Victims for Sale

by Nish Amarnath

  I smacked my forehead and groaned. This skulking-around business could be a ruse to trap me, I realised. I hurried back to the cab and slid in disconcertedly. Through the rear window glass, I noticed a pair of headlights flashing at me from a silver Vauxhall Astra several yards behind.

  Fuck, someone is tailing me too.

  I waved at the cabbie frantically. ‘Go, go! As fast as you can!’

  16

  Aylesbury

  9 April

  ‘Your CNBC interview, San,’ Ritchie reminded me on Monday morning, nudging me off the hotel bed. ‘There’s fresh coffee waiting for you.’

  I stood up and stretched. Ritchie shrugged into a crisp blue button-down shirt. ‘I’m leaving for a meeting with the manager of a post-production facility for the Unilever film,’ he informed.

  I drank my coffee, showered and put on a flattering beige linen dress suit I had bought at Debenhams on Saturday to replace the regular job-interview attire I had left behind in Charlton, along with everything else. Ritchie shuffled some papers into a briefcase. ‘You look gorgeous, San. I’m leaving now. All the best. Be safe.’ He kissed me and darted out.

  I began applying makeup when my phone rang.

  ‘Am I speaking to … uh, Sandy?’ a hushed female voice inquired when I answered.

  ‘That’s me. Who’s calling?’

  ‘This is Eliza Rixon. I’m a security agent in Buckinghamshire,’ the woman responded. ‘Are you related to a Ms Asha Sawant?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Is she all right?’

  Rixon cleared her throat. ‘I found Ms Sawant and about thirty other children locked up in a unit here this morning. Ms Sawant is, um, special, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. Uh, you say you also found thirty other children?’

  ‘Those kids look like they haven’t eaten for days. I found Ms Sawant crying in the loo. I coaxed her to give me a phone number of someone from her family. She’s good with numbers, it seems. You’re the only person I could reach. I hope you’ll help me get them out of here.’

  Asha … the kids … Oh God! The room spun around me.

  ‘You can speak to Ms Sawant yourself,’ Rixon said.

  Before I could respond, I heard muffled howls and gasps at the other end of the line. There was no mistaking those high-pitched wails. They were Asha’s.

  ‘Asha? It’s me, Sandy. Are you all right?’

  There was more sobbing. A bout of coughs followed.

  ‘Oh, God! Asha? Can you hear me?’ I shrieked.

  ‘They … they … they take me,’ Asha sniveled in a broken voice. ‘Wanna go back.’

  ‘I’m coming, Asha!’ I cried. ‘I’ll take you home. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Uh-uh …’ Asha mumbled softly.

  ‘I love you, Asha. I’ll be there soon.’

  Rixon came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry about that, Sandy. For now, Asha’s in good hands.’ She’s just …’

  ‘How can I get there?’ I screeched.

  ‘I can have my security agency send a vehicle to pick you up, ma’am. What’s your location?’

  I spewed out the address of the Travelodge hotel. ‘I’ll inform the police right away,’ I added. ‘Where exactly is this unit?’

  ‘That’s your call, but I wouldn’t recommend it. If these kids have been abducted and their kidnapper gets wind of a tip-off to the police, they may all be killed.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I gasped. ‘I’ll wait in the lobby.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I heard a swift click.

  My call to Nimmy went unanswered. I left a stricken message on his voicemail and made myself more coffee.

  An automated text message reached me after a while.

  ‘BMW 3-Series. Black sedan. License Plate number: M TF 3783.’

  I grabbed my things and raced to the elevator. I debated against alerting the Squad until I rescued Asha and the children. Ritchie’s phone was switched off. He must have been on the tube. I sank into a sofa in the lobby and shot Ritchie a text message. Just then, my phone rang.

  ‘Eliza Rixon sent me to pick you up. I’m waiting outside,’ the man informed.

  I flew down the steps into a waiting limousine. As we took off, I noticed a car revving its engine several yards behind us. The same silver Astra I had seen outside the White City station last Friday. I should tell Rixon I’m being followed. I scrolled through the call register on my phone to ring her back, but I saw that she had contacted me from an undisclosed number.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I inquired.

  ‘Aylesbury. Forty miles north-west of London,’ the chauffeur replied.

  Halfway through the journey, I remembered that I would miss my job interview with CNBC. Dammit! I reached for my phone to cite an emergency and reschedule it. A diminutive symbol crisscrossed the top right corner of my phone screen.

