Chapter 77
‘You’re right about Mark Buckby’s contact, Poe,’ Gilliard said. ‘The man you were supposed to meet was called Frank O’Rourke. A few hours after you’d found Buckby’s mutilated corpse, Mr O’Rourke’s body was discovered in a wheelie bin in Edmonton. He’d been shot five times in the head.’
‘They torture him too?’ Poe asked.
‘No, they just made sure he was dead.’
Poe thought about it. Gang-related murders were very much in the purview of Organised Crime Command, but these ones were recent. Gilliard and Susan and the rest of the unit had been on the Red Chamber for years. That meant these weren’t the first bodies the triads had dropped.
‘Why are they murdering to protect a legitimate business?’ he said. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Everything we’ve told you is true, Poe,’ Susan said. ‘The Red Chamber girls are volunteers. They are above the age of consent. None of them have been trafficked. And everything you’ve told us tracks with what we knew – up to a point, the Red Chamber’s business model is entirely legal.’
‘“Up to a point” – what does that mean?’
‘You’re an ex-detective, Poe. An exceptional one, according to DCI Flynn. And although you haven’t dealt with the triads before, you have dealt with organised crime. What part of the Red Chamber’s business model doesn’t sit right with you?’
‘They’re goddam pimps and their women are whores!’ Esmerée growled.
Poe put his hand on her arm. She was vibrating with anger.
He understood it, but he needed space to think.
Because Susan was right. Part of the Red Chamber’s business model didn’t sit right with him.
If Xiang and Chao, the guys from the Szechuan Palace, hadn’t been spitballing, the men purchasing a Red Chamber concubine paid upwards of a million dollars a year in fees.
They’d said that half went to the women, payable on completion of their contract, and the rest went to the Red Chamber.
A fifty-fifty split. Except it wasn’t. Not really.
Chao had said that the Red Chamber might have to hand over twenty-five per cent of their earnings.
And like any business, they had costs. They might not be VAT- or NI-registered, but they had overheads.
Their men needed wages. The training courses the women attended wouldn’t be free. A hundred other things.
On the face of it, the Red Chamber concubines made more money out of the twenty-year contract than the triads did. A lot more. How would that sit with them? He thought about it, but not for long.
He looked at Gilliard and said, ‘They kill the women, don’t they?’
Gilliard held his gaze. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because the Red Chamber are triads, and triads are ruthless criminals. They won’t voluntarily give up ten million dollars, or whatever the woman’s supposed share adds up to.
Not when they could keep it all. They might even have it in a fund for her, something she can check but not access.
Something that at least looks tangible. But when her contract is up and she asks for her money …
’ He ran a finger across his throat. ‘Because if it’s a choice between letting her walk away with a fortune and keeping it all for themselves, well, to people like that, that’s no choice at all. ’
‘But why kill her?’ Gilliard asked. ‘Why take that risk?’
‘Because their business model relies on a steady flow of young women. Women who believe a twenty-year commitment will set them up for life. If they stole their money, it’d get out.
The women would rightly be furious, and even with the credible threats a bunch of sadistic triads can make, they’d talk.
And if word got out that the Red Chamber were ripping off their women, their business would be over.
’ Poe shook his head. ‘Far better that the women disappear. They can spin some story about how they gave them new identities or helped them buy a Caribbean island. Some bullshit that helps sell the scheme to the next generation of women they’re recruiting. ’ He paused. Added, ‘How did I do?’
Gilliard said nothing.
‘That’s not it, is it?’
‘As far as we’ve been able to ascertain, your theory is correct,’ Gilliard said. ‘The Red Chamber don’t honour their contracts. They kill the women and keep their share for themselves. We think this part of the business is kept from the Forty-Fours.’
‘So they don’t have to give them twenty-five per cent of that too?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But?’
‘But what?’
‘There’s always a “but” with men like this,’ Poe said.
‘Men?’
‘It’s always men, Chief Inspector.’
Gilliard dipped his head in agreement. ‘It is.’
‘Hey, don’t hog all the glory. Women can be assholes too,’ Esmerée said.
Poe agreed that they could be. He had first-hand knowledge of what the supposed fairer sex was capable of. At the last count, at least three women had tried to kill him, the final one coming dangerously close to succeeding. He said, ‘Tell me what you know, Chief Inspector.’
‘Not with the girl in the room.’
Esmerée’s jaw hardened. Her nostrils flared. ‘Screw you, asswipe, I’m going nowhere.’
Gilliard stared at her until it made even Bradshaw uncomfortable. ‘Poe?’ he said eventually.
‘Esmerée stays.’
‘Boss …’ Susan said. ‘You can’t. She’s a kid.’
‘Who for some reason Poe wants in on this.’
‘But—’
‘It’s my decision, DC Hawksworth. If Poe wants Little Miss Foul-Mouth to stay, she stays.’
‘“Little Miss” … what the hell does that mean?’ Esmerée said.
Gilliard ignored her. He said, ‘Six years ago, Vice Admiral Boyer died of a—’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Gilliard is punning on the Mr Men series by Roger Hargreaves, Esmerée,’ Bradshaw said.
‘Each book was named after a different character, like Mr Strong or Mr Tickle. I imagine a young rapscallion like Poe enjoyed them immensely due to the colourful pictures and simplistic plots.’
Poe didn’t react. Didn’t roll his eyes or tut. Instead, he watched Bradshaw. Wondered why she’d interrupted Gilliard. It was rude, and although rudeness and Bradshaw kind of went hand-in-hand, it was never intentional. But this seemed to be.
‘Did you read them, Tilly?’ Esmerée asked.
‘Gosh, no, they would have bored me foolish. I read The Young Mathematician until I was seven years old.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘My parents relented and allowed me to read Oxford University Press academic journals.’
Bradshaw was worried. Poe recognised the signs. They weren’t difficult to spot. She forgot all the progress she’d made over the years. Became a social hand grenade again. ‘What’s up, Tilly?’ he asked.
‘I think I know what Detective Chief Inspector Gilliard is going to tell us, Poe. I don’t think Esmerée should hear it.’
‘What the hell, Tilly?’ Esmerée said. ‘I thought we were buddies.’
‘We are,’ Bradshaw said. ‘And that means I will always put your best interests first, even when it doesn’t appear that way. It’s why Poe and I do jigsaws every Sunday night.’
‘What’s that now?’ Poe said.
‘Nothing. I misspoke.’
Esmerée studied Bradshaw. No doubt saw what Poe had been seeing for the best part of a decade – complete honesty. She coughed nervously. ‘And you think …?’
‘I believe it is in your best interests to go and buy some sherbets and a milkshake.’
Poe pulled a twenty-pound note from his wallet. ‘And just in case you can’t find a fifties diner, go to Greggs and get some sausage rolls.’
‘You think I should leave too?’ Esmerée asked.
‘I do.’
‘You didn’t two minutes ago.’
‘I didn’t. But I trust Tilly. You should too.’
Esmerée swung her legs and jumped off the table she was sitting on. She snatched the money from Poe. ‘You ain’t getting any change, asshole.’
She left his office. Slammed the door, but more for effect, Poe thought. It seemed she didn’t mind that someone was looking out for her.
‘Now, who the hell is Vice Admiral Boyer?’ Poe said to Gilliard. ‘And why did his name scare the bejesus out of Tilly?’