by Susan Lewis
Laurie was looking at Barry. ‘You seem worried,’ she told him.
‘I am,’ he confessed. ‘The whole thing bothers me, and before we go any further I just want to be sure that you two really know what you’re getting into here, because the kind of blokes we’re talking about, the Eddie Cribbses of this world, and all the nasty little scum involved with him, they’re not the types to piss around. It’s not a game to them – or maybe it is, I don’t know. What I’m saying is, they just won’t put the same kind of value on your life as you do, and that’s putting it mildly.’
‘He’s right,’ Laurie said gravely, turning to Sherry. ‘This is showing all the signs of becoming extremely dangerous, so if you want to reconsider …’
Sherry was shaking her head. ‘I understand what we’re getting into,’ she interrupted, ‘and I’m with you all the way.’
Laurie’s eyes moved back to Barry. ‘You were right to spell it out like that,’ she told him, ‘because it’s easy to get carried away and forget the reality. So none of us should ever take our safety for granted.’
‘Or underestimate their potential for evil,’ he added.
There was a solemn pause as they all digested that, then Sherry glanced at her watch.
‘I’m afraid I have to abandon you now,’ she said. ‘One of my other aliases has a deadline to meet.’
Laurie opened her diary. ‘All right. So let’s keep in touch, all of us,’ she said, ‘and meet again on Friday, unless something comes up to make it sooner.’
Elliot’s expression was unreadable as his eyes absorbed all the fantastic detail of the large, flamboyant canvases that formed the major works of Andraya Sorrantos’s collection. For the purposes of this impromptu private showing, they were propped up against the whitewashed walls of Chris’s secure warehouse in West London, and even amongst the ladders, torn packaging and wooden crates they had arrived in, they still managed to exude an exotic and even erotic power that was every bit as commanding as the artist herself.
He hadn’t expected her to be here, and wished she wasn’t, for it was extremely disconcerting to have her watch his every move, and wait, with an almost naked hunger, for his response. Since Chris had gone into the office, neither of them had spoken, though he was intensely aware of her presence, could feel it almost as though it were touching him, yet she was more than ten feet away, standing in the stark rays of sunlight pooling through the open delivery-dock door. By the standards of the other night she was modestly dressed, in a white tie-front shirt, and white jeans. There were no buttons to the shirt, it plunged straight to her navel; the jeans were so low they didn’t come anywhere close. Her raven hair fell in thick, soft waves around her shoulders.
He could hear the muted sound of Chris’s voice as he spoke on the phone. He thought he could also hear Andraya breathing, but maybe not. He moved on to the next painting. It was smaller than the rest, yet somehow more vibrant.
‘I knew the other night that we would meet again,’ she said finally, in her throaty accented voice. ‘Did you not feel it too?’
He made no response, yet now she had voiced it, he realized that maybe he had felt it. It was hard to know, when he was standing here, almost drowning in the sheer sexual force of her.
Her smile was catlike as she began sauntering towards him, the golden flesh of her belly gleaming as if wet. ‘Have you made your choice?’ she said. ‘Which painting would you like for your bride?’
‘I think this one,’ he replied, pointing to the one at his feet.
She stopped beside him. ‘It’s a good choice,’ she responded, without looking. ‘You must love her very much.’
He didn’t reply. She was too close, but he didn’t move away.
Her smile grew. ‘She would never know,’ she murmured.
He stared into her eyes, understanding exactly what she meant.
She laughed, and leaning forward touched her tongue to his lips.
For several seconds he did nothing, merely allowed her to kiss and lick him, until finally his hand circled her neck and he eased her away. ‘I’ll see you at the opening,’ he told her, and turning to the door he walked out to his car.
