by Ali Gunn
STRYKER SPED OVER, blue lights blazing. The charity shop had officially closed at half past five. He made it there only twenty minutes after closing, and there was still a light on inside. He parked twenty yards down the road to avoid blocking the T-junction and hopped out. The winter wind whipped right through him as he sprinted from his car towards the shop. The closed sign hung in the window. He banged on the front door.
‘Sod off, mate!’ a voice called out from within. ‘Can’t ya see we’re closed? We’re open again in the New Year. If ye’ve got a donation, bring it back then, yeah?’
‘Police!’ Stryker shouted. ‘Open up.’
‘Yer having a laugh, ain’t ya? This is a charity shop, mate. On your bike.’
Stryker pressed his warrant card up against the window.
‘Oh, yer not kidding, eh?’ The voice was a little less irate this time. He didn’t blame the man for wanting to go home and get on with his Christmas holidays even if the rest of the world had to wait at least another week. The locks clicked as the volunteer opened up and beckoned Stryker to come in from the cold.
The charity shop was dimly lit. Second-hand items adorned every available surface. One wall was stacked with hardbacks, another glassware, and another trinkets. Row after row of designer clothing hung on rails that dominated the shop floor. One aisle was given over to Christmas stock, decorations, paper, Christmas cards and the like.
‘To what do Bingham’s Hospice owe the pleasure, Mr...?’
‘Stryker, Detective Inspector Stryker.’
‘A fancy detective eh? I take it yer not here about stolen goods.’
‘Murder, I’m afraid.’
‘Blimey!’ the man said. He pulled the shutters down behind Stryker. ‘How can we help with that then?’
‘I’m trying to track down a dress.’
It sounded stupid even as he said it. There were hundreds of dresses on sale right now, and probably thousands more out back.
‘Going ta need a bit more to go on than that.’
‘Black silk lace, one of a kind, donated by Lady Imelda. You picked it up from her place around the corner.’
The man nodded at the name. ‘Yer in luck, Inspector. I remember that one. Clothing that fancy goes in the window, see? Our man Barney does the pickups and Lady Imelda calls every fortnight or so. Daft woman must spend Monday ta Friday buying stuff, and then Saturday packing it all up again for us... not that we’re complaining mind you!’
‘Do you know who you sold it to?’
‘Not off-hand,’ the man said. ‘Gimme a mo. I can have a gander at the records.’
There was an ancient PC on the counter at the back of the shop. The volunteer booted it up and logged in. Stryker tapped his foot as he waited.
‘Right, so Lady Imelda’s a gift aid donor. That means we can claim some extra money from the government whenever her stuff sells.’
Stryker knew that much. It was something like twenty-eight per cent extra. If they were getting even a fraction of the retail value back on Lady Imelda’s stuff then it was a significant uplift. ‘So you track her donations?’
The man squirmed. ‘Sort of. Each gift aid item gets a ticket number so we know who donated it and how much it sold for. We dun keep a list of what was what though.’
‘And how many items did Lady Imelda donate?’
‘Last month alone... Three hundred and six.’ He leant aside to let Stryker have a look at the spreadsheet on the screen.
Stryker swore. That was a lot of clothing. ‘Is there any way we can work out which of these transactions was the lace dress?’
‘It would have been expensive.’
‘How expensive?’
The man thought for a moment. ‘A couple of grand, easy.’
‘So if we sort these high to low, get rid of any older than two months and then home in on sales over two grand, how many does that leave us with?’
He clicked away at the spreadsheet to do as Stryker asked.
‘Fifteen.’
That was more like it. ‘Do we know who bought these?’
‘Hmm... Six were sold for cash while eight were bought using credit cards. Want the names of the credit card holders? I’m probably not supposed to give them out mind... can you not tell ma boss about this?’
‘Of course,’ Stryker said. ‘I’ll be discreet. What about the other buyers?’
‘Might be just one cash buyer actually, there’s this one guy I always see in here. Total weirdo. I see him every now and again, and every time he’s buying women’s clothing.’
‘Could he have bought the lace dress?’
