by Tim Ellis
Xena sniffed. ‘Cocaine.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘How do you not know that? Don’t breathe in – you’ll get high.’
‘Okay.’
Xena stuck her head out to see what was going on, and counted seven men. She was about to return fire when more bullets thudded into the packs of drugs next to her head, so she ducked back behind the drugs.
‘Now what?’ Stick said.
‘You’re like a broken record.’
‘I don’t know if that still applies, you know. I mean, do they still have vinyl records? Does the music on CDs or DVDs get stuck? Mind you, it’s all downloaded onto those iPod things nowadays, isn’t it? Yeah, I’m not sure . . .’
‘What the hell are you on about?’
‘ARMED POLICE. YOU’RE SURROUNDED. PUT YOUR WEAPONS DOWN AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.’
‘That’s the Chief’s voice, isn’t it?’ Stick said.
‘Yeah. He’s going to come in here on his white stallion and save the day.’
Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘Has the Chief got a horse?’
‘Have you not seen it tied up in the station car park?’
‘You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?’
‘Do you think?’
The Chief was sent a hail of bullets in reply.
‘They’re not going to give themselves up, are they?’
‘I’d say not.’
Bullets sprayed around them, thudding into the drugs and the wall at their backs.
Stick stuck his head above the drugs and fired off a couple of rounds. ‘I think I got one of them.’
‘How many bullets have you got left?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Aren’t you counting them as you fire?’
‘No – Was I meant to?’
‘We have seventeen bullets each. If we empty the magazines, what’s to stop the drug smugglers walking over here and shooting us?’
‘Ah!’
‘Save at least seven bullets for self-defence. So, how many have you fired so far?’
‘I’d say about three bullets.’
‘Which means you have fourteen left. Don’t fire unless you’ve identified a clear target.’
‘Okay. This reminds me of an old western film I saw once . . .’
‘Did they get out alive?’
‘No.’
***
They were sitting in the morning briefing. Unlike yesterday, they’d managed to arrive early and grab a seat near the front. He cast his mind back to earlier.
‘I have over a hundred messages from serial killers,’ Richards said as she came into the kitchen carrying her laptop.
He’d been up since six o’clock with Jack and Melody. Of course, Digby wanted to help with the morning baths, but when he’d smelt Jack’s dirty nappy he decided to go back to bed and crawled under the covers in an attempt to distance himself from the smell.
Had it really only been two years since he’d first met Richards? How his life had changed during that time. Before, he’d been a carefree single man with no social life to speak of. Now, he was married to a beautiful woman, and had two biological children and an adopted Richards.
‘You need to see a therapist,’ he said as he spooned out Digby’s breakfast into the dog’s bowl.
‘Listen to this:
Hi Mary,
My name’s Hunter. Take a look at my profile, you’ll see that I’m a real cool guy. I like extreme sports. Most weekends I’m either up a mountain, down a cave, or white-water rafting on death-defying rivers. I’m single through choice, but I could make an exception for you. How would you like to come over and investigate my credentials? I look forward to hearing from you – message me.
Yours
Hunter.’
‘Sounds like Action Man in the flesh.’
‘Sounds like a . . .’
‘I don’t think your mother would approve of any bad language.’
‘I bet he’s just a blob of jelly, and wouldn’t know one end of a white-water raft from the other.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find someone soon.’
‘Here’s another one:
Hello Mary,
I’m a bit shy. Well, a lot really. I work in the Environmental Department at the Local Council. It’s my job to make sure people care as much about recycling their waste as I do. I hope you’re a recycler? Anyway, I don’t think you’ll say yes to my suggestion, but there’s a recycling conference in Chingford where we could get to know each other a bit better over some recycling initiatives. What do you think?
I look forward to giving you tips on your recycling
Arthur.’
‘He sounds fun’
‘What I wouldn’t give for a normal man.’
‘There are normal men out there. Look at the Chief – he’s normal.’
‘On the surface, but what’s he really like underneath?’ She bit her lip. ‘You don’t know what you don’t know. I mean, they all appear normal at first, but then six months down the line they say: “Oh, by the way, I like to beat women and children black and blue, and there’s this weird thing I like to do in bed.” . . .’
‘We’ll get you some psychological help. I know someone who knows someone.’
‘I don’t know if I’ll ever get married.’
‘You will. I’m looking forward to giving you away.’
‘I bet.’
