by DC Brockwell
“What is it you do want to know? Why are you here?”
“I’m asking the questions here, not you, so shut your mouth and strip.”
“What? No fucking way.”
Nasreen pulled the hammer back on her pistol.
“Strip now, or I’ll do it for you… after I pistol-whip you… your choice.”
“You fucking bitch.” Gebhardt undressed.
Nasreen listened as he moaned something in German. She so badly wanted to pull the trigger, to wing him, to hurt him. He was scum – there was no better word to describe him – and he wasn’t fit to lick these girls’ feet. Nasreen had a mind to leave him tied up with the girls, to let them do to him whatever they wanted. She still might, she thought, watching as he slowly stripped.
“There,” said Gebhardt, in his underpants. “I strip, now what?”
“And the pants, Conrad, don’t be shy,” she said, motioning with the pistol for him to pull them down. “You had these girls tied up naked; it’s only fair that you do the same in return.”
She beckoned the small English-speaking Chinese girl over, taking the knife back. “Now, do me a favour. Take these,” she said, handing the girl four lengths of rope from her bag, “and tie him up tight.” Then she found an old wooden chair, picked it up with her free hand, and placed it in front of Gebhardt. “Sit!”
With her gun poised to fire, Nasreen waited for Gebhardt to pull his pants down and sit, grumbling to himself. She watched him sit down, trying not to notice how small his penis was. And she’d been wrong about his physique earlier; he was fat, with a big belly that nearly hung over and covered his tiny limp appendage. When he’d had clothes on he’d looked quite muscular, but it was all a façade; he was fat with muscly biceps. “Tie a knot around each wrist, and tie that to the chair,” she told the Chinese girl. “Good, that’s it. And now the other one.”
She instructed the girl on how to tie Gebhardt’s legs to the chair, then went and checked that he was bound tightly. When she was satisfied Gebhardt couldn’t escape his restraints, she walked over to the clothed abductees and made sure they were okay. Then she went over to Gebhardt’s clothes, rummaged through his jeans and pulled out his keys, handing them to the English-speaking girl. “Take these, and go wait by the door. I’ll be along shortly. First, there’s something I need from him…”
“Excuse me, sir, but where did this intel come from?”
Steven was in a conference room along with a mixture of police and NCA officers. At the front of the room stood Director General Graham Holmes and Police and Crime Commissioner Philip Byrd, the two highest-ranking personnel there. Sitting around the table were several senior members of the police force and Steven’s seniors at the NCA. Half of the room was awash with police uniforms, while the other half was swamped with varying coloured suits. Steven was one of only three officers wearing plain clothes.
“Officer Dyer,” said the tall lanky Director General, “I’m glad you could make this briefing, but you were late getting here, so I’d appreciate it if you’d leave the questions until after we’ve finished.”
“Well, you haven’t answered my question, sir.” If Steven wasn’t careful, Holmes would ask him to leave; the way he’d said “intel” had been scornful, like he didn’t believe it. Which, of course, he didn’t.
“The intel comes from an extremely reliable CI,” Holmes replied. “Now, do you mind if we get back to the briefing? Is that okay with you?”
There was another awkward silence while everyone waited for him to speak.
“This covert informant, who is he, or she? And how do you know they’re reliable?”
He’d done it now. He’d just questioned Holmes’ integrity and judgement.
“He’s reliable, but I’m not at liberty to divulge their identity, you know that. That’s why they’re covert.”
“So, it’s not William Rothstein then?”
The room erupted in murmuring and whispering, and Steven felt all eyes on him again as he waited for the inevitable admonishment from Holmes.
“Of course it’s not Rothstein, don’t be absurd. William Rothstein is a secondary target, Officer Dyer.”
