by Les Cowan
The police team gathered up all their papers and equipment. The changing corridor curtain was taken down. After Dimitri and Tati had disappeared, Elvira couldn’t stop jumping up and down and hugging everyone. “Tati! Tati!” she kept saying. “We get you out, we get you out!” James found himself getting a huge hug with everyone else and didn’t object. “Well done, Elvira,” he whispered in her ear. “You did well.” Nothing would have pleased him more than to meet Sarah in town and take them both to the best restaurant they could find. But maybe a shopping trip to Jenners, John Lewis, or M&S first: a complete new wardrobe, make-up, perfume, dresses, night things, proper underwear, sports stuff, casuals, the works. As her new adoptive family in Scotland and representative of her father in Belarus, he intended to take his responsibilities seriously, whatever it cost. He was not a poor man and nothing would give him more pleasure than hearing the plastic creaking under the weight of all the stuff Elvira had been denied for years. Every day would be her birthday now. And he also had a plan to repay whatever she had taken from her father with interest if it would restore relationships. But he knew that would be reckless right now. Until the girls were out and Max and Mikhail and whatever others he had heard mentioned but couldn’t remember all the names of – until they were all locked up for good, Elvira still had to not exist. He made her put the wig, glasses, and high-collared coat on again, then shook hands with David and DI McIntosh and headed out. It would have to be Chinese takeaway tonight. Though he didn’t know it, that was Elvira’s favourite.
David looked round the shop one last time as the SWAT team got their stuff together, high fiving, all smiles. It had been a triumph – not the final triumph but a triumph nevertheless. He couldn’t help feeling both a sense of elation and also a sense of anticlimax. Tati was real and he had shown that he was real too. He had met her, held her hand. Despite the temptation to run away and keep on running she had immediately understood what McIntosh was asking of her and agreed without hesitation. She was the real hero of what had just happened.
He felt a momentary pang and wasn’t sure what it was, then recognized it for the familiar, dull, numbing realization that he would never have a daughter like her – or like anyone. Or a son either. Well, that was old news. He braced up and took a last look round the shop. Dalrymple had already disappeared with Elvira, their work over. McIntosh and his team would be having a debrief in the anonymous off-radar Corstorphine offices in about half an hour. Someone from the team would take him in an unmarked police car. For some reason they still seemed to want him involved, when all he wanted was to go back to his flat in Bruntsfield, put Chet Atkins on, open a bottle of Ribera del Duero, make a simple supper, and try to forget it all. No, there was one other thing he wanted. He wanted Gillian to be calling through from the kitchen. I think this is sticking a bit, honey. D’you want me to give it a stir? Then he’d put down whatever book he was reading, but keep his glass in hand and get up and go through. She’d be making a salad or something sweet to go with his paella or rabo de toro or polla a la jerez. He’d kiss her lightly or maybe put his glass down and devote a bit more attention to it. In about half an hour the supper would be ready and they’d eat together, then maybe snuggle up on the sofa and watch a romantic movie and leave the dishes till morning. But Gillian was in Ribadeo finishing off another day in her conference week, maybe planning to eat alone or maybe she’d met someone younger and more interesting and would allow herself to be taken out to A Dorada and wined and dined. No. He stopped himself. That way madness lay. The week was nearly over and she’d be home on Sunday. By that time he truly hoped the whole thing would be done and dusted – girls gathered up and these monsters in custody, every single one of them. A voice behind him jarred him back to reality.
“What do you think of this one? They’ve got it in my size.”
He turned. There she was, right in front of him in her warm winter coat, holding up the most revealing undergarment he didn’t even know the name of. He couldn’t remember her looking more beautiful or more appealing. He dropped his bag and just wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. Neither of them said a word.
