Bone Machine (4 page)

‘This is Marco Kovacs,’ said Sharkey. ‘Restaurateur, property developer. Runs an import and export business. Owns a couple
of cafés, a Lebanese restaurant, Italian as well in town. Both upmarket. Good chefs. Entrepreneur. If there’s money to be
made, he’s there.’ Another nod, the image changed. It showed the same man shaking hands with a local footballer, giving a
posed smile for the camera. Sharkey continued: ‘Flamboyant. Wants everyone to know how well he’s doing.’

‘Legit?’ asked Peta.

‘Gives that impression,’ said Sharkey. ‘Doesn’t directly manage anything, gets up-and-coming locals to do that. Giving something
back to the community, blah blah. But he’s toyed with the idea of taking over Newcastle United. Or at least talked about taking
it over. Becoming some kind of Geordie Abramovich, I suppose.’ He gave a grunt of a laugh. ‘Buying off the locals. Anything
to overcome their inbred fear of outsiders. You know what they’re like up here. Even wary of me.’

‘They’re not wary,’ said Donovan. ‘They just don’t like you.’

Peta and Amar stifled a laugh. Sharkey affected not to notice.

Sharkey had a confidence that didn’t just border on arrogance but battered it into submission and tap-danced around it. A
casual observer would never have believed that almost a year previously Sharkey had lost his very well-paid job, been on the
verge of bankruptcy, injured by gunfire and had even been threatened with the prospect of prison. And had been physically
attacked by Joe Donovan. Twice. For which Donovan was completely unrepentant. He’d even enjoyed it.

‘Right, so I think I’ve heard of him,’ said Donovan. ‘Why should I be interested in him?’

‘Because he’s Serbian,’ said Sharkey.

‘And he runs Lebanese and Italian restaurants?’ said Amar.

‘Both countries with better cuisines than his own,’ replied Sharkey. ‘Not much of a market for beetroot soup.’

‘So you want us to send the nasty foreigner back, is that it?’ said Donovan. ‘Is this job on behalf of the
Daily Mail
? Or are you working for the BNP now?’

Sharkey threw back his head and laughed. Jamal jumped, startled by the suddenness of it.

‘That laugh was as false as Victoria Beckham’s breasts,’ said Donovan. ‘When you laugh like that, it usually means you want
me to do something I don’t want to do.’

‘Not at all, Joe,’ said Sharkey, voice all emollient. ‘In fact, you might like this one.’ He looked around the others. ‘All
of you.’

Sharkey turned to address them, arms behind his back in his barrister stance. Donovan knew the pose. It meant Sharkey was
about to impart information that was important.

‘Kovacs’ nationality is not the issue here,’ said Sharkey, his
face now serious. ‘It’s his clandestine activities that present us with the problem.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Donovan. ‘He’s really a gangster.’

‘He certainly is.’

‘How original.’ Donovan looked at Peta and Amar, shrugged. ‘An East European gangster. Any more cultural stereotypes up your
sleeve? Lazy Jamaicans? Thick Irishmen? Bomb-toting Muslims?’

Sharkey sighed. ‘Mr Kovacs, we believe, deals in drugs.’

‘Surprise, surprise,’ said Peta.

‘And, more important, people,’ said Sharkey. ‘Illegal immigrants. Refugees. Asylum seekers. Call them what you want. Mr Kovacs
and his associates are modern-day slave traders.’

Donovan shook his head. ‘Oh, here we go.’

‘Will you listen to me, please? And perhaps you’ll learn why this case is right up your liberal street.’ Sharkey’s words were
edged with anger. Donovan fell silent. ‘Thank you. Now cast your mind back to 1999. The Kosovan war. Miloševi
. Ethnic cleansing
and all that. Remember?’

Donovan heard the seriousness in Sharkey’s tone.

‘Remember Arkan?’

Donovan thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Arkan. Ran an outfit called Arkan’s Tigers, gangster, assassin, thug, secret policeman,
Miloševi
’s right-hand man. Well-feared bloke. That right?’

Sharkey raised an eyebrow, impressed.

Donovan continued. ‘Ethnic cleansers r us. Responsible for supposedly hundreds of acts of genocide during the Kosovan war.
Assassinated at the end of it by an Albanian, I think. How am I doing so far?’

‘Very well,’ said Peta.

Donovan looked at her, smiled almost apologetically. ‘The paper I worked for covered the war extensively.’ He
shrugged. ‘Naturally, we opposed it. And the West’s attitude to it. And won awards for doing so.’

‘Naturally,’ said Sharkey. ‘Well, from what we can gather, Arkan had an associate. A second in charge, just as bad as he was.
No one knew his real name. Only his codename. Zmija. The snake. But when Arkan was killed and Miloševi
was indicted for war
crimes, he—’

‘Slithered away?’ offered Jamal.

Donovan laughed. Sharkey smiled indulgently. ‘Very good. There were rumours he had gone under ground. Across Europe. Into
racketeering, drugs, prostitution, protection rackets. Arms. But nothing substantiated. Then reports stopped appearing. And
he was forgotten, presumed killed by a business associate. But then, Marco Kovacs, businessman, pops up in Newcastle.’

‘Do they look alike?’ asked Amar.

‘The Snake was never photographed; no one could give a description of him.’

‘So why do you think it’s this Marco Kovacs?’ asked Peta.

Sharkey smiled, enjoying the drama. ‘Because we have a witness.’

‘Who?’ said Donovan.

Sharkey nodded to Jamal, who hit another key. The image on the screen changed. A head-and-shoulder shot of a young man appeared.
The photo was in colour and official-looking: an ID card or passport photo. Or a mug shot. The man was dark-haired and hollow-eyed.
He looked tired, hungry.

