Dead Of Winter (Willis/Carter #1)(39)

She smiled. ‘Thank you. Are you a tourist?’

‘Sort of. Tell me . . . Is this what you came to the UK for?’ He flicked his head towards the podium.

‘No, I didn’t come here to be a dancer. I came to work with children. I joined an agency to work as a nanny for children but . . . I had to pay the agency back for my flights, accommodation.’ She looked around and stopped talking, smiled nervously as Ray watched. ‘The agency was not truthful.’ She kept smiling.

‘Let me guess . . . you’re still paying?’

‘Of course.’ She looked at Carmichael, deep and long. She kept a smile on her mouth. ‘Please. I hope I can entertain you some time.’

Carmichael caught a glimpse of the inside of her left arm; it was bruised. She shook her head when she saw him looking at her arm. ‘I’m not a junkie.’ She stopped as she saw Carmichael’s eyes flash and focus on a man walking their way. Digger Cain was heading towards Carmichael’s table. Tanya got up to leave. Digger sat down and called Ray over to bring him a drink. Ray arrived with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses.

Digger scrutinized Carmichael. ‘Have we not met before . . . Mr Hart?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Digger had already added up the worth of the man sitting opposite him: a grand for the watch, nearly that for the suit. Five hundred for the shoes. The man had bought the best and he wore it well. His body was muscled and lean. His height gave him power. His face was tanned and rugged. His hair black, neat, short, understated. He could have been an older Armani model.

Carmichael looked across at the bar. Ray the barman was talking to a man sitting on a bar stool who was rhythmically swilling the contents of his brandy glass as he turned his head and watched Carmichael and Digger in conversation.

Digger sat back in the seat. He stretched out an arm on the back of the alcove as he sipped his Scotch.

‘You come highly recommended, Mr Hart. I hear you’re interested in recruiting dancers? You want to join our network?’

‘Yes. That’s right.’

‘Have you got the premises?’ Carmichael sat back. Digger continued: ‘I looked at your club. You had trouble in the past; you lost your licence?’

‘Not me. It belonged to others. They got careless. They irritated the wrong people and weren’t respectful to the right ones. I’ve made sure it won’t happen again. This is a fresh start, a brand-new venture, and I don’t foresee any problems with licensing restrictions or visas. The local police and I have come to an arrangement. I am paying into their pension plan.’

Digger gave a gesture of approval. ‘And . . . the last owners? What happened to them?’ He fixed Carmichael with a look that said he already knew the answer but wanted to see if Carmichael would lie to him.

‘They flew back to Sarajevo, in the hold.’

‘What if I said they were friends of mine?’ Digger eyeballed him.

Carmichael leaned forward and picked up his Scotch. ‘No offence . . .’ he held up his drink in a small salute. ‘Then you’d know they deserved it.’

Digger coughed, rattling phlegm in his chest.

‘Yes. They were a thorn in my side. They gave people like myself a bad name.’ He grinned at Carmichael. ‘I prefer dealing with the English. I would be happy to offer you girls.’

He looked around the booths; the club had yet to fill – it was early, not quite ten. He nodded his head towards the man at the bar and he disappeared for a few minutes. When he reappeared he had a young girl with him. Her bony frame was skinny and tall; she had on a silver bikini. Her legs wobbled in five-inch heels. The man dragged her forward towards the last of the three poles and tried to make her dance.

Digger kept his eyes on Carmichael as he inclined his head towards the podium: ‘As you can see . . . we have the merchandise . . . for the right money. Alright, Mr Hart . . . let’s talk business.’’

The girl hung onto the pole as if it were a rope dangling over a river of crocs.

‘We have someone who gets us girls. He has good agents over in the Eastern bloc. They groom the families, neighbours, work mates, anyone who wants to make money from selling to us. There’s never any shortage of girls because there’s always a shortage of money.’ He looked back at the girl.

‘This girl? What’s her story?’

‘Her name is Anna. She went to help a neighbour in the market. Anna is an orphan. There is no one to come looking for her. He sold her as well as his potatoes. Enterprising, these people. This is Anna’s second day.’ She hung off the man’s hands like a crying rag doll as he hammered his hips against hers and simulated sex. Her mouth opened to cry but no sound came out.

‘Every day there’s a new lesson,’ Digger explained.

Carmichael watched as Tanya came out and draped her arm around the man’s neck and tried to kiss him. It was only a temporary distraction; he pushed her off and continued tormenting the young girl.

‘In a few days’ time she’ll learn to use her mouth for something more . . . useful.’ Digger’s laugh cracked. He coughed phlegm into his mouth and spat into a cloth handkerchief. He looked at its contents, folded it and put it back in his pocket. The man pushed Tanya away.

‘How does it work?’

‘They start their working life here in London. After we acclimatize them we provide them with various job opportunities. Some of them come into the UK legitimately and have no problems working, others need a little discretion. We have something for each of them besides finding work in clubs. We have: live sex chat, web rooms, escort agencies and massage parlours. We move them around the clubs in our network every couple of months . . . we move them on to other cities: Leeds, Manchester, Bristol. We get a new shipment in about once every few months. Would you like to try Anna or Tanya?’