Broken Dolls

by Sarah Flint

  Dimitri was watching as she walked across to him with the exhibits. It didn’t seem to worry him as she told him he was under arrest for possession of the knife and possession of the drugs with intent to supply. He shrugged as she said the words of the caution.

  ‘The knife is not mine,’ he said, pointing towards the weapon tube she was holding. ‘It belongs to a girl I was trying to help. I took it off her for her own safety and was going to dispose of it.’ He nodded towards the paper bag. ‘And I know nothing about whatever is in there. I have never seen it before. It must also belong to the girl who had the knife.’ He paused and smiled nastily towards where the Slovakian girl sat. ‘Or maybe it is hers. Perhaps she put it there while you were all concentrating on me.’

  Chapter 41

  The front door was sturdier than it looked and Albertas was refusing to open it without seeing a warrant. Charlie had attempted to persuade him through the letter box that they didn’t require one, but with no movement after the first explanation, her patience had run out. Dimitri had been seen coming from the address and the drugs offence for which he’d been arrested gave them the power to enter without one. Finding the GHB had been the perfect result.

  Several hefty thumps with the enforcer later revealed the reason, as the multi-lock door and a reinforced bar padlocked on to the doorframe eventually gave way. They entered swiftly, spreading out through the whole building until every room had a police officer standing guard. Albertas was detained, handcuffs preventing his movement, but they all knew the possibility of finding any more drugs was remote. He had been in the house far too long to imagine any illegal substances would not already have been flushed down the toilet. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t drugs they were looking for. Charlie’s main concern was tracking down the mother of the dead baby and it was on this job she now concentrated.

  The house was a Victorian terraced town house spread across three levels, with high ceilings and ornate coving. On entering the ground floor, a stairway lay straight ahead leading up to the first floor. Several doors off the hallway opened through to a kitchen, a utility area and an integral garage. This was evidently where both Albertas and Dimitri slept as the space had been converted into a twin-bedded room, with two single beds and a range of male toiletries and clothing on display.

  Climbing the stairs, Charlie could see that the whole first floor was one large open-plan living space with a central candelabrum, several wall lamps and an old cast-iron fireplace. This space had been split into three, by the use of wooden partitions, each area having little more than a small double bed positioned in the centre and a chest of drawers. The whole room was dimly lit, but each space was decorated with a cream rug, lush bedding and fragranced candles. Pictures of nudes dotted the walls and an array of oils and sex toys were arranged on the top of the drawers. She had to admit that the attention to detail was remarkable for the time they’d had to relocate. The operation must have been very well organised.

  In the last area she walked through sat three scantily-clad women, clinging to one another in silence, placed together by their police guards in a vain attempt to dispel their fear.

  She nodded towards where they sat. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ she spoke gently. ‘We won’t hurt you. We’re here to help.’

  The girls said nothing, but their grips on each other loosened slightly.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said, climbing the stairs to the second and final floor. This floor was divided into three purpose-built bedrooms and a family-sized bathroom. A fourth girl sat in one of the rooms, guarded by a police officer, but the other two were empty, one clearly having been made ready for Michaela. It was warm and inviting, and it too had a candle flickering in one corner.

  The girl got to her feet as Charlie read the name ‘Hanna’ out loud from the officer’s notes. She stood with one hand on her hip and an expression that seemed both feisty and defeated at the same time.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked hesitantly.

  Charlie stuck to the safe reply. ‘Because we stopped a man outside and he had a knife and drugs on him. We’re here to search for more drugs.’

  ‘Is that all you’re here for?’ The girl’s stare was so intense that Charlie felt instantly uncomfortable. ‘Is the man outside called Dimitri?’

  Without thinking Charlie nodded, before hastily correcting herself. ‘He’s given the name Leo. He’s been arrested.’

  The girl flinched at her nod, turning to gaze instead out the window. ‘So what’s going to happen to us?’

