The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (24 page)

P
enny
opened the door of the villa to find her dripping-wet boyfriend on the doormat.

“Hans! I was worried!” She threw her arms around him. “What happened,
and why are you so wet?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve just swum ashore
from Eddy Logan’s boat?”

“What?” came the expected reply.

“Let me get out of these clothes, and I’ll tell you all
about it. And if there’s a beer going spare, I wouldn’t say no.”

Hans went into the bathroom and, after taking his wallet and
cell phone out of the resealable bag Logan gave him, threw his clothes in the
tub. He put on a bathrobe and joined Penny in the living room.

It wasn’t until they’d drunk a fourth beer and polished off
half a bottle of rum that Hans finished retelling events.

Penny cupped her chin, shaking her head as she stared down
at Karen’s marble-tiled floor. “So, we’re right back at square one.”

“Afraid so, honey.” Hans could see the exhausted Penny was
on the verge of tears. “Let’s sleep on it and come up with a plan in the
morning.”

Neither of them could stomach breakfast, so after a shower
and coffee Hans drove them back to the previous night’s drop-off point to go
and retrieve the gear from the hide. By now Hans’ saran wrap package stunk to
high heaven, so he placed the backpack in the rear of the jeep and wound down
the windows.

“Don’t ask,” he told Penny, seeing her face screw up.

Hans was about to turn the ignition key when his cell rang,
a Praia number he didn’t recognize.

“Hans Larsson.”

“Senhor Larsson, Chief Inspector Barbosa Amado. Can we meet?”

“Is this so you can arrest me?” Hans asked, with so many
implicating factors buzzing through his mind – the Fulani, Alvarez, Silvestre, Mike
Davenport – that he made a concerted effort to clear his head and focus on Amado’s
words, listening for any nuances giving a clue as to what was afoot.

“No, Hans. You have done nothing I would want to arrest you
for,” Amado replied. “But something has come up, and I feel it is time to share
what we know. Or if you prefer, you can just listen to what I have to say.”

“Do you want me to come to the station?”

“No, no! Erm, where are you now?”

“About five miles from town on the coast road east.”

“Okay, then there is a turning right, about one kilometer.
Fifty meters up is a bar called O Cacto, er, The Cactus
.
I can be there
in twenty minutes.”

“
And
?”

“Interpol? No, only me I promise.”

T
oweling
dry after her shower, the Malian considered the clothes in her functionalist
wardrobe. Not wishing to appear too smart for the evening’s mission, she opted for
lightweight beige pants, a dark-blue tank top, flat shoes and a cheap denim
jacket. As a precaution she slipped a switchblade into her pocket and, having checked
the tourist map, left the ramshackle hotel to head in the direction of Rua
Ribeiro.

The woman passed by open-air bars playing upbeat folk music and
taverns and tapas restaurants frequented by locals, but there was no nightclub
district to speak of, most of the tourists enjoying entertainment laid on in
their hotels. Although on her own in a rough part of town, the woman felt safe,
and no one paid her unwanted attention. Arriving at one end of Rua Ribeiro, she
decided to take a brisk walk along it to familiarize herself with the street
scene. Before doing so, she entered a small convenience store, bought a soda
and a loaf of bread and placed them in a plastic bag so it looked like she
lived in the area. Keeping her head high and adopting a purposeful pace, she
headed up the street, giving the appearance of minding her own business but
taking in every movement with her peripheral vision, along with the sheer
poverty of her surroundings.

The working girls weren’t difficult to spot. Three, all of
different ethnicity, leant against a brick wall leading off down a side street,
waiting to step forward when a punter pulled up. Others – some of them white,
likely Russian or Eastern European – stood on their own in doorways, hands and
feet fidgety from the prework smoke of the crack pipe. There were no pimps in
view, although the woman felt certain they were around, and the girls looked to
be of legal age. This did not fit with her plan, so she continued down the
street, and when there were no more sex workers in sight, she took a left turn
at the next junction and a left again to bring her back to where she’d started.

The woman took a seat outside a café and ordered a beer. She
was in no rush, and it was important to get this right. In the meantime she
familiarized herself with life on Rua Ribeiro, keeping a wary eye out for
anyone who might prove trouble.

An hour passed and a good many sex workers too, either
arriving for work, rushing to the nearest drug dealer with their latest payment,
or hurrying a car-less tourist off the street into an unlit alleyway in case
the police appeared.

