by James Craig
She looked around, making sure no one was in earshot. ‘You’re supposed to fall asleep after our business, not before.’
‘Did you just kick me?’ After rubbing his leg, Carlyle struggled to his feet, catching a glimpse of Miles sniggering from behind his desk.
‘Come on,’ Olga said, taking him by the arm and marching him to the lifts. ‘I assume you’ve got a room.’
‘Of course.’
‘Perfect.’ She stood on tip toe and kissed him full on the lips, before pressing the call button.
Blushing violently, Carlyle took a step backwards. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘We have to look the part,’ Olga giggled. She arched an eyebrow back in the direction of Alex Miles. ‘Hotel security is checking out more than just my arse.’
‘Mmm . . .’
‘Did I tell you that kissing costs extra?’ she said brightly.
‘Extra?’
‘Yes. Another two hundred pounds. And no tongues.’
‘Christ!’ Carlyle wished the lift would hurry the fuck up. Not daring to make eye-contact with the concierge, Carlyle kept his gaze firmly on his companion. She was wearing jeans and black cowboy boots, with a grey silk blouse and a tailored navy jacket. There was an expensive-looking watch on her wrist and a thin gold chain around her neck. Discreetly, he sniffed her perfume. He had no idea what it was, but it was nice and doubtless costly. All in all, she fitted in with her surroundings perfectly.
They rode in silence to the top floor. Exiting the lift, Carlyle stepped across the lush carpet and inserted the key card into the door. To his relief, there was a click and he was able to push it open. Stepping inside the suite, he switched on the lights and glanced around. Decked out in the same minimalist style as the rest of the hotel, the room seemed bigger than his entire flat.
Coming in behind him, Olga let out a small shriek of delight. Dropping her bag on the bed, she trotted off to inspect one of the side rooms.
Perching on the end of the bed, Carlyle waited patiently while she completed her tour.
Five minutes later, she returned carrying a handful of toiletries and a selection of spirits from the mini-bar. Dropping them into her bag, she flopped down beside him.
‘Like it?’ he asked.
‘It’s really cool!’ she laughed, angling a toe of one boot in his general direction.
‘You can have it for the afternoon. They won’t kick us out for a while.’
She propped herself up on one arm. ‘Why? You wanna fuck?’
Again he felt himself blush. ‘No, no. I was just saying.’
‘Whatever.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘We’ve got about forty minutes. If I stay longer, Ihor will wonder what is going on. He will want to see more cash.’ She traced a line on the back of his jacket with her finger. ‘So I can’t stay for longer than the hour – unless you decide to pay me more.’
‘So . . . how do you know Ihor?’
She smiled. ‘I met him in church.’
‘Church?’
‘Yes, the Ukrainian Catholic Cathedral in Mayfair. I was at the christening of the daughter of a mutual friend. Ihor was there with his family. He is a big family man. For him, it is everything.’
Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘And you joined the family?’ he asked, prepared to go along with this lie.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ she pouted. ‘It’s quite an extended family, but it works well for me.’
‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle shifted uncomfortably on the bed. ‘I’m not making any judgements.’
‘I don’t care one way or the other about what you think. It is my relationship.’
‘A working relationship?’
‘A professional relationship.’
‘And he takes what? Half of your income?’
‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
‘What’s the other?’
‘Haven’t you heard of SuperFreakonomics?’
Carlyle frowned. ‘Super what?’
‘Super-Freak-onomics.’ She bounced on the bed like an excited child being given a chance to show just how clever she was. ‘It’s a book by an American professor. You should read it.’
‘Mm. I’ll add it to the list.’
‘What list?’
‘The list of books I should read.’
‘It’s good. A client gave me a copy.’
A book? What kind of punter gives a working girl a book? And what kind of girl reads it? He felt he was being given some kind of red flag, but wasn’t sure what it signified.
‘One of the chapters is about how prostitutes do better with pimps.’
Just what I need, Carlyle thought, a pseudo-intellectual hooker dosed up on American pop sociology. ‘Uhuh . . .’
Olga closed her eyes, as she dug the key points out of her memory. ‘This guy says that a pimp is just like an estate agent.’
