“Lambert told me his name is Max Broda.”
“That is correct,” said Ganz. “Max Broda. He’s an Albanian traveling on an Israeli passport.”
“Why would he do that?”
Ganz smiled, showing a missing front tooth. “No troublesome visas to worry about.”
“What’s his business?” Gareth Lambert had told Banks that Max worked in the travel business, organizing tours and cruises, but somehow or other Banks didn’t think Ganz would be here if that were the case.
“Broda’s a trader,” said Ganz. “Do you know what that is?”
“A trader in what?”
“Have you ever heard of the Arizona Market?”
“No.”
“I know it sounds American, but it’s actually in Bosnia, between Sarajevo and Zagreb. It’s like those old markets you see in movies, you know, the casbah, so romantic with its stalls of colorful goods and its narrow winding streets. During the day many people go there to buy pirated CDs and DVDs and knockoff Rolexes and Chanel perfume. But at night it becomes a market of a different kind. At night you can buy stolen cars, guns, drugs. And young women. They are sold there like sheep and cattle are sold at your country shows. Sometimes they are auctioned off, made to parade naked holding numbers while the traders touch them and caress them before they make their bids, look in their mouths like you would if you were buying a horse. When they’ve been bought, many of them end up working in clubs and brothels in Bosnia, servicing the international peace-keeping forces, but many are also smuggled into other countries to work in peep shows and massage parlors.”
“I suppose that’s where Lambert comes in?” Banks said. “The Balkan route.”
“That’s one way,” Ganz agreed. “Serbia, Croatia, Albania, Macedonia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Montenegro and Kosovo. But there are others, and they are always changing. They cross wherever the border is unguarded. Many women from Russia, Ukraine and Romania are smuggled through the eastern route, through Poland to Germany, or through Hungary. From Serbia to Italy, many smugglers prefer to use Albanian seaports and ship the women over on rubber dinghies. Not all of them make it. But however they get here, once they are inside the EU, they can be moved around more freely.”
“So Lambert and Broda are in business together?”
“Yes.” Ganz’s eyes hardened. “Broda buys the women and Lambert arranges to get them into the country. He doesn’t do it himself, of course. That would be too risky. But he knows the weak spots and who can be bribed. We think they have been in business for some time. Lambert was based in Spain before, but things got a bit too hot for him there, so now he’s over here, and the travel business is a perfect cover for the trips he has to make.”
“So Gareth Lambert and Max Broda have been conspiring to smuggle young girls into England for the purpose of prostitution for some years now?”
“Yes. But not just England. That’s why it is difficult to pin them down. We are trying to build up dossiers on similar operations in Paris, Berlin and Rome. It’s a widespread problem.” He paused. “I have seen these women, Mr. Banks, talked to them. To call them ‘women’ is not strictly accurate in the first place. They are no more than girls, some as young as fourteen or fifteen. They are lured from their homes by promises of jobs overseas as nannies and models, maids and waitresses. Sometimes they are smuggled out and sold straightaway, sometimes they are taken to breaking houses in Belgrade. There they are forced to live in filthy conditions. They are humiliated, beaten, starved, denied even the most basic human decencies, raped repeatedly, drugged, made to be compliant. When their spirits are broken, they are taken to the markets and sold to the highest bidder. After that, even if they are smuggled to Rome, Tel Aviv, Paris or London, they are forced to live in terrible conditions and service ten, twenty, even thirty men a night. If they don’t play the game and pretend they are enjoying what is done to them, they are beaten and threatened. They are told that if they try to escape they will be hunted down and killed along with their families back home.”
“I’ve heard something of this,” said Banks, shaken by the images Ganz was offering up, “but not…the extent.” He shook his head.
“Most people do not know,” Ganz said. “Many prefer not to know. People like to think that girls who end up as prostitutes deserve no less, that they chose what they do, but many didn’t. You can buy a young girl for as little as a thousand pounds and make over a hundred thousand pounds a year from her. Once she is worn out, you buy a new one. It makes good business sense, does it not?”
“I can’t believe my brother was involved in this.”
“He wasn’t, as far as I know,” said Ganz. “From what Superintendent Burgess has told me, it is my guess that your brother and his girlfriend found out what was going on.”
“Through the Berger-Lennox Centre?”
“And through Dr. Lukas, yes.”
“What’s her part in all this?”
“She is trying to help the girls who get pregnant. That is all. She asks no questions. They are lucky they have someone like her, otherwise…”
“But what’s her connection?”
“That we do not know for sure. This investigation here is very new. Most of the work we have been doing has been in Bosnia, Romania and Serbia.”
“Was Carmen one of the girls she was trying to help? Carmen Petri?”
Ganz frowned. “I’m sorry, I do not know the name.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. Petri, you say?”
“Something like that.”
“It sounds Romanian.”
“But you haven’t heard of her?”
“No.”
“Okay,” said Banks. “Go on.”
“Anyway,” Ganz continued. “No matter what Dr. Lukas does or does not know, there’s a pimp involved somewhere, and Lambert and Broda supply him with girls smuggled from eastern Europe. He probably keeps them in more than one house, depending on how many girls he owns. Perhaps there is even more than one pimp. I do not know. We have been waiting for Broda or Lambert to lead us there.”
