No.
He would not let him get away with it.
Rob was right – even if he didn’t know anything about it and therefore hadn’t said a word – he would get his revenge in the only way he could. He would expose and condemn Crilly. He would make sure he went to prison. He wouldn’t mention the assault or the threat in his story, because ultimately they were nothing really, he would suck it up and get on with his job. He couldn’t let himself be intimidated, not if he wanted to make a proper career out of this, not if he wanted to get out of town, see the world and work in exotic but occasionally dangerous locations. Proper journalists probably got threatened all the time.
Suddenly full of vim and vigour again, Michael began to march right back to the car wash, although the closer he got the more his new determination to confront and expose began to evaporate. By the time he actually got there, he was content to take up his lurking position across the road. There was no rush, he told himself, no panic; sure, those Watergate reporters Alix was always talking about, hadn’t they been calm and methodical? And they’d brought down a president – all he wanted to do was bring down some hood in a shell suit.
Michael was a little relieved that there was no sign of Crilly, just Navar and his family, hard at work. There weren’t quite so many cars, most probably because the skies had darkened and it was beginning to rain. As it grew heavier, Michael lodged himself in a shop doorway and watched as Navar and his family took shelter in the wooden hut. Once or twice he saw little faces peering out and up at the sky. After another twenty minutes a decision was clearly made – the rain wasn’t going to ease off, so enough for today. The kids came racing out to tidy up whatever portable equipment had been left outside, and it was quickly locked away in the hut. Then they raised two umbrellas and Navar led his family out of the forecourt and along the road towards the centre of town. They did not seem to notice the bedraggled reporter behind. Michael’s plan was to follow them home so that he could expose the squalor they were presumably being forced to live in. That would speak volumes. They would probably all be crushed into one room. Perhaps Crilly was even their landlord, a double whammy of exploitation.
And Michael would indeed have followed them all the way home, but for the fact that half-way along Hamilton Road Navar produced a set of car keys, and the lights flashed on a huge and beaming white Toyota Land Cruiser, boasting that year’s plates, and the whole family quickly scrambled inside. A moment later it pulled out, leaving a sodden reporter thinking exactly one thing: this does not compute. Michael knew a thing or two about cars. A brand-new Land Cruiser like that went for about seventy grand. A brand-new Land Cruiser costing £70k suggested neither exploitation nor squalor.
Christ, thought Michael, their tips must be fucking stellar.
★
Val, who ran the town’s Women’s Aid house, got Alix a cup of coffee in the kitchen, then went up to check on Marja. She came back and said, ‘Give her ten minutes, she’s just had a bit of a sleep, God knows she needed it. She wanted me to go out and get her vodka – that’s how she’s been getting through it all, what they make her do.’
Val was a big, pleasant woman with unruly hair and wide blue eyes. She was from Scotland originally but had married an oil worker from here. The oil worker had nearly killed her and she’d sought refuge with the charity, before becoming a volunteer and eventually the head of the local operation. Alix had interviewed her the year before, and Val had liked the story, even though legally they hadn’t been able to print the half of it.
‘Has she said how long she’s been—?’
‘Six months. Basically a prisoner all that time.’
‘God...’
‘I know... but she’s here now, she’s safe...’
‘And this brothel, do you know anything about—?’
‘Oh yeah, the guy who runs it – we know him well enough. As you know, we’re supposed to be secret here, so husbands and lovers and parents can’t come storming round, but a town like this, word gets out and so pretty much everyone knows where we are. That’s why we’ve doors like bank vaults and cameras everywhere. But the guy – he’s too smart to come here and cause a fuss, he knows eventually Marja’s going to step outside, and sure as hell he’ll be waiting. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again. The half of them get lured right back into it.’
‘What about the police, do they not—?’
‘Oh, they know all about him okay, but they’re kind of stuck – most of the girls won’t press charges because they’ve family back home, and all yer man has to do is threaten them, or even let it be known that they’ve been working as prostitutes, and that scares them into silence.’
‘And can they not just find a way to send the guy back home instead – would that not solve the problem?’
‘Honey – he is home.’
‘How do you mean? I’d presumed he was, like, Czech or Polish or—’
‘God, no, he’s from here, just around the corner, in fact. I don’t know exactly how it works, you’d need to talk to him and I don’t think that’s going to happen, but the girls keep turning up at the airport on a promise of work, so I’m presuming he has connections in these countries who recruit the girls, and then he’s waiting when they get to this end. They arrive all bright and bubbly and they’re given a lovely room and wined and dined by this charming guy who keeps promising their work is going to start soon, but somehow it never quite happens, and next thing they know he’s presenting them with a bill for all the fun they’ve had, and the expense he went to flying them over and putting them up, and of course they haven’t the money to pay him and the interest is piling up every day, but he’s a good guy of course and tell you what, if you show one of my friends a good time I’ll knock some of it off, and so the pressure’s on and they do it to keep him sweet and because nobody is ever going to find out, but suddenly there’s another friend, and another, and next thing you know they’re queuing around the block and before very long they’ve gone from some lovely young girl who likes a bit of an adventure to a fully fledged hooker who’s being held prisoner because he has her passport, and she still somehow owes him money, and he’s plying her with vodka and speed and ecstasy and her life is a fucking nightmare and she wants to die. And that’s why girls like Marja step in front of cars.’
