by Mark Dawson
Samir stood. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for coming to see me.”
He stood, put the chair beneath the table and made to leave.
Milton stood, too, and stepped out so that he could block Samir’s way.
“Get out of my way.”
“Relax,” Milton said. “I’m trying to help you.”
Milton put his hand on Samir’s shoulder, but the young man shrugged it aside. “If you want to help,” he said, “then get out of the way and leave.”
Milton stayed where he was. He stared at the young man, knowing full well the effect that his icy-cold stare would have on him.
“You’re not listening, Samir. I’m offering to go and get your sister for you.”
That stopped him in his tracks. “What?”
“Sit back down,” Milton said gently.
“How can you help me? You’re just a truck driver.”
Milton stepped out of the way. He went to the other side of the table and pulled Samir’s chair out again. “No,” he said. “I was just driving to help a friend. That’s not what I do. I used to do other things.”
“What do you mean? What are you? Police?”
“Military,” Milton said, and then added, “To begin with, anyway.”
Samir was confused. He lowered himself back down into the chair. “I do not understand.”
“I can’t tell you everything,” Milton said. “But I have some other experience that makes me exactly the kind of person you need.”
Part 2
London
Chapter Seven
THE FOLLOWING DAY, when Milton returned home to his small flat after his morning run and opened up his laptop, there was an email waiting for him. It was from Samir. Milton had pressed him to speak to Cynthia and, to his surprise and pleasure, he read that Samir had spent half an hour with her and that she was going to take his application for asylum.
The email continued. Samir said that he was attaching the map that his sister had sent him. Samir explained again that his sister had located herself using the stolen phone.
Milton clicked on the file and a map opened up. The map was of Wanstead, a pleasant suburb to the east of the city, not far from Milton’s flat in Bethnal Green. Milton looked more closely. There, in the centre of the map, was the marker that denoted Nadia’s location.
Milton opened up his browser and navigated to Google Maps. He dropped the small icon on the A113, to the east of the Green Man roundabout, and waited for the Street View image to appear. He dragged the cursor around the screen and examined the area. There was a large twenty-four-hour emergency veterinary practice that had been established within a large Victorian villa; a petrol station; a busy road, with cars parked half on the pavement and half off it; and, beneath a screen of leafy trees, a small apartment block at number 103. Milton squared the view so that he could look directly at the building and zoomed in. It was three storeys tall, the windows suggesting that there were four flats within. Each flat had a small Juliet balcony, and satellite dishes had been fixed to the walls. Access was via a porch on the ground-floor level, next to a row of garages that had been built adjacent to the main building.
It looked like any other apartment block, the kind of building that you could find in every London district. It was bland and nondescript, with no suggestion that it was used for anything other than accommodation.
Milton decided that he would pay it a visit.
Chapter Eight
MILTON HAD a beaten-up Volkswagen Polo parked outside his flat. He had bought it for five hundred pounds cash from a dealer on Autotrader.com. It was scruffy and far from comfortable to drive, but it had the benefit of being anonymous and would not stand out during surveillance. He drove east, through Hackney and Homerton, until he was on the A12.
It was two in the afternoon when he came off the roundabout and found the road that he had looked at on his computer. He remembered the vet’s. It had a reasonably large car park and he indicated right and turned into it. There were half a dozen cars parked up, and he reversed the Polo into an empty space.
He got out of the car and looked around. The apartment block was opposite him. He walked back to the main road and crossed over. There was a small wall that separated the building’s grounds from the pavement and a flagstone path that led to the porch. Milton looked left and right. There were pedestrians on both sides of the road, but he was satisfied that none of them were paying him any attention. He followed the path to the porch. A sign fitted between two lanterns read AGINCOURT. The way inside was through a wooden door with two large glass panels; he put his palm against the frame and gave a gentle push, but the door was locked. There was a keypad set onto the wall to the right of the door.
He leaned forward, putting his face to the glass and cupping his hands around his eyes so that he could see better as he looked inside. There was a row of metal post boxes, a stack of Yellow Pages and clothes catalogues on the floor, and a table that held a dead plant in a small pot. A corridor led away from the porch and, inside, Milton thought he could make out a flight of stairs and the doors to the two ground-floor flats.
“Can I help you?”
Milton turned. An old woman was on the path behind him. She was carrying two heavy plastic bags that were crammed full of shopping and she was looking at him with suspicion.
“Good morning,” he said, putting a smile onto his face. “I’m doing customer research. I was really hoping to speak to someone inside the block, but no one is answering.”
“Customer research? For who?”
“Sky. I don’t suppose you would mind speaking to me?”
She glanced down at her bags. “I’ve just done my shopping.”
“I’ve only got a few questions. It’ll take five minutes.”
She paused, considering his offer. Milton gave her another smile. “Those look heavy,” he said, nodding down at the bags. “Let me help you take them inside.”
