In Deep Water
Page 23
Cathy knew she wasn’t like most cops, who operated in black and white – she saw all the shades of grey, could see that there might be women who wanted to work in the sex industry, women for whom the wins outweighed the losses, for whom regulating it had huge benefits. But with any big-money game there were vultures circling; the pimps and pushers would always be looking for their cut, and those types preyed on the most vulnerable and least able to defend themselves. That’s the way the world worked and that’s why she was in the job.
‘And Sarah Jane?’ Cathy’s voice was louder than she’d anticipated. She was getting that anxious feeling she got before an important fight, that tension in her stomach that made her nervy.
‘The punter the boys questioned didn’t recognise her photo, reckoned it was the first time he’d been there.’
From the left of the room Frank Gallagher grunted. ‘Isn’t it always?’
O’Rourke acknowledged his point with a grimace, then continued, ‘If Sarah Jane was working on a story about trafficking and she got too close, they could be holding her. They won’t know who she has or hasn’t spoken to, will want to find out so they can contain the information. For all they know she could be working undercover at The Rookery, could have a whole team backing her up.’ He took another swig of his coffee. ‘Whether that might mean she was grabbed when she got home on Sunday night and is being held on the premises, or elsewhere, we’ll only know when we go in. We’ll see if the girl who called her – Irina she said her name was – can tell us anything.’
Cathy nodded slowly, if the girl wasn’t too traumatised. ‘Do you think she could be there? Sarah Jane? At the club?’
O’Rourke met her eye. She could see he knew what she was really asking, could read her mind as well as she could read his: Do you think she’s still alive? She couldn’t say it out loud, couldn’t even think it.
‘Maybe.’ He paused. ‘It’s a big building – four floors with the casino in the basement. We’ll see what Irina can tell us.’
Cathy took a deep breath. For a moment no one said anything, and Cathy felt like they were trapped in some sort of vacuum, the murmur as the team absorbed the briefing continuing around them dulled somehow. Then J.P. was beside her, his hand on her shoulder. He gave her a squeeze.
‘Cat, don’t worry. We’ll find her.’
Cathy threw him a grin and jostled him playfully with her shoulder.
‘So it’s all hands on deck, a pincer operation. We’ll have armed back-up from the special detective unit and uniform from the B – South William Street is in Pearse Street’s district. I’ve a call into Ruhama for one of their crisis teams to attend when we bring the girls in. They are an NGO specialising in assisting trafficked women and women in prostitution, and have lots of experience. They will bring spare clothes for them, emergency toiletries and the like.’
Cathy pulled her chain out from the neck of her hoodie, running the pendant nervously along its length. She’d done this before, it wasn’t like a raid was a new experience. But she’d never been on one that was this close to her heart. She closed her eyes and took another deep breath, trying to still her stomach.
32
‘Are you sure you’ve got everything now? I’ve put your toothbrush in your washbag.’ Rebecca picked up Jacob’s Batman backpack from the end of the sofa and unzipped it, rifling through the contents again. Washbag, phone charger, Minecraft magazine, T-shirt, clean underwear and socks. Ted bear. She must have checked everything against his list at least three times already. She was sure everything was there, but the thought that something might be missing made her as anxious as it would Jacob. Something as simple as the wrong pair of pyjamas could send him into a meltdown; leaving something behind would throw his routine right out and could end in disaster.
‘I’ve got a toothbrush at Daddy’s, Mummy. I keep telling you.’
‘Yes, but this one has soft bristles. You said the other one was too hard.’
Jacob’s voice was stubborn, ‘Daddy says mine’s the same as his.’
I bet. Rebecca didn’t say it. ‘Just remember to use it, will you? And don’t eat those jellies again. They make you go bonkers.’
Jacob picked up his new tablet computer from the coffee table. ‘Daddy says his ones don’t make me go bonkers, only yours.’
Great. Just great. Rebecca closed her eyes and counted to ten.
