Good Bait

34

Not so long ago, it would have been a smoke-filled room. Silk Cut, Benson’s King Size, the occasional small cigar. The air acrid and blue. Not a black face, not a woman in sight. Now it was pristine, anonymous, the lingering scent of air freshener and cheap polish. The faint hum of central heating. A table, centrally placed, and seven chairs, three occupied. Burcher stood by the window, looking out through the double glazing.

They were on the eleventh floor, a view south and west across London, far beyond the Imperial War Museum and the Elephant, out towards the old Battersea Power Station and the television mast at Crystal Palace, topping out at over two hundred metres.

Karen they kept waiting outside, a small room across the corridor, coffee, bland and undrinkable, in a plastic cup. A week-old copy of the Standard to read. She had chosen black, a black trouser suit neatly cut, straight-legged, angled lapels; a cream shirt, buttoned to the neck. Boots with a low heel. Little make-up, save around the eyes; no ornamentation, no rings. Hair pushed up and back and held in place.

‘Want me to come and hold your hand?’ Ramsden had asked.

‘As if.’

So far, only one of the three men whose bodies had been found at Stansted had been positively identified. Valentyn Horak, a Ukrainian last arrested eighteen months previously, accused of involvement in drug smuggling and prostitution; several weeks before the trial, all charges had been dropped when the CPS judged there was insufficient evidence to secure a conviction.

Though neither of the other two victims yet had names, all the evidence — tattoos, dental work, physical appearance — suggested that they too were from the Ukraine or somewhere similar, in the country illegally.

Karen had been unable, as yet, to erase the memory; scrub the lingering smell from her skin.

A civilian with a slight stammer invited her to join the Detective Chief Superintendent and the others, held the door open, then disappeared whence she had come — all of this without once looking Karen in the eye.

Three heads turned towards her as she entered; Burcher’s did not.

Warren Cormack, of course, she knew. Same suit, different tie. A suggestion of a smile as she entered, he stood and offered his hand.

Seated directly across from him was a man she didn’t recognise. Mid-forties? A little older? Hair neatly trimmed, almost an old-fashioned straight back and sides. His suit jacket, a thin pinstripe, he’d removed and hung carefully from the back of the chair alongside, shirtsleeves rolled neatly back at the cuff. There was a small cut above his top lip as if he’d been uncautious shaving. Cardboard cut-out eyes.

Then there was Alex Williams. Alexandria. Tailored jacket. Square hands. A face that was handsome rather than pretty. Hair cut short, like a boy’s. Had she not known her to be happily married and living with a husband — who was something in the media — and their three children in a large terraced house in Herne Hill, Karen might have mistaken her as gay.

When they’d first met, Alex had been seconded to Homicide and Serious Crime; no bullshit, no backing down, a fast learner — Karen had liked her. Admired her, even. Now, two promotions, four years later, she was back in the Specialist Intelligence Service, SIS, and the darling of the Met’s PR department — equal opportunity works, motherhood and a career both attainable, here was the living proof. It helped that her husband worked, most of the time, from home; that they could afford a succession of nannies and au pairs.

‘Karen, good to see you again.’ Her handshake was swift and firm.

Leaving his post at the window, Burcher moved to the chair at the table’s head.

‘Getting to be something of a habit, Detective Chief Inspector, turning up bodies like that.’

‘Homicide, sir. Goes with the territory.’

Alex Williams stifled a laugh.

Burcher tensed but let it pass.

‘Purpose of this meeting, bring you up to speed. Alex, you know. Warren, too, I believe. And this …’ a quick nod of the head, ‘is Charles Frost from SOCA.’

‘Charlie,’ Frost said, helpfully.

‘Charlie’s keeping something of a watching brief.’

Like buggery, Karen thought. She’d had dealings with SOCA before. Double-dealings. It still rankled badly. With barely a nod in Frost’s direction, she took a seat alongside Cormack, across from the others. Mixed doubles.

‘Warren,’ said Burcher from the umpire’s chair. ‘Valentyn Horak, for Karen’s sake, why don’t you give us a little background?’

Cormack opened the folder in front of him, a quick glance as if to refresh his memory, then let it fall closed. ‘All right. Some of this, Karen, you’ll be familiar with, in principle anyway, the incursion of various crime organisations from the other side of what used to be the Iron Curtain. One good sniff at the joys of the free market and they take to it like ducks to water. Drugs, at first. That’s the big thing, still is, in a way. But with the fall in value of cocaine, for example, there’s been a move towards consolidation. Groups from the Ukraine, Albania, lesser players such as Moldova. Coming together for the common good. Theirs not ours. And with a certain sharing of resources, they’ve begun to diversify. People trafficking, that’s where a lot of the money is now. Migrant labour. Prostitution.

‘This last couple of years they’ve specialised more and more in the trafficking of young people. Fourteen to seventeen. Technically, children. Some of them get pushed out on to the streets selling cigarettes, counterfeit DVDs and the like; some work fifteen, sixteen hours a day in dodgy pizza parlours; others are forced into brothels. Brothels, massage parlours, whatever you call them. That’s where the serious money’s made.’

He leaned forward, hitting his stride.

‘One underage girl — or boy — can earn two fifty, three hundred pounds a day. Minimum. Just do the maths. You could be talking six, seven thousand a month, easy. From just one kid. Close on eighty thousand a year. Two, three years till they’re used up, over the hill. Kick them out on to the streets and start again.

