by James Craig
‘Good luck with that.’
Rose sat up in her chair and put her hands on the table. ‘Why do you say that?’
Carlyle popped the last of the sandwich into his mouth and wiped his hands on a napkin; then he drained the last of his espresso. ‘Well . . .’
They spent the next twenty minutes drinking coffee and comparing notes. Carlyle was embarrassed to admit that Alzbetha had gone missing while she was supposed to have been in the care of Westminster Council but Rose showed no surprise. ‘Last year, more than three hundred children arriving in the UK went missing from the care of local authorities,’ she said.
‘How many of them were being trafficked?’ Carlyle wondered.
‘Many are, for sure. I worked on Operation Pentameter a while back, and there’s a market for children, just as there’s a market for adults.’
‘Pentameter?’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Don’t really know much about it.’
‘We were targeting sex trafficking and forced labour. There were hundreds of raids, and hundreds of arrests. More than two hundred victims were recovered, including a dozen or so girls aged under eighteen.’
‘You found twelve out of two hundred?’ Carlyle made a face. ‘That doesn’t sound so good.’
‘None of our statistics ever do.’ She stared out the window, and for a moment he thought she might start to cry. When she turned back to him, however, there was a steely glint in her eye. ‘Those children come from all over the place. Many of them are from West Africa, China and Vietnam, but also from places like the Ukraine in the old Soviet Bloc. Some come off their own bat, asking for asylum. Most are sent by traffickers. If they are picked up at the airport by the authorities, the traffickers know the likely places the children will be taken. Or they tell the children to run away once they get there. Local authorities just don’t take the issue seriously enough.’
Carlyle grunted his agreement on that point.
‘So, of course, when a child goes missing,’ Rose continued, ‘we have no records at all. No photographs, no real names and no documents. Vietnamese boys end up working in illegal cannabis factories. West African girls are forced into brothels or domestic service. The Chinese children work in restaurants or selling DVDs door to door.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Even the children staying in local authority homes can be abused. I was told of one case of four girls in care who were taken to work as prostitutes each day by their trafficker.’
‘I suppose that makes good business sense,’ Carlyle groaned, ‘insofar as it cuts down on their costs.’
Rose frowned. ‘Are you always this cynical, Inspector?’
‘I try to be.’ Carlyle smiled thinly. ‘I like to think of it as a God-given talent.’
They sat in silence for a while longer. Finally, Rose stood up and announced that she had to go and collect her daughter.
‘We should continue this later,’ she said.
Carlyle nodded. ‘Yes.’ It seemed clear that there could be a connection between their respective cases. Signalling to the waitress for the bill, he watched Rose Scripps head off briskly down the road. Interesting woman, he thought. Maybe, just maybe, she can help me crack this.
NINETEEN
It was ridiculous. There was nowhere you could smoke indoors these days. Out of uniform but on the clock, Tommy Dolan stepped on to the pavement on Cork Street, in the heart of Piccadilly, and lit a cigarette. Keeping one eye on the people inside the Block Gallery, noisily enjoying the Private View canapés and the Director’s Cut Russian River Chardonnay (which he had to admit was very nice), he took a deep drag. Ahh! That was better. He exhaled in the direction of a poster displayed in the gallery window, advertising an exhibition by a young British sculptress named Henrietta Templeton.
‘Hello, Tommy!’
Dolan wheeled round to see John Carlyle standing at the kerbside, next to a grinning fat bloke who, Dolan guessed, must be his sidekick.
‘Fuck,’ Dolan groaned, taking another puff. ‘What do you want?’
‘We’re here to see your boss,’ Carlyle said, the cheeriness in his voice belied by the hostility evident in his eyes.
‘Huh?’ Dolan took a final drag and flicked the cigarette in the direction of the gutter.
‘Gordon Elstree-Ullick,’ Carlyle said, looking past Dolan towards the throng inside. ‘Also known as the Earl of Falkirk. Twenty-second in line to the British throne, I believe. The guy you’re supposed to be protecting from whatever threat to his person may be lurking among those sculptures tonight.’
