by D J Harrison
Mick’s eyes swivel to the ceiling and back to the biscuits.
‘I’ll try, Joan,’ I say to her broad back as she leaves the room.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘Joan seems to think it’s a good idea.’
Mick frowns. ‘What about all the palaver with those black lads, they’ll be back. That Leroy will be gunning for us, you in particular. I’m surprised you haven’t had a visit already.’
‘Leroy won’t be bothering us and I doubt any of his mates will.’
‘How can you be so sure of that?’
‘Leroy’s in prison. He got five years for possession of a firearm.’
‘Never. I heard he was in hospital for a while after his accident.’
‘He was, they transferred him straight to custody as soon as he was well enough. I doubt he’ll be interested in trying to muscle in on our car parks or in any position to do it, even if he was.’
‘So it’s business as usual?’
‘That’s right, Mick, and the offer I made still stands. After the lads are paid we’ll split the proceeds. Should help keep you and Joan in biscuits, maybe even a holiday somewhere warm.’
‘She wouldn’t go, I’ve tried.’ Mick grins. ‘She doesn’t like foreign food, can’t get on with it – and that was only the Isle of Man when we went for the TT Races.’
*
Chris lives only a few minutes’ drive from Mick. Lottie opens the door to me, her big eyes are swollen with tears, her hair tangled and uncared for.
‘Come in,’ she says. ‘Chris is in his study.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I don’t know, Chris will tell you. The truck is on the move, he says, he likes to be mysterious.’ Her eyes try to twinkle but fail.
‘No, that’s not what I meant, Lottie. You look upset, I’m asking about you.’
She takes me through to the kitchen and flops down on a chair. ‘It’s my father,’ she says, tears making soft tracks over her cheeks. ‘He’s very ill in hospital, my mother says he might die.’
Chris comes in and hovers by the door, obviously distressed by Lottie’s state.
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry.’ I reach out to comfort her but her shoulders remain stiff and unyielding. ‘It’s because of the questions about Kat, they attacked him.’
I swallow. ‘Tell me what happened.’ My heart is heavy but my anger is simmering close to the surface.
‘One of Kat’s friends told them about a man called Grublauskis in Odessa. She thought he might have been the one who made the arrangements for Kat.’ Her eyes avoid mine as she speaks. ‘My father went to confront this man at his hotel.’
‘And he was attacked?’ I ask.
‘Not there. He came home and told my mother that Grublauskis was to blame for Kat’s disappearance, that he had sent her to Bulgaria.’
‘Did he say where Kat was supposed to be going in England?’
‘He told my father that Kat had asked to go to Manchester, he had introduced her to someone who would arrange transport and all the necessary papers. When he wouldn’t say who this man was my father was angry and said that he would tell the police. The next day he was leaving home and two men started fighting with him on the street, that’s how he got hurt. Now he is very bad, he may die at any moment, my mother is with him.’
‘You should go, Lottie, go and see your father, make sure your mother’s okay.’
‘I’m scared,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘You must go home to Odessa, you won’t forgive yourself if you don’t. If it’ll help I’ll come with you.’
Her eyes brighten. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really,’ I say, hardly believing my own ears.
62
My car squeals with discomfort as its wheels try to retain contact with the slippery cobbles. To my left a steep, crumbling bank cascades down to a torrent of dark water. To my right a gorse-clad hill squeezes me towards the river. O’Brian’s offices are at the end of this long cobbled road which is barely fit for any sort of vehicle. His offices consist of a series of inter-connected old, green, temporary portable buildings, amidst a landscape of discarded debris. There are trees as thick as elephant’s legs growing through steel roof sections, piles of stones, concrete bricks, timbers and tiles. Anything in fact that might once have been useful for the construction of a building, now awaiting its time to be resurrected and used again.
