by Tim Ellis
‘Mmmm! A rock and a hard place.’
She heard him moving about the container.
‘About time,’ Jerry said.
‘I advise against taking Bronwyn’s tape off. I think being in a confined space has affected her mind.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Jerry. He’s a fucking pervert. He felt me up while I had my hands taped behind my back.’
‘I’m sure we have better things to worry about, Bronwyn?’
‘All right, I’ll grant him a stay of execution. But I want you to understand you’re on Death Row, pervert.’
‘Don’t those people get a final wish fulfilled?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? It was my understanding that whatever they asked for they got.’
‘Be careful what you wish for, loser.’
‘Uh!’
‘Is that you, Joe?’ Shakin’ said, moving towards the sound.
‘Uh!’
‘Thanks, Shakin’,’ Joe said. ‘Did you really feel her up?’
‘It was an accident. I was feeling for her face. As you’ve probably noticed, there’s no light in here.’
‘You get all the accidental luck, Shakin’.’
‘We have to make our own luck, Joe.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I don’t suppose anybody’s got any idea what’s happening?’ Jerry said.
There was no response.
Bronwyn told them what she’d figured out.
Joe said, ‘And we’re in a steel container?’
‘I think so.’
‘One of those like they have on building sites?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then we’re never getting out of here, are we?’
‘No – not until they let us out.’
‘Does it have doors?’ Jerry asked.
‘They usually do, but I don’t think you can open those doors from the inside. As I recall, they have bolt mechanisms on the outside and holes for locks to go through.’
Shakin’ said, ‘I’ll check.’
They could hear him shuffling round the container.
‘No, I can’t find a handle or anything. What I did find was another bag.’
‘Don’t open it,’ Joe said. ‘It’ll be the dead body of that woman we found with the maggot-infested face.’
‘Yeah.’
They heard Shakin’ grunting and the body bag being slid across the floor.
Out of breath, Shakin’ said, ‘I’ve moved it to the other end of the container. I also found a pack of water bottles.’
Joe said, ‘Are you sure there’s water in the bottles and not . . . something else?’
‘Something else!’ Bronwyn said. ‘Such as?’
‘A deadly toxin.’
‘You have an over-active imagination.’
‘Yeah – my mum used to say the same thing.’
They heard Shakin’ remove a top from one of the bottles and swallow a mouthful of liquid. ‘Yep – water all right. They’ll want to keep us alive until we get where we’re going.’
‘Which is where?’ Joe said.
‘I don’t exactly know, but I’m guessing it’ll involve quite a bit of pain and screaming.’
‘Oh God!’
Jerry sighed. ‘Well, I guess we’re stuck in here.’
‘We can’t just give up?’ Joe said.
‘Do you have an ingenious escape plan, weirdo? Bronwyn said.
‘Are you still wearing that hospital gown?’
‘Do you want to join your idiot friend on Death Row?’
‘Will I get my final wish fulfilled?’
‘Oh yes – you’ll get your final wish all right.’
***
‘The closest I can get you to your destination is Hyde Park, Sir,’ the helicopter pilot said. He produced a folded map in a clear plastic case. ‘Here . . .’ he pointed to the corner of Lower Wimpole Street and Henrietta Plaza, ‘. . . this is where you need to go. It’s a fairly straight route from Speakers’ Corner, round Cumberland Gate to Marble Arch tube station, hoof it down Oxford Street, and up to the clinic at John Lewis. It’ll take you about ten minutes to get there.’
‘Don’t they have landing pads on top of buildings?’
‘Not round there, Sir. They’re all old buildings, and they weren’t built with helipads on them. There are strict rules. I’ll have to get special clearance to land in Hyde Park. Civilian casualties are a definite no-no.’
Kowalski nodded. ‘It’ll have to do then. You’ll wait for me in Hyde Park?’
‘Of course, Sir.’
The MD Explorer 902 helicopter rose up from the field next to the industrial unit and headed south-west towards London.
‘We’ll come with you to the clinic, Sir,’ Inspector Steve West said.
‘Can you imagine how that might look, West? Half a dozen men in black coveralls, helmets with visors, bullet-proof vests and carrying Heckler & Koch rifles running down Oxford Street mingling with the tourists and shoppers would not do the police service any favours.’
‘Mmmm! Maybe just me and a sniper?’
‘I don’t think so. We need to keep this low-profile. If I need you – I’ll call you.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
He stared out of the window at the panoramic view beneath. The pilot estimated a forty minute flight. The sky was a bright blue. One could have been mistaken for thinking it was a summer’s day, but it wasn’t – not by any stretch of the imagination. The temperature on the ground was barely above freezing. Up here, it was probably five degrees below. What was he going to do about Jerry? She was like an automaton with a corrupt program that nobody knew how to turn off. Was she at the clinic? He doubted it. He tried her number again – voicemail. He didn’t bother leaving a message. Was she right? Was there something going on at the Beautiful You Cosmetic Surgery Clinic? Well, if there was, Toady would find out what it was. Although it felt like a month since he’d phoned Toady, when he checked his watch it had only been twenty minutes. Another ten minutes to wait. He closed his eyes and began sliding down the sinkhole of a deep sleep when his phone vibrated, but trying to stop himself from plummeting into the darkness was easier said than done. A Herculean effort was required to claw his way back into the real world . . . ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Dr . . .’
