by Bo Brennan
St. James’s Hospital, Hampshire.
Lisa Lewis struggled to open her eyes, her heavy lids felt like they'd been nailed shut. She stretched and yawned with the momentous effort it took. God she was thirsty. She raised a hand blindly to her mouth, her lips were crispy dry and cracked. She hadn't had a drink for nine months so knew it wasn't the mother of all hangovers she was suffering. Billy must've had her up all night again.
Billy.
She opened her eyes and sat up in the bed, confusion twisting her head in every direction. She was in a small clinical room, in a single metal bed. She grabbed at the front of the white hospital gown she was wearing and flung her legs to the floor. Where the fuck was she and why?
Clutching her head, she stood up. She felt groggy as hell and her balance was off. Barefoot, she slowly staggered to the door and pulled at the handle. It didn’t open. She gripped it with both hands and pulled with all her weight. It wouldn't budge. Wide eyed, she turned her head back to take in the room. She was locked in. Locked in a hospital room. Where were her kids? Where was Billy?
And then she remembered.
She slammed her hands against the door and shouted for her son. There must be people out there who knew where Billy was. Her palms turned to fists and her shouts into screams. She pounded on the door until she was so hoarse she thought her throat would bleed. And someone finally came.
Chapter 5
Winchester, Hampshire.
Penny Cordwell tapped her adopted mother’s credit card number into her computer. She'd pay her back, she'd understand. While she waited for the payment to process she toggled back to the Facebook profile.
It was old and hadn't been used for years, but in her heart she was sure it was him.
There were loads of Declan Maloney’s on Facebook, far more than she'd anticipated, and spread all over the world. She'd worked through the night systematically narrowing them down by age and location until she was left with three possibilities. This one hadn't been a frequent user, the profile had no pictures or friends, but his timeline showed he'd 'liked' several posts on adoption and he’d been a member of the Forced Adoption group. She knew it was him, she could feel it with every fibre of her body.
Now all she needed was an address.
She toggled back to the Tracesmart page, her stomach flipping giddy somersaults when an address appeared on the screen. Her shoulders slumped when she read the last entry was from the 2008 electoral register. There was nothing after that. Same as the Facebook profile.
Penny chewed at the skin around her fingernails and wondered if he'd died too. No, she'd feel something if he had, she was sure of it. She hit the print button and emptied out the contents of her college rucksack onto her bed, refilling it with summer dresses and essentials as his last known whereabouts printed.
She scribbled a note to her mum and dad, slipped the credit card into her pocket, and snatched the document from the printer. She'd been too late for her birth mother - there was no time to waste in finding her brother. His last address in London was the obvious place to start.
City Secondary School, Winchester.
India Kane waited for Sasha to close the classroom door behind her. “Sweet kid,” she said leaning back in the uncomfortable plastic chair.
“Yeah she is,” Terri said. “So what do you think?”
India shifted from side to side. “I think it’s cruel to make kids sit on these fucking things all day.”
Terri tutted. “About Sasha’s mum you idiot.”
India rolled her eyes. The prim knitted twinset her sister was sporting had obviously come with a free sense of humour bypass. But the fact remained a plastic chair and the summer heat was conducive to a sweaty arse. “It sounds like she's done a bunk to me.”
“No. Definitely not,” Terri said vigorously shaking her head. “She wouldn't do that.”
India raised a brow and crossed her arms. “You're always moaning about the useless bloody parents.”
“If it was half my other kids I'd probably agree with you. But not this one, Ind. This one actually gives a shit. She’s a good mum.”
India stared at her. “If you say so.”
“Er, news flash - good mothers do exist,” Terri snapped glaring back. She rubbed at her brow and took a deep breath before calmly adding, “I phoned the hospital but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“Well they bloody won’t will they, you’re not a relative.”
“But they'd tell you,” Terri said raking her fingers through her hair. “Something's seriously wrong here. I know this woman, Ind. She wouldn't just leave her daughter to fend for herself.”
India let out an exasperated sigh. “I'm a cop, Terri, not a bloody social worker. You should be calling that guy you shagged last night.”
“I can’t,” Terri murmured. “I kicked him in the balls.”
India let out a strangled little chuckle.
Terri frowned. “It’s not funny. He was a right dirty bastard, wanted me to dress up as a schoolgirl and stuff. The fucker ripped my favourite jacket. “
India’s eyes narrowed. “What’s his name?”
Terri sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I'm not telling you.”
India spied a petrol blue hue creeping from under the cuff of her cardigan and onto the skin of her wrist. She reached out and pulled the sleeve back. “Fucker do that too did he?”
Terri pulled her arm away and yanked the cuff down to her fingertips. “It's nothing. It doesn't matter.”
“Matters to me,” India growled. “Probably matters to the kids he deals with as well.”
Terri hunched her shoulders and clasped her hands in her lap. “Look, all I want you to do is pop to the hospital and find out what's going on with Sasha Grant's mum.”
India gritted her teeth and stared at her. All she wanted to do was break the fucker's hands who dared to put them on her sister. “All right, I'll do it,” she said standing up. “I'll go to the hospital right now and see what I can find out.”
