To Tell the Truth

by Anna Smith

  ‘She is beautiful. This blue girl.’ She looked at Besmir.

  He was surprised to find himself holding the girl tightly, and the woman stared at him. He loosened his grip, but still held onto her.

  A door opened at the far corner of the room and a big, well-built, older Moroccan man with dyed black hair came walking in. He wore white trousers, and a black shirt open at the neck to reveal a heavy gold chain and medallion resting on his very hairy chest. Two thickset henchmen dressed in Moroccan tunics followed him. Besmir pulled himself up to stand tall.

  ‘You must be Besmir,’ the man said, striding across the room with his hand outstretched. ‘Leka told me.’ He looked at the girl. ‘And he was not wrong about the girl. A beauty.’

  ‘The blue girl,’ the woman piped up. ‘They have called her Kaltrina. It means the blue girl because of her blue eyes. Look at them. Look how lovely she is.’

  The man nodded and touched the girl’s face softly.

  ‘My beautiful blue girl,’ he murmured. ‘You are like gold.’

  He looked at Besmir.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Your work here is finished now. The driver will take you back to the port. I will call Leka to tell him you delivered safely.’ He smiled to Besmir, his dark skin like creased brown paper.

  The woman came forward and put her arms out for the girl, but she buried her head in Besmir’s neck. The woman gently prised the girl off him and held her close, whispering to her. Besmir could still feel the softness of her skin on his. Her eyes filled with tears and she started screaming for her mother. The woman stroked her hair and turned to walk quickly out of the room. Besmir tried not to look as he heard the girl sobbing as she stretched her arms out towards him. He could still see the blue of her eyes as she disappeared behind the door.

  ‘You can go now, Besmir.’ The man shook his hand. ‘Thank you for your good work.’

  Besmir said nothing. He glanced at the fat man whose face was wearing a smirk that he would remember long after this day was over.

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘Let me just run that past you, Rosie,’ McGuire said. ‘In case I’ve blacked out or I’m dreaming. Are you telling me that our esteemed Home Secretary not only may have witnessed the kidnapping of little Amy, but was rogering some dusky rent boy at the same time? Oh, fuck me, Rosie! I think I’m going to faint. Just saying it makes me lightheaded.’

  Rosie could almost hear McGuire’s brain rattling as he tried to process the information. Nobody relished the dismantling of a public figure more than he, and she knew even before she phoned him that he’d bite her hand off when she told him what the Taha boy had told her.

  ‘Yep, that’s right, Mick. The boy might be lying through his back teeth, I don’t know, but as we speak, I have in my hot little palm Michael Carter-Smith’s House of Commons pass. His privileged face is looking right at me.’

  ‘Jesus almighty.’ Silence. ‘Right, Rosie. We need to stand back and work this out.’

  McGuire offered a few scenarios. By this time, Carter-Smith would have noticed that his pass was missing – though if he was still on holiday, he might not notice until he got back to London. If he’d noticed it was gone, he’d be in a flap, trying to retrace his steps.

  ‘He’ll be shitting himself.’ McGuire said.

  ‘I know,’ Rosie said, closing the terrace doors. ‘What I can’t understand is why people like him carry these things around with them when they’re out picking up rough trade of a morning. I mean anything could happen.’

  ‘Do you think this little poofter is making it all up, Rosie? What if Carter-Smith has innocently dropped the pass out of his pocket on the street, for example, or in a restaurant or bar, and this little toe-rag stumbled across it and decided to invent a story for money. I take it that has crossed your mind?’

  ‘Of course, but he hasn’t asked for money. Well, not yet. And he didn’t even ask for money when he gave me the pass.’

  ‘Yeah. But he will. You know that.’

  ‘I know. But he hasn’t, Mick. And he’s given me the pass.’

  ‘So you think he’s telling the truth?’

  Rosie sat down on the bed, plumped up the pillows and lay back.