“He was the primary until Director General Wells died, sir,” Steven blurted out without thinking. “Why is he only secondary now? He’s the mastermind we should be targeting, not Garvey – he’s Rothstein’s right-hand man. Garvey’s not important in the grand scheme of–”
“Enough!” Holmes snapped. “Our orders come directly from the Home Secretary; we don’t decide targets autonomously. We work together with the Home Office to decide who we investigate, and we all decided Garvey was the primary we should be seeking to apprehend. Our intel tells us that Garvey isn’t working for Rothstein at all; he’s actually a partner of Rothstein’s. But, in fact, he’s more than that: he’s the mastermind of a drug operation with a street value of over fifty million a year in cocaine and heroin.”
Steven couldn’t speak; he wasn’t in full receipt of the facts.
It was plausible that Garvey was partners with Rothstein, and it was also plausible that he was, in reality, the head of the drug empire they were seeking to destroy.
It was plausible, yes, but not likely. He knew Rothstein was the head of said drug empire. Anyone could see that.
“Are you going to come back with something, Officer Dyer, or can I get on with the briefing? I was going to give your team the honour of bringing Garvey in, but it doesn’t sound like you’ll consider it an honour–”
“We’ll do it,” he said, cutting Holmes off mid-sentence.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Can we interview him first too, please?”
“Your team has contributed a lot to this operation. It was your lucky find with the Harrison farm that gave us leads to pursue, and for that, we’re thankful. If you want first crack at Garvey, who am I to say no?”
“Thank you, sir,” he replied.
As Holmes and PCC Byrd continued briefing the officers, Steven tuned their voices out. He was positive Rothstein had rolled over on Garvey, just given him up, but why? Maybe there was a rift between the pair? Without solid proof, all he had was a theory. The fact that the operation had changed targets midway through was alarming enough, but now they were supposed to believe that it was Garvey controlling the drugs, and not his boss? Holmes must’ve thought they were all born yesterday.
Being the first to interview Garvey, when they apprehended him, would be the only chance he’d get to prove his theory that Rothstein had sold him down the river…
57
“Wrong, wrong, wrong!” cried Nasreen as she cracked Gebhardt over the head with the butt of her pistol. “That’s not the answer I’m looking for. Telling me to go fuck myself isn’t going to get you out of this… so, I’ll ask you again, where is your brother?”
She watched as Gebhardt swore in German, a look of pure hatred in his eyes. For the past three hours she’d interrogated him over the whereabouts of his brother, and she was getting bored of asking the same questions – not to mention getting the same “fuck you” reply.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I just told you: go fuck yourself.”
Nasreen’s temper was fraying. The longer she spent with this fat vile man the more she wanted to put a bullet in his head. She lifted the pistol, then brought it crashing down onto Gebhardt’s shoulder.
“Ahh, you fucking bitch!”
“I can carry on doing this all night, Conrad.” She walked round to face him, then bent down and stared into his dark eyes. “The thing is though, I don’t want to. I don’t want to be anywhere near you – you disgust me to my core. Now, tell me where he lives, or this interrogation is going to get more severe. I’m not talking pistol whippings, or ear twisting, Conrad, I’m talking bone breaking, limb severing… You don’t want that, and I don’t want that. So, do yourself a favour and give me what I want.”
“And you do this over a male prostitute?”
Nasreen stared
into Gebhardt’s lifeless eyes. “I do all this for a friend, and you better believe I’ll break your bones for him. Here, let me show you…”
Gebhardt tried to move in his chair but couldn’t.
She bent down and grabbed the little finger of his right hand. “Tell me where he is, Conrad. Don’t make me do this,” she said, tightening her grip on his littlest digit.
“You a police officer,” he said, bracing himself for pain. “You not allowed to do this.”
“You’re wrong about that,” she replied, snapping bone as she pulled his finger back; she physically felt and heard it snap. “I was a police officer. Now I’m just a member of the public you really don’t want to piss off.”
She listened as he cried in German, swearing probably.
The pain had turned Gebhardt white, and sweat was beading on his brow and trickling down his face. His breaths came in rasps as he tried to fight the need to vomit. “You fucking whore, I fucking kill you for this! I never tell you where Walter is, ever. Do whatever you want; you not getting nothing from me.”
