by D J Harrison
‘No,’ I answer, then struggle for further information to assist her. Not my partner, not my lover, only my bodyguard. I can’t say that. ‘He’s a work colleague, helping me with the business,’ I say.
‘But he’s living here then?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Ha.’ Alison nods and returns to her tea. She’s got me down as Monty’s girlfriend and I’m feeling very uncomfortable at her assumption.
‘We’re not an item, if that’s what you are thinking,’ I say. The words are snap reaction. I’ve no need to explain myself to her, but I somehow feel compelled.
Alison raises her eyebrows and smiles. ‘He’s very good-looking. I’d be sorely tempted if I were you.’
I feel shocked by her blunt appraisal. Monty isn’t someone for her to be lusting after, or me for that matter. I’ve never thought of him like that; maybe that’s why I insisted on his using his contact and arranging a meeting with Wasiewicz. Maybe if I looked on him as a real person I wouldn’t have dragged him into peril. After we extricated ourselves all he said was, ‘You were lucky he was stupid enough to buy your story.’ He’s been very quiet with me ever since.
Alison’s comment reminds me of how vulnerable we both were and how irresponsible I am. Putting myself at risk is one thing, but she’s reminding me that Monty, despite his job, is worthy of consideration and not to be jeopardised lightly. Now I’m confused and upset at myself where previously I was a little smug at having pulled it off against the odds. I’m just grateful that we came through unscathed and that I’ve taken another step forward without the plan I’ve hatched blowing up in my face. So far, so good. I feel a nervous twinge when I remember what’s at stake and just how many complex elements need to come together.
‘You can have him,’ I say with mock joviality. I don’t mean it. A shiver of fright, long overdue, takes over my system. I think about Wasiewicz. How he hurt me, how he’s been sending people to kill me. I think about how exposed I am. When Alison has left, taking Toby and Freya with her, Monty comes into the kitchen.
‘My ex-husband’s new wife fancies you,’ I say.
‘Oh, I wondered who she was.’
‘Maybe I should introduce you two, next time she calls,’ I say.
‘Maybe you should,’ Monty grins. ‘She’s a good-looking woman.’
‘Oh I see, it’s the big tits you like, is it?’
‘I can’t say I noticed.’ He’s still grinning as he helps himself to a cup of tea. I should be laughing at this gentle banter, but something is tightening up inside me. I don’t want her looking at Monty like that and I certainly don’t like Monty lusting after her. There’s a sense of ownership, of Monty being all mine. I pay Popov ten grand a month for him after all. This feeling gives way to panic and I realise how much I’m depending on him. It’s similar to the way I always relied on Mick when I had GOD Security. I’ll not be able to pay for Monty much longer. This thought makes me feel desperate and lonely. Maybe I’ll not be needing him to protect me if Wasiewicz really does lay off, but I’ve grown used to him being around.
42
‘You’ve been avoiding me,’ I say. Hector Brighouse has finally responded to my increasingly persistent calls and emails. Audience has been granted to my great relief and the contrasting disappointment of the beak-faced woman in his outer office. I’ve been wondering why she appears to dislike me so vehemently. She’s the unhelpful barrier that prevents any direct communication, until now. In my kinder moments I attribute her attitude to previous training as a doctor’s receptionist.
Hector looks old and tired. The skin on his face is slack and wrinkled. He has the appearance of a slowly deflating toy balloon. The vigour I associate with his vast bulk seems diminished. He looks tired, ill maybe, or perhaps I’m getting him on a bad day.
‘Nonsense,’ he booms. ‘What on earth gives you that impression?’ The words are flat and empty, and he’s not even offering me the customary hot water, tinged with yellow, that he calls tea.
‘I’ve been trying to get you for weeks,’ I say.
‘Then please, accept my heartfelt apology for our inefficiency. I’ll have a strong word with my staff, take it from me.’
