The farm manager counted out the cash. Pushed it over the table to Vinnie.
‘Grand. How many more will you be needing?’
‘Depends how long these lot last. I’d say a dozen at most.’
Vinnie got back in the lorry and thought on his end of the business. With the cut from Istanbul, some extras they’d taken off the Algerians, plus the cash, he was several grand up. A few more trips during the summer and they could take a break, or call it a day, maybe. Come late autumn the farms wouldn’t want them anyway – they’d be emptying the caravans. There was also two to three grand a month coming out of the hostel. It was a living, alright, but not an easy one.
Detective Inspector Katz was across town in the pathology lab. The report had thrown up some interesting news, topmost being that the man had been dead for at least a day before he entered the water. The cause of death was asphyxiation; polystyrene had been found in the gut and oesophagus, and cardboard under the nails. It was a useful report, but what Katz wanted to know was what the pathologist wouldn’t commit to in print, his hunches and guesses that might not stand up in court.
Katz held up a bag with four polystyrene pellets in. They were smaller than marbles. ‘Any indication that he was forced to swallow them?’
‘None that I can see,’ replied the pathologist, scrubbing his hands.
‘So, he was packaged, so to speak, suffocated and was then thrown in the river?’
‘That’s up to you to decide, Detective. But there are labels on his clothing with washing instructions in Dutch. It could be that was where he was put in a box.’
‘What, and was shoved off a ferry?’ Katz couldn’t see it. She aired an alternative. ‘Or maybe it was a fishing boat?’ Then replied to herself, ‘Then why conceal him in a box?’
She went back to the office, ‘the factory’, as it was called, and made a phone call in the most courteous tone she could muster, requesting a favour. Then she shouted for O’Grady to follow her.
‘Where are we going, ma’am?’
‘Back to the river. Don’t look surprised, it was your idea.’
They were looking at a chart of the Humber estuary on the wall of the lifeboat station.
The captain, who was wearing a raucous orange jumpsuit, drew his forefinger between two locations on the chart. ‘Anyone who knows that Spurn Point exists would know if they put a body in the water around here it was bound to be washed up on the Point.’
‘Okay. Let’s assume they’re not stupid,’ said Katz. ‘Let’s say they’ve thought about it, they know about the Point and they want the body washed out to sea – where would you launch it into the river from?’
‘From the south shore.’
‘Sure, but they didn’t, did they? Or we wouldn’t have a body,’ she continued, taking a closer look at the chart. ‘Where’s a good spot on the north shore, where you can’t be seen and you’d have an even chance of getting the body washed out to sea?’
The lifeboat captain ran his finger in a circle and then plumped for somewhere. ‘Here. That would be my choice. The old coastal artillery site. It’s a good way out of Hull and its nose pushes into the estuary. Plus, there’s a track to the water which is concealed by woodland.’
‘Can you take me there?’
‘Only if I get to see you in an orange suit.’ The captain smiled.
The craft slid gracefully up the beach and the captain, Katz and O’Grady disembarked. The two detectives walked awkwardly up the beach, moving like armoured knights in their jumpsuits, lifejackets and helmets. After a few paces they were amongst an acre of thinned-out woodland that screened the gun emplacement. The bark and stone were layered with a film of moss to head height, giving it the feel of a cemetery.
‘You could get a large vehicle in here, unseen. Unload your body and carry it to the water in broad daylight. Are there any traffic cams this far out?’ she asked O’Grady.
He shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’
She lowered her voice, softened her tone for the lifeboat captain. ‘Can we take a slow ride along the north shore all the way to the bridge?’
‘Certainly can.’
Her phone rang. ‘Yes… Where… What are they… I mean, white or…? …Right.’ She poked the screen. ‘Change of plan. Two more bodies have washed up at the Point. Maybe we are looking for a fool.’
Twenty-Six
Istanbul
It had been eight years since he’d escaped from Berzan’s club. When the taxi delivered him, Farood believed he could remember the front doors, even though he had come and gone through a side entrance. He looked at the sign above the smoked glass, ‘Meryem’s’. Across the street, where there were once breeze block flats, there was now an Islamic bank with a strident façade.
Behind Berzan’s doors a woman in a silk hijab reached out her hand over the marble reception desk. ‘Your passport, please, Mr Karam.’ She glanced at it, filed it under the counter and smiled at him. ‘Right to the end of the corridor, Mr Karam.’
Farood made his way down the corridor; music and conversation approached him. Outside the club-room door there were two men, both in black, legs apart, hands clasped. One took his bag; the other conducted a rub-down search. Behind them the room was busy, his entrance unnoticed. Girls danced listlessly in the centre of the dance floor while on a raised perimeter were some nine men, at tables and booths, drinking tea, drinking beer. There was food on every table and there were more girls, by their sides, upon their laps.
