by Ted Tayler
“Where the heck do we start?”
“What these reports continue to emphasise is the gangs have expanded their supply methods. Artemis told Giles they termed it ‘cuckooing’ in the police forces she worked with at Durham and Portishead. The phrase has been in use for five or six years. It describes where dealers arrive in a new town and identify a vulnerable local addict. Then they move in, taking over that person’s home and sometimes, like a cuckoo, force them out. The house or flat becomes their regional base, often staffed by teenage gang members.”
“This isn’t random, is it,” said Rusty. “It’s based on a well-established technique to establish a fresh sales territory the same as those adopted by dozens of major businesses. This must take loads of organising. Street kids aren’t equipped to handle this level of sophistication. The guys at the head of these gangs are intelligent. They’re genuine entrepreneurs. It’s a pity they don’t use their skills in legitimate businesses; the national debt in the UK would be wiped out in short order.”
“True, but I can’t see them settling for a zero-hours contract and getting paid peanuts when they can rake in the profits this game offers. Their next step after finding their new nest is to establish a customer base. They pass out business cards to prospective clients. Buy, or ‘extract’ phone numbers of known drug users from local dealers,” said Phoenix. “They can then send text messages offering introductory deals to draw in new punters. If a town or city district promises real potential, more gang members move in from London. Some stay in the ‘crack house’ they’ve commandeered. Others find a bed-and-breakfast place to stay in for a few weeks.”
Rusty continued leafing through surveillance photos, and facts and figures in the files on the table. The afternoon sun had disappeared behind the main building, but the underfloor heating had started working. He knew it would be possible for him and Phoenix to continue working in comfort for several hours yet. He glanced at his watch, trying to gauge when the next call to the kitchens might be necessary. Just to send for more coffee and something to take the edge off their hunger.
“We’ll give it another thirty minutes,” said Phoenix, spotting what Rusty had done. “I’ll work out a plan of action this evening. Perhaps we could get together again after tomorrow’s meeting? Maybe even take a trip to the Home Counties to see this imaginative sales programme in action?”
“No guns, just a recce?” asked Rusty.
“Yeah,” Phoenix replied, “the people we want won’t be anywhere near the point-of-sale. We need to play this as we have in the past. Strike at the head of the snake. Leave the body to wither and die. As you said, the street level gang members don’t have the nous to run the organisation themselves. If we can identify the brains behind a few of the busiest gangs and eliminate them, then these campaigns by the sales forces will falter. We can give subtle hints to the local coppers, pointing out where the cuckoos are based. With luck, they’ll tidy up the loose ends. No doubt, they’ll apologise for not having done it sooner. They’ve done the spadework for us in these reports. I guess a lack of officers on the ground explains why they only seem to pick the lowest fruit on the branch. They can see the juicy prizes at the top of the gang structure, but they’re out of reach.”
“Out of touch, more like,” grunted Rusty. “They spend thousands of hours trying to dig up dirt on politicians and personalities who’ve been dead for a decade. Meanwhile, our kids are being poisoned under their noses and they appear to do little to tackle the problem. Except for gathering data and writing reports.”
Rusty started reading from a report by the National Crime Agency. It revealed the seven police forces closest to London had identified over eight hundred London-based criminals selling drugs in their areas. The gangs had been drawn to the middle-class, more affluent regions by what they saw as rich and easy pickings.
“Think about what we know from that first report,” he said. “If eighty separate gangs are involved, maybe with more than one main guy at the helm, you’re talking one hundred bodies the police will still need to catch and imprison. We can cast adrift the foot soldiers, by taking out the leaders. Make it easier to sweep up your loose ends. This NCA report also found criminal rivals in these satellite towns are easily subdued by the London gangs who routinely use much greater levels of violence. Some gangs have access to machine-guns, and experts worry clashes between such groups will soon break out in provincial towns.”
“I didn’t say it was going to be easy,” said Phoenix, “but, remember what I said in the meeting. We must do something. The threat of increased violence is always there, but the gangs’ best weapon is the mobile phone. These days they can buy pay-as-you-go phones virtually anonymously. That allows them to run a criminal business and cause enormous human misery. The result of their actions was underlined in the facts Minos presented this morning. We have seen an increase in the misery of drug addiction and the exploitation of vulnerable kids forced into helping these gangs.”
Phoenix collected the photos and files together. He had had enough for the day. He wanted to get back to Athena and Hope. A shower might help him to feel clean again. Rusty accompanied him, as they walked back towards the main building.
“Our first targets should come from those gangs that concentrate on the school-age children,” said Phoenix.
“I agree,” said Rusty. “Then we can look at the colleges and universities later when we have the opportunity to revisit the problem.”
“See you in the morning,” said Phoenix.
Rusty bounded up the stairs towards his apartments; then slowed, as he remembered that Artemis was below ground, in the ice-house. His partner had another three hours until her shift finished.
Phoenix strolled more leisurely to the rooms once occupied by Sir William Hunt and eased open the door as noiselessly as he could. Athena was asleep on the settee. Hope nestled in the crook of her mother’s left arm, wide-awake but totally at peace with the world.
