Authors: Stella Rimington
There was an air of menace about the man Jackson; behind his stylish clothes and cool manner she sensed a brutality that scared her. The other girls saw it too, though as far as she knew he had never hurt any of them.
There was another strange thing about him. In Katya’s experience any owner would have occasionally sampled the goods; that was a right that came with the territory. But not Jackson; he never talked to any of the girls, let alone touched them, and he only occasionally had a word with Katya, just to check that the customers were happy and that there had been no complaints. There never had been and he seemed satisfied, but she still found him frightening.
Halliday’s breezy manner had changed. His voice sounded ominous when he said, ‘Your employer is about to find himself brought down a peg or two.’
‘Oh?’ said Katya.
‘Yes. And you’re going to help me do it.’
The two men sat in a dimly lit alcove on the raised dais at the back of the dining room. Slim’s, named after Joe Slim, the Manchester United footballer who’d started the club eight years earlier, was in Wilmslow, ten miles or so south of Manchester. It was said that the Aston Martin dealership in Wilmslow sold the highest number of Aston Martins in the UK, so affluent was the local lifestyle. The room was crowded this evening, loud with music and the raised voices of a group of young men and girls at a long table. One of the two men looked around and smiled in satisfaction at the packed tables.
He was the owner, a tall black man known as Jackson. No one at the club ever used his first name. Jackson had acquired the club after Joe Slim was found, early one morning, face down in the Manchester Ship Canal. It was generally assumed that he had fallen in from the towpath while he was drunk, but no one seemed to know why he was down there and no witnesses had ever come forward.
Jackson dressed as smartly as his well-heeled clients, and tonight he wore an elegant blue suit, a cream-coloured woven shirt, and a subtly patterned Hermès tie. His companion was less flashy but his suit looked equally pricey; he had the air of a successful self-made businessman – the kind of man who paid in cash from a roll of banknotes held by a silver money clip.
‘Good trip then?’ asked the man who looked like a businessman.
Jackson gave him a quizzical look, then seemed to decide the question was innocent enough. ‘Not bad. Though I had a spot of bother with the locals. I don’t know what sparked them off but they seemed to be wondering what this uppity nigger was doing over there.’ Jackson chuckled. ‘They didn’t find out though.’
‘What were you doing over there? Was it business?’
Jackson laughed sarcastically. ‘I wasn’t in Berlin for my health, man. I was chasing up a new opportunity.’
‘German girls?’
Jackson shook his head. ‘I’m getting tired of that line of work – too many hassles. I’m thinking of branching out a bit.’
When he didn’t elaborate, the other man said, ‘Well, it must have been important if you took a chance like that.’
‘What chance?’
The other man shrugged. ‘You don’t want to get European police forces on your tail. They can be a bit nasty. Just watch out if you’re up to something dodgy over there.’
Jackson said nothing at first. Then, ‘I don’t know if it was the police. I didn’t see any uniforms.’
The other man said, ‘But you got out all right?’
Jackson looked amused. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘It looks that way to me,’ said the other man. His role there was hard to place. He didn’t act like a customer; he was too self-confident to be a dependant; yet the black man didn’t seem the type to have friends.
‘Anyway,’ said Jackson, ‘when are they coming?’
The businessman looked at his watch. ‘Any time now.’
And as if in response, the maître d’ came up to their table, looking agitated. ‘Mr Jackson,’ he said breathlessly. ‘There are Immigration officers outside the back door. They’re asking for you.’
Jackson raised his eyes but didn’t seem surprised. ‘Thank you, Émile.’
The maître d’ went on, ‘They have police officers with them. They say they want to check the papers of the girls.’
Jackson looked at his companion, who also didn’t seem surprised by Émile’s news. Jackson said to him, ‘You better excuse me. I like to leave by the front door of the places I own.’ He turned to Émile. ‘This gentleman’s my guest, so put our dinner on the house tab.’
