by Simms, Chris
As she neared the main house, she felt nervous. It had been unwise of her to print the profiles of the last few girls she’d recruited. Stupid and careless to leave them in the carry case of her laptop. Nothing on the profiles linked directly to her – she had purposefully designed them to ensure that. True, if they fell into the hands of the police, questions would be asked. If they worked out that one of the girls had jumped to her death from a motorway flyover, those questions might be followed up by some kind of investigation. But, if they worked out one of the girls had obliterated a checkpost on the Israeli border … Nina hardly dared contemplate it.
The bloody internet, she cursed to herself. While Teah Rice had been searching about on it for details of Club Soda, the place in Beirut where she thought she was going to work as a waitress, she’d found a Lebanese news story on Jade.
An unknown Caucasian female who’d been blown apart when the bomb she was carrying had detonated. Teah had realized Jade wasn’t working in any exclusive club where the tips alone amounted to hundreds of dollars every night. She realized everything was a lie. And so she’d run.
Nina had done her best to try and coax her back off that bridge. She’d tried to persuade her that she’d been mistaken – it couldn’t be Jade’s face in that newspaper report. But the girl was inconsolable. All her hopes for finally having got lucky were false. There was no better life waiting for her. There were no nice people in the world. People she could trust. She was stupid to have even thought there was. All everyone did was try to deceive her. The only fate she had was one like Jade’s. And rather than that, she chose the motorway lanes below.
Once Teah had dropped from sight, Nina had got away as fast as she could. Once home, she went straight to the computer to see exactly what had caused Teah to panic. Nina herself had been genuinely shocked: she didn’t know what happened to most of the girls she lured in with her story about Club Soda. She didn’t really care. But getting a girl to carry a bomb? That … that took things into a whole new realm of risk.
She looked at the empty space where Liam normally parked. Just come back with that computer and carry case, will you? After she unlocked the back door, she paused before the mirror in the utility room. The strain was showing on her face. Her lips were thin and tight. She took a deep breath and smiled. She tried it again. Better.
A stubby key opened the upper door of the basement. She trotted down the narrow steps and selected a new key for the door at the bottom, checking through the spy-hole for any sign of either girl before opening it.
‘Hi you two, it’s only me, Nina!’ She pulled the door shut behind her. ‘Everyone OK?’
Madison Fisher appeared from the side room. She had her usual, slightly suspicious expression. Nina didn’t like her. ‘Hi, Madison, you been on the step machine again? Cheryl Cole has that exact same one, you know?’
Madison was wearing grey tracksuit bottoms and a black vest top. She ducked her head to the side, causing her ponytail to slide over her shoulder. Grasping it in her left hand, she bent the tip of it up and started looking for split ends. ‘Yeah, I read that in Closer. Just like I’ve read all those magazines.’
Nina’s attention was also on the lush length of hair. She gazed at it with a hungry expression.
Sighing, Madison flung it back out of sight. ‘Nina, when are we going? It’s so boring—’
‘Nina!’ Chloe Shilling was in the doorway of the TV room. She was still in her pyjamas, a Wii remote in one hand. ‘Hi!’
‘Hi there, Chloe.’ Nina’s eyes travelled quickly up and down her. She was putting on weight, and the skin on her forehead was starting to bobble with pimples. ‘You two not exercising together?’
Chloe grinned. ‘I’m playing tennis in there, burning some calories that way.’
The gap between her front teeth seemed too prominent to Nina. Still, some men liked the look – as they did large-breasted, full-hipped physiques.
Madison spoke again. ‘Nina?’
The petulant expression was still on her face. You’d better forget looking like that, thought Nina. The sort of place you’re going, that will earn you a beating like you wouldn’t believe. ‘Yes, honey?’
‘If we’re going to be stuck down here much longer, can you give us our phones back? Just to see my texts; I wouldn’t reply to any. And can we get on the internet? I haven’t checked Facebook for—’
‘Maddy?’ Chloe cut in. ‘Drop it, will you?’
