Behind Closed Doors

  Scarlett stopped, then, reached for her tea mug. Sam noticed her hand was unsteady.

  “I’m sorry,” Scarlett said. “It was so long ago but at the same time, you know, it’s like it just happened.”

  “Take your time,” Sam said.

  “I thought it was Nico, at first. I thought it was part of his plan. That’s why I didn’t scream harder, or fight more. I thought they were taking me to him. When I realized they weren’t, I was a long way away. They took me on this fucking endless road trip north, in the back of this van. There were other girls too. The other two were older than me. They didn’t speak English.”

  “Did you ever find out their names?”

  “Krystyna and Ysabella. I think. Before them, there were two other ones but they both died.”

  “They died?”

  “One of them hit her head, and the other one—Yelena—she got shot in a car park. I saw it happen. She’s the one I dream about, like I told you yesterday.”

  There was silence for a moment. Sam was watching Scarlett’s face, wondering if this was true or something that the fifteen-year-old Scarlett had imagined, or exaggerated.

  “I used to make up stories about Yelena. We never really got to talk, even though we were together for hours. It felt like we were, I don’t know, in it together. And then she died and it was my fault—we were trying to run. I never knew anything about her, where she was from, how old she was. So I tried to keep her alive in my head by making up this history for her. I invented her family, her school, her friends. I imagined her a boyfriend and then her getting married and having children and being happy.”

  A single tear slipped from Scarlett’s eye. She wiped it away. “She never got any of that, of course.”

  “What happened to her?” Sam asked. “After she got shot?”

  Scarlett shrugged. “They drove off and left her.”

  Sam made a note. There would be records; surely there would be records. It wouldn’t be impossible to find out. Europe was much more open than it had been, even ten years ago. It felt like an important thing to check.

  “We ended up in Poland and we were there for weeks, months. I lost track. It was September when we arrived and when we left it was snowing. The other two girls got taken out of the flat every day; they left me behind. Sometimes with this woman, this old fat woman. She was really nasty. Sometimes there were men there, too. They had drugs, a lot of drugs, in the flat. They used to cut the drugs up on the dining room table, bag it up. I didn’t understand what they wanted with me. I thought I was there as a maid or something, so I used to clean the flat when I got bored. The old woman was supposed to do it but she was lazy. The men didn’t use the drugs—not when I was there, anyway—but they smoked skunk the whole time. Tried to get me on it too. I kept refusing. They used to laugh at me, said I’d start taking it soon enough. Said I’d need it.”

  Scarlett chewed on a thumbnail, inspected it, chewed it again.

  “Where did they take the other girls?” Sam asked. “You said the other girls went out every day.”

  “They were making them work. When they got back it was the early hours. I didn’t really twig at the time, but I guess they were putting them in a room somewhere. Within a few weeks they were both smacked up, anyway.”

  “So you were there—in this flat—until the winter. What happened then?”

  “One day, without warning, these two men came for me. They put me in another van for a day and a night. There was a week I was in a flat with five other girls. I have no idea where that was. I was ill; I spent most of the time asleep. Then they took me somewhere else—only a few hours away. Then I was in Prague. I was there for years.”

  Sam took a drink of cold tea. “Can you remember any names?” She asked. “Any of the people who transported you from place to place?”

  “No. I only ever found out the girls’ names, some of them. If they were even their real names . . . In any case they were all talking in foreign languages—fast, you know? Half the time I was out of it. I think they put sleeping tablets in the bottles of water. Kept us quiet when we were going across borders.”

  “I know it was a long time ago,” Sam said, “but do you think you would recognize any of them? I might be able to get some pictures for you to look at.”

  Scarlett stared at Sam, unblinking. “They all looked the same. Fucking big men with jackets. And you know what? After a while I stopped trying to look them in the face, because they all scared the shit out of me.”

  It was understandable, Sam thought. They had more chance of identifying the people who had brought Scarlett into the U.K., and for their purposes that would be more useful anyway. Who knew where all those people were right now? Some of them might even be dead.

  “Wait,” Scarlett said. “The old fat woman was called Irene. Something like that—Irina maybe. But that’s not much good, is it? I don’t even know where in Poland that was. And since it was her that told me I was in Poland, I can’t even be certain that it was. Could have been bloody anywhere cold.”

  Sam paused, aware of Scarlett’s eyes on her.

  “It’s okay,” Sam said, softly. “You know you’re doing really well.”

  There was a tension in Scarlett’s shoulders. “It was when we got to Prague that they made me have sex with men for money. I told you what happened the first time. They’d been trying to sell me all that time. I don’t think the men in Poland were that bothered about virgins, or else they didn’t have the money.”

  A pause. Sam said, “I remember. You said there was a man who was minding you, and a woman who filmed him. Do you remember their names?”

  Sam saw instantly that the question had heightened Scarlett’s anxiety. She looked away, to the left, looking for the memories.

  “Not the man. The woman was supposed to be training us; she said her name was Tina. Who knows if that was her real name or not. She wasn’t English but she could speak it quite well. Had a funny accent.”

