by Alex Gray
Niall Cameron shook his head. ‘We don’t know. Molly’s phone just suddenly stopped responding so we sent one of her colleagues to the salon.’
‘And . . . ?’ Lorimer’s face was twisted in anxiety.
‘She was told that Molly had left, just that. Nobody knew where she had gone or why. She had clients waiting to be taken . . . ’
‘Dear Lord!’ Lorimer exclaimed. ‘You don’t think she’s gone off on her own? She was told to stay put!’
Cameron shook his head. ‘Molly is pretty good at keeping in touch. Hasn’t ever been known to do a Lone Wolf stunt before . . . ’
‘But you think maybe she has this time?’
‘It’s possible. Or else someone was waiting for her if she nipped out of the salon?’
Lorimer’s face blanched. These people were ruthless. And, if Molly Newton’s cover had been blown, they might find the undercover operative’s body floating in the Clyde.
*
Molly struggled against the hands that held something soft and sweet-smelling against her face. Then she felt herself falling, falling into a dark and endless void.
When she awoke it was to see a pair of eyes looking down at her, shining in the darkness. Was it night? Or had they put her in some underground room where no light could penetrate? She felt a wave of nausea creep up into her mouth then she swallowed hard, forcing it back down. She would choke, Molly told herself, trying to remain calm. But her hands were secured behind the wooden chair where she was seated, her shoulders a dull ache, a strip of tape across her mouth.
‘Sasha? Are you all right?’ a voice in the darkness asked, a voice she recognised.
Molly looked up at the girl and saw concern in those frightened eyes.
‘It will hurt,’ Juliana told her, lifting her hands and letting them fall in a gesture of apology.
Molly stared back and nodded.
Then, as the strip was yanked off, she stifled a scream, the pain searing across her face.
Juliana held up the tape in front of her face and Molly could see something dark dripping from it. Her face must be a mess, she thought, the pain burning around the delicate tissues of her lips and cheeks where the tape had been stuck fast.
‘Can you untie me?’ she whispered but Juliana shook her head.
‘I tried,’ the girl told her. ‘But it is hard . . . too hard . . . ’
Molly wriggled her wrists and felt the plastic ties cutting into her flesh. Flexing her fingers, she strove to make sense of how she was bound. It felt as though a circlet of hard plastic was wrapped around each hand, linking them together with another ridged tie. Unless the girl had a knife or something equally sharp, there would be no way to cut her free.
‘Where are we?’
Juliana glanced at the wall and Molly blinked, just now making out the shape of a doorway.
‘I don’t know, Sasha,’ she confessed. ‘When you came they brought me down here too.’
Molly bit back a reply. If Juliana still thought that she was a nail-bar girl named Sasha, then perhaps her captors would think that too?
‘Drugged?’ she asked.
Juliana nodded. ‘I was sick,’ she told Molly. ‘What they gave to make me asleep . . . ’
‘Is there any way we can get a light?’ Molly asked, gazing around at the space, blinking hard as if that would illuminate the pitch-black room they were in.
‘I don’t think so,’ Juliana replied. ‘It always like this. I don’t know if it night or day,’ she said, then began to cry softly, hands covering her face.
Molly struggled a little more, wishing she was free of her bonds and could take the Slovakian girl in her arms to comfort her. But the plastic ties only cut into her more and she could feel a slither of wetness crawling down her fingers that was either blood or sweat.
‘Has anyone been here since they locked you in?’
Juliana nodded and wiped her face with the back of her hands. ‘Just to give me water and . . . ’ she turned and indicated a bucket that was hardly discernible in one far away corner, ‘that,’ she added, wrinkling her nose.
‘No food?’
The girl shook her head.
Molly thought hard. It was like terrorist tactics, keeping your prisoners in darkness, denying them food. What next? She shivered, her imagination creating scenes of unspeakable horror, the sorts of things she had read about in missives from overseas, things that the general public seldom got to see. She was just one of the officers who had read the dossier about the traffickers, had seen some of the horrific pictures of women being tortured . . . women tied to chairs . . . Then a thought occurred to her.
