‘Bloody hell,’ Dawson said.
Devon nodded. ‘Many travelled here illegally in the late eighties, early nineties. And we’re not talking uneducated low lifers who just want to sponge off the system.’
‘Why those particular years?’ Stacey asked.
‘Because Romania was a real shit place to be. You remember the Ceausescus?’
‘Weren’t they executed?’ Dawson asked.
Devon nodded. ‘Yes, and one of the charges was “Genocide by starvation”,’ she explained. ‘Romania’s foreign debt had increased from $3 billion to $10 billion between 1977 and ’81. Ceausescu imposed austerity measures to pay the total back by ’89. He managed it but in doing so impoverished the population and exhausted the economy. The revolution came in December of ’89.’
‘So the conditions here don’t even compare to back home?’ Dawson asked.
Devon shook her head. ‘By their standards a mattress and a roof is bordering on palatial. We raided a farm in Worcestershire last year. Not a patch of floor without a makeshift bed.’
‘Jesus,’ Dawson said, shaking his head.
‘Just last month we rescued a sixteen-year-old girl brought to Britain who had not seen daylight for seven years.’
‘How is this happening?’ he asked.
‘People are smuggled into the country and forced into organised crime gangs. Slavery, drugs, money laundering, guns, loan sharking and prostitution. Some are just dumped on the street when work dries up, or even killed.’
‘But we have laws,’ Stacey said.
‘We do indeed. We have the Modern Slavery Act passed just a couple of years ago. Compared to bonded labour, forced migrant labour is far easier to—’
‘Back up,’ Dawson said. ‘What’s the difference?’
‘Forced migrant labour is when documents are seized and individuals work under the threat of violence, and undocumented immigrants are taken advantage of.
‘Bonded labour differs from forced labour and human trafficking because the person consciously pledges to work as repayment. Debt bondage only applies to the ones who have no hope of ever paying it back.’
‘Until the person dies?’ Stacey asked.
Devon shook her head. ‘Not necessarily.’
‘How so?’
‘Okay, let’s imagine an illegal immigrant pays £5,000 to get passage into the country. That’s his original debt but over the course of one week he will incur further debt for food, lodging, transportation and clothing that will far exceed whatever paltry pay he’s receiving from his employers.’
‘So, the debt never gets reduced?’
‘Nope, it grows exponentially each year.’
Stacey felt the rage building within her at the injustice of the no-win situation.
‘But how does that not end with death?’ she asked.
‘Because the debt will be transferred to any surviving family member.’
Stacey shook her head. It seemed hopeless.
Devon caught her look. ‘The GLA does what it can but it’s not enough.’
‘The GLA?’ Dawson asked.
‘Gangmaster Licencing Authority. They do their best to protect vulnerable workers and victims of modern slavery but, like every other government agency, there ain’t enough folks to go around.’
‘We hear yer,’ Stacey said.
‘And what about Robertson’s?’ Dawson asked.
‘Clean as a whistle,’ Devon answered. ‘Not even a hint of impropriety,’ she said, looking troubled.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Stacey asked.
‘Too clean for my liking. Not one complaint, not even anonymous. Given that they only seem to employ Romanian staff I’ve had more calls about the chippy just round the corner.’
‘So what can we do?’ Stacey asked, feeling the hopelessness settle all around her.
Devon leaned forward and rested her chin on her interlaced fingers. Her slow smile was intense and defiant.
‘You can come with me when I go raid that place in the morning.’
FIFTY-SIX
Kim stepped out of the car and into a hive of activity.
Groups congregated outside the door in different states of attire. The working girls stood to the left already dressed for action. Donna had been murdered less than twenty-four hours earlier and the three days since Kelly’s death on Saturday night had rendered her pretty much forgotten. She wondered how many other people set off to work under the threat of a vicious murderer being their next customer.
Kim caught a glimpse of the tattooed man she’d seen the previous day. He moved to the side to reveal a shorter female holding a baby.
All conversation stopped as she approached the front door and every gaze fell on the queue jumper. The door was open and a battered Tensa barrier was stretched across the opening. An A4 piece of paper hung from the ribbon stating, ‘Open at 8’. Kim noted that the queue potentially held thieves, muggers, shoplifters and others with questionable morals. And yet nobody broke the food line.
Kim stepped around the barrier to find Tim at the front of the reception counter with his back to her. A middle-aged couple fussed behind the desk removing cardboard lids from oversized metal containers.
‘Something smells good,’ she said, approaching the desk.
Tim turned towards her. His face tried to make a smile but didn’t quite manage it.
‘Officer, how can I help?’
Kim stood to the side. ‘You’re a little busy at the moment. I can wait.’
He stacked paper plates and plastic cutlery at the far end of the desk. The woman ripped a roll of kitchen towel into individual squares to serve as napkins.
‘Looks good,’ Kim said, getting a smile from the woman towel ripper.
Tim stood back. ‘We have meatballs from Gino’s, chicken chow mein from Golden Star and our Nando’s contribution should be here any second.’
