Minds That Hate (6 page)

Chapter six

Juris was content. Homesick, but content. When his father died, the future looked bleak for him, his mother and his younger brothers. At eighteen, Juris was unable to support the family. Mechanisation had reduced the need for agricultural workers dramatically. Unskilled in anything else, Juris had to compete with other, more experienced applicants.

A welcome solution arrived. The
rumour flashed round the village that a stranger was offering work. True, it was many hundreds of miles away, but the pay was good and the stranger was prepared to loan the fare. It was agricultural work too. He met the stranger, a Lithuanian called Zydrumas, and the deal was struck. That had been two years ago.

When he arrived in North Yorkshire,
Juris was billeted in a camp for migrant workers. After three months, more suitable accommodation was found, close to the farm where he worked. Juris wrote to tell his mother he was sharing a house on an estate called Westlea. He wrote home often with his news, and to send money. She received the letters and money with equal pleasure and wrote back to thank him. She expressed her pride and love. Her only sadness was that she missed him.

The work was seasonal, but by limiting expenditure,
Juris could support his family throughout the year. Although there was opportunity to return home once the season was over, Juris declined this. That would mean extra fares. He would rather save that money and remain in England. He might even find work during the winter.

He’d no success the first year and to alleviate his boredom
Juris began improving his limited English. Although his education had been basic, he’d a quick brain and soon mastered a few simple words and phrases. Listening carefully and copying those around him accelerated the process and by winter Juris felt confident enough to enrol for night classes.

During the second winter he found casual work in the kitchens of a local hotel. It was only at weekends, except during December and January when this extended to most nights of the week.
Juris didn’t mind that it was tedious, repetitive work. He didn’t even mind being sworn at, or blamed for everything that went wrong. Although his English was improving rapidly, the college courses didn’t give him the fluency a few nights in the hotel kitchen provided.

Later, his teachers explained the difference between English and Anglo Saxon. He learned that a snappy response delivered by a chef isn’t always polite.
Juris discovered that calling somebody ‘a lazy twat’ or ‘an ignorant dickhead’ was no way to win friends.

The farm where
Juris worked was visible from the migrants’ house. To get there by road would mean a walk of three miles, but there was a footpath that cut this to less than half a mile. When Zydrumas had to speak to the farmer about the forthcoming harvest, he took Juris along.

The first part of the meeting concerned the
labour needed. When the discussion turned to rates of pay, Juris set off home. Zydrumas said he’d follow.

The day had been overcast and cool. The track led through a small wood before it bisected a series of miniature farms, dedicated to the growing of vegetables and other produce.
Juris had learned these were called allotments. His teacher had explained the reason for their existence. The woods were a dark impenetrable mass of foliage, tangled briar and brambles. As Juris walked, he heard the rustle and creak as the wind stirred the trees around him. Suddenly he felt very alone, very far from home and, for no logical reason, very afraid. It was only when he’d passed the woods and come to the edge of the Westlea that the irrational fear subsided.

Billy sat in his room. His hand moved lazily to and fro as he passed the long bright blade of his knife across a sharpening stone. His movements were accurate, with precision born of practice. His eyes appeared to be fixed on the wall opposite. In fact they were unfocused, far away.

Danny led by example. Billy remembered when Danny returned home with the gun, remembered with equal clarity when Danny used it. He hadn’t been allowed to see the weapon, but the look on Danny’s face told Billy more than his elder brother suspected.

Before Ricky moved in, the Juniors had been having a lot of trouble with their drug dealer. Poor-quality gear and lack of regular supplies were only part of the problem. More critical was the exorbitant price charged by the Turkish Cypriot who controlled distribution.

When Danny returned after being absent all day and half the night, Billy knew something must have happened. Danny didn’t stray from Helmsdale and the estate often. He certainly didn’t vanish for such a long time without a convincing explanation.

Next day, Billy saw the news report on TV. Telling of the discovery of a man’s body in a house on the outskirts of Leeds, the item went on, ‘The man is believed to be of Turkish Cypriot origin. Police investigating the shooting are looking into a possible drugs connection.’

Danny had pointed the way. Billy knew exactly who Danny was referring to when he mentioned ‘The
Immigrunts’.