‘Yes, Toady?’
‘The first thing we did was try to locate your wife’s phone, Sir.’
‘And?’
‘The last call she made was from a McDonalds on Lower Wimpole Street . . .’
‘That was to me.’
‘She didn’t make any other calls, and her phone is switched off now.’
‘So you can’t locate her phone?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. What about the clinic?’
‘On the face of it the clinic seems legitimate. They have a team of doctors and nurses, glowing testimonials, and they tick all the right boxes. The person in charge is called Doctor Mark Thompson, but when we looked at their company accounts we discovered that the five main shareholders are from Kosovo or Albania: Ibrahim Drago is the main shareholder with eighty percent. Hashim Rugova, Shote Vokshi, Bajram Prizreni and Almir Berisha all have five percent . . .’
‘What about Thompson?’
‘It appears that he’s simply an employee.’
‘A front man to make it look like a legitimate business?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘What do we know about the Kosovons?’
‘We could only find information on Ibrahim Drago. He qualified as a doctor in 1990. In 1997, Serbian paramilitaries raped and murdered his wife and daughter. He then joined the Kosovo Liberation Army . . .’
‘As a doctor?’
‘No. During the Kosovo War – between February ‘98 and June ‘99 – he held the rank of Commander, and the Serbians put a reward on his head of twenty million dinar.’
‘What’s that in real money?’
‘About a hundred and twenty thousand p
ounds.’
‘Which would have been quite a lot sixteen years ago.’
‘Especially in Kosovo.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No. Drago disappeared after the war, but there are rumours.’
‘Go on?’
‘It’s known as the “yellow house” case, because according to a United Nations report witnesses describe how prisoners – both combatants and civilians after the conflict had ended – were taken to a small yellow farmhouse in the village of Rripë near Burrel in Albania. There, they were shot in the head and their organs were removed and the bodies were buried in a local cemetery under false Albanian names . . .’
‘You’re not suggesting Drago . . . ?’
‘The rumour goes that several KLA Commanders were implicated in the illegal organ harvesting. The witnesses mentioned a doctor called Kosovar who removed the organs of ethnic Serbs – they didn’t know his real name.’
‘Do you think Kosovar was actually Drago?’
‘I don’t think anything, Sir. What I do know is that all the pieces seem to fit together.’
‘And now he has an eighty percent share in a cosmetic surgery clinic in London?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Thanks, Toady.’
‘There’s one other thing.’
‘Oh?’
‘The clinic generates a lot more income than it should be doing based on the number of operations it undertakes.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘The general consensus here is that they’re laundering money.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Organs.’
‘Jesus! You’re not suggesting that Drago brought his organ trafficking business to the UK, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what about Mark Thompson?’
‘We checked him out as well. He has one police caution for possessing a couple of grams of cocaine. Other than that, he’s had an unremarkable life.’
‘Bronwyn must have stumbled onto something.’
‘Bronwyn?’
‘Never mind.’
‘How is Jerry involved, Sir?’
‘There was a friend in the clinic called Bronwyn who disappeared, Jerry broke into the clinic to find out what was going on and . . .’
‘. . . Now Jerry’s disappeared?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now you think they’re holding Bronwyn and your wife against their will in the clinic?’
‘No, that’s not what I think, Toady.’
‘Oh!’
‘I think they’ll have scrubbed the place clean. Even if I had a Search Warrant – which I don’t – I can’t imagine that I’d find any evidence. I need something else, Toady.’
‘Such as?’
‘You’re the genius – you tell me.’
‘You’re right – I am . . . So, you think that Bronwyn and Jerry are no longer in the clinic?’
‘You should also know that there were two other people who accompanied Jerry into the clinic.’
‘Oh?’
‘Don’t ask – they’re students off the degree course Jerry is doing.’
‘I see. Well, if they’re no longer in the clinic, then they must have been moved somewhere else.’
‘Go on?’
‘I’m thinking that maybe there’s some CCTV cameras . . .’
‘Brilliant, Toady. If the evidence was moved to somewhere else . . .’
‘. . . We should be able to track it.’
‘Listen, I’m just about to land in Hyde Park . . .’
‘Land! In Hyde Park?’
‘I’m going to rattle some chains. Keep me informed, Toady.’
‘Will do, Sir.’
He ended the call as the chopper landed surrounded by a ring of curious onlookers.
‘Are you sure you don’t want company, Sir?’ Inspector Steve West said.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He jumped out of the side door and headed towards Speakers’ Corner.
