by Anna Smith
Rosie told the waiter, then pushed her salad to the middle of the table.
‘Here,’ Rosie said. ‘Help yourself. We’ll share. They’ll bring more food in a minute.’ She stuck her fork into a piece of salmon, inviting him to do the same.
‘Thank you,’ the boy said gratefully, lifting a piece of salmon with the knife. ‘I did not have food since last night.’ He stuffed the salmon into his mouth and tore off a piece of bread.
Rosie watched him for a moment as he ate, his lean face smooth and brown under a mop of black curly hair. His pale blue shirt was ragged at the cuffs, and his flimsy beach-boy trousers were frayed and turned up at the bottom, revealing broken leather sandals. He looked out of place amid the elegance of the white wicker chairs and stiff linen table-cloths. Rosie was surprised he had got this far into the hotel without someone turfing him out. Top marks for endeavour, whoever he was.
‘So, who are you?’ Rosie said, looking straight into his eyes. He may have followed her, but from now on, she was in charge.
‘My name is Taha.’ The boy wiped his hand on his trousers and stretched it across to Rosie. She shook it. It was soft, like the hand of a child.
He glanced back at the food as if he was afraid it would disappear. Rosie nodded to him to eat.
‘I am from Morocco. But I am here now in Spain for one year and two months. Working,’ he told her between mouthfuls.
Rosie decided not to ask. If he said he was anything other than a rent boy, she wouldn’t have believed him anyway. The boy looked at her as though he knew what she was thinking. His eyes looked sad. He’d probably practised that look in the mirror. When he swallowed Rosie could see his Adam’s apple move in his slender neck. He looked over his shoulder fleetingly, then pulled his chair a little closer to the table, seeming nervous.
‘I saw something,’ he said. ‘That girl. The missing girl. But I cannot tell the police because I am illegal here. They would send me back, and I cannot go back now. I am making some money for my parents in our village. I don’t want to talk to police, but I know things.’
Rosie looked at his face, watching for some flaw, some sign that he was a chancer. A sudden image of Mags Gillick, the murdered prostitute who had confided in her over Gavin Fox’s corrupt exploits, flashed across her mind and she banished it. That same look – fear and loneliness – had haunted her since Mags’ murder. Don’t even go there, she told herself. She decided to let him talk, make him feel at ease. If he had something interesting then fine. If not, it had brightened up a dull afternoon.
‘Listen, Taha.’ Rosie stretched her hand across so it brushed his wrist. ‘Before we start talking here, you have to know you can trust me. I won’t betray you. But if you know something about the little girl, about Amy, then we have to find a way to let the police know. But whatever you tell me, be assured, you can trust me to look after you.’
Taha took a sip of his coke. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘OK. I understand. But I am worry … Because of what I do and the people I work for. They are not good people. Dangerous.’ Taha looked edgy.
‘I understand,’ Rosie said. ‘But you have to trust me. My name is Rosie Gilmour, and I work for a newspaper in Scotland called the Post. OK? I am over here to look at the story of the little girl. She might have been stolen. Maybe kidnapped … ?’
The boy looked down, twisted his glass on the table cloth for a few moments, then looked up at Rosie.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think she was stolen. I saw. I saw someone.’
She took a deep breath. She read his face for lies, for any sign of a set-up. If he was lying he was good, very good.
‘Tell me, Taha. What did you see? Were you on the beach?’
He looked down again. ‘No. I was in a villa. But close. I could see—’ He bit the inside of his jaw. ‘I was with someone on the balcony. We saw the girl on the beach. Someone took her.’
Rosie sat back. She let the silence take over for a moment. She knew Taha was waiting for her to ask.
‘You were with a client?’
‘Yes.’ Taha looked a little sheepish, but Rosie probed.
‘A man?’
‘Yes. A British man. A big important man, I think.’
Rosie took a sip of her iced tea.
‘Taha.’ She spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. ‘Can you tell me what you saw. Just what you saw from the balcony.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I was on the balcony. With the man. It was before we … Before … You know?’
