A member of staff sitting at the doctor’s station lifted his head from the computer where he was studying the scan results. He was dressed in dark blue scrubs; a stethoscope hung around his neck. He looked drained. ‘He’s got several internal injuries which are causing us some concern,’ he said.
‘Has he said anything yet?’ queried Dylan.
The medic nodded his head, and stood up, a host of printouts clutched in his hands. ‘Yes, he told me he was picked up by taxi with Tanya King, and they were both taken to a party at a large house. They were given drugs and drink. Apparently, he was then subjected to a sexual assault by at least eight men …’ He sighed. ‘And then instead of being returned to the home, as promised, they were dumped at the roadside – no longer of any use I guess, in the state they were in …’
One of the two medics seeing to Towler could be heard trying to calm things down from behind the curtain, her voice resonating over the multitudinous sounds in the bustling department. Her voice rose even louder.
‘Let’s get this off now, shall we, Nick?’
‘Gerroff! Fuck, that hurts!’ Towler yelled, followed by a piercing scream and a tussle.
Dawn raised her eyebrows at Dylan. There was silence, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
‘How long has it been like this?’ the doctor asked.
A pause followed. ‘I don’t know …’ Towler’s voice wobbled. ‘Can you make it better?’ he asked, this time sounding as timid as a little boy.
Dylan and Dawn heard a few more noises from the patient that made them wince, and expressions of astonishment and disbelief from the attending medics.
‘We’ll get you into theatre as soon as we can, I promise. Try not to worry … it’s going to be okay.’ The voice of the doctor was calmer and much more sympathetic now.
The curtain swished back and two women swiftly passed through the opening, one in front of the other, carrying in their arms bowls covered with paper towels. Beneath the covering could clearly be seen a plethora of blooded gauzes, soiled tubes and discarded needles. A single tear rolled down the cheek of the younger of the two women and she dipped her head as she passed the detectives.
‘Is it?’ said Dylan to the passing doctor.
‘Is it what?’
‘Is it going to be okay?’
She rolled her eyes at him. ‘What do you think?’ she said. ‘It’s never going to be okay. Not till the bastards who did this to him are removed from the streets.’
The medics had left the curtain slightly open so that Towler could stay under close observation from the doctor’s station.
Alone at last, Nick Towler lifted his head slightly and looked down at the plaster covering the cannula that had been inserted into the back of his hand. His head dropped to the pillow almost immediately, the exertion too much for him. He felt drowsy and warm, comfortable now that he felt safe. He turned his head slowly to face the grey, plastic chair at the side of the bed where his soiled clothing now lay in shreds. In his drug-induced state his lip turned up at one corner of his mouth. There was no danger of him running away. His eyes found the ceiling, but just that slight movement of his body was agony. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ Hot tears ran down the side of his face onto the starched white pillow. He squeezed his eyes tightly. ‘Please make it stop hurting,’ he sobbed.
Tanya King had been heavily sedated, and they were told they would have to wait to speak to her, so the detectives headed back to the station.
They walked down the main corridor in the older part of the hospital to the exit. Although the walkway connected the wards that held all the staff and hundreds of patients and was bright with natural light in the day, in the middle of the night it felt like a different world. Claustrophobic and airless, it was occupied only by those who had no choice but to be there: the cleaners, the clinicians and the undertakers. Despite the harsh fluorescent lights it seemed a deep, murky world and, although doctors could prolong lives, the atmosphere here suggested the inevitability of decay and death. They walked in silence, each with their own thoughts, the measured pace of their footsteps echoing on the solid floor.
The path of the new line of enquiry was like a wall of darkness pressing against him. Dylan’s thoughts turned to the mechanics of the investigation. How he could help support Dawn, new to the CPU role, and temporary cover at that. First, he could offer the staff he had working in CID, to assist her where necessary – there was little else he could do for the two victims, at least tonight.
‘We haven’t got enough detail to locate the house in question,’ said Dawn as they drove through the dark town of Harrowfield back to the police station. ‘And by the time we do have any leads, it’s highly likely that it will have been cleaned up.’
Dylan turned to her. ‘In the past I’ve known someone to have changed the furniture altogether to try to make the property look nothing like what a victim might have described to us.’
Dawn looked at Dylan as he steered the car into the backyard which was empty bar a police van and a Traffic car. ‘Really?’
‘Really. It totally threw us until we found paintings and furniture described by the victim up in the attic and, on closer scrutiny, marks on the walls and indents in the carpet where the old furniture had been.’
‘Just to suggest that the victim was describing somewhere else? How devious!’
‘Exactly. That’s why this type of investigation can often be quite lengthy.’
The CID office looked just the same as it always did at night when the lights were dimmed and there was no one at the twelve desks lining both sides of the room. The wooden desks, a few with typewriters, were stacked with paperwork and piles of files of various colours, and strewn with an A4 black binder or two. There was one landline. Mostly the detectives still used paper; the latest computer technology was available for checking databases, but it wasn’t used for much else.