Finally, the woman spotted a contender. Walking several
yards behind his “property” – a girl no more than fourteen wearing a skimpy
pink dress and stumbling along in oversized yellow heels – the pimp had a cocky
air about him and wore a black backwards-facing baseball cap on top of short
dreadlocks. He had his shirt open to the waist, exposing a fake-gold medallion,
and only looked to be a teenager himself. But what stood out the most was the
young man’s eyes. Like the woman’s, they were turquoise blue and unmissable
against his brown skin.

The woman watched as they continued up Rua Ribeiro and made
a left down a side street. She threw a five-hundred-escudo note down on the
table, picked up her shopping bag and went after them. Turning the corner, she
saw the pimp and the girl arguing on the sidewalk.
Perfect
, she thought,
taking out her cell phone and hitting the video mode. Then, walking down the
street pretending to have a conversation, she turned the phone at a slight
angle to capture the couple’s dispute.

Having a Mozambican father, the woman spoke Portuguese and
although not entirely fluent in Cape Verdean Creole, a variant of the mother
tongue, she understood the gist of what they were shouting. Drawing level with
the pair, she stopped, making no attempt to hide her actions.

Cobra continued his dressing down of Angel, having not
forgiven her for mistakenly charging a tourist the locals’ rate for oral sex
the previous night. He backhanded her across the face, and as she fell to the ground
he noticed the woman filming.

“Wha—?”

“Do you know the punishment for forcing underage girls into
prostitution?” she asked in Portuguese, putting the phone back in her pocket. “Especially
right now, when the police are having a major crackdown and looking for
arrests.”

“Fuck you,” he scowled, and threw a lightning punch.

The woman blocked it with her forearm, barreling his arm
downwards and gripping his thumb, levering the vulnerable digit away from his
body.

Pain rocketed up the pimp’s wrist, sending him crashing to
the ground
.
“
Ah-ah-ah
,
okay, okay!”
he screamed.

Angel watched in astonishment, then, contemplating the
beating Cobra would give her for not coming to his aid, she took a step
forward.

“Don’t even think about it,
amiga
!” the woman warned,
stopping a high kick short of Angel’s nose.

The girl looked to Cobra for direction. He shook his head rapidly,
his eyes saying the consequences would be painful for both of them.

“Okay, I’m going to let go, but if you try anything funny
you have my word I will break your arm.”

“Sure, sure,” Cobra replied, the thought of no more pain far
outweighing the humiliation he’d received.

The woman released her hold.

“Arrh!” He shook his arm out. “So who are you – a cop or
something?”

“I’m in the same business as you.”

“Yeah?” He eyed her in disbelief.

“Yeah,” the woman replied, pulling a photo of one of the
orphans from the pocket of her denim jacket. “See this girl?”

“Uh-huh.” Cobra massaged his wrist.

“There are many more in my care, and I’m looking to trade.”

“Why you telling
me
this?”

“Because I need to see the Man.”

“Which man?” Cobra tried to get smart.

“That’s up to you. But if it’s not someone I can do business
with, then the video in this phone” – she tapped her pocket – “will be on the vice
squad’s desk first thing tomorrow morning, and I will write a full statement
about what I saw tonight and then testify in court.”

Cobra and Angel made eye contact, unable to hide their
nerves, the girl about to burst into tears any moment.

“What jail term are we talking for pimping a minor – five to
seven years?” the woman said and tutted. “That’s if you don’t get shanked by a
fellow prisoner for preying on a child.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll speak to my boss,” Cobra pacified her. “He
knows a guy. How can I get hold of you?”

“Room Eighteen, Pensão Lisboa. Ask for Brenda Umchima.”

O
Cacto was the most authentic establishment Hans and Penny had visited on Cape
Verde, with none of the glitz or faux-culture associated with the touristy
places. Not much more than a wooden shack, it was reminiscent of a truck stop
out West, though with bare floorboards and rust-blemished road signs adorning
the walls – genuine signs and not the Route 66 type bought off the Internet –
it was a deal humbler.

Hans and Penny took up seats at a table by the window. After
ten minutes it became obvious the man wearing a white cotton tank top and
eyeing them with suspicion from behind the bar wasn’t going to take their order,
so Penny went up and asked for a beer and a bottle of mineral water. The barman
made a show of taking his time, refusing to look Penny in the eye, and then slapping
the change down on the graffiti-engraved bar.

