The Eyewitness (13 page)

“I'm not explaining this right. It's not one of those things you can put into words. You had to have been there. It was just the way it was so bloody premeditated, you know? They herded them into the truck and drove it into a lake, then left them there to die. I keep imagining how it must have felt to sit there in the cold and the darkness as the air ran out. Surrounded by the people you love.” He shuddered.

“I tell you, Danny, my stomach churns just thinking about it.”

“Empathy does that, mate. My job's not quite the same as yours, but to do it properly you've got to distance yourself, take the clinical view.”

“I was a copper for ten years, Danny. Give me a break.”

“Yeah, well, being a copper's different. You're part of a team, a fraternity.” He grinned.

“You've got a support system around you, same as we journalists have. You don't have that any more. Most of your cases you handle alone, right?”

Solomon nodded.

“You reckon cabin fever?”

“I think maybe a shit job is getting on top of you. If I were you I'd go and lie on a beach for a week or two. Watch the sun go down with a beer in your hand and a bird on your arm.”

“Maybe you're right.”

“I'd feel happier if you at least tried to fake sincerity.”

McLaren knew him too well, Solomon realised.

“I'm just going to rattle a few cages. If I get lucky, fine. If I draw a blank, I'll take a holiday. Now, stop nagging.”

Petrovic tossed his fork on to the plate and told one of his men to take it away. His food was brought in from one of the best Italian restaurants in Sarajevo, but he had no appetite. No energy, either. It was all he could do to walk the few steps to his bathroom but he insisted on doing that unaided. There was no way he was going to let his men see him piss in a pot in his bed.

He cursed Jack Solomon. And the visit from the policeman had annoyed him. There was nothing Dragan could do to hurt Petrovic: he had too many friends in the canton and the federal police for them ever to act against him. From time to time they would close down one of his clubs or put away one of his foot-soldiers, but never without warning him in advance. And despite the man's threats, there was no way Jovanovic could ever hurt him. Petrovic had doubled his personal security and would never again allow himself to be caught unawares.

“Give me a phone,” he growled, and one of his guards rushed over with a mobile.

Petrovic tapped out a London number. It was answered by a gruff Russian voice.

“Sergei, it's Ivan. How is life?” He spoke in English: his Russian was non-existent and Goncharov's Bosnian and Serbo-Croatian were limited.

Sergei Goncharov was a Moscow-born former GRU officer, who had spent much of his working life based in East Berlin. He had been there when the Wall had fallen and had taken the opportunity then to move to the West to start anew with a different identity and a trunkful of counterfeit currencies, all courtesy of the GRU. He had had more than enough to pay for extensive plastic surgery in Switzerland and a new life. That was the story Goncharov had told Petrovic one night when they had got drunk together in one of Petrovic's brothels. Petrovic wasn't sure whether it was idle boasting or based on fact, but there was no doubting the man's present position as one of the biggest human traffickers in Europe. The Russian's web of contacts stretched across the European Community, through eastern Europe and beyond into Central Asia and even China. He smuggled refugees into EC countries and helped them apply for asylum in the EC -for a fee; he worked with Hong Kong-based triads to move Chinese workers around the world; and he was a major player in the world of prostitution, arranging for girls from Third World countries to work in the West. He made several visits a year to Bosnia and Serbia, and Petrovic had supplied him with hundreds of girls.

“Life is a struggle,” said the Russian sourly.

“We are born, we struggle, we die.”

Petrovic smiled to himself. Goncharov seemed in a permanent state of depression, despite being a millionaire many times over.

“There is a matter I need help with, Sergei,” he said. He knew that the Russian had little time for social chit-chat: he lived for work, and saw anything else as a distraction to his main purpose in life the acquisition of wealth. Even when he relaxed with Petrovic it was always in the company of girls he was sampling before deciding whether to move them to London, Berlin or Milan.

“Do you remember a girl you bought from me four months ago? Nicole, her name was. She worked as Amy.”

“From Estonia, right?” asked Goncharov.

“A local, from Kosovo,” said Petrovic.

“Nineteen. Blonde hair dyed black.”

“I think so,” said Goncharov, hesitantly.

“Let me check.”

Petrovic heard phones ringing in the background, and girls talking. Goncharov grunted and Petrovic heard lingers tapping at a keyboard.

