully vetted by the hospital. They were professionals. If there was any malpractice going on, the place would have been closed down long ago. Too late to back out now and, in any case, the one-off lecture paid so obscenely well that she’d have been out of her tiny mind to turn it down. The crèche arrangement would be just fine.

  Half an hour later, her daughter happily entrusted to the kind and capable crèche manager, Emma O’Brien got back in her car and allowed herself a little cry, the separation from her daughter a tangible, physical pain even though – or perhaps because - Jessica had let her go without a murmur. Fumbling for her mobile Emma started to speed-dial Peter’s mobile then abruptly severed the connection. He’d already be at work and in the first of his all-day meetings about the latest round of drug trials — he wouldn’t thank her for the interruption. Far better to call him this afternoon when it was all over to report how well it had all gone. Blowing her nose hard, she shifted herself into professional mode.

  * * *

  At Granville Lane, while the FME was checking over the girls, up in the briefing room Mariner reminded his team of the drill. Eight girls in total had been brought back to Granville Lane from two establishments. Two men, their minders, had been arrested and all without casualties. It had gone smoothly and Mariner began with congratulations. ‘But that was the easy part,’ he said. ‘Now comes the real challenge; building a case against these men and any others who have been picked up across the city, and finding out who’s running the show. They’re our real target — those further up the chain who are responsible for this whole obscene operation. Immigration have identified a number of suspects they’ve been monitoring for the last twelve months.’ He held up half a dozen digital mugshots. ‘But we need to make the connections. We want positive identification backed by credible witness statements. Some of the girls may have had direct contact, or overheard conversations. Immigration will continue to do their bit by going through any papers we’ve seized, but the taped and videoed interviews will be crucial.’

  Looking around, Mariner was satisfied to see everyone, outwardly at least, fully focused. ‘Of course, some girls are going to do better as witnesses than others, but what we’re looking for are a couple of reliable ones who are also willing to testify.’ He was aware as he said it that this was the biggest potential stumbling block. ‘Most of these girls have been abused over long periods of time. They’re young and scared and have learned the hard way not to trust anyone. We don’t have much time to rebuild that trust. I don’t have to remind you that we’re interviewing victims, not criminals. We need to go gently and build confidence. These are potentially significant witnesses who must be carefully interviewed so that if and when any case comes to court we can be confident that there will be no accusations of leading the questioning.’

  Mariner had split his officers into teams for interviewing — where possible, pairing male with female — in the hope that the girls would feel less intimidated. He and Knox would start with the minders, with a view to making some kind of deal that would lead them to the bigger fish.

  As the briefing broke up, DCI Sharp came in, another woman following close behind. ‘Tom, this is Lorelei Fielding, she’s from the Daffodil Project,’ Sharp said.

  ‘Daffodil Project?’

  ‘We’re a charity that offers support to vulnerable women,’ Fielding said. ‘We act as advocates or counsellors and have several refuges across the city. We’re here to offer our services. Our support workers can be present at the interviews and when you’ve finished what you have to do, we’ll take the girls to one of our hostels overnight.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mariner. ‘I’ll let you know when we’re ready.’

  The FME was almost finished. ‘You’re beginning the interviews now?’ he asked Mariner.

  ‘We’re just waiting for one of the translators to arrive.’

  ‘You won’t need it for all of them. One of the girls speaks pretty good English.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Her grandfather was over here during the war apparently. He taught her the basics. She’s pretty fluent.’

  ‘Which one is she?’

  ‘Katarina. At nineteen she’s one of the oldest, too, so you may find that she handles the whole process better.’

  Mariner nodded his thanks. He and Knox would interview her as well.

  ‘You’ll go easy on them, won’t you?’ said Lorelei.

  ‘Of course.’

  But easy was only a one-way street. For Mariner and Knox the initial interviews with the minders were a frustrating experience. Except to give their names, the men refused to speak or to acknowledge recognition of any of the further suspects in the photographs. After only an hour Mariner gave up. ‘If nothing else we’ve got them for living off immoral earnings. We can afford to let them stew. One of the girls might provide us with a way in. Let’s make them the priority.’ He wanted to start with the girl who spoke English.

  Tony Knox, with DC Jenny Foster, was conducting an interview with a girl who looked no more than about twelve years old. Pale and scrawny, there were dark smudges under her eyes and her skinny arms were mottled with scars. She lowered her head as they entered the room, but not before Knox had noticed the gummy gap where her top incisors should have been, which gave her the appearance of a small child losing her milk teeth. She sat low in her chair placing as much distance as she could between herself and the officers, her arms folded protectively around her.

  ‘Her name is Sonja,’ the interpreter said, with a glance in the girl’s direction.

  ‘What happened to her teeth?’ Foster asked the interpreter. ‘Was she beaten?’

  ‘They were removed,’ the interpreter sai
d after a short exchange. ‘It would help her to do her work better.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Knox.

  But Foster didn’t get it.

  ‘All the better for giving blow jobs,’ Knox illuminated, his voice low.

  His colleague turned a funny colour.

  Sonja responded to their questions with the tiniest nod or shake of the head, and Knox was about to get up and leave the room, when suddenly she turned to the translator and spoke rapidly, her words gushing out in a torrent, tumbling over each other. For the first time she looked directly into Tony Knox’s face with a desperation that wrenched at his insides.

  ‘She wants to know how long this will take,’ the translator said. ‘She wants to go and find her child.’

  ‘She has a child?’ Knox failed to keep the incredulity from his voice.

  The girl spoke again, the urgency in her voice increasing.

  ‘A daughter. She’s in an orphanage in Tirana. She wants to go and find her.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ breathed Knox, looking at the girl in front of them, who was little more than a child herself. ‘Now I’ve heard it all.’

  * * *

  Walking into the interview suite along with PC Millie Khatoon, Mariner recognised Katarina as the girl he had brought down from the top floor of the house on Foundry Road. He’d never have believed she was nineteen, but in the safety of the police station, she seemed to have lost a little of her timidity. She clasped a beaker of tea between cupped hands. The room was cosy, with comfortable chairs and soft furnishings, but it had the same audio and video recording equipment you’d find in a standard interview room — and she looked anything but at home.

  ‘You speak English?’ Mariner confirmed.

  Katarina nodded.

  ‘I just want to ask you some questions. If there’s anything you don’t understand or anything you don’t want to talk about, then you can tell me. Okay?’