Authors: Anthony Quinn
Daly sat in his car. During daylight, the street was drowned in traffic noises from the nearby bypass, but at night, the teeming sounds condensed into the hollow roar of single lorries speeding toward the ports. During the gaps in traffic, the street was claustrophobically quiet. He parked in the same place every evening after work, about fifty yards from number 29, but not once did he see the front door open.
A dog barked each time he rang the doorbell. Another disembodied sound mingling with the distant thunder of traffic. The animal gnashed his teeth as though it was about to burst through the locked door and spring for his throat. At other times, he heard furtive movements, but no one answered the door. A derelict sign hung above the letterbox.
home sweet home cleaners,
it read, but the place was a poor advertisement for a cleaning company. The walls were peeling of paint, and torn-up cardboard filled the front windows in place of blinds. Even the doorbell looked dingy and neglected.
Daly had considered raiding the house, but what he really needed was a key to unlock the confidence of whoever dwelled within. Turning up on the fourth evening of his vigil, he saw that someone had smashed the front window. The next night, vandals had daubed “Go Home Scum”
across the wall and spattered paint over the front door. The house resembled a target on a firing range for racists. When it got dark, a single streetlight came on. He wondered whether the others were broken or if the local council had stopped replacing bulbs as part of its spending cutbacks. It was cold and the darkness suited the house and the grim slogans. The street was blacked out, at war with itself. Little wonder that the door of number 29 never opened to unannounced visitors.
Daly tried to ask questions of the neighbors. Only one woman could be bothered to talk to him without showing bare contempt for the inhabitants of the house. She told Daly that the women who lived there came and went in secret. A van with
home sweet home cleaners
painted on it collected them every morning before dawn. The driver made the women cover the windows with black bin bags. Then he packed the van with vacuum cleaners, detergents, and industrial cleaning machines.
“Are they illegal immigrants?” the neighbor asked Daly.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s supposed to be a cleaning company, but God knows what else goes on behind the closed doors of that house. Some of those women don’t come back till after midnight. I’ve seen them fall out of the van, exhausted to the bone. None of them speak English. What can you do? I mention it to my husband, but he says mind my own business.”
Daly rang the house’s telephone number at least a dozen times. His tentative approach confirmed his suspicion that Martha Havel did not lead a normal, ordinary life in which people wake up, go to work, eat, watch TV, and then go to bed again. A different girl with a foreign accent answered each time he called. Each conversation proved as fruitless as the last.
“I want to speak to Martha Havel,” he would begin.
“Martha’s not here. Who’s calling?”
“Celcius Daly. I’m a detective. I’m trying to find Lena Novak. When will Martha be in?”
“When she comes back.”
“When’s that?”
“Not sure. She comes and goes as she pleases.”
“Who is this?”
“Try later.”
Eventually his persistence paid off. He rang late one evening, and a woman’s voice answered. She sounded older, in charge, but playful at the same time.
“Are you a gentleman friend?” she asked immediately.
“What’s a gentleman friend?”
Her voice jingled with laughter. “The men who help pay the bills.”
“What about Jack Fowler? Was he a gentleman friend?”
There was a wary silence. Daly heard a spark of interest but also fear in her next question.
“Who wants to know?”
“Celcius Daly.”
“You’re the policeman looking for Lena.” Her voice was thoughtful.
“That’s correct.”
“This is Martha Havel.”
“Look Martha, I know it’s difficult to trust a stranger, but I need to talk to you about Lena. She’s in danger.”
“When can you come round?”
Daly had to wait several minutes before Martha Havel opened the door. She was blond haired and in her early forties. She barely glanced at him before leading him down a narrow corridor. Her combination of figure-hugging denim, black boots, and a tight top struck Daly as the classic Eastern European style. All that was missing was the black plastic handbag anchored to the shoulder.
A door lay open to the kitchen where a bottle of vodka and a butchered meat carcass sat on top of a table smeared with blood. Someone had been tenderizing a hunk of beef. The sight of the tattered flesh sitting raw and uncovered looked almost obscene to Daly’s eyes.
