Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘Pretty girl,’ said Lyn. ‘What happened to her?’

‘She nearly drowned,’ said Sharpe, closing the door and standing with his back to it. ‘The doctors say she’ll be fine.’

Lyn spoke to Edita, but she turned away and brushed a lock of hair away from her daughter’s face.

‘Tell her we need to talk to her about some money that was found among her belongings,’ said Shepherd.

Lyn translated. Edita didn’t reply.

‘Edita, please, if you co-operate with the police they’ll do everything they can to let you stay in the country,’ said Shepherd.

Again, Lyn translated. Once again, the woman refused even to acknowledge her presence.

Shepherd exhaled deeply. ‘Ask her what’s wrong.’

Lyn spoke again, but was ignored. She frowned and went to stand next to Edita. She put a hand gently on the woman’s shoulder and spoke softly. Edita flinched, then shook her head. Lyn said something else and this time the woman replied.

Lyn walked back to Shepherd. ‘I know what the problem is,’ she said. ‘She’s not from Kosovo. She’s Albanian.’

‘Do you speak Albanian?’

‘Enough to get by,’ said Lyn. ‘Probably enough for what you need.’

Shepherd nodded. The family had Kosovan passports: if they were Albanian their travel documents must be forgeries. Or stolen. ‘Tell her we need to talk to her now. I’m happy to do it here so that she can be near her daughter, but if she doesn’t start talking we’ll take her to an office.’ He forced a smile. ‘Don’t make it sound as threatening as that.’

Lyn spoke to Edita again. Edita turned to Shepherd and said something in Albanian. It sounded very different from Kosovan, but Shepherd couldn’t understand a word of either language.

‘She wants to know if you’ve spoken to her husband,’ said Lyn.

‘Yes,’ said Shepherd, nodding.

Edita spoke again. ‘You must speak to her husband about this,’ said Lyn. ‘She says it is nothing to do with her.’

‘Tell her that the police need to check the information they have.’

Lyn translated, but Edita simply shrugged.

‘Do you want to try good-cop-bad-cop?’ asked Sharpe.

Shepherd shook his head. The woman had been through enough, and soon she would learn that her husband had killed himself. ‘Ask her if she knew that there was money in the oil cans,’ he told Lyn.

Lyn translated. Edita answered angrily.

‘She says it was nothing to do with her. They met only her husband, and her husband told her not to talk about it.’

‘They? Who does she mean?’

Lyn translated. Edita snapped back.

‘Two men in France. They met her husband before they got on to the boat.’

‘Why would he agree to take something on board? Did they threaten him? Or the little girl?’

This time the conversation went back and forth a few times before Lyn offered a translation: ‘She doesn’t know who the men were, but they were gangsters. There was no need to make any threats because they didn’t have enough money to pay for their passage to England. The husband was told that if he carried the cans with him they would make up the difference. She guessed there wasn’t oil in them but her husband said she was to mind her own business.’

‘Would she recognise them if we showed her photographs?’

Lyn translated, and Edita shook her head firmly.

‘And she didn’t know what was in the cans?’

Lyn spoke to Edita, who waved her away. Lyn looked to Shepherd for guidance. He sighed. It was pointless asking her any more. And he didn’t think there was any point in taking the woman away for further questioning. ‘Let’s call it a day,’ he said. ‘Tell her we’re through here.’

Lyn spoke to Edita, who nodded, then got up and went to Shepherd. ‘Mr Corke, we thank you,’ she said, in halting English. She grabbed his hand and pressed the palm against her cheek. ‘Thank you.’ Then she said something to Lyn. ‘She wants to see her husband,’ said the interpreter.

‘Later,’ said Shepherd. ‘Tell her later.’

Shepherd untangled his hand and followed Sharpe out of the room. A wave of guilt washed over him. He wanted to tell Edita the truth, that her husband was dead, but he knew that the job of breaking the bad news was better left to professionals, to men and women who could offer therapy and support. Even if he had told her, what would he have done when she’d broken down? Held her and told her that everything would be all right? Patted her back and told her that time healed all wounds? He was finding it hard enough to come to terms with the loss of his wife and had no idea what to say to a woman whose husband had just killed himself.

Lyn followed them out of the room. ‘Why does she think your name’s Corke?’ she asked, as they walked down the corridor.

‘It’s a long story,’ said Shepherd.

‘He’s a man of mystery,’ growled Sharpe. ‘Just leave it at that.’

Shepherd phoned Hargrove on his mobile as soon as he climbed into the Vectra. ‘They’re Albanians, not Kosovans,’ he said. ‘Their passports need a going-over with any other documents they had. They told me they’re called Rudi and Edita, and the interpreter says they’re Albanian names. I’m guessing they won’t be the names on the passports.’

‘Did she tell you anything else?’

‘Her husband spoke to some men in France before they got on to the trawler. They gave him the oil cans. She asked him what they needed the oil for and he said it was nothing to do with her, and that it was helping to pay for their passage to England.’

‘What did she think was in the cans? Drugs?’

‘She says she didn’t think anything. Her husband told her not to question him, and she’s a woman who obeys her husband.’

‘She’s lucky it wasn’t heroin. If it was, we’d have a hard job keeping her out of prison. So, she’s no idea what he was supposed to do with the cans once they were in the UK?’

‘She says not. She could be lying, but I doubt it. She just wanted a new life in the UK and didn’t much care what she did to achieve it.’

‘I’m going to get Forensics to examine everything. I can’t see that they’d have expected her husband to remember the contact details, not with a million euros at stake, so there must be an address or phone number somewhere.’

‘Who’s going to tell her about her husband?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I’ve got someone from one of the refugee charities on their way,’ said Hargrove. ‘They’ll break the news, fix her up with somewhere to stay, legal advice, the full monty. She’ll be in good hands, Spider. I promise. Get a decent night’s sleep and I’ll call you tomorrow.’

Shepherd cut the connection, sat back and closed his eyes as Sharpe powered down the motorway. When he opened them again, they were driving up the road towards his house. All the lights were off. Shepherd cursed.

‘What?’ said Sharpe.

‘I didn’t call Liam. I promised I’d take him to play football.’

‘He’ll understand,’ said Sharpe. ‘He’s a cop’s son.’ He brought the car to a gentle stop in front of Shepherd’s house.

‘It was a pinkie promise,’ said Shepherd.

‘What?’

‘A pinkie promise. We linked little fingers.’

‘Right…’

‘The sort of promise you can’t break.’

‘Except you did.’

Shepherd smiled sarcastically. ‘See? You do understand.’

‘He’s a kid,’ said Sharpe. ‘Kids know that dads do their best.’

‘Cheers, Razor.’ Shepherd punched his arm and climbed out of the Vectra. Sharpe drove away as he walked up to the front door and let himself in.

He switched on the hall light, padded upstairs and pushed open the door to Liam’s bedroom. His heart lurched when he saw that his son’s bed was empty, the quilt thrown to one side. He switched on the light and glanced round the room, then hurried to the bathroom. Liam wasn’t there. Shepherd’s heart raced and he fought to quell rising panic. If anything had happened, Katra would have phoned him. He took a deep breath, headed for her room and opened the door. Liam was curled up next to Katra, who was lying on top of the quilt in flannelette pyjamas, one arm round the child, her hair a dark curtain over the pillow. She opened her eyes as the light from the hallway fell across her face.