Dead of Winter Tr (17 page)

‘We know you know him, Digger. Shall I tell you why? Because he is one of the biggest traffickers of women in the UK – one of the last of the Brits to still be running a racket with
the Albanians and the Romanians.’

Digger swept his arm around towards the stage and the three women.

‘As you can see, my dancers are locals.’

Carter looked at the dancers. ‘Keep it that way. We’ll be here tomorrow and every day after that, Digger, until you start remembering who and where Sonny is. We’ll be putting a
squad car outside your club twenty-four seven just to reassure your punters that the police care. Here’s my card. You phone when you have a sudden urge to save your business.’

Back on the street they passed the porno elf, who was shovelling noodles into her mouth from a takeaway box. She scowled at them.

‘I found one of the girls backstage who recognized Sonny,’ Ebony said as they walked back to the car. ‘She said he was here last night.’

‘By now he’ll know we’re after him. Digger will have seen to that. Digger won’t like us going in there. He won’t like the extra police activity affecting business.
These are lean times. He may be keen to distance himself from Sonny. He certainly won’t want him in his club. Sonny will do one of two things – go underground or brazen it
out.’

At eight that evening Carmichael parked his Jag behind a red Ferrari outside the small cocktail bar off Islington Green. This bar was new to him but Islington Green was the
same as it had always been. Across the road from where he parked, there was the same fruit and veg shop that he and Louise had made special trips to. He was amazed at how whole areas of London had
changed since he’d been away, while other places hadn’t even changed shopkeepers.

It was a tiny bar, like sitting in someone’s front room. There were a few friends at one of the tables and a couple at another. The mood was dark and intimate. As he walked in he saw
Sonny, his broad thighs perched on the edge of a bar stool.

‘What you having?’ Sonny asked.

‘A single malt. Thanks for agreeing to show me round . . . appreciated.’

Sonny grunted. He wasn’t happy. Since the police visit earlier, Digger had ordered him to hang fire on bringing any more girls in for a few weeks and told him to stay out of Cain’s.
Digger was hoping the new man Hart would discreetly take a few of the girls off his hands.

When the drinks arrived they moved to one of the tables and sat across from one another.

‘So . . . where did you come from, Hart? Did some checking. You seem to have arrived here out of thin air. You got some high-up friends – but most of them are dead.’ He made a
sound like laughter and his eyes narrowed like a cat’s as he studied Carmichael. When Sonny blinked his eyes shut a little too long it was as if they became stuck for a fraction of a second.
‘You spent some time in South America? What was your business out there?’

Carmichael smiled into his whisky. ‘Staying alive. What does anyone do out there? Same business the world over . . . make money.’

Sonny sat back and studied Carmichael. ‘You buy a brand-new car like that?’ He gestured towards the Jag outside. ‘You must have made a lot of money. There’s a lot about
you which looks good on paper but doesn’t really add up – like the fact you walk like a Para . . . you got Sandhurst on your CV?’

Carmichael smiled. ‘It’s a good guess but it’s not right . . . airforce, not Marines.’ Carmichael was about to see how Micky’s story would stand up to scrutiny.
‘You want to know how? I’m going to level with you, Sonny, because I think maybe we can do business better that way. I was in the airforce straight from school; got my pilot’s
licence there, learned to fly a helicopter and just about anything in the air. But by the time I was thirty I was sick of it; realized there was more to life than serving queen and country and I
could earn a lot more doing commercial work. For a time I worked in the Pacific, tracking tuna, then I went off travelling, went to join an old girlfriend in South America. Then she disappeared on
me. I went looking and found out that she’d been acquired by some local cartel. I joined forces with the men I needed to get her back. I found my skills were sought after. Started making a
name for myself transporting people in and out of trouble; I’m a good shot, I can handle myself. I’m discreet, hard-working.’

Sonny couldn’t hide the admiration on his face:

‘Did you get her back?’

‘Yes. But, you know what? Love’s a fickle thing and I have to say it didn’t feel the same. Shortly after that she disappeared for good.’ He watched Sonny’s
reaction. Sonny laughed.

‘It’s a good story, Hart. Let’s hope it’s true, for your sake. You want to see what Digger was talking about? Let’s go.’

So far so good; well done, Micky,
thought Carmichael.