Val was breathing heavily by the end of it. She cupped her untouched coffee in her hand and sighed. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘once you get me started—’
‘It’s fine,’ said Alix, ‘goodness me, it’s hard. But you think Marja did it deliberately, jumped in front of the car?’
‘Absolutely. It was her only way out.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘It is terrible, and there’s precious little we can do about it except try and provide somewhere safe for them.’
Alix sipped at her own coffee. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘maybe there’s something I can do about it. The paper, I mean.’
Val studied her for a moment, then gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Honey,’ she said, ‘don’t get your hopes up. We’ve been down this road before.’
‘You—’
‘Maybe it was before your time, but I went to see your boss. And he didn’t want to know.’
‘Well, there’s a new boss now.’
‘And it won’t make a blind bit of difference. Oh, he might make the right noises, but he’ll always find an excuse not to do anything. There’ll be a legal reason or he’ll say it’s not quite right for our paper or—’
‘My boss isn’t like that, he—’
‘Honey, they’re all like that. These are the men who queue up to use girls like Marja. They aren’t all seedy low-life’s who can’t get it any other way. They’re fathers and husbands and sons. They’re your neighbour, your postman or your priest. They’re men.’
*
Late afternoon and Rob had his feet up on his desk, work ignored and studying the framed photo of his kids that he now kept in his top drawer. It had formerly enj
oyed a place to the left of his computer, but after the first few days he’d found it too distracting. He missed them, every minute, every hour, every day, but they were out of reach and he could see no easy solution to that. It was easier, and it became a necessity, to put them away, in the drawer, rather than have to look at them, because he had a job to do and he had to focus, but he felt inconsolably guilty for doing it. Occasionally, usually towards the end of the day, he sneaked them out, like it was exercise time in prison and then he would glow with pride or feel sad or anxious depending on his mood before hurrying them back into their cell so that he wouldn’t have to scratch at the wound by talking about them when someone like Alix came into his office.
Today she sat opposite him, looking a little anxious herself. He offered her one leg of the Twix he’d just opened, but she shook her head and said, ‘Be careful, that’s what done for your predecessor...’
‘I think what done for Billy Maxwell was old age and a chronic heart condition, but I’ll take it on board. Starting tomorrow.’ He bit into the biscuit. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing,’ he said as he chewed. ‘So what’s up with you? Did you see her?’
‘I saw her.’ She nodded glumly.
‘And?’
‘And she’s in pieces, God love her, but she gave me everything, from her home life in the Czech Republic, how she was recruited, how she was forced into prostitution, who forced her, how he operates, even the names of some of the men who regularly use her.’
‘Excellent. But I sense a but coming on.’
‘But she won’t let me use any of it – at least not while her friend is still being forced to... you know... You may have seen her friend, she was in the back of the car when she jumped out...?’
‘Mmmm, I’d a brief—’
‘Anyway, a week after Marja arrives, Anya followed her from home – mostly because Marja was telling her how wonderful it was. This was when she was still all full of excitement and thinking everything was working out, and now she’s blaming herself for Anya getting sucked into it as well. Marja managed to escape, but Anya... She says if we can work out some way to get Anya out as well, then she’ll let us tell her story.’
‘Right. Okay.’ Rob sat back, and turned the remaining finger of Twix over in his hand. ‘And how exactly are we supposed to do that? Do you have a plan?’
Alix beamed a smile at him. ‘No I don’t. I have a master plan.’
*
Gerry looked up to find Janine leaning in the doorway of his office. She wasn’t looking at him, but through the glass divider into Rob’s office. Gerry looked there too and didn’t see anything other than Rob and Alix apparently arguing with each other. They were marching about the fairly confined space, waving their hands like they were on a stage, but that was nothing new or remarkable. They were always going at it. But there was always a healthy dose of banter with it, and Gerry liked that. He liked them. He liked all of his staff. He liked his newspaper.
‘I was thinking,’ said Janine, side profile, emphasizing what he liked to call her fit-for-forty figure.
‘That’s always dangerous.’
‘About who you need to get rid of.’
‘Janine, it’s nothing to do with you.’
‘I know that.’
He blew air out of his cheeks. ‘Okay, hit me with it.’
‘You need me, that’s a given.’
‘Apparently.’
