‘What about the jewellery?’
‘What jewellery?’
‘All right, sod it. Tell me who you bought the radio from and I’ll see if I can negotiate the CPS down to handling stolen goods.’
‘I don’t remember, it was dark . . .’
Interview three – Harry Jacobs, thirty-four; handling stolen goods. Smart two-piece suit, clean shirt, smells a bit like a strip club:
‘Good morning, officers.’
‘Mr Jacobs, what do you know about the recent burglaries?’
‘Which burglaries?’
Jessica wished she still wore glasses, because if she did, she would have peered over the top of them in a withering way. As it was, she was left with giving him a scornful glance that was definitely not withering. ‘Shall we do away with the forced niceties? I’m sure you’ve got stolen goods to buy and I’ve got a sausage roll with my name on it.’
‘Are you referring to the burglaries which have been in the news?’
‘Congratulations – with powers of deduction like that, we should swap jobs.’
‘I don’t know anything about those.’
‘Oh come on, an upstanding member of the scumbag society like you must know something. What was it last time? Breaking into people’s homes in the week before Christmas and nicking kiddies’ presents? That’s low by anyone’s standards.’
‘I’ve done my time for that.’
‘Yeah, yeah. You’ve turned over a new leaf and you only buy nicked stuff for the other fifty-one weeks of the year now. Just tell us what you know and we’ll get you on your way.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘You must have heard something – word on the street that someone’s got a bit of jewellery to shift. All you’ve got to do is point the finger and we’ll leave you alone for a week or two.’
Jacobs shifted backwards in the seat. ‘I really don’t have to sit here and listen to this.’
‘True but not cooperating with the police looks a bit shifty. That suit of yours looks a bit too new for my liking – has one of your mates been nicking from Marks and Sparks again?’
‘I’ve probably still got the receipt at home if you want to come around and check.’
He started to stand but Jessica waved him back down. ‘All right, all right . . . sit down and let’s go back to the beginning.’
As lunchtime approached, Jessica and Izzy sent the morning interviewees home and compared notes while DI Franks went to the toilets – presumably the men’s, although no one seemed quite sure.
Jessica and Archie had spoken to six people and although they’d got a name from Kieran Broadheath of the person he bought a stolen radio from, they hadn’t come up with anything in relation to the main inquiry. Izzy had gone through seven interviews, with Franks and Dave getting through five. They had a similar number to get through during the afternoon but it wasn’t getting them anywhere. The people who had raided the three houses knew what they were doing, even if Jessica wasn’t quite sure what their plan was in regards to the jewellery and cash. The criminals the police were getting in were those stupid enough to get caught and, in the case of Kieran Broadheath, stupid enough to keep getting caught.
Harry Jacobs was a grade-A scumbag but Jessica did believe him when he said he’d heard nothing about the burglaries. Of all the suspects they were wheeling in, it was those who had convictions for handling stolen goods that interested her the most. They were the people who knew others in ‘the trade’.
All in all, a complete waste of a morning.
Jessica checked the time, told Archie she’d be back as soon as she could – and then headed off to Longsight.
13
Jessica waited in the car park at Longsight Police Station and grinned as the woman got out of her smart BMW and approached.
‘Hello, stranger,’ Esther Warren said, giving Jessica a hug. They had first met investigating a missing child a few years ago and, more recently, Jessica had been standing next to Esther when she was in charge of policing a public event at which a politician had been attacked. ‘Why do we only ever get together when you’re in trouble?’ Esther added, releasing her.
‘The way I remember, last time you had the Home Secretary gunning for you and I was trying to poke my nose in.’
Esther was wearing a crisp grey jacket and tight-fitting matching trousers. Her long brown hair was straight and tied back. She looked every inch the efficient, articulate modern female officer. They were a similar age yet Jessica couldn’t but feel she wasn’t looking quite so good, especially considering her eye was partly black and the graze above her brow had barely begun to heal.
‘This is Katerina,’ Esther said, turning to a slightly younger blonde woman who was walking around from the passenger’s side. ‘She does a lot of consulting for us over Eastern European affairs.’
Jessica led them into the station and found a corner in the canteen, warning the other two women not to try the food if they valued their health. Although, if either of them wanted to go on a crash diet, then risking anything other than toast would probably leave them spending a few days on a toilet. Jessica bought three teas from the machine and then settled back at the table, turning to Esther. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw your name on that press release about a new people smuggling division being set up. After the debacle with the public event policing, I thought you were going to find something less stressful to do – like being a drugs mule in south-east Asia.’
‘I would have preferred that to continuing in my old job. I absolutely hated it.’ Esther lowered her voice slightly, even though there was no one else around them. ‘I heard about Adam . . .’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Are you sure, I suppose I didn’t expect you to be . . . back.’
‘I’m fine.’
Jessica spoke more forcefully than she meant to, ending the conversation. Esther carried on as if it hadn’t happened. ‘With the whole Pratley report and me wanting to leave, it all happened at the same time. People were retiring left, right and centre trying to avoid the fallout. I heard a whisper from someone I know at Serious Crime that they were looking into setting up some sort of hybrid people smuggling-vice-exploitation thing, so I sent an email to the bloke who was putting it together. I had the panel that week and then it was all done in under a month.’
