Penance: Disruption

By CR Spencer

A partially dressed Detective Sergeant Dagmar Johnson wakes up lying next to an unknown man in an unknown house. In an attempt to discover how she ended up there, events that follow, lead her to an encounter with an organised crime gang heavily into prostitution, money laundering, loan sharking and the supply of heroin. Dagmar Johnson is serving penance in a specialised detective unit because she has had a history with alcohol.

Dagmar Johnson’s childhood in Düsseldorf defines her character and her sexuality. Just how does a bisexual half American and half German female with some unusual and unapproved IT skills end up in the police service in London?

Together with her on-line buddy, Lucius and his nefarious bug, XTC, Dagmar Johnson goes about breaking down an organised gang and exorcising her own demons. Is she successful?

• Language: English
• Publisher: CR Spencer
• Release date: Jul 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463599228

CR Spencer

CR Spencer is a graduate of Manchester University and King's College, London and has worked in a variety of roles within the education sector including school principal and school inspector across the world from the Far East to Central America. He is the author of the Penance Trilogy and the creator of the character of Dagmar JohnsonCR Spencer lives in the Herault region of southwest France where he enjoys the peace and tranquility of the vineyards, the rolling hills and active village life. He writes almost daily when his unruly garden does not distract him...The author can be contacted on [e-mail]

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Chapter 1

North London, November 2015

The morning after

The pain was sharp and stabbing; it was fused with light and what seemed like the sound of a fast inter-city train approaching. She moved her head slightly and the pain multiplied. She was gaining consciousness slowly. She was returning to the present and it felt like it. Sergeant Dagmar Johnson was waking up.

She had a very strange sensation. Her arm had gone numb; something was lying on it. The weight pressed heavily on it. She reached out with the good arm; nothing. As her senses returned, she felt something pressing against her. She reached out behind her and felt a leg pushed up against her.

What the …? she thought.

The inter-city train was fast approaching again. This time she realised it was the loud snoring emanating from the over-weight body sleeping next to her. She struck out at the leg. The owner, grunted, turned over without waking, thus freeing her trapped arm.

Johnson pushed herself up and stared at the man. Slowly, her senses returned. How many drinks did she consume last night? It began to come back to her. Celebratory drinks with the boys. It was only a soft drink, wasn’t it? The case finally put to bed with the social deviants charged. What next? She remembered the usual Friday night in the local East End pub but this was Tuesday and it was North London.

She groaned quietly; a mixture of nausea and self-loathing. She was naked except for a black bra and pink socks. She swung her legs out of the bed and her feet trod on something cold and slimy. She looked down.

‘Small mercies…’ she thought.

Her eyes examined the used condom that had casually been tossed aside. The condom stuck to her foot. She bent down and flicked it off. As she bent down she retched. Bile and God knows what else, seared the back of her throat. She spat and the contents of her stomach ended up next to the condom; same colour but perhaps a different texture.

She had now gained enough of her senses to know that it was time to depart the scene. She scooped up the condom and tied the obligatory knot in the open end and flushed it down the toilet. In the bathroom, she sat on the pedestal toilet and put her head in her hands; too many questions for this time in the morning. It was 5.30 am. The orange glow from the nearby streetlight made her olive skin pale and waxy.

Looking around the bathroom she noticed her clothes on the tiles next to the shower. She thought about a quick shower but decided against it thinking it was better to leave as swiftly as possible given the circumstances. She quickly rinsed her mouth out with tepid water from the sink. She attempted to dress but couldn’t find her knickers; the ones to match the black bra. Rather than waste any more time she quickly pulled on her trousers and fastened the black blouse and made her way back to the bedroom.

The inter-city train was still comatose. Her ankle boots lay next to the bed; she grabbed them and scurried out of the room with the door slamming behind her. As she ran down the stairs she felt for her car keys. Thankfully, they were in her jacket pocket that lay in a heap on the table in the hallway. She breathed a sigh of relief to see the black Beetle just down the road.

Driving away, she rehearsed the previous night’s events; or at least attempted to. She could not for the life of her remember who the inter-city train was. The doctor told her she could expect these sorts of memory losses following bouts of drinking. He had told her she had developed a severe intolerance to alcohol which was caused by the body’s inability to break down the toxins in alcohol. In short, her enzymes were not functioning well. This was probably caused by inherited genetics. But, she was drinking orange, so she thought.

The early morning traffic was beginning to build up as commuters fought for space on the narrow suburban roads. The Beetle responded to her light touch and purred away from a set of lights. She drove carefully so as not to attract the attention of traffic police. She thought she would be over the drink drive limit.

Later that morning, having showered and scrubbed her skin till it hurt. She lay in bed tucked under the duvet. If Detective Chief Inspector Rob Brines wanted her in the office he would have to ask. Today was a duvet day.

