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Prologue
Six years ago, Glasgow
BEATA DABROWSKI SWIPEDat the tears that were streaming down her face, feeling the flush of heat on her cheeks as she hurried out of the grimy town centre. It was a balmy summer evening, but she didn’t really notice as she swallowed a sob – the door was held open for her by a smiling young woman.
She halted suddenly on the pavement, looking at, but not really seeing, the pulsating traffic in central Glasgow. She ignored the drunken shouts of the revellers pouring out of the pubs, all heading for the late bars and clubs. She just stood, stock still as young men and women, dressed in their Friday-night finery, swept all around her, like an inrushing tide washing around a half-buried rock.
She was alone, completely isolated in this sea of humanity, whereas ten minutes ago, she genuinely thought that her new life was about to begin.
She felt a flush rise from her stomach. Nausea gripped as his words, spoken just a few minutes ago, returned to her.
‘I’m sorry, darling. I just can’t. I just can’t leave her and the kids. It’d break them, and it’d finish my career forever. I’m so sorry, much as I love you, it’s over.’ His voice was simpering, and sympathetic, but she could see it. She could see it in his eyes, the same deep, dark blue that had first captivated her. He didn’t care. He didn’t give a shit. He’d had his fun, but now he was going to discard her like he’d discarded many over the years.
She felt the sorrow begin to mutate as she stood there, tense and quivering like the string of an archer’s bow before an arrow is released. She’d screamed abuse at him, as he sat on the rumpled bed, the musk of sex still redolent in the seedy hotel room. His face registered surprise at first, which soon relaxed into mild amusement, only to be replaced by scorn and disdain, demonstrated by the sneer she’d seen many times in the past. Although it had normally been reserved for his opponents, or those who displeased him, rather than her.
‘Go on, fuck off out of here then, you Polish slag. You were only an easy shag, and not a great one at that.’ His face wore a contemptuous, shit-eating grin as he stood, the sheets falling away from him revealing his pudgy middle-aged form.
‘You’ll be sorry. You’ll be very fucking sorry, you think I don’t know what you do, eh? You think I don’t know that you wash money for big criminals? You think I’m always asleep, but I hear your phone calls. I know who you work for,’ she’d hissed, her face contorted with rage, trying desperately to hold back the tears that were threatening to overwhelm her.
‘Oh, I doubt it very much, old girl, you’re not the first I’ve dealt with. Remember who’s been paying the rent on your scummy little apartment and keeping you in stupid handbags. Maybe start looking for somewhere new to live, eh?’
Beata felt her cheeks begin to burn; how could she be so stupid? Her apartment, her whole life was paid for by the bastard. She had few friends, and all her family were back in Poland. She was suddenly disgusted with herself that she’d been so foolish as to put all of herself into this man.
‘Bastard,’ she spat, tears running down her face.
‘Don’t be silly, Beata. It had to end one day, we’ve had our fun, and now it’s time for you to run along, there’s a good girl.’ He paused, a vulpine smile spreading across his thin lips.
‘Fuck you,’ she’d said, her voice cracking, before she turned and stormed out of the hotel room, slamming the door behind her.
‘I’ll fucking show you,’ she growled to herself, her voice loud enough to cause a young reveller wearing an inflatable sumo wrestler suit to stop and stare.
‘Talking to me, hen?’ he slurred, his eyebrows raised in surprise and an amused lop-sided grin on his bright red face.
‘Sorry, no,’ she stuttered as she began to walk away from the hotel, head down, her pace increasing as she joined the throng of pedestrians in the warm Glasgow evening. Her steps became quicker as she rounded the corner towards the dimly lit side street where she’d parked her car. It was always this way. The same low-key hotel, where he seemed to know the manager, it had no on-site car park, and no CCTV. He was careful, as a man in his position would be expected to be, and there never seemed to be a bill to pay. ‘Never you mind that, my dear, all taken care of with no paper trail,’ was as close as she ever got to an explanation. As a final insult, he always insisted that they arrive and leave the hotel separately. It made her feel dirty and cheap.
As she approached her car, a little Renault, she was rummaging in her bag for the keys when she heard a vehicle pull up. She turned to see an old, battered white Transit van alongside her, the window down and a man looking at her, his smile revealing white, even teeth.
‘Are ye moving, hen? Nae parking spaces around here,’ he said in a heavy Glaswegian accent.
‘Yes, I’m going now,’ she said, blipping the car open.
‘Stoatin, I’ll just back up,’ he said, grinning widely.
She turned back to her car and in the gloom, felt for the handle, opening the door wide and throwing her bag inside.
Suddenly, and with terrible force, she felt an impossibly big and strong arm encircle her neck and she was jerked back from her car so hard that her feet left the damp cobbles. She heard the van door slide open and she was dragged inside with horrifying speed, the backs of her stocking-clad legs bashing painfully against the edge of the door frame. She was dumped onto the flat sheet-metal floor of the van inan undignified heap. She opened her mouth to scream, but the arm just tightened, and no sound came out. Her head swam as the blood supply was interrupted – the arteries in her neck constricted. Her vision failed, and then everything went black.
She could have been unconscious for just a few seconds, or possibly an hour, but when she blinked, a harsh overhead light in the windowless van was blindingly bright. She was sitting on the cold floor of the vehicle, her wrists secured with plastic ties, and a man was looking at her with deep, sad eyes. His face was huge, jowly and covered in hard stubble. His eyes were hooded with heavy lids that gave him a sorrowful expression, but the dark pools glittered with something sinister.
He let out a long, sad sigh before he spoke, his Glasgow accent strong. ‘Ye, cannae do this, ye ken, missie. Ye cannae threaten the boss,’ he said in a dark, nasty growl. He had a phone in his hand which he was fiddling with.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry …’ she began to blurt out, but the sad-looking man just raised his hand laconically.
‘Dinnae want to hear it, lassie. He’s no’ happy, so what do we do, eh?’ he said without looking up.
‘I’ll say nothing, I promise, I promise I’ll say nothing,’ she said, the terror descending on her like an icy blanket.
Sad-face just sighed deeply and raised a massive fist which he used to rap on the screen that separated the load bay of the Transit from the driver’s compartment. The engine barked into life and the van moved off.