He wasn’t quite as clear as to how the
Immigrunts had made their lives so miserable, but Danny had said so, and Billy wasn’t prepared to argue. Billy knew what to do. He had to kill one. It didn’t much matter which one. That wasn’t the point. He’d a target in mind. Not a person but a location. He remembered them working on the farm close to the Westlea. They were starting to arrive back now. He’d seen two in the street, bold as you like, strolling along. It stood to reason they’d be working at the farm again. That meant they’d be walking through the woods. It’d be exciting. Not like the fire of course, but good nevertheless.

His decision made, Billy put the stone away. He fingered the blade,
then wiped it with a soft cloth. He replaced the weapon in the sheath on his belt and put his jacket on, left the bedroom, left the house and headed for the woods.

Tucker had followed Rathmell for three days without anything to show for his efforts. Many journalists might have abandoned the story, but Tucker was made of sterner stuff. On day four he followed Rathmell out of Helmsdale. Within minutes of leaving the town Tucker thought he could guess who Rathmell was going to meet. His guess was wildly inaccurate.

When
Rathmell turned onto the moor road, Tucker allowed his car to coast to a stop and got out.

As
Appleyard headed towards the meeting place, he was so deep in thought he almost missed the turning. He swung off the main road, slowing to avoid missing the next landmark. He noticed a car parked alongside the dry-stone wall. He saw that the driver had left his vehicle, apparently to relieve himself. Appleyard hoped he hadn’t startled the man.

Tucker was surprised, although not as
Appleyard imagined. He heard the sound of the approaching vehicle before it came into view. He expected Gemma Fletcher’s flashy red convertible. To avoid suspicion Tucker adopted the stance of a man in the act of urinating. It was natural to glance over one’s shoulder at the intrusion on so private a function; Tucker was glad he was only simulating the act or his surprise might have provoked an accident. It wasn’t Gemma Fletcher’s car. Nor was it a female behind the wheel. Was this coincidence, or was the driver on his way to meet Rathmell? If so, to what purpose? It was understandable to want a secluded spot for an illicit romantic assignation, but this was obviously not the case. So why the secrecy? A meeting neither party wanted witnessed, that was obvious. Tucker’s journalistic instinct told him there might be more to this rendezvous than the adultery he’d set out to expose. Back to watching and waiting. But at least there was the possibility of something worth waiting for.

Tucker waited almost an hour. The sun was hidden by low cloud and the wind blew cold. He was about to get back into his car when he heard the sound of approaching vehicles. As the first of them came into view, Tucker recognized it as
Rathmell’s. He watched it speed past, noting that Rathmell was alone. Although his quest centred on Rathmell, the man he’d been meeting in such secrecy interested Tucker more.

The car was travelling faster than on the outward leg. Despite this Tucker was confident he’d be able to read the number plate. The ground on the opposite side of the wall rose steeply, so his eyes were almost at road level.

Tucker raised his binoculars and adjusted the focus. As he concentrated on the number plate, his vision was filled with a solid wall of white. Before Tucker realized what had happened, the car sped past and receded into the distance. The fading light had caused the car’s automatic headlamps to switch on. Tucker swore virulently at the trio of sheep grazing peacefully on the verge. They stared back curiously, before returning to their afternoon tea.

The meeting had been a great success. Zydrumas emerged from the farmhouse, shook hands with the farmer and wandered to the end of the yard. He paused and lit a cigarette. His client was an ambitious man. He’d outlined plans for the development of the business. These would involve Zydrumas and his workforce. Part of the farm was on heavy clay. This made production difficult. The farmer intended to install tunnel greenhouses to enable a range of produce to be grown all year round. He was also planning to acquire two other farms, one in Lincolnshire and another in Scotland.

Extra
labour would be required. ‘What I need is a reliable workforce at reasonable cost. That’s where you come in. I want you to start straightaway. Leave Juris to run things here. He’s capable of controlling the other workers and reliable enough to take charge when I’m not about. That’s going to be increasingly often.’

Zydrumas
stubbed his cigarette out and opened the gate. The farmer had just made his day. He was about to do the same for Juris.

Billy reached the allotments. The Immigrunts would have to stop work soon. Then they’d walk back along this track. Back from the work they’d stolen from people like Billy, towards the houses they’d stolen from people like Billy.