“I suppose I could answer a few questions,” she said. “Do you have a card?”
“I do, but I’m afraid I left it in the car. Do you need me to go and get it?”
She looked at him shrewdly. “Is there any money involved?”
“There is, actually,” Milton said. “Ten pounds.”
“Well then,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me that? Let’s get inside.”
Milton stooped down to collect her shopping as she stepped up to the keypad. He watched as she entered the code—5396—and heard the buzz as the lock disengaged.
“This is a nice street,” he said as he followed her into the lobby.
“It’s all right,” she said, opening the post box for number three and checking to see whether anything had been left inside. “Been here twenty years. It’s changed.”
“How?”
“The neighbours,” she said. “You used to know everyone. Used to be invited in for tea and a biscuit, for a chat—you don’t get none of that no more. Don’t hardly know who I’m sharing the building with. That’s the way of the world these days, though, isn’t it? Progress.”
“I suppose so,” Milton said.
The woman’s flat was on the first floor. She climbed the stairs, stopping on the half-landing to catch her breath, and then continued up. They reached the landing. The stairs continued up to the second floor, but she led the way into a dark corridor with two doors facing each other. The doors bore brass numerals: three and four. The woman took a key from a string that she wore around her neck and unlocked the door to number three.
The flat inside was larger than Milton had expected. The door opened onto a long corridor with doors to the left and right and a large lounge at the end. Milton guessed that at least two of the doors were for bedrooms.
“Bring those through here,” the woman said, heading into the kitchen. It was a long, thin room with cupboards and a fridge-freezer on the longer walls and an oven at the far end.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
The kitchen
was spacious, with modern appliances. “It’s John Smith,” he said.
“I’m Emily. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely.” He put the bags down on the counter. “Do you mind if I quickly use the bathroom?”
“Of course not. Just down the corridor. Next to the sitting room.”
Milton left her in the kitchen and made his way down the corridor. The doors to his left and right were ajar, and he pushed them open a little so that he could confirm that they were bedrooms. Both rooms were of decent size. He reached the sitting room, nudged that door open, and noted that it, too, was spacious.
He went into the bathroom, waited a moment, and then flushed the toilet and returned to the kitchen. Emily was pouring hot water into two mugs.
“Sugar is over there,” she said, pointing to the counter.
“Not for me,” Milton said. He paused for a moment as he considered the best way to bring the conversation around to the topic he was most interested in. “Can I ask what you meant when we were downstairs, Emily? About how it’s changed here?”
She leaned back against the counter, her mug clasped in both hands so it could warm them. “It’s like I was saying, John, how this place ain’t like what it used to be. The flat downstairs, number two—take that for an example. There’s a lot of men coming and going there all hours of the day. You see them standing outside sometimes, like you were when I saw you.”
“Why are they doing that?”
“Well, I don’t like to gossip,” she began, although Milton could see from the ease with which she opened up on the subject that gossip was one of her remaining pleasures in life. “But it’s obvious, ain’t it? That used to belong to a nice old lady. Sweet old dear, she was, until she passed away. Whoever bought it, they’ve turned it into a brothel. There’ve been times when I’ve gone down the stairs to get my post or go out and I’ve heard them at it, through the door, like bloody animals. Like I said—all hours, day and night.”
“Who owns it?”
“Foreigners,” she sneered dismissively. “Poles. Eastern Europeans. One of them lot. Can’t tell you no more than that. Wouldn’t even want to know.”
“How many people are in the flat?”
“I don’t know,” she said. Her salaciousness subsided as she realised something was not as it ought to be. “Wait a minute. I thought you said this was market research?”
“It is,” Milton said. “Sort of, anyway.”
“What are you? Police?”
Milton replaced the half-finished mug of tea on the counter, took out his wallet and withdrew a ten-pound note. “Thank you,” he said, leaving the note on the counter next to the mug. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Who are you?” she said as she reached out and took the note. “You said you were from Sky.”
“I’ll see myself out.”
Milton left the kitchen, glanced up and down the corridor one final time, and left the flat. He descended to the ground floor and, instead of walking straight ahead to the door and the road outside, he turned right, into the darkened corridor. There were two doors, each marked with the same brass numerals that he had seen upstairs: here, though, it was one and two.
The door to number two was behind a hinged iron cage. There was a small camera angled down from the wall at the end of the corridor and a peephole in the door. It would be impossible to get inside without the occupants knowing about it.
Milton didn’t believe that he was visible to the camera, but he had no desire to dawdle. He turned back and made for the door. The old woman, Emily, was standing on the half-landing, glaring down at him.
He opened the door and stepped down onto the path. A man turned off the pavement and started toward the door. He was dressed in a suit with a grey overcoat and polished black shoes. Milton stepped aside to let him pass. The man saw him and froze.
