The Child Taker (2009)

by Conrad Jones

  His thoughts were disturbed as the theatre door opened and Jack Howarth was wheeled out. An orderly pushed the bed toward the room that he’d been in previously.

  “You still here, Constable,” Jack asked sarcastically. His stitches had been replaced under a local anaesthetic, and although it had numbed the pain in his nether regions, it had done nothing to dull his wit.

  “Don’t push your luck, Howarth, I’m not in the mood for your nonsense,” the constable said grumpily. He checked that Jack’s handcuffs were secure as the gurney was pushed past him.

  “Have you arrested Alfie Lesner yet?” Jack chuckled as he was wheeled into his ward.

  “Shut up Howarth,” Davis said wearily. His heart was not in the task that faced him, not one bit. His colleagues had been buzzing with excitement and nervous anticipation, summoned to join the response teams. There was talk of heavily armed opposition, allegedly responsible for the kidnap of the Kelly twins, drug running and international arms deals. In comparison, he had to cope with the cutting jibes of an aging nonce. Initially there had been two rookie constables guarding Howarth until it became clear that he was somehow involved in the kidnapping, and then it was decided that he needed an armed officer, just in case. Rumours of Jack Howarth’s previous record were being passed around the nursing staff like Chinese Whispers, and random employees were walking up and down the corridor trying to get a peek at the ‘Child Taker’ through his window. He had turned into the hospital freak show.

  Constable Davis was parched and he wanted a drink. His colleagues hadn’t even left him with a flask of weak tea to get him through his shift, as all thoughts had been of the imminent operation. He eyed a dark haired nurse who was doing her rounds further down the corridor, and so he decided to kill two birds with one stone, as it were. Number one he could try to coax a much needed cup of coffee out of her, and number two he could try to alleviate the excruciating boredom by chatting up a sexy young nurse. It seemed like a good plan. He closed the door to Jack’s room and checked the corridor for strangers; a couple of orderlies dressed in mint green uniforms peered through the round viewing window in the door.

  “He looks like a paedophile,” one of the men commented to the other. They laughed as they carried on about their business.

  The constable waited outside the room that the brunette nurse had entered. He checked his reflection in the glass, and sucked in his belly. It didn’t make a great deal of difference; he still looked like a beer drinker squashed into a bulletproof riot vest. Perhaps his superior officer was right, and he should lose some weight. The door opened and the nurse walked out briskly. She was nearly past him before he’d composed himself enough to speak to her.

  “Hi there,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind me asking you, but I’ve been placed on personal protection duties alone. There’s not many of us qualified to work alone, you see, but I’m parched.”

  “Oh dear,” She turned her head briefly as she walked. “I think you’re getting me confused with the vending machine on the first floor.”

  “I didn’t mean any offense, it’s just that I can’t leave my post you see, I’m gasping,” he joked, but she was entering the next room before he’d finished speaking.

  “Sorry, too busy,” she called as she closed the door behind her.

  “Just my luck,” he muttered. He felt inside his combat pants for loose change, and he counted the grand total of forty-seven pence. A quick rummage through his other pockets netted him another two pence. He walked back to Jack’s room and checked him through the window. Jack appeared to be sleeping, eyes closed and his chest was rising and falling rhythmically.

  Constable Davis headed for the elevator and the smell of disinfectant intensified his thirst. He pressed the call button and jiggled the coins in his hand as he waited for the lift to arrive. The voices of two nurses passing the other end of the landing drew his attention, and he watched them walking toward the stairs, their starched uniforms clinging to all the right places. They were obviously taking the stairs because it would burn calories, and keep their figures trim. The sound of their footsteps echoed up the stairwell as they descended. He thought about following their example, but the lift beeped and the doors opened, and another opportunity to burn excess fat was missed. Two dark skinned ambulance men exited the car, leaving it empty, and Constable Davis stepped into it and pressed the button for the first floor. The ambulance men turned right as they exited and headed toward the stairwell. The doors closed and he felt the motors whirring into life, lowering him toward refreshment. The lift approached the second floor and slowed before stopping completely. Constable Davis straightened up and breathed in again as the doors opened, in anticipation of a gaggle of firm young nurses rushing through the doors. His imaginary scenario was shattered when a plump Asian doctor stepped into the lift. There was stethoscope hung around his neck and a collection of ballpoint pens in his top pocket. He brought the smell of coriander and spices with him; they lingered on him from his meal break. Constable Davis breathed out and returned his body to its natural slouch position.

  The doors opened at the first floor and the fat police officer found himself confronted by a bank of six vending machines. There were two Cola machines, one containing chocolate, crisps and biscuits, and even a fruit vending machine. The constable made a mental note to avoid the fruit. There were half a dozen battered metal chairs with ripped seatbacks next to them, which, acted as a chill-out area for worried friends and relatives. The hot drinks machine was on the far left and a young couple dressed in hooded tracksuits were banging the coin slot and cursing at it.

