coach case I’m on?” “The Snow Paedo you mean? You’ve been doing yourself proud there so far.” “Don’t be a dick,” Arbogast said, “there’s still a kid missing. I have information on this case which ties into the Devil May Care club.” “The titty bar?” “So eloquently put but yes. I think the child’s mother may – and this is only a ‘may’ – may have been smuggled into Scotland from Turkey. Do you have anything on the club? Who runs it? I’d owe you one.” “Ah behold the sight of the lesser crawling Arbogast – a sight so rarely seen in these parts. Well as it happens we have been keeping tabs on Devil May Care. It’s part of the Madoch Group – do you know it?” “I’ve had dealings with Mister Madoch in the past.” “These days he’s Mister Teflon. His business appears to be a legitimate company, but in reality he’s tied into so much shit that it’s only a matter of time before we get something on him. John Madoch started out carving up his rivals with kitchen knives but he got wise fast and he’s built up a pretty impressive empire. Madoch has a sizeable holding in the Moorland Wind farm out at Eaglesham. He’s also been putting up speculative office developments in the financial zone, not to mention a couple of city centre hotels – you might know them – the Cooperage and the Gold Star?” Arbogast didn’t know them, “but the thing is all the cash comes from drug running and prostitution. Madoch is as bent as they come but he has good people and we just can’t trace his money. His only nod in the direction of dodgy these days, on paper anyway, is his chain of lap dancing bars. He has six – one in every Scottish city. We think he brings in girls from Eastern Europe and rotates them round the clubs a couple of weeks at a time. So far we haven’t been able to catch him out.” “Have none of the girls been able to help?” Rich snorted down the phone like a bridled horse. “We’ve tried John but they’re scared stiff. They all say the same thing, that they’re well paid and thankful for their jobs. If they say there’s no problem it leaves us with a headache and we’ve no evidence to suggest they’re here illegally. Politically it’s a bit sensitive as no-one wants to admit the trafficking issue is alive and well. We just keep saying we’re doing well policing the borders and everyone’s happy.” “Except the girls,” Arbogast said, “Look Rich thanks for your time. I’m going to try and make contact with this woman, if she even exists, I just wanted to pick your brains and check I wasn’t stepping on a live investigation?” “Not so that you’d notice but if you get anything on Madoch I’d appreciate being kept in the loop.” Arbogast spent the rest of the afternoon going through case work and arranging a timeline of events as they had them so far. Then when he had paid a visit to the communications team to check for an update on press interest he left for Glasgow. It was going to be another late night.
Hanom Kocack was worried. Things had not gone as planned and she had heard nothing about her daughter. She had trusted the woman from the refuge, Mary Clark, so what had gone wrong? She hadn’t made the rendezvous and now she didn’t know what to do. Hanom had stolen a mobile phone from one of the men in the club the next night and tried to phone Mary. More often than not, the men were so drunk you could slap them on the face and they’d still pay up. But the line was dead. No answer. So what was happening? She knew her husband was here somewhere. In this foreign city, he was here somewhere, so why hadn’t he got in touch? Something must be wrong. They had planned for this and nothing could go wrong – that’s what they’d said. Tonight she had to keep on doing this disgusting job. Thrusting herself on those drunken slobs, with their erections rubbing against her thighs, trying to touch her, wanting her. The first night