by Matt Johnson
‘How the fuck?’
‘I know he’s surfaced and he’s the last known member of that patrol. I put two and two together. You’ve been helping him.’
Kevin was silent for a moment before replying. ‘I’m sorry … I should have said something at the pub, but we’d already put the wheels in motion. Truth is, McNeil already has things sorted.’
‘Using the same translator, Dr Armstrong?’
‘Yes.’
I didn’t reply, as I weighed up my options and the warnings Toni and Armstrong had given me. ‘So, what happened when you contacted the Doctor?’ I asked.
‘McNeil said he would do the job, but he said it was a waste of time if it was the same thing he’d looked at before.’
‘He’s scared.’
‘Why’s that, then?’
‘Something I should have shared with you at the time … but we never figured another copy of the document would ever surface.’
‘Something? Like what?’
‘I told you at the time that it was valueless. Well, that wasn’t exactly what he said to me. He said that possession of it was a poison chalice, a curse – whoever had it would have to explain how he came by it.’
‘I’m not following. “Cursed” – was does that mean?’
I half smiled. ‘No, not in that way. It’s a highly secret document that our Security Services either have already or are likely to be looking for. Anyone even knowing about it is at risk; and actual possession of a copy would be a curse. Al Anfal, or whoever they are, plus Al Q’aeda, MI5, Six, the CIA – they’ll all be looking for it, and Armstrong was quite certain they would be prepared to eliminate whoever got in their way.’
Kevin was stunned into silence. ‘So, I’m not the only one who’s been keeping secrets, boss … that’s why all our lads were killed, isn’t it? Someone making sure it stays secret.’
‘That was Armstrong’s conclusion, yes.’
‘And it’s potentially valuable?’
I sighed. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Kev. Are you not listening? Yes, it has some value, but that’s not the point. You can’t sell it. Nobody with any sense would touch it and, as soon as you try to find a buyer, you’d make yourself a target.’
‘We could be careful, use an intermediary? Highest bidder gets it?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he replied, more thoughtfully now. ‘Something McNeil said to me. Like he already had some idea what it is. He said it was called Al Anfal.’
‘That is its name, yes, and, likely as not, he does know what it is and he only wanted your help because he thought you could help sell it. Why do you think the others on the Increment patrol were keeping copies? They already had an idea what it was.’
‘So what happened to the copy you took to the translator?’
‘He burned it … and with my approval. It’s from a world way beyond our understanding, Kev.’
‘Probably explains why, when McNeil first called him, he said he had no idea what he was talking about. He might think his phone is bugged as well.’
‘He told me that if you Googled the name “Al Anfal”, GCHQ would pick that up and the Security Services would soon be knocking on your door.’
‘Really?’
‘Where is McNeil?’
‘He’s laying low.’
I shook my head. The day was going from bad to worse. ‘So, where is his copy of the document at the moment?’
‘Armstrong still has it. But I guess that’s the least of my worries.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Google. I already searched the name.’
Chapter 20
Sandi checked the clock on her dressing table. It had gone one, Kevin was late.
Whenever he came on one of his daytime visits, she felt a mixed sense of anticipation and a delicious excitement. The last months had been an awakening. No man she had met had excited her the way he did, and no man had ever suggested they try the things she now enjoyed so much. And no man could have persuaded her to be waiting in her house alone, dressed as she was now.
It had started slowly. In hospital, as he recovered from a bullet wound, they had started talking. He was chatting her up, she knew that, but unlike with the other overly amorous patients in the men’s ward, she had been flattered by his attentions. There was something special about him, something mysterious that she found enticing. There were stories on the ward – confirmed as she got to know him – that he was a soldier-turned-cop who’d only just survived a terrorist attack. After exchanging phone numbers, she’d sent him a text. Nothing too forward, just a hello, first contact. It was an hour before he responded. An hour during which she must have checked her phone a hundred times.
His first, uncertain, messages were nice, polite. He apologised for being so familiar, for teasing her, and for risking getting her in trouble with the hospital authorities. Soon, they arranged to meet.
In the days that followed she had been unable to concentrate at work or think of anything else, frequently checking her phone and finding reasons to text him. She felt as if she was regressing into a love-sick teenager, constantly thinking about Kevin. Even her two boys – her darling teenage sons – had commented that she’d seemed distracted.
When she and Kevin finally met in a car park near the hospital they had talked incessantly and only when the time had come to part had they kissed.
The next day was her day off. It was also the first time he came to the house. Living in a suburban close, most people were out at work. Even so, he parked in a nearby street and then walked the rest of the way.
With the boys at school, she’d spent hours tidying, getting the bedroom just perfect so he wouldn’t think her a slob. She even experimented with different light bulbs, trying to create the right mood lighting. Her hands had been shaking as she’d hit the switch to judge the impact, such was her excitement. That first time they didn’t make it upstairs. She made coffee and, as she passed him his mug, her excitement had made her clumsy and she spilt it. He took her hand, held it gently and kissed her. He was tender, and to her surprise, it was she who leaned into him, held him closer and began to deepen the kiss. They made love there, in the sitting room – on the sofa and then the floor. Even with his injuries so fresh, Sandi was aware of his hard muscles and exciting strength.