Tati sat in a daze all the way back to the house. She let Dimitri put the hood over her head and didn’t even mind. Whatever they did, she wasn’t in the dark any more. David H: Pastor was real. It was like a mythological hero from one of her childhood storybooks turning up in person to ask if she wouldn’t mind helping out in a little enterprise they had on. The gods and heroes of old had overcome their petty jealousies and rivalries to once and for all overcome the powers of darkness. But they needed the help of a pure and virtuous human girl and had chosen her. Would she mind? Maybe that was a bit dramatic but no more unlikely. David H: Pastor had a plan. She needed to play her part, but mainly it just involved not giving the game away. She gripped the device in the form of a plain, cheap ballpoint pen they had given her tightly and wondered how exactly it would work. Would they see her location on a screen like a GPS, or was it something you could only view on a computer? But what if she were separated from the pen – if she was sent to another house at the last minute or somehow it ended up in the rubbish and was thrown out? She imagined going for a shower before the Special the following evening and coming out to find that all of her clothes had disappeared or been gone through. Stranger things had happened. Max was always smiling and relaxed, completely in control, but Mikhail was suspicious and would surprise everyone with a room check at ten o’clock in the morning. They’d all be turned out of bed and made to sit in their night things in the dining room while he organized his goons to tear their rooms apart. Contraband like a magazine that wasn’t allowed or some pills in a quantity beyond what was permitted were all piled up on the dining room table and punishments were dished out. It might be a cold shower for ten minutes or not being allowed to leave your room for two days – except to work of course. If it was something bad then all the girls were punished. Once Mikhail got furious about something and made them all line up in the hall. He ripped the fire hose out of its holder and turned it on them at full force, totally deaf to the screams and tears. Then, soaking wet and frozen, they had to get down on their hands and knees for an hour and mop up the water while the minders stood round making obscene remarks.
She shook herself. It wasn’t doing any good thinking about everything that might go wrong. Even if the pen was pulled out, snapped in two, and thrown in a waste paper bin, she was confident there would be another plan, another way. David H: Pastor was real. Andrei had got her letter. He had found the real man behind the name on the list. They had kept Dimitri busy while it was all explained to her. Best of all, Elvira was alive – and she was free! She was living with a Scottish family, and she, Tati, would be with her soon. They could go shopping together – but not in Sally Winters. If Dimitri only knew what was just about to happen he wouldn’t be whistling like that as he drove. He wouldn’t be driving back to the house at all. He would have stopped at the side of the road, taken her collar and hood off, and driven as fast as he could in another direction. But he didn’t know – the fat, ugly slob. He seemed to have been sweating even more than normal, whatever had happened back in the shop. She would smell the disgusting reek right next to her, making her gag and choke. Well, not long now. Hold on, Tati. Just hold on.
David and Gillian sat as close as the seatbelts allowed in the back of DI McIntosh’s police BMW and hardly spoke. Gillian just confirmed what she’d told David when he’d phoned on Tuesday night. Things had gone ok; nothing earth-shattering, but ok. Then she’d found she just couldn’t cope with sitting in the audience listening to some hairy academic from Truro talking about compound constructions and tag questions in Cornish so she’d got up, gone back to O Retorno, switched on her laptop, and looked at flights. The earliest she could get was Thursday morning and she’d decided it might be best not to be a distraction in whatever was being planned. She’d emailed McIntosh, who had been happy for her to show up but only once the operation was over. Th
at worked for her. Grabbing something called the Sheer Chemise with Crochet Trim was just a bit of devilment she couldn’t resist. It seemed to have had an impact. She was worried she’d gone too far when she saw the look on his face. Anyway, all’s well, etc. She put her head on his shoulder and gripped his arm. She wondered if she should worry about her husband-to-be taking so much interest in Eastern European sex workers between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight but immediately dismissed the thought. And she hoped he knew that none of the tedious academics on the Celtic Fringe could hold a candle to him. Hidden depths, she thought. That’s what he’s got. And I’m only beginning to find out what they are.
“Ok, everyone. I think that went well. Any comments or feedback?”
The police team, plus David and Gillian, sat around the same plain conference table in the same anonymous room where the last briefing had taken place only two days before. McIntosh was standing at the head of the table looking quietly satisfied and there was a relaxed atmosphere in the room, filled with the sound of general murmurs of approval. McIntosh went around the table and insisted on a comment of some sort from everyone. Gillian immediately noticed a marked difference in tone from Stevenson’s at the previous week’s case conference. McIntosh genuinely wanted to know what each member of his team thought or, if not, gave a convincing impression of it. David just gave a generally favourable assessment but didn’t go into any detail.
