by Janet Pywell
‘That,’ Raymond snarls, ‘is the fault of our prime minister.’
‘Just one last question—’
The office door opens unceremoniously and the male secretary watches us suspiciously before announcing, ‘The shadow chancellor is on line two for you.’
Chapter 14
“Only crime and the criminal, it is true, confront us with the perplexity of radical evil; but only the hypocrite is really rotten to the core.”
Hannah Arendt
The following afternoon it is wet and grey. It’s the day before the election and two weeks until Christmas. I glance out of the van window, ignoring London’s Embankment and allowing myself to be hypnotised by the windscreen wipers’ rubbery screeching across the glass.
‘I’m so annoyed with myself for not asking him outright.’
‘You couldn’t do that, Mikky.’ Peter checks the rearview mirror and overtakes a red double-decker. ‘We can’t afford to upset him, not at this stage, considering it’s right before the election.’
‘I’m going to nail him next time.’
‘I know. Look, I’ve checked his schedule for today. After drinks in Westminster at five, he has an early evening appointment with senior ministers, followed by an evening reception at Tate Modern’s David Hockney exhibition.’ Peter drives, carefully negotiating the London traffic, past Westminster Bridge and Big Ben; I check my watch.
‘Drop me off where you can.’
My phone rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Mikky? It’s Adam.’
‘Hi.’
‘I need help.’
‘What’s happened?’ I press the speakerphone so that Peter can hear.
‘I’ve been waiting for you at Dixon House but you haven’t shown up.’
‘No.’
‘Have you abandoned us?’
‘No, of course not. What’s happened?’
‘I took Monika home with me to my foster family last night, but the Asian was waiting outside the house this morning.’
I glance at Peter.
‘Did he do anything?’
‘He’s recruiting again. He’s taking local kids and rumour has it that he’s taking them out of London. He’s setting up a new county line. A couple of local kids have already disappeared.’
‘Did you tell Matt?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘What will he do?’
‘Tell the police, but they don’t do anything. You did. At least you tried to stop him. We trust you, but I’m worried about Monika. She’s really sad. She was crying all night. She’s frightened.’
‘You must ask Matt to help you.’
‘It’s only when we stay at Dixon House that he can protect us, but we can’t stay there forever, and besides, Monika doesn’t feel safe there, either.’
‘So, where are you both?’
‘We’ve been walking around, staying in busy places – Oxford Street, Soho, and places – but we can’t keep walking, and I can’t involve my foster family. I don’t know what to do …’
‘Hang on.’ I cover the mouthpiece with my hand and say to Peter, ‘Can you go and pick them up, and I’ll watch out for Raymond at Westminster. Then we can get help with social services?’
Peter nods.
‘Where are you now?’ I ask Adam.
‘Near Covent Garden.’
‘Okay, then walk down toward the Embankment. Peter is driving the white van, and he’ll collect you.’
Out of the van window, I see Raymond Harris hurrying along the street. I cover the mouthpiece again.
‘Look, Peter! There’s Raymond. Let me out here, and I’ll follow him.’
Peter pulls over to the kerb, and I say quickly to Adam, ‘Wait on the Embankment. Peter will be there in a few minutes.’
‘Okay, Mikky. Thanks.’
I pocket the phone and pull open the van door as Peter comes to a brief halt on yellow lines.
‘Take care, Mikky,’ Peter calls.
‘He’s not going to escape me this time.’
* * *
I pull up the collar of my jacket, and I’m about ten metres behind Raymond Harris when Peter’s van passes me. I wave and give him the thumbs up.
Knowing my time is short, I lengthen my stride and quicken my step, and within minutes I’ve caught up with Raymond.
I’m walking beside him when I say, ‘Excuse me, Raymond?’
He turns and barely pauses. Although he smiles politely, there’s a hint of irritation in his frown.
‘Yes?’
‘Mikky dos Santos, I interviewed y—’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘I just wanted to ask you one last quick question.’
‘I’m in a hurry.’ He makes a big deal of checking his watch.
‘I can walk with you. It will only take a minute of your time.’
He turns away and expects I will follow him.
‘I didn’t realise the old building they used for filming was so important.’
‘Right.’
‘You want to build social housing?’
‘We discussed this yesterday. It’s a disgrace. It’s been empty for so long, and the longer it remains empty, the more the area becomes a breeding ground for drugs cartels and people who don’t help our society. I know theories don’t prove anything, but I’ve already explained the broken windows theory to you. It’s symbolic.’ He’s sounding impatient.
‘I know.’
‘Broken windows create more broken windows. It’s a criminology theory, proving there are visible signs of anti-social behaviour and civil disorder in these sort of abandoned places – that creates an atmosphere for even more crime, sometimes even more sinister crimes that involve young people.’
‘Like drugs gangs?’
‘Potentially.’
‘Cults?’ I insist.
He sighs heavily. ‘The theory suggests police patrol these areas to prevent further crimes such as vandalism, public drinking, drugs—’
‘To protect society?’
