Broken (51 page)

The nurse left the room.

‘I can’t stay here, Kate,’ he hissed. ‘Fuck me, they offered me a salad tonight that looked more in need of fucking doctoring than I do!’

She laughed despite herself.

‘I need a bit of space, love. When you go home will you bring me in some proper pyjamas and that?’

She didn’t answer him.

‘You are back home, Kate?’

She shook her head. He closed his eyes and sighed.

‘Please don’t leave me to get over this alone. I need you, Kate. More than ever before. I am frightened to go to sleep in case I go back into a fucking coma.’

His voice was harsh and the fear in it communicated itself to Kate.

‘Let’s get you back on your feet, eh? Take one day at a time. I’m there for you twenty-four seven. You know that, Patrick.’

‘I don’t know about getting me back on me feet. I wouldn’t mind laying you on your back . . .’

She put her hand over his mouth again. ‘Like I said, darling, one step at a time, eh?’

He grinned and her heart melted. How could she ever have imagined she could live without this man? What did it matter how he made his money? As he had pointed out from the start he had never pretended to be completely kosher. She had known what he was and had still loved him. Now she could not imagine being without him.

Even if he had committed murder.

That fact frightened her more than anything. It went against everything she believed in, but it was a fact and Kate dealt in facts.

She kissed him hard on the mouth and with that gesture sealed both their fates.

Tristram McDavey thought of himself as a hot-shot estate agent. He was vain, he was gelled and he was dressed in designer clothes. He prided himself on being able to sell anything, absolutely anything. As he drove his client, John Larvey, towards the old Lux factory, Tristram was already selling him the property.

‘It’s ideal for what you want. There’s ample parking for lorries, and the old depot itself is over four thousand square metres. More than enough for what you want and still enough space for further offices if you need them.’

He laughed gently, showing perfectly capped teeth. ‘And let’s face it, the way you’re going you
will
need them.’

‘Do you think the owners will come down on the price?’

Tristram nodded vigorously. ‘Without a doubt. I’ve had this place for a while and between me and you they won’t get the asking price.’

He negotiated a steep turn flamboyantly in his BMW Cabriolet, making Mr Larvey’s face go pale with fright.

‘I have told them over and over that it is a sought-after property but it has to be realistically priced. If you are interested - and I think you will be when you see the location - I shall put myself out on a limb to get you a substantial discount.’

He drove through a muddy puddle and looked at himself in the mirror, checking his hair.

‘I’m sure we could come to an arrangement,’ he murmured.

Tristram didn’t tell Mr Larvey that he often overpriced things so the buyer felt they had got a bargain when he supposedly haggled the price down to a realistic level. It was good psychology as far as he was concerned. No one could resist a bargain.

As they pulled up outside the dilapidated building, Tristram checked his hair once more. He was a great believer in making a good impression and made a point of always looking well groomed and in control.

He had parked in the least filthy part of the large yard before the building, having been caught out here before, getting out of his car and stepping straight into a puddle of mud and rust, ruining an expensive pair of shoes from Brown’s. A mistake he was not going to repeat.

The air was crisp as they stood admiring the imposing building. Tristram extolled its virtues as they walked the perimeter, carefully steering his client away from the smelly canal.

‘It certainly seems to be what I’m looking for.’

Tristram preened himself in the knowledge that he was in for a good chunk of the sales commission. He was determined to get shot of this place and in doing so, to prove to his bosses what a shit-hot salesman he was.

‘It is rather out of the way, though.’

Mr Larvey was wavering and Tristram said carefully, ‘With respect, I’d have thought that was part of its charm. You will have lorries?’

‘Artics, actually.’

‘Artics then, leaving here at all hours of the day and night. In an area of residential streets that can cause problems. Out here, who is going to complain? Certainly not the wildlife!’

He laughed loudly at his own wit and Mr Larvey was quiet, pondering what he’d said.

‘You never see anyone round this way, or at least very rarely. It’s very quiet and private here. You could be dead and no one would know for months!’ Tristram joked.

He had the sale, he was convinced of it. Mr Larvey looked sold. It was an expression he had come to recognise. People tried to look nonchalant and that told him, clever dick that he was, that they were interested. More than interested.

He carried on with his carefully planned sales pitch.

‘I know the roads aren’t too well maintained in the immediate vicinity, but it’s only a mile or so and with the tyres on your lorries not such a problem. I think the great thing about this place is the fact that you will be bothering no one. In these days that is such a bonus. All you seem to see on the news lately is people protesting about noise from industrial areas.’

 

Mr Larvey sighed his agreement. It was the reason he was looking for new premises himself.

‘Come inside and let me show you the
pièce de résistance
!’ Tristram pushed open the broken door, registering the fact that someone had been there since he’d last visited. The door was jemmied open and he cursed himself for not checking the place over yesterday. All they needed now was to encounter New Age travellers or tramps.

But Mr Larvey was not registering the broken door, he was too busy staring at the large expanse of floor. Probably seeing it bustling with his own busy work-force. Tristram smiled smugly and mentally chalked up one more big commission to himself. Then he realised what Mr Larvey was staring at.

A small boy was standing in the middle of the floor, urinating.

The two men looked at one another when the child said in a high piping voice, ‘Where’s the lady gone?’

 

Boris walked up the narrow stairs. His normally impassive face looked worried, something he rarely allowed.

The girl who had opened the door to him was weeping. She knew she was in trouble.

‘Please, I couldn’t do it.’ She was almost incoherent with fear and Boris looked into a pair of deep brown eyes that pleaded for his understanding.

He stared around the room. The cameras were still set up. The lights had made the place like a hothouse and the girl’s face was beginning to bruise around her left cheekbone.