  “What do you mean, she was there to ‘train’ you?”

  Scarlett said, “She told us that we were going to work in the city’s red light district. She told us how the system worked: that we had a debt to pay off, and that if we were good and did as we were told we would earn money to pay off the debt quickly and then have a nice life. She said once we had paid off the debt we could do as we pleased, but that we would be earning such good money that we would probably carry on with it. She said that was what she was doing. She said she had been an estate agent but that this job earned her three times as much money and it was the best job she’d ever had. But after we’d had that nice little chat she took me to another apartment somewhere else in the city for that first time. I thought she was there to make sure they didn’t hurt me. Afterward, when she was driving me back, she made me sit on a carrier bag. Bitch.”

  There was a pause. Sam gave her a moment. “Can you describe what she looked like?”

  “Bleached blonde hair, shoulder-length. Wore clothes that were too tight for her. It was years ago; you really think that’ll help?”

  “What about the other girls? What do you remember about them?”

  Scarlett looked down at her thumbnail. “They were young too. One of them looked like a child. Her name was Suzy, I think. She was from Eastern Europe somewhere but her mother was from Scotland so she spoke a bit of English. The other one was older, had some kind of mental problem.”

  “What about this Tina?” Sam said. “Would you recognize her again?”

  “No,” Scarlett said. “Anyway, she was only there for that week and then we never saw her again.”

  “So how long were you in Prague?” Sam asked.

  “I lost track. Years. Then one day they moved me without warning. I got put back in a van and shipped to Amsterdam. I was there for years too.”

  “Do you know the address where you were living? Or where you were moved to?”

  “No. It was an apartment in the city. I can tell you it was the third buzzer down out
of ten. They never left me alone, not for a second. The whole time I was there I was shipped between the apartment and the rooms where I worked. I never went anywhere else—oh, apart from to the doctor once or twice. And then they took me there. I was never alone.”

  “The doctor?” Sam said hopefully. “Did you know his name?”

  Scarlett shook her head. “I’m not being deliberately obstructive, you know. He wasn’t a real doctor in any case. He was some Russian medical student who gave us antibiotics for an extortionate fee and didn’t bother to ask if we were allergic to anything. And, before you ask, his office was behind a shop in Bijlmer. I could possibly find it if you drove me there, but it would be a struggle. The last time I saw him was over a year ago. And I only ever went there at nighttime.”

  “How long have you been back in the U.K., Scarlett?” Sam asked. She felt as though Scarlett was relaxed enough with their discussion for her to start talking about more recent events.

  Scarlett shrugged. “I don’t know. Months. It was before Christmas that I came back. What month are we in now? November? Well, then. Nearly a year.”

  “And you’ve been here in Briarstone the whole time?”

  “More or less,” she said. “I’ve been keeping my head down.”

  Sam’s hand was aching. She flexed her wrist, turning over to the next page.

  “Can we stop for a bit?” Scarlett asked.

  While Scarlett went to use the bathroom, Sam stood at the kitchen window and stretched. The weather was closing in, almost dark outside already, the afternoon fading into evening before the world was ready for it. The garden was a tangled mess of waist-high weeds, a plastic slide half-hidden in the undergrowth, a tree at the bottom with the remainder of a rope swing hanging forlornly from a branch. Grim, this place, however much they’d tried to make it feel like a place of sanctuary. No wonder they were going to get rid of it. Of course, they weren’t replacing it with something better—they weren’t replacing it at all. Vulnerable victims were going to be dealt with at regular police stations like everyone else. They’d redecorated two of the interview rooms at Briarstone nick, but, whatever the management thought, a nice potted plant and a box of tissues weren’t going to help people feel comfortable enough to talk.

  The front door opened and Orla came in, bringing with her a gust of wind.

  “In here,” Sam called.

  “Hi. Where’s Scarlett?”

  “Gone to the loo. How did you get on?”

  “Not ideal, but I’ve got a place at a hostel in Charlmere.”

  “Gosh, that’s a trek. Nowhere closer?”

  “Everything’s full to bursting. I’ll take her over there this evening.”

  “Take me where?” Scarlett said, from the doorway.

  LOU

  Saturday 2 November 2013, 14:30

  The Coach and Horses was what Lou would have called an old man’s pub. A bar with a tiled floor, rough plaster walls and waist-height dark wood panelling, sticky wooden tables, mismatched chairs and a fireplace that might well have cheered things up had the fire in it been lit. The place was empty. Next door, the snug was not much better, but at least it had a carpet. There were three blokes sitting around a table in the corner upon which sat three half-drunk pints of bitter and three empties. Lou caught the words “overhead cam” and “four-wheel drive,” followed by something that sounded like “but it’s all about the gravy. You get the gravy right, everything’s right.” Sky Sports was on the TV bolted to the wall above the bar, the sound mercifully turned down.

  The woman behind the bar looked ridiculously pleased to see a fresh customer approaching. “Yes, love! What can I get you?”

  Lou looked at the optics and the fridges, wondering what she could get away with. Decided it wasn’t worth it. “Just a Diet Coke, please.”

