Girls on Film: (DI Angus Henderson 7)

by Iain Cameron

  They’d already interviewed Dmitri Manole and he had told them everything he knew which took a considerable time. Not that Manole had much to tell, but he didn’t speak a word of English and they were forced to use an interpreter. By the end of the interview, they hadn’t increased their knowledge by much, but enough to tell them that Nicholae Prodan was the boss.

  They’d found plenty of evidence in the bunkhouse which was in the process of being analysed: weapons, laptops, phones, blood-stained clothes and bedding. Following on from Phil Bentley’s tour of Brighton on the trail of Vasile Lazar, the Vice Unit called into each of the addresses where Lazar stopped. It came as no surprise to everyone involved in the case when they found each of the houses to be fully-functioning brothels.

  Henderson had heard all the arguments about paid-for sex and took the view it was not something which could be easily halted. The demand was endless and, in some countries, their operation was sanctioned by the government. In a way, free movement within the EC took some of the responsibility. Itinerant workers on the whole were young and away from their families for long periods, and the chance to have sex with a young woman, perhaps someone from their homeland, sometimes proved irresistible.

  Plenty of women willingly worked in the sex industry, but the traffickers didn’t see why they should pay for something they could get for free. This form of exploitation turned Henderson’s stomach, ruthless men enslaving women with only one objective in mind: to make themselves rich, like the arrogant sod in front of him.

  ‘Mr Prodan, I assume you understand the charges against you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I am a very bad man, now deport me.’

  ‘It’s not going to happen.’

  ‘What?’ He turned to his lawyer. ‘Tell him, I want to be deported back to Romania.’

  The lawyer whispered something in his ear and while his angry expression didn’t falter, it seemed to calm him.

  ‘How did you start working in this business?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘A friend introduced me.’

  ‘A friend here or in Romania?’

  ‘In Romania.’

  ‘Was everything already in place when you started? Were there kidnap teams established in Romania and Hungary, were the bunkhouse and kennels already built, did the brothels exist?’

  ‘I didn’t have to do a thing, it was all there. This person wanted me to work there because he knew that I, Nicholae Prodan,’ he said tapping his chest, ‘would make it better.’

  ‘Better how?’ Walters asked.

  He looked at the DS with disdain. Veronika’s description of a man with weasel-like features was a good one. He was late thirties or early forties, with slicked-back hair, thick eyebrows and yellowing teeth. His small dark eyes darted back and forth, as if he was frightened of missing out on something or fearful of attack.

  ‘I am good at making lots more money and I find more places for them to work.’

  ‘What is the name of this person?’ Henderson asked. ‘The person who hired you.’

  He turned to his brief and asked something.

  Prodan turned back to face Henderson, a schoolboy-style smirk on his face. ‘No comment,’ he said.

  ‘What happens to the money?’

  He shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I don’t deal with it. If you didn’t shoot Stefan you could ask him.’

  The murder team and forensic accountants would try and follow the money once they’d mapped out its trail. To ordinary people, it sounded like a nice problem to have, the presence of lots of cash, but to the likes of drug dealers and bank robbers it was a perennial headache. Large deposits of cash and significant withdrawals from banks were reported, a process designed to stop criminals salting away millions in illegally obtained gains.

  In response, criminals were forced to think up ingenious ways of circumventing the regulations. If not, they would be unable to use credit cards or pay bills and many organisations, such as those with retail websites and car hire companies, refused to do business without a credit card.

  Henderson asked Prodan a few more questions about how the business was organised, but he deflected them every time, saying he didn’t deal with this issue or he didn’t know how this process operated. The DI decided to move on to a subject he would know something about.

  ‘Why did you kidnap Cindy Longhurst?’

  ‘I object to this leading line of questioning, Inspector. You are trying to implicate my client in a crime you have no evidence to connect him to,’ the duty solicitor said.

  ‘It’s ok,’ Prodan said, ‘I reply. I have never heard of this woman.’

