Forced to Kill

by Emmy Ellis

  “Langham…”

  He looked up. “So he does have something to hide. Bastard.” He took more pictures.

  Oliver lost count of the boxes once they went over fifty. That was some serious amount of drugs there. Maybe the shit they’d used to make them, too. Everything was evidence these days. Oliver imagined Jackson panicking, wondering how the hell he could cover his bases, ensuring that those workers oblivious to what he’d really been doing with those drugs still only thought they’d been working on something innocent. Who knew, maybe he’d just announce he’d pulled the plug on their research, that the drug wasn’t viable, too expensive to produce, something like that. Whatever he did, he’d have to do it fast. Just by Langham snapping pictures of him had him bang to rights for some kind of crime. Aiding and abetting. Whatever. So long as the man went down for a stretch and the killings stopped, Oliver would be happy.

  “Hold up,” Langham said. “They’re on the move.” He barked into his radio that backup ought to get here pretty damn quick.

  The truck rumbled to life, Jackson standing at the back door. The vehicle eased forward and nosed out onto the main road. Then Jackson closed the door, the truck joined the light traffic, and Langham took the opportunity to start his car and follow. The branches had a jolly old time of it scratching the paintwork again.

  There were only two cars between Langham’s and the truck, and they tailed it at an acceptable thirty miles per hour. No bringing attention to themselves. No smartarse overtaking to get closer. The truck was large enough to be seen for a good few hundred yards ahead, so providing they remained on this straight road for a while, they didn’t risk losing it.

  The two cars turned right, stalling Langham and Oliver for a few seconds. Oliver’s heart rate increased, adrenaline speeding through him too fast for comfort. He felt sick, had never been on a pursuit before, and had no idea what Langham had in mind. Would they just follow until the vehicle had reached its destination? If they did, didn’t they risk being spotted if the end of their journey was in some remote place?

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  The truck had turned left onto the slip road leading to the motorway.

  “We follow, see where it goes.”

  “So we don’t flag it down, get them to stop?”

  “Not at the moment, no. There are too many men inside for me to deal with should they get nasty. Got to wait for that silent radio to squawk and let me know we’re being followed by other coppers. I could pull them over on a random check, ask to look inside, and then what? If we find those sugar strands, yep, we’d have reason to take the men in, but like I said, one of me, four of them. They’re not likely to go with me without a fight. Looked a nasty set of bastards, didn’t they.”

  Oliver agreed. Big, burly men they wouldn’t stand a chance against. “It’s obvious they’ve got the drugs in the back.”

  “Of course they have. Forensics will have a field day finding out what those strands contain. Wonder if they’ve got around to doing those from Louise’s body yet?” He snorted. “Doubt it. They’re way behind with evidence processing. Always are. You’d think there’d be more employed for times like this, when we need a quick analysis in order to bring someone in. We need solid proof the strands on Louise and in that old woman’s mouth are the same ones in the truck. And those they’ll find on Mark’s body.”

  “Wonder if Shields has arrived there yet. And I wonder what they’re going to do with those kids. How they’ll get them out without being bitten or attacked.”

  “Only thing I can think of is sedating them, and that doesn’t sit well with me, seeing as they’re drugged up to the fucking eyeballs already. Poor little bastards.”

  Oliver thought of their parents, frantic with worry for however long their children had been missing. Of the police, busy now matching each child to every missing person report. Visiting those parents. Breaking the news that their previously cute kid had possibly killed. “This is such a mess.”

  “It is. Bet you wish you didn’t hear voices now, don’t you.”

  Oliver nodded. He didn’t need to answer verbally. Didn’t want to. If he did, everything he felt inside would tumble out. Like how he’d coped with this all his life, borne the ridicule of his family for being such a ‘weirdo’. Did they see him in the newspapers, on the news, as the same weirdo? Or did they now wish they’d been more understanding? He was famous around here, kind of. People knew his face, stopped him sometimes, shouted insults at others. He just wanted to live a quiet life, but fate had had other things in mind from the day he’d been born.

