by Helen Bright
I took a deep breath then began to speak, keeping my tone even, unemotional, detached from the scene that the carefully staged room created.
“You have been searching for someone here in London: someone under my protection. Why?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve no idea who you even are!”
Although he was anxious, I noted there was also a hint of defiance in his voice. A kind of confidence. As if he thought this whole setup was just a threat. The man was a fool.
“You were searching for a young woman named Tess Robertson. I believe you are extremely well acquainted with her friend, Sarah Crowther. Tell me, Mr Ali, what were your plans for Tess had you found her? And, where have you taken Sarah?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I don’t know anyone called Sarah, or Tess.”
“I would advise you against lying, Mr Ali. It is not something I am known to tolerate.” From the corner of my eye I saw Franco take two steps towards Farid, making a fist with his right hand which he raised slightly, his footsteps creating a crinkling sound on the plastic sheeting.
“What are you doing? I’m not lying, I don’t know these girls. No, stop…”
I nodded my head just the once, then watched with barely disguised satisfaction as Franco slammed his fist into Farid’s cheekbone. The clearly audible crack indicated a possible fracture—the howling cry and subsequent dazed look confirmed the hoped-for diagnosis. Franco glanced my way, a sinister grin replacing the previous stern look. Another nod from me and he reclaimed his position beside the door, arms folded, his eyes fixed on the whimpering male.
“Now, let’s try this again, shall we? Why were you—along with Tariq and Hassan Akbar—searching for Tess Robertson?”
Farid remained silent, apart from the occasional moan or whimper. His left eye was swelling fast, and I watched in morbid fascination as it closed completely after less than a minute. His right eye looked glassy, the sheen of tears evident for all to see. Did he think they would garner him sympathy from me? If he did, he was very much mistaken.
I nodded again at Franco, making sure that Farid had noticed me do so. Franco barely moved this time before Farid answered. His words were what I’d expected to hear when I had first entered the room.
“They know where I am, you know. They’ll have tracked the GPS on my phone by now. I bet they’re waiting outside this hotel for me.”
I held my hand up to halt Franco’s movements, then signalled for him to stand down.
“I hope you are right, Mr Ali. My guards would like nothing more than to apprehend your friends as soon as possible. I have them stationed at various points around the hotel, and at the hospital where Tariq Akbar was recently spotted,” I told him.
I watched as his right eye flicked from me to Franco, then back again. His chest began to rise and fall more quickly now, the earlier confidence he had displayed now lost amongst the hopelessness of the situation he found himself in. What words would he use next to try and gain his freedom, I wondered, as I watched him glance around the room.
“When I don’t check in with them, they’ll know something happened and will send the police. They’ll trace my phone and see me entering this hotel on CCTV.”
“That’s what I’m planning on,” I told him, smugly. I removed my jacket and tie, making myself more comfortable.
“You see, Mr Farid Ali, aged thirty, from Doncaster, South Yorkshire, I know all about you and your colleagues. I know you are married to…” I took out my phone and brought up the email I’d received earlier from Kevin, “Shazia, and have an eight-year-old son named Sajid, and a two-year-old daughter named after your mother, Rabia. Tell me, Mr Ali, how would the women in your life feel about you treating the young girls you targeted the way you did? How would you feel if your family were treated the same way?”
“My family are nothing like those girls,” he declared angrily. “Females in our culture have respect for themselves and those around them. Good Muslim women. Those girls deserved everything they got, plain and simple. They dress like common whores—with their short skirts and tops that show more of their tits than they cover. They go out like that day and night, flaunting themselves. It’s like they’re begging to get fucked.”
I noticed Franco’s body stiffen slightly, as he once again made his hand into a fist, though he did not move to strike the bastard who tried to justify his actions.
“The girls you targeted were no more than vulnerable children. They were likely desperate for attention from someone: anyone who they thought would care for them, provide for them, or just love them. You plied them with false affections and gifts, gaining their trust and loyalty. Then you abused them. Mental, physical and sexual abuse. What kind of monster does that? Modern media calls it grooming. I do not care for the term. The word does not describe the seriousness of your crime. You rape children. You are a truly despicable man!”
Farid stared at me, his expression blank. The man held no shame, no remorse for his cruel behaviour. I leapt to my feet, my anger causing me to shake slightly as I stepped towards him and raised my fist.
“Boss!” Franco yelled as he grabbed my arm before I could strike Farid. “Not until we get what we need.”
I shook away Franco’s grip then took a step back from Farid. Franco was right; there would be time to make him suffer after we got the information we needed. Turning towards the curtained window, I tried to regain my composure. I needed a drink. Something to calm the storm raging through my mind.
I picked up my phone from the lamp table and called who I hoped would be the ace in the so far uncooperative hand we’d been dealt.
“Can you come in here and bring me a scotch on the rocks? Make it a double. Thanks, Rasheed.” After placing my phone back on the lamp table, I sat across from my prisoner and waited.
After two silent minutes there was a knock on the door. Franco opened it and let Rasheed inside.
