Dead of Winter Tr (16 page)

Carmichael looked across at the bar. Ray the barman was talking to a man sitting on a bar stool who was rhythmically swilling the contents of his brandy glass as he turned his head and watched
Carmichael and Digger in conversation.

Digger sat back in the seat. He stretched out an arm on the back of the alcove as he sipped his Scotch.

‘You come highly recommended, Mr Hart. I hear you’re interested in recruiting dancers? You want to join our network?’

‘Yes. That’s right.’

‘Have you got the premises?’ Carmichael sat back. Digger continued: ‘I looked at your club. You had trouble in the past; you lost your licence?’

‘Not me. It belonged to others. They got careless. They irritated the wrong people and weren’t respectful to the right ones. I’ve made sure it won’t happen again. This is
a fresh start, a brand-new venture, and I don’t foresee any problems with licensing restrictions or visas. The local police and I have come to an arrangement. I am paying into their pension
plan.’

Digger gave a gesture of approval. ‘And . . . the last owners? What happened to them?’ He fixed Carmichael with a look that said he already knew the answer but wanted to see if
Carmichael would lie to him.

‘They flew back to Sarajevo, in the hold.’

‘What if I said they were friends of mine?’ Digger eyeballed him.

Carmichael leaned forward and picked up his Scotch. ‘No offence . . .’ he held up his drink in a small salute. ‘Then you’d know they deserved it.’

Digger coughed, rattling phlegm in his chest.

‘Yes. They were a thorn in my side. They gave people like myself a bad name.’ He grinned at Carmichael. ‘I prefer dealing with the English. I would be happy to offer you
girls.’

He looked around the booths; the club had yet to fill – it was early, not quite ten. He nodded his head towards the man at the bar and he disappeared for a few minutes. When he reappeared
he had a young girl with him. Her bony frame was skinny and tall; she had on a silver bikini. Her legs wobbled in five-inch heels. The man dragged her forward towards the last of the three poles
and tried to make her dance.

Digger kept his eyes on Carmichael as he inclined his head towards the podium: ‘As you can see . . . we have the merchandise . . . for the right money. Alright, Mr Hart . . . let’s
talk business.’’

The girl hung onto the pole as if it were a rope dangling over a river of crocs.

‘We have someone who gets us girls. He has good agents over in the Eastern bloc. They groom the families, neighbours, work mates, anyone who wants to make money from selling to us.
There’s never any shortage of girls because there’s always a shortage of money.’ He looked back at the girl.

‘This girl? What’s her story?’

‘Her name is Anna. She went to help a neighbour in the market. Anna is an orphan. There is no one to come looking for her. He sold her as well as his potatoes. Enterprising, these people.
This is Anna’s second day.’ She hung off the man’s hands like a crying rag doll as he hammered his hips against hers and simulated sex. Her mouth opened to cry but no sound came
out.

‘Every day there’s a new lesson,’ Digger explained.

Carmichael watched as Tanya came out and draped her arm around the man’s neck and tried to kiss him. It was only a temporary distraction; he pushed her off and continued tormenting the
young girl.

‘In a few days’ time she’ll learn to use her mouth for something more . . . useful.’ Digger’s laugh cracked. He coughed phlegm into his mouth and spat into a cloth
handkerchief. He looked at its contents, folded it and put it back in his pocket. The man pushed Tanya away.

‘How does it work?’

‘They start their working life here in London. After we acclimatize them we provide them with various job opportunities. Some of them come into the UK legitimately and have no problems
working, others need a little discretion. We have something for each of them besides finding work in clubs. We have: live sex chat, web rooms, escort agencies and massage parlours. We move them
around the clubs in our network every couple of months . . . we move them on to other cities: Leeds, Manchester, Bristol. We get a new shipment in about once every few months. Would you like to try
Anna or Tanya?’

Carmichael shook his head. ‘I never touch the merchandise.’

Digger nodded and flicked his head towards the man with Anna. ‘Neither do I. I leave that to Sonny over there.’

