Going Dark Read online

  *

  Michael Adebayo pushed back his chair from the desk and stretched. It had been a long morning seeing clients at the busy office in Ilford. It was like a sausage factory, desperate immigrant after desperate immigrant, all with the same thing in mind: staying in the UK. Most of them were students who wanted to stay beyond their visa. Some were asylum seekers not yet granted, all with the same bullshit stories. He thought of his last client, a Pakistani with years of rejected applications-to-remain behind him. He almost laughed at what the wretch wanted to claim, even if it was at Adebayo’s suggestion. He was going to try to convince the authorities that he needed asylum as he was gay and would be killed in Pakistan as a result. This was despite the sham marriage application the same man had made and had had rejected just a few months before, claiming undying love for a Hungarian girl half his age. He laughed at the audacity of it, but he just took the money and, if applications failed, he couldn’t care less.

  He stared out of his window onto Station Road. The sunlight streamed through the window as he watched the bustle below him. A grimy, poor area, but one he loved well enough.

  He had been aged eight when he had come to the UK with his parents from a small village outside Lagos. His father was a natural businessman who had managed to set up a small chain of printing and photocopying shops that were moderately successful and afforded them a comfortable lifestyle. His parents were decent, God-fearing Christians who were not best pleased when he had converted to Islam at university. It was an easy conversion for Adebayo: most of his friends and associates were Muslims and, even just for business reasons, it had seemed the natural choice.

  He had been a bright boy who had progressed well at school and qualified as a solicitor without difficulty, specialising in immigration law after doing his articles at a solicitors firm in Plaistow. His mentor was a clever and cunning man who made good money progressing applications to the Home Office with no regard for the client. ‘I mean, who are they going to complain to when they get deported?’ the man would laugh.

  The business model was simple: start the client’s fees at a low level, then increase them as the applications progressed. Make applications that were doomed to failure, safe in the knowledge that the client’s money would be in his pocket before they got deported. He had cared little for any of his clients, viewing them as rats to be exploited. Adebayo had learnt well from his mentor. There was money to be made in their business; you just needed the desperate clients to come through the door.

  He had started Adebayo Associates seven years previously and was immediately successful after advertising heavily on local Urdu radio stations and in the mosques. He promised success in Home Office applications at rock-bottom prices, and the clients descended in droves. He had no associates; he was the only lawyer. The rest were caseworkers paid minimally and treated with disdain. The applications were simple, and he quickly realised he could charge hundreds of pounds simply for form-filling. Soon he was making more money than he knew what to do with, and each morning the queue stretched out the front door and his reception area was always full.

  His brother, Emmanuel, had not had such an easy childhood. He was a much rougher boy, always in fights, always bullying, cajoling and stealing, leading to trouble with the police a few times. Adebayo had always found it easy to manipulate Emmanuel, who in turn just wanted to please his older sibling. The benefit of this was that the bigger boy always protected his brother, keeping any bullies away.

  Things hadn’t changed all those years later. Adebayo kept Emmanuel happy with cash and his brother repaid him by keeping him safe. Emmanuel’s links to the underworld were useful; Adebayo didn’t like dealing with criminals—he didn’t trust them—but he appreciated the need to sometimes get things done by less conventional means. He needed a good proportion of his clients to be successful to keep the business going, so forged documents were sometimes needed. Emmanuel was his link into this world: he could call on good forgers of identity documents, supporting paperwork and passports, all with one phone call.

  Adebayo smiled to himself. Business was good and life was good. He lived in a large house in the best street in Ilford. He could have moved to a better area, but this was his home, where he was known and respected by all. He owned other properties in the area that he rented out and he also owned a large house in the prosperous area of Lagos. He felt like the King of Ilford.

  A knock at the door jolted him from his daydream: his brother, as always slightly deferential.

  ‘Brother, that fool Rizwan Khan is here to see you, shouting nonsense about the Home Office refusing his claim,’ said Emmanuel. ‘He’s getting quite stroppy in reception and threatening to expose us and call the police. What shall I do?’

