Bitter Sweet (7 page)

Martha had left. Mike had connected the phone to the laptop and was downloading the data from Erjon’s phone. I leaned over and watched. There were half a dozen phone calls and twice as many text messages. We listened to the calls – all in Albanian or Bulgarian and couldn’t, of course, understand a word being spoken. The same occurred with the texts.

‘Well,’ Mike said, ‘not exactly helpful. I suppose someone can translate. I’m going to create a log of all the numbers he contacts, maybe a pattern will emerge.’ He tapped away at the keyboard and looked up. ‘The one good thing is we can keep a track on his movements.’

‘That didn’t help us earlier,’ I said peevishly.

‘That’s true. He caught us on the hop, there.’

I didn’t have an answer for that one. It was the truth. And neither of us had predicted Erjon’s swift return to the Merchant Building. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.  

Mike looked again at the laptop. ‘At the moment he’s in Bedford Street.’

‘That’s a good distance away. Think he lives there?’

‘I’m not going to speculate.’

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Could be he’s running a brothel. It’s the right area for it.’

‘Shall I leave the phone with you?’ Mike asked. ‘At least then you’ll know if he moves this way.’

‘Do you think he’d do that?’

‘I don’t. It’s for your safety, that’s all.’

‘Don’t think I’ll have time to be keeping an eye on that thing,’ I said. ‘I’ve three appointments coming up.’

‘Still,’ Mike said. ‘We’ve been caught out once. Erjon acted more swiftly than we’ve anticipated.’

‘No, that’s not right. We haven’t anticipated anything. We
shouldn’t’ve been meddling in this whole damned business. I’m not involved—’

‘Sorry,’ Mike said, ‘but you are.’

I narrowed my eyes, put a hand on my hips and glared at Mike. ‘In three months time I’m out of here. Exams over.’ I glanced around the room. ‘The lease will be up and I’ll be gone. No more shitty clients, no more hairy balls slapping against my bum, no more lying, no more hiding.’

‘Way to go. But, that’s three
months down the road. And in the meantime—’

‘Yeah, in the meantime Ivonne’s at the hospital seeing if they can salvage Markus’s knee. Martha reckons there’ll be a police raid – I do too. This Erjon guy is up to something nasty. And I’ve got a good idea what it is.’

‘Go on.’

‘Erjon wants to set up in this building. It’s a good spot, you name it; masses of apartments, loads of students, people coming and going. No one knows each other, let alone their own neighbour. It’s perfect for the clients. Anonymity; lo
ts of multi-storey car parks about. And close to all the offices.’

‘All right,’ Mike said. ‘Follow it through. What’s Erjon up to? What’s he going to do?’

‘That’s pretty obvious isn’t it? Get us independents to move out. Exactly what Martha is predicting – a raid. Then Erjon steps into the vacuum. That’ll let him open up two or three apartments filled with girls, all of them coerced or trafficked.’

‘Then you had better keep the phone here. Erjon will be back.’ Mike sat down on the sofa and exhaled loudly. ‘The police are the only option. We will just have to start above that man Driscoll.’

I shook my head. From Mike’s point of view he was correct, but he had no idea how the police viewed the escort trade, or at least how some of them viewed it.

Mike contin
ued; ‘There is only one thing that puzzles me.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The CCTV system,’ he hooked a thumb in the direction of the outside passageway, ‘must have captured Erjon entering and leaving the lift. If Markus and Ivonne were to present our footage to the police it would be corroborated by the CCTV. That would be enough for Actual Bodily Harm, at the least. It would get Erjon out of the picture—’

‘What if he’s not the main guy? And even if he was, someone is bound to take his place.’ I was feeling edgy. I looked at my nails and willed myself not to start biting at the skin around them. ‘But, I think I’m okay. I’m very discreet. I’ve actually talked to a couple of the cops in the area – they know I’m an independent.’

‘Hold on,’ Mike said, leaning forward. ‘What if Erjon wants your apartment, and Ivonne’s?

‘Oh shit. I thought you were trying to reassure me?’

‘Yes. I am. That’s why we are tracking Erjon. Why we’ve got our own CCTV. But, I’m not going to delude you, only to see you getting hurt.’

I curled my lip. The reassurance was having the opposite effect.

‘I mean it, Nina. Don’t deceive yourself – safe is safe.’

I wrinkled my nose. ‘Thanks for the advice. I always practice safe sex.’

Mike grunted in exasperation. ‘Sure.’

