Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (8 page)

“Yum,” I agreed. “We’ll have two, and one tea and a—”

“Coffee,” said Mirela. She wandered off, weaving between tables, while I paid for our order.

“In Poland,” the woman behind the counter continued, “we say that if you don’t eat a single
paczki
, you will have bad luck all year long. So we all eat them at the carnival on
tlusty czwartek—
Fat Thursday.”

“That’s so interesting,” I said, wondering if every new customer was offered a little Polish food story when they came in. “When is Fat Thursday?”

“The week before Lent begins.”

“Great day for stocking up on your consumption of doughnuts,” I joked, recalling the way Gloria and Philip always gave up chocolate for Lent (and had expected the three of us kids to lay off it, as well).

Mirela had settled at a table in a far corner of the café, where a man was drinking coffee. He stood to offer me his hand as I made my way over.

“It’s Fergus, Fergus Quigg.”

“Er … Sabbie Dare.” For a second, I’d forgotten my own name, mostly because Fergus had a gaze that captured you and refused to let you go. His eyes were small but as blue as wild speedwell.

He was not dowdy or middle-aged at all. Hair the colour and texture of wild grasses was caught in a black elastic band, and his face was shadowed by a day-old beard. He wasn’t a tall man, but his thigh muscles were defined against his jeans. If he’d been English, his build would have been described as “of yeoman stock,” but soon as he spoke I knew he was Irish. He had a gentle, soft-rain accent that managed to hint he could keep his own counsel, under all sorts of duress. I grasped his hand. Warm, it felt, and it applied just enough pressure to make someone feel … mmm …
cared for.
I tried contrasting it with the touch of Rey’s hand, which was rougher, as if he didn’t sit at a desk all day long—or care for you much, either, despite the handshake.

“Thank you for seeing us at short notice.”

“No problem,” said Fergus, directing me to an empty chair, his hand lightly across my back. “I’m always delighted to meet anyone with the same interest in the dispossessed as I have.”

“Right.” I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I guess you remember Kizzy Brouviche, Mirela’s sister?”

“Indeed.” He lowered his voice a little. “I recall that the older Miss Brouviche had a strong influence over her sister.”

I glanced at Mirela. Her mouth was in a pout and she was staring down at her hands, tight around her bag.

Fergus turned towards her. “When you came last time, I recommended you both leave your employment at Papa Bulgaria. Have you been thinking about that?”

“Huh?” Mirela flashed a panicked look at me.

“That isn’t really why we’re here,” I began, but at that point, our order arrived.

“Thanks, Maria,” Fergus said for us.

“You are welcome,” said the woman, and topped up his cup with coffee from a jug.

“Mirela spent the night before last at my house,” I said. “She hasn’t seen or heard from Kizzy since the Bridgwater Carnival.”

Fergus nodded for a while. Pale lashes fluttered almost shut over his eyes, as if he liked to think before replying. “You know, that’s a constant problem. When you’re from another country, you can disappear like morning mist.”

“Why would she go away with almost less than a goodbye to her sister?”

“Did she tell you where she was going, Mirela?”

“No,” said Mirela, and bit into her
paczki
.

“That’s our problem,” I pointed out. “Where to start searching.”

“Perhaps Kizzy doesn’t want to be found,” said Fergus. “She had a good dose of spirit in her.”

“You deal with this sort of thing a lot?”

He nodded. “We’re here as advocates for people who find themselves in the UK without the right papers or much knowledge of how the systems work.”

“I’m surprised Bridgwater keeps you busy.”

“The Agency for Change is a national charity, at least where it can afford to be. The Bridgwater office covers all of Somerset.” Fergus pushed his chair away from the table so that he could cross his legs. “That’s from Yeovil right through to the Severn Estuary. And we’re always strapped for cash, of course, seeing the government doesn’t give us a groat.”

“What would you advise Mirela to do?”

“Her first step is to go to the police station and report her sister officially missing.”

Mirela screwed up her face. “
Politie?
”

“I promise you, all they’ll do is take the details, file and distribute them.”

“Not
politie.
Kizzy no like.”

Fergus’s gaze flickered at me, as if this confirmed everything.

