The Disappearance of Katie Wren

by Cross,Amy

  For a moment, the photographs seem almost abstract, filled with contrasting reds and browns.

  “They call him Joe,” Annabelle tells me.

  “They call who Joe?”

  “The kid. In the photo you're looking at.”

  I tilt my head, trying to work out what she means. After a moment, however, I realize that I'm looking at the bloodied, fleshless torso of what looks like a child, with sections of bright pink meat that still cling to the bone.

  Turning away, I feel for a few seconds as if I might be about re-experience my breakfast.

  “Joe's just a placeholder name,” Annabelle continues, “until they can figure out who he really was. Right now, he's just some kid who was fished out of the Thames last year, with his arms and legs bound. He also had several markings carved into his bones, and I mean literally into his bones! Not just the flesh. Most likely while he was still alive, too. The official police investigation was inconclusive, so Bob took up the cause and so far he's getting much closer to figuring out the kid's origin.”

  “How did he enter the country?” Bob asks, as I turn back to him. “Who was responsible for him? He was only seven or eight years old, so he didn't get here by himself. Who brought him here and why aren't they looking for him?”

  I force myself to look once again at the photo, although after a moment I have to turn away. I simply can't stomach such awful things.

  “It's obscene,” Annabelle continues. “Somebody brought that kid into the country, tortured and abused him, and then trussed him up as some kind of ritual offering before dumping him in the river. And we only know about him 'cause he happened to get caught in a damaged fishing net. Million to one chance. Makes you wonder how many others have been thrown into the river over the years, without anyone ever finding them.”

  “There must be some mistake,” I stammer, taking deep breaths in an effort to settle my stomach. “Something like this can't actually be going on. Not here, not in the civilized world.”

  “Joe's the third kid that's been found in the Thames since the 1970's,” Joe explains as he sets the photos down. “The symbols carved into his bones match symbols on the other two bodies, so there's clearly a connection. I've been looking into it, but I have to move slowly. Partly because of a lack of resources, and partly because I know I don't dare draw too much attention to myself.”

  “And why would that be?” I ask.

  “Because whoever's behind this,” he continues, “is clearly someone with a lotta power.”

  I glance at him, and then at Annabelle, before turning and making my way across the gloomy, under-lit room. There are tables all around, piled high with photographs and grimy relics that I don't dare examine too closely. Spotting a bright cabinet, I make my way over, hoping to distract myself, but to my horror I see that there's a dead child suspended in some kind of pale yellow liquid.

  “And that's Joe himself,” Bob says as I turn to him. “I know it's not very respectful to have him out like that, but I need to be able to examine his body. I figure it's better to have him readily available, than to keep moving him in and out of the refrigeration zone. Plus, here I can be sure he doesn't get lost like most of the other evidence. This way, he's right under my nose the whole time.”

  “It's grotesque,” I stammer, still staring at the horrific cabinet.

  Bob grabs a dark sheet from one of the nearby tables.

  “You want me to cover him up?” he asks.

  “Of course I do!”

  He comes over and hangs the sheet over the cabinet, hiding the corpse from view.

  “There,” he mutters. “Just while you're here.”

  “What does any of this have to do with my daughter?” I ask, turning to Annabelle. “You're wasting my time!”

  “I examined the photos you sent,” Bob continues, heading back to the other side of the lab. “Annabelle, I think you might be onto something. The markings that were daubed all over the wall of that apartment are a clear match for some of the symbols we found on the kid that was pulled from the river in 1980. Obviously I'm still not entirely sure what they mean, but I'm slowly making progress and I'll get there eventually.”

  He mutters something else under his breath, but he seems lost in thought as he examines the photos.

  “Bob's a genius,” Annabelle says as she sidles over to join me. “I know this place might seem chaotic, but you're looking at one of the world's leading experts on urban satanic groups.”

  “I like to keep my lab the way I keep my mind,” Bob mumbles. “It works for me.”

