“I have every choice, this is ridiculous.” Onur stood up and walked out, not looking back. He was shaking with rage. But Karim was not finished and he caught up with Onur in the alley, grabbing him by the right shoulder, spinning him round. He held him by the throat against the wall. Onur could only look around him trying to work out how this could be happening.
“You think this is a game Onur, something I ask lightly? If you do not do this you might end up having an accident yourself. Look at you the big man – you are nothing – a fat man, living a life of ease. Well you have made a mistake today, a mistake for both of us. Do you think Eser invested in the Metro simply for prestige? This is a project that could last for another 20 years. Plenty of people have died in ‘accidents’– you know that only too well but until now maybe you have not questioned why things happened as they did. But this time I cannot arrange it myself – it would be noticed but you could have helped. I promised that you would. I had faith in you brother but I am betrayed.” Without warning Karim head-butted Onur and then was gone. Onur sat in shock in the alley, blood dripping down his head and down into the gutter.
Glasgow, Scotland, February 21st 2010
Arbogast thought he’d do Sandy a favour and let him know about the autopsy results before they went out on general release. The press had been quiet these last couple of days and with no new leads to follow the trail had gone dead. There was also an air of public regret now that the feeding frenzy over the ‘paedophile’ had proven to be less than genuine and 100 per cent off the mark. After a few rings Sandy picked up the call.
“Zander, it’s JJ here – you busy?” It always relaxed Arbogast to talk with his old friend. It seemed there were so few people he could be himself with these days without putting on an element of pretence. Sandy was a true pal, perhaps his only friend and that was something which still mattered to him, “It’s more business than pleasure but I thought I’d give you a heads-up on the abduction case.”
“Long time no-hear John. I thought you were avoiding me.”
“I was.”
“Letting me back on the case now are you? I thought Stevie Davidson was looking like an accident – and the girl must be dead surely? We’ve been running a book in the newsroom on how long it’ll take for her body to turn up.”
“Never let it be said that journalists aren’t salt of the earth.
Gentlemen – every last one of you. We’ve had the autopsy results back in for Stevie Davidson and we’re treating his death as suspicious. The release will be going out in about an hour so you should be able to get in first with it if that helps. Off the record, the boy was beaten to death but whoever did it has tried to cover it up.”
“Jesus John that’s a nightmare – you think the girl’s still out there?”
“I do, but I can’t say where just now. We’ve got some good leads but I need this to get some public profile again and if you can help me with this I’ll help you out when it’s all done and dusted. Another lead, and the one thing no-one has picked up on, is the woman’s father.”
“The mother or the woman on the bus?”
“Mary Clark, the woman from the bus. I think there’s a connection with her father. You might remember there was a big scandal about him in the 80s. His daughter accused him of raping a boy who went missing on his estate – guess who?”
“Not Stevie Davidson?”
“Correct, although nothing was ever proved and the case was dropped. Nevertheless his daughter always spoke of a ‘secret place’ where it all happened. Said she’d been abused too but there was never any evidence. I think there might be something to that case, though, which ties in here. Eric Sanderson works with the missing girl’s dad. It’s all a bit too cosy. I can’t say any more just now and this information most definitely did not come from me, but if you check your archive this should all be in there somewhere. It could do with some digging.”
“I’m surprised we haven’t come across this already. It should have shown up in the search but of course our new system doesn’t read anything past three years ago. We have everything on tape in the archive but we now work off of a server, which only goes back so far. If we want archive we have to digitise the old tapes, which in effect means our archive isn’t worth shit. I’ll get down to the basement and see if it’s still there. I appreciate this John.”
“No worries – just do some digging. As long as the focus is on the more tenuous links we may give ourselves more time to wheedle out what’s actually happening. My suspicions suggest a link to organised crime.”
As he hung up Arbogast wondered if he had done the right thing but of course that was a question he should have asked before.
15
Istanbul, Turkey, July 24th 2009
The look Hanom gave him when he walked through the door told Onur all he needed to know about the state of his face.
“Dear god, what’s happened to you? Were you mugged or attacked in the street?”
Onur pushed past his wife trying to wave her away. He needed to see for himself – then he needed to think. His brother’s rage had been brief but well placed. Judging by the swelling the nose was broken. It had bled a lot at first but now it just felt numb. He could almost see his face throbbing with pain. The bridge of his nose was cut and it looked like someone had sliced at his face with a razor. ‘Other than that,’ he smiled, ‘everything’s fine’. Except that it wasn’t. His brother was obviously in some kind of trouble. He had never before even mentioned what he did for a living let alone begged for help. That his boss, Mister Ozan, was bad news was well known to the family but they had never voiced their disapproval. Karim had kept out of trouble and they had always hoped he was part of what was ostensibly called the ‘legitimate’ side of the business. Onur had been shocked when his brother said that there may have been more sinister reasons behind the accidents which had happened at his work. It was true that things had gone wrong from time to time. Three people had died in the last four years but all of those deaths had been accounted for and explained. In building the new Metro system they had to rip up large sections of town and drill and tunnel under others, but for the most part things had gone to plan. As if sensing he was troubled Hanom tried to comfort him. She ran her hand through the hair on the back of his head.