Farood eased along the back wall and sat down at a table on his own, scanning the room for Berzan. Eight years ago, he had been frightened to look at the man’s face – its hollowness when once it loomed down on him, after he had been kicked to the floor. He remembered Berzan’s eyes as round and grey, his frame short and wide. Even back then, climbing the cellar stairs appeared an effort for him. He heard a voice from across the room: the voice on his phone from a week ago. It came from a small, fat man in a light blue suit and greying beard. He was holding the hands of a girl on the dance floor, shouting to another man at a table. The girl swayed gently as he shuffled his weight out of time to the machine-made music. He turned her around with an upright hand then clapped and stamped his feet as she rotated in front of him. He implored others to join in the dancing. This was Berzan, older and wider, a Russian doll, soft enough to knock over with a push on the nose.
Farood dipped some bread in a potato salad and wondered if he would be recognised. He considered there were ways of pretending you’d never met someone before, the first of which was not to walk up to Berzan and introduce himself. If this was a room full of agents, there might be others whose path he had crossed. The Baloch man was there too, unmistakeably familiar. He had retained his lean intensity. And the Iranian from the Makran border was there, without his pistol and his dog. He was grey now too, pounding his fist down on a table in conversation with another agent. Would he still be walking the mountains?
The girl that had been dancing with Berzan came over to Farood’s table. Her walk was obedient, as if he had summoned her. She waited for an instruction.
He nodded and told her, ‘Take a seat.’
She placed herself on his lap and began to stroke the back of his neck; he continued eating, his only response to look down into her purple silk top and trousers.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked.
He shook his head. Her eyes were deep brown and dewy. She caught him looking and smiled.
Then Berzan shouted across the room, ‘Karam! You need to tell me all about Rotterdam. I have plans for you. A lot of money for us both.’ Berzan tossed a sugared almond into his mouth. ‘If you two want some privacy, there’s a door just out there.’
The cellar. Berzan had invited him into the cellar. With its black brick walls and the bucket in the corner. The girl continued to stroke his hairline; he reached up to hold her hand and she i
mmediately kissed his cheek. He turned his face and met her lips. She kissed more softly than he, being more accomplished. They kissed in the corner for the duration of three or four songs, then the music was cut.
Berzan clapped his hands, hurried around the room, shooing out the girls. ‘Time for business. Out you go.’
The rest of the room made their way to the largest booth at the end of the room. Farood followed and found himself sitting next to another Afghan, who asked, ‘Where are you from?’
‘Baghlan.’
‘Baghlan town?’
‘The hills, an hour away, by car.’
‘Thought so. I can see the farmer in you. Where are you working?’
‘Little operation in Rotterdam. One vehicle, an apartment to hold people in, work for them to do. Problem is, we can’t shift that many people.’
‘Getting into the UK isn’t easy, is it?’
‘What about you?’ enquired Farood.
‘I work out of Mazar, Kunduz sometimes, there’s more and more people every week. The war goes on, so there’s money to be made.’
Berzan faced the semicircle of traffickers. There were men there from Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran and two others from Turkey. Berzan spoke in English. ‘Thank you all for coming once again. Before I take reports, I want to introduce someone new: Karam.’
Farood raised his hand in acknowledgement.
Berzan went on. ‘He’s been working out of Rotterdam. Moving people to the east of England. That Calais-Dover run is too risky, so he’s opened up a new route. Karam is a young man with imagination – what this organisation needs.’
Farood feigned a smile; people either side of him leaned forward and nodded favourably.
Berzan then asked for reports and problems all along the chain.
The Afghan raised an index finger. ‘I have a new contact in Iran now. The north-east border. I can go straight across. I don’t need to take people through Pakistan.’
‘Have you tried the route?’ asked Berzan.
‘Only once, but everyone made it.’
One of the other Turks nodded in confirmation. ‘They all made it to Van. Though a few of them looked like shit,’ he said.
Berzan sighed. ‘Whenever we shorten the route, someone loses money.’
The Baloch agent raised a finger. He leaned forward and looked down the line at the Afghan. ‘You and I,’ he said. ‘We have worked this route together for years. You bring people to me, I look after them and we are both paid for this. We make money by working together. We have talked about each other’s families and now you do this. This cutting me out.’
He showed the Afghan his palms as if to catch a reply. ‘What can I do?’ declared the Afghan. ‘The border is there. The road is there. People don’t want a sightseeing tour. Why move through a country when you don’t have to?’
Berzan closed the discussion. ‘This is what we will do. You will use both routes. We say to some it’s okay. We say to others, it’s not safe. We will use both routes, fifty-fifty. Agreed? Before that, I want to speak to this new agent. I want him here. Otherwise I’ll close him down. We must remain an organisation. Professional, working together. I formed this group to stop the free-for-all and I won’t let it start up again. No more using new agents without running it through me.’
The Baloch and the Afghan reached across and shook hands.
The Iranian agent present offered some conciliation. ‘It’s a good idea there’s another route. Not everyone can walk the Makran. I lose people every time and then families demand money back, but they should never have set out. I can tell who won’t make it. I feel like saying, if you want, I can shoot you now, save all the walking.’
He looked directly at the Baloch.
‘But don’t worry my friend, the London Road will always be busy.’
There were reports from elsewhere. The Turkmen had bought some caravans because people were backing up through the winter. Farood followed with an account of the operation in Rotterdam. He did so without obvious disloyalty to Atherton and Vinnie, but the description was of comparative amateurs.