  Adebayo considered for a moment. ‘He is from Karachi, no?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Tell him I will see him in one hour and refund his money.’

  His brother nodded and left the office. A cold, hard fury gripped Adebayo. Who the fuck did that bastard think he was, threatening him? He remembered Rizwan Khan’s application well: a sham marriage to a Hungarian girl supplied by a trafficking gang. She was a very pretty little thing, who he had fucked in his office. A perk of the job. He smiled at the memory; the girl did whatever her traffickers told her, she was so frightened: a vulnerability that just excited him even more.

  He dug the man’s file out of the teak cabinet and picked up the phone. He knew just the person to call to get the job done.

  An hour later there was another knock at the door and his brother entered once again, this time accompanied by a small, wiry Pakistani man dressed in tracksuit trousers and a threadbare sweater, leather sandals on his sockless feet. His hair was fashioned into a greasy side-parting and he wore a scraggly beard with no moustache.

  ‘Yes, Rizwan Khan, what can I do for you?’ said Adebayo, his voice slightly condescending.

  ‘Mr Adebayo-Sab,’ the man said, nervously using the respectful suffix. ‘My case has been refused; the Home Office say my paperwork is false and I must leave. They have been looking for me. I cannot go to Pakistan, and I owe the moneylenders for the money I paid you for my application. I must stay to send money home to my family.’ Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth as he stuttered.

  ‘How is your situation my fault, my friend? Why do you threaten me, after all I’ve done for you?’ Adebayo’s voice was even, his eyes locked on Khan.

  Khan looked sweaty and his breathing was shallow and rapid as he fidgeted with his prayer beads. ‘I’ve no more money, Mr Adebayo. None. You must give me mine back; my case is gone, I will be deported. I don’t want to get you into trouble, but I will tell the police if you don’t.’

  Adebayo held the nervous man with a fixed, dead gaze.

  ‘Sit,’ he commanded, indicating the chair in front of his desk. He did not answer but picked up his iPhone and dialled a number, holding the phone in front of him. The handset sprang into life, voices clearly audible. Adebayo turned the screen to face Khan. Visible on the video call was the green door to a small, one-roomed house in a dim terrace. A military fatigue-clad arm stretched out and knocked at the door. The door was answered by a young girl, aged about twenty and dressed in a threadbare Shalwar Kameez.

  She looked terrified. ‘Yes?’ she said in a voice so quiet it was barely audible.

  ‘Rayaan!’ screamed Khan. ‘My sister! You fucking bastard!’ He leapt to his feet but was restrained from behind by Emmanuel, powerful arms wrapping him in a bear-hug, forcing him to watch. On the screen a fist rocketed into view and connected with his sister’s nose, knocking her to the floor, blood immediately streaming. The girl let out a piercing scream and the picture disappeared. Adebayo set the phone down quietly on the desk and fixed the babbling man with a glare.

  ‘If you ever come to my office again or if you go to the police or anyone, I will have her fingers removed and posted to you. She will be violated by many men and the house burnt to the ground. You dare threaten me, y
ou fucking worm!’

  Khan was sobbing now: unrestrained, destroyed, all options gone, all hope gone.

  ‘Get him out of here.’

  Emmanuel dragged the smaller man out of the office and, as the door closed, Adebayo smiled his cruel smile and picked up the phone again.

  9

  It was a month since Tom had last been to Kilburn nick and he entered the building reluctantly, knowing his boss would have the hump with him. DCI Simon Taylor didn’t like it when his staff knew something he didn’t, although Tom of course had no intention of enlightening him.

  He went up to the canteen on the second floor and bought a cup of tea, steeling himself for the inevitable supercilious attitude his DCI would no doubt heap on him.

