Contains non-explicit references to sex trafficking and abuse of children and adults.
"Her name is Katya. She came to the U.S. to work as a prostitute. Her handlers sold her to Julian Walsh a couple of weeks ago...You can fill in the blanks."
He'd been so cocky, so sure of his upper hand when he arranged for Watson to meet "his father" for dinner. The schadenfreude he felt was somewhat tempered by resentment that she'd forced him to make his point this way. Mocking her work seemed fair payback for not believing him when he said his father would not show.
He underestimated how irritated she would be by the prank and was surprised when she didn't accept his peace offering the next morning. Still, he concluded it could be useful to know for future reference that Watson could hold a bit of a grudge. She didn't mention it again, and he was able to spend the day focused on the case. He was consequently quite unprepared for the sledgehammer she swung in retaliation that night.
"I know about Irene."
He wondered if she had any idea of the power that name held over him, the fury all but unleashed by the mere mention of it. A small part of him was able to register appreciation for her nascent investigative skills; discovering the name was no small feat. But it wasn't nearly enough to halt the reflex that slammed down the firewall between them. The inferno raged inside for some time.
He thought he was clever a few days later, pretending to capitulate when she pressed him to talk, only to ditch her for the crime scene. When she confronted him in the station, he pushed back again, expecting more of a fight, and he was a little unnerved when she abruptly walked off. But he was secure in his righteous indignation and eager to grasp the new puzzle Bell brought him which occupied his mind with more productive activity. He was so focused on holding Watson off that he hadn't realized how exposed he was otherwise.
As a result he was unprepared once more when hearing the woman crying in the basement triggered a panic response, a frantic struggle to break down the door and save her. She was in his arms before he knew what he was doing, and he froze, horror-struck by the visceral memories flooding his body. He did not want to remember these things, scenes and feelings he'd worked so hard to push away, kept buried decades back on the other side of the ocean, obscured by narcotics and opiates and deductions and all the other avoidance behaviors he could muster.
Irene was not his first tragedy.
The bustling activity around them helped mask his distress and gave him time to throw up a new facade. By the time Katya was loaded into the ambulance and he had to report to Gregson and Bell, he had his voice under control and could present the facts without hesitation or affect. Thankfully, this path was a dead end as far as the case went. The new wall stayed up, buttressed by the next round of questions and investigations, and by the time Watson came home that night, he was more or less in control again, and her none the wiser.
The next morning she produced Irene's letters, and he shattered again. Fire, flood, and now this. The vortex of the blender seemed apt.
He was thirteen and small for his age, able to squeeze through parts of the school's fence that blocked his bullies. Nobody understood when he said he couldn't sleep, so he got in the habit of slipping out when pursued by his relentless intellect as often as by relentless classmates. He would wander through the city streets in the middle of the night, mind racing ahead, thoughts wild and a little frightening in their onslaught.
It was the last night before the end of Michaelmas term. Thirty-four days until he'd be back, and he'd determined to spend the whole night out, to observe and absorb as much of the city as he could. Opportunities like this would be few and far between at his father's house. He was making his way across an abandoned construction site in an industrial district well after midnight when he saw the girls being pushed into the van.
Their faces.
He didn't understand at first, and continued on his way. It wasn't until the next afternoon, climbing into the car that would take him home and watching the chauffeur close the door behind him that he felt it, the panic and fear and entrapment in those faces. By that evening he had pieced it out, tentative and hesitant in identifying the connections between children and coercion and captivity and sex.
He stole a fifty from his father's wallet for the train and ran across the dark lawn, the shortest route to the station. He climbed the two-metre fence and was making his way along the top rail to drop down by the road when he fell, bone snapping and jutting out of his wrist. He didn't feel it at first and then the pain threw him down again, blinding and overwhelming.
It was the sound of his own breath sawing through clenched teeth that got his attention, gave him something to focus on. The train would be there in 20 minutes. A page from a wilderness survival manual he'd skimmed in the school library one bored afternoon snapped into memory. He lost consciousness for a moment going through the steps but managed to set the bone and splint it, then wrapped it with his scarf and tied it against his side.
He got to the platform just as the train did, and once he was collapsed in a seat, he wondered what the hell he was doing. The van would be gone, and he didn't know where it was coming from or going to. And what could he do, anyway, especially now when he could barely keep from fainting?
By the time the train reached the city, he had determined he could at least go back, look for anything that might help identify what he'd seen. If he was lucky, the van would be there and he could get the license plate. Anything concrete to take to the police. Who probably would not believe him, but what else was there but try to convince them?
Their faces.
Watson was relentless, but she was also respectful without any hint of condescension, a combination unique in his experience. At first she took his work seriously because he took it seriously, although he suspected her regard for investigation was starting to become something more personal. Either way, she used that respect to maintain a connection. He had to give her credit, even as he deconstructed her strategy. It wasn't going to make him give in, but it did stop him from shutting her out. Most of the time.
