Bleed a River Deep (21 page)

‘Leave at least one, if you don’t want me coming after you,’ I said. We would need some evidence that Strandmann was selling illegal cigarettes. But I doubted that either the cigarettes or the man to whom I was speaking would be there on my return.

I jogged back towards the entrance, passing one of the Excise officers.

‘There’s a guy in the corner with a shitload of illegal cigarettes,’ I said. Then, remembering I hadn’t brought my own car, I turned and went back to him. ‘I need your keys,’ I said. ‘Pursuit of a rapist.’

The officer fumbled in his pocket for his keys then tossed them to me. Within a minute I was driving out of the market. I followed the cigarette man’s instructions and, just as he’d said, about half a mile up the road I spotted the gateway. I pulled in and parked a little past the opening.

I sat in the car, adjusting the rear-view mirror so I could keep an eye on the gateway. Sure enough, within a few minutes a figure climbed over the gate and dropped heavily to the ground. His trouser-cuffs were caked with mud. He looked down the pathway along which he had just come, then began walking towards me.

Suddenly, he began to sprint. Looking beyond him, I saw one of Gilmore’s men scrambling over the top of the gate. Just when I judged Strandmann to be level with the driver’s seat, I flung open the door. He thudded into it, spun sideways and fell to the ground.

He bellowed something at me as I climbed out of the car. Half sitting on his torso, I managed to hold him while we waited for Gilmore and his men to arrive. My weight being probably twice his own, he soon stopped struggling.

As Gilmore’s men cuffed him and hefted him to his feet he turned to look at me. One side of his face was pocked red where the gravel had bitten into him, and his skin was still flecked with grit. He glared at me, then spat.

Instinctively, I raised my fist, but one of the PSNI men pulled him roughly away from me while the other placed a warning hand on my arm.

He was taken to Limavady PSNI station and booked. While he was being processed, Gilmore and I returned to the market and searched his van. The cigarette man had left three cartons, as well as two boxes of loose tobacco, a pile of pirated pornographic DVDs and several bags of hash. Opportunistic grabbing of ciggies was one thing; getting caught with someone else’s drugs was clearly a step too far for him.

I searched my own pockets for my cigarettes and realized that I must have dropped them along the roadway when I had been struggling to keep Strandmann down.

‘What’s wrong?’ Gilmore asked, having heard me swear.

‘I’ve lost my cigarettes,’ I said, patting my pockets for the umpteenth time, with no success.

Gilmore, clearly elated with the success of the operation, tossed me one of the cartons from Strandmann’s van.

‘Consider it a bonus for a job well done,’ he said.

‘We haven’t even questioned him yet,’ I said. ‘He could give you nothing.’

‘He’ll talk,’ he replied. ‘They always do. Fear of deportation. They have it cushy here and they know it. That fucker’ll be singing by teatime.’

‘V M Haulage,’ I said out loud, as I tore open the cigarette carton. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘What now? Lost your fucking lighter too?’

‘No. I’ve just realized something,’ I said.

Chapter Twenty-two

Sunday, 22 October

I phoned An Garda Research Unit and placed a request for details on V M Haulage. The woman who answered promised to get back to me as soon as possible. Then I called Letterkenny station to see if our techies had had any luck with Leon’s camera. They were, I was told, off for the weekend and would be available on Monday morning, if I wished to call back.

Finally, Gilmore and I made our way to Limavady, where Strandmann was being held pending interview.

He was slouched in the chair when we came into the interview room, his legs stretched under the table at which he sat, his blue jeans tight against his thin calves.

On the table was a polystyrene cup of watery tea and he played with a packet of cigarettes as he waited, rotating the pack between his finger and thumb. Every so often he would lean back to look at the clock on the wall behind him, as if he were waiting for someone to come. If so, he was to be disappointed, for despite his making a phone call, no one arrived to represent him.

Finally the duty solicitor was called, a tall, uninterested-looking young fella, who spent most of the interview doodling on a page in front of him.

The Customs and Excise officers started the interview. They cautioned Strandmann, putting to him that he had been seen illegally selling cigarettes from the back of his lorry. In addition, counterfeit DVDs had been discovered. Could he explain their presence?

