Bitter Sweet (23 page)

‘If we get caught again,’ Ivonne continued, ‘there will be no escape. And we must think of them.’ She nodded in the direction of the four girls who stood staring at us. ‘With the police they stand a chance.’

‘I know.’

‘And even if we make it to the car park, think of the minders out there who’ll be waiting for those poor girls to be brought out.’

‘That’s been in my mind.’

The door at the end of the corridor squeaked. I glanced through the window; it was Viktor heading for the storerooms.

‘Okay,’ I said, handing Ivonne the phone. ‘Do it. Tell them there’s a robbery in progress.’

I turned back to the window. There was still a chance of making it to the car park and getting away before the police arrived. I certainly didn’t want the police asking me questions. The bomb threat to Crew Street station and all the tweets about a cop, a nun and three trafficked girls were not even twenty-four-hours old. It wouldn’t take a lot of intelligence to connect that to me, Ivonne and the girls with us now. And yet, the police might still provide a useful diversion.

Still looking through the window, I saw Erjon open the office door and glance in the direction of the storerooms.

Hell! Viktor was bound to come in here looking for Marko. What to do? Make a dash for it along the corridor? At any moment Viktor would re-emerge from the storerooms. 

I turned and studied the warehouse. We could hide amongst the junk littered along the walls and try to hold out until the police descended. There was one last option; the two loading bays. They both had roller-shutter doors, no doubt locked and even if they weren’t, the noise they’d make being opened would be horrendous.

Ivonne looked at me. ‘The police are on their way.’

‘Quick, over there,’ I said, pointing towards the roller doors. ‘We’ve got to get out of this place. Viktor is bound to come in here when he can’t find Marko.’

I started to run towards the doors, now quite sure that Viktor would check the warehouse next. Running at full tilt, I leapt over some loose timber, and then began to focus my attention on the Judas gate set between the roller doors. Two bolts secured the gate, top and bottom. I skidded to a halt, reached down for the lower bolt, grabbed it and pulled. One tug told me all – it was stuck fast. The upper bolt was equally old and rusty, and didn’t budge either.

I rapidly searched around looking for something solid with which to bash the bolt – lots of scrap metal but nothing that fitted the bill. Then I remembered having seen a short heavy post amongst the loose timber. I raced back across the floor and grabbed the post. A splinter ruptured my skin, driving in deep. I held on to the post and ran back to the Judas gate, blood trickling down the palm of my hand. 

I lined up the end of the post with the head of the
lower bolt and swung. The bolt popped free and shot backwards. I raised the post and took aim at the other bolt. At shoulder level the angles were more difficult; the first blow glanced off the head of the bolt. Second time lucky – the bolt slid across with a screech. Shit! Automatically, I turned and glanced across the warehouse floor to the double doors, half expecting the noise to have already summoned Viktor.

Thankfully, the Juda
s gate was made of wood and age had done it no favours. Only the door and its lock separated us from the car park and, critically, the door was hinged to swing outwards.

‘Ivonne,’ I said, stepping back from the door, ‘the moment this thing opens run for the Volkswagen
bus.’ I pulled the keys out of my pocket and handing them to her said; ‘And hope to God they’re the right ones.’

I faced
the door and took a deep breath focusing my attention. Ready, I spun on my right foot and, using all the momentum of the spin, kicked backwards with my left foot. My heel connected with a solid blow to the door. There was a loud crack of splintering wood. The door, however, still hung in its frame.

I spun again using the rear-horse kick – another loud crack reverberated across the warehouse.

Avoiding the temptation to see if the noise had raised the alarm, I instead impelled myself into a third kick. This time the frame gave way and I felt the door fly open.

A door slammed behind me. I twisted around and saw Viktor. He yelled something and ducked back into the corridor.

‘Go, go, go,’ I yelled.

Three steps led down to the ca
r park. I took them in one leap.

In the car park, I immediately ran towards the VW bus. Ivonne, who was ahead of me, clicked the remote control and the VW’s hazard lights blinked.

‘Get them in!’ I yelled, and pulled up short at my car which was parked next to the bus.

I yanked at the door handle, flung myself across the seat and grabbed Ivonne’s phone. One quick glance told me that my phone was gone as were the car keys.

I heard the back door of the bus slam c
losed and ran towards it. Ivonne was already seated behind the steering wheel, her head down as she fumbled to put the key in the ignition.