Dolan stepped in front of the door. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he was still just about able to look down on Carlyle. ‘He’s hardly my boss. And I don’t think he’d want to be disturbed at the moment – not when he’s busy networking. Why don’t you fuck off like a good little boy and I’ll let him know you were wanting a word.’
Carlyle stepped closer. ‘Now, now, Tommy. You don’t want me to have to get Joe here to arrest you. Think of the embarrassment in front of your rich friends.’
A well-preserved woman in a fur coat of some description arrived at the door. Giving them a dirty look, she went inside.
‘Arrest me?’ Dolan snorted, once the door had closed behind her. ‘For what? You’re out of your fucking mind.’
‘For assaulting Alexa Matthews, for a start.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Dolan replied. ‘I wouldn’t touch that fat cow with a bargepole.’
‘I’ve seen the mess she’s in.’
Dolan grinned nastily. ‘I think you’ll find she’s the one under investigation.’
Carlyle coughed. ‘Then there’s Dalton.’
‘Joe?’ Dolan’s eyes narrowed. ‘He committed suicide. What’s that got to do with me?’
Carlyle leaned closer. ‘We’re on to you, Tommy. United 14 . . . the whole works. You’ve been pushing your luck for far too long.’
‘Got a warrant?’
Carlyle said nothing.
‘Thought not.’ Dolan tut-tutted. ‘It’s just the same old snivelling bullshit from you, my friend. Now fuck off.’ He put a hand on Carlyle’s chest and shoved him away from the door. As Carlyle stumbled backwards, Joe Szyszkowski grabbed Dolan by the collar with his right hand and sank a meaty left hook into his stomach.
‘Ooof!’ A look of surprise spread across Dolan’s face, as his legs buckled.
No one inside paid them any notice.
Half-marching, half-dragging Dolan away from the gallery entrance, the sergeant turned to Carlyle. ‘I’ll deal with this guy. You go on inside.’
The temperature inside the gallery was at least ten degrees warmer than out on the street. Carlyle took off his overcoat and waited patiently for the girl on the reception desk to lift her head out of her book. Its title – Bad Art for Bad People – made him smile. Almost.
‘Name?’ With immense effort, the girl looked at him through her red-framed glasses and down her not inconsiderable nose. She was all blonde hair, Mummy’s pearls and studied boredom. There were thousands just like her among London’s well-heeled pretend professionals. He didn’t let it get to him.
‘Carlyle,’ he said politely.
Putting down the book, she slowly scanned a sheet of names in front of her. A small smirk crept on to her lips. ‘I’m sorry, but your name is not on the list.’
Carlyle dropped a card on the desk. ‘That’s because I’m a policeman and I’m here on business. It’s nothing to do with the gallery. I just need to speak to one of your guests. All very discreet.’ He gestured towards the card. ‘That’s for your boss’s information – a courtesy; so that you can let him know that I’m here.’
‘A policeman?’ Ignoring the card, the girl cocked her head to one side, as if she was trying to process this information.
‘Yes. Take this.’ Carlyle handed her his coat. ‘I won’t be long.’ Stepping past the desk, he took a glass of wine from the tray held by a hovering waiter and scanned the main room. The gallery was a reasonable siz
e, maybe 700 square feet, with a smaller room at the back. But, with easily 100-plus people in attendance, the place was very full. Everyone seemed to be chatting away, paying no attention to the art whatsoever, and the inspector’s arrival passed unnoticed. Taking a mouthful of wine, Carlyle began moving slowly through the room, looking out for his man.
A couple of minutes later, he had located Falkirk talking animatedly to two blondes in a corner at the rear of the main gallery. They were standing behind a limestone sculpture called Mindscape that came with a price tag equivalent to almost three-quarters of Carlyle’s annual inspector’s salary. Finishing his wine, he carefully placed the empty glass on the tray of a passing waitress. Pulling his warrant card from his pocket, he stepped toward the trio.
‘Hello? . . . Helloo . . .’ a voice boomed.
