In Deep Water

by Sam Blake

  Difficult to hear over the sound of the music, the first part of his sentence took a second to sink in, a second in which Irina felt her knees buckle and the lights in the room dance before her eyes as she sank to the ground. He moved fast, was there to catch her, a strong arm hooked under her shoulder as he eased her towards the chair, sitting her down, slipping off his jacket and slinging it around her shoulders, covering her up. Bobbing down on his haunches in front of her, O’Rourke leaned on the side table, trying to make eye contact with her.

  Loudly he said, ‘I love Russian girls.’ Then, lowering his voice so she could barely hear him, ‘I’m with the police. We’re here to help you. But we’re being watched, we need to make this look real. If you whisper they won’t be able to hear over the music.’

  Irina couldn’t speak. Tears began to flow down her cheeks. She didn’t try to brush them away, instead reached for his hand, holding it tight, her own so much smaller than his. He smiled, squeezed her fingers, rubbed the back of her hand. His fingers felt strong and warm and safe. Police. He was police. The girl must have sent him. Irina swallowed a sob, almost unable to catch her breath.

  ‘Good girl. Now stand up and dance or they’ll send someone in to see what’s wrong.’ It took all her energy but Irina stood up, his jacket swinging from her shoulders, then started to dance again. She couldn’t let this go wrong now.

  The man smiled, nodding encouragingly, then continued, his voice low, ‘I doubt whoever is monitoring this can lipread, but act like I’m talking about you . . . We got your message. The one you left for Sarah Jane. We don’t have much time, so I need you to tell me everything you can.’ He paused, but Irina still couldn’t speak. She swayed in time to the music and nodded to show she understood, took a deep shaky breath.

  ‘The men I came in with are policemen too. They are looking at the security arrangements and getting an idea of the layout of the building. We’re going to come back later this evening, and we’re going to close this place down and get you out.’

  His voice had taken on a hard edge. He understood. She knew he understood. She nodded again, ‘I understand. Thank you. Thank you.’

  Then it hit her. Later tonight? Could she hold on? What happened if she had to go back to the office? Irina could feel panic rising in her.

  ‘How long? How long until you come back?’

  ‘Another few hours – we need to wait until it’s busy. But you’ll be safe. One of my colleagues will stay in the bar and keep an eye on things. He’ll make sure nothing happens to you.’

  Her whole body shook as she exhaled, ‘Thank you.’

  He grimaced. ‘Keep dancing, make it look real for the cameras.’ Then, ‘In your message, you said there were eight girls. Is that eight including you?’

  Irina twirled her hair over her head, rotating her hips, her hands massaging her breasts under the jacket, putting on a show for whoever was watching. ‘Eight plus me – we were ten, but one, a Slovakian girl, she got sick and they took her somewhere. Luisa is the youngest – she’s Brazilian, she’s only seventeen.’

  His mouth was smiling, but she could see his eyes were hard, ‘Do any of the others speak English?’

  ‘No, only me, but they don’t know.’ She paused, her eyes meeting his, ‘I’ve been listening. I know everything.’

  ‘Good girl. We’re going to have to interview you properly in a police station . . .’

  ‘It will be my pleasure. You need to be careful, though, there are policemen who come here. I don’t know their names but I think they are quite senior.’ Turning around she ran her hands inside her G-string over her butt.

  ‘Nothing’s going to stop us coming back. Where are you from?’

  She turned back to face him, ‘Belarus, a village near Vitebsk. I answered an ad . . .’ Irina could hear the desperation and despair in her own voice.

  ‘It’s OK. Tell me later. Where are the others from?’

  ‘Nigeria, Romania, Bulgaria, all over.’

  ‘We’ll organise interpreters. There is an organisation who can help – they aren’t police.’

