Bitter Sweet

by Mason N. Forbes

‘Do you think that will stop him,’ I said. ‘He won’t leave you alone. He’ll want revenge.’

  Ivonne swore. ‘Different town?’

  ‘If we’re going to do it, we’ll have to do it now.’

  Ivonne stood; her lower lip trapped between her teeth. Abruptly, she put her hands on her hips, and grinned at me. ‘A couple of do-gooder prossies?’

  ‘That’s us, although it might put us out of business.’ I smiled. ‘Good idea, I’ve exams coming up.’

  ‘But the money,’ Ivonne said, looking wistful.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, getting up from the bed, ‘let’s do it.’

  ‘I just hope that minder is still out for the count,’ I said, opening the door of my apartment.

  I stuck my head out and looked up and down the passageway; all clear.

  ‘Just a mo,’ I said, and ducked back in. ‘I’ve just had a thought. Ivonne have you got any uniforms in your place?’

  ‘Uniforms?’

  ‘Yeah, you know; role play, dressing up that kind of thing.’

  Ivonne’s eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘I’ve got a penguin outfit. This one guy really gets his rocks off fucking me dressed up as a nun.’

  ‘Go get it.’

  Within minutes Ivonne was back wearing the habit. She looked remarkably different with the veil and the coif covering her hair and it gave her face a stern appearance. Not only that, but at almost six feet she made an imposing and formidable looking nun.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, looking at me. ‘A real sassy-looking cop.’

  The only problem with my police uniform was the trousers; normally I wore the uniform with an ultra-short mini skirt, stockings, suspenders and high heels – a real drop dead combination. The trousers I had on weren’t the same blue as the uniform and they had a skinny- jeans cut, but they’d have to do. It would soon be evening time and in the failing light, I hoped no one would notice.

  ‘The uniforms,’ I said, tipping the peak of the hat further down over my forehead, ‘might throw any observer off. We’ll need every edge we can get.

  ‘Oh another thing; latex gloves. I don’t want my fingerprints all over Martha’s apartment.’ I hurried into the bedroom and grabbed a pair of disposable latex gloves – kept on the top shelf of the wardrobe – and snapped them on.

  I rapidly checked the mini CCTV system and the tracking phone; nothing happening. I raced back to the door, the police baton bobbing on my hip. I strode confidently out of the apartment and turned left. The camera on fourth floor was there to primarily monitor people entering and leaving the corridor; it didn’t cover my door, or Ivonne’s, and Martha’s apartment was on the extreme limits of its range.

  Ivonne followed me out, but turned right towards the lifts. Her job was to keep, if possible, one of the lifts out of action by holding it on the fourth floor. The second lift, again if possible, would be sent on a voyage to all twelve floors of the building. As a consequence anyone wishing to ascend would be severely hindered. And she was to sound the alarm should any of Erjon’s thugs appear.

  I reached the door to Martha’s apartment and stopped, reviewing the situation. From what Ivonne had been able to discern from Maria, she had really clobbered the minder with the cistern’s lid – manslaughter remained a distinct possibility. There might be a dead body in there.

  The other problem was that the two girls were locked in one of the bedrooms. Maria had been too panicked by what she had done, and had fled. So, I would have to find the key.

  I put my ear to the door and listened; nothing. I hefted the baton, pressed slowly down on the handle and eased the door open. My eyes tracked straight to the minder who lay sprawled on the floor, but as I stepped over the threshold his head twitched. An unconscious spasm or was he coming around?

  I gripped the baton firmly, went up on the balls of my feet and tiptoed along the corridor. The minder twitched again. As I got closer I saw copious amounts of blood on the floor, bordered by bits of the broken cistern lid. I edged nearer; the blow had impacted near the top of the man’s head, which lay in a pool of dark-red blood. Poised and well balanced to place a kick, if need be, I nudged his arm with the baton: no response. I leaned in; the blood around the wound had already coagulated.

  I straightened up and slid past the man’s head, careful not to step on the blood. He lay face down, and it was a sure-fire bet that the key to the bedroom door was going to be in his front pockets.