  ‘It’s hard to say, but I don’t think he’s making it up. My instincts tell me that. Just something about him, the way he told the story. I know he looks like a little kid, and that guys from the street like him could probably buy and sell most of us. Yet I get the feeling that he’s just found himself in the middle of something and he wants to get it out there. His information about someone lifting the kid won’t make a whole lot of difference to the hunt. I suppose he can describe to the cops what he remembers of the man on the beach, though that’s not really going to help track Amy down. It’ll be too vague, plus it’s a bit late. But for us, the story is not just in what he saw, it’s in who he claims he was with. It’s going to take a bit of digging, but it will be massive if we can do it. Massive.’

  McGuire went quiet for a moment.

  ‘Tell you what, Rosie. I need to make a couple of discreet inquiries with my political allies, and see what Carter-Smith does in Spain at this time of year … if he has a place, or visits friends or whatever. We might find out what he’s doing there, and if he has police protection and stuff. And what about this boy? Where is he now? Are you going to see him again?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve arranged to meet him tonight. He called me a little while ago. He says he has some more information but I don’t know what it is. I need to keep him totally on side so I might drop him some cash. Keep him sweet.’

  ‘Great. Tell Matt to get a picture of him.’

  ‘Already done. I called Matt just after we spoke and got him to bag a snatch pic of Taha as he was leaving the hotel.’

  ‘Excellent. Well, let’s see what he says tonight. I’ll talk to some friends, then we’ll speak again tomorrow. The arse will fall out of the empire if we can run this story.’

  Rosie now told him what Taha had said about the man and the woman coming out of the house, and how it differed from the version given by Jenny and O’Hara.

  ‘This is beginning to stink a bit, Rosie.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But there’s a missing girl here, Mick. Let’s not forget the bigger picture.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s something we have to bear in mind. We’ll see how it goes. Talk tomorrow.’ He hung up.

  Behind the bravado as she talked the story up to McGuire, Rosie was already troubled, again thinking of Mags Gillick. She could see her face, clear as that day when they’d first met in the cafe and Mags spilled the lot about Gavin Fox. Rosie thought she’d dealt with the guilt of Mags being murdered because she’d blabbed to her about the corrupt cops, but this Moroccan kid with his story was bringing it all back. She told herself to get a grip. She had a job to do.

  It was already after eight by the time Rosie arrived at the restaurant in Fuengirola. Taha had said he would meet her in the last chirunguito, the Spanish name for the beach restaurants strung along promenade. It would be easy for her to find. Matt dropped her off and was waiting nearby. She’d give him a call when the time was right, but Rosie wanted meet Taha on her own and gain his complete confidence.

  The restaurant was quiet except for three older Spanish men sitting at a table watching basketball on the wall-mounted television in the corner. Rosie nodded to the waiter and walked past him to sit outside in the warm night air, choosing a table as far away as possible from two British couples who were finishing their meal and talking loudly. They were moaning that the problem in the Costa was that it took the Spanish forever to do anything.

  ‘Mañana, always mañana,’ the leathery-faced English guy with the shaved head and tattooed biceps ranted. His mate chirped in with some anecdote about getting a Spanish plumber to do some work around their house. Their fat women giggled as the guy did a poor impression of the hapless Spanish waiter Manuel in Fawlty Towers.

  Typical Brits abroad. No wonder everyone hated them. When
were they going to get the message that their empire had disappeared up its own arse decades ago.

  Rosie grimaced ruefully at the waiter who took her drinks order. He made a bored face. He’d heard it all before. She sipped her red wine and looked at the moon on the water. She took her mobile out of her bag and fiddled around with it, going through the directory of names and stopping at TJ’s. She resisted the urge to ring it, to see if the number was still dead. And anyway, she’d moved on, hadn’t she? A sudden wave of loneliness swept over her, taking her by surprise. She shook herself immediately out of it. No time for that crap. She sat herself up straight and got her head into work mode. Where was this little bastard?

  On cue, Taha arrived from behind her and sat down.

  ‘Hello, Rosie.’ He smiled at her with his big brown eyes. ‘I am very happy to see you again. You are very nice lady.’

  Rosie looked at him. Surely to Christ he wasn’t going to offer himself for rent. She gave him a blank look and waved the waiter over. Taha ordered a coke, and asked if he could have a sandwich.