On the other hand, maybe the guy did have a point. ‘Now that you mention it,’ Carlyle grinned.
Ignoring him, she ploughed on, ‘Because they both market your product to potential customers.’
‘Why don’t you use the internet like everyone else?’
‘I’m an old-fashioned girl,’ she said primly. ‘I won’t be doing this forever and I don’t want to leave an electronic trail. I work strictly by referral. Strictly cash. When I’m gone, I’m gone. No one will be able to find me.’
Good luck, love, Carlyle thought.
‘Strictly cash,’ she repeated, holding out her hand.
‘Ah, yes. The money.’ He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a slender wad of twenty-pound notes.
Reaching over, she took the money and counted it carefully before zipping it into a side-pocket of her bag. ‘No tip?’
‘I’m not going to explode.’ Carlyle sniffed.
‘You don’t know that yet.’ She slid off the bed and stepped in front of him, holding out her hand. ‘Give me another fifty.’
‘Come on,’ Carlyle groaned.
Olga stood her ground. ‘Come on? You come on! This is my time we’re talking about.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Carlyle sighed wearily and stuck his hand back in his pocket. ‘I suppose a receipt is out of the question?’ he asked, handing over his remaining money.
‘You suppose right,’ Olga smiled. ‘Thank you.’ Sticking the money in her pocket, she sat down next to him on the bed. ‘Okay. Now we’ve got that out of the way, what do you want to know?’
‘What can you tell me about the girl?’
She edged along the bed slightly and turned to look at him. Her eyes seemed to have lost their sparkle, the smile on her face now looking forced and tired. ‘There are many girls. I am one myself. Sometimes it’s not nice, but it’s better than the alternative . . .’
‘Yes,’ he nodded, hoping that she would hurry up and get to the point.
‘But the children, this is something else.’
‘Is Ihor responsible for bringing them over?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘So all that stuff about helping kids in orphanages is fake?’ Carlyle asked. ‘Is it just a front for people-trafficking?’
‘No – he does pay for things. But there is also business to be done.’ She made a face, like it was obvious and logical. ‘He sees the two things as separate.’
‘Who does he work with?’
She thought about it for a moment, and Carlyle wondered if she was trying to remember a script. It crossed his mind that this could all be a set-up. Maybe she was actually lying to him, but he would have to run that risk. It wasn’t like he had a lot of other leads to follow.
‘Ihor has business associates here in England,’ she said finally.
‘And who are they?’
‘I don’t know.’
Carlyle wondered about the posh man he saw in Green Park. ‘English?’
‘I guess so. Ihor knows lots of people. All different kinds. He likes to talk about how he doesn’t just mix with scumbags and losers. He knows ni
ce people, too. Some of them might be English.’
‘What about the not so nice people? What about the people who go after children?’
She made a face. ‘The young ones are only for very special clients. Very important men, Ihor says. That’s the thing for these guys. It’s not just about the sex. They can fuck any woman they want, so it has to be more edgy. They want under-age, they want exotic locations . . . whatever can give them a bigger, better buzz.’ She held his gaze for one, two seconds. ‘That’s what it’s about – the buzz.’
Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘Which ‘‘exotic’’ locations?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Give me some examples.’
She threw her hands in the air. ‘The London Eye is quite popular. They book a whole pod and have a bit of a party.’
‘Where else?’
‘I heard Ihor boasting one time that a guy had paid ten thousand pounds to do it in the House of Commons. He even brought his own rent boy!’
‘Sounds like your average MP,’ Carlyle murmured. ‘What about Buckingham Palace? Did anyone ever do it there?’
Olga thought about it for a moment. ‘Maybe. Why not?’
‘But have you heard of it?’
‘No, but it’s a good idea.’ She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Maybe I will suggest it to Ihor.’
Carlyle wondered what he was actually getting for his money here. ‘Okay, what about my girl?’
She looked at him blankly.
‘The girl I found in the park – Elizabeth, or Alzbetha or something.’
‘There were a couple of young girls recently. I saw them at a house of Ihor’s, near the café.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a scrap of paper, handing it to him. ‘That’s the address.’
