Behind Closed Doors

by Elizabeth Haynes

  Subject Profile on the McDonnells

  SUBJECT PROFILE: LEWIS McDONNELL DOB 21/10/1953

  Inference

  Lewis McDONNELL is the principal subject of Organized Crime Group 041 (MAITLAND/McDONNELL) and is believed to be involved in the trafficking of vulnerable women and girls from mainland Europe into the U.K. The group is also believed to be importing tens of kilos of Class A (cocaine and heroin) which comes into the U.K. via a fishing vessel berthed in Knapstone harbor. Trafficking is the main criminality of the group, with the drug importation becoming increasingly profitable for them. Intelligence

  Recent intelligence suggests the following key points: – Lewis McDONNELL had a disagreement with Nigel MAITLAND DOB 17/12/1958 over their trafficking enterprise. MAITLAND, who arranges transport, is thought to want a larger share of the profits, and McDONNELL is considering cutting him out. He is looking for an alternative transport man and believes he has found one. (14/11/12 E/2/1)

  – The McDONNELL brothers used Paul “Reggie” STARK DOB 04/05/1982 to provide security until recently, when he became unreliable. Since then they have been using Gavin PETRIE DOB 17/03/1975 instead, although the brothers see him as a “loose cannon.” (21/08/13 E/2/1)

  – Nigel MAITLAND and Lewis McDONNELL had an argument at the Newarke pub, Cavendish Lane, Briarstone, on the night of 27 August. Both men were asked to leave by the barman, but only did so when the landlord, Carl McVEY DOB 29/09/1970 (Op Trapeze), intervened.

  – Lewis McDONNELL has associates who run brothels in Leeds, Manchester and Liverpool. Some of these brothels are provided with staff who have been trafficked from Europe by OCG 041. It is also believed that Lewis McDONNELL is running a brothel in Briarstone. Intelligence suggests this might be in Carisbrooke Court.

  – A shipment of cocaine was due to arrive for Lewis McDONNELL at the end of August destined for his associates in the north, but something went wrong.

  Recommendations

  – identify the new transport route for OCG 041’s trafficking enterprise – source tasking on Nigel MAITLAND

  – identify associates of the McDONNELLs in the north of England

  LOU

  Thursday 31 October 2013, 19:03

  Ten minutes later Lou was sitting at her desk, Jason across from her in the only other chair, a low visitor’s chair that had been purloined from reception when they’d redecorated it last year. The facilities team had a container hidden behind the training school where old furniture went to die, and Lou had gone there herself with Ali Whitmore to try to salvage some desks rather than spend her very snug budget on new ones. The chair had a cushioned seat covered with a hairy sort of gray fabric that might or might not have been its original color, the corner frayed away to reveal a stained sponge interior.

  He was sitting with one leg across the other knee, his hand on his ankle, watching her.

  “There’s not much,” she said in the end.

  “No,” he said. “Just those few from August, and then, before that, nothing much since last year. There are a couple on Carl McVey that mention the McDonnells, but you’ve already seen those.”

  “Anything else on Maitland specifically?”

  “Nothing other than what’s there.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I do appreciate it. I know you’ve got other stuff to do.”

  “You can’t tell me what it’s about, right?”

  “No.”

  He shrugged, used to this. “You don’t have an analyst.”

  “I can ask Annabel when she gets back from annual leave. Don’t worry about it.”

  “You saw the stuff about McVey?”

  “Yep. Is there any more on him?”

  “Nothing recent. One from March with a list of his businesses, and one from July where he was seen with the McDonnells and one of the Petries. The others I think you’ve seen already.”

  Typical, Lou thought. But it was a useful starting point, and, although it wasn’t a link between McVey and Palmer, it was a link between McVey and the McDonnells, which meant that being involved with Scarlett Rainsford, found working in Lewis McDonnell’s brothel, wasn’t going to be a complete waste of time in terms of Op Trapeze. Small relief.

