‘What story? Has that fucking paper threatened you with your job again?’
The Barista arrived with two more espressos. Newport hadn’t finished the first.
‘No, no, nothing like that. A week or so ago, I went to meet this bloke in Brighton. A contact. I’ve used him before, had one or two stories out of him. He’s generally been pretty reliable. Anyway, he tells me about this European child trafficking ring operating out of London. Mostly closed-market, need-to-know stuff. Apparently it’s a group of Eastern European labourers. Disguised as such at least, that’s their cover; plumbers, sparkies, the like.’
Newport put down her coffee. ‘Kellie, there are scoops and there are scoops. And then there’s stupidity.’
‘But just imagine, Holly. Imagine if I break this story and snag the exclusive. Every tabloid this side of the Thames would want me. No more shitty articles for Mr Fat Prick editor.’
‘So what’s happened since?’
‘I chased it, didn’t I!’ Kellie’s head snapped back and forth. ‘I was put in touch with another contact, bloke named Reggie Hayes. He gave me an address in Camden where these guys were supposedly operating out of. So I staked it out. I watched it for days. People were coming and going, mostly men. Any women going in looked like whores, you know, fishnets up to their tits. But the men definitely looked Eastern European, Poles or Romanians or something. Their dress sense was fucking hideous.’
Newport narrowed her eyes. ‘So why haven’t you been to the police before now, Kellie? This is fire you’re playing with.’
‘You’re the police.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I haven’t got to the best bit yet,’ she insisted. ‘I followed one of these men to a bar one night, decided to chat him up, see what I could find out. He wouldn’t give much up but that night I went with him back to this house. And get this, I heard all sorts of conversation about someone called “The Face.” No one would tell me who The Face was, just that I’d do well not to mention it again. And they were saying it in English, like maybe it was an English bloke running things. But I kept pushing. Eventually they freaked and threw me out of the house.’
‘Kellie, are you fucking insane? What were you thinking?’
‘I wasn’t thinking! And now I reckon I’m being followed. Strange people hanging around outside my house, blokes behind me in the street. I’m not imagining it, I’m certain.’
‘So why haven’t you been to the police?’
‘Are you nuts? This exclusive is still alive, Holly, I can still get this. If I blow it open now, The Face will just disappear, materialise somewhere else. But this Polish bloke, he likes me. I can try to meet him again, see what else I can find out.’
Newport shook her head. ‘Kellie, listen to me, okay. I know you want this scoop like nothing else right now, but a scoop is nothing if you’re dead! These guys don’t mess around. This is big business for them and they’ll kill anyone who interferes. Our laws mean nothing to them. If you're right and they’re watching you, then they're doing it to see if you pose a threat. You need to let it go. File a report with the police and leave it alone.’
Kellie looked across the table at her like she was crazy. ‘You can’t ask me to do that, Holly. I’m so close to this, you have no idea what it means.’
‘It means me dragging you out of the Thames at 3am with a concrete block chained to your leg. You’re already scared. Do you have any idea what these people will do to you?’
Kellie blinked, a subtle eye movement that shot across the cafe. She genuinely did look nuts. ‘I thought you were going to help me. I thought you might want to see this through with me. Now I can see I’m wasting my time.’
She stood up to leave.
‘Kellie, don’t do this, please. Go to the police. Or at least give me the address and I’ll file it myself.’
‘I can’t do that, Holly. I have to see this through.’ And she turned to leave, pushing her way to the door.
Quickly, Newport climbed to her feet. ‘Kellie!’ she called, random stares shooting in her direction. ‘Don’t do this, I’m begging you.’
In amongst the other diners, Kellie had vanished.
*
Visitations to inform loved ones never got any easier. After he and PC Dale Yates had called in on Janine Bluestock’s family – mother, father, brother – to notify them of their daughter’s fate, York had felt so incredibly low he was fastened to the driver’s seat of the car, firmly in park. Their faces had shown so much anguish, but most of all, they had shown compassion. Love for each other and for the girl whose legacy had simply become a shortened branch on the family tree.
He hadn’t told them the gruesome details of their daughter's death; they hadn’t asked and they didn’t need to know. They had learned only the surface details, the icing. Their daughter was dead. That was enough.
He stared ahead into the day and for the first time since his family was lost to him, he was frightened. They had no leads. They would continue to have no leads. They were losing.
He was losing. How many other families would he have to visit? How many other fathers and mothers would he have to look in the face and tell them their child wasn't coming home?
He slowly took off the handbrake, started the car and pulled away.
Switching the engine off in the station car park, the crux of his arm began itching beneath the bandages.