‘Of course, Mr Jackson. But what should I tell the police?’
‘Tell them if they want to see me they need to make an appointment. Like my guest here,’ he added with a smile. And then, without any show of haste, Jackson was out of the front door of the club in ten seconds, leaving Émile to deal with the officers of the law. Jackson’s guest remained seated at the table, and after a moment signalled for a waiter and calmly ordered a large cognac.
She had seen Halliday twice and each time he had pumped her about the upstairs operation at Slim’s. She’d explained that she didn’t know any details of the business; once a week Khoury, the accountant, showed up, and sat in the little room next to the cloakroom, where he went through all the tabs the girls had handed in. But he didn’t talk to Katya about the business, and she certainly didn’t know the turnover figures. She only knew that none of the girls, even the desperate ones, dared to try and skim any of the money. They handed it all over. That’s how scared they were of Mr Jackson.
At their second meeting, Halliday had told her about the coming raid. ‘Not a word to anyone,’ he’d said. ‘They’ll be picking up the girls, and that’ll include you. But don’t worry – I’ll see you right.’
And he had been true to his word – too true for Katya’s liking. The police and Immigration officers had come in the back entrance, quite politely. This had seemed curious to her – she’d expected something like the movies, with armed officers breaking down the door, waving guns and shouting as they forced their way in. But instead they had waited outside, only four of them, in plain clothes, while the bouncer had called Émile, the maitre d’ of the restaurant, who had come back and let them in.
It had all been tidily done, and despite the initial panic of the upstairs customers – that early in the evening, there had only been one group of stag-night revellers and a sad-looking man who said his wife had recently died – it was soon clear that the police were only interested in the accountant’s room, where one of them had gone right away, and in the employees. None of them was English, of course, and none of them had papers as far as Katya knew – not a National Insurance card, a driving licence, or anything at all.
There had been seven girls working that night, including Katya (though her job was to supervise the goings on, not participate), and they had all been escorted out to the police van while Émile had wrung his hands and promised that he would have them out as soon as he could locate the club’s lawyer.
It hadn’t been quite that easy – by three in the morning there had still been no sign of the lawyer, and until the preliminary hearing scheduled for noon there didn’t seem much chance of any of them getting released. It didn’t matter much, since they were in a long row of adjacent cells, and the girls – however frightened they really were – took things in good part, calling out to each other, whistling to keep their spirits up, even briefly having a sing-along, until the duty sergeant came along and told them to pipe down. After which they curled up on their respective bunks and settled in for the night.
Which made Katya’s release so noticeable, since alone among the seven of them she got called, by the same duty sergeant, and brought out from the cell. ‘You’re free to go,’ the officer said grumpily, giving her back the small handbag she’d been made to hand over when they’d booked her and the other girls.
‘What about my friends?’
‘What about them?’
‘Aren’t they getting out too?’
The duty sergeant shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know. What’s the problem – do you want to go back to your cell?’
It would have been better if she had, Katya reflected, as she opened the front door to her home. Her housemates were still asleep and she crept in quietly. It wasn’t that much later – or earlier depending on your time frame – than her usual return home after the club’s closing.
She was worried about being the only one released. It must have been Halliday’s doing, she decided. Hadn’t he told her he would look after her? But she wished he hadn’t done it this way. The other girls were bound to wonder what set her apart. They were loyal to her, but only up to a point. She did her best to look after them, and she could protect them from the drunks or abusers or the ones who didn’t want to pay. But there was no disguising the nature of the operation upstairs in Slim’s, and any girl who thought her duties stopped at serving drinks didn’t last long – which meant an ignominious return to Dagestan, since none of them had papers that would enable them to find a proper job.
Katya knew this, since she had come to the UK originally by the same route and found herself in the same position. Back in Dagestan the offer had seemed irresistible:
Come and be a hostess in a deluxe club in glamorous Manchester. Earn five times the wage you are earning now. Meet interesting powerful people and live a life of Western luxury.
