Broken Windows

by Janet Pywell

  ‘I’ll work out a price and give it to you.’

  ‘Can I have your number?’ I ask.

  ‘Give me yours,’ he says, the pencil poised in his hands.

  ‘Do you want me to put it in your mobile?’ I nod at the iPhone on the workbench beside him.

  ‘No, I’ll write it down.’

  I give him my number then say, ‘Can you show me anything that you’ve done on this scale?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Then how will I know you can do it.’

  ‘Trust me,’ he replies, and when he smiles, I realise how attractive he is.

  ‘I wish I could, but under the circumstances – and the amount of money I’m expected to pay – trust works both ways. I need a guarantee from you. So, unless you can prove that my contact was right and that you can do the work, I think I’ll have to go elsewhere. Come on, cariño.’ I take Peter’s arm and pull him toward the door.

  The bell tinkles.

  ‘Wait!’ Jake calls softly. ‘Perhaps I could show you one thing.’

  * * *

  We wait as Jake disappears into a back room.

  I don’t look at Peter, and he doesn’t make any signs to me. We’re both aware that, almost certainly, there are hidden cameras focused on us.

  It doesn’t take Jake long to return with a black leather portfolio.

  He lifts it easily onto the bench, unzips it, and folds it open.

  Inside are two A4 photographs, one on each side, behind transparent paper to hold them flat. It’s a presentation of Jake’s most exceptional work, and I spend a while perusing the images, pausing to look at the details of replica knives, daggers, Samurai swords, and sheaths.

  ‘Impressive,’ I say, turning each page with care and caution, as if it’s a valuable exhibit from a reputable gallery. ‘And you made all these?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I turn the pages, my heart thumping, hoping I’ll come across the shah’s dagger, but when I get to the end of the portfolio, it isn’t there.

  Jake looks at me, expectantly.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s all excellent, but not what I’m looking for.’

  His back stiffens. ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’re not expensive items. The most they would sell for is a few thousand, perhaps one hundred thousand at the most. But I want something replicated that’s worth millions. Thank you, anyway, for letting us see this.’

  I glance at Peter as if to say let’s go when Jake steps into my path.

  ‘I am good. I can do it.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. And I do appreciate that you can’t give away clients’ details, but—’ I look at Peter and say, ‘Will I tell him?’

  Peter nods, but he doesn’t know what I’m about to say. He trusts me.

  I turn to Jake and say, ‘You were recommended to us by the person who asked you to make a replica of the shah’s dagger.’

  Jake’s eyes widen, and he turns away.

  ‘I’m flattered, but quite frankly, I know nothing about it.’

  ‘Okay, then I won’t tell you that I’m willing to pay four times what they paid.’

  ‘Four?’ He spins around.

  ‘Look, all I want to see is a drawing, a photograph, anything that will prove to me that I can trust you.’

  Jake stares at me and our eyes lock, then he scratches his chin.

  ‘Wait here!’

  He returns a few minutes later carrying an identical black leather portfolio but smaller, half the size. He lays it on the table. One picture per page. The shah’s dagger.

  Bingo!

  ‘Fantastic,’ I say. ‘This is more like it. This is the quality I want.’

  The picture of the original dagger lies above the replica, and they are almost identical, but to my trained eye, the font is slightly too big. I know that Jake made the replica dagger. Now, all we have to find out is who commissioned the replica.

  * * *

  The atmosphere in the room is palpable. I know that Jake knows he’s taken a risk by sharing these photographs with me. I’ve managed to hook him in, and now I’m planning my options. I can lie, threaten him, or be honest.

  ‘Jake,’ I say, leaning against the bench with the portfolio of his work at my fingertips. ‘Jake, I’m going to be honest with you.’

  I feel his body stiffen, and he glances at Peter, who remains silently at my side.

  ‘The original shah’s dagger was stolen and whoever stole it had a replica made by you. The replica is used as a talisman by a group of drug dealers who hook in young kids to swear allegiance to it. They then sell drugs on the street. A group of these kids are known as the Parks – they’re incredible athletes who run, jump, and scale walls, and fly off buildings with incredible style, grace, and ease—’

  ‘Parkour?’ Jake asks, and I nod.

