by Medina, KT
‘Who?’ Alex asked. ‘Who is coming to kill you?’
Uncurling the last finger, he pulled the pistol from Johnny’s grasp, ejected the magazine and the cartridge from the chamber, and slid them across the room.
‘Wh . . . white,’ Johnny muttered, groping after the pistol. ‘White Crocodile . . . trying to kill me.’
Alex met Johnny’s dull gaze and felt nothing beyond the throbbing pain in his side, and complete and utter exhaustion. He realised now how close to the edge he was. He looked at the sofa behind Johnny, wanted to curl up in those cushions, close his eyes and just shut down: no pain, nothing to resolve, no more fighting, no more dying.
‘White Crocodile wanted to kill me. Screwed up.’ Johnny made a strangled noise, deep in his throat. ‘Won’t screw . . . next time.’
Alex shook his head, but without conviction.
‘And I –’ Johnny started to choke; it sounded as if an obstruction in his throat was keeping him from catching his breath, ‘– deserved it.’
Alex’s gaze snapped back to Johnny’s face.
‘What the hell do you mean?’
Johnny cupped his hand over his bandaged stump. ‘It was a game,’ he whispered. ‘Playing. Playing with those dumb as fucking oxen women.’ His fingers turned white with the pressure of his grip. ‘Their fault, he said—’ Johnny gave a pathetic chuckle. ‘He said it was OK because their lives were shit anyway.’
‘What?’
Johnny let out a gasping sob. ‘Keav. I helped her, didn’t I?’
‘What did you just say?’
‘Keav. Keav. I helped her.’
‘Not Keav. You said something else. A man. Something about a man.’
‘A man?’
‘Yes. You said “he” – “he said it was OK because their lives were shit anyway.” Did you mean MacSween?’
‘MacSween?’ He looked wide-eyed, guileless as a baby.
‘Johnny. You said “he”—’
‘I didn’t.’ He shrank back against the sofa. ‘I didn’t kidnap anyone.’
Alex gritted his teeth.
‘Keav. I helped Keav, didn’t I? Didn’t I?’ Something had happened to Johnny’s face, like a curtain falling at the end of a play, bringing the action to a close. All expression was gone: mouth sagging and lifeless, blue eyes washed to nothing. ‘She hates me now, I know she does, but I helped her, didn’t I? She would have been a common whore if I hadn’t taken her in. I helped her, didn’t I?’
Alex felt jaded, angry, bone-deep exhausted and he knew he had lost it – that he wouldn’t get anywhere with Johnny tonight. ‘Yeah, you did. You helped her.’ You fucking prick.
‘I helped her. I know. I’m not so bad.’
*
His accent, thick Mancunian, was difficult to understand, interspersed with the manic crackle on the line.
‘You’re going to have to speak slowly, Detective Inspector. The line’s terrible.’
It had already taken five minutes of interruptions, of speaking over each other and of him twice threatening to put the phone down on this hoax call, for her to explain who she was and why she was calling. He was in the office, thankfully, and was able to Google ‘Mine Clearance Trust’ to check that it was a legitimate organisation and that she was who she said she was.
She glanced down at the fax in her hand. ‘Can you tell me more about the woman – Dien’s mother? Who she is? Where you met her?’
‘I went to a brothel.’ He sounded embarrassed. ‘Official, of course.’
‘Yes, of course.’ A pause. ‘And—’ she prompted.
‘This young Cambodian woman was working there. She couldn’t speak much English, but she showed me the photo of her little boy. Christ, he’s only four, just a baby.’ She heard him clear his throat; the tense dry cough of a machine gun. ‘Did you find him, love?’
‘Yes. He’s in an orphanage out here.’
‘Is he OK?’
She thought of Dien, curled up like a little dog on the grimy concrete floor, thinking, for that brief moment on waking, that he was still safe at home with his mother.
‘As OK as a kid in an orphanage out here can be.’
‘I see a lot of nasty stuff in my job, but I have to confess that that girl got to me. She really got to me.’ He paused and she could hear his terse, uneven breathing.