When he saw the letters in her hand and felt himself crack open, the shock of sudden exposure was suffocating: he couldn't breathe until he understood she was saying she hadn't read them. She hadn't read them.
He couldn't fully explain why he believed her, but he did. Nevertheless, his only means of self-preservation was to destroy the letters immediately. He told Watson he didn't want them, and that was mostly true, but he still felt as if he were being shredded by the blades along with the pages.
She extended a lifeline then, the case to be solved, and he grasped it as the only way forward.
The next morning he entered the kitchen and saw the disarticulated blender clean and drying in the dish rack. On a plate next to the stove lay the soggy mass of correspondence, discreetly shrouded by a paper towel. He threw the blender in the trash and buried what was left in the neglected garden. Watson took to having fruit and juice for breakfast.
The agonizing pain thrumming from his left wrist cradled against his ribs drew him forward as if he held a divining rod. As long as he kept moving with it, he could remain upright. When he made his way back to the derelict street where he saw the girls, he spotted two men walking ahead of him. It was much earlier in the evening than he'd been here last night. The men stopped at a nondescript metal door and waited a few moments. The door opened; some exchange was made with someone inside, and they entered.
When he got to that part of the block, he could see nothing to identify the place; not even a street number. He slipped around the corner down an alley beside the building they had entered; a van was parked in the shadows there. With some difficulty he fished his pen out of his left front pocket, now all but inaccessible due to his wrist, and wrote down the license plate on a scrap of paper he jammed into his sock. Pausing a moment, he then wrote it again on on his broken arm, above his elbow where it would be covered by his sleeve.
Standing there stunned at having been successful with his mission, he gradually realized he could hear something and turned toward the building. There were windows there, sealed and painted over, but he could see some cracks in the paint where light shone through. Most of them were too high for him to reach, but there was a cinderblock lying on the edge of the alley, and he dragged it over to use as a step. He could feel the dull beat of loud music when he touched the glass to pull himself up and look inside.
He would spend the next thirty years alternately trying to fix or forget what he saw.
The room was large and unfinished, unevenly lit, and full of people. Dozens of them. Half were men, some in business suits, others wearing... less. The rest were girls. His age and younger. Some appeared to be screaming; some unconscious; some looked like they wished they were. He saw objects he didn't understand. Girls beaten and restrained. Violence and horror and and
He recoiled and would have fallen on his own if a heavy arm hadn't suddenly knocked him down.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The large woman towered over him where he lay in the alley, gasping and clutching his arm. She reached down to grab his collar and yank him up; he yelled incoherently from the pain in his wrist.
"Shut the fuck up!" She jerked him to standing and he swayed forward in her grip, bringing his good arm up to push against hers, hitting and slapping at her torso to get her to let go. She laughed at him.
"Oh my god, you are pathetic. Worse than them in there. You hit like an old woman."
He could feel his consciousness slipping, and he held on to her arm as hard as he could to brace himself against her jolting movements and his impending collapse. The top of his head barely reached her chest, and looking up he tried desperately to focus on anything. His vision broke up into a pointilist blur as he stared at the company insignia on her lapel pin. One of his father's companies.
The Crewes case was riddled with betrayals. Katya, of course, but also Crewes's affair with the married Carla Figueroa, the planted evidence that convicted him, and his manipulation of his own son to take over the murders and set him free. Gregson could barely look at his old partner, and it didn't seem likely that Crewes and Sean would become closer as father and son in prison. Lives and relationships undermined at every turn.
He wanted to feel betrayed by Watson to justify more indignation, but he couldn't quite manage it. She pushed and she pushed, but she knew where the hard line was and didn't cross it. He certainly couldn't say the same.
She hadn't read the letters.
He'd never talked about it with anyone. There had been no one to tell; the police involved at the time already knew the details of the case, and it's not like he had friends or family to confide in. Nor was he in any condition to reach out to anyone or be reached, then. After the physiological effects of the drugs had passed, Hemdale was a mind-numbing exercise in self-control and patience, something to be endured. There was never any question of confessing or sharing.
He couldn't stop thinking about Gregson and D'Amico and the planted evidence. Their broken partnership resulted, he assumed, from a crisis of faith and a failure to communicate. He wouldn't exactly say he'd failed to communicate before, not having anyone worth communicating with, since— But he had a choice now. Two choices. Did he owe it to her — he still couldn't bring himself to say the name — to speak of it? And what story would he tell about her?
He came to in the dark, arm throbbing and mouth dry. He sat up against the metal wall behind him; the space felt small and close, and he thought he might be inside the van. The floor was dry though there was a terrible smell, urine and vomit and blood and sweat. There was no light at all, but he could hear the woman speaking outside.
"No, the little shit didn't—"
A mumble in reply; perhaps a man, but he couldn't make out any words, just her side of the conversation.
"Okay. I don't want to have to deal with this in the morning. You'll take care of it."
"Yes, in the van."
"Right. Don't be late. I'm not waiting."