‘Dunno. Maybe. Last time I saw him – a few months back mind – he bought a bleeding wedding dress!’
Stryker bolted upright. ‘Do you have CCTV?’ His eyes scanned the room.
‘Nah, people don’t like being seen buying second-hand goods, do they?’
‘Suppose not,’ Stryker said. ‘Can you come down to the station? I’d like you to sit with an e-fit artist and see if we can get a picture of this dude done.’
‘Sure, tomorrow morning okay?’ the man asked. ‘Only I’ve promised to take the missus out for a movie see.’
Stryker thought about it. Finding a sketch artist would take a bit of time. A short delay overnight probably wouldn’t hurt.
‘Sure. Nine o’clock. Need a lift to New Scotland Yard?’
‘Naw, I’ll take the tube. Just ask at the desk for ya? Inspector Stryker, wasn’t it?’
Stryker wrote 09:00 on the back of his business card and handed it over. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Chapter 38: Soho
The walk-up in question was hiding in plain sight with a fluorescent sign reading “MODELS” hanging in the little window above the door. Yohann had been traipsing up and down the area between Brewer Street and Green’s Court frequented by London’s sex workers. He looked like any other punter nervously working up the nerve to ring the bell. He had seen men coming and going for the last few hours. Some were in and out in minutes while others disappeared for hours.
The system was a simple one operated by two members of staff, the prostitute and a maid. It was the latter who dealt with letting in the client when the punter rang the doorbell. If the prostitute was available – or there was somewhere inside for the next John to wait – the maid opened the door. If the prostitute wasn’t available, the maid simply didn’t answer and the John could carry on to the next walk-up and try his luck again.
A weird quirk of British law meant that these walk-ups weren’t illegal per se. Brothels – defined as having more than one prostitute working – were illegal so these walk-ups were essentially studio flats with the girls taking it in turn to work there. There was debate among Yohann’s team on how to deal with these prostitutes. Technically the sign could be used for solicitation charges but it was more common to simply use noise and drug laws to shut them down.
In many ways, it was like a game of whack-a-mole. The moment one walk-up was closed, another opened. At any given time forty or so were open to the thousands of men who passed through them every day.
The most serious charges were for those “controlling” the girls, the pimps and madams. This was fraught with problems too. The traffickers were using the “Big Sister” model where earlier victims were made to control later victims. It was a pyramid scheme of slavery which Yohann had seen far too often in his three years with the Serious Organised Crime Agency.
‘They’re on the move,’ Ozzy’s voice said in his ear. The tiny little radio looked like a smart hearing aid.
Yohann saw Sumiko arrive. The Sister was nowhere to be seen but another woman trailed in Sumiko’s wake carrying a bag. What struck him was how normal it all seemed. Sumiko could just as easily have been nipping out to Tesco to buy milk. There was nothing provocative about her clothing or make-up, nothing to suggest that sex was on sale. She disappeared down an alleyway off Berwick Street.
He followed in time to see the door close.
Ozzy’
s voice echoed in his ear, the connection rendering it tinny. ‘Give it five, then ring the bell.’
Yohann would have except for the drunken stag party coming the other way down the alley. He couldn’t let them get ahead of him. He rang the bell.
The second woman opened the door. She was the maid, the fixer, the one who arranged it all. She beckoned him in and then barked at him to close the door behind him. It was cold outside.
A whiteboard was on the wall behind her which showed a handwritten price list that the maid finished writing as he waited. When she was done it read:
Per Ten Minutes:
Straight Sex - £20
Sex + Oral - £30
Sex + Strip - £50
Oral - £15
Hand Relief - £10
Spanking (given) - £5 extra
No Anal. No French Kissing.
No Condom = No Service
Then, underneath, a list of available uniforms was specified. Presumably, that was an added extra too. It was so cheap – as long as you didn’t need more than ten minutes – that it was no wonder so many men came to Soho. Yohann pointed to the top of the board. The maid gave him the nod and so he headed upstairs. Payment would be made directly to Sumiko to avoid straying into brothel-keeping with the expectation that Yohann would tip the maid a few pounds on his way out.