  ‘We have a witness. The woman you threw out of Longhurst Studios has made a positive identification. She saw you and Vasile Lazar enter the studio and abduct photographer Cindy Longhurst.’

  Henderson put Cindy’s picture in front of him.

  ‘Ah yes, I remember now. The photographer. She found out, I don’t know how, but she came to the kennels and took photographs. Then she came back at night and freed some of our girls, the bitch.’

  ‘You killed her for it.’

  ‘No, I didn’t kill anyone,’ he said smiling, ‘Vasile did. He’s the killer, not me.’

  ‘You think we’d fall for your lame excuse? It’s easy to blame a dead man who isn’t here to defend himself.’

  ‘You will see when you look at his gun. He killed the photographer and the two girls who escaped.’

  ‘Did you question her?’

  ‘Yes, yes I questioned her. I wanted to know where my girls were. Is this so bad?’

  The Vice Unit had discovered the two other girls who used to share the house at Baden Powell Drive, Marina and Felicia, were working in a brothel in Worthing.

  ‘We found Cindy with heavy bruising, as if she’d suffered a severe beating.’

  ‘Again,’ he said shrugging, ‘it’s Vasile. I talk to them, then Vasile I don’t know, loses his temper or something and hits them. Sometimes he doesn’t know his own strength.’

  ‘Same with the other two girls?’

  ‘Yes. I questioned the first girl to find out where the others were hiding and then Vasile shot her. The other girl I did not need to question as we had the other two. Vasile shot her too.’

  ‘Did you try and stop him?’

  ‘Vasile is large man with vile temper. If I said something to try and stop him, he would shoot me too.’

  Henderson let the issue lie for now as it wasn’t possible to determine who actually delivered the blows. Even though ballistics could match the bullets to the gun, it wouldn’t prove whose hand had been on the trigger. However, he could still wipe the smug smile off Prodan’s face. Even if Vasile Lazar was responsible for killing all three women, under UK law if they could prove Prodan’s presence there and his tacit approval of the deed, it would make him an accessory to murder.

  They left the interview room ten minutes later.

  ‘What a smug bastard,’ Walters said.

  ‘Yeah, he thinks we’ll deport him back to Romania and that will be the end of it.’

  ‘Maybe after he’s served a couple of life sentences we will.’

  ‘We’ll talk to him again once we’ve got the full forensics. Maybe then he’ll be more cooperative and willing to give up his backer.’

  ‘You still think there’s someone here in the UK?’

  ‘There’s no doubt in my mind.’

  They’d arrived at his office and walked in, continuing a calm, rational discussion that could only be conducted at this stage of an investigation, not when they were mired with all the problems in the middle.

  ‘The trafficking operation predates Prodan. The bunkhouse was built five years ago, Phil checked out the planning application. So, when Prodan arrived in this country three years ago, it was already there.’

  ‘They might have bought the property with it already in place.’

  ‘No, a limited company bought it ten years ago and the kennels date from the 60s at least, so they were
already there but not the bunkhouse. Plus, why would anyone but traffickers build a bunkhouse out in the sticks?’

  ‘I’m forced to agree with you. So, what you’re saying is, if Prodan didn’t oversee its construction, someone else did?’

  ‘Yes, and the question that needs answering is, who?’

  FORTY-THREE

  The pub was heaving when Henderson arrived and when the crowd in the corner noticed him, a loud cheer went up. Was it because they were pleased to see him, or had they’d burned through the wad of drink money he’d given them earlier?

  They were in the Fortune of War pub, a place often described as being on Brighton seafront. This was only partly true, as the pub was on the same level as the pebbles on the beach, several metres below the road.

  The sea was calm tonight, but anyone coming here on a wild winter’s night would hear the wind whip the pebbles off the beach and throw them at the pub window. For newcomers, the constant tap-tapping sound was like someone trying to get in the pub, but if they opened the door they would receive a lot more than just a gust of wind in their face.

  ‘You lot got down here pretty sharpish,’ he said to DS Walters. She was holding a drink. If her usual, it would be a vodka and lime. He took a seat beside her.

