by Matt Johnson
Relia had been initiated only two years previously. She was already in her eighth premises and with her fifth different owner. By the time she was freed she weighed just six stone. Records found at the scene suggested attempts had been made to sell her on, but without success. There was a hand-written note against her name on a list that had been found in the owner’s filing cabinet. It read ‘for disposal’.
That note turned out to be the leverage the Vice Squad had needed to get Relia talking. It was clear to her that her popularity with the punters was low. She had already seen other ‘unpopular’ girls leave, the owners saying that they had been sold on or had bought their freedom home. Relia suspected otherwise.
Nina knew the truth. Sometimes girls escaped. Sometimes they really did make it home. But many others simply vanished. To Nina, the inference was clear. The girls were surplus to requirement – worn out. ‘Disposal’ meant one thing. They were murdered. And Relia had been scheduled to join them.
Irena Senovac had told Nina that many UN investigators had seen evidence in Eastern Europe of girls being killed, their bodies disposed of with little care or respect. With ineffective investigation and little prospect of being caught, the traffickers acted with impunity and thought nothing of leaving a corpse at the side of the road.
Here in the UK, it was different. Every single murder the police discovered was thoroughly investigated. Murder squads were wellmanned and the very best resources employed. It was no accident that the UK rate for clear-ups in such cases was the highest in the world. If a body was found dumped in London, the Met would not rest until the perpetrator was caught.
But this had Nina perplexed. As she explained to us, there were no reported murders of slave prostitutes, no unidentified bodies found, no sign of girls being smuggled back to the Continent. To all intents and purposes, they simply disappeared.
It was a different type of prostitution from the kind I had been familiar with as a young PC. In the recent past, being ‘on the game’ had been a euphemism many prostitutes liked to use and we cops had been happy to do likewise.
Even in those simpler days there had still been dangers, of course. Lying in wait for girls coming to London’s bright lights to ply the ‘game’ were the gangsters, the pimps and the drug dealers. As Nina explained, when word spread that the streets of London were not paved with gold, the supply of girls had started to dry up. So the gangsters had adapted their methods. If the girls didn’t come willingly they could be forced. The old ‘game’, in which punters paid individual girls for services, was now a deadly game, one in which life was cheap; the girls expendable.
It was a game our small team was about to join.
Chapter 27
After the presentation, while handing us some further victim statements to read, Nina looked me straight in the eye. ‘Standard blade or something special, Finlay?’
The question took me aback. I hadn’t heard ‘standard blade’ used outside the army. Nina was asking whether I was an ordinary Special Forces soldier or had moved on to further things. I decided to play dumb, not quite sure how much my two new friends knew.
‘My uncle was a Brigadier. Signals most of his life,’ she continued, ‘but he did a three-year tour on “A” squadron. My elder brother is Guards Regiment and thinking of doing SAS selection next year. You might say there is a connection.’
‘Superintendent Youldon seems to be the only one who doesn’t know,’ I laughed.
‘Oh, he knows, he just doesn’t care. He only cares how much detective experience you have, which is none so far as I can see.’
Matt stood, walked over to the office door and closed it before adding, ‘We aren’t the slightest bit bothered by Youldon’s concerns, Finlay. Blokes like you have our respect. You can learn from us … well from Nina anyway. In return, I’m sure there are a few tricks we can pick up from you.’
‘My uncle heard a rumour that Al Q’aeda tried to kill the guys on the Iranian embassy raid and that you stopped them in their tracks,’ said Nina. ‘Our guess is you are here to maintain a low profile for a while, correct?’
I nodded. ‘That’s close enough. There are no secrets in this job eh? Does it bother either of you – having me around, I mean?’
Matt replied. ‘We all have secrets Finlay. How much you want to tell us about your time in the SAS is up to you.’
Nina extended her hand, warmly. ‘So long as you pull your weight, guv. I just hope that you can keep up with us youngsters.’
I returned to the paperwork Nina had given us and was quickly absorbed by the first victim statement I read. It was the story of Relia Stanga, the witness who was now providing first-hand information on the traffickers. Her words made for very uncomfortable reading.
Matt and I finished reading our files at the same time. We both took a deep breath. I could see that Nina was watching us as if she were waiting to see our reactions.
Our silence said everything.
It was time to go to work.
Chapter 28
Toni Fellowes reached Embankment with five minutes to spare. There was no sign of Howard Green. Anticipating a wait, she sat down on a wooden bench and started reading her newspaper.
The minutes rolled by. It looked like he was going to be late. Every so often she would look up from the pages to scan her surroundings. There was no sign of him. She wondered if he was intending to stand her up. It was now ten-thirty and he had said ten o’clock.
It had been a difficult week. Nell’s reaction to sending Robert Finlay to Egypt had been positively tranquil compared to how she responded to Toni’s plan that both he and Jenny go to the Romanian wedding. Add to that the complete lack of progress on the Monaghan enquiry, and even a meeting with a lecherous MI6 officer seemed attractive. So, when Howard had emailed asking to see her, she had jumped at the chance.
