A Dark and Twisted Tide (34 page)

The clothes Lacey had bought for her trip along the Old Kent Road – cotton trousers, tunic and headscarf – had been pronounced perfectly acceptable by Maya. She’d even offered advice on the simple cotton underwear women from Afghanistan favoured. In the canvas bag at Dana’s feet were her possessions, based on what Maya had had in her own bag. Lacey had spent the day in Brick Lane doing her best to replicate them, and had found a change of clothes, some simple toiletries with eastern labelling and photographs of Dana’s supposed family back home.

Dana had also spent time with a detective sergeant from SCD10, who’d come over to give her some tips on how to behave. He’d set a time limit of 24 hours maximum on the operation, a timescale David Cook had reluctantly agreed to. Any longer, the sergeant had said, would expose her to unnecessary risks. Twenty-four hours hadn’t seemed long back at Lewisham, but now, just a few minutes into the operation, it was a different story.

She hadn’t told Helen. Helen was back in Dundee, and wouldn’t necessarily think it odd if she didn’t hear from Dana for a day.

Helen would have argued that it was foolish. Too great a risk. That Dana was neither trained in undercover work nor properly prepared for the operation. She’d have been right.

Fighting off a sudden urge to panic, Dana turned to look back over Raashid’s shoulder. Fred had disappeared, but somewhere in the gloom of the river was an unmarked RIB, staffed by officers from the Marine Unit and an armed sergeant from SO10. In a few hours they’d be replaced by another identical unit and then later by a third, each working an eight-hour shift. They were her protection. They wouldn’t go more than a hundred metres from her until she was safely back with them. If she pressed her panic button, they’d be the first to respond. It would have been good to be able to see them, just to know they were definitely there, but that was impossible.

It was all about trust, going undercover, the sergeant had told her. You had to trust your back-up was there. She did trust Neil, in charge of the operation in her absence, she trusted David Cook and
his officers. But how Mark had done this for the last ten years was beyond her.

Across the river, close to the north bank, would be the Targa that was currently the command centre of the operation, although that would move back to Lewisham as the night wore on. Every available craft belonging to the Marine Unit was out on the river tonight, with the specific instruction to stay well clear of Deptford but to be ready to respond if necessary. She was as safe as it was possible to be and it was about time she started feeling that way.

Around her neck was a cheap-looking metal locket that appeared to be sealed shut. It was particularly important that no one succeeded in opening it, because it concealed a tracking device. As long as she wore it, her colleagues would know where she was. If the plan went wrong, she had to open the locket and break the device. That would be the signal to get her out.

She wasn’t wired. They’d discussed bugging her and it had been considered too risky. Aamil and Raashid both were, though, and as long as she was with them, anything she or they said would be heard by the surveillance team.

They were passing Greenwich now, hugging the south bank. She couldn’t imagine how Maya and the others had felt, on this cold, massive river, with no idea of where they were heading or what would be waiting for them, without even the most basic protection of the life-jackets that Cook had absolutely insisted that she and the men wear.

‘If I lose you in the river, that’s my job and my pension,’ he’d told her when she’d tried to argue that it might make the reception committee suspicious. ‘This is not negotiable.’ Dana had taken one look at his face and realized it probably wasn’t. Chugging along now, watching waves break over the bow, realizing how low in the water she was, she was glad he’d put his foot down.

The huge circular structure that marked the entrance to Deptford Creek was getting closer. She could see the differing flow in the river as the creek water hit the Thames. She wrapped the headscarf closer to her head as they went on.

They couldn’t be too far away now. So far, the two men had done
exactly what they’d been told. The tricky part would be when they arrived. She’d watch them closely. Any sign at all that they were trying to alert others to the police surveillance and her instructions had been clear. To break the tracking device, get her head down and wait for rescue. They were slowing down.

‘We go in here,’ said Raashid behind her.

‘That’s Sayes Creek,’ said Lacey, on the control boat. ‘I know that piece of water. It’s very narrow. There’s only one turning point, about a quarter of a mile up, near a big house called Sayes Court.’

