Lee Weeks - Trafficked

‘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…’