As I enter the floor sags beneath my feet. As I walk down the corridor my feet bounce so that I can’t help swaying like a drunken mariner. I’m left waiting for Peter in what the receptionist refers to as the board room. This is a cabin looking out on the most overgrown areas of detritus, with a raft of tables occupying the centre of the large area. Each of the tables is unique in size and construction, each one a different shade of brown, each a slightly different height. The one I am leaning on rocks violently if I exert any pressure on it. The chairs are similarly piecemeal and in various stages of dysfunction. Mine has lost one of its wheels, which makes it lean awkwardly but has the advantage of reducing its mobility. The first one I tried insisted on taking me sideways on a journey to the centre of the room where the floor sags the most.
It’s rare for Peter to meet me in his office. Normally he comes to me or I go to his house. I have a feeling he’s still upset about the sale of GOD Security. He’s been very quiet lately for which I’m grateful. There’s been no more visits to my office, no recent sitting on my desk and mercifully no complicating bag of cash for me to deal with. As for SG, the questions being asked are detailed, pedantic, pernickety even, but not intrusive or awkward. Stuart Donaldson may be carefully controlling things behind the scenes but I doubt it. I think that SG’s accountants are merely demonstrating a high incompetence level in examining small aspects minutely but failing to comprehend the big picture. It’s quite possible I could have saved the money I bribed Stuart with, but the added comfort of having a fall-back position is probably worth every penny. I can’t take the chance that something might be raised with SG that puts them off the deal before I get a chance to sort out Stuart.
As for O’Brian, I am done with his filthy money and glad of it. The caravan sites are not part of the SG deal, they are owned by me as a proxy for O’Brian. If he wants his money out I’ll sell. If not, they’ll continue to provide an income stream for his business, albeit a much smaller one with GOD Security out of the picture. He’ll have to live with it, find some other patsy to do his bidding. I’m not touching any more of his prostitution earnings, even if he doesn’t consider them in that way. As far as I’m concerned, by accepting the black money from those appalling men, he’s condoning everything they do. I can’t believe he’s unaware of the source of his ill-gotten gains or hasn’t at least a vague notion of the kind of activity that generates his income.
O’Brian won’t like it when he has to find another way to launder his cash but that’s not my problem. I’m nervous about it, but I am determined to tell him straight. The sale of GOD Security is my decision not his. There’s nothing he can do about it now, the deal’s nearing completion and I’ll soon be on my way and out of his way in particular. Just a few more days and I’ll be signing the contracts. SG will be transferring the money. I’ve already put my flat on the market and put in an offer on a beautiful little house close to Toby’s school where we can be together more and more. My plan is to make it so convenient for Tim and his wife to use me as Toby-sitter, Toby-minder, Toby after school club, Toby sick nurse, Toby everything. It’s all going to be so much better.
O’Brian is exhibiting his customary lateness. I’ve been sitting on this wobbly chair for nearly an hour. My irritation is rising to a point where I feel like walking out, telling O’Brian to learn some manners, explaining how disgusted I am at how he takes filthy money that has been generated by all manner of unspeakable crimes. By the time O’Brian walks into the room I’m ready for him and in no mood to pull any punches. That friendly, innocent smile of his, the twinkle in his mischiev
ous eyes, the lazy gentle manner he has, are no longer enough to deflect me from letting him have it. What does stop me is the man accompanying him.
Peter O’Brian and Hector Brighouse enter with the comfortable air of old friends.
63
My urge to inflict physical suffering on that wispy grey head narrowly loses out to my fear. Seeing the two of them together hits me hard, reduces me to helplessness. I can’t begin to guess the plans they are hatching together, but I can be sure that they’re to my disadvantage. As I sit in stunned silence Hector breezes over to clasp my hand. He even leans down and places a delicate kiss on my left cheek.
‘Ah, Jenny, so nice to see you. Peter has been scolding me for being responsible for keeping you waiting. I thought it only decent to come down here and apologise personally.’
