A Dark and Twisted Tide (25 page)

‘Where are you from?’

Lacey looked at the men in front of her. Two of them could easily be from South Asia. She couldn’t panic. There were any number of languages and dialects in that region. They couldn’t possibly know them all.

‘They told me not to say,’ she replied. ‘I don’t want to go back. I just want Nadia.’

‘What if we told you we do know Nadia, and she’s told us she doesn’t have a sister?’ This was the other white guy, the younger of the two, in a brown leather jacket and with a tight woollen cap over his dark hair.

‘If she told you that, she’s trying to protect me. Is she here?’

‘Hold on to her.’

The older white man turned and left the room. At least ten minutes before help would get to her. Eight minutes before she had to get out of here, or risk being taken into custody. Shit, this was not going well.

‘I want to see my sister or I want to leave,’ she told the man who’d brought her in, the one who was now leaning, bouncer style, against the back door. He straightened up, not about to let her through without an argument.

‘Bring her upstairs.’

The boss was back. Two of the others reached out for her.

‘No!’

Lacey was being backed up against the counter. She could brace herself against it, kick out with both legs. With only one bloke she’d have a chance. With four, none at all.

‘You think I’m alone? I have a friend who will call the police if I’m not out of here in two minutes.’

She was grabbed and pushed forward, out of the kitchen, into a narrow corridor. Oh, what the hell had she done? She was alone, in a strip club that probably doubled as a brothel, the prisoner of four men, and the music was so loud that she wouldn’t hear the sirens and no investigating police officer would hear her.

The stairs they went up were filthy, the carpet old and worn. The light-bulb above them was broken. On the first floor another man
was waiting. He opened a door at the far end of the corridor and pushed Lacey in.

The man behind the desk looked to be in his early sixties, with thick, greying hair and a large hooked nose. His eyes were dark brown, his skin suggested he might be mixed race, or very fond of foreign holidays.

The door slammed shut and the noise of the music faded just to the point where it no longer hurt. The arms holding her fell away and she was left in the midst of a circle of unfriendly eyes like a captive animal. She had to hold it together. The police would be here.

‘You have thirty seconds to convince me you’re from Bongo Bongo Land or I’m making plans for you,’ said the man with the hooked nose and the cruel eyes. He glanced at the man behind her in the brown jacket. ‘Know her, Beenie?’

Lacey was turned to face him.

‘No.’ Beenie kept his eyes on her as he shook his head. ‘That one I would remember.’ He let his eyes trail down to her feet and then up again.

‘Could she be one of your lot?’

Beenie screwed up one side of his mouth. ‘Can’t be. No female officer would be allowed round here at night without back-up. And if she had a team with her, they’d be in here by now.’

One of your lot?
Beenie was a cop. What the hell had she walked into? One of the men walked to the window and looked outside. If he saw anything to alarm him, he didn’t mention it.

‘So if she isn’t the filth, who the fuck is she?’

‘If you want my best guess, I’d say a PI,’ Beenie replied. ‘Maybe that girl she claims to be looking for has a family after all.’ He turned to the doorman. ‘Have you searched her?’

‘Nothing in her bag.’

‘I didn’t ask about her fucking personal effects, I said have you searched her?’

Shake of the head.

‘Then I guess it’s your lucky night.’

Lacey stood, impassive and unconcerned, as if she was going through airport security, as male hands ran along the length of her body. Her back, arms, legs. Everywhere.

‘Nothing.’

Hook Nose was losing patience. He stood up, leaned over the desk towards her. ‘OK, enough fucking around. What are you doing here?’

Probably time to drop the submissive act. Beenie had given her an angle, maybe she could use it.

‘I’m looking for Nadia Safi,’ she told him. ‘Does it really matter whether I’m her sister or not? She has people who care about her, who’ll pay my bill. If you haven’t seen her, just say so and I’ll leave you in peace.’

‘Who do you work for?’

‘Myself.’

Hook Nose sat down again. ‘So what do we do with her?’

‘Can you dance, darling?’ said the white man who’d brought her up here.

‘There’s a room free upstairs,’ said one of the Asians. ‘Want to try her out first, Rich?’