‘Are they there now?’
She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. It was several weeks ago.’
Before the Green Park incident, Carlyle thought. ‘After I found Alzbetha, someone went to the care home she was in and kidnapped her.’
Again, Olga shook her head. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I have to go now.’
‘That was a very quick forty minutes.’
‘Darling,’ Olga pointed out, ‘usually when I go to work, it is five minutes total maximum.’ Her grin grew bigger than her face. ‘The clients! They simply cannot control themselves!’
Feeling not very much in control himself, Carlyle looked at the scrap of crumpled paper in his hand. ‘That’s not much for my money.’
‘That is easy for you to say.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘For me it is a lot. I take a big risk talking to you.’ Standing up, she grabbed the bag and slung it over her shoulder.
‘Fair point.’ Carlyle got to his feet. ‘Don’t worry, no one else will know about this conversation. We’ll check out this address. But see what else you can find out in the meantime.’
‘Sure.’ Olga turned to him as she reached the door. ‘I will do what I can.’
As the door closed behind her, Carlyle flopped back on the bed, wondering what else he could do in his expensive hotel room.
The phone was ringing.
The phone . . .
. . . was ringing.
Slowly, Carlyle came to his senses.
Sitting up on the bed, it took him a moment to realise where he was. He yawned. Then he noticed the time on the clock: 4.23.
A.m. or p.m.?
‘Fuck!’ He scrambled across the extra-king-size duvet and grabbed the handset. ‘Hello?’
Alex Miles sounded more than a little peeved. ‘What the hell are you still doing up there? Your girl left hours ago.’
‘I . . .’ Carlyle let out another yawn. ‘I must have dozed off.’
‘I told you not to mess up the sheets,’ Miles grumbled.
‘Don’t worry,’ Carlyle snapped back. ‘I fell asleep on top of the bed. What time is it?’
‘It’s past four in the afternoon. Time for you to check out.’
‘Okay, okay. Thanks for the alarm call. I’ll be down in a minute.’
After washing his face and helping himself to a Toblerone from the mini-bar, Carlyle sheepishly made his way down to the lobby. Alex Miles was still behind his desk, his Country Life having been replaced by a copy of the evening paper. This time he didn’t get to his feet. ‘Well, well,’ he said, looking over the top of it. ‘Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty.’
Carlyle placed the key card on the desk. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘If you’ve been using the porno channels,’ Miles smirked, ‘I’m gonna have to bill you.’
‘Genuinely, I fell asleep. What did you think of the girl?’
‘Nice.’ The grin on Miles’s face crumpled into a leer. ‘Can you let me have her number?’
‘Seen her before?’
Miles carefully folded the newspaper and dropped it onto the floor beside his chair. ‘I don’t think so. What’s the story?’
Carlyle thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘There isn’t one yet. Have you got her on CCTV?’
‘Of course.’ Miles pulled open a drawer and took out a couple of sharp A5 images that had been run off on a computer printer. He handed one to Carlyle and kept the other for himself. Carlyle recognised the back of his own head. The shot had been taken while they were waiting for the lift to take them up to the penthouse. The image didn’t do Olga full justice but it was a fair likeness.
‘One for you,’ Miles said, ‘and one for me. I will ask around.’
Carlyle folded the sheet of paper and placed it in his pocket. ‘Thank you.’
‘And now, I’ll go and check the CCTV up in the penthouse suite.’
‘What?’ Despite his complete and utter innocence, Carlyle felt himself blush.
‘Don’t worry,’ Miles laughed, ‘only joking. People don’t pay two grand so we can spy on them – more’s the pity.’
‘Ha, ha,’ Carlyle said stiffly. ‘Thanks again for your help with this. Let me know if you hear anything.’ Without waiting for Alex Miles to embarrass him any further, he then turned and headed for the street.
TEN
‘And we would like to thank our British guests who are here today, from the Anglo-Ukrainian Friendship Society delegation in London . . .’
