Death & Back

by Rob Aspinall

  The roof of the car park is empty. Detective Clarke waits for me in the centre. I brake to a sudden stop alongside him, my window down.

  Clarke winds down his own. A scowl on his face. "What the hell have you done with Eddie Prince?"

  "Relax, he's in one piece."

  "Where exactly?"

  "Depends if he caught a bus or not. If he didn't, you might find him in the fields, out Surrey way."

  "Alive?"

  "Well if he's not, you can tick him off your list. One less dickhead to worry about."

  Clarke rubs a hand over his face. "We were talking him into being a snitch. I think we were close. Now his wife's in hospital and there are four dead bodies on his lawn."

  "They shot at me first. What was I supposed to do? Wave a hanky?”

  "Not steal a bin lorry and ram it through his front gates."

  "You wanted this," I say. "You got it."

  "Yeah, well there'll be no one left to prosecute at this rate."

  "No one left to exploit refugees, either."

  "What I mean is, we won't be able to use them to get at the senior figures. The real operators."

  "Then you'd better get off your arse and start helping."

  Clarke sips on a takeaway coffee. "You know we can't go around kicking doors in. Why do you think I let you loose on this?"

  "Then don't complain when it gets tasty. Christ, you coppers. You want your bloody cake, don't you?"

  "Didn't think it'd be this public. The papers have got hold of it. Local TV, too. They're asking a lot of questions and we don't have any answers . . . First, Randall's found dead. Now this. What's your plan, Charlie?"

  "Moving up the food chain," I say. "You had the call yet?"

  "About what?"

  "The barracks."

  "What barracks?"

  I reach over to the passenger seat and grab the laptop. I hand it over.

  Clarke takes it. “What now?”

  "Hard evidence.” I hand him Prince's scribbled note with the address of the barracks. "There's a crew putting out a small fire. They've probably found the coke and the slave labour by now. If you get your arse in gear, you might get there early enough to put your name on it."

  Clarke starts the engine on his car.

  "One more thing, Columbo," I say. "I've got something else for you. A second location, down the docks. You tie this one to the barracks and you've got a case, with or without Prince Eddie. Once you've bagged and tagged at the barracks, you can kick in the doors of this other place—"

  Clarke holds up a hand. Stops me dead. "There's not gonna be a raid, Charlie."

  "What? Are you thick or something? I'm handing it you on a silver platter. On a bloody velvet cushion."

  "It's not that simple. It takes patience, politics."

  "It takes the piss, that’s what.”

  Clarke swallows another mouthful of coffee. “For a man who doesn’t give a toss, you seem awfully passionate.”

  "There's a way to do business," I say. "And this isn't it."

  Clarke says nothing.

  I shake my head at him. "Never mind, I'll see to it myself." I start the engine. "Get yourself to those barracks. We'll see how patient you are then."

  For the first time, Clarke seems to clock that I'm driving a Rolls. "Is that Prince's motor?"

  "Bloody hell Sherlock, nothing gets past you." I put the Rolls in gear.

  "Promise me you won't make a mess," Clarke says.

  I can't help laughing. "I'm just warming up," I say, stepping on the accelerator.

  I drive across the rooftop car park and spiral down to street level. The last thing I wanna do is go after these bastards alone, but I'm damned if I'm leaving Amira and the others to rot.

  I tap on the onboard computer screen. Type the second location in the sat nav. I set off towards Silvertown.

  49

  I step inside a greasy spoon full of dockers between shifts.

  It's warm, noisy and smells of bacon and eggs. A radio plays pop music. The colour scheme is white tables and green chairs.

  There's a pile of coats hung up on a rack as you enter the café. A large, mousy-haired woman behind the counter in a green apron. Forearms like hams. She's a cheerful soul and fixes me up a bacon butty and a cup of tea. I take a seat across from a table where four dock workers demolish a fry up each. They talk in four-letter words. Who beat who in the football. How many pints they sunk at the weekend.

  I eat the sandwich. I like my bacon crispy. But it doesn't matter how many times you tell 'em, these gaffs always undercook it. I pull a rubbery piece of fat out of my gob. I sip on my brew. Jesus Christ, what did she do? Wave the tea bag at it?

