by Anna Smith
Besmir crawled forward ahead of Hassan. He stayed close to the ground until he was almost at the window, then he stuck his head up. In the grim light of the bare bulb, he could see a fat woman, her face bloated like some of the alcoholic women he used to see sleeping rough in the streets of Tirana. She smoked a cigarette and swigged from a tumbler. There was a half empty bottle of vodka next to her. She giggled, watching some game show on television, and stubbed out her cigarette, lighting another immediately. She reminded him of one of the nurses in charge of the orphanage, who used to dish out beatings to any of the children who disobeyed her or who answered back. He blinked the image away and crawled back to Hassan.
‘I see her.’
‘Come,’ Hassan said. ‘Follow me. Say nothing. Just follow me.’
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Besmir could make out rusting bits of cars and tyres on the ground and was careful not to stumble over anything. He stood back as Hassan went towards the door, heavily padlocked and chained. Hassan turned to him and put his fingers to his lips. Then he crawled a few yards to the left of the house and quietly removed a heavy stone urn. He took a single key from beneath it and held it up to Besmir as though he was hoping to impress him with his insider knowledge. Hassan opened the lock and silently removed the padlock and chain.
‘When we go in,’ Hassan murmured, ‘we must be careful in case any of the children are awake. If they see us they will cry out and everyone will wake up. We cannot stay long. Maybe a minute or two, but no more. Just so you can see.’
‘Will the girl Kaltrina be there?’ Besmir surprised himself with the question.
Hassan shook his head. ‘No. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I don’t know.’
Hassan pushed open the door. It was the smell that hit Besmir first. Urine and shit. His head swimming, he was instantly thrust back to the orphanage, to the rows of metal cots where he and other children sat rocking in their own urine and caked shit and scabs for days. He tensed his stomach muscles to keep control. He saw Hassan looking at him.
‘You okay?’
He nodded, his face set. His eyes scanned the room; the tiny shaft of light coming in from a broken window showed the little bodies huddled together in cages like puppies. Three, four at a time, sleeping entwined, some who could not be more than three years old, lay sound asleep. They slept on dirty blankets, and even in the dark Besmir could see the children were filthy. A rat scurried across the wooden beams.
He felt vomit rising in his throat and swallowed hard to keep it down. He felt his legs buckle, and to stop himself from fainting, he squatted down and tried to compose himself, determined not to show weakness in front of Hassan.
Until this moment, only in his nightmares had he remembered how it used to be. He’d hardened himself to the memory of childhood behind the grim, damp walls of the orphanage. But the nightmares still haunted him. These days they – and the images – were fading with each passing year. But now this? He was back in hell, among the iron cots like cages where he’d spent the first years of his life.
‘You okay, Besmir?’ Hassan crouched beside him.
Besmir nodded and stood up.
‘We go.’ He went outside and was across the yard in seconds. He dropped to his knees and vomited onto the ground.
‘What? What’s the matter? You are shocked, my friend. I know. It is bad. I told you. Children like animals. But you are very tough man. What’s the matter?’
Besmir sat on the ground and wiped his eyes. He shook his head, then got to his feet.
‘Come. Take us back to the car. I have seen enough.’
CHAPTER 19
Rosie flinched under the cold shower, keeping her face under the spray to wake herself up from the restless night after Adrian’s visit.
They’d talked until almost two in the morning, and he told her everything he knew about Leka and Daletsky, and the whole organisation behind the kidnap of his sister and of Amy. Rosie was not surprised at how meticulous Adrian was, and how calm. It was how he did business. He was always in the background, but he never missed a trick. Having him back after all this time made her feel safer.
He gave her the name of the recruitment organisation that lured his sister and her friend to Spain on the pretext of work, and he watched as Rosie wrote everything down. The company operated out of a small office in the centre of Marbella, but it was really just a room with two desks and a couple of telephones.
The recruitment firm was all part of the bigger company owned by Viktor Daletsky. Driving Leka and Daletsky in the car, he’d overheard Leka giving Daletsky figures for a number of women who were expected in the next few weeks and where they were from.