‘How did she wind up in a brothel in Manchester?’
‘We’re pretty sure that all the girls in the brothel and our murder victim were kidnapped and trafficked, though we need to interview them through interpreters to get a full picture. We think that our murder victim was in the process of being trafficked when she was killed. Tossed out of a private plane. We’ve known the drug-smuggling gangs have used them for years, shuttling between big European ports like Rotterdam and Manchester, bringing in heroin and cocaine. They have a ton of airport workers on the payroll. We arrest one and ten others crop up in their place.’ He gave a humourless laugh. ‘These gangs all diversify in time. Big business could learn a lot about diversification and developing new income streams from criminal gangs. I’m sure when I finally get to the bottom of this, I’ll find some of the familiar old drug-smuggling faces are involved in the trafficking of these women too.’ He paused. ‘We’ll probably never know why, but perhaps she became hysterical and fought with her traffickers. It finally occurred to me after listening to endless bloody planes roar over the patch of woodland she was found in. We’re following that line of enquiry at the moment. But it would really help me get justice for her if I could identify her.’
‘I’m sorry, and I know this sounds harsh, but there’s not much chance of that. Not without a better description. And even then you’d be very lucky to find her. It would take a lot of trawling around all the local villages with a photograph to have any chance.’
‘We don’t have a photograph.’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘What about a missing persons list?’
‘It’s not like that out here. They don’t keep track of missing persons. Too many people die of land-mine injuries, illness and poverty. They hold a funeral in their village, an open cremation in a field, and that’s it. No one keeps track.’
Beyond the line’s static crackle, Tess thought she heard the crunch of tyres on gravel.
‘Is there anything else, DI Wessex, before I go?’
He didn’t answer immediately. When finally he spoke, his tone was grave. ‘Look, love, I want you to listen to me. The people involved in human trafficking are entirely without morals or humanity. They enslave these women for money. Just for money. They beat them, rape them, mutilate them. Kill them if they step out of line. And these, as you know, are young, young girls. I appreciate your help, I really do, and if you find out who is running this trafficking operation from your end, you’ll be doing me a huge favour. But you must remember that these people won’t mind killing you, love, I promise that.’
‘I can’t stop now, but I’ll be careful.’
‘Wait, love, wait. There’s one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
At that moment, she noticed a change in the way the light fell on the landing outside Jakkleson’s office; a light had been switched on in the hallway downstairs.
‘DI Wessex—’
‘We went in a couple of hours ago, mob-handed.’ His voice was urgent. ‘Busted the place. We have fourteen women under our protection. But the woman I talked with originally – Dien’s mother – she wasn’t there. The brothel owner told us finally, after we exerted a bit of friendly pressure. He said that she’s dead. She killed herself.’ He made a bitter noise. ‘So that little boy of hers is now an orphan for real.’
*
Dr Ung was sheltering under a tree by the gate, waiting for them. Bathed for a moment in the Land Cruiser’s headlights, he looked tense and distracted. He was wearing his trademark suit trousers, shirt and tie, but the knot of the tie hung loose and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone revealing a pale, skinny chest. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the
headlights with one hand, he lifted the other in a listless greeting. Alex parked by the hospital building and walked back to join him, clasping his hand and shaking it before he spoke.
‘Johnny’s stump is infected,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘He cut his hand a couple of days ago and that’s also badly infected.’ He paused, rubbed a hand over his eyes, avoiding meeting Dr Ung’s gaze. ‘And he’s, uh, he’s mentally bad, very bad.’
‘He shot you?’ Dr Ung indicated the bloodstain covering the side of Alex’s shirt.
Alex nodded. ‘It’s only a graze.’
‘I was afraid that he would degenerate further mentally, but not to that extent.’
‘It’s worse than that.’
‘What?’
‘He killed his housekeeper. Shot her in the head.’