‘This is Dario Tokic,’ said Sharkey. ‘A former slave of Mr Kovacs. He was brought over here. Promised a new life and put to
work on an industrial-sized farm, somewhere in the north-west, we think. Owned, indirectly, by Kovacs. Mr Tokic managed to
escape, came to Newcastle. He says he has evidence for us.’

‘What kind?’ asked Peta.

Sharkey paused. Knew he was about to impart something of importance. ‘The farm received a visit from its owner one day.’

‘Kovacs?’

Sharkey nodded. ‘Mr Tokic remembered him from the old country. With Arkan’s Tigers. Massacring a village. His village.’

‘And he’s identified Kovacs?’ asked Donovan.

Sharkey nodded to Jamal. The slide changed. A grinning, dinner-jacketed Kovacs was flanked by a burly bald bodyguard.

‘Broke down in tears when he saw this,’ said Sharkey. ‘Seemed genuine enough. Couldn’t look at it any more, apparently.’

Donovan looked suitably impressed. ‘And he’s going to testify?’

‘He is. But with certain strings attached.’

‘Such as?’

‘He entered this country illegally; he wants to stay here legally.’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem to you,’ said Donovan.

‘It isn’t. But there’s something else.’

‘What?’ asked Amar.

Sharkey nodded at Jamal again. The image changed to that of a young woman. Pretty and smiling. Blonde and well dressed, she
looked as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

‘This is his sister, Katya. The picture was taken a couple of years ago when she had just started at Priština university.
European literature, I believe.’

‘And where is she now?’ asked Donovan.

‘Somewhere in this city. A slave. Of a more sexual nature.’

‘And this is down to Kovacs?’ asked Peta.

‘Indirectly, we think,’ said Sharkey, nodding to Jamal who pressed a key. The image on the screen changed. A young man, mid-twenties,
appeared. Sunglasses, dark spiky hair, leather jacket. Cigarette in the corner of his mouth, mobile clamped to his ear. ‘This
is Derek Ainsley. More colloquially known as Decca. Local gangster wannabe.’

‘Form?’ asked Peta.

‘Minor but escalating,’ replied Sharkey. ‘Cars, drugs, protection, that kind of thing. Marked down as one for the future.
At least everyone thought so.’

‘And what now?’ asked Amar.

‘Had a Damascus road conversion,’ said Sharkey, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘Went straight. Runs a coffee
bar in the city centre. Among other things.’

‘This coffee bar. Owned by Kovacs?’ asked Donovan.

Sharkey smiled. ‘Very good. And in addition to that, Mr Ainsley has started making frequent trips back and forward to Eastern
Europe. He claims it’s where he finds staff. We think that’s just a front. A sop to respectability. We think it’s where he
finds young girls to bring back and force into sexual slavery.’

‘And this girl’s one of them?’ asked Peta.

Sharkey nodded. ‘We believe so.’

Donovan nodded. ‘And how do we find her?’

Sharkey smiled. ‘That’s where you and your team come in, my boy.’

Donovan looked at him. ‘Thought it might be.’

‘Can I just ask,’ said Peta, ‘why aren’t the police doing this? Immigration Services?’

‘Compromised,’ said Sharkey. ‘Now I’m not suggesting for one minute that our boys in blue are anything but honest, hard-working
sons of toil, but Mr Kovacs is, as we know, a very wealthy man, and the promise of a share of that could turn even the most
resolute of heads.’

‘Nicely put,’ said Donovan.

‘Plus,’ continued Sharkey, ‘there was a recent joint attempt by police and Immigration Services to break a people-trafficking
ring that Kovacs was suspected of being behind. Fish-gutting factory on the north-east coast. Cheap labour. That fell apart
due to large sums of money going where it shouldn’t have been. No convictions, just careers quietly curtailed.’

‘Kovacs paid them off,’ said Donovan.

‘Exactly. The police do take crimes of this nature very seriously,’ said Sharkey, ‘but there tend not to be too many upper-level
convictions. If this is planned well, it could change that.’

‘So why do they think that we in the private sector are incorruptible?’ asked Donovan.

‘Because we’re rolling in it,’ replied Amar.

They all laughed. It died away.

‘There’s a police crackdown on people trafficking targeted mainly in and around London. All ports and points of entry are
being watched. Making it tricky for them to conduct their business down there. But that business didn’t disappear; it just
dispersed.’

‘Up to here?’ asked Amar.

Sharkey nodded. ‘Among other places. Kovacs runs an import–export business. With a very large warehouse at Tyne Dock, a port
which has plenty of trade coming in from the Baltic. And, of course, our boy is strongly suspected of having links to organized
crime in Eastern Europe.’

‘So …’ Donovan looked at Sharkey expectantly.

‘So there’s a new ongoing investigation against him.’

‘Hopefully better put together than the last one,’ said Peta.

‘I think we can take that as a given,’ said Sharkey. ‘It’s a completely new team. Rumour has it, they’ve managed to get one
of theirs on the inside.’

‘How does what we’re doing tie in with that?’ asked Amar.

‘It doesn’t,’ said Sharkey. ‘Apparently there’s a new shipment due soon and they’re on to it. We just do our bit, keep out
of their way and when they need what we’ve got make sure we hand it over to them. And in the meantime …’ Sharkey pulled a
sheaf of papers from his briefcase, handed it to Donovan. ‘This is everything Dario Tokic will tell us about his sister and
how to reach her. Everything we know. It should help.’ Sharkey looked Donovan straight in the eye. ‘We need to find her. He
won’t say anything until he knows she’s safe and sound.’