by Helen Fields
‘What’s this?’ she asked without thinking, giving Finlay a chance to enjoy her interest.
He pointed at the warehouse floor although there was nothing to see from the drone’s viewpoint.
‘Smashed glass. Five different patches of it. There have to be some handicaps, after all.’
‘But they have no shoes,’ Elenuta said. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘Not fair? I paid good money for those whores. I need a return on that investment, and that means putting on a proper show. Do you have any idea how much it costs me to house and feed you lot?’
Elenuta stared at him, the space between her eyebrows a knot of wrinkles as she waited for him to laugh. He didn’t. He meant every word of it, the resentment at the bills incurred feeding them stale bread and out-of-date chicken nuggets. The heating was turned off overnight and only put back on during client hours so they didn’t get complaints. The sheets were the only items washed regularly. The women handwashed their personal items in the sink overnight. Elenuta wondered how far gone Finlay was if he had genuinely persuaded himself that he was somehow being taken advantage of by the women he held captive and sold every day.
‘Here we go,’ Finlay told Elenuta, his face alight with excitement. ‘Now don’t you fucking look away. I don’t want you missing any of the good bits!’
‘One final word of warning to you all,’ on-screen Finlay wagged his finger. ‘First man to lay hands on any woman gets her to himself. Once a man has her, no other man can touch her. Three men, four women. The last woman standing gets a good meal, a hot bath and a comfy bed with none of you cunts in it tonight. That’s it!’
He raised his left hand in the air. ‘Countdown! Five.’ The last race’s winner looked deep into the maze, head down, knees bent. The other women looked terrified, hands still wrapped together.
‘Four.’ The audience was on its feet to a man, and the noise coming from that side of the warehouse was deafening. Elenuta couldn’t hear Finlay count down after that, but she watched his lips move.
‘Three, two, one!’
The previous winner was gone. She flew into the maze, taking an outside lane, glancing back over her shoulder only once as the other three women looked on, dazed and bemused.
‘Run, you fucking whores,’ Finlay shouted. ‘If you don’t want to die where you’re standing, then friggin’ run!’
As one, like the herd of zebra that’s spotted the lion, they bolted, moving chaotically, tripping over their own feet and each other’s. Elenuta wanted to shout instructions to them, as if she were watching in real time, but it was way too late for that. The camera focused on a clock on the wall, the countdown already at thirty-seven seconds and falling as Finlay’s champions jumped up and down, ready for the off. Tattoo had his teeth bared. The big man was sweating profusely, sparkling in the half-light. Elenuta prayed that a heart attack might strike him down in his revolting excitement before he could set off. The scarred man, though, was something else. Something bestial, his face twisted with a hatred so terrifying that Elenuta could hardly bear to watch. She pitied anyone who crossed his path. He was a man without limits. She’d met such men before and been grateful to have survived the encounters.
The image suddenly split into four quarters, presumably a reflection of what the audience in the warehouse had seen. The footage was from drones, four separate cameras. This was no small operation. Finlay had to have had four men, one set to follow each woman, to provide constant footage. Two of the women had stuck together, and the others had gone off alone. The countdown was at ten seconds, and the men were poised and ready to sprint.
‘Those drones are the bloody best you can get. Cost me a fuckin’ packet,’ Finlay lectured.
‘Uh huh,’ Elenuta murmured.
Her hands were gripping the bedcovers, as if to tether herself away from the screen. The previous winner was at the far side of the maze now, pausing, hands on knees and panting, looking behind her, then ahead, to decide tactics. Not getting yourself cornered was the obvious priority, and she wasn’t. She had three directions to run in. The next decision was whether to hide, or keep running. The problem with that was exhaustion. Sooner or later the after-effect of the adrenaline would be to drain the women’s energy, rather than to provide a boost, and then there would be nothing left to fight with if – when – the moment came.
Elenuta looked at the other screen sections. The youngest woman was trying and failing to open an old metal cupboard, tugging uselessly at the doors which had obviously been deliberately locked and put there to distract the runners.
