The Child Taker (2009)

by Conrad Jones

  “I think we’re going to need a new truck,” Tank pulled himself up, and dusted his clothes down. They were soaked, cut, battered and bruised.

  The sound of a well-tuned Honda engine caught their attention. Through the trees, they could see the headlight of a motorbike, and they watched as someone exchanged a few brief words with the driver, before climbing onto the back of it. The engine purred and the motorcyclist weaved through the debris on the road before speeding his pillion away. They limped out of the trees and walked cautiously toward the shattered prison bus. Their Shogun was upside down on the verge to the left, and the small saloon car, which had blocked the road, was gone.

  “They must have left the keys in the ignition,” Grace said. She realised that the prisoners from the crippled bus had probably used it to escape.

  “Careless, to say the least,” Tank commented. “No prizes for guessing who the bike rider came back for.”

  They stepped around the body of the police volunteer, and approached the prison bus. The vehicle creaked and groaned as the rain hammered down onto its shattered carcass. They peered into the wreckage; there was nothing to see but twisted steel and shattered Perspex.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Delamere Forest

  Peter Knowles had been the head of Cheshire’s Armed Response Unit for nearly eighteen months now, and things weren’t going too well. He had climbed through the ranks quickly, joining as a university graduate on a fast track programme. The programmes were designed to attract the brightest students into the police force by offering them accelerated promotion prospects, but the candidates were also targets for resentment and criticism from officers who had followed the traditional career paths. Knowles was confident and assertive, which was translated by his critics as arrogance. He had his own ideas on how to run the elite firearms unit, and his own ideas on who should be selected to serve in it. When he’d taken over, the unit was full of long serving officers who had been selected for the unit as a reward for their loyalty to the force, and not because they were the best candidates for the job. Knowles had a very different view of how the selection process should work. He was of the opinion that his team should the sharpest, fittest, and brightest officers in the force, and he had made enemies of both junior and senior officers as he rang the changes through the unit.

  Now he was leading one of the biggest operations in the Armed Response Unit’s history. Four fully armed teams, plus hundreds of uniformed officers in support, would be operating under the watchful eye of the Divisional Commanders and the county’s helicopters. The night had begun on a high when his unit had successfully captured the two men thought to be responsible for the kidnap of the Kelly twins. Unfortunately he had purposely left one of his unit at the hospital to guard the paedophile, Jack Howarth, and that decision had come back to bite him on the ass. He had never rated Constable Davis, his poor opinion of him had affected his better judgement, and now his superior officer was breathing down his neck.

  “Why was Constable Davis left at the hospital to guard Jack Howarth?” the Divisional Commander asked in a crisp no nonsense tone. He had a twitch that made his eyes blink rapidly when he was annoyed, and they were twitching ten to the dozen.

  “I’ve questioned his suitability for the firearms unit, Sir, and so I thought that he would be best used at the hospital,” Knowles answered. His men were in position around the forest, and he was ready to move. He really didn’t need an inquest into what had happened at the hospital right now.

  “So you have had issues with his performance?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Then why did you leave an incompetent officer in charge of the most wanted man in the country?”

  “With respect, I would hardly call Howarth the most wanted man in the country, Sir.”

  “Oh really, perhaps you could give me the benefit of your wisdom then, Knowles, what would you call him?”

  Knowles struggled to answer his superior, and his face flushed red with embarrassment. He remained silent, rather than let the issue deteriorate into a slanging match. The commander wasn’t going to let him off the hook though.

  “He’s obviously a high profile prisoner, Sir,” was the best answer he could muster, without causing his boss offence.

  “High profile?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “The abduction of the Kelly twins has caused a national outcry from the public that is completely unprecedented,” the commander was so annoyed spittle was flying as he spoke. There were junior officers around in earshot, and rumours of trouble between the top brass were spreading like wild fire through the unit.

  “I’m aware of the news furore that the case has created, Sir, however with respect I do not make my decisions on the back of what the newspapers will think, Sir.”

  “Really and how do you make your decisions, Knowles?”

  “I’m not sure now is the time for a debate, Sir.”

  “You left an incompetent officer in charge of a high profile criminal, resulting in the death of that officer, thousands of pounds worth of damage, and the subsequent escape of that criminal. I will take charge of this operation with immediate effect, and you will follow my orders to the letter, Knowles, do you understand?” his rant ended with a flurry of eyelid activity.

  “Yes, Sir,” Knowles flushed purple with anger, but there was little point in arguing the point now. His decision to leave Davis alone was flawed, and the blame for the deaths and the resulting collateral damage would land squarely on his doorstep. He would deal with it when the job in hand was completed.

  “Then get your men into position, and let’s get this farm cleared as quickly as possible,” the commander removed his flat peaked hat, and replaced it with a combat helmet. Then he took a bulletproof vest from the equipment rack and struggled into it. “Get me the helicopter on the radio.”