“Nicole?”

“Nicoletta was her real name but she answered to Nicole. She worked as Amy.”

“Four months ago?”

“That's right. You took her and four Albanians.”

More tapping.

“I've got her,” said the Russian.

“She's working for one of my agencies here.” More tapping.

“I have her out call at the moment. We're looking to fix her up with an apartment this week. Is there a problem?”

“Not with her, but there's a guy looking for her. He might be in London.”

“Might be?”

“I am fairly sure he is. He works for a group out here who identify the war-dead. This girl saw something and he wants to talk to her. The thing is, if he starts rocking the boat, we could all end up in the water.” Petrovic was choosing his words carefully. He didn't want to tell the Russian that because of Solomon he was lying in hospital with a ruptured spleen: Goncharov was more likely to help take care of Solomon if he thought it was in his own interest, rather than because Petrovic wanted revenge.

“So, what do you want me to do? Move the girl out of London? I wouldn't be happy doing that I am nowhere near recouping my investment.”

“I've a better idea,” said Petrovic.

“A more permanent way of solving the problem. And don't worry, I'll cover any costs.”

“I would expect you to,” said the Russian.

“This is an inconvenience I can do without.”

Petrovic explained what he wanted Goncharov to do, then agreed a fee. If it took care of Jack Solomon, Petrovic would regard it as money well spent.

Solomon walked out of Oxford Circus station. Two women in anoraks and baggy jeans were handing out leaflets advertising a local language school and he brushed past them. A young man with a shaved head had set up a display of perfume bottles on a cardboard box and was touting his wares in a loud Liverpudlian whine.

Solomon headed east down Oxford Street, weaving through the crowds. Even at two o'clock in the afternoon the pavements were packed: sales reps rushing between appointments, tourists poring over street maps, families shopping, schoolchildren playing truant. A bus pulled up with a squeal of brakes and a crowd surged to the rear of the vehicle, jostling and pushing to get on board. It seemed as though queuing had ceased to be the norm in the capital: now it was every man or woman for themselves. Solomon's visits to the UK were few and far between and each time he returned the city seemed increasingly hostile. It had been bad enough when he had been a police officer, but now it seemed that street robberies, car-jackings and shoot-outs were regular occurrences.

He turned right on to Berwick Street and walked through Soho. Once the city's most infamous red-light area, it had evolved into a thriving business and entertainment district with advertising agencies and film-production companies jostling with glossy bars and chic restaurants. But the cancerous underbelly of the sex trade was still there: it just had to be sought out.

Between a chemist and a film-processing shop a door had been propped open showing a flight of bare wooden stairs. There were two sheets of paper pinned to the wall. On one was written “ITALIAN MODEL FIRST FLOOR'. The other said, ”BUSTY BLONDE SECOND FLOOR'.

Solomon walked slowly up the stairs. He knocked on the first-floor door and heard heavy footsteps. There was a pause as someone checked him out through the spy hole The door opened.

“Come on in, darling,” said a husky voice.

Solomon stepped inside. A rotund woman wearing a fisherman's sweater and black leggings looked at him through thick black-rimmed spectacles. The maid, he deduced.

“Through there, darling,” she said, pointing down the corridor. Solomon walked past a closed door, behind which he could hear the insistent squeak of bedsprings in motion. The woman followed him, breathing heavily.

There was a single bed in the room and a straight-backed chair on which lay a well-thumbed copy of the Sun. Solomon picked it up and sat down. The maid asked him if he wanted a cup of tea. Solomon shook his head, and she closed the door.

Five minutes later he heard the other bedroom door open and close, a muffled man's voice, and then the front door. The maid returned.

“All right, darling, come on through,” she said, and waddled back down the corridor. She showed him into the room.

“She won't be a minute, darling,” she said, and closed the door.

Solomon could hear a shower running somewhere in the flat. The room smelt of lavender. There was a can of air-freshener on the mantelpiece above a boarded up fireplace, next to a piece of paper on which had been written a list of sexual services and how much each cost. Solomon picked it up. The prices were about double what they'd been when he'd worked in Vice. At the bottom of the list, written in capital letters, was 'i DO NOT DO ANAL so PLEASE DO NOT ASK."