  Sat alone at one of the tables was an old friend of his, Stan Munro. Stan was a legendary ex-Marine Sergeant Major and Falklands Conflict veteran, who now worked as the Kilburn CID Office Manager. He managed the vehicle fleet, answered the phones, took messages, and generally made sure everything ran smoothly. He was a nice guy in his sixties with a bald head and long bushy beard, a man who didn’t take his job too seriously but did it very well. Despite his low-status job and unusual appearance, it was always wise to keep Stan on your side.

  For reasons no one really knew, Stan wielded significant power at the station, being one of the few people who could walk into the Borough Commander’s office without knocking and speak freely. It was, though, a testament to Stan’s character that he never misused this power, simply seeking to make sure that any injustices were resolved without the need for management intervention. He was also responsible for issuing various enquiries and investigations, and anyone foolish enough to piss Stan off would find themselves on the receiving end of a paperwork body-blow within minutes. He had an enormous presence, and some younger officers would cower in his formidable presence. Perhaps because of this, few cops took the time to speak to Stan, not knowing that he was also a Military Cross recipient, following some serious bravery on Mount Two Sisters during the Falklands Conflict.

  Since joining, Tom often passed the time of day and shared a tea—‘a wet’—with Stan, talking about their Bootneck days. They had soon discovered that Stan knew his foster father well, having served in the South Atlantic together, and this had deepened the bond between them.

  ‘All right, Royal,’ said Tom, using the universal greeting that all Marines traditionally used when addressing a fellow Green Beret holder.

  ‘Royal. Where you been, mate? I’ve missed our little sandbag-sitting, lamp-swinging sessions,’ said Stan in that booming, sonorous voice which was once so feared among the tough commandos.

  ‘Oh, you know, sneaky-beaky stuff.’ He knew Stan wouldn’t press. They shot the breeze for about twenty minutes until they were interrupted by Tom’s operational phone ringing. He didn’t recognise the number but answered it with a ‘Hello?’

  A gravelly female Serb-accented voice barked at him. Mira. ‘I need you to help us. You must take a girl to the lawyer’s office later today after they close.’ It was an order, not a request. ‘I give her your number, you meet her later, and take her to office in Ilford. Wait for her, then take her back to me, okay?’

  ‘Sounds fine. What’s her name?’

  ‘Jeta. I text you the lawyer’s brother’s number and address of office. Get her there for seven, stay out of the way, and let the lawyer do his thing. She is meeting new husband.’ She rang off without further comment.

  It was goldmine stuff, and all recorded on the phone’s covert app. Maybe it was the break he’d been waiting for: a chance to get into the solicitor’s office and gather some proper evidence. He needed to speak to Liam.

  ‘I gotta run, Stan. Business to attend to, mate. We’ll have a beer soon.’

  ‘It would make the decade worthwhile, Old Fruit. Whatever secret-squirrel stuff you are doing, be careful.’

  ‘Always careful, Stan.’

  *

  Tom drove from Jubilee House in Putney, where SC&O35 was based, having put together with Liam a snap briefing with the Home Office operational team. He was wired up with a covert camera, the lens concealed in a button on his lightweight jacket. The hard drive with a micro-SD card was secured in a holster at the small of his back. This would give more than enough recording for the deployment. A wireless remote was located in a key fob attached to the car keys: all he had to do was press the button and recording would commence. He’d used that kit a few times before and it had always provided excellent quality images. If the job went as planned, Adebayo would be caught bang-to-rights within a few hours.

  In case he got into any problems, the Home Office had supplied a backup team which would stay close by, following his progress on a small vehicle tracker hidden in the BMW, but with no radio communications between them. They weren’t planning to arrest Adebayo that day, even if he did incriminate himself. Better to wait until the evidence was all in good order and ready to go, so that when the bust went down it would be a simple interview, charge, and remand in custody.

  Jeta had called Tom about an hour earlier, a quiet, nervous voice at the end of the phone. ‘Tomo?’

  ‘Yeah, is that you, Jeta?’ Tom asked in Serbian.

  ‘Mira says I must meet you and we go to lawyer’s office. I’m in Hackney. When can you get here?’