“But they haven’t?”
“Not yet. We were worried they might be on to us. Lambert’s moving between the flat and the travel office, and he spends most weekends playing the local squire in his country manor.”
“Where’s that?” Banks asked.
“A village called Quainton, near Buckingham. That’s where he leads his exemplary life. Anyway, where there are pimps and smugglers you will usually find organized crime, too, and that is always dangerous.”
“The Russian Mafia?”
“Most likely.”
Banks told him what he had heard from Annie about the two men suspected of killing Jennifer and, perhaps, Roy.
Ganz nodded slowly. “Sounds like their style.”
“So what next?”
“We think these recent murders might bring things to a boil. Someone might make a mistake.”
“Are you here to warn me off?”
Ganz laughed. “Warn you off? Superintendent Burgess told me you would probably say something like that.”
“Oh? What else did he tell you?”
“That it would do no good. Some people we can warn off easily, but not you. He said you’re nobody’s man.”
“He’s right.”
Ganz waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “No, I don’t want to warn you off. I want to use you in a way I can’t use the police who are investigating the case. I want you to keep on doing right what you’re doing. I just want you to know that you’re involved in stirring up a wasps’ nest.”
“Go on.”
“I’m not saying that you’re not in danger—they may have killed you if you had been at the address your brother gave his girlfriend—but I think with all the trouble caused by the two murders they have already committed, they would think twice right now about killing a policeman. When you came down here they no doubt kept an eye on you, just for form’s sake, but they had other things to o
ccupy them, and they knew your brother hadn’t had time to tell you anything, or you wouldn’t have been floundering around in the dark the way you were. They also tortured him before they killed him and he told them you knew nothing. He also told them where you lived, and they rang the men in the car. Fortunately, your brother gave them the wrong address. They sent the digital image on the mobile, too. Perhaps they didn’t know you had it, but they knew your brother didn’t. That’s just their style, a sick joke. Max Broda himself, most likely. If you hadn’t got it, whoever had the phone at the time would have. Even the police. It didn’t matter to them. It couldn’t be traced. It was stolen and they threw it away as soon as they had used it. After that, they let you know that they know where your parents live. That is also very much their style. And don’t worry, your parents are safe. It wasn’t something we could leave for the locals to deal with alone.”
“You have men there, too?”
“One. Armed. Anyway, now that you have actually been to see Gareth Lambert, and probably got him worried, things might be a bit different, I’m not sure.”
“You know I’ve seen Lambert?”
“Superintendent Burgess said he’d told you where to find him. I didn’t think you would just sit around and not act on that information. What did you think?”
“I didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him.”
“In that, you were right. From now on, we’ll try to watch your back as best we can, but for obvious reasons I can hardly show my hand. It is a shame you English police are unarmed.”
“I’m not too sure about that,” said Banks, thinking that there weren’t many times in his career when he had felt the need for a gun, though now might be one of them. “And by the way, do you have a license for that one you’re carrying?”
Ganz laughed. “I have your government’s permission, if that’s what you mean. Do you want one? I’m sure I can get one for you.”
“I’d probably shoot myself in the foot,” said Banks. “But thanks for the offer.”
“I almost forgot,” Ganz said. “Mr. Burgess told me to tell you he checked the number and the red Vectra was stolen from a multi-story car park in Putney. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Banks. It meant the car that had followed him from his parents’s house was stolen, as he had expected.
“What are you going to do now?”
Banks looked at his watch. “I’m going to have another glass of wine and think over what you’ve said.” Later, when it was open, Banks planned to visit the Albion Club on The Strand and see if he could find out more about Roy’s final hours, but he didn’t see any reason for telling Dieter Ganz that. If Interpol were keeping an eye on him, they’d find out soon enough, anyway.
Susan Browne arrived in Eastvale from Derby at four o’clock, just after Annie had left for the station, bearing the positive fruits of the very discreet DNA comparison, and more.
She told Templeton on their way to Roger Cropley’s house that DI Gifford had made inquiries at Cropley’s software firm in London and found that he regularly left late on Fridays and that he had left late on Friday, the twenty-third of April, as there had been an office party that evening to celebrate a lucrative new contract.
Cropley was clearly not thrilled to see the two detectives on his doorstop late that afternoon. He tried to shut the door, but Templeton got a foot in. “It’s better if you let us in,” he said. “Otherwise I’ll stay here while DS Browne goes for a search warrant.”
Cropley relaxed the pressure on the door and they entered, following him into the living room. “I don’t know why you won’t leave me alone,” he said. “I’ve told you time after time I know nothing about any murders.”
“You mean you’ve lied time after time,” said Templeton. “By the way, this is DS Browne. She’s come all the way from Derby just to talk to you. Say hello.”
Cropley said nothing, just stared at Susan Browne. She sat down and smoothed her skirt. “Mr. Cropley,” she said, “I’ll come right to the point. When DC Templeton here first came to me with his suspicions, I was skeptical. Now I’ve had time to think about things and make a few inquiries, I’m not too certain.”
