Girls on Film: (DI Angus Henderson 7)

by Iain Cameron

  They heard the noise of an aluminium ladder being moved and being erected on the driver’s side of the truck. Seconds later, the dull thud of someone, probably Steve, climbing up. Neal breathed a sigh of relief. The officers wanted to make a move at their choosing and not when Steve walked towards them, forcing them to roll under the truck.

  They were now blind to the activity taking place and could only use their ears to make sense of what the two men were doing. A whirring noise started, not as loud as a drill but similar in nature to an electric toothbrush or screwdriver. She heard it again, in total four sets of whirrs, before what sounded like a body panel being removed and placed to one side.

  It went quiet for a moment or two before Steve’s strained voice said, ‘I tucked the buggers right at the back to be on the safe side, now I’m having trouble reaching them.’

  ‘Can’t help you there, mate,’ Mathieson said. ‘I’m shorter than you and I’m not climbing any bloody ladder. Do you want to use the grab hook?’

  ‘No way. It’ll burst the bags and we’ll not only lose money, it’ll leave traces for the fucking dogs to find.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Give us a sec and I’ll climb on the cab roof and try and get a better angle.’

  They heard the ladder rattle and the thump of Steve’s boots on the roof of his truck. The officers instinctively ducked under the chassis in case Steve decided to take a gander down the other side.

  ‘Right, mate, this is good. I can reach them now. Right, I’ve got the first. How do you want to play this?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, what I usually do is lob one of these to you and you catch it. With you in your, erm, condition, if you don’t catch it right, it could do you some lasting damage.’

  ‘I’m not a fucking cripple yet, Hedland. Throw away.’

  ‘No fucking way, mate, we’re not doing it like that. Tell you what, if you can you come part-way up the ladder, say a couple of steps, I’ll lean over the side and hand the bags to you. You seem to forget, these fuckers are two kilos each. One dodgy catch and the stuff will be all over the loading bay and you’ll be back in the Belvedere. You’ll also be as high as a kite and that’s before they give you any tranquillizers.’

  Mathieson laughed. ‘I’m not going back in that bloody place. Fair enough, have it your way. Just take it easy, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  The officers waited until all the bags were unloaded and, more importantly, Steve’s feet were on the ground. No way did they want to be chasing him over the roof of the truck. The two men were cackling like a couple of hyenas about all the money they would make and what they intended doing with it as they pawed and fingered the heavy bags. The officers eased themselves out from their hiding place and walked to the rear of truck, weapons pointed.

  They stopped in the space between the end of the truck’s trailer and the platform on the loading bay. Mathieson and Hedland were three of four metres distant, facing a desk with their backs to them, the strong box DI Henderson refused to let her have a warrant to search, now open.

  Walker called out in a clear, authoritative voice, ‘Police! Put your hands where we can see them!’

  Mathieson turned around and clocked them and if Neal was carrying a camera she would have loved to have taken a picture. The aura of the cocky, self-confident businessman gone, now a schoolboy caught with his hands down his trousers.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ Mathieson jabbered, ‘I can explain.’

  ‘Hands! I want to see them!’ Walker bellowed as he levelled his scratched and well-used weapon.

  Steve was still bending over the strong box, moving the bags inside. When he straightened and turned, in his hand he held a gun. He pointed it at the two officers. ‘Come and get me, coppers,’ he said.

  Walker laughed, a surprising response, as Neal couldn’t see anything funny about the situation.

  ‘We have two automatic weapons aimed at you son. What chance have you got?’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘Steve, put it down,’ Mathieson said.

  ‘What? We’ll do time, Ted. I don’t want to go to prison.’

  ‘Better that than coming out of this place in a box.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re not backing me, mate.’

  ‘Too right I’m backing you. All the way. But I don’t want to see you killed. Think of Sue and your boy.’

  Mathieson reached out and placed his hand on top of the gun and pushed it down. Believing it was all over Neal relaxed her grip on the weapon. Steve took a step to the side and lifted the gun again.

  ‘No way, Ted, you don’t understand. I can’t do time.’ Almost in slow motion the gun moved up, not in the direction of the police officers, but towards Steve’s head. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead shoved the barrel inside. He then pulled the trigger.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The heater in the car was set high to combat the early morning frost and chill. It wasn’t quite dark as DC Phil Bentley, with DC Lisa Newman in the passenger seat, drove towards a house in Brighton. With every minute that passed the light levels seemed to increase a little more.

  The last known address of Vasile Lazar, the man whose DNA had been found underneath the fingernails of Ivona Lupei, was at Sandown Road, a road leading off Elm Grove. Bentley found a place to park, not outside the pleasant-looking red brick semi, but further down, still with a good view of the house. He switched off the engine and reached for the flask lying on the back seat.

  ‘Do you think he still lives here?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough if he comes out the door, but it’s the only address we’ve got. Sally found it in the Community Charge Register.’

  ‘You don’t think of criminals paying Community Tax and doing ordinary things, do you? Behaving like an upstanding member of the public by day and changing into a heartless trafficker at night? It doesn’t make sense to me.’