  Irina nodded, running her tongue over her lips, ‘Pretend you just want to watch, that you don’t want me to sit on your knee.’ She moved towards him as if she was going to sit down and he held up his hands again. Taking a step back, twisting to the music, she slipped the jacket off her shoulders, laying it on the small round table, and continued, ‘The girls are terrified of the police – the people in charge are always telling us how dangerous the police are here, that they shoot first and ask questions later. Lots of them have had bad experiences with that at home, they know you have weapons, think you will see them as filthy prostitutes. It would be better if they can talk to people outside.’ Irina paused, ‘Please don’t be long. The head of security wanted me to go up to his office, he’s . . .’ She swallowed, ‘he’s very cruel.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be back before midnight. Where are the others?’

  ‘With clients upstairs. They have bookings and there’s a stag party coming in later, a big one.’

  ‘And when the other girls come down to the club they will be in the bar or in these rooms?’

  ‘Both. There are doors hidden in the back of each of these rooms, they go to the bedrooms upstairs. But there are cameras everywhere. They will see you coming.’

  ‘We’ll be inside before they know we’re here and we’ll have men on all the exits. No one will be able to leave. How many of these rooms are there?’

  Continuing to sway to the music she said, ‘Eight. Some of them are bigger, there is room for more girls.’

  ‘And how many on security?’

  ‘There are always three men to guard us. They work shifts, change over at eight o’clock. They say they are there to protect us . . .’ She snorted, her lip curling. ‘I think there are more on the main door and in the casino. I’m not sure how many. They change a lot.’

  ‘And are there other staff here?’

  ‘Bar staff, waitresses. Croupiers in the casino. We don’t see them. We work here in the bar, dance and then take the customers upstairs.’

  ‘And who’s in charge?’

  ‘Nacek is head of security. He’s Albanian.’ She shivered visibly. ‘Then there’s a bar manager – he has noisy shoes, you can always hear him coming. And the woman you met in the bar, she’s the interpreter, she looks after us. She brought me to London. She works for the man who runs this place. I don’t know his name, he’s not here all the time.’

  O’Rourke nodded, pointing as if he wanted her to turn around and keep dancing, ‘Tell me about the girl you rang, Sarah Jane. Did you meet her here?’

  Irina shook her head, ‘No, outside. They pretend that we are earning a proper wage and we send it home using MoneyGram, but the men pay much more for us.’ Her voice was full of contempt. ‘Then our families think everything is OK and we are OK . . .’ She took a breath, contemplating the enormity of the implication that once money was flowing home, everyone was happy. Her voice caught as she continued, ‘Each week a different girl gets to take the money. It’s a power thing. We’ve been here for three weeks, the longest time anywhere. I took the money before, and then when they asked me again this week, I knew where I was going.’ She paused, reaching to pick up his jacket again and pulling it around her, ‘I knew I only had a second to find someone to help, and when she came into the shop, I knew it was my chance, she had a kind face. She might have just ignored me, but I had to try. Nacek went off to look at the magazines and suddenly she was standing beside me. I asked her for help, to please help me, and she wrote her number down on a piece of paper. I knew she’d know where to find us, I just needed to explain. I knew she’d help.’

  35

  It was starting to rain outside as the team gathered again in Dún Laoghaire’s incident room, droplets coursing down the windows like tears. Inside it was hot and stuffy, and the room was packed, members from the SDU and Pearse Street Station swelling the numbers of
the Dún Laoghaire team.

  One of the key problems with an operation like this was finding enough female officers to balance out the predominantly male team. Looking around, Cathy could see that O’Rourke hadn’t done a bad job – Aisling Kelly the detective sergeant from Cabinteely was here, girls from Blackrock and Shankill blended in with the lads, both detective unit and uniform. They were all the same out on the street, but with an operation like this female officers were key. The girls held at The Paradise Club would have been intimidated, threatened and violated, would be in fear for their own and their families’ lives, and often too frightened to give evidence. Male officers could unintentionally make matters worse.

  Thirsty had told Cathy stories from twenty years ago when it could take hours to track down a female officer to assist an arrest or question a suspect; now women still only represented a quarter of the force, but they were here, and just like in civilian life, they often had to work harder than their male colleagues to juggle careers and families.