  “Like I said,” Annabelle continues, “he's a genius. And I don't use that word lightly. I've been coming to Bob for advice since... Well, since as long as I can remember. My mentor Harry Plume introduced us. He told me that a journalist's most important asset is her contacts, and he was right. If anything's going on in this city, Bob will know how to get to the bottom of it. Or the top of it. Or the side, or whatever's needed. The point is, Bob's your man.”

  “This can't be real,” I whisper, turning and looking around at the myriad tables, cabinets and chests, each of which appears dedicated to some fresh aspect of the impossible.

  Sketches.

  Models.

  Print-outs.

  Books piled upon books.

  Jewels and diamonds, and fragments of rotten wood.

  Skulls.

  Bones.

  Casts of faces.

  An old wire-frame pram.

  And that's even before I look up, where I see – hanging from the high rafters – various stuffed animals and even large, curved flanks of wood that appear to have once been the hulls of boats. Higher up, other shapes loom in the darkness, and I can't even begin to imagine some of the darker items that have been assembled in this cavernous place.

  “People would know,” I say finally, feeling another shudder pass through my chest.

  I turn to Annabelle, who seems amused by my shock.

  “People would know!” I say again. “If all of this was going on right under their noses, the people of London would know about it! If there were satanists running around, they'd know!”

  “Would they?”

  “Of course they would,” I splutter, exasperated by the sheer absurdity of what she's trying to make me believe. I head over to a nearby table, where I find the skull of some unfortunate animal, complete with red-stained lettering on the bone. “If a child, a poor desperate child, had been pulled out of the river,” I continue, “and if there were signs that it had been murdered in some ritualistic way, there would be a national outrage. It'd be on the front page of every newspaper until the case had been solved!”

  I stare at the skull for a moment.

  “Would it?” Annabelle asks finally.

  I turn to her. “Of course!”

  “Maybe in a just and decent world,” she replies, as the smile fades from her lips, “but not in this one. In this one, the lights of the city are too bright. Nobody pays much attention to what's being dredged up from the dark river. They're too busy watching reality TV shows and baking competitions.”

  I shake my head. “I'm sure your cynicism is deeply fashionable, but it has little basis in reality!”

  “Tell that to the kid over there,” she mutters, turning and looking at the covered cabinet. “Tell it to all the other kids who are down in the silt at the bottom of the Thames, never to be found.”

  “People would not allow this to be covered up!” I say firmly.

  “Fine, then why don't you start by pulling that sheet off little Joe's cabinet?” she replies, pointing at the cabinet behind me. “After all, you're the one who wanted it covered up a few minutes ago.”

  “That was different,” I stammer. “That was for the child's dignity!”

  “Oh? Was it really?”

  “Yes!”

  She rolls her eyes as she turns away. “Whatever. Bob, do you have something more for me to be going on here? I need to know about the guy who was hauled out of the rive
r with a goat's head sewn to the top of his neck-stub. That's gotta mean something, right?”

  “It could mean several things,” he replies.

  “Then give me a rundown. That's what I'm here for. And don't take all day, because I've got other places I need to be.”

  “Well if that's your -”

  “Please, Bob!” she adds, with a hint of desperation in her voice. “We've talked about this stuff before. You know why it's important.” She glances at me, almost as if she's worried about what I might overhear, and then she turns back to him. “If you've got any leads about the goat guy, I need to hear them. Especially if they're linked to the you-know-what house. Has anything like that ever been fished out of the river before?”

  Bob stares at her for a moment, before briefly glancing at me. He eyes me with suspicion for a few seconds, and then finally he turns back to Annabelle.

  “I need to take you into the back-room,” he tells her. “For obvious reasons, your friend is gonna have to wait here.”

  “Her daughter's missing,” Annabelle replies. “I think she deserves to be shown whatever you've got. Please, this is important.”