  ‘I imagine people like him don’t pay income tax and parking fines, but if they don’t pay Community Charge, a council official will come to the door. If they still refuse, they won’t get their bins emptied and they’ll be taken to court. I’m sure criminals produce as much rubbish as the rest of us.’

  ‘I suppose they do.’ She took a drink from her plastic cup. ‘So, all the boss wants us to do is follow him? Why don’t we arrest him?’

  ‘All we’re doing is locating him and then we’re to follow. The boss doesn’t want him arrested yet. Even though they found traces of him on the dead girl, he could claim she was a prostitute or the sex they had was consensual.’

  ‘I can’t say I like it, but it makes sense.’

  ‘As one of the last people to see Ivona alive, it still leaves him as a suspect, but without further evidence, we’d never have a hope in hell of convicting him.’

  ‘The bit I don’t get is, what’s the point of following him?’

  ‘If we assume the house we’re waiting outside is the place where he lives, and not a brothel or the place where he keeps the girls when he first brings them into this country, chances are we won’t find much incriminating evidence inside. If we follow him, he might lead us to somewhere more interesting.’

  ‘Right, as he heads off to work, or whatever human traffickers call their day job. DS Walters pulled me up for calling it ‘people trafficking’. Do you know the difference?’

  ‘Yeah, of course, I do.’

  ‘I sure hope you don’t play poker, Phil Bentley, because I can read your lying face. What is it then?’

  ‘I don’t know but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.’

  ‘People trafficking is what happens when lorries, like at Calais, bring refugees into this country. The drivers are not bringing the refugees here to work for them, but they get paid by the refugees or someone else for transporting them.’

  ‘I see, and human trafficking is when you bring people here to work on something you want them to do, l
ike becoming domestic slaves or prostitutes?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m up to date now,’ he said, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a breakfast bar. ‘I was going to save this for elevenses, but I need something to eat now.’

  ‘Which kid did you pinch that from?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Those are the things harassed mothers buy when their kids won’t eat cereal or drink milk.’

  ‘How do you know? You’re too young to have kids.’

  ‘I watch what people do when I go shopping, you should do it too.’

  ‘No, I didn’t nick it off any kid. I buy these because I like them.’

  The street was rousing from slumber. Bleary-faced people were out walking dogs, yawning faces at the window were trying to assess the weather prospects, and others in dressing gowns reached for the door-step milk delivery looking as though they wouldn’t be awake until they’d consumed their first hot beverage of the day.

  Fifteen minutes later came the school run. First it was the kids at far-flung schools requiring transport in a car. Twenty minutes later, the kids from the local school, freshly-washed faces and smartly-attired, they walked with purpose, keen to get there early. Fifteen minutes after them, doors slamming, ties askew and toast partly eaten in their hand, the latecomers, running all the way down the road.

  ‘Did you walk to school, Phil or did your parents drive you?’

  ‘Walked.’

  ‘What were you like when you came back home and your mum asked about your day? Were you one of those sulky boys I went to school with who answered every question with ‘fine’ or ‘okay’, or were you one of the more voluble kind?’

  ‘What does voluble mean? Hang on, I see movement.’

  The door of the house they were watching opened and a giant of a man emerged. He looked six-two or three and weighed about one-hundred-and-ten kilos. Bentley, a keen rugby follower and player equated his frame to that of a front-row forward.

  ‘He’s a big fella,’ Newman said.

  ‘What car do you think is his? The Mini or the Smart car?’

  ‘A man his size could lift a Smart car and put it in his pocket. It has to be that monster Jeep, it’s the only car in the street big enough to accommodate that large frame.’

  Sure enough, the lights of the Jeep Grand Cherokee flashed and a few moments later Lazar climbed in, his considerable bulk causing the car to rock. It looked as innocuous as other large 4x4’s, but Bentley knew about cars and could tell by the wheels and the custom colour scheme it would have cost him upwards of seventy-thousand. It wasn’t as showy on the outside as some vehicles used by drug dealers, but sufficiently understated to keep Lazar’s head below the parapet.

  Lisa called the office to let them know they’d made contact with the target, while Phil slipped the dirty, nondescript Vauxhall Vectra into gear and followed the Jeep.

  The Jeep didn’t go far, across Elm Grove and down Queen’s Park Road where it stopped about half-way down, making Bentley think the lazy bugger could have walked. However, most of the front row forwards he knew, big guys with thighs so large they rubbed together when they walked, were like Lazar. They owned a large 4x4 and drove it everywhere.

  Lazar walked towards a white-washed terraced house. Bentley wound down the window to try and hear any conversation between the visitor and the householder, but all he heard was the sliding of a couple of deadlocks before the door opened. He disappeared inside.

  ‘Are there a lot of burglaries around here?’ Newman asked as she noted the address on a ‘List of Contacts’ sheet.

  ‘Not that I was aware of, why do you ask?’

  ‘They have what looks to me like over-elaborate security for a normal end-of-terrace house.’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  For the next half an hour, they sat there, discussing the raid DS Vicky Neal carried out on Mathieson Transport, and DI Henderson’s quiet demeanour making everyone suspect things were not tickety-boo on the home front.