‘To improve law and order. But unfortunately, we have a prime minister who promises one thing and does another. And, because he dithers over the decision-making process for a building such as this one, and he – or his pathetic government – hasn’t bothered policing the area, either. Crime increases faster than you can snuff it out! Now, does that answer your question?’
‘No.’
‘Then get to the point! We’re nearly there …’ He stops abruptly at the gated entrance to Westminster.
‘Ali is the name of the boy who died a few weeks ago. He jumped off Tower Bridge. Did he visit you in your office the night he died?’
Raymond stares at me. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Did he go to your office?’ I insist.
Raymond shakes his head. ‘I don’t recall …’
‘What if I told you that Ali did visit your office – and that he was there for fifteen minutes.’
‘I’d say you’re very mistaken! Be careful you don’t go making up slanderous stories.’
‘I want the truth. What did he say to you?’
‘He didn’t say anything, because quite simply, I wasn’t there.’ He turns on his heel and disappears into Westminster.
‘I’ll find out!’ I shout, but he’s already disappeared.
* * *
I pull up the collar of my jacket and take the incoming call on my mobile, my head still firmly in my conversation with Raymond and his abrupt departure.
Where does that leave us?
Who was in the office?
Who did Ali speak to?
‘Ms dos Santos? It’s Martin McVey from Bond Street,’ a clipped, well-toned voice says in my ear. ‘You were asking about replica daggers?’
‘Yes, hello. Thank you. I was.’
‘I have found someone who will make a similar model to the dagger that you showed me, should you still wish them to do so.’
‘Has he made one before?’
‘I believe he has.’
‘He’s definitely made a copy of the dagger I showed you?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Who is he?’
‘It’s a private company.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I can’t divulge that information. My client only works through reputable outlets, and he doesn’t deal directly with the public.’
‘Who commissioned the last dagger?’ I’m walking along beside the road, keeping a lookout for Peter’s white van.
‘I can’t tell you that, either. All our clients remain confidential.’
‘If you don’t tell me, the police will be all over your shop within a matter of minutes. They will raid your premises, and it won’t look good in Bond Street. You’re withholding important police information and—’
‘You’ve shown me no evidence or documented proof that you’re working with the police, Ms dos Santos—’ His tone is equable and firm.
‘I’m with Europol, and we’re working on a case of this stolen – and precious – dagger.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you?’ I reply tersely.
‘In that case, perhaps you should come into the shop, with some appropriate evidence of your identity and position, and we can discuss it further.’
‘Fine,’ I say, wondering how I can get forged documents made so quickly. ‘I’ll call in later today.’
‘I’m here until 5 p.m., Ms dos Santos. I look forward to seeing you – if you have the appropriate papers.’ He hangs up, leaving me thoughtful and excited.
* * *
I call Peter.
‘Did you find Adam and Monika?’
‘The traffic is horrendous. I’m almost there.’
‘Raymond denied that Ali had visited his office, so he’s either lying, or someone else in his office has turned bad. Did you get a list of his employees?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Martin McVey from the shop in Bond Street has found a guy who makes replicas of the dagger we’re looking for, but he won’t give me any details unless I provide him with documentation that we’re from Europol.’
‘Is that what you told him.’
‘Yeah, I tried to threaten him, but he wasn’t having any of it.’
Peter laughs. ‘You should have been a mobster.’
‘I wouldn’t have been very successful.’ And I grin despite myself. ‘Can you hack into his phone records or something?’
‘Mikky, do you think I’m a magician or something? I’m driving a van, and I can’t just hack into everyone’s records and phone calls at the drop of a hat.’
‘You must know someone who can help. What about Bill, your friend?’
‘He’s a helicopter pilot.’
‘Is there no one else who can help us?’
‘I’ll give it some thought. Look, I can see Adam and Monika. I’ll collect you. Walk up to Westminster Bridge and we’ll drop Adam and Monika at Dixon House, and make sure they’re safe, before we do anything else.’
* * *
I pull out my phone and dial Matt’s number. He answers straight away.
‘Adam took Monika home to his foster family last night but the Asian was waiting outside their house this morning,’ I say without preamble. ‘Fortunately, Adam managed to get her out but they’re not safe. We are just picking them up now. The Asian is brazen, Matt. He keeps showing up in Islington – why? What can we do?’
‘I’d heard the Asian wasn’t around anymore.’
‘Well, he was this morning. He’s back in Islington. He’s recruiting and taking the kids out of London. Maybe he’s setting up elsewhere, and he needs some vulnerable kids quickly?’
‘I’ll call the police,’ says Matt.
‘We’ll bring Adam and Monika to Dixon House.’
‘I’ll also call social services,’ Matt adds. ‘They can’t stay in this danger. We might have to relocate them to another area.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Are they with you now?’
‘Peter is collecting them along the Embankment, then he’s collecting me. These kids are in trouble—’
‘Where are you?’
‘At Westminster.’
* * *
I take Adam and Monika into Dixon House while Peter waits in the van. It takes me a few minutes, with Matt, to listen to their story, and when Matt lifts the telephone to speak to Chief Inspector Mulhoon and the social services representative, I’m ready to leave.