Damn, but this was all way beyond the client-escort relationship. He cares for me and . . . I like him. Sod it. I should never have let him get so close. It’s easier to have them leave – physically, they’re gone, out the door. No emotional involvement. And now?

I sat down opposite Mike. ‘If Erjon wants this apartment that might explain all the goings on with CCTV system. Good chance the cameras on this floor aren’t working. Or, Erjon threw the RCD switch?’

‘Either is possible,’ Mike said, steepling his fingers.

‘If there’s a police raid,’ I said, watching his fingers. ‘And if they come in here,’ I looked up catching his eyes, ‘that will prove that Erjon wants me and Ivonne out.’

Mike sucked his lower
lip. ‘It will not end there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If Driscoll is the nasty piece of work I think he is, he’ll bring in HMRC.’

‘Oh shit.’

‘Exactly. They have the powers to go through everything. Your home, your bank, your car, even your relatives if they think there is something to be found.’

My phone started to ring. I didn’t react. I was completely numb at the thought of HMRC investigating. Slowly, the ringing penetrated my awareness. I looked at the display and forced my thumb down on to the ignore button. I’d phone back. First I needed to get the shock out of my system. What story could I come up with if my friends and family knew that I was being investigated by HMRC? A student, at that.

Mike moved. Still stunned, my eyes tracked him rising from the sofa, my mind however, was functioning in slow motion. His hand reached into his jacket and re-emerged with a visiting card.

My hand, of its own volition reached out and took the card. My fingertips identified the embossed lettering – a real expensive card. I held the card up and stared at the name; Mike Marshall. The letters behind the name, finally, made my brain kick into action. LLB and FCA; Mike was an accountant with a law degree. 

‘Phone me,’ Mike said. ‘Don’t stick your head in the sand. Most people leave it too late giving HMRC a head start.’ Mike winked at me. ‘Safe is safe. I’m only ten minutes away.’   

7

I checked the time
as I walked towards the Merchant Building – late as usual. Excuses, excuses – it had taken ages to find a parking spot. Still, it gave me just enough time before the first client arrived. The pest: always phoning, texting, inviting me to go out the opera, ballet; anyplace where he could show off with a pretty girl on his arm.

At the door
I stopped, pulled my phone out of my bag to check for any messages – good none. I slung the bag over my shoulder and rapidly entered the numbers on the keypad. The door clicked and I gave it a shove. Halfway to the elevator, I glanced at the desk, Alfred wasn’t there and instead there was a woman, her head bowed. Strange. Never seen her before.

I kept going and glanced at the elevator consoles – damn, none of them on G. I palmed the elevator button. Did a hip-hop from one foot to the other; the new matt-black trainers felt good.

I shot another glance at the elevator console – one lift was on its way down. I bounced on my feet and glanced at the desk. The woman abruptly lowered her head. Hard to know what she looked like behind the counter; dark hair and average shoulders. But, she’d ducked her head.

The elevator pinged. The door slid open. No one there – straight in. That’s when I heard the slight sucking sound which the bin-room door gives off when it’s opened. I bounced one-hundred and eighty degrees. My eyes locked on
to a man half hidden behind the door – cop. The rest of the visual was just confirmation. The man was at least six-feet-three with buzz-cut hair, dressed in blue with black boots.

My stomach lurched.

Nothing for it. I pressed the button for my floor and the elevator doors began to close, just allowing me a last glimpse of the man as he backed into the bin room, the door sucking closed behind him.

O
migod! Raid! Had to be.   

I stared at the elevator panel, feeling numb. My brain wouldn’t work, only the bump of the lift stopping at my floor kicked me back into the here and now.

The door slid open. I peered out, expecting to see armed policemen. Nothing. I stepped out, determined not to allow any more idiotic thoughts to enter my mind. Business and practicality took over. The pest would have to have his appointment cancelled. How much more of today’s earnings were about to go flying out the window? One thing at a time: first the pest.

Then? I unlocked the door to my apartment, went in and locked it behind me. If the police did come; they could knock.

I hurried down the corridor, dropped my bag on the sofa and booted-up the laptop. At least I would be able to see the police, if they were on their way. The idea calmed me.

I hopped over to the sofa and
took my phone out of the bag. Shit, I’d have to put it on charge. I dialled the pest. Nothing for it: I held my nose between my finger and thumb, giving a great impression of someone with a cold. Then I plugged the phone in to charge.

The laptop’s screen shone brightly at me. I brought up the feed from the mini-cams. No one in the outside corridor, and it didn’t look as if Ivonne was in her apartment.