‘You need Rob because he’s doing a good job turning us around. You need Pete because he’s the backbone of this place, and besides which his redundancy money would probably bankrupt us. Michael and Sean? They cost hardly anything and they work all hours because they’re grateful to have a job.’
‘Mmm-hmmm?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I really like Alix. But you are running a business.’
‘Thank you for your input, Janine.’
‘Any time.’ She gave him a wink and sashayed back to her desk.
Gerry sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy.
*
It was serendipity or fate or the good grace of St Francis de Sales, the patron saint of journalists, that just as Navar’s expensive white Land Cruiser pulled away from the kerb and threatened to disappear around the corner of Hamilton Road, Michael turned and was able to hail a passing taxi. This wasn’t hectic London or even slightly less hectic Belfast, this was Bangor, which had never knowingly known any form of hectic. But nevertheless, there it was, and Michael climbed into the back, scarcely believing his luck, or the fact that he had for definitely the first and possibly the last time in his life the opportunity to exclaim, ‘Follow that car!’
Which is where his luck threatened to run out, because the driver, an elderly man with nicotine-stained fingers and heavy jowls, immediately burst into laughter and then stalled the car. He was thinking it was a wind-up, and it took several long moments for him to be convinced otherwise, during which Navar got further and further away. Finally the engine was started and they took up the pursuit, but their luck was further flummoxed by a series of red lights on Main Street that Navar, with much better timing, managed to avoid. However, his vehicle was big and shiny and hard to miss even in heavy traffic, and once they were out of the main drag, Michael’s taxi was finally able to make considerable headway. By the time they reached the end of Dufferin Avenue they were sitting directly behind Navar, and able to see the kids chatting in the back.
Michael expected they would end up in Kilcooley. That was the kind of place that immigrants or those claiming asylum would tend to be sent. He could imagine them all crushed into some dank and damp apartment, the kind that would already have been turned down by a homeless alcoholic because he believed it wasn’t fit for human habitation, because first world poverty was a nonsense. The Navars of this world would accept it with good grace in the full knowledge that they would soon work their way out of it.
But, in fact, they didn’t get anywhere near Kilcooley – instead they were barely half a mile along the Bryansburn Road before Navar turned off into Maxwell Road, widely regarded as the most salubrious location in town. Michael wondered briefly if Navar and his family had another job as well – they certainly seemed to be a very efficient little taskforce. About half-way along, the Land Cruiser turned into a wide driveway leading up to a large Victorian detached house with an apparently recently built double garage beside it in which sat two expensive-looking cars. The Land Cruiser crunched across gravel and came to a stop by the front door. As Michael’s taxi drew up, the family got out and hurried up to the front door. The mother paused to key in an alarm code before inserting a key and leading the way in. Michael sat, quite astonished, for several moments before being prompted by his driver; he quickly scrambled for some change and handed it over; his request for a receipt was denied. A few moments later, he found himself standing on the pavement in the pouring rain looking up at what clearly seemed to be Navar’s very impressive house, with not a little modicum of despair. Michael still lived with his parents, and couldn’t ever imagine owning something so salubrious. He largely existed in a bedroom that still boasted the posters he had hung when he was fifteen – one for the original version of Star Wars and one for Billy Wilder’s The Front Page. He had accidentally stumbled across the movie on a Sky channel and had watched it a hundred times; the farce and the fun and the drama of it had lured him towards journalism, though he had quickly discovered that life on the Chicago Examiner was nothing like that on the Bangor Express, that Pete was nothing like Jack Lemmon, and Rob the opposite of Walter Matthau.
‘Excuse me – can I help you?’
Michael had zoned out. As he focused back in he saw that Navar was back at the Land Cruiser, with the rear door open and a plastic Tesco bag in his hand, and looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
‘I—’
‘I know who you are, but what are you doing here at my home?’
‘I was doing a story... on the accident and thought...’
‘
You followed me to my home?’
‘No... yes... I was just wondering...’ Navar moved closer. He looked quite young, maybe still in his thirties, and his demeanour wasn’t exactly stern, and definitely wasn’t threatening. He was no Crilly, that was for sure. ‘I was just... well, to tell you the truth, yes, I am doing an article on the accident, but also my boss thought there might be a story in you as well.’
‘In me?’
‘Yes, I mean – he saw that your whole family seems to be working at the car wash, and he was worried that you were being exploited by Mr Crilly.’
Navar nodded his head slowly. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, ahm...?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh – Michael, I’m Michael.’
‘Well, Michael, perhaps you would like to come in and have a cup of tea?’
Without waiting for a response, Navar turned back to his house. After just a moment’s hesitation Michael followed. He was led along a tiled hall that gave him glimpses of large family rooms on either side, both with impressively huge televisions, and into an equally spacious and modern kitchen, which they had to themselves. He could hear footsteps above and the sound of water running. Navar indicated for him to take a seat at the long wooden bench-style table and then set about filling the kettle.
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