Outside a bitter wind was channelling down the main street of Enniskerry, bringing with it the smell of chips, setting the sign outside the pub swinging and squeaking noisily. Rebecca pulled the shop door closed behind them. At this time of the evening the village was winding down. Worry fluttered in her stomach; she had a nagging feeling they’d forgotten something. But she’d checked everything. What could it be? What on earth wasn’t on the list? She went through the same process every time she dropped Jacob to his dad’s. Thank God it was only once a fortnight, but each time it felt like the longest twenty-four hours of her life.
He was mad about Jacob, spoiled him rotten, but any eight-year-old could be a challenge, and one with Asperger’s had his own set of complications. Once Jacob was given enough notice of change he actually coped very well; it was more often smells that set him off, or crowds, people bumping into him. Rebecca took a deep breath, tried to calm herself. It would all be fine. Sometimes something unexpected happened and he was completely fine about it, surprising everyone. But she’d just seen too many times how her ex-husband failed to cope with situations, and a small boy having what equated to a full-blown tantrum, whatever the reason, would test his patience, create an atmosphere that could go on for weeks – an atmosphere that an eight-year-old could never understand. It was so easy to avoid situations that were distressing for Jacob, but that required forward planning, and for her ex to focus on something other than himself, which was where things tended to fall down. At least when something went wrong Jacob’s dad usually got straight on the phone to her, which was something. She pursed her lips . . .
Reaching for Jacob’s hand to cross the road, she bobbed down in front of him, pulled up his hood and checked the zip was done up on his coat.
‘Mummy, I’m eight.’
‘I know, darling, but it’s freezing. You won’t forget to call to say good night, will you? You know I can’t sleep until you do.’
‘Yes, Mummy.’ Jacob rolled his eyes, ‘And I won’t tell Daddy in case he gives out about the bill.’
‘Good boy. We don’t want Daddy to be cross, do we?’ She kissed him quickly on the top of the head.
It was only twenty minutes to the house. Outside the gates she swung open the car door to press the intercom. He must have been watching for her. Just as she reached up to hit the button the gates began to open. That would be right. He’d seen her drive up and had waited for her to get out of the car before he’d opened the gates. It was only a tiny thing, but this was childish one-upmanship; like everything else he did, it was all a pointless power play.
She shouldn’t be surprised. He’d been the same since she’d met him. But she’d been in love then, blind to the tell-tale signs. Now she knew better.
Climbing back into her red Golf as the gates opened fully, Rebecca began to feel sick. She’d done everything to contest his access, but the judge had bought his story that the stress of running such a successful business had been the reason for his lack of commitment to Jacob.
Pulling up outside the house Rebecca could hear the dog barking before she was even out of the car.
33
How long would it take the girl to get here? How quickly would she pick up her message? Leaning on the bar Irina glanced anxiously at the entrance to the club again. Someone was going to notice if she kept this up. She knew she needed to be more careful. But she was burning up with anticipation, had headed back downstairs as soon as she could when the guy with the phone had woken up. She’d smiled at him, had handed him back his phone with a look that told him he’d been the best she’d ever had. He’d been a bit groggy bu
t had glanced over his shoulder at her as he’d left, his brown eyes hopeful. Lost. Irina knew he’d be back. But with a bit of luck she wouldn’t be here.
She almost smiled. For the first time in months.
Hope was a powerful thing.
It was quiet this evening, with only a couple of men in the bar, both watching the floor show from opposite sides of the stage, studiously ignoring each other. It was still early, and most of the other girls were upstairs taking a break. Irina knew she probably should too – a big stag party had booked in later, would be arriving around midnight when they’d all be expected to be on the floor, persuading the men to spend €150 on a bottle of champagne and enjoy the free two-minute dance that came with each one.
But what if the girl came and couldn’t find her? What if she was dancing or with a customer and they missed each other?
Irina pulled herself up onto the bar stool, glancing at the door again. The straps on her stilettos were cutting into her feet. How long would she be?