  I open up the butty and squirt on some ketchup. I slap the top piece of bread down and get sauce on my fingers. As I lick it off, I notice the bloke nearest to me scratching his crotch. He's a young lad with shaved hair and tattoos. There he goes again. Scratch, scratch, scratch. That's the third time he's done it inside a minute.

  Yeah, he's the fella I'm looking for.

  I lean over and tap him on the shoulder. "Hey, pal. You know where a bloke can sow a few oats around here?"

  "Depends," he says, turning in his seat. "What type you after?"

  "There's more than one type?"

  A guy with long, greased-back grey hair sneers at me. "He means, are you a bender?"

  "Not unless your mum's a fella," I say. "Come to think of it, she did ask for it up the shit-box. Maybe it was your old man I was shagging."

  The four blokes laugh.

  The lad with the shaven head lowers his voice. "What I mean is, you into pale or dark? Young or younger?"

  "I kinda like the exotic type," I say.

  "Then you want Cristina."

  "Who's that?" I ask.

  The four blokes break into laughter again.

  "Ask for Nabil. Say Mickey sent you."

  "Alright, will do.”

  Mickey slaps me on the arm. "That's twenty per cent off my next one. Nice one geez."

  I finish the rest of my sandwich. A big old bloke behind me gets to his feet with a groan. He heads to the toilet, taking his newspaper with him.

  He leaves an empty plate behind him, stained with swirls of egg yolk and ketchup. And more importantly, a black woollen hat. I look around me and snatch it off the table. I down the rest of the tea. Bloody awful, but this vigilante lark is thirsty work.

  I search for a coat on the rack. One that'll fit. The trick to nicking is not to rush it. I check the length of a sleeve next to my arm and snatch it off the peg.

  I open the flimsy café door and step outside. The docks are proper blue collar down here. The city lot live and work further up and over the river in shiny glass buildings like Canary Wharf. No, here it's all tugboats, freighters, shipping containers and giant cranes.

  Dockers go about their work and trucks load up with pallets fresh off the boats.

  I stand outside the greasy spoon and pull on the stolen coat. I zip it up and prick the collars. I put the hat on and wear it low over my forehead. I dig my hands in my pockets and hunch my shoulders.

  I walk a hundred metres up the dock. There's a white ship with a blue hull at the water's edge, yellowing around the edges and moored by giant ropes.

  It says Cristina on the back. It's the length of a small ferry. Not quite as tall or wide, but big enough to sail a long way with a lot of cargo. I don't see any activity on deck. Just a lone man hanging around dressed much the same as me.

  He nods as I approach him. He's dark-skinned and small with a mess of curly black hair.

  "You Nabil?" I ask. "Mickey pointed me your way."

  The guy looks at me through letterbox eyes. "Not seen you before."

  "I'm new, transferred from Liverpool."

  The guy rolls his tongue inside his bottom lip. "It's two hundred. You got the money?"

  I reach in my pocket for my wallet.

  "Not here," he says, checking the coast both ways. "Inside."

&nb
sp; He leads me up a narrow set of white steps. They extend over the lapping brown water onto the deck of the ship.

  "Mind your head," the guy says, as we enter through a low-hanging doorway.

  I hear him too late and nut the steel frame.

  It hurts, but I act cool, following him down a set of suspended steel steps. We make a couple of twists and turns and into an office. It has a small porthole window, a desk with a computer on top and a freestanding grey safe in the far corner. The desk has a drawer. He opens it and takes out a sheet of laminated paper.

  He walks around to the front of the desk. Hands me the laminated sheet. "Take your pick."

  I scan down a list of photographs. Shots of women stood against a white wall. Some of them Arabic. One of them Amira.

  I point at Amira's photograph. "That one," I say.

  The guy hesitates. "One moment." He picks up the receiver of a black telephone next to the computer monitor. He hits a speed dial number and holds the receiver to his ear. I pace around on the spot, acting casual.

  Nabil talks in another language. The same language the guard at the barracks spoke in. He returns the receiver to the handset. "Okay," he says. "But you have to wait."

