Blood Money Read online

  Blood Money

  CHRIS COLLETT

  Hachette Digital

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chris Collett was born in East Anglia and graduated in Liverpool, before moving to Birmingham to teach both children and adults with varying degrees of learning disability. Chris is married with two teenage children.

  She is the author of The Worm in the Bud, Blood of the Innocents and Written in Blood, also available from Piatkus.

  Also by Chris Collett

  The Worm in the Bud

  Blood of the Innocents

  Written in Blood

  Blood Money

  CHRIS COLLETT

  Hachette Digital

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Published by Hachette Digital 2009

  Copyright © 2007 by Chris Collett

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  eISBN : 978 0 7481 1270 8

  This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE

  Hachette Digital

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DY

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  This book would not have been written without the unstinting support of my agent Juliet Burton, who always manages to say exactly the right thing at times of stress, and the invaluable input of my editor at Piatkus, Gillian Green.

  I’d also like to thank retired DI Alan Crouch for generously sharing with me his unique insights and extensive knowledge of police work. Finally I am indebted to my husband, children and close friends, all of whom help to keep me sane and unfailingly forgive me for not being as attentive to them as I should.

  Chapter One

  Mariner was already awake when the digital alarm flipped over to three thirty am, a murmur of anticipation rippling around his stomach that was reminiscent of childhood, when getting up at this hour, when the sky outside was inky black, meant it was either Christmas or the start of a long journey. He slid out of bed, careful not to tug the duvet and disturb Anna, only switching on a light when he was safely out of the bedroom. His clothes were where he’d left them last night, folded over the banister. Eyes grainy from the lack of sleep, he stood under the shower and let his thoughts focus and sharpen into preparation for what lay ahead.

  The wet spell they’d been having had temporarily abated, and outside it was still and dry, though he felt an autumnal nip in the air as he crept from the house. Noticing that the For Sale sign positioned by the fence, and now pleasingly covered with the word Sold, had fallen sideways, Mariner straightened it up before getting into his car. Five minutes later he drew up outside Tony Knox’s house. His DS was looking out for him and appeared immediately. ‘Good day for it, boss,’ Knox said, climbing in beside Mariner and fastening his seat belt.

  ‘Any day’s a good day for this,’ said Mariner, ‘though the code name has to be someone’s idea of a joke. Ocean Blue? Operation Open Sewer would be more accurate.’

  ‘Won’t you miss all this, boss?’

  ‘I’m only on leave for a week. I think I’ll manage.’

  ‘No, I mean when your transfer comes through.’

  ‘I’m sure they have their share of excitement in Herefordshire. If what you read in the press is accurate, rural towns are worse than anywhere for drugs and vice these days.’

  ‘Won’t be the same though, will it?’

  ‘No, but I think that’s the point, at least it is where Anna’s concerned.’

  ‘You’ve got the whole of next week off too?’

  ‘All seven days of it. The christening isn’t until next Sunday.’

  ‘The Godfather eh?’ Knox couldn’t resist breaking into the opening bars of the Coppola film.

  ‘Only nominally. I think Anna and I would have to be married to get the official title. But it’ll do me. It feels like enough of a responsibility as it is.’

  Up until now, and unsurprisingly at this hour, traffic was light. But passing the arts centre and turning into the outward bound Pershore Road, they joined a steady queue of cars all going into Tally Ho, the police training centre. They must have all looked like the arrivals at some bizarrely timed party, but on the walk across the car park the mood was sombre, with just a few of the younger lads larking about as if they were going on a school trip. Around one hundred and fifty officers gathered from all over the West Midlands in the main conference hall. Chief Superintendent Marston kept it simple. Covert operation Ocean Blue had been months in the planning and anyone who wasn’t clear on their role by now would face a disciplinary for sleeping on the job. ‘Let’s keep it swift and clean. Good luck.’

  Curled in a foetal position on her grubby bed, Katarina lay with her hands locked together between her thighs where her body was sore. She should feel grateful. The night was over and she could relax, if that was what this state could be called. Waves of exhaustion lapped over her, if only she could stop shivering for long enough to drift away into blissful oblivion. But through the flimsy net curtains the light from the outside streetlamp lit up the condensation that crept down the window pane, collecting at the bottom in the rotting wooden frame. And despite the portable electric radiator, her shallow breaths steamed the air and the end of her nose tingled with cold as she huddled in the blankets still in her clothes.

