by Anna Smith
‘So who shot him?’
Quick as a flash, Helen concocted a scenario.
‘Look. Here’s what happened. And this is the truth. I was in the bedroom, I heard noises – the door being forced, footsteps. I thought it was a break-in. Suddenly, I see these two men. Frankie and some other guy. They were shouting to me, Where’s the money – just like you are. But I didn’t know what they were on about. They started arguing and one thing led to another, then this guy was shouting at Frankie that he was trying to double-cross him. I didn’t know what they were on about. Then, all of a sudden the second guy pulled out a gun and shot Frankie. I think the two of them were out of their box on coke. Maybe somebody sent them. I just haven’t a clue.’
‘What guy was with him?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. I’ve only seen Frankie once, at a dinner with Alan, and I met him.’
‘Frankie must have remembered you.’
‘Yeah. He did. We said hello. But we didn’t actually reminisce about the good times. I met him once. That’s all.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Well, I’d tell you to ask him, but it’s a bit late for that.’
‘So what happened? You just did a runner?’
‘I was leaving anyway. Hence the packed bag. I was going to the Cayman Islands. You’re right. Alan had put money in a joint account over there for us, and we sometimes went on holiday there. It wasn’t much, Ricky. I can show you the account. There’s all of twenty grand in it. I was going to have to get a job over there as soon as I was settled. Alan has obviously disappeared, or maybe even been bumped off. Who knows, the people he was involved with? But I just decided I’d had enough. I wanted to start a new life.’
‘Well. We don’t think Alan’s dead.’
Helen’s stomach turned over.
‘You mean he’s alive? What makes you think that?’ She hoped she looked genuinely concerned, even excited.
‘Because someone’s moved our fucking money into another account. The banks won’t tell us the name, obviously, for fucking security reasons. But they say the account of Alan Lewis doesn’t exist any more. It’s been closed down, and the money moved to another account. That’s why we know. He’s fucked off with all the money. They have his signature on the account that he moved.’ He got up and walked over to her and held her face in his hands. ‘Maybe the cunt’s in the Cayman Islands waiting for you with our money.’
Helen looked up at him, her eyes filling with tears. She had to look the part, but inside her she felt like punching the air at the fact that the bank told them nothing.
‘Jesus, Ricky. Don’t say that. If Alan was alive he would have got in touch with me. He wouldn’t just disappear to the Cayman Islands and then tell me to get a flight out. Christ’s sake! He’s been missing for over six months and I haven’t heard a fucking sound from him. Honestly. I’m not lying.’ She paused for breath. ‘I don’t know what he’s done with your money. I wish I did, because I would tell you right now, and maybe you would let me go. This has nothing to do with me. He never told me anything about his work.’
Ricky looked down at her, not convinced.
‘We’ll see.’
He walked towards the door.
‘What are you going to do? Just leave me here? Ricky. Please. Don’t just leave me here. I’ve got nothing to do with this.’
He walked out of the door and left her with the big guy in the leather jacket. She gazed up at him, catching his eye, and knew he was ogling her cleavage. She touched it a little and crossed her legs again.
Chapter Eleven
They had been driving for almost four hours, and Rosie was thankful she’d decided to hire the biggest car the rental company at the hotel could provide. The last time she’d driven hundreds of miles across Romania it was in a tiny cramped car which had caught fire in the middle of nowhere, leaving her and the driver stranded in a thunderstorm. Memories of eventually being picked up by a tractor and taken to the nearest town where they had to spend the night in the single, dilapidated hotel, were still burned in her memory – how she’d lain awake in bed in the room with no lock, a wooden chair jamming the door handle shut. The worst thing that would probably have happened was that she’d have been robbed, because criminal gangs were always on the lookout for easy pickings. But it had not been a good start to a trip that got more depressing by the day.