Hope spotted movement and gazed towards the door. When she recognised a familiar face, she gave Phoenix one of her million-watt beams and gurgled a welcome.
“Ah, the innocence of youth,” said Phoenix. “How soon it dies.”
CHAPTER 3
Later that same night, in Cheltenham, Phil Hounsell sat in his car, steeling himself to walk the short distance to the detached house in Redgrove Park. As a young police constable, he had felt much the same. He had been sent to tell the parents of an eighteen-year-old boy their son had been killed in a road accident. His superior officer told him to ‘man up’ and get used to the idea that as a copper he’d be regularly informing families of bad news.
“The sooner you get the first one out of the way the better, lad,” the older man muttered, “just stick to the bare facts, don’t go into details. There’s no cause to divulge they found his head on the back seat. Along with the steel girder catapulted into his car after the lorry, he was following shed its load. Keep calm, tell them what they need to know and above all, make them think you care.”
Phil never enjoyed that part of the job; nor did he ever got used to it. It always felt like a part of him died too whenever he had to deliver the devastating news a beloved family member was never coming home again. As he rose through the ranks, he had issued his own advice to young constables, both male and female, on how to approach that first time. Whatever they did, he told them to avoid using the phrase ‘we’re sorry for your loss’. It had become so clichéd on TV shows over the years it lost any sense of being genuine.
Phil thought back over the past few months and wondered how he had found himself back in the old routine. His company Hounsell Security Services was coping. Wayne Sangster, Dusty Miller, and Jake Legg still comprised the small team he assembled after leaving the police force. He shuddered as he recalled the heady heights he had imagined HSS was destined to reach. Back when they secured the security contract for Honey B, the pop star who provided them with their first, lucrative assignment.
Only a few sh
ort weeks later, towards the end of October, he had been driving home to his wife Erica, and the kids, in a cold sweat. A visit to Larcombe Manor, that promised so much, had ended in the stuff of nightmares. He had been met by a man-mountain, who identified himself as Henry Case, Head of Security. He had then met Annabelle Fox, the charity’s CEO.
The mission he had given by his employer was to persuade certain personnel at the Manor to attend a spurious meeting at Force HQ at Portishead; a force he left only a few months earlier. Everything went pear-shaped. Annabelle Fox knew far more about him than he did about her. Not only that, she knew far more about Honey B than he clearly did. He had been so gullible.
Phil had been escorted from the room in which he met Annabelle Fox and blindfolded before leaving. They had walked several hundred yards, then descended in a lift. When they emerged, Henry Case removed the blindfold. They stood in a long, dark corridor. He had been pushed inside the first room and then left alone for several hours. There was no hope of escape.
Phil had had plenty of time to sit and think. He had seen the faces of two senior personnel at Larcombe Manor, but that wasn’t an issue, surely? Ms Fox was the public face of the Olympus charity. He had been taken to a building on the estate, with underground facilities of which the public was certainly unaware. Could that knowledge alone be enough to sign his death warrant? What else went on here? What really went on at Larcombe Manor? Did the fact Henry Case removed the blindfold suggest his life was in danger?
By the time his tormentor returned, Phil Hounsell decided to tell him everything he knew. He could see no benefit to him, either way, of holding onto any crumb of information he had gathered over the past couple of months.
The interrogation had been gruelling, but at no time did Henry Case lay a finger on him. At last, it was over, and they gave him food and drink. The following morning, Henry Case returned to visit him. He had been ordered to forget ever visiting Larcombe Manor and to keep his nose out of Olympus Project affairs.
It had been an easy choice to make. The return journey to the surface involved the blindfold again. Phil guessed it was more the personnel Case and his boss didn’t want him to see, as much as where the building lay on the estate. Or how many levels it contained.
From early November, his HSS staff had been travelling around the country. HSS provided security for a ‘glam-rock’ outfit whose fan base contained few trouble-makers. The fans had aged with the remaining band members, and Wayne and his helpers enjoyed an easy ride. The money arriving in the HSS coffers was OK, but Phil felt the need to find something to keep himself occupied. He thought it time to stick closer to home for a while; it was less dangerous.
Wayne always had an answer.
“Why not advertise that we’re in the business of finding ‘Missing Persons’, boss? You could cherry-pick jobs for locals that have disappeared without leaving a note. That would keep you close to home and bring in a steady income.”
It didn’t appeal to Phil. The job was always a pain when he’d been a detective. The police aren’t that interested in applying resources to looking for ‘mispers’ unless they’re kids. As soon as they reached sixteen, it was often more trouble than it was worth.
Most persons reported missing return soon after their disappearance without suffering any harm. A small percentage, however, will have come to harm or have been the victim of crime. That initial missing person report could kick off a major crime enquiry. Just in case the worst scenario developed, great care was taken over the investigation from the outset. Any evidence present had to be preserved, and the rules of disclosure strictly observed. It could be a nightmare. Especially when the investigation carried on for a while. The pressure on the family increased, and the police were required to give support. If the media got involved, as they inevitably did, then those pressures increased. The stretched police resources were pushed closer to the breaking point.