Dr Ung’s face displayed several dramatic changes as he listened. ‘You must tell the police, obviously, though I am sure they will do very little. Deaths of Westerners’ housemaids hold little interest for them. An occupational hazard, I’m sure they would call it. I will operate again first thing tomorrow morning, on both his leg and his hand. He can stay here until he recovers enough, and then it will be up to the police what happens to him.’
Alex nodded.
‘Help me get him into the hospital, Alexander, then let me clean you up.’
‘I’m fine,’ Alex said, more aggressively than he had meant to.
They faced each other for a moment.
‘Well at least go home and bandage that wound yourself, then get some sleep. I will take care of Johnny now.’
Johnny was slumped in the passenger seat, eyes rolling back in his head. Alex grabbed him under the arms and, staggering under the dead weight, hauled him out. With Dr Ung grasping one arm and Alex the other, an orderly his legs, they managed to carry him into his old room. The blast of the fan seemed to revive him for a moment because he opened his eyes. When he realised where he was, he started to struggle.
‘No,’ he muttered.
Dr Ung held his arm. ‘It’s OK, Johnny. You’re safe here.’ Dr Ung indicated to the orderly to hold Johnny down on the bed while he slid a line into his arm.
Johnny cried out: ‘Alex, help—’
Ignoring him, Alex turned away. Walked over to the window and looked out into the dark courtyard.
‘Alex, help me—’
Rain was hissing against the mosquito mesh. He could hear something loose banging out in the street. Dr Ung’s voice was raised.
‘Ketamine. Ketamine. Aylow.’ Now.
The sound of Johnny struggling faded; his voice died down.
Alex felt as if he could stand here all night, just looking at nothing.
Dr Ung called his name, and he turned reluctantly from the window.
‘I have given him a drip to help hydrate him,’ Dr Ung said. ‘It contains mild ketamine – only mild – just to calm him and help him sleep. As I said, I will operate first thing tomorrow morning. Come tomorrow evening, if you have time, but not before, please. Some time to rest alone after the operation will do him good.’
The orderly left, and Dr Ung held out his arm to shepherd Alex out of the room.
Alex hesitated. ‘Give me a minute.’
‘He will sleep all night with the ketamine.’
Alex nodded. ‘Just a minute. Please.’
Dr Ung looked irritated. ‘A minute.’ He laid a hand on Alex’s arm, the grip stronger than Alex would have expected given his slight frame. ‘But then I insist that you go home and get some sleep. And make sure that you put some proper disinfectant on that bullet wound.’ Turning, he left the room.
*
Tess placed the phone silently back into its cradle, looking at the doorway. There was nobody there. Slowly, she raised herself from the chair, sliding the legs back fraction by fraction so as not to make a sound. She had nothing to defend herself with, so she grabbed Jakkleson’s envelope opener, a gilded knife, five centimetres long, the national emblem of Sweden, three gold crowns, inlaid into its handle. It looked as if it wouldn’t be able to cut through butter, but it made her feel infinitesimally more secure.
She moved silently towards the doorway. Out on the landing, the air was cooler than in Jakkleson’s office, so that she shivered slightly. She had been right – the light in the hallway downstairs was on. Easing forward, she leaned over the banister.
Quiet.
‘MacSween?’
She stood motionless, counting to fifty.
‘MacSween?’
Still no answer. Only the blood pulsing in her ears. Cautiously, she made her way down the first few steps. Rounding the staircase on to the landing, she paused beneath the huge picture window. The moon hung low over the garden, casting her in a faint wash of light. The hallway below was empty, all the doors off it closed. She carried on down, one step at a time, walking at the very edge of each stair to minimise the potential for creaking, clutching Jakkleson’s letter opener in front of her. At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped and backed against the wall. She could hear a low humming sound.
‘MacSween?’ Her voice was threaded with panic and she hated herself for it. ‘Is that you?’
No reply. Just that rhythmic hum. She realised it was coming from the team room. The light was switched off, she could see that from the crack under the door.
‘MacSween?’
Oh, Christ.
