by Anna Smith
‘Thanks. I’d really appreciate that.’
They didn’t speak for a long moment, the only sound the river and the traffic. She knew nothing of this man other than what she’d read in cuttings about his chequered, violent background. And she’d seen the kind of character he was, the look in his eye that day when he stood over Thomas Boag, revenge burning inside him, an open razor in his hand. She’d known what would happen to Boag, and she’d been glad. Jonjo wasn’t her friend, yet there was a kind of unspoken sense that she had some kind of friend in him. And she was sitting here, confiding in him about her work and asking for his help. What did that make her? She’d known and befriended plenty of gangsters over the years and this guy was harder than all of them put together. But despite his tough front, there was a deep sadness in him that was almost palpable in any of the quieter moments when she’d been in his company. He would never really get over the murder of his boy, and not even the butchering of his son’s killer would ever bring him back. None of this was really any of Rosie’s concern, but somewhere in that bleeding heart of hers she cared about Jonjo. She found herself breaking the silence.
‘Are you getting on with things, now, Jonjo? I mean, after everything that’s happened? I don’t know you at all really, but I hope you are okay.’ She stopped herself, wishing she hadn’t even broached the subject. His private life was none of her business. What the hell was she doing?
He turned to her with so cold a stare that she thought for a moment he was going to unleash a tirade of abuse. But he didn’t.
‘The people who ask me things like that, I can count on one hand – all of them I’ve known for more than thirty years.’
‘Sorry . . . I shouldn’t have. I just . . .’
He touched her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Rosie. Thanks for asking. My life is what it is these days. I’m rich. I can do what I want, go where I want, live how I want. I keep busy, because when I go home at night my wife is there for me, waiting. But she’s a shell, and that big house is almost breathing down my neck with its emptiness. But that’s what my life is. I knew it would take time, but we’ll never be the same without our boy.’ He ran a hand across his chin and tightened his jaw. ‘Anyway. Life goes on, eh?’ He stood up. ‘I’ll see what I can find out on these Romanian charity bastards.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have to get going. Can I give you a lift anywhere?’
‘No thanks, Jonjo. I’m going to sit here for a few minutes, enjoy the view, then walk back.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll give you a shout.’
He turned and walked along the cobblestones and Rosie watched as he approached one of his minders whom she’d seen that day when he’d saved her. She kept watching as they walked across the road and disappeared up a side street.
Rosie’s phone buzzed on the bench next to her and she could see it was Declan from the office.
‘Hey, Declan. What’s happening?’
‘Rosie, I’ve taken a few calls from people about that charity in Glasgow. People saying they went on a trip with them once to look into adopting Romanian babies. It was a couple of years ago, but they thought the guy who ran the show was a chancer. Said he took money off them for accommodation, and that they’d stayed in all sorts of shitholes along the way.’
‘Really? That’s interesting. Did they get babies to adopt?’
‘No. The ones who phoned said it always fell through. Too much red tape.’
‘Okay. We should talk further to them anyway.’
‘But listen, Rosie. More important than that, I think. I took a call about five minutes ago from some guy. He sounded like a foreigner. Said he knew about the charity, that he’d worked for them. He said he can tell us a lot about them. He’d seen the story in the paper and asked for you.’
Rosie perked up. ‘Sounds good. You got a contact number?’
‘His mobile.’ Declan reeled off the number and Rosie wrote it down. ‘Thanks, pal. I’ll call him now, set up a meeting. Talk later.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Rosie scanned every face who came into the café in the Buchanan Street precinct, convinced it had been a bad idea to arrange to meet someone she’d never seen before in a busy city centre café like this. But it was his suggestion. She’d spoken to him briefly earlier, and now reflected on their conversation. His name was Viktor and he was Albanian.
‘I can tell you things about this charity Hands Across Europe – what they do,’ he’d said, his accent heavy.
‘I’ll be glad to meet you, Viktor. Sooner the better. What kind of things do you mean?’