The only items of furniture in the room were a double bed, a small wardrobe and a wooden chair, the mate of the one in the second bedroom. By the door was a plastic wastepaper bin, which had been lined with a carrier-bag. It was full of crumpled tissues. There was a padlocked chain across the handles of the wardrobe, and on top of it a suitcase, the airline tag still on the handle. Solomon stood on tiptoe and squinted at the label. BEG. Belgrade.

The shower was switched off and Solomon went to sit on the wooden chair. He looked across at the bed. There were no pillowcases on the pillows, and no blanket or quilt, just a worn orange sheet on top of which was a grubby pale blue towel that had been shaped into a bow. The walls were bare, except for a torn poster of a naked woman holding a violin.

Solomon heard rapid footsteps and the door opened. A tall brunette walked in wearing a leopard-patterned baby-doll nightgown and black high heels. She was in her early twenties with wide crimson lips and high rouged cheekbones. When she smiled Solomon saw a smear of red lipstick across one of her canines.

“So, what can I do for you?” she asked. Her pupils were dilated, and she stared fixedly at Solomon as she ran her hands over her large breasts and across her stomach. She was on cocaine, Solomon thought. Or crack.

Solomon took out his wallet and gave her forty pounds.

“I just want to talk,” he said.

The girl frowned.

“You want oral?” she said.

“Oral is fifty.” She pointed at the list on the mantelpiece.

“You can see there. It says oral is fifty.”

“Not oral,” said Solomon.

“I just want to talk.”

The girl held out her hand and took the money. The nails had been filed into talons and were painted as bright a red as her lipstick. They looked as if they'd been dipped in blood. She turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

A few seconds later the door burst open. The maid stood there with a baseball bat in her hands.

“What the fuck do you want?” she said. She was a big woman and Solomon could tell that the bat wasn't for show.

He stood up.

“I just wanted to talk to her, that's all.”

The maid swung the bat menacingly.

“This isn't the fucking Samaritans, it's a knocking shop.”

"I'm not Vice, I'm '

“I don't give a monkey's fuck who you are,” she said, punctuating her words with jabs from the baseball bat.

“If you want to talk, you can call a sex line. Now, get out.”

Solomon took out his wallet, “Look, I've got more money,” he began, but the maid banged the bat against the door jamb.

“Out,” she said.

Solomon could see that there was no point in arguing. He walked down the stairs to the street. On the way he passed a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit, who grinned knowingly.

"How is she? he asked.

“An experience,” said Solomon dourly.

He walked to Wardour Street and bought a cappuccino in Starbucks. He sat on a stool and looked out of the window, deep in thought. He guessed that the maid had been jumpy because of the Vice crackdown McLaren had talked about. Punters who wanted to do no more than talk were dangerous because they might turn out to be undercover cops or immigration officers. Or journalists looking for a story. At least the maid hadn't taken a swing at him. He sipped his coffee. He had hoped that the offer of money would be enough to get the girls to talk to him, but now he knew better. The only way to get any information would be to prove that he wasn't a cop, and that meant crossing the line. At the very least he'd have to take off his clothes and accept a massage.

He finished his coffee and went out into Wardour Street. He lit a Marlboro and moved slowly through Soho looking for another walk-up. He saw a sign at the entrance to an alley: MODEL. He walked down it. There were no open doors but in the window of the second floor of a terraced house was a red sign illuminated by a light the girl was available then. If it had been switched off, she would have been otherwise engaged. He dropped the cigarette on the ground and ground it out with his shoe. There was a small intercom at the side of the door, set into the bricks, and three call buttons. A piece of paper with "MODEL' written on it had been taped across the middle one. Solomon pressed it with his thumb. A second or two later the lock buzzed and he pushed open the door.

He stepped over a pool of manila envelopes and junk mail and walked slowly up a narrow staircase that smelt of stale cabbage. The second-floor door was already open and a woman in her sixties peered through the gap. She showed him into a small sitting room with two sofas on either side of a teak-effect coffee table littered with cards advertising massage services and four mobile phones.

She was tiny, slightly stooped, and her face was as wrinkled as a chamois leather that had been left out in the sun. And she peered at Solomon through thick-lensed glasses. She pointed at an open door.

When he walked into the room a girl was sitting on the bed. She was tall with an eager-to-please smile and shoulder-length dyed red hair. She waved him to an armchair that had been covered with a white sheet. Thick curtains had been drawn across the single window and the only illumination came from a small lamp on a bedside table over which hung a peach-coloured silk scarf.

