All that Glitters

by Les Cowan

  “Sure. We’ll drive back, then I’ll take a wander and let you get on with things.”

  David’s laptop hadn’t been returned yet by whatever CID boffin was crawling all over it or he might have spent the time doing a bit of work himself; instead, limited to email on his phone, he decided to find a quiet bar and just pick up his messages. He particularly wanted to see how Juan and Mrs MacInnes were coping, given that their pastor had yet again been plucked from their midst with very little notice. If they had been paying him they might have been looking at a clawback, but since they weren’t they couldn’t complain. However, complain Juan did. David sat in the dying evening sun on the terraza of the cafetería Linares sipping a chilled glass of Albariño and smiled at Juan’s message. David, he started without embellishment. I look forward to the day when you are no longer subject to criminal attacks and might want to think about pastoring a church. Mrs MacInnes must have been helping him with the English. He could see her standing at his shoulder with a mischievous smile, tutoring him on Scottish sarcasm. By the time this day arrives – if ever – I will myself have accumulated sufficient experience of the task, between short breaks running a restaurant, to offer some advice. My first suggestion would be to appoint a reliable second in command who can take over at a moment’s notice without pay, guidance, oversight, training, or support. Failing this I would emigrate to Argentina and not come back. Then he seemed to think the joke had gone far enough and flipped back to normal mode. Seriously, David, hope all well in Galicia. No obvious progress here. The police seem to all be on holiday or have other urgent emergencies. Sam was ok at the funeral yesterday. PGC still seems to be closed and not coming back. Sandy and Sonia Benedetti came to church at Southside this morning. I’ll let you know if there’s any news. Besos a la señorita de mi parte.

  Well, if that was the worst thing in his inbox, then maybe he could keep on relaxing and leave Gillian to her prep. He ordered another Albariño and was about to start leafing through the weekend edition of Voz de Galicia when his phone pinged with something else coming in. There wasn’t usually much spam on Sunday evenings so he flipped it open and read.

  To: David Hidalgo

  From: Andrei Navitski

  Subject: PGC Church, Tatiana Garmash URGENT

  That got his attention. The Linares waitress came with the Albariño and set it down with a tapa of sardines but he didn’t notice.

  Dear David Hidalgo Sir

  My name is Andrei. I have not had the pleasure for contact you before. I live in Belarus. Please forgive my Inglish. It is a matter of urgency I contact you. I get your address from a hacker in Minsk, Rudi, who have it from a hacker in edinburgh name Spade. I think you know. Rudi say me that you ask Spade help you find men who killed your friend. They put pictures on his computer to explain police. Spade tell you this was by a virus from PGC. This virus made by Rudi though he did not mean for killing. I hope you understand me. PGC pretend to be church by they are not church. They take girls of Belarus to the west for putting in business of sex. My friend Tati (Tatiana) one of these. She give much money to men for job in the west but no is job. Only they make to do sex. They bring them for sex house in edinburgh. No one can leave, no contact no one. Tati find your name in a list in the office. She worried they to kill you too. Police no help many police use girls as well. Tati say to trust only David H: Pastor. She does not know who is David H: Pastor but she is able send me a letter. I go to Rudi. He tell me he has message from Spade says me who you are. I want help Tati and others. She says me she is worried they kill all the girls when is finish. You live Edinburgh. Maybe you know police you can trust. Tati not allowed out of house only for shopping with a man, Mikhail. Tati is not know where is her house or other houses. She send me a plan to say you. This week Thursday she thinks they do shopping. Main street. Shop called Sally. Afternoon. Not sure what o’clock. If you can be shop Sally Thursday in afternoon look for her. If possible she be there. She look for you. Thank you David Pastor if you can help us. Tati is my best friend. I miss her. Please say me what you can.

  Your friend

  Andrei

  David laid his phone down and looked about him. He couldn’t believe what he’d just read. His name was being discussed in Minsk. It was on a hit list held by PGC. It was mentioned in a letter from a brothel in Edinburgh to a hacker in Belarus – or was it to a friend in Belarus who then took it to a hacker in Minsk? But whatever, this claimed that police in Edinburgh – surely not all of them – some police officers in Edinburgh were involved with organized crime, people trafficking, and prostitution. Tati, whoever she was, was trying to warn him through Andrei with extra information from Rudi, who got it from Spade. David felt his head beginning to spin and not from the drink. He left the second Albariño untouched, dropped a few Euros on the table and headed back to O Retorno.