  ‘Thanks for coming in, everyone. We don’t have much time, so listen up.’ O’Rourke swung around to the incident board, a red laser pointer in his hand. ‘To give you a bit of background, the team here have been investigating the disappearance of Sarah Jane Hansen from The Rookery restaurant in South William Street on Sunday evening. In the course of that investigation it has emerged that the premises that backs onto a shared car park behind The Rookery, The Paradise Club – I’m sure some of you are familiar with it – has been operating as a brothel with up to ten women who have been trafficked from Eastern Europe, Africa and Latin America. From a conversation I had with one of the women earlier this evening, the club appears to be part of a much bigger network, and these women have been moved on a weekly or monthly basis between flats and hotels starting in London. Obviously our colleagues in the UK will be interested to tie in from their end. It’s a sophisticated operation using websites and mobile phones so the girls can be kept on the move.’

  O’Rourke paused and the room shifted, every officer focused on him, ‘From what we can gather from early recon at The Paradise Club, there are three key security staff keeping an eye on the door and the girls at any one time, and more in the casino. The girls dance for customers in the bar area, take them to booths for longer private dances and then up a back flight of stairs to the bedrooms above. The building has several floors, with the girls’ accommodation right at the top.’

  He paused again, looking around the room. He had everyone’s attention. ‘Obviously we can assume that there are other activities being conducted on the premises – the sale of narcotics et cetera – so keep your eyes open. And we will assume there are firearms and other weapons on the premises. I’ve never seen an operation like this that didn’t have. You know the routine. The girls have been moved around and led to believe that we are the threat rather than their captors. They’ve been turned against each other and are in fear of their lives. One girl who was sick has apparently disappeared. None of the girls speak English except one, Irina, who is from Belarus – she speaks Polish and Russian as well, but we’ll bring in female interpreters for the others as soon as we know what we need.’

  Stepping back, O’Rourke glanced at J.P., who was hovering over a laptop which had been hooked up to a projector. Taking his cue he pressed a button and a map of the building appeared on the wall above the incident board.

  ‘Public access to The Paradise Club is through the front entrance. There is a rear access here via the car park,’ he waved the red pointer, ‘and fire exits here, here, here and here. We need to cover them all and secure the perimeter. I don’t want anyone leaving the building once we’re in. That clear?’

  A murmur of assent ran around the room.

  ‘While the main team is at work in The Paradise Club, Detective Sergeant Gallagher,’ O’Rourke nodded in Frank’s direction, ‘is going to take a team into The Rookery. There are definitely connections between the two premises. We’ve found an R. Farrell, whom we believe to be Richard Farrell, on the board of both companies. He’s happy to let the world know he owns The Rookery, but he’s been very quiet about The Paradise Club.’

  A murmur ran around the room. Everyone knew Farrell from the newspapers. O’Rourke continued, ‘A couple of our officers have been to his home to question him about the disappearance of another one of his employees, Daniella O’Connor, which we believe to be linked to the disappearance of Sarah Jane Hansen, and it’s a very impressive pad in Foxrock, which would suggest he’s doing extremely well in the restaurant business.’ O’Rourke’s tone left his opinions about Farrell’s income stream in no doubt. ‘Farrell was apparently one of the last people to see Daniella O’Connor before she disappeared, and we have reason to believe that the woman’s body found in the Dublin mountains earlier this week will be conclusively identified as hers.

  ‘We don’t want any evidence, particularly documentation that might pertain to either business, to be compromised by raiding one premises and not the other, hence the two-pronged operation. And don’t forget, we are looking for anything that can give us an indication of Sarah Jane Hansen’s whereabouts.’

  O’Rourke switched off the laser, ‘Any questions?’ He looked around the room, ‘Great. You all know who your team leaders are?’ A nod ran around the room. ‘Then let’s roll.’

  *

  Blue strobes reflected off the windows and damp pavements on South William and Drury Streets as several Garda vans pulled up. The back doors opened and uniform from Dún Laoghaire, Pearse Street and Blackrock poured out, silently heading up to The Rookery and The Paradise Club to assume their positions. With their navy and yellow jackets, baseball caps and body protection there was no mistaking who they were.

