by Tom Benson
According to the senior police officer’s statement, ‘They may have been convicted criminals, but they should be left to get on with their lives if justice has been served. Vigilantism is a crime and will be dealt with accordingly.’
“Perhaps you should look closer at how your convicted criminals get on with their lives,” Phil said aloud. As he continued to read the crime section, he caught a snippet about the Bullets Barnes investigation. Nothing was said to indicate it was anything other than a tit-for-tat killing between rival gangs. As far as Phil was concerned, the world was a better place without Barnes.
He dropped the newspaper onto the coffee table and lifted the Friday evening newspaper which he hadn’t read. Following the ad by the Singh brothers which he’d missed, he checked the classified section with more care. One small ad stood out like a neon light.
‘Help Wanted. Kirsten and her European sisters trapped. Every day they are near death’s door, but a saint is close at hand.’
Phil read the ad and thought back to when he was addicted to cryptic crossword puzzles. He wrote the advertisement on a sheet of paper, one line below the other and walked around the room glancing at it and thinking about the statements.
He took his beer, the newspaper and his notes into the apartment next door. He placed all the paperwork on the table and sipped his beer.
“It has to be sex slavery.” Phil looked at his street map on the wall. He had coloured pins locating each of the brothels he and Annabel had found, and he peered at them. As he moved a finger from west to east across the locations, he studied the areas surrounding them, but nothing particularly stood out until the fourth location.
A few centimetres from number four on the map was the key to the ad—St Peter’s Cemetery.
10. Plans and Promises
Saturday had been warm and bright all day, but when Phil drove out of Southbank Street at 22:00 it had become overcast. He aimed to visit two of the places he’d spotted with Annabel, but first checked his theory regarding the classified ad seeking help. He wouldn’t rest otherwise.
Traffic was light, and it was ten minutes later when Phil drove past St Peter’s Cemetery. He looked around as he turned into the local streets where the tenements had been renovated, but the area appeared oppressive; with the occasional car on bricks, boarded-up windows on some apartments, and small groups of kids on street corners.
Phil parked on the main road near the closed gates of the cemetery and observed the housing in the area across the street. It wasn’t obvious, but he was sure he’d spotted the target, among other tenements similar to the one he lived in. The ground-floor window on the right was showing a red light.
It took fifteen minutes to drive around the area, and reach the ideal parking position. From behind the driver’s seat, Phil retrieved one of the cans of beer he’d brought along. He also donned the dark-framed glasses with clear lenses.
He stood in a nearby lane out of sight, yanked the front of the T-shirt out of his jeans and pulled his zipper down. Next, he eased his jacket off one shoulder and tousled his hair. He pulled the ring on the beer can, took a drink and swirled the bitter liquid around in his mouth before swallowing. Before he set off, he spilt beer on his T-shirt and emptied the can until it held a mouthful.
As Phil staggered around the corner into Well Street, he fell against the wall several times and cursed aloud. In contrast to his normal erect stance, he leant forward at the waist and hunched his shoulders. He let his head hang forward. For the ultimate effect, he would sing as badly as he could. The thought amused him. If he sang—he’d be in character.
“Aaahhhh whizz bhorrin’ underrah wandrrinnn staaaarrrr ....” When he couldn’t remember a line, he merely repeated the previous one but mumbled and cursed more.
When he was fifty metres away, Phil took the occasional swig from the empty can and used the act to take in the scene in front of him. He could see a pretty, young woman standing near the door of the tenement. The red light was on in the bottom right window of the same block.
The girl turned briefly. On seeing the slovenly creature approaching, she turned to face forward. She had long wavy dark hair and wore heavily applied make-up. Her earrings were large hoops, and her pendant was a gold chain with a red stone. Her T-shirt was cropped to show her flat belly, and her micro-mini didn’t cover much of her shapely thighs. The uniform was finished off with a red shoulder bag, red killer heels and crimson nail varnish.