Surprisingly, sleep did not come easily though the extra strength Ibuprofen eased the throbbing in her head; too many disconnected thoughts running around. It was the guilt and the embarrassment of having slept with another fellow officer. The thing was, she did not know who; too easy to blame the drink.

Dagmar Johnson had not had a drink for over two years, not since the ‘episode’ that brought her to serve penance,

She had given up drinking some years previously having had a few too many episodes of non-recall. In the last two years, she had remained sober having become astute at deflecting the drinking culture at her station. She had been denied a promotion to detective inspector following a serious alcohol related ‘episode.’. The senior board member told her privately that her reputation had gone before her. He recommended her a transfer for a fresh start. Transfer to do penance.

The force needs bright young black females like you he had told her. Get your life back together.

(Good advice she had thought although not technically correct. She was mixed race not black.)

The fresh start consisted of a transfer whilst retaining her sergeant’s status to a specialised unit. This was unofficially called the Penance Unit. Being told to keep her nose clean and her head down Johnson complied.

Finding the condom had eased her mind; less chance of pregnancy or STDs. She would deal with the inter-city train as and when. The bedside radio droned on and eventually lulled her to sleep.

Around three that afternoon, she awoke with a start. The message machine blinked at her in the fading autumn light. She felt almost human again. Rising from her bed, she padded in her tee shirt and boxer shorts to the bathroom. The telephone rang again and the machine picked it up. A voice squawked out the machine; her Mama.

Johnson picked up the receiver and carried it into the bathroom. She sat on the pedestal.

Hi Mama, she said in English.

Dagmar, why do you not call me?

This was the game they played.

Mama, I spoke to you on Sunday; today’s Tuesday.

"Actually, it’s Wednesday and I was worried about you. Is everything OK?

Sure, Dagmar Johnson lied. "Everything’s fine.

You sound tired.

Yeah; it’s the late shift, her German accent returned.

Her Mama sounded anxious.

Promise me you will be home for the anniversary?

Flights booked and credit card charged Johnson again lied. Her brain was trying to compute when this was supposed to be. Not to worry; it would be in her diary.

Mama spoke again and there was a fierce tone in her voice. It was the authoritarian tone.

We will all be very upset if you do not come.

This time Johnson spoke in German.

I’ll be there I promise.

There was a short silence then her Mama laughed.

OK Dagmar, be a good girl and call me by Friday.

Before Johnson could respond the call was disconnected. Typical Mama. Be brief, make your point; let your children know who is boss and leave. Johnson allowed herself a little chuckle.

Still sitting there, she remotely triggered the answering machine: five calls; four from Michelle and one from Rob Brines.

She played the one from her boss and her heart skipped a beat just in case there were recriminations from last night’s escapade; the very thought of it made her depressed.

Johnson, when you feel well enough, could you grace us with your presence?

She could hear the noisy operations room in the background. Still, she thought, short and sweet. Having worked 24/7 for the last two weeks on the serious case, she decided that Chief Inspector Rob Brines could wait.

The next message from Michelle:

Deejay! Where are you? Your cell phone is switched off. Call me when you get this.

Message number two:

Deejay, I am ordering my dinner now!

Number three:

I’ve eaten my dinner and paid the bill. I’ve also been chatted up by a rather good looking Ukrainian waiter and he wants to take me home to comfort me for being stood up.

Dagmar Johnson decided not to play the last message and erased them all instead. She got off the pedestal and pulled off the tee shirt. She examined herself in the bathroom mirror. Her breasts looked less full than of late and this was always a sign that she needed to get back to her training regime and perhaps rectify her dietary regime. She was tall for a girl being almost 1.78 metres tall in her stocking feet. In a pair of heels she could reach 1.83 metres. She used this height to intimidate macho male officers and villains alike. At just over 56 kilogrammes, she was a little on the thin side but who cared? She pulled her fingers through the long braided hair; a pain in the ass to have done but, once completed, could last for a couple of months with the help of a good quality braid sheen. Besides, the illegal West African who performed wonders with the hair did not charge too much.

She showered and dressed in blue jeans and a cream blouse. She plucked her black leather blouson from the closet and quietly closed the apartment door behind her.

The cold evening air hit her as she opened the outside door. Winter was fast approaching. The Beetle was up the street. She got in, disabled the cut outs under the dashboard and put the key in the ignition. Her eyes caught the note placed under the wiper. Dismissing the idea of a parking ticket, Johnson wound down the window and reached out and grabbed it.

The note was handwritten in a neat style. It said

‘Love the car and might be interested in buying it call me on 07113569124. Richie.’ It was written on a flyer from a garage called Beetle Bitz.

Another Beetle fan thought Johnson, add it to the collection. The car fired up and Johnson slipped it into gear. It pulled away effortlessly. The car was left hand drive and had been given to her by her Father.