Boris looked at Geoff Marchant, his face hard now. ‘Who arranged this?’

Marchant was nervous and it showed. His forehead was beaded with sweat that had nothing to do with the heat from the lights.

‘I thought it would be a good idea.’

Boris stared at him and Sergei knew that trouble of the worst kind was brewing. He could read his boss like a book and Boris was near to blowing. Geoff Marchant, however, did not know the signs and was obviously hoping to talk himself out of deep shit.

Sergei smiled to himself. Would these English never learn?

 

‘Have I got this right?’ Boris looked at Geoff with raised eyebrows, as if desperate for his opinion, and Sergei cringed inwardly. ‘You were making a film here with this young lady . . .’ He looked at the girl enquiringly.

‘Soraya. My name is Soraya.’

Boris smiled widely, making his whole countenance seem benevolent, caring. ‘. . . with this young lady, Soraya.’ He smiled at her as he spoke. ‘And you decided to introduce a German Shepherd dog?’

She started to cry again.

‘I’m not being troublesome,’ she snivelled, ‘but I’m not doing that! I don’t like it here and I want to go home.’

‘I thought it would make it different,’ Marchant said arrogantly. ‘I didn’t realise I had to discuss the film’s content with you.’

Marchant was being clever now or so he thought. Sergei marvelled at the man’s stupidity. Boris looked at him like a fly he was thinking of swatting.

‘Fuck the content. I understand that her screaming brought the police to this door. They came here for the first time ever.’

 

Geoff could no longer meet Boris’s piercing gaze.

‘I have a house full of prostitutes from all over Europe and
you brought the police to my door
. Do you think I can overlook something like that?’

Geoff looked at Soraya, who was cowering on a white leather sofa, hiding her face in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking and she looked very small and very frightened. He felt a momentary urge to slam the silly bitch against the wall and crack open her head.

‘If you are so stupid, or more to the point if you think
I
am so stupid as to allow someone like you to bring the police to my premises, then I don’t think we have anything more to say to one another. Do you?’

Geoff felt his heart sink. He knew he was dealing with a dangerous man here. Knew he was making the Russian richer, too. But men like Geoff Marchant were eminently expendable in this industry. Pimps and porno film-makers were ten a penny in the smoke and he realised with a sickening lurch of his stomach that his job was not as important as he had led himself and others to believe.

He had known while he was pushing Soraya into doing what he wanted that he should have left it. There were plenty of women who would do things like that for the right price. In fact, he knew one girl who said she preferred it to strange men, a statement he had never asked her to explain.

But he had had a lot of coke, and as usual, that had been his downfall. He had pushed it. He was renowned for pushing things, and usually it didn’t matter. These girls were lower than scum. They expected to be treated badly. He often forced them to do things they had never done before. But this bitch had been adamant, becoming more and more hysterical. Eventually she had lost it and that was when the trouble started.

 

Now he was in a position where he could not, in all honesty, justify what he had done. When the police had arrived he had been terrified. Not of them, but of the fact that they had come to Boris’s safe house, a house where he plied more than one trade and paid heavily for the protection not just of himself but of his customers. Most of them were wealthy businessmen and other high-profile people who paid for discretion and a bit of sex that was out of the norm.

 

Soraya was led gently from the room. She would be taken care of by Sergei. Geoff was left alone with Boris and one of his larger henchmen, a huge Chechen, called Olaf. When Boris bowed and left the flat Geoff knew he was saying goodbye to the world.

He tried his best to take it like a man.

 

But he didn’t manage it.

Soraya listened to it all wide-eyed. Sergei decided she had been frightened enough; she would keep her mouth shut. He gave her a few downers and let her sleep it off.

But he was as aware as Boris that their lair was now tainted and they would have to think fast about finding another. It was always something silly, like a noise complaint, that brought you to the attention of the authorities. Better to cut your losses than to wait around and hope for the best.

 

Geoff Marchant had cost them dearly and he had paid dearly.

Such was the world they lived in.

 

Kate was over the moon. It seemed they had found Trevor Pallister, and unlike the other children he was a good talker. She watched him with his grandmother and smiled.

Barbara Epstein obviously loved the child and was going to take custody of him. It had been hard explaining to her that her daughter had allowed him to be used by paedophiles. It had taken her a while to even take on board what they were talking about. But seeing him, hale and hearty, had pushed the other thoughts from her mind. Trevor was in her arms and he was alive. After what had happened to her daughter she was so deeply grateful for that.

Kate knew that as more and more emerged, Barbara Epstein was going to have to come to terms not just with the death of her daughter but with the horrific implications of Sharon’s lifestyle. Trevor would be scarred for life by what he had seen and had done to him. He was safe but quite possibly his young life was already ruined.

Robert Bateman had sent a young social worker called Karen Dillon to oversee Trevor’s interrogation by Jenny. He had not been able to come himself, he explained, due to pressure of work. Karen was pretty and gentle, just what the little boy needed.

Eventually he was seated on a small sofa with his grandmother and the social worker. Kate and Jenny sat on another sofa opposite. They were low and uncomfortable for everyone except Trevor.

Jenny had already chatted to him and made friends. He was an outgoing child and rather mischievous. He was also aggressive, there was no doubt about that. He used bad language as part of his everyday speech, and on top of all that he was as bright as a button. He knew that something was going on and that he was to be the centre of attention. In short, he was in charge and he knew it.

Kate was saddened by his knowing demeanour and sorry every time she heard him swear. He was a beautiful child, yet it seemed he had been dragged up to fend for himself. It was heartbreaking.

Jenny smiled at Trevor as he ate a Milky Bar.

‘Who took you from Mummy’s house?’

He stared into her eyes for long seconds before answering, ‘The nice lady.’