The man behind the desk, Rich, seemed to be thinking about it. Beenie had been picking at his nails, feigning complete indifference. He looked up. ‘Sorry, guys, you can’t keep her. She won’t be working alone, whatever she might tell you. She’ll have people who’ll come looking. You don’t need that sort of attention right now.’

‘What then?’

‘Let her go.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Show her the family album. She looks like a woman who values her face.’

Rich crinkled his eyes at Lacey for a second before reaching inside his desk drawer. He brought out a cheap-looking photo album and beckoned her closer.

The first page showed a woman whose face and neck had been badly scarred. Her flesh rose in lumps and ridges like the surface of the moon. ‘Acid,’ said Rich. ‘She got clumsy, pulled a bottle down on herself when she was trying to run away before we’d done with her.’ He turned the page. More dreadful injuries. ‘Silly girl set fire to herself,’ said Rich. ‘You have to be careful with saris. Especially
the cheap ones. All that nylon is very flammable.’ Another page. ‘Cut off her own nose, can you believe that?’

‘I’ve got the message,’ said Lacey.

Rich ignored her, turning the page again. A woman whose face had been cut either side of her mouth, creating a scar that was a hideous mockery of a smile. As Lacey closed her eyes, the phone rang. Rich picked it up.

‘There’s a police car outside,’ he said a moment later. ‘Two officers watching the building very closely.’

‘I have to be out of here,’ said Beenie. ‘I’ll get rid of her. My car’s out back.’

They hurried from the building, Beenie pulling Lacey along by the hand. Down the stairs, back along the corridor as someone started banging on the front door, out into the yard and then the alley. Beenie led her to a dark saloon car parked a few yards away. He jumped into the driver’s seat and was almost moving before Lacey was properly inside. They reached the end of the alley, turned on to the main road and sped past the club. Two patrol cars were parked outside, their occupants still discussing the possibilities of admission with the doorman.

Driving down the Old Kent Road, Lacey watched Beenie’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. For a second he looked up, but his expression told her nothing. I’ll get rid of her, he’d said. Get rid of her how? The street was getting quieter, they’d left most of the lights behind. They were slowing. Beenie indicated and pulled over. Lacey turned to see where they were.

Outside an all-night minicab firm. He was putting her in a cab?

Less than a minute later, Lacey was in the back of a car that smelled of cigarettes and cheap air-freshener. Beenie leaned in and handed over a twenty-pound note to the driver, whom he’d greeted by name.

‘She’ll tell you where she wants to go,’ he told him. ‘Take her straight home.’ Then he turned to Lacey. ‘We see you in this neighbour hood again, love, and it won’t be a minicab we send you home in. Got that?’

SUNDAY, 29 JUNE

56

Pari

‘
HOW DID SHE
get out? How the hell are they getting out?’

‘Don’t look at me.’

Pari felt too bad to wake up. Sleep was sometimes the only way to push the pain to one side. Even then, it never really went away completely, always invading her dreams, turning them dark.

‘Who else am I supposed to look at? Who else was here all night?’

‘What are you saying? That I let them out?’

They were speaking too quickly for Pari to catch more than a few words, but the fear behind them was clear. The people who looked after this place never normally raised their voices.

‘Well, someone is doing it. He’s going to go berserk.’

‘Then he needs to fix it.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Ask him. It’s his call.’

Pari opened her eyes. It was no longer dark in the room. Morning.

‘Oh, you’ll tell him that, will you?’

‘Can you tell me how they’re getting out?’

‘That’s nine we’ve lost now. Nine who’ve just wandered out by the back door. They’re not doing that by themselves.’

No, they’re not, thought Pari. Someone is helping us. Soon, it will be my turn.

57

Lacey

THE TIDE WAS
out, the yacht had settled into the mud and Lacey could no longer see the deck of the old dredger. She really had no idea how long she’d been just sitting here, staring out across the water. She’d slept most of the morning and spent the afternoon trying, and largely failing, to find something useful to do. It was going to be one of those wasted days. The sooner it was over with, the better.

God help her if Joesbury found out what she’d done last night.