  “Hey, pack that in,” Davis shouted to them as he approached. The young man turned aggressively, was about to unleash a torrent of abuse when he realised that the police officer was twice his size, and armed.

  “The machine’s swallowed my fucking money,” the man said in his defence. Constable Davis could see from the size of his pupils that he was wired on some kind of narcotic, possibly ecstasy but probably heroin.

  “Smacking it will not fix the problem, mate, so leave it alone.”

  “Yes, well we’re going outside for a fag anyway,” the female hoody sneered. They both giggled, but their demeanour was malevolent. Constable Davis had seen enough smack heads in his time to know that they were unpredictable and often violent if they were provoked. It didn’t matter that one of them was female, because they could be just as violent when they were under the influence of drugs. The duo seemed to be waiting for a reason to attack, or retreat. The heroin was slowing their natural reactions, fight or flight. The male laughed and kicked the vending machine hard, before running off down the corridor, and his girlfriend tipped over a chair before following in his tracks.

  “Who ate all the pies? Who ate all the pies? You fat bastard, you fat bastard, you ate all the pies,” the duo sang in unison as they ran away.

  “Everyone’s a comedian today,” Davis muttered. He ran his fingers over the selection buttons, until he found, white tea with sugar. The price required was sixty pence, eleven pence more than he was carrying in his sticky palm.

  “Shit. I do not believe this is happening to me today,” he kicked the vending machine in frustration and a handful of coins clattered into the reject slot. The police officer looked up and down the corridor before retrieving the rejected monies from the machine. He chuckled to himself as he counted his winnings. There was enough for tea and crisps, and a chocolate bar too, happy days.

  Constable Davis munched on salt and vinegar crisps and bit the first two inches from a Yorkie bar as the lift carried him back to the fourth floor. He slurped some of the hot liquid that was masquerading as white tea with sugar, and although it tasted like it was dishwater, it was welcome. When he arrived, the corridor was empty, and the prospect of spending the next few hours reading the newspaper and munching on confectionary did not seem too bad anymore. Things were looking much brighter, until he opened the door to Jack’s room.

  “Oh, my god,” he
spat a mouthful of potato snacks and tea across the room. The bed was empty and there was blood spatter on the floor. It made a narrow fan pattern up the wall and across the ceiling. A pair of shiny handcuffs was dangling from the bed frame, which he couldn’t understand as the bracelets were still closed at either end. He put the tea down on the floor and scanned the room for clues. There was precious little to see with naked eye, forensic tests would obviously tell a more detailed story. He followed the blood spatter from the ceiling down to the skirting boards. Then he noticed a bloody lump of flesh on the floor, beneath the bed. Closer inspection revealed it was a human thumb, and it answered the question of how did Jack Howarth, the ‘Child Taker’ escape the handcuffs without opening them. Easily, either he, or someone else sliced of his thumb at the root, allowing the bracelet to slip over the hand unhampered. Constable Davis pulled the Glock fourteen from his holster and followed droplets of blood down the corridor.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Tank

  Tank felt the vibration from the second explosion, and he instinctively sank lower in his seat. The ground floor windows at the front of the old police station were blown in, and flames from the exploded vehicles were flicking at the ceilings and walls inside. Thick black smoke was flooding through the shattered windows, filling the building with choking toxic fumes. A furtive figure ran across the car park to their left hand side, and darted down an alleyway. Tank couldn’t make out whether they were male or female, white or black, because it was too dark and they were hooded.

  “What do you think?” Grace said watching the police station intensely.

  “I think that someone is using diversionary tactics, do you?” Tank replied.

  “That’s what I’m thinking, too much of a coincidence to be anything else,” Grace took a small set of night sights from the glove box and scanned the area.

  “You keep your eyes open here, I’m going to see why our friend is running away down that alleyway,” Tank opened the door and sprinted down the road which ran parallel to the dark passageway. The road was well lit, and on the left set back was an arts centre, with a high glass foyer. A number of people had come outside to see what was happening at the police station. To his right was a row of terraced houses, and Tank figured that the alleyway ran behind them towards the town centre. He kept his weapon holstered as he ran between the houses and a never-ending line of parked cars. The sound of sirens wailing drifted on the night air. The fire brigade were obviously en route. Fifty yards further on there was a gap between the terraces, and Tank stepped into the darkness and listened. He could hear heavy footsteps echoing from the alleyway, and the sound of laboured breathing, but the runner was ahead of him further down the alleyway. Tank pushed his body away from the wall and sprinted along the pavement, nearly flattening a courting couple as he dashed past them.