The decision to let the Finlays visit Romania had been a tough one. Despite knowing Collins was going to be there, she was still uncertain about how productive the trip would be. So she had run her idea past Dave Batey, her line manager. They both agreed that it was far too late to persuade Finlay to knowingly work for them, sending a trained agent to act as his spouse; and anyway, the risk that the Cristeas may have seen the photograph of his wife he kept in his wallet scotched that idea. So, as things stood, they had to balance the potential gain of intelligence versus the risk to Finlay and his wife.
In normal circumstances, Batey had explained, the risk would be too great. But these were abnormal times. MI6, the CIA and any number of other Security Services had been publicly caught napping on the day of the 9/11 attacks. Anything could now be justified in the desire to save face, salvage reputations and secure intelligence. The Finlays would be going to Romania.
For the first time in her career, Toni felt guilty about her decision to exploit an opportunity. And she knew why. When she had used people in the past, it had been wholly in the interest of national security. What she was allowing the Finlays to do was more about fulfilling her personal ambitions.
She hadn’t mentioned to Batey that Howard Green had warned her off. But that was her risk, not theirs.
She also reassured herself that she had taken every step she could think of to ensure that the couple would be safe. She had fully debriefed Finlay about the Egypt trip, learning as much as she could without alerting him to her reasons for asking. The fake profile Nell had set up had been tight and, from the recorded conversations with Maggie Price, it appeared that her Romanian contact was perfectly happy as to Finlay’s authenticity. Collins wouldn’t know he was talking to a cop.
There was just one small concern: the bodyguard. Finlay had reported that he had been interested in discussing their shared military backgrounds. If he raised the subject again, her suggestion was Finlay should be economical with the truth. Admit to being a former soldier, she said, just play down what you did. Finlay understood fully.
Once home she would debrief them. Finlay was observant. Without realising it, he would
see and hear things that she could use. Jenny was the icing on the cake. She might even spot things he didn’t. They were the perfect moles.
A male voice brought her back into the real world.
‘Thought you were more of an Independent reader, Toni?’ It was Howard Green.
She folded the newspaper as Howard sat down next to her. ‘I like to keep an open mind. You’re late. Do you have anything for me?’
‘Yes, and my apologies; a conference call over-ran. So, I have some good news and something to ask of you.’
‘Let’s start with the good news, shall we?’
Howard handed her a small slip of paper. Written on it were two sets of numbers and letters. ‘Your access to Monaghan’s and Webb’s files has been approved. I’ve moved heaven and earth to get this for you, Toni. One day I expect the favour returned.’
Her manner softened, the annoyance at having been kept waiting subsiding. ‘I won’t forget … and thanks. What do you want from me?’
‘Dinner. One evening next week, perhaps? On me. A chance to talk about something other than work.’
She hesitated, for a moment uncertain if Howard was up to his old tricks. But it didn’t take long to decide; it was clearly in her best interests to keep Howard Green sweet. She said yes.
They shook hands. She was about to stand, but Howard held on to her tight. ‘You won’t let me down, will you, Toni?’ he said, his voice low, and with an intensity that surprised her.
‘I said yes. I’ll be happy to join you.’
‘I think you know what I mean. Don’t interfere … leave Collins to us.’
Toni didn’t reply as she pulled her hand away quickly and started the short walk back to New Scotland Yard.
Chapter 29
Did he know?
For the entire walk, Toni asked herself that question. Reaching no satisfactory answer she dismissed her fears. With only Nell and Dave Batey in the loop, there was no possibility. He was bluffing.
In the office, Stuart and Nell were huddled together at a PC. They both had headphones on and seemed oblivious to her presence. It was only when she touched Nell on the shoulder that her researcher jumped and her two assistants stopped what they were doing.
‘You need to listen to this,’ said Stuart.
‘Yes, yes … listen,’ Nell repeated, thrusting her headphones at Toni.
‘What is it?’
Stuart handed her a thin bundle of papers in a buff-coloured folder. ‘It’s the personal file on the literary agent, Maggie Price. The one you requested from GCHQ. The call transcripts are in there too. We’re listening to the latest one now.’
‘Is there anything new?’
‘It’s more like before. They think he’s a former soldier who now teaches people to drive cars.’
‘So, there’s definitely no suspicion at their end that Finlay might be a cop?’
‘None. They seemed quite laid back about him. The conversation only got really interesting when Mrs Price started to be a bit awkward over one of her authors who is also due at the wedding. They got a bit shirty with her.’
‘Anything juicy? That’s likely to be Chas Collins they’re talking about.’
‘That’s what’s fascinating. Apparently he’s been on the television a lot lately. The caller is really adamant Maggie brings him to Romania to see Gheorghe Cristea. But it sounds like Collins doesn’t want to go.’
‘So is he going or not?’ Toni realised her voice was sounding insistent. If, after all her efforts, the author failed to turn up, she would have been risking all for nothing.
‘It looks like he is, yes.’
‘OK … great. That’s good. Do they say why it’s so important to them to get him there?’ she asked.
‘They don’t,’ said Stuart. ‘And, just out of interest, do we make a habit of tapping the phones of people like Maggie Price?’
