BABY SNATCHERS (A Detective India Kane & AJ Colt Crime Thriller)

by Bo Brennan

  Leon's handsome young cheeks flushed as his gaze dropped to his shuffling, highly polished shoes. “Of course,” he mumbled. “Please accept my sincere apologies.”

  Flick smiled. “You go on ahead. I'll be right down.”

  She watched her eager pupil hurry down the hallway and disappear from view. He looked good in a tux, manly. She'd never looked at him like that before. She bit her lip, considering the benefits of a man ten years her junior, in both age and status, and concluded it could be fun. She was just beginning to feel recklessly tempted when a hand caressed her buttock.

  “Felicity. You’re looking ravishing, yet unaccompanied, as always,” he breathed on her neck.

  Her stomach clenched, so did her jaw. Her acting skills were not solely reserved for the courtroom stage, so when she turned to face him, she displayed her most dazzling smile. “Good evening, Sir,” she purred. “Is your good wife not in attendance?”

  “Isabella is not welcome in the dining room. The pettifoggery has given Margaret one of her heads,” he said offering his arm. “Shall we?”

  She could've found herself in worse company. The old duffers were harmless, generally gropers. It was the more virile amongst them that needed beating off with a stick. Flick nodded demurely, and rested her hand on his. “It would be my pleasure, Judge Flackerly.”

  Chapter 15

  Saturday 16th July

  Park Gate, Hampshire.

  India rolled over at the sound of the phone, wondering what sort of idiot would be calling at this hour of a Saturday morning. In her rudely awakened haze she grappled with the mobile on her bedside table, sending everything else that resided there clattering to the floor.

  “Kane,” she yawned into the receiver.

  “Afternoon Detective, Annie Whatley here.”

  India frowned. Did she just say afternoon? She rubbed her eyes, and rolled across the bed to pluck the alarm clock off the floor. 12.07. Bloody hell.

  “Are you still there?” the voice said on the end of the line.

  “Yeah, yeah, I'm here.”

  “I thought I'd lost you then. It's Lisa Lewis's midwife, Annie Whatley.”

  India sat bolt upright in bed. “So she did have a baby then?”

  “Yes,” Annie Whatley said warily. “Baby Billy was born on Saturday 2nd July. Bonny lad too, weighed in at a healthy nine pounds, two ounces.”

  India rolled her eyes; she wasn't interested in all that shit. “Where did she have him?”

  “The Royal South Hants,” Annie said. “Why the interest, has something happened to them?”

  India swung her feet to the floor, frowning when her heel hit something small and cold. As she lifted her foot to her lap, Lisa Lewis's front door key came with it. She toyed with it in her hand as she spoke. “Got a pen?” she murmured. When Annie confirmed she did, India rattled off her email address. “Send me her file.”

  Placing the key and phone on the bedside table, India headed for the shower. At the bathroom door, she paused momentarily, and looked back at her rumpled bed linen. AJ Colt was redefining her idea of pleasure. The bastard had kept her up all night and still had the energy to go into work.

  New Scotland Yard, London.

  Colt stepped out of the interview room to find Commander Hussein, and the Mayor - with his young daughter on his hip - observing from the adjoining viewing room. “You shouldn't be here,” he said, loosening his tie as anger began to claw at his throat.

  The Commander fiddled with the wraparound shades hanging from a cord around his neck. “We're supposed to be at a BBQ, but thought we'd pop in to see how you're getting on,” he said craning his neck to see Dwight Sanders like he was an autograph hunter at a red carpet event.

  Colt frowned and opened the external door, ushering them into the hallway. “This is an on-going investigation. I can't have members of the public in here.”

  The Commander laughed. “Tony is a good friend of mine, not to mention the Mayor of London.”

  Colt clenched his jaw and took a deep breath through his nose. It was bad enough his boss had teamed jeans with white towelling socks, and sandals that were wrong on every conceivable level - but to bring a child in here?

  “I've got a predatory paedophile in there with a five hundred pound an hour brief in tow,” he spat through gritted teeth, pointing at the interview room door. “If there's even a whiff of something untoward, he will walk. If you want to do something constructive, there’s a little boy in the hospital that could probably do with a visit.”

  The Commander puffed his chest and glared at Colt. Before either of them could say another word, his mate stepped in. “Apologies for the intrusion, Detective Chief Inspector. I can assure you no harm was intended,” the Mayor said extending his hand. “I didn't get much sleep last night.”

  “Me neither,” Colt said giving his hand a firm shake. “Now if you'll excuse me, my team and the prosecutor are waiting up stairs and we're against the clock.”

  “Of course,” the Mayor said. “Keep up the good work.”

  “Enjoy your BBQ,” Colt said taking one last despairing glance at the Commander's poor choice of footwear before heading for the stairs.

  He ran up the three flights, thinking about his own sleepless night of glorious unadulterated therapy. She got him. Understood him like no one ever had. They weren't so different him and her, both sought comfort and release in the same dark places. And he loved her. He just wished one day he could tell her.