Before I can make any kind of response he clasps O’Brian on the shoulder and strides away. Now I’m in turmoil, uncertain what if anything that little charade is all about. I haven’t told O’Brian I’m definitely selling, and to SG, nor am I going to. I want the deal to be complete before he has a chance to do anything to stop it. Now it looks like he may know all about it, otherwise why would he display Hector in front of me?
‘It’s hard to stop old Hector when he gets talking,’ O’Brian says. I take this to confirm that they have been discussing me, but refuse to rise to his bait.
‘You two know each other then?’ I ask.
‘Oh yes. We were in Round Table together for years. Got up to all sorts of fun and games. I actually succeeded Hector as chairman. He’s something of a legend, a hard act to follow. Oh we’ve had some laughs, Hector and me. He can drink anyone I’ve ever met well and truly under the table and be fresh as a daisy the next day. Great guy.’
So that’s how these captains of industry measure each other’s worth, by the quantity of alcohol they can consume. It’s pretty pathetic, a competition I’m glad to stay out of.
‘I suppose you’re still convinced you’ll be better off out of the security business with a nice lump of money behind you?’ O’Brian asks, then continues without waiting for my reply. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for quite a while, that’s why you’ve heard nothing from me these last few months. Look, Jenny, unless I can convince you not to sell at all I’m willing to buy the business myself. That way I can protect my own interests, keep the caravan operation and make sure the arrangement remains intact.’
‘You want to buy GOD Security?’ Now I’m uncertain about what’s going on. If Hector was here to talk to O’Brian about GOD Security, why is O’Brian acting like he knows nothing?
‘Yes. It’s the only thing that makes sense. We both end up with what we want. You get some money, I continue with business as usual.’
‘How much are you offering?’
‘Oh don’t worry, Jenny, you’ll get fair value. I’ll pay you what you’re due. It’ll be market value less of course an allowance for what I’ve put into your business already.’
‘Market value is two and a half million.’ I watch as his face reddens.
‘Really?’ he asks. ‘I didn’t think the market was that buoyant.’
‘Don’t forget we got the Stretford contract, it’s made a big difference to our turnover.’
‘Yes, but we both know that it only makes money because of my contributions, don’t we.’
‘Actually it’s better than I expected, Peter, we got a good deal there.’
‘Even so it would be difficult to sell to anyone else, the nature of some of your transactions is bound to raise a few eyebrows. The due diligence would uncover a lot of things we can neither of us have out in the open.’
‘So what are you proposing?’
‘Like I said, a fair deal. Something to keep you going. I’ll pay you half a million, Jenny. Fifty thousand a year for ten years.’
‘What about Doreen?’
‘What about her?’
‘She relies on the business for her livelihood as well as me.’
‘That’s up to you. If you want to give her something I’ll not object to that.’
‘So you’re offering me five hundred thousand pounds over ten years and I have to share that with Doreen?’
‘Yes, I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Leave it with me, Peter, let me think about it and get back to you.’ His smug grin tells me he thinks I’m out of options. My only hope is that Hector isn’t party to this act of highway robbery. If he is, I’ll find out soon enough when the SG offer gets rescinded.
64
‘This is where my family live.’ Lottie points to the enormous slab-sided apartment block. My heart sinks. As the taxi ride progressed it seemed to take us ever deeper into deprivation. These monstrous blocks are clustered together a dozen at a time, ten storeys high and in various states of disrepair. The predominant colours are bare concrete with a light blue patchwork. Washing streams from balconies, rust-stained metal boxes on some of the windows testify to the debilitating heat. Promislova Street is cracked and pitted, crisp brown vegetation protrudes from the fractured pavements. In comparison, Salford seems like a closer relative to Monaco than here. Opposite the block of flats there is a haphazard array of asbestos-roofed sheds, made from odd bits of wood and concrete. The heat is intense, oppressive. I am struggling to breathe as I lug my too-heavy suitcase up the steps.