The Beetle purred down the road.

After fighting with the London traffic, she turned into the police garage in East London and the automatic door recognised her car and opened up.

Dagmar Johnson clutched her jacket to her chest as if it was some sort of defence mechanism. She walked through the open plan office trying to ascertain if her colleagues were looking at her. No one paid her the slightest attention. Breathing a sigh of relief, she flopped onto her chair.

Detective Chief Inspector Rob Brines looked through his glass office, saw Johnson and beckoned her to come in. Johnson had a sinking feeling. She walked through his open door.

Good of you to join us, Sergeant Johnson, take a seat.

Dagmar Johnson sat down fearing the worse.

Two things, Brines said. First of all, you need to go up to medical for your regular urine test. They have been shouting for you all morning. You missed the last one and they are not taking no for an answer. He paused and examined Johnson. I take it you are okay?

Johnson shot him a look. Of course I’m okay, she said a little to quickly.

No cock ups this time, Brines responded.

He sat there silently.

Dagmar Johnson wondered what was coming next.

What was the second thing, she enquired.

Oh yes, he said. You need to grab a probationer and go to the German Embassy for a reception this evening. Your presence is required by Inspector Fields of the Diplomatic Protection Squad. Apparently, they have a knob from Berlin over looking at ways they can increase their ethnic minority recruitment. You’ll do.

Johnson liked the use of the word ‘knob.’

She was about to open her mouth to protest but Brines raised his hand and shut her up before she had a chance to say anything.

No discussion, he said, It’s a JFDI. (Just fucking do it.) There’s a new probationer downstairs. Take her in uniform and smarten yourself up."

Dagmar Johnson was at the door when Brines spoke again.

Did you enjoy the party, Deejay? I thought you were on the straight and narrow?

She never turned so that Brines could not see her blush.

Back at her desk, she picked up the phone and dialled the downstairs desk.

Hi, its Johnson upstairs in Opps. I understand you have a new probationer?

The duty sergeant recognised her accent. Hello Deejay, it’s Judy Long. Hope you have recovered from the excesses of last night?

Judy. I can’t remember a thing. What happened?

My lovely fellow officer, it would take me far too long to tell you of all the good bits. Suffice to say, I think you enjoyed yourself!

Oh, Johnson replied, That bad, eh?

Nah…Not too bad. I think everyone will have difficulty remembering the fun. Anyway, there’s a little slip of a girl awaiting your call about some reception later. You want to speak to her?

No. Just ask her to meet me in the Med Suite. Got to do a test.

Judy Long spoke quietly. "You okay or do you need a little help?

No everything is fine, I think, Johnson replied. Best be off there before I get arrested.

Long replied. Okay, let me know if you need anything. I’ll send the lass up.

Thanks Judy. Johnson replaced the receiver and felt for her cell phone; flat battery; typical.

In the Medical Suite, Dagmar Johnson sat in the waiting room leafing through old editions of celebrity rags. A girl in a very short skirt pretended to be working at the reception desk. Johnson ignored her.

Sergeant Johnson? boomed a loud voice.

Johnson looked up to be greeted by a lady in a white coat.

Ah Ms Johnson; the elusive sergeant. I’m Doctor Finnerty, the Forensic Medical Examiner on loan from the Pathology Department here today to examine your urine for any nefarious substances. I’ve also been asked to look after the welfare of the officers from your Unit and that includes you.

The Doctor had a glint in her eye. She was slim, well proportioned and somewhere north of fifty.

She led Johnson through a pair of double doors into an office. Take a seat, she said.

Now Sergeant Johnson, before we do this test, let’s have a look at your medical records. She clicked on the mouse and the screen lit up. A few cursory questions first; date and place of birth?

Dagmar Johnson responded 31 May 1982, Dusseldorf, Germany.

May I see your warrant card, please? The doctor said, We don’t want any nonsense, do we?

Johnson duly handed over the ID from around her neck. The doctor grunted approval.

Now, the doctor went on. You don’t appear to have had a check-up for some time, at least not since your transfer. If you like we can do some tests? A blood test would be in order and quick as well. I can book you in for a full medical next week?

Dagmar Johnson paused. I haven’t got much time but I’ll think about the medical. Can we just do the urine test today?

Finnerty peered over her glasses. Now Dagmar, I can call you Dagmar, can’t I? You are a single girl with, how should I say, a little history?

Please call me Deejay.

Johnson paused again and let the silence wash over the Doctor. As is always the case, the other person was quick to fill the gap.

I don’t mean to be rude, just being concerned for your well being.

Johnson responded, I’ll do the blood test and think about the medical.

Doctor Finnerty sighed. You know, I have seen many of you single female detectives before. You are great until something catches up with you. I can see your medical records here and you have had a few issues with alcohol. I suspect, looking at you that you have had a recent drink, correct?