  He gusted out a breath full of resignation. He was stuck as he was whether he liked it or not. Couldn’t ignore the voices any more than he could choose not to breathe. It just wasn’t happening.

  “You okay?” Langham glanced over with a look of concern.

  “Yeah, was just thinking.”

  “Of?”

  “The past. Now. The future.”

  “In what way?”

  The truck took another slip road, one that rose to join an overpass.

  “Me, being the way I am. Wishing I wasn’t. Wishing I was normal.”

  “And my question brought that up for you. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Nothing I don’t think about by myself from time to time anyway. I mean, it’s hardly something you can ignore, is it. I could go to some channeller, get them to teach me to tune the dead out, but I’d only beat myself up over who the spirits would turn to after.”

  “Catch twenty-two.”

  “Yep.”

  “Look.” Langham pointed. “The truck’s heading towards Lingbrough.”

  Oliver peered ahead. “If they stop there, unload somewhere, it wouldn’t surprise me. Quiet village. Houses few and far between. Not the type of place to be spotted by a nosy community. I heard that place has snobs living there. No one wanting to be friendly with anyone else.”

  “Perfect hideout.”

  “Yeah.” Oliver glanced back to see if they were being followed. They were, by a beat-up, old-style Ford Escort van, a nineties job that looked as though it’d be better off on the scrap heap. A red van. His guts bunched. “Your undercover backup tend to drive red rustbuckets?”

  “No.” Langham stared in the rearview mirror for a second. “Fuck. Reckon that’s Alex Reynolds?”

  “Who the fuck knows. This is the first time I’ve been involved directly with one of your cases so I don’t know how this works. Find the body, report to you, and go home, that’s me. I don’t get to see all this bullshit usually. Mark said Alex owns a red van. Jackson might have called him to tail the truck.”

  “Just thought the same myself. If Alex has been watching us like I think he has, he’d have already clocked my car way before now. So Jackson will also know what we’re up to. Fucking great.”

  Oliver looked back again. “No sign of any other cars behind the van either.”

  Langham snatched up the radio, asking where the fuck backup was. He was told three miles behind. “Well, they ought to put their foot down on the pedal then, because we’ve got Alex Reynolds on our tail.” He hooked the radio back on the dash. “I don’t fancy him behind doing the same to us as he did to you when you found Louise. Wouldn’t put it past him either.”

  Mark Reynolds had said Alex hadn’t acted like he usually did. Those drugs had a lot to answer for. As did the man who’d ordered them to be made and distributed with intent to make people kill. Jackson. What an arsewipe. Another thought hit Oliver then. Maybe Jackson was just a middle man, the one with the means to create the drugs. What if someone else had approached him with the drugging idea? Someone with a shitload of power who wasn’t to be ignored if you knew what was good for you?

  This was way bigger than he’d imagined, and being here now in the thick of it didn’t seem such a good idea. Yet he’d insisted he was tagging along with Langham to every lead. For some reason, this case had got to him more than the others—maybe because Louise had contacted him whi
le she’d been being killed and not after.

  He didn’t get to ponder that further. Alex pulled alongside them.

  And rammed his van into the side of Langham’s car.

  “Not again,” Oliver said, leaning forward to stare out of Langham’s side window at Alex. “This bloke is mental.”

  “There are a lot of them about.” Langham held tight to the wheel to keep the vehicle on the road. He glanced sideways, then gunned the accelerator, gaining a car-length’s space between their back and his front. “And they don’t tend to give up easily.”

  Langham’s statement was proved true with a shunt to the rear of his car. Oliver pitched forward, flung his hands out to brace himself on the dash. His broken finger throbbed at the contact.

  “If that bastard breaks another of my fingers, or something else of mine, I’ll kill the fucker.”