“How much do you know about the takeaway, Papa Bulgaria?” I asked him. “Mirela says that this chap—Stanislaus—went over to Bulgaria and told Mirela and Kizzy they would earn four euros an hour, without explaining how little that is.”

“This sort of racket goes on a lot, of course, now the European Union is almost a passportless state. There’s an EU quota for the food processing industries, but they wriggle underneath.”

“Yes,” I said, lowering my voice. “But in the case of Romanies, I don’t think they’re here under any quota.”

Fergus took a sip of his coffee. He seemed to need a lot of deliberation time. “Papa Bulgaria is a complicated set-up. Agency for Change has been investigating it for a while. Looking at back records it’s clear the firm can easily obtain passports in Bulgaria. The workers seem to think this is magic; they’ll agree to anything after that. When they came to see me, I could only recommend to the Misses Brouviche that they got out immediately.”

“It seems to be a matter of honour, working with people from back home. Hoping for what you’ve been promised.”

“It all looks legit, from the outside, at least. But from the very start, the workers owe large amounts of money. They pay by installment for their passport and journey here, which costs a lot less than they imagine. I’ve been trying to nail down the illegalities for months. Jesus, it’s not my job, but I enjoy prizing information out of these low-lifes, showing them up for what they are. There’s an element of satisfaction in it. So I have done a little digging on Mr. Papazov.”

I gawped. “Is that really his name?”

“Yes. He’s lived in Somerset for a number of years. He’s got two shops, one here and one in Finchbury. He also owns residential property. You’d guess where Papazov scores there.”

“Does he use it for the workers’ accommodation?”

“He does,” said Fergus, tapping a finger on the tabletop. “And charges whatever he likes for rent. When the first pay cheque arrives, it’s almost in negative equity. They can’t live on their docked wage packets, so they’re offered loans to top them up—at exorbitant interest rates.”

I let my jaw drop. “It’s a complete scam!”

“It’s reprehensible.”

“Why aren’t the police interested?”

“Oh, they are. Papazov has a nasty reputation. But he also has friends. He’s generous to the right people. And these things are hard to prove.”

“So his workers put up with it.”

“They don’t know the country, they don’t know their rights. As far as I can see, most of the previous workers wandered off in the end; no doubt they dissolve into the underbellies of big cities.”

I nodded. I’d been wondering if Kizzy had gone to Bristol, or even London. This seemed to confirm it. But Mirela was staying loyal to the firm. She wasn’t buying into anything that involved authority. I turned to her. “Why are you so dead against going to the police? Has Mr. Papazov told you you’ll get into trouble?”

Mirela looked up from her coffee cup. Her face had taken on a pinched looked. I realized that this was what she feared; people talking about her, over her head, in a language she was still coming to grips with. Had she chosen a shaman in the hope I was off the grid and would do things without involving authority? Two years ago, she’d’ve been right. But now, with a mortgage in my name, I was getting towards respectable-citizen status. Maybe I should be as worried about that as she was. “I can see Fergus wants to help you,” I said. “We can both help in different ways.”

“Ah, light is dawning,” said Fergus. “You’re some kind of investigator. You’re not a journalist?”

“I couldn’t write for toffee.”

“Right, so, a journalist then.” He caught my eye. “I’m teasing. But I blame the press for a lot of my client’s problems. The tabloids especially are not kind to outsiders. I’d like to ban the sweeping statements they’re prone to make, all of them inflammatory. They lack the empathy to know that we are all outsiders … of one kind or another.”

“I check that box,” I agreed. I slid my business card over the table.

He glanced at it, then at me. “Shaman? That’s surprising.”

“There aren’t many in Bridgwater. I pretty much have a monopoly.”

He flicked a smile at me. “I’m surprised you haven’t found Kizzy Brouviche already. Don’t you just … er … spin round and round then fall down, or something?” He’d managed to trap my gaze again. His massive lashes swept up and down like geisha fans. “Ah, what I would give to watch you spin and fall!”

If he thought I wouldn’t be able to cope with a mild bit of flirting, he was wrong. “I always take practical steps before I start to spin. Otherwise the spirit world would be inundated with requests, wouldn’t it? They’d have to form queues or issue tickets or something, then where would a shaman be?”

