by Anna Smith
‘No wonder this Vinny bastard makes his sick films in a place like this,’ Rosie said, as they turned away from the crowds and up a side street.
‘Look.’ Matt pointed out a couple of ramshackle buildings that had brand logos of UK High Street stores on their crumbling shopfronts. Security cameras were perched on the high walls and there was razor wire on the huge iron gates.
‘This must be where the sweatshops are for the big guns back in the UK. If they had nothing to hide, they wouldn’t put them in this sewer of a place. It must be one of these slave labour factories, punters getting paid pennies. Fucking shameful.’
‘We are here,’ Adrian said. ‘This is the street you said, Rosie. I stop here.’
Rosie checked the address in her notebook and looked out of the windscreen along the length of the narrow road.
‘I see Javier’s hired car. Let’s crawl up here until we get closer to the house number, forty-four, Javier said.’
They drove slowly along the street, deserted but for Javier’s car.
‘Just pull in here, Adrian, would you.’
It had been a hurried plan, concocted between them last night. When Adrian came back to the hotel, he’d told them about his meeting with Besmir and that Amy was being taken down to Salé today. Rosie knew she should be telling the police, but involving them would open up a whole different game. It was too late to do that, even if she’d wanted to.
Javier had already arranged to meet Vinny to see the collection of films he had for distribution. Vinny told him he had to be out of the house by lunchtime as he was was expecting a visitor to his studio.
Matt had rigged Javier up with a hidden camera in the pocket flap of his safari shirt, and he was wired up with a tape recorder strapped to his body. If they got nothing else, Rosie decided, then at least they’d have a spread with this murdering sicko inside his porn den. If all they achieved was to get Vinny arrested and jailed, it was a job worth doing.
It had been Adrian who suggested they go there to see for themselves. He told Rosie to trust him, not to interfere with anything he would do – which was part of the reason she was anxious. Adrian didn’t play by anyone’s rules, and if something went wrong, nobody knew where they were.
Rosie’s mobile rang and she took it out of her bag. Surprised, she showed the screen to Adrian. It was Javier. The arrangement had been that he would send a brief text if all was well. Maybe he changed his mind. She put the phone to her ear.
‘Hello, my darling,’ Javier breezed.
There had to be a reason for this. They were close, but not this close.
‘Hello, darling.’ Rosie played along in case someone was listening.
‘Listen, darling, I cannot make lunch with you today, as I am in a very important business meeting.’
‘Oh,’ Rosie said. ‘Is it going well for you? When will you be finished, Javier?’
‘It’s going very well. Everything I’d hoped for, but I can’t discuss it. I’ll be finished here soon, but I’m a long way from Tangiers. So I will call you when I get back there later this evening.’
‘Fine. See you tonight. Glad it’s going well.’ The line went dead.
‘He’s talking like in code,’ Rosie said. ‘Hello, darling, and all that. Looks like it’s going well, and he’ll be out of there shortly.’
‘Good. What now?’ Matt said.
‘Rosie,’ Adrian said. ‘I want you to leave the next part to me.’ He turned to her. ‘You must trust me.’
Rosie glanced at Matt who made an in-for-a-penny kind of face.
‘Your shout, Rosie.’
Rosie sighed.
‘What’s not to trust, Adrian?’
He switched on the engine and moved the car along the road so that it was in front of Javier’s. They sat in silence while Adrian rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. Rosie would have liked to smoke, but her bowels were churning as it was. A rush of nicotine was the last thing she needed.
After a few puffs, Adrian flicked the cigarette away and got out of the car. He went to the boot and took out his jacket. Rosie could see in the wing mirror that as he put on the jacket he was feeling something in the inside pocket, and she guessed it wasn’t his wallet. She watched as he disappeared down a path and she could no longer see him, or the door of the building.
‘I don’t know about you, Rosie, but I’m shitting myself,’ Matt said.
‘Yeah, well that’s one way of putting it.’
‘What do you think he’s up to?’
‘Christ knows. But unless there’s some heavy duty bouncers in there, I don’t think wee Vinny will give Adrian a lot of trouble.’