  Gillian looked up from her laptop and gave him a welcoming smile when she heard the door open, then she saw his expression.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  He showed her the email without comment.

  “I have to go back to Edinburgh,” he said. “Right now. Sorry.”

  “How’s it going?” Sarah Dalrymple asked her husband as she came through to the lounge with the phone in her hand. James Dalrymple had a copy of various Edinburgh telephone directories spread out on the coffee table and a notepad and pencil on the arm of the chair.

  “Not too promising,” he replied. “According to Google, Pastor is a surname, mainly in Latin America and the United States. There are three in Edinburgh and the Lothians though. ‘B. Pastor’ – B for Begonia, ‘F. Pastor’ – F for Frederick, and ‘W. Pastor’ – W for Wilfred. ‘B’ and ‘W’ had not the slightest clue what I was talking about. ‘F’ was out so I left a message. How about you?”

  “Ask a woman,” Sarah said, a little smugly, and held out a number. “Gordon says there are only two Davids he knows of who are pastors in Edinburgh with the second initial H. David Henderson is coming up for retirement and is on long-term sick leave with cancer so he couldn’t help even if it was him. The other is a David Hidalgo. Only been around for about a year. Previously had a church in Spain but grew up in Edinburgh. Apparently he’s made a bit of a splash already. Southside Fellowship in Newington. Gordon met him at a pastoral care conference. Southside seems to be doing well, which people Gordon has spoken to put down largely to Hidalgo’s ministry. But the weird thing is that he’s barely back in Edinburgh after looking for a teenager who was abducted by a drug gang and taken off to Spain. So if it’s crime-busting you’re looking for, David Hidalgo may be your man.”

  James Dalrymple took the phone, thinking this must be what cross-channel swimmers would feel like just before the plunge. They’d prepared as well as they could, rubbed on all that goose fat, got the support team in place, but nothing could really prepare them for the cold grey waters, rough chop, crosswinds, squally showers, or numbing cold. He had a Belarusian girl in the spare bedroom who claimed she’d been part of a sex-trafficking ring tolerated and patronized by police. She had just recovered from attempted murder and maintained that the only person she trusted to help her was in Edinburgh. He had no reason not to take at face value everything she had said, but it still sounded so incredible that he wasn’t sure how exactly he could start a conversation with a stranger on the subject. Still, Elvira was clearly worried that something was going on that made it imperative that David H: Pastor be contacted immediately. So here it was – final handshake with the swim support team and into the water we go. He dialled the number and heard it ring.

  David Hidalgo stopped packing shirts and socks back into the case they had just come out of and picked up his mobile. A UK call but not a known number.

  “Hello, David Hidalgo. Yes I am. What? Yes, I’ve had something to do with them. I see. Well, funny you should call right now…”

  It took only a matter of seconds for both men to realize this was a missing-link conversation. To get any handle on PGC,
David knew they needed someone who had got out, someone who could say what was going on from their own experience, particularly with respect to the police. Dalrymple knew he needed someone outside of their immediate situation to confirm what Elvira had said. David put the call on speakerphone for Gillian to hear and they spoke for almost an hour. If there was something she felt was missing she jotted it down on a Post-it and put it on the dresser where David was sitting. A picture began to emerge as James explained Elvira’s story. Young, inexperienced girls from Eastern Europe hoping for a better future in the midst of economic meltdown were tricked into a life of servitude and slavery in a foreign capital far from home, with no friends or connections, no passport, no money, no liberty, little language, and soon little hope, dominated and controlled by men with a long criminal background who knew exactly what to do and say to control not only their bodies but also their minds. David found the story of Max’s book of good and bad particularly chilling. The effect was to make the girls want to please their clients to get a good report and a promise of an earlier exit – so they became motivated to do what was required of them and didn’t even need to be forced. It was diabolically perfect. James explained that Elvira was worried some kind of crisis or climax was coming, though she didn’t know what. David confirmed Tati’s existence from Andrei’s message and described the plan he was proposing, though he confessed he didn’t really get the details: a shop called Sally on Hanover Street some time in the afternoon of the forthcoming Thursday; Tati might or might not be there. He had no idea what shop it might be or how he was supposed to recognize a girl he had never met or seen. Of course she would not be unaccompanied – so a strong-arm minder or two, probably armed, given what they knew about PGC’s methods. And they couldn’t involve police since they were supposed to all be in cahoots. The whole thing sounded like a mountain of maybes.