  ‘Yes. They’re appearing in a new film by Sandra Worthington, due for release next year – we met them on set in Morocco. They were desperately trying to distance themselves from this drugs gang culture, but when they returned to England, one of the boys, Ali, was taken by the drugs gang and beaten. He managed to escape, but then he killed himself – he jumped off Tower Bridge.’

  ‘I think I saw that on the news.’ Jake rubs his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘We know the drug leader who inducted these kids, who are often poor and from deprived city areas, but we need to find the top cult leader, the person who is in charge – and we believe that the person who had this dagger commissioned will help us find that cult leader.’

  It is only a small lie, a subtle twist at the end so that Jake will not realise he’s giving away a name that would have serious repercussions.

  ‘I doubt that the person you’re talking about would be involved in anything like that,’ Jake replies eventually.

  He reaches for the portfolio, closes the pages, and zips it shut.

  ‘Did you meet him face to face?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why do you think that he wouldn’t be involved in anything like this?’

  Jake shakes his head. ‘I can’t tell you any more, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too, Jake. You see, the thing is, we are from Europol. The name I gave you – Joachin Abascal – is our chief inspector, and we wanted to get this sorted out before the Met police raided here – your studio – and pulled it all apart.’ I cast my arms wide dramatically. ‘I can stop them from ruining your business and your life. They will assume that as you’re not forthcoming with a name that perhaps you are somehow involved in this drugs operation—’

  ‘But I’m not.’

  ‘But they don’t know that. All I need is a name, Jake. It’s as simple as that.’

  Jake shakes his head.

  ‘Okay, I’ll call Chief Inspector Mulhoon right now. He’s from the Metropolitan Police, and he’ll be down here like a shot.’

  I reach for my phone, dial a number, and as it begins to ring, Jake holds out his hand.

  ‘Stop! I’ve seen that chief inspector on the news. He was on the other night after a raid on a warehouse somewhere outside London.’

  ‘That’s the one.’ I stop the call and place the phone in my pocket. ‘Well?’

  Jake takes a deep breath. ‘I never met them. It was all done by email—’

  ‘So, how did they get the original dagger to you?’

  ‘They left it on the doorstep, phoned me, and I picked it up from outside my front door.’

  ‘That was a risk. Anyone could have picked it up,no?’

  ‘There’s a recess in the brickwork, not seen by people walking past, and the small garden at the front helps, but they said they’d wait across the road.’

  ‘So, you did see them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, this person left the original dagger with you and came back to collect the replica and the original when?’

  ‘This all happened last year, maybe eighteen months ago – I guess it took
about three weeks to make them.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘I made two.’

  ‘They asked for two replicas?’ I can’t hide the surprise in my voice.

  Jake nods. ‘I left them outside, and they collected them, and the money was wired to my account.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ I ask.

  He pauses, then asks, ‘Will I have to provide evidence of the financial transactions?’

  ‘Not if you give me a name. We can take it from there.’

  I don’t tell him how easy it will be for Peter to hack into his account and find the person’s bank details once we have a name.

  ‘I don’t want this in the newspapers.’

  ‘Trust me,’ I purr. ‘No one else needs to know.’

  He bites his lower lip and then says, ‘Her name is Liz Hunt.’

  * * *

  I’m leaning over Tower Bridge. The street is busy, and I wander along the road, gazing down into the dark water of the Thames, thinking about Ali and how, just over two weeks ago, we were in Morocco.

  I think of his smiling face when he bought his pilot’s flying jacket and how proud he was that he had bargained with the stallholder in the Kasbah and accepted the Moorish hospitality of mint tea.

  I knew Ali didn’t want to kill himself, and Monika had confirmed that. Although he had jumped from the bridge, he hadn’t been able to see a way forward, a way out of his dilemma. He’d met someone who he’d trusted – Raymond says it wasn’t him, but who was it?