“Please, sit down,” she said. Her accent was Central European. Solomon did as she asked. She was wearing a black dressing-gown over a red bra, and when she crossed her long legs he saw red stockings and caught a glimpse of red suspenders with little black bows on them.

“My name is Inga,” she said. She had high cheekbones and almond-shaped brown eyes.

“David,” lied Solomon.

“What can I do for you today?” she asked.

Solomon tried to look embarrassed.

“I'm not sure, I haven't done this before,” he said.

“It's sixty for oral, eighty for sex,” she said.

“Could I have a massage?”

“A massage and hand relief is forty,” she said. Her smile was a little less eager-to-please.

“Forty's fine,” said Solomon. He took out his wallet and gave her two twenty-pound notes. She stood up and took the money.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, and left him alone.

The room was as dismal as the last, and the furniture was as bleakly functional. Other than the armchair and the double bed there was only a wardrobe and a dressing-table on which were several bottles of Johnson's baby oil, a tin of talcum powder, a can of air-freshener, a box of baby wipes and a Tupperware carton filled with condoms. By the door was a rubbish bin with a swing top. There was nothing personal in the room, no clue as to who the girl was or where she'd come from.

Solomon took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. As he was unbuttoning his shirt the girl came back.

“Okay?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Solomon.

“Bit nervous, that's all.”

The girl closed the door.

“Oil or powder?”

“What?”

She gestured at the bottles on the dressing-table.

“Talcum powder or oil. For the massage.”

“Powder's fine,” said Solomon. He took off his shirt, trousers and socks and lay face down on the bed. The sheet was threadbare and smelt of stale sweat. Solomon tried not to think of the number of men who'd been on it before him.

The girl took off her dressing-gown and climbed on to the bed, still wearing her high heels. She sprinkled talcum powder on his back and smoothed it into his skin with small circular movements.

“So where are you from?” asked Solomon.

“Italy,” she said.

Solomon was sure that was a lie. Her accent certainly wasn't Italian Bulgarian or Romanian was more likely.

“How long have you been in London?” he asked.

Her hands moved down his back.

“Two months.”

“Yeah? Do you like it here?”

“It's okay.” She sounded bored, as if her mind was elsewhere.

“Did you do this in Italy?”

“No.” She pulled down his boxer shorts and sprinkled talc over his legs.

“Good money, though?”

She grunted and began rubbing his legs. Solomon closed his eyes. He wasn't getting anywhere, and he realised it had been naive to expect her to say anything to a complete stranger.

“Turn over, please,” she said.

Solomon did as she asked. She sprinkled talc on his chest, then lay down next to him and ran her hand back and forth across his stomach. She kept her head down so that she didn't have to look at him.

As a Vice Officer, Solomon had worked undercover many times, but his aim then had been solely to prove that sex was being sold. All he had had to do was get the girl to say what sexual services were being offered and how much they cost. Once they'd been arrested and taken to the station, he questioned them from a position of authority. Now he was just a punter lying naked on a dirty sheet. She had no reason to answer any of his questions and more likely than not she'd lie anyway.

Inga's hand moved between his legs. She grabbed him but Solomon reached down and held her wrist.

“Just a massage is okay,” he said.

For the first time since she'd climbed on to the bed she looked him in the face. He saw suspicion in her eyes.

“I'm married,” he lied.

“I thought I could, but now .. .” He let his voice trail off, and tried to look shamefaced.

“You've been with a working girl before?” she asked.

Solomon shook his head.

“My wife and I don't... you know...”

She started massaging his chest with her right hand, and propped up her head with the left.

“You are a good-looking man,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-five.”

“You look good for thirty-five.”

“Thanks. How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

Solomon thought that was another lie. She looked to be in her mid-to-late twenties.

“Your English is very good,” he said.

“Do you study here?”

She nodded.

“I go to a school in Oxford Street. Two hours every day.”

It was a standard way for prostitutes to get into the country, Solomon knew. Language schools didn't run any checks on their pupils so long as they paid their fees, and they were usually able to fast-track student visa applications. The girls would be granted a six-month visa, but once they were in the country, nobody checked whether or not they attended classes.

Inga moved down the bed and began to massage his feet.

