Stolen Lives by Jassy Mackenzie Page B

nudge and Edmonds scrambled to her feet, aware of the small sea of faces observing her. She suddenly felt flustered and disorganised despite her morning of careful preparation.
    Operation Platypus—the police computer system that assigned the names to their cases was currently working its way through an alphabetical list of mammals—had been handed over to her, and she was now in charge of the investigation. She hadn’t expected to be assigned her own case so soon, but as DS Mackay, the team leader, had explained, they were critically short-staffed and it was the best way for her to learn.
    “I trust you,” he’d said, words which had sent a nervous thrill down Edmonds’ spine.
    Now, standing in the meeting room, she almost dropped the folder with her notes inside, but Richards grabbed it before the pages could slide out. He handed it back to her and Edmonds nodded her thanks, her face hot.
    “We’ve interviewed the victims, sir. All except one.” Her voice was squeaky, like a little mouse. Nothing she could do about that. “They were recruited from South Africa. The only people they had contact with were the customers, each other, Salimovic, and his cousin Rodic, who we arrested during the raid. He—er—helped to—um—break them in. Unfortunately, none of the victims is willing to cooperate with us any further. They’ve chosen not to become witnesses, and they aren’t offering any other information on how they were recruited in their home country.”
    “What about the victim you haven’t interviewed yet?” Mackay asked.
    “Hospitalised. She was badly injured and had to have three operations. Her grandfather’s here from Senegal, and he’s been with her almost constantly. She’s recovering well, so I’ll be going to the hospital straight after this meeting to try and have a chat.”
    Mackay scratched his chin. “And Rodic?”
    “He’s not talking either.”
    “Not talking?” Mackay asked, sounding surprised. “I thought he was going to do a deal with us.”
    “He’s not saying a word, sir.”
    “Any updates on Salimovic’s whereabouts?”
    The team had discovered that the brothel owner, in a display of what waseither dumb luck or an uncanny sixth sense, had taken a taxi to Heathrow and boarded a Croatia Airlines flight a few hours before the raid. By the time Edmonds had climbed the fire escape of Number Six, Salimovic had already landed at Butmir airport. His passport number was now flagged and, according to the Bosnian immigration authorities, he hadn’t attempted to leave the country since then, but Edmonds knew only too well that people like him would have access to false passports and forged identity documents, allowing them to cross borders with ease.
    The Bosnian police were investigating his whereabouts. As a matter of priority, too, if the number of increasingly desperate phone calls she’d had from her foreign counterpart was anything to go by.
    “Nothing further on him yet. We’ve searched his house in South Woodford, but it had been broken into, so some evidence might have gone missing. We have had better success with identifying the red-haired woman, though.”
    Glancing down, she saw Richards touch a protective hand to the small dressing taped to the side of his neck.
    Edmonds cleared her throat and continued, her heart pounding so hard she felt as if she were halfway up Everest. “We checked the footage of street cameras in the surrounding area, and we spotted her climbing out of a cab an hour before the raid. The cab driver said he picked her up from a hotel in Chelsea, and they had a photocopy of her passport. According to that, her name is Mathilde Dupont. The hotel staff told us she had a black partner, but we haven’t been able to get any id on him yet. The hotel forgot to ask for his passport, unfortunately.”
    Edmonds paused for breath.
    Mackay nodded approvingly. “And where is Ms Dupont now?”
    “When we searched the room, it was obvious they’d packed up