  “It isn’t in the area yet, Sir,” Knowles replied curtly.

  “What, why on earth not?” the commander whined.

  “We wanted to take the farm by surprise, Sir,” Knowles was concerned about the engine noise alerting any remaining gangsters.

  The farm was situated in ten acres of valley clearing, surrounded by dense pine forest. The police had set up an operations centre in a mobile trailer, which was used to control operations for major incidents. Across the road was a stagnant lake surrounded by rotting trunks of trees that had been killed by the acidity of the water. The stable block was in clear view from their vantage point.

  “You can’t allow your men to walk into that area without any aerial reconnaissance,” the Commander said.

  “I have spotters on each side of the stable quadrant, Sir, and we have scanned the buildings thoroughly,” Knowles stood his ground.

  “What have they found?”

  “The stable block is built in a wide U-shape, with an access track from the main road here,” Knowles pointed to an ordinance survey map as he spoke to his furious superior officer. “Our heat sensors are picking up four horses in this block here, a fire, which seems to be contained in an oil drum here, and two humans in this stable here.”

  “Could it be the twins?” the Commander asked excitedly.

  “No, Sir, they’re adults,” Knowles spoiled his fun.

  “Have your men secured the area, and we’ll move in and neutralise those targets,” the Commander ordered, and his eyelids fluttered rapidly. The two senior officers stepped out of the incident room, and they barked orders as they moved toward the farm to lead the unit into action.

  Ten minutes later the officers were lying face down in the grass, approaching the stable block from the north. The oil drum fire was still burning fiercely, and from the smell, the police officers feared the worst.

  “What do you think?” the Commander asked nervously. He had seen service with the Royal Navy in the Falklands conflict, where British ships were constantly the target of Argentine missile attacks. The unmistakable smell of burning human flesh would stay with him forever.

/>   “I’m not sure what to think, Sir,” Knowles didn’t want to admit that he thought the twins were probably dead already, and that the evidence of their demise was being torched in the oil drum inferno.

  “Have our heat sensors picked up any movement from that stable?” the Commander asked, referring to the two humans that had shown up on the scanners.

  “No, Sir, they seem to be stationary, probably asleep.”

  “Okay, let’s stop messing around. Send your men in,” the Commander stood up and began to walk toward the stables. Crawling on his elbows through wet grass was losing its appeal, and the driving rain had dampened his enthusiasm to return to the helm of the operation.

  “With respect, Sir, we don’t know who is in that stable, or what they’re armed with,” Knowles tried to restrain his superior. “A forced entry and frontal assault would be rash, Sir, to say the least.”

  “Nonsense!” the commander said. “Is the stable door bolted from the outside?”

  The radio crackled as the spotters were asked for their opinion.

  “No, Sir, the door isn’t locked,” Knowles replied uncertainly.

  “Exactly, so whoever is in there is not a prisoner, and we must assume that they’re our targets. Send a unit in immediately,” the Commander nodded his head to reinforce his orders.

  “Sir, I think we should be very cautious,” Knowles stuttered. He wasn’t sure why he was wary, but he had a bad feeling about the situation, a police officer’s hunch.

  “Move in,” the Commander brushed past him as if he wasn’t there.

  A unit swept through the stable block in a silent formation, and another surrounded the area, blocking any escape attempts and acting as cover for their exposed colleagues. The first team reached the stable door without incident, they positioned themselves to open the door and swarm the occupants inside. The commanding officers moved to the corner of the stable block, yards away from the stable door as the unit moved in. The lead man opened the door and covered the immediate space inside with his weapon as his colleagues swept through the door in deadly unison.

  “Armed police! Drop your weapons!” the response team members cried in unison as they barged into the stable. The combination of shock and awe threw suspects into a state of confusion. Two things became obvious as the armed unit assessed the situation inside the stable. One was that the two people inside were no threat to them, and number two was that they had seconds to live.

  There were two camp beds several yards away from each other, and tied to them with several rolls of gaffer tape were Patrick, and Margaret Lesner. Hajj had taken them from their home as insurance against Alfie Lesner talking to the police. If he kept quiet, then no one would know about the farm. If he talked then he would lead the police straight to the farm, and his parents. Patrick and Margaret were surrounded by fifty kilos of fertilizer and hydrogen peroxide, which is a very unstable mixture. When the stable door was opened, the pin was pulled from a phosphor grenade, and when that ignited, it acted as the detonator of a massive fertiliser bomb. Patrick, Margaret, Peter Knowles, the Divisional Commander and two units of the Armed Response team were blown to pieces. Human remains were still being dredged from the acidic lake a fortnight later.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  The Horse Box

  Geraint Jones was driving home from a long shift in the customs sheds. He had worked for the port authority as a customs officer at Heysham ferry terminal for over ten years. Heysham was situated on the North West coast of England, and was a key container port connecting Ireland to Europe. The port had always been busy, and trying to stop weapons and hard drugs crossing the Irish Sea was a twenty four hour, three hundred and sixty five days a year operation. Tensions at the port had been heightened by the all ports bulletin being issued, in response to the kidnap of the Kelly twins from a tent in the Lake District. No one thought that they would be brought back to the north, and the ports on the south coast were favourites to find the suspect horsebox.