Dylan was exhausted from lack of sleep, but his mind still felt sharp and replayed every word of the conversation that he, Dawn and the medics had had that night, searching for a way forward. Pushing open the door marked ‘Detective Inspector’, he turned on the light. The fluorescent bulbs juddered into action. He stood for a moment, fingers on the metal filing cabinet that stood directly inside to steady himself, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He needed time to adjust to the brightness.
Dawn had continued to the kitchenette. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ he heard her call, but he didn’t answer. He should go home, but before he did so he glanced at his desk to make sure that nothing important had been placed on it since he’d left for the hospital.
On the way out, he sought Dawn. The corridor leading to the stairs and the upper floors of the police station also served as a passageway to the toilets and the Gold Command Room where ongoing major incidents were centred: those defined as kidnap, terrorism, firearms incidents and the odd chase or two. It was locked.
Around the small table in the kitchenette were four chairs. An old fridge stood next to the door and there was room for little else in there apart from a waste bin. The fridge was open. It held various sizes of Tupperware with names marked on them and the words KEEP OFF written in big, bold, black lettering on the milk containers, a pointless exercise because no one adhered to the instruction.
A microwave stood on the worktop above the fridge, which also held a kettle, and he found Dawn reaching into the cupboard full of mismatched crockery that sat alongside shelves stuffed with coffee, tea, sugar and a variety of food the officers had brought in for personal emergency consumption.
‘I’ll be going now,’ he said, just as his pager vibrated in his pocket.
Dawn and Dylan’s eyes met. ‘It’s John Benjamin,’ Dylan said. ‘He’s on his way back into the nick and wants to discuss some information he’s been given from an informer regarding Field Colt.’
Dylan had discovered from DC Benjamin that plans were in hand to close the children’s home because of a lack of funding so he was keen to see the man in charge of F
ield Colt early next morning. Peter Donaldson had overall responsibility for the children in his care at the residential home, though he failed miserably to live up to it in the detective inspector’s eyes.
On his arrival, Dylan was told by the receptionist that her boss was in a case-conference meeting and wouldn’t be available for the rest of the day.
‘That’s okay, I’ll wait,’ said Dylan, much to her surprise. ‘It’s of the utmost importance that I speak to him.’
‘What’s it about?’ she asked, giving a dry, smoker’s cough.
‘I’d rather not say,’ said Dylan, ‘but if Mr Donaldson does not manage to find time to see me, then I will have no choice but to have a team of police officers search the premises.’
Dylan watched as, looking flustered, the woman tottered down the corridor on her high-heeled shoes without offering him a seat, or any refreshments.
While he waited, he took note of his surroundings. The wide staircase had a threadbare carpet; the gold-leafed bannister was faded; the dark, oak panelling was heavily scratched; the ceiling plaster was stained and flaking and the red and gold flocked paper on the walls peeled at the corners. Taken together they gave him the impression of a crumbling slum rather than a place where children found refuge. Funding was clearly one of the children’s home’s issues. The foyer was scattered with chairs of various shapes and sizes; all the upholstery, whether it be cloth, velvet or leather, was worn and thin and looked ill-treated.
But there was something else missing from a place where children lived. There was no scampering around, no hollering, shouting or abandoned laughter. This place had an empty, unconnected feeling, as if the sadness here had taken on a life of its own.
A door could be heard opening and, quickly after, softly closing. Dylan heard a brief distant murmur, the kind which only a bar full of contented drinkers could usually produce. But it also brought about with it an inviting smell of freshly cooked food.
Five foot six, approximately sixty years old, overweight and balding, Peter Donaldson crept up on Dylan silently from between two huge stone pillars. The rolls of fat around his middle bounced up and down as he approached offering a podgy, white, liver-spotted hand.
‘Hello, Inspector Dylan,’ he gushed, with a highly perfected shibboleth grip which Dylan was aware all Freemasons used when seeking protection by a brother of the craft. ‘Why don’t you come into my office, and we can have a little chat?’ Cake crumbs had lodged at the corners of his mouth and his sickly smile was wide, showing the remains of chocolate fondant stuck between his teeth.
Dylan’s feet sank into deep-pile carpet as he entered Donaldson’s office. Donaldson went to sit behind his oak desk and waved the detective inspector into the high-backed leather chair opposite him. Behind Donaldson was a flamboyant marble fireplace over which hung a large oil painting of a Knight Templar.
‘I’m not a member,’ Dylan said flatly, the minute he sat down. With fingers entwined on his lap, he waited.
Donaldson blushed and lowered his face, but he recovered quickly, fixing his pig-like eyes on Dylan and rubbing his hands together. ‘My colleague tells me that you needed to see me urgently? I must advise you that I’m due to attend a case conference shortly. Will this take very long?’
‘That depends,’ said Dylan.
