Текст книги "The Trafficked"

Автор книги: Lee Weeks

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 23 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 9 страниц]

30

Mann was sitting next to Ng at his new desk when he saw Becky walk into the main PC area, escorted by the young policeman who had picked her up from her hotel. She didn’t see him straight away. The way the open-plan office fanned out from the central rectangle of PCs made it impossible to distinguish one area from another.

She looked lovely, thought Mann. She had swapped her trousers for a cream-coloured cotton skirt that ended just above her knee, and she had on a white open-necked blouse and carried a blue jacket.

‘You ready for a day’s work?’ He greeted her and thanked the young policeman who was steering her towards him. ‘Meet the team…Detective Sergeant Ng…’ Ng stood up to shake her hand. ‘Watch him—he has a way with the women—I’ve never worked out what it is.’

‘I’ll tell you later.’ She winked.

Shrimp walked in at that moment. ‘And this is DC Li—we call him Shrimp. Speaks English like a Yank, dresses to impress, but we haven’t worked out who.’ Shrimp looked very seventies today with his tight black stretch shirt and his black trousers. ‘He’ll be catching the plane over to join your team in the UK later tonight.’

‘Pleased to meet you, yes, I’m looking forward to it…Nice outfit, by the way. Love the shoes.’

‘Pleased to meet you too…Thanks.’ She looked down at her feet—she’d got it right by accident—they matched. ‘I’m amazed everyone speaks such good English here.’

‘English is still the main language in here for police work,’ said Mann.

‘That’s handy. What have we got planned for the day?’ she asked.

‘I’m going to give you a tour and we need to take in a couple of stops. We’ll start by buying some luggage. We’re going to need it.’ She looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

‘We need to go to the Philippines. We don’t have a lot of choice and time is not on our side. If we want to discover who has Amy and what they want in return we need to go where it all seems to be kicking off.’ Mann paused and looked at Becky. ‘What about Alex? How will he manage without you?’

She thought about it for a second and then shrugged and Mann could see she couldn’t resist a little smile. ‘Perfectly well, I’m sure. He has loads to get on with here. Anyway, the thing is, it’s work…If we have to go, we have to go. I’m ready.’ She could barely conceal her excitement at the prospect despite a short-lived twinge of guilt that the thought of heading off with Johnny Mann was much more appealing than spending any more time with Alex.

‘Okay then, all I have to do is convince that man in there…’ He nodded in the direction of the Superintendent’s office. ‘Ng—fill Becky in on what we found out this morning while I go and have a chat with my friend in there.’

Mann knocked on Wong’s office and went straight in. Becky sat down to listen to what Ng had to say.

‘Stevie Ho left England just after you,’ Ng explained. ‘He was seen at the airport changing his ticket. So something unexpected must have come up. He went straight from Manila to Negros. We know there is a triad stronghold on that island. We think he will check in there, then head up to Angeles where the main traffickers are based. The answer must lie in the Philippines—it’s the only reason for Stevie to move so fast. He must be under new orders.’

‘Yeah!’ added Shrimp, who was emptying his bag of drink tins and lining them up on his already untidy and cluttered desk, ready for the day. ‘Stevie is putting some deals down. He knows Mann has come back here and he hopes to slip through the net and get his business done quickly before we can catch up with him. We’re sure he’s going to lead us to Amy Tang’s kidnappers. Now, Mann just has to convince the Super.’

Becky stood with Ng and watched Shrimp fire up his PC and bring up images of the Philippines, for Becky to get a glimpse of what she was going to. All three glanced surreptitiously towards the Superintendent’s room, trying their best to gauge what was happening between the two men. It seemed to be all over in seconds as Mann emerged looking nonchalant.

‘Can we go?’ Becky asked.

‘Yep!’

They all looked at the glass partition. Wong was shaking his head—looking a very worried man. Then he realised he was being watched and gave an embarrassed wave at Becky, who waved back.

‘We’ll leave on the night flight. We have to change at Cebu, a two-hour flight from here. Then we will fly to Davao and move up to one of the tourist resorts of Puerto Galera, before we head up to Angeles. There are a few places we have to go to, some men we have to talk to. We have to cover a lot of ground very quickly. We will be going as a married couple—Mr And Mrs Black. Shrimp will fix us up with our new identities and book the accommodation,’ he said, glancing at Shrimp’s face. Shrimp grinned.

