Sealed With A Death Page 5

  “But if this is the government’s baby, and this Jarvis Whyte bloke is on the government back benches, then how are you able to get away with looking into it?”

  “Who says I’ve told them I have? I follow paper trails every day and I exercise my judgement as to which of those to inform my superiors of; if I’m not completely open about what I’m investigating I can’t be told not to. Likewise, I am very careful to protect the identity of my operatives, which is why to the rest of the world, Mr Algers is merely a crusading Member of Parliament, and his real obligations remain hidden.”

  Lucie squirmed in sudden discomfort, her conversation with Ismail earlier that day now racing to the forefront of her mind.

  “Listen, about that,” she began. “I was following up on the missing women case you gave me today, and when my cover was getting me nowhere, well I…”

  “You’ve said who you are and what you do.”

  It was a statement rather than a question, and Lucie simply nodded in response, not ashamed of her judgement call, but annoyed that there had seemed little other way to get the information she needed.

  “Such an admission is not typically to be advised,” Lake intoned, in a surprisingly dispassionate voice. “Whom precisely did you tell?”

  “Just the DI you set me up with, Ismail. He’s a good man and he’s worked with SIS before, so he understands what’s required.

  “Does he now?”

  “Yes.”

  Lake was quiet for a moment as if pondering, before turning to Lucie requesting details of what she had learned, nodding sagaciously as she recounted the specifics of her meeting that day and the victim being officially recorded as a prostitute, murdered by an unknown punter.

  “What’s your next move?”

  “Visiting the brothel she was found near, I suppose,” Lucie answered. “See if there are any records of her on the books there or if anyone saw her around. Can you get hold of a fake police ID for me? I’d rather not have to reveal my true motivations again.”

  “No, indeed,” Lake responded, “and I might be able to do rather more than just provide an ID. Wait to hear from me before you go there. In the meantime, there’s somebody else you could be talking to.”

  “Who?”

  “Amber Robyn.”

  Lucie’s heart sank, and she guessed her expression joined it in sympathy. Amber Robyn MP was notorious in the Commons and with the public as one of the few hard-line Brexit supporters on the Labour benches and had courted controversy through her willingness to share platforms with characters on the extreme fringes of debate. Her comments on immigration and what she perceived as the ‘flood of foreigners pouring in from Europe’ had long since made her a figure reviled by both anti-Brexit campaigners and the European nationals she sought to denigrate.

  “Why her?” Lucie asked, scowling. “I’d get a more stimulating conversation from half the Yellow Vests outside Parliament than I would do going inside to talk to her.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” was Lake’s answer, clearly amused by Lucie’s reluctance. “She was a very public opponent of the trial brothels opening in the first place and she sits on the Home Affairs Select Committee, which has access to all the relevant regulatory documents. In fact, I’ve always said, if you want to know the whole truth about a project, don’t talk to its supporters, talk to its opponents – they’ll know the facts behind every dotted i and crossed t. Plus you’re able to legitimately quiz her without the need to blow your cover again.”

  Lake’s voice took on an accusatory tone as he spoke the last words, turning his head at last to Lucie and fixing her with a customary look of annoyed disapproval, which Lucie decided it was best to take on the chin.

  “And while I’m doing that, what about the Red Mako?” Lucie asked, desperate to play some part in the assignment which had put her friend in the hospital.

  “I have other operatives, Ms Musilova,” Lake answered disdainfully, standing up from the bench and moving to head back down Parliament Street. “Concentrate on the assignment you’ve been given. Good day.”

  Lucie watched him walk away, soon losing him in the throngs of oblivious and distracted people crowding the street. She cursed to herself that she hadn’t been able to help Kasper and offered a quick prayer for his recovery, before professionalism took over and focussed her mind on what she had been tasked to do. She knew very well that Lake still had significant doubts about her abilities; she could only win back his respect by doing her job. If Lake wanted her to meet with the notorious Amber Robyn, then meet with her she would; and Lucie hoped she would make it a meeting the politician would never forget.

  EIGHT

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Lucie, please have a seat.”

  The coldness in her words conveyed Amber Robyn’s reputation as an intimidating and even fearsome woman. Having first made a name for herself in the early Eighties as a vocal and passionate opponent of the Thatcher governments, she was no less inclined to ruffle feathers now, relishing her reputation as a Brexit contrarian and relying on the relative safety of her seat to chastise the significant portion of her own constituents who voted to Remain. Though age had faded her once vibrant red curls into a more becalmed grey and white, the ferocity and intelligence behind her blue eyes left none in any doubt that the flames within her were undiminished.

  Lucie had fully expected that this would prove to be a frosty and uncomfortable meeting, and so the ice in the MP’s greeting surprised her little. Lucie after all was the half-Czech Parliamentary aide to perhaps the fiercest anti-Brexit campaigner in the Commons. While Amber Robyn revelled in her role as the pantomime villainess of the debate’s opposite side and had been a vocal campaigner for the end of freedom of movement. Both women knew there was little love lost between them, but Lucie hoped that they could avoid the elephant in the room long enough to at least talk professionally.

