Carlyle scanned the faces, trying to see if he could find Alzbetha among them, but the image wasn’t clear enough, and there wasn’t enough time. Chepoyak let the two policemen peer at the picture for only a few seconds before scooping it back up and returning it to his inside pocket. ‘That is the Hnizdechko Orphanage Number 3, in the city of Pryluky. Do you know what Hnizdechko means?’
Carlyle looked at Shen, who made a face and shrugged. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It is translated as ‘‘Little Nest’’.’ Chepoyak snorted. ‘Little fucking nest — hah! It is a total shit-hole. Without me, they have nothing. The situation is terrible. Truly terrible.’
‘Which is why you come over here,’ Shen prompted.
‘Yes. From here, I can make money. I can make a difference. There are a quarter of a million children in orphanages in the Ukraine. Some have lost their parents. Others have just been abandoned. Alcoholism, drug abuse, prostitution — we have it all.’
Maybe that’s why you’re so good at what you do, Carlyle thought.
Chepoyak looked at the two policemen. ‘Like you two give a fuck about who I am and where I’m from,’ he continued in a grim voice. ‘It is a scandal what happens to those children — a disgrace. The only time you hear about all this shit over here is when some pop star or actress goes to my country and tries to adopt one of them.’
‘So you do a lot of charity work?’ Carlyle asked, wondering how to get the conversation back on track.
‘I do what I can.’ Chepoyak shrugged. ‘The government, of course, does nothing. There is never enough food, never enough clothes, never enough shoes. The children suffer from poor nutrition; they get ill but they don’t have medicine when they are sick. All the orphanages depend on charity for survival. It is a living hell.’
‘This girl could have come from an orphanage,’ Carlyle mused.
‘It’s possible. I wouldn’t know about it, but I can ask around.’
‘If you hear anything. .’ Shen interjected lamely.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Chepoyak waved a hand dismissively.
What exactly was the point of this meeting with Ukraine’s answer to Robin Hood? Carlyle was wondering where his investigation could go from here when there was a sudden kerfuffle outside, and two women burst in. They were followed by a man who looked like a much smaller version of Ihor.
Carlyle glanced back out into the main cafe. Hamilton and Frost were both happily shooting the breeze, apparently oblivious to the new arrivals. Just as well it’s nothing serious then, boys, he thought sourly.
Chepoyak said something to the mini-him, and the other man disappeared somewhere into the back. The women then took a seat at the table on either side of the boss. Both were bottle-blondes; one with a page-boy cut, the other with her hair longer and tied up in a ponytail. Each wore plenty of make-up and each had a smouldering cigarette dangling from her lower lip. The pair of them wore warm-looking winter overcoats, buttoned up to the neck. Without being able to see what was concealed underneath, Carlyle marked them down as a pair of Eastern European hard bodies, the kind of girls that had swamped the prostitution market in London over the last decade or so.
The only real difference between the two of them was in the eyes. Whereas the ponytail had dark, dead eyes, black as coals; page-boy’s blue irises sparkled with curiosity and mischief.
Throwing an arm round each of his girls, Chepoyak smirked at the policemen and raised his eyebrows suggestively.
Shen glanced quickly at Carlyle and held up a hand. ‘Ihor, you know we don’t take freebies.’
The one with the dead eyes glared at Shen. Her companion kept her amused gaze fixed on Carlyle.
‘We are looking for a girl,’ Carlyle repeated for the benefit of the women, ‘maybe as young as eight or nine. A Ukrainian girl brought to London and pimped out to rich men.’
‘I told you,’ Chepoyak said, pushing back his chair and getting slowly to his feet, ‘I don’t know anything about it. But I will. . how do you like to say it,’ he grinned, ‘make some investigations.’
Shen stood up. Carlyle followed suit.
‘That is much appreciated,’ Shen said, extending a hand. ‘Thank you for your time.’
Chepoyak shook his hand vigorously. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Any time.’
Chepoyak and the women followed the two policemen out into the cafe. At the counter, Carlyle looked longingly at the remaining cakes sitting on a plate behind the glass. Digging into his trouser pocket, he found a handful of change. Smiling at the silent woman behind the counter, he pointed at the
The woman nodded. Picking up a paper bag from the shelf behind her, she carefully picked out a couple of cakes from the plate.
Not sure about the price, Carlyle placed four pound coins on the top of the counter.
‘Please!’ Chepoyak stayed his arm. ‘There is no charge.’ He said something to the woman that Carlyle didn’t understand. He held out a hand again. ‘Until the next time, Inspector. .’
‘John Carlyle.’ Carlyle shook his hand.
‘Ah, yes.’ Chepoyak had already turned away and was heading towards the back room. ‘Inspector John Carlyle, I will see you next time.’
Carlyle watched him disappear and accepted the bag of cakes from the woman, leaving the small pile of coins on the counter as a tip. Shen and the others had already gone outside and he heard the BMW’s engine start up.
‘You have a sweet tooth, Inspector?’ The girl with the sparkling eyes had appeared at his shoulder.
‘I’m afraid I do,’ Carlyle admitted.
The girl nodded sympathetically. ‘I also love a nice pastry. Perfect with a coffee.’
‘Yes.’ Carlyle couldn’t agree more.
‘In fact,’ she sighed, ‘I could do with an espresso right now.’ Turning to the woman behind the counter, she pointed at the ancient-looking Gaggia by the wall. ‘Anichka, could you get me one, please? A double.’
The woman grumbled under her breath before turning away from the pair of them to work the battered machine. As it rumbled noisily into action, Carlyle flinched slightly as he felt a hand on his backside. Holding his breath, he let the girl slip something into the back pocket of his jeans.
She studiously ignored his quizzical look, instead peering over the counter in anticipation of the arrival of her coffee. ‘Maybe just a little hot milk, too, if that’s possible. .’
Remembering to exhale, Carlyle turned on his heel and left.
EIGHT
Helen gazed out of the window, looking south across the river, towards the London Eye. She watched Carlyle enter the tiny kitchen and grab a couple of Jaffa Cakes from a box sitting on top of the microwave. Waiting until he had stuffed the first one in his mouth, she waved the business card in her hand. ‘What is this?’
Carlyle swallowed. He felt the chocolate from the second Jaffa Cake melting on to his fingers. ‘It’s a girl’s phone number,’ he replied as casually as he could manage, resisting the urge to make a grab for the card itself. He knew that his only way out of this situation was a careful blend of insouciance and full disclosure. ‘She’s a Ukrainian prostitute. I met her yesterday.’ He took a nibble from Jaffa Cake number two. ‘On business.’
‘Yours? Or hers?’
‘Mine, obviously.’
Somewhat reluctantly, she handed him back the card and he slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. He waited patiently as Helen sipped her green tea and made a show of looking her husband up and down. She had never tried to set any rules when it came to his job, but she had always been secretly relieved that he had managed to steer clear of working in Vice. There were plenty of other things he could do on the Force where there was much less in the way of temptation. This latest case was making her uneasy, but she knew that she had to try to keep things light. He was a policeman, after all. He had always been a policeman, even before they had met. There were limits to how far she could circumscribe his career. ‘Do many working girls give you their phone number, Inspector?’
‘Only when they’re on the game,’ he deadpanned, confident — well,