‘Suitable

accommodation,’ Mann added. ‘No three-in-a-bed romps with a couple of horny cockroaches.’

‘Leave it to me, boss.’

Mann escorted Becky out of the building and into the staff car park.

‘Let me see if I can guess which is yours.’ She scanned the half-empty parking lot. ‘I think it will be one of two things—either something sporty and vintage, or a mini with a big engine.’

‘Will a BMW convertible do?’

She smiled. ‘Good choice.’

They left Central, heading through the tunnel across to Kowloon and away from the harbour. They drove up Nathan Road, the Golden Mile, and into the small back roads of Mong Kok. It was a bustling old world of narrow streets and disappearing pavements, known by westerners for its markets: night market, jade market, bird market, they were all here, but so were the choppings—the attacks between triads using meat cleavers. Most tourists were blissfully unaware that the area was run by triad gangs. It didn’t affect them—triads killed other triads.

It was still early morning. The night market was packing up and the piles of the previous night’s rubbish were waiting to be collected. The shopkeepers were just setting up their stalls and opening their shutters in preparation. Although most of the shops would not open till ten, the street was still crammed with people. The office workers, in their smart clothes, were dodging the debris left on the pavement. A Caucasian business-suited man walked by with a Starbucks coffee in his hand. He stuck out like a sore thumb.

‘What was it like growing up for you?’ Becky asked as they were stuck waiting to move on a side road, inching their way along behind moving stalls and street vendors.

‘The main divide here in Hong Kong is not the colour of someone’s skin, it’s how much money he has. I was lucky enough to belong to the “comfortably well off” race.’

‘Are your parents still here?’

‘My mother is. She lives out at Stanley Bay. My father was murdered by triads when I was eighteen.’ They stopped outside one of the old tenement blocks. ‘Here we are.’

He was already out of the car before Becky could question him.

‘What?’ Becky got out of the car and hurried after him. ‘So that’s what Micky meant. When I told him you were coming he called you the triad annihilator. He was right—this is personal for you.’

‘Yes, it’s personal.’

One day he’d tell her how he’d been held down by two men and made to watch every chop that brought his father to his knees and finally split his skull. How he’d looked into his father’s eyes and known that he had failed him. One day he’d talk about the part of him that blamed himself for not being able to prevent it.

They followed a man inside the building. He disappeared left. They headed right towards the elevator. Mann pulled at the heavy metal grid door for Becky to step inside. Four more people squeezed into the tiny lift. They alighted at the third floor and walked past open doors with the din of televisions blaring out and the sound of children being scolded, and then stopped at a door halfway along the corridor. Mann knocked. A few seconds later a woman opened it. She looked at the couple, smiled and bowed as she stood to one side and ushered them in. The place was stacked with cellophane bags. Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Gucci, all piled high to the ceiling. The room smelt of plastic and new leather.

‘Come in. Come look…plenty good bag. Good price. Make me offer. Give discount. What you want?’ She beamed eagerly at Becky.

Mann glanced around the room, at the mountain of counterfeit bags, purses and suitcases, all wrapped in cellophane.

‘Where’s Ponytail?’

‘Not here.’ The woman turned back to Becky and began her sales pitch again. She picked up one of the bags, ripped off the polythene and pushed it into Becky’s hands.

‘Tell him to come.’ Mann took the bag from Becky and turned it over in his hands, inspecting the stitching. Then, disgusted, he threw it back onto the pile. ‘Crap. We’re not buying crap. Get Ponytail or we go.’

The woman rushed over to a different pile and began to tear off more plastic covers.

‘This one. This one velly best. Look!’

She thrust this new one at Becky, still hoping that Becky would take over the negotiations. Mann took it and threw it across the room like a Frisbee. It landed on top of a pile of others.

‘Let’s go,’ he said to Becky. ‘It’s all crap.’ He motioned towards the door.

‘Wait. Wait…I ring Ponytail, sure he come for special customer like you.’ She bowed, blocking their exit.

Mann stepped back. ‘Okay.’

Two minutes later an unhealthy-looking young man slipped through the front door, still eating his breakfast. His lank hair was tied back and tapered to a rat’s tail at the nape of his neck, his face was greasy and pock-marked. He was wearing grey jeans with darkened patches down the front of his thighs where it looked like he’d rubbed his greasy hands.