  I check my watch. "How long? My shift starts in an hour."

  "Twenty minutes," the guy says. "Or you can choose another."

  "No, I'll wait," I say, handing him the sheet. "I like this one."

  Nabil looks at me like he's waiting for something.

  "Oh, the money. Of course." I pull out my wallet. I count out a couple of hundred in twenties. I hand it over. "Here you go, pal."

  Nabil recounts it and pockets the cash. "You can wait here," he says, motioning to a row of three chairs against the wall. He leaves the office without saying a word.

  The chairs are blue and hard on the arse cheeks. I sit on one for twenty minutes, watching a clock on the wall behind the desk.

  Nabil reappears in the doorway. "Follow me," he says.

  I get up and follow him through another series of cramped corridors and down a second staircase. We continue to a fat steel door. He swings it open and invites me in. I'm greeted by a large cargo hold bathed in murky red light. And full of small cubicles: beds behind blue hospital curtains. Two rows of ten.

  We walk along the aisle between cubicles.

  Some curtains are open, others drawn closed.

  I catch sight of young, naked women lying motionless in bed, hooked up to what I reckon must be morphine drips

  We pass by a couple of punters along the way. One, an old dock worker with wiry white hair, zipping up. The other, a middle-aged city type in a suit, zipping down.

  The place stinks of sweat and stale jizz. It makes my stomach churn.

  To my surprise, the guy doesn't drop me off at a cubicle. We walk straight past 'em, to the end of the cargo hold. Through another ridiculously low doorway.

  After a sharp right, he stops at a door. "Sorry about the wait. I've arranged a room for you."

  "Very kind," I say, wanting to keep him sweet.

  He almost manages a smile as he pulls the door open. I step inside.

  Amira sits on the edge of a bed against the far wall, long dark hair hanging down over her face. Her body naked, dirty and bruised. Puncture marks in the soft skin between bicep and forearm.

  I swallow my anger. Gotta play along.

  "You've got fifteen minutes," Nabil says, before disappearing through the door.

  I approach the bed. "Amira," I say. She doesn't respond. "Hey, Amira." I put two fingers under her chin and lift her head. I push her lank hair off her face.

  The face is vaguely similar. But it's not Amira. She stares at me with nobody-home eyes. The lights barely on. Drool escapes from the corners of her mouth. I shake her by the arms. "Hey, wake up. You know a woman called Amira?" I shake her again. She's loose as a rag-doll. I let her go. Her head drops and that line of drool breaks off and spats on the floor.

  Shit. That's Plan A burned to a cinder.

  I'm rethinking my options when I hear boots on metal behind me.

  Three tall shadows spill across the wall.

  I don't even have time to turn around.

  50

  "Remember," Tony had said in his deep southern accent. "It's this or the ship."

  Amira had shook her arm from his grip, but entered the restaurant with grace and poise.

  She'd taken a seat across from a silver-haired man with a tanned complexion and a tailored pin stripe suit. His name was Terence Rowbottom. Lord Terence Rowbottom. A jovial man with a refined manner.

  Amira had spoken politely. She smiled through a light risotto. Feigned fascination in his stories about the House of Lords and the various people he knew.

  She'd lied about where she was from—Lebanon—as instructed.

  She'd also accepted Lord Rowbottom's offer of a large glass of white wine. Even forced herself to laugh along with his racist, sexist humour.

  Now, it was time to return to the room, at Lord Rowbottom's suggestion, for 'tea and biscuits'.

  Tony escorted them up to the sixth floor. He let them into the room.

  Lord Rowbottom didn't waste any time. He removed his yellow tie and jacket. He kicked off his shoes and sat on the end of the bed. Amira turned her back to him at the far end of the room. She breathed deep and composed herself.

  "Oh Amira, dear, I'm waiting for you."

  Amira turned around with an artificial smile. She strolled across the carpet, pretending to be someone else. A persona. The high-class escort. She'd even given her a name: Deanna

  Rowbottom could have Deanna, but he couldn't have Amira.

  She'd hatched the plan the night before. A way of doing what was necessary, while insulating herself as much as possible from the act itself.