He climbed the stairs to find himself on the first floor which housed a tiny kitchen and a shower. This was the titular “walk-up” which, it turned out, led him up another flight to a grotty double bedroom at the top of the stairs. It was as basic as it could be. Black mould gave the room a stale, musty smell while a double mattress lay directly on the floor. As the first John of the evening, he had the unique privilege of seeing it with clean sheets. Curtains were drawn tight against the darkness outside so the room was only lit by a single pallid bulb. By the window, there was a wooden chair that had seen better days. Paint had cracked on its surface as if it were held together by dirt and despair.
Sumiko flashed a smile that almost looked genuine. Only the lack of movement around the eyes gave her away. ‘Hi,’ she said. She hit the button on a timer which glowed neon red.
‘I think you know my friend,’ Yohann said.
‘Oh, is your friend coming too? That extra.’
‘She isn’t coming,’ Yohann said slowly. ‘She’s just had her nails done.’
He hoped nobody was listening in. The walls in these walk-ups were paper thin and one wrong move would spook whoever was supervising the trafficked girls. Presumably, that was the Sister. Yohann needed to find out where she was.
Sumiko’s eyes went wide as she realised that Yohann wasn’t a client. She turned to a tiny stereo that Yohann hadn’t noticed and hit play. Bad Romance filled the room immediately.
‘Full strip, ten pounds extra,’ she said loudly as she gestured for Yohann to sit in the rickety chair.
There was a fine balance to be struck between talking quietly enough not to be overheard and loud enough to be heard over the music. ‘Who’s listening?’
She couldn’t hear him. He pointed at his ears. She shook her head, sat on his lap and leant in close.
‘Big Sister be nearby,’ she said.
‘Where?’
‘Near,’ Sumiko said. ‘We use all flats in this street. One at end is where bosses usually are. Maybe Sister there.’
There were six doors going down the street that led to walk-ups. Ozzy and the team would need to hit all of them simultaneously.
‘Copy that,’ said a voice in his ear. Thank God the mike had been sensitive enough to pick up that conversation without Yohann having to repeat himself.
‘How many are in that last flat?’ Yohann asked.
‘No know,’ Sumiko said. ‘Usually man plus big Sister. The man drives me around.’
‘And they’re definitely in there now? Is there anyone else you’ve seen?’
They needed the Mr Big, the guy behind it all. Arresting a driver and a madam would risk whoever was in charge going underground. Not that they had much choice. If there were six flats with two women apiece – one prostitute, one maid – and all of them were victims then they couldn’t leave them where they were.
‘No,’ Sumiko said firmly. ‘Driver and Sister.’
It would have to do. The timer was ticking past nine minutes. He had to get Sumiko out.
‘Ready to go, boss?’ he asked of the man in his ear.
‘Verbally agree to pay for another ten minutes so they don’t suspect you, and then take cover. Shit’s going down fast.’
‘Roger.’
THE RESPONSE TEAM GOT the nod to move in and Knox felt a surge of excitement. . Without hesitation, Ozzy had included her as part of his team. Of course, they’d worked together years ago, when Knox was still a junior DS. Joining Fairbanks’ Murder Investigation Team had been a no-brainer it had got her promoted to detective inspector and she’d had the chance to work on homicide cases. While it was a massive career leap, a part of her missed this, the frantic action that went with life in the Serious Organised Crime Agency.
Ozzy had warned her that, any necessary court testimony aside, today’s raid would be the last time Knox was involved in the Katz Klawz investigation. The National Crime Agency was chomping at the bit to take over the investigation. It was only the imminent threat to Sumiko’s life that kept the case in Ozzy’s hands.
Six walk-ups, six targets. Yohann had the first of the walk-ups covered which left the other five to split among Ozzy’s thirty-strong team.
‘Which are you hitting, Ozzy?’
‘The flat nearest the main road.’
She blurted out the obvious question before she could stop herself. ‘Why?’
‘Sumiko said as much, didn’t she?’ Ozzy said. ‘Think about it. These guys are running half a dozen girls plus at least one nail salon. This isn’t a small operation. Someone, somewhere, has to be watching what’s going on. Someone is making serious bank on these girls and they’ll want to protect that.’
