Bone Machine

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Right, so I think I’ve heard of him,’ said Donovan. ‘Why should I be interested in him?’

  ‘Because he’s Serbian,’ said Sharkey.

  ‘And he runs Lebanese and Italian restaurants?’ said Amar.

  ‘Both countries with better cuisines than his own,’ replied Sharkey. ‘Not much of a market for beetroot soup.’

  ‘So you want us to send the nasty foreigner back, is that it?’ said Donovan. ‘Is this job on behalf of the Daily Mail? Or are you working for the BNP now?’

  Sharkey threw back his head and laughed. Jamal jumped, startled by the suddenness of it.

  ‘That laugh was as false as Victoria Beckham’s breasts,’ said Donovan. ‘When you laugh like that, it usually means you want me to do something I don’t want to do.’

  ‘Not at all, Joe,’ said Sharkey, voice all emollient. ‘In fact, you might like this one.’ He looked around the others. ‘All of you.’

  Sharkey turned to address them, arms behind his back in his barrister stance. Donovan knew the pose. It meant Sharkey was about to impart information that was important.

  ‘Kovacs’ nationality is not the issue here,’ said Sharkey, his face now serious. ‘It’s his clandestine activities that present us with the problem.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Donovan. ‘He’s really a gangster.’

  ‘He certainly is.’

  ‘How original.’ Donovan looked at Peta and Amar, shrugged. ‘An East European gangster. Any more cultural stereotypes up your sleeve? Lazy Jamaicans? Thick Irishmen? Bomb-toting Muslims?’

  Sharkey sighed. ‘Mr Kovacs, we believe, deals in drugs.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ said Peta.

  ‘And, more important, people,’ said Sharkey. ‘Illegal immigrants. Refugees. Asylum seekers. Call them what you want. Mr Kovacs and his associates are modern-day slave traders.’

  Donovan shook his head. ‘Oh, here we go.’

  ‘Will you listen to me, please? And perhaps you’ll learn why this case is right up your liberal street.’ Sharkey’s words were edged with anger. Donovan fell silent. ‘Thank you. Now cast your mind back to 1999. The Kosovan war. Miloševi. Ethnic cleansing and all that. Remember?’

  Donovan heard the seriousness in Sharkey’s tone.

  ‘Remember Arkan?’

  Donovan thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Arkan. Ran an outfit called Arkan’s Tigers, gangster, assassin, thug, secret policeman, Miloševi’s right-hand man. Well-feared bloke. That right?’

  Sharkey raised an eyebrow, impressed.

  Donovan continued. ‘Ethnic cleansers r us. Responsible for supposedly hundreds of acts of genocide during the Kosovan war. Assassinated at the end of it by an Albanian, I think. How am I doing so far?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Peta.

  Donovan looked at her, smiled almost apologetically. ‘The paper I worked for covered the war extensively.’ He shrugged. ‘Naturally, we opposed it. And the West’s attitude to it. And won awards for doing so.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Sharkey. ‘Well, from what we can gather, Arkan had an associate. A second in charge, just as bad as he was. No one knew his real name. Only his codename. Zmija. The snake. But when Arkan was killed and Miloševi was indicted for war crimes, he—’

  ‘Slithered away?’ offered Jamal.

  Donovan laughed. Sharkey smiled indulgently. ‘Very good. There were rumours he had gone under ground. Across Europe. Into racketeering, drugs, prostitution, protection rackets. Arms. But nothing substantiated. Then reports stopped appearing. And he was forgotten, presumed killed by a business associate. But then, Marco Kovacs, businessman, pops up in Newcastle.’

  ‘Do they look alike?’ asked Amar.

  ‘The Snake was never photographed; no one could give a description of him.’

  ‘So why do you think it’s this Marco Kovacs?’ asked Peta.

  Sharkey smiled, enjoying the drama. ‘Because we have a witness.’

  ‘Who?’ said Donovan.

  Sharkey nodded to Jamal, who hit another key. The image on the screen changed. A head-and-shoulder shot of a young man appeared. The photo was in colour and official-looking: an ID card or passport photo. Or a mug shot. The man was dark-haired and hollow-eyed. He looked tired, hungry.