‘But we’ve been stuck in this—’
‘Girls,’ Nina raised both hands. ‘It’s happening, all right?’
Madison turned back to Nina. ‘What’s happening?’
‘The job. It’s all sorted. You’re going. It’s been arranged.’
Chloe let out a squeal of delight, ran down the corridor and threw her arms round her friend. The two of them started shrieking with excitement.
Nina watched them. Madison had probably been purchased for somewhere in the Middle East. Saudi Arabia, she guessed. There was no telling where she’d be sold on to after her initial stint there. It might be somewhere else in the region; it could be back into Europe. Portugal, Spain, Italy, Ireland, Croatia. Nina knew of many places – often located near golf courses – where men from all over the world flew in, often on business trips. During the day they would be out enjoying themselves on the courses, then in the evenings they would have a few drinks and take taxis to where the girls were kept.
Someone with Madison’s looks wouldn’t end up in a bad place. Not like Vorkuta, where Nina had started. She would be fed, kept in relative comfort. But she would be made to work hard. A girl like Madison? By her early twenties, it would all be over. Then she might be sold on to somewhere less respectable. Across into Eastern Europe, for instance. Once there, it could only get worse. Much worse.
Her eyes cut to Chloe, who was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. ‘Club Soda! Club Soda! Club Soda!’
Nina drew in her breath and smiled. ‘Let’s go and sit down. I’ll talk you through what’s next.’
‘I can’t believe we’re going,’ Chloe said breathlessly, breaking from Madison to give Nina a hug. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
Laughing lightly, Nina squeezed back for a moment. Looking over Chloe’s shoulder, she caught Madison’s eye. The other girl’s face still hadn’t totally relaxed. You’re sharp, Nina thought. Too sharp. I should never have approached you. ‘Right, come on; let’s talk business.’
Chloe let her go and they proceeded through into the room they used as a lounge. Nina noticed the fridge stocks were down. Various sweet wrappers were on the sofa. If Chloe had been playing tennis, she’d been doing it while sitting down. ‘OK, so first – it’s all on.’
‘Oh my God,’ Chloe gasped, using one hand to fan the air beneath her chin. ‘I can’t, like, even believe this. When?’
Nina sat back. ‘You won’t be travelling out together. I’m sorry.’
Madison’s eyes narrowed. ‘How come?’
Nina looked at Chloe. ‘You know we’re arranging for your passport? There’s been a slight delay on that. Don’t worry – only a small one. Madison, you’re good to go.’
‘How big a delay?’ Madison asked, glancing at Chloe. The other girl had slouched back on the sofa.
‘Only a few days,’ Nina responded brightly. ‘Madison, you could get your apartment ready so it’s all nice for when Chloe catches you up. I’ll make sure you get some pay upfront. It’ll be fine.’
Chloe reached out and found Madison’s hand. ‘It’s all right. It’s not like either of us will be on our own for long.’ She glanced at Nina. ‘Is it?’
‘No, of course not. Two, three days. That’s all.’
Madison placed her other hand over Chloe’s. ‘I don’t want us to be split up. You said we’d fly out there together.’
Nina kept her smile in place. ‘I know. But it’s just one of those things. The owners of the club – the ones who’ve paid for your airfare – have already booked the tickets. I can
’t do anything about it, sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ Chloe whispered. ‘If one of our rooms has a balcony, can I have it? I’ve always wanted a balcony.’
Nina let out a little laugh. ‘You’ll both have a balcony. The staff apartments are brilliant. Amazing views over the Avénue de Paris. There’s a gym in the basement – just for residents.’
Madison kept her fingers entwined with Chloe’s. ‘How soon will I be going?’
Nina swept her hair back with one hand. ‘This Wednesday.’
SEVENTEEN
Superintendent O’Dowd waited for the last few people to shuffle into the meeting room. Flanking him were DCI Sullivan and Roebuck. From her position two chairs to Roebuck’s left, Iona looked around. The room was, if anything, even more crammed than for the super’s initial briefing. For the last few in it was standing room only.
