Isolation

by Jay Nadal

  “At the time it was assumed to be a suicide and nothing else? No suggestion of murder?”

  Amy shrugged but didn’t reply.

  “We’ve been looking at the files of the children from the home. There’s a high incidence of suicides.”

  She shrugged again. “Five, if you must know. Five whilst I was there. Sarah was just one of them. Five…wasted…lives,” she mumbled, her lips barely parting. “I was only there a few years, but their deaths have haunted me ever since. Do you think it’s connected to me somehow?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Scott decided to use a psychological-based question. “I know you don’t know, but if you did know, why do you think Sarah took her own life?”

  Amy returned her attention to the window and the world beyond.

  Scott nodded towards Abby, encouraging her to lead.

  Abby stepped towards Amy and rubbed her arm for reassurance. “We know that some boys and girls were possibly used as part of a prostitution ring. Were you aware of that?”

  The word prostitution stiffened Amy’s shoulders.

  Amy returned to Scott’s question from a few moments ago. The low, bitter, tone of voice laced with a hint of anger that bubbled from within her tired body surprised Scott. “Yes, I think I know why she took her life. And you’re right. But what was I supposed to do? I was the youngest member of staff, bottom of the pile. I was a nurse in my first job. My job was to deal with the knocks, the bumps, and their physical injuries. I didn’t know how to deal with their emotional injuries. Trust me. I tried.”

  “Did any of the boys and girls confide in you?”

  “Yes. I heard their painful, tragic stories. How they were exploited. How their bodies were used by grown men. I tried to help by informing other members of staff. They said they would deal with it. And I thought they had. The police came.”

  “But it continued?” pushed Abby.

  “I guess.”

  Abby reached out and took hold of Amy’s hand, feeling her clammy, bony fingers wrapped within hers. She rubbed the back of Amy’s hand with a thumb. It was the only reassurance she could offer.

  “Did Sarah have any friends, people she may have confided in?”

  Amy pursed her lips, her eyes focussing off into the distance.

  “Amy?”

  Amy gave way to the enormity of her grief. She sobbed into her hands, the tears dripping between her fingers. Her face creased, and her hands curled into fists so tight that she could feel the sweat trapped inside them.

  Scott felt McAllister’s eyes boring into him. “I think Mrs Harp has had enough already.”

  Amy waved off McAllister’s suggestion.

  “She used to hang around with another resident, a boy. They were always in each other’s company. I guess they looked out for one another. The others used to tease them, about them being boyfriend and girlfriend. But he always stood up for her. He was about two years younger than Sarah, but it never bothered him. He doted on her and was fiercely protective of her. After Sarah died, I’ve never seen someone look so sad.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  Amy nodded, guilt flushing her face red. “He told me that Sarah was one of the girls being exploited. She had been encouraged to sneak out at night and drive off with someone who used to pick up. I wasn’t firm enough. I could have stopped this,” she wailed through gritted teeth as she pounded the windowsill.

  “Anything else you can think of?” Abby asked in a soft voice.

  “I thought the police had sorted it out. It’s the police after all? Anyone in my position would assume that they were taking care of it, surely?”

  “His name?”

  “Adam Dawson.”

  48

  Anticipation tingled through the team like electrical sparks on the way to the ground. Mild murmurings of excitement rippled between them.

  “Mike, any further updates from the casino?”

  Mike referred to his notes. “Nothing of significance, Guv. I spoke to the manager. He closed up at two a.m. and McCormick wasn’t there. The cleaner came in at eight a.m., so we can assume that the shootings took place between those hours. Post-mortems are scheduled for tomorrow. Dr Hall has confirmed the cause of death as a fatal gunshot wound to the head of both individuals.”

  “CCTV?”

  Mike shook his head. “There’s no CCTV in the club, and there’s nothing on the street. Uniform are still conducting door to door, but so far we’ve drawn a blank.”

  “So we have several scenarios here. For whatever reason McCormick executed two of his bodyguards, or the three of them were ambushed, and McCormick was taken.”

  “I’m leaning towards the latter, Guv.”

  Scott agreed. McCormick had made enemies throughout his life. Extreme violence using firearms was a hallmark of the Albanian criminal syndicates.

  Helen chipped in next. “Christine remembers Sarah Critchley. Strangely, she said most of them didn’t seem too fussed by her death. Something to do with the fact that many were desensitised to their emotions.”

  Having been taken away from their families, or abandoned, or abused, it would have been a natural psychological response to shut off their emotions as a defence mechanism. He felt his heart twist and his breath shorten as he thought about how lonely, unwanted and scared that they must have felt.

  “And following on from your text message, Guv, I had enough time to ask about Adam Dawson. She couldn’t remember much about him but recalled that he’d changed a lot after Sarah’s death. He became introverted, and angry. The impression I got was they only had each other. Her passing left the poor boy alone and desolate.”

  Scott added a picture of Adam Dawson to the board, barely in his teens. His eyes had witnessed more tragedy than many grown-ups experienced in a lifetime.

  “We need to find Adam Dawson. Check the births, deaths and marriage records. Do all the other usual searches. Social security, banking, social media and mobile phone records. If he’s out there, then I want to know about it.”