  “By the looks of things, he’s going to give it a good go.” Langham drove faster, almost catching up to the truck. “I’d better move, in case the truck is ordered to stop and we go up its arse, Alex going up ours. I don’t fancy being inside a concertina sandwich, do you?”

  “Not really, no.”

  Oliver closed his eyes, praying this would all end soon—with good results. Relief poured into him at the sound of sirens, and he stared through the back window. Help had arrived. Other officers had finally got their arses into gear and put some speed into their pursuit. Four unmarked vehicles followed, one overtaking Alex to slip between Langham’s car and his, two boxing him in either side, and one at the rear.

  “So now what?” Oliver hoped backup would also take care of the truck.

  “We carry on following them,” Langham said.

  Shit.

  Chapter Nine

  Langham wedged his car behind some high-as-a-house bushes, one of the backup vehicles beside them. As they sat observing a large house situated in expansive grounds down a lane just off the motorway, awaiting further backup, Oliver took a moment to calm down. News had come via one of the officers in the next car that Alex Reynolds had been apprehended, a clawing, insane mass of anger that had taken six officers to subdue.

  He took the binoculars Langham handed to him.

  “You have a turn. My eyes are crossing.”

  Oliver peered through them. The truck was parked directly outside the house, a sprawling monstrosity that spoke of high maintenance and a shedload of cash. The men weren’t about, no doubt inside, secreting the drugs and whatever else they’d removed from Privo. The coppers en route were trained to get inside and round the inhabitants up, secure the truck and its contents, and Oliver thanked fuck for that.

  Langham’s mobile rang, startling Oliver so the binoculars banged his brow bone. He lowered them and glanced at the caller display. Shields. Langham jabbed the speakerphone button.

  “Yep?” Langham closed his eyes for a second, probably steeling himself for whatever the other detective had to say.

  “Langham?”

  “Who else?”

  “Wasn’t sure if your friend there would be answering. You still outside the house?”

  “Yep.”

  “The team not arrived yet?”

  “Obviously not, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

  “As soon as they do, I need you back here.”

  “What for? Can’t you cope with Ronan Dougherty’s flat and Mark Reynolds’ site by yourself?” Langham smirked.

  “Not amusing. That’s sorted. Dougherty’s dead, as you suspected. Arms hacked off, face slashed. Mark Reynolds. Dead. In the field like your weirdo said. Officers are dealing with it all now.”

  “So? What do you want?”

  “Like I said. You. Back here.”

  Oliver experienced all kinds of irritation, so God knew what Langham felt—he was the DI, for fuck’s sake. Langham clenched his teeth and drummed his fingers on his thigh.

  “Paperwork?” Langham asked.

  “You wish,” Shields said, his oily tone grating yet slick at the same time. “No, we’ve got another couple of bodies. Different to the others.”

  “So there’s someone else out there. Unless Alex offed them before he followed us, changed the way he does things to throw us off.”

  “He’s too up himself to do that,” Shields said. “He’d have wanted us to know it was him, that he was one step ahead. In control. No, this is an amateur. A bloody messy one at that. And I know who the hell we’re looking for, too.”

  Oliver suspected Shields wanted Langham to beg for the answer. Wanted them both to know he was in the lead now, the one dishing out orders.

  “Right,” Langham said. “Won’t be long. The team will be here in a minute. It’ll take us about twenty to get back. Where do you need us?”

  “Us? No, I need you.”

  Langham sighed. “Oliver comes with me.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Very funny, Shields, but that’s your filthy mind talking. You know what I meant.”

  “Right. I need you at fifty-four Bridgewater Road, back in the city. Soon as you can. You have to see this scene to believe it. It’ll give you an idea of just what we’re dealing with.”

  “‘What’? Don’t you mean ‘who’?”

  “Well, yeah. Can’t have been right in the head before she took the drugs.”

  “She? Jesus…”

  “Yeah, she. A four-foot, pigtailed blonde.”

  “You’ve seen her? Know her?”