He checked his watch. It was five past the hour.
‘Martha, I don’t think we can wait any longer. Anyone wanting chicken will have to wait.’
Tim stepped past her and unhooked the cordon.
‘Come get it, folks,’ he said as people filed in in single line and headed to the paper plates.
Tim came to stand beside her, away from the line.
‘All donations from locals?’ she asked.
‘Mainly,’ he said, but offered no more.
She glanced around the room. Her eyes rested on Len. His girlfriend sat on the banquette that lined the wall with the child on her lap. Kim guessed the girl to be about 18 months old. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright and inquisitive. Kim was surprised they were sitting alone. Folks normally interacted with toddlers.
Len stood before the two of them, feeding small pieces of meatball to the child while the mother tried to hold onto the wriggler and take the occasional bite of food herself.
‘Does no one like them or something?’ she asked. She watched as Len wiped at his daughter’s dribble. He put the tissue in his pocket.
Tim shook his head. ‘It’s not really that. They are HIV positive. Including the child.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Kim said, continuing to watch the small isolated family.
‘It’s not what you think. It was given to him in prison. I’m sure you can guess how. He didn’t know. He passed it onto Wendy and then Wendy passed it to their child during pregnancy. They didn’t know until it was picked up on the child during routine health checks.’
Kim shook her head sadly. That kid had not asked for it and, although it would mean nothing to her now, it certainly would when she was older. One thing that had arrived early was the stigma and isolation.
‘Look, I’ve just gotta go and sort the drinks out,’ Tim said.
‘No problem,’ she replied.
Kim found herself moving towards the insular little family.
‘Hey, you were here yesterday,’ she said, standing beside Len.
He eyed her suspiciously ‘Yeah, you too.’
&nb
sp; He used the edge of the fork to cut off another small piece of meatball, and fed it to his daughter.
He turned again. ‘I know who you are. You’re that cop on a bike.’
‘That’s not really the correct term,’ she said. She knew the phrase and it included a farm animal.
At the mention of her job, alarm had registered on the face of the woman grappling the child.
Kim smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not here for him.’
The girl smiled back tentatively.
‘So, you got one of those Ninjas?’
Kim nodded.
‘Nice bike,’ he said, appreciatively.
‘Oh yeah,’ she agreed.
The child squirmed as the woman tried to spoon a forkful of chow mein into her own mouth. It landed on the child’s shoulder. Len’s own plate was on the banquette the other side of his girlfriend. Baby came first.
Kim pulled up a loose chair, sat, and held out her hands.
‘Pass her to me while you eat your food.’
The girl’s face creased with concern. She looked to Len.
‘Look, it’s nice of you to offer but…’
‘It’s fine, now just pass her to me while you eat your food.’
Len’s girlfriend tentatively moved the child forward.
Kim took her and felt the solidness of the toddler. This kid did not miss many meals. She placed the child on her knee facing outwards so she could still see her parents. She repeated the rocking of the knee that the mother had been doing.
Len sat beside his girlfriend and both reached for their paper plates.
‘So, you still managing to go straight?’ Kim asked.
He nodded. ‘Wouldn’t be here if I was still robbing houses. We’d have money and wouldn’t be treated like lepers to get a free meal.’
‘So, what changed you?’ Kim asked. She looked down. ‘This one?’
He looked at his daughter and smiled. His face instantly lost its air of intimidation. He shook his head.
‘She keeps me focussed but it was something that happened on the inside.’
Courtesy of Tim’s explanation Kim knew more about what had happened to him in prison than she cared to.
He looked to his girlfriend then back at her.
‘I had a visitor, one day. Little old guy came shuffling in with a stick. He owned a small bungalow in Norton. One of the last places I’d done before going inside. He didn’t rant and rave. He wasn’t even rude. He only wanted to know I wasn’t ever going to come back again after I got out.’
He lowered his eyes and stared into his food. ‘He told me his elderly wife was a nervous wreck. That she couldn’t eat or sleep and she cried at any kind of noise. He just wanted to be able to reassure her that they were safe.’
‘You really thought burglary was a victimless crime?’
He nodded but still didn’t look up. ‘To me, all I was doing was taking stuff, possessions that were probably insured anyway and, honestly, I didn’t much care if they weren’t. But once I’d robbed a place it meant nothing to me. I forgot about it. I never realised that I was leaving such fear behind. I’ve never been violent in my life and never had any intention of hurting anybody.’
Kim could see the regret in his eyes.
‘The picture of that old lady petrified every single day because of me, well, it killed me.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Wrote her a letter. Afterwards, I wrote a lot of letters but that day I wrote one just for that old lady. I also told him what attracted me to his property in the first place so he could try and make sure it didn’t happen again.’
Kim was moved by the genuine emotion she heard in his voice.
Finally, he looked at her. ‘The worst thing is that when he left he offered me his hand. The guy offered me his fucking hand.’
Kim saw the redness that had appeared around his eyes.
‘He tries really hard,’ Wendy offered, touching his leg tenderly.
