The Eyewitness (28 page)

Solomon was hunting through Diane's deep freeze for something to eat when his mobile rang. It was Alex Knight.

“Bingo,” said Knight cheerfully.

“I've got a photograph and a home address.”

“That's great, Alex.”

“Give me your address and I'll bike the information round.”

Solomon gave Knight Diane's address and said he'd give the courier a cheque.

“Do you need anything else?” asked Knight.

Solomon said he'd call if he did, then cut the connection and took out a microwave pizza.

He was eating the last piece when the doorbell rang. A motorcycle courier in black leather gave him an A4 envelope. He signed for it and handed over an envelope containing a cheque.

Inside the A4 envelope was a card with an address in Hampstead and three colour photographs of a man with a massive beer gut and squarish head, receding hair cut close to his skull. He had a small pig-like nose and thin bloodless lips. His eyes were hidden behind wire-framed sunglasses with circular lenses. In one of the photographs he was climbing into the back of what appeared to be a Bentley. It seemed to Solomon as if everyone involved in the London vice trade was making money hand over fist.

Another photograph had been taken in the street and Goncharov had his sunglasses in his hand. He was squinting across at a beautiful blonde woman, a good six inches taller than he was. She was wearing a yellow suit, whose skirt covered little of her long, shapely legs. Solomon looked at the back of the photograph. Two names and an address were scrawled on it: Sergei Goncharov and Anna Gregson, Warwick Road, Earl's Court. It must have been taken outside the Legal Escorts office.

Solomon phoned Inga. She said she was working but that she'd arrange for another girl to cover for her at the flat, she'd see him in an Italian restaurant close to the coffee bar in Wardour Street at nine o'clock that evening.

Solomon shaved and showered, taking care not to get his cast wet. He grinned at himself in the mirror as he towelled himself. He was behaving as if he was about to go on a date when in fact he was meeting his conduit to a violent pimp.

When Solomon arrived at the restaurant Inga was already sitting at a table studying a menu. She was wearing a black armless polo-neck sweater over which she'd hung a small gold crucifix on a gold chain, and a short black skirt. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail.

She smiled at him as he limped over to her table. He had abandoned the crutches and was using instead a wooden walking-stick that Diane had found in the attic.

“Do you have time to eat?” she asked.

“Of course,” said Solomon, lowering himself into the chair opposite her. The restaurant was called Luigi's and there were photographs of the owner and his celebrity friends on the walls. The tables were covered in starched white cloths and the waiters seemed to be the genuine article, chatting to each other in Italian when they weren't attending to customers.

Inga had a bottle of water in front of her and Solomon ordered a lager. He asked Inga if she wanted wine but she shook her head and said that she had to work later. She looked down as if embarrassed by the reminder of how she earned her living.

Solomon slipped the envelope across the table.

“This is the stuff for Sasha,” he said.

She put it into her bag.

“Thanks for coming to see me in hospital,” he said.

“That's okay.”

“And for the card. It was the only one I got.”

Inga brushed a lock of red hair away from her eyes.

“Don't you have family?”

Solomon wrinkled his nose.

“Not really. I've a brother but he's in America. I only see him every couple of years, if that.”

“What about your parents?”

“My father died when I was a teenager. He was a lorry driver and he drove off the road. He'd been working for almost twenty-four hours. The police said he'd probably fallen asleep.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“What about your mother?”

“Cancer. About five years after my dad's accident.”

“I am an orphan, too,” Inga said.

“What happened to your parents?”

“I don't know. I was taken to an orphanage when I was just a few months old.”

“No one told you what happened to them?”

“No one at the orphanage knew.”

“So you don't have anyone?”

Inga grimaced.

“I can take care of myself.”

Solomon knew that wasn't true. She was taking care of her pimp, not herself. A waiter brought over his lager and they ordered their food, spaghetti marinara for Inga, and lamb chops with rosemary for Solomon.

“Why don't you have a wife?” asked Inga.

Solomon broke a roll and popped a piece into his mouth. Inga waited until he'd finished chewing, then asked him again.

“I was married,” said Solomon.

“A long time ago.”

“What happened?”

Solomon reached for another piece of bread.

"You don't want to talk about it? said Inga.

“It's not something I'm proud of.”

“Because the marriage didn't work?”

“Sort of.”

He sipped his lager. Inga sat looking at him, waiting for him to speak. Solomon put down his glass.

“It's a long story.”

“We've got time.” Her chocolate brown eyes were still fixed on him.