  ‘I’ll be there in about an hour, we need to get you to the lawyer for 7pm, so meet me at Hackney Central and I’ll wait by the newsagents. Call me when you get there.’

  He rang off and immediately called the number given to him by Mira. It was answered after eight rings.

  ‘Yeah?’ A mix of cockney and African accent questioned.

  ‘Is that Emmanuel?’ asked Tom, slightly upping his Serb accent.

  ‘Yeah, who is it?’

  ‘It’s Tomo. Mira asked me to call you. I’m delivering a package to you this evening.’

  ‘No problem. Call when you’re outside and I’ll bring you in. Get here for seven o’clock.’ And he hung up.

  Tom rang through to Jean MacDonald and updated her with the plan. It was all looking good, although there were variables, as always. The girl sounded pretty fragile, so he couldn’t be sure how she’d react when they got to the office. As always on undercover meetings, he’d have to be flexible. The key was to keep on his toes throughout, always think of the evidence, and stick to the rules.

  Tom smiled at the prospect of deploying right into the heart of the conspiracy, right under their noses.

  *

  Tom saw Jeta as soon as he pulled up outside Hackney Central. She was tiny and almost child-like, but Tom guessed she was about twenty. She had short, choppy, dark hair that framed an elfin face, with a slight, waif-like body in a short, floral sun dress and pink Converse trainers. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought she was waiting to go to a youth club disco. Tom pressed the record button on the car fob and said quietly, his lips barely moving, ‘My name, for this operation, is Tomo. I’m an undercover police officer and I’m about to meet Jeta and take her to Adebayo Associates Solicitors. The time is 1830 hours.’ That effectively began the undercover deployment; everything from then on would be recorded and evidential.

  Tom waved and she walked over, smiling shyly as she opened the car door. ‘Tomo?’ she said in a light voice, a hint of nervousness in her pretty face. She had very dark eyes and an equally dark complexion, and Tom recognised some Roma in her features.

  Tom smiled and said in Serb, ‘Yes. Get in, we’re going to be late.’

  ‘Wow! I love your car! I’ve never been in a BMW before,’ she said as she got in. ‘Where is Mira? Do you have my passport? I really want to go home as soon as this is done.’

  ‘How long have you been over here, Jeta?’

  ‘A few weeks. Mira flew me over. I’m a hairdresser in Sarajevo but I’m not making enough money. Mira told me I would get good job over here, but nothing so far. She wants me to be a prostitute, but I don’t want that.’ Sadness tinged with fear was et
ched over her face.

  That was often the trick with traffickers: exploit vulnerable young girls with false promises, make them totally dependent on you, then force them into the trades of misery, be it prostitution or unpaid work of some type. Tom shook away his rising anger. He had to look at the bigger picture; taking out this group would benefit many girls and keep them from the situation Jeta had found herself in.

  Jeta continued, ‘Aleks and Luka get very angry with me when I don’t be prostitute, tell me I can’t have my passport until I do. I just want to go home now. Luka keeps trying to get me into bed as well, but I don’t like him.’ Her voice cracked, and tears brimmed in her dark eyes.

  Tom forced himself to keep his voice level. ‘Look, just get this business out of the way, then you can go home. You know what we’re doing today?’

  The girl blinked the tears away and regained her composure. ‘Mira says I must do a paper marriage with a Pakistani boy, so he can get a green card for the UK. She says it won’t be a real marriage and, when I go home, it won’t count. I think I’m meeting my husband today. They say I’m a big prize for a Pakistani as I have a real EU passport because my mama is Slovenian.’ She forced a smile at the ridiculousness of the statement.

  That was the story often told to the victims in those cases. Unfortunately, it wasn’t true: the marriages were binding and in most cases the girls would need divorces or annulments. Tom also made a mental note that the girl was using her own passport, not a forgery as the others had.

  ‘Let’s just get today out of the way, then we’ll see about getting your passport back from Mira. Just sign what the lawyer wants you to sign. Let me do the translating so you don’t get ripped off.’