Long Way Home (41 page)

Ferreira opened the door and they went in. Everything was just the same as it had been that afternoon, except the heating had come on and the flat was stifling hot and airless.

‘You know what to do?’ Zigic asked.

‘I’m good.’

‘Once he knocks, we’ll be on him.’

‘OK.’

‘Don’t open the door, Mel.’

‘You don’t need to tell me.’

‘He could easily be armed.’

Ferreira’s eyebrows made a jump for her hairline.

‘Yeah, I know,’ Zigic said. ‘Learn from my mistakes then.’

He closed the door, another twinge in his chest as he twisted away. The PC in the corridor was nibbling on a hangnail and he dropped his hand abruptly, straightened up. He was tall and solidly built, just the kind of man they needed for the occasion.

‘What’s the neighbour’s name?’ Zigic asked.

‘Laura.’

‘Her surname.’

‘Wise, sir. Ms.’ PC Kent grinned. ‘Reckon she’s got a thing for blokes in uniform the way she dragged Jonesy in there.’

Zigic knocked on the door and it was answered by a curvy redhead in tight jeans and leopard-print jumper.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Zigic.’

‘Laura.’ She put out a limp hand and he shook it, sending her bangles jingling. ‘I’ve just made some tea. Would you like one?’

‘Thank you.’

They followed her into a flat which mirrored Emilia Koppel’s, the same layout flipped over. It was decorated the same too, right down to the brown leather sofa and the neutral carpet and the modular dark wood unit which was too big for the living room. This place was more homely though, framed photographs on the walls and a lot of shaggy cushions thrown around, the bookshelves crammed with black-spined crime novels and pastel chick lit.

PC Jones had settled himself in an armchair with a mug in one hand and a half-eaten cupcake in the other. He began to stand as Zigic walked in and he motioned him to stay where he was.

‘Thank you for letting us use your flat, Ms Wise. It’s greatly appreciated.’

‘Just doing my civic duty,’ she said, her tone loaded.

She was the kind of woman who could make anything sound suggestive, Zigic thought.

He directed PC Kent back to the door, left him with his face pressed to the spyhole, and went into the small cherrywood kitchen which overlooked the main car park and the cluttered hustle of Asda’s service entry.

There was shopping still bagged on the worktop, next to a pile of mail and a copy of the
Evening Telegraph
with a photograph of Kelvin Gavin dominating the front page –
MAN KILLED IN SLAVE RAID.

Zigic knew that the story carried over onto page 3, with a carefully worded statement by the press officer sandwiched between speculation and the most sensationalist facts. At the bottom was the photograph from his service file –
Detective Inspector Zigic is not believed to be seriously injured.

He felt pretty seriously injured, the pain in his chest gnawing through the codeine.

‘How do you take it?’ Laura Wise asked.

‘Black with one.’

She poured water into a Union Jack mug.

‘Neal said she’s a prostitute.’

PC Jones and his big mouth.

‘She’s a waitress.’

‘A waitress couldn’t afford the rent here.’

‘What do you do?’

‘HR. But I own the place.’ She stirred in sugar. ‘I got a very nice settlement after my divorce. And don’t tell me I look too young to be divorced.’

She smiled as she handed over his tea.

‘How well do you know Ms Koppel?’

‘I don’t. Not really. She took in a parcel for me a few months ago – I’m surprised she didn’t keep it. You know what people are like.’ Zigic nodded. ‘She has visitors at all hours. That boyfriend of hers . . . I’ve seen him a couple of times. Not the kind you’d want to meet in a dark alley.’ She leaned against the worktop, chest thrust forward in a push-up bra. ‘Is that who you’re here for?’

‘Didn’t Neal tell you?’

‘He said it was strictly confidential.’

Zigic’s mobile rang and he turned to the window as he answered it, saw a bald-headed man cross the car park.

‘He’s here, sir. He’s heading for the main doors now.’

He slipped his phone away, feeling the adrenalin rising.

‘Is this it?’ Laura Wise asked.

‘It is. You need to stay in here, Ms Wise.’

‘But –’

‘It’s for your own safety. Please.’

She huffed but he was walking away already, calling to the others as he closed the kitchen door on her curiosity. Tomorrow at work she’d probably lie, say she saw the whole thing, embellish the story with details from one of the books on her shelf and enjoy a few hours’ vicarious notoriety.

