A Darker Shade of Blue (20 page)

‘Yes. Perhaps you do not believe?'

Kiley believed her, though he doubted it was Ballet Rambert. ‘Where do you dance?'

‘Club Maroc. It is on Finchley Road.'

‘I have seen her,' Irena said. ‘Pole dance. It is remarkable.'

‘I'll bet.'

‘I study for three weeks,' Adina said seriously.

‘Pole dancing?'

‘Of course. Table dancing also. I have diploma.'

Irena leaned forward, glass in both hands. ‘Adina thinks I should take lessons, go and work with her.'

‘Instead of this, of course. With me you can earn two hundred, two hundred fifty pounds one night. Here you are slave.'

‘At least,' Irena said, ‘I keep on my clothes.'

Adina poked out her tongue.

*

Kiley saw her again two weeks later, unannounced in his outer office, her hair tied back in a pony tail and her makeup smeared. ‘Adina, what is it?'

She looked at him helplessly, suddenly awash with tears.

‘Come through here; come and sit down.' Helping her first to the couch, he hurried to the bathroom he shared with the financial consultant upstairs.

‘Here. Drink this.'

She sipped from the glass of water, then set it aside. Dabbed at her eyes.

‘All right, now tell me; tell me what's wrong.'

It was enough to set her off again, and Kiley pressed several clean tissues into her hands, sat back in the chair opposite and waited for her to become calm.

After several moments, she blew her nose and reached inside her bag for a cigarette; while she fumbled with her lighter, Kiley fetched the saucer that served as an ashtray and placed it near her feet. An ambulance siren, sudden and shrill, broke through the steady churn of traffic passing outside.

‘Coming to this country,' she began falteringly, ‘it was not easy for me. I pay, I have to pay much money. A lot of money.'

‘How much?'

‘Five thousand pounds.'

‘You had that much?'

‘No, of course not. I pay it back now. That is why … why I work as I do. I pay, each week, as much as I can. And last night … last night the man who arrange for me to come here, he tell me I must give him more. Five thousand more. The same again. Or he will report me and I will be sent home.' Ash spilled from the end of her cigarette and she brushed it across her jeans. ‘Since Ceausescu, there has been much change in my country. My parents say, yes, this is better, we can do, say what we like. Travel if we want. But what I see, there is no work. No money. Not for me. For Irena, maybe, she has qualifications, degree. She can work there if she wish. But me … you think I can dance in Bucharest, earn money, wear nice clothes, you think this?'

Kiley didn't know what he thought. He got to his feet and didn't know where to go. The light through the window was muted and pale, the sky a mottled grey.

‘What if you refuse to pay?'

Adina laughed: there was no pleasure in the sound.

‘One of the other girls did this. He cut her face. Oh, not himself. He told someone. Someone else.' Lightly, she touched one hand against her cheek. ‘Either that or he will have me sent back home.' She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘You know what will happen to me if I go back home? Where I will be? Standing beside the road from Bucharest to Sofia, waiting for some lorry driver to pull over and fuck me in his cab for the price of a meal and a pack of cigarettes.'

The room was suddenly airless and Kiley opened the window a crack and the sound of voices rolled in; early afternoon and people, some of them, were heading back to work after lunch. Others would be waiting for the first performance at the cinema up the street, going into the bookshop downstairs to browse and buy.

‘This man, the one who says you owe him money, does he have a name?'

‘Aldo. Aldo Fusco.'

‘You want me to talk to him?'

‘Oh, yes. Yes, please, if you will.'

‘When are you meant to see him again?'

‘I don't know. For certain, I mean. Sometimes he comes to the club, sometimes he sends message for me to meet him. Usually it is Soho, Berwick Street.' She placed the emphasis on the first syllable, sounded the middle letter. ‘He has office above shop that sells jewellery.'

‘You meet him there, his office?'

Adina shook her head. ‘Coffee bar across the street.'

‘If he contacts you, phone me,' Kiley said, giving her one of his cards. ‘Let me know. Meantime, I'll do what I can.'

‘Thank you. Thank you.' She caught his arm and kissed him hard, leaving what remained of her lipstick like a purple bruise beside his mouth.