  My instincts told me he was not dead and not playacting at being unconscious. However, he had to be turned. And turning ninety-odd kilos of deadweight wasn’t going to be easy. Worse still, I’d have to put the baton aside and use both hands and all my bodyweight to accomplish the task. Was the guy to come round in that moment, I’d be at a complete disadvantage.

  I prodded his feet with the baton: good, no reaction.

  I moved up to his waist and checked the hip pockets: no key.

  Time to turn him over. I stood, parallel to his shoulders, took the cord of the baton and held it between my teeth – I wanted the baton to hand, although it wasn’t the real thing, it was a solid enough weapon.

  With the baton dangling from my mouth, I planted my feet wide apart, bent my knees, gripped the guy’s right shoulder, and heaved. Over he went; his head hit the floor with a thud. Good – still unconscious.

  I hastily checked his pockets. Shit: no bleedin’ key.

  Just to be sure, I took another look at the guy; his chest was rising and falling, but there were no more spasms; he must, despite the sudden movement, still be out for the count.

  Nothing for it; I scooted into the sitting room. No key on the TV cabinet, nothing on the sofa. My gaze settled on the table; no key, but a small flat TV screen, connected to what looked like a DVD recorder.

  I glanced back at the TV cabinet; two televisions? No, that didn’t add up. Time was ticking, but I was well aware of what a DVD recorder might mean. I disconnected the thing and tucked it under my arm.

  A quick sweep of the kitchen revealed no sign of the key.

  How long could Ivonne keep the lifts occupied? She hadn’t phoned to warn me of any danger. But still, the longer I stayed, the more nervous I became. And I still had to set the diversion in place. I lifted the minder’s phone from the table and dialled the emergency services. Feigning a foreign accent, I told them there was a man lying unconscious with a cracked skull in apartment 409. As they started to ask for details, I set the phone back on the table, leaving the line open. The cracked skull, and above all the line left open, would draw the attention of the police.

  With no other choice, I decided to use brute force on the door. Just as I went to step past the minder, a hand reached out and grabbed my ankle. I almost tripped. The hand tightened its grip.

  ‘Fuck you,’ I yelled, and slammed the baton down on to the guy’s head.

  The hand went limp.

  With the baton well into its next downward swing, I changed the angle at the last moment – I wasn’t going to be had-up for manslaughter. The baton struck the guy’s shoulder with a satisfying thwack.

  I reached the bedroom with my adrenalin and my anger well stoked up, that and all the Taekwondo training now had a focus: the door.

  I centred myself, and let fly with my right leg. My foot, with all my weight driving it, connected to the wood beside the handle. The doorframe splintered with a loud crack and the door flew inwards to crash against the wall. Did that feel good, or what?

  The two girls stared at me, bug eyed.

  ‘Out, out, out,’ I said, shooing them out the door.

  They scurried past me and out into the passageway. I stopped them at my apartment and herded them in. Maria raced to meet them.

  I closed the door, bolted it and then phoned Ivonne giving her the good news.

  There was a knock at the door. I checked through the spy hole – Ivonne. I let her in and she swept past me into the sitting room, her habit billowing.

  The two girls automatically crossed themselves. Maria made
a dismissive gesture and spoke to them in their mother tongue.

  Maria and her cousin Olga were of a similar build, slightly stocky at around five feet five with black hair and brown eyes. The other girl, Yana, had a waif like appearance, being small and thin with ash-blond hair and green eyes.

  Ivonne and I withdrew to the far corner of the kitchen, out of earshot. Not that we needed to; the three girls kept up a constant flow of conversation, oblivious to our presence.

  ‘Where are we going to take them?’

  ‘More to the point,’ Ivonne said, ‘we’ve got to get them out of here and the sooner the better. You should’ve taken them straight out.’

  ‘And walk right into the arms of some goon. I don’t think so.’ I leaned on the kitchen counter. ‘I’ve set up a diversion; an ambulance and the police are on their way.’

  ‘Hand them over to the police?’

  ‘No, we can’t do that,’ I said. ‘Probably don’t want to go near the authorities; they’ll be illegal immigrants.’

  ‘That’s true – they’ll be very cagey.’