Carmichael went back to the Velvet Lagoon that evening. He sat at the bar in the darkness staring at his laptop; his face lit by the flickering screen. He heard the rustle of
the rat getting braver now as he threw it another piece of bread. It was not alone. He watched them run at the edge of his vision. Micky wanted to talk to him.

Carmichael phoned him.

‘Digger has money hidden all over the place. I’ve found out that he owns several properties in Central London. He has been seen with celebrities. He was quite a catch in his youth;
had a former Miss World as a girlfriend. Nowadays he tends to hold court in Cain’s rather than venture far. He lost a lot of money on the stock markets. Digger hasn’t got the money he
used to have but he has plenty tied up in property. If Digger had something to do with your wife and child’s murders it must have been for a profit. Digger has become nastier and more
hermit-like as he’s got older. Even his clubs seem to have declined and they are no longer the favoured haunts of the celebrity circuit.’

‘Yeah. He’s gone down the seedy route; ripping tourists off in clip joints.’

‘There’s no doubt Digger could do it. I’ve been looking into Martingale. Whatever Martingale does he does for a price and for fame. He sponsors so many good causes. He has
funds going for research into just about every known disease. But Martingale doesn’t do anything if no one’s watching. He’s devoted his life to writing papers.’

‘But his personal life?’

‘You guessed it . . . something had to give and that was it. He’s had two failed marriages; both times lasted months rather than years. He still has no shortage of women . . .
he’s been linked to quite a few, but he never takes it to the next level with them. He’s in love with his work and maybe himself. Most of his decisions in life have been driven by
financial gain. He was offered permanent teaching positions in most of the leading hospitals; he turned them down. He keeps his hand in with the NHS, maybe doing one or two high-profile operations
a year, but most of the time he’s delegating and not doing.’

‘What about his whereabouts? What’s his address for most of the year?’

‘He is seasonal. He likes his springs here. He likes to show orchids and there are shows all over the country. The biggest, most prestigious happen in March. He has to come here from
Christmas to get them ready. When he’s here he lives in his mother’s old home in Hampstead. It wasn’t where he grew up. He spent most of his life living abroad when his father was
in the army.’

‘You asked if Digger knew Martingale? The answer is yes, they were seen around in the Sixties although they didn’t really move in the same circles for long. Martingale would have
probably gone into Cain’s. It wasn’t quite as seedy then.’

Carmichael thanked Micky and hung up. He went into the office and dragged out the old abandoned mattress and pulled it down to the far wall of the club. He propped it up and pinned five pieces
of paper on it: one in each corner and one in the centre. He drew a circle on each then went behind the bar, pulled out his rifle and switched on the night vision. He took a shot at each target in
turn, working his way round the four corners, and finally he took a shot at the centre circle. Then he walked over to see how he’d scored. He was dead centre on four out of five. The bottom
left was a millimetre off. For the four he’d hit he drew smaller circles an inch away from the first ones. For the fifth he’d have to wait till he got it right. Carmichael walked back
to the bar and looked back at the laptop.

He went back to see what Ebony had been writing:

By the end of the night the mattress was peppered with holes.

The next morning Carter walked into the Intel office. ‘Is the surveillance on Cain’s in place, Robbo?’

‘No . . . not yet . . . I’m waiting to hear. The problem is the property was put up for sale and is under offer and the buyers aren’t going to let us in there.’

‘Fuck . . . is there anywhere else we can use? We can’t afford to wait any longer. If Sonny gets wind of things he’ll be gone. Soon Blackdown Barn will be all over the news and
Chichester will know that his treasure didn’t stay buried. Realistically, Robbo . . . how long . . . any hope?’

‘Realistically? Too long.’

‘Right . . . decision made . . . we’ll do the heavy-handed approach instead.’ He phoned Ebony. She was in the warehouse looking at the rest of the Carmichael exhibits and
organizing for them to be shipped back to Fletcher House.

‘Meet me in Soho.’