Behind her, Stacey, one of the pole dancers, was gyrating topless to the pop music that filled the club, her thong covered in sequins that caught the coloured lights that played across the stage. She was fit: her stomach rippled with muscle, thighs taut. All the men who watched her wanted a piece of her, but she was strictly hands off, had her own changing room out the back, was an ‘artiste’, as Irina had heard her saying to Nacek when he’d decided he’d try a piece of her himself. Actually Irina was pretty sure she was a he, that the breasts were fake, his dick taped up under the slinky thong that stayed firmly in place whenever ‘she’ was on stage. It made her laugh to watch the men’s tongues almost hanging out, blissfully unaware. She half wished Stacey would make a move on Nacek; that would give him something to think about.
Irina pushed a strand of hair out of her face and tried to concentrate on anything other than the door. It was hours since she’d left the message. Maybe the girl had lost her phone? Maybe the battery was flat and she hadn’t even got the message? Irina took an involuntary breath as a wave of hysteria threatened to envelop her. She couldn’t think about that. She hadn’t even considered what would happen if the girl didn’t get the message. It had taken her so long to get a phone. A pain exploded in Irina’s head and she suddenly found it hard to breathe. Grasping the back of the bar stool beside her until her knuckles went white, Irina fought for control. She couldn’t lose it now. Not when she was so close.
She reached for images of Meti’s face, his beautiful brown eyes, of sitting in the town square in the shade of a striped umbrella, sipping lattes, laughing. It was hard; her memories were fading, it felt like a different world, a different life. Was she even that girl anymore?
Irina fought back the sting of tears, holding on to the images like they were precious stones slipping through her fingers. The feel of Meti’s stubble on her face, the sound of his laughter. It didn’t matter what happened, she couldn’t lose her memories, they were all she had left. And Meti would be waiting. She knew he would. He would be wondering why she hadn’t got in touch, why she hadn’t phoned, sent a postcard. He’d be waiting for her. He had to be.
Irina took a deep breath, trying to still her beating heart. The girl would help. Irina knew that for sure. She had understood the moment their eyes had met. But how could she know what was really happening, what the truth was? How could anyone imagine that a human sex slave trade was active in their city? Irina had read about trafficking and seen documentaries about organised crime. How had she been so stupid? Why hadn’t she realised?
But it was going to be fine. Irina took a deep breath and fought to focus. She just had to get through tonight. It would all work out. She’d taken every day, every minute, one at a time since she’d arrived here, had focused on surviving, on getting through each increment without losing her mind.
The girl would come and she would get out of here . . . She just had to wait a little bit longer . . .
‘You’re wanted upstairs.’
Irina whipped around at the sound of Dog Face’s voice, her eyes wide. She was sure the shock was written all over her face.
‘Wh . . . why?’ Irina stuttered, and the pain in her head started up again, throbbing like her skull was going to explode. Dog Face looked at her, her upper lip curled in a sneer.
‘Nacek wants you.’
Irina felt herself sway, the bass beat of the music suddenly overwhelming. She clenched her teeth. She couldn’t go back to the office. Not again. She couldn’t go through that again. Last time she’d been terrified, but she hadn’t known what was coming.
This time she did.
Struggling for breath Irina turned to look at Dog Face, grasping the back of the bar stool, trying to hide her fear.
‘Now?’ Her voice was weak.
Images of her last time in the office whirled in Irina’s head. Unable to look at the woman beside her, focusing her eyes somewhere over her shoulder, on the other side of the club, Irina realised one of the doors of the booths had opened, the light thrown from inside illuminating a short, middle-aged customer in a three-piece suit who had just emerged from inside, his bald head, slick with sweat, catching the lights. She looked at him desperately – could she interest him in another dance? Buy herself some time?
Dog Face didn’t seem to notice, but then she was used to the girls being stoned, to not being all there when she spoke to them.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Are you ill? He doesn’t like to wait, you know. Get moving and make yourself presentable on the way.’
‘I just . . .’ Irina put her hand to her pounding head.