She caught his stare. “Some of the men who visit work in the meat factories. Instead of roses or chocolates, they bring the girls steak.”
She led him into a tiny sitting room. There were only two armchairs in the room. She sat down and gestured to Daly to take the other. Before he could accept her hospitality, there was the small matter of the man lounging in the offered seat. Tattoos and scars of abuse covered his muscled arms. He stared at Daly. There was no warmth or hospitality in his gaze. Daly caught a sour whiff of alcohol and sweat and felt nauseously sober.
Martha spoke to the man in Croatian, her voice edgy. His mouth automatically turned down into what was doubtless a practiced sneer. He glared at Daly and trudged up the stairs, returning to sleep or whatever it was pimps did during their free time. Meanwhile, Martha had moved to the edge of her seat, closer to the door, closer to the phone.
She lit a cigarette and regarded Daly with a look that suggested defiance, or was it fear?
“So you’re the detective,” she said. Her face disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. Only her bright red lips remained visible.
“That’s right,” replied Daly.
The smoke cleared a little. She flicked some ash into a beer bottle. Her eyelids fluttered in the haze.
“Before I tell you about Lena, you can do me a favor.”
Daly leaned back in his chair. That there were goods to be bartered was a promising sign for their encounter.
“There’s a man causing me bother.”
“A client of yours.”
“Just the once, then I barred him. That’s the first thing you learn in my business. Watch out for the new ones. Especially the nervous types.” She regarded Daly closely. “They can be right fuckin’ trouble. A few nights ago he came by and smashed the front window.”
“How long has he been harassing you?”
“A couple of weeks. He painted those signs on the wall.”
“We have a new antiracism officer. I’ll get her to give you a ring.”
“Can’t you just lock him up? Or do they have to be out-and-out psychos and serial killers before you intervene?” She kept her voice light and even, but Daly could see that her teeth were on edge.
“When the antiracism officer interviews you, tell her you have no idea why this man is abusing you in this manner. Tell her you believe it’s racism, pure and simple. If he’s convicted, he’ll get a tough sentence.”
She nodded. Daly saw a bruise, dark and purple, on the side of her neck. She clamped her hand to the spot as if aware of his attention.
“Have you seen Lena Novak?”
“I see lots of girls like Lena. They come to me when they’re in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“They get into a fight with their boss. Or fall in love with the wrong man.”
Daly thought to himself that girls like Lena were already deep in trouble long before they came running to Martha for help.
“Usually they stay a while until they’re ready to go back,” she continued. “Lena was different.”
“How?”
“She had a plan. Few of the girls who come here have ever begun to plan. All they have is running on their minds. They don’t realize that escape is all about planning and money.”
“Do you help them out?”
She laughed. “In spite of what it says outside, this place isn’t home sweet home.” Her head lolled slightly but her blond hair remained fixed. It struck him that she was wearing a wig.
“What about Lena? What was her plan?”
“She didn’t tell me, but she had money. And knew how to get her hands on more.”
“Where did she go after calling here?”
“Some other place.”
“Where?”
“She had lots of places.”
“What do you mean?”
“She had more door keys than a jailer. Houses, apartments, turnkey developments, all part of Fowler’s property empire.”
“Do you have the addresses?”
“She didn’t tell me anything. She was too scared. Her boss is a man called Jozef Mikolajek. He’ll catch her sooner or later. His contacts are everywhere.”
“Everywhere? Including here?”
Martha chose not to answer the question. She inhaled and exhaled cigarette smoke.
“Perhaps Lena thought it was smarter not to stay with you,” continued Daly. “What sort of business relationship do you have with Mikolajek?”
She shrugged. “He lets me run this place in peace. For a fat fee, of course. After that, I have nothing to do with him. Ask anyone. Anyone who knows.”
“What about the women who work for you. Do they know?”
“You can try.”
“Meaning they won’t say anything.”
“You can always get a translator.”
Each of her answers was the verbal equivalent of stubbing out a cigarette with the heel of a boot.