‘Did this happen to you before, Juliana? When they took you to Aberdeen?’
There was a momentary silence then the girl came closer and stared at Molly.
‘How do you know about that?’ she asked, mouth open in astonishment.
‘Never mind how,’ Molly said quickly. ‘Are these the same people who took you before?’
Juliana nodded, head bowed. ‘They came for me to the village,’ she said slowly. ‘Thought I had been picked because I was clever, learned to speak English at school. Not like my poor brother, Mario. He hated the lessons,’ she added sorrowfully. Then, bit by bit, in her halting English, the story unfolded. How the promise of work in a fish processing plant had made her eager to leave for Scotland, her friend Alysha with her.
‘After we come to England I never see her again,’ Juliana said sorrowfully. ‘She was taken away . . . ’
‘Pretty girl?’ Molly guessed.
Juliana nodded.
It was more than likely that the other Slovakian girl had been sold as a bride, Alysha’s European passport like gold dust for the Asian man who had purchased her.
Molly listened as Juliana recounted her journey to Aberdeen, the filthy flat where she had been forced to have sex with all manner of men, the tiny salon where she painted nails all afternoon, often too tired to care about trying to escape.
‘But you did?’ Molly asked.
‘Yes.’ Juliana’s face lit up for a moment. ‘When Uncle Pavol came with Mario it was like a dream. They said not to talk, to pretend I not know them,’ she said.
‘And you got away before the raid?’
Juliana nodded again. ‘Uncle Pavol gave me money . . . lots of money,’ she said quietly. Molly bit her lip. Perhaps that was one reason these men had sought the girl. It would have been better for both of them if Juliana Ferenc had been caught during these raids and repatriated. Now, there was no knowing what would become of either of them.
‘Listen, Ferenc, this is of the utmost importance,’ Lorimer told the Slovakian prisoner. ‘We think that Juliana has been taken again, probably by the same men as before.’
When this was explained to him by the third man in the room, Pavol Ferenc put his head in his hands and uttered several words, moaning in his native tongue. But Lorimer didn’t need a translator to hear the man’s obvious distress.
‘Tell him we need to know everything. If he’s been keeping things from us then it will hinder our ability to find his niece again.’
Lorimer watched as the older man’s eyes flitted back and forward from the translator to himself. Then he gave a huge sigh and nodded, eyes cast down as if ashamed to look the detective in the eye.
The speech came haltingly, hand gestures showing a degree of apology for keeping secrets. After all, his expression seemed to say, whom could I trust?
Then the story unfolded, the old man speaking without further need for the translator. Max was the big boss, not often seen but always to be obeyed or else. Or else what? People disappeared, he said solemnly. Never to be seen again. Ferenc accompanied this statement by swiping a finger across his throat.
‘And, who is this Max that makes people afraid?’ Lorimer wanted to know.
‘Bad, bad man,’ Ferenc said gloomily. ‘He takes away the girls, takes them far away.’ He waved a hand expansively.
These Romany folk were poorly ed
ucated, Lorimer had been told, and so Max might have gone to the UK in any direction; Hungary, Austria, the Czech Republic, Poland or even the Ukraine if he had wanted a roundabout route.
‘Do you know anything else about Max?’
Ferenc shook his head. ‘He speak English and other languages,’ he said. ‘Lured our girls away with promises of riches. Spoke to them slowly in words they could understand. But the women were afraid of him, even then.’
‘Why was that?’
Ferenc shrugged and spread his hands across his cheeks.
‘He had a scary face. It frightened them to look at him. None of them wanted to sleep with him. But he could talk well and they listened to his stories of Scotland and how wealthy they would be if they came with him.’
Ferenc paused as if to consider his words. ‘He was like a professor. Or a schoolmaster, the sort you could trust.’ The old man shook his head sadly. ‘They were afraid of him but they do what he tell them,’ he added.