After Sherry and Barry had gone Laurie spent the afternoon downloading as much information as she could find on the Scotland Yard website about organized crime in the East End, forced prostitution and human trafficking. Her research took her to dozens more websites, and by the time she was ready to leave she had to confess Barry’s warning was feeling more ominous than ever. Not that she was deterred, but she was concerned enough to print some of it out to take home to show Elliot. He had a lot of valuable contacts in the East End whom she could probably take advantage of, and she wouldn’t mind hearing what he had to say about the human-trafficking element of the case, because that was almost certainly where the nastiest characters were going to turn up.
After packing the printouts in her briefcase she was just starting to lock up when Stan, the private detective she wanted to tail Eddie Cribbs, rang back.
‘Don’t want to discuss this geezer on the blower,’ he told her, ‘so we should meet.’
‘Where? When?’
‘Wednesday. Blind Beggar. Eight o’clock do you?’
‘That’s fine.’
As she rang off Laurie couldn’t help wondering if there was any significance to the choice of venue, since it was the site of a famous Kray brother shooting back in the Sixties. Dismissing the thought, she called Elliot to let him know she was on her way. The machine was on, so guessing he was working, she left a message, continued to lock up then walked down to the pier to take the river bus home.
By the time she got off at Tower Bridge clouds had come in and a fine drizzle had started. She glanced up at the windows of their apartment, but there was no sign of any lights. It still wasn’t quite dark enough though, and besides, Elliot’s study was the other side of the building. Hurrying her pace she descended the steps on the south side of the bridge, turned left into the narrow cobbled street of Shad Thames where upmarket estate agents, vintners and restaurateurs had set up shop, then let herself into the discreet lobby of their luxury block.
‘Hi! I’m back!’ she shouted, opening the front door.
No reply.
‘Elliot! Are you home?’
Still no reply.
Sighing, she closed the door and went to dump her briefcase and jacket on one of the sofas. ‘Where are you?’ she grumbled aloud as she began dialling his mobile. ‘I thought you were going to be here.’ She’d just made the connection when she spotted a note on the kitchen counter.
‘You’ve reached Elliot Russell,’ his recorded voice told her. ‘Leave a message and I’ll call you back.’
‘It’s me. Where are you?’ she said, picking up the note.
As she clicked off she began to read. By the time she finished alarm was forming an unwelcome presence in her heart. ‘I won’t be back tonight,’ he’d written. ‘There’s no need to worry. Everything’s OK. I’ll call you in the morning.’
Chapter Six
NEELA’S SARI WAS soaked in sweat. Her hair clung to her skull like an inky black veil. She was deafened by the sound of the machines. Her fingers were sore; the fabric coarsened her skin and clogged her breathing. The smell burned her throat and made her want to choke. The frightened faces around her were kept lowered as busy hands worked, stitching, pressing, folding. Fraying black cloth covered the windows, lights hung like stalks from the ceilings, thick bare wires entwined with cobwebs, steel ducts and gurgling pipes. There was little air and the heavy work left no time for the daily puja. Their mattresses lay abandoned. A small other world of despair, lying alongside the one they were in now.
Neela fed the sleeves through. The needle punched up and down. The machine vibrated through her limbs. At her feet, hidden beneath the table, was Shaila. She was holding a woollen doll that one of the girls had brought back from doing the things Neela didn’t want to think about. Shaila understood that she had to keep qu
iet, stay out of sight. She never moved from Neela’s side, slept always in her bed now.
Neela moved her leg, using it like an arm to embrace her niece. She looked down at the little dark head and felt so much love and sadness she couldn’t bear it. She wanted to grasp her, but instead she looked quickly away. Someone was coming.
The big iron door that led out to the stairwell creaked open, then clanged shut again. Neela kept her eyes down, didn’t even look up as Rupa came to sit at the machine facing hers. No-one spoke. They just kept on working. Eventually Neela stole a glance at Rupa. Rupa’s eyes were empty. They had done evil things to her, so her spirit had fled. Neela lived in terror of losing her spirit too.
Later, when the work was finished and they had returned to their beds, Ekta, who was old and kind, held Rupa’s spindly body in her arms and rocked her as she sang. Neela held Shaila and listened to the words. Shaila had hardly spoken since her mother had gone. Neela had told her it was best not to talk. That way, she prayed, they would forget she was here.
