by Janet Pywell
‘Was he in any sort of trouble?’ I ask.
Kiki looks silently at me and shakes her head. ‘There’s always trouble. You can’t get away from it. I’m going now. Bye, Sam.’
‘Bye, Kiki.’
‘Wait!’ I reach out, but she pulls her arm away from my grasp. ‘Did Ali belong to a sect?’
‘Get off. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Kiki, this is really important.’
‘Well, it isn’t anymore. Ali is dead, and no one gives a shit.’ She pushes past me and storms out, and I’m left looking at her retreating back and green hair.
‘I care!’ I shout.
* * *
‘Kiki is saying nothing,’ I say to Peter.
‘These kids are closed up, and they don’t know who to trust,’ he agrees. ‘You’re a total stranger to her.’
I move to the window of Josephine’s penthouse, to study the Thames and the illuminated London skyline.
‘Was it a good view on location?’ I ask Peter.
‘Yes,’ he says shortly, not looking up from his computer.
‘How many floors?’
‘Fourteen, but it was freezing.’
‘And the stunt guys?’
‘Very professional. Sandra also wants to do a couple of stunts on the estate near Dixon House.’
‘The three high-rise blocks of social housing?’ I ask. ‘Where most of the Parks come from?’
‘That’s right. Luke, Thomas and John but we were at another building today behind that – nearer to the canal. It used to be social housing, and it’s undergoing some renovation; hence all the scaffolding and building materials and equipment. It’s almost an empty shell up to the first five floors, so it’s all open and drafty. That’s where we were today.’
‘Who gave her permission for that?’ I ask.
‘The construction company, I suppose.’
‘Or the government – the local authority?’
‘I’m not sure. Do you want me to check?’ He looks up.
‘I don’t know if it’s important – probably not.’
The computer bleeps; it’s a familiar ring, and we both look at each other.
Peter waves at me to sit beside him.
‘Come on, that will be Joachin. I said I’d wait for you, and we’d speak to him together when you were here.’
I stroll over to the dining table, sit down, and focus on the computer screen.
Joachin looks handsome, tanned, and relaxed.
‘A week in the Canaries,’ he says with a smile. ‘You should try it, Mikky. You look exhausted.’
‘But we did go to Morocco,’ says Peter, and he proceeds to tell him about our film-making and the Parks.
Joachin listens attentively until the part where Ali is found dead; then his face visibly seems to crumble. He shakes his head in sympathy but says nothing until I finish telling him how I visited Ali’s father, Mustafa, and then witnessed the kidnapping of an unknown person bundled into an Audi.
‘So? What does this have to do with us?’ Joachin asks.
‘I think it’s all part of this cult,’ I interject before Peter can respond. ‘They use a dagger as their talisman, and they each have a replica tattooed under their left breast upon their induction.’
Joachin says nothing but continues to stare at us both.
‘I believe the dagger was stolen, and I also believe it’s very valuable,’ I lie.
‘Who has the tattoo?’
‘Ali and Monika – two of the Parks.’
‘What evidence do you have?’
I don’t dare glance at Peter as I speak.
‘I’m waiting for an image of Ali’s tattoo. Once I have that, then I can begin to identify the dagger with certainty – once I know what we’re looking for, I can give you more information, and that may lead us to the Asian.’
‘The Asian?’
‘He’s the head honcho on the street who intimidates everyone.’
‘The head of the drugs gang?’ asks Joachin.
‘We don’t know for sure,’ Peter responds. ‘But in my experience, there’s normally the guy who does the dirty work and then the head guy at the top who doesn’t get his hands dirty.’
‘The cult leader?’ asks Joachin.
Peter scratches his cheek. ‘We believe the Asian is the link. Once we find him, then we can set a trap for the big boss.’
‘Have you liaised with the police – with Mulhoon?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘Good.’ Joachin runs his hand through his hair. ‘Good. That’s a relief. Well, let’s leave it there. We’re not getting involved. It’s a street crime and nothing to do with us – especially as it’s now out of our jurisdiction. Just in case you haven’t noticed, the UK is no longer in the EU.’