Horns blasted, echoing hard around the bare walls. The men, like hounds released, began to run. The audience made noises that might have come from behind the bars in a zoo. The scene was nothing short of gladiatorial, if the surroundings were less than Romanesque. The young woman who’d been attempting to open the cupboard had finally given up on that plan and was trying to cover herself with a pile of old sheets that had been dumped on the floor. However slight she was, there was no disguising the person-shaped mound in the middle of the rags.
‘Get up,’ Elenuta hissed through the screen at the girl. ‘Get up now.’
‘She can’t hear you, love,’ Finlay laughed. ‘Entertaining, isn’t it?’
‘Animal,’ Elenuta said.
Finlay leaned forward, poking out his tongue to lick her face from eye to chin, leaving a trail of saliva for her to wipe away.
‘The big bloke’s surprisingly light on his feet. Watch him go here,’ Finlay pointed, as the largest of the three men took a corner at speed and caught sight of a woman ahead of him. ‘Oh, the tension,’ he mocked. ‘I should charge ten times what I do for this. People would take out loans if they had to.’
Elenuta chose to look at Finlay rather than the chase underway on the screen.
‘How much for ticket?’ she asked.
‘Ah, see, now you’re showing your true colours.’ He tapped the side of her head with his forefinger. ‘I knew there was a smart wee brain in there. One hundred and fifty for a seat in the audience. One thousand to participate. You can stop looking at me like I’m something you trod in, you snotty bitch. I’m a fuckin’ businessman, that’s what I am.’
A thousand pounds, Elenuta thought, to be able to chase and capture a woman to rape, beat and abuse on camera, in front of an audience. In the end though, not so different than what happened to all of them every day. Just less of a spectacle.
Three of the screen sections disappeared as one enlarged to follow the progress of the big man more closely. The drone was overhead both him and one of the women, face to face, each panting, him grinning, her glancing backwards at the stretch of broken glass on the floor behind her that was perhaps four metres long. Too long to jump but there was no way she was going to be able to climb the partition. The only other option was to fight the man, and hope she could deal enough of a blow to give her time to escape the way she’d come.
He motioned to her with his fingers, palms up. Come on then, was the message. Just you try it. The woman whipped round, dipping down as she went, grabbing a piece of broken glass in her left hand. She was no fool. He had several stone on her, and even though they were the same height, fighting him off was going to be tough unarmed. With the glass though, she stood a chance.
He took a step back, taking his time, before pulling a pair of leather gloves from his pocket. It wouldn’t stop the glass entirely, Elenuta thought, but it gave him more protection. Certainly he wasn’t about to back down now. He’d paid a thousand pounds and he wanted it repaid in flesh.
The woman stepped forward, keeping just out of grabbing distance, but presenting the man with an opportunity to try. He lunged for her and she leapt backwards and to one side, pulling the man’s arm and propelling him towards the glass-covered section of floor then letting him go. He fell under his own momentum, helped by his front-loaded gravity. Only letting himself crash to his knees first saved him from being peppered with broken glass from head to toe. Still,
he howled in pain. The woman was already gone, leaping back down the corridor in which she’d been caught, glass fragment held out front. The man got up slowly, his knees and lower legs bloodied, staggering slightly before righting himself fully. Wrenching a shard of glass from one leg, he shouted into the empty area. Elenuta’s nails were her own shards of glass in her palms. If the man caught up with that same woman again, he would make her pay over and over, once for the pain and again for the humiliation. He hurled the slice of glass at the drone hovering about his head, and spun round to follow her. Slowly this time, though. He wouldn’t be sprinting again for a while. Elenuta allowed herself a smile.
The screen returned to its four-way view, and the tattooed man could be seen walking carelessly through the maze, calling out. Of course there wasn’t any rush. The sprint at the start had been in the spirit of the race, but the reality was that in a closed circuit the men could take as much time as they needed. Sooner or later they’d stumble across a woman, and then it was only a matter of time until they got what they wanted.