‘Things they do. I can’t say on the phone. I don’t want picture in the newspaper. I want money.’
‘Well, we’ll see.’ Rosie’s felt a little deflated. She wondered if he was an illegal immigrant. If he was, it hadn’t taken him long to jump onto the chequebook journalism bandwagon he’d probably never heard of back home. ‘We do sometimes pay for information. But the kind of story like this – about a charity? Look, I don’t want to waste your time, but unless you’ve got actual proof that they’ve done something illegal, then honestly, we won’t be able to use your information.’
‘I have proof.’
Three words. That was enough to bring her here. McGuire had rolled his eyes to the ceiling and told her to phone him the minute she’d talked to him. He’d also suggested taking someone with her, but she’d already agreed to get Matt to sit outside to snatch a picture of him.
The café was busy with shoppers, office workers, tourists, people on their laptops sitting in corners. Rosie was watchful of every foreign-looking face that came in. Eventually, five minutes after the agreed time, she saw a figure stopping briefly at the window and glancing inside, then a man pushed open the door. This looked like it could be him. Tall, slender, olive-skinned. Could be Albanian or Bosnian, it was hard to tell the difference in the Balkans. He stood at the door and glanced around the room. She’d told him she had dark hair and was wearing a light blouse and black jeans. She stood up, looking across to him, and he seemed to acknowledge her, then squeezed his way through the tables towards her.
‘Rosie?’ His voice was low, dark eyes darting.
She nodded. ‘Viktor?’ She pulled a chair out for him. ‘Thanks for coming. What can I get you?’
‘Coffee, please. Black. Lot of sugar, please.’
Rosie quickly ran her eyes over him, the lean, hollow cheeks, pasty complexion, two-day stubble, sniffing a lot. He didn’t look as though he was well off enough to afford cocaine, though you never knew these days. The black coffee with lots of sugar would make him even more nervy.
She glanced back from the counter while she was waiting to get served and could see him sitting staring into space. He looked troubled, afraid. Rosie returned with his coffee, plus another tea for herself, and sat down. She watched as he emptied three phials of sugar into the coffee, his hands trembling a little as he lifted the cup. It was either too much coffee, or speed, or something. But his eyes didn’t look spaced out.
‘You have been in Bucharest. I see in the paper. You did very good story. But is not the full story.’
He wasn’t spaced, no way. He wanted to get to the point.
‘That’s why I’m here, Viktor,’ she replied, meeting his gaze. ‘Tell me, though. How long have you been here?’
‘Three years. I came with the charity. From Bucharest.’
‘You worked for them?’
He shrugged. ‘I will tell you. But will you pay me money?’
Rosie sat back and puffed out an exaggerated sigh, knowing he was watching her. She had to admire his directness. But she had to let him know this was not how it worked.
‘Listen, Viktor, I don’t know what you’ve read in papers or what you’ve heard about newspapers in this country, but you’d be very wrong if you think you can just turn up and journalists will hand over money to you. That’s not how we do things.’
‘But newspapers pay money. I see it in the news, in the papers. People sell their s
tory. I have a story to sell.’
He wasn’t arrogant or aggressive. More matter-of-fact, even surprised she was questioning him.
‘Okay.’ Rosie leaned forward. ‘I want to be really clear here, so we’re not wasting each other’s time. I’m really pleased you got in touch, and I’m keen to hear what you’ve got to tell me. But once we get the information, we have to decide how we pursue it. The way it works is that if we have a story we can publish – and that means going through our strict legal process with lawyers who look at every aspect, every line – then we can put it in the paper. Then, and only then, will we pay a person money. Once we are ready to publish or after we publish. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes. I think so. You will pay when the story is in the paper. Is okay. I can wait.’
‘Okay.’ Rosie spread her hands, a little bemused by this character. ‘Then talk to me, Viktor. What can you tell me about the charity that is worth a story for my newspaper?’ She was bursting to get the information out of him but she had to get the measure of him. If he was the kind of guy who would take umbrage at the way she talked to him, he’d have been out of here two minutes ago. He looked hungry. He wanted money, and he had information – at least she hoped he had.