‘Under a month? They can barely get the bins emptied that often.’
‘I know – it must be a record. Anyway, this is Katerina and she works with me.’
Jessica explained to Katerina about the previous day – Sam’s complaint, the man who had bolted out of the upstairs flat, the woman she suspected was called Ana, and the huge man who had ‘fallen’ down the stairs.
Katerina listened intently. ‘Have you been on any of the vice courses?’
Jessica nodded.
Her accent was hard to place, slightly East European but a little more delicate than some of the Slavic ones. ‘You’re probably aware of how these things work then,’ Katerina added. ‘Girls are brought over from former Eastern Bloc countries: Poland, the Czech Republic, Hungary, Romania, Ukraine – plus some of the old Yugoslav nations: Serbia, Croatia and so on. Poland isn’t so bad now because it’s a full member of the EU and we have better ties with their police, plus our intelligence is stronger. There’s still a problem, though. Young women are essentially groomed over there. They’re promised there’s a job waiting for them in the UK and then they’re brought over. Some come in illegally, hidden on boats or lorries, some of the Polish girls fly in like normal visitors. They think they’re coming in for a new life.’
Katerina sipped her tea and winced.
‘Sorry,’ Jessica said. ‘The machine tea’s bloody awful. I think I’m immune to it.’
‘Anyway,’ Katerina continued, ‘as soon as they get here, they find out they’ve been brought in by a gang. It’s always a man, so it wouldn’t surprise me if the person who fell down the stairs is known to us when you get your results ba
ck. Of course, knowing who someone is and stopping them are two different things. These girls are told that they owe money for being transported in and that they have to work to earn it back. They have their passports taken and then the men use them as prostitutes. They never end up repaying the money because of all the interest that gets added on. Some of them are charged for “board and keep”. The gangs are never done with them.’
‘What happens?’
‘Sometimes they get away; sometimes we rescue them. Other times, they get sold on to other gangs around the country, or in Europe. It’s a big problem in the Netherlands too. If they get too old, or if they have too many health problems, then they get dumped in the middle of nowhere. The men in charge will sometimes get them hooked on drugs, which keeps them coming back.’
‘Our girl downstairs had no signs of anything in her system.’
‘That’s one thing. This has been going on for years but it’s only now the police forces are beginning to put teams together to tackle it. If she is called Ana with one “N”, then she’s probably Ukrainian, perhaps Romanian. It’s a common name in Serbia too – but I’d be surprised if she’s found her way this far north if that was the case. London’s a far bigger hotspot.’
‘I said that we could protect her from whoever she’s scared of.’
Katerina shook her head, giving a motherly half-smile. ‘You don’t understand – these girls probably trust the men more than they trust you. It’s awful what they go through but at least they’re getting food, water and drugs from them. The biggest problem in the Netherlands wasn’t necessarily that all these young women were being brought in; it was that the local police were all using the brothels too. As soon as someone escaped and went to the police, a certain proportion would take them straight back to the gang masters in return for some freebies. Things are a lot better there now but, true or not, a lot of these girls will have a negative view of the police officers in their own countries.’
Jessica knew first-hand there were shifty officers in all countries – it wasn’t a solely continental problem.
After passing across the few details they had, Jessica set up the interview room and then waited in the adjacent observation room as Esther and Katerina arranged their papers before Ana was led in, still in handcuffs. She was clearly confused, having presumably expected Jessica.
Katerina said something in a language Jessica didn’t know, which made Ana sit up straighter in her chair. She glanced between the two women, wondering if she was being tricked and shaking her head. Katerina continued speaking, sometimes harshly; other times she would relax into her chair and hold her hands out as if chatting to a mate in a pub. Ana’s body language altered too: at first she was pointing aggressively but she soon became more passive, holding her head in her hands.
After a few minutes, Katerina changed language. ‘So your name’s Ana and you come from Ukraine. I know you can understand English, so shall we speak it for the benefit of everyone else?’
Ana didn’t lift her head from her hands.
‘Who was the man in your flat?’
When there was no reply, Katerina switched languages again. Ana peered through her fingers but shook her head slightly. She was shaking.
‘Ana, do you know what deportation means? That’s what’s going to happen if you’re convicted for assaulting an officer. We’re going to have to check your documents anyway to see if you arrived here legally.’
Katerina repeated herself in the foreign language again – well, Jessica assumed that’s what she was doing – but this time there was a reaction. Ana began shaking her head quickly from side to side, her cuffs rattling against the table.
Katerina made hushing, soothing sounds. ‘Who knows where your family are, Ana?’
Jessica let things go for a few more seconds before whispering into Esther’s earpiece that they should end it there. Esther tapped Katerina on the wrist and they formally ended the interview, before Ana was taken back to the cells.