Brilliant. But Rosie needed proof. To write any kind of story linking Carter-Smith’s presence on a yacht with the head of an organisation behind people-smuggling would give the Post’s lawyers heart failure, but it could be done. She didn’t need to prove anything over Carter-Smith’s involvement. He could be completely unaware of the extent of Daletsky’s business dealings, and very probably was. Just telling the story would be enough. Let people make up their own minds.
When Adrian finally left, Rosie promised him she’d tell his sister’s story. But she’d need the Guarda Civil to confirm that they’d picked up the Bosnian girl, Katya, who had escaped. They would never say it on the record, because it revealed that they’d failed to find the culprits. But if they admitted that it had happened – even off the record – that would be enough.
She’d ask Adrian to get the girl Katya’s account to give the story flesh. Once it appeared in the Post, it would be picked up by the Spanish press, and the publicity would put pressure on the police to look seriously at the gangsters behind the people-smuggling – Daletsky included.
But they had to consider Adrian’s sister. Once the story broke, it was anybody’s guess how Leka and his mob would react to her. Adrian hoped he’d be able to have an inside track. It was a gamble, but they had to try.
Rosie hadn’t slept much after Adrian left and was glad when the morning light woke her. She wanted to be showered and fresh, with at least two jags of strong coffee in her before she phoned McGuire with her latest development.
‘Rosie. What’s happening? Have you got these bastards to talk yet?’ McGuire sounded even more caffeined-up than her.
‘Not yet. I spoke to O’Hara yesterday, and gave him my best pitch. He was nearly crying. He said he would talk to his wife.’
‘Well, Rosie. They’re not going to get away with this much longer. That windsurfer’s story stitched the pair of them up big time. It’s all about damage limitation now.’
‘I know. I told O’Hara all that. I explained that if there are lies being told then they will come back to haunt everyone and the public will turn against them. I told him that in the end the only person who mattered was Amy.’
‘And did he admit it?’
‘No.’ Rosie almost laughed. ‘Of course not. Jesus, Mick. He’s hardly going to admit it just like that. But they know they’ve been rumbled. I’m hoping when they talk it will be with me. I think I got the better of O’Hara yesterday.’
‘He’s an asshole, and I don’t even know him,’ McGuire said. ‘But he’s got to live with it. And I’ll tell you this. For the rest of his life he’ll wish he’d have kept it in his trousers – or, to be more accurate, in his yellow shorts.’ He gave a little snort at his own wit.
‘Oh, you’re all heart, McGuire. Listen. I want to talk to you about another development – on the Carter-Smith side. You’re going to love this.’
‘Okay, let’s hear it.’
‘You know this Daletsky character? The Russian mobster? Well, I have good information that one of the many tentacles of his organisation is involved in people-trafficking.’
‘Fuck! Can it be proved?’
Rosie told him she hoped that at the very worst, once she got her digging done, there would be a way to write a story in some form of words that would have a link – however tenuous it migh
t be – to Daletksy’s organisation and the smuggling of girls from Eastern Europe.
‘If they can link him to that, and already have Carter-Smith’s snout in the trough at his yacht then that has to be worth a resignation. Yes?’
‘You fucking bet it would be. But can you prove it? Tell me how you can prove it.’
She told him about the girls who’d been brought to Spain and kidnapped, and that she could get an interview and signed affadavit from one of the girls. The other one was still missing. She didn’t mention Adrian. Some things were best kept to herself for now.
‘I think I can have a real go at this,’ Rosie said.
‘We’ll have to be very careful, Rosie,’ McGuire replied. ‘I mean, we know these Russians are all gangsters no matter whether they’re businessmen or at the heart of fucking government. But they’re also very powerful. And throwing a few million roubles at a lawyer to sue a newspaper would be a drop in the ocean for these bastards. Even one as guilty as Daletsky. So we’ll need something really solid to get it past our lawyers.’