Chapter Fifteen
They were in Incident Room One. Parish and Richards were nowhere to be found. Good riddance – that was her thoughts on the pair of arse-lickers. She looked at Constable Jodi Grammatke – a good old English surname if there ever was one – and could understand why Stick had a thing for her – probably in her late twenties with short bottle-blonde hair, big breasts and a slim figure. Well, her waist was slim – probably a Size 12, but her arse must have been a Size 16 give or take a pound or two.
Earlier – when they’d arrived outside her apartment after returning from the industrial unit – she’d said to Stick, ‘While I’m soaking in the bath and getting a change of clothes I want you to phone the Constable in Missing Persons who you’ve become overly familiar with . . .’
‘Constable Jodi Grammatke, you mean?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Overly familiar! I know her name.’
‘Does Jen know that you know her name?’
‘Jen knows I know lots of people by name.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘So, you want me to phone Constable Grammatke, provide her with the profile of our four victims and see if she can match that profile with female teenagers who have been reported missing?’
‘Yes. And tell her that I expect the results ready for us when we arrive at the station.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. It’s all done by computers now, you know. Massachusetts Institute of Technology have developed a face-finding search engine . . .’
‘Do you want to sit on the edge of my bath while I’m soaking in warm goat’s milk, slices of lemon and lime, and dollops of avocado to explain how this face-finding search engine works?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Are you suggesting that I’m not worth looking at without any clothes on? That I’m not attractive in the buff anymore? That . . .’
‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘Oh! What am I doing, Stickamundo?’
‘You know exactly what you’re doing. Well, I’m not going to be drawn into your perverse games.’
‘Haven’t you got phone calls to make?’
‘And haven’t you got goat’s milk to pour, lemons and limes to chop and slice, and avocado to dollop?’
Afterwards, when she’d finally finished soaking in the bath and dressed in clean clothes, she returned to the car. Stick was dozing in the driver’s seat with his mouth open and dribble running over his chin. She couldn’t blame him – she’d dozed herself in the hot bath, and if she was being honest she was still bloody knackered. She could count the amount of minutes’ sleep she’d had in that storeroom on one finger and subtract five fingers.
She’d opened the passenger door and the stink of fish, chips, salt and vinegar had hit her full in the face and made her taste buds flow like fountains.
‘You’ve been eating fish and chips.’
‘I don’t know how you can say that.’
‘I can say it because it’s true.’
‘Show me the evidence.’
‘Let me count the ways, Stickynuts. First of all, it stinks of fish and chips in here. Second of all, you have bits of fish round your mouth . . .’
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I do not.’
‘Why did you wipe your mouth then? Third and last of all, the fish and chip papers are in the boot.’
‘How could . . . ? No, they’re not.’
‘Of course they are. They’re not in here, you’re not the type of person to litter the street, there’s no waste bin nearby to deter the terrorists, so the obvious conclusion is that you’ve hidden them in the boot for disposing of later. That’s why I’m a DI and you’re a snivelling DS.’
‘You could have invited me in.’
‘I did.’
‘Sitting on the edge of your bath was not what I had in mind.’
‘I know exactly what you had in mind, pervert. Well, now you can drive round to the fish and chip shop. And it had bet
ter still be open for your sake.’
‘Didn’t you eat while you were upstairs in your apartment?’
‘With you out here starving? What do you take me for?’
‘You had a bath and changed your clothes.’
‘I did think about letting you use my dirty water and lending you some of my old clothes, but decided against it.’
‘Very considerate.’
‘Don’t mention it – drive.’
Thankfully, the local chip shop was still open. She ate the fish and chips on the way to the station.
‘It stinks in here,’ Stick said.
‘And whose fault is that?’
‘Mine?’
‘Too true.’
Once he’d parked the car and they’d climbed out she went to the back, opened the boot and grinned. ‘Was I right, or was I right?’ She threw her chip papers in there as well.
‘Hey!’
‘Hey, Ma’am!’
‘That’s what I meant.’
‘You don’t expect a DI to dispose of her own rubbish when she has a DS to do it for her, do you?’
‘Sorry – my mistake.’
‘Damn right it was.’
Now, Constable Grammatke spread out six files on the table in front of them.
‘We have four bodies – why are there six files here, Constable?’
Using double-sided sticky tape, she stuck photographs of the six reported runaways along the top of the incident board. ‘Take a look for yourself, Ma’am.’
Xena examined the pictures. It was as if she was staring at sextuplets – the females were so alike. Yes, there were slight differences, but mostly they were mirror-images of each other. All four had shoulder-length brown hair, but in different styles. They were attractive with plucked eyebrows, slim unobtrusive noses, high cheekbones and small mouths. She glanced at Grammatke. ‘I expect you have some explanation for this, Constable?’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘No! What’s that meant to mean?’
‘DS Gilbert described the profile that you were searching for, I fed that profile into the computer, and these six girls are the result.’
‘Girls! How old are they?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ The Constable began writing details underneath each photograph: