The Stolen Girls

by Patricia Gibney

  Chloe cried, ‘For God’s sake, leave me alone. I thought you were away.’

  ‘You’d better tell me what’s going on, missy. Are you ill?’

  Chloe thrust her head under her pillows. Placing the folded clothes on the bed, Lottie noticed the phone and fought an urge to pick it up and have a look.

  ‘If it’s your period, I can get you paracetamol. Is your head hurting?’ She sat on the bed, placing a hand on Chloe’s shoulder, but was shrugged off. A muffled sound came from beneath the pillows. Pulling them away, Lottie patted the girl’s damp hair. ‘Talk to me. Please.’

  Chloe turned round and hauled herself into a sitting position, dragging the long sleeves of her jumper down over her fingers.

  ‘You’re sweating,’ Lottie said. ‘Take that off and put on something lighter.’

  ‘I can’t find anything to wear.’ Chloe kicked out, knocking the newly folded bundle to the floor.

  Lottie ignored the childish act, conscious that there was something serious at play.

  ‘I love you so much and I’ll do anything to help you. But you have to talk to me,’ she pleaded.

  Scrunching her eyes shut as if considering the consequences of her actions, Chloe picked up her phone, tapped the screen and handed it over.

  ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’ Lottie furrowed her brow.

  ‘Twitter.’

  ‘I know that, but what do you want me to see?’

  ‘That hashtag? Cutforlife. Jeesus.’

  Lottie looked down at the phone, and then back up at her daughter. ‘Oh my God, Chloe. You’re not cutting yourself, are you? Self-harming? What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s k-kind of like a f-forum,’ the girl said, choking down tears. ‘F-for people with d-difficulties in their life. I can have a rant on it or whatever.’

  ‘You’re on it?’ Lottie asked, horrified. She could think of a hundred and one different places to get help besides Twitter. She stared helplessly at the girl. At the smooth, youthful face, the big blue eyes, the image of her dad. She couldn’t bear to think that her daughter was going through serious mental trauma. ‘Chloe, what’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Maeve. She regularly posted stuff on it. There’s been nothing from her since she d-disappeared. But two minutes ago, this p-popped up.’

  Lottie looked at the last post under the hashtag: U r next Chloe @ADAM99. ‘Who is @ADAM99?’ she asked.

  ‘Me. I set it up in Dad’s name. Just to be anonymous, like. But someone seems to have sussed who I am. As far as I’m aware, only two people know about the @ADAM99 tag.’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Maeve and this guy. I think he set up the hashtag.’

  ‘What guy?’ Lottie grabbed Chloe by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Don’t go all detective on me.’

  ‘This is serious.’ What had her daughter got herself into?

  Chloe hesitated. ‘I… I don’t think I can tell you.’

  ‘This is a blatant threat against you,’ Lottie said. ‘A threat to your safety, especially as we don’t know where Maeve is. Tell me who this guy is.’

  ‘He calls himself Lipjan on Twitter. I don’t know his real name…’

  ‘Go on,’ Lottie coaxed.

  ‘I thought he might know where Maeve was. I thought he might have been her boyfriend. I sent him a message and he told me to meet him.’

  ‘You didn’t…’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh Chloe. Who is he? Where does he live?’ Lottie fumbled for her own phone, ready to call in her team.

  ‘Will you listen?’

  She put the phone down and grasped Chloe’s hand. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I don’t know his real name. He was nice online. But he was horrible in real life.’ Chloe scrunched her face in disgust.

  ‘Did he touch you? So help me God, I’ll kill him if he did.’

  ‘He tried to kiss me. I got away. No harm done.’ Chloe rubbed a hand along her arm.

  ‘When was this? Did he know where Maeve was? Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Mam! Stop it!’ Chloe cried. ‘It was a few days ago. It was awful but I’ll be okay.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘In the town park. Mam, what if he took Maeve?’

  Chloe broke down in sobs. Lottie held her to her chest and soothed her, running her fingers through her long hair. She wanted to hear more, but she knew her daughter had had enough trauma for one night.

  SEVENTY

  Lottie sat on the side of the bed and watched until Chloe eventually fell asleep. She recalled how only two days ago she had looked at the body of the second murder victim, with its evidence of self-inflicted wounds. What had she said then? ‘Surely someone close to her would have known.’ Right.

  Her daughter needed help. The child was suffering. Chloe had been too strong over the last few years. Ironic, then, how it had been Sean’s ordeal that had broken her.

  With a weary sigh, she kissed the girl’s forehead and went to her own room. She stripped off and had a quick shower but was unable to wash away the mental strain of the last hour, the day, the last week. She pulled on an old T-shirt of Adam’s and a pair of leggings. In her bare feet she padded down to the kitchen, found her iPad and switched it on. Sitting at the table, she entered the word ‘Lipjan’ into Google. Tapping open the first line of articles, she began to read.

  Lipjan – a town in Kosovo. She sat up straight, hand trembling on the iPad. After a few minutes, she jumped up.

  The chicken farm? Something Dan Russell had mentioned when she’d been to see him at the barracks. He had said the mice reminded him of the chicken farm. Now here she was, reading about it on an online article. The chicken farm was based outside the town called Lipjan.

  ‘Got you, Russell,’ she cried, clapping her hands together.

  * * *

  ‘Come again,’ Boyd said. ‘What hashtag are you on about?’

  Lottie poured two cups of tea. Boyd had arrived ten minutes after she rang him. Patiently she explained what Chloe had told her.

  ‘And Maeve was using it too?’ he asked.

  ‘According to Chloe, yes. We need to trace everyone who uses it. Warn them.’

  ‘That’s a big job.’

  ‘It might save a life.’

  ‘This Lipjan, who do you think he is?’

  ‘Because it is in Kosovo, I think it has to be either Russell, who worked there, or Petrovci who is from there.’

  ‘What reason would either of them have?’

  ‘A means of luring in vulnerable girls.’

  ‘I hope your Chloe isn’t one of them.’

  Lottie could feel tears searching for release. Her shoulders sagged with exhaustion but her brain was wide awake.

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Chloe will be fine.’ Boyd reached out to touch her hand. She pulled it back and gripped her mug.

  ‘She better be, Boyd. I’m not letting her out of this house until we solve this.’

  ‘That’s wise. So what do we do now?’

  ‘We have to figure out Dan Russell’s role.’

  ‘That email he sent you? What was it about?’

  Toying with the handle of her mug, Lottie considered how much she could tell him. Silence lingered in the air. She lifted her head and found him staring at her.

  She picked her bag up from the floor and took out the photograph she’d found in her mother’s attic and the badge she’d got from Mimoza.

  ‘According to Russell, that girl there, the little one, is Mimoza. And that is Adam’s army name badge. Russell insinuated that Adam had something to do with illegal organ harvesting in Kosovo.’

  Boyd’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his head. ‘Back up there a minute. Surely you don’t believe that?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’

  ‘Lottie, you knew Adam better than anyone. This isn’t true.’

  ‘If it�
�s not true, why is Russell threatening to expose it?’

  ‘He’s fucking with you. Twisting the truth.’

  Lottie stood up and walked around. She looked at her wedding photo gathering dust on the wall.

  ‘You’re right. I’m stupid. Russell is trying to compromise me with lies. He’s diverting me from the truth.’

  ‘And Petrovci is slap-bang in the middle of it all.’

  ‘I can’t figure it out. That’s the awful thing.’

  ‘You know what you need?’

  ‘A good night’s sleep?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’m not so sure I’ll manage to sleep, Boyd, but I’ll try. Thank you.’ She gave him a tight hug.

  After he had left, Lottie knew there was no way she could sleep and opened up her laptop. Following hours of research into the night, she discovered something that caused her jaw to drop. Hurriedly, she sent off an email, hoping the reply wouldn’t take long. It might just help solve her case.

  Mimoza stared up at the sky and shivered. The stars blended into each other. One big blinding light. She wanted to shield her eyes but her arms were tethered to her sides with thick rope. Then she realised the light wasn’t the stars at all but a flashlight. Beaming straight down into her eyes through the darkness.

  She tried to speak but her mouth was bound with a rough cloth. The light turned away from her and she tried to follow its glow. He was shining it onto the other silent bundle.

  She wondered where Milot might be. She hoped he was being treated better than she was.

  Against the sound of shallow waves lapping against a distant shoreline, she cried silent tears under the starlit sky.

  And she wished she had never left her homeland.

  KOSOVO, 1999

  Images flitted behind his closed eyes. Lights, colours, shapes. Then voices.

  He screamed. ‘Mama!’

  No one answered him. Slowly he opened his eyes. Mama was dead. Papa and Rhea too. He wished he was dead. Pain. Searing red-hot pain shot through his belly, around his back and down his legs. He tentatively moved his fingers along his skin. A clear plastic tube protruded from the back of his hand. He found the source of the pain. Low on his side, a series of bandages curving around his hip. What had the doctor done to him?

  He tried to remember.

  A room with bright lights. A trolley. He’d been made to lie down on it. The doctor had put a needle in his hand and the last thing he recalled was the boy he’d seen in the corridor approaching him with a scalpel.

  That was it. Now he was here. Where? He turned his head. A small room with paint curling in the corner of the ceiling. A memory fought to gain control of his brain. Scratching away like the mice in the chicken farm. Mama and Rhea, screaming in pain as their bodies were sliced and their life organs torn so easily from them. With quivering fingers he eased back the bandage and felt beneath it. He touched the rises and bumps. Stitches. Pulling his fingers away, he held his hand up in the air and saw a smear of blood.

  The door opened. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  ‘Wake up.’ The voice was that of the doctor.

  The boy obeyed and looked up into the eyes of the grey-faced man. Gobbling up spit from deep in his throat, he let it fly.

  The doctor wiped it away with his coat sleeve. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. Believe me.’

  ‘What did you take from me?’

  ‘A kidney. And seeing how you are reacting, I’m sorry I didn’t take both.’

  The boy laughed. It was easier than crying. ‘You will pay for this.’

  ‘Where you are going, boy, you will soon forget me. You are nothing. You hear me? Like all the others who come through my doors. I use them to save those worthy of saving. And you are worthless.’

  Hearing movement at the door, the boy twisted round. The young lad stood there, holding a steel case similar to those he’d seen at his home the day his family had been murdered.

  ‘Father,’ the lad said, ‘are you ready? We need to hurry or the ice will melt.’

  The doctor slid a long bony finger along the boy’s face.

  ‘I will be back for you.’

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Only when I am ready.’

  The boy felt the skin on the back of his hand tingle as the doctor inserted a syringe into the cannula and the liquid trickled into his body. He had no control. Before a dead weight caused his eyelids to close, he saw the emotionless black eyes of the boy at the door, his face sporting a smirk of pure evil.

  Eventually he slipped into darkness.

  DAY EIGHT

  MONDAY 18 MAY 2015

  SEVENTY-ONE

  ‘Chloe, I think it’s safer if you stay home from school today, and I’m going to arrange a squad car to patrol the area.’

  Placing a mug of coffee on the locker, Lottie sat down on the edge of the bed. Chloe’s eyes were swollen from crying.

  ‘Did you sleep much?’

  ‘Not a lot. Thanks for understanding, Mam.’

  ‘Darling, I’ll help you any way I can. I have to go to work now, but ring me if you need anything.’

  Chloe smiled and Lottie felt her heart constrict. She squeezed the girl’s hand and feathered her cheek with a kiss. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  ‘How come she gets to stay home and I’ve to go to school. It’s not fair.’ Sean stood on the landing, rucksack flung at his feet, hands stuffed into his pockets. ‘I’m sick too.’

  Lottie mussed his hair and appraised her tall son. ‘Image of your dad.’

  ‘Do I still have to go?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Come on. I’m late and I don’t want you late too.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Sean! Language,’ Lottie said.

  Katie was at the bottom of the stairs, holding Milot on her hip.

  ‘Fuck,’ the little boy said.

  ‘Dear God,’ Lottie sighed. ‘What will that social worker think of this family?’

  ‘His name is Eamon,’ Katie said.

  ‘Is it now?’ Lottie folded her arms.

  Her daughter blushed.

  ‘Fuck,’ Milot said again.

  And Lottie had to agree with him.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  Lottie informed Superintendent Corrigan about the girl she’d seen in Frank Phillips’s bedroom. He lifted the phone immediately to contact his Spanish colleagues. Relief soared through her as she entered the office.

  ‘Right. We’ve got three murder victims and two girls missing, Maeve Phillips and Mimoza Barbatovci. The only things that seem to link them are the DPC, Dan Russell and Andri Petrovci. We’re going through everything from day one right up to date.’

  Kirby and Lynch flustered around. Boyd sauntered in with two Styrofoam cups of coffee and handed one to Lottie. She placed it on top of a stack of files.

  ‘We’re solving this mess today. Today!’ she said. Taking a sheet of paper from her bag, she laid it out in front of her. She’d worked for hours last night, listing things they had to do, reading up on Kosovo, sending off emails.

  ‘Where’s that warrant for the DPC?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s before the judge this morning,’ Boyd said.

  Lottie told the team about Chloe’s revelations regarding the man calling himself Lipjan.

  ‘I did some research on Kosovo last night. During the war back in the nineties, illegal harvesting of human organs was endemic. Organs were torn from the living bodies of captive soldiers and ordinary civilians. People were brought to a doctor in Pristina by the KLA and others. Big-money business. This disgraced doctor, Gjon Jashari, was brought to trial a few years ago for crimes against humanity, but he suffered a heart attack and died before anyone could give evidence.’

  ‘Rough justice,’ Boyd said.

  ‘I’ve emailed the prosecutor for details of those involved. It’s a long shot, but seeing as we have two dead girls with organs removed, and links to Kosovo in town, it’s worth a try.’

  ‘Re
al long shot,’ Kirby said.

  ‘Get everything we have so far, and a fine-tooth comb. Come on, lads. Today!’

  After an hour trawling through reports, transcripts and evidence, Lottie sat back.

  ‘Anything on the crypto and reports of illegal shootings on lakes?’ she asked Lynch.

  ‘I’m working my way through the reports. I’ll have a list ready for you later.’

  ‘Be as quick as you can. The shore of a lake could be our primary crime scene. Kirby, if you haven’t already done it, look up Jack Dermody’s phone contacts.’ Lottie marked off a list she’d made last night. ‘See if anyone crops up who could be involved in all this.’

  ‘Yes, boss. Will I do the same for Petrovci?’

  ‘We ran his phone on day one, so now I want you to cross-reference his contacts against Dermody’s. Calls and texts also.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘And check if any unit dealing with organised crime or human trafficking know of this Fatjon whom Frank Phillips mentioned.’

  ‘Jaysus, boss, I’ve all this stuff to do and—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Lottie caught the roll of Kirby’s eyes as he made his way out of the office. ‘I’m heading off to see Dan Russell.’ She ticked another item on her list.

  ‘I’ll go with you.’ Boyd stood up.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good cop, bad cop?’

  ‘I’m the bad one this time.’ Lottie picked up her bag and headed for the door.

  ‘You’re the bad cop all the time.’

  ‘Who’s a bad cop?’ Superintendent Corrigan filled the doorway with his oversized bulk. Beneath his spectacles, one eye sported a black patch.

  Lottie escaped out under his arm before she said anything about pirates.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  ‘So you haven’t found Mimoza yet?’ Dan Russell said.

  They’d refused his invitation to sit. Boyd leaned against the wall to the left of the ex-army man. Lottie stood to the right, her back to him, and perused the line of hanging photos. She spun round. ‘I want to know the truth.’