I grabbed the handle of
the passenger door and pulled. The engine barked into life. As I was about to hop in, I spotted my phone and car keys on the passenger seat. I grabbed them, dumping Ivonne’s phone on the seat.

‘Go!’ I yelled. ‘I’ll take my car.’

‘Get in!’ Ivonne shouted, as she engaged first gear.

The sound of a siren in the distance made me look up. The gates were wide open, and parked on the far side of the VW were a number of similar vans. A couple of doors slammed closed as the drivers hurried towards the office block at the front of the warehouse.

‘Get going!’ I yelled at Ivonne. ‘Go to the refuge.’

I slammed the door closed. The VW jerked forward, only to stall. Jesus F.

The bus had rolled forward enough to reveal the door to the office block. Erjon leapt through the doorway and headed straight for the driver’s door of the bus. The engine bellowed, but Ivonne had not seen Erjon.

I raced around the back of the bus just as Erjon grabbed the door handle. I jumped clear of the bus, turning in midair, and went straight for the tornado kick.
I landed on my left foot with my back towards Erjon and immediately pushed off, twisting in midair. With my body rotating, I thrust my left knee forward. Using the entire momentum of my spinning body, I launched a powerful kick to Erjon’s head. The kick connected. Erjon’s head snapped sideways hitting the doorframe.

Ivonne yanked the door closed. The van shot forwards with a squeal of tires.

Erjon jumped around and ran straight at me. At the last moment, I jumped left. His fist grazed my ribcage. I grunted as the pain seared through me.

I spun around bouncing on my feet, my arms held defensively in front of my upper body. Erjon snapped around and jumped straight at me, his right leg held high. I jinked right, only ju
st avoiding his foot as it sliced down. His left hand was headed straight for my head in a chopping motion. I blocked the blow with my right arm. Pain burned along my arm. I bounced away. I had to keep moving.

A van was heading fast towards the gate. I sprinted towards it and raced around the front. Erjon yelled as the van forced him to stop. I kept running. The next van was just completing a turn, ready to bolt for the gate. I caught the faint reflection of blue lights on the van’s bodywork. I sprinted behind the van, putting it between me and Erjon.

The siren wailed and echoed, drawing closer. I glanced at my car. I needed to get to it, now.

The van surged towards the gate, revealing Erjon who stood in the middle of the car park. As soon as he saw me he sprinted in my direction.

I took off, racing towards my car. Erjon altered his run trying to head me off. A black M3 roared around the corner of the office block, coming straight at me.

A single police car sped towards the gate. The M3 hooted its horn and braked to an abrupt halt. Erjon stopped, glaring at me. A shout from the driver of the M3 and Erjon ran towards the car.

The police car turned sharply, its tyres squealing as it entered the car park. Erjon jumped into the M3.

I ran for my car hearing a second siren approaching. The M3’s engine growled. Still running, I turned and watched as the M3 roared around the back of the police car and then shot through the gate.

The doors of the police car opened.

‘Stop!’ an officer yelled at me.

I broke my run. I was only metres from my car. I heard the boom of the M3’s vee-eight engine as the revs built up. The second police car slewed to a stop, blocking the gateway. I slowed to a walking pace and glanced at my car, longingly.

‘Put your hands in the air,’ the cop ordered. ‘Where I can see them.’

I stopped, and turned slowly, raising my hands.

Part V

22

I was handcuffed and put in the back of a police car. From there, I witnessed the arrival of more and more police cars – it seemed as if every cop who could drive a car turned up. With the gates to the warehouse blocked by numerous squad cars and the car park a sea of revolving blue lights, the first ambulance to arrive was forced to stop short. The medics wasted no time and hurried from the ambulance, weaving a stretcher between the haphazardly parked police cars.

More ambulances arrived. All the women police officers at the scene were called into the building, if they weren’t already inside.

Four men were led away in handcuffs; the men from the two vans who hadn’t made it through the gate before the police had arrived.

A stretcher came out of the warehouse, carrying Marko. That piece of dirt didn’t deserve the first-class medical care he was getting. He wouldn’t have called an ambulance for any of the trafficked girls; at best he
’d have called a dubious doctor who’d been struck off the register.

One by
one various girls were led out of the warehouse, in each case, accompanied by women police officers who escorted them to a waiting police bus.

After having been in the back of the police car for almost an hour, someone remembered my existence. I was driven away, only to be kept sitting in the back of the car for a further hour until I was processed.

A detective, wearing jeans and a T-shirt to make him look like one of the lads, introduced himself as Crawford without even having the courtesy to look at me. Well, he did look at my body. He led me to an upstairs room. I’d expected a window or a mirror in one of the walls – that comes from watching too much TV. Before I sat down, I did however, spot the tiny camera suspended from the ceiling in the far corner, facing me.

‘Detective,’ I said. ‘I want my phone back.’

‘Sorry, miss,’ he said, sitting down on the opposite side of the table, ‘that won’t be possible.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ No
t getting the phone back was a bad omen.

‘It’s being treated as evidence.’

‘Shit,’ I said softly.

‘Do you mind.’

‘I do mind,’ I said, propping an elbow on the table. ‘How am I supposed to contact a lawyer?’

‘You’ll be provided with access to a phone.’

‘Very considerate, but,’ I smiled at the detective, ‘all my phone numbers are stored in the phone.’

‘Including your solicitor?’ the detective asked with obvious disbelief.

‘I don’t have one yet—’

‘Then you don’t need the phone.’

‘I do, because the man I want to phone will get me a lawyer.’

‘What sort of man is that?’ the detective asked, as if he wasn’t paying attention.

Thinks he’s clever. ‘Oh, he’s an accountant.’

‘An accountant?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘Then he’ll be in the phone book.’

‘I’m sure he is.’ I bit my lower lip, stopping myself from saying; sure a phone book full of mobile numbers, every magician has one.

I smiled at the detective and then glanced at my fingernails – two of the extensions were missing. ‘The point is,’ I looked up, ‘at this time of the night I’m going to have to call my accountant on his mobile.’

The detective nodded, ran a hand over his stubbly hair and began to scratch the back of his neck.

‘It would go easier,’ he said, with his hand still at the back of his neck, ‘if you started telling us something.’

‘You mean it would be easier for you?’

The detective placed his hands on the table.

‘How many girls did you rescue?’ I asked. I knew I shouldn’t have asked, but I wanted to know and I wanted to know if the cops had understood what had taken place at the warehouse.

‘None of your business,’ the detective said, ‘or is it?’

‘You mean you still haven’t figured out what happened?’

The detective raised his head and stared into my eyes. I looked at his hands; I couldn’t be bothered with the hard-stare antics.

‘You have my name,’ I said. ‘You have my address. I’m sure that’s enough for your computer—’ 

‘You’re a hooker.’

I looked at him, narrowing my eyes. That was a bit blunt. ‘An escort.’

‘Call it what you will.’

‘An escort. And I’m a fulltime student. Nothing special about that, not in this city.’

‘You’ve declared your earnings?’

‘I have an accountant.’

‘Whom you now want to phone? At this time of the night?’

Think what you want – it’s none of your business. ‘His mobile number is in my phone.’

The detective eased his seat back.

‘I’ve never needed a lawyer.’ I smiled at him. ‘You know that.’

‘All right,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’ll see what can be done.’

The detective left the room. Would they be stupid enough to give me the phone? I doubted it. If only I could get the SIM card out of the phone and destroy it, or swallow it. Okay, I had deleted the call to the Transport Police at Crew Street station. That call no longer showed up on the dialled-calls menu. However, Paul – the cop I had dated a couple of times –  had told me a story about a car crash and how the police had confiscated the mobile phones of those involved, thinking that the use of a mobile whilst driving had caused the accident. The phone companies had provided, for the police, the details of all the calls made, their time and duration. Paul had added that the phone companies, for some inexplicable reason, had provided info on all calls going back six months prior to the crash.

Shit, that would also throw up Paul’s number. Great, things were getting really complicated.

On the other hand, the calls I’d made to the refuge and the various support services would go a long way to clearing my name.

The door opened.
Detective Crawford, holding my phone stood to one side, and DS Driscoll entered the room. This time his bulbous nose was not red with anger. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

Crawford
closed the door and stood waiting. Driscoll crossed over to the end of the table and gave me sidelong look.

I didn’t give him the advantage of turning my head to meet his gaze. If he was naked in the bedroom of my apartment, having paid his hundred quid, he wouldn’t be so sure of himself – I’d bet.

‘Now young lady,’ Driscoll said.

Oh no, that’s all I needed.

‘You want a solicitor?’

‘Those are my rights,’ I said, still not meeting his gaze.

‘Very good, you’re going to need one anyway.’

I went very still. What evidence could they have collected in that short space of time?