When he saw Mann he stopped, mid-shovelling. His eyes flicked to Becky then back to Mann. He lowered the bowl and wiped the chicken stock from his chin.

‘You wanted to see me?’ he said in English.

‘We were told you have top-quality bags. We haven’t found any yet.’

‘Sure. I have top quality, genuine, made same factory as originals. Follow me.’

He handed his noodle bowl to the old woman, who gave a disgruntled moan at having to involve a third party and lose part of her commission. Ponytail ignored her and led them through to a small room at the back. He closed the door behind them, turned and grinned at Mann.

He looked Becky up and down. ‘Fuck, Johnny, not bad!’ he said, in Cantonese.

Mann grinned. ‘Have some fucking manners and speak English, you peasant. Becky—this is Detective Tin…Ponytail. He is one of our best undercover cops and an old friend. Becky is working with me on a case. She’s from London.’

Ponytail wiped his hand and then shook Becky’s.

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘I got your message. What have you got for me?’ asked Mann.

‘I guess you heard the rumour about you working for CK?’

‘I heard.’

‘There’s an even better one than that. The talk is that you’re working for the new society—the White Circle.’

‘Is that the best you have for me, Ponytail?’

‘They say that CK has set the whole thing up. He wants this war so that he can wipe out all the opposition in one go and take over all the profitable trafficking routes. They say he is in charge of the new group using the Caucasian traffickers who are already established in the Philippines to do all the work for him, and then he will get rid of them.’

‘Why would he order the arson attack on the trafficked women in London?’

Ponytail shook his head, screwed up his face. ‘To throw us off the scent. To make it look realistic. I don’t know, but I know anything is possible with him.’

Mann looked at Becky and gestured toward the pile of bags.

‘You can’t leave without one.’

‘Take your pick.’ Ponytail pulled a sheet from a pile behind the door, pulled off a Kalashnikov rifle from the top of a pile and revealed high-quality Chanel replica bags. He put the gun to one side. ‘Here, have this one—it’s the best. Goes with your outfit.’ He handed her a dainty cream clutch bag.

‘Thanks.’ Becky took it reluctantly but looked secretly pleased. Mann wondered when was the last time she had been given something.

‘That’s five hundred Hong Kong, Mann.’

‘Fuck off! I’m not paying for that shit. Three hundred, tops.’ He grinned.

Ponytail shook his head. ‘Four.’

‘Throw in a couple of matching travel bags and it’s a deal.’

31

Suzanne sat on the chair at Amy’s desk whilst Amy brushed her hair. Suzanne said the brush was made from real boar bristle. Amy wanted to ask Suzanne where the bristles came from, and did she mean a wild boar, like a pig? But she didn’t ask because Suzanne got cross when Amy talked. She liked Amy to be quiet and concentrate on the brushing, and if she didn’t then Suzanne would be horrible to her again. She would make her drink the salty water like the day before, and then Amy had been sick all night. Amy had had to sleep by the toilet because she mustn’t be sick in the bed, because Suzanne would hit her.

The bristle brush was soft. That meant that Amy could brush Suzanne’s hair with long hard strokes, the way she liked it. Suzanne closed her eyes.

In the next room, the spotty one, Tony, had left the telly on when he’d left, and Amy could hear

EastEnders.

Amy recognised the theme tune. She didn’t watch it normally. It came on at a time when she was doing prep, but she had sometimes seen the omnibus on Sundays.

Suzanne was getting drunk. Amy had seen people drunk a few times. She’d even seen her own mother drunk. She would start happy, laughing and singing, and then become miserable. Sometimes Amy had been fast asleep and her mother had come and woken her up to tell her how much she loved her, and Amy had smelt the booze on her breath. But, she did love her—that was the main thing. Amy could tell that Suzanne didn’t even like her. And Suzanne had such bad moods. Amy didn’t know what she was going to be like from one minute to the next.

‘Suzanne?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you married to Lenny?’

Suzanne closed her eyes again and took a swig of gin.

‘I will be, just as soon as he dumps his wife. He promised me he’d have it done by now, but he still fucking hasn’t.’

Suzanne waved her hand in the direction of her glass and Amy picked it up.

