‘Call the police. Call the fucking police. Let them handle it.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘That’s what the old man says. Just make sure you get the fuck out of there, OK?’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘Right.’ Not really listening.
I was on the phone, still crouched next to the girl I’d first approached. She was still hunched in on herself. Afraid that I would suddenly turn on her. She didn’t know what I was saying into the phone. She had barely understood what I had said to her. Her English was confined to rote pleasantries, words she’d been taught to say. No doubt to please men who maybe looked like me and Findo.
The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Michael Malone. Burns’s mouthpiece. The cops called him The Lieutenant. Because that’s what he was. The one who did the grunt work, made sure everything ran smooth. If the police wanted, they could have put Malone away decades earlier. But since everyone knew that he was simply the public face and not the man giving orders, the idea was deemed pointless. The exercise had always been about putting away David Burns, not the men below him. Cut off the head, you kill the snake. Old-fashioned thinking, but effective. And even if someone had the bright idea of trying to break Michael, it wouldn’t work. He was too loyal. Like anyone who got that close to Burns, he worshipped the old man with the fervour of the religious fanatic.
‘Make the call,’ Malone said. ‘Then scarper. Leave the girls. Just fucking go. Old man’s say so, yeah?’
Fine. I hung up. Looked at the girls. They were shivering under blankets. I’d managed to persuade them to come out from where they were hiding, got Findo to make sure they were covered and in as good health as could be expected. They were underfed and clearly abused, but for the most part seemed in no immediate danger.
Having done his good deed, Findo stood by the window, looking outside. As though he couldn’t cope with what we’d found, just wanted it all to go away. He’d got over the shock, started thinking about the implications of our discovery. Couldn’t handle them. This was not the kind of situation he was comfortable with.
He liked the simplicity of violence. Knowing that his choices were as simple as to kick arse or have your arse kicked. This kind of situation just didn’t belong in his world.
But he understood what was happening. He knew things about how the world worked, just preferred to ignore them. But now he couldn’t, not when it was happening right in front of his eyes.
There were more girls than we had first seen. Six in total. All underfed, half-dressed, terrified of the men who had burst into the tiny room they’d been calling home. They’d probably been here for months. Compared to the way they’d been brought into the country, I suppose it seemed like five-star luxury.
There were marks on the girls, too.
Didn’t need to be a forensic investigator to figure what had happened to them.
I dialled the emergency line from my mobile, asked for the police.
‘Can I have your name, sir?’
‘John MacClane.’ Figured she might not get that I was lying. Whatever. I couldn’t leave my real details, much as I wanted to. The girls were a complication we didn’t need. And you can’t break cover because of the overwhelming urge to act like a white knight.
I hung up. ‘We need to leave.’
‘What about them?’ Findo finally speaking.
‘The police aren’t dumb. I know. I was one of them, remember? They’ll work out there’s a human rights violation operating out of this address. Might take them a few minutes, like.’
‘A what? Oh. Aye.’
‘We’ll have legged it by the time they get here, Fin. Don’t worry.’
‘Right.’
‘Old man’s orders.’
‘Direct?’
‘Through Malone, but he talked to the old man.’
‘OK,’ Findo said. He turned to face the girls. ‘We’re leaving now. Me and my friend. But it’s OK. Everything’s going to be OK. You understand?’ He spoke slowly, thinking that might help them understand what he was saying.
But of course, they didn’t understand. Just looked at him with a mix of fear and incomprehension. Wasn’t just about understanding English. With someone like Fin, you needed a PhD in the Dundonian accent.
‘Do you understand? Comprende?’ Each word shouted in an attempt at comprehensibility.
‘Fin, that’s French.’ Or at least an attempt. But I kept that last thought to myself.
‘European, though? They’re European, right? They have to speak French. It’s like the fucking law over there.’
I shook my head. Said, ‘Come on. We need to get out of here.’
As we left, Findo turned and said, ‘You never saw us. Merci Beaucoup.’ Even if they could speak French, chances were, given Findo’s accent, they’d still have been left without a clue.