Carter parked the car in the underground car park. He emerged up on ground level, pulled up the collar on his coat and waited by the paying kiosk for Ebony. He sent a text to Cabrina.

‘Can’t bear the thought of Christmas without you.’

Ebony found Carter scrolling through his messages. He put his phone away when he realized she was there. They walked along the water-logged pavement where the melting snow had turned into dirty
slush. They stopped at the Crystal Blue: the clip joint next to Cain’s that Digger also owned but didn’t admit to. It was part of the same building, connected by an entrance behind the
bar at Cain’s.

An ageing Thai woman dressed in an elf’s costume stood in the doorway. She huddled by an electric heater in the entrance before stepping back out onto the street and trying to coax someone
in.

‘You wanna see me dance? Five pounds.’ Her teeth chattered with the cold.

‘Is Santa in?’ Carter asked.

Two men appeared behind him. One did the talking. The other stared.

‘Two hundred for two drinks. Two hundred more to see her dance.’

‘A lovely girl like that . . . too cheap. Do you take plastic?’ Carter opened his wallet and took out his warrant card. ‘Is Digger here?’

The man spoke in Russian to his silent friend and then left to deliver the message. He returned a few moments later.

‘Come with me . . .’

They followed him next door into Cain’s. Three women were practising their Xmas-themed strip on the podium when Carter and Ebony were led to Digger’s table. He was sitting on the
edge of the dance floor at one of the tables framed by velvet curtains. Ebony had a quick glance around the club. She’d heard of it, of course, but never been inside. She was surprised to see
how jaded it looked. The women carried on dancing to ‘Santa Baby’.

Digger watched them walk across towards him. He kept his eyes on Carter. He was trying to get the measure of him by his walk, his demeanour. He could see the glint of gold on his fingers. Carter
looked down at Digger and smiled:

‘Mr Cain?’

Digger returned his smile. ‘Detective?’

‘I’m Sergeant Carter and this is DC Willis.’

Digger leant back to get a better view of Ebony. He smiled at her. She didn’t smile back.

‘Know him?’ Carter showed him the photo of Sonny taken outside Cain’s.

Digger took the photo.

‘No, sorry.’

Ebony walked across to a woman washing glasses behind the bar. Digger nodded across to Ray the barman to stay with her.

‘Do you know this man?’ She showed her a photo of Sonny. The woman looked across at Ray. Then she shook her head. Her face was grey: waxy, sweaty. ‘ID?’ Her bones stuck
out of her narrow shoulders. ‘I need to see your ID,’ Ebony repeated.

Ray came to stand very close. ‘I look after it for her.’

Ebony turned to face him. ‘And what about you . . . some ID?’

Ray smiled. ‘Sure . . . Miss . . . it’s in the office. Don’t keep it on me, you understand; I’m as British as you are, of course.’

The woman returned to washing glasses, head down. Ebony glanced towards the table and Carter. He was still talking to Digger. Digger’s attention was elsewhere.

‘Get it now.’

Ray went through the door at the end of the bar. Ebony waited a few moments and then she followed. Ahead of her was an old part of the building, the paint on the walls peeling from the damp. She
tried the handle of the first door on her left. Inside, a woman was changing. She froze when she saw Ebony. Ebony stepped inside the room and let the door close silently behind her.

‘Your name?’

‘Tanya.’

‘This man, Tanya?’ She held up the photo of Sonny. ‘You know him?’

For a few seconds Tanya hesitated then she gave a small nod.

‘Here?’

‘Yes. He was here last night. He’s here most nights.’

There was the sound of a door closing further down the corridor and then approaching footsteps. Ebony stepped back out into the corridor.

Ray looked past her into the dressing room.

‘You need a warrant to search.’

‘Just looking for the toilet, got lost . . . Got the ID?’ She took it off him and looked at his first and then the woman’s and gave it back. ‘Thanks . . .’ She
followed him back out into the club. Carter was ready to leave. He was wrapping up: