Breaking Point (26 page)

Clearly agitated now, Udall tried to close the door, but Tregalles held it open. ‘Nothing!' Udall said in a fierce undertone. ‘They don't work on anything – at least not in the shop. They go off in Slater's car together, and I don't know any more than that, so it's no good asking.'

‘But McCoy must know,' Tregalles said. ‘He
has
to know if he allows Fletcher to take off like that. So what is going on out there?'

‘
Nothing
is going on out there,' Udall said desperately. ‘It has nothing to do with RGS. Whatever Gerry Fletcher was up to, it didn't involve the company.'

‘But it does involve McCoy. Right?'

‘I wouldn't know,' said Udall stubbornly. He wiped a hand across his face. ‘Look,' he said earnestly, ‘I'd like to help, but I can't. I'm sixty-one years old, and all I want is to keep my head down and keep my job for as long as I can, so if there is anything dodgy going on, I don't want to know about it. Understand?'

Udall pushed the door shut without waiting for an answer, and Tregalles heard the solid click of the lock as the key was turned inside.

Slater's name again. Tregalles thought about that as he made his way back to his car. So, what
was
going on out there at RGS, he wondered? Whatever it was, he felt sure that McCoy was in the thick of it.

G
race answered the phone, then handed it to Paget. ‘Alcott,' she mouthed, rolling her eyes and making a face. A call from the superintendent almost certainly meant a disruption to their evening.

‘Ah, Paget, glad I caught you in. Sorry if it's not the best time,' Alcott said, not sounding the least bit sorry at all, ‘but something's come up and I need you here. And I don't mean the office; I'm at home.'

At home? That was a new one. In all the time he'd worked for Alcott, he'd never been asked to the man's home. ‘Has something happened there?' he asked. ‘Are you all right, sir?'

‘Yes, yes, I'm fine.' He sounded testy. ‘But I need you here. Half an hour?'

‘Can you tell me—'

‘Half an hour,' Alcott said as if Paget hadn't spoken, and hung up.

Paget stood there for a moment, frowning. ‘He wants me there in half an hour,' he said in answer to Grace's unspoken question. ‘At his house, but he wouldn't say why.'

Her own brow was furrowed as she said, ‘That's odd. Did he sound as if he were in some sort of trouble?'

Paget shrugged. ‘He
sounded
all right. Abrupt, but that's hardly anything new. I've a good mind to call him back and?'

But Grace was shaking her head. ‘You know he wouldn't call unless it was important. Better get going, Neil; the clock's ticking, and he is not a patient man.'

Alcott lived in a semi-detached house on Kensington Drive at the top of Strathe Hill. Built just after the war, there were a dozen like it in the street: small front garden; low brick wall marking the boundary between garden and pavement; a single tree in the middle of the lawn; twin strips of concrete leading to the garage at the side of the house. The superintendent had floated the idea of moving to something a bit more upmarket several times, but his wife, Marion, liked it where they were. As she pointed out, it was paid for, and they certainly didn't need more room now that the girls were gone, and besides, she liked the neighbours, and you never knew who might be next door in a new place.

There was a silver Jag in the short driveway, and Paget wondered about that as he stepped inside the covered porch and rang the bell.

The door was opened by Alcott himself, who hustled him inside and closed the door quickly as if afraid someone might follow the DCI in. ‘Just drop your coat on the chair and come through,' he said brusquely. ‘There's someone here I want you to meet.'

Paget followed the superintendent into the front room, where a tall, broad-shouldered, grey-haired man with glass in hand, stood ramrod straight in the middle of the room. He smiled and slowly shook his head as he thrust out his hand.

‘Country life must agree with you,' he said. ‘Last time we met, you were – well, let's just say, not at your best. Good to see you again, Neil.'

Paget grasped the outstretched hand. ‘Ben Trowbridge!' he said, shaking his own head in disbelief. ‘I didn't expect to see you here. It's good to see you, too. But what brings you here? On holiday, are you? And if that's your Jag in the driveway, things must be looking up. Is Beryl with you?'