  “Yep, I’ve seen her. She’s one of those kids from Alex’s basement. Gave an officer the slip just before they made it to the police van that’d take them to hospital. Feisty little bitch, too.”

  “This just keeps getting better.”

  “Yeah, well. Nothing we can do but find her before she kills someone else. And when you get here, you’ll see how much she enjoys it an’ all.”

  * * * *

  Oliver stood beside Langham on the pavement outside fifty-four Bridgewater Road. A sense of desolation took over him. This wasn’t your average home. Just seeing the state of it told him that. Snot-smeared windows, where kids had been staring outside, or maybe they had a dog who relished slobbering on glass. A front door with red peeling paint, the letterbox rust-spotted, the numbers five and four wonky beside it. Unkempt garden, abundant with weeds and household debris—a TV with a smashed screen and a chest of drawers with the handles missing. A supermarket shopping trolley, too.

  Jesus Christ.

  He imagined the homes either side would lean away from their companion if they weren’t part of a terrace. The stench wafting out of the open front door was enough to put anyone off entering. Age-old shit and urine, over-cooked cabbage, raw meat, all combined into an aroma that almost had Oliver gagging. And this was winter. He couldn’t even imagine the smell in high summer.

  Shields barrelled towards them in protective clothing, out of the house and down the cracked concrete path, a white handkerchief pressed to his nose. Oliver took a minute to enjoy the man’s obvious distress.

  “Oh Jesus,” Shields said, blinking rapidly and stuffing the hanky in his suit pocket. “That house…” He shuddered, swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Like no one ever cleaned.”

  “Tell me what you know. About the girl,” Langham said.

  “Abused kid, by all accounts. Neighbours say she wasn’t looked after properly. Didn’t need them to tell me that. Stayed up all hours, left alone most of the time while the parents were out on the piss. And when they were home they were pissed then, too. Damn shame. Neighbours hadn’t even been aware she was missing, just assumed she’d been kept off school like she had in the past, not allowed out, that kind of thing.”

  Shields took in a large breath, his facial expression showing he fully expected the air to be rank. When it wasn’t—or evidently not as bad as it was inside—he smiled with relief.

  “Parents report her missing?” A tic flickered beneath Langham’s eye.

  “No. Apparently, the girl—”

  “She have a
name?”

  “Yes, Glenn Close. Can you believe that? She turned into a bunny boiler just like her namesake, too.”

  Oliver wondered how Shields could joke like that. Yeah, he knew coppers had to, in order to get through the day, the horrific things they dealt with, but Oliver’s heart had been twisted with the knowledge that drugs had made this little girl commit murder. That her life had been one of neglect and without love prior to her taking those drugs, only for her to be catapulted into a different kind of horror. Poor kid.

  “Go on,” Langham urged, clearly impatient. He tapped his foot, ran a rigid hand through his hair.

  “So, if the neighbours are to be believed, Glenn—still can’t get over that name—had run away before. Returned after a day or two. Maybe her parents assumed this time was the same.”

  “Maybe they didn’t care,” Oliver said.

  Shields ignored him. “So, that’s her background. No other family except those in that house. No friends. And no one knows where she went when she did go missing. Social Services were aware of her, but you know their policy—best to keep the child with her mother for as long as they can, even if that mother’s off her face half the time.”

  “Heard about that myself,” Oliver said. “The wrench of separation is apparently far worse for the kid than placing her in a nice home where someone gives a shit. Makes no sense to me. Children can adapt. She’d have got over it, had a better life. Now?” He couldn’t finish what he’d wanted to say. The thought of where Glenn would end up should she be caught didn’t bear thinking about. A damaged soul forever, most likely, always thinking she was in the wrong, that no one cared.

  Shields stared at him like he’d spoken out of turn, and also like Oliver was a piece of shit he was only tolerating. He turned away, looked at Langham. “So, when you go inside, you’ll understand the mess you’ll see.”