Trafficked

‘We’ve drawn a blank. We’ve been out searching all vacant, newly rented properties in a ten-mile radius—so far, nothing. She could have gone anywhere from there. There are links to motorways north and south. She wasn’t reported missing until Sunday evening—that’s thirty-six hours after she left. She could be anywhere.’

‘She wouldn’t be being held where there are large groups of Chinese—she’s much too hot a property. There would be quite a few people eager to ingratiate themselves with CK and tell him who’s got her. She would be hidden somewhere nondescript, a bland mix of cultures. Maybe a satellite town or a new vertical village somewhere where people are anonymous. Do you have good undercover agents in Chinatown?’

‘One really good one called Micky. He’s infiltrated the Flying Dragons. He’s been undercover for two years now. He doesn’t break his cover for anyone and he keeps in touch by phone. I already talked to him, told him you were coming. He has no news about her whereabouts but says the feeling is that this isn’t a home-grown problem—it goes back to Hong Kong.’ Becky turned the radio off. She was perking up, the coffee had worked. ‘Were you born here?’

‘No. I am a Hong Konger, a Eurasian—half Chinese, half British. But I spent the best years of my life here, although you know that anyway—you’ve seen my stats.’ He grinned.

‘I only know the official stuff, plus I found out a bit on the grapevine. Micky told me a few interesting facts, he knew all about you. I guess as we are going to be working together for a while I will have plenty of time to fill in the gaps.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Mann.

She gave him a sidelong glance and giggled, embarrassed.

‘But, you’re kidding, the best years of your life, really?’

‘School—didn’t you like yours?’

‘Nope…Couldn’t wait to leave.’

‘Where did you grow up?’

‘Islington—where I still live. Bought a flat there three years ago—in Highbury. Went to a local girls’ school—I did okay, but I didn’t enjoy it. I was a sporty kid. We didn’t have the provisions for that in the inner city. I beat all the boys at their school when it came to cricket practice.’

‘I noticed the bowling action with the bun, back in the car park.’

‘Yeah, the trouble is all we ever did was practice. I did swim for the borough. I still keep my hand in—still go to the gym, swim a few times a week.’

‘Is that what keeps you sane outside work?’

‘Yes, plus I help out at a youth rehabilitation centre for young addicts and homeless women. I teach self-defence to the women. It’s a major problem for them on the streets. They get attacked all the time, raped. I try to teach them how to diffuse it and, if they can’t, how to defend themselves.’

‘How long have you been in the police force?’

‘Since I left uni. I did a degree in psychology. Then I joined the police force.’

‘Been married long?’

‘Ten years.’

‘What does your husband do? Is he in the force?’

‘Huh! That would never suit him. No, he’s one of those entrepreneurial types; never quite know what he’ll try next. At the moment, amongst a million other things, he is helping out a friend and running a language school. Don’t ask me what the other things are!’

No sticky fingers on the dashboard. The car was tidy, neat, uncluttered—no kids, thought Mann.

‘Actually, Al has a relative in Hong Kong.’

Mann looked at her and grinned.

‘You’re going to ask me if I know him, right?’

She gave that deep chuckle again; she still had a lot of the child left in her, thought Mann.

‘Maybe. And you?’

‘Marriage, you mean? Never felt the need. No kids. No commitment. Better that way.’ Mann closed his eyes for a few seconds and leaned his head back onto the headrest.

Becky put a CD on—a homemade compilation that was a strange mix of dance hits and soul—reggae and Leonard Cohen.

Helen came into Mann’s head. The film of her being tortured, the sound of her screams. His eyes snapped open.

‘Eclectic tastes,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the sound system.

‘Not mine—my husband Alex’s—he loves Leonard Cohen. I don’t—so miserable. The dance tracks are mine. We are…very different. God knows how we ended up together. Chalk and cheese.’ Her laugh disappeared into the air, ‘So, no wife hidden away? No long-term girlfriend?’ She nodded her head knowingly. ‘A bit of a Jack the lad—obviously.’ She flashed him a mischievous look.