As soon as he’d finished telling her he wouldn’t help, she grabbed the little finger on his other hand and broke that too, the pain causing Gebhardt to practically spasm in his chair.
He spat as he yelled out, his face and chest covered in sweat.
“Two down, eight to go, Conrad.” She grabbed his left ring finger. “You know you can end this right now by telling me where he is. It’s up to you how much pain you feel.”
“Fuck you!”
Nasreen sighed as she yanked his finger back and felt it break, hearing him cry for the first time since she’d abducted him.
This wasn’t getting her anywhere.
He might not crack even after all eight fingers and two thumbs had been broken.
She stood up, went over to her bag, and took out her serrated pocketknife. It had a six-inch blade and was perfect for cutting and slicing into things. Standing in front of him, she bent down so that her eyes were level with his. “This really is pissing me off now, Conrad, so I’m going to give you one last chance to tell me where he is.”
“Or what? You break another finger? I from Bavaria, you not break me.”
“Or I cut off something no man wants to lose, do you understand what I’m saying?” she replied, her eyes steely and cool. “One last chance.”
“Fuck you! You won’t do that, bitch!”
Without thinking – and without flinching – Nasreen placed the knife underneath it. “Are you ready to test my resolve? In a couple of seconds, I’m going to start sawing away.”
She heard him audibly gulp. He clearly believed her by the way his eyes were bulging.
She waited for five seconds, then she pulled back the knife enough to scratch.
“Okay, okay, stop, stop! I tell you what you want know! Please, take knife away, I need it. Please, please, please.”
She didn’t take it away immediately. “If you lie to me, if you give me the wrong address, I’m going to come back for you and cut this tiny thing off, do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, I understand. I won’t lie to you. Get a piece of paper, I give you his address. Please, just take knife away, please.”
Nasreen sighed. She should have threatened to cut his penis off three hours earlier, saving her a lot of time and hassle. Why hadn’t she done that? She wanted to slap her forehead, Homer Simpson style – instead she took out a notepad and pen from her bag. “Go ahead. What’s the address?”
He couldn’t have been more helpful, telling her the address of a farm in the South West. He told her that Walter lived with the Harrisons. He told her that Beatrice Harrison was the daughter of William Rothstein, and about how they’d converted a World War Two bunker into an underground exclusive brothel, where only career criminals were invited to pay to have sex with prostitutes and male escorts they’d abducted from around the country.
Nasreen couldn’t believe it. Finally – after almost a month and a half – she knew why Danny had been abducted; he was being used as a sex slave. It all made sense. That was why there had been so many sex workers disappearing over the years.
She’d also found out that Walter had worked for Rothstein for sixteen years or so, which fitted with the timeline of the missing persons cases she’d found. She’d been right all along; they were all connected.
With the address in her bag, she walked towards the door.
“Wait, where you going? You can’t leave me here like this!”
“You’re kidding, right?” she said, turning to face him. “Do you think I’m going to let you go? You’re going to prison, Conrad. Human trafficking and sexual slavery will get you about twenty years. Thanks for the information. The police will be here in about five minutes. Have a nice life, and I’ll be sure to tell your brother you gave me his address.”
“You fucking bitch!” he spat, straining against his ropes.
Nasreen walked towards the five girls stood by the door, now all fully clothed, and when she got to them, she pulled her mobile out of her bag and dialled 999. She informed the police – anonymously – that she’d heard a gunshot in the retail park, then she hung up before telling the English-speaking girl that she had to go, asking her to keep her friends there at the warehouse until the police arrived. The girl agreed and said “thank you” for saving them.
Back at the car, Nasreen cut the cable ties and set her Hungarian hostage free. She then asked Jankovics to go over to the Chinese girls and stay with them until the police arrived. Jankovics agreed, saying that if needed, she would testify – especially if it meant she would never have to deal with Conrad again. Nasreen assured her that with her testimony, Conrad would get twenty years plus in prison.