I don’t. He’s uncomfortable with my presence, I can see that. ‘It’s Slater,’ I say. ‘He’s out to get me. He’s setting me up to be arrested and charged. I need you to sort the situation out, I’m no help to you in prison.’
Hector frowns. It looks theatrical and may even be rehearsed.
‘You’ll have to take that up with Slater, Jenny,’ he says. ‘Have you asked him about it, have you told him your suspicions?’
‘Yes, he denies everything.’
‘There you are then. I don’t see what more I can do.’
‘He’s lying,’ I say. ‘I need you to sort him out, remind him we’re all supposed to be working together. Warn him off.’
‘I really can’t do any more than ask him, Jenny, and I will. Believe me there’s no need for you to be concerned. As you say we are all on the same side here, aren’t we?’ He rises awkwardly to his feet and walks round his desk to stand next to me. I stand up automatically and he ushers me to the door.
‘There’s something else,’ I say, standing my ground with difficulty.
‘Ah yes, something else?’ he replies.
‘Wasiewicz.’
‘What?’
‘A man called Wasiewicz. He’s Bulgarian, I think. He runs a sex trafficking business. He’s been trying to kill me. He’s the one responsible for the attempts on my life.’
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Certain.’
‘How can you be certain, has he told you? Did he confess?’
‘Yes. I’ve spoken to him, he’s the one. I want him arrested.’
‘Do you think that would put a stop to the threat against you?’
‘Not necessarily,’ I say, ‘but I want him arrested and his filthy business stopped. He’s bringing in young girls in specially adapted trailers. I’ve got all the details. All you have to do is go get him, bring him down. It’ll be a nice arrest for someone and a good success for us. It might show how useful we are, Hector. It should help you to get Slater off my back.’
I can see he’s still anxious for me to leave and that what I’m saying isn’t engaging his interest. I could tell him that I desperately need Alex back in my life, and for that to happen I have to be rehabilitated, be considered part of the law enforcement team instead of a criminal. Hector can do this, I’m sure he can.
Sitting down again I turn my back on him, forcing him to walk back to his side of the desk. After a moment’s hesitation he resumes his own seat and presses a button on his phone.
‘I’ll have some tea now, Miranda,’ he says.
‘It’s an important issue for Security Group.’ I’m determined to get his attention back.
‘What is?’ Hector seems distracted, unable to get the implications of what I’m telling him.
‘Wasiewicz’s sleazy business.’
‘How is that a concern for us?’ he asks.
‘We do the security at Trafford Trailers. We let the lorries in and the girls out. The special trailers with secret compartments are fabricated on the premises, under our supervision, with the connivance of our personnel. Wasiewicz is your client, Hector. SG are looking after him, and our man is in full knowledge of what’s going on.’
‘We can’t be held responsible for that, we’re only supplying security. What customers do on their own premises is no concern of ours.’
‘It has to be your concern, Hector, you’re not only the head of SG, you’ve got your position in MI5 or whatever department of the security services you are. Wouldn’t look good if you had no idea what’s going on under your nose.’
Hector’s ample cheeks flush, showing I’m getting through to him at last. Even if all I’m doing is making him angry.
43
Bringing Wasiewicz to justice won’t be any guarantee that I’ll be safe. Whoe
ver controls the business may come gunning for me. This time there would actually be a reason for it. There’s also a good chance that the sleazy mob will be put out of business completely and that my part in it will not even be noticed. It doesn’t matter; ever since I saw those poor girls in the apartment from where the prostitution ring had forcibly evicted Mrs Mather and her children, I’ve been trying to do something about this. My own safety is still in jeopardy but I can’t stand by and let them continue with their filthy trade. The inhuman scenes I’ve witnessed are never far from my waking thoughts. I think of the way that monsters like Abe force vulnerable women into having sex with strangers just because they can’t pay his extortionate loan repayments. How horrible traffickers like Wasiewicz enslave young girls in search of a better life. There has to be some way to stop this, I must be able to help even in a small way. Kat was the start, she was my original objective, but now it has to go wider.