  I leaned back against the counter, mulling over the possibilities. ‘Any ideas?’

  Ivonne shrugged. ‘A woman’s refuge?’

  ‘Let’s have a look on the internet.’ I pulled out my smartphone. ‘There’s a thing called Crimestoppers, but it looks like it’s linked to the police.

  ‘Here,’ I said, showing Ivonne the display. ‘One of those 0800 numbers. I’ll give it a try. But first, we’d better keep an eye on what’s going on out in the passageway.’

  In the sitting room, I tapped the mouse, bringing up the feed from the mini CCTV system on the laptop. ‘Can you watch what’s going on? Oh, and did you cancel your appointment? Don’t want him stumbling in to the middle of everything.’

  ‘I did that holding the lifts.’

  I dialled the crimestoppers number and whilst it was connecting, I held up the mobile tracking phone. Erjon was no longer in Bedford Street – he was heading our way.

  The call was answered; the call was transferred. I explained the position: three trafficked girls, forced into prostitution and that going to the police was an absolute no, no.

  Polite, friendly, concerned; the service could not be faulted, but no immediate alternative to contacting the police was offered.

  Whilst the woman from crimestoppers referred with a supervisor, I had another look at the tracking device – Erjon was definitely headed our way. The teaser was who would arrive first; the ambulance crew and the police, or Erjon? I turned listening for a siren. With the door and the windows all firmly shut, the apartment was well insulated from the outside world – safe and secure.

  A glance at the laptop showed no activity outside in the passageway.

  The lady from crimestoppers came back on the line; I could report the matter to them and the details would be forwarded to the police. Fine, I’d done that without naming names, or giving away the address. Any further details were a no-go with Detective Sergeant Driscoll involved, and Ivonne had told me the girls were categorical about not getting the authorities involved.

  I was given the phone number of the UK Human Trafficking Centre.

  I listened again –still no sirens.

  I dialled the number for the UK Human Trafficking Centre and whilst waiting for the connection to be made, kept my gaze firmly focused on the laptop. One of the thugs from earlier came into view, a mobile phone held to his ear. I looked at the tracking device; Erjon’s phone was engaged, and he was now only three streets away.

  A man from the Trafficking Centre answered. I rapidly explained the dilemma, all the while watching the yob as he entered Martha’s apartment, and Erjon’s progress.

  Ideally we wanted to make a break for it when the ambulance crew arrived, but before Erjon, or more of his thugs did.

  Again, I was given the same advice; contact the police. Exasperation got the better of me, and I let fly; ‘what if you can’t trust the friggin’ police? What if you know there’s a bent DS? The whole shitty system is built on the myth of the police being there to serve and to protect.’

  The man took the outburst stoically, and gave me the phone number of the Blue Blindfold.

  ‘Damn it.’ We needed a break – somewhere to take the girls, and fast. I leaned forward and whispered to Ivonne; ‘get the girls ready to move the moment I give the word.’

  ‘Look,’ Ivonne said, jabbing at the laptop’s screen. ‘He’s standing outside my door.’

  ‘And his finger is on the doorbell,’ I said. ‘A real simpatico, just leaves the other guy lying on the floor.’

  Ivonne’s phone rang. The thug put his ear to the door of her apartment, listening.

  ‘You’re next,’ Ivonne said, stuffing her phone under a cushion.

  ‘Shush,’ I said, to the girls. I quickly put my work phone on silent mode and then whispered to Ivonne; ‘They were quick making the connection to us.’

  ‘Duh, doesn’t take a moron to work it out.’

  Sure enough, the thug moved to my door. The girls jumped as the doorbell rang. I watched the guy on the laptop as he raised his phone and dialled. Not nice – he must have had my number in his phone’s contact list. My phone blinked as the call came through. I held my index finger to my lips. We remained silent and immobile.

  On the laptop I saw the man look to his left. He then moved closer to the door and bowed his head. My phone stopped blinking.

  ‘Ivonne,’ I said. ‘Get ready to move.’

  Silently she moved over to the girls and holding her index finger to her lips, gestured for them to stand up. She whispered something to Maria, who with a concerned face, relayed the information to Yana and Olga.