“So, spinning aside, what have you come up with?”

I glanced Mirela, but she was zoned out of the conversation. She had polished off her
paczki
and was looking at my report, her finger moving in turn to each little sketch. “We need a bit of grounded help. Where would you start asking around?”

“If Kizzy is using her real name, and I can’t see why she shouldn’t, she may have booked into a hostel somewhere.”

I’d only met Kizzy once, but my image of her was clear; the last of the squibs raining down as she approached us in the lane wearing a centimetre of makeup and bright-red ruffles. I didn’t think she was really in the business of fortunetelling; she’d just seized the opportunity to make some extra cash. I lowered my voice. “I can’t help thinking that she’s been enticed onto the game.”

“I’m sad to say a lot of these girls do end up in the sex industry. From the outside, the money seems good.”

“She wouldn’t get a lot of … trade … in Bridgwater.”

“Ah, it’s not that bright and shiny. And Taunton isn’t far away. There are dance clubs and massage parlours that hide behind a very thin veneer of decorum. Besides, she could be anywhere.”

“Do you think she’s gone off properly? London, say.”

“I can’t tell you. How could I?”

“Couldn’t you check?”

“I can contact hostels across the country legitimately, but the sex industry is an unwholesome place of work. They don’t like questions asked.”

“I saw Kizzy at the carnival. I’m worried because it’s where the policeman was shot.”

“Really? The detective that died? Jesus and Mary. But surely she isn’t involved with that?”

I glanced down at my plate. I hadn’t even started on my doughnut. I didn’t want Fergus to see me with sugar and orange peel all round my mouth. I took a discreet sip of tea. “I suppose you meet people from all over the world.”

“I do, at times.”

“If someone was black but had a French surname, where might they come from?”

“Oh,” said Fergus, rubbing at his blond stubble. “Algeria, or the Congo? Then there’s Morocco … Chad … the list is extensive.” I nodded at him, pretending to be less interested than I was. “Senegal, of course. Africa springs to mind first, but on the other side of the Atlantic, there’s quite a few French-speaking Caribbean countries. Does that help?”

“Helped confuse me, I think!”

“You don’t look the sort to be easily confused.”

He took another sip of coffee and put the cup on its saucer. I fancied Fergus was also a sort—the sort that trifled with every female who crossed his path. It might have been fun to bat chat-up lines for longer, but Mirela had stuffed my report back in her bag and was already on her feet.

“We go, I think,” she said.

“Thank you, both of you, for coming in. I’ll be certain to put my ear to the ground.” He was so good at making a person feel they were important to him. He fingered my business card. “I’ll be in touch.”

Suddenly, she was the chirpy, buoyant Mirela again. She slid her arm into mine and yanked me away from my
paczki
. She was the height and weight of an Italian greyhound but with the same super-strength. We were waltzing away from the table before I could draw breath. “See you soon, Mr. Quigg!” she called from across the café. She dropped her voice and hissed to me as I was shoved along. “I have idea. Yes. Great idea. Come quick, I tell.”

_____

“Mirela,” I began, as soon as we were in the street. “That was a bit rude. Mr. Quigg hadn’t really finished speaking.” I didn’t bother mentioning the fact I hadn’t finished eating; the doughnut would only have given me face spots and a zip problem.

“Quigg! He open mouth, go yak … yak … but nothing come out. What he say that any good?”

“He is going to check the hostels. Surely that’s a start?” I didn’t want to admit that so far, both Brouviche sisters were uncomfortably living up to the Roma stereotypes. Neither seemed to have any respect for Fergus’s authority at all.

“This much important than Quigg.” Mirela pulled my report from her bag and pointed to the picture of the wolf. “Tell me ’gain about places?”

“In my journey, I was told to look in the place of blame, the place of no escape, the place of absolution, and the dark place. But I don’t have any idea where any of these might be. Why, do you?”

“Yes, ’course! Place of blame is Mr. Papa’s shop.” She had a clear, bright look in her eyes.

“Mirela, that is the one place Kizzy is not.”

“But for sure, is place of blame.”

I nodded, remembering what Fergus had just described.