‘Does Javier carry a gun?’
‘I don’t know, Matt. I don’t ask. I don’t want to know.’
They sat in tense silence.
‘I wonder what they’re doing back at the office,’ Matt chuckled.
Rosie looked at her watch. ‘Lunchtime. There’ll be the usual banter around the table in the canteen.’
‘Aye. But they’ll not be having this much fun.’
Rosie wiped the sweat from the back of her neck.
Silence. She pulled down the visor as a car crawled past them and the Moroccan occupants took a long look at them.
‘What do you reckon the big man’s going to do, Rosie? I reckon—’
‘Ssssh, Matt.’ Rosie heard muffled voices. ‘I hear something.’
‘Oh fuck!’ Matt said as, suddenly, Javier emerged, rushing up the path towards them, carrying a holdall.
He opened the driver’s door and threw himself in, breathless.
‘Fucking hell, Rosie! Fuck me! The Bosnian. He’s fucking crazy.’ He switched on the engine.
‘What’s happening, Javier? What happened?’
Javier gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh shit!’ He looked at Rosie. ‘I’m just about to come out of the house, and this Vinny coño is seeing me to the door. And when he opens it, the big fucking Bosnian comes bursting in. Fuck! He pushed passed me and I almost fell on my ass. Then he grabs Vinny by the throat and holds the coño till he’s turning blue. The guy is nuts.’
That’s good coming from you, who pushed a guy off a roof, Rosie thought. But now wasn’t the time for sarcastic jokes.
He opened the holdall.
‘Christ, Javier. You took his films?’
Javier smiled. ‘I just grabbed as much as I could while Adrian was choking him.’
‘Fucking hell!’ Matt said. ‘Do you know what you’ve got?’
‘He showed me a bit of one. A snuff movie. Just the start of it. I’ve got that. And I grabbed anything else I could. I even took his laptop. Adrian told me to get into your car and drive you. He is coming out in a minute and bringing Vinny with him.’
‘Bringing Vinny with him? Fuck! You mean kidnap him?’ Rosie heard her voice going up about two octaves.
‘Shit! Look, Rosie! Here he comes!’ Matt said.
Rosie put her hand to her mouth.
‘I don’t believe this.’
Then she saw Adrian.
‘Jesus wept!’
Rosie turned to Matt whose mouth had dropped open as they saw Adrian appear at the top of the path carrying the struggling, puny figure of Vinny, kicking his legs out like a naughty kid who’d just been picked up by an angry parent. They watched as Adrian opened the boot of Javier’s car, then punched Vinny hard once in the face, knocking him out. Then he stuffed him in the boot and slammed it shut.
‘Oh fuck!’ Javier said.
Adrian walked briskly towards Rosie’s window. He didn’t even look ruffled.
‘I will drive your car, Javier. It’s better Vinny is not in the same car as you, Rosie. Let’s get out of here, just follow me.’
He turned away and headed to the other car before Rosie could even ask where they were going.
‘We do what the man says, Rosita.’ Javier took out a packet of cigarettes.
‘Can I get one?’ Matt said.
‘You don’t even smoke, Matt,
’ Rosie said turning around.
‘I do now. I just started.’
Rosie felt the rising nausea again as Javier negotiated the craters on the road back out of Salé. They followed Adrian, and she prayed that his punch had been hard enough to keep Vinny unconscious for a while. Her mobile rang. McGuire. Timing was everything.
‘Howsit going, Gilmour?’
‘Er … Not bad, Mick.’
Rosie turned to Matt and mouthed the word McGuire. He grimaced.
‘Just working away, Mick. Still doing a bit of digging in Morocco. A couple of things up my sleeve, but it’s too early to tell you.’
From the corner of her eye, Rosie could see the smile breaking out on Javier’s face.
‘Si,’ Javier whispered. ‘A couple of things up your sleeve – and a body in the boot.’
‘How did the story go, Mick? The Daletsky story?’ she asked. ‘I was away before I could get a chance to phone.’
