Strange Affair (36 page)

It was midafternoon, and Banks felt hungry despite the full English breakfast at Annie’s hotel that morning. He found an American-style burger joint near the top of Old Compton Street, just across from a body-piercing studio, and ordered a cheeseburger and a Coke.

As he sat eating and watching the world go by outside, he thought about his talk with Gareth Lambert: the theatrics with the cigar, the joke about Carmen Electra, the reference to Roy’s being interested in arms deals again, the garbled warning as he was leaving – none of these things had been necessary, but Lambert hadn’t been able to resist. Innocence? Arrogance? It wasn’t always easy to tell them apart.

But there was something else that left him feeling very unsatisfied indeed. Banks, perhaps more than anybody, felt
that Roy might have been less than legal in his business dealings over the years, and as Corinne had pointed out, Banks had always been ready to think the worst of his brother. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but he thought he was right.

After the talk with the Reverend Ian Hunt, though, not to mention after looking a bit deeper into Roy’s life, he had come to believe that Roy really had learned a lesson from the foolhardy arms deals he had been involved in once. What he had seen in New York on the eleventh of September, 2001, had shaken him to the core and had brought home to him the stark reality of terrorism. It was no longer a bus full of strangers in Basra or Tel Aviv on a television screen, but people just like him going about their daily routine, some of whom he knew, dying right in front of his eyes.

Banks was starting to think that perhaps Gareth Lambert had overplayed his hand. He didn’t believe that Roy wanted to get into arms dealing again and had been asking Lambert about old contacts, unless he intended to seek retribution, which was unlikely at this late stage in the game. If Roy had any old scores he wanted to settle he would have done so years ago in the white heat of his rage after 9/11. But he hadn’t. Which made Banks think that Lambert was lying. And there was only one clear explanation of that – to put Banks off the scent, divert him from the real business. More and more he was beginning to believe that that had something to do with the goings-on at the Berger-Lennox Centre, with Jennifer Clewes and Roy, with Dr. Lukas, with the mysterious Carmen Petri and the late girls. But how Lambert himself fit in, Banks still didn’t know. So what was the missing piece?

He doubted that Lambert would give it up. He was far too shrewd for that. He had enjoyed toying with Banks, telling him he had seen Roy on Friday when he already knew from the
newspapers that was the day Roy disappeared. But he had done that because he knew Banks had got a description from Malcolm Farrow and because he thought there was nothing in his actions that night to incriminate him. No doubt it was true that Roy had left the Albion Club between half past twelve and one o’clock, and that Lambert hadn’t left till three. Banks would go back to the club later that evening and check.

He finished his burger and took the tube back to South Kensington with a view to nosing around Roy’s files again to see if there was anything there relating to the Albion Club or any of the members’ names Lambert had given him. Perhaps he could phone some of them and see if they would verify Lambert’s story. He also wanted to get in touch with his parents and the Peterborough police again and make sure everything was all right on the Hazels estate.

All was still quiet inside Roy’s house. Banks locked the door behind him, slipped the keys in his pocket and headed for the kitchen. When he got there, he was surprised to see a man sitting at the kitchen table. He was even more surprised when the man turned and pointed a gun at him.

16

“S
it down slowly,” the man said, “and keep your hands in sight.”

Banks did as he was told.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

“I might well ask the same.”

“I asked first. And I’ve got the gun.”

“My name’s Alan Banks.”

“Do you have any identification?”

Banks put his hand slowly in his inside pocket and brought out his warrant card. He shoved it across the table to the man, who examined it carefully then pushed it back and slipped his gun inside a shoulder holster hidden by his jacket.

“What the fuck was all that about?” said Banks, feeling a rush of anger as the adrenalin surged back.

“I had to be sure,” said the man. “Dieter Ganz, Interpol.” He offered his own card, which Banks studied, then stuck out his hand. Banks didn’t feel like shaking it; he felt more like thumping him. Ganz shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he went on. “Detective Superintendent Burgess told me you might be here, but I had to make certain.” He didn’t have much of an accent,
but it was there, if you listened, in his speech patterns and careful diction.

“How did you get in?”

“It wasn’t difficult,” said Ganz, glancing towards the back window. Banks saw that a circle of glass about the size of a man’s fist had been cut out of it just below the catch.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” said Banks, “but after that little scare I could do with a drink.”

“No, thank you,” said Ganz. “Nothing for me.”

“Suit yourself.” Banks opened a bottle of Roy’s Côte de Nuits and poured himself a generous glass. His hand was still shaking. “So Burgess sent you, did he?”

Ganz nodded. “He told me where you would be. I’m sorry it took so long but he had a little difficulty finding me. I’ve been out of the country. It seems that we have interests in common.”

“First of all, you’d better tell me what yours are.”