Lottie’s mother is a short, stocky lady with sad eyes. She greets her daughter with copious affection and strong hugs before taking my hand stiffly. The Ukrainian chatter is loud and excited from both women. As the conversation progresses, Lottie’s mother flashes sideways glances at me with increasing regularity.
‘She says my father is still very sick, he has a ruptured organ, I don’t know what the English word is. They have to do an operation if he is to survive.’
‘When will they operate?’
‘Nobody knows. My mother goes to the hospital every day to be with him. She pays the doctors and nurses, she cleans him and takes him food. She can’t do any more.’
‘You have to pay for everything?’
‘Officially everything is free but doctors are paid so little salary they only treat people that give them money. It’s normal. The problem is the operation. Up to now nobody knows if it can be done.
‘Look Lottie, I’ll help pay for the operation, don’t worry about the cost.’
‘It’s not that. At the moment there’s no surgeon to do it. They don’t know when they might have one.’
‘Then he needs to go to another hospital, surely.’
‘That’s not possible. Anyway he’s in the best one already. You can’t blame our doctors, there’s no money here. Look around, Jenny, would you stay here unless you had to? Doctors get less than two hundred pounds a month. My Chris earns twice that every day.’
‘Then we take him away from here, take him somewhere he can get the proper treatment.’
‘He’s too ill to be moved, they say. Anyway, where would we take him?’
A horrible trapped feeling squeezes my abdomen, her desperation communicates directly into my own nervous system. I have seen squalor before, lived in it, but never imagined it existed on such a massive scale. No wonder pretty young girls throw themselves at fat old westerners. In their circumstances I’m certain I’d take my chance to get the hell out of this place.
At my insistence, Lottie takes me to meet the men who operate the sex tourism business that she and Kat were involved in. As soon as we enter the hotel, her nervousness increases to the extent that it becomes contagious. I look at the false glitz and sad faces, taste the hopelessness all around me.
She leads me over to where two of the more unsavoury characters are sitting.
‘Tell them I’m from Manchester, that I operate an escort agency, say I need some young girls to work in my business.’ I can see that Lottie is nervous to the point of stupefaction. The two men opposite may not be the ones who attacked her father but they might just as well be, the way Lottie is reacting. She strug
gles with her words, looking everywhere apart from directly at the men. When she stops talking the younger man shrugs his shoulders and glares brazenly at me.
I look right back. The two men both stink of tobacco and sweat. The older man, probably in his late fifties, scratches his groin in an instinctive rather than provocative gesture. It’s as if he has a severe irritation in that region, one he returns to often. I’m feeling very uncomfortable, it’s so hot, and I’m not at all sure these unsavoury characters are going to be of any help. One of them grunts, the other grunts back.
‘How many?’ Lottie says. ‘They want to know how many?’
‘Tell them two or three immediately, more later on.’
‘Five thousand,’ Lottie translates. ‘Pounds, they say.’
‘For three?’
‘They say for each, five thousand pounds for each.’
‘Tell them they are crazy, I can do it cheaper myself, tell them that.’
‘They say that girls in England earn you fifty thousand pounds every year. Their girls are good for two or three years at least. They are very young and fresh.’ Lottie’s eyes are streaming with tears now but the men’s eyes are fixed on me.
‘Tell them I’ll pay two thousand five hundred, but only on delivery and only when I see the girls.’
The older man shrugs his shoulders. A white froth of spittle appears between his lips which he discharges in my direction.
Lottie translates his mutterings. ‘He says the transport costs more than that, he asks if you have any idea how hard it is to get into your country?’
‘Ask him who deals with the transport, tell him I need to speak with them.’
The old man raises his eyebrows and shakes his head as he replies.
‘He says you must deal with him, that you can take it or leave it. He doesn’t care either way.’
‘Ask him when his next delivery will arrive in England.’
They listen to Lottie’s translation then the older man shrugs his shoulders. ‘Every week,’ she says, ‘he can send them any time you want. Just pay the money.’