‘Brilliant, Rosie. Vincent fronted him up and he shat himself. We did the whole lot – splash and spread. The people-trafficking we just touched on, but we’re going to run that along with the escaped girl’s story tomorrow as a follow-up. I decided to go with the rent boy and Carter-Smith witnessing the kidnapping. Vincent put it to him that he was with the boy and that they both saw the girl being taken. He showed him the picture of his Commons security pass.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He burst right open. Actually to be more accurate he burst into fucking tears.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Blubbing. Then, once he’d dried his eyes and redone his make-up he agreed to sit down and tell our man everything. He knew he had no option. It was damage limitation time.’ McGuire chortled. ‘I love it when that happens.’
‘That’s amazing. So what did he say?’
‘He was a bit vague about seeing the kid. Understandable. They wouldn’t have thought anything of it at the time. But it was afterwards he knew that what they’d seen must have been the kid being snatched, and he should have told the cops. But he kept it back, to protect himself, the fucker.’
‘Is he going to resign?’
‘Oh, yeah. He already had his letter in by the time we hit the presses last night.’
‘That’s great, Mick.’
‘So what are you doing today? I don’t mind you plugging away there Rosie, but now that this Carter-Smith revelation is out, it will have repercussions on the Lennon family. We’ll need their reaction and stuff. Plus, I’m choking to put that revelation to them about Lennon’s old man and the dead Russian tart.’
‘Sure, but you can get Declan to pick up on the reaction to Carter-Smith while I’m away. The grandfather line can wait a day or two till I get back. Nobody else has it.’
‘Yeah, okay. But I don’t want you in Morocco for too long. The story is back in Spain, Rosie.’
‘Well, we don’t really know that for sure, Mick. We’re trying to get leads to find this kid.’
‘Right. But what about that Vinny bastard. Have you tracked him down yet?’
‘Vinny?’ Rosie said. ‘Oh, he’s not saying much at the moment. But we’re working on it.’
She could see Javier looking in his rear view mirror and smiling at Matt.
‘Okay, Rosie, keep it going. And be careful. Great job on Carter-Smith. You’ll get a big lunch when you come home.’
‘Yeah, Mick. Fine.’
‘Hey, Rosie. Bet you’re enjoying your little sojourn back on the road, eh?’
‘Well, Mick, it’s definitely more exciting than driving my desk about.’
‘You bet. Just be careful, Rosie.’
Rosie slumped back in her seat.
CHAPTER 35
Besmir had already been with Hassan to the place on the back road to Salé, and they’d meticulously planned the exact angle where he would hide his car so that it wouldn’t be seen by the oncoming traffic. Not that there was much movement on the deserted road; except for the occasional truck trundling along the dust track carrying oranges or livestock, Besmir had seen nothing in the two hours he’d been here.
He could have waited until later before leaving Tangiers. He was well ahead of the time Hassan said they would be passing the spot, but leaving things to chance was for the lazy. Besmir liked to be organised. So now, with his car hidden out of view behind the derelict goatherd’s shelter, he sat in the driver’s seat, smoking and staring out at the searing heat rising in waves across the baked scrubland. He took a mouthful from a bottle of water and wiped sweat from his top lip with the back of his hand.
He was nervous. Not because he thought the fat man would be any serious threat to him, but because he knew that, from the start, he had not thought this whole business through. He’d been driven by only one purpose: get the girl back and take the children from the cages.
Besmir looked at his watch, rested his head back and sighed to himself. Leka’s words rang in his ears. He was right. The East Europeans were treated like shit when they came west in search of their fortune. Menial jobs and racist taunts faced them – especially the Albanians and the Romanians – at every turn. The attitude of the Western Europeans he encountered when he left Albania had stunned Besmir when he first arrived in Italy. Like the rest of the Albanians, he had been smuggled in by boat afer paying everything he had to a gangmaster to get him across the short stretch of the Adriatic. It was a different world in Italy. Everyone seemed to have so much, so many possessions. Even in the countryside where it was poorer, people had so much more than he had ever seen in Albania. In the towns he noticed stacks of food in the shops, shiny cars, and people smartly dressed, yet he saw little kindness.