  “Hey, watch it!” the man shouted after him.

  Tank ignored the warning and carried on toward the next break in the houses. A hundred yards on, he was panting for breath when he turned into the alleyway. He thought that he’d missed his target, maybe he’d been quicker, or maybe there had been another access road for the runner to escape down, but then he heard footsteps approaching. The runner was walking now, either too tired to keep running or thinking that they’d put enough distance between themselves and the police station. Tank walked quietly to the back entry, and waited in the darkness for the fugitive to appear.

  “Why were you running away?” Tank stepped out of the shadows and blocked his path.

  “What?” the runner was a young white man, maybe late teens or early twenties. He had a hooded sports top on, black tracksuit pants and dirty white trainers. Tank saw that his eyes were glazed and slow to react. “I’m not running away from anything, man.”

  “Take the hood off and show me some identification,” Tank flashed his ID card and stepped closer to the youngster.

  “Fuck you, man,” the runner tried to step past Tank but a huge strong arm slammed into his chest, stunning him. Tank pushed the hood off the man’s head and grabbed his face in his hand. There were spots and scabs around his mouth and his teeth were blackened and broken.

  “Are you using crystal meth?” Tank pushed him against the wall.

  “No way, man,” he tried to look offended, but his eyes had a mind of their own.

  “If I arrest you now, it will be twenty four hours at least before you’re processed. Do you think that you can stay clean that long without really hurting?” Tank searched his pockets as he spoke.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he whined. Tank pulled a Zippo lighter from one of his pockets, and five crisp twenty-pound notes from the other.

  “You’ve got one chance to tell me who gave you this money and this lighter,” Tank waved them in his face.

  “They’re mine, give them back,” he grabbed at them weakly.

  “If they were yours, then you’d have already smoked this money, and swapped the lighter for more drugs, one last time, who gave you the money?”

  “Fuck you!”

  Tank brought his right hand up sharply and hit him across the face with the back of his hand. The runner’s legs buckled at the knees. Tank grabbed him by the back of the neck, and he twisted the hood around his fist, before lifting the youth from the floor completely. He dangled in mid air and his legs kicked uselessly. His face turned purple and his eyes began to bulge from his head as he choked. Tank brought him level with his own face.

  “Do you want to tell me where you got the money from?”

  The youth couldn’t speak but he nodded desperately. Tank lowered him to the floor, but maintained the grip on his clothes.

  “A guy on a motorbike gave me the money, and the lighter, and a couple of rags,” he rubbed his throat and gasped for air.

  “Carry on,” Tank lifted him an inch.

  “Okay, okay. He gave me a ton to torch a couple of cars outside the station, man.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “What?”

  “What did he look like, black, white, old, young?”

  “Black, well foreign anyway, youngish.”

  “What type of motorbike?”

  “It was a beauty, man, a Fire Blade, red and white faring.”

  “When was this?”

  “Five minutes ago, at the station,” the youngster was beginning to get angst. His skin had become pallid and covered in a film of perspiration.

  “At the police station?”

  “No, man, at the railway station.”

  Tank had heard enough for now, and he pulled the young arsonist back onto the main road. He took two plasticuffs from his belt and held them in his left hand as they approached a concrete lamppost.

  “Put your hands out behind your back,” Tank grabbed his sleeve.

  “What are you doing?” the junkie looked desperate. “I’ve told you what happened.”

  “You’ve just set fire to a police station my stoned friend, and you’re looking at a long stretch in jail,” Tank fastened his hands behind his back and then strapped him to the lamppost. “I’ll tell the police where you are when I get back to the station.”

  “What about my money, you bastard?” the youth called after him.

  Tank ran back to the police station and had to push his way through a small crowd of onlookers who had left some of the late night drinking clubs in the town. Fire engines were arriving en mass and the fire chiefs were directing the tenders to the front and back of the building. Grace had moved her vehicle to the main road, so that she could see both sides of the police station, and she was scanning the area through night vision glasses to see if she could spot anyone acting suspiciously, or paying too much attention to the goings on. He spotted a junior officer holding the crowd back, and directing traffic.

  “There’s a youth handcuffed to a lamppost a few hundred yards down the street,” Tank said as he approached him. The officer looked confused even when Tank had shown him his Counter Terrorist ID. “He had this mone
y on him and this lighter, and he started the fire by stuffing rags into the petrol caps, and then lighting them.”

  “Have you arrested him?” the officer asked.

  “You can do that, Constable,” Tank smiled. “It’ll be a great collar for you, might even get you a sergeant’s job.”

  The police officer smiled and nodded. He pocketed the evidence and headed through the onlookers to apprehend the arsonist, visions of a commendation in mind. Tank walked the short distance to the main road and approached Grace’s vehicle.