“What’s wrong? I haven’t seen you like this before. What happened?”
Onur was reluctant to give her too many details. He couldn’t, not until he had more information. “It’s nothing Hanom – a stranger, looking for money. I was walking down one of the back alleys after stopping for a drink on the way home. I was waiting for Karim but he didn’t show. He phoned to say he couldn’t make it. A problem at work I think. I’m feeling sorry for myself but the wounds aren’t as bad as they look. I’ll be OK.”
Hanom looked concerned but as she continued to fuss he grew more irritable.
“Please Hanom I must be alone for a while. Please don’t worry. I’ll be OK,” he said, bending over to kiss her softly on her forehead. This seemed to reassure her and he made his way to the top floor where they shared their bedroom. Outside the quiet chatter of passersby drifted through the summer haze. As he sat Onur wondered if it really would be OK.
Glasgow, Scotland, February 22nd 2010
“We’ve traced the mobile phone.” Rosalind said, obviously excited they might finally have a link to Hanom. They had decided to play it safe and had agreed they would not contact her directly. There was a feeling in the team that if they could find out where exactly she was they might be able to figure out what, if anything, John Madoch had to do with the trafficking side of the investigation.
“Good job DCI Ying,” Norrie Smith said. He had been reviewing the case and was convinced Madoch was behind the whole sorry mess. “What we need now is solid proof. We’ve been working on supposition and hearsay for the duration of this case and that won’t do – we need to make progress. What have the telecoms people said about where the mobile phone might have been used?”
/> Rosalind felt she was under intense scrutiny. Everyone knew Norrie was the top man now, and while she knew there was good reason for the change, she still felt as though she had a point to prove.
“From the three calls Hanom has made from the handset we’ve managed to get a fix on a signal – it seems to be centred on a high rise block in Springburn in the north of the city.”
This elicited as groan from the assembled crowd. Everyone knew she meant the Red Road flats. Back in the 1960s the city fathers had planned to leave behind the misery of slum living in notorious estates such as the Gorbals behind and give people better lives in these ‘cities in the sky’. But less than ten years later, and with no shops and no hope, the estates slipped into decline and it would now only be a matter of time before they were ripped down. In the meantime they had become host to thousands of refugees and asylum seekers who had been decanted to Glasgow to live alongside the remaining mainly elderly residents who had come to love the flats and call them home. Many of the houses were now uninhabited. There were eight blocks ranging between 25 and 32 floors and everyone knew that if they did not have an exact fix they would have to go round each and every one on foot.
“Yes guys I’m afraid it is Red Road so best get your hiking boots on.” Norrie Smith was quick to assemble a team of forty uniformed police to conduct the search. The eyes of the force were on him now and he did not intend to fail. One way or another, this case was getting solved.
Arbogast’s second dealings with the SCDEA weren’t entirely fruitless. His former colleague Richard Evans told him that the team had been dealing with a possible terror case in Fife and that Madoch had completely fallen off the radar.
“To be honest John we’re not really pushing that case just now. We need more gen. He’s been very careful so far and as I told you before the girls won’t talk. We need to find out where they’re coming from, how he gets them in and out of the country before we can nail him. He’s not doing anything illegal at the club and his girls all check out, even though we know they shouldn’t. If you want to try and find out if anything new is happening I could suggest you try using a CHIS.”
“Sure. Who is it that we’re talking about here. Anyone I’d know?”
A CHIS, or Covert Human Intelligence Source, was what used to be called a grass. Forces across the country had scores of them on the books. For a small payment scraps of information found their way to an investigation, often making a difference when it was most needed. Arbogast hadn’t considered a CHIS as an option in this case but if Rich thought it could help why not sound him out.
“Well he’s a different breed this one and to class him as a CHIS is perhaps doing him a disservice given his background.”
“I’m interested now,” Arbogast said. It was rare that these guys weren’t toothless junkies looking for a bit of extra cash to pay for a hit. There were exceptions of course and some information came from gangs keen to roll over a rival. This, however, sounded different.
“The guy’s name is Anah Uday. He worked with the British Army in Iraq based out of Um Qasr in the mid-noughties. He was passionate about reform and was in deep with our boys over there. He worked with the SAS in search-and-destroy missions in the north alongside the Americans. His help and contacts were invaluable until his luck ran out. He spoke to one person out of a thousand who he should never had trusted and got a dagger in his eye for his troubles. Not long after that there was an attack on his family in Basra. Twelve were killed including his wife and child. So he turned to his employers for help and they offered him a place to stay and a new life in the UK. I’m sure when he left Iraq though he didn’t think he’d be trading places for a squalid life in Glasgow.”
“Squalid?”
