Trafficked
A missing child… A race against time.Summoned by his boss, Detective Johnny Mann expects to be demoted. Instead he’s ordered to lead the high profile investigation into Amy Tang’s kidnapping – the illegitimate daughter of a major player in the skin trade, CK Leung.Taken from her prestigious Hong Kong boarding school, nine-year-old Amy is the third child to be kidnapped and held for ransom. Yet, while the other children were released after the money was paid, Amy is still held captive.Heading to London, Mann teams up with DC Becky Stamp to track down Amy. But time is running out and with no breaks in the case can Mann discover the truth before it's too late?Prepare to be terrorised by this disturbingly addictive thriller from the writer hailed as the female James Patterson.
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LEE WEEKS
Trafficked
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2008
This edition published 2017
Copyright © Lee Weeks 2008
Cover design © debbieclementdesign.com
Cover photograph © shutterstock.com
Lee Weeks asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9781847560834
Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780007329045
Version: 2017-12-08
This book is dedicated to my mum
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Philippines, March 2004
A child whispered in the darkness.
‘Shhh…stop crying. The Kano will hear you.
What’s your name?’
‘Perla.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eleven.’
‘I’m Maya. I’m eight. You from Davao?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too. Where are we?’
‘Angeles City.’
‘Why are we chained up? Are we in prison? Why does that Kano hurt everyone? What will happen to me?’
‘You will be sold.’
‘Sold?’
‘Sold to a man.’
‘What will the man do with me?’
‘He will have sex with you.’
‘I’m just a girl. I can’t. I’m going to run away. Let’s do it, Perla. Let’s run home to Davao.’
Perla stated to cry again.
‘Don’t cry. The Kano will come. He will hurt you. He will poke you with the buzzy stick.’
‘My legs are wet. I am bleeding.’
‘Don’t cry, Perla. I’ll be your friend. I’ll tell you a Mickey Mouse story.’
By the time Maya finished her story, Perla was dead.
Philippines
Detective Inspector Johnny Mann was sitting at the covered end of the Boom Boom Bar on a beach in Boracay. Five young locals were watching a boxing match on a small television set at the front of the bar, whilst Mann and three other tourists sat on stools around the bar, staring at their drinks and willing the alcohol to kick in.
The Boom Boom Bar was no more than fifteen foot square, with a threadbare palm roof and a floor made from reclaimed wood. It looked like a piece of flotsam that had been found by an enthusiastic beachcomber, dragged up the beach and put to use. It was named the Boom Boom Bar because of its nightly entertainment, when dreadlocked youths took it in turns to sit on a drum box on a small stage pitched into the sand, with their eyes closed and their backs to the sea, beating out a rhythm on the drum’s skin.
Inside the bar there was a Caribbean theme: bongos, bongs and Bob Marley posters hung from every section of wall space and jostled for position on sand and salt greased shelves. In addition to the bar stools, there was an old rattan sofa with half its back missing and a few threadbare scatter cushions just inside the entrance where the beach met the bar.
Mann held on to the glass and rolled it in his hands, savouring the cool condensation before allowing it to slip through his fingers and land in the centre of the bar mat. He checked his phone—another message. He rubbed his face with his hands and wiped the sweat away from his brow.
Mann was thirty-five but he looked older. His once beautiful face—a mix of Chinese and English—had been made hard and handsome by life’s knocks. On his left cheek, where the skin stretched taut across his high cheekbone, a crescent-moon-shaped scar stayed pale against his tanned face. It was there as a memento of a childhood friendship that had gone very wrong. His large espresso-coloured eyes had seen more sadness than any person was meant to, and in his heart he carried the pain of having screwed up.
