In Deep Water

by Sam Blake

  ‘Wait. We’ll have the phone owner’s details within the hour and get a team out to see if he knows who this girl is, and where she is.’

  ‘And to see if he’s seen Sarah Jane.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then we’ll get down to this club, wherever it is – scope it out, see what we can see.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Cathy felt like she’d been punched in the solar plexus. And things suddenly fell into place. She could have slapped herself. Wait? Like hell. Cathy didn’t do waiting. She really wasn’t very good at doing nothing, and he knew it.

  O’Rourke continued, ‘As soon as we’ve located the club the girl was calling from we’ll organise a warrant. Farrell has given us permission to search The Rookery. He’s being very helpful.’

  Cathy’s head was buzzing. The girl who had called Sarah Jane had sounded Eastern European? What had McIntyre said about Eastern Europeans? It had been about the mutilation to the girl’s body, that it was a trademark of Eastern European gangs. Had Daniella got caught up in something? With so many non-nationals involved in prostitution, punters got impatient with girls who had little or no English. Good-looking girls who spoke English could command a much higher price – was Daniella involved?

  There were brothels exploiting immigrants all over the country; when she’d first moved into the detective unit Cathy had worked a case where women were moved every week to a different part of Ireland, their trade plied through websites that gave punters the opportunity to review them. That had been what had chilled her to the core: the reviews. And girls who couldn’t speak any English were often given lower scores. What sort of men paid for sex and didn’t think it weird that the girls didn’t speak English? Had Sarah Jane found out something about Daniella? Was that what this was all about?

  ‘What’s up, girl?’

  Cathy looked up at the sound of Niall McIntyre’s voice.

  *

  In a quiet housing estate on Dublin’s north side Frank Gallagher and Jamie Fanning were sitting in the Dún Laoghaire DDU car watching number seventy-one. A two-year-old silver Nissan was parked in the drive, a child’s scooter leaning against the porch door. It was mid-morning, a postman doing his rounds further up the street.

  A black Ford Laguna pulled up.

  Gallagher stopped drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and leaned forward to get a clearer look at the driver.

  ‘That’s him. Spitting image of his Facebook photo.’

  Fanning pulled out his notebook. ‘Steve Dolan. Thirty-three, married, one kid, another on the way. Warehouse manager, works shifts.’

  ‘Family man.’ Gallagher watched as Dolan locked his car and headed into his driveway.

  ‘How long do you think?’ Fanning pushed his notebook back into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. They’d both done this before. It was the lads’ club approach, the Listen, buddy, we know what it’s like, everyone needs a bit of fun, but we know where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing, so can you help us with a bit of information?

  Gallagher pursed his lips like he was thinking about it. ‘Fiver says two minutes.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  It never ceased to amaze them how willing men were to talk when they’d literally been caught with their trousers down. As Gallagher had pointed out as they’d got into the car back at Dún Laoghaire Station, it always helped if you were sitting in their front room and the wife was in the house.

  *

  ‘Mrs Dolan?’

  The woman who had answered the door of the tidy three-bedroom semi looked more than a little annoyed. Her long dark hair was caught back in a messy ponytail and she was carrying a toddler on one hip, the child’s leg hooked around her pregnant stomach. The toddler was gripping a handful of her T-shirt in a less than clean fist, pulling the neck out of shape as he cuddled shyly into her shoulder. Emma Dolan’s dark eyebrows knotted as she looked out at the two men standing on her doorstep.

  ‘Yes?’ The word was stressed at the end as if she was saying ‘and who wants to know?’

  Gallagher flashed his warrant card, ‘Gardaí, Mrs Dolan. DS Frank Gallagher and Detective Garda Jamie Fanning. We were wondering if we could have a chat to Mr Dolan?’

  ‘Why?’

  Annoyance changed to suspicion as Emma looked from one man to the other, her eyes narrowed. She shifted the child up her hip a bit. He had brown eyes, his mother’s dark hair, wispy in baby curls, a trail of snot heading for his upper lip.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about. There was an incident early this morning that your husband might have been a witness to. We’re just checking up.’