‘I prefer to keep my options open, let’s put it that way. But I have a few ground rules.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me…’

‘No little girls lost. No newly divorced and still bitter. And absolutely no married women.’ He grinned at her.

She smiled, despite trying not to, and blushed again.

‘Like I said! Jack the lad.’ She hummed along to Shakira.

They turned through the impressive school gates and followed a narrow winding road that was signposted to the main building and the visitors’ car park. Ahead of them was a once-magnificent estate, now a very prestigious school.

‘Great place,’ said Mann.

‘It’s a former stately home, parts of it dating back to the sixteenth century. It stands in a hundred acres.’

‘Let’s just drive around first. Are there any other exits by car?’

‘No. All traffic comes in one way and goes out the same way. Behind the school are the playing fields. You can only exit there on foot.’

‘Let’s see how many other car park options there are.’

They drove past the visitors’ allotted spaces and through a narrow section that opened out to a small lawn area and two large boarding houses. It was rush hour—eight-thirty lessons were about to start and there was the inevitable panic to make it to class on time. They waited whilst the last of the children dropped books, tucked shirts in and scrambled past on their way to lessons. Past the houses, at the end of the road on the right, was a larger overflow car park for teachers and match days. They turned the car round and headed back to the visitors’ area at the side of the main entrance, parked and sat. A sudden stillness had descended on the place as the frantic rush to lessons on time was over. There was not a child to be seen. A teacher, dressed in a tracksuit with a whistle around his neck, passed and smiled in at them. Becky smiled back and whispered under her breath.

‘Like I said, this place isn’t exactly a fortress. Nobody has asked us who we are or what we’re doing here.’

‘It would have been really easy for him to check this place out first. All he needed to do was come at rush hour, like we have.’ They watched the sports teacher disappear up a few steps and into a side entrance. ‘There’s not even any need to use the main entrance. All the action seems to come and go from over there.’ He gestured towards the disappearing teacher. ‘You ready? Let’s go.’

They left the car and walked around to the front of the building, up the impressive sweep of granite steps and through a carved arched doorway. Then they followed the signs to reception. A charming receptionist—beautifully spoken, impeccably polite—asked them to sit whilst she went to find the headmaster’s secretary. Two minutes later both women reappeared and the detectives were led to the headmaster’s suite to wait. They skimmed through the usual literature about the school, the current glossy magazine full of sixth-formers’ excursions to South America and poems by a six-year-old genius.

‘Anything of Amy Tang’s in here?’ asked Becky.

The room was filled with the sound of the secretary’s rustling skirt as she came bustling around from behind her desk. ‘I’m not actually sure. Let me see. Amy is a fourth-former and I know she loves art.’ She flicked through the magazine till she reached the photos of the art exhibition. She scanned the page. ‘No. She doesn’t appear to have any work in this issue. But I know she helped with these.’ She went over to a tabletop covered in various items: raffia bags, string baskets, and macramé jewellery. ‘The children learned how to make these wonderful things from a Fair Trade organisation that came over from the Philippines. They were here a few months ago. I know that Amy attended every class and produced some lovely pieces. She is such a nice little girl, quiet, thoughtful, resilient. The whole school is in shock. We just can’t believe…’

The door opened and the headmaster floated in, his black gown billowing out around him. He introduced himself as Mr Roberts.

Shit! thought Mann. He’s about the same age as me! Headmasters are supposed to be old and crusty. When did this happen?

They all went into his study. Mr Roberts closed the doors behind him and asked them to sit. They declined his offer. The headmaster went to stand by the fireplace. It was obviously his favourite posing place. Behind him there were numerous photos of him shaking hands and smiling with famous speakers who had come to impart their wisdom to the pupils. He didn’t look like such a happy man today, though.

‘Thank you for seeing us, Mr Roberts. My name is Inspector Mann of the Hong Kong Police. I am here to assist the Metropolitan Police in the investigation into Amy Tang’s disappearance. Could you tell me what kind of checking procedure is in place for exeat requests and who is responsible for making sure the request is genuine? I appreciate you have told others but I would like to hear it from you.’