Strandmann looked at them, his legs crossed at the ankles. He sucked between his teeth and twisted his head until the bones cracked. But he did not talk.

Next Gilmore spoke to him. Drugs had been found amongst his possessions. Could he explain that?

Again, Strandmann said nothing. Even his solicitor looked at him askance and stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. ‘Do you speak English?’ the young man asked. Strandmann looked at him for a second, then returned his gaze to the cigarette box in front of him.

‘You’ve been hung out to dry,’ Gilmore said finally. ‘I know you’ve been told to say nothing if you get lifted, but you’ve been landed in it, pal. You called your boss, I’m guessing. They didn’t even send you legal representation – you’re on your own, pal.’

Strandmann stared at him, one eyebrow slightly raised.

‘Of course,’ continued Gilmore, ‘all this stuff today is minor in comparison with rape.’

Strandmann smiled, a tight feral twist of his mouth that extended no further than his lips.

‘You think that’s funny, pal? We have your victim. An illegal immigrant you helped bring into the country, whom you raped and then forced into prostitution. We have her, pal. Which means we have you, too.’

The duty solicitor had perked up at finding himself involved with a case more serious than a driving offence. Strandmann, for his part, still did not speak, but nor was he smiling any more.

‘You’re screwed,
pal,’
Gilmore said, gathering up the contents of the folder in front of him, as if to leave. It was a trick it seemed Strandmann’s solicitor hadn’t seen before, for he looked up at Gilmore open-mouthed, wondering why it was all over so quickly.

‘
Pol,’
Strandmann corrected.

Gilmore slowly sat again and opened the folder.

‘Pol,’ he agreed.

Over the course of the next hour or so, Strandmann admitted to selling smuggled cigarettes and, after some denial, the counterfeit DVDs. He denied any knowledge of Natalia or the other Chechen illegals. He did not know, and had never heard of, anyone fitting the description of the pony-tailed man.

‘We have a witness who can place you at the scene of various crimes,’ Gilmore said. ‘A woman who claims you raped her before forcing her into prostitution—’

‘A hooker?’ he interrupted. ‘You’d trust a whore!’

‘Don’t get smart-arsed with me, son,’ Gilmore said. ‘All we need is her evidence and you’re sunk. Are you going to carry the can for whoever’s above you? You’re a bottom-feeder, son – you didn’t set up these girls. But you know who did. Time to be selfish, Pol.’

Strandmann simply smiled. If it was a show, it was good. I decided to follow a different tack.

‘What is V M Haulage?’ I asked. Gilmore turned and looked at me quizzically, clearly wondering where I had plucked the name from.

‘Why?’ Strandmann asked edgily.

‘I noticed the logo on the side of your van,’ I explained.

His shoulders relaxed, almost imperceptibly, but the change in body language was enough to let me know that the mention of V M Haulage had struck a chord of some sort.

‘I work for them,’ he said.

‘Selling girls?’

‘Selling toilet paper,’ he retorted.

‘Is that what they do? Sell toilet paper?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘They do all kinds of stuff.’

‘What exactly?’ I persisted. ‘You work for them – you must know what they do.’

‘Stuff,’ he repeated, as if it was in itself sufficient explanation. Which, in a way, it was.

‘We’ll need Natalia in to ID him,’ Gilmore said as we stood outside the interview room. I looked into the room, where Strandmann reclined in his chair, his legs stretched under the table, while the duty solicitor seemed to be vainly attempting to engage him in conversation. ‘Where did you get V M Haulage from, anyway?’

‘Like I said, it was on the side of his van,’ I explained. And, of course, the name had cropped up before. I suspected that Eligius had not been using V M Haulage to buy toilet paper.

Excusing myself, I went outside for a smoke and to call Karol Walshyk to tell him the PSNI would collect him and Natalia within the hour. Then I called the lady in the Research Unit with whom I had spoken earlier.

‘It is Sunday, Inspector,’ she replied a little irritably when I asked her had she found out anything for me about V M Haulage. ‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘I shouldn’t even be here today. I came in to catch up on stuff left over from the last week.’

I apologized and empathized with her about having to work Sundays, which seemed to mollify her.