  ‘I’m not getting any reception on my mobile!’ I exclaimed.

  The chauffeur shrugged. ‘We’re on the road, Miss. You could try again in a bit.’

  Restless and anxious, I glanced behind me. We seemed to be in Watford, but there was no trace of the silver Astra anymore. When I turned back, I felt ill at ease. But I couldn’t quite place a finger on it. ‘Please hurry,’ I begged, gazing in dismay at the snarl of traffic on the M25.

  The driver looked flustered. ‘I’m trying, Miss. I can’t wish away this Monday morning traffic.’

  After what seemed like ages, the limo entered a sprawling commercial estate near an unfinished construction site on a quiet road sandwiched between rows of parched brownfields and thatched-roof villas. A wooden placard by the gates read Bellwether Business Park. Below it was a chessboard of metallic nameplates, mostly empty – except for the logos of three companies, which looked like start-up consultancies.

  ‘Here we go,’ he announced as we pulled into a parking spot on the rear of a brick-wall building numbered 5. A stocky African-origin woman in a pinstriped suit nodded a cursory acknowledgment to the chauffeur and waved me in. A string of empty cubicles before me opened out to a small lounge and a set of revolving doors at the far end of a hallway.

  Two security agents hovered in the lobby with walkie-talkies on their trouser-belts. A young, red-haired man manned the phones at a desk in the reception area.

  The woman shot out a hand. ‘Sandy? Thank you for coming. I’m Eliza Rixon.’

  I offered a limp handshake. ‘Where are Asha and the kids?’

  ‘Everyone’s fine for now,’ Rixon replied, knocking on an antique brass grille door to my left.

  ‘Let her in,’ a thin male male voice called out from within.

  ‘The gentlemen in there will give you a better picture of what’s going on,’ Rixon assured.

  Hardly had I stumbled into the room when the door slammed shut behind me.

  A balding middle-aged bloke in a crisp grey three-piece suit sat before a large mahogany desk. Another wavy-haired man stood by a modular, three-piece credenza behind the desk, desultorily sifting through the contents of a box file. A gnarled vein of sunshine snaked through a set of teal-coloured honeycomb shades by an awning window to my left.

  The man rose from his desk and extended his hand. ‘Thanks for coming here, Sandy,’ he greeted in a thick Italian accent, gesturing at a leather chair before him. ‘I’m Aldrigo Mexxo … you can call me Mex. Care for a cup of tea?’

  I took off my coat and sat hesitantly. ‘Mx Rixon said some children were trapped—’

  Mez cut me off with a wave of his hand. ‘Carlos, get the lady a cup of tea, please,’ he ordered the man with the box-file. Carlos hustled to a small, wainscoted pantry in a corner of the office.

  ‘We’ll get to the children after you answer some questions,’ Mez said smoothly.

  When Mez’s cold, arctic blue eyes bore into mine, the origin of my discomfort at the sedan struck me with the force of a groundswell. If I wasn’t mistaken, I had seen a camel-coloured falcon swishing back and forth from a slender, curved hook attached to the rearview mirror. In my anxiety for Ash
a and the children I hadn’t processed the image. Carlos placed a cup of piping hot tea on the desk before me. Aiden McLeod’s men.

  I have fallen into a deadly trap.

  ‘Let’s begin,’ Mez purred. ‘Were you the reason behind Horace Fitzgerald’s arrest?’

  ‘Horace Fitzgerald died twelve years ago,’ I stated, fighting to sound calm.

  Mez walked around the desk and squeezed my jaw. ‘Don’t mess with me, honey.’

  He nodded swiftly towards Carlos, who retreated to the pantry.

  I fumbled in my handbag for my mobile phone and tried to jam the speed dial for Ritchie.

  ‘Go on, try it …’ Mez crooned. ‘We’ve insulated this building from mobile phone and Wi-Fi connectivity, just like we did for our entire fleet of cars.’

  Sure enough, my phone had no reception. Carlos emerged with a wooden knife block and a skein of rope. A crippling wave of terror ran down my spine.

  Mez tossed my handbag on to a Chintz couch. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘You mean Rick Martinez? Yes, I was responsible for his arrest.’ I choked.

  ‘Indeed,’ Mez spat, holding me in place as Carlos wrenched my suit and dress away. I shivered in my sheer silk chemise and stockings as he bound my hands and legs to the chair.