Tattoo walked down a long stretch, suddenly stopped, cocked his head to one side, turned and retraced his steps. There, on the ground at his feet was a pile of old rags, unmistakably shaking. Tattoo located the drone that was recording his progress and grinned widely into the lens. Like some Victorian theatre villain he tiptoed forward, still looking up at the camera with a finger dramatically over his lips, making the most of the moment and the crowd’s adulation.
He reached out a hand, held it over the top of the pile, then grabbed the linen and whipped it up. On the floor, huddled, was the youngest of the women, trying to squirm away. He took hold of her by the throat, taking a knee at her side as the camera closed in to capture her facial expression. It was sheer terror. Elenuta thought she’d seen fear before, God knew she’d felt enough of it herself, but this was something deeper, more primeval.
‘Please,’ the girl mouthed at the man. ‘Don’t.’
He laughed, roared with it, so much larger and stronger than her that he didn’t even bother using his other hand as he picked her up and slammed her into the wall. The back of her skull smashed into a large bolt sticking out of the brickwork, and her eyes floated upwards for a moment. Fighting her way back into consciousness, she clawed at his fingers, slapped uselessly at the pressure on her throat. Her chest hitched as she tried to draw breath, her eyes beginning to bulge. Blood trickled through her hair and down the sides of the neck from the head injury.
‘He’ll kill her,’ Elenuta muttered.
‘Well, duh, what did you think they were paying for?’
Elenuta’s hands flew over her mouth. The girl was beginning to change colour. The tracks of burst blood vessels were appearing in her eyes and her head was flopping left and right out of control. Her legs were buckling and flapping.
‘No,’ Elenuta sobbed.
‘That’s just the first. The other two are much more inventive. Wait and see.’
Elenuta wrenched herself from Finlay’s grip, losing a fistful of hair as she threw herself across the room.
His laptop continued to produce a hateful audio, gurgling, choking, wailing, accompanied by the roar of the crowd in the industrial colosseum, each of them desperate to watch that final, gruesome moment of death. It didn’t take long.
‘Do you not want to know who won?’ Finlay asked, climbing off the bed himself and walking to stand in front of Elenuta.
She shook her head.
‘Right then. If you can’t take it, maybe you should stop asking fucking questions. Have I made my point?’
Elenuta nodded.
‘Good. Now that’s put me right in the mood for a fuck. On the bed and get your knickers off. I haven’t got long.’
Chapter Eleven
Detective Sergeant Max Tripp sat in Ava’s office wondering why his boss looked like death but knowing better than to ask.
‘How long has this boy been missing now?’ Ava asked, scribbling notes on a pad.
‘Five days. Bart went to his usual place of work at a restaurant. It’s a part-time job as he’s a student. Was due home that night. Didn’t show. He left his mobile in his bedroom so there’s no way of tracking him.’
‘Could he have just bailed? Stressed with the college course and the job, dropped off the map?’ Ava was going through the motions and she knew it. Tripp was an experienced officer who always covered all the bases.
‘His mum’s a widow, and they’re very close. Great relationship both by the mother’s account and by all the family, friends and neighbours we’ve spoken to. He’s got a bright future, finds the college work easy. No indicators for an unexplained disappearance, and he hasn’t touched his bank account since he went missing. Plus, his boss at work said the night he went missing, Bart had booked in several extra shifts for the following week, and had said he was happy to wait for his wages until the next night.’
‘So if he was about to run, he’d have taken the cash at the very least.’ Ava put her pen down.
‘That’s about it. No regular girlfriend but he was good-looking and a popular lad. He’d never failed to go home unless it was planned in advance, apparently he worried too much about his mum being alone for that.’
‘Last known person he was in contact with?’
‘One of the other waiters said goodnight to him as he left the restaurant. Bart was planning on cycling home. His bike was found the next day still secured to a fence post. No sign of his belongings. Reporting was fast – his mother called the police the morning she discovered him missing. It’s fair to say she’s devastated. She has no doubt whatsoever that something terrible has happened.’
