The Heights Read online

  She was rotated out, first to Dubai, which she hated, then to northern Iraq. It was there in 2013 that the event that really triggered the end of her time with the SIS and with Stewart Mason occurred. In February of that year she had been in a convoy heading east away from the Syrian border when they were ambushed and taken hostage by a small militia group. They were lucky in the sense that these were basically criminals hoping to cash her in for a fat prize from Islamic State. The disadvantage was that they were undisciplined. Crane was locked into a tiny space no bigger than a large closet. Her fear of confinement stemmed from there.

  It was the longest six weeks of her life. Every day, every hour, felt like her last. She was convinced that she was going to be raped and murdered, dumped by the side of the road. They bought into her cover as an NGO trying to help women. The fact that she spoke Arabic helped her. The men weren’t sure what to make of her. She was lucky also that Islamic State couldn’t make up their minds. Messengers went back and forth but there was always a problem of some kind. When she was finally liberated by a group of Kurdish women fighters she was literally hours away from being handed over.

  It wasn’t a time she talked about much, but seeing her father had brought it all back. She had decided long ago that the easiest way of dealing with him was just not to. Cut all ties and keep her distance. She had never forgiven him for abandoning her mother. She knew that she would never get over that, so the easiest thing was to let go of him. Which had worked fine until the moment Marco Foulkes walked into her office.

  What should have been a straightforward job was proving to be anything but. Marco was using her, or trying to. She was pretty sure of that now. What intrigued her was how it tied in to Howeida’s disappearance, and also to her father’s financial situation.

  Dropping the pictures back into the box, Crane slid the lid into place. Instead of rummaging around in her past she ought to have been out there with her partner, working on this investigation. And that was another problem. She was beginning to ask herself if Cal Drake really was a suitable partner. He seemed to have his own issues and by the looks of things would not be able to give his full attention to this case, or any other for that matter, until he had put to rest whatever it was in his past that was bothering him.

  ‘What kind of a mess have I got myself into?’ she asked herself aloud.

  14

  The sound of a helicopter rattled overhead, bringing Drake instantly awake. The sound always triggered a visceral memory that left him gasping for breath, his fingers clawing at the sheets, waiting for his mind to settle. As he stared at the ceiling he realised he had been dreaming about Zelda.

  ‘Where did you find a name like that?’

  ‘Zelda?’ She looked surprised. ‘You never heard of F. Scott Fitzgerald?’

  Drake had to plead ignorance. He’d heard of him, of course, but never actually read anything by him. She looked at him as though she felt sorry for him. So much so that he went out and bought a copy of The Great Gatsby on his way home.

  Zelda was fine. In his reports, that was the name he used. He didn’t write down her real name anywhere. He told Pryce that she was a known criminal informant, without disclosing her identity. He was too worried about leaks. He was a detective inspector back then. Going undercover was a little below his paygrade, but he knew he was the best suited for the task and that nobody was going to stop him. Taking down Goran Malevich would have been a big feather in his cap.

  But Pryce was leery. He wasn’t happy that Drake refused to share his informant. Until he could prove she was valuable, that her information was good, Drake knew Pryce would never give him any credit. So he pressed her, and one day she came up with the goods: a flat in Camberwell. Pryce was pushing to undermine him. Drake knew that he needed to prove to him as well as to senior command that his work was good, that his informant was reliable. So he’d activated an immediate action raid based on Zelda’s intelligence and they went in, not knowing what they would find.

  The moment they broke open the front door the stink that hit them was enough to make them retch. Inside, it was hard to see. The windows were taped over with newspaper, aluminium foil and glossy sheets ripped from porn magazines, alongside bikini-clad celebrities from the Daily Mail. His flashlight skimmed across, picking up headlines: ‘Tali-ban-anas’; ‘Panama Papers’; ‘Hourglass Curves’. Like dipping a toe into the sewer of a confused state of mind. He didn’t need it. What he needed was light, but he wasn’t going to touch anything.

  It still wasn’t clear who was running this place. Zelda said it was Goran’s but Drake wasn’t sure how true that was. This was nothing like the kind of place he normally would have associated with the man. This was a glimpse into the black hole of his universe. Goran Malevich liked glamour, gambling and strip clubs, vodka and Cristal on ice. There were no bulbs in the light fittings. No water in the pipes. The uniforms crowded into the doorway behind him and Drake motioned for them to stay back. He held his breath as he edged past a toilet that looked as though something nasty had died and rotted.

  ‘How many people are registered here?’ he had asked the landlord just before they effected entry. The man was loitering in the doorway as if getting ready to do a runner, sucking nervously on a cigarette even though Drake had told him not to. He was unshaven. A grubby vest and sweat pants underneath an old gabardine raincoat. The man gave a useless shrug and started on a long rambling litany. Registered? Yeah, right. Nobody had any idea. Nobody cared. Now he was poking his head inside and going off on a noisy rant in what might have been Urdu. Drake suspected he was trying to warn whoever was in the flat.

  ‘Quiet!’ Drake could hear something. He held up a hand. One of the uniforms dragged the man back out onto the outside landing where he should have been in the first place. When things start to go pear-shaped it always seems to start in multiple places at the same time.