And this journey looked no different – in every town they drove through, there were the same rows of grim blocks of flats, typical all over Eastern Europe, where people had lived in poverty for generations while their Communist leaders lapped up the splendour of gilded palaces. If ever there was a monument to how Communism had failed, then these concrete slabs were it. And, she recalled, as they drove through another town and past a man lying comatose at the side of the road, nearly everyone was drunk. No wonder.
Ariana was driving and giving them a guided tour of each town, and told them they were heading up to the Bacău area, where some of the villages hadn’t changed for generations and people eked out a living from the land or in nearby industrial towns under a dense cloud of choking pollution. Most of the younger people were leaving and a lot had already gone, seeking jobs in Western Europe. Often children were left with older relatives, and some would end up in orphanages, where despite all the publicity at the time, the improvements had been minimal. Children were still trapped in desperate environments, even though some places were now a little more enlightened. But in spite of all that and the government supposedly watching things, still the trade in orphans went on, seemingly unnoticed. Or, as Ariana said, perhaps in collaboration. Rosie gazed out of the windscreen, thinking how incredible it would be if she could nail down a story like that, involving government collusion. But for now, she’d be happy just to get some inroads into the baby trade.
It was late afternoon when they drove into the sprawling industrialised town of Bacău, nearly two hundred miles to the north of Bucharest. They checked into their hotel, the dimly lit foyer as drab as any other Eastern bloc hotel Rosie had ever been to. What was it with this one bulb for the entire reception area? It was always the same in the bedrooms too, where, even if the table lamp in the bedroom worked, the place was dark and eerie and made you want to get out of it the moment you put your bags down. Rosie, Matt and Adrian walked along the gloomy corridor on the second floor and she was glad to see their rooms were all next to each other. Handy, Rosie thought, if anything bad happens. The last time she’d been in Belgrade, in Serbia, in a similarly dreary hotel, she was dragged out of her room, down the fire escape and kidnapped before anyone could see her. She pushed the flashback away as she closed the door in her cheerless room and put her bag on to the bed.
*
The bar where they’d arranged to meet Ariana’s contact was close by, so they all walked together. If you’d done that eight or nine years ago in an area like this, you would stick out like a sore thumb, but it was clear that Western influence had reached as far up as Bacău. Street corners had Coca-Cola umbrellas and fast-food cafés, unheard of a few years ago. Rosie wondered who was cashing in, because it was a fair bet it was the gangsters and not some local, hard-working businessman. It was cold and they went into the bar – again only half-lit – where Ariana spotted her friend at the far side.
‘Is Nicu. I see him.’
As they approached, Nicu stood up, dark shaggy hair and pot-bellied figure, dressed in corduroys and a V-neck sweater and shirt. He had at least a day’s stubble and dark circles and bags under his eyes. Rosie saw him wiping the palms of his hands on his jeans, and thought he looked a little edgy, his hands trembling a little. She wondered how he lived his life, and if the edginess about him was to do with drink, because alcohol was such a huge problem in all walks of life in the country. She chided herself for being uncharitable, given the fact that he was here to impart information to them that could get him killed; he had every right to be edgy. His eyes darted warily around the group as
he embraced Ariana. Rosie motioned them all to sit rather than stand around looking like some official delegation. The waiter came across in an instant and they ordered beers. Then Ariana did the introductions in English, explaining that Nicu spoke the language and had worked with many British expats in the orphanages.
He shook Rosie’s hand and his face softened as he looked at her. ‘I did get to meet some journalists when they came to the orphanages in the beginning – after Ceauşescu.’ He shook his head. ‘It was a grim time for everyone.’
‘I know,’ Rosie agreed. ‘It was grim enough just witnessing it.’