The van door opened abruptly and he scrambled to his feet. There wasn't quite enough height for him to stand all the way up. She tossed something toward him and he flinched; she laughed at him again.
"It's your wallet, you stupid fuck. Did he send you here?"
He stared at her, not comprehending.
"Not your father, you idiot. One of his parasites, looking for someone to step on to inch up a little higher. There's nothing wrong with a bit of freelance work done on my own time, I don't give a damn what those toadies think. Besides, making his clients happy should make them all happy, right?"
The only thing in his wallet with his name was a library card. Must have been enough. He's been told there's some family resemblance as well, so no use denying it. If she worked for one of his father's companies and knew his lackeys, then she wouldn't be surprised by arrogance and disdain. He took the risk.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said as indifferently as he could manage. "I don't know who you are or what you are doing. I don't care about any freelance work." He shifted, trying to support his arm. It didn't help, and he was starting to sweat from the pain. She must know he was injured. "I just want to get my arm seen to." He pinched his lips tightly, hoping it would reflect the most common expression he'd seen on his father's face and not the effort of trying to remain vertical. "If anyone from home found out I came to the city tonight — well, I'd rather they didn't. I won't tell them. I have nothing to tell."
She stared at him for a long time while he tried to keep his face stiff and blank, then slammed the door shut. He slid down the wall, stifling the sobs he could no longer control against his good arm. A few minutes later, he heard someone get into the front of the van and start the engine. Ten minutes of driving and it jerked to a stop. Another moment and the back door opened again, he couldn't see by whom.
"Get out." The man's cold voice came from behind the door, out of view. He crawled awkwardly to the edge and half-fell off the back, stumbling forward over gravel and trash on the side of the road. The man scoffed when he let out an involuntary moan as the movement sent spikes of pain through his arm and he almost lost his balance. "Sniveling git. You're not exactly something for daddy to be proud of, are you?"
The man returned to the driver's seat, and he stood, swaying in place with his back to the van, until it drove off and he could no longer hear its engine. Then he dropped to his knees and cried.
Like so much of his life since it happened, there was little premeditation. Watson said good night, and the words came forth unbidden.
"She died. We were quite close. I did not take her passing well.
Good night."
He could hear the truth echoing after each of the statements he said aloud.
She was brutally murdered because of me. I trusted her. Losing her destroyed me.
I can never make it right.
He was past exhaustion by the time he got back to the station to catch the first outbound train of the morning. He used a pay phone there to report the license number and location and what he'd seen to the police, refusing to identify himself and stammering over the words to describe it. He feared they'd assume it was a prank until the woman on the line asked if he was in danger too, and he started crying again and hung up the phone.
The trip back went by in a blur of pain and panic as he dozed and woke from nightmares that he was still at the building or in the van, over and over again. He stopped on his way from the town station to buy a proper bandage and some antiseptic for his wrist since he hadn't been able to clean it since he fell. As he expected, nobody had missed him overnight at his father's house, and he was able to slip inside as unnoticed as when he had left.
It was a week before anyone discovered the injury and forced him to go to the medical centre. There was no need to lie about what happened; he just didn't mention why he was on the fence or what happened after. He told his father that by tending to the injury himself, he had merely acted out of the self-sufficiency expected of him as his son. His father did not rise to the bait.
He read the city paper every day, looking for news of police action or any mention of his father's company. Nothing was never reported. The nightmares gradually faded, but not the memories nor the sense of failure. He knew he was capable of more, and he began by looking for anything related to criminology in his father's small library. Jeremy Bentham was all he found there, but it was a place to start.
They were sitting on the bench in the hallway at the station, waiting to confront Ms Van Owen with the video tape they'd found in the dead man's safety deposit box. Bell was walking back from the coffee machine and stopped.
"Thought you'd want to know, Julian Walsh decided to cooperate," Bell said. "In hope of some kind of leniency, which, frankly, I don't think he's gonna get, he's given the names of the men involved in the trafficking ring he bought that woman from. Looks like we may be able to shut them down, too."
"Thank you, detective. That is good news." He paused, then continued. "Do you know anything about Katya's status now? The woman we found at Walsh's house?"
"I don't have an update, no. The city has social workers assigned to international sex trafficking victims, and I know her case was passed to them. But that's all I know." Bell nodded and started to move on. "See you in a few."
Watson turned to look at him once Bell was gone. "What was that about? I don't remember any human trafficking case."
"We had a false lead with Crewes. You weren't—" he paused and looked away from her, staring at the wall across from them. "It was the day you went to Hemdale. The suspect had a woman chained in his basement."
"Oh my god."
"Yes." He closed his eyes tightly, seeing again their faces, the girls in the van. That room. This time he helped, he told himself.
It would never be enough.
"What is it?" she asked softly, almost whispering.
He thought he could trust her. It wasn't that he doubted her integrity; that was over now. (She hadn't read the letters.) But he'd never been very good at it, himself. He took a deep breath. And he told her.