  In search of some comfort, she reached out into the chill air and opened the drawer of the cheap bedside cabinet taking out her most precious possession, a much-handled photograph, one of the few possessions she’d retained from what seemed now like a whole other life. After everything she endured night after night, this was the most exquisite torture of all, as she considered what might have been, but for her own naiveté. With a will of their own her thoughts ranged over her home and parents, her brother and sisters, as her chest contracted, forcing out a sob. She wondered if Alana in the room next to hers was tormented by the same demons. It was impossible to tell if her friend was awake at this time of night when the house fell silent. The last of the clients had been and gone and, but for the occasional passing of a distant car, the rest of the world seemed deceptively at peace.

  Katarina must have dozed off because she was woken by a terrifying bang, shouting, and heavy footsteps stomping up the stairs. Scrambling to the end of her bed, she pressed herself against the cold wall in an attempt to make herself invisible, praying that this time she’d be left alone. After several seconds the door burst open and a man, a stra
nger, was framed in the doorway. Different from the others, clean and well-dressed, he spoke in soothing tones, but in her panic she couldn’t untangle the words to understand what he was saying. She saw his gaze take in the room and the bed and she closed her eyes to hide from the shame.

  As the ram hit the door, bursting it open, it was the smell that hit them first; a combination of rising damp and the stale feral stench of sex mixed with cheap perfume. Mariner, Knox and two uniformed officers stampeded up the stairs, flinging open doors as they went. In the first three rooms the occupants, two women and a man respectively, were roused from their sleep, blinking uncertainly in the sudden glare of the bare light bulbs.

  At the top of the house, Mariner thought at first that the fourth room was empty. But as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw the bundle at the far end of the bed, eyes wide and terrified. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’re safe.’ He held out his warrant card. ‘I’m with the police. Polizei.’ She shrank back further from him. Advancing slowly, Mariner saw some kind of jacket slung over the chair, matted fur fringing the hood. He picked it up and held it up to her. ‘You have to come with me.’ When he was close enough he gently lifted the thin grimy blanket from her and took her bony arm.

  Down on the street in the chilly dawn it was the freak show. Curtains twitched aside in the houses around them as the girls were bundled as quickly as possible into the waiting cars, one car containing two arrested males sped away. Ocean Blue, for them, accomplished.

  Emma O’Brien chuckled at a joke made by the radio presenter. ‘What a silly man,’ she said, gazing down at her baby daughter in the car seat beside her. Jessica rewarded her with a gummy grin, kicking her legs vigorously, and yet again Emma marvelled at the physical reaction that beautiful smile could evoke. The traffic ahead inched forward and she eased her foot off the clutch. Eight thirty. God, fancy having to do this journey every day. She’d known it would be slow getting into the city, so she’d allowed plenty of time, in fact she surprised herself at how relaxed she was. It was down to motherhood, no doubt about it. Everyone had commented on the change. Six months ago she’d have been in the lecture theatre at the crack of dawn checking her presentation, making sure that all the AV technology was functioning and mentally rehearsing her opening remarks. ‘Your mummy is a changed woman,’ she told Jessica with another indulgent smile.

  ‘Ghee,’ Jessica said, grinning.

  As Emma neared the nursery the first twinge of nervous apprehension kicked in. She tried to tell herself it was because she’d be standing up in front of a full lecture hall for the first time in six months, but part of her acknowledged that the unease was also about the prospect of leaving her seven-week-old daughter in the hands of what were essentially strangers. Terrible things happened with tiny babies. Only recently she’d read in the paper about a nanny convicted of manslaughter for shaking a baby to death. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said out loud. The crèche had been running for years, the staff fully vetted by the hospital. They were professionals. If there was any malpractice going on the place would have been closed down long ago. Too late to back out now and, in any case, the one-off lecture paid so obscenely well that she’d have been out of her tiny mind to turn it down. It was only one day. The crèche arrangement would be just fine.

  Half an hour later, her daughter happily entrusted to the caring and capable crèche manager, Emma O’Brien got back in her car and allowed herself a little cry, the separation from her daughter a tangible, physical pain in her chest even though Jessica had let her go without a murmur. Fumbling for her mobile Emma started to speed-dial Peter’s number then abruptly severed the connection. By this time he’d already be at work and would be in meetings all day about the latest round of drug trials, so he wouldn’t thank her for the interruption. Far better to call him this afternoon when it was all over to report how well it had all gone. Blowing her nose hard she consciously shifted herself into professional mode.