Johnson shifted uncomfortably on her seat. I was out with the team last night, but I only had one drink that I can remember.

That’s what they all say, the doctor responded. Okay, let’s talk about this; anything you say to me is confidential.

Resigned, Dagmar Johnson related what she could remember of last night’s adventures.

The doctor tapped away on the keyboard.

Okay, she said after a moment’s pause. Urine test first then the bloods.

She led Johnson to a cubicle and handed her a sealed container. You have to pee into this but I have to observe you. You can turn around if you want.

Johnson turned whilst she undid her belt, lowered her trousers and peed into the container; she had done this before. She sealed the container and washed her hands in the small sink.

Right, sergeant, let’s take some bloods.

Bloods taken, she sat down with Johnson. Look Deejay, you need to be careful, you are still fit and young but too many alcohol sessions will not only finish your career but also damage your health even further.

Johnson looked up. I know, she said, It’s the first time in ages. I don’t know what happened. No more, I promise. And, I will accept the medical next week. Email me with an appointment.

The doctor looked at Johnson. "I think I will check for STDs seeing as you had sex last night, it might be a good idea. I know you said you found a condom but there is no guarantee that your partner did not have unprotected sex as you can’t remember.

Johnson looked away. Too much information here, she thought.

The doctor looked up. In the meantime let’s have you back for the medical and a longer chat, okay?

Johnson nodded.

Outside the office, a young female constable in full uniform sat nervously on the couch. She immediately stood up as Johnson walked in the room.

Ma’am, she said, WPC Winn. I was told to meet you here.

Johnson looked her up and down. Couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, fresh face with a uniform that appeared too big. Relax, WPC Winn and don’t call me Ma’am, I’m not an inspector. Sergeant will do nicely. What do they call you downstairs?

WPC Winn responded. They call me Winnie, Ma’am, sorry, Sergeant.

Okay, WPC Winnie, lead the way. We have a posh reception to attend but first, I have to go and change my clothes in the locker room, as I have to look presentable to the great and good and the so-called German ‘knob’ at the Embassy. My car is in the garage.

Chapter 2

Central London November 2015

Wednesday

An evening at the Embassy

Sergeant Dagmar Johnson and WPC Winn of the Metropolitan Police parked the Beetle in a multi-story about five hundred metres from the German Embassy. On the drive over, Johnson had told Winn to stop talking. The poor girl was very nervous and chattered incessantly. Johnson had learnt that Winn was a graduate in geography from a Midland’s university. There’s not much call for a candidate with an average degree in geography in the glamorous world of big city finance. Andrea Winn had decided to join the police. It had taken her three attempts to pass the fitness tests; she was also a little on the small side. However, she passed muster in basic training but was very nervous about her first posting.

On the walk to the embassy, Johnson softened a little; It’s always a little daunting at first,’ she said to Winn. It’s best to keep a low profile, do all your jobs, don’t be late and try not to be over enthusiastic. We all felt the same way. I used to be sick every time I put on that bloody uniform. (Johnson was very rarely required to wear the uniform after her six months probation.)

Winn sighed, What are we supposed to do here this evening?

They were climbing the steps to the front door of the Embassy. Johnson had been here once before just to register as a German national living in London.

I’m not too sure, smiled Johnson. Just keep close, silent and look intelligent, if you can.

Through the double doors, a rather large security guard and his petite female assistant confronted them. Muscle man demanded their invitation papers. Not having any, Johnson asked for Inspector Fields of the Diplomatic Protection Squad.

Petite female assistant said, " It’s okay, I know what this is about. She produced a clipboard. Running her thumb down a list. Is it Sergeant Johnson and assistant?

Johnson flashed her warrant card in front of the rather large security guard. I think this is our invitation.

Muscles stared down at Johnson. She could feel his breath on her face. Instinctively, she started back. Muscles, pleased that he had established who was top dog said, Who‘s the little lady with you?

In an instant, Winn shoved her warrant card right in front of his face. His head snapped right back in order to read it,

Nice one, Winnie, Johnson said with a smile. Is he always this polite to visitors? she asked of the petite lady.

Petite lady was looking flustered, Just doing our jobs, Ma’am.

You might want to ask him to go and do his job somewhere else or at least learn some manners. We have been asked to meet Inspector Fields here. Now, be a good girl and go and fetch him.

Petite lady muttered something to the guard, waved Johnson and Winn to a couch opposite the desk and disappeared through a rather grand door. As the door opened, Johnson could hear the low buzz and chinking of glasses of a formal diplomatic party. Muscles sat down never taking his eyes off Johnson. She could see little beads of sweat on his top lip. Johnson stared back. Winn fidgeted uncomfortably next to her.