  “You know the rules,” he mutters, turning and limping toward a door at the far end of the room, while taking a set of jangling keys from his pocket. “I've got something for you, Annabelle, but it's for your eyes only. Your buddy has to wait out here and entertain herself for a few minutes. And that's not negotiable.”

  Annabelle turns to me.

  “Sorry, Winnie, but you heard the man. Don't worry, I'll tell you exactly what I see. Bob's just a bit weird when it comes to his inner sanctum.”

  She heads after him, leaving me alone in the lab. Once the door has swung shut, I turn and look around, and finally I head over to a wall that has been covered by tacked diagrams, maps and photographs. This Bob fellow might well be out of his mind, but he's most certainly someone who keeps detailed records of his ideas and theories. On the first map, for example, he appears to have marked out every government building in London, annotating each of them with scrawled notes that I find completely indecipherable.

  These look like the paranoid ramblings of a lunatic.

  Wandering past the map, I stop at a desk and pick up the nearest book, which turns out to be some centuries-old guide to the darker parts of the city. I flip through carefully, taking care not to stress the book's creaking spine, and I find that the pages contain not only text but also maps and diagrams. Some of the latter depict naked human figures, along with a wide variety of animals and other creatures. As I turn to another page, I see a drawing of a man whose body has been split open down the middle, with his entrails seemingly fanned out across the floor. The whole thing is really rather gruesome, and I can't help but wonder what kind of sensible person would ever write such a book.

  I suppose the world is made of all sorts.

  After a few more minutes, I glance over toward the door in the far corner, and I start to wonder whether I might have been forgotten. Taking a deep breath, I busy myself with a couple more books, until once again I'm struck by the fact that I've now been left alone for quite some time. I'm hardly one to complain about such things, but I feel it's a tad rude that I've just been abandoned in such a manner, especially when I desperately want to get out of here and continue the search for Katie.

  Finally, even though I know I should be more patient, I make my way across the room until I reach the door, which I then carefully ease open. On the other side, there's a long corridor, leading down into the bowels of the building. I hesitate, before realizing I can hear voices in the distance, so I slip through and make my way along the corridor. I know I shouldn't intrude, but at the same time I think perhaps it's time to tell Annabelle that I'll catch up with her later. I want to go and speak to some people at Katie's summer school, and I'm sure I'm not needed here.

  When I get to the end of the corridor, I hesitate for a moment as I hear the voices more distinctly.

  “What more do you want me to tell you?” Bob asks, sounding frustrated. “Annie, there's -”

  “Don't call me Annie!”

  He sighs. “Annabelle, seriously, I've given you everything I have, but I can't solve the whole thing for you! I'm just -”

  “But is it linked to Knott's Court?”

  Another sigh.

  “Can you rule it out?” she continues. “Can you rule it in? Come on, Bob, you know why this is important to me! I've already done a lot of legwork, so I think I know the answer.”

  “There are certain similarities to other cases,” he replies, “but -”

  “I asked Winnie, she said her daughter never mentioned Knott's Court.”

  “Do you mind keeping your voice down?” he whispers. “The walls have ears around here, remember? I do not want to get caught talking about that place.”

  “Then you'd better tell me what I want to know. You have a hell of a gut there, Bob. Time to put it to use. In your esteemed opinion, does the disappearance of Katie Wren have that old familiar Knott's Court stench?”

  I wait, trying to work out what in the name of God they're talking about, but it seems as if the question has left Bob well and truly stumped.

  “It might do,” he says finally, sounding rather reluctant. “Yeah, I mean... There's not much to go on, but based on what you've told me so far, a link certainly seems possible. But that only makes it all the more important that you back off! Even I don't want to touch that mess! I value my life too much!”

  Again, they fall silent. I want to edge forward, to try to see what they're doing, but after a moment I realize I should just turn around and go back to the other room. If I just -

  “Gotcha!” Annabelle says suddenly, stepping around the corner and placing a hand on my shoulder. “Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to listen in on other people's conversations, Winnie?”

