Читать книгу Trafficked - Lee Weeks - Страница 21

Mann made his way through Heathrow, picked up his small suitcase and headed out through ‘Nothing to Declare’, where he was handed his weapons’ case, which had been carried separately, locked away in the hold, before he followed the signs for the exit.

The ragged line of people holding cards up behind the flimsy barrier looked hopefully at Mann. He had reached the end of the line when a short-haired blonde woman in her early thirties wearing dark trousers and a slim-fitting brown shirt rushed up to him, coffee cup in one hand and a sticky bun in the other.

‘Detective Inspector Mann?’

He nodded.

She introduced herself. ‘DC Rebecca Stamp, but you can call me Becky. You hungry? Need to stop for a coffee? Long flight?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. I slept well. Lead the way.’

He followed her through to the car park. He watched her as she strode along beside him. She had that athletic gait that policewomen had, as if she were marching along with a rucksack on her back. Women competing in a male-dominated world didn’t lose their femininity, it just changed—became more assertive—showed they knew what they wanted and how to get it. She was no more than five foot two and came to just under his shoulder, but she wasn’t one of those women you should offer to reach things for.

She was still holding her bun in one hand and her coffee in the other when they arrived at level three of the short-stay car park. They stopped at a black Audi A2. She put her coffee on the roof whilst she looked for her keys.

‘Shit! Sorry, my keys are somewhere. I had them in my hand a minute ago.’ She put the bun in her mouth whilst she searched.

‘Left-hand jacket pocket.’

She stopped and looked at him incredulously before aiming the rest of the bun at a bin ten feet away and scoring a direct hit.

‘Thanks.’

She unlocked the car and got in, put her coffee in the cup holder in the centre of the red leather dashboard and started the engine. She switched the Bose sound system on and drove out of the car park.

‘Thanks for picking me up,’ Mann said.

She turned to look at him. He smiled.

‘That’s okay…you’re welcome.’

‘Did you have trouble recognising me?’

She giggled—deep and throaty, dirty, almost. She had a lovely broad mouth, strong laughter lines—a healthy tom-boy beach-babe look. She looked like she would be the last girl left at the campfire, drinking beer with the boys, long after the other girls had gone to bed.

‘Six foot, Eurasian, snazzy dresser—no trouble. I did my research. I have booked you into a B&B near to where I live. I thought it would make sense for us to be close.’

‘Sounds great.’ He gave her a mischievous smile.

‘Chief Inspector Procter—he’s the man in charge of the kidnapping—wants to see you as soon as poss. I said I would fill you in on the way to the school. Then we go and meet the rest of the team. Hope that’s okay?’

‘It all sounds good. I bet the rest of the team can’t wait.’

She swung him a look to check if he was joking, saw that he was and broke into that deep, rich laugh again. Her eyebrows and her eyes were a few shades darker than her hair, he noticed, which was the colour of gold, and her eyes were fringed with long, dark lashes. It gave her a striking Northern Italian look. She wore no makeup.

‘Yeah, right! Pleased as punch. No one’s quite figured out who asked for you. We didn’t think we needed help.’

‘Don’t worry. I didn’t want to come. Offer I couldn’t refuse—that kind of thing. But it’s nice to be here.’ He looked wistfully out of the window. It was early and the air had that spring brightness, that expectancy to it that the sky was just waiting to burn off the morning haze and reveal a blue day. The roads were also just beginning to get choked with commuter traffic. ‘I haven’t been back here for a long time—too long.’ Mann stared out of the window. ‘Where are we going first?’

‘The school in Rickmansworth. In this traffic it should take us about an hour.’

‘You’ve been out there already; what was your impression?’

‘Posh school…awfully nice people but clueless. Let her walk out with a complete stranger. We get to see the Head at ten, thought you’d like to look around first.’

‘Did you work on the other kidnappings?’

‘Yes and no. We didn’t even know about them till after the event. When Amy Tang went missing we sent out an alert around the boarding schools with Chinese kids. We got some information back about the abduction of two others—both boys, from two separate schools on the outskirts of London. One was ten, the other was twelve. Both were released after the ransom was paid.’

‘Big money paid to release them?’

‘Two million US each.’

‘How did the ransom demands come?’

‘All the same way—by email, via one of those scam sites for claiming an inheritance that you never knew you had.’

‘Has it been traced?’

‘We’re still working on it. Someone knows his computers. He sent it around the world first. It came back with the logo of a bogus company plastered on it—BLANCO. We checked it out—there are a lot of companies called that, unsurprisingly. We traced it back to a Nigerian working in a taxi rank—he didn’t have a clue how someone got hold of his dodgy identity. We decided it was a red herring.’

‘Where was the money dropped?’

‘In all three cases it was a different route, but same method. In Amy Tang’s case it was dropped in a bin off Gerrard Street in Chinatown.’

‘By whom?’

‘By an employee of CK’s, apparently, no one knows who. Getting cooperation from any of the Chinese families has been very hard. They would rather just pay up and shut up. A local crack addict was then paid to pick it up; he gave it to a lad on a courier bike and we think the courier had it taken off him at some lights. I don’t know whether that was the end of the chain or not. It was elaborate and it worked. We lost it. We only got that much from CCTV footage.’

‘Did he use the same method of abduction? Was it always the same man?’

‘Hundred per cent it’s the same man, though he was more cautious with the first two abductions. But the emails were written by the same person. The collection was virtually the same.’

‘Were the other children able to give a description of him or where they were held?’

‘No, they said they were kept blindfolded and that they slept a lot. Must have been kept sedated.’

‘Did the others have triad links?’

‘Both kids were from Mainland China—mega-wealthy parents but no direct triad links that we could find. The usual suspect business partners along the way, but nothing obvious.’

Becky beeped hard at a green MG that cut her up. Mann smiled to himself—he could see that she loved her car. She whizzed in and out of the traffic and she drove it with a passion—like a man—hard on the revs, aggressive, unapologetically.

‘How’s the investigation going?’

‘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.’