“Who says racism’s only for white folks.” She handed Hans
his beer.

“Probably not so much racism but a distinct dislike of
spoilt tourists,” Hans replied, having witnessed this kind of behavior before.

If it weren’t for recent events, both would have got a kick
out of being off the beaten track. As it was, they were happy when Amado
arrived, bursting out of a Hawaiian shirt and driving what must have been his
own dusty white jalopy.

“Hans, Miss Penny.” He shook hands and sat down, still looking
as flustered as the time they met him at the airport. “Boy!” He clicked his
fingers at the barman, who dropped the ashtray he was wiping and ran over to
their table.

Hans felt a touch of panic, worrying this notable difference
in service was to do with Amado being a police officer and that the meeting wasn’t
as hush-hush as he’d hoped. But he soon relaxed, remembering it was Africa’s
class system in play, Amado having a significantly lighter skin tone than his
compatriot.

“Three more beers,” Amado spat in
English over his
shoulder, purposely not giving the barman his full attention. Then, “Hans, I
gather you spoke with Mr. Davenport about a man named Logan.”

“And?” Hans remained noncommittal.

“I’m sorry, Hans. I did not mean to interrogate you. Just to
say that a search of Logan’s place turned up nothing of any significance. We
took a load of paperwork and a computer away to see if our detectives can come
up with—”

“You’ll be wasting your time.” Hans’ tone spoke for him.

“Yes, yes, exactly.” Amado mopped his brow with a
handkerchief, then took a slug of beer. “I am throwing myself at your mercy,
Hans.”

From the bags under Amado’s eyes, they could see he was
exhausted.

“Barbosa, my mercy has pretty much drawn a blank,” said
Hans. “You’re the insider here. You must have come up with
something
.”

“We have a lot of people on this case. Interpol are guiding
us through the process, and we have the British police lending support.”

“But?” Hans spoke into the neck of his bottle before taking
a swig.

“Friends, I was born and brought up on these islands. I’ve
been a police officer for twenty-six years. I have a good idea of the people who
are responsible for abducting your daughter, but there are other powers at
work.”

“Other powers?” said Hans.

Amado squirmed, gripping his thighs and scanning the empty
bar. “Yes,
other
.” He put his hand down by the side of the table and made
the sign of the horns.

Hans nodded and gave Penny an
I’ll explain later
look.

“You must understand, Hans, these are evil people in high
places who are not about to let a tired old cop expose them. They play by their
own rules, and my life means nothing to them.” He wrung his hands, attempting
to look apologetic.

“Amado, if you don’t tell me who this is, then
I
will
kill you.” Hans’ face darkened as he leaned over the table. “And that’s whether
I get my daughter back or not.”

“If after a lifetime in law enforcement I cannot do my
rightful job, then there is no point to live. So please, I will approach my
superiors one last time – later today – and if I don’t get the right response I
will tell you everything. This is my promise. But I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.” Hans reached down for Penny’s hand, and she
squeezed it in return.

“In your inquiries, have you come across this woman?”

He passed them a profile picture taken off a website. Penny looked
at it for no more than a second before shrugging and shaking her head. Hans had
no idea either.

“Her name is Brenda Umchima, the manager of an orphanage in Gambia.
She’s on Cape Verde attempting to make contact with
os traficantes
, er—”

“The traffickers,” Penny muttered.

“How do you know all this?” asked Hans.

“Our vice squad pulled in a girl last night, a
fourteen-year-old prostitute from the slums. Her pimp ran off and left the poor
kid terrified. She – how you say? – squawked, no?”

Hans nodded.

“Said she had information if we released her from the cells
and gave us this woman.” He nodded to the photograph. “She’s looking for a
contact in the trafficking and staying at the Pensão Lisboa.”

“Have you checked her out?” Hans asked.

“There’s nothing on record for Umchima, either local or
international, so I searched the Internet and found her details on a website
for a children’s home in Kankaba.”

“Did you pull in the pimp?”

“Calls himself Cobra Azul – Blue Snake. My detective traced
him to a house in the slums, but his kid sisters hadn’t seen him. We have an
informant living two doors down who’s going to let us know if he returns.”

“Is your informant reliable?” said Hans.

“When it comes to crack addicts, they’re more reliable than
anyone when a bribe’s at stake.”

“Can I take that picture?”

“Sure.” Amado pushed it across the table.