  Accepting the politician’s proffered hand, Lucie entered the small and cramped office, taking a brief moment to assess the woman she would be dealing with before opening the conversation. The beauty of her youth was still evident, and the vibrancy of her character reflected in the bright energy of the clothes she wore.

  “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,” Lucie began, “I appreciate how busy you are.”

  “Not at all,” Robyn answered, her face twisting into an expression of exaggerated concern. “How’s Kasper?”

  “Still unconscious,” Lucie replied, a little too curtly. She had never enjoyed the posturing so prevalent within the world of politics and the faux expressions of friendship between bitter opponents who would happily step over each other in the street if cameras weren’t present.

  “Still, I’m hoping when the police catch the bastards who did it, it’ll help perk him up no end.”

  Lucie sailed as close to the edge as she dared with her words, conscious of the need for the information Robyn held, but equally determined to let her know that she didn’t consider those on any side of the argument who had fostered the violent climate that clung to the country above blame when it came to the attack. Robyn though, with a politician’s natural ease, deftly deflected the inference and continued in her vein of artificial sympathy.

  “Absolutely,” she nodded. “It’s so sad that the days when we could all disagree on things without resorting to such violence seem to be behind us. I lie awake at night wondering how we can put things right.”

  “Well maybe a few less headlines and speeches talking about ‘traitors’ and ‘enemies of the people’ might be a good place to start.”

  This time the barb hit home, and the ice blue stare of the MP burrowed into Lucie from across the desk she sat behind.

  “Yes, perhaps,” she quietly answered, though her tone implied anything but agreement.

  Lucie took her cue to change tack and fixed Robyn with a faux smile of her own, leaning across the desk as though taking a trusted friend into her confidence.

  “Actually, it’s to do with
the spread of violence that I wanted to speak with you, Amber.”

  “Oh?”

  “There was a body found recently, in Kasper’s constituency; a young woman. She’d been raped and murdered.”

  “How awful,” Amber Robyn answered, the inflection of political sympathy returning in full to her voice. “Have the police been able to help?”

  “Unfortunately not,” Lucie answered, “they’re massively under-resourced and they haven’t the capacity to properly look into it.”

  “But surely a murder…”

  “The victim was French.”

  Silence at once took possession of the room as Lucie made the revelation, leaving the women to stare at each other uncomfortably. ‘British services for British People’ had long been a slogan of the hard-line Brexiters and was one more controversial platform Robyn had merrily shared with some of politic’s more unsavoury figures. Lucie’s accusatory tone had been undeniable, and she half-expected to be immediately ejected from the room before she had got to the meat of the matter.

  “I see,” Robyn eventually spoke, her words not so much breaking the ice as plunging the temperature of the room still further. “Look, if you’ve come here to argue politics…”

  “I haven’t,” Lucie interrupted, firmly. “I want to talk about where the body was found.”

  “And what’s that got to do with me?”

  “She was found in Camden Town; a stone’s throw from one of the new brothels decorating the country.”

  The silence returned, but this time fuelled by a sudden and obvious peak in Robyn’s interest. Without asking, the older woman stood and moved to a side cabinet, from which she pulled a bottle of Scotch and two glasses, quickly pouring two large measures and handing one to Lucie, who wordlessly accepted.

  “I think,” Robyn began as she sat back down and took a sip from her glass, “that the issue of these brothels is one of the areas where you and I might find some common ground.”

  Lucie, against her better judgement raised her glass towards her counterpart, who reciprocated the gesture before they both drank, Lucie relishing the burn of the spirit as it travelled through her chest.

  “You’ve campaigned against them for a long time,” she began.

  “Since the day they were mooted, and I’ve come under all kinds of attack for my efforts.”

  “It’s a controversial subject.”

  “You surely can’t be in favour?”

  “No, not in the slightest, but I understand the argument. Sex is the oldest business in the world; if someone wants to sell their body for profit, it’s not the government’s place to question their morality. But as it goes on anyway, they can save lives by providing a clean and safe and regulated environment to practice it in.”

  “Ensuring that the objectification of women in society continues apace while the government counts its tax receipts and closes its eyes to the social repercussions.”

  “Men are employed there too,” Lucie countered, putting forward the justifications the government had utilised upon the launch.

  “Perhaps so, but it’s women who bear the brunt of this, whether through sarcastic comments in the office tea rooms from young boys wanting to ‘pay their dick tax’, or the poor unfortunates too destitute for these damn places to employ, who end up selling themselves for even less three streets away. You’re an intelligent woman, Lucie, you must be able to see that these things have solved nothing at all and caused twice as many problems as existed before!”

  The passion in Robyn’s words matched the ferocity of her stare and Lucie allowed herself a brief smile before raising her glass to her lips once more and draining the contents.

  “Then perhaps you’re right,” she smiled. “Perhaps we do have some common ground after all.”

  The women shared a brief smile and Robyn visibly relaxed, the tension removed from her voice.

  “I suppose,” she began, “that you want to find out whether your victim was employed in the establishment? I’m afraid I can’t help there. The committee does of course keep a full list of those operating on the premises, but data protection regulations are quite explicit…”

  “I know, you can’t confirm or deny, I understand. Between ourselves I already know she wasn’t on the books.”

