by Casey, Jane
I couldn’t believe he was actually arguing with me. ‘They were locked in. They died in screaming terror. That wasn’t a choice.’
‘We find the women who escape traffickers are very reluctant to trust anyone,’ Bridges said. ‘Especially us. They’re not used to police forces they can rely on, for the most part. They expect us to be corrupt at best, involved at worst. And they don’t know if any interaction is a test. If they ask for help from someone who seems kind and he tells their pimp, they get a beating. If they try to run away and they get caught, they get killed. If they get away, the traffickers go and find their families in Nigeria or Romania or China or wherever they started out, and they beat them up. They rape their kids, their siblings. They kill their parents.’
‘Why bother?’ Belcott asked. ‘Why don’t they just grab a new girl and move on?’
‘Because it’s hard to move humans across borders legally, and even harder to do it illegally. A bird in the hand is worth at least two trying to enter the country. Humans are worth more than drugs. A girl can make tens of thousands for a gang. But they need to keep them scared. That makes the girls obedient.’ Bridges shrugged. ‘It’s worth their while. They hurt one girl or her family, the word spreads to the others. I promise you, I’m not exaggerating how they operate. They bring the women here or wherever they start out – Germany, France, Russia – and the women cooperate all along the line, thinking they’re coming to a new life. And they are. It’s just not the one they were promised.’
‘How do we find out who they were?’ I asked Bridges. ‘We don’t have faces for them, let alone names.’
‘We probably won’t ever know. Not unless Interpol sends us a missing person report that matches the details and we can test familial DNA. For now, we have nothing on these women. We don’t know who was running the show. We don’t know what they were even doing, or where they were working.’
‘There’s one other thing we don’t know,’ Dornton said. ‘There were three of them in the flat, according to the neighbours. Three bedrooms in the flat. Three sets of belongings. Three toothbrushes in the bathroom.’ He looked around the room, knowing we couldn’t answer him, asking anyway. ‘So where is she? Where’s the third girl?’
Chapter 16
‘COMING OUT?’
I straightened up from where I’d been kneeling by my desk, unplugging my mobile phone from its charger. ‘Oh, Mal, I don’t know. I’m a bit tired.’
His shoulders sagged a little. ‘Yeah, I know. Everyone is. Next year I’ll try and have my birthday on a day we aren’t dealing with a massive arson.’
‘I think we’d all appreciate that.’ I bit my lip. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Another time.’ He managed a smile as he moved away and I remembered with a pang what it was like to ask the team to come out for a drink for the first time – the first test of whether you were popular and valued or just that new DC who no one really knew.
‘I’ll come for a bit,’ I said, impulsively.
He turned, transformed by delight. ‘Really?’
I’d had some sleep. About three hours, total, before Derwent had collected me to go to Armstrong’s postmortem.
To be perfectly honest, that was about what I averaged on a normal night.
‘I’m sure. I might not stay for very long,’ I warned.
‘That’s fine. Brilliant.’ He gave me two thumbs up, grinning widely, then headed off with a noticeable spring in his step. It was so easy to make people happy, I thought, pawing through my bag to find some lipstick. And at least I had everything I needed with me.
‘Kerrigan …’ The word was drawn out, the tone silky and dangerous. Derwent was sitting on his desk chair, leaning well back, rotating a few inches to the left, then the right. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting ready to leave the office.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
I brushed blusher onto my cheeks, then smiled at him. If you think I’m going to ask you what you do mean, you must not know me very well.
He sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. ‘Playing a little game?’
‘Nope.’ I was concentrating on my mouth. The margin for error with red lipstick was too small to take risks.
‘Why are you going out for a drink with him?’
‘I’m going out for a drink with the team. Are you coming?’
A frown. ‘Haven’t decided.’
‘Think fast. The clock’s ticking.’
Around the room, people were pulling on their coats. Liv was plaiting her long dark hair, her fingers flying. She looked surprised, then pleased when she realised I was getting ready too.