He realised it was only the second time that he'd seen her without her protective sunglasses. The first time had been in the Soho flat and she'd been wearing the red bra, red stockings and red suspenders with little black bows on them.

“I got married when I was twenty-one,” he said ruefully, 'to my childhood sweetheart. We met at primary school." It had been years since he'd thought about his schooldays, he reflected.

“She became a teacher, pretty much supported us while I decided what I wanted to do. Then I joined the police. She put up with the shift work, the short haircut, the drinking binges when the stress got too much.”

“What was her name?”

“Jennifer.”

“She sounds like she was a good wife.”

“She was.”

“So what happened?”

The horror of what had happened washed over Solomon. Charlie's death wasn't something he'd talked about for a long, long time. And he wasn't sure that an Italian restaurant in Soho was the place to discuss it now. Or that Inga was the person to discuss it with.

“We had a daughter,” he said quietly.

“Her name was Charlotte. We called her Charlie.”

Inga reached across the table and took his hand. She stroked the palm with her thumb.

“She was a pretty child. Took after her mum.” Solomon felt tears prick his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“What happened?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” he said.

Inga continued to stroke his hand, and he closed his eyes.

Images of Charlie flashed through his mind: Charlie running towards him, her arms outstretched, begging to be picked up; Charlie sitting next to him as he read to her; Charlie baking cakes with Jennifer, flour on her cheeks; Charlie in his arms, covered with blood, her eyes closing.

“She died?” asked Inga.

Solomon opened his eyes. A tear trickled down his left cheek and he wiped it off with his shoulder.

“It was my fault,” he said.

“What happened?”

“I was taking her to school. We took it in turns depending on what shift I was working. I was in a hurry and everyone was double-parked near the school so I dropped her about a hundred yards away. I told her to be careful crossing the road.”

He closed his eyes again. More images. Charlie crossing the road, her little blue backpack bouncing between her shoulders. Turning to wave at him, laughing. Her hair blowing in the wind. The little teddy bear swinging from the backpack. The delivery van. The driver lighting a cigarette. Charlie laughing and waving. Then the sickening impact. Solomon running from his car, cradling Charlie in his arms. The van driving away.

“She was hit by a van,” said Solomon quietly.

“I don't think she knew what had happened. One minute she was in the middle of the road, the next she was on the pavement.”

“Oh, my God,” said Inga.

“The driver didn't stop. They never caught him. He'd stolen the van. It was full of mobile phones.”

“Jack, I'm so sorry.”

Solomon barely heard her.

“She was still alive, just about. I picked her up and she opened her eyes. She wanted to hold her teddy. There was a little one clipped to her backpack, she took it everywhere. I got her back into the car and one of the mothers drove us to the hospital. There was so much blood. All over her, all over me. The woman was banging on the horn and screaming at the cars to get out of the way. I kept telling Charlie that it was going to be okay, that I'd take care of her, but I knew that even if we'd got her to the hospital right away ...” Solomon couldn't say any more.

“It wasn't your fault,” said Inga.

“It was. If I'd parked closer to the school, if I'd walked her across the road, if I hadn't been waving to her .. .”

“You mustn't think that,” said Inga.

“She was your daughter and you loved her.”

“When she needed me most, I let her down.”

“Is that what your wife said?”

“She was right.”

Solomon felt another tear run down his cheek. He pulled his hand away from Inga's and brushed it away.

The food arrived and Solomon kept his head down so that the waiter couldn't see his face. Inga didn't say anything until the man had moved away. She leaned across the table and took his hand again. Solomon tried to pull it away but she held it tightly until he relaxed.

“I'm sorry, Inga,” he said.

“I don't know why I told you that.”

She let go of his hand.

“I don't think you've told anyone before, have you?”

“Not for a long time.” He picked up his knife and fork, then realised he had no appetite.

“Is that why your wife left you?”

“She blamed me. And she was right.”

“No, she wasn't. She might have been the one dropping your daughter off. She might have been the one waving.”

“No,” said Solomon sharply.

“That's the whole point. If Jennifer had been there, she'd have walked Charlie to the gate. If she'd been there, Charlie would still be alive.”

Inga didn't contradict him.

Solomon apologised again, and changed the subject.

“Come on, try your pasta,” he said.

They ate in silence. The waiters kept their distance as if they sensed the strained atmosphere. Solomon could barely taste his lamb. He put down his knife and fork.

“I didn't mean to snap at you.”

“I know,” she said.

“It was my fault for asking about your wife.”