  The silence was broken again. A faint scratching, squirming sound, like something wriggling about inside the walls. He went back to the front entrance and pushed everyone back. Then he started inside again, down the hallway on the right. Past the toilet again. He stopped. Then back again. He shone the flashlight beam into a bath caked with what might have been mud, blood or shit. Beyond that was a small room. The last in the hallway. A bedroom. Posters of starlets in sequins and boy bands in hair gel. The sounds were coming from inside the wall. He pressed his ear to an Arsenal poster of the 2009 squad. Almunia, Nasri and Sol Campbell. He slid his way along until he reached the wardrobe. The sounds were stronger there. It was piled high with cardboard boxes, old trainers, a set of boxing gloves that a dog had chewed up. Junk you might find on a tip. He dragged it out of the way.

  Someone had screwed a makeshift door into place. Hinges on one side and two metal hasps on the other, all held with outsize padlocks. Whatever was inside there was valuable to someone.

  Drake poked through the boxes until he came up with a screwdriver. The bit had snapped off but there was still enough of the shaft to jam into the space between the clasp and the wall. He thumped on the door. The sounds from within became more frantic. Hysteria. Wailing, rising and falling.

  Drake went out into the hall and called back to the uniforms.

  ‘Get social services down here,’ he yelled to no one in particular. He went back into the room and leaned on the handle until the nails slowly began to squeal. The wails from within turned into frantic screams. The second hinge proved more difficult. He was sweating by now. One of the uniforms came in with a crowbar. As he pulled the makeshift door open Cal caught a finger on a nail. He swore as it swung out then instantly reeled back from the stench.

  The torch beam picked out ten, twelve of them in the tiny space, their eyes white against skin that was dark by nature, or grubby from lack of washing. Boys and girls, the oldest would have been about ten. They were crouched down in the far corner, huddled together, crying and clutching one another.

  ‘Jesus wept!’ muttered the uniform at his shoulder, who
then began swearing and only stopped when Drake shook him. He snapped his fingers a couple of times in the man’s face and he seemed to come out of his trance. Drake pushed him out of the way and waved a WPC forward.

  ‘Let’s get them down to the paramedics,’ he said to her.

  The children were weak. Some of them could barely stand, having been confined in that narrow space for so long. Turning back, he swept the torch about the little prison cell. It was the size of a bathroom in a cheap hotel. Just enough room to walk in and turn around. A bucket in the corner functioned as a toilet. The stench was thick enough to cut with a knife. Drake forced himself to swallow.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, over the clamour. ‘It’s okay.’ He didn’t know if they understood English, perhaps he was trying to reassure himself as much as them. Finally he stepped aside as the paramedics arrived. The hallway was crowded with more uniforms. Looking big and clean, newly minted, all eager to see what they’d found.

  ‘Let’s back off here, give them some space. They’re scared to death.’

  One man was wiping tears from his eyes. Drake pushed past them all. He had to get out.

  The grey light hit him with a jolt, as if he had forgotten that it was still daytime. As if such things could exist in broad daylight. He had to force himself to breathe evenly and deeply. He leaned on the concrete balustrade and waited for the dizziness to pass. Down below in the car park the cold blue light was dotted with the flash of more emergency vehicles arriving. A chorus of sirens was building in the distance.

  Drake knew the risk he was taking, conducting a raid like this himself, that his cover might be blown, but he was convinced this was the beginning of the end. It was big, bigger than he had imagined. The only problem was linking it to Goran. Pryce made it clear that it wasn’t enough. There wasn’t enough to link the flat to Goran. Drake went back to Zelda, who could not understand.

  ‘But why? I give you what you want.’

  ‘It’s not enough. I need more.’

  ‘It’s dangerous for me. I don’t have more.’

  Finally, after weeks of trying to calm her, Drake managed to convince her that the only other way was for her to testify. She shook her head.

  ‘You don’t know what they will do to me.’

  ‘They’ll never find you.’

  ‘Goran finds anybody.’

  Drake wasn’t happy with it himself. He remembered that last meeting at an underpass in Brentwood. Zelda was standing close to the wall, half out of sight. The lighter in her hand clicked restlessly even though she had a lit cigarette in the other hand. She had a striking face that carried the trace of the long road that had brought her to this place. A sadness that seemed to be engrained in her soul. She was wearing a long grey faux fur coat that made her resemble a cat. Its colour matched her eyes.

  ‘I give you so much and still it’s not enough. It’s never enough.’

  ‘But we’re close now. This is bigger than we imagined. Did you know they were trafficking children?’

  Zelda shook her head. ‘I hear things. I tell you what I know.’

  ‘We need to pin down the whole network.’

  ‘I can’t. All over the country. They have people.’

  ‘Goran knows about this?’

  ‘Goran knows everything.’

  ‘Where do they come from?’

  ‘All over. Holding centres, shelters. Here, in Europe.’ She was fluttering, like a skittish pony ready to take off. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘No, it’s too late for that.’ Drake caught her arm.

  ‘I have to go back. They’ll know it’s me.’

  Drake could see the panic in her eyes. She was tough, but this was something that scared her.