Zigic glanced at his watch. Stepulov was early. Impatient and desperate. He was liable to do anything.

‘Get ready.’

PC Kent opened the door a crack. He was breathing heavily, the colour rising in his cheeks and his free hand clenching and unclenching, ready for action. Next to him Jones was silent, ashen-skinned as he took out his telescopic baton.

It seemed like an eternity they were waiting, three pairs of ears straining for the sound of Stepulov approaching. All Zigic could hear was the traffic rumbling across the Town Bridge and Laura Wise banging around in her kitchen.

Then the lift pinged and there were footsteps plodding along the thick carpet. Kent wrenched the door open and pelted across the hallway, throwing his full fourteen stone at Jaan Stepulov, driving him hard against the wall.

For a terrible moment Zigic thought it was the wrong man, just some suit coming home, then Stepulov started shouting in Estonian, thrashing and bucking as Kent wrestled him to the ground, one big forearm pressed across the back of his neck.

‘No point fighting, sir.’

Stepulov twisted and kicked but he was going nowhere with Kent on him. He craned his neck to look at Zigic.

‘What is this?’ he snarled.

Ferreira opened the door of Emilia Koppel’s flat and Stepulov turned to her.

‘Where is Emilia?’

‘At the station,’ Ferreira said. ‘She’s given you up, Jaan.’

A soundless cry contorted his face and he stopped struggling finally, just lay with his cheek against the densely patterned carpet and let them cuff him.

JAAN STEPULOV WAS
silent in the car back to the station, staring out at the thinly peopled streets like a condemned man resigned to his fate. He went through processing without saying a single word more than he had to, sat where he was told, stood when he was asked, and it was only when he was shown into the interview room that he spoke up, asking for a solicitor in heavily accented English missing a lot of small words.

They should have celled him overnight and waited until tomorrow, but Zigic wanted this finishing.

Ferreira slammed her phone down.

‘And Barlow’s solicitor has finally decided to join us.’

‘She can wait for us now,’ Zigic said.

Ferreira glanced at her watch. ‘Actually, we need to release him in . . . fourteen minutes. So we’ve really got to do this.’

He rubbed his temples, colours flaring behind his eyes when he closed them.

‘Call Riggott, tell him we’ve been messed about by the solicitor and we need an extension.’

He went into his office and took another codeine with a mouthful of water from the bottle on his desk. It was rank and stale-tasting but he swallowed it and it was only as he was throwing the bottle in the bin that he realised he’d already taken his maximum dose for the day.

How dangerous could it be, though? He had a pounding headache from them and a low-level nausea that felt like nervous excitement. The side effects were worse than the pain they were treating.

He called Anna.

‘You’re going to be late again,’ she said.

‘We’ve arrested Stepulov.’

‘Which one’s he?’

She asked about work every night but she didn’t really listen to the answers he gave, and he couldn’t blame her, it was one small atrocity after another.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘What’re you doing?’

‘I’m just about to bath the boys. If I can get Stefan out from under the stairs. I don’t understand the fascination with that bloody cupboard.’

‘Kids like their dens. I had one when I was a bit older than him. It was in the old coal bunker at Mum and Dad’s.’

‘I can see where he gets it from then.’

‘It’s perfectly normal.’

She sighed. ‘Shall I cook?’

‘You eat, I don’t know how long I’ll be.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’

‘I’m not an invalid,’ he said, his hand going to his chest. ‘Just a bit tender.’

‘Well, don’t overdo it.’

They said their goodbyes and he leaned back in his chair, fiddling with the levers until it reclined, and put his feet up on the edge of the desk. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, listening to the road noise and the hum of the strip light, which was flickering above his desk, making the veins in his eyelids throb, thinking of Jaan and Viktor, Emilia and Hudson, trying to figure out how those four lives had clashed in such a way as to leave two of them dead.

He thought of Emilia Koppel, involved with all three men and yet the only one she seemed to care about was Viktor. So why risk her freedom for Jaan? Was it just because he was Viktor’s brother or did she feel she owed him for something? Getting rid of Hudson maybe. She’d unwittingly set this in motion. She was at the heart of it.