Yohann’s discreet bodycam had shown prices starting around twenty pounds per ten minutes. Six girls, a hundred and twenty an hour, working six pm through to two am or so... It was nearly six grand a night before taking into account the nail bar, any income the gang had generated from being paid to smuggle the girls in, or anything else, and these gangs always had multiple income streams in case the police cottoned onto one.
‘Then I’m coming with you,’ Knox said. ‘For old time’s sake.’
‘Fine with me.’
The team moved quickly from the safe house, each coming out via a separate exit so as not to arouse suspicion. All were in plain clothes though every officer wore Kevlar underneath. In summer, the body armour was hard to hide but now that London was in the midst of a particularly cold winter, it was easy to hide a stab-proof vest underneath an overcoat. The one lingering downside was weight. Knox had put hers on the scales once and was horrified to see it weighed nearly seven and a half kilograms.
The exit that Knox and Ozzy took saw them head through the bowels of the nearby Westminster Kingsway College. They emerged into a hailstorm which was pelting down on Hopkins Street. Two of the other teams would approach from the north, while Knox and Ozzy’s route was the quickest, a straight shot down Peter Street and onto the south of Berwick Street.
Ozzy walked briskly but without running. To any casual observer, he was just another Londoner scurrying towards the tube at rush hour. She and Ozzy were the first to make it to the alleyway. Neon lights advertising models glowed in the six windows they were about to hit. The weather gave them audio cover which allowed Ozzy to speak freely to his team over the radio.
He hit the push to talk button. ‘Remember, these women are victims first and foremost – even the Sister. Use your kid gloves, don’t forget to caution them. Keep them where they are until everyone has given the all-clear.’
Radio beeps came back from each team one at a time by way of confirmation. They were all ready. Teams two thr
ough six were to arrest the women within for their own protection but hold off on bringing them out until Ozzy’s signal. He wanted time to bring the police vans around without forewarning the criminals that they were being raided.
Ozzy and Knox’s target was the first walk-up on the left. The signage here was less overt and the door solid wood rather than glass like the others.
‘Eleven o’clock, Oz,’ Knox whispered. ‘Look up.’
Two overlapping security cameras had been placed under the gutter so that they were barely visible.
They were high-end unlike the grainy black-and-white models guarding the other walk-ups. It looked like Sumiko was right. This place offered the easiest escape route; the scum-bag running the joint had claimed it with a view to saving his own skin should trouble come knocking.
Ozzy thumbed the big button on his radio. ‘All teams, get in position ready to go in ninety seconds after my mark.’
The teams had been briefed to mingle with the crowds on the main road until then. Each would slowly circle the area, pausing to admire shop windows, vape or check their mobile as if they too were simply out for a jolly in the Soho milieu.
Beeps came back to acknowledge his orders.
‘Want to hit this one first?’
‘Yep,’ Ozzy said. ‘If we’ve got a trafficker here then hitting the other walk-ups will spook him. I need you around the back, I’ll go in the front. Just like old times.’
Fuzzy images of days-gone-by flashed before Knox. Unlike homicide, the Serious Organised Crime lot spent a huge proportion of their time preparing to execute search warrants, arrest violent criminals and engage in foot and vehicle pursuits. It was physically – and mentally – tough. Ozzy was living proof of that. The physical side of things was hard enough. He spent his evenings and weekends in the gym to stay in shape, a task which grew more difficult with each passing year.
‘Hang on... Isn’t rule one stick together?’
Ozzy grinned. ‘Rule zero. Adapt to the situation. Go around the back and radio me when you’re there.’
She pursed her lips as she fought the urge to refuse. This was his operation and he could run it how he wished. She nodded and headed down the side of the building. At the back, there was a tiny alleyway running in parallel to the main walkway. Black rubbish bags were piled up by the back door of each walk-up. Ugh, probably filled with used condoms Knox thought, skirting round them gingerly. But then a pinprick red light above the back door she’d been assigned to caught her attention. Motion sensor! She froze on the spot. Too late, she saw it was attached to a camera, and even as she instinctively ducked, it pivoted in her direction.