‘I am happy to help, so far as I can. I will do anything to get the child back. Her loss would be disastrous for the school. Most of our income comes from overseas children. It would be catastrophic if this situation were not resolved expediently and satisfactorily.’

Becky and Mann exchanged glances. The headmaster was not making the best of impressions.

‘Sometimes the child will tell us that they have been invited somewhere, then we ask for it to come in writing in some form or another—an email has become an acceptable method. If we do not know the person then the usual thing is for the housemistress or master to contact them to ensure that they are prepared to take full responsibility for the wellbeing of that child whilst they are off school grounds. If we are satisfied that all is in order we authorise.’

‘The child is collected from where? This office?’

‘No, not generally. Ordinarily, the child has been invited to go with another pupil and is simply picked up at the same time. It’s always on a Saturday after the matches and match teas are done. The children tend to gather in the various common rooms. Those that have an exeat get picked up from there.’

‘And in Amy’s case?’

‘The request came in email form. I have it here.’ He handed it to Mann. ‘I believe she received a text telling her to meet her host at the side entrance that leads to the car park.’

‘And in between those two things? Who phoned and checked this person out?’

‘I am afraid it wasn’t done. The housemistress forgot to do it. She has been having some personal problems recently and…’

‘So none of your staff got a look at the person?’

‘No. I’m afraid not. Can I just say that we have never encountered a problem of this type before. We would expect to be confident that the child was going home with someone they knew. Amy is twelve. We expect the child to be quite responsible by that age.’

Mann was not warming to Mr Roberts.

‘What would have been going on at the school at that time?’

‘It was Saturday afternoon so all the pupils would have finished morning lessons. They would have been either at sports matches—playing games against other schools—or unwinding in common rooms.’

‘Do you have a photo of Amy?’

‘Yes.’ Headmaster Roberts went to his desk, dug into a file, and produced one standard Christmas shot for the child to take home to the parents in the holidays. He also had one of her and the other four members of the school chess club. The third picture was of Amy holding a picture she had drawn. It had runner up written beneath it. She was short and square—a plain child with glasses and a mouth full of braces.

‘So, what kind of child would you say Amy is? Would she go with someone she didn’t know? Someone she didn’t feel comfortable with?’ asked Becky.

Mr Roberts screwed up his face ‘It’s always possible. She wasn’t so much of a loner, but she is self-contained—she is happy to go along with things. She is used to a system. She doesn’t often step outside that. She’s been boarding here since she was six. It was the first time she had ever had an exeat in all those years.’

They left the headmaster’s study and turned to walk down the long, straight, flagstone corridor that led through the two sets of fire doors to the side entrance and the visitors’ car park.

‘So this is where the girls saw her?’ asked Mann as they stopped just inside the side exit. ‘Strange that none of them got a good look at him. Did they say if he was English? Chinese? Did he have a beard? Was he bald?’

‘I’m afraid they didn’t take much notice. They were on their way to tea after a hard-fought netball match. They were hungry.’

‘Not the kind of child that stuck out then?’ Becky asked.

‘I suppose not, but she is a contented child—solid. She has her friends in the chess club. She is never alone for long.’

They moved outside to the top of the steps.

‘One last thing.’ Mann turned to Mr Roberts before leaving. ‘Have you heard of CK Leung?’

Mr Roberts shook his head. ‘We always dealt with Amy’s mother.’

‘Thought so…You’d have taken better care of his daughter if you had.’

17

They spent the afternoon at the office in south London. The building had been constructed in the sixties and hadn’t been refurbished properly since then. It was seriously jaded: polystyrene ceiling tiles on the linoleum flooring. It was a warren of small offices and long corridors.

Becky worked in a unit of ten. Her usual partner was Sergeant Jimmy Vance. He looked like a seventies cop: his hair was dangerously close to being a mullet, short on the top, long on the sides, and he wore brown slacks and a paisley shirt. There were sixty others in the SOCO department, most of whom were working on the kidnapping.

Superintendent Proctor called Mann into his office to welcome him and have a one-to-one. Proctor was a tall, long-legged man with a head of short-cropped wavy silver hair. He thanked Mann for coming and asked him to pull up a chair.

