The Slave World (3)

(3): Surveillance state

“I think as I walked out of that book shop I had, without knowing it, been appraised and added to a list. They do that, the slavers of Gor. They have lists of women that meet certain exacting standards and they watch them over time, sometimes over long periods of time, waiting for the women to reach the point where they are suitable for acquisition. Sometimes they move quickly and sometimes they might wait years. It depends on the woman.”

“You're telling me you've come to the attention of slavers?”

“I believe so. No, I know so. My name is on an acquisition list. I know it is. I am being studied, I am being watched, I am being appraised.”

Slavery was in the news quite a bit these days, but it was generally always articles about foreign workers from Eastern Europe or the middle east brought in as work gangs who lived in squalid conditions for low to non-existent pay with their passports confiscated by gangsters. These men and women were poor, easily exploited with the promise of a new life in the UK and often ignorant of what their options were. The beautiful, stylish, rich Miss Rebecca Miles didn't seem to fit in that category at all. She wasn't a refugee from Syria or some poorly educated girl from the Ukraine who desperately wanted a new life in Western Europe at any price.

“This doesn't really fit with my knowledge of modern day slavery,” I said. “You don't fit the model.”

“I'm talking about Gorean slavers. They source beautiful women for abduction.”

This really was veering off into some romantic bondage fantasy, I thought as I scribbled some more lines in my notebook. The beautiful heroine pursued by powerful masters. Was she deluded? Was she prone to flights of fantasy? Had she simply drawn the kef symbol on her own thigh with a marker pen?

But more importantly, was she going to pay me by the hour to pay lip service to all of this?

“At this point I think I should explain my rates. I charge £55 an hour plus reasonable expenses. If I have to bring in other people that will cost accordingly.”

“That's fine,” said Rebecca, making me now wish I'd suggested a higher figure.

“Great. So what has happened since you left the book shop?”

“My apartment has been thoroughly searched. I think they wanted me to know. They could have done it without leaving any clues but they deliberately re-arranged some small things and moved the contents of my underwear drawer around. Nothing drastic – just subtle things so that I couldn't be absolutely sure I hadn't done this myself.”

“Perhaps you had?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I am meticulous in the way I arrange my things.”

Of course she was. I could well imagine she was the type of woman to have a hissy fit if her favourite teddy bear – probably called Mr Bear - wasn't positioned on a shelf at just the right jaunty angle.

“Okay. What else?”

“I keep seeing the same men when I leave the building. There are maybe four of them working in rotation. Again, I think they want me to see them. They are subtle enough that I can't be sure it's surveillance, but not so subtle that I can't spot them. They are all of a type...”

“A type?” My pen hand paused over the note book.

Rebecca squirmed a little in her seat as she explained. “Strong. Tall. Virile. Muscular. Not like men I have known in the past at university, at parties, at social functions. These are men who look at you like... like...”

“Like what?”

“Like they would look at a slave...”

“Uh-huh.”

“You would understand if you saw one of these men.”

“I'm sure they're very manly,” I said with a smile that I couldn't resist. Bad Caitlin, I thought to myself immediately after I'd said that. Don't tease the clients...

“And then there were the text messages... always from a withheld number and always worded as if someone could see me right there and then.”

“What sort of messages? Do you still have them?”

“One message read, 'that is a pretty dress, Rebecca. Very feminine. It displays your body well. We are pleased'.”

“Jesus.” I made a note of that on the pad. “You still have those messages?”

“They deleted themselves after a couple of minutes. I don't know how.”

“Check your phone for viruses and next time take a screen shot of the message. You know how to do that?”

Rebecca nodded.

“Good. Any other messages?”

“Yes. Messages would be critical of me if I wore trousers. I would be told that my 'attire is not appropriate. Return home and change'.”

“And did you?”

“Not at first. I was angry. Who was this? How dare he tell me how to dress?”

“And then?”

“That evening after returning home, after disobeying the text message, I found someone had been in my apartment. Every pair of trousers I owned had been removed. They were all gone. A pretty feminine knee length dress hung from a clothes hanger in my bedroom. It had been left for me. There was a handwritten note pinned to it. The note read, 'it is in the best interests of a woman to be found pleasing'. There was no evidence of my apartment door having been forced open.”

“Okay, this all seems pretty serious to me. I'm going to suggest routine surveillance to begin with. From tomorrow I'll follow you from a distance and hopefully spot these stalkers. I'll take some photos and maybe even follow them back home, though I can't guarantee that as you generally need a team of at least three people to tail someone discretely. If it comes to that I can bring in a couple of other people I know to make up a team. That will cost more of course.”

Rebecca nodded.

“I'm also going to make enquiries about this bookshop. I'm going to need you to detail where you plan on going over the next few days so I can work out routes. Obviously if you see me, don't make any sign that you recognise me.”

Rebecca nodded again.

“I'm going to assume there's a virus in your phone. Buy a disposable burner and use that to contact me. Don't use it to call anyone else. I have a friend who can take a look at your usual phone to sweep it for code but I'll need to speak to him first. Keep to your normal routine, don't go anywhere unusual on your own. The moment you hear from anyone, you let me know. I want you to know we'll get to the bottom of this very quickly and these men who have been subjecting you to this intimidation will soon find themselves in a whole heap of trouble.”

“I... I'm really grateful, Caitlin,” said Rebecca as she rose from her chair. “I was at my wits end. I want you to know I took precautions in coming here. They don't know I'm here.”

The thought hadn't even occurred to me that they might have followed her to my King's Cross office. “What sort of precautions?”

“I changed my route on the tube several times and then took a random taxi.”

“You've been watching those sorts of films, huh?” I couldn't help smiling as I walked her to the door.

“It seemed the right thing to do.”

“Well, yeah, but I doubt we're dealing with MI5 here. Your stalkers are hardly going to be that sophisticated that you need to employ cold war trade craft. But you're right, take sensible precautions until I'm on top of this.”

“Do I... do I pay you some money now?”

Hell yeah. I'm not going to say no to that.

“An upfront retainer would be good,” I said. I watched as she reached into that lovely handbag. Damn, it was a lovely handbag.

“I only have about eight hundred pounds in my purse,” she said as she counted out the notes. “Will that do?”

“It'll certainly grease the wheels of Ambrose Investigations,” I said as I happily took the lovely bank notes and tucked them into the rear pocket of my tight jeans. “The worst is behind you, Miss Miles. It's their turn now to worry.”

I continued to smile as she left the office, walked down the corridor of the building with a click-clack of designer heels and disappeared down the stairwell.

I'd already warned her that the lift was broken.

Mmm, money! I fanned the bank notes out in my hand. They were all twenties. The best things in life might be free, but you can give them to the birds and bees.

And then it suddenly occurred to me.

I still had her expensive fountain pen!

Go, me!