Now, DI Anne Pollard walked to the front of the incident room and began the Daily Management Meeting. ‘Good morning everyone, and thank you for your hard work so far. It’s been twenty-four hours since Lisa Cabot went missing. The level of risk remains high and we’re conducting the investigation with that in mind. We’ve assumed – in the absence of any other relevant information – that Lisa has gone missing against her will and been abducted, or is a murder victim. We’ve eliminated the mother, the step-father and the male visitor – who we now know to be Peter Holgate – from our enquiries. Here’s what we know so far: Eight year-old Lisa Cabot left her home – 15 Hailey Avenue in Rye – at eight-thirty on Tuesday, February 17. After an initial delay, due to the mother not seeing the automated text sent by Forrest Primary School because she was in bed with Peter Holgate, we began our search for the child at ten o’clock. We notified all outside agencies, National Ports and the media. We flooded the route she took to school with police officers who went door-to-door. They questioned people in their homes, on the street and when they came home from work last night. The staff and children at Forest Primary School were questioned, and it was established that Lisa Cabot was last seen on the final part of Lyttons Way . . .’ She pointed to the road on the whiteboard map. ‘. . . But not one single person saw her getting into a vehicle. It’s as if she vanished into thin air. Well, we know that isn’t possible, so that’s our focus today. Someone must have seen where she went. We’re still examining every piece of CCTV footage from around that area, we’re identifying and interviewing every driver of every vehicle on that CCTV footage, but nothing has come of that yet. Since the beginning of the investigation we’ve been pulling in and interviewing all registered and unregistered child sex offenders, but no luck so far. We still have volunteers searching Rye Meads, Roydon Mill and the Sewage Works, and some of you may have seen me making an appeal on Crimestoppers last night . . .’
There were mutterings of approval from those assembled. He hadn’t seen her on the show, but he’d seen a snippet of her appeal on the ten o’clock news. She’d had a makeover. Not that she didn’t usually look good, but he was sure that there’d be a dramatic increase in males – and probably some females – queuing up at the police recruitment office this morning.
‘ . . . I also made an appeal for witnesses at Hoddesdon Town’s home game last night . . .’
‘They lost 5 – 1,’ someone shouted from the back of the room.
Anne ignored the comment. ‘Finally, after questioning her best friend – a boy by the name of Jimmy Williams – we discov
ered that she was planning to meet her father which has opened up more lines of enquiry . . .’
A thin-faced man with a port-wine stain covering his left ear stuck his hand up. ‘Sergeant Leon Durham, Ma’am . . .’
‘I know what you’re going to say, Sergeant Durham, so let me stop you there. As I mentioned yesterday morning, Lisa Cabot’s father – Frank – died three years ago, and we have a death certificate to prove it. However, it could be that the death certificate is a forgery, or simply mistaken identity. So, we exhumed the body late yesterday, and I’m waiting to hear from the pathologist at King George Hospital on whether Frank Cabot actually is in that coffin. It’s also possible that Frank Cabot is not Lisa’s father, which then begs the question – who is? Lisa’s DNA is also being run through the National Database to see if there’s a familial match in there somewhere. Another possibility is that she became the focus of a paedophile, who targeted and groomed her online and then abducted her. So, there we have it. As far as we’re concerned – Lisa Cabot has been abducted. To that end, our six lines of enquiry are the interrogation of the CCTV footage, which Inspector Paul Lancaster is coordinating; identifying and interviewing local paedophiles, which is the responsibility of Inspector Maureen Threadneedle; identifying who exactly Lisa Cabot’s father is, and I’m putting DI Jed Parish in charge of that . . .’
Richards elbowed him and grinned.
‘. . . Searching and questioning people in the local area, which Inspector Charlie Mathews will be responsible for. He’s not here this morning because he’s on the ground with an enhanced team covering Lisa Cabot’s route to school. Last night I obtained a search warrant covering all the houses, garages and outbuildings in the area of Lyttons Way. I don’t want to make the same mistake that has been made in some other missing persons’ investigations where the victim was subsequently found to be within spitting distance of where they went missing. The search of the more remote areas is under the control of Inspector Toby Munro and that is ongoing; and lastly . . .’
A female constable stood up. ‘Excuse me, Ma’am. What about the forensic examination of Lisa’s computer and the mother’s tablet?’
‘Ah, right on cue Constable Stephens – the sixth strand of the investigation. Let me introduce you all to Pete Wharton from forensics who’s been working closely with the people at CEOPs. He’ll explain what they’ve been doing.’
A dishevelled unshaven man with rounded shoulders, greasy hair that had been haphazardly fashioned into a ponytail and a haunted look in his eyes shuffled to the front of the room. ‘Mmmm! Yeah. Hi. Pete Wharton. Oh yeah, you already know that. I used to be a hacker, but now . . . Well, now I’m working for the enemy . . . not that you’re the enemy . . . Anyway, what’s interesting is that she covered her online tracks. Now, if I’m correct Lisa is eight years old . . .?’ He glanced at Anne Pollard.
‘That’s right, Pete.’
‘Well, we asked her parents and her teachers, and discovered that she wasn’t any kind of computer genius, so someone must have been telling her what to do and how to do it. We found that the cookies on her computer had been deleted.’ He licked his lips. ‘Now, I’m not talking about my favourite triple chocolate cookies here . . .’
There was a ripple of laughter.
‘I’m talking about the cookies that are stored on your computer every time you visit a website. There were no cookies on Lisa Cabot’s computer, which is virtually impossible. For those of you in the know, you’ll be aware that every web browser has the ability to delete cookies. Invariably hijacker, malware, spyware or parasites infect a user’s hard drive – and variants of these can replicate themselves ad infinitum under different names . . . My point here is that there are always cookies on a user’s computer unless they’re running some of the more sophisticated software out there.’
‘But there were no cookies on Lisa Cabot’s computer?’ Anne Pollard prompted him.
‘Exactly.’