“Thank you,” Terri said smiling with relief as she opened the classroom door.
“Don't thank me just yet,” India said quirking a half smile back. “You'll only get the info when I get that fucker's name.”
Chapter 6
London.
Alan Roberts looked at his watch and knocked the door for the third time. He didn't have time to mess around. They’d lumbered him with sixteen cases today, reinforcing his suspicion they were out to get him.
The kitchen window was open. If it wasn't for the security bars he would've been tempted to climb inside. He bent down and lifted the letterbox. “Open up Karen, I know you're in there. Don't make me call the police.”
He smiled to himself when he heard shuffling behind the door. The police threat worked every time.
“What do you want?” a voice called back. “I ain’t got no money to buy nuffin', and I got nuffin' worth nicking.”
Alan took a step back when an elderly woman with a wisp of pink hair - walking stick raised, and poised to attack - opened the door. “I'm Social Services,” he said holding up the identification badge slung round his neck.
She jabbed at him with the stick, catching him in the ribs. “About bloody time. I've been waiting three months for you lot to fix the soddin' shower.”
Alan raised a hand defensively, ready to block another prod. A crazy old grandmother wielding a stick like a samurai was all he needed. “I'm here to see Karen,” he said.
The old woman screwed up her face and stared at him. “You ain't 'ere about my shower then?”
“No. I've come to see Karen McGregor,” he said slowly and loudly.
“I ain't bleedin' deaf,” the woman said. “When are you lot gonna fix my bleedin’ shower?”
Alan sighed. “That's the council's job. You need to phone them for repairs.”
The woman shook her head. “You're from the council aintcha?”
“Different department.” Alan said. “I'm from Soci
al Services, child protection. I'm here to see Karen.”
“She don't live here.”
Alan frowned and looked down at his case file and back up at the door number of the flat. He had the right number, but it was like a bloody maze around here. “I'm looking for Flat 6, Tempest House,” he said glancing around at the concrete jungle of high rises surrounding him.
“You're at it.” The old woman tapped the door number with her stick. “Flat 6, Tempest ‘Ouse. Like I said, she don't live here.”
“Then where does she live?” Alan hadn't seen any other address in the file and the baby was due next week.
“How the hell should I know?” the old woman said. “You're the one from the bleedin' council. You lot dish the flats out to these young girls willy bloody nilly.”
Alan grimaced. “The notes in her file say one of my colleagues visited her here last week”
“I don't care what your notes say,” the old woman said raising her stick and poking him to punctuate her words. “She. Don't. Bloody. Live. 'Ere. Got it?”
“Got it.” Alan let out a hefty sigh, turned on his heels, and almost ran towards the estate bookmakers where he’d paid some chav a fiver to protect his car.
“Oi, what about me shower?” the old woman shouted after him. “Three months and I'm still bloody waiting.” Alan ignored her. Thought there was more chance of the spiteful old crow croaking it than the council finding a workman brave enough to fix it.
She was still waving her stick and shouting at him from the doorstep as he surveyed the broken glass covering his passenger seat. The paid up chav and his car stereo were both gone. Alan clenched his jaw. Yep, this was just what he needed - another fucking reminder that Haltingbury was a shithole. If he’d have just kept his mouth shut he’d still be happily bumbling along in Hampshire. And well on his way to promotion.
He brushed off the tiny glass cubes that had strayed onto the driver's seat and slipped behind the wheel. As he started the engine he glanced up at the bookies and wondered if they’d take a bet on him being driven out of his job by the end of the year.
Royal South Hants Hospital, Winchester.
India bit into her apple as she approached the middle age librarian type on the information desk. “Where's the kids' unit?”
The woman looked at her over the top of her glasses. “Maternity, Neonatal, or Paediatrics?”
India shrugged and showed the woman her warrant card. “If I had a sick new-born where would he be?”
The woman glanced at the ID and adjusted the glasses on her nose with her index finger before responding. “Neonatal. Level E, second floor.”
India stepped from the lift to find the sterile paint palate and gut churning stench of illness replaced by colourful murals and the comforting scent of baby talc. It was bearable. Just. She dumped her apple core in the bin marked 'medical waste only,' and followed the pointer on the wall directing her right for the Neonatal Unit. She smiled inwardly at the colourful underwater scene that greeted her outside the secure unit door. She buzzed the intercom twice in quick succession and leaned back against a giant yellow octopus as she waited for a response.
“Can I help you?” a nurse said peering round the door at her.
India held her warrant card up. “I do hope so.”
Once inside the nurse tried directing her into a waiting room. India ignored her. She walked up and down the unit peering through the windows at rows of sickly babies in plastic pods while the nurse trailed close behind.
“If this is about that mad woman,” the nurse whispered, “Dr Johnson has already told your officers that he doesn't want to press charges.”
“Which officers would those be?” India said watching one of the tiny mites being fed through a tube in the stomach. She'd run Lisa Grant's name through the police database before she'd come. Nothing had come back. Not even a traffic violation.
“I didn't get their names,” the nurse whispered.