When it was dark Mota Ben returned with two others, bringing pails of food. They left it inside the door and went away again. It was animal flesh. Mota Ben was cruel in her kindness of feeding them, because she knew they were forbidden to eat meat. But they were so hungry they forced the food down, dipping in with their hands and pushing it into their mouths. If it made them sick, and they couldn’t work, Mota Ben would beat them.
Charu was the only one who liked to work, not with the machines, but with the men, so they had taken her away. Now they said she lived in a place where she could drink and eat all she wanted, and sleep on a bed that was soft. They said she danced for the men and made enough money to send home. They said Daya was with her, because Daya was a good girl who understood what the men wanted. Neela knew that wasn’t true. Daya would never have left her and Shaila.
Shaila was the only child here now. When they’d first come there had been thirteen women and three children. Now Daya and Charu had gone, the other children had been taken away two days ago. They still hadn’t come back. Neela listened as the mothers wept and begged, but Mota Ben wouldn’t say where they were. Neela heard some of the women talking, saying things she didn’t want to hear. She kept her hands over Shaila’s ears and hummed louder and louder so that Shaila wouldn’t hear either.
As they lay down to sleep Neela knew the wicked Bhanu was watching them, but she didn’t look back. Earlier Bhanu had tried to push them from the food so she could have their share, but Ekta had told her to leave them alone. Bhanu didn’t always listen to Ekta, but tonight she had.
The next day Mota Ben came to the workshop, lifted Neela’s face and sneered in disgust. Neela’s head dropped down. The mark was her curse and her salvation. A moment later terror stilled her heart. Mota Ben was stooping to look under the table. Shaila shrank back against Neela’s legs. Mota Ben grabbed the girl and yanked her out. Neela wrapped her arms round Shaila’s little body. Mota Ben slapped Neela’s face. Neela held on tight. Mota Ben slapped Shaila, slapped them both. Neela clung even tighter. The other women continued to sew. Machines pounding, irons hissing. No-one would rescue them. No-one could. Bhanu watched. Ekta prayed. Shaila’s terror sank into Neela’s skin.
An hour later dry sobs still whimpered from Neela’s throat. Her head was bent over the machine, her fingers continued to shake. Shaila was at her feet, her small body limp in exhaustion. Mota Ben had gone. Rupa’s place was empty. Today the gods had been kind to Neela and Shaila. Tonight Neela would give Bhanu their food.
Laurie was sitting at one of the garden tables outside Jamie’s Wine Bar with Sherry, Rachel and Andraya, looking as agitated as she felt. Just thank God for the bright sun, so she could hide her red, swollen eyes behind dark glasses, because nothing she’d tried before coming out could disguise their devastation. In fact she almost hadn’t come, but the need to slam out of the flat and leave Elliot wondering where the hell she might be now had been too overwhelming.
‘So what time did he come back this morning?’ Rachel was asking, as a waiter adjusted their parasol.
‘About ten. And to be frank, I almost wish he hadn’t. We had a terrible scene, I even hit him …’
‘But where on earth did he go?’ Rachel said.
‘You try asking him,’ Laurie snapped. ‘Maybe he’ll tell you, because he sure as hell won’t tell me.’
‘So what did he say?’ Sherry prompted.
‘Nothing! He won’t say where he went. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’m back now, so let’s just forget it.”’ Repeating those words made her want to scream, which she would have done were they not in a public place.
Andraya’s feline eyes were watching her closely. ‘Is there another woman?’ she asked, picking up her wine glass.
Laurie flashed a look in her direction. Under any other circumstances she’d never have blurted out her troubles in front of a stranger, especially one whose shining beauty and indecently exposed cleavage was drawing so much attention, but she was still so wound up about Elliot failing to come home all night that she just hadn’t been able to hold back.
‘Of course there isn’t,’ Rachel answered for her. ‘It’s got nothing to do with that.’