  ‘Incident? Where? When he was out running?’ She looked confused, ‘He went straight to Woodie’s afterwards. Had to get there when it opened so he’d have time to decide on paint for the baby’s room. Apparently it’s complicated.’

  ‘We won’t be a moment, really. Can we come in?’ Gallagher’s tone was soothing, calm, implicitly sympathising with the fact she’d been on her own all morning with a small child while her husband struggled with paint choices.

  Emma glanced out of the door to either side, checking to see who was watching. Gallagher knew that they didn’t look like double-glazing salesmen. Whether it was height or build he wasn’t sure – it wasn’t like Fanning was even wearing a suit – so maybe it was something about their posture, but they might as well have been wearing hi-vis jackets with Gardaí written in capitals across the back. And it wouldn’t take long for the neighbours to start talking.

  ‘I suppose you better.’

  As Fanning followed Gallagher, sliding the porch door closed behind him, Emma Dolan threw open a door to the right. ‘You can wait in here. I’ll just get him.’

  The living room was small but comfortable. A cream leather couch dominated one wall, and children’s toys were scattered on the polished floorboards across a beige mat. Children’s clothes were drying on an airer beside the radiator. The two men took it all in: the wedding pictures on the mantelpiece, the posed family portrait in a trendy black lacquer frame above the sofa. Glazed double doors linked the living room with some sort of dining room-cum-office behind it, papers spread across the dining table. Beyond it the window framed a small garden dominated by a trampoline and a large shed. Emma Dolan paused in the doorway.

  ‘Excuse the mess. I won’t be a minute, he’s in the garden. Can I get you some tea?’

  She sounded like she was saying it because it was expected rather than because she actually wanted to provide refreshments.

  Gallagher shook his head, giving her a relaxed friendly grin. ‘Don’t worry yourself, we’ll only be a few minutes.’

  ‘OK. I’ll get him.’ She paused a moment longer, her dark eyes unsure, then she was gone, her footsteps loud on the polished boards in the hall. The two men exchanged glances as they heard the back door open and Emma calling her husband. Through the window, they saw the shed door open.

  Fanning stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked on his heels. ‘Nice lady.’

  Gallagher nodded, tight-lipped. There were lots of reasons men visited prostitutes, none of which would cut any ice with their wives. He didn’t approve or disapprove once the women were in it voluntarily. In this job you saw all sorts, and one thing was for sure, every relationship had its stresses and strains. But when the girls were abused, or trapped into selling sex by violent pimps, then he got annoyed. Very annoyed.

  A moment later the living room door opened.

  ‘Mr Dolan?’

  *

  It took less than two minutes.

  *

  The moment Steve Dolan heard that his mobile had been tracked to a brothel he paled several shades and sat down heavily on the couch as if someone had put a pin in him and all the air holding him up had rushed out.

  ‘What happens now?’ His voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  ‘Well that’s up to you, Mr Dolan. We need you to tell us as much as yo
u possibly can about the place you met this lady.’

  His eyes darting about as if he was trapped by a searchlight, Dolan began to sweat. He pushed his fringe out of his eyes. ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then we’ll have to have a chat down at the station and you might have a bit of explaining to do to Mrs Dolan.’

  ‘OK, OK. But if I tell you, what happens then? Emma can’t know about this.’

  ‘We understand your problem, Mr Dolan, and we can’t make any promises, but right now the most important thing for us to do it to get a bunch of trafficked women out of harm’s way. That’s our absolute priority. Once we know where to look, with a bit of luck you won’t be hearing from us again.’

  Steve Dolan nodded fast, ‘Just don’t say anything to Emma.’

  ‘We won’t, that’s your business.’ Gallagher paused, ‘So where exactly were you between seven thirty and eight o’clock this morning?’

  *

  ‘Higher, girl. It’s an axe kick, not bloody fairy football. Focus. You need to concentrate to win.’

  Niall McIntyre held the pad Cathy was supposed to be kicking several inches higher, the sinews in his tattooed arms standing out like ropes. They were both sweating now, their vests stained, Cathy’s black Lycra shorts clinging to her. Boxing was a full-on, full-body workout that tested every muscle and required a different sort of concentration from the norm. It was about attack and defence, attack and counter-attack. The gym was empty this early in the day, so they were alone in the ring, Cathy’s feet echoing off the blue baize-covered boards with every kick, drowning out the sound of Spin FM.

  He was deliberately working her hard trying to distract her, to stop her thinking about the girl who had tried to call Sarah Jane. He was doing the right thing by trying to keep her busy, and the sweat was running off her now, dripping off the end of her nose. She ran the back of her arm across her forehead, skipped back and tried to catch him by surprise: front kick, roundhouse, axe kick. The pad met her foot every time. Christ, he was fast.

  ‘That’s more like it.’ He grinned at her, knowing exactly what she was up to. ‘Water, then back on the bag.’

  ‘Yes, Boss.’ Bent double, Cathy leaned her gloved hands on her thighs, panting. He was some bastard.

  As she grabbed her water from under the ropes her phone started to ring again. They both jumped. Ripping the Velcro off her gloves with her teeth, Cathy swung out of the ring and got to it before it went to voicemail. O’Rourke’s name flashed on the screen.

  ‘What?’ She was breathless, panted out the word.

  ‘We’ve got it. You were right. It is The Paradise Club. Frank’s got chapter and verse. He’s on his way back here now. Come in and we’ll regroup.’

  31

  Even in the outer public office you could feel there was something happening in Dún Laoghaire Station. The desk was down to one man trying to deal with a growing queue of members of the public. They all looked at Cathy as she punched the code into the internal glass doors and headed for the stairs, her runners silent on the treads as she took the steps two at a time. But then she wasn’t in uniform, had thrown on her black sweatpants and hoodie after training, pulled back her hair into a ponytail, and looked more like a cat burglar than a member of An Garda Síochána.

  Her phone pipped with a message as she headed up the stairs. Pausing for a second at the top of the flight, she pulled it out. Aleksy again: still trying number; no answer; then more emojis, smiley faces and a pint of beer followed by a question mark. But she didn’t have time to answer now. She stuck the phone back into her pocket – she’d answer later.

  In the incident room O’Rourke was huddled over the conference table with Frank Gallagher and Jamie Fanning, a map spread out in front of them. Fanning, who had his back to her, turned as the doors swung closed behind her. O’Rourke looked up, flashing her a grin that did nothing to alter his frown.

  ‘We’ve another development.’

  Cathy caught her breath, ‘What?’

  ‘We’re still waiting for a DNA match, but Daniella’s medical records confirm she was AB negative. It’s not an ID and it’s not conclusive, but with the missing tattoo it’s looking even more likely the body we found is hers.’

  Cathy wasn’t sure if that was good news or not. They’d found Daniella, but . . . Christ she hoped the same thing hadn’t happened to Sarah Jane. She tried to keep her voice level, ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘We’ve got a search warrant for The Paradise Club, but if we create a load of fuss at The Rookery, the girls being held in The Paradise Club could be moved on. We need to keep a lid on it, do them at the same time.’ O’Rourke glanced at Cathy. ‘What’s the link between them?’ Dumping her kitbag down beside the table she leaned over to look at the plan of the buildings on South William Street, the car park and the location of The Paradise Club on Drury Street.

  Before O’Rourke had a chance to speak the swing door from the corridor burst open, J.P. barrelling through, a piece of paper in his hand. ‘There’s an R. Farrell on the board of directors of both companies. They are listed separately but . . .’

  ‘That would explain his house,’ Fanning cut in, glancing at Cathy.

  ‘Sure would.’