“At the moment, my interest is in people-smuggling, more specifically the smuggling of young women for the purposes of sexual exploitation.”

Ganz looked undercover, Banks thought. He was young, early thirties at most. His blond hair was a bit too long and greasy, and he clearly hadn’t shaved for four or five days. The linen jacket he wore over his shirt was creased and stained, and his jeans needed a wash.

“And what interests do we have in common?” Banks asked.

Ganz took a piece of paper from his side pocket and unfolded it on the table. It was a copy of the photo Banks had given to Burgess. “You’ve been asking questions about who this man with Gareth Lambert is,” he said.

“Lambert told me his name is Max Broda.”

“That is correct,” said Ganz. “Max Broda. He’s an Albanian travelling on an Israeli passport.”

“Why would he do that?”

Ganz smiled, showing a missing front tooth. “No troublesome visas to worry about.”

“What’s his business?” Gareth Lambert had told Banks that “Max” worked in the travel business, organizing tours and cruises, but somehow or other Banks didn’t think Ganz would be here if that were the case.

“Broda’s a trader,” said Ganz. “Do you know what that is?”

“A trader in what?”

“Have you ever heard of the Arizona Market?”

“No.”

“I know it sounds American, but it’s actually in Bosnia, between Sarajevo and Zagreb. It’s like those old markets you see in movies, you know, the kasbah, so romantic with its stalls of colourful goods and its narrow winding streets. During the day many people go there to buy pirated CDs and DVDs and knock-off Rolexes and Chanel perfume. But at night it becomes a market of a different kind. At night you can buy stolen cars, guns, drugs. And young women. They are sold there like sheep and cattle are sold at your country shows. Sometimes they are auctioned off, made to parade naked holding numbers while the traders touch them and caress them before they make their bids, look in their mouths like you would if you were buying a horse. When they’ve been bought, many of them end up working in clubs and brothels in Bosnia, servicing the international peacekeeping forces, but many are also smuggled into other countries to work in peep shows and massage parlours.”

“I suppose that’s where Lambert comes in?” Banks said. “The Balkan route.”

“That’s one way,” Ganz agreed. “Serbia, Croatia, Albania, Macedonia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Montenegro and Kosovo. But there are others, and they are always changing. They cross wherever the border is unguarded. Many women from Russia, Ukraine and Romania are smuggled through the eastern route, through Poland to Germany, or through Hungary. From Serbia to Italy many smugglers prefer to use Albanian seaports and ship the women over on rubber dinghies. Not all of them make it. But however they get here, once they are inside the EU, they can be moved around more freely.”

“So Lambert and Broda are in business together?”

“Yes.” Ganz’s eyes hardened. “Broda buys the women and Lambert arranges to get them into the country. He doesn’t do it himself, of course. That would be too risky. But he knows the weak spots and who can be bribed. We think they have been in business for some time. Lambert was based in Spain before, but things got a bit too hot for him there, so now he’s over here, and the travel business is a perfect cover for the trips he has to make.”

“So Gareth Lambert and Max Broda have been conspiring to smuggle young girls into England for the purpose of prostitution for some years now?”

“Yes. But not just England. That’s why it is difficult to pin them down. We are trying to build up dossiers on similar operations in Paris, Berlin and Rome. It’s a widespread problem.” He paused. “I have seen these women, Mr. Banks, talked to them. To call them ‘women’ is not strictly accurate in the first place. They are no more than girls, some as young as fourteen or fifteen. They are lured from their homes by promises of jobs overseas as nannies and models, maids and waitresses. Sometimes they are smuggled out and sold straight away,
sometimes they are taken to breaking houses in Belgrade. There they are forced to live in filthy conditions. They are humiliated, beaten, starved, denied even the most basic human decencies, raped repeatedly, drugged, made to be compliant. When their spirits are broken, they are taken to the markets and sold to the highest bidder. After that, even if they are smuggled to Rome, Tel Aviv, Paris or London, they are forced to live in terrible conditions and service ten, twenty, even thirty men a night. If they don’t play the game and pretend they are enjoying what is done to them, they are beaten and threatened. They are told that if they try to escape they will be hunted down and killed along with their families back home.”

“I’ve heard something of this,” said Banks, shaken by the images Ganz was offering up, “but not…the extent.” He shook his head.

“Most people do not know,” Ganz said. “Many prefer not to know. People like to think that girls who end up as prostitutes deserve no less, that they
chose
what they do, but many didn’t. You can buy a young girl for as little as a thousand pounds and make over a hundred thousand pounds a year from her. Once she is worn out, you buy a new one. It makes good business sense, does it not?”

“I can’t believe my brother was involved in this.”

“He wasn’t, as far as I know,” said Ganz. “From what Superintendent Burgess has told me, it is my guess that your brother and his girlfriend found out what was going on.”