  With my attention back on the laptop, I saw the guy hunker further into the doorframe. The front of a gurney came into view, followed by the two members of the ambulance crew. They took no notice of the man and sped past, heading for Martha’s apartment.

  The guy at my door looked up, only to jerk his head back. Two cops came into view.

  ‘Oh no,’ I breathed. It couldn’t be, not now and not here. I stood riveted to the spot, my total attention fixed upon the images on the laptop, hoping I was wrong, but knowing that I wasn’t.

  The cops stopped at my door, a few feet from Erjon’s man.

  They turned to address the guy, their angle to the camera changing. Please God no, this can’t be happening. The cop I’d gone out with a few times, Paul, stood right outside my door. And I could just imagine the cock-and-bull story the yob was telling the cops – visiting a hooker.

  Move, move, move Paul, you’re mucking up our best chance of getting out of here.

  ‘Into the hallway,’ I whispered to Ivonne. ‘But ultra quiet, okay.’

  I pocketed my mobile – phoning the Blue Blindfold would have to wait. I glanced rapidly at the mobile tracking device: Erjon was two streets away and, from the angles, he might be sitting in a car with a view of the front of the Merchant Building.

  I curled my fingers over the upper edge of the laptop’s lid, ready to bring it down the moment the police and the thug moved away.

  Paul and the other policeman now stood on either side of Erjon’s goon, blocking his route to the elevators.

  Please Paul use your brains, he is as guilty as sin.

  Paul spoke into the mike attached to his uniform. Back up or just checking the man’s ID?

  Yes, it was back up. The police started to herd the guy along the passageway in the direction of Martha’s apartment. I waited until I was sure they wouldn’t double back, and that they were far enough along the passageway so as not to make our exit too obvious.

  ‘Ivonne, open the door now!’

  The door clicked open. I glanced at the laptop. Neither the cops nor Erjon’s man had turned; they continued towards Martha’s apartment with their backs to us.

  I brought the lid of the laptop down and hiked it into the corridor. ‘Go now!’

  Ivonne stepped out first and moved to the
left; the habit giving some protection from casual observance. The girls went next and, without looking around, headed for the lifts. I came out last, head and visor down, attempting via my peripheral vision to see if the cops or Erjon’s man turned.

  So far so good. With my back towards Martha’s place and, facing the elevators, I grasped the door handle with a clammy hand and pulled the door closed. The snib clicked as it fell into place.

  No, don’t look around. Head up and shoulders squared, I set off along the passageway.

  Yana reached the elevators first. Good girl, she immediately pressed the button summoning the lift.

  We stood together, eyes focused on the elevator console, waiting. One elevator was descending – seven, six, five. The other was ascending – one two, three. Which one was it going to be?

  The descending lift pinged on four. I exhaled. The doors opened – empty. The girls hoofed it into the lift. Ivonne went next; her habit billowed nicely, acting as a screen. The other lift pinged on four. Why should it do that?

  Idiot – someone wanted off on four. I didn’t wait to look, but hopped in with the girls and Ivonne. I hit the close-door button, and slowly turned to look along the passageway as the lift’s door started to close.

  Not good. Erjon’s man had turned and was staring at the lifts with his mobile phone halfway to his ear.

  Paul had also turned. It was too far to make out his facial expression, but his head was cocked to one side as he stared in our direction. I hoped he was just wondering what a nun and a policewoman, in a figure-hugging uniform, were doing on the fourth floor.

  The last thing I saw as the doors slid together was the back of Erjon’s bald head.

  The lift started its descent. I kept my eyes fixed on the console – speed was of the essence. The third floor came and went. I held the tracking phone up, it confirmed that Erjon was no longer two streets away; it had him positioned in or near the Merchant Building. The second floor came up on the console; the lift continued its descent.

  I turned my head towards Ivonne. ‘Come and stand beside me.’ We stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the lift’s doors. ‘Erjon is on the fourth floor. I spotted him just as the doors closed. Might mean he’s left someone in the foyer. And, his goon was trying to use his phone. Our cover might be blown.’