Torment

by David Evans

  “I come to see if you have any news of Helena.”

  “Magda, “Ryan said, “we’re struggling to locate Helena’s friend. The one you told us she was visiting on Thursday evening. All we have is an area of Leeds. We’re doing some checks but we haven’t been able to find an exact address for this Lyudmyla.”

  “All I know is what I told you. It’s all she tell me.”

  “So we don’t even know if she actually intended to visit this friend.”

  Strong saw a worried look flash over Magda’s face.

  “You think she could not be telling me the truth? Her older sister?”

  “We need to know if it’s a possibility,” Ryan said. “We need to know where to look.”

  Magda was silent, staring at her half-finished coffee.

  “You think she may not have told you the complete truth, don’t you Magda?”

  She nodded. When she looked up, her eyes were moist. “She changed. Before, she was always honest.”

  “Before what?”

  “Szymanski.”

  “Her boyfriend?”

  “What he want her for?” Magda became agitated. “I no trust him. I see plenty like him back in Tirana. He bully. I try to get Helena away from him. I tell her what he like but she say he loves her.”

  “I thought they’d split up.”

  “Who say that?

  “You don’t think they had?”

  “No. I no hear that.”

  Ryan looked across at Strong who had been happy to let him lead the conversation.

  “Was he ever violent towards her?” Strong asked.

  She shrugged.

  “Magda,” Ryan followed up, “Did he ever hit Helena?”

  “I know what violent means,” she responded indignantly, sitting back in her seat.

  “So, did he?”

  She took a moment to consider her answer. “She never say. But I think so.”

  “Why do you think so? Did she have any bruises?”

  She leaned forward again, arms on the table and began to turn the coffee cup around. “Once,” she said quietly. “I see marks here, on her arms, as though someone did this.” She gripped her own upper arms. “But I never ask.”

  Ryan opened the file he had brought with him and pulled out a photograph.

  “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  Magda looked at the picture of Stanislav Mirczack and froze for a split second before turning away. “No,” she said.

  Strong leaned forward onto the table. “Magda, at the very least, we need you to be honest with us. If you want us to help you find Helena, you need to tell us everything you know.”

  She sat silently, staring down at the cup.

  “You recognised that man, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said, almost inaudibly.

  “Where from?”

  “He came once. With Szymanski. He evil, I can tell.”

  “And did Helena go off with them?”

  “No, he just come to our flat. He was there with Szymanski when I come home. They left within minutes. I think because I arrive. I ask Helena what they want but she say they just called to see her.”

  “But you think there was more to it than that?”

  “She seem nervous, frightened. Even after they left. But she kept saying there was nothing wrong.”

  “And you only saw him the once?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was that?”

  “About three weeks ago.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us about what Helena has been doing in the past few weeks? Any other strange visits or changes in her moods?”

  “Only that she has been keeping things from me. I ask but she says there is nothing wrong. Everything fine. But I think she frightened of something.”

  “Szymanski and this man?”

  Again she shrugged.

  “Okay, Magda,” Ryan said, “if you think of anything else, or if you remember any more about where Helena went on Thursday night, get hold of me immediately.” He gave her his card.

  Strong waited for Ryan to return from showing Magda out of the station. As they climbed the stairs on their way back to the CID room, Strong asked for Ryan’s reactions to the meeting.

  “We got a lot more out of her there. I’m not sure I like this Mirczack connection.”

  “Nor me, Jim,” Strong affirmed. “Why don’t you get on to Vice and see what they can tell you about his activities.”

  “Was thinking the same myself, guv.”

  11

  At the hospital, Souter returned to his car, lit a cigarette and listened to the radio on low volume. For what it was worth, he believed that Strong knew nothing of any missing working girls. Chances were, they hadn’t been reported. He pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket and removed the slip of newspaper on which Sammy had written her address and phone number. Since she came to see him yesterday, he’d given a lot of thought to the plight of young girls like her and her friend. Girls who had been drawn into that way of life. It had given him an idea for a possible future article on the subject. He stared at the number for a minute then dialled it. He was about to give up when a male voice answered.

  “Hello, I’d like to speak to Sammy if she’s around,” he said.

  “Sammy? Ain’t no one here by that name.”

  Before he could speak again, the line went dead.

  Just then, he saw Alison and Gillian walk into the A & E Department, passing Strong and his colleague as they left to walk back to their car. He gave it a minute then made his way back inside.

  Alison and Gillian were sitting in the waiting area. As he approached, they both stood up.

  “Thank you,” Gillian said, kissing him lightly on the cheek. She sat back down.

  Alison beamed at him. “Well done. God knows how long she would have been there if you hadn’t found her. So much for the police, eh?”

  “Just good luck, that’s all. What news?”

  “She’s in theatre now. Doctors will tell us more as soon as they can.”

  “Look, I’ve got to get back. Give me a call if there’s any news.”

  “Sure.” Alison reached for his hand and squeezed it.

  He leant forward and kissed her. “See you tonight.”