  “So what are we reasonably certain of?” James Dalrymple asked, slipping into research mode, his phone also on speaker with Sarah listening in.

  “That PGC exists as a church,” David replied. “That its main purpose is to front a network of brothels with girls trafficked from Eastern Europe. That the guys in charge have a long history of this kind of thing and don’t hesitate to kill. That a police investigation is underway but seems to be stalling. That the church is now closed and the principals disappeared. So, at the very least, they know they’re going to have to move on. That one girl has managed to get out – Elvira – and another has managed to smuggle out a message. That’s Tati. That she seems to have access to a document with my name on it – probably not in complimentary terms. And that Tati has told her friend in Belarus that she thinks she’ll be taken on a shopping trip this Thursday to a shop called Sally on the main street – I suppose that must be Hanover Street – but we don’t know what Tati looks like and we don’t know the shop.”

  “Winters,” said a voice. “The shop is going to be Sally Winters.”

  “Sorry, who’s that?” Dalrymple asked

  “I’m Gillian Lockhart, a friend of David’s. I’m sure the shop will be Sally Winters on Hanover Street.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” another female voice put in. “This is Sarah Dalrymple.”

  “And what’s Sally Winters when it’s at home?” David asked.

  “Lingerie and sex toys,” Gillian explained.

  “Oh, I see,” he commented dryly. “Maybe that would make sense.”

  “Yes. Things of sex.”

  “Who’s that?” David asked as yet another female voice joined what was becoming quite a confusing conversation.

  “I am Elvira. I hear you talking so I come. Sex is right. When a girl go shopping they come with new underwear and toys. Some horrible things. You have to use with men who come. Tati will go shopping. Then you have a chance to get her.”

  “But how are we supposed to know who she is?” David persisted.

  “Easy,” Elvira said. “Tati is my best friend. I will show.”

  “So that’s it?” Gillian asked. “So much for our romantic break.”

  “I’m sorry,” David replied wearily. “What else can I do?”

  They were back outside, sitting on the terraza of El Cantón on Plaza de España in the centre of the town, cañas in front of them along with a large platter of wafer thin jamón, a dish of olives, and some chunky local bread.

  Gillian popped in an olive and took a sip of her beer.

  “If you’d asked me a year ago if I fancied being a crime fighter’s girlfriend the idea might have seemed quite appealing. It turns out to be not as much fun as you’d think.”

  “And nobody asked me if I wanted a part-time job fighting crime,” David agreed. “It’s ironic. People who think they’ve got boring lives want more excitement. We’ve had our fill of excitement and just want to be boring.”

  “Well, perhaps not exactly boring. I’d settle for normal.”

  “Define normal.” David smiled and squeezed her hand. “All I’d say is that even this normal is better than normal was a year ago. We have our own plans. Apparently your dad approves of us. And you can’t say we’re not meeting interesting people.”

  “That’s for sure. Speaking of interesting, what do you think of Sandy and Sonia turning up at Southside?”

  “I actually find it encouraging. They’ve both been hurt and deceived but they don’t seem to automatically want to throw the baby out with the bath water. Sandy told me about what they’d gained from PGC as well as the other side of things. He felt he’d connected with his faith in a new way and that it had probably saved their marriage.”

  “Wheat and tares.”

  “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “Personally, considering the amount of misery this whole thing has caused, if anything good comes out of it, that has to be a bonus.”

  Just then a tall man in a white linen jacket and smart jeans approached their table.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I was overhearing you. Please forgive. You are English? Yes?”