After hugging Monika and making sure she’s drinking hot chocolate and feels she’s safe, I promise Adam and Monika I’ll see them tomorrow.
‘Thanks, Mikky. I didn’t know who else to phone.’ Adam looks down at an invisible spot on the floor,
‘Always come here to Dixon House,’ I say. ‘You’re safe here and Matt will protect you.’
‘I know we should, but—’
‘I might not always be available. This is what Matt does. He takes care of you, and he will find a solution. He’s on your side, and he will fight to keep you safe.’ I want to hug him but I don’t.
Adam nods at me, remains silent, and continues staring at an invisible patch on the floor.
‘Monika, I’ll make sure we’re in touch tomorrow. Stay here, and stay safe.’
When I get back to the van, Peter is smiling.
‘You look like you’ve been speaking to Aniela,’ I say.
‘Wrong!’
‘Okay, what’s happened?’
‘I’ve found the craftsman.’
‘That was quick! I knew you could do it. How?’
‘It was easy to check the Bond Street shop’s records. Martin made the call to him this morning.’
‘How did you know he’s the craftsman?’
‘Because he’s listed in the directory. I cross-checked.’
‘It’s as simple as that?’
Peter grins. ‘Yup! Oh, by the way, I’m meeting Bill for a drink at lunchtime, to thank him for his help.’
‘Okay.’
‘Do you want to come?’
‘You’re joking; I’m still getting over my last hangover!’
Jake Helmsdale, the craftsman, lives in Camden.
We park the van quickly and walk to his studio near the market, and as we enter, a small bell tinkles above the door like in the old shops of yesteryear.
Jake is in his mid-forties, with a shaved head and tattoos covering his head, neck, and arms. I’m trying to work out the designs; I don’t want to stare, but I guess he’s used to people reacting in the way I’m doing now.
He smiles. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi.’ I walk toward him with my hand stretched out. ‘Mikky dos Santos. This is my boyfriend, Peter.’
Jake wipes his hands on a dirty rag.
‘I don’t have any appointments today, I—’
‘I know. I’m sorry, but we’re heading home today, and we heard that you’re a fine craftsman.’
‘Home?’
‘Yes, we live in Spain.’
‘Hablas español?’ Jake says.
I reply, lying in fluent Spanish, my native tongue.
‘Claro, of course, I speak Spanish. I live in Mallorca – where did you learn the language?’
Jake replies in English.
‘I lived there for a while; my parents had a place near Murcia.’
He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, so we talk about Spain, Brexit, and then London and living in Camden. He’s friendly and relaxed. He’s also clearly well-educated.
‘I opened my studio a few years ago,’ he explains. ‘I’ve always had an interest in bronze, but I work mostly with steel and iron, and occasionally with rare gemstones and minerals.’
‘It’s amazing the number of people who commission items,’ I say. ‘In my experience, working in Madrid at the El Prado, many replicas could fool experts.’
‘Was that your job?’
‘Mostly; I catalogued the different pieces, but speaking to the range of experts, not all of them agreed.’
‘I want a replica made of Napoleon’s gold-encrusted sword …’ I lie.
Jake continues to stare at me, then he turns his attention to Peter, who leans casually against the workbench.
‘Okay,’ he replies quickly.
‘How can you do it? Can we use photographs?’
‘They would have to be detailed – if you wanted a replica.’
‘Have you done anything like this before?’
Jake shrugs. ‘I’ve done a lot of commissions.’
‘Can I see the results?’
Jake is wary. I sense him weighing us up, and then he asks, ‘How did you hear of me?’
‘Through a friend of a friend,’ I reply mysteriously, equally unwilling to share information.
‘Unless I know your source, I’d find it hard to—’
‘Trust us?’ I finish.
‘Yes.’ He smiles.
‘I don’t need to know who you made things for – we’d just like to see some samples? Make sure your work is of a suitable standard.’
‘I’ve made some serious pieces for considerable sums.’
‘I’m sure you have, but I need to be sure that the recommendation has a foundation. I need to know, Jake, that you can handle this project with sensitivity and discretion.’
‘I’d never betray a client.’
I smile. ‘That’s a good start, and that’s what I like to hear.’
‘I’ll need some evidence about you, too.’ Jake moves away from the table. ‘A piece like this is likely to be expensive, so I will need a trustee or someone who will vouch for you.’
‘Joachin Abascal is my boss. He’s prepared to do that.’
‘I’ll also need proof that you have the funds.’
‘We can provide that, can’t we, cariño?’ I turn to look at Peter, and in return, he nods his head thoughtfully. ‘I can show you our bank details.’
Jake nods and writes down Joachin’s name.
‘The gold-encrusted sabre that was once owned by Napoleon Bonaparte was last sold for $6.5 million,’ I say.
Jake rubs his hand across the Aztec maze tattoo on his head. ‘That’s no problem.’
‘How do you charge for your pieces?’ I ask.