“So?”
“No trips to Bulgaria, Duffy. We can’t afford to pay for all your gallivanting around. No trips to Bulgaria, no trips to the South of France, no trips anywhere, just stay within your budget. This is a case of a dead drug dealer in Carrick. If I was a detective I could close one like that in a couple of days.”
“But you’re not a detective, are you?”
Kenny’s eyes again boring into me. I took him to the end of the corridor. “I hear you’re going to Eastbourne?” I said.
“I’m paying for that. It’s my holiday.”
“That’s not what I’m driving at. I was just thinking that’s where they have Beachy Head, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t be tempted to jump off, Kenny. I appreciate that it must be a fucking nightmare to wake up every morning and realise that you are still you, but suicide is not the answer, old cock.”
It was a mild jibe, well within the bounds allowed in two officers of equal rank, but Kenny reacted as if I’d asked him to drink a pint of Margaret Thatcher’s piss at the Cenotaph on Poppy Day.
“I’ve had enough of your insolence, Duffy. You should have been out long ago if you weren’t a fucking fe …” he began, but his voice died in his throat before he could completely sabotage himself.
“A what?”
“A nothing.”
“A ‘fucking fenian’, is that what you were going to say?”
“I never said that!”
“Yeah, well it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? Now if you don’t mind, some of us have bloody work to do around here,” I said, pushing past him, marching down the corridor, knocking on the interview room door and going inside without waiting for a reply.
It was another exit Bette Davis or Rosalind Russell or even Joan Crawford would have been proud of.
7: THE BULGARIANS AND THE BEL TEL
Introductions were made and I sat opposite the Bulgarians with Lawson and McCrabban. WPC Warren excused herself and I gave her a nod of thanks for holding the fort for the entire morning.
I lit my first cigarette of the day and it tasted fantastic. Calmed me the fuck right down.
“Mrs Deauville, I am so sorry for your loss,” I said and Yavarov translated for me.
A long stream of Bulgarian followed that Mr Yavarov did not translate.
“What did she say?”
“You are in charge of this investigation?” Yavarov asked in perfect and only slightly accented English.
“Yes, I am in charge,” I said
“Mrs Deauville says she spent the night in police cells,” Yavarov said, bristling.
“That’s right.”
“Was she charged with a crime?” Yavarov asked.
“No, but she could have been.”
“Was she a suspect in her husband’s death?”
“We can’t rule anyone out at this stage.”
“Her husband was murdered and you put her in the cells. I will protest this to my embassy!”
“No, you won’t. You won’t kick up any kind of fuss at all. Mrs Deauville stabbed one of my officers in front of a dozen witnesses. My man has decided not to press charges, but that could change if we don’t have Mrs Deauville’s complete cooperation. Assaulting a police officer is a very serious offence indeed,” I said.
Yavarov was clearly impressed by this (perhaps intimidating the public was how things were done back home) and a brief, furious discussion followed in Bulgarian with Mrs D.
“She will tell you everything she knows,” he said at the end of it.
“Let’s start with the timeline,” I said to Yavarov.
“What do you want to know?” Mrs Deauville asked.
“You speak English?” Yavarov, Crabbie and I asked together.
“Of course! I am travel agent. I speak English, Turkish, German,” she said.
“Why didn’t you speak English before now?” I asked.
She gave us a sly knowing glance. “I not say anything without my lawyer,” she muttered triumphantly.
“He’s not a lawyer. You’re not a lawyer, are you?”
Yavarov shook his head.
“He protect me from police tricks. Frank always talk about police tricks. Police they arrest you, put drugs in your pocket, make up lies. You will not do this now!”
“We don’t do things like that in Carrick CID,” I said.
“All police, all same, everywhere!” Mrs Deauville said.
I sighed. “The night your husband was murdered, where were you between the hours of midnight and two in the morning, Mrs Deauville?”
“You call me Elena. Please. No one call me Mrs Deauville,” she said.
“Where were you last night between the hours of midnight and two in the morning, Elena?”
“Frank go out drinking Rangers Club. No women allowed Rangers Club so I no go. I know he come back late so I make chips and leave in pan and go to bed.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“Eleven, a little before, perhaps.”
“Where is your bedroom in the house? Front or back?”
“Big back bedroom.”
“And did you hear anything during the night?”
“No, I sleep until morning.”
“So you have no alibi between the hours of midnight and two am?”
“I sleep.”