“Mr Ali, let me introduce you to my London-based technical security advisor, Rasheed Khan.” Rasheed handed me my drink then stood beside my chair, his arms folded, almost mirroring Franco’s stance.
“Do you recognise anything familiar about Rasheed’s clothing, Mr Ali?” I asked, watching with ill-concealed satisfaction as Farid took in Rasheed’s appearance. Farid’s coat fit Rasheed like it was made for him, and he wore jeans that were the same shade and brand that Farid had arrived in.
“As you can see, your likeness to my employee is uncanny, even down to the way you groom your facial hair. I must admit, Rasheed did receive some teasing when he decided to grow his beard. What was it Jonesy said to you, Rasheed?”
“He told me his old aunt Ruth had more beard than me.”
“To which you replied?”
“That’s why she was the main attraction in the travelling circus.”
“Ahh, yes, I remember that now. You and Jonesy have a very odd sense of humour. I don’t know how your commanding officer put up with both of you being in the same unit.”
“Neither does he, boss. He said so last time the old unit got together.”
“I know that Jonesy and Franco filled you in yesterday on the nature of Mr Ali and his friends’ interest in young girls.”
“They did, boss. Made me sick to my stomach.”
“As it would any decent human being,” I said, agreeing with Rasheed. “But earlier, Mr Ali tried to tell Franco and me that these young girls deserved what they did to them because they were not of his culture and weren’t Muslim. Being a Muslim man yourself, Rasheed, tell me what you think about the claims he made?”
“He disgusts me. How dare he use my religion to try and justify such heinous acts. My culture and religion would never condone manipulating children like that. It amazes me why so many Muslims choose to live in a free Western society when they supposedly despise the way Westerners choose to live. My eldest daughter is the same age as the girl that’s gone missing. It’s upsetting to think that—”
“How can you call yourself a Muslim? From what this man just said, you fought in the British Army, likely in Iraq or Afghanistan—fighting fellow Muslims. It’s you that committed the heinous acts, but they were against Allah, not just stupid white bitches,” Farid yelled.
I placed a hand on Rasheed’s arm to steady him. I could almost feel the anger building within him, yet outwardly he looked calm. He and Jonesy were similar in that way, as was Franco. True soldiers. You would only ever see what they allowed, no matter how they felt on the inside. I wish I had the ability to keep up the same detached appearance I had started out with, but I had already shown how easily I had become affected by the evil before me. Time to up my game and fight fire with fire.
“Mr Ali, earlier you said the police would come looking for you when your friends raised the alarm. You mentioned GPS and CCTV. Rasheed, why don’t you tell Mr Ali what you did this afternoon?”
“Well, boss, Franco and Don apprehended Mr Ali when he approached the lifts about ten minutes after he’d entered the hotel. They brought him to this room and stripped him before cable-tying him to the chair. Then Don brought me his coat and phone and we discussed the best way to make it look like Mr Ali had left the building. I spoke to Kevin at base about monitoring CCTV, and told him the route I would be taking. After putting on Mr Ali’s coat, I made my way over to Starbucks on Oxford Street, where I purchased a latte. Before leaving Starbucks, I called Kevin to let him know it was time. He hacked into, then disabled, CCTV on Oxford Street, allowing me to remove Mr Ali’s coat without it being on camera. Then I turned off GPS tracking on his phone and removed the SIM before stashing it in a carrier bag, along with the coat. Kevin let me know when he’d disabled each CCTV on my planned route back to Mayfair, allowing me to return to the hotel without a trace.”
“So let me see if I’ve got this right. According to CCTV and GPS tracking on Mr Ali’s phone, his last known location was Starbucks on Oxford Street?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
“Yes, boss, that is correct.”
“So, Mr Ali, it appears that your earlier assumption that your friends and the police would be able to find you was incorrect. Now tell me, how does it feel to know you have no control over this situation? That you have no choice but to give us the information we require in order to gain your freedom.”
“I’m not a fucking idiot. You’ve got me tied to a chair that’s on plastic sheets so my blood doesn’t stain the carpet. You’ve no intention of letting me go, whether I give you information or not. You wouldn’t have gone to all those lengths to make it look like I’d left the hotel if you were going to let me live. Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m saying nothing about that ginger-haired bitch we were looking for, or her slutty friend. So fuck you, whoever you are.”
Both Rasheed and Franco glanced my way, silently asking if they should step in and beat the man for his disrespect. I shook my head.
“Rasheed, you can go now. Thank you for your help today.”
Rasheed nodded then turned to leave. When he reached the door he turned back around and said, “Boss, make him suffer.”
15
Kolya
When the door closed behind Rasheed, I drank the rest of my scotch then placed the glass on the table. I made a show of looking at my watch, as if what was going to happen in this room meant nothing at all to me.
“Let me introduce myself to you, Mr Ali. I realise now it was remiss of me not to do so earlier. My name is Kolya Barinov. I do not expect you to recognise my name, it is my business that people are more familiar with. I am the owner of KOLCAT Engineering: a company that designs, manufactures, and trades in weapons and defence aids. We have been in the news recently due to the expansion of one of our manufacturing plants in the UK. The headlines were extremely favourable, saying we were responsible for the biggest boost in employment and the economy that this country has seen for more than forty years. Of course, there were those that mentioned us selling to the Saudis and various other countries that they weren’t happy with, but one cannot take the good without the bad—wouldn’t you agree?”