‘Sorry about the state of this place. We are waiting to be relocated to a purpose-built office a few miles away.’ He had a straight-talking Yorkshire accent. ‘We have assigned DC Becky Stamp to be your partner whilst you are here because we feel she has the insight into the case you are looking for. She was instrumental in finding out about the other kidnaps, befriending and liaising with the Chinese parents in those cases, and we are fortunate she managed to get the information she did—as you know, the Chinese community often chooses to keep itself to itself.’

‘I’m sure we will work well together. She seems very competent, thank you.’

‘We will be happy to cooperate with any line of inquiry you wish to pursue. Our sole aim is to get this girl back. We have allotted you an office, but basically we will meet here every morning and keep in touch by phone throughout the day. I don’t expect you to be here more than you have to, but I do expect to be kept informed night and day. I hear that you are a man who likes to do things his own way—I have no problem with that, so long as you run things past me first.’

Mann thanked Proctor for his support whilst thinking, Don’t hold your breath. I’ll phone when I want something—till then, don’t expect to see me.

Jimmy Vance was waiting for Mann in the corridor outside. He pulled him to one side and grinned at Mann.

‘Watch her—she doesn’t take prisoners.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘Another thing…’ He leaned in to say what he had really come to say—the reason why he was waiting for Mann in the corridor. The smile disappeared. ‘…her husband, Alex, watch him. Becky knows how I feel about him—he’s a nasty bastard. He was done for GBH when he was young. Beat the other guy with an iron rod and almost killed him and it wasn’t for lack of trying, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t put it past him to knock her about. She’s like so many strong women. She’s tough at work and soft at home…

Jimmy was all set to open the floodgates of information when Becky came looking for her new partner.

‘Not telling tales on me, are you, Jimmy?’

He held his hands up in a ‘Who me?’ gesture and grinned.

‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’ Jimmy stood and watched them leave.

‘He’s a nice guy,’ said Becky. ‘I am really fond of him but he doesn’t have a family, just a dog, and he has adopted me to worry about.’ She gave Mann a sidelong glance that said she could guess what Vance had said. ‘He really doesn’t like my husband.’

‘Really? He never said.’ Mann shook his head. They headed out towards the car park. By the time Mann got back to his accommodation at six he felt the jetlag hit. It was a beautiful Georgian terrace at the top of Highbury Fields. He thanked Becky for the lift and got out of the car.

‘See you for dinner at eight.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be there.’

He left her and went inside. She had done a good job choosing the accommodation for him. He met the landlady, exchanged pleasantries and went to his room. It was spacious, crisp, cool, and genteel; it overlooked the front of the house and the top of Highbury Fields. There was a double bed—clean, starchy sheets, duck-down duvet. There was a small lounge area, two chairs and a coffee table. It had Earl Grey tea in the complementary tea service. There were real plants in the large en suite bathroom and a stack of towels on a rail in the corner.

Mann felt a tinge of nostalgia as he stood by the sash windows and looked out of the windows down onto Highbury Fields below. It was a picture-postcard of London in spring: new pea-green grass was sprouting at the base of trees in full bud. A steady stream of commuters were walking home and women were pushing buggies, with toddlers running alongside; a smoker sat on a bench enjoying the last of the spring light. He lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. He thought about Georgina. She had been on his mind ever since he landed on UK soil. She wasn’t far away. He could get on a train, go down to Devon and see her. He wondered if she was still on the same number. He got out his phone and scrolled through the list. There she was—just seeing her name made him feel strange. He hadn’t gone to dial her number for three months. His finger hovered over the call button but then he snapped the phone shut—now was not the time.

Mann unpacked and laid everything out on the bed. He had brought two suits with him—three white and two blue shirts, four white and four black T-shirts and a pair of jeans. He had also brought a light cashmere overcoat. Mann chose his clothes carefully. He chose his weapons the same way—handmade, bespoke.

He took them out of their leather pouches and laid them on the bed.