  O’Rourke had swapped his overcoat for a bomber jacket and hat, had the warrant in his hand as he headed up the broad granite steps of The Paradise Club. The team behind him waited for the door to be buzzed open. A moment later they heard the electronic sound of the lock disengaging and he pushed open the highly polished front door, his ID and the search warrant in one hand, a radio in the other.

  Speed was vital in an operation like this to prevent valuable evidence from being destroyed, and as the team flowed in a heavily made-up brunette in a very short fitted black dress stood with her mouth open behind the glass reception desk.

  Cathy glanced around the hallway, trying to get a feel for the place, for the type of people who came here. The lighting was low, atmospheric with lots of dark corners. Like The Rookery, this building oozed Georgian splendour: handmade terracotta tiles flooring the wood-panelled hall, what looked like antique prints of burlesque dancers creating a patchwork of images on every vertical space. In the reception area, a huge velvet chaise longue was positioned under the window overlooking the street, while a spotlight fell on a lavish flower arrangement spilling out of a silver Romanesque urn at one end.

  O’Rourke’s radio buzzed. The team heading for The Rookery were in.

  36

  With all the lights on full and the music turned off The Paradise Club looked plastic and theatrical to Cathy. Plasterwork thick with gold paint surrounded huge mirrors and more antique prints of half-naked women. The upholstery on the banquette, red with a purple floral design, looked comfortably luxurious with the dimmed mood lighting, but bathed in bright light it looked massively over the top, like a stage set.

  Her team, a group of female officers, had started at the top of the building, bringing everyone they found downstairs as they went. While they’d been busy, officers on the ground floor had started taking the customers’ details, but first had moved the glass tables around in front of the stage, giving the girls somewhere to sit apart from everyone else, each with a female officer minding her. Several of them looked resentful, resisting attempts to seat them with a shrug of their shoulders.

  The swing doors to the stairs, concealed from the public by thick claret flock wallpaper and panelling, sucked closed behind them as Cathy pointed the Romanian girl be
side her towards an unoccupied table. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, her dark hair long and loose. She was sobbing quietly, had been completely confused when Cathy and a female officer from Immigration had arrived in the bedroom she was working in.

  Not nearly as confused as her client, though.

  The guy looked like a banker or perhaps an accountant: grey haired, jowly, late sixties at least. The shock on his face had been a picture. But then he’d been wearing a woman’s pink nylon bra and stockings, and was busy hoovering the girl’s room. His erection had vanished the moment he’d realised he had an audience.

  The Romanian girl slid onto an upholstered bucket chair and crossed her arms, glaring at Cathy. Not for the first time this evening Cathy was beginning to wonder if all of these girls wanted to be rescued. She knew they were still in shock, would be terrified that they had somehow brought about the raid, frightened that the men who had held them would still be able to hurt them. But some of them really didn’t seem to be too pleased with the disruption to their night.

  Upstairs, doors to what were obviously the girls’ bedrooms opened off a long corridor, a shared living room at the end. Some of the rooms were neat and tidy, comfortable but spartan. In others, clothes and underwear were strewn everywhere, the beds unmade.

  On the way up Cathy had glanced into a utilitarian bathroom that looked a lot like the sports changing room at her school. At the turn of the stairs, a tiny kitchen contained not much more than a fridge, kettle and microwave with a two-ring hob set into the counter. Everything was practical, basic, a total contrast to the opulence below. She kept hoping she’d open a door and Sarah Jane would be there, waiting for her, slagging her about why it had taken Cathy so long to find her.

  The Romanian girl safely seated, Cathy looked around the main bar and dance floor area for O’Rourke. Through the mass of people now filling the club – punters shifting uncomfortably, their heads down, waiting to be questioned, detectives, uniform – Cathy could see him holding court over beside the bar. He was good at managing big scenes, at deploying the right people to do the right jobs. The whole place had been sealed from the moment they walked in, uniformed Gardaí on all the exits, the street outside crowded with Garda vehicles. And everyone had to be kept apart until they knew who was who.