  ‘See how beautifully our plan worked?’ Mez grinned. ‘We knew you’d come running here like a mad hen if you thought that crazy chick was in danger.’

  ‘Is Asha safe?’ I pleaded.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mez smirked. ‘Eliza posed as a domestic caretaker and got that kid out from her loony bin in Watford. She brought Asha to her car outside and called you from there, so you’d believe her if you spoke to the kid. Then Eliza sent Asha back in and returned to Aylesbury long before you arrived.’

  ‘Why did Asha cry then?’ I demanded.

  Mez snorted. ‘Silly wimp thought she was being kidnapped, didn’t she, Carlos?’

  Carlos guffawed. I shrank back when he grabbed a serrated bread knife from the block.

  ‘If you’ll just listen …’ I began. My words dissolved into a strangled yelp as Carlos grabbed fistfuls of my hair and snapped my head back. ‘Ours is a big business. Many care homes and refugee shelters send their residents to clients and research organisations that pay handsomely.’

  ‘First, it was that lousy campaign and the fucking TV show,’ Mez snarled. ‘Then you started snooping around that care home, videotaping everything, asking questions. Before we realise what’s happening, you plan a story on national television. We disposed of your friends. But you managed to elude us all the time … despite the fire at the BBC and numerous other attempts …’

  I heard a defiant rip from the lacy fabric of my garment as Mez forced his hand under my chemise and plucked off my bra. Then he squashed my breasts until I could barely breathe.

  ‘Because of you, our folks are counting bars in jail. And the funding for our stem cell research will be revoked. Big Bird ain’t happy about all of this,’ Carlos growled.

  ‘Stem cell?’ I gasped.

  A cruel jab on the swell of my right breast sent a jolt of shock through my system. Carlos withdrew the knife and thrust it into my defenseless breast again. The scent of blood drifted over me. The knife sank into different areas of my right breast while Mez relentlessly pumped my left breast. I scrunched my eyes shut. Mez squished my nipples just as Carlos pierced a delicate spot near my cleavage. I gave in and screamed.

  Carlos began working the knife on my left breast, infiltrating my tissue just deep enough to inflict unbearable pain each time. The luxury of passing out dissipated when Mez pushed my nipples inward with such force that I was left gasping for breath under the smouldering pressure of his fingers on my ribcage. Carlos was simultaneously digging the knife-edge into the bulging underside of my left breast. Then he swatted Mez’s hands away and twisted my throbbing nipples in opposite directions.

  An indefinable pressure descended on my lungs.

  Now, I felt the bloodied knife-blade across one of my nipples. Tears of angst and imploration streaked my face. ‘We’ll chop off these little pink beauties, won’t we?’ Carlos taunted. Then he twirled my tortured nipple with the knife.

  The pain was so excruciating that I thought my heart was starting to give out. When the knife fell to the floor with a clang, I realised I had pressed my feet to the floor and hurled myself against the chair to scrape it back. Carlos skidded along, grabbing the arm of the chair. I rammed into the surface of a casegood bookshelf behind me. Something landed on my lap from a shelf on the rack. A photo frame. Amidst a spray of key-chains, paper clips and figurines on the floor, a stray photo beckoned to the tangents of my intermittent consciousness.

  A bespectacled lad at a sunny beachfront smiled at me from that picture with a small, squint-eyed girl staring vacantly into space. The sunlight accentuated the amber gradients of his pupils behind those glasses … A teenaged version of someone I must have met … Splinters of recognition grazed the fringes of my depleting cognizance.

  Lord Melvin Bradshaw? What is his picture doing here?

  The stench of a far-flung, yet numbing, possibility pervaded my senses.

  Is Lord Bradshaw the Big Bird?

  Mez grabbed the picture-frame, slid the photograph back into it and placed it back in the bookshelf. Carlos regained his balance.

  Mez walked around to the front and issued a quick nod to Carlos.

  This is it. I’m going to die.

  ‘If you kill me, Lord Bradshaw will be disgraced. Publicly!’ I proclaimed.

  Mez looked a little off-guard, but Carlos rumbled with laughter. ‘What’s this, baby? What does Bradford whoever have to do with our dirty little secrets?’ he sneered.