“I guess we could start again,” he said.

“I'm glad you told me. It helps me understand you.”

“Why do you want to?”

“I told you at the hospital. I like you.”

Solomon tutted.

“You hardly know me.”

“Why would I say it if I didn't mean it?”

Solomon wanted to say that she was a prostitute, that it was her job to make men happy, to find out what they wanted and give it to them, but he forced the words back and smiled. He knew it was a poor effort.

“I don't want anything from you, if that's what you're worried about.”

“It's not that,” he said.

“What is it, then?”

Solomon opened his mouth to reply, but put a piece of lamb into it instead and chewed slowly.

Inga twirled spaghetti around her plate.

“What's in the envelope?” she asked.

“Is it okay to ask that?”

“Sasha didn't tell you?”

Inga shook her head. Red hair spilled across her face and she hooked it behind her ear.

“He just said I was to collect something from you. And that if you liked, I could have dinner with you.” She saw from the look on his face that that wasn't what he'd wanted to hear.

“He knew I hadn't eaten, that's all. He said there wouldn't be a problem if I was late back, that the girl who was at the flat would stay there until I arrived.”

“How does he treat you, generally?”

“He's fine.”

“Does he hurt you?”

She frowned at him.

“Why do you ask that?”

“I used to be a policeman, a long time ago. And I used to work Vice. I arrested pimps for beating up their girls. That's how they control them. If the girls aren't scared of their pimps, they wouldn't give them their money, would they?”

“I don't know,” she said quietly. She kept her head down as she toyed with her pasta.

“I guess I shouldn't be asking you about Sasha,” said Solomon.

“He doesn't like anyone talking about him,” she said. She looked up.

“It's hard to find things to talk about, isn't it? You don't like talking about what happened to you, I don't want to talk about what I'm doing now.” She put down her fork.

“Maybe I should go.”

“Please don't,” said Solomon quickly.

She bit her lower lip, then sipped her water.

“What do you want to do eventually?” asked Solomon.

“I'm not sure.”

“But you must have a dream. Something you really want to do.”

“I used to want to own a clothes shop. Maybe design my own clothes. I did drawings when I was younger, but they said I was wasting my time.”

“Who said that?”

“The people at the orphanage. They said I was wasting paper. They said I'd never be a designer, that I'd work on a farm or in a factory. But they were wrong. Now I'm in London and they're still working in the orphanage. They'll never have any money, they'll never travel. They'll never do anything with their lives.”

There was excitement in her eyes and her cheeks were flushed. Solomon wondered if she was right: maybe her life as a London prostitute was better than anything she could expect in eastern Europe. Why else would so many thousands of girls be willing to leave their homes to fill the west's brothels and saunas?

“But you're not saving money, are you? You said Sasha took it all.”

“Because he bought my contract. Once I've paid it off, I'll be able to save.”

“When will you have paid it off?”

Inga shrugged.

“That's up to Sasha. But we said we wouldn't talk about him, remember?”

After the meal, Inga and Solomon waited for a black cab on the pavement. They were few and far between and it was a good ten minutes before they saw one with its amber light on.

“We should share,” she said.

“I've got to go to Clapham,” he said.

“What about you?”

She slipped her arm through his.

“I'll come with you,” she said.

They climbed into the black cab. It was a twenty-minute drive to Diane and Sean's house, and they didn't speak again until Solomon had paid the driver and they were standing alone on the pavement.

“Inga, this isn't my house,” he said.

“I'm staying with friends.”

“Are they in?” she asked.

The house was in darkness: Diane had said that she and Sean would be out for most of the evening at a pub quiz.

“I don't think so,” he said.

She looked at him expectantly. At some point during the evening she'd loosened her hair and it rippled in the light breeze as she waited for him to reach a decision. Solomon wanted to ask her if it was her idea or Sasha's, but instead he smiled and put his arm around her. She nestled against him and kissed his neck, then tilted her head until her lips found his. They stood on the doorstep kissing, then Solomon broke away.

“God knows what the neighbours are going to think.” He laughed.

“They'll think we are kissing, that's all,” said Inga.

She ran her hands down between his shoulder-blades as he unlocked the door. As soon as they were inside she kissed him again, softly at first and then with more passion. He dropped his walking-stick and she bent down to retrieve it for him.

“The plaster cast's going to make things awkward,” he said.

“Don't worry,” she said.

“I wasn't planning any gymnastics.”

Solomon fumbled for the door to the front room and they stumbled over to the bed. She helped him undress, then stripped off her clothes and crawled on to the bed next to him.

