‘I can’t find Piet,’ she told the criminologist. ‘My husband. He’s not answering his phone. I’m getting worried. He’s not—’
‘Come on. Let’s get you a coffee and we’ll talk,’ the girl said, Gabi noting how she carefully stepped into the middle of each individual carpet tile without breaching any joints. ‘Take no notice of Wilhemina, by the way. She’s one of the Commissioner’s kiss-arses. I can see what’s happening here.’
Inside the austere office, empty of decoration but for an orchid plant, Gabi took a seat opposite the Chief Inspector, the criminologist at her side. She felt somewhat calmer in here, but only marginally so. The spectre of the journalist she had met in the pub lurked still. A scavenger circling the car-crash carrion of her life. Some dirt wouldn’t wash out.
‘You think I did it, don’t you?’ She searched the Chief Inspector’s angular face for the truth. Found only flinty enigma there, but perhaps a flicker of warmth in those grey eyes. ‘I’ve had some journalist accusing me of foul play because I can’t make my car repayments. Everyone’s trying to use Josh’s problems as a stick to beat me with. What happened to the gypsies?’ Turning to the criminologist in the hope that she would offer some measure of hope where all hope had been lost.
The girl toyed with one of her curls and bit her lip. ‘You and your missing children have ended up political pawns, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘The Chief of Police is desperate for the glory of finding Lucy and Josh, so he’s responded with a knee-jerk reaction to the sitings and theories that the phone-ins have thrown up. Every Tom, Dick and Harry has an opinion. Perverts. Paedos. Gypsies. Paul, here, has been haring down blind alleys for weeks and there’s still no trace of your kids.’
‘I’ve made it all ten times worse, haven’t I?’ Gabi felt tears brimming in her eyes, then overflowing onto her pale-pink silk blouse, like a rain-soaked rose petal.
The criminologist shook her head. Nodded. She shook her head again, then shrugged. ‘Without it, you wouldn’t have had every pair of eyes on the continent on the lookout for Lucy and Josh. But now …’
‘Everyone thinks I did it. No bodies, so maybe I took my own kids, killed them and made them disappear. Am I right?’ She sobbed into a child’s novelty tissue that she found at the bottom of her handbag. Sesamstraat-themed. A pack she’d bought for Lucy when she had had that stinking summer cold in May. Tiny nose, permanently runny. That was before the world had ended. She held the tissue to her chest. ‘What have I done to deserve this? God hates me, doesn’t he? Everything I love gets taken away. My parents. My reputation. My babies, for Christ’s sake.’
The Chief Inspector shifted his position behind his desk and stopped doodling absently in his pad. He sniffed. ‘I don’t think you did it. George, here, doesn’t think you did it. Only my superior, Commissioner Kamphuis, wants to look into that possibility. And I couldn’t speculate as to whether he’s a dick or not, because that would be disloyal and unprofessional of me. But me and George … we believe we’re dealing with an international criminal network. There’s a possible connection to people traffickers in Italy and Germany. England too.’
The criminologist reached out as if to touch Gabi’s hand but seemingly thought better of it and went back to arranging paperclips in a perfectly straight line. ‘I’ve read your files cover to cover and I’ve been to your house,’ she said. ‘I’ve visited every suspected crime scene with the investigating team. You’re an easy scapegoat for the media. I saw that clip on last night’s news, where you took a swing at the paparazzo. You need to dial it down before it becomes a media feeding frenzy. You’re a PR woman. You should know the sort of woman the public would fall in love with. Demure. Likeable. Thankful. They don’t understand ball-breakers.’
Closing her eyes, Gabi remembered the small man from the gutter press who had buzzed around her at the supermarket like an irritating wasp, snapping away with his camera, his fresh-faced lackey, holding a recorder for her to speak into.
Do you get dolled up for the cameras because you don’t care? Is that why you’re back at work? Are you glad the kids have gone? Does it free you up to be a career woman instead of a good mother?
She clenched her fist. ‘He was lucky I didn’t knock him out. I wanted to.’