‘This last eighteen months I’ve been leading a Project Team looking into the London end of this, liaising with SOCA at a national level. And with SIS, through Alex here. Getting hold of evidence, solid evidence, finding people willing to go on record, stand up in court, it’s not easy. You know, I think, what happened with Horak previously. We thought we had him and then we didn’t. We get so far and then the ground tends to slide out from under us. These last few months, though, have been interesting.’

He paused for water.

‘Up until recently, most of our long-term home-grown dealers have been happy enough to take their supplies from the Albanians, the Bulgarians, whoever. Business being business. But for some of them, it stuck in their craw. And just lately they’ve been kicking back. Taking out some of the lower level guys, frightening them off, clawing their way back up the chain. Intercepting shipments that have been coming in by way of the Channel Tunnel, or, in one or two cases, offloaded off the coast. And then hitting where it hurts. Karen, we’ve talked a little about this. Raids on cannabis farms right across East Anglia and the South-East.’

‘For which,’ Karen said, ‘you think Gordon Dooley is responsible.’

‘Our information suggests Dooley is behind it, yes. The extent to which he plays an active part, we’re still not sure. As you know, he’s currently under surveillance. And, though we’ve no definite proof, nothing quite yet to get us knocking down doors, there’s good reason for supposing a South London gang centring round known villains like Mike Carter and possibly, just possibly, Terry Martin, is providing the muscle.’

‘The same gang,’ Burcher said, intervening, ‘of which Parsons and Johnson, our two bodies from Camden, were charter members.’

‘The same.’

‘So, Camden was an organised hit by Horak or someone close to him — East European, anyway, that’s what we’re thinking — a warning. The response to which was that bloody business out at Stansted.’

‘It points that way,’ Cormack said.

‘Tit for tat.’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything you can do, I can do better.’

For one bizarre moment, Karen thought the Detective Chief Inspector might be about to burst into song.

‘The earlier murder,’ Burcher said, ‘Andronic, the kid in the pond, you see, Karen, any connection?’

She took a moment to consider her answer.

‘I’m not sure, sir. We do have some information that he might have been involved in some occasional low-level dealing, but I can’t see him being visible enough to attract the attention of someone like Martin or Dooley. Although …’ She hesitated.

‘Go on.’

‘Terry Martin’s daughter had been seeing Andronic very much against his wishes.’

‘And for that,’ Alex Williams said, speaking for the first time, ‘he would have killed him?’

‘I think it’s possible, yes.’

‘Possible,’ Burcher said, ‘though I believe, despite the best efforts of you and your team, unproven.’

‘So far. Sir.’

Burcher let it pass.

‘These murders,’ Karen said, ‘Stansted, Camden, I’m assuming from what we’ve heard — the point of this meeting, really — you’ll be wanting my team to step away.’

Burcher cleared his throat. ‘Not necessarily so.’

‘But everything Warren’s just said, the nature of what’s happened, what lays behind it, this has to be a Project Team operation, surely? They’ve got the resources, the background. All we’ll do, muddy the waters. Get in the way to no good cause.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘We’ve plenty enough on our plates as it is.’

No one spoke. A slight scuffing of feet beneath the table. Uneasy glances.

‘As I say, not necessarily the way we see it,’ Burcher said. ‘Not at all. Everyone else here — Warren, Alex, Charles-’

‘Charlie.’

‘Right, Charlie. They’re all intent on the bigger picture, you’re correct about that, of course. Whereas you, your team, specific aims, objectives — homicide investigation, your field of expertise.’

Not what you said last time, you bastard, Karen thought; not what you implied.

‘So, we’d like you to push ahead on the Camden killing, Milescu, too, concentrate your energies there.…’

‘And these last two murders, Stansted …’

‘As and how they’re linked, yes. Liaising with Warren, of course.’

‘That’s a big stretch, without help.…’

‘Any request for extra bodies, extra hours — sympathetically met.’ Burcher lifted the papers in front of him and tapped the ends into place.

‘Alex, anything you want to add?’

‘Not at this stage, thank you.’

‘Charles?’

‘Charlie. Yes, just one thing. For some little time now, we’ve been taking an interest in the activities of a certain Anton Kosach. Businessman from the Ukraine. No links with Horak as far as we’ve been able to establish. Bit more establishment, more upmarket. Oil money to begin with. More recently mineral products, high-end motors, transportation. Owns a number of properties, a place in Surrey worth upwards of fifteen million amongst them. Numbers amongst his friends one or two with possible connections to people trafficking. As far as we’ve made out so far, these connections are purely social, but that’s by no means definite. And Kosach’s various enterprises put him in a good position to facilitate money laundering on quite a large scale. Again, nothing definite, nothing proved. But we’re watching. SIS also.’

A glance towards Alex Williams, who nodded agreement.

‘So,’ Frost concluded, ‘should Kosach’s name show up on anyone’s radar, I’d appreciate a heads-up forthwith. Alex, also.’

Burcher thanked him, thanked everyone, brought the meeting to a close. General movement, a scraping of chairs.

‘It’s been a while,’ Alex Williams said, falling into step beside Karen in the corridor outside.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I’ll give you a call. Come over. Bit of a catch-up.’

‘Okay, fine. I’d like that,’ Karen said, without quite believing it would happen. Busy people, busy lives. Alex Williams, busier than most.

At the foot of the stairs they exchanged smiles and went their separate ways, Karen fast-dialling Mike Ramsden as she did so, setting up a meeting of their own, how to proceed from here.