‘So you can’t identify the websites she visited?’
‘I didn’t say that. What I’m saying is that eight year-old Lisa Cabot didn’t have the technical know-how to hide her online tracks. And here’s something else as well. She had the Tor internet browser on her desktop, which protects a user’s privacy, stops people like me from learning what sites a user visits, and it also prevents those sites from identifying the user’s physical location. An eight year-old child wouldn’t know about Tor, and even if she did she certainly wouldn’t have needed to download it for browsing the internet.’
‘So what are you saying, Pete?’ Anne prompted him again.
‘That we think she was being groomed. And to prevent the authorities from finding out who was grooming her once she went missing, that person showed her how to make herself anonymous online. Not only was she covering her tracks, but she was also covering his tracks as well.’
Parish could see that Anne was being surprisingly patient with Pete Wharton. ‘Did you find out which sites she visited?’
‘Oh yes. We have software that . . .’
‘And do you know who the person is who was grooming her?’
‘That’s a little bit trickier, but we’re getting there.’
‘When do you think you’ll be able to identify him?’
‘Well, things aren’t that simple, but as I said – we’re getting there.’
‘Today? Tomorrow? Next week?’
‘Maybe later today, or tomorrow . . . It’ll certainly be before next week.’
‘The sooner the better, Pete. And to make sure you stay focussed on what you’re meant to be doing, I’m putting DI Kani Chaudhri in charge of this investigative strand.’ She nodded at a thin pleasant-looking Indian police officer.
‘Of course,’ Pete said. ‘Good idea.’
‘Thanks for your hard work thus far, Pete.’
Pete shambled back to the side of the room.
Anne addressed the room. ‘Okay, so we have a good idea that she was being groomed online, which again opens up further lines of enquiry. It could be a paedophile – slightly more computer literate than your average paedophile, but a paedophile all the same. We’re dragging in the locals, but this person might not be a local. Also, we might have no record of him in the register. I’m sure you all recall the report compiled by DCI Bob McLachlan of the Met in 2000, which suggested that 250,000 men in Britain were paedophiles – that’s one in every two hundred men, and that was a conservative estimate, which has risen to 300,000 during the intervening years. Less than half of those are on the Sex Offenders’ Register. And I’m not including any of the historical child sex-abuse investigations – Operations Yewtree, Midland, Fairbank, Hydrant, Ravine and any number of others.’ She glanced at Maureen Threadneedle. ‘It occurred to me at three o’clock this morning that all of these investigative strands might very well be connected in some way. For instance, the person who’s been grooming her online could have been posing as her father and he might also be on the CCTV footage. With that in mind, I’d like you to re-visit every vehicle on the CCTV footage, Maureen . . .’
Maureen Threadneedle nodded. She had heavy bags under her eyes that she could have used for her weekly shopping, tired shoulder-length brown hair and a thin miserable mouth that gave people the impression that her face didn’t know how to smile.
Parish remembered how she’d spoken to PC Lola Leveque in Missing Persons just before Jack had been born, how he’d prised Lola away from her and how she’d promised to make him pay for that – he was still waiting. He knew that she was one of the top Inspectors in the Force when it came to results, but a more bitter and twisted person he had yet to meet.
‘Check the backgrounds of all adult passengers as well as the drivers, match physical appearance against identity photographs on driving licenses or passports, check that the registration numbers match the vehicles. I can’t believe that nobody saw Lisa Cabot disappear. Somebody must have seen something. Finally, there’ll be a multi-agency review this afternoon, and I’d like to
give them some good news. Right, get out there and find Lisa Cabot, people.’
Chapter Twelve
‘In the fucking cellar?’ Bronwyn said. With help from Jerry she was now sitting with her back against the wall and her bare arse on the cold concrete floor. She was glad there was no light, because all she had on was the stupid hospital gown with its crazy opening at the back. She massaged her neck. ‘My neck hurts, and my mouth feels as though someone did unspeakable things in it.’
‘Talking of unspeakable things,’ Joe said. ‘You’re wearing one of those hospital gowns, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t even think about it slimeball.’
‘You can’t control my thoughts. Mmmm! I can see that the gown is open at the back . . .’
‘I’m going to cut off your dick and stuff it in your mouth if you don’t get your fucking eyeballs out of the back of my gown.’
‘Mmmm!’
Shakin’ butted in. ‘And that’s the thanks we get for coming to rescue you.’
Bronwyn grunted. ‘You call this a rescue?’
‘Do you know what’s going on?’ Jerry said.
‘They’re trafficking in human organs.’ She told them about hacking into the hospital computer system, and about the encrypted email written to Shote from Ibrahim.
‘Oh God!’ Joe said.
‘Don’t worry slimeball, I think your organs are safe. Nobody in their right mind would pay for your inferior organs. Mind you, a hardly-used brain might be worth a few shekels.’
‘Huh! My organs are just as good as anybody else’s.’
Bronwyn blew a raspberry. ‘Anyway, it’s not just about organs – it’s about compatible organs. I have AB negative blood, which is pretty rare apparently, and somebody with that blood-type obviously wants one of my organs.’
‘Do you know who?’ Shakin’ said.