For the first time in weeks, and certainly for the first time in public, Gabi allowed herself to cry. There was no stopping the tidal wave of grief that drowned out every other salient thought. The words limped out after at least five minutes of unintelligible attempts at speech.
‘I-I can’t take it anymore. I-I can’t … I just …’ She scratched resentfully at her wet eyes. It was too late for dignity and poise. She was glad. She turned to the criminologist. ‘Are you sure it’s traffickers?’
The girl’s dark eyes widened, backlit by white-hot enthusiasm. ‘I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Eight months ago, two children were abducted by a player in a paedophile ring in Lewisham. Very similar circumstances. I mean, really similar. Kids went missing from their back garden while they were kicking some leaves about.’
‘It might just be coincidence,’ Gabi said, wrestling with the intolerable notion of her babies being prey to paedophiles and the familiar sinking feeling of heading down yet another blind alley. ‘How can you be sure?’
The girl squeezed her arm with a ferocity bordering on pain. ‘This is my field of expertise, Gabi.’
CHAPTER 31
London, Westminster, 17 March, present
She was sitting in the Strutton Ground pub with a middle-aged man, far away enough from the Millbank offices to avoid the scrutiny of his colleagues. Maybe that was telling. Through the large window, he could see that her fingers were interlaced through his. A broad smile that showed teeth and gums. She flicked her hair over her shoulder with her free hand. Definite flirtation. When he wasn’t checking furtively over his shoulder, her companion was grinning and blushing too. Toying with his wedding ring, now. This was clandestine. They were both vulnerable. Good.
‘Time to go home, lovebirds,’ the ragged man muttered, as he shifted his painful position behind the industrial-sized wheelie bin that was standing diagonally opposite. Waiting for bin day. Waiting to rid this cobbled street of its Westminster secrets.
The mystery man inside the pub laughed at something, then ran a hand over his thinning hair.
No mystery here, though. He’d done his research. Judging by the photos that had come up on Google image, this was Graham Tokár from the Open Society Foundation. Also a possible target, until he had weighed up the fact that the man was half-Hungarian and might not speak the language of the gypsies which would need to be the case if he was to be interrogated. Plus, there was the fact that he was physically big. Even though the homeless assassin was now packing a gun, given the amount of travelling they would have to do together, taking a man hostage was logistically risky.
‘You’ll do me just fine,’ he told himself, as he observed Sophie Bartek.
Drip, drip, drip, onto his shoulders as the icicles above him started to unmake themselves, dissolving finally in the falling sleet that had replaced the snow in the last few hours. Already, the two or three feet drifts had thinned to just over one foot of slush. But cold, still biting its way through his newspaper layers and sodden, filthy clothes. Feet, numb, blistered, frostbitten. At least he could still walk in the boots the Salvation Army had given him before they had started to ask too many nosey questions.
He shook. Would his aim be true if he needed to use that gun? It had better be. He was a soldier nearing the frontline. It was his duty to stand his ground even in the face of death.
When the couple emerged, putting up umbrellas, he held his breath, praying that they would part company. Bartek would, in theory, be heading up to King’s Cross Station to catch the train to Cambridge. Tokár’s online presence showed he was registered to an address in Southwark. If the wedding ring was anything to go by, the girl should not be following him home to bunk up in a cosy threesome with his wife.
‘Come on, for fuck’s sake,’ he muttered, hanging back in St Matthew Street, only three or four metres away. Watching. Tired of waiting. Feeling the weapon in his pocket.
‘I’m cold,’ she said. ‘This was wonderful.’ Held his free hand, pushed away, then pulled herself closer still. Two plumes of hot breath, steaming on the sleet-filled air.
‘Stay,’ he said, hooking her hair behind her ear. ‘She’s away on business.’ Those words within earshot quickly became something more suggestive that only the intended recipient could hear.
Giggling.
‘I can’t. Not tonight. I’ve got to go. Look. We’ll do this again.’ She checked her watch under the streetlight. ‘I’ll miss my train.’
The two parted company on Victoria Street amid the perennial throng of snowboot-clad tourists and workers heading home after the pub. Embracing stiffly in public, as though they were only friends with no benefits whatsoever, Tokár disappeared off in the direction of Westminster. Bartek was poised to cross the busy street, no doubt aiming for St. James’s tube station.