I threw my make-up into my bag and picked up my phone, thumbing through screens, tapping in one quick update after another on various sites. Heading out for team drinks in the local! Mine’s a gin. The chirpy tone set my teeth on edge. Heading to Red Velvet later for dancing. Who’s with me?
Derwent was still watching me. ‘If you’re expecting me to do something exciting, you’re going to be disappointed,’ I said mildly.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Absolutely nothing. Goodnight.’ I picked up my bag and crossed the room to where Liv was waiting for me. I didn’t have to look back to know that Derwent was still watching me as I left.
I stood in the corner of the pub, half-listening to Dave Kemp telling me about an arrest a friend of his had made.
‘The mum keeps going on about how he’s not there. She says he’s in Spain, says she hasn’t seen him for two weeks. And the whole time the kid is standing behind her in the hall.’
‘Ha ha,’ I said, because it was expected. Three drinks in. More people were arriving, letting a rush of cold air into the pub every time the door opened. It had started raining and my enthusiasm for heading out into the night was low. The trouble was that I couldn’t stay. Mal was at the centre of a crowd, his eyes shiny from pleasure and a lot of alcohol consumed much too quickly. His shirt had pulled out from his trousers on one side. I needed to fight through to the bar and buy him a drink before I left, but Dave was blocking me in, whether he knew it or not. I stared over his shoulder, nodding when he paused for a response. The door opened again and Derwent prowled in like the Prince of Darkness he fondly believed himself to be. Raindrops sparkled like stars across the shoulders of his coat. He passed through the crowd, acknowledging greetings, muttering a comment that made Chris Pettifer throw his head back with a shout of laughter. He clapped Mal on the shoulder and leaned past him to order from the barman, who hurried to get him his round. I glanced down the bar, seeing frowns from customers who’d been waiting to be served. It would take more than a frown to shame Derwent into behaving himself.
But this was England. And the worst Derwent had to fear was someone saying, quite clearly, ‘Wanker.’
It might have been possible for him to ignore it completely, but of course Derwent wasn’t that person. He stopped in the act of getting his change and turned. ‘Sorry?’
‘I said, “Wanker”.’ It was a guy with artfully tousled hair, a media type if I had to guess from his t-shirt and his designer jeans and the trainers that were too ridiculous to be anything but a cult brand. The girl he was with looked away, her expression pained. She ran a hand through her hair and licked her lips and Derwent glanced at her, then stared with that single-minded focus I knew too well. Skinny jeans, tight top, cascading hair. Subtle as a manicured brick. Derwent’s type in more ways than one.
‘Oh shit,’ I said, moving even though Dave was in the middle of a sentence. I couldn’t afford to be polite just at that moment. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Have you got a problem, mate?’ the man asked, beginning to shift from foot to foot, as if all he needed was the right angle to punch Derwent into the middle of next week. He didn’t stand a chance.
‘I don’t have a problem. Have you?’ Derwent demanded.
‘Did you get me a drink? I’m dying of thirst.’ I leaned in between the two men, facing Derwent. ‘Don�
��t tell me you forgot me.’
‘I couldn’t see you.’
‘I was in the corner with Dave Kemp.’
It was like waving a squeaky toy in front of a German Shepherd. Derwent frowned, distracted from the fight he’d been fully prepared to start. ‘What were you doing with him?’
‘Talking.’
‘Just talking.’
‘Listening,’ I admitted. ‘He was doing most of the talking.’
Derwent glowered in his direction. Dave was very conscious of his own good looks – not something that Derwent trusted, even though he had more than his fair share of vanity.
‘Why are you wasting time with him? Are you missing Rob?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘It’s absolutely my business if you’re going to start boring me with stories about Dave Kemp.’
I leaned back as far as I could go, which wasn’t very. The pub was heaving with Friday evening drinkers celebrating the end of the working week, and the crowd had swallowed the angry man. The noise level meant we might as well have been alone. ‘When have I ever told you anything about my love life? Willingly, I mean?’
‘Never.’