On the computer monitor, they watched the red dot that was Dana move up the narrow creek. The small boat went the full length, turned outside Sayes Court and then set off back again, Dana still on board. About a hundred yards from the entrance to the Thames, the boat stopped moving. They’d moored up.

‘Thank you,’ they heard Dana saying over the wires attached to her two escorts. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Be quiet,’ a woman’s voice answered. ‘People are asleep.’

‘She’s going in,’ said Anderson.

Dana was led up the narrow, concrete river steps and inside the building. She heard the boat engine firing up and glanced back. Aamil and Raashid were at the entrance to the creek. A second later she was inside and the door closed behind her.

A dimly lit corridor, painted a pale beige colour. Two doors on the left. At the end of the corridor, stairs going up. Outside, she’d counted four floors, including one that seemed to be slightly below the water line. A tall, narrow building.

So far, so good.

Outside, the crew on the river would already be in touch with their colleagues on land. They’d put an unmarked car in the street outside. They’d use thermal-imaging equipment to find out how many people were in the building. They’d think about accessing the buildings on either side, to see if listening devices could be implanted. They were close. Even if it didn’t feel that way. The woman guiding her along the corridor had spoken to her. She’d stopped, had turned round, was waiting.

‘What is your name?’ she repeated, enunciating every word, as though used to people whose grasp of English was weak.

‘Maya,’ said Dana.

The woman looked at Dana. Then she let her eyes run up and down, taking in her face, clothes, even shoes. Earlier in the day, Dana had run cooking oil through her hair to make it look as though it hadn’t been washed recently. Before getting into the boat, she’d rubbed dirt into her hands and fingernails. Her appearance was convincing. She had black hair, coffee-coloured skin, even the light-green eyes that were common among Pashtun women. It would be her voice, if anything, that let her down.

Dana spoke Hindi and Arabic, and could adopt a regional accent that would fool most Westerners. Native Afghans, on the other hand, would be a different story.

‘Say as little as possible,’ the SO10 sergeant had told her. ‘Act dumb. When you do speak, keep it to short, simple sentences and pitch your voice low.’

Finally, the woman seemed satisfied. ‘Follow me,’ she said.

Dana was shown into a room on the top floor that her sense of direction told her would face the creek.

‘May I take your bag?’ The woman was holding out her hand. Dana hesitated. She’d expected this. They would be bound to check what she’d brought with her, but no one would willingly hand over every possession they had in the world, would they?

‘You’ll get everything back,’ said the woman. ‘But we do need to know what you have with you.’

Dana held out her bag. The woman put it behind her against the door. She took a step closer to Dana and held her arms out by her sides.

Telling herself that getting bolshie would hardly be convincing, Dana submitted to being patted down, airport-security style. The woman found the money belt in seconds. She slid her hands under Dana’s tunic, unfastened the belt and looked inside.

The team had reproduced, exactly, what Maya’s money belt had been carrying, a mixture of Afghan notes, euros and sterling. The woman peered into each of the three pockets, zipped them back
up and returned the belt to Dana. Not interested in money, then.

‘You should shower and change,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll take your clothes for laundry. And I’ll get you something to eat.’

Dana watched her guide leave the room. She was a woman in her fifties, about five foot seven and well built, wearing what looked like medical scrubs. Her hair was short and iron grey, her face sallow and coarse, but relatively unlined. Dana would know her again, would be able to identify her if necessary. The door closed and was locked on the outside.

‘The team are in place outside,’ said Detective Superintendent Weaver, when Lacey and Detective Sergeant Anderson arrived back at Lewisham. ‘East Street, built in the late seventeenth century. Originally warehouses and offices for shipping companies. Some of the properties are offices now. A couple are residential.’

‘Do we know who owns the building?’ asked Anderson.

‘Registered to a company with an overseas head office,’ replied Weaver. ‘It will take time to track them down.’

Lacey watched the small red dot on the screen that was DI Tulloch. They had the bodies, they had the place where the women were being taken. They had at least some of the people involved in the operation.

It wasn’t enough.