  They set off again and arrived at another end-terrace house half-a-dozen streets away. Like before, Lazar repeated the same disappearing act. Thirty-five minutes later, they set off and at a house in Southwick, he did the same again. Lazar’s absences became so predictable, sometimes taking forty minutes or over an hour, the officers managed to fit in toilet breaks and buy something for lunch, all without rushing back to the car in a panic.

  By seven-thirty in the evening, Lazar had visited six properties, and Bentley was sure what they all had in common were they were large, four or five bedrooms and end of terrace, or detached, less noise to interest or annoy nosy neighbours. Darkness had descended and just when Bentley was considering calling the office and asking DI Henderson to relieve them, the Jeep headed out of town. He didn’t make the call. Having spent the day following him, Bentley wanted to see where he ended up. Lisa did too.

  The car was easy to follow in the daytime, as it was big and burgundy and stood out among a sea of grey and silver cars, but now at night it became more difficult. In their favour was the volume of traffic, busy with those heading home after working late at the office, or parents picking kids up after football practice.

  They headed north on the A23, the Jeep never travelling faster than seventy-five miles an hour, a man careful not to be stopped by the numerous unmarked cars patrolling this road. Many motorists believed they were easy to spot, a Volvo with two male occupants inside was often cited, but the traffic team liked to vary it and often used BMWs, VWs or a Skoda.

  The Jeep signalled left and joined the slip-road sign-posted to the Hickstead Showground.

  ‘Do you know this area?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been to the Showground a few times to see the show jumping.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s a horse large enough to accommodate this guy.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be able to find one to jump over fences, but he could have a carthorse if all he wanted to do was go for a trot.’

  The Jeep took a left at the junction, away from the Showground. Bentley could have followed straight afterwards as the road wasn’t busy, but he waited instead for a car to come before pulling out. At another junction a few miles further on, Lazar turned right and joined the A281. This suited Bentley as he knew this area. He used to date a girl from the village they were heading towards, Henfield.

  They followed him through the village, not an easy task due to a number of new housing developments in the area. Those developments had increased the amount of road traffic, the number of parked cars at the side of the road and the frequency of roundabouts, transforming the village into a small town.

  Shortly after passing the turn-off to Partridge Green Road, the Jeep turned down a narrow country lane. Bentley had widened the gap between their car and the Jeep, but when he made the same turn into the lane, there was no sign of the Jeep. He accelerated harder than he wanted to as the lane was suitable only for one car and if a deer or fox stepped out, it would be curtains for them and the poor animal. He rounded a corner and, there in the distance, he spotted the Jeep’s dancing red lights, glowing bright as if braking. Seconds later, the lights disappeared. For a moment, Bentley felt sure they’d lost him, but then they saw the white lights of his main beam cutting through the trees.

  Seconds later, they arrived at the turn-off to the lane. Before doing so, Bentley reached out and switched off the car’s headlights leaving the road lit only by sidelights.

  ‘What’s happened? Have you buggered up the electrics?’ Newman asked, her voice raised in alarm.

  ‘No, I haven’t buggered up anything, I switched them off. Unless Lazar is taking us down here to lose us, I reckon his destination must be along this road. I’m sure it doesn’t lead anywhere. With so few houses, I don’t think too many people live in the area, so if he saw a light close behind him, he would soon twig he was being followed.’

  ‘Fair enough, but I’m worried in case we end up in a ditch.’

  Lisa s
tarted calling out a warning if he veered too close to the side of the road and, a few minutes later, they made it to a straight stretch where they could relax for a few moments. Up ahead, he could see the lights of a large house and beyond, the sight of the Jeep turning into a driveway through a thick copse of trees.

  ‘What did I tell you, Lisa?’

  ‘Spot on Mr Bentley.’

  He drove past the driveway and two hundred metres further on, parked beside a farm gate. He switched off the engine.

  ‘What now?’ Newman asked. ‘We call the office and ask someone to relieve us?’

  ‘When I can summon the energy, as it’s been a long day, I’ll go over there and take a quick look at this place. When I know what we’re looking at, I’ll come back and we’ll call the boss.’

  ‘Hang on. Didn’t we say in all those meetings how ruthless this gang were and how they shot their last victim for trying to escape? It’s too dangerous, Phil. We should wait for reinforcements.’

  ‘Yeah, and when they get here, they find it’s the home of Lazar’s grandmother. No, let me take a quick look and confirm what’s there first.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Tell you what, if I’m not back in say, twenty minutes, you can call out the cavalry. Okay?’

  THIRTY-NINE

  Veronika Kardos paced up and down in her ‘cell’, a large dog kennel converted to house humans. The walls were concrete, as was the roof and floor, the only evidence a dog didn’t sleep there was a mattress big enough for her and a bucket into which she could pee.

  It was now Saturday night. She’d arrived in this place two days ago, on Thursday. She’d spent most of the previous day sleeping and vomiting, the crap the kidnappers gave her making her feel unwell. It also had the benefit of keeping the kidnappers away, unlike many of the girls beside her in neighbouring cells. They had been taken away to the building nearby, which the kidnappers called the bunkhouse. In there, the four guys she’d now seen did with them what they wanted.