‘Miss Thompson you will be brought before a magistrate in the morning. The charge is: assault occasioning actual bodily harm. We have CCTV evidence from Crew Street station of you assaulting an innocent member of the public who happened to cross your path. The victim is prepared to testify. A prosecutor is already lined up. It is an open-and-shut case.’

Driscoll moved nonchalantly to the front of the desk with his hands in his pockets. I still didn’t bother to look at him.

‘We’ll run with that,’ he continued, ‘until the evidence comes together linking you to the trafficking offences which took place at the warehouse.’

That forced me to look at Driscoll. His eyes bored into mine. I just managed to hide my shock at the injustice.

Driscoll turned, nodded to Crawford and then left the room. Crawford sat down.

‘You going to tell us what you were doing at the warehouse?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘No, and the other one hasn’t got bells on it. And I’ve got nothing to say until I’ve spoken with a solicitor.’

‘You’re making it hard for yourself.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘As DS Driscoll said, we’ve got an
open-and-shut case. Cooperation with the police and any mitigating factors will go in your favour when it comes to sentencing.’

‘Just give me the phone.’

‘Actual bodily harm carries a sentence of up to five years.’

Real bully boys. I reached out my hand.

‘Sorry, love,’ Crawford said. ‘You don’t get to touch the phone. Just tell me the name.’

‘Mike Marshall.’ That was that; no chance to get near the SIM card.

Crawford used the touch screen and wrote the number down. ‘Okay,’ he said, looking up. ‘You come with me to make the call.’

He led me out of the
interview room and into the adjoining one which, again, had just two chairs and a plain desk, but with a phone on it. As I walked towards the desk, I checked the corners of the room – no CCTV cameras. I sat down on the far side of the desk facing the door. Crawford handed me the sheet of paper with Mike’s number. Only when he had left the room – he didn’t close the door – did I pick up the receiver and dial.

The phone began to ring. How many rings before the mailbox cut in? I nibbled at my fingers, willing Mike to answer. Would he pick up at this time of the night?

On the fifth ring Mike came on the line, ‘Hello?’

‘Mike, I need a lawyer, I’m being held at a police station charged with causing
ABH
’

‘T
ina!’ Mike said. ‘Slow down.’

I took a deep breath.

‘Firstly,’ Mike said, ‘where are you?’

‘I’m being
held at Clifford Street Police station. It’s an absolute farce, they got it all arse about face.’

‘Hold on, let me get something to write the facts down.’

I started to swing my leg up and down whilst listening to the sounds of Mike coming through the phone as he rummaged about for pen and paper.

‘Okay,’ he
said, ‘Clifford Street Police station. And what have you been charged with?’

‘Assault occasioning actual bodily h
arm. But it gets worse. Driscoll said—’

‘Driscoll?’

‘Yes, he said more charges would be brought.’

‘Did he state the charges?’

‘Trafficking.’ I heard Mike suck in air. ‘And I’m being brought to the Magistrates’ Court in the morning, and they’ve got a prosecutor lined up.’

‘T
ina, take it easy. That’s just the formalities.’

‘I need a lawyer.’

‘Did they give a time for the court appearance?’

‘No, just in the morning.’

‘Are you all right?’ Mike asked.

‘No, I’m not. I’ve been arrested for things I haven’t done.’

‘I mean, have you been hurt?’

Oh, he’s way too sweet. ‘I haven’t been hurt.
My head got a bump, I had a run-in with Erjon, grazed my ribcage and I blocked a blow with my arm. That’s when the police arrived and Erjon got away.’

‘You need to ask to see a doctor.’

‘I don’t need one. It’s just a couple of bruises.’

‘T
ina!’ Mike said sharply. ‘I want you to ask for a doctor.’

‘I said
, I’m all right.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.
But I want you to see a doctor, for the record.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The bruises will count as evidence.’

‘First I need a lawyer.’

‘I’ll get you one,’ Mike said. ‘But promise me you’ll ask for a doctor.’

‘Promise.’ My upper lip quivered. Damn, he
’s such a nice guy.

‘Good,’ Mike said softly. ‘Ask for a doctor immediately.’

‘Okay.’

‘Then you’ll have to hang in until the morning. You’ll need a criminal lawyer and I have someone in mind. Actually, he is a QC.’

‘A Queen’s Counsel?’

‘Yes, we went to university together and I do his accounts. Normally QCs only appear in the higher courts, and solicitors in a Magistrates’ Court. However, time is against us, and if he can’t recommend a solicitor, I’ll make sure he is in court with you in the morning.’