“Dimitri was a pussycat,” one of the guys remarked. “Complained a bit but didn’t have a leg to stand on. No ID of any sort and couldn’t even remember his address. I think the one he gave us eventually was actually genuine. What a numpty.”
“I think that’s a fair assessment,” McIntosh concurred. “We’ve actually got surveillance on the property and Blatov has already been identified coming out. So one-nil to us at this stage, I think.”
“Where is the property, if I’m allowed to ask?” David piped up.
McIntosh consulted his papers.
“Duff Street in Gorgie,” he said.
“What?” David spat out. “You’re joking.”
“Why’s that?” McIntosh asked, eyebrows raised.
“Spade, the hacker, lives in Duff Street,” Gillian replied. “All the time we were meeting with him trying to find out where the virus had come from we must have been within a hundred yards of the main house.”
“Looks like it. And Tati also provided the documents that Andrei made reference to – the White List and the Black List. I’m afraid your name is on the Black List, along with some other enemies PGC seem to have made along the way. But, perhaps more importantly, we’ve got the White List, with around fifty names – actual names, addresses, identifying initials like ‘JP’, ‘QC’, ‘MP’, and, believe it or not, ‘CID’. PGC have clearly been both overconfident and careless. They must have thought they were impregnable given the number of powerful people who would not want their connections exposed, so there wasn’t really any need for secrecy inside the house because they were never going to be busted. Too many vested interests. Well, we have a parallel team working on this stuff right now. Friday night is certainly going to be Music Night for a lot of important men who will not want to be facing the music. Anyway, it’s not all going to happen by magic. We can be very satisfied in this afternoon’s operation but we need to start planning Friday now. So I suggest you get yourself a coffee and we reconvene in ten minutes. Well done, everyone.”
David and Gillian excused themselves, as there was no way they wanted anything to do with Friday night. David assumed McIntosh had included them in the debrief as a courtesy, which he appreciated, but that was it; their role was over. When the girls were out he certainly wanted to meet Tati and hear her story. She seemed a remarkable young woman who would have a bright future ahead of her. As regards the suggestion that the churches get involved in helping, he would certainly offer whatever resources Southside had to offer. He thought that Mrs MacInnes would be the ideal strong, steady, substitute granny to help some troubled young women get back on their feet again. But that was for another day. In the meantime they would leave the police team to the details.
“Just before you go, a big thank you for this afternoon, David,” McIntosh said as they were getting their coats on.
“I won’t say it was entirely a pleasure but I think we got a result.”
“Indeed we did. Thanks to you both. I’ll keep you informed. Assuming things go according to plan tomorrow night, there’ll probably be a conference early next week. If we pick up servicing officers or we can get more intelligence then there will be suspensions and arrests. You’ll probably see it on the news before you hear any more from me. So have a good weekend. Take it easy.”
David slumped on the sofa as soon as they stepped into Gillian’s place. She put a quick pasta dish together while he just lay and stared into space. They ate together on trays with a cheap pinot grigio. Brandenburg Concertos played softly in the background. They didn’t speak much. She had a bit of cheesecake left over, which still seemed to be edible, so they finished off with that.
“What are you thinking?” she finally asked.
“Not much,” he replied. “Small thoughts of a mollusc. I don’t know who said that but that’s about it.”
“Well, my favourite mollusc anyway,” she said and kissed his forehead. “It all went well. You should be happy.”
He yawned and stretched.
“I am, but it takes its toll. I can’t get over these girls, Tati and Elvira. Each of them is worth fifty of the hoods controlling them. After all they’ve been through they should be nervous wrecks but they’re not. They are courageous, resilient, and at least in Tati’s case, willing to live through another twenty-four hours or so till Friday night. I suppose she’ll have to tolerate some other sleazy punter tonight. I can hardly stand to go to bed myself just imagining what she’s having to put up with.”
“Well, don’t imagine it. You’ve done everything possible to change things for them. We both have. It’ll be over soon. Then they can build something better.”