  “What's Knott's Court?” I ask, pulling away from her.

  She pauses, before shaking her head. “You don't need to know that right now.”

  “Oh, I think I do!” I say firmly, filled with anger at the thought that she might cut me out of the investigation. “I overheard enough just now to know that it might be linked to Katie's disappearance. If you won't tell me, I promise you I'll find out some other way, so I rather think you should be honest with me.”

  I pause, seeing a hint of fear in her eyes.

  “What's Knott's Court?” I continue, refusing to back down. “Tell me right now, or so help me God our deal is off!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Knott's Court

  “There it is,” she mutters once she's cut the engine, leaving us sitting in complete darkness. “About fifty meters along, on the left. See it?”

  I lean forward and squint, but in truth I can't really see anything at all. There are cars parked on either side of the road, and streetlights spilling pools of light, but the buildings are barely distinguishable from the starless sky. Everything in this wretched city just seems the same to me: gray and miserable and rundown past the point of no return.

  “I'm not sure I know what I'm supposed to be looking at,” I say finally, turning to her. “We'll have to go a little closer.”

  “No effin' way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is as close to Knott's Court as I wanna get right now,” she continues, with an edge of real fear in her voice. “Trust me, it's better this way. I mean, hell, we're already gonna be on cameras and in databases and all that crap, just for being on the same street. But if we go any closer at all, we'll start to really get noticed, and that's when things'll get tricky.”

  I stare ahead for a moment longer, but I still can't really see any details of the buildings.

  “Knott's Court,” Annabelle says after a moment, “is the creepiest, most disgusting and downright evil place in the whole of London. If you doubt that, it's only because you don't know anything about what goes on in there. They'd be famous throughout the world if they weren't so good at keeping themselves
secret, and if they hadn't paid off everyone in position of power to keep them hidden. They don't advertise what they're up to, but they make sure no-one asks too many questions. Trust me, Knott's Court is a cancer on the face of the planet. No, actually it's worse than that. Knott's Court makes cancer seem pleasant.”

  Before I'm able to reply, I realize I can just about make out some details of the buildings. We're on a road not too far from Westminster, and one of the houses in particular has a very grand set of stone steps leading up from the street. There are huge columns, too, supporting a high wedge-shaped section that's just a little taller than anything else in the surrounding area. All things considered, the house certainly seems rather imposing, although after a moment I realize that most of the lights seem to be off inside, with only a faint glow in a couple of the windows.

  “So what is it?” I ask, turning to Annabelle. “I don't understand, what's so awful about the place? It just looks like a normal house.”

  Reaching into her pocket, she takes out a small hip flask, and she proceeds to take a swig of whiskey before passing it to me.

  I shake my head.

  Her hands are shaking as she replaces the lid, but her eyes remain fixed on the building. There's darkness in her eyes, more darkness than before, as if she truly hates what she's seeing.

  “Knott's Court is the one place in London that everyone knows is untouchable,” she continues finally. “It doesn't matter who you are or what you're doing. If Knott's Court is even mentioned, you walk away. Cops, doctors, politicians, judges, lawyers, reporters, anyone in any walk of life knows that you do not mess with any situation where Knott's Court is involved. You don't even get to know why. You're just told to leave it alone, and if you start asking questions, you get shut down real fast.”

  She removes the hip flask's lid and then takes another, longer swig.

  “Of course,” she adds, before burping briefly, “that's if you even need to know that the place exists at all. Most people never even hear the name Knott's Court, 'cause the system closes ranks real effin' fast. The only reason I know anything at all about it is that when I started in the newspaper business, I had a mentor who took a close interest in Knott's Court. When he was sober, he always told me to just forget about the place, but after a few drinks... That's when he'd open up and start talking about the stories he'd heard. He was the kind of man who hates evil wherever he sees it. He couldn't look away.”