Shivering inside his black cashmere Ede & Ravenscroft overcoat, Gordon Elstree-Ullick stifled a yawn and tried to tune out the heavily accented drone of the Director of the Sandokan International Children’s Camp. Sitting on a low podium at the front of the assembly room, he watched a grey cloud drift across the dirty sky outside the windows. Feeling his eyelids dropping, he dug a fingernail into the loose flesh by the thumb of his left hand in order to stay awake. His mind began to wander . . . somewhere out there, not all that far from where they were sitting, the Light Brigade charged into the pages of history during the Crimean War. Elstree-Ullick smiled to himself at the thought. According to family lore, his great-great-great-grandfather had his left bollock shot off during the Battle of Balaclava.
Balaclava had been a typical British cock-up: the cavalry charging up a valley strongly held on three sides by Russians with heavy guns. End result: 250 men dead (not to mention 400-plus horses) lost for no gain whatsoever. By comparison, Great-greatgreat-grandpa had got off lightly. Elstree-Ullick shuddered at the thought of what might have happened if the old bugger had lost both his balls. Balaclava – that was what? About 150 years or so ago. Did we win? He had no bloody idea.
‘. . . our bonds of friendship shall never be cut asunder . . .’
Cut asunder? What was the old fool talking about now? The combination of last night’s vodka and the strain of keeping a constant smile on his face threatened to overwhelm him. The director’s farewell speech had already been going on for more than twenty minutes and, if past experience was anything to go by, it would drone on a while longer yet.
Elstree-Ullick had heard it all so many times before. This latest trip had lasted three days; in tha
t time he must have listened to almost a dozen speeches from camp workers and local dignitaries. All of them followed the same pattern: they would bemoan, at length, the fate of their country, quickly thank the Brits for the aid that they’d brought from London, and then launch into an impassioned plea for yet more of the same.
‘The need now is greater than ever . . .’
Why didn’t any of these bastards get off their backsides and do something for themselves? All they seemed capable of was sitting around waiting for handouts.
Finally, there came a smattering of applause. Elstree-Ullick nodded politely as he scanned the young audience. Sandokan was not international. And it was not a camp. All the kids came from inside a 100-mile radius. Their parents were dead, or they had abandoned their offspring. It was an orphanage straight out of a Dickens novel, housing almost four hundred children between the ages of six months and eighteen years. More than a hundred of the older ones were gathered here today. Scrubbed and dutifully silent, they were being closely watched by staff who were more like security guards than teachers.
Elstree-Ullick knew well enough that the children were given no education or training for the outside world. And what an outside world! Ukraine was your standard post-Soviet nightmare, with no jobs and no hope. Things would never change here, except to get worse – which was why he kept coming back.
Scanning the room, he looked at the blank faces waiting to be told when to start clapping again. He watched a boy on the front row stubbornly pick his nose with his index finger. On this trip, the children seemed even more introspective and sullen than usual, which was saying something. Finding a couple of ‘special cases’ to take back with them had been harder than ever. Nor was it clear that he would find a buyer back in London. Elstree-Ullick was only too well aware that he was on the cusp of falling out of step with the zeitgeist. The ‘Eastern European’ was no longer a badge of quality. The Ukrainian market was moving out of fashion. He could easily end up losing money on this trip. It was time to move on.
Market forces were not the only consideration. The fact that a dossier concerning alleged child sex abuse at Sandokan had recently been transferred to the Ukrainian Prosecutor General’s Office was another compelling reason to seek pastures new. The very night that Elstree-Ullick had arrived in the country, a Regions Party MP called Roman Popov had claimed on national television that children as young as six had been raped at this centre. Rumours were already circulating about children being sold as sex slaves to Western countries. Elstree-Ullick was pretty sure that the Deputy Prosecutor, General Dmytro Gazizulin, a local Robocop determined to make a name for himself, would quickly and painfully get to the truth. A Presidential election was looming, and this investigation supplied local politicians with quantities of mud to throw at each other. If the truth – or anything approximating it – came out, the best that his friend the Director here could hope for would be a long and brutal prison sentence. Elstree-Ullick had no intention of joining him in a Ukrainian cell. He did not want to be within a thousand miles of Kiev when General Gazizulin came calling. It was only due to the fact that the State Security Service was so totally corrupt, that they were not all in jail already, himself included.