“Anah Uday was put with the rest of the people seeking asylum in Scotland in the high flats, to the north of Glasgow. He’s OK though. He got a flat and can work but he’s still living in a shit hole. We found out about him after his story appeared in The Times. Something along the lines of, ‘He helped us liberate his country and this is how we thank him.’ It caused a hell of a fuss at the time but his misfortune has been useful for us. There are a lot of people milling about up there that aren’t allowed to work. For some of them we don’t really know their backgrounds as their papers are often lost. Anah helps keep an eye on things; he’s involved with a lot of the community groups up there and is well known in refugee and asylum circles. It’s possible that he might be able to help you – maybe he’s heard something about new people coming in.”
“Maybe Rich, but what are the chances? Thanks though.” Arbogast didn’t hold out much hope of making a breakthrough but he took the number anyway. You never knew.
He was surprised when there was a knock on the door. 'Rata-tat-tat' over and over again. ‘There shouldn’t be anyone here at this time, at anytime.’ He took the gun out from inside his jeans and made his way to the front door. He crept along the side of the hall where the floorboards were the strongest and where he was out of the line of fire, should it come to that. In the spot where the peep hole used to be he had installed a camera which transmitted a picture onto a small screen inside the door. That way he could be sure never to be disturbed unawares. That was the theory. When he got close enough he could see that it was the husband, John Clark. The sight of him there, fidgeting and nervous outside the door made him instantly angry. He unlocked the door and reached out, grabbing John by the jacket lapels and dragging him inside. He pushed him down onto the floor and took aim.
“You realise of course that you should not be here...friend.”
“Look, there’s trouble. I didn’t know where to go.”
“You bring trouble to my door when you should have stayed away. You realise the bed you are making for yourself?”
John could see that he wasn’t going to get the support he was looking for. He started thinking about a way of improving his fortunes.
“No use looking around now...friend. What is your problem? Maybe I can help put an end to it?”
“The mother has talked – they know about me now although I thought she wouldn’t name me.”
“Yes I know of this. She speaks to her police friend but no longer. This has been taken care of.”
“You don’t get it though do you?” John had found some of his courage again and had risen to his feet. He tried to calm his captor with his hands, but his host had never been a fan of mime. He grabbed John again, this time by the throat and pushed the gun against his head.
“No it is you who don’t understand. You worry for the woman but she will not talk. I will show you.” He dragged John along the corridor and kicked open a brown panel door that looked like it had seen its fair share of angry outbursts over the years. Inside the room sat Hanom. She was grey and listless and wore only a dirty white t-shirt. She was sitting with her legs drawn up to her chest and was staring blankly into space. There were red marks on her arms.
“Our guest has taken to some rather unfortunate habits as you can see. Her life will be consumed with things other than the police now. Have no fear. You on the other hand are becoming a problem. You were told not to contact me. I told you this on the night of the blizzard. Yet here you are. I’m afraid you have made a mistake in seeking me out. But listen to me shouting you must be cold, please come in and sit down. I think I have just the thing to make everything much better.”
Istanbul, Turkey, August 4th 2009
Onur was on site at the Metro where his team were facing one of the biggest problems of the project so far. They had reached the halfway mark on the new Marmaray tunnel which linked the eastern side of the city to the west. It was important there were no slip ups, as the budgets were already hard pressed. Construction had begun on the metro in ‘92 and 20 years later there was still a way to go. Today the Mayor of Istanbul, Altan Tirpas, would be paying them a visit to mark the progress and hopefully generate some positive press to deflect attention away from the economic downturn. It had been two weeks since he had last
seen Karim and so far nothing more had come of his warning. Although Onur was concerned his brother was still OK he was fairly confident the threats which had been levelled at him had been made in the heat of the moment. As he surveyed the work he had been in charge of he could not help but be proud of his achievements. The tunnel was nearly 30 feet wide and made for an impressive sight. Every day Onur would chart how much farther they had tunnelled, although at times the work was slow going. On a good day they’d make forty metres but they had hit rock and at the moment the colossal TBM’s (tunnel boring machines) were only progressing by half a metre a day. All the same it was quite an honour to be visited by the Mayor and his entourage and he would smile when he had to smile before returning to work.
The press arrived on time although the Mayor did not and the tour started about 30 minutes later than planned. He talked to the Mayor about the ways in which they worked and how soon they hoped to complete the tunnel. As he pointed and shuffled his way down the shaft he felt he had finally reached a point in his life where he could say he was content. Photographers recorded their every step and TV cameras would later be unable to shed light on exactly what happened next. As they approached what was considered a safe distance from the TBM, Onur’s assistant handed out ear protection mufflers. For this was the showcase – the real wow factor. As the assembled group of about seven dignitaries and twelve members of the press stood and waited as the colossal machine slowly ground into action. The circular cutting head ground down into the rock and processed the waste behind. While it ran, like an enormous crawling mole the machine created the tunnel sides as it went, pouring concrete and sealing the deal. And so it was that the tunnel appeared, little by little, day-by-day and that was the process that everyone was here to see, the monster machine, live in action.
Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) Page 13