“You look like proper shit, Ollie.”
Oliver didn’t look up. He continued to stare blankly at the news ticker crawling across the bottom of the television screen.
Jack eyed his brother, whose unshaven jaw and shell-shocked expression plainly said he hadn’t slept in a couple of days. “Get some sleep, at least.”
Oliver surged to his feet and began to pace around the flat. “How the fuck can I sleep with my daughter missing? When I think what might be happening to her, even now—”
“Look, you’re of no use to anyone if you’re an exhausted wreck.”
“And Valery,” Oliver ranted, “why didn’t she keep a closer eye on Jools? That fucking magazine consumes her—”
“This isn’t doing anyone any good,” Jack pointed out. “Go and get some sleep.” He pushed himself off the sofa’s arm and went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. “I’ll keep an eye on the news and make a few calls in the meantime.”
Oliver hesitated. He wanted to argue; he knew Jack could see it on his face. He didn’t approve of his half-brother; he didn’t like what he did for a living, or his cavalier attitude towards – well, towards everything. He and Jack had never really been close.
But despite his flaws, Jack always remembered Julia’s birthdays, always kept in sporadic touch, and always dropped in with armloads of presents every Christmas without fail.
As half-brothers went, he wasn’t perfect, Oliver conceded. But he was blood; they shared a mother. And in this particular instance, Jack’s dubious background could only help.
Oliver passed a hand over his face. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try and sleep for a bit. But wake me the minute – the second – you hear anything.”
Jack nodded and watched as his half-brother disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door. Poor sod. What a turn up.
As he measured water and coffee grounds into the pot, he told himself that this whole thing was likely just a tempest in a teapot. Julia was a good kid, a smart kid. She’d probably just taken off with her new half-Indian boyfriend – no doubt chosen expressly to piss off her parents – for a road trip or a rock festival or some last-minute lark. From his (admittedly) limited experience, Jack knew that most kids didn’t think; they acted, and dealt with the fallout later.
Nevertheless, he reflected with a frown as the scent of Costa Rican coffee filled the air, two things disturbed him. One, Julia had never done anything like this before. Add to that the fact that her boyfriend might be involved with a gang, and there was plenty of reason to be uneasy.
Given the additional fact that they went missing from Bethnal Green – home, by all accounts, of several well-known gangs – Jack was not reassured. Even if Adesh Patel wasn’t a gang member himself, he might be the victim of extortion, or mired in debt to a loan shark with gang ties.
The possibilities were many and varied…and all of them equally disturbing.
The police had no leads, other than sharing Jack’s suspicion that the Turkish Bombacilar gang – more commonly known as the Bombers – might be involved. The detectives questioned the boy’s parents and his Auntie Deepa and got precisely nothing, other than firm assurances that Adesh Patel was a good boy, a good student, and not mixed up with any gangs…
… which might – or might not – be true.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and added a splash of milk, then set it aside to pick up his mobile.
Neither Adesh nor Julia had their mobiles when they went missing, which told him they didn’t plan to be gone long. They went to the boy’s aunt’s house early on Sunday evening. Then they vanished. None of the neighbours saw or heard a thing.
Jack sighed. No surprise there. Even if anyone saw or heard something suspicious, they wouldn’t tell the authorities. Fear of reprisal was a strongly motivating factor for immigrants living anywhere in the borough of Tower Hamlets – not just fear of the gangs, but fear of the police as well. Most of the locals were in the country illegally; getting involved with the law was the last thing any of them wanted.
On impulse, Jack rang a number he hadn’t called in nearly two years. The call was picked up straight away. “Criminal Investigation Department, DS Matthews.”
“Devon? Jack Hawkins. I need some info.”
“Jack, you old rat bastard, what are you up to these days?” He could almost see his ex-partner, leaning back in his chair, feet crossed and propped on his desk.
“You know me, Dev, still operating just outside the law. Some things never change.”
“Yeah, well, the less said about that, the better.” There was the sound of a file drawer scraping open as Dev reached for his ever-present pack of Polos and popped one in his mouth. “So what can I do for you?”
“I hear you lot are shutting down the prossies left and right in Tower Hamlets these days. Clearing out the rubbish for the next Olympics, are you?”
“Officially? The local council is a bit concerned about the alarming rise in the sex trade of late.”
“And unofficially?” Jack prodded.
“Unofficially,” Dev said as he swung his feet to the floor, “most of the sex trafficking in the East End these days is run by Turkish gangs. Got quite a stronghold, they have. We figure it might be bad for tourism. Why the interest? Did I arrest one of your girlfriends?”
Briefly Jack related the details of Adesh and Julia’s disappearance and gave a description of each. “The girl’s my niece,” he finished, and paused. “I’d appreciate it if you keep your eyes open and let me know if you hear anything.”
“You think she might turn up in one of the brothels.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
“I hope not,” Jack said grimly. “Thanks for your help. I owe you a steak dinner.”
“You owe me more than that,” Dev retorted. “Try a steak dinner, a night on the town, and tickets to the next Arsenal game.” He paused and let out a short breath. “I hope you find her, Jack.”
“Me, too, mate. Me too.”