Unable to stop herself, Dana ran to the door and pulled the handle. She was locked in. But, honestly, what had she expected? She’d learned a lot already, already the risk had been worth taking. And nothing bad had happened. She still had the lifeline round her neck. She just had to do her job and that meant finding out as much as she could about where she was.

A room, roughly ten feet by eight, resembling nothing so much as a private hospital room, although it would be difficult to say exactly why. There was no medical equipment, the single bed had a simple wooden headboard rather than a metal frame, and yet there was something about the tiled floor, the absence of pictures or ornamentation of any kind that looked institutional. There was another door that led to a small bathroom with basin, loo and
shower. A few rough, white towels, a thin robe and some surprisingly nice toiletries. She was expected to be clean and presentable.

Back in the bedroom were a table and chair, a cabinet beside the bed, a TV on a cupboard and a tall chipboard wardrobe. In the cupboard were magazines and a few books aimed at students of the English language. Also some English-language DVDs. The occupants of this room were expected to improve their English while they were here. Which rather suggested they had a future beyond it, didn’t it?

There were clothes in the wardrobe. Leggings, T-shirts, long cardigans, long loose skirts, underwear and pyjamas, all in plain, dull blues and browns. None of them even remotely alluring. These were simple, modest clothes. They were all clean and ironed, but none had the crisp newness of clothes that have just been taken out of their packaging. Someone else had worn these clothes.

Dana took out pyjamas and a thin cotton robe, conscious that she was almost certainly being watched. Surveillance technology was extremely sophisticated and readily available, she’d been told earlier by Mark’s colleague. Cameras could be plastered into walls and ceilings, their lenses concealed as something as innocuous as large screw heads. Until she left this place, she had to assume that everything she did, everything she said, could be overheard or seen, and that meant she had to behave as though she had nothing to hide.

She walked to the window, because that seemed like the most natural thing to do. And yet the world beyond the opaque glass was black. This must be the creek side of the building. On the street side, there would be more lights. More of a sense of space beyond the window.

She’d been told to shower and change, to have her own clothes ready for laundry. Maya would probably have done that, so she had to as well.

The water was hot and the shampoo they’d provided had a heady scent of musk roses that reminded Dana of Turkish Delight. They’d included conditioner, too, and body moisturizer. Whatever plans were in store for these girls, they were being looked after. So far, Nadia’s account had been accurate.

When she’d rinsed her hair, Dana dressed quickly and went back into the bedroom. She wasn’t wearing a watch – Maya hadn’t been – but estimated it was close to midnight. She should be tired. She
was
tired, but to sleep in this strange place, with no idea why she was here or what would happen to her? Was that possible?

Footsteps outside. She backed up against the bed, her hand going to the locket around her throat. Break the chain, drop the locket on the floor and stamp down hard.

Not yet, not yet. It might be nothing.

The door opened and the smell of food wafted in. The woman who’d met her carried a small casserole dish on a tray. There was also a half-litre bottle of water, an apple and a banana. The woman put the tray down, picked up the dirty clothes Dana had left on the chair and half smiled at her.

‘Wait!’

The woman turned back in the doorway, her smile already gone.

‘What will happen?’ said Dana.

‘Eat and sleep. Tomorrow, you’ll see the doctor.’

Then, as though wanting to be away before any more questions could be hurled at her, she strode out and locked the door again.

Tomorrow she’d see the doctor. Why did that send a chill around her heart?

‘That woman, Nadia Safi, I want her bringing in. First thing in the morning,’ said Weaver.

‘Is that wise, Guv?’ said Anderson. ‘The last thing we want to do is draw attention to the operation.’

‘She’s been where Dana is now. She can tell us exactly what’s happening to her.’

‘She’s in a room on the top floor.’ Lacey was sitting with the technician at the monitor. ‘There are four other people in the building. Two of them haven’t moved in the last hour, so I’m guessing they’re asleep. One of them seems to be in the room next to DI Tulloch’s, the other on the floor below. The third person is doing most of the moving around – it could be the woman who met the boss at the door. The other seems to be confined to the ground floor, but is moving, so not asleep.’