  ‘Hanna,’ she tried to appeal to the girl directly, ‘we can see what this house is being used for. We’re going to take you to a place where you can talk to us safely.’

  The girl spun round, her eyebrows pinched together, the same angry, defeated look in her eyes. ‘You do not understand,’ she spat. ‘If we talk to you, we and our families will never be safe.’

  *

  It was almost 2 a.m. when Charlie finally pushed through the revolving doors of Lambeth HQ into the night. The team had been released to rest, but in a few short hours they would begin the task of interviewing each young woman from the brothel, all of whom had been found safe accommodation for the night. Although the day had ended well, there was so much more to be done. Neither case, against Dimitri or Razor, was clear-cut; both suspects having far too much wriggle room. Moreover, she couldn’t get Hanna’s words out of her head. Caz too, although professing her love for Razor, had spoken, just a few days before, of being safe only if she and Dutch returned to his flat and followed his commands. It was clear that both girls were petrified of the men close to them, possibly too frightened even to speak the truth. The success or failure of both investigations would be dependent on getting the correct testimony from highly vulnerable witnesses.

  Charlie looked across the road and saw Ben waiting under his usual lamp post with Casper. One phone call, half an hour earlier, had ensured his arrival. She walked across to join them, slipping her arm through his and returning Casper’s eager greeting with a gentle slap on his hindquarters. Something was pulling her in the opposite direction from her home, instead taking her towards the river. Ben fell into step with her and within a few minutes she was standing on the walkway next to the Thames. The tide was out and the muddy shoreline, peppered with stones and discarded plastic, stretched out at the foot of a set of damp, slippery steps. Gingerly she released her grip on Ben’s arm, indicating for him to wait, and descended on to the riverbank, her feet sinking into the silt.

  As she walked slowly towards the water, her head started to spin at the sight of the black eddies, swirling and twisting, sucking everything down below the surface. She was immediately catapulted through time, back to her childhood, with her brother Jamie struggling to breathe as he thrashed impotently at the stormy sea, each wave dragging him downwards to his watery grave. She remembered again his fingers clawing at the seawater, and the desperation in his eyes as he sunk into the void. She remembered too her own desperation at being unable to save him. She forced herself to stare into the water, for once letting the memory of her brother’s death have free rein and allowing her whole body to fill with fear. She needed to know again what real debilitating terror felt like.

  For a few seconds she froze, before she threw her hand over her mouth to prevent a scream escaping, staggering slightly backwards until a pair of strong hands took hold of her. Ben’s touch alone had the power to banish her alarm and make her feel safe. She stood still allowing his strength to flow into her bones, knowing now what had to be done. Somehow she had to demonstrate to Caz, Hanna and the other girls from the brothel that she too was a safe pair of hands in which to trust. Somehow she had to give them the strength to take control. It was the only way she could get the men who had terrorised them for so long, locked away for life. It was the only way that they would ever be free.

  Chapter 42

  ‘Any joy?’ Charlie emerged from the lounge at The Haven, holding the phone tightly to her ear.
Each of the girls from the brothel had been taken to a specialist examination suite, examined by a doctor and each had voluntarily given their fingerprints and a DNA sample for elimination against those found at the crime scenes. Now they were at separate Haven sites around London being sensitively debriefed about their situations. It was almost midday, but so far they’d made little or no progress. Leaving Hanna with a colleague and an interpreter, she pushed through the door of the sanctuary and out into a flurry of snow.

  ‘No, nothing,’ Naz’s voice came on the line. ‘Same with Sab. They’re all too terrified to speak out.’

  Charlie closed her eyes. This was not at all what she wanted to hear.

  ‘Keep trying,’ was all she could say, ending the call and immediately dialling Paul’s number.

  ‘How’s it going your end?’ The team had split: Hunter and Paul in charge of interviews with Dimitri and Albertas, while she, Naz and Sabira, being experienced at dealing with domestic crime and victims of sexual offences, were speaking with Hanna, Michaela and the other girls rescued from the brothel. So far though not an ill word had been voiced against the two men, never mind written down in a statement.