“Hallloh rherrr gorgisss,” Phil slurred in a louder than necessary voice.
The girl made a token gesture of looking at the staggering man with the beer can. Being puked on by a drunk who couldn’t manage what he’d paid for was the ultimate insult—even to a slave prostitute.
When Phil was a few metres away, he raised his can to his lips and saw one camera. The single small lens was the type of thing he and Annabel had noted on their daytime recce. It was below the front door light. The only red light was in an apartment window.
Phil stopped within arm’s reach of the girl who was in her twenties.
“Aahh’mm lookin’ ferr a lassie called Kurrshten,” Phil said, managing to spit as he spoke.
At the mention of the name the young woman’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped.
A muscle-bound, bald man in a white vest and jeans appeared in the doorway and pulled Phil around roughly by the shoulder before peering into his face.
“What the fuck do you want, you fuckin’ pisshead?”
“Aahh whant tae spend a wee bit o’ time wi’ sumb’dy called Kurrshten,” Phil said. His head wobbled like a newborn baby, and he squinted at the bald security man.
“Fuck off you drunken bastard.”
“Wwelll,” Phil slurred, “if ye’ doan’t whant ma’ money ....”
A well-endowed woman in her fifties who’d once been handsome stepped outside. “How much have you got?”
“Aahhh,” Phil said in his drunken drawl. “A bizznisss whummin.” Phil made a performance of checking three pockets before locating his wallet. He opened the clip, and the older woman took all the notes. It was what Phil expected, and he’d put in enough to make her greedy, but it wasn’t so much she’d get suspicious.
“Let him in Frank.” She put a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “If you damage the merchandise, Frank will damage you. Understood?”
“Nae prroblumm mississ,” Phil said as the empty beer can was taken from him by Frank. Phil followed Kirsten into the block.
Frank said, “Marie, this fuckin’ can is drained. The drunken bastard has been suckin’ on an empty can.” He smelled the can and wrinkled his nose.
“Twenty minutes Kirsten,” Marie, the house madam said, as if speaking to a toddler, “Back on the door. Understand?”
“Twenty minutes, and back on the door,” Kirsten repeated.
Before Phil and Kirsten reached the first flight of stairs, Marie’s voice carried as she shouted and a ground floor door was banged. “Eva, arse outside—on the door now.”
The prostitute and her client reached a landing out of sight of the main door. Phil tapped Kirsten’s shoulder and held a forefinger to his lips. She stared at him with narrowed eyes and furrowed brow.
“Are you Kirsten?” Phil whispered as they continued up the stairs.
“Yes.” She stared.
“Is there a camera in the room?”
“No, but a microphone is on wall behind door.”
“Okay, keep moving,” Phil said. “Act normal.”
Phil followed Kirsten into a small and dingy room and closed the door. It was furnished with a single hardback chair, a standard bed, and a bedside table complete with a table lamp. On the wall near the bed was a small bell push. No doubt to warn of unruly clients. The light was casting a dull red glow around the room. The closed drapes were flimsy and coloured to suit the working environment.
Phil spotted the small microphone on a metal bracket behind the door. “Aah’lll jistt hing ma’ coat oan’ this wee hoook,” he said, res
uming his drunken slur for the benefit of anyone snooping on a speaker. He reached up to snap the microphone before he dropped his jacket on the bed.
Kirsten began to undress, but Phil held up his hand and shook his head. “I want to talk. Do you speak English?”
“They don’t realise I understand every word.” She sighed.
“Clever girl.” Phil went to the window and pulled back the drapes. Behind the building were small backyards, and an alleyway. Opposite was the next tenement block, fifteen metres away. Most of the windows in the other block were boarded up, and the others were in darkness.
The girl stood beside the bed staring at this man. Her client had gone from paralytic drunk to stone-cold sober in a few seconds. When he stood upright, he gained a few inches in height, and his screwed up features had relaxed. He didn’t want to use her. He was a strange one.