  “You look shattered,” Jason said.

  The clock on the end of the far wall told her it was past seven. “I’ve got to go out in an hour. Got to meet someone from SB—and I’ve piles to do apart from that.”

  “You always have piles to do. You never get to the bottom of the pile.” It sounded like a rebuke, but he was smiling.

  “If I don’t do it now, it will be a bigger pile in the morning.”

  He sighed. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m going to go away now and get you something to eat. I’ll be back in a while.”

  He stood and came around to her side of the desk, twisted her chair around and kissed her. It was an I’m-in-charge-here kind of kiss, which didn’t allow for argument, and, despite everything she had to work through, for a moment she was tempted. If she touched him, that would be it. She could reach out right now and put her arms around him and then she could pull him closer and—

  But he was in charge of the kiss, and therefore it ended. “Get back to work, Louisa. I’ll see you soon.”

  Tease, she thought.

  19:30

  Jason came back half an hour later. He knocked on the door of the main office, pretending that he didn’t know the door code, even though it hadn’t changed since the job they’d worked on in this room last year.

  Lou had been head-down replying to all the admin emails that had stacked up. Leave requests. Case review. Taskings requiring her authorization.

  When she crossed the main office her first thought was That time went by fast, and then, when she opened the door, that thought was gone. Not for the first time she was struck by how good-looking he was: the dark hair, the strong jawline, his green eyes. She’d learned to control this, the way she looked at him, not giving anything away. She had to lift her chin, challenging.

  It only took a second for this. Then she realized he had a carrier bag that smelled of hot food. Takeaway.

  He held it up. “I brought you a picnic.”

  “Oh, my God, I love you.”

  She let him in and he followed her back to her little office, and she was glad her back was to him so he couldn’t see her cheeks burning. If Sam had brought her food, or Ali, or anyone else on the team, she would have used those exact words—but in this context it had a whole new layer of meaning that was dramatically awkward.

  They hadn’t used the L word, properly and not jokingly like just now. Not yet.

  It had been close a couple of times. A few weeks ago, a rare weekend together, most of Sunday spent in bed with activities that ranged from hard, intense fucking to gentle, tender kisses, from sleep, to sandwiches and a bottle of wine, to long moments face-to-face, just looking. And she’d wanted to say it, longed to say it. But he had to say it first.

  He was so relaxed about everything, so easy. It seemed as if the relationship for him was entirely without an agenda. He would not push it forward, would not demand more time with her, suggest moving in, complain about her untidiness, pressure her to meet her family, nothing like that; when she’d commented on this—positively, as if it was refreshing that he gave her so much space—he had moved his shoulders in a lazy shrug and said, “Hey, I’m just grateful.”

  “I am so hungry you would not believe,” she said, unpacking polystyrene containers. A chicken kebab, judging by the smell and the bits of shredded lettuce hanging out of the side once she’d unwrapped the paper parcel.

  “I would totally believe. What did you eat today?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Stuff.” She had a mouthful of it already—chicken and lettuce and pita and, yes, oh, brilliant, he’d remembered—chili sauce. Lots of it.

  The chicken kebab said lots of things. It said, I am taking care of you. It said, I am going to make you eat healthily—she knew that, of all the food choices availab
le to Jason Mercer at this time of the evening in the town center, a chicken kebab was the most balanced meal. She would have chosen Indian, or at a push Chinese, or as a third option a great big fuck-off pizza with extra garlic bread. And she could eat all those things and not put on any weight because she was wired all the time, running from one job to the next, so it wasn’t her weight that was concerning him but his desire to make sure all the food groups were represented and that she had something with vegetables in it, even if it was just a bit of shredded iceberg lettuce. The only possible alternative to a chicken kebab, for Jason, would have been for him to drive all the way home and cook her something.

  Jason was a big guy—built like a hockey player, of course, whatever that meant. He was like a wall, without the sleekness of a body-builder’s muscle-definition. Just strong and solid. And you didn’t get to be as fit and healthy as he was without eating decent food.