There were at least five people whose faces weren’t familiar, including two women. They were seated directly opposite Iona, several files ready on the table before them.
‘Is that everyone?’ O’Dowd asked, checking the screen of his Blackberry.
‘No more room if it isn’t,’ someone shot back.
A few weary chuckles.
O’Dowd laid the device before him on the table. ‘Right, with the exception of DCIs Roebuck and Sullivan, along with our two guests,’ he inclined his head in the direction of the two women, ‘can everyone ensure their phones are put to silent?’
Around the room, people reached into their pockets. Iona didn’t need to check hers; she’d switched the ringer off on the way in.
O’Dowd made a clicking noise at the back of his mouth as he sat back. ‘This investigation seems to be mutating before our eyes, ladies and gents. I don’t use the analogy lightly: people are dying and they’re dying fast. This morning, two murders. And yesterday a serious assault at about six in the evening.
‘Killed earlier today was Philip Young, the student who brought in a laptop and carry case, the side pocket of which held the profiles you’ll all now be familiar with. Killed alongside Philip Young was a forty-two-year-old nurse called Wendy Morgan. She was tenant of the ground-floor flat below the one Philip Young had rented. Wendy Morgan’s fiancé was initially being sought in connection to the murders, but crime scene analysis is now starting to cast doubt on that. Then DCI Roebuck’s team ran a check on the overnight log. Peter?’
Iona glanced at her senior officer, careful to keep her expression neutral. That was me, a voice in her head complained. I helped make that discovery. And O’Dowd doesn’t even know it. She silenced the voice with a blink as Roebuck brought the print-out she’d given him closer. ‘At eleven minutes past six yesterday evening, a call was received. A member of the public had found a body on the pavement outside his house in Fallowfield. The description fits that of the female student Philip Young saw in the student union who bought a Dell laptop directly before he did. She is Emily Dickinson, aged nineteen, here in Manchester studying microbiology. There is no sign of the laptop she was observed buying at the scene or at her house.’
O’Dowd grunted. ‘In case any of you think this could be a very ugly coincidence, all three victims had sustained blunt trauma wounds to the head. Probably caused by a hammer. Emily Dickinson survived her attack, but the prognosis from the hospital is that it’s doubtful she will be able to communicate in any meaningful way. She remains in an induced coma. Questions?’
‘How many laptops went missing from CityPads?’ someone asked.
‘Four,’ O’Dowd replied. ‘So two of the buyers – assuming all four laptops were sold on – remain unaccounted for. The focus of this investigation, therefore, has altered and expanded. We need to locate those two other laptops and their new owners as a matter of extreme urgency. We also need to know what’s on the one we do have in our possession.’ He nodded to the man from the IT department. ‘Mr Goss?’
He pushed his fringe back. ‘We’ve now got into the main hard drive. Unfortunately, it’s been formatted. Wiped clean. So I can’t say whose it was, other than an employee at CityPads.’
O’Dowd sat forward. ‘You’re saying there’s nothing on the thing? No profiles, nothing?’
‘I can do a registry search, but – at this stage – it’s not looking good.’
O’Dowd pursed his lips. ‘Next up, the two girls from profiles – Rihanna and Shandy. I’d like to introduce Linda Bakowitz who is currently assisting us in an advisory capacity. Ms Bakowitz will provide us with some very useful background information in relation to the sexual exploitation of children here in the north-west.’ His Blackberry buzzed and he quickly checked the screen before replacing it.
Iona gazed at the woman as she removed the top sheet of paper from her folder. She was somewhere in her forties. Draped over her shoulders was a length of green and gold chiffon that looked like it might have come from India. Her short hair had been chopped into and dyed a deep purple. One nostril was pierced.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, eyes still on her notes. ‘As Superintendent O’Dowd mentioned, I currently work with the GMP on the issue of child sexual exploitation. For the past few years, I’ve been involved with the Child Sexual Exploitation Gangs and Groups Enquiry – or CSEGG. We’ve been working with government, police, local authorities, the youth justice sector and health professionals to try and ascertain the scope and severity of the problem.’