At the faintest sound behind her, Lacey realized that she wasn’t alone. Eileen had climbed into the cockpit of the next boat and was sitting watching her. But when Lacey smiled, opening her mouth to say something, she was no longer sure the older woman was looking at her. Eileen’s eyes were fixed in her direction, but they weren’t actually focused. Eileen seemed lost in thought.

Below, a phone was ringing. Lacey got up, swung herself down the steps and stopped. Her usual phone, on the table, was silent. The ringing was coming from the bag she’d carried along the Old Kent Road the previous night. The number was withheld.

‘Hello?’

Silence on the line. Through a starboard side hatch, Lacey could still see Eileen. There was something different about her this
afternoon. She was wearing a dress the colour of the ocean and her hair was loose. Her strong face was made up, giving her a glamour that hinted at the woman Ray had married all those years ago. In the tight-fitting dress, she didn’t seem nearly as big as she usually did. Quite shapely, in fact. Still silence on the line, then—

‘Why are you looking for me?’

A woman’s voice. Broken English. Heavily accented.

‘Is that Nadia?’ Lacey turned away, so that the unusual sight of a glamorous Eileen wouldn’t distract her.

‘You are not my sister. Why do you tell people you are my sister? What do you want?’

‘I’d like to meet you. Can we talk, please?’

‘I have nothing to say.’

So why had she phoned?

‘I’ll come alone,’ Lacey said. ‘I just want to talk. You’ve nothing to be afraid of, I promise.’

Silence. Was it even Nadia Safi? It could be anyone. She looked back up through the hatch. Eileen was combing her hair now, that faraway look still on her face. Long hair reaching her shoulders. Grey, but still soft. Not wiry, the way older people’s hair often became.

‘Where are you now?’ Lacey spoke softly, conscious that Eileen could probably hear her. ‘I’ll come and find you.’

‘Why?’

‘I think you can help me. I might be able to help you.’

Lacey held her breath.

‘Kensington Gardens. By the statue of the little boy. In an hour.’

58

Nadia

THE PARK WAS
full. An ice-cream van was pumping out far more heat than the product it was selling could hope to soothe. Dogs and children ran, adults followed as best they could. A juggler looked ready to melt, he was sweating so much.

Nadia walked through the Italian Gardens at the northern edge of the Serpentine, the colours of the flowers muted and dull through the grille she wore over her eyes. The burkas worn at home were pale blue, and supposedly bad enough, but nothing could be worse to wear in the heat than this oppressive, suffocating black.

She glanced back. Fazil was by the gate, one of his sons further inside the park; another would be close by. It had been their idea to meet the woman from last night, to find out who she was, what she wanted. Nadia set off along the water’s edge, the ground cracked and dry beneath her sandalled feet, her hands wafting the dark folds to allow some air to reach her face. The statue of Peter Pan lay ahead.

Several people were near it. A man intent upon his mobile phone. A mother rubbing ice cream from her toddler’s shirt. A woman looking west towards the palace. Young, judging by her shape and posture, long dark hair loose down her back. A bicycle lay at her feet
and she was wearing the green and white striped shirt she’d mentioned on the phone. This was the woman who’d walked the length of the Old Kent Road claiming to be Nadia’s sister.

As if any of Nadia’s sisters would dream of doing something so reckless. As if any of them would care enough.

She turned, looked directly at Nadia, her face registering nothing. Fazil had been right about meeting here. All around the park, black-clad women walked, sat and talked, pushed buggies, only their hands showing a glimpse of the person within.

The woman in the striped shirt turned again, spinning a slow, lazy circle. Nadia stepped on to the grass so that her feet made no sound. When she was close enough, she spoke the name she’d been told on the phone.

‘Lacey?’

The woman turned. Nadia stepped back in alarm. This was a terrible mistake. She had to get out of here.

‘Nadia, is that you?’

Nadia began to hurry towards the gate. Footsteps behind her told her she was being followed. Then the English woman jumped in front, stopping her from moving forward. ‘I know it’s you,’ she said.

‘You’re the police,’ said Nadia. How could she have been so stupid? How could Fazil not have realized?

Lacey held up both hands. ‘I’m alone. No one knows I’m here.’