  “Well, Scottish actually. But English speakers.”

  “Well,” the man continued hesitantly, “we were wondering. We have in Ribadeo a group to chat in English. But the couple who started us – they are teachers of English here and also from Scotland – they have had to leave us for a time. So we have no one. I am Belgian but all the others are Spanish. If you wouldn’t mind we would be very pleased if we could invite you to join us for a little time. We are there.” He gestured towards a group of eight or nine gathered around two tables pulled together and now smiling and looking expectantly in their direction. David looked at Gillian, eyebrows raised. She shrugged, then smiled.

  “Ok, I don’t see why not.”

  They began gathering up their drinks and plates. David’s phone buzzed again.

  “Not another one,” he groaned. “Can they not just leave me alone for a bit?” He tapped a few times to open the message then began to laugh in a release of tension.

  “Listen to this,” he said and held the phone up. The unmistakable hook from “La Bamba” started up and a voice began to sing “Bamba, La bamba, Bamba, La bamba”.

  Gillian looked puzzled.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t get that.”

  “It’s a message from Spade,” David explained, looking down at the screen. “He says, ‘Hope all going well and you are fighting the good fight. Andrei and Rudi send their best. Bank accounts as frozen as Siberia. Thought you might enjoy this.’”

  “‘La Bamba’?” Gillian asked, still in the dark.

  “It’s a joke,” David explained. The lead guitarist of the band that had a hit with ‘La Bamba’, Los Lobos, is called David Hidalgo. I think he’s telling us to cheer up – we’re on the right track.”

  Chapter 22

  CORSTORPHINE

  David Hidalgo spent most of the flight back from Santiago to Edinburgh via Heathrow trying to remember what DI McIntosh looked like. He and Gillian had discussed the situation deep into the pre
vious night. What a mess. It was one thing to be righteously indignant that a criminal gang was hiding behind a church with all the deception that involved; it was something else when you had a personal connection with a direct victim. Then there was the fact that those paid to protect us and enforce the law were hand in glove with the criminals and apparently lapping it up. It was beyond belief or comprehension. Clearly everything that could be done should be done, but David Hidalgo could not get his head around the fact that once again the matter had come to him. Why to him, for goodness’ sake? Why not to some other concerned citizen with more aptitude and better connections? Wasn’t he due a bit of a break and some peace and quiet? Was it just another “simple twist of fate” or was there some unseen hand behind it, moving, guiding, directing? Not so much a deus ex machina as Dios en la machina. Well, it had also come to James Dalrymple and that was something. Apparently he wasn’t the only unwilling recipient of dastardly deeds.

  As David and Gillian had argued back and forth about what to do now, two conclusions seemed to stand out. Firstly, David had to return to Edinburgh alone and, secondly, there didn’t seem to be any way of helping without involving the police. Tati and Elvira had both been insistent that the police were actually the enemy but surely that couldn’t be true – at least surely not every single policeman or CID officer in the entire city. Perhaps they should have stayed longer at the case conference to see what the specific plan of campaign was supposed to be. Gillian’s point had been that the investigation was not secure, but what Tati and Elvira had said was that it wasn’t secure because certain officers were playing for the other team. In this case it actually was conspiracy rather than cock-up. But surely not everybody. Neither of them had been impressed with DCI Stevenson’s bullying, blustering, patronizing manner. Thompson they knew better and generally liked but he didn’t exactly seem to be Mr Dynamic either. But McIntosh had come over a bit differently: calm, thoughtful, reasoned, and not intimidated by the atmosphere of the meeting. David wasn’t sure if the obvious hostility to his presentation was simply the usual career cop’s disdain for a jumped-up colleague with academic pretensions and accelerated promotion or something more sinister. Maybe those on the inside knew that McIntosh wasn’t one of them and were also hostile for that reason. If they were users of illegal sexual services, maybe all his talk of the explosion in online pornography and how that fed into real-life prostitution and trafficking rubbed them up the wrong way. Maybe it was both conventional and personal. So, if there had to be some police involvement, then maybe McIntosh was the only way in. They decided to take a risk, trust their hunch, and see what happened – there didn’t seem to be any alternative.