  ‘Albertas is making no comment, but Dimitri is at least talking,’ Paul responded. ‘But so far he’s coming up with a good defence.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ The team were continuing to refer to their man as Dimitri, even though his fingerprints and DNA had now positively identified him as a male of Russian origin called Viktor Egorov. As well as the names Dimitri Ivanov and Leo Markin, Egorov had at least nine other aliases known to police forces across Europe. He had entered the UK illegally, using one of his pseudonyms, and disappeared into the murky criminal underworld, operating the black economy and vice trade in the backstreets of London. Never having been arrested in the UK until now, he had remained unknown to police in England, but a trawl through Interpol records had shown him to be a well-known player in a number of foreign OCNs or organised crime networks.

  ‘He knows his fingerprints and DNA will be found at both brothels, so he’s saying that he has frequented both locations regularly as a client. He claims to be allowed to live there in return for running errands for some acquaintances.’ Paul emphasised the word. ‘He can’t, or won’t, name these people or say anything further about them, other than to assert he is frightened of them as they sometimes turn up armed with firearms and so he doesn’t ask questions. He accepts that the documents found in his possession were false but reiterates that he was given them to use by the main guy and, being an illegal immigrant, he was scared that he would be kicked out on to the streets if he refused to do what was instructed.’

  ‘So basically he’s saying that he’s acting under duress and that there are other people out there who are pulling his strings and masterminding the whole operation... rather than it being him. That’s pretty smart, especially if we can’t get any of the girls to say otherwise.’

  ‘Quite!’ Paul agreed. ‘We’re even going to struggle to get him charged with the knife and drugs offences.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She thought they at least had enough evidence to hold him in custody for those.

  ‘Bet’s contacted the elderly male passer-by who gave the info on the knife. He confirms Dimitri’s account, in that he says that there was another girl who did actually have the knife first, before Dimitri got possession of it. She walked away when he drove off. In the eyes of the CPS he has a credible lawful excuse for having it. Plus, it was found in his car. It wasn’t even on his person.

  ‘As for the GHB, SOCO hasn’t found any fingerprints on the vials and won’t be able to get fingerprints off the paper bag, so we’ll never be able to prove they belong to him. Especially if we don’t know the other girl, and Michaela is staying silent and not denying they’re hers.’

  ‘Dammit. So, apart from being in this country as an illegal immigrant and a rather weak possession of false IDs, we have nothing to conclusively prove he was running the brothels or had anything to do with the baby’s death. He’ll probably be given a slap on the wrist and deported back to Russia in due course, if that’s the case.’

  ‘Yep. And then, he’ll be released and come straight back using a different name.’

  ‘Unless we can persuade one of the girls to testify.’

  Charlie could feel her frustration growing as she ended the call and shoved her phone back in her pocket. Hanna’s words came forcefully to mind. None of the reassurances they’d offered had been enough to assuage their fears. Each girl still believed she and her family were in danger, but, at the same time, how could they stay silent and let their captor get away scot-free. One of them could even be the mother of the dead baby, yet still none were willing to speak out. The thought prompted her to pick up her phone again. They couldn’t afford to wait a minute longer.

  The lab technician spoke clinically and without emotion. The DNA sample provided by each of the girls found at the Lewisham brothel had finally been compared against the DNA from the blood on the dead baby’s head… and none of the samples matched. Charlie heard the words, struggling to remain unaffected as the full implication of the results sunk in.

  ‘So, our baby’s mother is still missing,’ Charlie mumbled out loud down the phone to the unknown staff member. ‘We know she gave birth at the brothel in Streatham, but she never arrived at Lewisham.’ She let her arm drop, leaving the line still open, and voiced the question that was now her number one priority. ‘So where the hell did she go?’