This was what he’d been told. Billy had never applied for a job in his life. He wouldn’t have wanted a job if he’d been offered one. The Floyd family already had a house, provided free of charge courtesy of the local authority and any number of social security benefits. Billy didn’t think of this. All he knew was he hated
Immigrunts. He’d torched a gippovan. Now he was going to go one better.

He reached the place he’d picked, hid behind an elm tree and eased the knife from its sheath. A quarter of an hour passed. Then he heard footsteps. Billy strained his eyes. He peered through the foliage. Someone was walking on the path. Billy edged forward. The footsteps approached, slowly. The man on the path wasn’t hurrying. Billy moved further forward. A twig snapped under his foot.

Silence. Then the man called out, ‘What is it? Who is there?’

The accent was enough. Billy launched himself forward. He raised his arm. The blade gleamed as he brought the knife down. He struck again. This time there was no reflection from the blade.
Or the next time, or the next.

Chapter seven

‘What are you doing this weekend?’

Clara looked up from the paperwork. ‘David’s home on leave – we’re going rock climbing. He’s picking me up. I’ll need gallons of coffee to stay awake on Monday. What about you?’

‘Not much. I’ll probably go for a pint. I was going to La Giaconda, but I’ll give it a miss this week.’

Clara burst out laughing. ‘Still frightened of the Mafia?’

‘Too right. I’d a message on my voicemail from her brother.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Just, “Hello Michael, we need to talk about my sister. Call me”.’

‘No name?’

Nash shook his head.

‘Well, that’s easy enough. Dial 1471 and it’ll give you his number.’

‘Damn! I never thought of that. No good now – I’ve had a load of calls since.’

‘You didn’t recognize his voice?’

‘No chance. My answer machine’s got a fault. Everyone sounds like Frankie Valli on helium.’

‘Where will you go for a drink?’

‘The Horse and Jockey. It’s a good pint, and I want to find out how your other boyfriend’s getting on with his new dog.’

Clara looked at him suspiciously.
‘My other boyfriend?’

‘Jonas Turner.
The one who calls you Sergeant Miniver. He asks about you whenever I go in.’

‘Oh, him.
What’s this about a dog?’

‘He bought a Jack Russell to keep rats off his allotment. Apparently he was conned into it by one of his cronies. He was asking for advice and his mate sold him a Jack. Told Jonas they were “ferocious little buggers, one man dogs and it took a bite out of his missus’s leg”. Jonas was sold on the idea, much to his wife’s annoyance. She’s trying to make its life as miserable as Jonas’s. I want to find out how the training’s going.’

‘What training?’

‘He’s trying to teach it to bite his wife.’

‘That’s cruel.’

‘I’ll tell him you’re threatening to call the RSPCA, shall I?’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

It was almost midnight when Nash left the pub. The door to his flat was in deep shadow. He located the lock, but couldn’t get the key in. After three attempts, he worked out that the key was upside down. He was about to open the door when a voice behind him whispered, ‘Hello, Michael.’

The key fell onto the pavement with a clatter. ‘Oh bugger!’ Nash exclaimed. He squinted. ‘I didn’t expect you,’ he said weakly.

‘I said I’d be back. Didn’t you get my texts?’

‘
Er, yes,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve been busy though.’

‘I can see that. Are you going to invite me in?’

‘Oh yes, sorry. I’ll just find my keys.’

She bent down and scooped the ring off the pavement. ‘Let me.’ She opened the door,
then guided him through the hall and into the lounge.

He smiled at her. ‘God, you’re lovely.’

‘And you, Michael, are drunk. I hope you’re not too drunk. I’ve been travelling for fifteen hours. I don’t want the journey to be wasted.’ She began to unfasten his shirt. Gently she fingered the puckered edges of the healed scar on his chest. ‘What’s this?’

Nash looked down and shrugged.
‘Perils of the job. I was shot by a madman who objected when I tried to arrest him.’

‘A bit of an extreme reaction.
Does it cause you any problems?’

He grinned. ‘I hope not. You can judge if it affects my performance.’

Later, Nash said, ‘I’ve a confession to make.’

‘What is it?’