As she pushed the door open, her heart was beating so hard in her chest that it hurt. She couldn’t see anything. The room was dark, but the hum was intense. And the smell was almost overpowering. Pressing her sleeve to her mouth, she fumbled blindly for the light switch. Found it and flicked it on. Why the hell isn’t the light— Something brushed against her face in the dark, and she jumped.
A fly, it’s only a fly.
Then there was another, and another.
*
Johnny looked dead. Alex stared down at his supine body, laid out on the bed. He was too wrecked, mentally and emotionally, to think clearly, but there was one question he still needed answering. Who had Johnny been talking about? Had he been talking about MacSween? Was Bob MacSween the White Crocodile?
Leaning over the bed, he shook Johnny by the shoulder.
‘Wake up.’
Johnny’s brow furrowed and he gave a little moue of dissatisfaction, but his eyes remained closed.
‘Johnny! For fuck’s sake wake up!’
His eyes opened a crack, fluttered closed, opened again, his pupils rolling around in his head as he focused blearily on Alex’s face.
‘Mate.’
‘Who did you mean when you said “he” back in your house? I need to know now.’
‘He?’ His lips formed the word but no sound came out.
‘You said: “He said it wasn’t so bad because their lives were shit anyway.”’
Johnny shook his head feebly and closed his eyes.
‘Johnny. Johnny!’
Alex straightened, trying to swallow his anger because he knew that if he lost his temper now he would annihilate any chance he had of dragging the truth out of Johnny. Suddenly he registered the clear sac at his eye level across the bed, its translucent hose trailing into Johnny’s arm. Still pumping Ketamine. Shit. Vaulting over the bed, he tore off the plaster and yanked the IV needle from Johnny’s forearm.
Johnny’s eyes snapped open.
Alex met his gaze. ‘I need to know, now.’
*
MacSween was there, sitting in the middle of the team room, on one of the stiff-backed chairs. He was facing her, she thought, could tell by the domes of his knees, and his shirt, the front of his black shirt – it was the front, because she could see his collar and the top button, but it was moving – why was it moving?
Oh, Jesus. The front of his shirt was moving; a black, crawling mass of flies.
She couldn’t see his face, because it’s too dark, she thought. Or maybe his head is tilted to the side. She tried to take a step forward, but her body wasn’t obeying order
s, and she just stood there, rooted to the spot, swaying on unsteady legs.
There was no face, she realised. There was a body – a body of rippling, feasting flies and nothing – nothing above.
And now she felt it.
The fear.
MacSween was dead.
He had been tied to a chair and someone had blown his head off with that gun, that P90, she recognised it now – the P90 that was lying near him, but not so near that he had shot himself and dropped it there. The same P90 that had killed Huan. A bullet that spun, a very sophisticated weapon, I would say.
But if MacSween really was the White Crocodile, then who had killed him?
A noise behind her and the light in the hallway went out.
55
‘Someone hated you enough to try to kill you, Johnny. Who was it, and why?’
‘I’m not involved,’ Johnny hissed. ‘Not any more.’
‘Not involved in what?’
Silence.
‘Not involved in what, Johnny?’
‘Trafficking,’ he muttered through clenched teeth.
Alex didn’t move. ‘Trafficking?’
Johnny gave an almost imperceptible nod.
‘Of women?’ Alex demanded. ‘You’re telling me that you were involved in human trafficking?’
Johnny nodded feebly.
Alex slammed his hands on the bed’s metal footboard. ‘Trafficking them where? To do what?’
‘Prostitution,’ he whispered. ‘We provided prostitutes to a criminal gang in Europe.’
‘Prostitution?’
Johnny squeezed his eyes closed.
‘You sell those women as slaves?’
‘I’m not involved any more. Couldn’t do it.’
Alex could feel his stomach knotting itself. The girl in the Land Cruiser, years ago now, but not one day went past without him thinking about her – he had the evidence scrawled over his arm. I bought her from one of your lot. Seventeen hundred dollars. Not cheap, but she’s a virgin. Jesus. He turned away, fighting to keep calm. ‘And you haven’t tried to stop it?’