Next, I checked to see if I could locate Erjon. He was three streets away in the city centre – not good. I downloaded the data from the tracking phone. A few short texts, all in Albanian, or whatever. Three telephone calls, the first two I skipped – wrong language. The third call caught my attention; the caller ID was suppressed. I started to listen; Erjon’s curt, “Hello,” followed by a male voice with a local accent.

“Be patient, it’s being put in place.”

“When?”

“Just a few details. Then it’ll be signed off. Should be tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as we get the green light.”

It didn’t seem like much. However, knowing that I’d seen a copper downstairs, my mind snapped to an immediate conclusion: Driscoll, the copper, had been talking to Erjon. And, they’d been talking about a police raid.

My fingers were busy twiddling with my ponytail. I stilled them and attempted to calm my mind which seemed bent on stoking my fears to the cost of any logical thoughts.

The obvious struck me; the phone used to track Erjon contravened the Data Protection Act. If a raid was imminent, and planning for a raid made sense, then the phone must go. The police had nothing on me, in fact, they knew who I was, and they had me on their system as an escort – nothing illegal there. However, the use of the phone – easily proven – would give them a lever, and or, grounds to bring a charge against me.

I lifted my bag off the sofa and dug about looking for Mike’s
card; found it, sat down again and ran my fingers over the embossed script.

He’d said to phone him and not to stick my head in the sand. Had he meant that I should phone if HMRC came visiting? Well, we’d discussed the whole thing and he must know that the police would come first, followed by HMRC. And to confound matters, he’d provided the tracking device.

It
really
,
really
didn’t sit well phoning a client and, at that, asking for a favour. I’d never asked for the phone; it sort of happened. Now I was looking at the prospect of asking for help, again.

Okay, it was Mike
and, as far as I trusted anyone in the client-escort relationship, one of the few was Mike.

I looked at his card again. The whole Erjon affair stank. Why was the bastard visiting escorts anyway? If the rumours were correct, he had his own bevy of girls to empty his balls for him. So, why come visiting us indies? I slapped Mike’s card down on the table. If Erjon wanted something, he’d be
the type to threaten and not go spending his cash on indies. Who knows? Sex is a weird business.

My work phone was in the kitchen charging; i
t was my old phone and the battery was no longer the best. I lifted my private phone and dialled Mike.

8

Mike strode along the corridor with Ivonne holding station alongside, her long legs allowing for a relaxed but fast gait.

The surprise, however, was Mike. Normally, he came to visit wearing casual clothes, not today. The suit was charcoal grey, two buttons and slim cut to match the current trend. It was complemented by a pale blue, cutaway-collar shirt and a pale brown, woven silk tie, subtly rounding off the ensemble.

In his left hand he held a matt-black leather briefcase – expensive looking.

I laughed. Mike brought to mind the idea of a modern-day warrior; the rank ill-defined, the weapons; a trained intellect, pen and paper.

‘Hi, Mike,’ I said. ‘I love the tie. And, thanks for coming.’

‘I bet,’ Ivonne said, looking at the tie. ‘Mike’s hourly fees are more than ours.’

Mike smiled.

‘But we work harder,’ Ivonne added.

Ivonne, instead of heading for her own apartment, breezed into mine. Mike followed and went to the table in the sitting room. He set his briefcase down, popped the latches and took out a handful of tax forms.

‘That’s just for show,’ he said. ‘I’m here in my business capacity as your accountant.’

‘When it comes to fees,’ Ivonne said, running a finger around her mouth. ‘Can we do a trade?’

Mike laughed. ‘You’d tire me out too quickly. Let’s call it pro bono.’

‘Something for free.’ Ivonne giggled. ‘Don’t often get that in my line of work.’

Mike turned to me, his face serious. ‘I noticed two cars on the way in. They had that
very
nondescript look of unmarked police cars. So, you could be right about a police raid.’

‘And,’ Ivonne said. ‘I met Mike coming in. We looked real smart walking in together.’

She did. She was wearing a short cropped blue blazer and Rock and the Republic jeans. I knew that she’d been lucky enough to find the jeans in a charity shop at a fraction of their retail price.

‘How is Markus?’ I asked.

‘Stable. The knee is in traction with a huge plaster-cast for good measure.’

I turned
to face Mike. ‘Back to business. I stuffed the tracking phone into the guttering in the passageway, having wiped it clean of fingerprints.’

‘Good,’ Mike said. ‘No one can prove it’s ours. The bloke who lent it to me will say it went missing, finished.’