A man who spoke many languages, Lorimer thought to himself. That might help Solomon Brightman as he created the man’s profile. Where had he picked that up? Was he a university graduate in languages? Or had he a different sort of background that had given him the chance to travel around, picking up other languages as he went, something a clever man with a good ear for speech might well do?
‘Now, Pavol,’ Lorimer bent closer to the man, making sure that he caught his eyes, ‘what did Max look like?’
A conversation followed and Lorimer jotted down some notes but even as he did so he knew that they would only be marginally helpful. A man of medium height, strongly built like a boxer, shaven head. No, he didn’t remember his eyes. He’d worn sunglasses most of the time as if the light hurt his eyes. But maybe they were blue? His face . . . the Romany man stopped and shook his head. ‘Not a face I will ever forget,’ he began. ‘A face like a mask . . . smooth and without expression.’
‘When did you last see this man?’
A mutter and a shrug followed.
‘They aren’t good with remembering years and dates,’ the interpreter told Lorimer. ‘Some of them don’t even know their own ages,’ he scoffed.
The detective ignored the slight against the Slovakian man and his people. The interpreter was clearly miffed that his services were not needed any more, the Slovakian’s command of English surprising them both. Perhaps his remark about the Romanies’ disregard for dates and times was true enough, however. And, if so, it certainly wasn’t going to be helpful in establishing details about past events like this accident. There were other ways of finding out about this gangmaster, however. Meantime, they would concentrate on finding the two missing women and putting these Slovakian men somewhere safer.
‘We are going to transfer you and your nephew to a different place,’ Lorimer said at last. ‘We’ve applied for a Home Office order to have you kept in a detention centre instead of Barlinnie but meantime we have permission to move you both to Low Moss. There’s more accommodation there and other Slovakian prisoners too, so that might help you feel less isolated.’
The old man looked up at Lorimer, sudden tears in his eyes, then he reached out and grasped the detective’s hands in his, a torrent of words pouring from his mouth. But, before the interpreter could translate, Ferenc spoke once more in English.
‘Bless you, sir,’ Ferenc said. ‘And, please, find our Juliana.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
‘Won’t be long now,’ the nurse told Rosie cheerfully, snapping off the disposable gloves and dropping them into a bin. ‘Everything nicely in place, what we like to see. A textbook pregnancy, Mrs Brightman.’ She beamed at Rosie as she helped her off the bed and handed her the slip-on shoes that the pathologist wore all the time now.
‘Thanks,’ Rosie replied. ‘And I’m grateful that you made me your final patient of the day.’
‘I take it you’ve not stopped work?’ the nurse asked and Rosie shook her head, avoiding the woman’s eyes.
‘Not quite,’ she admitted. ‘Just doing a few things in the office. No more surgery though. I can hardly get near the operating table now.’
What Rosie did not mention was the pile of files that she had brought home from work, mainly concerning Dorothy Guilford. If she was going to end up in court as a witness for the defence in Peter Guilford’s trial then she was determined to be prepared.
It was more difficult than ever to strap herself into the Audi so Rosie had come to the health centre on foot and was now preparing to walk back along Woodlands Road and through the park. Midsummer night was almost upon them and the late afternoon sun still burned brightly in a blue sky with wisps of cirrus clouds floating high above the city. A summer baby, she thought, running a hand across her belly. He was asleep now, possibly glad of the rhythm of his mother’s measured footsteps. Night-time was this little one’s time for play, she thought with a wry smile. Bet he keeps us up all night once he’s here.
A pain low down in her back made Rosie stop and glance around for the nearest bench. There was one just along this path and she sank into it gratefully. Just normal twinges, she knew from experience; nothing to worry about.
It was nice to sit for a while, watching the world go by, lads on their skateboards heading for the skate park, mothers with toddlers, their eyes on the little ones’ staggering steps, tense with anticipation lest a tumble bring them back with a cry. It would be like that soon enough, Rosie thought: sleepless nights, changing nappies, the exhaustion after giving birth something she only dimly remembered. Should she decide to change her lifestyle? Take over from Morag, their wonderful nanny, and become like one of those young mothers gossiping as they pushed their buggies past her?