“I'm a bit limited,” said Solomon.

"Position wise'.

“This is fine,” she whispered, and slipped on top of him.

Later, Solomon heard Diane and Sean come in, stumble up the stairs and collapse into bed.

He chuckled.

“I hope we didn't make so much noise,” he said.

Inga snuggled against him.

“I'd better go,” she said.

Solomon stroked her hair.

“I suppose so,” he said. He doubted that either Diane or Sean would object to him bringing someone back to the house, but he didn't want to explain who Inga was or how he'd met her.

“I can see you again, right?” he said.

“Of course, ”she said.

“Sasha won't mind?”

“I won't tell him,” she said, sitting up and running her hands through her hair, 'but I have to work every day, you know that."

He rolled over and watched her as she dressed. She turned her back on him, and he laughed.

She looked over her shoulder at him as she pulled on her skirt.

“What are you laughing at?” she asked.

“You,” he said.

“After everything we've just done, you're still shy.”

“I'm not,” she said, but she kept her back to him as she continued to dress.

“When are you working again?” he asked.

“I don't want to think about that. It'll spoil what we just had.”

Solomon knew what she meant. The evening had been magical, but it had been an interlude, nothing else. Inga was a prostitute beholden to an Albanian pimp, and Solomon knew he'd be a fool to imagine that the relationship could go anywhere. But that didn't stop him caring about her. Or wanting to see her again. The problem was, next time he saw her would he have to pay her? And if he offered to see her outside work, would she think he was trying to get her on the cheap? It was a minefield. He decided to let things take their course. It would be up to her to make the next move.

“I'll show you out,” he said.

“If you go clumping around in your cast they're bound to hear you,” she laughed.

“Let's try to salvage some of your reputation.”

Solomon lay back on the bed, and she bent over him. She kissed him long and hard on the mouth, ruffled his hair, slipped out of the room and let herself out of the front door.

The Mercedes was waiting for her down the street. The rear door opened as she got closer and she climbed in.

“How was it?” asked Sasha.

Inga took the envelope out of her bag and handed it to him. He opened it, took out the photographs and the card.

“You didn't answer my question,” he said, as he studied the contents of the envelope.

“He's a nice man.”

Sasha slid the photographs and the card back into the envelope.

“Don't get too attached,” he said.

“I won't,” said Inga, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. She turned her head so that Sasha wouldn't see her cry.

Sasha climbed out of the back of the Mercedes. Karic and Rikki followed him down the rutted track to the metal-sided barn. The sun was about to dip below the horizon but the moon was already up. An owl hooted in the distance. Sasha had been brought up on a farm in Kosovo but he hated the countryside, hated the animals, the dirt, the wind. He preferred cities, but some things were better done in the countryside, away from nosy neighbours. He turned up the collar of his leather jacket and put on a pair of black goatskin gloves.

One of his men held open the door. Sasha nodded curtly and went inside.

Goncharov was in the middle of the barn, his hands chained to a metal girder high above his head. He was naked, his clothes and shoes in an untidy pile some distance away. Two more of Sasha's men stood behind the Russian. One was holding a pitchfork.

The Russian's arms were stretched tight and he was up on his toes. Every few seconds he shuffled around to regain his balance. Sweat was pouring off him, even though there was a chill in the air. There were no bruises or cuts on his body: there had been no need for violence.

Goncharov glared at Sasha.

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.

Karic and Rikki came up behind Sasha and stood there with their arms folded.

“I need one thing from you, and then we can all go home,” said Sasha.

“The Kosovar girl who worked for you. She used the name Amy. You moved her off the website after your men went to kill the Englishman. Where is she?”

“What is it with this bloody girl? The whole world's after her.”

“All you've got to worry about is me,” said Sasha.

The man with the pitchfork used it to prod the Russian in the back. He tottered forward, then regained his balance.

“She's gone,” said Goncharov.

“She's fucking gone.”

“Where?”

“Sarajevo.”

“Why?”

Goncharov closed his eyes. His beer gut was hanging down over his legs, a mass of flesh that wobbled every time he moved. He was surprisingly hairless and his skin was as white and smooth as boiled chicken.

A mobile phone rang. Sasha looked around at Karic and Rikki, but they shook their heads. Sasha realised that the sound was coming from the Russian's clothes. He grinned at Goncharov.

“That'll be your men, wondering where you are.” He spoke to the man with the pitchfork: “Any problems?”

The man shook his head.