‘Depends on what?’ His eyes looked up towards the ceiling. ‘Don’t tell me, some of the residents have been causing havoc again? If so, I apologise in advance. It’s very difficult for my staff to watch over them twenty-four seven. Some – most – of them suffer from extreme behavioural or severe psychological problems, as you are probably aware … I know that is no excuse …’ His voice petered out at the sight of Dylan’s shaking head. But he wasn’t finished. ‘There’s never a dull moment here, that I can tell you.’
Dylan tried to keep his tone neutral so that Donaldson could not interpret it. ‘I’ve come here to inform you that my officers are currently investigating two serious and extremely violent sexual assaults that have occurred within the last twenty-four hours, on two children who are residents here. They were found dumped at the roadside by members of the public, injured and requiring urgent medical treatment.’
Donaldson’s hand went up to his mouth and, with his elbow on the desk, his stubby fat fingers remained hovering over his pale lips. His eyes were downcast and suddenly hooded. ‘How awful! Tell me, have you caught those responsible?’
Dylan shook his head.
‘Is there any suggestion that this took place here at Field Colt?’
Dylan’s lips curled up at the corners. ‘No. If that were the case, my officers would be crawling all over this place right now securing evidence. It took place elsewhere, or so I am told. But we also have intelligence that this home has been complicit in providing children for parties for wealthy paedophiles.’
Donaldson gave a little gasp and jumped back in his seat. ‘Goodness me,’ he cried, incredulous. ‘Well, we must quash that little rumour straight away, mustn’t we?’ He had turned as pale as an oyster. ‘I can assure you that is most definitely not true. I’ve been here for six years now, and I … Well, I can’t believe that even those two would make up such spurious allegations.’
Donaldson didn’t appear to realise he had slipped up. Dylan cocked his head and frowned. So, Donaldson did know more than he was letting on. What Dylan had yet to find out was how much. ‘Those two?’ he asked.
Donaldson took one look at Dylan, hunched over and tried to hide any further reaction.
Dylan leaned forward. ‘All investigations are about ascertaining the truth, so if anyone is lying or assisting the offenders then we will find out soon enough, don’t worry. I need you to assure me that you and your team will give us your full co-operation. In the first instance, I will need a list of all staff together with details of their duties and any other information you feel obliged to share with us. We will need to examine records of all telephone calls made and received at Field Colt by both staff and residents.’ Dylan’s expression became even more serious. ‘I also need to know which taxi firms you are in the habit of using.’
Donaldson shifted uncomfortably in his chair and, with shaking hands, filled a glass of water from a jug on his desk. He took a huge gulp.
Dylan could see beads of sweat beginning to appear at his hairline. He nodded towards the damp stains slowly spreading underneath Donaldson’s armpits. ‘You okay?’ he asked, frowning.
‘What you’ve told me is very upsetting and I find all this questioning extremely intrusive, not to mention unnecessarily disruptive: I’ve got lots of guests out there, all wondering where I am, no doubt. I haven’t got time for this. Look,’ he said, physically shaking, ‘complaints are made almost daily in a place like this, about all sorts of things. It goes with the territory, so to speak. Very few of those made, after investigation, have been discovered to have any foundation whatsoever. The staff here work very hard, solely for the benefit of the youngsters and the wider community. Who are the two that are involved?’
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, I thought you might be able to tell me who was missing this morning, Mr Donaldson!’
Donaldson looked embarrassed. ‘It goes without saying you can be assured of my full co-operation and that of my staff,’ he said.
‘Tanya King and Nick Towler are the names of those being treated in hospital.’
Donaldson threw his arms up in the air. ‘Pfff, well,’ he said with a half-smile on his face. ‘And, guess what, surprise, surprise, those two have both been severely reprimanded for their recent bad behaviour: failing to comply with house rules, drinking, smoking, running away … You name a rule, they’ve broken it.’
Dylan’s lips were set in a tight straight line. ‘I understand that they might be difficult, but one thing they can’t do is physically injure themselves, at least, not in the way which they have been … Let me tell you, the injuries inflicted on them are so severe they require surgery.’
Donaldson was immediately on
the defensive. ‘I’m not saying for one moment, Inspector, that they have caused the injuries themselves, but I’ve been told that, outside the home, they both have a habit of mixing with some very undesirable people. Of course, what has happened to them is unfortunate, but I can assure you it is nothing at all to do with anything at Field Colt.’
Dylan got up to leave. ‘I am sure you will agree, Mr Donaldson, that every complaint must be investigated diligently for the benefit of everyone concerned. Transparency and co-operation are all I ask.’ Dylan turned to go.
‘And may I reiterate,’ replied Donaldson, ‘that all my staff members are professionals who are forever under the microscope, by all different kinds of authorities, to ensure that our duty of care is constantly of the highest possible standard. They have it hard enough, without the addition of police investigations. So, may I ask you to kindly bear that in mind when you are dealing with your enquiries?’
Donaldson led DI Dylan back into the reception hall. Dylan held out his hand.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said. ‘I can promise you there will be a full and rigorous investigation on our part. This home,’ he said, taking in all the disrepair around him, ‘should be a place of safety.’
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