A couple of minutes later, a man in an inspector’s uniform came bustling through the doors.

Ah. Sergeant Johnson and assistant, I presume?

Johnson stood up slowly, stretched herself up to her full height, now increased by the addition of some heels and looked down on the Inspector.

Detective Sergeant Johnson of East London Special Operations and this is WPC Winn, East London Station.

Right, Johnson, this is the form. You tag along with me, speak when you are spoken to and sip your soft drinks slowly. Notice I said soft drinks. And you, little lady, stay in the background and say nothing. You are here for decoration purposes.

Sir, Winn replied.

Johnson, it’s likely that the guest will want a quick chat about recruitment etc. Stay on message at all times. After a reasonable time, you and your assistant can beat a retreat. Got it?

Johnson nodded. The sooner they were out of here the better.

Inspector Fields led the two of them to the double doors. As she passed Mr Muscles who was still staring at Johnson, she winked at him. His top lip trembled….

The doors magically opened as the three approached. Inside, armed with a glass of lukewarm orange, the three mingled with the great and good of London’s diplomatic scene. Fields introduced Johnson to some guests. He was charming and clearly very comfortable at this level. Although many of the guests were German, Johnson refrained from speaking in her native tongue. Eventually, Fields led his party to the guest of honour.

Sir, he said, May I introduce Detective Sergeant Johnson and WPC Winn from one of our local stations?

Local stations? Johnson let that one ride for the moment.

Herr Franz Deichman nodded stiffly as he took Johnson’s hand. I am pleased to meet with you, he said in heavily accented English. He was short, slightly portly and had thin veins around his nose. He was perspiring gently from his forehead.

Johnson looked down on him. In German, she responded.

Herr Deichman, I am very pleased to meet with you too.

Inspector Fields nearly choked on his drink.

A smile broke on the face of Deichman. Ah, a fellow native, I presume? he responded in German. "And judging by the accent, some where in Nordrhein Westfallen.

Johnson responded, Düsseldorf, Sir. Been here for about fifteen years and in the force about ten.

Fields, unsure what to do, interrupted, I’m sure our guest is very busy, Sergeant.

No, no, Inspector, Sergeant Johnson is just the very person we need to speak with.

With that, he led Johnson away to a group of junior diplomats who had accompanied him on his trip.

Fields, growled at Winn, Did you know she speaks German?

Winn responded smugly. "Sir not only does she speak German, she is German. With respect Sir, why do you think she was chosen for this assignment?

Nobody told me, he snapped back.

Sorry, Sir, replied Winn.

Now, WPC Winn, you see that sofa over there?

Winn nodded.

Go and sit on it, say and do nothing until I come and get you.

Sir, Winn replied formally.

Now, I’d better get after your bloody sergeant before she drops us in the shite.

Johnson was in full flow. Herr Deichman and his flunkies listened carefully. She ran through her personal history, her graduate entrance to the force and her career to date. Conveniently, she omitted her little difficulties.

She spent some time on the impact of the Stephen Lawrence murder and the then failings of the Metropolitan Police. There followed some discussion regarding the ‘institutional racism’ identified in the McPherson Report. Johnson recounted her experiences with honesty and without elaboration. Yes, she told them, there is still a culture within the force that is more about being a bloke or one of the lads. She told them of incidents where officers generalised and displayed a level of ignorance. When challenged to say how she would alter this culture, all she could say was better education and training. She told them that she did believe that things were getting better but that the Met still had some way to go.

Inspector Fields of the Diplomatic Protection Service stood behind her and nodded, not understanding what she was saying.

Sitting on the sofa, WPC Winn sat looking at the animated Sergeant Johnson and admired her ability to command a fairly high-powered audience. She looked at Johnson; her height, her long hair, her confidence and her elegance. Winn thought that Johnson was clearly an intelligent lady but she could not quite put her finger on something that was gnawing at her. She smiled at Fields’ attempt to be part of the discussion.

‘What a tosser,’ she thought.

She gazed around the room at the participants who seemed to be more interested in the lukewarm white wine (German, of course,) and the canapés. Guests moved from one conversation to the next.

Conversations usually went something like this;

And you are? And what do you do?

(This is an attempt to discover the value of the conversation to either party. It immediately puts the conversationalists into categories.

Is this conversation worth continuing?

I’ll see if there is anything in this for me.

‘Oh! I must move on as I have just seen an old friend….’)

Winn’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a Filipino lady who sat down next to her.

You are police? said the Filipino lady. She was in her late forties. Her dark hair was greying at the roots and fine lines edged her features. She wore a print dress with a black short jacket. The dress came to just below her knees. The outfit was capped with a pair of black court shoes that lifted her height a couple of centimetres. She sat close to Winn and looked at her with a certain intensity.

