nothing but her underwear and a smile. She was stunning. Hard to believe it was the same person lying in the hospital bed.
‘Wow.’
‘She was most beautiful girl in Włoszczowski… Look what they have done to her.’
Logan turned the photo over, there was something scrawled on the back: ‘KRYSTKA GORZAŁKOWSKA’ and a mobile phone number. ‘Can I keep this?’ Adding a hasty, ‘I’m a police officer,’ just in case she thought he was a pervert.
The little woman looked him up and down. ‘You can keep.’
‘And you’re sure you don’t know who she worked for?’
‘All she say is she work for crocodile man.’
‘Crocodile…’ Logan closed his eyes and swore.
Steel was waiting for him back in the ward. The old lady in the corner bed had fallen asleep – lying starfish-spread under the covers, snoring.
‘Where the hell you been?’
‘Find your ring?’
The inspector held up her hand and there it was. ‘Must’ve been off my head last night. Found it stuffed inside a tub of anti-wrinkle cream.’
From the look of things, it wasn’t working.
Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Got a small detour to make on the way home.’
‘Oh, you’re kidding me! First you bugger off for half an hour, and now you want to—’
‘Got to see a man about a porn film.’
And with that, Steel’s face blossomed into a smile. ‘Well why didn’t you say so?’ She hurried past, pulling her Barbie-pink suitcase behind her. ‘There’s always time for pornography!’
ClarkRig Training Systems Ltd was an industrial unit hidden away down a little alleyway off Hutcheon Street. Logan parked the inspector’s Mazda at the front door, next to a battered Volvo Estate, and Steel climbed out into the sunshine, still clutching Krystka Gorzałkowska’s photograph.
Logan locked the car. ‘You finished drooling over that yet?’
‘I’m no’ drooling, I’m assessing the evidence. And you can talk, had to prise it out of your hands with a bloody crowbar.’ She stopped and stared up at the ClarkRig sign. ‘You sure she was getting forced to make porn films?’
‘That’s what she told me. Said they’d get her deported if she refused.’
The inspector blew a long wet raspberry. ‘Silly cow. She’s Polish – a member of our glorious European Union, how are we going to deport her? We can’t even deport convicted bloody terrorists.’
‘Well, obviously she didn’t know that.’
‘You know what I think? I think Gorza-le-kowska—’
‘“Gorzałkowska”. You pronounce an L with a line through it like a W.’
‘Aye, thank you professor. If I want a bloody language lesson I’ll show up to the ones at the station.’ Steel hitched her trousers up. ‘As I was saying: she’s been making porn films and now she’s scared her family’s going to find out. So what does she do – admit she’s in it for the money, or say a bad man made her do it?’
‘If she’s telling the truth—’
‘I’ll buy you a big sodding T-shirt with “I told you so” printed on it. That make you happy?’ Steel was already heading for the front door. ‘Come on. Less talk, more porn.’
Reception was an airy room, the walls covered with safety industry awards and framed DVDs. A pair of ancient film projectors sat in the middle of the polished wooden floor, in matching glass cases. Leather couches, steel coffee tables. Everything gleamed and sparkled. No sign of naked flesh anywhere.
DI Steel marched straight up to the long mahogany reception desk, banged on it with her fist and shouted, ‘SHOP!’
A round face appeared from one of the doors behind the desk, bringing with it a cheery smile. ‘Can I help you?’ She was in her late sixties with dyed brown hair, arms like sides of ham, and as she wobbled towards her chair it looked as if her stomach was giving them a Mexican wave.
Steel stood entranced. ‘Bloody hell, it’s like—’
Logan took over before the inspector got them thrown out. ‘Is Mr Clark about?’
‘Whom shall I say is calling?’
‘Detective Sergeant McRae. We met a couple of—’
‘Oh aye! I remember you fine!’ She dropped the posh accent and beamed at him. ‘You just go straight through, he’s in the editing suite.’
Steel raised her eyebrows. ‘No’ a safety film is it?’
‘Oh no.’ She winked. ‘It’s one of our special ones.’
The editing suite was a bank of keyboards, dials, sliders and switches, dominated by a dozen flat-screen monitors. All of them full of naked people inserting things into each other. And for some strange reason, everyone was singing. Every time the cameras moved there was a flash of bright blue or green scenery.
Steel paused in the doorway, looking up at the wall of flickering flesh. ‘Bleeding heck …’
‘Hmmmph?’ The man sitting in the room’s only chair swivelled round. He was huge – tall and fat – with little rectangular glasses, a greying goatee, and a trendy haircut that made him look as if he’d dried it sideways in a wind tunnel. He was drinking soup from a mug, leaving little bits of minestrone sticking to his moustache.
He took one look at Logan and a huge smile creased his face. ‘Sergeant McRae! It’s so great to see you!’
Steel stuck her hand out for shaking. ‘Hi, Mr Clark, I don’t know if you remember me, but we met last year and it was, well, you know, and I wasn’t, but then I watched all your films properly and they were, you probably hear this all the time, really brilliant, and I must sound like an absolute idiot, but they’re just so great.’
He frowned at her. ‘Aren’t you the—’
‘Yes, well, sorry about that, I’m a big fan, Mr Clark. Huge.’
The frown became a smile. ‘Then all is forgiven. And please, call me Zander. With a “Z”. I’m always delighted to meet someone who appreciates—’
Logan cut straight across him. ‘Mr Clark, do you recognize this woman?’ He pulled out the photograph.
‘Of course I do: Krystka Gorzałkowska.’ His pronunciation was perfect. ‘Such a shame, she was gorgeous – terrible actress though. Couldn’t carry a tune in a rucksack.’
‘So you don’t deny that she worked for you?’
‘More that she didn’t work for me. She just didn’t have that … spark. You know? People don’t have sex in my films, they make love. They have to look happy, joyful, as if this is the best thing that ever happened to them. Poor Krystka always looked like someone just crapped in her borscht.’ He sank back into his chair. ‘Tried her for a couple of scenes, but it just wasn’t working. I had to let her go.’
‘She claims she was forced to make porn films.’
‘Not by me she wasn’t!’ He spun round and fiddled with some buttons. All the screens went blank, then blue, a single image stretched to fill them all: the Crocodildo Productions logo, and then a caption, ‘SCENE 174B’.
It was Krystka, on her