  “So, you think she might have been undercutting the market, one of the street girls in the area?”

  Lucie sat back, finding herself beginning to relax into the older woman’s powerful company despite her inherent opposition to so much of what she stood for, and offering her a fresh smile as Robyn replenished her glass. She didn’t immediately answer the politician’s question but pressed on with her own probing.

  “You’ve long campaigned to get women and girls off the streets, you’re probably the foremost authority in Parliament on the issue of prostitution and trafficking; I’ve always imagined it was desperation that led to people putting themselves into that position, I suppose I’m looking for whatever I’ve missed.”

  Robyn took another healthy sip from her glass and placed it down on the table, inhaling for a moment before addressing Lucie’s question.

  “Desperation comes in many forms, Lucie,” she said. “We’re years into a programme of austerity, some people have absolutely nothing and no way to feed themselves other than by selling their bodies. Others might be addicts so lost in a destructive spiral they lack either the will or ability, or both, to climb out of it, and with services decimated and being cut further all the time there’s no-one to help them.”

  “But what would motivate someone with a well-paid, respectable job to get involved in that kind of work?”

  “Danger?” Robyn shrugged. “All too often people are tricked or trafficked in believing they have a good job lined up and end up forced into sex work…”

  “Not in this case, her job was legit, her passport and documents were all at home. She’d even applied for the damn Residency scheme.”

  Lucie spat the last words, her contempt for the government’s insistence that all EU Nationals apply for permission to stay in their own homes after exit day obvious. Other than a quick flash of her blue eyes, Robyn didn’t rise to the comment.

  “Maybe a desire for excitement. Did she have a partner?”

  “No. And no family either, at least in this country. By all accounts she had a good circle of friends, none of whom were aware of this kind of behaviour. It’s been recorded as a score gone wrong, but the report isn’t very thorough; this could all be supposition and the location of the body a coincidence.”

  “What time was she found?”

  “Early morning by a dog walker; they reckon she’d been there a couple of hours, so about four I think.”

  “Well then, however circumstantial it might be, I’m sorry but I think the police opinion is right.”

  “Why so sure?” Lucie frowned, lifting the re-filled glass to her mouth, her mind furiously racing over the sparse details of the case as far as she knew them. She had never met the victim, nor had any reason to pre-suppose her motivations, but nonetheless the case had reached into Lucie’s heart and gripped it tight. She felt as though she knew Ines, and was advocating not just for justice for her murder, but also for her character. To hear Robyn assert so casually her belief that prostitution really was behind all this sent a pang of resentment through her chest. The certainty in Robyn’s voice, and her apparent ease with the judgement she had made, only served to intensify that feeling, and Lucie found herself swallowing the whole measure in one gulp, stifling the cough that toyed with her chest.

  “It just seems to fit, that’s all,” came the answer. “The brothel in Camden is on Chalton Street, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how far away was the body?”

  “Hidden by the trees on the corner of Chalton and Polygon Road.”

  “Well there we are,” Robyn said, shrugging, a strangely inappropriate smile forming on her face which only served to deepen Lucie’s frown. “I’m sorry, but everyth
ing seems to fit. She was found within a few hundred yards of the legalised venue which is precisely where the street girls operate. Plus, there’s the nationality thing to consider…”

  “What ‘nationality thing’?” quizzed Lucie, irritation returning to her tone.

  “You’ve heard of honour among thieves? Well there’s a hierarchy too,” Robyn explained, clearly relishing her superior knowledge on the subject and in so doing, diluting whatever goodwill had thus far built up between them. “Believe it or not, there’s a rota of sorts to these things. You’ll find British girls working the streets in late evening, until about two or three. After that, the foreigners take over.”

  “The foreigners.” Lucie repeated the word with distaste in her mouth; a reaction which did not go unnoticed by the politician, but did little to affect her stride.

  “From anywhere and everywhere really,” she brazenly continued. “The statistics acknowledge that there’s greater risk at that time of night; fewer punters, more extreme tastes, and less money at the end of it too. Working the streets in those hours really is taking your life in your hands, but most of those who find themselves trapped into it don’t care about the risk - or at least consider it a worthwhile one to take in return for their next hit.”

  “Or their next meal,” Lucie added, coldly, adding another layer of tension to the room.

  “Quite.”

  The heat of the whiskey warmed Lucie’s breath as she sighed in frustration and stood up quickly and threw her overcoat over her shoulders.

  “Listen,” she began, as Robyn looked up at her with her typical intensity. “I know we don’t agree on everything politically, and I know you can’t give me the employee details, but you can still help.”

  “And how can I do that?”

  “You’re on the committee, you could raise it in session. Someone of your stature asking questions like that won’t go unnoticed; it could even allow the police to re-open the case…”

  Lucie’s voice was rising as her passion began to get the better of her, coupled with her incredulity that the politician was not jumping at the chance to help. Instead though, the firebrand was simply shaking her head in a further display of exaggerated sympathy.