Toni laughed. ‘The longer you stay in this job Stuart, the less surprised you’ll be. Security services have been listening in to authors and their agents for decades.’
Chapter 30
My new Superintendent rarely left his office. I learned that my leave application had been approved via a memo that was left overnight on Matt’s desk. In three days’ time, Jenny and I would be flying out to Bucharest.
Matt, Nina and I had been collating and researching information on trafficking. So it hadn’t escaped me that the luxury trip I was hoping to enjoy was the antithesis of the journeys made by many women who travelled in the opposite direction. Romania was the source of one of Europe’s largest number of forced sex workers.
According to Nina, poverty in Eastern European countries had made people desperate. The gangs had seen the opportunity and exploited it. Girls were routinely tricked into travelling abroad on false papers for jobs that didn’t exist. Once captured, escape was virtually impossible. Many of the slaves were poorly educated and lacked any knowledge of Western life. They couldn’t use public transport, speak the language, use the telephone system or access health services. Most believed foreign police to be as corrupt as in their home towns, so they wouldn’t go to the authorities to seek help.
Finding where the slave workers were being kept was now my job; and it was going to be an uphill struggle. But what was causing us the most concern was what happened to the slaves once their working life was finished. Interviews with rescued slaves, carried out by female officers on local domestic violence units, gave us an indication of the numbers of girls being brought into the UK, but not where they ended up.
Matt had uncovered several relevant MISPERs – missing person reports – filed by women’s refuges that had taken in young girls from Europe, only to find that they went missing within a few days. Most were put down to the girls simply moving on, but, in several cases, personal effects had been left behind. Those MISPERs remained open and unsolved.
I was at my desk reading one such report when Kevin Jones telephoned. It was good to hear from my old friend.
‘You seen the papers, boss?’ Kevin asked.
‘Not yet. Something interesting?’ I asked.
‘A major Regiment book has just hit the shops. It’s featured in the Sun. You’ll never guess who the writer is.’
‘Try me.’
‘Lad calls himself Chas Collins.’
I laughed. ‘I read it last week while I was on holiday. It was quite good, all about Operation Cyclone. Toni Fellowes lent it to me and Jenny to read.’
‘Bloody hell … did you recognise him? Collins, I mean,’ Kevin asked.
‘Can’t say as I did. There were some pictures but not of anyone I knew. I half wondered if our job in Peshawar would get a mention, but it didn’t. He talked about the kit evaluation a bit and the mule trains bringing bits and pieces from downed Hind helicopters over the border into Pakistan, but he didn’t mention us or any of the other lads, not even once.’
‘So it didn’t ring any alarm bells then?’
‘No, not really. It just read like a bloke trying to make a buck out of stuff he found out.’
‘Well, that’s as maybe. But I can tell you Chas is not his real name,’ said Kevin. ‘He was on breakfast TV this morning talking live from a secret hideaway somewhere. He’s just using the name Chas Collins.’
‘Should I know him?’
‘You should. He was on the same selection as you. We used to call him “Beaky”.’
I had a vague memory of the name. At Hereford, during the early eighties, Kevin and I had worked with a man called Beaky. He had been a selection failure, but he had been a good lad and had come very close to success, so he’d been kept on to have another go. Unfortunately, he’d turned out to have a bit of a drink problem and after several run-ins with the local police he had been sentenced to three months in the Corrective Training Centre at Colchester. After that he was discharged from the army. Last I’d heard, he had moved on to join the ‘circuit’, the large group of former regular soldiers who moved around the world, doing security work.
‘Have you read it yourself?’ I asked.
‘Not yet,’ Kevin replied, ‘but it looks like the media are lapping it up.’
I laughed. ‘It doesn’t say too much, might be embarrassing for a few but most people will think that it’s fantasy.’
‘He’ll be a marked man if you ask me. He must be crazy, or desperate for money. Everybody knew we could never talk about that op.’
‘I didn’t know he was on it.’
‘Nor me; he must have been one of the contractors. Said on the TV that he’s living under an assumed name. He’ll bloody have to; if the CIA find him, he’ll have some serious questions to answer.’
I didn’t argue. Since the Iraq War, several former soldiers had tried to cash in on the public thirst for inside stories. Beaky was just another one in a long line, so far as I was concerned.
Kevin promised to get hold of a copy of the book and have a proper read of it. Before we hung up, I told him about the Red Sea rescue, the wedding invitation and the forthcoming trip to Romania. But I decided not to mention the prospect of actually meeting up with Beaky. The timing didn’t seem quite right. And Kevin’s phone call had also reminded me of a job that I needed to complete.
Using the excuse of grabbing some fresh air, I headed to St James’s Park. With people milling about everywhere, the background noise would drown out what we needed to discuss.
Fortunately, Kevin was still at home on sick leave. After a brief discussion, the arrangements were made. I had a safe place for my weapons and kit. We would meet that evening and store them at his allotment.
I enjoyed talking with my old friend. He was doing well. Aside from the bullet wound to his shoulder, the injuries had almost healed.