Winn was a little taken aback by the question, as she was in full Metropolitan Police uniform. However, she decided to maintain some civility and resisted the urge to respond with something about fancy dress.

Yes, she replied, What can I do for you? She looked up to see Inspector Fields still trying to catch Johnson’s attention.

I need to talk to you urgently, Filipino lady spoke. Her language was precise with just the hint of an accent. My friend’s daughter is missing; we can’t find her anywhere and no one seems to know…Will you help me?

Winn was jolted out of her lethargy.

Whoa…just a minute, she said, I’m not sure this is the time or place. She was thinking she had been told by the inspector to sit and look pretty, not take details of a missing person.

"Miss, we don’t know what to do, can you help? A tear glistened in her eye.

Winn looked at the lady. Okay, tell me who you are first.

My name is Larisa Mendes. I am in charge of housekeeping here at the Embassy. My friend works at Section 11 Global Capital. She is also chief domestique in the Centre.

Winn nodded. She knew of this venture capital organisation; the whole world did following the leak of some confidential papers that outed the buggers as a tax-evading bunch of crooks with money based on some offshore Caribbean island.

Mendes continued. My friend, Erlat Aquino and I have been here nearly twenty years. We came together from the same village. We both started at the Embassy but Erlat met junior diplomat here and got pregnant. This is not permitted so she left and went to Section 11 after the baby was born, a little girl Safara. They don’t treat her well at Section 11 but the Embassy says there is nothing they can do as it is a UK matter. They hold her work permit. She sees things that she does not wish to see there. They have no respect. Last month Safara disappeared; she said she was going to school but never arrived. She is eighteen and about to go to university. She is a wilful girl but she would never just go off. Erlat cries every night; she misses her daughter. This is so out of character for Safara.

Winn said, When did this happen?

Mendes answered, About two weeks ago. She waited up all night. Sarfara’s phone is dead. The next day, she called me and I decided to tell Inspector Fields here as he is always hanging around. He took some details and said he would look into it but because the girl was eighteen he didn’t think much of it. He said girls of this age are always going off with boys. But I know this family; this would not happen. Please, can you help us? She stared into Winn’s eyes.

There was something earnest in the request. Winn was confused. She had only been in the force for a couple of months.

Mendes pressed a card with the details into Winn’s hand, got up and made ready to go. She paused.

Help us, please?

With that, she hurried on out of the room.

Winn sat there. She glanced up. Johnson was still holding court and the Inspector was clinging on to the group. She fiddled with her uniform, smoothed her trousers, flicked some dust off her shoes.

She thought, I know. I’ll tell Tosser when he comes back.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a rather overweight man who plonked himself down next to her; a little to close for her liking.

What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this all alone? The man leaned into her space. Winn could smell the alcohol on his breath.

He continued. I just love nice young ladies in uniforms.

Winn flushed. Police College had not prepared her for this nonsense.

I might be young and dressed in a uniform but I’m not really very nice. She retorted.

The man seemed oblivious to the put down. Ah, a feisty young filly. Just my sort. He laughed and took another large gulp of his wine.

Dagmar Johnson appeared in front of the couch. WPC Winn, is everything OK?

This gentleman was just about to leave, I think he has had a little too much alcohol. Winn answered.

Johnson leaned into the drunk. If I was you I would beat a hasty retreat before I grab your rather flabby arse and eject you.

Fat man coloured up quickly. His hands shook in a momentary flash of rage. He quickly took control of himself.

Ah, apologies, ladies. No offence meant.

He hauled himself to his feet and shuffled off just as Inspector Fields appeared in front of them.

Sergeant, time for you and the WPC here to disappear. I sincerely hope that you stuck to the party line with your little lecture?

Johnson was ready for him. Thank you inspector. I spent a lot of time discussing institutional racism in the force. They are very interested in how middle managers like you have made improvements to recruitment and induction of ethnic minority officers. I suggested that you would be able to fill them in some time before the visitors leave.

Fields spluttered. "That’s not…I’m not sure…..

Oh you’ll be okay, Johnson responded. With your experience, there’ll be no problem. She looked at the uncomfortable Winn. Come on Winnie. The Inspector has told us to go."

With that, Johnson made for the door but not before Herr Deichman waved a last goodbye to her. Winn chased after her leaving Fields somewhat confused by the sofa. Winn felt the card in her hand. She quickly returned to the Inspector.

Somewhat nervously she started. Sir, do you know anything about a missing Filipino girl called Sarfara Aquino? I was approached by the domestique here about her friend’s daughter. She was about to continue but Fields interrupted her.

It’s all right , WPC, the matter is in hand; no need for you to get involved.

But Sir, the lady says nothing has been done.

Fields paused and looked into Winn’s eyes. I said the matter is in hand. Now run along to your sergeant who is waiting at the door. NOW!