‘Then what is it to do with?’ Laurie cried. ‘You say he wasn’t with Chris. No-one at his office knew where he was …’
‘Can they be trusted to tell you? If they knew?’ Andraya asked.
Though it was a perfectly reasonable question, Laurie wished she’d shut up and mind her own business. This had nothing to do with her, so why didn’t she just flash her tits a bit more to satisfy the rubbernecks who were trying to get a better look, and let Laurie talk to Sherry and Rachel? ‘I think they were telling the truth,’ she answered, forcing herself to sound calm. ‘They really didn’t seem to know where he was.’
‘I don’t understand, how can he just not say where he went?’ Sherry persisted.
‘Well he’s managed it. He didn’t want to discuss it, and nothing I said was going to make him.’
Andraya’s throaty voice exuded pity as she said, ‘Then I think there can be no other explanation. There is another woman, so you must follow him, and if you find he is cheating …’ Her smile turned malicious as she used her elegant hands to mime a castration.
Laurie glared at her in anger and despair. This woman knew nothing about Elliot, so she had no right even to offer an opinion, especially one that was so ludicrously soap opera and uninformed. There was nothing straightforward about Elliot, he didn’t conform to generalities or typical male behaviour, which was largely why she loved him so much – and detested him too when she ran up against it like this.
‘There’s no-one else,’ Rachel repeated firmly, obviously sensing the need to get Andraya off the subject.
Sherry said, ‘Where is he now?’
‘At home. Or he was when I left.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Andraya said, shaking her head. ‘A man with a secret is a man not to be trusted. So I say either you follow him, or you let it go and forget it happened.’
Thankful for the waiter’s interruption as he came to take their orders Laurie reined in her temper again, mumbled something about a salad, then gazed off past the other tables towards the river. No matter how irritated she might be by Andraya’s advice, she knew, at least to some degree, that the woman had a point, because she certainly couldn’t go on tearing herself apart like this. However, the very idea of having Elliot followed was absolute anathema. Surely to God their relationship had to be based on trust, or it just wasn’t worth having. But the alternative, of letting go and carrying on as though nothing had happened, was hardly acceptable either.
Feeling herself getting worked up again, she took a large gulp of wine. She hated the direction her thoughts took then, but there was no holding them back. She was due to meet Stan Bright, the private detective, later. Was there some kind of synchronicity going on here, that Andraya’s suggestion should come at a time when events were already lined up
to make it happen? But no, she could never ask Stan to spy on Elliot. They knew each other too well. It would be wrong, and totally unfair of her to ask Stan to divide his loyalties like that.
When the waiter had gone she turned back to Andraya, feeling she had to say something. ‘We’re getting married in less than two months,’ she reminded her. ‘It’s a hell of a time to start having issues with trust.’
‘Which is why you must get them resolved,’ Andraya told her gently. ‘And maybe you should give him a taste of his own medicine; stay out for the night too, let him wonder where you are.’
Sherry’s eyebrows went up. So did Rachel’s.
‘No! It’s just games, and I’m not getting into it,’ Laurie responded.
Sherry and Rachel nodded agreement.
‘Now let’s change the subject,’ Laurie said. ‘We don’t want our whole lunch taken up with this.’
‘But, Laurie, my dear friend,’ Andraya said, refusing to be put off, ‘love is a game, so if you want to win, you must learn the rules.’
Feeling it was time to step in Sherry said, ‘I’m going to presume, Andraya, that you’re someone who’s an expert on these rules, and I’ve got no pride here, I readily admit I’m a disaster at the game. So please, start teaching.’
Rachel laughed. ‘You’re the one who’s paid to give such advice,’ she reminded her.
Sherry was incredulous. ‘Look at this woman, then look at me,’ she demanded. ‘Whose advice would you want?’
Andraya’s laughter rang with false modesty as she said, ‘Believe me, it takes a long time and many mistakes to learn what is needed, but you can begin by understanding the power of surprise.’