The Stolen Girls

by Patricia Gibney

  Lottie asked, ‘What about Europol?’

  ‘We’re not interviewing Frank Phillips in an official capacity. The superintendent spoke to someone he knows who knows someone who’s in the know, so we’re good to go.’

  Despite everything, Lottie couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘Go on, say it,’ Boyd urged.

  ‘You’re a tonic, do you know that?’

  ‘So you keep telling me.’

  ‘See you in the morning. And bring the Petrovci interview transcript. It’ll give me something to read on the plane.’

  ‘And here was I thinking you’d be snuggling up on my shoulder.’

  ‘Goodnight, Boyd.’

  She ended the call and paced the kitchen. A glass of wine would be good. A vodka maybe? No way. A pill? She rooted around in her bag. Tried the zip pocket. Found half a pill crumbling in the bottom. Rescuing what was left of it, she poured a glass of water from the tap and swallowed.

  Sitting in her armchair, she hoped the pill would help ease the memory of Russell making his threats about Adam. His words were ingrained on her consciousness. She knew Russell had been implying her husband had been complicit in human organ harvesting. No way. Adam would never have been involved in something like that. Russell was a liar.

  Closing her eyes, she listened for the wind. Nothing. Rain? Birds in the trees? Nothing.

  The night was silent.

  She fell into an uneasy sleep, disturbed by noisy dreams.

  Mimoza had been tied up and a black bin bag drawn over her head. The plastic stuck to the blood oozing from her wounds, but there was a tear in it allowing her to breathe.

  Bundled into the boot of a car, she hadn’t the energy or the will to fight back or to try and figure out where she was being taken. She was beyond caring about herself. And such was her physical pain and emotional desolation, she momentarily thought that she didn’t even care about Milot. But that wasn’t true. No matter what they did to her body, she vowed they would not break her spirit. All she could do was hope. If she could survive, she might have a chance of finding Milot. If she was dead, all bets were off.

  When the car stopped, she was hauled out of the boot and hoisted over a man’s shoulder. Through her pain she felt herself being carried before being flung down. She hit a wooden structure and it rocked. She heard water splashing and further rocking as he nudged her out of the way and joined her.

  She was in a boat.

  When she awoke, Maeve knew instantly that she was in a different place. The air was fresh and she could see the dark sky. Dozens of stars twinkling. She was outside, lying on damp grass.

  The pain in her side was intense. Her fingers lingered in the feathery softness of the earth and she felt cold. Naked. She tried to raise herself onto her elbows, but she didn’t have the physical energy to move. Pain seared through her body. Her head nestled into a bed of heather. She could smell it. Earthy. She desperately wanted to go home.

  Turning her head slightly, she heard water rippling and tiny waves splashing. Through the shadows of the trees she noticed a shape, hunched over, walking beneath the branches towards her. It looked like a caricature of the hunchback of Notre-Dame. It was a man, carrying something on his shoulder.

  She lay deathly still as he dumped the bundle on the ground beside her. The plastic split.

  And then she screamed.

  KOSOVO, 1999

  The captain was driving too fast while talking frantically into a bulky mobile phone.

  Deep in his broken heart the boy knew he was being brought back to the clinic. The road led to Pristina and he wasn’t stupid. Sinking into the hot upholstery of the seat, he watched the countryside disappearing in a blur until they entered the battered city. The captain parked the jeep at the clinic door.

  ‘Out.’

  He was shoved down the corridor and through the door at the end. The doctor stood there holding a file with a sheaf of papers sticking out.

  ‘Good work. This candidate is ideal.’

  The captain said, ‘I want more for this one.’

  ‘No way.’

  The boy shuffled from one foot to the other, the leather of his sandals causing a blister to pop up on his heel. He wetted his finger and, bending down, rubbed it like his mama had shown him.

  ‘Stop that,’ the doctor said, pointing with a bony finger.

  Skulking into the corner, the boy buried his hands into his jeans pocket, and there, he felt the canvas badge. Rubbing the stitched name, he didn’t feel so alone. He had a friend.

  The captain said, ‘You told me his blood is a perfect match. No impurities. Not like some of the others. So it’s double for this one or I’ll drop him at a whorehouse.’

  The boy watched as the doctor opened a drawer. Taking out a wallet, he counted the money as a fly buzzed, trapped in the plastic covering of the fluorescent light.

  ‘Take it and go,’ the doctor said.

  Folding the notes, the captain pushed them into the top pocket of his camouflage shirt without counting.

  The boy felt a shove on his shoulder as he was prodded towards the doctor. He smelled the man’s clammy body but he felt no fear. He had already endured the torture of watching his family massacred. What could be worse?

  The door banged shut as the captain exited.

  He was alone with the white-coated man.

  His chin was tipped upward.

  He gagged from the odour of dry fish coming from the doctor’s mouth.

  ‘Time to get you ready. Come, boy.’

  Shoulders drooping, the boy followed him to another room.

  The sign on the door said: TEATRI.

  DAY SEVEN

  SUNDAY 17 MAY 2015

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Lottie listened at the bottom of the stairs. Silence. All asleep. She pulled the door closed quietly behind her.

  She’d warned Katie not to let Milot out of her sight, to stay with him at all times, even inside the house. The back garden was a no-go area for today. She had been thinking of calling her mother to come over for the day, but decided they would be all right.

  Boyd looked fresher than she’d seen him in days.

  Throwing her bag at her feet in his freshly hoovered car, she sat in and said, ‘You’re looking sprightly.’

  ‘And how are you, beautiful lady, on this fine dark morning?’

  ‘It’s three fifty-five and I’ve hardly slept a wink, so can you quell the sunshine for an hour? I’m so tired I feel my bones are about to concertina into each other and I’ll collapse like a puppet. Drive the car, and shut up.’

  ‘Your wish is my—’

  ‘Boyd!’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Resting her head into the upholstery, she stared straight ahead as the yellow hue of the street lamps gave way to the white glare from the motorway lights. For some reason she wanted to shout at Boyd, to bang her fists against his chest and tell him… tell him what? That she really did like him? That he was making a big mistake rekindling his relationship with Jackie? Bottom line, she didn’t want to see him get hurt.

  She chanced a glance. He was concentrating on driving. She bit her lip to keep herself from saying something stupid.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Boyd turned to her.

  ‘Watch the road.’

  He hunched his shoulders and, setting his mouth in a serious line, increased his speed to slightly above the legal limit.

  Turning her head to the window, she closed her eyes.

  ‘Wake me when we get to the airport,’ she mumbled.

  ‘I’ll wake you when we get to Malaga.’

  * * *

  Frank Phillips owned many properties in the Costa del Sol, but had opted to live in a brand-new complex on Malaga’s beachfront.

  With Boyd by her side, Lottie entered the grey-stone building, smelling the newness, drinking in the view, appreciating the cool after the pulsating early-morning sun. They took the lift up to the sixth floor and stepped out to a massive hallway, the wall m
irroring their reflections. She turned away from the offending glass only to find she was looking at herself again. One wall slipped away silently to the right and a man came out to usher them inside. He looked to be around seven foot tall, but she estimated he was probably about six ten.

  ‘Mr Phillips will see you shortly.’ As quickly as he had appeared, the giant vanished.

  ‘It’s like the bloody Wizard of Oz,’ Boyd muttered.

  ‘Shh,’ Lottie whispered. But she had to agree with him as she surveyed the room. Everything was emerald green. The sparkling marble tiles, the columns supporting the ceiling, the couch with its three-foot cushions. The paintings, all by renowned Irish artist Jack Henry.

  ‘They look like originals.’ Millions of euros’ worth of artwork. Sweet Jesus!

  ‘Yes, they are originals.’

  Wheeling around, Lottie recognised Frank Phillips immediately. The long black hair, the nose, even the eyes. Maeve was the image of her father. But Frank was all of five foot, with skin so tanned he looked like a wooden whiskey keg.

  He ambled towards them, tightening the belt of his trousers.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said expansively. His starched white shirt crinkled over a protruding belly. He directed them to three chairs strategically placed in front of floor-to-ceiling windows, the Mediterranean providing the backdrop. ‘Tea, anyone?’

  He didn’t wait for a response. The tall man appeared at his side. Little and large.

  ‘Manuel, tea for three. Now, Detective Inspector – or should I call you Mrs Parker? – you’re here in an unofficial capacity, I believe.’

  ‘Inspector will be just fine.’ She noticed that Phillips was ignoring Boyd and focusing his attention on her.

  ‘My wife, Tracy, chose the life of an alcoholic. If you can even call it a life. My daughter feels some sort of duty to her. When she’s eighteen, I intend to bring her over here. Show her all she’ll inherit and maybe then she might leave her good-for-nothing mother in the gutter where she belongs and come live with me. What teenager wouldn’t?’

  ‘One with decent morals?’ Boyd piped up. Lottie tried to nudge him with her elbow but his chair was strategically placed too far away.

  ‘Morals fly out the window in the face of wealth,’ Phillips said. ‘My Maeve can have everything she ever dreamed of here. And more.’

  ‘Except maybe freedom?’ Boyd again.

  ‘Money sets you free.’ Phillips motioned for Manuel to set the white china cups on the wooden table painted in the tricolour. Carved Celtic crosses for legs.

  ‘Surely you’re a prisoner in your own castle?’ Lottie said.

  ‘I have all I want.’ His tone rose an octave. ‘Right here.’

  He’s angry now, she thought. ‘Except you don’t have your daughter.’ How far could she push him?

  ‘It’s your job to find her. Which you haven’t been too successful at so far.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because you sent your minion McNally to interfere in our work.’

  ‘How can you interfere in something that’s not being done? Unless you’ve come to tell me you’ve found Maeve. Have you?’

  Lottie shook her head. ‘We think your business ventures are linked to Maeve’s disappearance.’

  ‘So she hasn’t run away with her invisible boyfriend, like you had us believe?’

  ‘We haven’t found any boyfriend. Yet.’ With the sea outside and the green inside playing games on the walls, Lottie felt almost seasick. ‘May I use your bathroom?’

  ‘If that’s a ploy to snoop around my home, you’re out of luck. There’s nothing to find here. I’m—’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I suddenly feel a little queasy.’

  Phillips clicked his fingers and Manuel materialised.

  ‘Show her to the guest bathroom.’

  Standing up, Lottie grabbed Boyd’s shoulder for support.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll be fine in a minute.’

  Phillips had been right. She did want to snoop. Following Manuel around a pillar and down a wide corridor, greener than the room she’d just left, she hoped the bathroom was painted white or pink. Otherwise she would definitely spill her guts.

  It was canary yellow.

  * * *

  After a quick scout around, without going into any of the rooms, Lottie returned to the living area. Tea had been poured but lay untouched.

  ‘I was just saying to Sergeant Boyd here, you have to put things in perspective.’ Frank Phillips was standing at the window, his arm resting on what looked like a gold-plated telescope. He trailed his short fingers through his long hair, now tied back in a ponytail. Shades of grey pricked above pointed ears and at his temple. Otherwise it was a shimmering black. And she was sure he’d had a face lift or possibly Botox. Not a crease or a line anywhere on his leathery face.

  ‘See that gull there,’ he said, pointing to a fat bird on the sill, plucking at the scales of a fish. ‘Now look up into the sky at the planes taking off from the airport.’

  Lottie squinted into the sunlight. Boyd leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘That tiny dot of white snaking across the blue. See it?’

  She nodded. What type of game was he playing?

  Phillips put his eye to the telescope. ‘That is a 737 Boeing. Ryanair. A dozen or more flights from all over Europe daily in and out of Malaga. Full of people. And yet the plane looks smaller than that seagull there.’

  ‘What’s your point?’ Boyd voiced Lottie’s thoughts.

  Drawing away from the telescope, Phillips said, ‘Sometimes what’s in front of our eyes is so close, we can’t see the full picture.’

  ‘I’ve lost you there,’ Lottie said.

  ‘The seagull looks huge standing close. Just like a plane with a load of people waiting on the tarmac. But when it flies way up in the sky it’s just a dot. One of many way up there.’ Phillips tapped the window. The bird dropped the fish and flew away with loud squawks. Phillips laughed.

  ‘I suspect you’re dealing with something big in Ragmullin. But believe me when I say you have no idea how massive it really is.’

  ‘Has this got something to do with the murders?’ Lottie asked, glancing at Boyd to see if he was following Phillips. ‘We’ve found three murder victims in the last week. Do you know anything about them?’ She was bored with his talk of seagulls and planes.

  ‘I heard about them and I think you don’t know what’s really going on.’

  ‘Explain,’ Boyd said, blowing out his cheeks in exasperation.

  ‘Can you confirm I’d be free from prosecution and get witness protection? That I could go home and look for my daughter?’

  Lottie exchanged another glance with Boyd. She said, ‘It might take a while. Tell us what you know and I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘We’ve come all this way for information that might help us save Maeve. I’m disappointed in you.’

  ‘Save her from what? Inspector, if I told you all I suspect, I would be dead in a matter of days, then I’d be no use to Maeve at all. I need to get home and look for her myself. You don’t understand the complexities.’

  ‘Enlighten us,’ Lottie said.

  ‘I can only point you in a certain direction.’

  ‘Point away.’ Lottie tried to hide her exasperation.

  ‘Walk along the docks.’ He swept his short arm towards the port. ‘It’s in front of your eyes. That’s all I can say. I’ve decided I’m getting out of my current business, and believe me it won’t be in a coffin. Construction. That’s how I’m going to make my money from now on.’

  Lottie looked at him directly. ‘I need more.’

  ‘I have people scouring every rat-hole looking for Maeve. He’s taken her. He’s going to come for me too. I can’t leave my home without a bodyguard.’

  ‘He? Who are you talking about?’

  Philips snorted. ‘A man called Fatjon. He’s been involved in human trafficking for the sex trade for ye
ars. I believe he could be involved in the murders.’

  ‘Does he work for you?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Why do you think he’s involved?’

  ‘I only suspect it, Inspector. I need to be careful what I say unless you can guarantee me immunity.’

  ‘You know that takes time and paperwork. Tell me what you can.’ There was no way he was going anywhere without a set of handcuffs, Lottie silently vowed.

  Phillips looked out of the window at the great expanse of sea. His voice was low and gravelly as he spoke.

  ‘A couple of my… the girls brought into Ireland, earmarked for the sex trade, have disappeared. Without a trace. I’m losing money. Fatjon was the middleman.’

  Lottie let out a sigh of frustration. Phillips was leaving out more than he was telling her. She decided to plough ahead.

  ‘Two of the bodies we found had organs removed. Is this Fatjon involved in that?’

  Phillips opened his mouth to speak, but paused. Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘I don’t know. Organ removal? Really? Perhaps it’s a doctor, or a wannabe doctor.’

  ‘And this Fatjon, he’s not a doctor, is he?’

  Philips laughed wryly. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘What does he look like? Where does he live?’

  ‘I don’t know where he lives. He is a very tall man; muscular, a brute. And he has extremely crooked teeth.’

  Lottie looked at Boyd. He shook his head. They hadn’t come across anyone like that so far in their investigations.

  She tried again. ‘What about Dan Russell? He used to be a commandant in the army. Do you know him?’

  ‘Scum of the earth.’

  ‘I thought he was doing well with his company managing the direct provision centre.’

  Phillips snorted. ‘He’s paying for his sins. Look beneath the surface of the man. Have you investigated him?’

  ‘We have. Nothing major. He retired from the army and set up his company.’

  ‘Sloppy work, Inspector.’ Phillips tut-tutted. ‘He was kicked out for bringing the good name of the Irish army into disrepute. Do your job properly and you might find my daughter. Before it’s too late.’