‘Oh oh,’ I said, looking at the laptop.

Mike leaned over the laptop. ‘The boys in blue – that was quick.’

‘Shit and bollocks. Why us?’

Mike closed the laptop. ‘I’ll speculate—’

‘Fat lot of good that’ll do.’ I placed my hand on his arm in appeasement. ‘Sorry, nerves.’

‘That’s okay.’ He placed his free hand on mine. It helped.

‘You and Ivonne,’ Mike continued, ‘have adjoining apartments.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Martha is at the end of the passageway?’

‘She was.’

‘Four or five apartments in a row, or at least together. Easier to manage.’

I looked at Ivonne, both of us recognising the veracity of Mike’s observation.

The doorbell rang. My fingernails went straight to my teeth.

‘I’ll get it,’ Mike said, and moved towards the door before I could object.

Wow. Cool as you like, Mike opened the front door. The look on the lead cop’s face was good enough to keep me going for the rest of the day.

‘Good morning,’ Mike said. ‘May I be of assistance?’

The lead cop, a real barn door type, opened his mouth and then closed it again.

‘If you would be so kind,’ Mike continued. ‘Please inform your colleagues that the occupant of the next apartment is in here.’

‘Roddy!’ the lead cop yelled. ‘Get over here.’

Within seconds six police officers stood outside my apartment; four men and two women. And, they
didn’t know what to do.

‘I assume,’ Mike said, raising his right hand, ‘you have a search warrant?’

That elicited a reaction; the lead cop obviously felt more secure as he was now able to follow procedures. 

‘Your name, sir?’

‘Mike Marshall.’

‘And your business, here?’

‘Accountant,’ Mike said, handing over a card. ‘May I have a copy of the warrant?’

The cop hesitated.

‘I’m acting on the lady’s behalf.’

Mike took the proffered warrant and scanned the details.

‘And the other young lady?’ Mike asked.

The cop turned to his colleague, Roddy, who re-clipped the microphone of his radio back on to his uniform. Roddy must have been calling in the bad news and receiving further instructions. He stepped forward and handed Mike the other warrant.

Mike didn’t bother looking at it, instead he held it up. ‘Any different from the first one?’

‘Just the name,’ Roddy said.

‘In that case, why don’t you start here?’

Roddy looked at his colleague and nodded. Mike stood aside, allowing the police to enter my apartment.

The lead cop walked along the corridor, his boots squeaking on the laminate flooring. He looked at Ivonne and then at me.

‘Are you T
ina Thompson?’

I looked into his green eyes. Nothing there, just the penetrating stare which seems to afflict policemen.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘We have a warrant to search your apartment. By law you are entitled to a copy of the warrant. It is now in the possession of your accountant.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘The warrant states that we have the right to conduct a search for controlled drugs.’

I swallowed at that – I’d have to be a right jerk to have drugs on the premises. But, what if they had intended planting some drugs? Oh shit. Nerves and my imagination were getting carried away.

The cop cont
inued; ‘Money laundering and the exploitation of women against their will.’

‘You’re joking?’

‘No, miss, I’m not.’

‘Good luck,’ I said. The warrant accurately described the type of establishment which Erjon ran, and not the legal work of an independent escort. 

My immediate nervousness faded, to be replaced by a feeling of inevitability – almost relief. I had done no wrong. This was all a waste of time. I sank down on to the sofa. Ivonne joined me and crossed her legs; one foot began to bob up and down.

Two detectives entered the apartment, snapping latex gloves on to their hands. Great five cops. The three in the sitting room did not know what to do. They had already perused
the décor and had taken to staring out the window. Now, a few nods and glances were exchanged before the detectives entered the bedroom. Would there be any reaction when they opened the closet and found the various kinky dresses or the array of sex toys on the top shelf. Somehow, I thought not.

Mike stayed in the corridor watching as the detectives began their search. Had the same thought occurred to him? Would they attempt to plant evidence?

The lead cop’s radio squawked into life. He hurried out of the apartment.

The two remaining cops, a young guy and a woman – I guessed she was in her mid-thirties – with nothing else to do, turned to look at us.

The man, who reminded me of the cop I had been dating, gave us a frank stare, but the woman had a spiteful glint in her eyes.

‘Ah . . .’ the young cop began. ‘Have you girls been long at this?’

Ivonne and I looked at each other.
What the fuck?

‘No,’ I said. He was probably just curious. ‘I started about eighteen months ago.’