  *

  Viktor Egorov stared at DC Charlie Stafford as she entered the interview room, slipping in next to Detective Inspector Hunter. He was enjoying the chance to pit his wits against the famous Metropolitan Police, the Best of British, supposedly the best in the world. So far, he had run rings around them, confounding them with his every answer, agreeing with many of their premises but then giving credible explanations to throw them off track. It wouldn’t do to deny any involvement. That would just show him to be a liar. No, he had to accept what they had, but find plausible reasons to explain their findings. And so far he had.

  He’d read this woman officer before, noticed the slight change in stance when she thought she’d got one over on him, outside the house in Lewisham. Now she was here again, and she was staring directly at him. He stared back at her, their eyes connecting momentarily before he broke away, allowing his pupils to rove up and down dispassionately over her face, her neck, her body. It always made women feel insecure to be looked at in this way, their bodies analysed, graded and summarily used or dismissed. This woman was unremarkable physically, and she knew she was unremarkable, but there was something about her that made her stand out from the rest; she had an aura that he hadn’t as yet figured out. And she didn’t care what he thought of her.

  ‘Good morning, Dimitri, or should I say Mr Viktor Egorov,’ she spoke slowly. ‘I’m going to call you Dimitri though because that is the name that everyone knows you by. I’m told you have an answer for everything?’

  He smiled at her assessment. She was right.

  ‘So, do you think these so-called “acquaintances” of yours will believe your answers?’

  He stared towards her, satisfied that she knew his defence but awaiting a follow-up question. She lifted her head, staring him directly in the eyes.

  ‘How will you explain to them that one of their girls has gone missing? How she was with you at Streatham but is no longer around. Might they not think you’ve set up a rival business and have poached her from them? What will you say, Dimitri?’

  He grinned nastily. She could say what she wanted. ‘I know nothing of any missing girls.’

  ‘What about the girl from the top bedroom in Streatham? You know, Dimitri, the one whose blood you tried to hide? Where will you tell your bosses she’s gone?’

  He made no reply. The policewoman could prove nothing. She was still staring at him, unblinking, her pupils boring into his and, with a start, he recognised the nature of her aura. It was
confidence, pure unadulterated self-belief. She was not frightened of him in any way, shape or form, unlike all the usual women around him, and he didn’t know quite how to deal with her. He couldn’t use his usual methods. He cleared his throat.

  ‘There are no missing girls. All are accounted for.’ He kept his voice even.

  ‘Except one, Dimitri. Or are you forgetting her? Don’t tell me you’ve misplaced her. That’s just careless. What will your bosses say when they hear there’s one less girl earning them money? Or did you somehow lose her in the transfer to Lewisham?’

  The policewoman inched forward, her head propped up in her hands, her eyes still searching. He tried to ignore her persistence, the way she wouldn’t let the issue drop, but as her questions probed, he was reminded of Tatjana’s weight as he struggled with her body in the darkness, along the freezing railway track. His eyes narrowed at the memory of the task and he rubbed the scar on his head subconsciously.

  The policewoman stood, backing towards the door to the interview room now, her unremarkable face lit up with a remarkable glow. ‘Or did she fall out of the back of your van, Dimitri?’

  She pulled the door open as he started to laugh, turning tail as his voice chased her from the interview room.

  *

  Charlie walked straight through the custody area and out into the yard, the sound of Dimitri’s laughter still pounding in her temples. His body language had told her everything she needed to know. Now she had to get out of the station. It didn’t matter where she was headed. Round and round the block for all she cared. Her mind moved forward with each step, as if evaluating every piece of the puzzle. She thought of the photo on the passport of the young girl travelling with Dimitri on his previous trip back from the continent three months before. The girl on that photo was not one of the girls they had rescued. Could she be the baby’s mother as Paul had mooted? She thought of the photo of Dimitri on his fake driving licence and the van that he’d hired with it. The van and that last journey held the key, and his laughter showed that he knew it, and didn’t care.