They drove down towards Finsbury Park in Sonny’s red Ferrari and stopped on a street with once-elegant Victorian semi-detached and terraced houses. Now the big houses had been subdivided
so many times they had become warrens for prostitutes and pushers. After they parked up, Sonny called three lads over and paid them twenty quid to both look after the car and leave it alone.

Sonny led the way across the street and in through a wrought-iron gate to a house second from the end. They had to step over a pile of rubbish at the foot of the steps leading to the front door.
As they walked up the steps a dog went ballistic in the basement flat trying to get out to rip them to shreds. Sonny rang the bell to the ground-floor flat.

They heard the sound of keys in the door. A sickly-looking mixed-race lad answered the door. He had big ears, bad skin and his head was too small to be shaved the way it was.

‘You wanna clean up outside, Tyrone; we’ll be attracting vermin,’ Sonny said to the boy. He shuffled nervously in front of them; his clothes were baggy, the crotch of his jeans
between his knees, as he led the way inside.

‘Yes, boss. Sorry, boss . . . it’s the foxes. They got clever, worked out how to open the rubbish box.’ Tyrone looked at Carmichael.

‘Yeah, well clean it up before the neighbours complain and you get a visit from the filth.’

‘It’s all good, boss.’ He punctuated his speech with sniffs from his cocaine-wrecked nose.

Sonny slapped him on the back. ‘Course, Tyrone.’ Snot erupted bubbling out of both nostrils and was retrieved by a sleeve. ‘Of course it is . . . This is Mr Hart. He’s
come to look at the merchandise. Tyrone here is the manager. I bring the girls in and Tyrone looks after them for Digger. Plus he earns a bit on the side for his friends, which he thinks I
don’t know about.’

Tyrone turned and raised the free arm as a greeting – the other one still wiping away snot. He did his best to look happy to see them. He didn’t look quite so happy with the news
that Sonny knew he let his friends have a special deal with the girls.

‘Show us then,’ Sonny ordered.

Inside the windowless rooms girls stared out at them. Four to a room they waited in their underwear to be chosen. Carmichael thought they looked at him the way his sheep did when they were
waiting for slaughter. He recognized the young country girl Anna from Digger’s club. Her eyes lingered on his. He thought about Sophie.

‘Do you want to choose some girls, boss?’ Tyrone asked. Sonny looked at Carmichael. He shook his head in answer.

Sonny led the way back towards the front of the flat and into a room on the left. A screen showing porn was on in the corner of the room. The room had an aroma of sickly sweet perfume and sex.
There was a Florida-style cocktail bar in the corner. There were two sofas, and a coffee table between them.

Sonny went across to the bar and poured Carmichael a large whisky and handed it to him. The porno moaning in the background rose and fell.

‘You interested in these girls?’ Sonny asked.

Carmichael shrugged. ‘Maybe. I was looking for top quality. Not sure these fit the bill.’

Sonny looked momentarily put out but recovered fast. ‘You tell me what you need and I’ll get it special order.’

‘Sounds promising. You’re an ambitious man, Sonny . . . You purely about supply? You’re not interested in having your own club?’

He shook his head. ‘I like what I do. I want to hang onto my head. Don’t want to have it kicked in. I know what I’m good at. At the moment . . . If I could I would take over
some of the routes from the fucking Turks and Albanians.’

‘. . . it’s just Digger you supply? And Digger makes arrangements to sell the girls on?’

‘Yeah . . . like I said . . . I’m up against it with the fucking Turks and Albanians. I have to keep my hand around their throats otherwise they’d have me.’

‘So what? You just waiting for that day?’

‘No. But it’s a hard business to trust in. I want to take over a couple of the big routes. Most of the contacts from the old days have gone. At the moment I don’t step on too
many toes. I get left alone.’

‘So you need to stamp on some heads, not toes.’ The room had become charged. Sonny was beginning to get excited.

‘If I had the backing . . .’

‘I might consider investing in your business.’

Sonny crashed his glass against Carmichael’s and beamed. Carmichael stood and downed his drink, ready to leave.

‘Show me some of the competition. I want to take a look at some of the other clubs.’

Sonny looked momentarily reluctant. Digger had told him to stay out of sight.

‘What the hell.’ He picked up his keys.

On the way out Carmichael shook hands with Tyrone. Tyrone felt a crackle of folded paper in his palm. He waited until he’d shut the door and double-locked it on the two men then he went
into the kitchen and told the girl making toast to get out. He pulled out the piece of paper and looked at it.