Viktor took out a cigarette packet and fiddled with it, turning it one way and another, pushing it as though it was a Rubik’s cube. He pulled his chair closer.
‘Your story – about the babies being sold. Is all true. I saw it. But there is more than that. They sell people too.’
‘People? What do you mean? In Romania?’
‘They bring people. Here to the UK from over there. Not just Romania. But from Albania too. And Bosnia. Hungary.’
‘Do you mean like slaves?’
He shrugged. ‘Kind of like slaves. When you come you are tied with them.’ He made a gesture with both wrists, indicating handcuffs. ‘You cannot go back until you pay your way. Because they bring you here, and it costs a lot of money. If you have money to pay them, then is fine. But if you come with no money, you must always work for them. But you never pay the debt, because they always tell you it isn’t paid yet. No matter how much you pay them.’
Rosie processed the information. People trafficking was getting bigger every year – mostly in prostitution, bringing women in from Eastern Europe and East Asia. The majority of illegal workers she’d encountered before were men who’d been brought over by Indian restaurant owners. But they weren’t slaves, they were just toiling for a pittance, living in crap accommodation. None of this was new. But a charity transporting them here was a different ball game.
‘You mean Hands Across Europe transports these people over? How? In their trucks?’
He nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, yes. You know this already?’
‘Not really. Just surmising from what you’re saying.’
‘Yes. The charity . . . It goes from UK to Romania, to the orphanages, and they bring in the trucks, food and medical supplies, clothes. Once they unload the supplies, the trucks going back here are empty. All empty. So they can bring anything.’
‘But what about borders and customs?’
He rubbed his thumb and forefingers. ‘Is all money. All corrupt. Everyone gets paid along the way.’
Rosie was conscious that her tape recorder was picking this up. She’d decided not to ask him for permission as he’d been bold enough to ask for money first, so she wanted to get his claims clearly on tape. It wasn’t quite honest, but she played by her own rules.
‘So are you telling me that this UK charity – Hands Across Europe – goes out there filled with all the supplies donated by the goodwill of people in this country, then their trucks return with migrants in them? And the trucks go through the borders in various countries by paying officials off? I’ve been through these borders before and it’s a nightmare. I was on a bus one time, and they stopped us for hours, going through everything we had.’
His lips curled. ‘It is who you know. Is all gangsters. Albanian, mostly who work across the Balkan areas – Hungary, Bulgaria and places. Some Russians too. The Russians organise everything. They have the money.’
‘But what about when they come to the UK? Surely the ports there are more secure?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. But by that time, if there are, for example, twelve or twenty immigrants in the trucks, they have all been split up. When the trucks cross into France and Holland, the immigrants go with other people.’
‘What other people?’
‘Other people in the, I think the word is, network. Is all organised. Some go in vans, in other trucks or in cars. They go to different places in the UK. To London, Manchester, and to Glasgow.’
‘All run from this charity?’
‘I only know from this charity. I don’t know about other charities. But maybe. Is no surprise if more charities do it.’
‘So how do you know this for sure?’
He raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘How I know? Because I am one. I come like this. I have no money for my passage here on the trucks, so I have to work for them when I come.’
‘For the charity?’
‘Yes. I go back with them when they go to Romania with the aid because I know the road and can tell the driver, and I help with things. Then we bring more people up and come back.’
‘You do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many times in the past three years?’
He puffed as though he was thinking, touching his fingers.
‘I think maybe ten or fifteen times. A lot.’
‘Always bringing people back?’
‘Yes. Always the same.’ He shifted in his seat and leaned across. ‘Not just people. Drugs. In Holland, we pick up drugs also. And on two trips, I know that we took also guns. Handguns. I saw them. They were in long boxes in the truck I was in.’