Mann had been collecting and customising triad weapons for fifteen years, ever since he had had his cheek sliced by one. It was a shuriken—an adaptation of a throwing star—and it had spun across his face, cutting a crescent-moon-shaped groove where the skin stretched tightest across his left cheekbone. The scar had done him no harm. The shuriken that had caused it fascinated him. Shuriken meant ‘hidden in the hand’ and was a collective term for sharp things that could be thrown: knives, spikes and throwing stars. Now Mann had added a few variations of his own. He preferred them to a gun: they were silent, just as deadly, but also served to maim rather than kill if chosen and they were objects of beauty and precise engineering. They could arc in the air, spin and curve around and over a building. They could kill an enemy even though he could not be seen. Each blade had its speciality. Each type was of a different weight, different thickness and needed different handling.

He unwrapped five double-ended throwing spikes, six inches long, five millimetres thick, from their cloth rolls, and strapped them onto a holster around his arm. They were for pinning down an opponent, disabling him, not necessarily killing him. Next he chose a set of medium-sized stars, each one a slightly different shape but all of the same weight so that he could stack them in his left hand and pass quickly to his right to throw them in quick succession or sometimes all eight at once.

Each of Mann’s weapon sets had a pouch all of their own, but one weapon had a pouch all to itself. The Death Star—DS—was six inches in diameter, heavier than any other throwing star. Reinforced with steel rivets, its four points were curved and along its razor-sharp lengths were small teeth. It was a deadly thing of beauty that could cut through muscle and splinter bone. It was a perfect decapitating tool.

But Mann’s favourite was a multipurpose shuriken: simple to look at, a thin nine-inch dagger, tassel-ended for fast retrieval and for continuous hits. It could be thrown or used for close combat. Its name was Delilah. He kept Delilah separate from the others in a discreet holster that he could tie around his wrist so that the blade was hidden inside his shirt, or around his calf so that it was hidden in his boot. Today he tucked Delilah into his boot.

Mann picked up his phone and looked up a number. It took a few seconds to get through.

‘What’s the matter with you? Thought you would have got yourself a Labrador and trained it to bring you your slippers by now.’

‘Very bloody funny,’ David White answered.

‘You okay?’

‘I tell you, Johnny, I’m not ready for this retirement game. It’s too cold here. Can’t see me staying in England for long. Maybe I’ll head to Spain and start a new life dating widows.’

‘I’m sorry it ended up like this, David, I’m sorry for my part in it.’

Mann had known White all his life. He had been a friend of Mann’s father, and when his father was murdered White took on the role of keeping an eye on Johnny.

By the time White had left the Hong Kong police force the once-big man rattled around in his uniform. The end had not been gentle; he hadn’t been eased into retirement. His association with Mann, and Mann’s disregard for orders, had cost him dearly, and White had jumped before he was pushed. White had disregarded orders and helped Mann to bring his kind of justice on Chan, CK’s son-in-law. Everyone knew it was never going to happen otherwise. There were too many people pulling strings at the top. The only way justice was ever going to get done was Mann’s way—but it wasn’t popular.

‘Don’t be…We took a few heads with us. Besides, Johnny, I’d rather go out this way than just fade away. It’s a pity we never got CK, but there we are—his time will come.’

‘Maybe it has already. The case I’ve been sent over to help with…it involves CK. His daughter, by a girlfriend, has been kidnapped from a school in Hertfordshire. He paid the ransom but they haven’t given her back. It looks less and less likely that they intend to. We don’t even know whether she is still alive, or, if she is, whether she is still in the country. We are linking her abduction to the birth of a new trafficking society—a super group—bigger than the rest. Bigger than anything we’ve ever seen before. Stevie is involved, that’s for sure, but we don’t know how involved yet. It looks as if the group intends to go for immediate dominance over the others. It must have some serious money and connections. They are muscling in on all aspects of the sex industry in the Philippines, buying up every available beach resort.’

‘Let me help you with the case.’

‘Sure, if you want to, you can put your Internet skills to use and find out more about the new trafficking ring. Who’s offering brand-new deals for sex perverts? Who’s got the hottest deals on paedophile holidays? Still want the job? Will you be able to do it undercover? I don’t want to read about an ex-cop up on paedophile charges.’