‘V M Haulage,’ she said finally. ‘Owned by Vincent Morrison. Started in 2005. Freight Company – specializes in cross-Europe transit of goods. Does a lot of charity deliveries. Permanent staff of five. Based in Derry.’

After she read out the address, I thanked her for her work.

‘You could have Googled it,’ she said. ‘That’s all I’ve done.’

Gilmore showed me to his desk, where I could access the Internet. I was able to access the information Research had given me off the home page of the VM website. Googling the name also brought up a number of articles from local papers about the aforementioned ‘charity work’. Seemingly, a number of Northern Irish groups who had collected goods for underdeveloped eastern European countries, particularly in the wake of the Bosnian conflict, had found in V M Haulage a free method of transport for their donations. The owner, Vincent Morrison, explained that, as his drivers were often taking or collecting deliveries to or from Eastern Bloc countries, there was no reason why they couldn’t do some good at the same time.

None of the articles had accompanying photos, so I did an image search to see if I recognized Morrison’s face. Several images were brought up. The first few showed Morrison shaking hands with various charity representatives, or helping load boxes of goods into the back of one of his lorries. I recognized the man as Vinnie, Strandmann’s companion at the market. One other photo in particular interested me. Morrison was standing with some of his team, who were preparing to drive to Chechnya on an aid-delivery mission, according to the banner on the side of the van behind them. Standing to Morrison’s left, his hair tied back from his face, his weasel features accentuated by the image’s lack of colour, was Pony Tail. Behind him, almost out of shot, I recognized a second face: Seamus Curran.

Gilmore was in the station canteen, sharing a story with some of his colleagues. I showed him the picture, which I had printed out.

‘You’re sure it’s him?’ Gilmore asked.

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘We need to show it to Strandmann. He can’t deny knowing him.’

‘He’s made another phone call,’ Gilmore explained. ‘He’s trying to post bail. We need Natalia here before he gets out.’

‘Has anyone gone for her?’ I asked.

Gilmore nodded. ‘We’ll try him with this while we’re waiting,’ he said.

Strandmann looked at the picture once and tossed it back across the table at us. He pulled a face, sniffed, rolled his shoulders.

‘You don’t know him?’ I asked.

He shook his head, refusing to speak.

‘Answer the question. You don’t know him?’

Strandmann shook his head again, then stopped himself. ‘Never seen him.’

‘That’s very strange,’ I said. ‘You see, this man works for the same company as you. A full-time staff of five, apparently. I find it hard to believe that you don’t even know his name. His name would mean nothing – nothing suspicious about knowing a colleague’s name.
Not
knowing the name of someone you work with, now that
is
suspicious. That makes me think you’re lying.’

‘Ford,’ he said. ‘Barry Ford, his name is.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me that straight away?’ I asked.

‘I thought you’d use it to get him in trouble too. I know his name, is all.’

‘What does he do?’

Strandmann stifled a smile. ‘He’s a handy-man. He does odd-jobs.’

‘His address?’ I asked.

‘I’ve no idea. I work with him, that’s all.’

At that, someone rapped sharply on the door. Gilmore left the room and spoke to someone, then asked me to join him outside. He led me into an adjoining room in which now stood Natalia and Karol.

Gilmore explained slowly that he wanted Natalia to look at the images of Strandmann being relayed from the room next door onto a video monitor. Karol translated, pointing at the monitor as he explained what she was being asked to do.

Natalia leant close to the screen, squinting at the seated figure. Finally she said something to Karol.

‘She can’t make him out,’ he said. ‘He’s too . . . indistinct. She needs to see him closer.’

‘We need to set up an identity parade anyway,’ Gilmore said. ‘It makes no difference – we can still charge him with the ciggies and stuff, see if we can make the other charges stick later.’

Natalia seemed to follow the gist of what Gilmore had said, for she spoke forcefully to Walshyk.

‘She said she only needs to see him for a second, to be sure,’ he explained. ‘Just for a second, she says.’

Gilmore looked at me and shrugged. He led Natalia out to the corridor and, standing at the door of the interview room, flicked up one of the slats of the blinds covering the window. We could all hear the breath catch in Natalia’s throat. She turned and nodded slowly, then spoke quickly to Karol, who moved over and stood beside her, his hand on her arm.