As the weeks passed they met more frequently. She introduced him to the boys, cooked for him, even helped him with his own house. They became very much a couple.
One day, just as an experiment, she had dressed up for him. It was a surprise, a treat – something spicy to give him pleasure. She’d been nervous, but she’d remembered how he reacted to her teasing him in hospital. Not having the confidence to risk a face-to-face encounter – or God forbid an actual conversation with a shop assistant – she had performed a discreet Google search and then maintained her secret as she waited for the specialist lingerie to be delivered.
It worked and, for the two of them, it opened up a whole new world. They tried new things and she found just how much being tied up excited her. At first he was hesitant, checking with her frequently, but as their trust in each other grew he experimented. He would bind her to a chair, to the bed, anywhere he could take her at a time when she was his captive. It excited him, and it almost shocked her how arousing she found it. Now they had reached a point where he would text her in the middle of the day, when she was in the house alone, tell her what to wear and how to place herself ready for his visit. Sometimes he would have her stand over the bed and blindfold herself, other times she would lie on the bed waiting. She had to leave the front door unlocked. She would hear him arrive, climb the stairs and then he would take her. On some occasions he wouldn’t even undress.
He had sent her such a text today. She was to be laid face up on the bed, dressed and blindfolded, with her wrists secured to the headboard.
The bedroom was now ready and so was she. She’d showered and perfumed her skin, and then dressed very
slowly, savouring the anticipation that grew with every minute. She’d picked one of his favourite basques together with sheer black stockings and high heels. As per his instructions, she tied ropes to the headboard, knotted so she could easily insert her hands and give the appearance of restraint they both enjoyed.
She listened carefully for the sound of the front door and, when it came, she shuddered. One day, she feared, that sound would be her son arriving home early. Not today though, her eldest boy didn’t finish school until after three, so there was plenty of time.
She heard the door close. Sliding the eye mask on, she lay back and slipped her wrists into the ropes. There were footsteps on the stairs, the familiar heavy creak of the fourth tread. It was him. Her nerves eased, neither of the boys was heavy enough to make a sound that loud. The bedroom door swung open and a gentle draft teased her already erect nipples. Squeezing her thighs together, she shuddered with excitement. She sensed, rather than felt him. He was close. Something – a hand – stroked her knee, her leg, pulled gently at her suspender. He was teasing her.
Something touched her face. A glove? No, a hood, maybe plastic of some kind. He was pulling a hood over her head. A new toy, she mused, as she gave way to the anticipation of what was to come.
Then something took hold of her feet. It was tight and felt like hands but no, it couldn’t be, he was still pulling the hood around her neck. What was it? As the hood tightened around her neck, the grip on her ankles hurt and breathing became harder. A first sensation of panic hit her. She tried to twist her mouth away from the hood, tried to call out, but it was too tight. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. The grip around her legs was now unmistakeable. There were two pairs of hands. There were definitely two people.
She tried to scream but the hand on her face held tight. He was hurting her. What on earth did he think he was doing? She felt sick, giddy.
For Christ’s sake, Kevin, she tried to say, stop…
Chapter 21
‘Come on, Finlay, or we’ll be late,’ Nina shouted from the corridor.
I hurriedly restored the papers on my desk into some form of order, grabbed my coat from the back of the chair and marched quickly to catch up with her. ‘Sorry, didn’t realise the time,’ I replied.
‘You alright?’ she asked, as we waited at the lift. ‘You seem a bit distracted.’
‘Yeah, a few things on my mind.’
The lift alarm pinged to indicate its arrival.
‘Best put it behind you, there’s always next year’s board.’
‘Do you know the route?’ I asked. ‘I had a look on the street atlas in the office. I reckon we could take the back streets through to Horseferry Road and then turn into Marsham Street.’
‘I know where it is. The Ministry offices are on the corner at number two.’
As we exited the building and set off along Dacre Street, Nina began to chat about the reason for the Minister’s request. Apparently, he had come in for some criticism in the House of Commons when he was unable to answer questions on the number of council-owned properties where victims of trafficking had been discovered and the use of those properties as brothels. She ran me through the results of her research, which was embarrassingly limited given that no UK force seemed to record information that would fully answer the question. We only broke away from the subject once, when we passed a news vendor where the advertising billboard displayed a headline concerning news that a mass roadblock had been set up in Hampshire following the discovery of the body of a young girl missing in the area since March.
‘She’ll be amongst those misper reports on your desk,’ said Nina, indicating the billboard. ‘How are you getting on with that report?’
‘Slowly,’ I said. ‘Too many distractions.’
‘Well, if you need some help, just ask, eh? Does that kind of thing worry you more now that you have kids?’ she asked.
‘It does, yes. They’ve confirmed it’s Millie Dowler then?’
‘Apparently so. I did hear the dental records have provided a match.’
I let out a sigh. ‘Every parent’s nightmare, losing a child. Not a cop in the country who wouldn’t give his eye teeth to find the bastard that did that.’
Nina didn’t reply and I didn’t continue with the conversation. I struggled to even imagine the trauma the Dowlers were going through at that very moment.