Kim had no doubt. This man wanted to work but with his record and appearance his prospects for full-time employment were not looking good.
The child on her lap gurgled.
‘How much do you want to work?’
He looked at his daughter. ‘A lot.’
‘But what are you prepared to do?’
‘Anything.’
‘Then that’s your answer.’
The child began to squirm and Wendy reached over to take her back.
His expression was puzzled.
‘Do you know what, Len, everyone has jobs that need doing that they either just can’t find the time or don’t really wanna do.’
‘But I’m not qualified to—’
‘Do you know how to mow a lawn, shift rubbish? Start small, mow a lawn for free and do a good job, you’ll get customers. Knock doors, wear a polo neck, talk to people, put cards in supermarkets, shop windows. What you have is yourself. You’re young and healthy and keen. You have no car but you have your legs and a whole lot of time.’
Interest lit his eyes. She took out a business card and handed it to him.
‘Go on, I’ll be your first client. What do you know about bikes?’
He nodded. ‘A bit.’
‘Okay, I’m looking to find a frame, just a frame, for a Norton Commando ’68. I’m happy to pay up to five hundred quid for it but I just don’t have the time to go looking. You do the legwork and find the cheapest you can and you get to keep the change. And then you get a reference from a pig on a bike.’
Len looked from her to his girlfriend and back again.
‘You serious?’
She nodded. ‘This ain’t charity, Len. I’ve told you what I want and the rest is up to you.’
The constant rejections from interviews had knocked the stuffing out of him, and Kim had no doubt about his sincerity or his motivation but his demeanour had been defeated and no one would even consider offering him a job. Given a purpose, his back would straighten, his eyes would brighten and he’d be out and about speaking to people and who knew what that could lead to.
‘Officer, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Then, don’t,’ she said, standing.
She offered him her hand. ‘We got a deal?’
He took her hand and shook it. His mouth opened to speak but a small cheer around the room stopped him.
A tray of Nando’s chicken and chips had just entered the room attached to the hands of Police Constable Ian Skitt.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Cristina went upstairs, away from the air of stress and anxiety that had attached itself to the skin of her colleagues.
She used the bottom bunk to help her climb onto the top. Without the space to sit up straight, she immediately lay on her side.
She was not surprised when a figure appeared in the doorway. The anger she felt towards Natalya seeped into her face.
‘Cristina… imi pare rau pentru ce am facut.’
Cristina ignored her apology. There was no point being sorry for her outburst now. Thank goodness neither of the police officers had spoken a word of Romanian.
‘Do you have any idea what you could have done?’ Cristina accused.
Natalya coloured and nodded.
Cristina acknowledged her apology and turned towards the wall and pulled the coarse blanket up over her legs. There was no heating on the upper level of the house. The warmth from the hot needles of water during her five-minute timed shower had long since been stripped from her skin.
She reached underneath her pillow and took out the pyjamas wrapped around the notebooks and pencil and took up where she had left off.
We were released from the lorry early the next day. We were in England.
A tall, bald man confirmed my name at a motorway service station and pointed to a white transit van. We opened the door and climbed in. The stench of body odour was foul but we huddled together in a corner. Sixteen more souls crammed into the space and not one single word was spoken. Two more men got into the van be
fore it began to move.
Every mile it travelled away from the coast reassured me we were not being followed. I pictured us heading into the heart of the country. Distance meant safety. I wanted to hope for the future. For our life together in this new country. The fear of Romania still hung to my clothes but it was becoming easier to breathe.
I knew that I had taken a gamble. That you might never forgive me for the decisions I’d made but we could not have stayed in Romania.
The van continued its journey through the night and the doors were opened at dawn. The light hurt your eyes after so many hours of darkness.
I hoped this would be the last stop. That we would have the flat and the job I’d been promised. A place for us to call home. I knew it wouldn’t be a palace but as long as we were together, I could manage with anything.
The van had stopped behind a supermarket. We were all told to get out and stand in a line. Three men stood and appraised us, one smoked a big fat cigar. He pointed first. The man he pointed to was pulled out of the line. The second man pointed and that man was pulled out. And then the third, smaller man, did the same.
Every person was removed from the line until it was only us left and the man with the thick cigar.
He sighed heavily and then nodded to the driver of the van. He pushed me towards the furthest group away.
The four men retreated to the back of the van while everyone waited silently.
I tried to listen to the hushed conversation but could only make out the occasional word.
Were they deciding who was to live where, who was to have which job?
I wished they had spoken to us, to find out our skills. I could have told them. I was a qualified dentist, that I had lost my business but not my qualifications. Maybe Ralph had passed this along.
The men reappeared with good humour. The van driver patted his back pocket and got back into the van.
The cigar man appraised us with a smile.
Encouraged, I stepped forward and asked: ‘Are you taking us to our new home now?’
He laughed but no one else joined in.
I tried again.
‘Please can you tell me what’s happening?’
Broken Bones: A gripping serial killer thriller (Detective Kim Stone Crime Thriller Series Book 7) Page 19