Now was his chance.
‘Don’t cross if you want to live,’ he said, pressing the barrel of the gun into her kidney.
Sophie Bartek looked around at him. Dazzling green eyes stricken by fear.
‘Take my bag,’ she said. ‘I’ve got cash. I’ve got cards. You want to get warm and fed, right? Take it!’
‘Don’t make assumptions,’ he said. ‘And don’t make a fucking sound. We’re going on a little trip.’
The walk up to Charing Cross was one of the most nerve-wracking duties he had had to perform. She just wouldn’t stop talking.
‘I can help you get shelter for the night,’ she said. ‘There’s no need to resort to violence, dude.’
Kept eyeballing him, though he had pressed the gun harder into her side and told her to look dead ahead.
‘You need to see a doctor. You’ve got some septic shit going on with your face. Seriously. And your fingers, man. You’ve got bad frostbite. Why don’t we go to the walk-in centre? They might be still open. I won’t tell them.’
Why did she have to be so bloody nice?
‘Shut your mouth, for god’s sake,’ he said. ‘Let’s just get on the train. I’ll explain what I want you to do there.’
All the way to Sittingbourne, she persisted in shooting him nervous glances. Caring glances. Fixing him with those spellbinding green eyes that gave a glimpse, through their glacial translucence, of the kind soul that dwelled inside this woman. She would be hard to kill.
‘Keep looking ahead. You do as I say and you’ll be fine,’ he said.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked, peering at the white watermarks on the uppers of his oversized boots.
‘It’s where you’re from that matters. You’re Slovakian, aren’t you?’
‘My Dad is, yes,’ she said, her voice tremulous. ‘How do you know?’
‘You’re from Romani stock?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. So you can speak the language of Slovakian Roma?’
The caravans were lined up at the entrance to an industrial estate. White elephants, huddled together in the snow. Even in minus twenty and falling, the encampment reeked of fire and human shit. Deeper snow out here. Fat flakes drifting down to the ground instead of sleet, as though rural Kent had not heard that a thaw was on. He shook violently. Felt cold sweat pouring down his back. Time for more paracetamol, though today’s supply was all used up already. Death beckoned, offering sweet release, but he still had work to do. He willed himself to hold the gun firm.
‘What are we doing here?’ Bartek asked.
Accordion music was coming from a large, brightly lit caravan. Cigarette smoke rendered the windows almost opaque. Men’s voices in happy high spirits. He automatically steered Bartek away from that place.
‘I need to speak to an elder,’ he said. ‘A woman, preferably.’
Bartek surveyed the range of vehicles. ‘Go for the quiet ones,’ she said. ‘The women will be asleep in there with the children.’ She turned to him. An accusatory look etched onto her pinched face. ‘You’re not some kind of racist moron, are you? You’re not going to kill them?’
‘No. I want information. I can’t think of another way of getting it. But you’ll help me, if you want to live.’
She swallowed hard and rubbed her mouth. She almost tripped on her long, fringed skirt as they approached a large RV where only one window near the driver’s cab was lit. She knocked and said something quickly in a foreign tongue that he didn’t recognise.
The door opened to reveal an elderly Roma woman, swaddled in a headscarf, wearing several cardigans one on top of the other like skins of an onion. When she caught sight of the gun, she balked and started prattling panicked words that meant nothing to him. Too loud!
‘Tell her to shut the hell up. Get inside the caravan.’
The interior of the RV was pristine. Euro-trash-bling shining surfaces. Mirrored this and that, reflecting mood lighting that came from LED lights concealed behind gold trim. Plush carpet. Pristine pink padded sofas covered in showroom plastic. He felt like he had fallen into a life-sized Barbie’s world. The smell of heavy floral air-freshener masked odours of sweat and food. At the far end, little lumpy bundles slept beneath ethnic blankets.
‘This your family?’ he asked, waving the gun in the direction of a gallery of photos. Mainly boys. Some almost adult. Some small children.
Bartek translated. The old woman nodded, chattering away with a loose, toothless mouth. He began to get nervous that they were plotting against him.