Anyway, I’m used to being under threat. It’s not pleasant, but it’s become my way of life.
I’m left sitting here in Hector’s office. He said he’d only be a minute or two, excused himself very politely. I suppose he’s gone to the loo, but it’s been twenty minutes now and I’m wondering what else he might be up to. There’s not a lot to occupy me while he’s away, no interesting papers on his desk for me to rummage through. Only the polished surface and a pristine white blotting pad clad in leather. I try sitting on Hector’s chair, view the world from that well-upholstered perch. See things from his perspective.
He’s a powerful man. I know that from the way he spent a couple of million pounds buying GOD Security. I open the top right hand drawer on his desk, expecting the clutter of old pens, post-it pads, highlighters, receipts, bills and expenses forms that inhabited mine. Instead there’s a single item sitting on the green baize lining. My heart almost stops when I see it. This is Salford Quays, England. We are in a highly secure office block. The last thing I expect to see is a gun.
I pick it up. It’s very heavy, surprisingly so. There’s an inscription on the shiny barrel that identifies it as a Colt Mark 4 Series 70.45 automatic calibre. The only bits on the gun that aren’t bright chrome are the polished wood inserts on the handle. I rub it on my blouse, trying to remove my finger prints from its beautifully polished surface, and then clunk it back into the drawer.
I scoot back to my visitor’s chair and listen to my amplified heartbeat thumping in my ears. It’s wrong; it makes no sense for a man like Hector to keep a gun in his drawer. There are more drawers on my side of the desk, and I vaguely remember Hector explaining once that the huge wooden edifice he sat behind was an antique, designed for partners to sit opposite each other and presumably keep tabs on each other as they did. I have to admit, it’s truly magnificent, all this polished dark wood, lighter wood inlaid around the extremities of each element, and the dark green leather surface decorated with gold filigree. I can’t imagine what it must have cost.
The drawers on my side slide open easily enough. I peek inside each one in turn; all empty. I’m not entirely sure why I’m doing this, other than something to occupy the inordinate length of time that Hector is taking for his toilet break, if that’s what it is.
I stand up, walk round, peer into the glass cabinets containing ancient books. Some of the titles are in English, but by no means all of them. Philosophy and religion dominate the ones I can read, authors include some I’ve heard of. But most of them I haven’t.
Carefully, in case it’s fragile, I ease a book from the shelf and open it. Vindication of the Rights of Women is the title. The author is Mary Wollstonecraft and the book is dated 1792.
It’s a strange book to be in the office of a man in Hector’s position. At his home, in some oak-panelled den for his own private study, it wouldn’t be out of place, I suppose, but here, in full view of every visitor? Maybe he’s sending a message to anyone who cares to look closely that the man they see before them may be more complex than he appears. The door clicks open: Hector is back. I’m caught red-faced with Wollstonecraft in my hands. The first flush of embarrassment dies quickly – I’m grateful I’m not still fondling his Colt 45 automatic.
‘My apologies,’ Hector begins. ‘I was waylaid by a cacophony of urgent requests for decisions that apparently no one else in the whole organisation is capable of taking. At least you had a book to read to keep you occupied.’
‘This?’ I show him the thick volume. ‘I’m not so sure it’s my kind of bedtime reading.’
‘Ah, the inestimable Mary. A remarkable woman. Her ideas are interesting, compelling in many ways, especially considering when she was writing.’
I try to shoe-horn it back onto the shelf, but the space I extricated it from is now inadequate, as if the adjacent volumes have expanded into Wollstonecraft’s space.
‘Keep it,’ Hector says, ‘take it with you, read it at your leisure. Believe me it’s well worth the effort.’
I place the thick volume carefully on his desk in front of me. I want to ask him about the gun. Now is probably the only chance I’ll get. It feels important for me to understand what’s going on with Hector. I really need to know if the faith I have in his ability to get me out of this bind is justified.