Rosie nodded her understanding, waved him to go on.
‘We were talking a bit and looking at the sea. A small girl was on the beach. No people with her. Then a man came and lifted her up and took her away.’
‘Maybe it was her father,’ Rosie said. ‘What made you think it wasn’t her father?’
Taha shrugged. ‘It was nothing to us then. Nothing, when it happened. But after … After some time, we saw the woman come out of the house nearby, and another man also came out of the house a bit later. They were running and the woman cried a lot. She called a name, like she was looking for somebody. That was when I think maybe she is stolen. Then the papers and television say a small girl is taken.’
Rosie listened. It had Monday’s splash and spread stamped all over it. If what he’d seen was Jenny Lennon and O’Hara coming outside, then this was not the version they’d told the world. O’Hara had said he was walking down the beach when he heard Jenny coming out of the house screaming. This was a different account entirely. But based on what, she could hear McGuire saying. The word of a rent boy? She’d been here before.
‘Did you see anything before that, Taha?’ Rosie wanted to be clear. ‘Did you see a man coming down the beach towards the woman who was screaming?’
‘No,’ he said, looking bewildered. ‘I only saw the girl, then a man take her, then after some time the man and woman come from the house. That’s all.’
Rosie nodded.
‘So what did you do after that? Did you see anything else. Would you recognise the man?’
‘I don’t know,’ the boy said. ‘I don’t think so. After that my friend – the man – he left. Then I left. It is the normal thing when I go to that house with a client.’
‘So the man was a client?’ Rosie asked. ‘The British man?’
‘Yes,’ Taha nodded. ‘I been there with him before. Once last week, and twice last year, when first I come to Spain. He’s a good man. And he pays well.’
Rosie didn’t really want the details. They were written all over the face of this beautiful young boy. He was sixteen or seventeen, if that, and already ruined.
‘Taha,’ she said. ‘You said the man was an important man. Do you know his name?’
Taha nodded. He reached into his pocket and took out something. ‘I knew him as Thomas,’ he said. ‘But the name is different. On this.’
He opened his hand, and in his palm was what Rosie recognised as a House of Commons security pass. He handed it to her. She didn’t need to look at the name, because the photo on the pass was enough to make her head swim. The Home Secretary, the Rt. Hon. Michael Carter-Smith, was looking back at her with that arrogant expression which dared anyone to take him on.
CHAPTER 8
She was like the puppy, snuggling against him, and it was an odd feeling. He wasn’t used to having someone close to him like that.
In the back of the car, Besmir moved the sleeping child’s arm away from him. He looked at her pale face as she slept, exhausted, her eyelids puffy from crying. The car was stifling, and a tiny strip of sweat gathered under her hairline. His fingers reached out and almost stroked her forehead, but he pulled back. She was nothing to him. Just a package to be delivered. He rolled down the window, but the air coming in was dry and sweltering, so he closed it again. He put his head back and closed his eyes. He would be glad when this was over.
The worst moment had been the journey from Elira’s apartment in Algeciras. They had to leave at
first light and the girl had started to scream as Besmir put her into the boot of the car. They had to be vigilant in case police were looking in every car for the missing girl. A private boat would take him to the Tangiers coast, but he would return by the ferry, using a fake German passport Leka had given him.
Elira had insisted he take the puppy with them, despite Besmir’s protests that he’d have enough with the girl. But she’d said it would help once they were on the journey as it might keep the girl calm. Elira had named the girl Kaltrina, Albanian for ‘the blue girl’, because of her striking blue eyes.
Besmir didn’t like the way Elira was fawning over the kid as if it was her own. Just get on with the job. Get to Tangiers and deliver the girl, then get back to Spain and his money. He promised himself that as soon as Leka paid him he’d get on the road and none of them would ever see him again. But for now, he was stuck with this little girl and a puppy in the back of the car.