The beer had removed his inhibitions. ‘I’ve forgotten your name.’

Her rich peal of laughter rang around the bedroom. ‘But, Michael,’ she told him reproachfully, ‘how could you forget my name?’

‘I don’t know,’ he confessed miserably. ‘I realize it’s unforgivable.’

‘That’s not what I meant. How could you forget my name when I’ve never told you it?’

Nash sat bolt upright. ‘You mean that? I’ve been racking my brains to remember, and all the time you never told me? I don’t believe you. Are you pulling my leg?’

Her reply was another outburst of laughter, smothered by Nash.

As dawn was breaking, their sleep was interrupted by the phone ringing.

Nash listened. ‘I’ll be right there.’

He looked at her. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘A body’s been found. It sounds like murder.’

‘When will you be back?’

‘I’ve no idea. I can’t tell whether I’ll be four hours or forty-eight.’

She pulled the covers round her. As he began to get up she reached across. ‘I think you need an incentive.’ She kissed him, her tongue exploring his mouth, her hand gently massaging him. Eventually she released him.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he gasped.

He was halfway through ringing
Mironova’s number when he remembered she was off duty. With Pearce on holiday, Helmsdale had no one available. He cancelled the call and dialled Netherdale. ‘Who’ve you got in CID?’

Nash waited a few moments. ‘DC Andrews is on call.’

Nash dialled her home phone number. A few minutes later a drowsy voice answered.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Lisa. It’s Mike Nash. I’ve got a stiff on my hands.’

‘I don’t want to know your personal problems.’

Nash grinned. ‘I mean a body; a murder victim.’

‘You pick your time, don’t you?’

‘I didn’t pick it, any more than the corpse did.’

‘It’s a good job I wasn’t up to no good.’

‘Aren’t you the lucky
one.’ Nash looked down. ‘You should hear the complaints I got.’

A sleepy voice from Nash’s bed muttered, ‘You haven’t heard anything yet.’

Lisa said, ‘I’ll be on my way as soon as I’ve got dressed and had a coffee.’

‘A coffee!
I wish somebody here would get out of bed and make coffee.’

‘You want coffee, try Starbucks,’ came from the bed.

Lisa continued, ‘Where shall I meet you?’

‘Can you pick me up? I had a few last night, so I don’t want to drive.’

‘Give me half an hour.’

The call to Andrews had been easy. Nash still had to ring the pathologist. He winced at the thought of what Ramirez would say. He hoped it would be in Spanish.

Nash had just finished his coffee when Lisa’s car pulled up.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘Head for the allotments on the edge of the Westlea. A bloke walking his dog found a body. The victim is male, has multiple stab wounds to his chest and stomach.’

‘Any ID?’

‘Not yet.’

The flashing lights pointed them to the crime scene. The constable keeping onlookers at bay acknowledged Nash and Andrews. ‘The guy who found the body’s over there talking to one of our men,’ he told them.

‘Did you check the body?’

‘No, we thought it better not to disturb anything.’

‘Good man.’ Nash nodded his approval. A tarpaulin sheet hid the body from view. As they got closer Nash stopped dead.

‘What’s matter, Mike?’

He pointed. ‘The man who found the body. I was drinking with him in The Horse and Jockey last night.’

‘
Ayup, Mr Nash.’

‘Now then, Jonas.
This is a surprise.’

‘Surprise!
It were hell of a shock, I can tell you.’

Nash looked down to where the terrier was scrabbling for attention. ‘Now then, Pip.’ Nash bent and stroked the dog. ‘Did you find the body? We’ll make a police dog of you yet. You’re out and about early, Jonas.’

‘This is one of my busiest days. Greengrocer calls on his way back from market. I’ve to be ’ere to load him up. Then I let Pip have a run before I go back home for t’ toast the wife’s cremated.’ Jonas’s gaze strayed to Lisa. His eyes sparkled pleasurably.

‘Who’s this then?’ He nodded towards Andrews. ‘What have you done with Sergeant
Miniver? Don’t tell me she’s been transferred?’

Nash smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Jonas. She’s off duty, that’s all. This is Detective Constable Andrews.’