He nodded. ‘So much pressure being put on the orphanages and people working in them. But the truth is that we could do nothing but try to make these places work. With no money, nothing, and always under the threat of, well, anything, if we spoke out.’ He shook his head. ‘I know a lot of people who suffered from terrible stress long before the revolution and couldn’t work in the conditions, but some of us stayed. What else could we do?’ He spread his hands to explain. ‘You see, under Ceauşescu, abortion and birth control were banned. He demanded that all women have at least five children. It was all about creating “workers” for the greater good of Communism. Often the government spies even came into workplaces to track how many babies women were producing. The women were told that if so many babies were a problem, then the government would take them and look after them. That is why so many women, who couldn’t cope, were happy to hand their children to the authorities. This is when it all fell apart. So many babies were abandoned, and there was no money to support the orphanages. The children were living in what was really poor conditions. Hard to work in. But if everyone left because they cannot cope, then who will look after the orphans? Was terrible.’
‘It’s better now, though? From what I read and see on television,’ Rosie asked.
‘Yes. Much better. But still very many orphans, and still they grow up with nowhere to go when they leave.’
They sat in silence as the waiter brought the beers and then Ariana spoke.
‘You know, Nicu, that Rosie wants to look at the baby trade.’ She lowered her voice almost to a whisper.
Nicu looked at Rosie, and nodded with a half-shrug. ‘I can help. I have some names. People you can talk to.’
‘Is it happening in a lot of orphanages, Nicu?’ Rosie asked, leaning closer to the table.
‘A few. But these are only the ones I know. Could be happening all over Bucharest and other cities, for all I know. I would be surprised if it isn’t.’
‘So can you explain to me how it happens? How can a child just disappear who has been in the orphanage? Surely the managers and government officials would have to sign papers.’
‘Yes. There is official ways and that does happen a lot too. Many Romanian children go to Germany, to America, to UK. They go through the courts. It takes a long time. The courts are still busy with applications and that I think is part of the problem. While all this is going on, the people in the homes don’t know who has paperwork and who has not. Only the managers of the homes know that, and they tell the staff nothing. So in the places that this is involved – in the corruption, I mean – the managers of the home are part of the operation. It is disgusting.’
‘You mean they are tied in with the gangsters?’
‘Yes. They must be. How else can a child just vanish from a home? For example, I cannot go into my boss’s office in an orphanage and ask, Is he certain there were official papers for the adoption of a child, and ask, Can I see them. That is not how it works. The manager is the boss. He just tells us that papers have arrived from the courts and that the child can go. And sometimes I’m sure it is a child with the correct paperwork, but others I don’t think they have proper paperwork.’
Rosie shook her head. ‘Awful. And do the parents ever come back to the home to visit their children?’
‘Not many. Mostly not. A lot of them are alcoholics and some die in their thirties and forties or have moved away for work. It’s always been the way here.’
Ariana looked at Nicu. ‘And, Nicu, Rosie is also, as I told you, interested in the babies who are taken from the maternity unit.’
‘Yes. That is the worst. I know for sure this happens. Because I know the woman who lost her baby.’
Rosie stomach tightened. ‘You do? Would she talk to us?’
He shook his head, stubbed his cigarette out.
‘Not for the papers and a photograph. For sure, she will say no to that.’
‘But would she talk to us without naming her?’
He looked at Ariana. ‘Yes. I spoke to her this morning. She told me she will talk in private. But you must not reveal her name. She will tell you everything.’
‘When can we see her?’ Rosie hoped she didn’t sound as keen as she was. ‘I mean, we will only be here for a limited time, and if I could talk to her, then it would be a start, and I could pursue or try to track down the people involved. I also want to talk to you about Alan Lewis and his charity.’
He shook his head and his mouth tightened.
‘Yes. They are gangsters. The company – the adoption firm – is set up for the smuggling of children. That is what I hear. Alan Lewis is the man who does the accounts for them, I am told, but as you know he is missing. I don’t know if he is part of the whole thing, but he is a director in the business so he must have known. Or maybe they didn’t tell him. Who knows?’
‘Do you know the people behind it?’
‘I know they are Russians. That much I know. And very dangerous.’
‘Do you have names and anyone we can see if we decide to do that?’