  By ‘get back’ however, Souter didn’t mean the Yorkshire Post offices. He made his way out to the address Sammy had given him. Frequently consulting his A to Z, it took him about thirty minutes to find the street and another five to find the actual building. It was a run-down Victorian house that had been split into flats many years before. The windows looked as if they’d never been cleaned in decades and the paint for the most part had flaked off. Filthy net curtains hung in a desperate effort to give some privacy to the tenants, augmented by a variety of clothes pegs, drawing pins and other fixings.

  As he approached the building, a youth of about eighteen with greasy hair and severe acne came out.

  “Looking for Sammy,” Souter said.

  The youth looked him up and down. “Oh, yeah.”

  “She in?”

  He smirked. “Room Three.” With that, the obligatory hood came up and he was off.

  Souter pushed the main door open. The first thing to hit his senses was the smell of stale food. That and dampness. The carpet in the hallway was threadbare and did its best to grip his shoes. It reminded him of a nightclub in Manchester he once visited many years ago. Junk mail was piled on a rickety table in one corner.

  Room Three was at the back of the building behind the staircase. He knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. “Sammy?”

  This time, he heard movement from inside.

  “Sammy?” he repeated.

  “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “It’s Bob … er … Robert Souter. You came to see me yesterday.”

  The sound of a chain being removed then a bolt being slid preceded the door’s opening.

  “Have you got any news? Come in. Come in.”
/>
  Souter slipped inside and she closed the door behind him.

  Dressed only in a man’s shirt, she padded back to her bed, jumped in and pulled the covers up.

  He averted his gaze. Stripped of the heavy make up of the previous day, she looked much younger and more vulnerable.

  He took in the room. Two single beds were side by side next to the window. A bare 40 watt bulb in the ceiling provided a gloomy atmosphere. The curtains were closed, held together in the middle by a couple of safety pins. On the opposite side was a kitchen area with a sink and a small cooker. A few dishes were left out but he was pleasantly surprised how tidy it all seemed. Apart, that is, from the discarded items of clothing on the floor.

  “I don’t normally do this,” she said, seriously.

  “Do what?”

  “Have strange men in the room.” Her face broke into a broad grin.

  Souter smiled. “I don’t make a habit of it either.”

  “Going into girl’s bedrooms?”

  He looked at Sammy as if peering over a pair of reading glasses. “Have you eaten?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Come on, you need to have some breakfast, even though it’s afternoon.”

  “Oh, all right, do us a coffee then. There’s a jar in the left hand cupboard. It’ll have to be black. The milk ran out last night.”

  Souter filled the kettle and found the jar. “There’s a couple of slices of bread here. Fancy some toast?”

  Sammy pulled the bedclothes over her head in exasperation. “Okay, if it’ll shut you up.”

  Souter switched on the grill, set the bread on the grill pan and slid it underneath.

  “So come on,” she said, sitting back up in bed, “what about Maria?”

  “There’s nothing on Maria yet.” The kettle boiled and he poured water into the mugs. “I’ve asked around about any other missing girls like you said but again, nothing.”

  ”So what’s the point of coming round here if you’ve got nothing to tell me? Unless, of course …” She fluttered her eyelashes.

  “Behave! The fact is, if I’m going to help you, I need your help.”

  “How?”

  “Well the girls are hardly likely to talk to me in an open and frank manner, are they? Apart from police, journalists are not the most popular. And I think the answer has to lie with them.”

  Sammy grew serious. “I’m really worried now.”

  Souter pulled out the grill pan and turned the bread over. “I know you are.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “First off, I need to speak to Tracey.”

  “Might not be that easy.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t exactly know where she lives for a start. For another, she works a number of patches.”

  “We’ve got to try.” He held up a white paper bag. “Sugar?“

  “Two.”

  “Don’t suppose you’ve any butter?”

  “Spreadable, in the fridge.”

  He buttered the two slices of toast, put them on a plate and handed it to her, along with her coffee. He sat on the empty bed, declining Sammy’s invitation to sit on her’s.

  “Now get that down you and we’ll get off and see if you can find her.”

  “Ooh, right away, Mr Souter, sir,” she mocked.

  “You can knock the ‘Mr Souter’ bit on the head. Call me Bob. Everybody else does.”

  She chuckled. “Okay, Bob. Tell me about yourself.”

  “Not a lot to tell, really.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Not until you eat that.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said, “but I want to know why you sometimes sound a bit Scottish.”

  “You detect that?”

  “I’m quite good with accents.”

  “Well, I was born in Scotland,” he began. “Lived there until I was six before I came down to Doncaster with my family. And I’ve just spent nearly four years in Glasgow before I joined the Post in January. So I suppose now and then I slip into the accent.”

  Sammy laughed. “I was right, then.”

  “Very good. Anyway, enough of me; what about you and Maria?”

  She started on her second slice of toast and slurped her coffee. “We met in St. Benedict’s children’s home in Otley. Maria’s from Manchester. Her mum died when she was ten and her dad began drinking not long after. She was thirteen when she arrived.”