  Scott sat at his desk and flicked through Sarah Critchley’s resident file. He’d instructed the team to find out more about the girl. He scanned a separate folder which contained multiple images of Sarah in various poses, but the last half a dozen stirred him the most. They included pictures taken not long after the discovery of her body, together with the ones taken during the post-mortem.

  He reflected on whether Sarah had been the first victim of their killer, he couldn’t rule out the possibility, but the MO only partially matched the MO now. If she was the first victim, where had the killer been since then? Had he moved on to removing the eyes as he changed his style? Had his mood changed? Had his anger or frustration grown over time?

  Scott returned to the candid and informal images of her. Since the team had begun exploring the files, he’d seen a small handful of images where children smiled, just in the way Sarah smiled in these. They reflected happier times. Times when she could just be a girl, a child.

  Scott’s eyes stopped on one of her leaning against a wall, a colouring book in her lap with an assortment of pencils scattered around her. Another showed an innocent, carefree moment where Sarah was in mid-flight skipping along a large skipping rope, in unison with two other girls.

  So many burning questions swarmed around Scott’s mind like angry bees. He needed to know more about Adam and Sarah. He grabbed his jacket and car keys.

  The safe house was a small bungalow settled in a quiet residential street in Rottingdean. The location was perfect, unassuming, non-descript and easy to protect. Rottingdean was sandwiched in between its neighbours of Ovingdean and Saltdean.

  An unmarked car sat on the driveway, and a thin-framed constable in plain clothes opened the door.

  “He doesn’t do much, Sir. He moans he’s bored, drinks too much beer, eats far too many packets of Thai Sweet Chilli Sensation crisps and slobs on the sofa.”

  Scott smiled. He felt a pang of pity for Ashman. What
else could the man do?

  “Hello, Samuel. How are you holding up?”

  Ashman threw Scott a scornful stare, the look saying it all.

  “I’m sorry, Samuel. This will all be over soon. Believe me; the last thing I want is for you to be holed up here with a babysitter.”

  “More like your budget can’t afford it,”

  Ashman appeared nothing more than a former shell of himself. The spark and grittiness he was once known for, had fizzled out like a wet fuse. Sadness and resignation hid behind his eyes, helplessness slowed his body, and the horrors he had witnessed followed him night and day.

  “We’ve had some further developments in the case. Do you recognise this girl?”

  Scott pulled a picture of Sarah Critchley, her bright smiling face capturing Ashman’s attention.

  “She was at the Western care home in Littlehampton. She was one of five questionable suicide cases. We’re going back to over twenty-five years ago, Samuel.”

  “How did she die?” he asked softly.

  “In a similar fashion to your wife. A large wound to her stomach.”

  “But not the eyes?”

  Scott shook his head and handed Ashman another picture.

  “Do you recognise this boy? His name is Adam Dawson, another resident at the home around the same time.”

  Ashman’s eyes bore down into the picture, his penetrative stare as sharp as the light from a magnifying glass held in direct sunlight against a piece of paper, threatening to burn a hole through it. Ashman placed the boy’s picture on the coffee table and twisted his hands into a tight ball.

  “Shit.”

  49

  “I remember him. On one occasion, he stood just a few feet behind Sarah, almost lurking. I had a gut feeling that he looked troubled. He came to the office not long after. He was so small he could barely see over the counter. A kid that young, who would take them seriously? Crying, snot dribbling from his nose, his words were incoherent, just a mess.”

  “Why did he come to you?”

  Ashman ran his hands down his face, his skin pulled tight under his fingertips.

  “Because I’d been at the care home occasionally. I was sniffing out stories on McCormick and trying to find some juicy gossip from the staff. He said he had heard me talking to one member of staff about the rumours of a prostitution ring. He said his friend Sarah had disappeared with men frequently, and that she’d cry upon her return.”

  Scott clenched his teeth, his body prickling with anger.

  “What did you do about it?”

  “What could I do, Inspector?” Ashman spat. His tone turned aggressive and hard. “I’d been warned to mind my business, or risk having parts of my body scattered around the country. Don’t forget they gave me a permanent reminder,” he added, holding up his hand with the part-missing digit.

  Scott’s eyes flashed with indignation and anger, much like lightning on a pitch-black night. He threw Ashman another picture of Sarah Critchley slumped against a tree. Scott remained silent as Samuel’s mind processed it.

  Ashman tried to defend his actions.

  “Inspector, you have to understand that it was different back then. There was no PACE, there was no professional standards department to investigate corruption, lots of bribes changed hands, and police meting out their own brand of justice. If you tried to inform on an officer, you came up against the whole force. You had to be strong, or stupid. I was neither, I was a coward…”

  Every time he opened his mouth, Scott tensed further.

  “That’s no fucking excuse, Samuel,” shouted Scott. “We’re talking about children. Kids with little hope, no support…and no love. As adults we have a duty of care to protect them.”

  “There was nothing I could do. I had got away with my life. Yes, I feel sorry for the poor girl in this picture. I didn’t know about the deaths. Between the care home, the police and McCormick, I’m sure those deaths were hushed up. I was only after anything to do with McCormick. But when I got too close…”

  Ashman looked away, a mixture of grief and guilt washing the colour from his face.