She knew the come-on lines by heart now, since she used them herself when she was sent home to recruit new girls. Occasionally when she was interviewing a girl who seemed particularly sweet and likeable, she tried to hint that perhaps the job wouldn’t be quite what it seemed; that maybe the girl should have a long think about what was on offer before accepting. But Dagestan was dire; no one under the age of thirty could see their future in a positive light, and the girls she saw didn’t want to know that the West was not the land of milk and honey; that men could be just as exploitative in Manchester as in Makhachkala; that the money on offer would go mainly to pay the rent charged for their squalid shared rooms, or in ‘fees’ for nebulous services to the owner of Slim’s.
Now she hesitated for a moment in the hall, wondering if she should have a cup of tea, then decided to go upstairs. Normally she would head straight to bed, but she felt grimy after her time in the cells, and went and ran a bath, closing the bathroom door so as not to wake the other girls in the house. She was pleasantly surprised to see that Michele, the French girl who always had a bath late at night, had for once cleaned the bath after using it.
Katya lay and soaked for a while, wondering if by now the other girls had been let out. She hoped so, as otherwise she knew they would be wondering why Katya had been released. And if word got round it would be certain to be picked up by Émile – he was cat-like, that man, always lurking nearby, avid for gossip. And Émile would never keep news like that to himself, which meant he would tell . . . Katya shuddered, and quickly got out of the bath.
She managed to fall asleep, half waking when the other residents of the little house got up and went to work, then falling asleep again. When she finally rose it was just past noon.
Downstairs the kitchen was in its usual post-breakfast disarray – used cereal bowls and half-drunk mugs of tea and coffee. She opened the back door to air the place and started tidying up – her housemates were younger than Katya, and, just as at work, she looked after them. Maybe someday she’d have her own children to look after, but in the meantime she did not mind looking after girls younger and less worldly than herself. Michele in particular seemed in need of sisterly advice, especially when she expressed interest in ditching her boring secretarial job and coming to work at Slim’s, something Katya had so far managed to steer her away from.
She had just finished with the leftover dishes when she heard the postman push the mail through the letter box slot. No point rushing to see it; bills and more bills would be lying on the mat. But a minute later she thought she heard a tap at the front door, so this time she left the kitchen and went out into the hall. She opened the front door, but there was nobody there – she must have imagined the noise. Then she bent down and picked up the post, examining it as she walked back to the kitchen. There was one envelope for her, which she was opening when she came into the kitchen again, not paying much attention. It took a moment to notice the man now sitting at the kitchen table, and she jumped when she saw him.
‘You startled me,’ she said, feeling flustered at first, then fearful as she realised who it was.
‘Did I now?’ said Lester Jackson mildly. ‘Maybe you were expecting the police instead of me.’
‘Why would I be expecting them?’ Katya managed to say.
Jackson shrugged. ‘There has to be someone in the force you’re friends with. Seeing as you were the first one sprung last night. Why don’t you sit down and tell me who your friend is?’
He gestured at the chair next to him, and Katya stiffened. ‘I would, Mr Jackson, but I have to go out now . . .’
Jackson was smiling as he shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Sit down, Katya,’ and there was something so steely in his voice that reluctantly she did.
‘Now,’ Jackson continued, his voice mild again. ‘Was it DCI Lansley or DCI Robertson? Or is it your friend from Special Branch – maybe Detective Halliday?’
When the French girl Michele came back from work later that day she was surprised to find the front door of the house unlocked. She went in and called out for Katya, who was usually at home at this time, getting dressed for work at the club. Michele didn’t care what Katya said; Slim’s sounded fun, and a thousand times more exciting than her own job, typing the correspondence of a fat and unsuccessful property developer. She was going to tackle Katya again about it; Michele knew she was attractive enough to work at Slim’s – it was only the older woman who was standing in her way.