  “What about you, though?”

  “Never knew my dad. He pissed off before I was born. Mum did her best but she couldn’t really cope.” Sammy stared off into the middle distance. “Succession of blokes. All bastards, except one. Frank. I liked Frank. He was good to me.” She smiled and looked across at Souter. Her expression hardened. “Not like the last shit, Roger. Roger by name and Roger by nature. Started getting into my bed when mum worked a shift in the pub. Bastard.” Tears began to form and she struggled to keep control. “Fucking dirty bastard.”

  “Sammy, don’t. It’s too painful for you. I don’t want to know. You don’t have to tell me.”

  Through tears, she said, “But I do. You have to understand. I’m not a bad person just because I do what I have to do.”

  Souter got up and sat on the end of her bed. “Look, I said when we met yesterday, I’m not judging you. It doesn’t matter what you do, you’re a young woman, first and foremost.”

  “I know,” she sobbed. “That’s why I came to see you. I felt I could trust you.”

  “And I’ll help you if I possibly can. Now,” he said rising to his feet, “Get yourself dressed and meet me over the road. I’m in a red Escort.”

  Souter and Sammy’s luck changed at the third venue they tried in locating Tracey. The quiet road flanked by abandoned industrial units awaiting redevelopment provided a perfect stage for the performers. There were about six girls parading the two hundred yards of pavement, eyeing up any passing vehicles.

  “That looks like her up there, on the other side,” Sammy said.

  Before they could reach her a black BMW with heavily tinted windows coming in the opposite direction pulled up alongside the girl. As Souter passed by, he could feel the vibration of the bass line coming from the BMW’s stereo.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “That’s Winston’s car.”

  “Her pimp?”

  Sammy nodded. “Better than some.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  Souter reversed the car into an entrance, ready to head back down the street. “You know what I’m asking.”

  Sammy turned her head away. “I have a friend.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching Tracey lean in through the BMW’s passenger window. She wore knee length black boots, a denim skirt that only just covered the essentials and a low cut blue top. As she tried to move away and straighten up, an arm shot out, grabbed her and pulled her back. Souter tensed.

  “Relax,” Sammy said. “He’s probably telling her she needs to do more business.”

  A minute later, the BMW drove away from the kerb. But only for fifty yards or so to stop next to a tall dark-haired girl.

  Souter pulled back out into the road but not before having to give way to a grey Volkswagen Golf driven by a middle-aged man on his own. It drew alongside Tracey. Souter pulled up behind and Sammy shouted from the window. Tracey was startled. The Golf driver, nervous to begin with, shot off.

  “Tracey, we need to talk,” Sammy said.

  The girl strutted up to the car. “Fucking hell, Sam, you’ve just lost me a punter. Winston’ll be well pissed off.”

  “Get in will you and stop moaning. My friend here will compensate you.”

  “Here, you’re not in for a threesome are you?”

  “Piss off! Just get in.”

  Tracey opened the door and got into the back seat behind Sammy. “Just fucking drive, will you,” she said. “I’ll show you where to go.”

  Five minute
s later, they were parked at the rear of an old warehouse building. The detritus on the ground evidence that this was a regular venue.

  “This is Bob,” Sammy said. “A friend of mine. He’s helping me find Maria.”

  “She still not showed up yet?”

  “No.”

  Souter turned round. “Can you tell me the last time you saw her?”

  Tracey shifted in her seat, revealing more than he wanted to see. She blew a bubble of gum and let it crack as she considered her answer. “Sunday. About a quarter to eleven. You’d gone off with that Jerry bloke,” she said to Sammy. “Some tosser in a white van pulled up and she got in.”

  “Did she get straight in or did they talk first? I mean did you get the impression she knew him from a previous occasion?”

  “Don’t know. I think there was the usual ‘want business?’ and then she got in.”

  “Do you remember what kind of van?”

  “I dunno, just a white van.”

  “Big, small, medium?”

  “Smallish, like an Escort van.”

  “And was there anything unusual about it? Any name on the side, different coloured doors, that sort of thing?”

  She thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think there was any name. But the passenger door was a bit rusty along the bottom.”

  “That’s good, Tracey. It’s something, at least.”

  “What about my money?”

  Souter looked at Sammy.

  “She’s losing business, Bob.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty,” Tracey said.

  “Piss off,” Sammy responded, “Give her twenty for a blow job.”

  Souter moved his lips to say something but never quite managed it.

  “But my memory might not be what it should,” Tracey said.

  Souter brought out his wallet and retrieved some notes. “Here. Here’s thirty. Now what can you tell me about the man?”

  She snatched the money and it disappeared into her small handbag in a flash.

  “Only got a quick look.” She blew another bubble. This time it cracked back and stuck to her lips. “Fuck.” She pulled bits off and put them back into her mouth. “He was quite young, maybe in his twenties with a shaved head. That’s all I noticed. It was dark.”

  “You don’t think you’ve seen him before?”

  “Don’t think so.”