Against his better judgement, Phil posted advertisements in the local press; not only in the Roman city of Bath, where HSS was based but in the surrounding counties. He was only too aware of the potential number of cases that desperate families might contact him to pursue.
The annual number of missing reports around the UK exceeded a quarter of a million. Twenty thousand of those lost souls stayed missing for more than a year. The public was probably unaware there were over a thousand bodies in mortuaries across the country who stubbornly remained unidentified.
Phil often marvelled at how so many people slipped away and remained unnoticed, in a country where CCTV cameras proliferated in their millions. These people were listed on a multitude of databases, possessed cards and licences, held social media accounts and were constantly being scrutinised by ham-fisted government authorities. Yet, somehow, they disappeared, often without a trace. In the home they left behind, the daily recurring question wasn’t ‘How?’, but ‘Why?’
The enquiries had arrived soon after the first posting of the adverts. Phil discovered he had plenty of choices. A high proportion were teenagers. Teenage runaways were overwhelmingly female; with three-quarters of missing thirteen-to-seventeen-year-olds being girls. With adults, it was men that dominated, with three-quarters of disappeared people over their mid-twenties being male.
Phil selected the cases that offered a reasonable chance of success. That too was at Wayne’s suggestion.
“If you can genuinely show you have a high success rate, then clients will keep coming, boss. You might be their last hope of finding their loved ones again. They will have more faith their money will be well spent, and not poured down the drain.”
On those first few cases, Phil traced the whereabouts of eighty per cent of the family members that went ‘walkabout’. Occasionally, the missing person returned home to the bosom of the family they abandoned. Mostly, Phil had to relay the message they were alive and well but didn’t want to return.
“Be thankful for small mercies,” Wayne told him. “Even the families of the ones you couldn’t trace have still got hope. It might be remote, but you haven’t needed to tell them they’re dead.”
At the end of January, the ‘glam-rock’ tour ended. Wayne and the lads returned to Bath, awaiting their next assignment. One morning in early February, a call came through to the office. It was from the couple who owned the house Phil now sat outside.
Growing up in a happy middle-class home in Cheltenham, Carrie Ditchburn had every advantage. Her parents provided a loving, family home, and they ensured that Carrie and her younger brother, Nathan, never wanted for anything. Yet by the age of thirteen, Carrie became a regular cannabis user and swiftly descended into drug addiction. She first attended rehab at seventeen.
Phil had driven to Cheltenham with Wayne to talk with her family. Carrie’s parents filled in her early background.
“Life at home was fine. She knew she was loved and cared for,” her mother told them tearfully.
“School was a different matter,” her father had continued. “Carrie got bullied at junior school and somehow never felt she belonged. She struggled to make friends.”.
“That went on until she moved to the local academy,” continued her mother. “Carrie played truant, messed around in class, and was forever being kept in detention. In the end, they asked her to leave. We found her a place in a girl's school. The fees were exorbitant, but you always want the best for your children, don’t you? We wanted to give her every chance to turn her life around.”
While they chatted, the son, Nathan, now seventeen, had returned home from college. He sat, quietly and listened to his mother.
“That should have helped, but it didn’t,” he said. “Carrie latched on to a group of girls that seemed to like her, and she mixed with them more and more out of school. Later we found out they smoked cannabis and mixed with older teenagers who were into drugs. Instead of helping her, that crowd started her on the slippery slope. She was only thirteen, for crying out loud.”
“It sounds a familiar tale,” Phil told them. “Wha
t starts out as a way of fitting in, rapidly becomes an addiction.”
“We could see she was troubled,” said her father. “Carrie was self-harming. Her behaviour in school deteriorated even further; and when she was nearing her seventeenth birthday, she tried to kill herself.”
“My sister got into a fight with a girl at school,” said Nathan, “she thought everyone would be better off without her. After a week in the hospital, she was sent to a rehab clinic and when she came out eight weeks later, for a while she was free of drugs.”
“Then a month later she ran away,” her father said. “Carrie phoned her brother from London, a week after she left to say she was safe. Nothing to say where she was, or who she was with, what she was doing. That was over two years ago, and since that, we’ve not heard from her.”
“Neither of us,” stressed Nathan, “she must have called from a payphone. Her mobile phone was still in her room. Mum found it after she left. It was as if she wanted to make a clean break. Dad went looking for her at weekends, to begin with, but it was hopeless. Searching for a needle in a haystack. We didn’t have a clue where to start.”
“The police were helpful, though when you reported her missing?” asked Wayne.
“As soon as we told them Carrie had called to say she was safe, they switched off,” said her father.
“They pretended they hadn’t,” said Nathan. “They went through the motions when Dad pestered them, but you could tell, you know?”
Phil and Wayne knew; only too well. Phil had asked a few more questions. Wayne took details of Carrie’s friends her parents were aware of still living locally, in case she’d contacted them. Mrs Ditchburn provided a photograph of her daughter, but the last physical one the family possessed was when she was sixteen. Nathan showed Wayne a couple of selfies on her phone. The image they saw was a young girl whose eyes looked terribly sad; even when clowning around and pulling faces.