  ‘You can’t go back,’ he said.

  ‘Then what am I supposed to do?’ She looked into his eyes.

  ‘We have to end this, and you have to help me.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Her voice was breaking. ‘When they know I told you … You have no idea.’

  ‘You have to disappear. Right now. Take nothing with you. Don’t go back to your place.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t just go.’

  ‘Zelda, listen to me. This is it.’ He rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘If we can pin this on Goran then he’s finished. He’ll go away for a long time.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. He has too many people in his pocket, even police.’

  ‘Not me.’ Drake reached into the inside pocket of his combat jacket and pulled out a burner. Brand new, straight out of the packet. ‘Just you and me. Nobody else. There’s only one number on there. You call me when you’ve found somewhere.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘This is crazy.’

  ‘Think of those children. That’s why you’re doing this. Remember that.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She wiped angrily at the tears running down her face. Then she looked at him. ‘Come with me.’

  He knew what she was asking. He’d known this question was coming, had dreaded it.

  ‘Later, when it’s safe.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise. The main thing is to get you out of here.’ He handed her an envelope stuffed with cash. ‘That’ll keep you going for now. I’ll get more to you.’

  She looked at the money. ‘You protect me? You promise?’

  ‘Yes, I promise. But you can’t speak to anyone about this. Not even the girls at the club.’ He watched Zelda run a painted thumbnail over the cash. ‘You lay low. Somewhere you’ve never been before. You get there and sit tight. You understand? Tell me you understand?’

  ‘Yes, yes, okay. I understand.’ She wiped more tears away. She stuffed the envelope into the red bag slung over her shoulder. ‘I can’t do this alone.’

  ‘You won’t be alone, not for long.’ Drake squeezed her shoulder. He felt the tremors running through her body. ‘Go somewhere nice. Somewhere you’ve always wanted to go.’

  ‘The sea. I like the sea.’

  ‘Okay, good, then find a place by the sea.’ Drake smiled. ‘All of this will be over soon. We’ll put the case together and go after Goran. Once that’s done you’ll be under protection. You won’t have to fear him ever again.’

  Her eyes held his. ‘I need to know you’re not going to just abandon me.’

  ‘I won’t abandon you.’

  ‘When I’m gone. You won’t forget me?’

  ‘I won’t forget you. I promise. Just do exactly what I say.’

  Zelda gave a loud sniff and tossed her hair. ‘I’m not idiot.’

  Could he have saved her? If he had gone to Brighton sooner, perhaps? He should have gone. There had been no doubt in his mind, but he knew he had been playing long odds. It was his decision to hide her away unofficially. To keep her off the books, as it were. He told himself he had to be careful. But he knew that wasn’t the only reason. Another part of him was afraid, afraid of leading her on, afraid that it might lead to something else. He needed to keep his distance.

  In the inquiry they asked him why he had gone behind the backs of this superiors and fellow officers. His argument was simple. The reason Goran had managed to evade arrest for so long was the obvious one, that he had protection inside the police. He knew he was taking a risk. Going against standard procedure meant that if anything went wrong it would be his to own. He knew that time was of the essence. Drake was confident his cover hadn’t been blown, but he knew he couldn’t assume the same about Zelda. Goran would have all his people out looking for her in a matter of hours.

  Then complications set in. The case became bogged down, tied up in legal matters. Convincing the CPS that there was a rock solid link between the children and Goran proved difficult. They seemed to be aware that if they were going to go up against someone like that they needed to be sure of what they were getting into. Drake found himself mired in paperwork, trying to put together an argument they would go for. In the end it came down to Zelda. There was also a lot of pressure to bring his key witness in. There was even a suggestio
n that she didn’t exist, that he had simply invented her to cover himself and make the case more convincing. Some of this came from Vernon Pryce, who was milking the opportunity to make Drake look bad. Never one to miss a chance to promote himself. It was almost as if he cared more about getting himself ahead than he did about bringing Goran in.

  Eventually, Drake caved. Zelda had been calling him non-stop, craving more and more attention. In the beginning it was practical things: she needed more money, or she was afraid someone was watching her. She wanted to find a better place to live. Later, these conversations evolved into what were almost therapy sessions. He would listen to her telling him about her life. How she was unhappy. She was scared. She didn’t believe she would ever get out of this mess. These phone calls, invariably in the evenings, often late at night, would go on for hours. Drake began to worry that she was unravelling. By then she had settled in Brighton. He drove down and they spent the day together. They walked along the sea front. They sat in a café and stared at the sea.

  ‘I can’t go on like this,’ she sobbed. ‘I feel like I’m a prisoner.’

  ‘It’s not going to be much longer,’ he told her. Not quite true under the circumstances, but he needed her to stay on board. She was his only chance in this.

  ‘We need more.’

  ‘Come on!’ Zelda was incredulous. ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

  ‘It’s not me. The prosecution needs a stronger case. They need facts and figures, names and dates. Anything you can remember. Anything at all could be useful.’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation before. How many times do I have to tell you. Give me a new identity. Give me a place to live. A real place, not a room in a boarding house where I can hear the neighbours fucking in the next room. I had a life. I want it back.’