‘That’s irrelevant,’ I argue.
‘Haven’t you heard of Brexit?’ Joachin sounds fed up, as if he’s been repeating the same mantra for a long time at meetings all over the continent.
‘It’s the dagger that we’re after, Joachin. That’s what you wanted us to find. You wanted us to get to know the Parks in Morocco, and we have. Now one of them is dead—’
‘Mikky, forget that – we can’t get involved!’
I lean nearer to the screen. ‘You wanted the dagger, Joachin, and I can find it.’
‘Okay, so tell me about the dagger.’
‘What if I can prove it’s been stolen? What if it’s from a museum in Europe – then that will involve us, and Europol, won’t it?’
‘That’s a very tenuous link, Mikky, and besides, I doubt you’d find the dagger without getting into danger. I fear that these … thugs … these drugs gangs, are extremely dangerous. If your friend Ali is anything to go by – I don’t have to spell it out. I don’t want either of you involved. We must leave it now. Tell Mulhoon what you know and let’s draw a line under it.’
I can’t reply, and Peter is struggling to support me.
‘I want to make the film,’ I say stubbornly.
‘What film?’
‘The documentary.’
‘That was your cover, Mikky. It was a pretend scenario to get you to Morocco and to see if there was a possibility of you gaining the trust of these kids. There isn’t – and never was – a documentary.’ Joachin’s voice is firm and determined.
‘I want to make one. The Parks deserve it.’
‘I forbid it.’
‘There’s no harm in me looking for the stolen dagger, either,’ I say.
‘How can you do that without getting involved, Mikky? It’s dangerous. Far too dangerous for you to be over there and getting personally involved. I know what you’re like.’
‘I’ll look after her,’ says Peter.
‘That’s not the point, Peter. You of all people should know better. We have no jurisdiction, no backup at all. It’s not Europe. This is English street crime, and it’s not for us to be involved.’
‘I’m only looking for a dagger, nothing more.’
Joachin shakes his head.
‘I forbid you to do anything, Mikky. These gangs have no regard for human life. They’ll put a bullet through you before they even bother asking you a question. Stop it, now!’
* * *
‘So?’ I say to Peter, an hour later, over a plate of home-made tuna pasta.
‘We’ll have to be careful. Joachin is right. We can’t be seen to be getting involved with police business, but I think the dagger is the right starting place. You’ve made some headway, Mikky, and it appears that you’ve found a match to the tattoos. Do some homework on cults and see what you can come up with—’
‘What about Adam? He frightened Monika.’
‘You have to forget that. Concentrate on the dagger.’
I shake my head. ‘What about the Audi I saw that night? I gave you the number plate. Can you trace it?’
‘I have a friend who is working on it.’
‘Good.’ I munch on the pasta, suddenly very hungry.
�
�Mikky, I want you to wear a wire. I need to be able to protect you.’
‘I’ll be fine. I know you track my mobile anyway.’ I grin.
‘That can be taken off you, at any time, and then I’d lose you. You need a wire or something else, something more trustworthy.’
‘What do you have in mind? A bar code?’ I joke, but Peter’s face is serious. ‘No way. You’re not putting a chip in me.’
‘It’s a new technology.’
‘I don’t care – I’m not having it – I’m not a dog.’
Peter sighs. ‘I’ve never met anyone so difficult in all my life. I really don’t envy Marco at all. Doesn’t he realise what he’s marrying?’
‘Don’t you mean who he’s marrying?’
‘No – you’re a force. You’re headstrong, rebellious, challenging, and immensely—’
‘Gorgeous?’ I suggest.
‘Frustrating.’ Peter finishes his dinner and wipes his mouth with a paper napkin.
‘Don’t tell Marco. He hasn’t worked it out yet. We’re still at the honeymoon stage in our relationship – you know the bit – where he loves me, and I can’t do a thing wrong.’
‘You can’t risk your life, Mikky. It’s not worth it.’
‘I’m not risking my life. I’m looking for a stolen cultural item.’
‘I thought you were making a documentary.’
‘I am, but I’m also looking for a dagger.’
‘How do you know it’s stolen?’
‘I don’t, but it will be when I find it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I intend to steal the Asian’s dagger – then he can come and find me.’
Peter pauses with a glass halfway to his lips. ‘Are you completely fearless or just stupid?’
‘Neither. But I’m not going to let the Asian get away with this – someone has to stop him. We can’t protect Ali, but we can certainly protect the others. Consider it a duty of care.’
‘Oh, Mikky. Poor Marco, if only he knew; you’ll make a great mother one day – to tiger cubs.’
* * *
The following morning, I’m sharing Matt’s office and staring at my computer, googling the top fifteen most valuable daggers in the world.
‘If there is a cult,’ I explain to Matt, ‘and they swear allegiance to it, then we must find out more details. Someone who heads a cult is remarkably and notoriously charming; they have this grandiose idea of themselves and what they can achieve, you know – unlimited power or success – but they often demand blind obedience and admiration from their followers. So, how do you think they get the kids to believe in them?’
‘Power, fear?’ he suggests. ‘Maybe intimidation?’
‘I think it has to be more than that. Normally with a cult, there’s belief – they’re brainwashed.’
‘Drugged?’ Matt suggests.
‘Sometimes. But I’m thinking about what you said – a father figure. These kids are very often from dysfunctional families. They have no male role models – look at Ali. His father disappeared, and then his stepfather beat him.’
‘You think the Asian is a role model?’ Matt says disbelievingly.
‘He could father them, protect them, look out for them, provide for them – food, shelter, money.’ I’m trying to provoke a reaction from him.
Matt flexes his shoulders. ‘If they’re not obeyed, a parent can get angry, and they can punish their children.’
‘But would the Asian do his own dirty work? Is he the cult leader or a step removed? Would the Asian defend the cult leader?’
Matt frowns. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Is there any chance that you can contact Lisa or Joe? I need to interview them for the documentary.’
‘It’s taken me a long time to build up their trust, Mikky. I’m getting uncomfortable with all the questions that you’re asking. I don’t want them going through anything else. They’ve been through enough. They’re still in shock about Ali.’
‘I know. I do understand, but I need to ask them a few more questions.’
‘I don’t want you to stir up trouble.’
‘I won’t—’
These kids are safe here. They feel protected—’
‘Ali wasn’t safe, was he?’
Matt tenses his fingers into fists – spelling out died and live tattooed into his skin.
‘I’m not happy, Mikky. I thought you were a photographer but—’
‘I am – and an artist – but look. I didn’t want to say anything, but I also advise the police on missing cultural items.’
‘Cultural?’
‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘There have been enquiries about a valuable dagger that’s been stolen, and I’m wondering if the two things could be related. The dagger that is used by the cult and this stolen dagger.’
I give him the benefit of my wide-eyed innocent look, and I don’t blink.
‘What sort of dagger?’
‘I’m waiting for more specifics on that,’ I lie again. ‘In the meantime, if I can talk to one person who is in the cult, or has been rescued, then the chances are that they will have seen it. They will have been through the induction ceremony, and they will have a tattoo of it under their left breast.’
Matt looks doubtful. ‘And then what?’
‘Then I find out what the dagger looks like, and I can track it back to the original ownership, and find out where it was stolen from, and it might lead us then to the cult leader.’
‘So, the kids will be in danger?’
‘No, I just need information, Matt. A picture, an image of the tattoo, and once I have that, I will be gone.’
‘Is this part of the documentary?’
‘Not necessarily, but I promise you that when I finish the documentary, you can view it first and make sure you’re happy with it, and if not, then we can edit it together.’ I smile. ‘We can also dedicate it to Ali.’
‘I don’t know if this documentary is a good idea.’ Matt cracks his knuckles.
‘Okay, then I won’t make it.’
Matt sighs. ‘I’m meeting the Parks tomorrow. Sandra wants us to look at the building site where she wants them to perform in a new scene. Keith is working out the details, and I’m waiting for him to phone me back.’
‘Great! Can I come with you?’
* * *
The following morning, I’m standing inside the empty shell of a fourteen-storey building, in Islington, north of the River Thames.
Peter was right. It’s cold, wet, and draughty on the fifth floor. All around us, the plastic covering is flapping noisily, and the building seems to creak and groan.
Keith, Matt, and the Parks are assessing the location and facilities for them to practise their stunts; scaffolding, iron bars, wooden planks, bags of sand, cement, and concrete steps are used as props and moved accordingly.
‘They’ve paused the building work today and over the weekend while we film,’ Keith explains to me, ‘so we don’t have long to film what we need.’ He shouts to one of the crew members, ‘Has the Freedrop BMX Mattress arrived?’
Behind us, the film crew, technicians, and runners are carrying cameras, cables, camera tracks, and mechanical arms, as well as setting up monitors and drones.
I watch all the activities, wrapped in my thick parka, a scarf, and beaney hat, stepping out of the way as required, watching Joe, Adam, Monika, and Lisa as they huddle around Matt. They’re talking techniques and I hear the familiar names carried on the wind: quadrupedal, wall running, tic tacs, precision jumping. Matt is demonstrating feet placement and jump spins while the Parks appear nervous and excited.
Earlier, Joe and Lisa nodded at me, and even Adam looked in my direction, but Monika wasn’t friendly. It was as if she didn’t know me or even remember visiting my bedroom in Morocco.
I turn to Keith. ‘I thought Monika wasn’t allowed to film with the Parks. She told me her mother wasn’t happy.’
‘Matt spoke to her. He managed to persuade her that it would be good
for Monika to be a part of this and to be with her friends.’
‘They’re thinking of starting from the bottom floor and running up,’ Peter says, coming over to stand with me. He’s hunched in a grey trench coat and a woollen hat. ‘They might also use that yellow crane.’
He points to the far side of the buffeting plastic sheet that has been pulled aside. ‘But the health and safety guys aren’t happy, so it’s taking a while to figure out. They’ve also employed stunt doubles for the lead actors for the more dangerous—’
‘I hate heights,’ I say, peering down over the edge. My knees begin to wobble, and my palms break into a sweat.
Peter grins. ‘This is only the fifth floor, Mikky. Wait until you’re up there.’ He nods at the open staircase. ‘It’s Baltic on the roof.’
‘Why did they leave some of the building as a shell?’
‘The company who was doing the refurb ran out of money, and now the local government want to take it over to build social housing.’
‘Is that Raymond Harris who is doing that?’
‘He’s a popular politician.’ Peter grins. ‘It could be.’
‘The Parks are not friendly like they were in Morocco, Peter,’ I complain. ‘Maybe if I buy them lunch they will talk to us then.’
‘You have to tread carefully, Mikky. Matt is anxious that you might do something to put their lives in danger.’
‘It would be stupid to do that.’
‘I know you wouldn’t do it intentionally, but if certain people find out that you’re asking too many questions, then it might not bode well for them – or you.’
‘If there is a cult, Peter, then these kids are being coerced into belonging. A cult leader is most often a sociopath by nature and will be incapable of showing any genuine empathy for them. The leader will have no remorse for destroying their lives. They’ll be so delusional that they’ll believe they’re giving them a better chance in life, and the opportunity to have a career within their drugs empire. It’s what they do, they exploit and abuse—’
Peter places his hand on my arm.
‘I know, Mikky. I know. I do understand, but we must be careful.’
‘What about the Audi, did you manage to find anything?’
Peter shakes his head. ‘Not yet.’
I sigh and dig my icy hands further into my jacket pocket.
‘This is ridiculous, Peter. We need information, and quickly, before someone else dies.’