  O’Rourke’s phone rang before anyone could comment further. His answers were clipped. ‘Perfect, thanks.’ He turned to them, pausing for a moment while he was clearly sorting the information in his head. ‘That was Traffic: they’ve located the video of Daniella getting out of Farrell’s car at the bus stop. He did just what he said: as soon as the bus came, he turned around and headed south; we’re just waiting for Wexford to confirm he arrived in Gorey. Dublin Bus have come up with the tapes from the bus itself. She used her Leap card when she got on, and it looks like she was on her own for the whole trip, didn’t speak to anyone, got off in the city centre. We’re waiting for visuals from them both.’

  ‘So that puts Farrell in the clear?’ Fanning looked up from the map and pushed his blond fringe out of his face as he spoke.

  O’Rourke stared at Fanning for a moment before answering, the cogs still turning visibly in his head. ‘Not necessarily – assuming the body is hers, we don’t have an exact time of death. He could have met her later. The DNA report on the semen will give us more information.’ He turned to Cathy, ‘What was your impression of him?’

  Cathy shrugged, ‘Rich, young, good looking. He could still be good for it unless we can conclusively rule him out.’

  ‘And we can’t do that yet. The tapes are on the way, we’ll have a look at them ourselves as soon as they arrive.’ O’Rourke stood up straight, ‘Right, let’s get organised. I want everyone in here.’

  *

  Ten minutes later the incident room was packed, all the focus on O’Rourke as he stood at the front of the room and brought them up to date.

  ‘So Frank is going to lead the team going into The Rookery. I know you want to get in there, Cat, but we’ll need you in The Paradise Club to help with these girls. Frank, I want all their CCTV tapes – check that Billy Roberts isn’t holding anything back that we should be seeing. You’ll have the Technical Bureau with you – empty the waitresses’ lockers, go through every bloody drawer. We’re looking for anything that can connect Sarah Jane and Daniella O’Connor.

  ‘But you can’t move in until we’re ready to go into The Paradise Club, so it’s going to be a late night.’ He took a slug of the coffee that had materialised beside him on the edge of the snooker table. ‘So here’s the plan: myself, J.P. and 007 will go into The Paradise Club as if we’re punters this evening.’ He turned to 007 who was sitting in the front row, ‘And don’t get any ideas about ordering a load of champagne on the state – it’s pints only, understood? If you order champagne you’re paying for it yourself.’ He paused, ‘We’ll suss the place out, see how many girls there are, what the security arrangements are. Then, coordinating with Frank’s team, we’ll raid it.’

  ‘Not now? If we know the girls are in there?’
J.P. was leaning against the back wall beside the door, his arms tightly crossed. He was wearing a denim shirt and chinos, but still looked too big for the room somehow. Cathy flashed him a smile.

  At the front of the room O’Rourke was shaking his head, ‘We need to catch them at it or we can’t prosecute, so it has to be later when the girls are busy. We’ve done this elsewhere and come out with nothing – the girls are brain washed and so frightened of the traffickers that they deny they are there without their consent, it ends up a mess. Under the 1993 Sexual Offences Act the offence is in soliciting for prostitution and profiting from it. We can only prosecute the traffickers if we can prove that’s what’s going on, that the girls are being held against their will and forced into sex work that they are directly profiting from. Operations Hotel and Quest targeted trafficking and have been very successful, but The Paradise Club wasn’t on their radar until now. Their team will be assisting this operation.’

  Cathy had had several lectures on trafficking in a module on the psychology of hostages – it wasn’t all about Stockholm syndrome. Often the girls lured into trafficking had been abused from a young age, came from homes they never wanted to return to; living like this, having sex many times a day with different men, was marginally better than home. They had somewhere warm to sleep, were fed and clothed. How bad did your life have to be to make this an alternative? Others were beaten and subjugated, terrorised into sex work by threats that their families at home would be harmed if they didn’t cooperate. Cathy’s tutor group had ended up debating the legalisation of prostitution, whether making it safe and looking after the girls just created another black economy for needs not serviced by the mainstream, for BDSM and bestiality, for stuff Cathy didn’t even want to think about it. It was a no-win situation.