‘No, but I'll tell her you asked,' Trowbridge said. ‘And, no, I'm not on holiday, and the Jag isn't mine, but it is one of the perks of the job.'

Alcott, who had been hovering impatiently, said, ‘Superintendent Trowbridge is with NCIS – the National Criminal Intelligence Service,' he added unnecessarily.

‘So that's where you went,' said Paget. ‘Congratulations, Ben. I'm afraid I've lost touch with what's been going on since I left the Met. How long have you been over there?'

‘A couple of years, although I'm actually working with the Europol section and Interpol at the moment, which brings me to why I'm here.' He turned to Alcott. ‘And I do appreciate your seeing me on such short notice, and for the use of your house, but I didn't think it would be wise to meet in your office. Shall we sit down?'

Trowbridge settled into a comfortable chair and held up his glass. ‘I must say this is a very nice single malt, Superintendent,' he said as Paget sat down facing him. ‘I'm sure you will appreciate it, Neil.'

But Paget shook his head. ‘Nothing for me,' he said. ‘I have to drive home and I have trouble with spirits.' Alcott looked relieved. He'd trotted out the best he had for his visitor, and he didn't want to see any of it go to waste.

‘Superintendent Trowbridge has given me a rough outline of why he is here,' he explained as he sat down and lit a cigarette, ‘but I suggested that he leave the details until you arrived rather than going over everything twice. Please, go ahead, Superintendent.'

Trowbridge waved a hand. ‘Ben,' he said. ‘I think we can dispense with the titles while we're here.' He set his glass aside and fixed his eyes on Paget. ‘So, let's get down to business, and the first thing I must insist on is that what I'm about to tell you does not leave this room. All right?'

Paget glanced at Alcott, then nodded.

‘Good. Now, the reason I am here, Neil, is because I want you to call off the people who have been sniffing round RGS Removals. It's important that you do so, because if you continue, you could jeopardize something we have been working on for a long time.'

‘Which is?'

‘By definition, trafficking in persons,' said Trowbridge tersely.

Paget frowned. ‘And you believe that RGS is involved in moving people?'

‘We know they are, but that's only part of it. RGS is merely one link in a very long chain, but they have become a very important one at the end of that chain.' Trowbridge hunched forward, eyes and manner intense as he went on to explain.

‘First of all, as I'm sure you know, illegals of every stripe are pouring into this country. They are coming in by every means possible, and they're getting through due to lax immigration rules and cutbacks at Customs They're coming from almost every corner of the earth, including the Middle East, North Africa, Asia and the Orient, but our current target is the organization that is bringing them in from Eastern Europe. Romania, Bulgaria, Albania, the Ukraine, Latvia – in fact you could name just about any of the old Balkan states as well as the old USSR satellite states.

‘They deal almost exclusively with those being brought in for exploitation in the sex trade, women and children who are forced into prostitution. Some have been lured by the promise of good jobs when they get here; others have been literally kidnapped in their home country, in fact some of the kids are from orphanages where the people who are supposed to be their guardians have sold them to the gangs, and once they're here, they are bought and sold like cattle to the highest bidder.

‘One of the biggest operators is a man by the name of George Kellerman, and he is in the process of setting up a series of auction houses throughout the country, similar to the ones that have been running in Eastern Europe for some time, where the “merchandise”, as he calls these hapless people, can be viewed, poked, prodded and “sampled” by potential buyers before they put in their bids. And one of those auction houses has been set up right here on your patch at a farm run by a man called Roper. I'm sure you know the name; one of your men was out there the other day to ask about a man by the name of Fletcher, who had called Roper on his mobile phone. Right?'

Paget nodded. ‘Fletcher was involved in getting rid of a van that belonged to a young man by the name of Mark Newman. Newman disappeared about three weeks ago. We wanted to talk to Fletcher, but I think the people he was working for got to him first.'

‘Newman is dead,' said Trowbridge flatly. ‘He was caught snooping around the farm when they were doing a dry run. His presence there almost blew the entire operation, but once they'd established beyond any doubt that he wasn't a police spy, they killed him. He's buried on the farm.'

