The Trafficked Read Online Free PDF Page A

faint orange glow in the room coming from beneath the door. She looked around; only moving her eyes, she didn’t dare move her head. Yes—there was the desk, the chair, the old lamp. She was lying on a mattress on the floor, not in a bed; it was the room she had seen before. She must have got sick and Lenny had put her to bed. That was it. She could hear the sound of a television in the room next door.
    ‘Lenny?’ She sat up and called out. ‘Lenny?’
    The television went off. She heard the rustle of someone moving; she heard someone approach the door and turn the handle.
    A man stood in the doorway. He was Chinese. Amy knew his type: rough Hong Kong low-life type. She had been around types like him all her life.
    ‘Where’s Lenny?’
    The man didn’t answer for a second and Amy could see that he had something behind his back. Only when he came into the room did she see what it was—it was a length of rope with a loop at the end.

8
     
    Johnny Mann went back to his flat to unpack and repack his case before he headed over to Stanley Bay to see his mother and explain why he wouldn’t be over for Sunday roast. He knew she would be looking forward to seeing him. He hadn’t caught up with her for a while. The last case had kept him working twenty-four-seven and then the aftermath had left him needing to get away and recover his sanity.
    ‘They’re lovely.’
    He stood behind her in the hall mirror and finished fastening the string of pink pearls around his mother’s neck. She reached up and touched the hand he had placed on her shoulder and smiled at him in the mirror. Molly was about to hit seventy but she kept herself fit and active and stood erect. She was a good-looking woman, strong-featured with piercing grey eyes and a straight roman nose; she had high cheekbones and ivory skin. Her hair was a beautiful mix of grey and silver interwoven with darker shades. It was long and thick and she twisted it into a bun and caught it with a clasp at the back of her head. Nowthat Mann stood behind her he realised how slight she was. Her shoulders felt bony beneath his hands.
    ‘You shouldn’t have spent your money on me, but it’s very thoughtful of you, Johnny.’ She patted his hand before turning away. Mann followed her through to the kitchen.
    ‘Nonsense—it’s a pleasure. How have you been, Mum?’
    She put the kettle on. ‘I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.’
    He watched her make tea. He liked the familiarity of her actions—her hands never dithered or wavered. Her actions were always measured and decisive and her fingers moved with grace.
    She was not a gabbler or a waster of words. She was a woman who took her time and thought things through. She was a holder-in of emotions. He had never once heard her raise her voice in uncontrolled anger. Molly didn’t boil over, she just simmered. She was prickly, almost, except her heart was soft—not everyone could see or knew that, but Mann did.
    He looked around him. Something was missing in the flat—the maid hadn’t come in to say hello to him as she always did.
    ‘Where’s Deborah?’
    ‘Day off.’ Molly didn’t turn to look at him as she answered.
    ‘Mum?’ He could tell by her sudden busyness—looking for a teaspoon in a drawer for seconds that she knew where to put her hand on at once—that she was not telling him the whole story.
    She glanced over to him on her way to get milk from the fridge.
    ‘Well, I don’t need anyone full time. What will I do if I have nothing left to occupy my time? I gave her some money to go back home to the Philippines for a while. She has kids she hasn’t seen for months. It’s not right. I am able to look after myself.’
    ‘And you have enough money to afford an army of maids—it’s Hong Kong, you have to have a few maids, Mum; it’s just the way it is. You have all the money you could ever need in the bank. Why don’t you spend some of it?’
    She brought the tea over to Mann, who was sitting