The motor boat had dropped them off at the small isolated cove on the Moroccan coast. It hadn’t been able to come right up to the shore because of the rocks in the shallow waters. It had put out a small rubber dingy to take them to the shore, but it still left them some way out from the beach. Besmir cursed as he carried the sobbing girl and the puppy, wading knee-deep in the sea towards the young Moroccan man waiting for him on the beach.
He’d been tempted to give the girl the drink Elira had given him to put her to sleep, but he was scared in case it would kill her. Knowing Leka, the last thing he wanted to do was deliver the package dead.
The young driver said nothing when Besmir emerged from the sea. He simply nodded and walked away, Besmir following him towards a battered car parked on the dirt-track road. As they approached he noticed there was someone in the passenger seat. A small, fat Moroccan smoked furiously and spat out of the window as Besmir got into the car with the girl clinging round his neck.
‘Can you shut her up?’ the fat man said, tossing his cigarette out of the window.
‘Just take us to where we have to go,’ Besmir snapped at him, prodding his back firmly with his finger, as he got into the back seat.
Whoever this fat old Moroccan was, he was not in charge here, and Besmir wanted to make sure he was in no doubt about that.
‘How far?’ Besmir asked the driver. ‘How long to drive?’
‘Maybe two hours,’ he said. ‘Roads no good. We don’t go the coast road as there is more traffic and people. But the small roads to Tangiers are not good.’
‘Then let’s go.’ Besmir poked his shoulder for effect.
The girl had sobbed for a little longer, but she stopped when Besmir gave her some water and a soft sugar sweet Elira had put in the bag for the journey. The puppy licked her fingers as Besmir settled her down so she was lying across the seat. But she kept twisting herself around so she could lie with her arm wrapped across him. He automatically put his arm over hers. He looked out of the window.
The car clanked and jerked its way along the road, which became little more than tyre tracks in the desolate scrubland. The young driver repeated it was better to keep away from the main roads, and kept turning his head round to Besmir to reassure him that everything was alright. Besmir guessed he was about the same age as himself, but he could see that he was a little afraid of him, and he resolved to keep it that way.
He didn’t like the little fat man and immediately sensed he couldn’t trust him. He was a bully. Besmir knew he’d made an instant enemy from the moment he had talked down to him at the start of the journey, but that didn’t worry him. He had met enough bullying little men on his way through life, and he feared none of them. You had to get the better of them straight away or they would crush you into the ground like a beetle.
He looked out at the heat rising in waves across the barren landscape. They’d hardly gone past any villages, just miles and miles of empty track and a few straggling herds of goats, some – to his amazement – perched precariously in the trees nibbling on the leaves. He smiled to himself when he saw them teetering on the branches. The goats weren’t afraid to take a risk. He liked that.
The driver pointed to a small stream in the distance and asked if they could stop for a few minutes to eat some food. He had been working since daybreak he said, and was hungry. Besmir agreed, and thought he should give the girl something to eat if she woke up. They got out of the car and the fat man lit a cigarette, walking towards the stream and opening his trousers to have a pee as he went. Besmir opened the back door and could see that the girl was waking up. He crouched down and looked at her face, smiling at her.
‘Hello, little Kaltrina.’ He lifted the bag out to look for some food, then produced a piece of bread. ‘Look, Kaltrina. Hungry? You want some food?’
The puppy jumped out and leapt up at him. He gave it a piece of bread which it devoured in one gulp. The girl giggled, and put her hands out for some food. Besmir broke off a piece of bread and handed it to her. She immediately stretched her hand towards the dog who leapt up and snatched it from her fingers. Besmir watched her face as she looked up at him, her blue eyes piercing in the sunlight.
‘Kaltrina. Look. Eat.’ He put some bread in his mouth and she put her arms up for him to lift her. He took her out of the car and sat her on the ground, kneeling beside her. Besmir broke more bread and some hard cheese from the bag and gave a small piece to her. He watched as she munched it, then put her hands out for the water and orange juice mix Elira had given them. She was thirsty, and gulped the lukewarm drink. Then she stood up. She fidgeted from one leg to the other, and clutched between her legs. Besmir looked at her, confused, then at the driver, who smiled a gap-toothed smile.
