“The eyes?” Douglas asked.
“Correct,” Burke answered.
“A bit cold. But then my comparison with the other artwork really not so much.”
“And you sure you don’t know what any of it meant?” Jones asked.
“Not at all. He always refused to discuss it.”
“So presumably you were close?” Burke asked
“I suppose so. I mean I don’t think he was as close to anyone else, but how close can you really be to someone when you don’t divulge anything about their life to anyone. I have no real clue what he did.”
“Despite the Russian prison tattoos?”
“Is that what they were? I had an inkling but as I say it was never discussed.”
“You sure about that?” Burke asked, “I mean he didn’t mention anything about it while you’re indulging in your illegal class A drugs or the illegal services provided by possibly very young sex workers?”
Douglas’s face was very pale all of a sudden. He had begun to look like a weight had been lifted from the shoulders, but now he was carrying it once more. “I can assure you inspector, they were fully above the age of consent.”
Burke felt mildly uncomfortable at this and decided to move it along. “Where were you on the night Mr Karpov was murdered?”
“Ah, well that’s the thing. I was trying to tell you and I wish I had inspector but if I’m honest my nerves got the better of me somewhat.”
“You were there weren’t you?” Jones interrupted in a sympathetic tone.
“I’m rather afraid I was.” Douglas confirmed, raising what seemed to be an apologetic smile.
Andy had spent most of the morning, or what he assumed was the morning, drifting in and out of consciousness. The girl had stopped waking him know, obviously deciding that he wasn’t going to die from concussion. His head told a different story.
He still felt sick when he tried to move too much. That was yet another doing over he owed the big guy he now knew must be Georgian.
He pretended to be asleep when they came in and dropped food and water for the numerous bodies in the shed. They’d delivered it in what looked like stainless steel dog bowls.
One of the girls said something to the two hulks they clearly understood and didn’t agree with, reasoning that the correct response was to quite literally slap her down.
He wanted to do something, felt ashamed that he didn’t, couldn’t. He wasn’t used to feeling so fucking helpless, like a dog with his tail between his legs.
A couple of the other girls tried to soothe her, but this seemed to cause an argument more than anything, which again made his head hurt. Much as he normally enjoyed the idea of girls fighting, it wasn’t the same when you couldn’t understand what was actually going on.
What now? Was he actually going to eat from a bowl, like their dog or something? At what point would his pride give out? And what were the bastards planning on doing with him anyway? He wondered if there was a way he could persuade them to call it quits, let him go on his way in exchange for his silence about whatever fucked up shit was going on here. Like hell. Not after he’d been put in a shed full of the girls they were trafficking. More likely he’d be taking a dirt nap or getting put to work in some kind of sweat shop along with them if he was lucky. He’d seen the documentaries, admittedly while doing other things. They were on in the background because the old man was genuinely interested in what was going on in the outside world, despite never really getting to see any of it for real. Not that he was missing out on much if this was the kind of shit they could pull right under the noses of everyone in even their quiet little corner of the world.
At least they couldn’t put him to work in one of their brothels. He doubted he’d make them much, what with the nose that had been broken so many times it was starting to look like it was made of papier mache and the ears that were becoming more cauliflower like by the day. He had a face that had seen the inside of too many scrums.
His eyes had fully acclimatised to the darkness now. Any more and he would probably start to look like a mole. He could see the dust floating in the air in the shafts of light created by the holes in the building’s ageing, once temporary fabric. Movements outside caused a strobing effect. Whenever someone passed by it caused a sense of panic he wouldn’t have thought possible after such a length of time.
One of the girls, she said her name was Ania, tried to feed him and he gathered enough energy to refuse enthusiastically, but eventually gave in as she poured the concoction, soup he thought, down his throat. His head pounded with every miniscule movement, like a bad hangover. He was surprisingly hungry all things considered. He managed to finish the contents of his dog bowl before thanking her.
“So are they Georgian as well?” he asked, motioning to the wall with his head as it was the only thing not tied up. “The guys outside with the big guns and the bad attitude.”
“Georgian, Ukrainian, Lithuanian, I think,” she said softly.
In another time, he thought, he might well have been trying to chat this girl up in the pub. Who was he kidding? In another time he was far more likely to be too nervous to even speak to her at all. But right now all bets were off. Wasn’t that what they said about the spirit of the blitz and all that? It was the great leveller, brought everyone together.
He wanted to ask again what she thought they’d do with him but that would do no good. He wanted it to be over, whatever the outcome, get the worst out of the way.
Ania looked away towards the darkness as if knowing what he was thinking.
“And you?” he asked eventually.
“I don’t know,” she said, “But I’m here. I have some sort of shot of making a life. I think it might not be the life I expected but who can say theirs is?”
“I know what you mean,” he agreed benignly, wishing he could say something more constructive that might make everything ok. He wished more than anything that he could fix this for both of them, for all of them, because it was doubtful any of them deserved to be here. What could you do that meant you did? Perhaps people trafficking, selling girls into slavery once they’d paid you everything they had for a chance of a life beyond what they knew, deducting their hopes, dreams and dignity on top of everything else. Perhaps that meant you deserved to be stored in a rotting shed, not knowing what was going to happen next.
22
Gordon went to work straight away. The lawyer had been despatched to get on with his end of things, though it had to be noted, he didn’t look too confident in it.
He talked a good fight. Gordon would concede that. But “John Smith”? What kind of alias was that? Not much of a one for thinking on his feet, this stuffed suit, going on that basis. Setting that aside, it had been fun being Jackie Chan, even if he didn’t have the fight skills or the legendary tuxedo. It would be hard to find one to fit really if he was totally honest with himself, which with regard to things like his weight, personal appearance or personal hygiene, he seldom was.
Denial was indeed, not just a river in Egypt. In Gordon’s case it was an all-encompassing life style choice. Things could get on top of you. That was just a fact of life. It was something he’d learned from his mother. He’d stopped going to see her after a while; after the madness had fully kicked in.
Keeping his head down was key. He’d done his research on the matter, after visiting various security conferences, having hacked their systems and gained entry as a delegate. The irony appealed to him and far outweighed his distaste at having to be in a room with other people.
It was only when the hits got big that your head was effectively above the parapet and had a price on it, though as it happened that was what had made him bigger in the first place, performing a bit of an audacious hack on a Russian database he thought might have evidence of the moon landings being faked. It seemed a long time ago now. Other hackers had tried similar things of course, usually in the US, and been well and truly busted. Gordon thought he would have a go at Russian government files, figuring that they would probably have an idea of what was going on with their main rivals during the cold war and that their files might not be as secure as those of the CIA or NASA, that he’d be less likely to be caught and, if caught, less likely to be deported, the UK government being less inclined to suck up to the Russians. The thought that it would be a lot more hard core if he was deported did not escape him though. Another factor was his ability to speak and more importantly read Russian.