  ‘This is Dario Tokic,’ said Sharkey. ‘A former slave of Mr Kovacs. He was brought over here. Promised a new life and put to work on an industrial-sized farm, somewhere in the north-west, we think. Owned, indirectly, by Kovacs. Mr Tokic managed to escape, came to Newcastle. He says he has evidence for us.’

  ‘What kind?’ asked Peta.

  Sharkey paused. Knew he was about to impart something of importance. ‘The farm received a visit from its owner one day.’

  ‘Kovacs?’

  Sharkey nodded. ‘Mr Tokic remembered him from the old country. With Arkan’s Tigers. Massacring a village. His village.’

  ‘And he’s identified Kovacs?’ asked Donovan.

  Sharkey nodded to Jamal. The slide changed. A grinning, dinner-jacketed Kovacs was flanked by a burly bald bodyguard.

  ‘Broke down in tears when he saw this,’ said Sharkey. ‘Seemed genuine enough. Couldn’t look at it any more, apparently.’

  Donovan looked suitably impressed. ‘And he’s going to testify?’

  ‘He is. But with certain strings attached.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘He entered this country illegally; he wants to stay here legally.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem to you,’ said Donovan.

  ‘It isn’t. But there’s something else.’

  ‘What?’ asked Amar.

  Sharkey nodded at Jamal again. The image changed to that of a young woman. Pretty and smiling. Blonde and well dressed, she looked as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘This is his sister, Katya. The picture was taken a couple of years ago when she had just started at Priština university. European literature, I believe.’

  ‘And where is she now?’ asked Donovan.

  ‘Somewhere in this city. A slave. Of a more sexual nature.’

  ‘And this is down to Kovacs?’ asked Peta.

  ‘Indirectly, we think,’ said Sharkey, nodding to Jamal who pressed a key. The image on the screen changed. A young man, mid-twenties, appeared. Sunglasses, dark spiky hair, leather jacket. Cigarette in the corner of his mouth, mobile clamped to his ear. ‘This is Derek Ainsley. More colloquially known as Decca. Local gangster wannabe.’

  ‘Form?’ asked Peta.

  ‘Minor but escalating,’ replied Sharkey. ‘Cars, drugs, protection, that kind of thing. Marked down as one for the future. At least everyone thought so.’

  ‘And what now?’ asked Amar.

  ‘Had a Damascus road conversion,’ said Sharkey, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘Went straight. Runs a coffee bar in the city centre. Among other things.’

  ‘This coffee bar. Owned by Kovacs?’ asked Donovan.

  Sharkey smiled. ‘Very good. And in addition to that, Mr Ainsley has started making frequent trips back and forward to Eastern Europe. He claims it’s where he finds staff. We think that’s just a front. A sop to respectability. We think it’s where he finds young girls to bring back and force into sexual slavery.’

  ‘And this girl’s one of them?’ asked Peta.

  Sharkey nodded. ‘We believe so.’

  Donovan nodded. ‘And how do we find her?’

  Sharkey smiled. ‘That’s where you and your team come in, my boy.’

  Donovan looked at him. ‘Thought it might be.’

  ‘Can I just ask,’ said Peta, ‘why aren’t the police doing this? Immigration Services?’

  ‘Compromised,’ said Sharkey. ‘Now I’m not suggesting for one minute that our boys in blue are anything but honest, hard-working sons of toil, but Mr Kovacs is, as we know, a very wealthy man, and the promise of a share of that could turn even the most resolute of heads.’

  ‘Nicely put,’ said Donovan.

  ‘Plus,’ cont
inued Sharkey, ‘there was a recent joint attempt by police and Immigration Services to break a people-trafficking ring that Kovacs was suspected of being behind. Fish-gutting factory on the north-east coast. Cheap labour. That fell apart due to large sums of money going where it shouldn’t have been. No convictions, just careers quietly curtailed.’

  ‘Kovacs paid them off,’ said Donovan.

  ‘Exactly. The police do take crimes of this nature very seriously,’ said Sharkey, ‘but there tend not to be too many upper-level convictions. If this is planned well, it could change that.’

  ‘So why do they think that we in the private sector are incorruptible?’ asked Donovan.

  ‘Because we’re rolling in it,’ replied Amar.

  They all laughed. It died away.