‘How did you meet Lenny?’

‘I met him at home in Nanjing. He had business there. I was working as an interpreter.’

‘That’s why you speak such good English.’

‘Yes…’ She gave a drunken giggle. ‘…and I’ve been fucking western guys since I was not much older than you. I lived with a German for three years from when I was sixteen. That’s why my English has an accent.’

‘Yes, you have a strange accent. Not strange…’ Amy corrected herself quickly as Suzanne opened her eyes and glared at her ‘…but different…’

Suzanne tapped the glass with her false nails. She was still waiting for Amy to go and refill it. Amy took it from her and went out into the kitchen to do it. Amy had become an expert on gin-mixing in the few days that she had been left alone with Suzanne. She had even been allowed to go next door, into the lounge and the kitchen, to fetch the gin and tonic and to refill the ice tray when needed. Now Amy knew where lots of things were. She saw where they slept, when they took it in turns to stay over in the flat; she saw where Tony hid his porn magazines; and she saw where the spare keys for the front door were.

Amy came back in with a fresh drink for Suzanne, who was waiting for her.

‘Every woman has to make the best of herself, Amy. I have had to—you will have to. In this life women need to make use of

all

the assets they have to make it.’

‘Yes.’ Amy started reeling off a list. ‘Women need to be strong, intelligent…’

‘Of course we’re fucking intelligent.’ Suzanne’s eyes snapped open and she swung an angry look at Amy before settling back into her seat and signalling for Amy to continue brushing. ‘We’ve always been more fucking intelligent than all those pricks…Women need to know how to work the system, Amy: use your…’ She opened her eyes and looked Amy up and down. ‘…use anything you have. That’s what I will teach you, Amy. I have plans for you. Things have changed. Stand over there, Amy…’ Suzanne pulled Amy’s arm roughly, making her stand in front of her. ‘Take off your clothes. Let me look at you.’

Amy batted her eyes and her brace got dry and made the sucking sound.

‘Take that fucking brace out of your mouth. You’re not going to need it any more anyway.’ Suzanne sighed, exasperated, and looked Amy up and down. And don’t even bother to take off your clothes—I can see exactly what you look like; we need to put you on a strict diet. Come here…‘Amy inched towards her. ‘Give me that thing in your mouth…spit it out.’

Amy reached into her mouth and dislodged the plate.

‘Throw it in the bin—

do it.’

Amy went to the bin and dropped it inside.

‘Suzanne—let me do your hair now. I love your hair. You’re so beautiful, Suzanne—like a model. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Please let me do your hair…’

Suzanne’s phone rang. She answered. Amy knew it was Lenny on the phone because of the way Suzanne’s voice changed. Then Amy saw her smile disappear as she listened hard, concentrating on what Lenny was saying. Something wasn’t right.

‘Yes. Yes, I will do it now. Yes, okay. You know I will.’ Suzanne closed her phone.

‘Was that Lenny?’

‘Shut up and hand me my bag.’

Amy did so reluctantly. She knew what that usually meant. She watched Suzanne dig into the large leather bag and bring out the bottle of pills that Amy had seen many times since she arrived at the flat. Suzanne tipped out one into her palm.

She passed Amy the glass of gin and tonic.

‘Take it.’

Amy screwed up her face as she tasted the gin, but she knew better than to cross Suzanne.

‘Now lie down and go to sleep.’

Amy did as she was told. Suzanne watched her take the sleeping pill, then she went into the lounge to get ready. Amy lay down on her bed and pulled up the duvet. She waited for the familiar heaviness to come down on her. She listened to the sound of Suzanne tidying up the kitchen, washing the coffee cups. She heard her moving around the lounge; occasionally she heard her come back to Amy’s door, feeling her presence as she looked in to see if Amy was asleep yet, then went back to the lounge.

It wouldn’t take long for Amy to fall asleep. It never did. Suzanne peeped in. Yes, Amy was snoring away. She really needed to get her adenoids seen to, thought Suzanne, as she went back into the lounge and checked her watch. She should have been gone by now.

Fucking men!