  ‘Dragged down here more like. We’d finished with the interviews and I was waiting to see some forensic data, so I thought, why not? It’s been a hell of a week.’

  ‘I can’t argue with you there. Plus, you could be waiting all night to see anything.’

  ‘Or nothing, knowing that lot.’

  He felt a nudge on the shoulder and Phil Bentley shoved a pint of something into his hand.

  ‘It’s IPA. I hope that’s all right.’

  ‘No problem. Thanks Phil.’

  ‘It’s your money boss, enjoy it,’ he said as he walked back to the bar.

  Henderson looked at the happy faces occupying the two corners at the end of the long pub. He took a long drink from his glass before pushing his chair back and standing. He held his hand up and said in a loud voice, ‘Quiet please everybody. Let’s have a bit of hush before we’re all too drunk.’

  When a modicum of peace had descended in their corner of the pub, he cleared his throat. ‘I’d just like to thank you all for your hard work on this case, without it and all the long hours you’ve worked, the numerous, tasteless take-aways you’ve eaten and all the coffee you’ve drunk, we never would have cracked it.’

  Loud cheers went up but he hadn’t finished yet. He waited for calm to return before continuing. ‘Thanks to everyone for all your efforts, we’ve not only smashed a large human trafficking operation, we’ve also closed six brothels all along the south coast. Every single one of you should be proud of your contribution. I certainly am. Cheers!’ he said lifting his glass and toasting them. ‘To every one of you.’

  A huge cheer filled the air. There was a time in any bar in Brighton when the regulars would tell a loud group in the corner to shut-it, but with the growth of wild hen and bridegroom weekends they were well used to it.

  Conversations restarted and Henderson resumed his seat.

  ‘Hi boss, how are you doing?’

  Henderson turned to see Phil Bentley standing beside him.

  ‘It’s great, Phil, a good excuse for everyone to let their hair down after so many weeks with our shoulders to the grindstone. What’s this, the beer in this place not good enough for you or have you run out of cash?’

  Bentley held up what looked like a soda water and lime. ‘I’m alternating, one of these with a beer. My coach says I’m getting too fat and is threating to drop me from the team.’

  Henderson laughed. ‘It must be serious, as you’ve told me before he’s lucky sometimes to have eighteen fit players.’

  ‘It’s true. It’s hard to get youngsters interested in the game as I don’t think many schools play it nowadays and, of course, football always has a higher appeal.’

  ‘Aye, maybe here in the south, but around the borders of Scotland and even in football-mad Lancashire and Yorkshire there’s still a strong rugby following.’

  ‘Phil, come here!’ he heard someone at the back of the throng shouting.

  ‘I’m getting the call from Sam Richie over there as he wants to show me a video on his phone.’

  ‘Phil!’

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute, Richie, stop shouting, I’m talking to the boss.’

  ‘It’s okay, Phil,’ Henderson said, ‘on you go. There’s something I wanted to ask you, but it’s about work and it can wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure thing boss, see you later.’

  Henderson was listening to an animated discussion about computer viruses while he debated whether to stay or not. In the past, he often went to these celebrations just for a couple of drinks before going home. The presence of the boss could often inhibit the younger members of staff from enjoying themselves, and Rachel wasn’t happy if he rolled back to the house stinking of booze. Now, he had nothing to go home for and he quite fancied a bit of a blow-out.

  In the end, he stayed until pub chucking out time. It wasn’t the ‘end’ for many of the younger members of the team as they had all decided to head off to a club. Even when younger, Henderson failed to see the attraction: deafening music, over-priced drinks and dancers behaving as if they were on speed, which many of them were. This, he would definitely leave to the youngsters.

  The large group were milling around outside the pub aimlessly, everyone too drunk to take a decisive lead. He said his goodbyes and headed up the stairs to Marine Parade to start the lengthy walk home. Minutes later, he heard footsteps running behind him. He turned to look.

  ‘It’s not a mugger, it’s only me,’ Vicky Neal said.