There was little he could do but wait. Walking in and confronting Fusco direct, always assuming he could find him, would likely cause more trouble than it was worth. For Adina as well as for himself. So Kiley waited for the phone to ring, attended to other things. One morning, after meeting Kate for coffee in Maison Bertaux, he strolled up through Soho and located the shop in Berwick Street, costume jewellery in the window, the door leading to the upper floors firmly closed, several bells with no name attached. In a café a little way up the street, half a dozen men, leather-jacketed, dark-haired, sat around a table playing cards. When one of them chanced to look up and see Kiley through the glass, he held his stare till Kiley turned and walked away.

Two more days, three, then four. Irena came across from Cafe Pasta, concern clouding her eyes. ‘I went to the club looking for Adina and they told me she didn't work there any more. That is all they would tell me. Her flat, the place she shared with two of the other girls, most of her clothes have gone too.'

‘The girls, did they have any idea where she went?'

‘No. All they knew, that man came to the club, the one she owed money to. The next thing she was packing her things into a bag, there was a car waiting downstairs.'

Irena sighed and closed her eyes and Kiley placed one hand on her shoulder and she lowered her head until it rested on his chest. ‘It'll be okay,' he said quietly. ‘Don't worry.' When he kissed the top of her head, he was amazed at the softness of her hair.

‘Aldo fucking Fusco. Claims he's Italian. Sicilian even. It's all so much horse shit. His real name's Sali, Sali Mejdani. He's Albanian. From Tirana.'

Kiley had called his friend, Margaret, a solicitor who dealt with a lot of cases involving refugees, applications for asylum – ‘Was there anybody in Immigration who might talk to him, off the record?' Which was why he and Barker were walking between Westminster Bridge and Vauxhall, tour boats slowly passing both ways along the river. Two fortyish men in topcoats, talking over old times.

‘This girl,' Barker said. ‘Adina? You think she'd give evidence? In court?'

Kiley shook his head.

Barker broke his stride to light another cigarette. ‘They never do. Even if they say they will, when it comes down to it, they won't. Too frightened about what might happen. Getting deported back to whatever shithole it is they come from. So these people go on squeezing money out of them. The lucky ones, like your Adina, they work the clubs. For others, it's massage parlours, brothels. Twelve, fourteen hours a day; hundred, hundred and fifty cocks a week.'

‘You haven't got enough,' Kiley said, ‘without her, to have him arrested?'

‘Sure. Every once in a while we do.' Barker released a plume of smoke out on to the air. ‘He can afford a better solicitor, better barrister. We can never hold him. So we keep a watch, as much as we can, wait for him to slip up. A container ship stuffed full of asphyxiated bodies we can trace back to him direct. That would do the trick.'

‘And he knows?'

‘Fusco? That we're watching him? Oh, yes. And he loves it, makes him feel big. Important. A made guy.'

‘If I want to talk to him, you've no quarrel?'

Barker shook his head. ‘Til come along. Ride shotgun. Margaret might not forgive me if I let you get hurt.'

They were playing blackjack, five of them. Fusco had just bought another card on eighteen and gone over the top. ‘Fuck!' he said.

‘Nice,' Barker said from the doorway, ‘that you know your name.'

Three of the men round the table started to rise, but Fusco waved them back down. A couple by the wall drank their last mouthfuls of cappuccino and headed for the door. Barker and Kiley stood aside to let them past.

‘Hey,' Fusco said, looking at Barker. ‘You never give up.'

‘You know a girl called Adina?' Kiley said. ‘The Club Maroc'

Fusco eased back into his chair, tilting it on to its rear legs. ‘Sure, what of it?'

‘She says she owes you money.'

‘Not any more.'

Kiley moved closer. Behind him, someone came breezily through the cafe door, caught the eye of the woman behind the counter and stepped back out. ‘You mean she paid you? What?'

Amusement played in Fusco's eyes. ‘No, she didn't pay me. I sold her, that's what.'

‘Sold her? What d'you mean, sold her? Where the fuck d'you think you are?'

The man nearest to Kiley was half out of his chair and Kiley levered him back down, hand tight against his neck. Across the room Barker was thinking a little more backup might've been nice.

‘You are right,' Fusco said, ‘she owe me money. Did not want to pay. I sell the debt.'

‘You sold the debt?'

‘Hey,' Fusco laughed. ‘You hear pretty good.'

Kiley went for him then, fists raised, and there were two men quick to block his path, holding his arms till he shook them off.