‘Can it! I want you to tell me if you’ve seen these children.’ He pulled the crumpled photo from his pocket. Didn’t feel anything now.
‘They were taken. I’m trying to find them.’ He poked the pistol in Bartek’s shoulder. ‘Tell her. Tell her, I’ve been given information that they might be here or might have passed through here. That these gypsies might know about the Son of the Eagle.’
Bartek’s eyes widened. ‘Son of the Eagle.’
‘You’ve heard of him?’
She nodded. She turned to the old woman. ‘Shquipëtar.’
A sharp intake of breath. The old woman’s collapsed, gnarled face contorted into a snapshot of fear.
‘Shquipëtar,’ she repeated.
There ensued an exchange between her and Bartek that made him momentarily hopeful that some new piece of information would be revealed.
‘What is she saying?’ he asked.
‘Shh! Let her speak,’ Bartek said.
After some time, the woman fell silent. She stood and glanced out of the window. Then spoke again.
Bartek turned to him. ‘She says we have to go if we want to live. Gun or no gun, if her sons find you here, you’re toast.’
He clutched his coat close, shuddering violently, holding onto the gun as though it was the only anchor he had left in this world. ‘Tell me what she said. Then, we’ll go. Please. Don’t make this your last night on earth.’ He swallowed two paracetamol with the spit he had left, his teeth chattering.
Tying her hair into a bun, watched furtively by the old Roma woman, Bartek explained, ‘The Seful de Platz – that’s the guy who runs this encampment’s money-making activities—’
‘Like a pimp? Or a godfather?’
‘Yes. Exactly. It literally means chief of the square. So, the Seful de Platz has been in cahoots with some British child traffickers that run a child trafficking gig all over Western Europe. This woman knows of a couple of Roma girls – no more than ten or eleven years old – who have been trafficked through this guy. He told them he had work for them as cleaners in
hospitals. Turns out they just went missing and ended up on the streets in Berlin. Nobody trusts this fucker, but he rules their encampment like a little Hitler. Any dissention, and they’re out of work. No begging. No windscreen washing. No cleaning. No mugging. These guys rely on a supportive network and working on a sanctioned ‘patch’. If they disagree with him, they’re cut off from the community and any chance of a livelihood.’
The old woman nodded, though she couldn’t possibly have known whether Bartek was relating her tale faithfully or not. It sounded believable enough.
‘What about the children in the photo and the Son of the Eagle?’
‘She hasn’t seen these specific children, but the missing Roma kids have apparently been drafted into a paedophile ring that runs out of a hotel in Margate. This is all conjecture, by the way. It’s visited by the rich and famous, she says. Politicians, celebrities. That sort of thing. The filthy rich and untouchable.’ She shuddered. ‘Fucking horrid, but then, the Roma are used to being used and abused like this. That’s what comes from being classed as Untermenschen. Do you understand that term? Untermensch?’
He nodded. ‘Sub-human. Spare me the social conscience. What’s the name of this hotel?’
She repeated the words in the Roma tongue. The old woman’s face hardened.
‘She doesn’t know,’ Bartek said, stiffening suddenly.
Voices on the freezing wind. One Roma. One instantly recognisable as South East London.
The old woman spoke rapidly. ‘The Seful de Platz is coming. Quickly. We’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Tell her, thank you. Tell her, I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no fucking time, man. Let’s go.’
‘How do you know you’re safe from me but not from whoever’s outside?’
‘Instinct, dickhead. Move it!’
They slid out of the caravan, the old woman shutting the door softly behind them. He felt a twinge of guilt that he had subjected her to it, but more he felt irritation that he’d failed to get the name of the Margate hotel.
As they crept together into the deep shadows, he caught sight of the two approaching men making their way towards the rowdy caravan where the accordion music still issued forth, accompanied now by raucous laughter. One short Roma man, middle-aged, dressed in an expensive-looking anorak but still shabby-looking next to the younger man at his side. Tall, built like an athlete, overly groomed features of a mixed-race pop idol visible even with his hood up. Fox-fur-trimmed. The finest parka money could buy.
The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows Page 18