  ‘There’s a police crackdown on people trafficking targeted mainly in and around London. All ports and points of entry are being watched. Making it tricky for them to conduct their business down there. But that business didn’t disappear; it just dispersed.’

  ‘Up to here?’ asked Amar.

  Sharkey nodded. ‘Among other places. Kovacs runs an import–export business. With a very large warehouse at Tyne Dock, a port which has plenty of trade coming in from the Baltic. And, of course, our boy is strongly suspected of having links to organized crime in Eastern Europe.’

  ‘So …’ Donovan looked at Sharkey expectantly.

  ‘So there’s a new ongoing investigation against him.’

  ‘Hopefully better put together than the last one,’ said Peta.

  ‘I think we can take that as a given,’ said Sharkey. ‘It’s a completely new team. Rumour has it, they’ve managed to get one of theirs on the inside.’

  ‘How does what we’re doing tie in with that?’ asked Amar.

  ‘It doesn’t,’ said Sharkey. ‘Apparently there’s a new shipment due soon and they’re on to it. We just do our bit, keep out of their way and when they need what we’ve got make sure we hand it over to them. And in the meantime …’ Sharkey pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase, handed it to Donovan. ‘This is everything Dario Tokic will tell us about his sister and how to reach her. Everything we know. It should help.’ Sharkey looked Donovan straight in the eye. ‘We need to find her. He won’t say anything until he knows she’s safe and sound.’

  Donovan nodded.

  ‘And ensure that Mr Kovacs will have the full weight of English justice brought to bear on him.’

  ‘Who’s paying us for this?’ asked Peta.

  Sharkey couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Let’s just say exclusive media rights have already been signed. Think of it as a prenuptial agreement.’

  Peta raised an eyebrow. Donovan caught it. ‘We’d better get started, then,’ he said.

  ‘Best of luck.’ Sharkey motioned for the lights to be turned on again; Jamal obliged. Sharkey then began moving papers around, indicating the meeting was coming to an end. As he did so he talked of contracts, money, made appreciative comments concerning the new offices.

  Peta, Amar and Jamal filed out. Donovan waited behind. Sharkey looked up from his briefcase, saw him standing there. Donovan stared.

  ‘Any other word?’

  Sharkey slipped the CD from the laptop, put it in his briefcase. Avoided Donovan’s eyes. He looked suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Word on what?’

  ‘You know what. The job you’re supposed to be helping me with.’

  Sharkey sighed, shook his head. ‘No, Joe, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Are you looking? Properly looking?’

  The room seemed too hot for Sharkey. ‘Yes, yes … of course I’m looking. I’ve got, got … lots of people out there.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Looking.’

  Donovan kept the stare up.

  ‘Joe, I’m keeping my end of the bargain. I’m honestly looking as hard as I can.’

  ‘Never trust a lawyer when he says he’s being honest.’

  Sharkey sighed. ‘Do you think I would lie to you on this? Really?’

  Donovan kept staring.

  ‘Really?’

  Donovan sighed, broke the gaze. ‘No, Sharkey, I don’t. I think you’d be a fool if you did.’

  Sharkey’s hand went involuntarily to his throat. ‘You’re right, I would be. I’m looking, Joe. I’ll keep looking.’

  Coffee made, Donovan carried it into the front room, placed the tray on his coffee table.

  While preparing the cafetière, he had studied her. She was of medium height and quite thin, as if undernourished. Her hair was blonde, although her roots were beginning to show. She was young and would have been pretty had not her face been etched with worry, her eyes only partially caging the ghosts that lay behind them.

  ‘Didn’t know what you wanted to eat, so there’s some biscuits. Chocolate Hobnobs.’

  She looked confused but grateful. She thanked him.

  He plunged the cafetière, poured the coffee, added milk and sugar in the proportions she had requested, handed it to her. She sipped. Smiled. The ghosts retreated.

  ‘Thank you. It is good.’

  ‘All part of the service.’

  She placed her mug down on the table, picked up a biscuit, started eating. As she did so, the ghosts returned to her eyes.

  ‘Am I … prisoner here?’ she said through a mouthful of crumbs.

  ‘Prisoner?’ Donovan shook his head. Perhaps too enthusiastically in his effort to convince. ‘No. No, definitely not. You can come and go as you please.’ He smiled. ‘Not that there’s much around here to come and go to.’