“I just hope there isn’t any lasting damage. I suppose there’s bound to be after something like this. Maybe it’s something you never get over. Either way, they’ll need the best help anyone can offer. They’ve suffered in Scotland. It would be good if they could stay – if they want to – and get whatever help they might need here as well.”
Dimitri was full of the story when they got back to Duff Street. Tati went straight to her room, but he grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down with Yuri and Boris. He didn’t dwell on why he’d spent fifteen minutes in the back office of Sally Winters, leaving Tati totally unsupervised outside, or how he’d been planted with unpaid-for items for a store detective training exercise. The point was that when he’d come out, there she was, patiently waiting at the desk. He had trained her well; she knew her place. She wouldn’t dare cross Dimitri. He got them all laughing when he told them about the meek and obedient expression on her face. Then he started complaining about Max and Mikhail – how they were making such a fortune from the houses and not sharing with the staff. And not sharing the girls either. That brought grumbling agreement. Things had been good in the early days. Ok, so you weren’t allowed to take a girl from the house you were working in, but as soon as the second, third, and fourth houses opened, you could work in one house and help yourself to the goods from another. And they were paid generously and regularly. So, good money and fringe benefits. Then it all started getting tighter and less fun. They were expected to work longer for the same money, then longer for less, then not touch any of the girls. That had all been Sasha’s fault. He would work one shift in Duff Street then spend the rest of his time in Craigmillar helping himself to the goods, one after another, and leaving the girls not able to work the following day. He was a stupid Russian who had spoiled it for everyone else. Now things were more and more strict.
Max had had that same annoying smile on his face when he’d told them that things were
changing. He patiently explained that his deal with the police was that they would turn a blind eye if certain conditions were met – no public nuisance, no admissions to casualty, no excessive use of drugs, no street prostitution, and no overpaid muscle throwing their weight around in city pubs and clubs. When any of these were breached – like that time he and Boris had been involved in a slight misunderstanding at Finnegan’s Wake – then everyone took a beating. Max had tried to tell them it was because of the need to invest in future operations, build up the infrastructure, and get ready for expansion to some other locations. But Dimitri wasn’t fooled. It was that creep Stevenson leaning on him. If you can’t control your goons then we will, he’d probably said or something like it. So wages were cut and benefits restricted for everyone. Who was running this show then, Dimitri wanted to know, Max and Mikhail or Stevenson and his buddies? Dimitri had a theory. Max was blaming Stevenson but he was taking a bigger cut for himself and maybe sharing it with someone else. He snapped open another beer and belched loudly.
Recently things had been getting worse, he said. Sending him and Boris out to snuff out that little banker had been a big mistake. He’d tried to tell them but nobody was listening. When the perfect suicide scenario had turned into a murder inquiry Max had said that Stevenson and Thompson would make sure it didn’t get anywhere, but supposing it did? It was their necks on the line, not Max’s. Boris agreed, opened another beer, and passed one to Yuri. Then there was the pastor. He looked like he’d blow away in a strong breeze but he just kept on coming, whatever you did to him. If the shot had been on target that would have been one problem less, but Thompson had told them he’d had no choice but to put him in a safe house, so that was their one chance gone. Then he’d disappeared altogether. Phoning up the university and asking for his little girlfriend had been pretty stupid too. Still, at least he was out of the picture and not sticking his nose in like normal. It’s no surprise that with all of that coming down around their ears the church had had to close, Max and Mikhail had had to drop out of sight, and he’d even heard that they’d lost access to the police computers. Sasha had told him he’d heard Max and Mikhail shouting in the office the other day about money in an account; maybe there were cash flow problems as well. What did it all add up to? That Max and Mikhail were past it and PGC needed new management. When Dimitri had seen little Tati standing at the counter waiting for him in Sally Winters this afternoon it had finally made up his mind. Who was in? Friday night at the Special would be the perfect opportunity. Max, Mikhail, Stevenson, Thompson, and all their other friends in one place at one time. It was perfect. But he had a few phone calls to make first to get all the little ducks lined up. Then roll on Friday.