He wondered if Viktor’s death was a factor at all. How could Jaan or Emilia know Hudson had killed him for that to be a motive? Until Friday he was just an unnamed corpse on a cold tray at Hinchingbrooke mortuary. How could Jaan possibly have killed Hudson in revenge when the crime wasn’t known about?

And the Barlows . . . there in the background, protesting their innocence but acting like guilty people.

He got up and began to pace the narrow channel behind his desk, trying to drive the fatigue out of his limbs.

Ferreira stuck her head round the door. ‘They’re ready now,’ she said.

Interview room 1 was crowded with bodies. Jaan Stepulov sat at one end of the table in his second-hand suit, looking for all the world like any other office worker. At the other end, sat his solicitor, Ms Poole, her beige skirt suit rumpled and her make-up blurred by a long day. Zigic had dealt with her before, found her competent but uninterested.

The translator sat between them and a casual observer would have taken him for the suspect in the room. Dressed in jeans and a faded Radiohead T-shirt he looked like he’d been in the pub when the call came.

Zigic made the introductions and Stepulov sat sullen through them, eyes front as the translator spoke in a low voice, close to his ear.

Ferreira set the tapes up and the air in the room seemed to change, becoming charged suddenly. Ms Poole sat up straighter and tapped her pen against the notepad on her knee, eyes flicking from one side of the table to the other.

‘Have you explained the benefit of cooperation to Mr Stepulov?’ Zigic asked.

Ms Poole nodded, brushed a few strands of brown hair out of her eyes. ‘Jaan understands the situation, Inspector. I think you’ll find him receptive to questioning.’

Stepulov planted his elbows on the table and tucked his fists under his chin. There was a raw, red burn on his right cheek from where he’d hit the carpet, and now, seeing him up close, Zigic realised he wasn’t quite as clean and neat as he’d first appeared. He had shaved badly, missing a patch of stubble near his left ear, and the skin on his neck was grubby enough to have dirtied the collar of his shirt.

‘Where have you been the last week?’ Zigic asked.

Stepulov cleared his throat and began to speak, echoed in English a few seconds later when the translator kicked in, speaking his words in a flat voice with a Birmingham accent.

‘I have been sleeping down at the camp,’ Stepulov said.

‘What camp?’

‘On the river.’

Zigic sighed, inwardly cursing himself for not canvassing the place. A collection of tents and ersatz shelters on the banks of the River Nene half a mile from the city centre, home to an ever-changing band of migrants, the ones who had failed to find work or accommodation but had no way to get home. It was a good place to hide. None of them would report him to the police even if they realised he was wanted.

‘OK. Tell us what happened on Wednesday morning.’

‘It was very early,’ Stepulov said. ‘I was asleep. A man came to where I was living and told me he was a friend of Emilia’s. But before I could say anything he attacked me.’

Zigic placed Andy Hudson’s mugshot on the table. ‘Is this the man?’

Stepulov glanced at it. ‘Yes, sir. He punched me and I fell back onto my bed. Then he reached for a bottle and I realised he meant to do me harm.’

‘He must have said something to you. He didn’t just lash out.’

Stepulov rubbed his palms together slowly. ‘He told me he knew I was seeing Emilia.’

‘What about Viktor?’ Zigic asked.

‘What has this got to do with him?’

‘Hudson murdered your brother, Mr Stepulov.’

His eyes widened and he answered in halting English, thickly accented. ‘No, Viktor is killed by train. Emilia tells me you tell her this. It was accident.’

‘Emilia told you what we assumed to be the case at the time,’ Zigic said. ‘We later discovered that Hudson stabbed Viktor to death during a dispute at work.’

‘Does Emilia know this?’

Zigic nodded.

‘She loved Viktor.’

‘And does she love you?’

He switched back to Estonian, as if retreating from the implications. ‘She is with me because I remind her of him. She thinks I do not know this, but why else would she want me?’ Stepulov folded his big hands together on the table.

‘How did Hudson find out about you and Emilia?’ Zigic asked.

‘He came into Maloney’s a few days before he attacked me. We were talking. Emilia was very sad about something a customer said to her, she was crying and I wanted to make her feel better. We did not notice Hudson until he was standing right next to us.’

‘Did he say anything then?’