  “This is where it all started, Samuel. Western care home, I’m sure of it. It’s the only thing linking all the deaths, that and McCormick.”

  Scott reconvened the team for an evening briefing. The final records from the care home had been processed and the team shared their results. Scott took the opportunity to relate the outcome of recent visits to Amy Harp and Samuel Ashman.

  They now had a clearer idea of how human trafficking, and child exploitation had been a key part of McCormick’s business since the early days of his criminality.

  Raj had been working hard checking databases, speaking to local authorities and checking banking records. His perseverance paid off as he’d uncovered a large chunk of Adam Dawson’s life. He handed out pictures of Adam Dawson.

  “Adam Dawson joined the army not long after leaving the care home. He did twenty-five years’ service, most of it in the Parachute Regiment, 1 PARA. His army records show that he trained as a munitions expert, sniper and deep surveillance specialist.”

  “And then?”

  Raj shrugged. “That’s where the trail goes cold, Guv. He disappeared.”

  “He can’t just disappear. Is he not drawing his army pension?”

  “Nope. Nothing. The army confirmed that they have had no contact with him in any shape or form since he completed his service.”

  “I’m not surprised that he’s slipped between the cracks. The reds are hard as nails.”

  “Mike?”

  “Oh, sorry, Guv. Red Berets. That’s what we called them. There were nicknames for everyone. ‘matelots’ for the navy boys, ‘bootnecks’ are Royal Marine Commandos, SBS guys are ‘shakies’, SAS guys are ‘blades’, and a ‘crab’ was the Royal Air Force.”

  Abby rolled her eyes as the others laughed between themselves.

  “Keep looking. Speak to the army again and see if we can get a copy of his records. Without Dawson being convicted, or suspected of anything, I don’t think the MOD will release details, but it’s worth a shot.”

  Mike handed over a printout of all the candidates sent from the security agency in the last twelve months. Scott glanced through them. The only name that rang out was Declan Rafferty, the man-mountain he had met whilst visiting McCormick. He instructed Mike to obtain recent photographs of all the candidates.

  Scott was just about to continue when his mobile rang. He grabbed it from his trouser pocket and froze, his feet rooted to the floor as if cast in concrete. He waved his free hand to get the attention of the others before hitting the speakerphone button.

  The voice through the speaker sounded husky, croaky and strained.

  “This is Ryan McCormick. I’m being held against my will, tied to a chair, with my hands bound behind my back. I have a gun pressed against my head.”

  There was a hushed silence amongst the team, mirrored at the other end of the line.

  “The man holding me wants me to apologise for my actions, the people I have hurt and the people who have died…but if he thinks I’m going to fucking apologise, he can go fuck him…”

  McCormick’s last rant of self-defiance was curtailed by the sound of thumps like blow upon blow being rained down on him.

  A familiar voice carried on after a lengthy pause.

  “Inspector, I thought you were good. You appeared to put the pieces together. But sadly, on this occasion you were a little too late. Tut-tut.”

  50

  The previous night had ended in a flurry of excitement, concern and intrigue. Following the call, the team had pulled out all the stops to cross-reference every file, every database and CCTV image to identify the caller and McCormick’s whereabouts.

  The CCTV control room had shifted through hours of tape overnight for any sign of McCormick’s abduction. The team had called in as many favours as they could from their snouts, hoping there was news on the street grapevine. Scott had raced over to the hig
h-tech unit so they could analyse his conversation using the software they’d installed on his phone.

  Bleary-eyed and unshaven, Scott reflected on the case. He sank further into his chair and peered around as his mind wandered between the case and the state of his office.

  He’d been oblivious to the piles of case files stacked on the floor along the length of one wall, and the accumulation of gym kit stuffed behind his door so Meadows never tripped over it. He tutted in self-disgust.

  His eyes stopped at a pile of in-house magazines and circulars gathering dust on top of his filing cabinet. Worst of all, the five coffee mugs perched on the end of his desk, complete with ring stains and the first signs of microbiological growth colonising the bottoms.

  The air was thick with the scent of coffee as he felt the first sips of his third cup creep over his taste buds and down his throat. After only a few minutes he was bathing in the kick of the caffeine.

  “You look as bad as I feel.” Abby dragged herself through the door and collapsed into the seat opposite.

  “I feel worse,” he replied, running his hand through his stubble. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I was hoping the tech team had made progress with the recorded call with McCormick.”

  “Nothing through yet?”

  He shook his head. “Cara’s moved in and I’ve hardly seen her. Not a great start, hey?”

  “Well, just be grateful she’s not a civvy, otherwise she’d be off in a flash. Unless you’re in the job, I think no one understands the life we live.”

  Abby had left the office after one a.m. last night and had managed less than four hours’ sleep. She often needed an hour after getting home to wind down, quiet her mind and do chores, before crawling into bed.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine.” Abby’s standard response.

  Scott hauled himself up to something resembling semi-vertical. “No, I mean, how are you holding up?”