  ‘What a relief. I don’t think I’ve got the energy to deal with one of them. Did you not fancy boogying the night away?’

  ‘Not my style. Plus, I’ve got to get up for work in the morning, lots to do.’

  ‘Not anything to do with any after-effects from the Mathieson arrest?’

  ‘What do you mean, PTSD?’

  He nodded.

  ‘No. The incident does come back to me now and again, but I think I can handle it. As you said, I can’t go over my behaviour and say if I’d done something different I could have saved him.’

  ‘Acknowledging that certainly makes a big difference. Did you enjoy the evening?’

  ‘I really did. I’m getting to know Sally and Phil a lot better, although I still felt a bit of a fraud being here.’

  ‘I know you arrived part-way through the investigation, but you’re now part of the team.’

  ‘I know, but I had nothing to do with closing the human trafficking operation.’

  ‘Not in the end, for sure, but before we tracked them down we didn’t know if Ted Mathieson was involved or not. We discovered he was importing drugs, but equally with his large transport fleet he could have been bringing in women too. Your work made sure we didn’t waste time chasing him for the wrong reasons.’

  ‘Fair enough. Thanks.’

  They walked past the Palace Pier, dark and quiet at this time of night, but often when he passed in the afternoon or evening someone was usually standing outside. It was a good central point in the town for arranging to meet people or organising a lift.

  Neal took his arm to steady herself as her heels were falling foul of the uneven and scarred pavements, and didn’t release it when the surface improved. They talked about her time in Manchester and how it compared to Brighton.

  It was a short walk along Marine Parade to Lower Rock Gardens, the place where Vicky was renting. Henderson walked up the road with her. It wasn’t so far out of his way as he could cut along St James’s Street at the top of the road, and at the same time, avoid the chilly night-time breeze blowing in off the sea.

  They stopped outside a light-coloured building, sandwiched between two darker neighbours. There was a large bay window on the ground floor and simple sash windows on the first and upp
er floors. The residents appeared to be night owls as many lights were still burning.

  ‘This is my place. Thanks for seeing me home, officer.’

  ‘It’s all right madam, we might be the hard-pressed employees of Sussex Police but we’re only too happy to ensure unaccompanied women arrive home safely.’

  ‘I’m on the top floor.’ She turned and put her hands on the lapels of his coat. He could smell her breath, sweet and alcoholic. ‘You can come up for a night-cap, if you like.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  On Thursday morning, Henderson interviewed Nicholae Prodan once again, this time armed with a ballistics report. A single gun had been used to kill Cindy Longhurst and the two Romanian women, the ballistics analysis proved, and Vasile Lazar’s prints and his DNA were all over it.

  He told Prodan the good news: all three murders would be attributed to Lazar, and Henderson let the weasel wallow in the glow it gave him. It was his turn to feel pleased when he gave him the other news. He would be tried for the same crimes, but as an accessory. In addition, the witness statements given to them by the women rescued from the Shermanbury kennels and the brothels around Sussex, confirmed Prodan to be the chief torturer and rapist. If he was fit enough to climb the steps to a Romania-bound aircraft at the end of his sentence, Henderson would be most surprised.

  With the list of charges against him and the prospect of spending most of his life in jail, the DI expected his offer of eliminating a charge or two if he gave up his backer would be better received. To his surprise, Prodan wouldn’t give an inch, making him feel the backer wasn’t a benevolent individual, happy to supply money as it gave him a good return on his investment, but a ruthless individual who ruled with a rod of fear. Henderson left the interview room, happy at last to be charging the two traffickers they had in custody, but frustrated at not knowing the name of the person behind the operation.

  He returned to his office, only stopping to dump the files in his hand on the desk and grab his coat. He walked out the building and across the car park. When he arrived at work early this morning the weather was cold and misty, but now with the mist gone it revealed a bright, sunny spring morning. He knew it was nothing but a short interlude as winter hadn’t yet run its course, so he would enjoy it while it lasted.