“What inquiries?”
Susan slipped a folder out of her briefcase and opened it. “According to my information, you left your office in Holborn at about eight o’clock on Friday the twenty-third of April this year.”
“How do you know that?”
“Is it true?”
“I don’t remember. How can you expect me to remember that far back?”
“It’s true according to our evidence. That would put you at Trowell services around the same time as Claire Potter.”
“Look, this is absurd. It’s nothing but circumstantial.”
“On two other occasions you left late,” Susan went on reading, “two other women were either followed or assaulted shortly after leaving the M1.”
“I haven’t assaulted anyone.”
“What we’re going to do, Mr. Cropley,” Susan went on, “is take you down to the police station for further questioning. There you will be fingerprinted and photographed and a sample of your DNA will be taken. Once we have—”
The door opened and Mrs. Copley walked in. “What’s going on, Roger?” she demanded.
“They’re harassing me again,” Copley said.
His wife looked at Susan and Templeton, then back at her husband, an expression of scorn on her face. “Maybe you deserve it,” she said.
“Do you know something, Mrs. Cropley?” Templeton asked.
“That’s between me and my husband,” Mrs. Cropley said.
“A woman has been murdered,” Susan said. “Raped and stabbed.”
Mrs. Cropley folded her arms.
Susan and Templeton looked at each other and Susan turned back to Cropley, who had gone ashen. “Once we have the photographs, we’ll be showing them to every worker in every café and petrol station on the motorway. Once we have your DNA, we’ll compare it with traces found at the scene of Claire Potter’s murder. You might have thought you were thorough,” Mr. Cropley, “but there’s always something. In your case it’s dandruff.”
“Dandruff?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know we can get DNA from dandruff? If you even left one flake at the scene, we’ll have it in the evidence room and we’ll be testing it.”
Cropley looked stunned.
“Anything to say?” Susan went on.
Cropley just shook his head.
“Right.” Susan stood up. “Roger Cropley, you’re under arrest for suspicion of the murder of Claire Potter. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
As Cropley walked out, head hung, between Browne and Templeton, his wife turned her back and stood in the center of the room rigid as a statue, arms still folded.
Annie was half an hour late as she made her way through the crowded pavements of Covent Garden to the restaurant Dr. Lukas had mentioned on Tavistock Street. She had just missed the 4:25, and as the 5:05 was a slow train, she had to catch the 5:25, which arrived on time at 8:13. On the train, she rang Dr. Lukas at the center, but was told the doctor wasn’t there that day. She left a message, which she couldn’t be sure Dr. Lukas had received, and then she had phoned the restaurant to leave a message there, too. She also rang her usual hotel to book a room for the night. The desk clerk recognized her name and voice and got so chatty it was embarrassing.
Well, Annie thought as she dashed into the crowded restaurant, Dr. Lukas had said she would be waiting, and there were worse places to wait. She spotted the doctor at a corner table and made her way over. It was small restaurant with intimate lighting and white linen tablecloths. A blackboard on the wall listed specials and wine suggestions. There was music playing, but it was so faint Annie couldn’t make out what it was. It sounded French, though.
&n
bsp; “Did you get my message?” she asked, sitting down and catching her breath.
Dr. Lukas nodded. “It’s all right,” she said, tapping the paperback she was reading. “I have my book. I was prepared to wait. They know me here. They are very understanding.”
Annie browsed the menu, which was decidedly traditional, and decided on ratatouille. Dr. Lukas had already settled on bouillabaisse. Once they’d got their orders in, the doctor poured Annie a glass of Chablis and topped up her own.
“I’m sorry I made you come all this way,” she said, “but I couldn’t possibly tell you over the telephone.”
“It’s all right,” said Annie. “I had to come back anyway. You’re going to tell me everything?”
“Everything I know.”
“Why not tell me before?”
“Because the situation has changed. And things have gone too far.”
The waiter appeared with a basket of bread and Annie broke off a chunk and buttered it. She hadn’t eaten on the train and realized she was starving. “I’m listening.”
“It’s very difficult for me,” Dr. Lukas began. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”
“Helping the girls?”
“Not that so much. If I hadn’t done it, who would?”
“Is it about Carmen Petri?”
“Only partly. To understand what I have to say, you have to know where I come from. L’viv is a very old city, a very beautiful city in many ways, with many fine ancient buildings and churches. My mother was a seamstress until arthritis made her fingers of no more use. My father was a mining engineer. My parents remember when Jews were rounded up and killed by the Germans in the war. You hear about the massacre at Babi Yar, near Kiev, but there were many smaller massacres elsewhere, including L’viv. My parents were lucky. They were children then and they hid and were not found. When I lived there, Ukraine was still part of the Soviet Union. I grew up in a modern part of the city, ugly Stalinist blocks. We were poor and ill-fed, but there was a strong sense of community, and sometimes you could even believe in the ideals behind the reality of the revolution. When Ukraine became an independent state in August 1991, things were chaotic for a while. Nobody knew what was going to happen. That was when I left.”
Strange Affair Page 32