On it was written a phone number and attached was a credit note for £10,000.

Ring me tomorrow at 11.30 if you want to cash it.

Carmichael and Sonny drove to a club in Islington. While Sonny went to the bathroom to cut himself a line of coke, Carmichael tipped crushed horse tranquillizer that he’d
brought from the farm into Sonny’s drink. Sonny came back from the bathroom wiping the cocaine from his nose.

‘Drink up!’ Carmichael handed Sonny his glass and knocked back his own. Sonny obliged by doing the same. Carmichael got up to leave. ‘I’ve seen enough here –
let’s go somewhere else.’ Out on the street Carmichael went round to the driver’s seat. ‘I’ll drive. You’ll get nicked.’ He held up his hand for Sonny to
throw him the keys.

Sonny shrugged. ‘Okay . . .’ He threw them across and opened the passenger door. ‘Give me the chance to chop another line.’ He dropped into the passenger seat and opened
the glove compartment. Carmichael saw the butt of a revolver. Sonny rooted round and then took out the packet of coke he found. Carmichael braked just as he unfolded it. ‘Fuck . . .’ it
showered like fine talc over his lap. ‘I’ll get some more . . . no problem.’ He squinted at the road ahead. The car twisted and turned down back roads. ‘You know where
you’re going?’

‘Yeah. Staying off the main roads, don’t want to get pulled over. Not when you’re wearing a lap full of Columbian snow.’ Carmichael looked across at Sonny, whose head was
nodding as he grinned. ‘Hey, Sonny . . .’

‘Yeah?’

‘Just curious . . . You ever get a thing for one of the women?’

Sonny looked across at Carmichael. He grinned sleepily.

‘No such thing as a
thing
for a woman like that. Treat them like animals . . . it’s a business.’

‘You must have fathered a child or few?’

Sonny snorted. ‘Sure . . . it happens . . . get rid of it.’

‘You must get some strange requests: freaks, specialities?’

‘Digger orders something special sometimes.’

‘To work in the club?’

‘Shit, no. I mean special, weird – he passes it on to someone else.’

‘Weird? As in?’

‘Had to send her for tests – blood, that kind of thing.’

‘Anyone ever order a pregnant girl from you?’

‘Yeah, Digger wanted a pregnant one once. Now the police are asking about her.’

‘When was that?’

‘About a year ago now I got her for him. She was one of my girls.’

‘Do you know what he did with her?’

‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘What about Digger?’

‘Or him. She was for his friend. I brought her in. Digger passed her on.’

‘Who to?’

‘I never met him. What’s with the questions?’

Carmichael changed gear, the car slipped along the waterlogged streets of melting slush.

‘Just that I had a kid once.’

Sonny closed his eyes. ‘Yeah . . . nice.’

‘A kid can rip your heart out and stamp all over it, more than any woman. You make a promise to a kid, you have to keep it. They trust you. There are consequences if you let them down, if
you fail them. You ever think about consequences, Sonny?’

Sonny didn’t answer. He had fallen asleep.

Carmichael pulled onto the slipway. The Thames was inky black. The water was running fast, pulling the mass of black back out to sea. A Christmas boat party was in progress. The sound of
laughter and drum and bass drifted across the water. Carmichael sat for a moment watching the lights on the water before he turned and punched his fist hard into the side of Sonny’s head. He
reached into the glove box and took out Sonny’s revolver before releasing the handbrake and stepping out of the car.

Carter had gone to lie down in the exhibits room where they’d put up a camp bed. He left instructions to wake him in three hours. They were taking it in turns to grab a
few hours’ kip through the nightshift. In the ETO, Ebony looked across at Jeanie. She looked very pale.

She was on the phone to her husband Noel.

‘I’m not going to make it back, love . . . give her a kiss from me . . . I expressed milk; it’s in the fridge.’ Jeanie closed her eyes as she listened to her
partner’s silence – not hostility, just concern. But they had no choice. Noel was going to be another couple of years studying for his teaching qualifications and one of them had to pay
the mortgage.
Damn
. . . Jeanie felt the tingling in her breasts as she heard Christa cry in the background. Jeanie snapped her eyes open and put a smile on her face as she answered:
‘No, not coming back at all tonight, I’m sorry. Looks like we’ll all be working nonstop until this case ends . . . love you.’