  I’ve a couple of hours to kill while Peter meets Bill for a lunchtime drink, but before we parted, he ran a scan on Raymond Harris’s staff – there was no one by the name of Liz Hunt.

  ‘Email me the list, and I’ll take a look at it this afternoon,’ I’d said.

  Now I was looking forward to getting back to the apartment and taking a closer look. There were five female staff and six males, plus several volunteers. It would take Peter longer to check Jake’s accounts, and that’s assuming Liz Hunt hadn’t used a different name and bank account.

  I walk south over the bridge, leaving the illuminated Tower of London behind me.

  My phone rings and I pause to look at the caller ID.

  ‘Hi, Joachin,’ I answer.

  ‘Mulhoon just called me to say that you picked up Adam and Monika earlier today.’

  ‘Yes, we had to, Joachin. They needed our help.’

  ‘That’s fine, Mikky. I understand. The chief inspector is taking personal responsibility for their safety. He appreciates what you did, and now we must leave it to the Met police to sort out.’

  ‘They were worried; the Asian was hanging around the estate. He’s recruiting again.’

  ‘Yes, Mulhoon told me.’

  ‘That Asian is brazen.’

  ‘Mulhoon assures me that the police are extra vigilant. They have more officers patrolling and looking out for him. The Met police will find him very shortly. I’m sure of it. They are only one day away from the election, and it’s in their interest to find him. The Met is dealing with it. They want to get an arrest before the election.’

  I sigh. ‘I can imagine, but I wish it wasn’t about making the prime minister look good. I wish it were because they want to catch him.’

  A gust of cold wind catches me around my face, and so I pull up the collar of my jacket. On Southwark Embankment, the Christmas market stalls glisten brightly, cider and wafts of street food; sweet waffles, burgers, and hot dogs reach me and my stomach gurgles with hunger.

  ‘They do, Mikky. Believe me. Mulhoon doesn’t take it lightly that he lost two undercover cops.’

  I lean on the wall, surveying the scene below. Couples, families, students, and lovers are walking, chatting, and laughing, and I reply, ‘I think there’s a traitor in the police, or it’s one of Raymond Harris’s employees playing a double game.’ I walk on, and then pause at the traffic lights and wait to cross the busy road. ‘Ali went to Raymond Harris’s constituency the night he came back from Morocco. He was there for ten or fifteen minutes. Raymond denies that he was there, but Peter and I think Ali confided in someone and that person then told the Asian. The Asian knew exactly where to find Ali. He picked him up. They beat him, but Ali managed to escape. Monika, one of the other Parks, told us that Ali wanted to tell the police everything. And we believe that after Ali realised he’d been betrayed, then he knew there was no escape. There was no one else he could rely on – no one else he could trust.’

  ‘Who was in Raymond’s office that night?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we do have a lead for the dagger. We know who made a replica dagger that they use as a talisman.’ I look both ways and begin to cross the road.

  ‘Which is what Mulhoon wanted you to find out.’

  ‘Yes, and now we’re in a position to tell him.’

  I step onto the pavement and move out of the way of a commuter dashing for his train.

  ‘You have a name?’

  ‘Yes—’

  There’s a sharp pain in my right rib. A hand grabs my phone. Another hand grabs my shoulder, and a syringe is aimed at my throat. My legs collapse, and my body goes limp. A second person grabs me by the waist. I’ve been drugged and I’m dragged to a car, where my head hits the leather seat and, as I lose consciousness, I see the grinning face of the Turk.

  Chapter 15

  “But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.”

  Pablo Neruda

  I don’t know how much time has passed. I’m tied in a small and confined place, and I’m suffocating. It’s hard to breathe, and my body won’t move. I’m moving in a vehicle – probably a car – and I feel sick. I close my eyes, conscious of motion and darkness. My head is blank. I can’t concentrate.

  Much later, the car stops.

  The boot opens, and my eyes are dazzled with bright lights – a torch? Flashlights? Strong hands pull me roughly from the car. We’re beside a canal. Regent’s Canal? Camden Lock?