It was like it was all happening in slow motion. The dancer on the stage threw her leg around the pole.
‘I—’
But Irina didn’t get any further. The sound of laughter drew Dog Face’s attention away from her for a moment. A group of men were coming in through the door of the club, three of them – new customers she hadn’t seen before. One younger, blond, handsome. One a bit older – a big guy, his shoulders like a bull. The third, in a well-cut navy pinstripe suit and pink tie, seemed to be in charge, and was heading for the bar.
‘Now boys, what are you having?’ His accent was strange, different from the others she’d heard. Similar but softer. ‘Pints all round?’
The moment he spoke Dog Face turned on the charm, her eyes lighting up, ‘We have some fabulous champagne if you’d care for a glass. A bottle comes with the added bonus of the special attention of one of our girls.’
Smiling, she clicked her fingers, summoning the barman who had been washing glasses, his back to the club. ‘I’m sure some of our girls can help you enjoy your evening.’
The guy who seemed to be in charge turned to her smiling. ‘I hope so.’
As she looked at him properly Irina could see he was good looking too, not with the film star looks of the younger guy, but in a rugged, stubbly sort of way. Catching her eye he smiled at her.
Dog Face moved in immediately, clicking her fingers again for the drinks menu, ‘We have a wide selection available. We cater for every taste.’
‘I bet you do. Sounds good to me.’ He leaned in close to Dog Face, his voice low, but Irina could just catch what he was saying, ‘Mate of mine was here the other day, said he met a lovely girl, Irene was her name? Said she was very good company.’
Dog Face only paused for a moment, and glanced back at Irina. ‘She did have an appointment, but I’m sure it can be delayed.’ Dog Face beamed at him, ‘This is Irina.’ She took a step backwards, ‘Irina, will you look after these gentlemen?’
34
As Irina pushed the door closed, shutting out the light from the club, the booth was plunged into semi darkness, the soft red up-lighting hiding the marks on the burgundy carpet. She gestured for the man to sit in the chrome and leather chair in the middle of the tiny room. Without looking at her, he put his champagne flute down carefully on the round smoked-glass table beside it.
For a moment Iri
na wondered who he was, what his story was. Was he married, single? She didn’t really care, but he was going to get the dance of his life tonight, that was for sure. He’d paid for a full half an hour which meant she wouldn’t have to go to the office – and if she could keep him entertained until the stag party came in, with a bit of luck she wouldn’t have to go up tonight at all. Relief coursed through her.
Sitting down, facing her, the man leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak, but Irina didn’t need to hear it. Instead she turned around, standing with her back to him, and picking up the bass beat of the music, a bluesy jazz number, began to dance, gyrating her hips, running her hands over her thighs, down over her butt. She turned around, smiling, taking a step towards him, but as she did so he put up both hands for her to stop. Confused, she paused.
‘Is your name Irina?’ He kept his voice low, barely more than a whisper.
Irina frowned, her eyebrows knitting, pretending she didn’t understand.
He said it again, ‘Is your name Irina? You speak English?’ Still she pretended not to understand, stared at him blankly.
Then he reached inside his jacket pocket.
What was inside his jacket? A knife? In an instant Irina spun around, heading for the door of the booth, panic roaring in her ears. He had a knife. He must have a knife. Like the man who wanted to fuck Sabrina but hadn’t wanted to pay. Nacek had sorted him out, but not before he’d cut her.
Irina tried to catch the door handle, panic making her blind, her hands suddenly sweating so much they slipped off it. Before she could open the door he had his hand on her arm, gripping her tightly. She spun around and, finally finding her voice, opened her mouth to scream. But the man held up his free hand, glancing up to check the camera in the corner of the room and turning his back to block its view as he flipped open a wallet, keeping it close into his chest.
He kept his voice low, little more than a whisper. ‘It’s OK. I’m police. Detective Inspector Dawson O’Rourke. I’m here to help you.’ Then louder, ‘Are you Russian? Talk to me in Russian, I want to hear how it sounds.’