“Do you want me to take off my bra?” she asked.

“No, it's okay,” said Solomon, opening his eyes and smiling at her.

“I like your smile,” she said.

Solomon felt a momentary twinge of guilt at the way he was lying to her but suppressed it.

"You don't live here, do you? he asked.

“No, this is a working flat,” she said.

“I work until midnight. Then another girl comes to work until midday.”

“That's a long time, twelve hours.”

“It goes quickly.”

“But you don't enjoy the work?”

“I need the money.”

She leaned over his legs and let her hair brush over his thighs. Solomon reached down and stroked it.

“Do you know a lot of the girls who work in Soho?”

She kissed the inside of his thighs, and Solomon felt himself hardening. He pushed her shoulders and wriggled from underneath her.

“Your wife won't know,” she said.

“No, but I will.” Solomon laughed.

“Just lie with me for a while, okay?”

She looked at her cheap plastic watch.

“You only have ten minutes left.”

“That's fine,” he said. He held out his arm and she dropped down on the bed and snuggled up to him. He planted a kiss on her forehead.

“So, do you have friends here in London?”

“Not many,” she said.

“Must be lonely.”

“I'm working, or I'm at school, or I'm asleep,” she said.

“But you have friends here, yeah?”

She didn't answer.

“What about other working girls? Do you meet them?”

He felt her stiffen.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Just curious,” he said.

“Sorry. I don't mean to pry.”

“We have to be careful,” she said.

“Police. Immigration.”

Solomon forced a laugh.

“If I was a cop, I'd hardly be lying here naked with you, would I?”

“You don't know the police,” she said bitterly.

“Sometimes they sleep with a girl, then lie afterwards. You cannot trust the police here you cannot trust them anywhere.”

Solomon knew the girl was right. He'd never crossed the line when he'd worked for Vice, but several of the officers he'd worked with had made it no secret that they'd had sex with girls they'd been targeting. There was nothing the girls could do. If they were to stand up in court and accuse the officer, it was their word against his, and who'd believe a prostitute?

“How did you find the flat?” he asked.

“A friend told me.”

“From Italy?”

She nodded. Another lie. Solomon was sure. If he was going to get any useful information, he would have to push her.

“Someone told me that a lot of girls in Soho come from Kosovo. Or Bosnia.”

“Albanians,” she sneered.

“Not you, though?”

She propped herself up and looked at him.

“You think I am Albanian?” she said, clearly offended.

“No,” said Solomon.

“I'm just telling you what I heard. That a lot of girls come here from there.”

She pulled a face.

“I don't know,” she said.

“It's true, though, is it?”

“I don't know.”

“They said it was Albanian gangs bringing girls in.”

“You think I work for Albanians?” she said.

"No, I'm just ' She sat up.

“You ask too many questions.” There was a quick double-knock on the door.

“That means your time is up,” she said.

“You have to go.” She slid off the bed, grabbed her dressing-gown and rushed out.

Solomon dressed. The elderly maid opened the door and showed him out. As he walked by the bathroom he heard the shower spark into life.

Solomon walked down the stairs, mentally kicking himself. He wasn't going to get anywhere walking in off the streets and expecting the girls to talk to him. Their de fences were up all the time: they had to be. A prostitute never knew if her next customer would be an undercover policeman, a thief, or a pervert who wanted to slap her around. It didn't matter what story Solomon told, he was just another punter to be treated with suspicion.

Chief Inspector Colin Duggan walked out of the Lost Property Office, scratched his fleshy neck, and headed towards the pub. Solomon fell into step next to him, and grinned at the look of surprise on the man's face.

“Long time no see, Colin,” he said.

“Fuck off, Solomon,” hissed Duggan.

“I'm the one who should be bearing grudges.”

“You're the one who brought the whole house of cards tumbling down. Now, piss off, I don't want to be seen with you.”

“Your choice, Colin. We can have a chat in the pub or I can keep calling your office.”

“So, I've got my own stalker, have I? You know there are laws against that now?”

“A chat, Colin. That's all. You owe me that at least.”

“I owe you nothing, Solomon.”

“My round.”

They had almost reached the pub.

“One drink, then you piss off.”

“Scout's honour,” said Solomon.

Duggan pushed open the pub door and walked in, letting it swing behind him. Solomon caught it and followed him.