One of them stopped and caught Rosie’s eye for a second, a warm smile as she saw the bump. Mother to mother. Could she live like that? Talking only about babies day after day? As the woman passed, she saw the usual clutter of baby paraphernalia in the bottom of the buggy but something else caught her eye; the cover of a book that Rosie had been meaning to read for ages, one of last year’s Booker shortlist. Maybe, she thought, gazing after the group of women, maybe that could be her one day? Perhaps there could be a nice life waiting for her after this baby? A chance to step back from her role at the department?
For a moment Rosie closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her bare legs, the idea taking hold. Then, as another pain made her wince, she remembered the hands that had clutched that Laguiole knife and the mystery surrounding Dorothy Guilford.
No, she told herself. You’ve been given this task. It’s yours to finish. Then we’ll see about coming back to work. But, as she closed her eyes again, Rosie knew that she had already made her decision. The baby would be fine in Morag’s care, just as Abby had been. And Dr Rosie Fergusson would continue to lead her department as before.
‘When do you suppose it might happen?’ McCauley asked the Fiscal.
‘His consultant thinks that Guilford will be fit to leave the Queen Elizabeth in a couple of weeks’ time,’ she told him. ‘He’ll be transferred to Low Moss and kept in the hospital wing there until he can take the normal routine, but that could be months away.’
‘So the trial could be postponed for that long?’
‘Not at all. If Guilford is deemed medically fit to stand trial he can come from Low Moss hospital wing on a daily basis. Not a problem as far as we can see,’ she told him.
‘So, how long . . . ?’
‘No,’ she smiled. ‘Impossible to put a date on the trial just yet. Might as well ask me how long is a piece of string.’ She sighed.
DI Alan McCauley whistled as he left the Fiscal’s office. It was a perfect night for meeting up with Dr Jacqui White and unless his phone rang and called him to another job, the evening was theirs to enjoy. He had already spoken to his friend at the Gazette and she was happy to do a double page spread on the woman who would be replacing Fergusson. Jacqui White had a glamour that Fergusson lacked, he told himself. And her TV background made
her that much more attractive to a readership. He grinned to himself as he shifted the sun visor, tilting his head a little as the rays of the sun dazzled off the car next to his on the motorway.
It would all work out fine, McCauley thought. Fergusson would go off and have her baby and by the time she returned, the trial over and the press hounding her for comments about her mistakes, her reputation would be in tatters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The email came through just as Lorimer was heading towards the stairs.
He stopped and read the message then read it again just to be certain that his eyes were not deceiving him.
Max is not who we thought he might be. (We know this, at least, thought Lorimer.) Sources confirm he is a UK national originally born in Scotland.
Not just British, then, but actually Scottish?
The email was signed with a code name, none of the Europol officers taking chances that their computers might be hacked. This was a delicate operation that was being conducted from both ends of the continent; the Slovakian police hunting for any clues that might help locate the missing women, and the MIT in Scotland doing their best to round up the perpetrators of this trafficking ring. So far the sweep at Aberdeen had allowed more than a score of women to return to eastern Slovakia but many more remained unaccounted.
Lorimer closed his phone and looked out of the window at the side of the house where the sky had now turned a velvety cobalt. It was too bright here with street lights along his road to see many stars but he could discern one or two that might be planets. Somewhere this man was under those self-same stars, planning his ruthless campaign. And he was Scottish. Could he be closer than they had thought? That was something to chew over.
Thanks to Pavol they had learned Max was a British national, but they knew little more than that. The man they sought was a home-grown trafficker, but one who had links with a particular area of Slovakia. How had the Englishman, Raynor, come across him? Had the former soldier been the man to rescue Max from fire or was it something here, in this country, that had tied them together in the trade of human trafficking? First Aberdeen, now Glasgow . . . What, he wondered now, would Solomon Brightman make of this news? They already had an inkling that Max was multilingual and had assumed that he was a person that travelled widely and picked up languages accordingly. How else would this man have acquired his language skills? That was something else for the Major Incident Team to ferret out.