“Why do you give a damn about Lena?” she asked. “She’s a prostitute. An illegal immigrant. She wouldn’t think twice about double-crossing you.”
“I’m under no illusions.”
Daly showed her a still from the CCTV footage taken at Lena’s flat. She flicked it with her fingernail.
“When was this taken?” she asked.
“A couple of days ago.”
“Maybe he’s business. Lena’s business.”
“This man and whoever he is working for is trying to track her down. He tried to kidnap her outside a café in Aughnacloy, but fortunately, she was able to give him the slip. Staff at the café said Lena was a frequent visitor. If she keeps hanging around her old haunts, he’ll find her again.”
Martha’s left knee began to jiggle as she spoke. Something was making her anxious.
“You’re probably right, but what alternative does she have? Where else can she go?”
Daly didn’t say anything, waiting for her tension to build.
“This man who’s following her. Is he Croatian?”
“No. Irish. He walks with a limp.”
She relaxed slightly. “Lena is more afraid of her compatriots than any Irishman. No matter how far she runs, Mikolajek and his friends can always hurt her family back in Croatia.”
“If you help me find her, I can arrest Mikolajek on the basis of her evidence. Put him behind bars. She’ll never have to worry about him again.”
“You’re telling me the truth? You’ll really arrest that pig Mikolajek?” She laughed. “He won’t let go of this. I’ve seen what he has done to other girls. No one crosses him and gets away with it.”
“Then you know that Lena is playing a very dangerous game. You must tell me where I can find her. Otherwise, I’ll have this place turned over by my officers and Special Branch. After that I’ll send in immigration, the tax man, and environmental health to mop up the dregs of whatever’s left of your business.”
Daly hunched forward and stared at her face, waiting for her mask to crack. Instead, a light switched on in her face. A light that made her ask the question that Daly had feared.
“Tell me one thing, Inspector. Are you here as part of an official police investigation?”
Daly said nothing. He rubbed the stubble on his face.
“Why haven’t you brought more officers and raided this place? All these phone calls you make. Like a lonely obsessive. Hardly the normal behavior of a detective in charge of a missing person case.”
Daly blinked. Perhaps the investigation
had
degenerated into an obsession.
She sat back with a smile on her face. Like a woman being served an unexpected glass of champagne. “You’ve no authority to be here. You’re working on your own.”
Daly said nothing.
“And you’re trying to tell me,” she said, “that there’s nothing the least personal about your interest in Lena Novak?”
He considered his answer carefully. “She helps keep my detective skills sharp.” He felt like a man choosing the shortest piece of rope possible before passing it to a hangman.
“No doubt.”
She leaned forward and gazed at Daly. He noticed that several buttons of her blouse were undone. She looked as though she were about to share an intimate secret.
“I like Irishmen,” she said. “At least the ones who know what they want.”
“I’m here as a detective, nothing else.”
“But that’s not the whole truth. Your motives for coming here are a little bit more complicated than those of an honest policeman.”
She leaned back and took a long draw of her cigarette.
“I’m finally figuring you out. I should have seen it from the start. You’re like a crossword puzzle where every line spells out the phrase midlife crisis. Are you married?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” Daly hesitated. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand that your love life is probably a mess.”
“That’s none of your business.” Daly did not like the direction the conversation was going in.
“It’s my business to make sure men don’t feel ashamed or embarrassed. And I can see I’ve made you uncomfortable. You’re dedicated to your work. That’s why you’ve come here looking for Lena. Every day you have to deal with lies and secrets, fear and violence. You’re sick of sweeping the streets of crime. Deep down all you want is a girl who’ll let you stop being yourself for a night.”
Daly closed his eyes for a moment. He looked back at her. She had the strange talent of sounding caring yet scornful.
“It’s one thing to go to a brothel and pay for a woman,” she said. “It’s another to be in love with a woman who is a fugitive. Forever out of your reach. What must that do for you? For your sense of psychological tension? To be constantly denied pleasure, does that make the attraction stronger or weaker?”