“Are these windows locked?” Phil asked.
“All the windows are locked, and alarmed on the outside.”
“Sit please.” Phil waited until Kirsten sat on the bed, and he sat on the hard-backed chair. Many a client may have wanted to utilise the scarred chair for their few expensive moments of pleasure. He’d sat on worse things. “If you give me some information I’ll help you, Kirsten.”
“How do you know my name?” she asked. Her expression would have touched a heart of stone.
“I’ll explain later,” he said. “I’m going to get you and the other girls out of here.”
“Tonight?” she gasped.
“Not tonight, but soon.” He checked his watch. “I must know everything you can tell me about this place.”
“Are you going to take us to your brothel?”
“No, Kirsten,” he said and looked into her beautiful dark eyes. “With your help and with a few friends we’re going to gain your freedom.” He paused. “You must warn all the others working here.”
“I will tell them it is secret.” She stared at Phil. “No more of this?”
“No more of this,” Phil said. “Now we must discuss this house.”
As they talked he occasionally glanced around the room. The bed was bolted to the wall. Phil had a sense it was to reduce the drum symphony on the walls on a busy night.
Once he had the girl’s confidence, Phil squeezed every ounce of information from her. Her English was good. Kirsten’s appearance and ability to speak some of the language were why she was used at the door. He briefed her on what to expect and promised he’d return.
Anger was building up in Phil before he stood to leave the room. He was a man of the world and had seen prostitution and much worse in many places. The sex trade for men and women was as old as time itself, but modern slave prostitution was altogether different.
They stepped out onto the landing and Phil assumed a stooping posture. He was back in character. He mumbled and cursed several times and let his voice get louder.
“Necshht tiumm aah’ll bee aybull tae gett it hupp Kurrshten.” Phil stumbled down the final flight of stairs and landed on his hands and knees.
“Go, or I kill you,” Kirsten shouted, keeping to her briefing. “Drunken bastard ....”
As they reached the front door, Marie and Frank reappeared in the ground floor hallway. Marie laughed and nudged the security man.
“It looks like our drunken friend made an expensive mistake comin’ in here, Frank.” She tapped Phil’s shoulder.
“You save up your money and come back and see us,” she said and laughed in Phil’s face. Frank pushed him out of the front door.
Phil staggered out of sight of the brothel singing as before, but without his empty can. It took him fifteen minutes to reach his next location. He parked around the corner from a tenement in Perry Street and left his car, taking a fresh can of beer.
A pretty blonde who was standing outside a tenement turned at the sound of the drunk. A dishevelled man in a leather jacket and jeans came around the corner. He stumbled and used the wall to keep himself upright. After a swig from his beer can, he staggered towards her, singing as he went.
“Aaahhhh whizz bhorrin’ underrah wandrrinnn staaaarrrr ....”
Petra Gorsky was twenty-two years old, and many strange things had happened to her in recent times. None would match her next conversation with a client.
.
Sunday 14th July
00:10 - Phil arrived back in Southbank Street, and went straight to his ops room. He pulled the ring on another can of beer, but he’d drink this one. He sat at his desk with a pad and pen.
Phil took a pull from his can and wrote down everything he could remember from his visits to Kirsten, and Petra. He made headings and kept the information in small groups spread over the A4 page. When he had written most of it, he stood and drew lines from the two locations on the map out to the side panel—‘Slave prostitution’. Phil studied his lists.
On the page were lists about the street, building layout, rooms, and the people Phil had seen. He drew a simple map of possible entry and exit points, and on another sheet listed individual tasks for the team. He pinned his lists and sketch diagrams to his notice board. He finished his beer as he looked from one block of information to the other and made amendments. He reset the booby-trap on the door of Flat Four and went into Flat Three to rest.