‘So why would I start now?’ Someone jostled me and I swayed towards Derwent, a little closer than I would have chosen to be. He looked at my mouth for a long moment, then took the glass out of my hand and sniffed it.
‘What’s this?’
‘The usual,’ I said tightly.
‘Gin and tonic.’ It wasn’t a question. He’d bought it for me himself more than once. He tilted the glass and drained it, pulling a face as he put the empty glass on the bar.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’
‘I’ll get you another one.’
‘Don’t bother, I—’
‘They put too much ice in it. I couldn’t even taste the gin.’ It was a throwaway remark, unless you realised he was watching my reaction in the mirror over the bar.
That was it. I had to go.
‘I’m going to the ladies.’ I walked away from him, pushing through the crowd until I fetched up by Liv’s side. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi yourself. What was that about?’
‘Getting between Derwent and an argument.’
‘That was nice of you.’
‘I don’t want to ruin Mal’s birthday.’
‘Ruin it? I think you made it. He was so pleased you came.’
‘I haven’t even had a chance to speak to him.’
‘You’re not the most sociable person on the team,’ Liv said. ‘It’s like seeing a white rhino when you’re on safari.’
‘A white rhino. Charming.’
‘Because they’re rare,’ she protested, pulling me in for a hug. ‘Seriously, it’s good to see you out. I’ve missed you.’
‘I haven’t been anywhere. You’re the one who was away.’
She shook her head. ‘You know what I mean. You’ve been missing. Present but not present.’
‘I’ve been doing my job.’
‘And that’s about it.’ There was real concern on her face. ‘If you need to talk—’
‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘You don’t look well. Are you eating? Are you sleeping?’
‘Liv, I’m having a night out. A rare one, as you pointed out. Do me a favour and back off, will you?’ I went past her and pushed through the door that led to the toilets. I felt cold, numb, aware in an anaesthetised sort of way that the row with Liv had hurt – and would hurt more later. What else was I going to break? What else was I willing to sacrifice? And still I was dry-eyed, full of purpose. The ladies’ room was a symphony of patterned brown carpet and pink sanitary ware, most of it cracked or chipped. The lavatory in my cubicle was alarmingly stained. The air freshener was strong enough that I could taste it. I took out my phone and tapped in a status update on every social media site I could think of, then ransacked my bag. Hairbrush. Blister strip of pills. Make-up. Mirror. Perfume. Heels. A dress that was barely worthy of the name.
Nothing I would ever wear normally. Nothing I would ever wear in front of someone who knew me. I applied it to myself like armour, humming under my breath so I couldn’t hear the voice in my head that was shouting a warning.
I walked back out into the pub a few minutes later. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Liv falter and stop talking, her face set.
‘Fucking hell,’ Pettifer said as I moved past him. ‘I didn’t know you were the entertainment, Kerrigan. Bit of a tip for you. Usually the strippers start off dressed and then take their kit off, not the other way round.’
I ignored him, leaning in to kiss Mal on the cheek. ‘Sorry I have to go. Have a great night.’
He half said something, his eyes round. I couldn’t stand to look at him, or the other members of the team who were standing around him.
I couldn’t even stand to catch my own dark-rimmed eyes in the mirror behind the bar.
As I moved towards the door, I saw Derwent. I was completely unsurprised to see that he was talking to the girl who’d been with the man who’d called Derwent a wanker. Insult me and I’ll take your bird. Whether I want her or not.
Then again, maybe Derwent did want her. She was sitting on a bar stool as he stood in front of her. He bent to say something into her ear that was only meant for her to hear, something that made her dip her head and giggle. His hand was on her thigh and as I watched he moved so his thumb slid between her legs, high up, and he was still talking, words spinning a spell, binding her to him. I saw her react, half-resisting at first, then giving in. He could do what he wanted with her.
He owned her.
I walked out of the pub and the cold night air was like a shot of adrenalin to the heart. I hailed a black cab and jumped into the back, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t look to see if anyone had followed. I wasn’t planning to wait anyway.