“Through the Berger-Lennox Centre?”

“And through Dr. Lukas, yes.”

“What’s her part in all this?”

“She is trying to help the girls who get pregnant. That is all. She asks no questions. They are lucky they have someone like her, otherwise…”

“But what’s her connection?”

“That we do not know for sure. This investigation here is very new. Most of the work we have been doing has been in Bosnia, Romania and Serbia.”

“Was Carmen one of the girls she was trying to help? Carmen Petri?”

Ganz frowned. “I’m sorry, I do not know the name.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Petri, you say?”

“Something like that.”

“It sounds Romanian.”

“But you haven’t heard of her?”

“No.”

“Okay,” said Banks. “Go on.”

“Anyway,” Ganz continued. “No matter what Dr. Lukas does or does not know, there’s a pimp involved somewhere, and Lambert and Broda supply him with girls smuggled from Eastern Europe. He probably keeps them in more than one house, depending on how many girls he owns. Perhaps there is even more than one pimp. I do not know. We have been waiting for Broda or Lambert to lead us there.”

“But they haven’t?”

“Not yet. We were worried they might be on to us. Lambert’s moving between the flat and the travel office, and he spends most weekends playing the local squire in his country manor.”

“Where’s that?” Banks asked.

“A village called Quainton, near Buckingham. That’s where he leads his exemplary life. Anyway, where there are pimps and smugglers you will usually find organized crime, too, and that is always dangerous.”

“The Russian Mafia?”

“Most likely.”

Banks told him what he had heard from Annie about the two men suspected of killing Jennifer and, perhaps, Roy.

Ganz nodded slowly. “Sounds like their style.”

“So what next?”

“We think these recent murders might bring things to a boil. Someone might make a mistake.”

“Are you here to warn me off?”

Ganz laughed. “Warn you off? Superintendent Burgess told me you would probably say something like that.”

“Oh? What else did he tell you?”

“That it would do no good. Some people we can warn off easily, but not you. He said you’re nobody’s man.”

“He’s right.”

Ganz waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “No, I don’t want to warn you off. I want to use you in a way I can’t use the police who are investigating the case. I want you to keep on doing right what you’re doing. I just want you to know that you’re involved in stirring up a wasp’s nest.”

“Go on.”

“I’m not saying that you’re not in danger – they may have killed you if you had been at the address your brother gave his girlfriend – but I think with all the trouble caused by the two murders they have already committed, they would think twice right now about killing a policeman. When you came down here they no doubt kept an eye on you, just for form’s sake, but they had other things to occupy them, and they knew your brother hadn’t had time to tell you anything, or you wouldn’t have been floundering around in the dark the way you were. They also tortured him before they killed him and he told them you knew nothing. He also told them where you lived, and they rang the men in the car. Fortunately, your brother gave them the wrong address. They sent the digital image on the mobile,
too. Perhaps they didn’t know you had it, but they knew your brother didn’t. That’s just their style, a sick joke. Max Broda himself, most likely. If you hadn’t got it, whoever had the phone at the time would have. Even the police. It didn’t matter to them. It couldn’t be traced. It was stolen and they threw it away as soon as they had used it. After that, they let you know that they know where your parents live. That is also very much their style. And don’t worry, your parents are safe. It wasn’t something we could leave for the locals to deal with alone.”

“You have men there, too?”

“One. Armed. Anyway, now that you have actually been to see Gareth Lambert, and probably got him worried, things might be a bit different, I’m not sure.”

“You know I’ve seen Lambert?”

“Superintendent Burgess said he’d told you where to find him. I didn’t think you would just sit around and not act on that information. What did you think?”

“I didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him.”

“In that, you were right. From now on, we’ll try to watch your back as best we can, but for obvious reasons I can hardly show my hand. It is a shame you English police are unarmed.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” said Banks, thinking that there weren’t many times in his career when he had felt the need for a gun, though now might be one of them. “And by the way, do you have a license for that one you’re carrying?”

Ganz laughed. “I have your government’s permission, if that’s what you mean. Do you want one? I’m sure I can get one for you.”

“I’d probably shoot myself in the foot,” said Banks. “But thanks for the offer.”

“I almost forgot,” Ganz said. “Mr. Burgess told me to tell you he checked the number and the red Vectra was stolen
from a multi-storey car park in Putney. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Banks. It meant the car that had followed him from his parents’ house was stolen, as he had expected.

“What are you going to do now?”

Banks looked at his watch. “I’m going to have another glass of wine and think over what you’ve said.” Later, when it was open, Banks planned to visit the Albion Club on the Strand and see if he could find out more about Roy’s final hours, but he didn’t see any reason for telling Dieter Ganz that. If Interpol were keeping an eye on him, they’d find out soon enough, anyway.