Baker began to colour.
“You picked her up in Wakefield’s market square on a Sunday night about two weeks ago.”
Baker’s mouth opened and closed like a freshly caught fish.
“Have a look in the glovebox,” Souter said.
Baker did as asked and took out the photographs.
“That is your van, isn’t it Gary? I mean, the rust along the bottom of the passenger door is a bit of a giveaway.”
“I… I… You can’t tell that,” Baker stumbled.
“No, you’re right. You can’t see it too clearly on those copies but with all this new technology, they can enhance these, no problem. In fact, that one of you driving, they can probably see the blackheads on your nose,” Souter lied.
Baker had flushed. “I didn’t … I don’t … I mean, I’ve no idea.”
“Come on, don’t give me that shit. You were the last person seen with her. That’s you driving her away in that van of yours. Where did you go? What did you do?”
“Nothing. We didn’t do nothing.”
“Bollocks. You’ve just picked up a young prostitute, driven her away in your van and you didn’t do ‘nothing’?”
His eyes were wet when he looked across at Souter. “Honest. We didn’t actually do anything.” Another drag on his cigarette. “Look, this is the truth, right? She took me to this old warehouse place. There was a door that had been forced. She led the way inside. There was this room where the street light shone in through the broken window.” A big drag then a sharp exhale. “I thought she was going to do … well, the business, you know. The next thing, she starts shaking like some loony. Her eyes are in the back of her head, half closed, she’s frothing at the mouth and then she’s on the floor trembling like she’s havin’ some almighty fucking orgasm. I thought to myself, she’s on drugs.”
“So what did you do?”
“Do? I fucked off quick. I mean, I hadn’t paid her any money or anything. I thought, fuck that, I’m not getting involved with no junkie.”
“And you left her there?”
“Yeah. I thought she’d come round and have to make her own way back.”
Souter looked hard at the man. “Where was this warehouse? I mean exactly.”
“We went down Thornes Lane. Down by the side of the river. Just before The Jolly Sailor. On the opposite side, there was a gateway. We pulled in there and went through a small door in the gate into the old yard. There was a door to the right into the building.”
“You didn’t touch her at all?”
“No.”
“And she just collapsed?”
“Honest.”
He held Souter’s gaze for a few moments.
“Okay, Gary, I believe you. But,” he held up a finger. “For me to sort this for you and keep you out of it, I’ll need you to give me something on this Mirczack character.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, they’re struggling for evidence. The gun would be good. That Saturday, they turned up in a Mercedes didn’t they?”
“Yeah, Mirczack’s.”
“And was the girl’s body in that. Is that what they brought her in?”
Baker nodded.
“If he wasn’t using it, where would he keep it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s not outside his flat in Leeds, so it must be somewhere, unless he got rid of it.”
“I don’t think so. He loves that car.”
“So where might it be?”
Baker looked down into the floorpan.
“Come on, Gary, if you know something …”
“Okay. He has a lockup under the arches near the station.”
Souter took out a notepad and jotted down the details Baker gave him.
* * *
“We’ve got nothing on the bastard, and he knows it, sir.” Strong was standing in front of DCS Flynn’s desk in his second floor office in Wood Street police station.
The boss was sitting with his elbows on the desk, fingers entwined and chin resting on his upward pointing forefingers. “I know it goes against the grain, Colin,” he finally said, “but unless we have something more solid, we’re going to have to let him go.”
Strong looked out of the window and across to the Town Hall. He imagined the office staff sitting at their computer terminals or walking to the photocopier, totally oblivious to the nasty specimens of humanity they had to deal with on this side of the street. At the same time, he was turning everything over in his mind to see if he’d missed something vital. It was true, he needed a bit more than the circumstantial evidence he had against Mirczack. With Szymanski’s statement, it would be his word against Mirczack. Although, judging by his reaction in the cell, he wouldn’t be surprised if he withdrew that. The girls’ statements all helped but, in isolation, were nowhere near enough. And he wasn’t about to use them without something more substantial. That would expose them and their families to great risk.
“Right, I’d best get it over with,” he said.
On the stairs down to the Incident Room, Strong ran into Luke Ormerod.
“What did the boss say?” Ormerod asked.
“What we expected. Got to let him go.”
Ormerod sighed and shook his head. “I’ll fetch him down then.”
“Thanks, Luke.”
Five minutes later, Mirczack and Atherton, Strong and Ormerod were finalising the release process with Sidebotham, the custody sergeant, when a text message announced itself on Strong’s phone. Opening it up, he read,
‘Don’t ignore next call – IMPORTANT INFO’.
It was from Souter.
There was a smirk on Mirczack’s face as he gathered up his personal belongings from the desk and followed Strong through to the public area. “Thank you for wasting my time,” he said.
Strong ignored the jibe and his phone rang.
“This had better be good,” Strong said to Souter, whose name came up on the display once again.
“I’ve got something on Mirczack. Are you still looking for more evidence?”
Souter asked.
Strong turned away to speak in a low voice. “We’re just releasing him,” he said, “so anything you’ve got, let’s hear it quick.”
Souter related what Gary Baker had just told him about Mirczack’s Mercedes, the sighting of the gun in the glovebox and the location of the lock-up in Leeds.
“You might find nothing, but it’s worth a try,”
he concluded.
“Thanks,” Strong said, ending the call. He turned as Mirczack and Atherton were halfway through the door into the street. “Oh, Mr Mirczack,” he said, stepping towards the two. “One last thing. Can you tell me what I might find in a certain lock-up in Brussels Street in Leeds?”
The colour drained from the big man’s face. “You know nothing,” he said, taking a stride nearer.
Strong held his stare for a moment. “About number 23A, you mean?”
Strong didn’t get a response, at least not one that he heard. His lights went out suddenly as Mirczack threw a fist into his jaw and dashed out into the street, bustling past a bewildered Atherton. There was a moment of disbelief before Ormerod made sense of what he’d just seen and bounded out after the Yugoslav.
Outside, Mirczack turned left, leapt down the steps, bundled two men out of the way and ran off down Wood Street towards the traffic lights opposite The Black Rock pub. About half way down he dived off to the left into Cross Street.
John Darby had taken advantage of the chance to nip out to Morrison’s in The Ridings to buy an individual meal for one, some washing powder, a bottle of red wine and four cans of beer. On the way back to the station, he needed to get some cash. He was removing the receipt for the fifty pounds he’d just withdrawn from the cash machine when he heard footsteps running from the other end of Cross Street. That was quickly followed by shouting as the short stocky figure he recognised as Luke Ormerod came into view. About fifty yards ahead of him, the unmistakeable bulk of Stanislav Mirczack was thundering down the street in Darby’s direction. A young mother pushing a buggy and holding a young girl’s hand screamed and pulled the child in close as he stormed past. A middle-aged woman jumped into the doorway of a restaurant to avoid being knocked over.
For a big man, Mirczack was surprisingly quick. Ormerod was shouting after him, the thought flashing through his mind that there was never a policeman around when you needed one.
Darby gathered up his plastic carrier bag and faced the cash machine, pretending still to be carrying out his business. But he was glancing up the street, keeping an eye on developments. Mirczack was approaching fast. Timing was going to be everything. Then he saw Mirczack half turn to see how much of a gap he had on Ormerod. That was just before he passed by. Darby turned and threw his carrier bag towards the big man’s legs. Mirczack stumbled and tripped over, crashing to the ground. Unable to get his arms out quickly enough, his face struck the road. Darby immediately jumped on his back, grabbing his arms. Ormerod, struggling for breath, joined in and between the two of them, they handcuffed the big Yugoslav.
Two burly uniformed constables caught up with them at that point and dragged Mirczack to his feet. Blood poured from his nose and a deep gash above his right eye. A police transit van, blue lights flashing and sirens blaring, came down the one-way street towards them and another two uniforms got out. Between the four of them, Mirczack was bundled into the back. Ormerod leaned against a wall, hands on his knees, getting his breath back. Darby looked forlornly at the plastic carrier bag trampled onto the tarmac, red frothy fluid seeping from it.