  Amira unbuttoned Lord Rowbottom's shirt, slow and seductive. His fierce cologne invaded her nasal passages. She ignored it and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek.

  Lord Rowbottom cracked a devious smile. "Come on," he said. "I can get that from my wife." He grabbed Amira by the arms and threw her face-first onto the bed. As she rose off the duvet, Rowbottom dragged her backwards on all fours. He pushed her dress up over her back. She heard the snap of leather as he ripped his belt from his trousers. She didn't want to look, but felt compelled to.

  "You ever taken it up the bottom?" he asked her, down to a white vest, a pair of baggy pink boxer shorts, shiny black shoes and knee-high socks.

  He snapped his belt in his hands and cracked Amira hard across the buttocks. Before she could stop herself, she kicked out in reply.

  The kick didn't land.

  "Like it rough, eh?" Lord Rowbottom said. "Two can play at that game. Come here."

  Rowbottom kneeled on the bed behind her. He put a hand on her black silk knickers, attempting to yank them down. Amira spun around and slapped him across the face.

  Rowbottom appeared to love it. He laughed and pushed her low on the bed. He took a handful of her hair and reached between her thighs.

  Amira had lost all composure. Deanna was long gone. She dug her fingernails into Rowbottom's neck and drew blood.

  He yelled in pain, reversing off the bed. "You demented bitch. There's a fucking limit."

  The old man pulled on his pants, a trickle of blood down the side of his neck.

  Tony stepped into the room. "Something wrong Lord Rowbottom?"

  "Yes, something's wrong . . . With her."

  "What did you do?" Tony said to Amira.

  "Your whore dug her fucking claws in me, that's what. The wife will be all over this," Rowbottom pulled on his shirt, doing the buttons up uneven. "I'll need a ruddy tetanus shot now."

  As Amira watched on from the bed, Tony attempted to calm his client down. "I'm sure we can arrange something—"

  Rowbottom buckled up his belt. “Tell Pavel he can forget about the Silvertown motion."

  Tony pulled a handful of tissues from a box on the writing desk. He handed them to Rowbottom, who pressed the
m against the claw marks on his neck.

  "Fucking amateurs," Rowbottom said, grabbing his jacket and tie.

  As the old man stormed out of the room, Tony took out his phone. He called a number, pacing left and right.

  "Boss, we've got a problem," he said. "No, it needs your attention. It's Rowbottom. I dunno what happened but he says the Silvertown deal is off."

  Tony disappeared out of the room. As the door swung shut, Amira heard him calling Rowbottom's name along the corridor.

  Amira felt a wave of relief, followed immediately by fear.

  51

  I come around in a different room. A punch in the face my wake-up alarm. A clock on the wall telling me I've been out for the count around ten minutes.

  No memory of how they put me to sleep, but my neck hurts like hell. My guess is a metal bar.

  I take another knuckle sandwich in the left cheekbone. Two shaven apes in docker jackets taking turns to dish it out. So identikit, I can't even tell 'em apart.

  Another guy watches on from the corner. Designer stubble and greying hair down to his shoulders. He's suave and trim in a navy suit and matching tie. A crisp white shirt. Everything tailored. He's a few cuts above a goon. Gotta be someone higher up. A general, or a captain at the very least.

  He lets me take a couple more hits. Steps forward. Holds up a hand for the goons to stop.

  I get my bearings. I'm strung up by the wrists, fixed to a steel rod that runs the length of the ceiling, tied tight with a length of rope. I'm on my tiptoes, so I hang and swing like an abattoir cow.

  The room is nondescript. Solid steel walls and pipes. Not much else going on.

  The man in the suit stands close to me. Speaks in a soft, Eastern European voice. And he speaks well, as if he's educated. "Hello," he says to me like I'm a little kid. "What's your name?"

  "Popeye," I say. "What's yours?"

  He smiles in the mouth, rather than the eyes. "My name's Pavel."

  Pavel nods at the nearest goon. He feints to hit me in the face—drives a fist into my gut. I'm not ready and it winds the crap out of me.

  I fight to regain my breath.