“Two men in a car outside his house. We left them in the boot.”

“No family?”

“Two hookers in an upstairs bedroom. There was all sorts of bondage gear so we left them strung up.”

The phone stopped ringing.

“You sent your men to kill the Englishman,” Sasha said to Goncharov.

“Why?”

“I was doing a favour for a friend.”

“Who?”

Goncharov sneered at Sasha.

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.

Sasha took two quick steps forward and slapped the Russian across the face. His bottom lip split and blood sprayed across his chin.

“I'm not here to answer your questions, you piece of shit. Now, who wanted the Englishman shot?”

“The man who sold me the girl. Ivan Petrovic. He's in Sarajevo.”

“He wanted the Englishman killed?”

“And the girl sent back.”

“Do you know what he planned to do with her?”

Goncharov shook his head. Blood dripped down his chin and plopped on to his heaving chest. The mobile phone started to ring again.

“Who is this Petrovic?”

“A Bosnian Serb. He runs bars and brothels in Bosnia. Some drugs. He sells girls.”

“For your agency?”

Goncharov nodded.

“You didn't kill the Englishman. Were you going to try again?”

Goncharov spat bloody phlegm to the floor.

“Petrovic said we'd done enough.”

The insistent ringing began to annoy Sasha. He walked over to the pile of clothes, pulled out the mobile phone and stamped on it. Then went back to the Russian and folded his arms across his chest.

“The Englishman is a friend of mine,” he said quietly.

“It wasn't personal,” said Goncharov.

“I was paid.”

Sasha gazed at him. Goncharov stared back. There was no fear in the Russian's eyes, Sasha saw. Not even anger. He weighed up his options. He could have the man killed, there and then, just by giving the word. The farm they were on had been sold a few weeks earlier and was deserted. An agricultural conglomerate had bought it from a bankrupt sheep farmer. They were buying up a number of farms in the area and wouldn't move in until they had enough acreage to make it worth while. By then any trace of the Russian's grave would be long gone. Nor did Sasha have any qualms about killing. He'd done it before and he would do it again.

But, as Goncharov had said, it had been business, and Sasha understood about business. He also understood about revenge, and he had no way of knowing who might want to avenge the death of the man hanging from the girder. But what if he spared the Russian? Would Goncharov take that as a sign of weakness and wreak his own revenge?

“Your friend is under no threat from me,” said Goncharov, as if he had read Sasha's thoughts.

“But I realise that you have options.”

“And you know what those options are?”

Goncharov nodded.

“If I release you, what will you do?”

The Russian's eyes fixed on Sasha's. There was still no fear.

“I have a business to run,” said Goncharov.

“You would not come looking for me?”

The Russian snorted.

“If I did, you seem well protected. And I've come to realise that my men are not all that they might be.” Sasha's face remained impassive.

“No,” said Goncharov.

“I would not come looking for you.”

“And you would not tell Petrovic of our conversation?”

“My relationship with him is purely business. And it was doing him a favour that has put me in this position. I owe him nothing.”

Sasha looked deep into the Russian's eyes. He could see no guile, no sign that the man was lying. They were both professionals and London was a big city. Business was business: there was no need to go to war over a single hooker.

“I apologise for hitting you,” Sasha said.

“No offence taken,” said the Russian.

Sasha nodded and walked away. Karic and Rikki fell into step behind him.

“Untie him and take him home,” Sasha said, to the man by the door.

Solomon's mobile rang and he leaned out of bed to pick it up.

It was Sasha, and it was two o'clock in the morning.

“The girl is back in Bosnia,” he said.

“Damn,” said Solomon.

“She was on a plane back to Sarajevo right after they shot you.”

“So she must have been in on it?”

“Either that or they wanted her out of the way.”

“You spoke to Goncharov?”

“We had a conversation, yes, but he didn't know much.”

“He sent the men to kill me?” asked Solomon.

“Yes, but he was doing it for a pimp in Sarajevo. Ivan Petrovic. You know him?”

“He's the guy who employed Nicole in Sarajevo.” Solomon didn't want to tell Sasha what he had done to Petrovic.

“Goncharov says they won't be coming after you again.”

“And what about Nicole?”

“He sent her back to Petrovic.”

Solomon cursed.

“What do you want to do?” asked Sasha.

“What do you mean? She's gone.”

“She's in Sarajevo. She wouldn't be hard to find.”

Solomon had only been asleep for an hour and he felt bone-weary.

“Petrovic traffics in girls. He could have sent her anywhere in Europe.”