‘Ian,’ the female cop said. ‘Don’t believe a word they say.’

Again, Ivonne and I looked at each other.
Hateful cunt!

‘Can’t you get a normal job?’ the female cop asked with a sneer.

‘Listen, love,’ Ivonne said, looking at her askew, ‘I’ll bet I earn more than you do.’

‘But,’ Ian said, ‘why are two good looking girls like you doing this?’

‘Duh.’ Ivonne said. ‘I just told you. And, because we want to.’

I heard the squeak of footsteps on the laminate floor, and looked up. The two detectives entered the room, followed by Mike. I couldn’t tell anything from the faces of the detectives, but Mike’s face was calm and relaxed. Not that there wa
s anything to find. It was just the not knowing; the uncertainty created by having two cops sniffing about.

The detectives started in the kitchen, even opening the f
ridge and looking into every carton and container.

Mike came and stood behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders and began to gently massage my neck and shoulder muscles. Jeez – that felt good.

The detectives continued to nose about in the kitchen, opening cupboards and peeking into jars and pots – you name it, they looked at it. Finally, they moved into the sitting-room-dining-room area to continue their search. Finished, one of them pointed at the laptop.

‘That belongs to me,’ Mike said. And it did.

The detective pursed his lips. ‘We’ll need Miss Thompson’s phones.’

Mike opened the search warrant, glanced at it and looked
at the detective. ‘There is no mention of mobile phones in the warrant.’

‘Still.’

‘I am sure,’ Mike said. ‘Miss Thompson wishes to cooperate in every possible way.’

That took me by surprise. It was the last thing on my mind – I wanted these nosy cops out of my apartment and pretty damn quick.

Mike continued; ‘However, the warrant is not specific. And, were her mobile phone to be removed from her possession, the young lady’s business activities would be severely curtailed.’

The detectives looked at each other. The faces of two uniformed cops were blank, but I could tell they were following the situation closely.

‘Your search,’ Mike said, ‘has not unearthed anything untoward.’

Damn right
.

Again, the two detectives looked at each other.

Mike placed the warrant on the table and then put his hands in his pockets, looking relaxed. An impasse had been reached. Who would back down first? I suspected that Mike was playing some sort of poker game. 

‘Just a moment, please,’ the detective said. He walked along the corridor and opened the front door. I heard it close. No doubt he was phoning for instructions.

Mike came and stood behind me, leaned over and whispered; ‘May I call you Tina?’

‘Yes.’ He’d read the warrant. He now knew my real name; Tina Thompson. 

‘They can access your phone records, anyway. The warrant is not specific. They might have to prove cause.’

I turned my head, listening intently.

‘The point is,’ Mike continued, ‘we volunteer the access – cooperation. That way you still get to keep the phone and the SIM card.’

‘He wanted both phones.’

‘I know.’

Not having my phones would be a disaster, especially if I
couldn’t back up all the telephone numbers. And my private one was a smart phone, not just something to make calls with.

‘Okay, do that,’ I whispered.

There were no client identities on the phone. I was being naïve. The clients’ identities were irrelevant – well almost. I suppose someone could spend time and effort trying to identify the men and then blackmail them.

More worrying was the other aspect, my perspective. All of my clients could be phoned or texted from my phone, telling them that I was no longer in business. Or, if someone wanted to be really malicious, tell the clients that I had herpes or some such infectious disease.  

With my thoughts now launched in the direction of the damage which someone
could
inflict upon me, other possibilities became obvious. All my friends, social-media contacts and email acquaintances could be informed of my secret life as an escort. My website did not show my face, but if anyone bothered to compare the descriptions and photos on it with a revealing text or email, well, two and two make four . . .

Mike’s strategy did not entirely eliminate the possibility of the information on my phone falling into the hands of some
one wishing to name and shame. At least, however, retention of the phones removed the chance of someone using my phone number to send out a name and shame text. It could still be done if the information on the phones was sent using a suppressed ID. The effect might be the same – didn’t want to think about that.

However, Mike’s concept of cooperation and volunteering the information would mean the filling out of police forms, maybe even a lawyer. And that route meant police bureaucracy; a system I hoped that could not be tampered with.    

Mike leaned across to Ivonne; ‘Your apartment is next. Anything I need to know?’

Ivonne shook her head. ‘No, I’m clean.’

‘Good,’ Mike said. ‘When we finish here, we’ll go across together. At no stage will I leave either of you alone. Nor will I permit the police to be alone in either apartment.’