  He ate his own kebab watching her, and then from the pocket of his hoodie he brought forth two bottles of water. She wanted a can of Coke to wash it all down and was tempted to run to the vending machine to satisfy the urge for caffeine and sugar, but didn’t want to incur his disapproval.

  “So,” he said, between mouthfuls, “are you done?”

  “I’m never done, you know that. As I said, I’ve got to go out again in a minute.”

  He rolled his eyes. His phone beeped and he pulled it from the back pocket of his jeans, before unlocking the screen and looking at the message. He laughed, thumbed a short reply. “Mike says hi.”

  “Oh. Say hi back.”

  “It would be good to get the two of you together more. He’s all right, really, you know?”

  “I’m sure he is. It’s not that I have anything against him; it’s more that you two get together and you suddenly turn twice as Canadian as you were five minutes before.”

  He laughed at this. “What do you mean? I am Canadian; how can I get more Canadian?”

  “You want to know? The volume gets cranked up and your accent gets so strong that I don’t have a clue what you’re both talking about, but the likelihood is that you’re talking about your childhood or some food that we don’t have over here, or hockey which I still don’t understand, so . . . I don’t know. I just think you’re both having such a great time I might as well not be there.”

  “Well, I enjoy being with you and with him, too. I’ll be more careful that I don’t leave you out.”

  “I’m a big girl. I’m not getting all precious about it.”

  Lou had finished her kebab and was bundling up the wrapper.

  “So who are you meeting?” he asked.

  “Caro Sumner from SB. We’re going to talk to a witness.”

  “And after? You coming over?”

  “It might be really late,” she said. “Best not.”

  What she had said must have come across wrong because he stood up abruptly, packing the empty polystyrene and paper into the striped carrier bag. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

  She drew a blank for a moment.

  “Hockey?”

  “Oh, right! Yes, of course. I’ll do my best.” He had an important hockey game, and, back when things had been reasonably quiet, she’d promised to go.

  “Well, you know, only if you’ve got the time to spare.”

  “Jason, you know I can’t promise. But if I can be there, I will,” she repeated. She wanted to point out that he was being too sensitive, that he should know she had other priorities. Other men she’d had relationships with would play this game—get all pissed off on her for no good reason, go off in a sulk. It was hockey, not as though he was collecting a Nobel Prize or something—he wouldn’t even notice if she was there or not. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t have support. Lou remembered the first time she’d gone to a cup match, waiting afterward in the foyer of the rink outside the players’ changing rooms along with a crowd of teenage girls, all wearing Jaguars jerseys, loud and overexcited. When Jason and his teammate Travis had come out they were all over him—asking questions, getting their shirts signed, taking selfies. At the time she’d thought it was hilarious. Later on she’d worked out that she must have looked like one of the girls’ mums, standing by the door waiting for all the adulation to finish.

  “Thanks for dinner,” she said feebly.

  “No problem.”

  Without thinking, Lou said, “Will you come to my cousin’s wedding with me?”

  That stopped him. He paused for a moment, then sat back down. “You serious?”

  Lou had that feeling of having accidentally opened a massive can of worms. “Of course. It’s on the twenty-third, just in the evening. You’ve probably got hockey.”

  “Nope. Not that weekend.”

  “Great,” Lou said. “I’d like to apologize in advance for anything my mother might say to you.”

  He looked at her, studying her face. Lou was trying her best to look excited.

  “I’m sure they’re not as bad as all that,” he said.

  “Tell me again after the twenty-third,” Lou replied.

  Jason smiled and nodded. There was something going on behind those eyes, something Lou couldn’t quite make out. He certainly didn’t look especially happy. This is a big deal for me, she wanted to say.

  “Okay, then, sure,” he said. “I’ll come with you. At least it might mean I get to spend a bit of time with you, right?”