Iona sat back. The woman spoke with an assurance that suggested she knew her stuff.
‘Many of you will be aware of the recent high-profile cases related to organized gangs grooming vulnerable young girls in order to then sexually exploit them. Despite what many of you may believe from media coverage, it is not only practised by certain ethnic groups.’
She looked carefully around the room and Iona realized she was searching for anyone readying themselves to question her assertion. No one did.
‘The issue reaches across all races and classes,’ she continued, ‘and affects – we believe – thousands of children. Certain individuals are more vulnerable. Children who’ve been placed in the care system, for instance. We estimate they are over four times more likely to face exploitation. My colleague here, Margaret Hammersley, can give you some anecdotal evidence.’ She looked at the lady at her side.
‘Thanks, Linda.’ She hooked light brown hair back over both ears, fringe splaying out across her forehead like a fan. ‘I’ve been carrying out research in several care homes across the region, conducting surveys where possible or just chatting to the children about their experiences – when they’re willing to talk. While I’ve been in houses – often during the afternoon, in broad daylight – I’ve seen cars pull up on the road outside and simply toot their horns, like a taxi picking up a fare. A girl – usually a girl, sometimes two or three – will rush to the window, see which car it is, then start heading for the front door. The vehicle might be a BMW or a Lexus or something more ordinary. The men driving can be late teens through to forty, sometimes older. Staff may try to ask the children where they’re going: they get a similar response to any parent asking their teenage offspring unwelcome questions, I imagine. “Out,” is the general response.’
‘Hang on.’ Iona looked to where the comment had come from. Someone from Sullivan’s team, heavy features emphasised by his look of outrage. ‘Why don’t the staff stop the girls from leaving, if it’s that obvious? What’s going on?’
Margaret Hammersley made a small chopping motion with one hand. A gesture, Iona thought, that hinted at the frustration she felt. ‘They don’t have that power – to restrain a child or young adult against their will. Or confine them. Not in those circumstances. Not at that time of day. They can advise. Ask things like, “Do you think it is a good idea to go off in that man’s car?” You can probably guess the answer.’
The officer thought for a second. ‘Then take the car’s registration. Report that.’
‘Staff often do. One home near Stockport collected nineteen registrations during a one-mo
nth period. But the local police can’t do much more than make a note of them – perhaps run a check on the database. Unless an allegation comes from the actual girls, their hands are pretty much tied, too.’
O’Dowd gestured at Roebuck. ‘That’s another one for your team; gather in registrations of all cars that have been picking up girls from care homes. We’ll need those details on HOLMES, see if any cross-matches come up.’
Roebuck turned to Euan. ‘Got that?’
Iona saw he was already typing it down. ‘On it.’
‘So, you now sense the nature of the problem for children in care,’ Bakowitz stated. Several heads were shaking in weary disbelief. ‘Another vulnerable group we’ve identified is children being transported overseas for forced marriages. Legislation in 2008 prevents someone being taken abroad against their will – figures giving us an insight into the problem are still far too sparse for my liking. However, summer is the peak for it. A charity based in Derby that helps those in danger of forced marriage received seven hundred and sixty-nine calls this June alone. A home affairs select committee report dating back to 2008 found, during that year, over two thousand students went missing from school registers. These are children who, come September, simply do not reappear in their class. The desk is empty. It transpired some had moved to new areas and joined a new school: many had not. Thirty-three in Bradford alone are still unaccounted for.’
O’Dowd sat forward. ‘Ms Bakowitz, if you could elaborate on which countries are known to be involved in …’
‘Bridenapping? Of course.’ She pushed her notes to one side and began to speak from memory.
Libby Williams lowered herself stiffly on to a chair. Once comfortable, she raised her phone back to her ear. The laptop was in front of her, positioned on a lace-work placemat to stop it from scratching the table. ‘Yes, the screens have stopped flitting about.’