Later – much later – I stretched my arms above my head, not caring that it made the difference between my skirt being brief and indecent. My eyes were half-closed. The music pounded in my chest, blurring out my heartbeat, replacing it with something sharp and fast that made me think I might die there and then. I was hot, my hair damp, my dress sticking to my skin. Around me, bodies writhed, moving in time to the music, in thrall to the DJ. My feet ached, my head rang and I was barely aware of it. I couldn’t hear myself think, which was fine by me. My phone purred against my hip, vibrating with a message I should probably have read, but I decided it could stay in my bag for the moment. Half of the people in the club were high; the other half just hadn’t scored yet. They were blank-eyed, distant, part of a single organism that was totally devoted to hedonism, or as close to hedonism as you could get in a basement club in King’s Cross. I was attracting plenty of attention, which had been my intention all along. Even sweat-smeared mascara and lank hair didn’t put them off. I allowed one of the bigger men to grab hold of me around the waist for a second. Then I pushed him away, my eyelids lowered, my expression disdainful. It wasn’t him I wanted.
I closed my eyes completely for a second, imagining the man I did want, summoning him with so much concentration, so much desire that it was a genuine surprise when I opened my eyes and he wasn’t there. All of the men near me were wrong – their faces, their bodies. The way they held themselves. The way they looked at me.
Abruptly, I stopped dancing and elbowed my way off the dance floor with scant regard for anyone else. I made it past the ring of men who stood around the edge, watching the women with hungry eyes. I made it all the way to the sticky carpeted area by the bar where there was a smoked-glass mirror. I had time to see myself and appreciate for a moment the total transformation from policewoman to party girl. Legs forever, tumbling hair, sulky mouth. It was so convincing if you didn’t look into my eyes, at the weariness and self-loathing. Time to go. I took a step towards the exit before the big guy who’d grabbed me on the dance floor came up behind me and took hold of me, this time by the neck. He
pressed me back against his body, against the damp blue shirt that clung to overdeveloped pectoral muscles. Rugby player, I thought, going limp so he didn’t feel he needed to put any pressure on my neck. It’s all fun and games until someone dies of vagal inhibition.
He said something, his voice a rumble that I felt more than heard. It was too deep for me to pick out actual words, the pitch identical to the bass that throbbed in my ears, in my blood. I locked eyes with him in the mirror and apparently that was enough to count as a yes, because he lifted me off my feet and carried me down the hallway to the men’s room.
I was protesting and wriggling, trying to get free as he shoved the door open. The bathroom stank of stale urine, harsh pine air freshener and cheap aftershave. There was an attendant, tall and dark-skinned, Indian at a guess. He threw a single glance in our direction, then turned to rearrange the hand towels, affecting not to see anything.
No help.
‘Get off me,’ I snarled. My voice seemed too loud in my ears and yet no one reacted. The music throbbed outside but the bathroom was quiet: flushing lavatories, running water. Men, ignoring me. Ignoring the man who held me. Deaf and blind, witnesses to nothing. The ones who did look had a confused, wary expression. I don’t want to get involved. I don’t want to get hurt. Maybe one of them would man up, find a bouncer and mention what was going on.
Or maybe not.
‘Fucking let go of me, you twat,’ I hissed.
Mr Blue Shirt elbowed a cubicle door and shoved me through it, which was a mistake because I got hold of the edge of the door and whipped it back into his face, slamming it over and over against his arm, his shoulder, his head. He lost his grip on me completely and for a second I was winning, but then he lowered his shoulder and charged the door and I had to jump back or risk getting flattened. I knew a lot about fighting in confined spaces, and I was trained in unarmed combat, but the main bit of relevant training was no help to me. Don’t let yourself get trapped. Don’t go out without back-up. Don’t take on anyone bigger than you. Don’t, in short, do any of the things I had done. And I still didn’t feel scared, which was stupid. He was a distraction, not the main event. I couldn’t quite believe that he was going to get in my way so comprehensively.