“Hello,” Milton said.
A look of pure panic broke over the man’s face. Milton read him at once: someone from the city, headed east for an illicit assignation. The man glanced down at his feet, turned, and went back in the direction from which he had arrived.
Chapter Nine
THE MAN WALKED TO THE NORTHWEST. Milton remembered the geography of the area from his online exploration last night: this road ended at a crossroads with the High Street. To the left was Snaresbrook station; to the right, a little farther, was Wanstead station. Both were on the Central Line, two separate branches that diverged at Leytonstone.
Milton guessed that the man would go left to the nearer station and take a train back into the city.
He followed.
The man passed an almshouse for the elderly and then a series of large Victorian villas that Milton guessed would be worth in excess of a million pounds each. They passed a block of flats from the sixties and an Indian restaurant that had been set up in an old pub.
The man looked back and saw Milton behind him. He walked faster. Milton kept up the pace. He looked ahead. They were approaching a taller block of flats. It was set back from the road, separated from it by a residents’ car park.
Milton hurried and closed the distance.
The man turned again.
“What do you want?” the man called back.
Milton followed.
“Leave me alone.”
Milton was close now and jogged the final few metres. He reached out with his right hand and grabbed the man around the fleshy part of his left arm, just above the elbow. He found the pressure point and dug into it with his thumb. The man squealed with pain and was helpless as Milton guided him off the pavement and into the car park. There was a red and white security bar that blocked access, but Milton led the man around it until they were up against the side of the building itself. There was a brick enclosure where the building’s large industrial waste bins were kept. Milton shoved the man into it. They wouldn’t be seen from the road now.
The man looked out of place, up against the foul-smelling bins and dressed in his obviously expensive suit.
“Get away from me!” he said.
“No,” Milton said. “I don’t think so.”
“I’ll call the police.”
“Go on, then,” Milton said. He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He dialled 999.
“What are you doing?” the man said.
“Calling the police. Better think about what you’re going to say. Maybe that I’ve been following you from the brothel you were about to visit?”
Milton pressed dial and put the call on the speaker.
The operator’s voice was audible: “What service do you require?”
The man looked dumbfounded.
Milton muted the microphone. “We both know why you were there,” he said.
“What service do you require?”
“You can speak to the police if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” He offered the phone. “Here. All yours.”
“Get away from me.”
The man tried to sidestep him, but he was too slow to react as Milton ended the call, reached out with his left hand and caught him around the wrist. Milton turned and pressed into him with his right shoulder, forcing him up against one of the bins and, with him pinned there and helpless, he reached into the man’s jacket with his right hand and found his wallet. He took it out and stepped away.
“What are you doing?”
Milton flipped open the wallet and took out the contents. There was a driving licence in the name of Richard Astor, several credit cards in the same name, a security card for Percy, Smith & Williams, and a South West Trains season ticket.
“Well, then, Richard. I have a name to go with a face now. I’ve heard of Percy, Smith & Williams. It’s a law firm, isn’t it? What’s their line on their staff using prostitutes?”
The scale of Astor’s predicament finally dawned on him. “What do you want?”
Milton dropped the cards, the ticket and the licence on the ground, and Astor knelt down and scrabbled for the
m amid the rotting trash. Milton splayed the wallet open and took out the remaining items. There was a tightly folded wad of banknotes; Milton opened the wad and thumbed through the six fifties.
“You want money?” Astor said as he looked up, desperation in his voice. “Fine. Take it.”
The last thing in the wallet was a folded piece of paper. Milton took it out and unfolded it. It had the word “Agincourt” and a telephone number written on it.
“Agincourt,” Milton said. “That was above the door, wasn’t it? Who’d answer the phone if I called this number?”
“No,” Astor said. “Please don’t do that.”
Milton took out his phone again. “Who, Mr. Astor? Shall I call and ask them?”
“Please,” he begged. “I’ll tell you whatever you want. Please. Just don’t call them.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re dangerous.”
Milton put the phone back into his pocket. “Go on, then. Who are they?”
“I don’t know. They’re Eastern European. I don’t know where from.”
“How many times have you been there?”
“Four times.”
“Names?”
“The guy there is called Drago.”
“Surname?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything else about him.”
“Describe him.”
“Big. Lots of tattoos. Shaven head. He doesn’t say much.”
“What about the girls?”
He squirmed a little. “There were three last time.”
“Keep going.”
“I don’t know anything about them.”
“What about the one that you saw?”
“Her name is Nadia.”
Astor was still on his knees. Milton reached down for him, grabbed him by the lapels, and hauled him up. He pushed him back against the bins and held his forearm across his throat. He pressed. “Describe her.”
“She’s black. Young. Twenty, twenty-one. Pretty.”
“When was this?”
“Last week,” he choked out.