‘I know that. Hey, Mick, you don’t have to tell me how difficult it is to get a story about someone powerful in our bloody paper.’ Rosie couldn’t resist the dig about her exclusive, exposing a High Court judge and a paedophile ring that the lawyers had been forced to bury six months before.
McGuire let it hang. They both knew he had no defence of that. He moved on. ‘They are also dangerous bastards. These guys that had you dangling over the Clyde last year look like pussies next to the Russian mafia. To be honest, Rosie, even as I talk to you, I’m beginning to get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t have had the kippers for breakfast.’
‘Don’t be a smartarse, Gilmour. You know what I mean. I’m worried about you.’
There was a small, genuinely poignant silence between the two of them. Then McGuire recovered his sarcasm.
‘Well, I don’t want my best hackette being shot by the mafia to be a footnote in my illustrious career. It might impact on my judgement.’
‘Took the words right out of my mouth,’ Rosie said. ‘Look, Mick, I’ll be alright.’ She knew what was coming next.
‘I’m thinking of sending someone else out to work with you. A bit of support. One of the heavy guys.’
‘No,’ Rosie said too quickly. ‘I mean, it’s okay, Mick. I honestly don’t need any help. I really work better on my own with something like this. I’m also going to get this Spanish private eye involved. I’ve worked with him before, and if there’s anything to be found, he’ll dig it out. I’m meeting him today.’
She couldn’t tell him Adrian would also be watching her back.
‘But all you’ve really got is bloody Matt,’ McGuire said. ‘And he’s half daft. He’ll be chasing women all the time when he’s not taking pictures.’
‘No,’ Rosie said. ‘You’re wrong. He’s great to work with. We’ll be fine. Honest. Look, I have to go. I want to get to my Spanish contact and get him working for me straight away.’
‘Okay, Gilmour,’ he said. ‘Up to you. But be bloody careful, won’t you?’
‘Course. Talk later. Soon as I have anything to tell you.’
Rosie clicked off.
CHAPTER 20
‘Hello, Javier.’ Rosie came up behind him. She’d been watching him discreetly from the doorway onto the terrace, where he’d arrived at precisely midday as he said he would. Javier was never late. And, knowing him, he probably sensed she’d been watching him. He turned around and stood up, all six-foot-two of him. A big, perfect smile spread across his face.
‘Rosie.’ Javier opened his arms and wrapped them around her, holding her tightly. Then he let go, kissed her on the lips, and bear-hugged her again. She caught the fresh smell of his skin, mingled with the whiff of cigarette smoke.
‘I’m sorry, Javier’ – Rosie surprised herself at how choked she felt – ‘I did miss you.’ How trite that sounded, since they’d only spoken once in almost three years.
‘Sure you did.’
He released her, examining her for a moment, and smiled. Then he ruffled her hair, like she was a twelve-year-old kid. She was forgiven. They were friends again.
Nearly three years ago it had ended in a bitter power struggle between two highly charged individuals who fate should have kept apart. Javier wasn’t used to women who answered back. Rosie concluded it was a Spanish thing. But despite the explosive interludes, they had worked well together on an investigation in the Costa del Sol that Rosie had been sent to unravel. Javier was impressive, if a little volatile.
He was somewhere around fifty, though he was vague about his age. A former detective with the Guarda Civil, he’d quit the force after he became frustrated, he had told Rosie when they first met. It was only when he got to know her better that he confessed his ‘frustration’ showed itself when he pushed a murdering thug who was resisting arrest off the roof of a building. It cuts down on the paperwork, he’d said with a shrug. Rosie was the last woman who’d argue with that. His pushing of the drug-dealing thug had never been proved, because there had only been the two of them present at the time, but he’d left under a cloud of investigation. Now, as a private eye, Javier still had all the contacts and respect and could dig things up that nobody else got a sniff of – as long as you didn’t challenge or question the fascist in him.