‘The Malcolm Reilly scenario,’ Ava said.
‘Exactly. The problem is that with no evidence about how Malcolm disappeared, who was involved, no forensics and no witnesses, linking the two cases relies entirely on the type of victim and the fact that both disappeared in an unexplained manner.’
‘Similarities as far as you see them?’ she asked.
‘Age of the victims – within two years of each other. Obviously they both live in Edinburgh, both schooled here, both have jobs in the city. Both fit, healthy, and well liked. Close family ties. No money problems, known enemies or associates that might cause concern.’
‘Drugs?’ Ava interjected.
‘Malcolm Reilly’s tox screen from France came back with mixed results. They did hair testing which is pretty thorough, and which shows absolutely no drug use as that would have lodged in the hair root. There has to be some allowance for the fact that other organs were missing so liver and kidneys couldn’t be checked. Brain shows no alcohol had been consumed in the hours prior to death. The stomach had a concentration of oral morphine though, which didn’t show in the hair test, so it hadn’t reached the hair root. It looks as though a very large dose was given which would have put Malcolm into an almost comatose state.’
‘Allowing his killer to do whatever he or she liked,’ Ava said.
‘Without him registering much pain,’ Tripp added.
‘What about Bart? Any indication that he had either a drug or alcohol problem?’
‘Didn’t like wasting his hard-earned money on alcohol, although he had the occasional drink. Drugs were something he said he abhorred, although he wouldn’t be the first kid to have one opinion then do something different.’
‘Only you clearly don’t think that’s the case?’ Ava commented, studying Tripp’s face.
‘I don’t. He lost his father in a tragic accident, and seems to have worried about his mother constantly. I don’t think drugs is a risk he’d have taken.’
‘Okay, but let’s not discount it entirely. When you care for someone as deeply as he obviously cared about his mother, the simple stress of worrying can make it difficult to cope.’ She frowned, picked up her pen again and underlined a couple of sentences as she rubbed her eyes. ‘But I agree we have to investigate the theory that the two disappearances might be linked. If nothing else, it
could be the break we need in the Reilly case. You can have DC Monroe. Try to recreate the end of that last evening in the restaurant, see if it doesn’t jog some memories. Go through the bookings list, get in touch with anyone who was in there that night. Liaise with DI Callanach if you need to about the Reilly case, and see if there’s any link between the two men that we’re unaware of.’
‘Yes ma’am.’ Tripp stood up. ‘So, will DI Callanach be back after the Reilly case wraps up, do you think?’
Ava didn’t look up. ‘There’s still a trafficking investigation ongoing. He’s only assigned as Scottish liaison officer to Interpol on the Reilly case because he was already out there. Honestly, I can’t say when he’ll be back.’
Tripp shifted his weight from one foot to another until he found the right words to say.
‘The squad misses him, ma’am.’
‘I should hope so,’ Ava responded. ‘If one of our officers weren’t missed it would be a pretty sad indictment of MIT. As I said, talk to Callanach directly for information. I’m sure he’ll also be able to update you as to how the trafficking operation is progressing.’
‘Right,’ Tripp said gently. ‘Oh, and DI Graham asked me to let him know when you were free. Shall I tell him he can come up and speak with you now?’
Ava sighed. ‘Um, actually, I have a couple of calls to make that won’t wait. Could you message the detective inspector and ask him to email me instead? That way I can deal with it while I clear some other matters off my to-do list.’
‘I will, ma’am,’ Tripp nodded.
‘And tell DI Graham that I want him and DS Lively on the Gene Oldman murder full time. There should be a lead by now. Oldman must have had any number of unsavoury contacts for us to bring in for questioning.’
Tripp left quietly. He knew a dismissal tone when he heard it; not that DCI Turner pulled authority very often, but she obviously wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He messaged DI Graham from his mobile as he wandered down the stairs, to find most of the squad gathered in the incident room. A breeze of silence wafted across as he entered.