  Ouch. That was it, then? He was getting needy?

  He came around the desk and kissed her, despite the kebab breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  Tempted as she was to carry on working, she was tired and vaguely pissed off, and now she was going to have to go and meet Scarlett Rainsford for the very first time.

  SCARLETT

  Sunday 24 August 2003, 14:10

  Somehow, Yelena had managed to fall asleep. Scarlett watched her, stared at the bumps of her spine showing through the thin, pale skin of her back. If there had been a blanket she would have pulled it over her, despite the stifling heat. There was something about the sight of her bare back, her top ridden up, that made Scarlett want to cover it.

  She’d cried, again, trying to keep quiet so as not to wake the other girl, snuffling into her sleeve which was filthy with grime and dried blood. She wished she could sleep too, but the heat and the sunlight and the drilling headache made it impossible. The water was all gone. She had already drained every drop from the bottles that were scattered around the room. Thirsty, so thirsty. Try not to think about it.

  Eventually she collected all the bottles and moved them into the corner of the room, behind the bucket, which was now stinking badly. There. Now she wouldn’t have to look at them.

  Yelena stirred, moving over onto her back, one hand thrown casually over her head. Scarlett looked at her and her eyes opened. Almost immediately her face crumpled and she put both hands over her eyes.

  “It’s okay,” Scarlett said, although it was clearly far from okay. Nothing was okay, never would be again.

  23:30

  They were in a minibus this time, not the van that had brought Scarlett here; driving back through the winding roads and then, eventually, onto some sort of motorway where the engine whined at the demands that were being placed upon it. The interior of the vehicle was heaped with boxes, suitcases, holdalls, all over the seats at the front. Where they were, at the back, some of the seats had been removed to make a space on the floor. The two windows in the back doors of the minibus were painted over, allowing for a dull light to filter through to their space at the back, but not giving them any way to see out or attract attention from other drivers. In this disorientating space they were sitting facing each other, with their backs against the sides of the bus.

  Yelena and Scarlett had been moved quickly, unexpectedly, before they’d had time to prepare or, worse, make use of the bucket.

  Right now the bucket was one of the things Scarlett was thinking about a lot. More so because when they’d clambered i
nto the back of the bus there had been another six-pack of water bottles already in there. They had drunk two each, somehow avoiding any spillages as the minibus jolted and swerved, and now they were staring at the remaining two bottles as though they were some sort of talisman.

  Once again, the room had become the place she had begun to feel was her space—being taken from it by force had made her feel panicky. Now, her heart had stopped thumping and she was almost relaxed, soothed, by the rhythm of the wheels on the road underneath them.

  Yelena was sitting wide-eyed. They’d hardly spoken, even though they had spent the whole afternoon together. Scarlett had so much to say—they should have been plotting escape, planning who was going to leap on the back of the first guy who opened the door and who was going to kick him in the balls. Instead, they were wary of each other. Despite her initial kindness—if that was what you could call it—Scarlett still didn’t feel any sort of warmth from the girl. She didn’t know what nationality she was, either. Eastern European was her best guess, but she could have been way off there too. And she was older, clearly, than Scarlett. She wanted to feel that Yelena would protect her, would stand up for her because she was still just a kid and vulnerable, but she didn’t feel that. She felt as though Yelena would rip her head off if she thought it would do her any good.

  She’s not the enemy, Scarlett thought. She’s all I’ve got. And I’m all she’s got, too.

  Scarlett longed to stand up and stretch out. She needed the toilet, badly. It had been a mistake to drink those bottles of water so quickly, but she hadn’t been able to help herself—so thirsty, so desperate for a drink. She had only used the bucket in the room once, in all the time she was in there—and her urine had been dark and malodorous, telling her all she needed to know about how dehydrated she was. And the next stage after that, she knew having suffered many times before, was a bladder infection, and quite probably, if it wasn’t addressed with antibiotics, a kidney infection too.