Howard Linskey: The Dead

Palmer went down the stairs like they weren’t there and was out into the street. He had entered the building unarmed and left six men lying dead behind him.

The day after Palmer killed the Stevic brothers, Vasnetsov finally lost patience with me and a file arrived at my house. In it were photographs of my daughter out for walks in the park with Joanne and a bodyguard. The message was clear. Cooperate or Emma would face the consequences.

Later that same day, I took a call from one of Vasnetsov’s men. He gave me a date, a time and a flight number. I had been summoned to meet Vasnetsov’s first Joe and my destination was Helsinki.

Detective Sergeant Nigel Kelly was wading through the files on Dusan Stevic’s computer, as part of the Lothian and Borders Police investigation into the killing of six Serbian gangsters who’d set themselves up in the city. It made for interesting reading. Some of the files were encrypted but others weren’t. It seemed the Stevic brothers were not as careful as they might have been, exhibiting an arrogance that, according to some, had been fostered by a belief that they were somehow untouchable by the authorities. Well, they might all be dead now but the information they left behind could be priceless, enabling a thorough investigation into their criminal network, which would undoubtedly lead to further arrests. There were even spreadsheets detailing payments received and those made, along with the names of the recipients.

Kelly was about to take a break when he stumbled upon a Real Player flash video with a Serbian title. On a whim he clicked on the file and waited while it opened. He wasn’t expecting such a stark image.

The girl was bent over with her face virtually pressed into the camera. She was naked and her large breasts dangled beneath her, swaying from side to side, as the older man took her from behind. From the look on her face, she was enduring the sex, not enjoying it. From the look on his, he had no idea they were being secretly recorded.

‘Wahey!’ shouted Detective Constable Russell when he looked over and noticed the film playing on Kelly’s computer, ‘Kelly’s watching porn!’ and he wandered over to get a better look. The first thing he noticed was the naked girl being taken from behind by an old, fat bloke. His eyes zeroed in on the distinctive tattoo on the girl’s arm, then he clocked her face.

‘Bloody hell, that’s her,’ he said, ‘that’s the girl we’ve got downstairs. She’s one of those trafficked Ukrainian lassies the Serbs brought in. We picked her up a couple of hours ago. I didn’t recognise her with her clothes on but she’s got that big fuck off tattoo on her arm. It’s definitely her alright,’ but Detective Sergeant Kelly didn’t answer him. He had not been so easily distracted by the naked girl and her tattoo, instead he simply whispered the same word three times. ‘Fuck… fuck… fuck.’

It was then that Russell tore his gaze away from the girl and finally took a closer look at the man who was screwing her. He was podgy and balding, with a thin wisp of combed-over ginger hair, his face was red, sweat poured from his forehead and he was grunting like a pig, as he thrust into the unfortunate girl over and over again.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Russell, when he finally recognised the man, ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘No,’ answered Kelly, ‘but it might as well be.’

Colleagues heard the muttered curses of the two detectives and wandered over to see what had distracted them. Others followed and soon there was a small cluster of men and women who’d abandoned their desks to view the film of the fat man and the girl. He was putting his back into it alright. From his face, it was hard to tell whether he was having an orgasm or a heart attack. The finale was greeted in near silence by the posse of detectives.

It was DC Heather Shaw who finally put it into words, ‘Is that…’ but she couldn’t quite bring herself to finish the sentence.

‘Assistant Chief Constable Brinklow,’ confirmed DS Kelly, who’d at least had a little time to get used to the idea, ‘it only bloody is!’

News travels fast, particularly when that news involves the arrest of an Assistant Chief Constable on charges of corruption. We watched it on the TV at the Cauldron.

‘They reckon Brinklow will get at least fifteen years,’ explained Sharp, ‘five years for what he did, five for his rank,’ then he added, ‘and five years extra for that bloody video.’

Brinklow’s unwitting porn video was already the stuff of police legend. It was probably true that the footage of Brinklow raping that trafficked Ukrainian girl would be the difference between ten years, out in six and fifteen years, out in ten, if the parole board didn’t actually think he should go right to the end of his full term because the abuse of power had been so great.

I took a long while to say my goodbyes to Sarah and Emma. I didn’t want to go but knew I had to, for their sakes. Picking up my daughter and holding her to me so I could kiss her goodbye was the hardest thing I have ever done. Sarah stood in the doorway with Emma in her arms as I drove away.

I couldn’t take Palmer or Kinane with me on this journey so I left on my own. Before I drove to the airport, I took a drive through Newcastle, so I could have one last look at the streets I had known all my life, because I knew I wouldn’t be coming back.

There was no private jet to transport me to Vasnetsov’s property near Helsinki. Instead, I was instructed to take a scheduled flight from Heathrow to Vantaa airport in the Finnish capital. I was met there by one of Vasnetsov’s men, a tall, corporate type in a suit who recognised me but did not bother to introduce himself. He walked me to a large Audi and gave me the keys.

‘Use the sat nav,’ he ordered, ‘it’s programmed to take you to a house in Anjalankoski Kouvola.’

This meant nothing to me, but when I climbed into the car the display told me I had a hundred and thirty kilometres to go. Vasnetsov’s man tapped on the window and I wound it down. ‘Don’t stop,’ he warned me, ‘or we will know.’ And I had no reason to doubt that.

The sat nav guided me away from Vantaa and down a wide, tree-lined road that took me past apartment blocks, then houses, until we reached the suburbs which were lightly dusted with snow. Finally I joined the main highway and made steady progress — the traffic was light compared to the UK. I found myself subconsciously slowing down, as if I was trying to delay the inevitable. I felt like a condemned man being dragged to the gallows.

I passed mile after mile of woodland, huge conifers either side of me, with nothing to break the tree lines apart from a succession of bridges that spanned the road I was on. It was getting dark when I finally left the main highway and took a minor road with no destination sign or lighting. I had to rely on the sat nav to ensure I was headed the right way and my headlights to guide me, along a road which seemed to be narrowing progressively as I neared my final destination. I was glad of the snow, because it reflected the beams and helped to light my way. I’d gone nearly two miles down this winding excuse for a road when I turned a corner and the house came into view. It wasn’t quite the gothic monstrosity of his English home but the faded, white-stone mansion had clearly been here for a very long time before Vasnetsov added it to his portfolio.

A reception committee of half a dozen guards awaited me. They carried weapons openly; pistols in holsters, submachine guns slung over their shoulders. Lights burned in the house and there was a tense atmosphere.

Evgeny Gorshkov came out of the house to meet me, just as one of his men had finished patting me down.