  ‘Of course.’ Rosie handed him the menu.

  ‘Is it okay to have a steak sandwich?’ He looked genuinely concerned.

  Rosie noticed he was a little fidgety.

  ‘Sure. Of course.’ She turned to the waiter. ‘With French fries.’ She smiled at Taha. ‘What the hell. Let’s push the boat out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Taha said. ‘I am very hungry.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Always hungry, because I am always running around and working. Last night I worked on the boat. Very late. So I not get time to eat much. Or sleep.’

  He pulled his chair a little closer to the table so when he leaned forward he was nearer Rosie. The dark smudges under his eyes were more pronounced than yesterday. ‘That is what I want to talk to you about.’

  Rosie watched him, wondering if he was on something. He was a lot more jumpy than he’d been yesterday. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the gory details of his work, but she’d better listen anyway.

  ‘The boat?’ she said. ‘You worked on the boat? What boat?’

  ‘Yes,’ Taha said. ‘It belong to the Russian. The big boss Mr Daletsky. Mr Viktor Daletsky. He is very rich man. He own everything. Everywhere.’

  Rosie looked at him. No bells rang. ‘Daletsky?’

  ‘You know him?’ Taha said.

  ‘No, I don’t. What were you doing on his boat?’ Rosie hoped he would spare her the graphic details of bottoms being breached.

  Taha took a swig of coke. His steak sandwich arrived and he scooped up a handful of chips as soon as the waiter put the plate on the table. He chewed fast and gulped the food down.

  ‘I work in the kitchens for a little while. They have some kind of big party last night. Lot of people. Then I am there in case anyone asks for me.’ He sighed. ‘You know, like … the clients. If my boss tells me someone wants me for a while, then I will go to one of the rooms on the boat. The cabins.’

  Rosie kept looking at him curiously, wondering why he was telling her all this.

  ‘Who is your boss? Is he Russian too?’

  ‘Yes. He is Russian, but also he has a boss and he is the Albanian called Leka. He is a big boss. Very big man. Everybody afraid of Leka. My boss is scared of him. He runs all the business for them.’

  Rosie was feeling a bit lost. What had the Russian millionaire and the Albanians got to do with this rent boy – apart from the obvious, that he was just part of their prostitution racket that in turn was part of their empire. She took a deep breath and leaned towards Taha.

  ‘Taha,’ she said. ‘Why are you telling me about the boat and the Russian? What has this got to do with what you told me earlier? About the little girl and the British man?’

  Taha looked at her surprised.

  ‘He was there,’ he said. ‘The man. The British man in the picture card I gave you. He was on the boat too. With Mr Daletsky. I saw them drinking champagne, and another man was there too. I think he also English. They were laughing together. I was working in the kitchen and I saw from the doorway the man I was with. But he didn’t see me.’ He leaned towards Rosie and spoke softly. ‘I saw a picture in the English newspaper of the man on the card I give you. He is a big politician.’

  Rosie hoped her eyes hadn’t popped. Carter-Smith and a Russian millionaire! It was a headline in itself. Most of the Russian tycoons were gangsters who had plundered and murdered their way through the country after the fall of the Soviet Union, then legitimised themselves in business in the new Russia. But scratch a Russian oligarch and you found the same corruption and ruthlessness the world over.

  Daletsky. Whoever he was, he was worth looking at. The very fact that Carter-Smith was rubbing shoulders with a guy like him on a yacht on the Costa del Sol was a story in itself. She would run a check on Daletsky on the web when she got back, and then talk to McGuire.

  ‘Can you tell me any more about Viktor Daletsky?’ she said.

  Taha shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Just that he has a big company that exports things. But all the people who work for him are bad people. Leka. He is the worst. Drugs. And also they sell people. Girls from Russia and other places. Lithuania and Ukraine. They kidnap them and sell them. That’s all I know. And this man, this British man in the picture I give to you, was with them on the boat.’

  Rosie looked at him but said nothing. He was brighter than she’d thought: smart enough to know that a politician on a boat with a bunch of Russian and Albanian gangsters was worth something. She waited for him to ask.