When someone asked about Mustapha in Rotterdam, Berzan interrupted them to say he had retired, then he took a laptop from its case and pulled up the screen. ‘I have a new contact. Couldn’t be here with us today. But I must introduce him to you all.’
At the other end of the screen call was what looked like a student or a journalist in his early twenties.
‘Now, tell everyone where you’re speaking from,’ said Berzan.
The young man waved merrily to the room in Istanbul. ‘Hi, everyone. Right now, I’m in Kilis, close to the border with Syria. I can tell you it’s a pretty hectic place right now. Assad is using artillery – he’s not fucking around. He’s shelling rebel areas and people are coming out of there in their thousands, many into this town.’
Berzan interrupted, ‘Who’s leading them across the border?’
‘No one. There’s no money to be made there. Nothing is going to stop them coming to Turkey. The money is to be made from here to the EU. Not all of them have money, but some of them do for sure.’
‘Okay,’ said Berzan. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘The place to start your business up is in the camps. There are two camps so far, but there’ll be more. People are moving on from there to Greece, elsewhere in the Schengen area. The people who run the camps are happy to let them go. You can negotiate a price under their nose. You could do it in two stages: from the camp to the coast and then the boat to Greece, or maybe through Enez.’
Berzan thanked his contact and ended the call.
‘This war in Syria is a goldmine for us. I need people to work with me down there and the coast across from the Greek islands.’ He pointed at Farood. ‘Rotterdam sounds like a waste of time. Small change for your gypsy friends. Syria needs an organisation. All of you have a think if you want to make serious money. Then come and talk to me.’
Then he shouted in Turkish down the corridor, pressed a button behind the bar and the Europop began bouncing across the room again. Farood headed back to his table. He observed the other men. They had done things he was yet to do, that he could not do. Some were sitting with more than one girl; some he knew had taken lives. They were people who exercised power over others whilst he was only acting the part of an agent, and under a false name at that.
Berzan came to his table. ‘You know how to sail a boat, eh?’
‘I’m an Afghan, I only know how to walk.’
‘Then I’ll teach you. Look, here she is. She’s back for you.’
Berzan gestured the girl over and gave Farood a little nudge on the back as he departed.
The girl stood close to him. She was no more than five feet. He looked down at the underwear lines beneath her clothes, then at her eyes, that unnerved him with their expectation.
‘Get me a drink,’ he demanded.
He watched her elegant walk to the bar, watched her arm reach up to the beer tap. She brought his drink on a tray. He swept it up and drank too much too quickly so had to wipe his nose and his mouth.
She smiled at the spillage down his shirt; he thrust the glass towards her. ‘Drink it.’ She took a cautious sip; she was the more experienced drinker. ‘The rest,’ he commanded.
She drank half of it and handed him back the glass. He downed what was left. Across the room, he could see Berzan and the Afghan in discussion, watching him. Farood swayed; he grabbed the girl’s shoulder to steady himself. She reached for his hand; he took it, glanced at Berzan and began to drag her towards the cellar door. She tried to break free, but he tightened his hold on her until the door was open. She stood stock-still at the top of the stairs, so he picked her up and carried her under one arm to the bottom. The strip lights flickered on with their presence. It was a different room to the one that had imprisoned
him. Now there was a sink and cabinets, a table and chairs, bunk beds along the wall.
The girl asked him quietly, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Never mind my name.’
He pushed her into a corner, held her neck between his index finger and thumb. Her mouth opened and he tried to press his lips upon hers, but they were clenched tight. He forced his other hand into her underwear. She withdrew his hand slowly, stroking his palm with her finger. He watched this and his breathing slowed. He kissed her again, with some tenderness this time. Then his hands forced their way across her and up to her neck once more. He dragged her to the table in the centre of the room and pushed her down across it. She pushed back at him, but it made no difference. She kicked back, so he placed his legs inside hers and lifted her feet off the ground, holding her firmly on the table. He pulled down her clothes and raped her.
Just before he finished the cellar door opened; Berzan descended a few steps and stooped slightly. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Er…’
‘Your hotel?’
Farood slammed himself into her one last time, breathed out and pulled up his zip.
‘You can stay with me, at my house.’ Berzan tapped the ceiling and left.
The girl fell to her knees, holding on to the table edge. Farood walked away from her up the stairs. After he closed the door behind him, she lay motionless on the floor; the lights flicked off.
*
Berzan lived on the hill that Misha had run up eight years before. He had three floors, a balcony and a carefully mannered wife, as well as a daughter called Meryem. Meryem was a grade A student who played the flute and piano – there were photos of her in various outfits and locations on every wall. She ran downstairs, wagging her ponytail, shook Farood’s hand, and then returned to her room and to Mozart.
During the evening meal of baked fish, her mother asked Farood about England’s palaces and castles, to which he confirmed that he had heard great things from friends, though had not had the time to visit personally. Meryem asked him about school in England, to which he told her, ‘Education is totally free. The teachers want to help, but it’s the students, the children in England don’t want to learn. They don’t respect the teachers, so they don’t learn. And the girls in England don’t respect their parents, like you do. Too many of them are out of control.’
Baghlan Boy Page 21