‘How may trucks each trip?’
‘Two, sometimes three.’
‘The drivers. Are they from the UK? From Scotland?’
‘Some from Scotland, and others we meet in England. Like two trucks go from Scotland, and on the way to the ferry, we meet the other truck from England. Usually Hull.’
‘The charity has a base in Hull?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose. I don’t know so much detail like that. I only know where I go and what I bring back.’
‘When did you last make a trip?’
‘Two months ago.’
‘Did you bring people back then?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘I think about twelve. Men. Young men like me.’
‘Do you know the boss of the charity?’
‘I see him. He doesn’t come with us. Always if he is going by road, he travels in jeep. Sometimes he flies and I have seen him in Bucharest. With the Russians. At the office you had the photograph of in the paper – the adoption place.’ He paused. ‘It was very dangerous out there for a journalist to do what you did. You must be brave, Rosie Gilmour. You could have been killed. You also must be careful here in Scotland.’
Rosie felt a sudden knot of nerves in her stomach. It wasn’t that she was naive enough to think an organisation that she’d just busted all over the Post wouldn’t have tentacles that stretched across here, but she’d been so wrapped up in the story, and so glad to be back on her home soil, that she hadn’t given her own safety a second thought.
‘I will be careful.’
‘You have bodyguard?’
Rosie smiled. ‘No. No bodyguard. But I am looked after. I’m okay.’ She knew she was lying, but that question made her suspicious. If this guy was asking for money and telling her things, how did she know he wasn’t sent by the organisation to suss her out, find out where she was? Maybe he was all part of the plan. Paranoia forever lurked on her shoulder – and with good reason. She pushed the niggle away.
‘This is all fascinating, Viktor. But as I said, I need proof. What kind of proof do you have? And also, are you still working for them?
’
He glanced around the room. ‘Okay. I will tell you the truth. I have run away from them. I am hiding from them. I am very angry with them, because they double-cross me. I pay them a lot of money – or they take the money off my wages every week, but always they say I still owe them money. They tell me to wait, that they have a good job for me in time. That I will be working in a good place in their organisation. But it is all bullshit.’
‘Where do you live? Do you work every day?’
‘I live in Glasgow. But I go to Edinburgh sometimes to work for the charity, to help with the loading of the stuff at the warehouse. Maybe three days a week I am in the warehouse.’
‘And how do they pay you?’
‘They give me money in an envelope every week. My flat I don’t pay for. One other boy is also there.’
‘Albanian like you?’
‘Yes. But younger. He is twenty. He work delivering drugs and things.’
‘Drugs? You mean here in Glasgow?’
‘Yes. Look, I don’t know. But I think the bosses are working with people in Glasgow. Also in England. I think they work together. But I don’t know. I don’t want to be a gangster. I just come to get normal job. I want to be a carpenter.’
Rosie watched him closely and could see his face drop a little.
‘Sometimes I wish I had stayed back in Albania. But it is shit over there. I grew up in an Albanian orphanage. So I know what it is like to be in these places. I have nobody back there. I thought maybe I would be safe here and could have normal life. That is why I ask to come with these people.’
‘Are you not safe here?’
He puffed. ‘Not now I’m not. Because they will be looking for me. I have not been to my house or to work for a week.’
‘Why did you leave at this time?’
‘When I saw your story. They are going crazy at the depot – the bosses. They closed the place down. They shit themselves. I am afraid I will be found as part of it, by the police or something.’
Rosie wanted to say that he was part of it, and knowingly went to Romania every time, but she could also see that he didn’t have much choice. He wasn’t someone who immediately touched her, not like other refugees she’d encountered. He was just one of the people thrown into the mix because he wanted a better life. Of course people made wrong moves and choices when they were in a foreign land not knowing who to trust. It was easy to get caught up in it if you had no money and nowhere to turn to, and you knew from the outset that you’d arrived here illegally. You were trapped before you began. That was the hold these lowlife thugs had over people.