  Suddenly, my clothes are ripped and torn from my body. I can’t resist them. I have no strength. My body can barely remain upright. I’m vaguely aware of the presence of two men wearing black, with their hoods up, as they work methodically, stripping off my jacket, my boots, and my underwear. They throw them into the canal, and it’s only when the smaller man faces me and rips off his balaclava that I see it’s him – the Asian.

  I watch him hurl my phone deep into the water. It’s the only tracking signal that Peter has and a wave of fear ripples through me.

  He nods at the man beside me. The Turk, who I’d kicked in the balls and who had raped and drugged Monika, pushes me hard, face first, into the back of the car. I’m lying down, unable to look out of the window, and the leather seat is cold on my skin.

  The Turk ties my hands professionally with thick rope, and when I tug at the knots, my arms are weak, and he smacks me on the back of my head.

  My scream is muffled against the cold leather, and I close my eyes.

  We drive and drive until suddenly, maybe hours later, we stop driving.

  There is no movement, then I’m pulled quickly out of the car by my feet and effortlessly lifted up by someone.

  It’s dark, I can’t focus, and I want to be sick.

  He carries me like a baby. I’m cold. Rain falls on my naked body, and within seconds, I’m wet, and the wind whips my skin raw.

  The man stumbles, and I hear the scraping of a door, then we’re inside somewhere vast but dark. Voices echo, but I can’t make sense of any of their words.

  He leaves me on the floor, where it’s dusty, damp, and cold. It smells of rotting fish, and I gag. I groan and try to move, but I can’t, and my body begins to shudder. I’m shaking and trembling, and his fingers grab my wrists. He unties them and my ankles, but then I’m tied again and I’m spreadeagled and naked. Then suddenly, I’m hoisted into the air, winched up from the ground, and my arms are yanked apart.

  I scream.

  The pain makes
me pass out, and when I come around, my head has dropped onto my naked chest, and my toes are dangling a few inches from the floor. A flashlight shines behind me.

  I shiver; cold, vulnerable, frightened.

  ‘So, Mikky dos Santos …’ The Asian’s voice is measured, and he sounds excited. ‘The last time you were very fortunate to escape from me. Falling back over the edge of the building, as if you were going to die. You knew there was a safety net, a stunt mattress, to save your life. It was very clever of you to lead me up there, but you made a big mistake. Do you want to know what it was?’

  I don’t reply, and he gives a signal to someone behind me, and my arms are stretched further apart.

  I scream.

  ‘Do you want to know?’

  I nod.

  ‘I can’t hear you …’

  I croak. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You see, I wanted to believe you – all this talk of stealing a valuable dagger. I thought we could be friends, negotiate a deal—’ He moves closer and the dagger glints in the beam of light from the flash lamp. I glance around me. We’re in a disused warehouse, and I spy a broken window high up. The smell of rotting fish is overwhelming, and I cough and spit on the floor.

  ‘I hope you weren’t aiming for me, Mikky?’ He trails the dagger across my naked breasts. ‘Nice tattoos. Very religious. I hope your God can save you? But no one knows where you are.’

  To the left side of me, the Turk laughs; his hand touches my left cheek, but I pull away, which makes his laugh louder.

  ‘We have plenty of time, Mikky. I’m in no hurry. You’ll be my play toy once the Turk has finished with you.’ The Asian steps away from me. ‘So, who are you working for?’ The Asian circles me, tapping the dagger against the palm of his hand at regular intervals, as if it’s to a beat he’s singing in his head.

  ‘Water, please … have water?’ I croak.

  ‘No.’

  He leans forward and places the tip of the dagger at the base of my throat. I’m reminded of its sharpness. If I move, it will pierce my skin. I will die.

  ‘Who are you working for?’

  ‘Europol.’ I’m conscious of my blood trickling down my skin.

  The Asian frowns. ‘Europol?’ He moves away, considering my reply, tapping the flat blade of the dagger against his hand.