India stared through the glass as the baby began to grizzle and gripe. “What about the mad woman, did you get her name?”
“Lisa. Lisa Lewis,” the nurse whispered. India rolled her eyes, broken families with their name changes and fragmented branches were a regular pain in the arse. “You're unsettling the babies,” the nurse hissed. “I must insist we take this discussion elsewhere.”
India pointed at the door marked 'Dr Dale Johnson.' “It's not you I want to talk to,” she said testing the handle and stepping into the empty office. “Page him and tell him I'm waiting.”
The nurse loitered uncomfortably by the door as India read the myriad of thank you cards pinned to the doctor’s office wall. The handwritten notes inside each card gushed with a depth of gratitude she would never know or understand. Dr Johnson was revered, a god to these parents. When he arrived, she was surprised to find even gods could be wounded.
“That's a big shaving cut,” she said gesturing to his cheek.
“It's nothing,” he smiled shaking her hand. “Just a scratch.”
For an exceptionally good looking, and immaculately groomed man, India doubted very much that the gouge across his cheek was nothing. “How'd you get it?” she asked.
“Lisa Lewis,” Dr Johnson said solemnly sitting on the edge of his desk. “I understand that's why you're here.”
“You understand right,” India said. “She brought her son here two days ago and her eleven year old daughter hasn't seen her since.”
“Not strictly true,” the doctor said crossing his arms. “She came here yesterday in a very distressed state, but she certainly didn't have a child with her. And there's no record of her son ever being treated here. In fact, there’s no record of her having a son at all.”
India frowned. “What are you trying to say?”
The doctor spread his hands and smiled sympathetically. “There is no son, Detective. Miss Lewis is a very disturbed young woman. Thankfully she's getting the treatment she needs now.”
India didn't react to his revelation, just mulled it over as she studied him intently. He made all the right faces in all the right places, no wonder parents worshipped him. “What treatment's that then?”
Dr Johnson jerked his head in surprise. “I assumed you'd know. Your officers escorted her in the ambulance to St James's in Portsmouth yesterday morning.”
India raised her brows. “She's in the nut house?”
Dr Johnson threw his head back and laughed out loud, revealing perfectly aligned white teeth without a filling in sight. “I don't think we're allowed to call it that anymore, but technically, yes she is.”
India’s eyes narrowed. “Anything else you want to tell me, Doc?”
“Only that you, Detective, are a breath of fresh air in an otherwise sombre environment,” he said dabbing his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“No,” India said. “I can honestly say they haven’t.”
Dr Johnson gave a boyish chuckle and ran his fingers through his hair, flirting outrageously. “Then maybe you should come by more often…..sorry, I didn’t catch your first name.”
“Detective,” India said flatly.
“Well, Detective, I'm here most days and at The Concordia Club most nights. You should drop by sometime. I really would like to see more of you.” He smiled as his eyes coursed across her body.
India stared at him. “Depending on what Lisa Lewis says you might just get your wish.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said springing from the desk to rummage in one of the filing cabinets. He held out a handbag to her. “This belongs to Miss Lewis. One of the nurses found it in the relatives room last night, must've got overlooked in all the commotion. Please wish her a speedy recovery and let her know I won't be pressing charges.”
India inclined her head. “Maybe she wants to press charges against you, Doc.”
Dr Johnson bit down on the knuckles of his right hand feigning terror. She couldn't see his mouth when he spoke, but she could tell from his
eyes he was smiling. “Goodness, it hadn't even occurred to me,” he said. “Well, does she?”
India slung Lisa Lewis's imitation leather handbag over her shoulder. “I haven't spoken to her yet. I'll be back to let you know.”
Dr Johnson grinned. “I'll look forward to that Detective. A lot.”
Haltingbury Social Services, London.
Alan Roberts’ nose twitched. The office reeked of fish. He glanced around looking for an unoccupied desk and spotted one in the corner. He hastily made his way towards it, claiming it with his bag and case files before the end of day desk scrum began. Haltingbury favoured hot desking. In Hampshire he'd had his own.
He headed for the notice board outside the boss's office, where the remains of an expensive looking buffet trolley revealed the source of the smell. A few leftover salmon sandwiches with curled up corners suggested she was in another all-day meeting. Probably for the best. Worse transfer options from here were limited to Hell, or the dole queue.
When he spotted his case list for tomorrow, Alan let out an exasperated sigh. Of the sixteen house calls he'd had to do today - he'd made contact with nine and only been inside two of their homes. Seen a grand total of four out of twenty three kids. The outstanding seven calls would roll onto tomorrow’s case load. Tomorrow already had nineteen on the list. His hopes of getting his car window fixed were fading fast. The Tesco carrier bag and gaffer tape would have to suffice until the weekend. At least with the stereo gone his Fiat Panda had nothing left worth stealing.
He tugged the list from the notice board and made his way back to the desk that would be his for the next two hours. Slumping down in the chair he pulled Karen McGregor’s file from the pile and looked across the office to where Brian Fleming was busily updating his records on the computer. Alan rose wearily to his feet with the McGregor file in hand. “Brian, can I have a word please?”