‘What do you mean, “see”?’
Rosie glanced at Adrian. ‘I mean, do you think it would be possible for me and, say, Adrian here, to go undercover? Like pretend we are a married couple who want a baby?’
He let out a long sigh. ‘It is going very close to the fire to do that, Rosie.’
‘I know. But I can’t see how we do it any other way, if we want to get inside it.’
‘I agree. We can talk about it.’
‘We’ll have dinner after this and we can talk further.’
Chapter Twelve
The address was somewhere in a clutch of bleak-looking blocks of flats on the outskirts of the town. Nicu had suggested it would be better if only he, Rosie and Ariana went along to meet the woman whose child had been stolen in the maternity ward. He didn’t want to make her feel under threat with a lot of people coming at once. It had taken a bit of persuasion from Rosie for her to be able to bring Matt along, even though they knew that the woman did not want her picture in the paper if the story ever got that far. They needed some kind of image, Rosie insisted, if only of the area, or even some kind of backshot or silhouette so her image wouldn’t be identifiable. She promised that if the woman didn’t agree, they wouldn’t push her. Nicu hadn’t been convinced, but reluctantly agreed, and was a little huffy at first until Rosie explained to him how these things worked.
He drove off the main road and down the side street to the rear entrance at the block of flats and parked their car. Three scruffy kids came up straight away and Nicu said something to them in a stern voice and they stood back a little. In the back courts, washing fluttered from clothes lines, some of the flats had broken windows with grimy curtains poking through the shattered glass, and a few women stood chatting and smoking at the entrance, their faces wearing the same resigned expression Rosie had seen everywhere since she got off the plane. The new freedom and affluence that was growing in the towns and cities hadn’t reached the backstreets, where people would probably never get out of the mire. The women watched them as they filtered past into the entrance, and Nicu took the lead while they climbed the stone stairs. He turned to Rosie.
‘Madelina will be a little nervous, Rosie. And she may even have had a drink, as that is her life these days. So we have to be very gentle with her. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Don’t worry,
Nicu. Of course, I understand.’
On the second floor, Nicu knocked on the door and they stood waiting. No answer. He knocked again, a little harder, but still no answer. He shrugged.
‘Maybe she went out. We can come back.’
Rosie’s heart sank. First door-knock, and getting nowhere. Then, as they turned to go back downstairs, they heard a lock being turned. The door opened on a chain, and a face peered through.
‘Madelina,’ Nicu said. Then he spoke in Romanian, gesturing towards Rosie and Ariana.
The door opened and the woman stood back and beckoned them in. They all filed down the short narrow hallway to a tiny living room. Rosie glanced around at the neat, sparsely furnished room. Nicu introduced everyone, and Madelina nodded and shook hands, her small clammy hand feeling cold in Rosie’s. Rosie made eye contact with her, and could see the bloodshot eyes and puffy complexion of a drinker. She held her hand a little longer than was necessary, hoping to convey her sympathy.
Ariana spoke in Romanian to the woman, who seemed to nod in agreement.
‘I am going to make some coffee for us, and we can sit down and talk,’ Ariana said.
Madelina motioned to Rosie to sit on the thin, wooden-legged sofa, the kind she hadn’t seen back home since the seventies. Madelina sat on a matching armchair next to the wooden fireplace, and Nicu sat opposite her. He turned to Rosie.
‘I have already told her yesterday that you may be coming, and I will explain more to her now. So if you want to say something to her, I will translate.’
‘Okay.’ Rosie nodded, taking a deep breath. She looked at the woman as she spoke. ‘Madelina. Thank you for seeing me and allowing me this time. I really appreciate it. As Nicu explained, I am a journalist and I am investigating claims that Romanian babies and orphans are being sold, often abroad. Nicu has told me that you have been a victim of this terrible crime, and I want to talk to you about it. But we will not identify you in any way, and I want you to understand that.’