him again until her hips ground against his and he thrust back, shouting, shouting her name, her voice rising against his — ‘Come on, Cordon, for fuck’s sake! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck!’ — Cordon grasping her hair, wet and slippery now with sweat, and then, with a wrench, rolling her over until he was above her, bearing down, wanting to bury himself inside her, hard, hard as he could, wanting to hurt her, yes, hurt her, hear her scream. ‘You fucker! You fucker! You fuck!’
Later he would think that beneath everything he heard the door, the sudden forward step, sensed the sweep of an arm and began to turn, but it was all lost inside Letitia’s scream, whether of orgasm or what she’d just seen over his shoulder he’d never know, and then something metallic slammed hard against his head, then again full in the face, not once, but twice, and all he knew was a lance of searing pain, then nothing at all.
45
They arrested Dennis Broderick at Heathrow: Broderick intent on catching a few rays at Sharm El Sheikh, ten days booked at the five-star Savoy Hotel on White Knight Beach, garden-view room at a special bargain price, all meals included. He was helping himself to an extra portion of hors d’oeuvres in the business-class lounge when Karen approached him, Ramsden at her shoulder, other officers at the doors — Warren Cormack back at headquarters, happy to leave the fieldwork to others and concentrate on the search for the missing Volvo.
When Karen put a hand on his forearm Broderick jerked back, spilling sour cherry sauce down the front of his lightweight linen suit, worn in anticipation of the Egyptian sun.
‘Dennis, whatever is it?’
Emphatically not Mrs Broderick, his companion was somewhere in her early thirties, peddling twenty-five. All those hours on the sunbed and a painful full Brazilian bikini wax about to go to waste.
The downward turn to her mouth was severe.
Ramsden cupped a hand beneath her elbow and ushered her to where a female officer was waiting.
Broderick did his best to stare Karen down, then, when that failed, began blustering: mistaken identity, false arrest. Only at the mention of his being marched out of there in handcuffs did he fall quiet.
‘I’m not saying another word,’ he said, ‘till I’ve contacted my lawyer.’
‘Good idea,’ Karen replied pleasantly and stood aside while two of the officers led him away.
Forensics had found quite copious traces of blood belonging to bothValentyn Horak and one of his henchmen in the building on Wing aerodrome. Checking out the Ford Transit, which was found, stripped of its number plates, at the rear of the D amp; J Foods storage area off the Al, proved more difficult. The assumption was that heavy plastic had been used as an inner liner, covering walls and floor, and set carefully in place before the bodies were transported; after which the interior was carefully washed out after the load was delivered. Not just washed, scrubbed within an inch of its life.
No prints, nary a one.
Painstaking work with Luminol did, however, finally reveal several minute traces of blood between the flange and panelling on the rear door. Sufficient to obtain a match: proof positive Horak’s body had been in the van.
It was agreed that Karen would begin questioning Broderick, Ramsden in attendance; Cormack would be watching via a video link in an adjoining room and able to speak to Karen through a small attachment, newsreader style, behind her ear.
Broderick’s lawyer was sandy haired, spectacled, off-the-peg suit, leather briefcase stuffed to the gills; the mints on his breath not quite strong enough to disguise the garlic in whatever he’d recently been eating.
The air in the room stale, yesterday’s air, the temperature a notch or two too high.
Broderick fidgeted with the lapels at the front of his suit jacket; stopped; started again. A quick look towards Karen, then down at the table. Scratches, pencil marks, daubs of Biro, veins of sweat that had sunk into the grain.
‘Tell us,’ Karen said, ‘about the van.’
‘Van?’
‘Ford Transit 350, diamond white, manual transmission. Registered, June 2007. Mileage, 51,302. Leased from Webster Garage and Autohire in Milton Keynes on behalf of D amp; J Foods. That van. Paperwork in your name. See?’
She swivelled a photocopy of the agreement round on the desk, counted a slow three, swivelled it back.
‘Your signature, agreed?’
‘Seems to be, yes.’
‘Seems?’
‘All right, yes. So what?’
‘You personally leased this van?’
‘Yes.’
‘For what purpose?’
For a moment, he blanked.
‘Simple question, why, when you did, did you lease the van?’
‘My client,’ the solicitor said, intervening, ‘runs a successful and expanding business which trades across the South-East of the country and up into East Anglia. As such, additions to the delivery fleet are a quite normal part of its operations.’
‘Absolutely,’ Karen said. ‘Very nicely put. But our interest is in one particular vehicle. The uses to which it might have been put.’
‘Uses?’ Broderick said. ‘Uses? You’ve just been told. Meeting orders, making deliveries, what do you think? You want to see the manifests, I can show you. Two hundred and fifty precooked meals to a primary school in Spalding. More of the same to a group of nursing homes in Saffron Walden. Vacuum-packed sausages and salamis to Londis stores right across Essex, from Chelmsford to the Thames fucking Estuary.’
Patches of bright colour stood out on his cheeks.
‘And these?’ Karen said, sliding the photographs from their folder. ‘You delivered these?’
Broderick looked, caught his breath, looked again.
‘Oh, Christ!’ he said softly, and angled his head away.
The solicitor leaned forward, then forward again, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing in four glossy 10 x 8s.
‘The bodies of three men,’ Karen said. ‘Systematically tortured, mutilated, finally killed. Murdered. Then transported in that van, your van, to a storage unit at Stansted airport. That’s the delivery we’re interested in.’
All trace of colour had gone from Broderick’s face.
‘I’d like a break.’
‘Later.’
‘Now. Please.’
‘My client,’ the solicitor said, ‘has just undergone a considerable shock-’
‘I’m sorry, we need to continue.’
‘Then I insist that my protest be documented-’
‘Five minutes,’ Cormack said in Karen’s ear. ‘Five minutes, ten. No harm.’
‘Very well,’ Karen said. ‘A short break, agreed.’
She didn’t like it, but she knew Cormack was right: the last thing they wanted, whatever Broderick might say rendered inadmissible by accusations of shock tactics, statements obtained under duress.
When Broderick sat across from her again, some ten minutes later, he seemed calmer, a degree more composed.
‘Have you any idea,’ Karen asked, ‘how your van-?’
‘Not my van.’
‘Your firm’s van, could have been used in the way I’ve described?’
‘If it was.’