  At Granville Lane while the FME was checking over the girls, up in the briefing room Mariner reminded his team of the drill. Eight girls in total had been brought back to Granville Lane from two different establishments. Two men, their minders, had been arrested and all without casualties. It had gone smoothly and Mariner began with congratulations. ‘But that was the easy part,’ he said. ‘Now comes the real challenge; building a case against the two men and any others who have been picked up across the city, and finding out who the organisers are. We can’t kid ourselves that we’ve got the organ grinders, but that’s who we need, those responsible for this whole obscene operation. Immigration have identified a number of suspects who they’ve been monitoring for the last twelve months.’ He held up a sheaf of half a dozen digital mug-shots. ‘But we need to make the connections. We want positive identification backed by credible witness statements. Some of the girls will have had direct contact, or may have overheard things. Immigration will continue to do their bit by going through any paperwork we’ve found, but the taped and videoed interviews will be crucial.’

  Looking around, Mariner was satisfied to see everyone, outwardly at least, fully focused. ‘Of course some girls are going to do better as witnesses than others, but what we’re looking for are a couple of reliable ones who are also willing to testify.’ He was aware as he said it that it was the biggest potential stumbling block. ‘Most of these girls have been abused over long periods of time. They’re young and scared and have learned the hard way not to trust anyone. We don’t have much time to rebuild that trust. I don’t have to remind you that these are the victims, not the criminals. We need to go gently and build confidence. They’re not under arrest but full procedure must be followed so that if and when the case comes to court we can be confident that there will be no accusations of us having led the questioning.’

  Mariner had split his officers into teams for interviewing, where possible male with female, in the hope that the girls would be less intimidated. He and Knox would start with the minders, with a view to trying to cut some kind of deal that would lead them to the bigger fish.

  As the briefing broke up, DCI Sharp came in, another woman following close behind. ‘Tom, this is Lorelei Fielding, she’s from the Daffodil Project,’ Sharp said.

  ‘Daffodil Project?’ Mariner stepped forward to shake Fielding’s hand.

  ‘We’re a charity that offers support to women in distress,’ Fielding said. ‘We act as advocates or counsellors. We also have several refuges across the city. We’re here to offer our services. Our support workers can be present at interviews and when you’ve finished what you have to do, we’ll take the girls to our hostel overnight.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mariner. ‘We’ll give you a shout when we’re ready.’

  The FME came to let them know that he was finished. ‘You’re starting the interviews now?’ he asked Mariner.

  ‘We’re just waiting for one of the interpreters to arrive.’

  ‘You won’t need it for all of them. One of the girls speaks pretty good English.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, her grandfather was over here during the war apparently. He taught her the basics. She’s pretty fluent.’

  ‘Which one is she?’

  ‘Katarina. At nineteen she’s one of the oldest, so you may find that she handles the whole process better.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He and Knox would interview her.

  ‘You’ll go easy on them, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  But easy was only a one-way street. For Mariner the initial interviews with the minders were a frustrating experience. Except to give their names, the men refused to speak or to acknowledge recognition of any of the further suspects on the photographs. After only an hour Mariner gave up. ‘If nothing else we’ve got them for living off immoral earnings. We can afford to let them stew,’ he told Sharp. One of the girls might provide us with a way in. Let’s make them the priority.’ And he wanted to start with the girl who spoke English.

  To
ny Knox, with DC Jenny Foster, was conducting an interview with a girl who looked no more than about twelve years old. Pale and scrawny, her eyes were dark hollows and her skinny arms were mottled with scars. She lowered her head as they went in, but not before they’d noticed the gummy gap where her top incisors should have been. It gave her the appearance of a small child losing her milk teeth. She sat low in her chair placing as much distance as she could between them, her arms folded protectively around her.

  ‘What happened to her teeth?’ Foster asked the interpreter. ‘Was she beaten?’

  ‘They were removed,’ the interpreter said after a short exchange. ‘It would help her to do her work better.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Knox.

  But DC Foster didn’t get it.

  ‘All the better for giving blow jobs,’ Knox illuminated, his voice low.

  Foster turned a funny colour.

  Sonja responded to their questions with the barest nod or shake of the head, and Knox was about to abandon the interview, when suddenly she turned to the translator and spoke, her words gushing out in a torrent, tumbling over each other, and for the first time looked directly into Tony Knox’s face with a desperation that wrenched at his insides.

  ‘She wants to know how long this will take,’ the interpreter said. ‘She wants to go and find her child.’

  ‘She has a child?’ Knox was shocked to the core.