Afterwards, the three women sat in the interview room. Katerina looked concerned. ‘I tried to feed as much back to you as I could without disturbing her. She understands English but I’m not sure she can speak it that well. She didn’t know what deport meant until I said it in Belarusian.’
‘You said she was from Ukraine . . . ?’
‘Oh, she is. She might not have understood my accent. A lot of the key Ukrainian, Belarusian and Russian words are interchangeable. Many Polish words too – and Serbian and Croatian. It goes back to the old Soviet Union. A lot depends on where you’re born and where your parents come from originally. You can make people feel more comfortable if they realise you understand the nuances between the dialects. I suppose the nearest example is someone with a broad Scottish accent trying to speak to someone with a strong Welsh voice. They could both be speaking English but not understand what the other is saying. If you can mimic their own way of speech, the other person is more likely to open up.’
‘How many languages do you speak?’ Jessica asked.
‘I suppose that depends on whether you count things such as Belarusian as separate from Ukrainian – or if you think the whole lot is Slavic. Seven or eight core languages, I suppose – then I’m pretty good with the subtle Eastern Bloc differences.’
‘I can barely understand what half the street kids are on about nowadays, let alone knowing eight languages.’
Katerina shrugged. ‘All Ana would say was that “they” knew where her family was. From what I can gather, she’s here legally because she said she flew in – but it depends how deeply you want to look into things. Like I told you, it’s doubtful she has her own passport right now.’
Jessica rubbed the scrape next to her eye, aware again of the gouges prickling the bottom of her neck. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken when I said she attacked me. Now I think about it, I might have just been a little off-balance . . .’
14
Jessica led Esther and Katerina back through the corridors. ‘What are you going to do with Ana?’ Esther asked.
‘I’m not entirely sure. We’ll let her go this evening and I have an idea or two.’
Jessica was about to lead them through the station’s front door into the car park when she heard Pat calling after her. She turned: ‘What?’
‘I’ve got something for you.’
Jessica gave Esther a quick hug and said she’d be in contact with Katerina soon and then headed back to the main desk. ‘Are you sharing your crisps again?’
‘No chance. I’ve got your blood results from that place at Whitworth Park.’
‘Already? They only went off yesterday.’ Jessica peered through the glass door at the front, wondering if she should call Katerina back, but she and Esther were already in their car.
Pat handed Jessica over a cardboard folder. ‘I even printed them out for you.’
Jessica skim-read the top sheet but took none of it in. ‘Can you do me a really, really big favour?’
Pat’s eyes narrowed. ‘What?’
‘I’ve got to drive back to Bootle Street. If I put my phone on speaker in the car, can someone read this to me down the line?’
‘Do you think this is a listening library?’
‘C’mon, Pat – I’m running late as it is.’
Surprisingly, he agreed – presumably collaring an unsuspecting constable and sending him into a side office to read Jessica the file.
As it turned out, the reason the blood results had come back so quickly was because the person they came from was so well known to various police forces around the continent.
Pavel Adamek was a Serbian national who had arrived in the UK four years previously and had been on the fringe of trouble ever since. First he was convicted for driving without a licence, insurance or MOT certificate but that was the only time the police had nailed him for anything. After that, he’d been arrested after a bar was smashed up as part of a brawl between football fans a couple of years back but charges had been dropped due to a lack of evi
dence. Twelve months ago, he’d been at a house party where the owner was convicted of dealing cocaine and amphetamines – and then three months ago he had really messed up. A known drug dealer had been beaten to death, his body dumped in an Ancoats alleyway with bleach poured over his face and his teeth smashed. Unfortunately for Pavel, scrapings of his skin had been found underneath the dead man’s fingernails, meaning there was a warrant out for his arrest and a near-guaranteed conviction if they could find him.
Jessica’s mind wandered to the whiteboard in DCI Topper’s office and the how good it would have been to have a nice big tick next to her name for helping their neighbouring district find a murder suspect. If only Ana hadn’t jumped on her back, she’d have had him.
The drive from Longsight to Bootle Street wasn’t far but Jessica hit every red light and was only halfway there. ‘Does Pavel have anything else?’ she shouted at her phone.
She could hear the constable flicking to the next sheet. ‘A request has gone in to see if he has a separate criminal record in Serbia but that was from three months ago and it doesn’t look as if we’ve had a response yet.’
‘Can you give them a kick?’
‘I, er . . .’
‘Have a word with Pat – he’ll know who to talk to.’
‘There’s something else here too – he’s married.’
‘In Serbia?’
‘No, to an English girl. They looked into this when they were trying to find him for the murder.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Rosemary Dean – perhaps Adamek now, I suppose. There’s an address in Abbey Hey.’
Jessica had never taken to the bells and whistles of her previous car but at least the Bluetooth had been useful. She had wedged her mobile in the grille of the heater and put it on speaker phone. As she took a corner, it slipped but just about held in place. So far, so legal.
‘Can we send someone around there to make absolutely sure he’s not sitting at home watching Countdown before we start scouring the city for him?’
For Richer, For Poorer Page 9