I watched his face for any signs that he recalled what I had been talking about, and felt a small amount of satisfaction as that spark of recognition appeared on his face. The manufacturing plant in question was only around thirty miles from where Farid lived, so he could not have failed to hear about it.
“I also own this hotel—in case you were wondering. And this setup,” I gestured towards him and at the plastic sheeting, “is nothing new to me. My father is a pakhan in the Russian mafia, and has been since I was a young child. His methods of extracting information are brutal, yet effective. Though today I would prefer not to bloody my hotel any more than I need to. So, Mr Ali, I ask you again. Why were you and your friends searching for Tess Robertson, and where is Sarah Crowther?”
Farid licked his dry lips then stared at me through his one good eye. He took a deep breath in, and for a moment I thought he would answer my questions. Instead of doing that—which would have given him a relatively quick death—he laughed, then yelled, “FUCK. YOU.”
In less than two seconds I stood before him, my fists raining down on his face and body. The cacophony of sounds that came from fists hitting flesh, the breaking of bones, and blood splattering against plastic, built to a sickening crescendo with the ever-increasing cries of Farid’s pain.
I beat him until he was barely conscious, then I stepped back to allow Franco to rouse him by throwing cold water in his swollen face and down the back of his neck.
I walked back to my chair, adrenaline making my heart beat faster. My hands felt odd, like they were too heavy for my arms, and the skin over two of my knuckles was split. I knew I should get some ice to counteract the swelling that would soon appear, but there wasn’t time for that. My patience with this man, and with this whole situation, was non-existent. If he still did not answer my questions, then I would resort to my backup plan: to threats that I, both as a father, and as a man who put great value into the innocence of childhood, did not care to use.
“So, Mr Ali, do you feel like answering my questions now?” I asked, silently praying that he would, for all our sakes.
“Fuck. You,” he wheezed, before spitting out blood and saliva, along with a tooth.
Damn! I did not want to do this, but I had no choice. HE had given me no choice. I took out my phone and read the message which brought me up to speed with what I needed to know from my team. They’d been watching over Tess’s foster mother up in Doncaster until earlier today. I looked toward Franco who nodded his head then opened the door. My iPad and other items I knew we would need if it got this far, were outside where I’d left them.
As soon as I had the iPad in my hands, I began to play the video I received earlier, resting the device on the side table in plain view of my prisoner.
“Do you recognise anyone in this video, Mr Ali?” I asked, knowing full well what his answer would be.
“What…wha…that’s my wife, my son, and daughter…how…? Where are they? What have you done with them? If you’ve hurt them, I’ll...”
“You’ll what, Mr Ali? Escape your bindings to save them—bloody and broken as you are? Come now, would you have me believe that you have super powers, like the character in the Xbox game your son is currently playing.”
I quickly changed the video from the one filmed earlier, when Farid’s wife picked up his children from school, to the live feed from outside his house. As the curtains were open, my men had a clear view inside the property. Currently, his son was concentrating on the video game he was playing as his mother watched over him, her daughter asleep in her arms.
“As you can guess, Mr Ali, my business takes me all over the world. I have extremely wealthy, if not always honourable, clients. Child trafficking has always been a profitable business: one I think you enjoyed the spoils of for some time.”
“I didn’t…I…I’ve never been into trafficking children,” he wailed.
>
“No?” I questioned, leaning forward in my chair to bring us closer. “From what I have heard, you and your friends thought nothing of taking vulnerable young girls from a place of safety, into a den of sick and twisted men. I understand that Sarah told you how upset she was at your request that she kiss then pleasure these men, yet you used your influence and her desperation to be loved, to get her to comply. You trafficked without exchanging the girl, until you feared she was going to trap you with a child.”
“No! She wasn’t trafficked. I wouldn’t do that!”
“So you think you are a better person because you didn’t add the trafficking label to what you did? Sarah is still missing! If you haven’t passed her on to someone else then you are keeping her hidden. To what end I can only guess. Tell me where she is. NOW. Or I will give the order to have my men enter your house and take your children.”
“No. No, please, not my children,” he cried, sobbing in between ongoing pleas to save his family.
I asked again, in a calm voice this time, “Where is Sarah Crowther, and why were you searching for Tess Robertson?”
“Sarah is dead. Hassan killed her,” he sobbed, shaking his head as if trying to deny the truth behind his words. “It wasn’t meant to go that far: we were only going to threaten her—maybe slap her around a bit. But Hassan…he lost his temper when she said she was pregnant. He told her she was a whore, not fit to raise a child, then he started punching her in her belly. She dropped to the floor and he dove on her. He grabbed her hair and used it to keep slamming her head against the concrete floor. Me and Tariq tried to stop him, but when we pulled his hands away he fought us then went straight for her throat. I don’t know whether she was already dead before he attempted to strangle her, but by the time we got him to let go, she was gone.”