  ‘I know that Lord Melvin Bradshaw, CEO of the Eric Gregersen Group, is your ring-leader,’ I stated. Carlos jerked his hand off me – like he’d been bitten by a king cobra.

  ‘I’ve got incriminating evidence to prove Bradshaw’s involvement,’ I lied, taking on a more imperious tone. ‘The documents are with my solicitor, who is informed about my whereabouts at every stage. My solicitor will release them to the media if anything happens to me. And that’s what he’ll believe if he doesn’t hear from me soon.’

  ‘What sort of evidence do you have?’ Mez inquired sharply.

  ‘Circumstantial evidence and records directly implicating Bradshaw,’ I rasped, coughing heavily. I pointed at my handbag on the couch. ‘W-water. And my inhaler.’

  The duo eyed me dubiously.

  ‘If anything happens to me …’ I began.

  Mez fumbled around in my handbag. I alternately gulped the water he poured into my mouth and breathed into the inhaler he held out gingerly. ‘The evidence is damning.’ I wheezed. ‘If it’s ever released to the public …’

  ‘Evidence, my foot. She has none. She’s doin’ it to save ’er bleedin’ tits.’ Carlos sniggered.

  Mez motioned for Carlos to be quiet.

  ‘I have nothing to lose,’ I rasped. ‘I’ll just be another person you cross off your list. For you, it’ll mean the collapse of a massive empire. The demise of Bradshaw. Is that what you …?’ I coughed some more. ‘… overcame all your hardships for? To eventually give up your legacy because of a stupid mistake?’

  ‘What’s the deal, here?’ Carlos questioned.

  ‘You let me go and I keep silent. I’m also offering you a story on your success as an immigrant … on the BBC, ITV …’ Steady ripples of lassitude stole my senses.

  Mez’s voice ricocheted through the periphery of my consciousness. ‘Carlos, what are you waiting for? Get those pliers. This girl can’t die yet.’

  Sharp cool jets jerked me into wakefulness. I shrieked as cold wet globules of water seeped into the pores of my lacerations. It looked like Mez was washing off the congealing clumps of blood on my chest and stomach. I felt the ropes around my shoulders and wrists snap off. I found the armholes of my crumpled, stained chemise, which had slipped down to my waist. I slid my ha
nds into them and haphazardly pulled the slip up to cover my battered torso. I tried to move, but my legs remained bound. The door rattled with the click of a keycard.

  I heard Rixon holler, ‘We’ve got another weasel to deal with!’

  The door swung open and Ritchie staggered in. Varying degrees of shock, fear and anger flitted across his face as he attempted to rush to my side.

  ‘Not so fast, dude,’ Carlos crooned, grabbing Ritchie’s shoulder.

  ‘My lawyer has appointed this man to keep track of me,’ I called out sternly. ‘All evidence against Bradshaw is with my lawyer. If anything happens to either of us …’

  Mez was already rolling my chair forward. A haze of turmoil and confusion clouded over Ritchie’s face. I heard another chair being dragged behind me. Mez bound the hind legs of both chairs together. ‘Blimey, what a load of guff!’ Carlos spat, grabbing Ritchie’s collar.

  Ritchie landed a resounding blow on Carlos’ jaw.

  I watched in horror as Mez shoved Carlos aside and encircled Ritchie’s throat.

  ‘The news will go live tomorrow if you don’t let us go!’ I shouted desperately.

  Carlos pinned Ritchie’s arms behind him while Mez jammed his fingers into Ritchie’s carotids.

  ‘Just let go of him!’ I begged.

  Mez released his hold. Ritchie crumpled to the floor, coughing and gagging furiously.

  ‘I have no idea what to do with them,’ Mez admitted to Carlos.

  ‘Let’s get Big Bird here. He’ll know what’s best,’ Carlos suggested.

  ‘I s’ppose,’ Mez sighed. ‘What they’re saying could be all fiddle-faddle, but we don’t want to take any chances, right?’

  Mez and Carlos dragged Ritchie to the chair behind me and swiftly bound his hands and feet.

  ‘We’ll be back soon,’ Carlos hissed. ‘Any dirty tricks, and you’re both dead.’

  ‘You’re bleeding a lot, San,’ Ritchie rasped, coughing painfully. Realising that my hands were free, I struggled to draw my chair closer to the desk, dragging Ritchie and his chair behind with me. Ritchie leaned back against his chair and pushed his feet against the floor to bolster my effort.