Winn scuttled off to the door still clutching the card in her hand.

Johnson looked at her, What was all that about?

Winn pushed passed her and stood at the other side of the door. The security guard turned his head to look at them. Johnson quickly caught up with Winn and they strode side by side past the reception desk. Muscles kept his eyes on Johnson. As she walked by, Johnson blew a kiss at him. He jumped to his feet only to be restrained by an arm that suddenly appeared from the petite lady who was sitting next to him.

Petite lady called after them as they went down the steps to the main entrance.

Have a good evening, Officers.

The cold November evening hit them as they came outside. Johnson wished she had worn something more substantial than the thin leather jacket. At least Winn had her uniform.

As they walked back to the car park, Winn related her encounter. The card, now a little crumpled, was still firmly in her hand. She looked closely at it. On one side it gave the name Larissa Mendes, her job title, the address of the Embassy and two cell phone numbers. She had noted the missing girl’s name. On the other side, Mendes had written Please.

Johnson was not paying too much attention; she was a little hungry; she could not remember the last time she had eaten.

Fancy a pizza? she enquired of Winn just as they passed a branch of Pizza Express. Without giving her time to answer, Johnson pulled Winn through the doors of the establishment that appeared to be moderately busy. Don’t worry, it’s on me.

A diminutive girl dressed in dark trousers and blouse that seemed as though it had the remains of another customer’s pizza on it, came over clutching two menus.

She led the two officers to a table near the window. Sitting down, Johnson told Winn to remove her tie, open her blouse and take off her police jacket.

There, she said, You look just like any other office girl out for a quick pizza on her way home.

Winn sat there not knowing what to say. Johnson stared out of the window at the throng of people rushing past. The whole of humanity was represented in Central London and a fair few of them sauntered along, couples with the girl clutching their man’s arm, tourists, vagrants and the assorted detritus of a big city.

What do you think about the Filipino girl? Winn interrupted Johnson’s thoughts.

This happens a lot. Johnson replied, It’s best if we leave it to the locals. Besides our lovely Inspector Fields says he has taken care of it. Better not to go looking for trouble. We get enough as it is from official channels.

Winn had the crumpled card in hand. She turned it over. But Sarge, I felt so sorry for the lady.

Johnson sighed. She took the card. Okay, if it eases your mind, I’ll look into it tomorrow. Now, tuck into your pizza. It might be the last time a friendly sergeant buys you dinner. She smiled at Winn.

Winn relaxed. She sipped her soda and felt like a proper grown up copper out here with her sergeant.

Johnson’s phone buzzed. She looked down, Michelle calling. Johnson hit the reject button. A few seconds later, a message appeared. Nothing important, she nodded at Winn who was by now tucking in to her Four Seasons.

They chatted whilst they ate. Johnson listened more than she spoke. She thought it was always the case that the youngsters said too much. Winn had a boyfriend from university who was something or other in the city. Johnson learnt that he was struggling to come to terms with his long-term girlfriend’s chosen career, particularly, the odd working hours.

He’ll get over it, don’t worry. Johnson said and then thought, ‘No he won’t. Those outside the job always find this difficult which is why so many marriages fail.’

About an hour later, Winn’s phone rang. Her mother. Winn looked up at Johnson.

Sarge, is it all right if I go? I’ll get the underground; I have an early shift tomorrow.

Johnson waved her away. Thanks, Sarge, and thanks for the pizza.

Johnson watched her as she made for the door. Pretty young thing, she thought, Ah. It won’t last.

Diminutive menu girl came over and in her Eastern European accent said.

Are you on your own? Has your girlfriend left you?

Shove off, Sweetie. I have better things to do than mess around with you.

Suit yourself, Diminutive girl replied and sauntered over to her tired looking colleagues who were gathered around the reception chatting in some unknown language.

Johnson played with the remnants of her half eaten pizza. Her phone buzzed again; a text this time.

It read. ‘Don’t bother calling me again.’

It would be a long time before she ever heard from Michelle again. Johnson, dropped the phone in her bag, put her hands under her chin and stared out of the window again.

She thought about her childhood, her brother her father and her Nanny Adile.

Diminutive girl awakened her from her thoughts.

If there is nothing else here’s the bill.

Johnson glanced at the paper, rummaged in her bag for her debit card and waved it at the waitress. Diminutive girl sucked her teeth and went off to locate the card machine. Johnson watched her as she walked back to the reception only to return a few minutes later. Johnson did the business. Can I get a receipt, please? she said. ‘Might as well try and claim this back,’ she thought.

Diminutive girl sucked her teeth again, disappeared. She came back with a printed receipt. She dropped it on the table. It landed upside down. On the reverse, she had written a phone number. Johnson sighed.

You’ll be lucky, Sweetie.