07:15 - Phil was in the lockup, standing at the back of the Ford Transit van. He surveyed the areas pinpointed on the map and the layouts on the whiteboard beside it. The diagrams showed streets, buildings, and alphabetic symbols representing team members. On the table below the map and notice board was a white linen sheet which concealed a variety of shapes underneath.
07:25 - Phil heard the rumble of an approaching motorbike engine and made his way to the curtain door. He had left it raised a few inches. As the door reached Phil’s shoulder height, he stopped it and stepped outside.
From the left, the Norton slowed to a gentle halt and was carefully reversed back into the lockup. As the rider in black passed Phil, the helmet nodded, and he nodded in return. Phil turned to look to the right when he heard two people in conversation.
It was Annabel and Jake. Annabel was carrying a large black leather holdall over her shoulder.
“Who’s on the bike?” Jake asked.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Annabel replied and nodded to Phil. “Good morning Hawk.”
“Good morning, Alpha,”
Jake said, “Good morning, Hawk.”
“Good morning, Jake.”
When the three of them were indoors, and the curtain door was on its way to the floor the bike rider removed her helmet and shook her hair free. She removed her leathers, and as usual, was wearing a T-shirt and Daisy Dukes underneath. Rachel draped her riding outfit over the machine and slipped a pair of trainers onto her feet. She looked impassively at the young man whose gaze was inextricably drawn to her.
Annabel had watched the silent appreciation and gave Phil an imperceptible nod. They both smiled, and Annabel stepped forward.
“Rachel ... Jake,” Annabel said, nodding to one, and the other.
The two younger members of the small group shook hands briefly.
Dimples appeared in Jake’s cheeks. “I’m pleased to meet you, Rachel.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.” A fleeting smile passed over Rachel’s lips. She might as well have been introduced to a bank clerk. This was business.
When they took the few steps to the back of the van, Phil had already set up the brew kit and opened the folding chairs. Both he and Annabel had a coffee in their hands. The black bag was at Annabel’s feet.
Phil addressed Rachel and Jake. “I’ll let you two fix yourselves a tea or coffee and pull up a chair.” He paused. “This would be a good time to exchange phone numbers.”
07:40 - Phil had told Annabel he wouldn’t be giving the younger pair a full brief on some parts of the team’s mission, but he would fully explain individual tasks. She had agreed, the less they knew of Phil’s overall strategy or intentions, the better it would be
- for now.
Rachel and Jake sat silently while Phil explained the situation regarding the brothels. He told them the young women and men within were sex slaves. To maintain control, the people running them usually had a hold over them, for example using the threat of violence and keeping their passports. If this didn’t work for whatever reason, they used drug dependency to keep them in check.
Some of the slaves were illegal immigrants. They had never used drugs before and found themselves being beaten, abused and made drug dependent, before being put to work as prostitutes.
“This mission,” Phil said, “is to rescue the slaves from two brothels in Glasgow.” As if it was a military operation, he repeated the mission but looked from Rachel to Jake as he did. Neither showed the slightest emotion, and they had already been told, no notes.
Phil used the map and the sketch diagrams on the back wall to explain the execution and to detail the individual tasks. He asked for questions. None were asked. He told the two younger team members they wouldn’t be expected to take part in any violence. He also said he didn’t foresee either of them being in any danger throughout if they did as asked.
Phil lifted the sheet from the folding table which unveiled a simplified model of the street and building layout. The model was made with a few plastic building blocks, pieces of wood and lengths of string. Phil related the sketches and plans to the models.
Both Jake and Rachel smiled. The few simple items accurately reflected the sketches. The good news was although the two brothels were on different streets, the layout was almost identical. Phil pointed out the minor differences, and what they meant to the team. He repeated the timings.
All mobile phones were to be switched to ‘vibrate’ mode and used when necessary during the mission. Accurate timings at all locations would be crucial to the success of the enterprise. Phil asked for questions—again. None were asked, and he asked each member of the team two questions to confirm roles and timings. All was clear.