Turner surveyed the replacement. ‘By gum, Mr Nash, they’ve got it right when they call it a bobby’s job. You surround yourself with some smashers, don’t you? Pleased to meet you, Miss Andrews. You’d better watch yourself with Mr Nash. He’s allus got one girl or another on his arm.’

Jonas winked conspiratorially at Lisa. ‘Aye, I reckon he’s a bad lad, is our
Mr Nash.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Lisa told him cheerfully, ‘we all know that. Anyway, I’m spoken for.’

Turner’s face fell. ‘Damn. And there I was, thinking my luck had changed.’

Nash reverted to business. ‘What time did you find the body?’

Turner scratched his head thoughtfully – no mean feat for one wearing a flat cap. ‘It were just gone five o’clock when I left home. Takes me quarter of an hour to get here, so I’d be at t’ allotment by about quarter past, twenty past at latest.’

‘Was there anybody about?’

‘Not a soul. I’d have noticed, specially at that time.’

‘How long did it take you to load the produce?’

‘I’d to cut it, or dig it up. Then wash t’ mud off, say half an hour, three quarters at most. We’d been walking about ten minutes afore we found t’ poor chap.’ Turner gestured to the tarpaulin.

‘So we’re talking about six o’ clock to half past,’ Nash suggested.

‘Aye, that’d be about right. Then I’d to bike it into town to phone your lot. I tried t’ boxes over there,’ Turner jerked a thumb towards the Westlea, ‘but they’d all been vandalised. If you work back from t’ time I called in, say a quarter of an hour afore that.’

‘Did you look at the body?’ Nash asked.

‘I saw enough.’ Jonas shuddered.

‘Did you recognize him?’

Turner scratched his head again. ‘I did and I didn’t.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know who he is...was. But I’ve seen him about. Never spoken to him, but I noticed him round here a time or two.’

‘When you say “round here” where do you mean?’

‘I’ve seen him a few times on this path. Enough for me to think, There’s that chap again, if you get me.’

‘Okay, that’ll do. We’ll need a statement later, but we’ll let you get off for your breakfast. We don’t want your wife worrying.’

‘That’ll be the day.’ Turner sniffed. ‘It’ll be cinders by now.’

They watched Turner walk towards the allotments. ‘That doesn’t sound like a marriage made in heaven,’ Lisa suggested. ‘What makes a man so bitter about his wife?’

‘You haven’t met her.’

They were interrupted by the uniformed officer. ‘The pathologist’s here.’

‘This should be fun,’ Nash said, as they approached Ramirez. ‘Good morning, Professor.’

‘It was,’ the pathologist said sourly. ‘Can’t you save your necrophilia until normal hours?’

‘I didn’t choose the time,’ Nash protested. ‘You know DC Andrews, do you?’

Ramirez nodded. ‘Don’t get hooked up with Nash,’ he told her. ‘Not unless you share his passion for cadavers.’

‘We’ll let you get on with your examination,’ Nash told him. ‘Check the body for identification, will you? We’ll be over by the road when you’ve finished.’

The SOCO
team were stringing their incident tape in a wide circle round the area when Ramirez reported back. ‘There’s nothing to identify the victim. A couple of the coat pockets were inside out. There are several stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. Any of them would have caused death. The deceased has been deceased for between ten and fifteen hours. That’s as much as I can tell you until the post-mortem.’ Ramirez nodded to Andrews and walked briskly to his car.

‘What’s the significance of the pockets?’

Nash looked at Lisa. ‘Removal of identification, I guess. Whether that was to make our job harder, or whether there’s a deeper significance, I’m not sure. We need to ask Turner if he was at the allotment late yesterday and whether he saw anything then. Let’s give him chance to digest his cremated toast. Then we can take him with us to Helmsdale station and get his statement. I’ll have a word with the SOCO leader, then we’ll get something to eat.’

‘There were nobody about yesterday afternoon.’

‘Have you noticed anyone hanging about there recently, Jonas?’

‘I don’t know if it’s worth owt, but I noticed a car there a couple of days ago.’

‘You don’t happen to know the make or model?’

Nash was surprised when Turner said, ‘Aye, I do.’

Nash looked up.

‘It were a Superdo.’

‘A what?’

‘A Superdo. One of them sporty things. A Superdo Impressor, I think they call ’em.’