To his right, Carlyle saw a large, middle-aged man in a tweed jacket standing on a small platform raised six inches above the floor. He was holding a microphone which he tapped to see if it was working. The resulting feedback suggested that it was. The beam from an overhead spotlight reflected off his bald head as he stroked his prodigious handlebar moustache nervously. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’
Falkirk and his companions turned to face the speaker. As he did so, Carlyle caught his eye. Falkirk’s face looked puffy; his expression glazed. He was clearly wasted. There was a flicker of recognition before the Earl looked away.
‘As many of you will know, I am Laurence Block, owner of this gallery and host of this evening’s event.’
Jettisoning the two women, Falkirk moved slowly but deliberately through the crowd, getting closer to the stage but also closer to the door.
‘I would just like to say how delighted we are to be hosting this exhibition . . .’
Although he was only three or four yards behind Falkirk, Carlyle found it hard to keep up. People were listening to the speech and reluctant to let him through. One woman even kicked him on the shin as he tried to push past her.
‘These works on display in the gallery tell tales of history and place, of isolation and hidden depths . . .’
By the time Carlyle reached the corner of the stage, Falkirk had disappeared from view. Had he managed to leave? The crowd was thinner here and the inspector could move more easily towards the door. Stepping outside, he looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Falkirk.
Fuck! Carlyle shivered in the cold, then remembered that he had left his overcoat behind. From inside came a smattering of applause as Block’s speech came to an end, quickly replaced by the buzz of conversations being resumed. Pushing the door back open, he had one foot inside when he heard a voice from behind him.
‘Boss!’
Turning, he saw Joe Szyszkowski frogmarching Falkirk across the road towards him.
‘This is our guy?’ Joe asked.
‘Yes, indeed,’ beamed Carlyle.
‘Good,’ the sergeant grinned. ‘Otherwise we might have been facing a few civil liberties issues.’
Swaying on the tarmac, Falkirk tried his best to glare at the pair of them, saying nothing.
‘What shall I do with him?’ Joe asked.
‘Where’s Dolan?’
Joe gestured to the unmarked Volvo parked twenty yards up the road. ‘In the car.’
‘Okay. Stick this guy in there too and we’ll go back to the station. I’ll just collect my coat.’
Simon Merrett jerked awake as he felt the toe of a boot in the small of his back. It took him a second to realise that he was still chained to the concrete floor of an empty office. His head was thick and there was a sour, metallic taste in his mouth. Before him stood the gangster’s sidekick wearing an outsized Jack Bauer T-shirt, a blank expression on his face. In his right hand, hanging limply by his side, was a small black pistol. Merrett’s eyes widened. Artem grinned, obviously revelling in the patent fear of the prisoner. Slowly, he made a show of clicking off the safety. Wincing, Merrett clenched both his teeth and his buttocks.
‘Enough!’ Ihor Chepoyak stepped out of the shadows and placed a hand on Artem’s shoulder. Reluctantly, the smaller man put the safety-catch back on. Stuffing the gun into the back of his stonewashed jeans, he retreated to the far side of the room.
Gazing out of the window into the North London darkness, Ihor felt a terrible longing for home. It often came when he was in the presence of death. His greatest fear was that he would die in this shit-hole and never make it back to the Ukraine. His final resting place in Lychakiv Cemetery, in Lviv, had long since been chosen and paid for. A substantial crypt, close to the tomb of the poet Ivan Franko, had been secured with the help of a large bribe to a local official, who had overseen the removal and cremation of the remains of the Jewish merchant and his family who had resided there for the previous 120 years. Of course, someone could easily come along and do the same to Ihor himself in due course. But his mother had already been interred there, and Ihor took comfort in knowing that he would join her when his time came.
Finally, he looked down at Merrett. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said quietly. ‘Artem here is not going to kill you.’
Merrett’s mouth went dry. Shivering against the cold, he tried and failed to think of something to say.
‘But we have to do something,’ Ihor continued.
‘Let me go!’ Merrett croaked.
Ihor smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. The problem is that you are a problem.’ His expression hardened. ‘And I have to deal with problems.’
Merrett’s brain finally started working. ‘People will be looking for me.’
‘No one will find you here,’ Ihor snorted.
‘I am a policeman. There will be a massive search.’
Ihor made a face. ‘Oh? So now you admit to being a policeman?’ His laugh was harsh. ‘Well, Mr Policeman, let them look.’