  “Can’t tempt you to a late lunch?” the woman said, pointing with a heavily manicured finger at the “Specials” board. “Got some beef curry left.”

  “No, thanks,” Lou said, thinking of the crisps and chocolate she’d already consumed and wishing she’d waited.

  She sat down where she could see the door, got out her mobile and ran through her messages. There was no signal this far out in the sticks, but even pretending to read old messages was preferable to staring into space or making eye contact with any of the other occupants.

  The door opened and Annie came in, bringing with her a blast of cold air. “Thank you for meeting me,” she said. “Can I get you something?”

  “I’ve just got one, thanks.”

  Annie went to the bar. She was wearing skinny jeans, trainers, a hooded top under a black wool coat, a thick scarf wound around her neck several times, her hair tucked inside. While she waited for her drink, she tucked one trainered foot behind the other.

  “Can I tempt you to a late lunch?” the woman behind the bar offered, and Annie shook her head.

  A moment later she came back with a large glass of red wine. She sat down next to Lou. Her eyes were wide, tears brimming. “I didn’t know who else to call,” Annie said. “You gave me your card. You said I should ring.”

  “That’s right,” Lou said. “Has something happened?”

  Annie was breathing fast. “It’s Clive—it’s just all starting to go wrong again. Everything was . . . normal . . . and now it’s not normal anymore.”

  “What do you mean? What’s going wrong?”

  “Clive,” Annie said with desperation in her voice. “He keeps trying to tell me I’m going mad. He says I’m neurotic. He doesn’t understand how hard all this is for me.”

  She pulled a tattered tissue from the pocket of her coat and wiped her eyes with it. Her hands were shaking. Lou noticed the brown spots on them, the deep grooves of tendons running along the back. Annie might dress like a teenager, but her hands gave away her real age.

  “I’m guessing he doesn’t know you’re here?”

  “No. He doesn’t. You won’t tell him, will you? Please?”

  Annie stretched out a hand and took Louisa’s, unexpectedly, making her want to recoil. Her hand was cold, the fingernails sharp. Lou patted the hand and released it in a way she hoped was reassuring.

  “Of course. This is between us.”

  “He doesn’t think I should tell you what happened in Rhodes. He says you’ll prosecute us for wasting police time. Is that true?”

  “It depends,” Lou said, suddenly on high alert. “It sounds as if this is something we should talk about properly, Annie. If you want to make another statement, it would be a better idea to—”

  “No, I don’t want to—I mean—I don’t have to make a statement, do I? I just want to explain. It wasn’t how you think. It wasn’t because I was hiding things, I was just confused at the time, and then when Scarlett didn’t come back it didn’t really seem to matter that much. But now—well, Clive thinks Scarlett is going to try and make things look bad for us. And we had nothing to do with her going, nothing at all.”

  “Annie,” Lou said, “if you don’t want to make a statement then at least let me record our conversation. Just for me to refer to later. Whatever you tell me, I am going to need to write it up.”

  For a moment Lou thought Annie was going to refuse, or was about to get up and walk out again—in which case she would have given in and just listened. But to her surprise Annie nodded. Lou found the sound recording app on her phone and started it, hoping to God it picked up the conversation well enough.

  “Go on,” Lou said. “You tell me what happened. I’m listening.”

  “Well,” Annie said, keeping one eye on the phone, lying on the table next to her wine glass, “I saw her go. That’s the second thing. I suppose the first thing was that boy she was with . . .”

  “The boy?”

  “She had somehow met a Greek boy while we were on holiday. It didn’t much seem to matter. But you see, I thought she might have run away with him.”

  “But you didn’t tell the police this at the time? Why ever not?”


  “Clive didn’t want to. He didn’t believe she had run away. He thought if the police knew she’d met a boy, then they wouldn’t bother to look for her properly.”

  Lou kept her face neutral, although at times like this it was a struggle. Had they not considered that the boy might have had something to do with Scarlett going missing against her will? That finding the boy might have meant finding Scarlett? It was difficult, too, not to feel the sinister undertones in what Annie was saying. Deliberately withholding information during a live investigation into the kidnapping of a child? How could they possibly have thought that was the right thing to do?

  “So what happened with the boy?” Lou said. “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know,” Annie said, shaking her head. “I never spoke to him. I saw her kissing him, out on the road, the night before she disappeared. He ran off when Scarlett saw me.”

  “Did you discuss it with her?”

  Annie smiled. “Yes. Her father wasn’t very happy, put it like that.”

  “You asked her about him?”

  “She said he was just a boy she’d met. She denied anything had happened, just kissing.”

  “But Clive was angry?”

  Annie paused before answering. “Yes.”

  “Did he hurt her? Punish her?”

  “Oh, no! Not—not really. I mean, he was angry, he might have shouted a bit, but then she was being deliberately disobedient. She knew what our expectations of her were. She was only fifteen! Still a child! Clive has this thing—”

  Annie broke off suddenly, and Lou caught the thread of something important that she had almost let slip. She hid it by taking a sip of wine, almost putting the glass back on the table and picking it up and sipping again, giving herself time to think.