With that she strode out of the restaurant and went to retrieve her car.

Dagmar Johnson had to hunt for a car parking space.

‘What is the point of paying for residents’ parking when there is no where to park?’ she muttered.

Finding a space at the end of the street, she set the immobiliser, locked up and triggered the alarm. The street was quiet; she could see into the different worlds of the locals. The area was mixed. It contained a melange of those who chose to live there and those who had no option. Johnson chose to pay the exorbitant rent and live there. Her landlord was some anonymous company that only contacted tenants when they wanted money. Someday, Johnson would buy a place.

The top floor flat was a little cold when she entered the hallway. She kicked off her ankle boots and padded into the living room adjusting the heating as she passed the controls. The laptop was flashing.

She sat down, moved the mouse and the machine woke up from its slumbers. Four messages.

She scrolled down to her inbox; two from Michelle immediately sent to the bin, one from her brother Michael and one from an unknown source. She opened Michael’s mail.

‘Hi Sis; just a quick reminder about the get together at the weekend. Your nieces are looking forward to seeing their favourite aunt. Ping me back when you get this. Anka sends her love. M’

She pinged him back. ‘OK. Got this. Love to the family. D’

Johnson didn’t particularly like Anka but Michael chose her as his wife. You know what they say, ‘You can choose your friends but not your family.’ Michael told her to suck it up. The nieces were a different matter. Lovely little spoilt brats. Johnson looked forward to seeing them.

She clicked on the unknown fourth message; it was entitled ‘Greetings.’

The message simply read ‘Hope you enjoyed yourself last night? Be in touch soon.’

Johnson clicked on the attachment. A photo opened up. It was a picture of a dark skinned woman lying face down on a bed; naked except for a black bra and some pink ankle socks. Johnson did a double take.

What the fuck? she said.

She couldn’t see a face but this was undoubtedly her. She recognised her socks. On closer examination, she could see her plaits and the small scar on her left shoulder. Her arms were spread out in front of her with her face turned to the side. Her legs were apart. The bed cover was blue and white. The room was sparsely furnished with a bare light bulb; a classic safe house bedroom scene.

Johnson stood up. She paced around the living room with a riot of thoughts going through her head.

"Fuck, Fuck, Fuck," she kept saying. Taking a deep breath, she sat down, woke up the printer and took a copy of the picture.

Calm down, she said to herself. Can’t see the face; could be anyone…

‘The problem is if they have this picture, which is clearly a teaser, they have more,’ she thought.

The system pinged; another message. She glanced at the screen; same sender.

It read; ‘Hope you are enjoying the picture and yes, there are more. Have a nice evening.’

Johnson immediately went into work mode. She quickly logged out of the server and logged into one of her virtual private networks.

‘The bastard won’t be able to see me now,’ she said out loud in German.

It was all too easy for the sender to issue a read receipt but Johnson suspected this twat knew a little more than that. He was likely to be monitoring her computer.

She shut the firewall down and it went into suspension mode. She let the computer close down all the running programmes except the search and find in safety mode. She opened up the XTC programme and then closed the safety mode. She asked XTC to find the Trojan. XTC scanned the hard drive. He found it in about five minutes. Johnson disabled it and sent it to her segregated partition on the external hard drive.

She re-opened the operating system but stayed on the segregated partition, still on the VPN. She logged on to a server in Tashkent and opened one of her email addresses.

She pinged Lucius an email.

‘Need a quick chat,’ was all she wrote.

Lucius was somewhere out there in the dark web. She had only ever seen Lucius in real life once when he was being ejected from a lecture theatre at University. It turned out he was latching on to lectures without actually being a student. He was only caught because the course lecturers were getting fed up because he was asking too many questions that challenged their status as know-alls in the field of programming. She was quite taken with this scruffy individual who then emailed all the course students telling them the lecturers were teaching them all the wrong way to use logic to solve a problem. She responded to him and then began a cyber friendship that had been on and off for a number of years. Over the years, Lucius had gained a reputation for messing around with systems that he should not have been.

Unfortunately, he was identified as the hacker who had broken in to a bank in New York, not because he wanted to steal anything (Lucius only stole from criminals and corrupt banana republics) but because he was bored that night and he fancied the challenge.

Unfortunately, Uncle Sam had surreptitious deposits in the New York Bank that were used to pay their ‘contractors.’ They took exception to their dodgy bank being messed with and issued an international search warrant for him. He disappeared but kept in touch with Johnson who often used his services to solve little issues that required a somewhat unorthodox approach.

It was Lucius who had given her the XTC programme. This programme had originally been designed to block nefarious bugs getting into a system. Lucius used the bones of the programme to devise a little warrior that hunted down unwanted guests on a hard drive. The difference was that XTC did not just kill a bug but tortured it to death by picking it