‘Jack,' Barker said, clear but not loud. ‘Let's not.'

Slowly, Fusco lowered his chair back on to all four legs. He was still grinning his broad grin and Kiley wanted to tear it from his face.

‘Jack,' Barker said again.

Kiley eased back.

‘I tell you this because of your friend,' Fusco said, indicating Barker with a nod of the head. ‘The one who took over the debt, he is called O'Hagan. He has a club in Birmingham. Kicks. You best hope she is working there. If not, get someone to drive you up and down the Hagley Road.' Scooping up the cards, he proceeded to shuffle and deal.

‘The Hagley Road,' Barker said when they were back on the street. ‘It's—'

‘I know what it is.'

They set off south towards the Tube. ‘You'll go? Brum?'

Kiley nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘Tread carefully.'

‘You know this O'Hagan?'

‘Not personally. But I could give you the name of someone who might.'

On the corner of Old Compton Street, Barker stopped and wrote a name inside the top of a cigarette pack, tore it off and pushed it into Kiley's hand. ‘West Midlands Crime Squad. You can use my name.'

‘Thanks.'

At the station they went their separate ways.

*

The last thing Kiley wanted, the last thing he wanted there and then, following the altercation outside Kicks, was several hours spent in A & E. Hailing a cab, he got the driver to take him to the nearest late-night chemist where he stocked up on plasters, bandages and antiseptic cream. When he asked for suggestions for a hotel, the cabbie took him to his sister-in-law's B & B on the Pershore Road, near Pebble Mill. Clean sheets, a pot of tea and a glass of Scotch, full breakfast in the morning and change from fifty pounds.

‘You look like warmed-over shit,' Mackay said next day, drinking an early lunch in the anonymity of an All Bar One. Mackay, detective sergeant in the West Midlands Crime Squad, Birmingham by way of Aberdeen. Suit from Top Man, shirt and tie from Next.

Kiley thought they could skip the small talk and asked about O'Hagan instead.

Mackay laughed. A cheery sound. ‘Casinos, that's his thing. Any kind of gambling. That club you got yourself thrown out of, as much for show as anything. Entertaining. When one of our lot had his retirement bash six months back, that's where it was. O'Hagan's treat. Sign of respect.' He laughed again. ‘Not an official donor to the Police Benevolent Fund, you understand, but here and there he does his bit.'

‘Widows and orphans.'

‘That type of thing.'

‘How about nineteen-year-olds from Romania?'

‘He has his share.' Mackay drained his whisky glass and pushed it across a foot or so of polished pine. Kiley sought a refill at the bar, another coffee for himself.

‘You're not drinking?' Mackay asked, eyebrow raised.

‘How does he treat his girls?' Kiley asked.

‘O'Hagan? Well enough, I'd suppose. So long as they stay in line.'

‘And if not?'

Mackay tasted his Scotch, lit a cigarette. ‘A wee bit of trouble with his enforcers once or twice. But that was gambling, debts not paid. The local lads sorted it as I recall.'

‘These enforcers – a couple of big guys, black, look as if they could box.'

Mackay laughed again. ‘Cyril and Claude. Brothers. Twins. And, aye, box is right. But they're straight enough, not the kind of enforcers I meant at all. Those bastards are still in the open-razor stage. Cyril and Claude, much more smooth.' He chuckled into his glass. ‘Which one was it, I wonder, rearranged your face?'

‘The talkative one.'

‘That'd be Claude. He works out in a gym not far from here. You know, he's really not so bad a guy.' Finishing his drink, Mackay got to his feet. ‘If you bump into him again, make sure you give him my best.'

Kiley watched Claude spar three rounds with a big-boned Yugoslav, work out on the heavy bag, waited while he towelled down. They sat on a bench off to one side of the main room, high on the scent of sweat and wintergreen, the small thunder of feet and fists about their ears.

‘Sorry about last night,' Claude offered.

Kiley shook his head.

‘Like, when I saw you reach inside your coat, I thought … See, not so long back, me and Cyril we're escorting this high-roller out of the club and he's offerin' money, all sorts, to let him stay. We get him outside an' I think he's reachin' for his wallet an' suddenly he's wavin' this gun …' Claude grinned, almost sheepishly. ‘I wasn't goin' to make that mistake again.'