Border Angels by Anthony Quinn

different country.
    Daly banged on the glass and flashed his ID.
    “I’m a police officer. Open the door.”
    The look of recognition rapidly faded. The driver replaced the lid on the bottle and slid it between his knees. He was like a man woken abruptly from a dream.
    Daly informed him of his rights and that he was arresting him on the suspicion of drink-driving.
    “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “Yes.” The man fished out a creased Croatian driving license. He balled his fists and looked Daly in the eye. The look of sadness in his face was deep and total.
    “I have money in my house. Money for you. I am sorry for the trouble.” His voice was clotted with alcohol and guilt, and thickly accented. Daly guessed that he had not been in the country for very long.
    “You take my money. Yes? No? For the trouble.”
    “It’s no trouble to me,” said Daly. “Get out of the car. I’m taking you down to the station for a breathalyzer test. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “I not drink anymore,” he protested. “I give you my word.” He shook his head profoundly.
    Daly walked him to his car and helped him into the back.
    “I make a stupid mistake,” he told Daly. “I live a mile away. Needed cigarettes and vodka.”
    “Why didn’t you just walk to the off-license?”
    “No reason.”
    His stubbled face flushed. “I lose my job now.”
    “Not my problem. You should have considered that before drinking.” Daly started up the engine.
    “No, I lose my job. Today. Boss say no work anymore.” He sighed heavily and flashed Daly a look so grim, the detective feared he was going to open up his heart and reveal his deepest worries, the dashing of his hopes and dreams.
    Instead, the Croatian rubbed his dry lips and stared down. He grunted suddenly. Daly watched him in the rearview mirror. The Croatian rubbed his eyes as though he had seen a ghost. Daly turned round. The man was holding Lena’s doll. Daly had forgotten it was there.
    “Who owns this?” asked the Croatian.
    “A woman. Someone I’m trying to find.”
    “Her name is Lena Novak?”
    Daly stopped the vehicle, looked him in the eye.
    “How do you know that name?” he asked the Croatian.
    Ten minutes later, Daly had gathered from their halting conversation that Josef Mikolajek had placed a price on Lena’s head. He had sent a picture of her around the Croatian community, and a description of the rag doll she had in her possession, one dressed in the national costume of their country.
    “This doll, I think he is afraid of it,” said the man. “Maybe he’s superstitious. He wanted Lena caught or killed, it didn’t matter. But what he really wanted was this doll.” The Croatian laughed. “When Mikolajek feels threatened by anyone, he has them shot or stabbed. But a doll? You can’t kill a doll.”
    Daly handed the man over at the police station and drove home. He was going to have to work out why the doll was so important to Lena Novak and Mikolajek. It was the key to a dangerous secret, and he needed to know what it was.
    Back in the bedroom of his cottage the ceiling was still dripping rain. He emptied the pots and basins that had been collecting the water. During the night he awoke with a start to a loud splashing noise. For a second he thought the Lough had flooded and burst through the cottage walls. Bits of plaster lay on his blanket. In the moonlight, he saw that a part of the ceiling had fallen into one of the basins.

15
    Three days after Jack Fowler’s drowning, the offices of the Gortin Regeneration Partnership were so washed in blue siren lights that it was difficult for the staff that turned up that day to focus on their jobs. Although how much work was done with the Fraud Squad examining the organization’s entire financial history was anyone’s guess. A team of police officers as well as agents from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs entered the building shortly before 9:00 a.m. Contrary to appearances, it was