  Geraint lived in a rural area, inland from the port, and his journey home took him over a single-track bridge, which crossed the River Lune. The water was high at this time of year, flooded further by the heavy rainfall that had been falling for days now. The road wound through miles of green open farmland separated by dry-stone walls, and hilly wooded areas, which couldn’t be farmed. Agriculture was the biggest industry in the area, outside of the port. He was listening to the news on the radio, looking forward to getting home, and opening a bottle of Merlot, when he past an abandoned derelict petrol station, one of many which were dotted all over the English countryside. The rise of petrol monopolies, and supermarket domination had scuppered thousands of small garage businesses across the country, and rural farming areas were the worst hit. Geraint glanced at the rusty pumps and the shattered signage, which swung gently in the wind. He had taken his first car there once for a head gasket change, an old Mini Cooper that he thrashed around the country lanes until it fell to bits. The garage had been a big part of the community back then, but now it was a dangerous eyesore. The metal grids, which covered the underground tanks, had long since been stolen and sold for scrap, leaving treacherous deep holes in the ground. Behind the single storey frontage was an old workshop, one used to house a servicing and minor repair business, and Geraint was certain that he’d seen a large blue vehicle parked in it as he glanced sideways. He slammed on the brakes and brought his Ford to a stop. His watch said it was five o’clock in the morning and horizon to the east was starting to brighten as the sun began to rise.

  Geraint reached for his hands free kit. The icon on the screen told him that he had no signal, normal service for that part of the world. The network was patchy at best in rural England. He made a decision and slipped the gearstick into reverse, slowly rolling the car backward to the garage forecourt entrance. He looked over the building; it was filthy and the paint was blistered and peeling. He swung the vehicle onto the forecourt and his headlights illuminated the petrol station and the workshop beyond it. There was no mistake. He had seen a blue truck parked inside the old workshop.

  Geraint edged his car forward at a crawl toward the rear of the building, and as he rounded the corner, the dark vehicle came into full view. It was a navy blue horsebox, which was the vehicle that they had been alerted to be on the lookout for. He was looking directly into the deserted driver’s cab. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he weighed up his options.

  Geraint was no coward, but he was no hero either. He had a wife and three children at home, and they were his number one priority in life. The faces of his three daughters flitted through his mind, and anger began to build up inside him. The thought of a paedophile ring stealing his precious daughters and subjecting them to unthinkable things made him feel nauseous, and he knew that he had to act. He opened the door and went around to the back of his car. He popped the boot and reached inside to remove a torch, and a tyre iron. The iron felt cold and strangely comforting in his hand, he flicked on the torch beam and walked toward the horsebox. The ground beneath his feet was blackened with engine oil, and air was heavy with its smell. Geraint froze as a loud creak reached his ears, but when he turned, it was just the old signage caught by the breeze. His heart was pounding ten to the dozen as he neared the workshop. He played the torchlight all over the vehicle, checking beneath it and illuminating the furthest corners of the building. Nothing moved, but he was sure he could hear the sound of laboured breathing coming from inside the horsebox. The conundrum that he faced now was a difficult one. He could hear life in the vehicle, but dare he enter the building, risking his own life to see, or did he leave now and drive somewhere that he could get a signal and alert the authorities. If he did that whoever was inside the horsebox could die, and he was not sure if he could live with that. If it was his daughters in that vehicle, and a passerby left them to die because he didn’t have the courage to help them, would he be able to forgive them because they were scared for themselves?

  The answe
r was simple and he began to tiptoe around the horsebox. He reached the back of the vehicle, and he could see that the ramp was lowered. As he shone the torch beam over the wooden ramp, he could see that it was coated in thick sticky liquid. Geraint bent closer to it and he could smell the thick coppery odour of blood. There were gallons of it dripping from the vehicle through the sides of the horsebox, onto the oil stained concrete. He felt very scared as he stepped gingerly onto the ramp. The breathing sound stopped suddenly and the silence deafened him. He shone the torch inside, frightened by what he would find, and the scene which met him was worse than anything that he could have imagined.

  The carcasses of four large horses lay butchered on the floor of the horsebox. Their underbellies had been slit from the breastbone to the groin, and their innards had been pulled from their bodies and dumped on the straw next to them. The intestines had been ripped apart as if someone were trying to find something. Geraint had seen similar scenes in photographs during his training. They were used to demonstrate the lengths drug smugglers would go to, in order to recover their contraband if something went wrong with their operation. The stench of offal and excrement cloyed at his nostrils and he had to grab at the handrail to stop himself from being sick. There was no sound at all except the driving rain outside.