We pushed on and, as we arrived at the huge glass-fronted ministry building at 2, Marsham Street, I asked Nina what she knew about Shabat, the Minister we were due to meet.
‘Very little,’ she answered. ‘He’s had a charmed career, one of the new wave of politicians who were born elsewhere, immigrated here and worked their way up the ladder very quickly. From what I’ve been able to learn he’s a Shia Muslim from Iraq who came here in the early nineties with his family to escape the regime in that country.’
‘A Muslim?’
‘Yes. The boss said I wasn’t to try and shake his hand and should wait to see what he does. You’d probably best do the same.’
The automated glass door to the reception area swung open. The security guards were expecting us and after checking our warrant cards, we were joined by a civil servant who led the way through the building to a corridor that overlooked an internal courtyard. It was deserted for the time being but, from the layout of the narrow gravel paths, the benches and the shrubbery, it looked to be designed as somewhere to relax, a place where hard-pressed staff could unwind for a few minutes.
The civil servant indicated we should wait and make use of a row of seats positioned near to a large double-width wooden door through which he headed. To me, the pale timber looked like oak, expensive. In fact, the whole appearance of the entrance to the Minister’s offices was one of plush, if not ostentatious, comfort. Privilege of office, I assumed.
As the double door closed, I glanced around me, and upwards towards a ceiling that was surprisingly ornate for what I had thought to be a fairly modern building. The corridor was quiet and every other door I could see was closed. A pale-green carpet lay along the centre with what looked like polished parquet timber down each side. Several large portraits of long-dead politicians adorned the walls. One or two I thought I recognised, the majority not.
‘That looks ominous,’ Nina said, pointing to the empty seat next to me. Several dark spots had stained the upholstery. ‘Looks like blood splashes,’ she commented.
I pulled a small handkerchief from my pocket and moistened a corner with my tongue. Dabbing one of the spots, the white material turned pink as it made contact with one of the dark stains. ‘Could be,’ I said. ‘Do housing ministers make it a routine to torture their visitors?’
She laughed, just as the oak door swung open from the inside. Omar Shabat extended a hand towards his office. ‘Please, come in.’
The Minister wore an expensive-looking, grey two-piece suit. A heavy gold watch adorned his wrist. As we followed him into the large office I saw that his civil servant had disappeared. Two closed doors in one wall suggested where he may have gone. Near the window I noticed a large desk that appeared to be completely covered in documents, document boxes and folders in all manner of different colours. He indicated we should join him at an informal setting of chairs near the far wall where tea and coffee had been laid out on a small table.
As we sat, Shabat addressed his first question to Nina. ‘I didn’t expect you to have someone with you, Ms Brasov,’ he said, almost quizzically, glancing towards me as he spoke.
‘Inspector Finlay is my line manager, sir. He may well be able to help with any questions you have.’
Our host turned fully towards me and, for the first time, I noticed a slight ruffling of his composure. It was slight, hardly perceptible, but it was there. Something about my presence or my name had registered with him. As I accepted his hand in greeting, I noticed how gentle his touch was, almost as if he were attempting to ensure I didn’t notice the moistness of his skin. ‘Finlay?’ he asked. ‘And what is your firs
t name, Mr Finlay?’
An unusual question, I thought, and assuming the Minister was being polite I told him. It was as I answered the question that I registered a flicker of concern in his eyes. I also noticed, as Nina had predicted, that he only shook my hand, not hers. With dark coffee poured from an aluminium thermos jug, we soon returned to the purpose of the meeting. Shabat got straight to the point, asking Nina a series of questions. He seemed pleased with the answers she provided.
Ten minutes later, Shabat was the only one of us to have emptied his cup. As Nina concluded her final answer to a question on trafficking trends, he turned to me.
‘And what exactly is it you do at Scotland Yard, Mr Finlay, apart from being Ms Brasov’s manager that is?’
‘We’re both part of a small team investigating trafficking, sir, mostly focussed on sex workers. We’ve been on task for about a year now.’
‘That is very interesting. I have read in the newspapers and reports I have seen that the Met has been taking the problem more seriously of late.’
‘We’re doing our best, sir.’
‘Are you familiar, possibly, with organisations in the Middle East who consider slavery to be a perfectly acceptable practice?’
It was an unusual question, and not one I had expected, given the purpose of our visit. I wondered if the Minister was testing me, to see if I was really Nina’s boss.
‘I’m aware, yes,’ I said, ‘but I wouldn’t describe myself as being as expert as Sergeant Brasov.’
He appeared interested by my reply. ‘You have heard of the Muslim Brotherhood … and, perhaps, of Al Anfal?’
If it was a test, it was a good one. A sucker punch, and very cleverly slipped beneath my guard to see if I reacted. Just as the Minister had shown a response to me telling him my full name, I knew my facial muscles had shown a similar, just perceptible reaction to the term ‘Al Anfal’.
I decided to ignore it and carry on as normal. ‘The names are vaguely familiar, yes,’ I said, keeping my voice as matter-of-fact as I could. ‘But our main focus is on Eastern-European gangs trafficking people into the UK.’