They couldn’t do one thing right. Suzanne didn’t understand why Lenny kept changing his mind. She didn’t see why they were bothering to keep the child alive now. What was Lenny stalling for? That was the part that worried Suzanne. The side of Lenny that was capable of double-crossing anyone and everyone. Did that mean he would do it to her? She didn’t really believe that—they were the same type, him and her. They were meant for one another. He wouldn’t double-cross her. He must want the child alive in case the plan changed. He was smart; he was rich; he was good-looking—she didn’t need to worry. But she did need a contingency plan, and she had it. If things went wrong, Suzanne had it all worked out what she was going to do. Amy was her ticket to freedom. With the money she could sell Amy for, she could retire.

She headed over to check on the new arrivals. She had better keep a more watchful eye on this lot. She couldn’t trust the men where the women were concerned; they weren’t using their brains to think. They were easily distracted. They had been responsible for the loss of the women in the fire—she had warned them that it was only a matter of time. She had told them to move the women earlier. But had they listened? Now Lenny was gone to try and sort it out and she was left to manage the idiots. Things had not turned out the way they were supposed to.

She locked up the flat and called a cab. The journey took her twenty minutes as she headed north off the M25. She reached her destination—a scruffy end-of-terrace on a road that was high up on a demolisher’s list.

Tony answered the door. Suzanne went past him and straight through to the kitchen. ‘It’s freezing here. Put the heating on.’

‘It doesn’t work.’ Tony followed her through to the back.

‘I thought you were going to tart this place up after we sold the other girls on.’

‘The Albanians screwed us over. We didn’t get a lot for the girls, in the end. They weren’t worth much—they were finished.’

Suzanne looked at him. She knew he was lying, but it didn’t matter to her, she hadn’t handled the deal—if the shit hit the fan it wasn’t her mess to clean up.

‘Well, get the heating fixed before we start getting punters in here. They’re going to be too cold to get their clothes off. Ring someone and get them round…no, wait, leave it—I’ll do it tomorrow.’

Suzanne had decided that the men were best given minor tasks. She couldn’t risk another disaster. She set the bags of bread, pasta, jam and milk down on the kitchen table. A bare electric light bulb swung down over their heads. A small portable television was blaring out from the corner of the worktop. The house was ex housing association. It had been bought at an auction and needed a lot of money spending on it, which it wasn’t going to get.

‘You have four hours max. I have had to dope the girl as there is no one there to look after her.’

Tony was disgruntled. ‘We can’t manage them, just the three of us. It’s too much.’

‘It’s not too much if everyone does their fucking job. We’re already fifty grand down with the loss of the others.’

‘That had nothing to do with me.’

‘Yes, it did. You should have known the Chinese would come. You should have backed me when I said to move them on quicker and you should have kept an eye on that black guy. He wasn’t thinking with his brains.’

Tony shrugged. He was looking sheepish. He was up to something or he’d done something, thought Suzanne.

‘Where are the girls? Upstairs?’

Tony nodded. She could see by his face that he was hiding something.

‘What kind of condition are they in? They’ve been cooped up in the back of a lorry for a week. Are any of them sick?’

Tony turned his back on her and started to unpack the groceries.

‘Not sick, but they were playing up—making a noise. I had to get rough with them. Had to make them do as they were told, show them who’s boss.’

Suzanne could see by his face that he’d had his fun.

She went upstairs to look at the girls.

The house had four bedrooms. Six girls slept in one room and the other three were going to be used to entertain clients.

As Suzanne made her way up the stairs there was an eerie silence coming from above. The front door sounded loud as it juddered shut behind the exiting Tony. She opened the door to the girls’ bedroom. Two of the girls were sitting on their beds, facing each other, talking. Two more were lying curled on their mattresses. The other two sat together on the floor, their backs against the wall. The room smelt damp and dirty. Suzanne blamed the mattresses. Tony had found them on a skip. He was a cheap little hood, but Suzanne had to work with what she was given. She was still a minor player in the league but was working her way up the ladder. She and Lenny would be a great team one day, a formidable team. But for now she must look after a few frightened Filipinas—schoolgirls, kidnapped and sold to the highest bidder, which just happened to be Suzanne’s new boss.

The girls on the bed turned and stared at her as she entered. She went over to the two on the floor. One of them was the youngest of the six girls, at thirteen. Her fifteen-year-old sister had her arm around her. Tony had done a good job by raping the youngest first—they looked frightened, traumatised,

exactly as they should look

, thought Suzanne.