Merrett wiped his nose on the arm of his jacket. ‘If you . . . harm me, what will Shen say?’
‘Shen?’ Ihor stepped closer to his captive. ‘Shen doesn’t even know that you exist. But I am sure that he will be delighted to know that you and your colleague Miss Scripps think that he is a corrupt officer.’ Lifting his gaze to the ceiling, Ihor stroked his chin theatrically with his free hand. ‘Yes, I wonder what he will think about that?’
Jesus, Merrett thought, how did he find out about Rose? There was nothing he could do about that right now. ‘Shen?’ he asked. ‘Is he bent?’
‘That is not your problem.’ Moving behind Merrett, Ihor slipped a Fort-12 CURZ pistol out of his pocket. Bringing the barrel to the man’s head he squeezed the trigger once . . . twice. By the time Merrett had pitched forward, his blood immediately pooling on the concrete alongside his corpse, the staccato whine of the gunshots had already dissipated through the empty building, to be replaced by the background hum of the traffic noise outside. Putting the gun back in his pocket, Ihor stepped round the body and headed for the door. He nodded to Artem, who was propped against the wall, looking bored. ‘Let’s go.’
Leaning up against the front desk, Carlyle watched Falkirk and his lawyer scuttle out into the London night. It had taken the Earl less than an hour and a half to get legal representation down to Charing Cross police station. And it had taken his lawyer, an overly self-confident young blonde, less than ten minutes to have their interview terminated and her client released. Falkirk had said nothing and made no visible response when Carlyle had placed a series of photographs of Alzbetha’s corpse in front of him.
‘That went well, then,’ said Joe Szyszkowski, appearing behind the desk with a mug of steaming tea in one hand.
The desk sergeant, catching the murderous glint in Carlyle’s eye, shuffled off promptly in search of some paperwork that might need his attention.
Joe noisily slurped the tea. ‘Dolan’s Federation rep called as well. He says that they will be making a formal complaint.’
‘Fuck him,’ Carlyle growled. ‘Is he still here?’
‘No,’ Joe sniffed. ‘He walked out even quicker
than his boss.’
‘Great.’ Carlyle felt rage and frustration bubbling in his guts, all the more corrosive because he wasn’t sure what he realistically could have hoped for from tonight’s little escapade. Patience wasn’t his strong point, and he’d reached a place in this investigation where he just had to shake things up a bit.
‘At least we’ve rattled their cage,’ Joe remarked, more or less reading his thoughts, before placing his mug on a coaster on the desk. ‘They’ll have to move more carefully from now on.’
‘Right.’ Carlyle yawned. It was time to go home. They could work out what to do next in the morning. ‘Oh, Christ!’ Gazing across the waiting room, he saw Carole Simpson sweep through the front door. She looked tired but there was a grim determination in her eyes. He tried to remember the last time he had seen her here, at Charing Cross; it had to be the best part of six months. One thing was sure: she wasn’t dropping in at almost ten o’clock at night for a social visit.
Simpson spotted Carlyle and her expression darkened further. Standing up straight, he waited for her to make her way over.
‘John,’ she said, nodding brusquely to Joe Szyszkowski, ‘we need to talk.’
TWENTY
Gavin Heath sat behind the wheel of his Peugeot Bipper Pro, carefully nibbling on his Italian tuna sandwich. Mancini’s café on Brecknock Road, 250 yards south of Tufnell Park tube station, was his usual stop-off, just over halfway through his eight-hour shift. Working for Column Security was boring but straightforward. Over the last three years, Gavin had worked his way up from a temporary summer job guarding a building site to becoming a supervisor on the North London circuit, touring a range of empty offices and shops between Kings Cross and Wembley. The job paid less than £12 an hour, plus he had to wear a stupid, fake uniform, but it helped pay for his Business Studies course at UEL – the University of East London.
Finishing his food, Gavin daintily wiped his mouth with a napkin and lifted his coffee from the passenger seat. Removing the lid, he blew on it gently before taking a cautious sip, as he watched the world go by. Tufnell Park was still lively at this time of night and he eyed a couple of pretty black girls laughing and joking as they waited at a bus stop.