A gun in his drawer and weird books on his shelves are putting doubts in my mind. The heat flows back into my cheeks as I catch my breath and try to frame the question.
Why do you have a gun in your drawer? The words run through my mind, and are replaced with an alternative admission. I looked in your drawer, Hector, I was being nosy; there’s a gun in there.
‘Wasiewicz,’ I say instead. ‘Are you going to help me or not?’
‘You’ll have to leave that one with me, Jenny. I’ll need to consult. Ours aren’t the only considerations that have to be taken into account. There may be other implications.’
I don’t like the sound of his voice. It’s no longer the confident booming I associate with Hector, it’s as if all his bravado has been exhausted. The one man I thought I could rely on to squash Sandy Slater suddenly feels less formidable to me.
‘And Slater,’ I say, ‘and the rest of the police force, tell them to leave me alone.’
I think of Alex and the impossible position he’s in while I am under suspicion. Trouble is, the suspicions are not only well founded but woefully short of the mark.
‘One more thing,’ I say, ‘the gun in your desk drawer…’
His face creases into a smile. ‘You’ve been checking out more than my book shelves. I can’t say I’m surprised. The Colt was a gift from an American colleague, an expression of gratitude for some service I did for him.’
‘So it’s sort of ceremonial, just a model? Not the real thing?’
Hector takes the weapon from the drawer and places it on the desk between us, barrel facing sideways towards the bookcase, bright chrome shining under his desk light.
‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘It’s perfectly functional. You should be more careful, Jenny, you could have had a nasty accident. I always keep it fully loaded. Why do I have it in my drawer? Two reasons. First, it’s far too heavy to carry around, plays havoc with the cut of one’s suit. Second, if anyone does come through that door with evil intent at least I have one opportunity to try to persuade them to reconsider.’
44
If Hector is having me followed, my next port of call would be of great interest to him and if I am discovered will cause me no end of trouble. Of course, I’m aware of the very real possibility and try to keep an eye out for other cars as I drive, conscious that one of them could be a tail. It’s exactly the kind of low trick I’d expect from Slater, but I can’t really blame him. If I were him I’d not want to let me out of my sight. I wonder if my meeting with Hector is already common knowledge in the National Crime Agency. Maybe Alex is party to all the information regarding my whereabouts and activities. Maybe he still cares. I hope he does. This has to be a temporary glitch in our relationship, I need to clear the way for him to come back into
my life. If Slater finds out who I’m meeting and why, it’s going to make that impossible.
The temporary fencing surrounding the site is still there after all this time. The wire frame is planted in concrete blocks and tied together by metal clamps. The whole arrangement is uneven and twisted. There’s an untidy look of something thrown together quickly then left much longer than intended. That applies equally to the heaps of demolition waste inside the compound. I watched that muck arrive from the window of the portacabin that was GOD Security’s office. Gary had explained he was doing a favour for a mate, and that the piles would be removed within a few days, a week at the most. Now they’re covered in tufts of grass and long, straggling weeds poke up between the bricks and concrete blocks.
This is where I started my new life and where it nearly ended as soon as it began. Here, I saw a man’s eyes widen when he saw me. A man who recognised me, but whom I didn’t know at all. Despite the man’s warning to the contrary, Gary kept faith in me. Now I’m meeting that same man again.
A small red van arrives and parks itself in front of my Range Rover. A man emerges, but not the man I’m expecting, and he stands waiting with the driver’s door open and the keys in his hand. I get out and walk over to him.
‘Where’s Popov?’ I ask.
‘Eccles,’ he replies, dangling the keys. ‘He says to take the van.’
‘I arranged to meet him here,’ I say.
The van driver has thinning red hair and a pock-marked face. He’s clad in green overalls which look so clean I suspect they’re fresh out of a packet today.
‘Can you drive the van?’ he asks. ‘It’s got gears.’
‘Of course I can.’
‘Fine, then give me your keys and get going. He’s waiting for you in Morrison’s. You do know how to get to Eccles, don’t you?’