Paget settled back in his chair. ‘Which tells me that you have someone on the inside,' he said quietly. ‘How long has this been going on?'

Ben Trowbridge continued on as if Paget hadn't spoken. ‘They came for the Irishman the following morning, and once they'd finished working on him they killed him as well. So you see, we are dealing with some very ruthless and determined people, and they'll simply disappear and set up somewhere else if they suspect that we're on to them, and all our efforts could be wasted.

‘Now, they're still pretty jumpy, but they believe they have covered their tracks. Kellerman has a lot invested in this, so he plans to go ahead, and we believe that the first auction in this area will be held toward the end of this week. The actual date won't be set until very close to the time, and even then the buyers won't be told the location. They will be assembled at a staging point, then taken under the cover of darkness to the farm in closed vans. Afterwards, their “selections” will be transported to their new homes in separate vans. There will be major buyers there, primarily from Birmingham, Liverpool and Manchester, but there could be others as well, and Kellerman will be there himself. He has to be there in person or the buyers won't come. It's his guarantee to them that the place is safe.'

Paget and Alcott exchanged glances. ‘So you hope to catch the lot once they're there,' Alcott said, ‘and you want us to stay out of it until then?'

‘Exactly. We'll have everyone we want, and you will be able to close the case on Newman and Doyle.'

Paget said, ‘Do you know who did the actual killing?'

Trowbridge nodded. ‘A man they call Luka. Luka Bardici, an Albanian. Smallish man, trim, athletic, dark complexion, thirty-something. Quite a pleasant-looking chap, in fact, but deadly. He's responsible for what they like to call “security”, and he doesn't mess about if there's a problem. His methods are swift and direct.'

‘There must be others involved in the murders,' said Paget. ‘Fletcher, for example. We know he was given the responsibility of getting rid of Newman's van, and we know there was someone else with him.'

Trowbridge nodded. ‘That's right,' he said, ‘but I'm afraid he is dead as well.' He picked up his glass. ‘The thing is, do I have your cooperation?'

Alcott was nodding, but Paget had a question. ‘You say this man, Luka, actually did the killing, but can you prove it? I don't intend to stand in your way regarding all this other business – God knows I'd like to see these people get what they deserve – but I would also like some assurance that we will be able to get our hands on this man when the operation is over. I want him and anyone else involved in those killings to stand trial.'

Trowbridge pursed his lips as he held Paget's gaze. ‘I'm not sure I can give you that assurance,' he said slowly. ‘This man has a lot of knowledge about the organization, especially the European end of it, and we believe he can help us.'

‘In exchange for what, Ben? We're talking cold-blooded murder, here.'

‘And I'm talking about the fate of a great many people whose lives have been destroyed or will be if we don't do this right,' Trowbridge countered. ‘For this auction alone, we estimate they'll be bringing in something like seventy-five women and children who will be sold like slabs of meat to men who will quite literally work them to death. If we don't get them now, they could spend the next twenty years in slavery, subjected to every abominable thing you can think of, and a few you never could. They will be forced to do whatever their masters want them to do. Some will commit suicide, some will try to make life bearable through drugs, but they will never have a normal life again, while those who do make it through will be cast aside once they are no longer useful. And this is only one part of the network. Important as it is to smash this ring and put the likes of Kellerman and his ilk behind bars, there are others lined up to take his place, and someone like Luka could prove invaluable to us.'

Paget steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. The thought of letting the man slip away to negotiate some sort of deal with NCIS or Interpol did not sit well with him. On the other hand, how could he in all good conscience insist on prosecuting the man for murder, heinous as his crimes might be, when leaving him to Trowbridge might prevent many more lives from being destroyed?

‘What about when you have finished with him?' he asked.

Trowbridge shook his head again. ‘We may never finish with him' he said. ‘In any case, I'm afraid it's already been decided. Your chief constable has been apprised of the situation, and he has agreed to cooperate. The only reason I am here today is because I felt you should hear what's at stake first hand, and I wanted you to have the full story. I'm sorry, Neil, but as I say, it's been decided. Luka is ours.'