With a sense of real hope, Nasreen started her car, glanced at the clock on the dashboard, and accelerated, heading off on her way to find Danny.
It was 03:45. She estimated it would take seven hours to reach the farm, according to the GPS, so she should be there around eleven…
The pickup had gone like clockwork, as usual. The sixteen ice boxes – containing two kilos of cocaine each – were on board the boat like normal, covered with ice and fish of varying types. To anyone passing, it would look like they’d caught a good haul. It would take the four men two trips to load all the merchandise on the van, and in total the shipment had a street value of six hundred and ten thousand quid. Not bad for a night’s work.
As the boat docked, one of Rothstein’s guys jumped off and tied it to the post, then Lennox picked up two ice boxes by their handles, stepping off the boat and onto the dock. It was still dark at quarter to six, and as he looked out at the marina he couldn’t see anything suspicious; he couldn’t see any police cars or anything else that gave him cause for concern.
Lennox waited for Rothstein’s guys to pick up their ice boxes and step onto the dock, then when they were all ready, he led the long walk down the dock, passing several fishing boats along the way. He was vigilant about looking for suspicious figures; he still couldn’t see anyone he thought might be a police officer. His heart was racing – like it did every time they docked. This time it was more severe; he was really worried.
When they reached the van and put the ice boxes in the back, Lennox closed and locked the door behind them. One down, one to go, he thought, following Rothstein’s guys back to the boat. The three men in front of him were a distance away, yet he didn’t think anything of it.
As he got near the boat, he saw that the eight remaining ice boxes were already on the dock. He couldn’t see Rothstein’s three guys anymore.
He looked at the post and saw that the boat wasn’t tied to the dock.
“See you later, Lennox!” came a voice, followed by laughter.
A second later the boat’s engine started, and before Lennox could run to the boat and jump aboard, it set sail, leaving him stranded there with sixteen kilos of product.
The dock suddenly flashed blue.
Fuck! He had been set up, and ther
e was nothing he could do, nowhere he could run.
“Lennox Garvey, turn and face us with your hands up,” came a male voice over the metallic-sounding handheld microphone. “You’re under arrest!”
When he turned, Lennox saw just how many police cars he’d missed. How could he have possibly missed that many? There must have been a dozen blue flashing lights there.
There were four armed police officers walking towards him, their Heckler and Koch MP5s aimed at his chest, their infrared dots showing him exactly where their bullets would go.
This was it.
“On your knees!” shouted the first armed policeman.
Lennox did as he was told; there was nothing else he could do. He’d thought briefly about running and diving over the dock, but that was a stupid idea – he didn’t know how deep the water was, and he’d be fished out of there in no time. No, it was better to let them take him in, where he could thrash out some sort of deal. After all, he had some leverage; he had a lot of information on Rothstein that he could use to his advantage. That fucking treacherous prick, Rothstein.
Lennox vowed, right there on his knees, that he would get his former boss for this.
Once he’d been searched for weapons, handcuffed, and pulled to his feet, a man in jeans, a jumper, and a thick coat stood in front of him, his ID wallet held out for him to see.
“Lennox Garvey, I’m NCA Officer Steven Dyer. And you’re under arrest…”
58
“Go ahead, Terrence,” said Nasreen, as she pulled her car over onto the hard shoulder. “Tell me you’ve got something on Beatrice Harrison and William Rothstein, please.”
“Not as much as I should.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most of it’s been redacted. There’s tons of material here – reams of paperwork – but most of it’s been blacked out, Nas,” he said, his voice concerned. “There’s nothing on here that’ll be of any use to you, sorry.”
“Shit!” She thought for a second. Why would their records be redacted? The only reason for redacting something was to prevent knowledge of illegal activities because they were helping the police with their enquiries. “You don’t think that means they’re informants, do you?”