  He ate the sandwich and they sat in silence. Then he spoke.

  ‘I want to go away from here, Rosie. Can you help me? I need to go.’

  ‘Why do you want to go away?’ Rosie said.

  ‘I think now it is dangerous. I think I should not give you the card with the picture of the man. Now I am frightened because he knows Leka and Daletsky. I didn’t know he knew them so much.’ He swallowed and looked at his feet.

  ‘But they don’t know you had the pass. The man could have dropped it anywhere. He might not even talk to anyone about it. If anybody asks you, just say you have no idea. He won’t know where he lost it.’

  ‘I cannot do that,’ Taha said. ‘I know how they are. They won’t just ask me. They will just start to beat me and beat me until I tell them the truth. I have to go away before they ask me, because they won’t believe me, and if they keep beating me I will tell them. Then they will kill me.’ He looked away. His eyes filled with tears.

  Jesus. He was just a kid, and Rosie could sense his fear was genuine. It was a different world these days, with the Russian and Albanian gangsters moving in on all the rackets from drugs to people-smuggling. A boy like this was nothing to them, just someone who could be supplied to a client until they had no further use for him. By the time he was all used up, he’d probably be a hopeless junkie and they would toss him into the gutter. But that would be the least of his worries. For talking to her, and for giving her the security pass of someone who must be one of their top clients, he was already a dead man walking.

  ‘Do you think you can give me some money, Rosie? I want to go somewhere tonight. Just get in a train and keep going. Maybe Barcelona. Maybe France.’

  Rosie looked at him.

  ‘Why do you have to go immediately? I know you’re scared, but why now? And you have no passport, Taha. You are illegal.’

  Taha rubbed his face. His hands were trembling. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Because …’ His voice was almost a whisper. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Because when Leka came onto the boat last night, I had to take drinks through to him and Mr Daletsky in the office. I heard them saying that the girl was in Tangiers. I think they mean the missing girl. They said Besmir had taken her there. I know him. He’s Albanian and he works for Leka. I think it was Besmir who stole the girl. I think they kidnap her to sell her.’

  Rosie looked into his eyes.

  ‘But if you know this man Besmir, you would have known i
t was him who took the girl, would you not? You would have recognised him.’

  Taha shook his head. ‘When the girl was taken, I just saw the man from the back for few seconds. It was nothing to me then. I didn’t see the man’s face. And I have only met Besmir once. But now, last night on the boat when they said Besmir’s name and the girl in Tangiers, I am thinking that it was him I saw. He was big man like Besmir. But I didn’t see his face so I am not sure.’

  ‘But it could have been anybody they were talking about on the boat, Taha.’

  He nodded. ‘I know. But I think I am right. I think I hear too much. And now, because I talk to you and give you the card, I am worry. I need to go away. When I am far away from here I can hide. I won’t go through any borders. I know how to hide from police. Can you help me? Please Rosie. I have no friends here. Only the boys like me who work for them. You are the only one I can ask for help.’

  CHAPTER 10

  It was getting dark by the time Rosie typed the final paragraph of her story. To clear her head, she threw open her bedroom doors and went out into the evening air. The chatter and clinking of glasses on the terrace bar below drifted up as hotel guests gathered for an aperitif before dinner.

  She went back in and read the story one more time before sending it to McGuire’s private email, then she sat back and waited for his call.

  The last two days had been non-stop work with she and Matt digging around to find out where Carter-Smith was staying. Rosie had also spent hours trawling through internet cuttings on the Russian billionaire Daletsky.

  He was a piece of work. There were articles on him in one of the broadsheet newspapers in the last couple of years, and a couple in the tabloids. But none was specific enough to pin anything on him. That was the trouble with these Russians once they had amassed this level of wealth. Their fortunes gave them a tag of respectability, and Daletsky wasn’t the only Russian with a dodgy background who now had legitimate dealings with established companies across the world. But Rosie’s Special Branch pal in Glasgow had talked to his mates in London and given her the lowdown on just who he was.