“I wouldn’t mind but I specifically bought a more expensive bottle of Chianti as a treat,” he said quietly, to no-one in particular.
Ormerod pushed himself off the wall, stood up and walked over to his colleague. He put his arm around his shoulder. “I’ll buy you another one, John,” he said. “I don’t think I could have chased him much further at that speed.”
Darby picked up the bag, pulled out the four battered but intact cans of beer and placed the dripping remains into a nearby bin as the police van set off back to Wood Street.
“Come on,” Ormerod said, “best get back there too. I want to see how the guv’nor is. Last I saw he was out like a light.”
Darby looked puzzled and as they set off up Cross Street, Ormerod told him what had led to the chase.
By the time Ormerod and Darby arrived back at the station, a crowd had gathered around the public entrance. An ambulance with blue lights flashing was in the middle of several police vehicles in the street. Strong was being brought out on a patient chair, looking grey and holding a compress to his jaw.
“How is it, guv?” Ormerod asked.
Strong managed to nod and give a thumbs up to Darby.
“I thought you’d gone all Columbo on me in there,” Ormerod said, dropping into character, “You know, ‘Just one more thing, Mr Mirczack …”
Strong tried to smile, then winced. Ormerod patted his shoulder as the paramedics took him down the ramp and into the ambulance. They watched as the ambulance drove off with sirens on and people started to disperse.
Back inside, Flynn greeted them. “Well done you two,” he said. “I’ve spoken to our colleagues in Leeds and they’re organising a SOCO team to conduct a search of that lock-up. Judging by Mirczack’s reaction, we should find some strong evidence there. How did Colin pull that one out of the hat, do you know?”
Ormerod shrugged. “All I know is he took a phone call just as we were releasing him from custody.”
“Excuse me, Luke,” the desk sergeant said, apologising to Flynn, “I’ve got a call for you, says it’s urgent.”
“Go on,” Flynn said, “I’ll see what the doc says about our prisoner’s injuries. He’s seeing to him in the cells at the moment.”
“Thanks, sir.” Then to the sergeant, he said, “I’ll take it upstairs.”
In the CID Room, when Ormerod took the call, Souter introduced himself.
“I remember,” Ormerod said, “you were involved at Calder Street earlier this year, an old friend of the guv’nor.”
“That’s right. But listen, what’s going on? I spoke to Colin about fifteen minutes ago. Since then, I’ve tried to get hold of him again and it’s ringing out and going to answer machine.”
“Did you just give him some information about someone we had in custody?”
“Mirczack? Yes.”
Ormerod hesitated. “Well, he’s not available at the moment. Is there something else I can do for you?”
“You’re dealing with the Maria Brownlow disappearance, I believe?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well I’ve got something for you. You need to check it out as a matter of urgency …”
61
Ormerod took Darby with him when he set off for Thornes Lane. They found the building that Souter had detailed fairly easily and pulled into the entrance, almost opposite the pub. The sun had just dropped over the horizon but there was still a bit of daylight left when they stepped out of the car and studied the abandoned warehouse building. Since Baker had last been there, someone had secured the gates with a chain and padlock. Ormerod checked that there was no other means of entry.
“Get the bolt croppers,” he instructed Darby, who opened the boot and grabbed the tool.
Across the street, on their way into the pub, two men stopped to study the activity.
Ormerod pulled his warrant card from his pocket. “It’s okay,” he said, “Police business.”
The two shrugged and turned into the pub, a beer more interesting than what was happening over the road.
Darby cut the chain, put the croppers back in the boot and locked the car.
Ormerod opened the gate and they marched into the yard. A door on the right into the building, Souter had said. Up three steps, a set of timber double doors could only be what he meant. They made their way across to them. The doors were closed and when Ormerod tried, appeared to be locked.
“You sure this is right?” Darby asked.
“Only one way to find out, John. There’s a crowbar in the boot, fetch that will you.”
As Darby walked off to the car once more, Ormerod walked down the side of the stone-built building. Most of the windows had been smashed and some graffiti adorned the walls. It was a good few years since this was a bustling hive of activity.