After he and Rosie had spent a successful if sometimes turbulent month working together, things had blown up. Javier thought his integrity was being questioned when she asked for more information than he was providing, and announced you didn’t do that to a guy like him. Rosie had replied that she’d question anything she damn well wanted to, because that was how she did business. An explosion followed and she left Spain without saying goodbye. She could do stubborn better than the best of them. But she needed him now.
‘Sit down, Rosie.’ He motioned her to the table, and then barked ‘Caballero!’ to attract a waiter.
From anyone else, hailing a waiter by shouting ‘Caballero’ may have been considered condescending, but Javier got away with it. Like he was born to rule.
Rosie smiled to herself as she sat down obediently. She’d forgotten how the Javier machismo could reduce you to a mere woman.
He ordered coffee for both of them and handed Rosie a cigarette. She held his hand as he lit it for her, knowing he would like that. He sat back and drew on his cigarette, his chocolate eyes fixing her the way they always had, daring her to take him on.
‘It took you long enough, Rosie.’ He would have his fun. ‘I saw your name every day in the newspaper since the kid went missing, and I half expected a call from you in case you needed my help.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, a big shot like you probably has several translators and fixers working for you these days – not to mention private investigators.’
Rosie shook her head. When it came to repartee she would struggle to beat him, and right now she didn’t want to fight.
‘No, Javier. I have nobody working for me. I’m with a photographer.’ She paused as the coffees arrived, then continued. ‘I thought of calling you earlier, Javier,’ she said, and she meant it. Life was too short to stay angry. ‘To be honest, the story was all fairly straightforward in the beginning, and because the missing kid is British, the cops have someone translating the statements. And the Guarda Civil, as usual, are saying bugger-all anyway.’
He watched her silently. She wished he wouldn’t do that.
‘As I said I did want to call you, but I thought you’d still be angry.’
‘What’s past is past, Rosie. Forgotten about.’
He sipped his coffee, and ran his hand across his face and through his thick hair, greyer now than she remembered. The face was older too, but just as perfect. Olive skin, lightly tanned but no more, like a movie star growing old gracefully. Javier never sunbathed – he was too conceited to allow the sun to age him.
‘So, how are you, Rosie? You looking for my help, or did you just cal
l to say hello?’
Rosie was on the backfoot. She cleared her throat.
‘Well.’ She sat up straight. ‘Both, I suppose. I wouldn’t have left without trying to meet up, Javier. And, as you said, because you were probably waiting for my call!’ She stubbed out her cigarette and forced herself to look away from him.
‘But apart from that, yes, I am looking for some help. I have a line on the story but I need an inside track.’ She held out her hand with a flourish, as though introducing him on a stage. ‘And who better than you, Javier? The man in the know.’ She leaned closer. ‘Are you working for anyone on the story? Any newspaper? You’re not working for the Mail are you?’
‘Nope.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t give a shit about the newspapers. They’re all crap. And they’re all full of crap. Reporters, TV, newspapers. They are all the same.’
Rosie looked away. She could disappear for five minutes and return to find him still delivering the same diatribe about journalists. He had no respect for them. He’d made that clear from the first time they worked together. He called them hyenas. He applauded their cunning, but they were all full of shit.
‘Javier.’ She squeezed his wrist. ‘I’ve heard it all before. Listen. I want to see if you can find some information for me from your Guarda Civil contacts. Do you want to hear?’
Javier smiled, and lit another cigarette. Still the same chain smoker. He cocked his head to one side and pulled his chair closer to Rosie so their knees were touching.
‘So tell me about it.’ He wagged a finger. ‘And don’t even think about saying this is just between ourselves, or I walk away now.’
Rosie shook her head. She wondered if they would be tearing each other apart in two days.
‘You never bloody change. You’d think the passing years might mellow you a bit.’
‘I can be mellow when I die. Tell me what you got and what you need.’
Rosie began. Javier listened, smoking, stubbing his fag out, lighting up again. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head. She told him everything she knew, about Daletsky, about the people-trafficking, of Adrian’s sister lured from Sarajevo to Spain with her friend with the promise of a job. He whistled, shook his head, incredulous, when she told him about the boy Taha and Carter-Smith.