‘She want go to toilet,’ he said, pointing at her. Besmir felt awkward. He looked at the driver.
‘You want I take her?’ he said. ‘I have little sisters. Is no problem for me to take them to toilet.’
Besmir said nothing but motioned with his hand to take the girl. He watched as the driver picked her up and went a few yards away. He seemed to be at ease around the child. How different their lives were, though they were similar ages. He wondered what it must be like to be easy with people, to be with a family, eating together in the evenings and sitting by the fire. Of course he’d seen it in pictures and on television, but it was alien to him. There was no point in being close to anything or anybody. You could get by in life without all that. Even for sex. You could just do it and feel the rush inside you when you let all the tension go. But you didn’t have to lie around touching the woman, because who knows what that would make you feel. You’d want them to be with you all the time, and maybe they wouldn’t come back and you’d be left on your own – like the old days, before the crying stopped.
Besmir could see the skyline of Tangiers in the distance, apartment blocks stacked close close under the shimmering heat of the late afternoon sun. He was glad the girl was asleep again, but it wouldn’t be for long; as they came closer to the town, the noise of the horns and traffic began building up. He fidgeted in his seat, feeling hot and tired. The driver turned around as though sensing his discomfort.
‘Not long now. Just few minutes.’
The fat man sat up straight in his seat and half turned to Besmir.
‘I been told that when we get to the place, you take the girl in and then you go,’ he said. ‘Your job finish.’ He jerked his thumb towards the driver. ‘He drive you to the harbour and you can take a boat back to Spain.’ He opened, the window, hawked and spat.
Besmir leaned forward. ‘When Leka gets the call from the man I am delivering to, then I will go. When Leka calls me.’
The fat man shrugged. ‘Leka? I do not know him. My boss is Moroccan.’
‘No.’ Besmir talked close to his ear. ‘You may not know Leka, but he will know you. He will know who you are and where to find you. He will know everything about everyone involved in this. That is how Leka works.’
‘Should I be frightened of this man Leka?’ The fat man was sarcastic, more
confident now that he was deep in his own turf.
‘Yes,’ Besmir said. ‘You should be afraid. Very afraid.’ He sat back in the seat and looked out of the window as they continued the rest of the journey in silence.
The girl woke up as they snaked their way through the tight backstreets. Somewhere amid the crowded apartment blocks and buildings, the Muslim call to prayer rose up into the cloudless sky. Besmir smiled at the girl and lifted her onto his lap, surprising himself at how natural it felt. She started crying again, and he tried to shush her, but she was calling for her mother.
‘Look, look,’ Besmir said, trying to distract her by pointing to things outside in the busy street. He wiped her tears with the palm of his hand.
‘We are here,’ the driver said, pulling into a little cobbled street.
They got out of the car and Besmir lifted the girl into his arms. She wrapped her arms so tightly around his neck she almost choked him. The driver lifted the puppy and gestured for them to follow him and the fat man along the cloistered sidestreet and across a maze of narrow alleyways until they finally came to a two-storey white building with a massive metal door. The fat man knocked twice.
Besmir stood, his face like flint, steadying himself for whatever was behind the door. It opened slowly and the fat man went in, followed by the driver who nodded to Besmir to come. Inside the massive hall the mosaic tiles on the floor and the walls were like an explosion of colour. The air was heavy with the smell of spices and cigarette smoke. A middle-aged woman wearing a flowing kaftan, with a pashmina covering her head, emerged from a corridor and looked at the fat man, then at Besmir. She smiled.
‘The girl,’ she said, her heavily made-up eyes bright. She went towards Besmir with her arms outstretched.
‘What a pretty girl. Does she have a name?’ Her perfume wafted with her every move.
‘We called her Kaltrina. In Albanian, it means the blue girl,’ Besmir said flatly. ‘Look. Her eyes.’
The girl looked confused as the woman tried to take her out of Besmir’s arms. She clung onto him, whimpering.