  She picked up another biscuit. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Northumberland. Just north of Newcastle. You’re safe. They won’t find you here.’

  She nodded, picked up her mug, took another mouthful. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Joe Donovan. Like I said last night.’

  ‘And who is Joe Donovan?’

  Donovan took a sip. ‘Good question. In a previous life I was an investigative journalist. Now I run a team called Albion. You met the other team members last night. We’re information brokers. We work on assignment, from solicitors usually. We broker information, set up deals. Do investigative work.’

  ‘You are … detectives?’

  ‘No, we’re not. Although one of us used to be with the police.’

  Katya frowned. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Your partner in the house. Peta.’

  Katya’s eyes widened. ‘Really? But she was … going with punters.’

  Donovan gave a small laugh. ‘She may have let them into her room. But she certainly wouldn’t have done anything with them.’

  Katya looked confused.

  ‘Let’s just say she can still act and sound like police when she wants to.’

  A tiny smile appeared on Katya’s face. ‘I see.’ She picked up another biscuit.

  ‘You hungry?’

  Katya paused, biscuit on the way to her lips. Her eyes took on a fearful aspect. She put the biscuit back on the plate.

  ‘No, it’s OK, keep eating. That’s what they’re there for. I’ll make something more substantial if you like.’

  She looked at him warily. Donovan scratched his head.

  ‘Look, Katya, there’s absolutely no reason why you should trust me, I know, but I’m not going to hurt you or force you to do anything against your will. Like I said, you’re not a prisoner here. If you’re hungry, eat. If you’re thirsty, drink. If you want to go out, go out. You won’t be punished for it.’

  She looked into his eyes, checking for lies, wanting to believe him. Donovan didn’t move while she did so. Eventually she nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Donovan. ‘Now help yourself to biscuits and I’ll make a proper breakfast. How does bacon and eggs sound?’ He saw the expression on her face, stood up, smiled. ‘Bacon and eggs it is.’

  Donovan went into the kitchen. Katya watched him go, a small smile playing on the corners of her lips.

  They breakfasted at the dining table by the window with its view down past the du
nes to the beach and beyond, the North Sea. Jamal came down to join them, the smell of bacon cooking too much of a lure. He wore his hip-hop T-shirt and baggy jeans and was on his best behaviour before Katya. She seemed to take to him, thought Donovan, smiling when the boy spoke.

  Once the meal was under way, Katya had more questions for Donovan.

  ‘When can I see Dario? When can I see my brother?’

  ‘Soon,’ said Donovan, forking egg into his mouth. ‘Like it said in his letter I gave you last night, I think it might be best if you stay here for a while. If Kovacs finds out about the whole thing it might get very nasty.’

  Katya sighed. ‘Kovacs. Always Kovacs.’

  ‘Hopefully it won’t be too long, though.’

  The meal over, Jamal surprised Donovan by volunteering to clear away.

  ‘You feeling all right?’ asked Donovan.

  Jamal looked at him as if he had sprouted another head. ‘Whassamatter wit’ you, man? Makin’ out like I never do nothin’.’

  He went into the kitchen, plates balanced on his hands.

  ‘He is a good boy,’ Katya said to Donovan. ‘Is he your son?’

  Donovan laughed. ‘No,’ he said, feeling his cheeks beginning to redden. ‘Just another stray that I picked up.’

  ‘An’ you be glad you did,’ Jamal shouted from the kitchen. ‘Katya, you shoulda seen this place when I moved in. It was mingin’, man. Like a buildin’ site. Not fit for human habitation.’ Jamal came to the kitchen entrance, stood in the doorway. He counted his next words out on his fingers. ‘I had to plaster, paint, put proper floors down, choose furniture, get the heatin’ fixed, plant the garden …’ He gave an elaborate sigh. ‘Tell you, man, if I hadn’ta moved in, old Joe here would still be livin’ in the Stone Age.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Donovan made more coffee. Katya was beginning to relax.

  ‘So what happens now?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I’ve got to go into Newcastle today, sort some stuff out with the solicitors, let them know you’re safe and sound. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Jamal.’

  Jamal nodded, gave a small wave. ‘My mate Jake’s comin’ round later. We goin’ play some serious X Box. You can join in if you like.’