He had been full of hope then. He’d vowed to leave behind his old ways, when he lived on his wits on the streets of Tirana working as an enforcer for the local mafia. He wanted a different life, but with every job he took in Italy, he faced daily insults with bosses treating him and the other Albanians like slaves. He was sacked most weeks for fighting. Finally he left Italy in a hurry, the cops on his tail, after throwing his boss through a plate glass window. He didn’t wait around to find out if the man had survived.
In Spain’s Costa del Sol, one of Besmir’s old friends from Tirana contacted him. He told him there was money to be made for the Albanians, but he wouldn’t find it washing dishes or digging ditches. The Albanians, his friend said, were on the rise. They had a reputation across Europe for violence, and they teamed their cunning and ruthlessness with the Russians in establishing a power base. Together they ran their empire, built on money-laundering, fear and murder. The Brits were still the kingpins in the drugs trade and corrupt property markets, but they were constantly looking over their shoulders because the hardmen from the East were on the march.
Until he snatched the kid from the beach, Besmir was on the up. He had the respect of Leka who did the day-to-day running of Daletsky’s organisation. Now everything had changed, and he found it hard to make sense of what he was doing. He had kidnapped a little kid without flinching, and now he was risking absolutely everything to get her back. He shook his head at the stupidity of it.
His fingers caressed the keys in the ignition. He could drive away from here right now and just keep on going. He couldn’t go back to Spain, that much he knew, because Leka would be looking everywhere for him. But there were plenty of other places he could go, where he could live a low-key life and stay hidden from the cities where the Albanians operated. But he hadn’t even thought that far ahead.
And now that the Bosnian was involved it made him even more nervous. He didn’t fear Adrian, he liked him – even though he knew he was capable of killing him. Deep down, maybe they were on the same side, but Adrian had told him he had this journalist woman with him. You didn’t take journalists on jobs like this, and certainly not women.
At last, through the heat haze, Besmir saw the roof of the car emerging. He slipped out of the driver’s seat and into the concrete shelter, and watched the car pull in at the si
de of the road fifty yards away. Hassan got out first, and glanced back at the shelter where they’d arranged for Besmir to hide. Hassan stretched his arms above his head and turned towards the fat man who got out of the car and lit a cigarette. Hassan walked away from him to the trees nearby and stood having a pee, with his back to Besmir. So far so good. Besmir crept out of shelter. He’d already worked out that it would take him only a few seconds to sprint to Hassan’s car where he’d be shielded from the fat man’s view. He waited for the shout.
‘Khalid! Khalid! Come!’ The urgency in Hassan’s voice was just as they’d rehearsed it yesterday.
The fat man turned towards Hassan and looked irritated, but walked towards him. Besmir moved fast, reaching the car in a few strides. He crouched behind it, out of view, and watched as the fat man approached Hassan.
‘What? What is the problem, stupid? Have you shit your pants?’ the fat man said, as he came closer to Hassan.
‘Look,’ Hassan said. ‘Here, in the bushes. There’s a goat. It’s dying. It must have been attacked. We should put it out of its misery.’ He pointed to the clump of bushes.
When he got alongside Hassan, the fat man peered into he trees but could see nothing – because there was nothing to see. If he was suspicious, the fat man did not get the chance for his reflexes to react. By the time he realised there was no goat, Besmir had come up behind him and plunged the knife between his shoulder blades. The only thing that registered on his face was surprise, before he dropped to the ground with a gasp.
‘Quick. Get the girl.’ Besmir knelt down, pulled the fat man’s head back by the hair and drew the knife across his throat. He wiped the knife on his victim’s back and walked away as the the blood seeped from the dead man’s fat neck into the dirt.
Hassan went into the fat man’s trouser pocket and took out a wad of notes, then went to his car, carefully picked up the little girl from the back seat, and rushed towards Besmir.
‘Here. In the back. Is she alright?’
‘Yes. She is drugged a bit to make her sleep. But she is alright.’