  Maggie answered the viewing room door on his first knock. “He's sticking to his story,” Colt said when they all looked at him expectantly. “Knew nothing about the basement room, let alone the boy. I’ve got a list as long as my leg for people with access to his property. What have you lot got?”

  “His flight info checks out,” Maggie said. “He arrived at Heathrow from Cannes at 9.25 pm on Thursday night. His driver confirmed he dropped him home, alone, at approximately 10 pm.”

  “We tried to verify that with the alarm monitoring company,” Bob said. “But apparently it hadn't been armed since Tuesday morning when he flew out to Cannes. We've only got his driver’s word on what time he got home.”

  Colt frowned. “Who leaves a fifteen million pound mansion with the alarm off for three days? It was belled up to the rafters when we hauled his skinny arse out of bed at 5 am.” He was sure he could still hear it ringing in his ears now.

  “Let's say he did get home at 10 pm,” Maggie said. “By his own admission, he was in that house for seven hours with a boy in his basement.”

  “Time he claims he was sleeping several floors away,” the prosecutor, Michael Moore, said.

  “Whoa, hang on a minute,” Bob said flipping through his notes. “According to the alarm company, the first time the system was armed since Tuesday, was at 2.02 on Friday morning using Sanders’ personal code.”

  Colt's eyes narrowed. “Hole number one,” he said pocketing his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves. “He didn't go straight to bed when he got in. He was in that house, awake, for at least four hours.”

  “Him being out of the country with the house unalarmed is enough to put doubt on both making and possession charges,” Michael Moore said. “You're going to need to prove this didn't happen, without his knowledge, while he was out of the country.”

  “I've already got officers out chasing everybody who had access to his home, and his brief has just handed over details of the Agency he got his housekeeper from. She still hasn't turned up yet.” Colt cracked his knuckles. “He was on Operation Saviour’s target list because his credit card was used to join the site and download indecent images. Of course, according to his brief, everyone who has access to his house has access to his credit card too.”

  “What password was used to access the site?” Michael asked. “Anything we can tie into him personally?”

  “Don't know yet, the tech team are still working on his computer,” Colt said. “But we do have pseudo-photos on his phone.” He slid the printouts acr
oss the table towards the prosecutor.

  Michael raised his brows. “Camera phone?”

  Colt nodded. “His brief claims they're artistically beautiful freehand drawings downloaded from the internet.”

  “That throws a spanner in the works,” Michael said chewing his lip. “Even if it's a tracing his defence will be he downloaded it unknowingly.”

  “The tech team are on it.” Colt scrubbed a hand over his head. “They're going to run facial recognition against the images seized at the scene.” He turned his attention to the piles of indecent images laid out on five tables running the length of the room. “Where are we up to, Mags?”

  “I've devised a sorting system,” she said pointing to the A4 paper pyramids tacked to the wall above each table.

  Colt glanced at the empty tables with 1, 2 and 3 tacked above them. “They're all Category 4 and 5?” he said.

  Maggie nodded. “So far. And we've still got those to sort yet,” she said pointing to the three unopened boxes on the floor.

  Colt stared at the final table with a giant '5' at the top of its pyramid. “Explain it to me.”

  “Category 5 images,” Maggie said running a finger across the top level of the pyramid. “The second level is the victim age group. The 13-15 and 16-17 groupings were difficult, as always, but the overwhelming majority are clearly in the 0-13 age group. Average age is probably around 7 or 8 years. On the next tier, I've broken each age group into victims. So far we've pinpointed twelve individual victims in the 0-13 group.”

  Colt sifted the images, his jaw tightening at the sickening theft of innocence. “Any with Sanders’ face in them?”

  “No.” Maggie sighed. “None show the abusers faces, only the victims. And they're all boys. My next job is to break the images down to abuser by identifying distinguishing marks. So far I’ve pinpointed a masonic signet ring on a left hand pinkie finger, and a separate individual with a mole on his right buttock. At a glance I'd say we're dealing with a ring of three, maybe four males.”

  Colt moved the three unopened boxes of images from the floor to the table. “Let's crack on then,” he said.

  “You don't need to view anymore,” the prosecutor said. “There are so many images that if we decide to charge for making, I'd have to go for a specimen count of sixteen.”

  “There are hundreds of thousands of Cat 4 and 5 images here, and a little boy in the hospital,” Colt said. “But, apparently, we haven't got enough to charge him with jack shit yet.”

  “No, not yet we haven't.” Michael sighed. “I understand your frustration, Colt, but you know I can't go in front of a Crown Court judge with half a million indictments of possession. I'll get my arsed kicked for wasting court time.”

  “Then we have to view every one of these pictures,” Colt growled. “The next one we pull out might show a face. Sanders’ fucking face.”

  The prosecutor nodded solemnly in understanding. “Fair enough,” he said. “But in the meantime Mr Sanders needs to be bailed.”

  Haltingbury, London.

  Sasha coughed from the fumes and turned her face away. “At home I only have to clean my room,” she spluttered. “I've never cleaned an oven before.”

  Tracey looked up from the mountain of ironing that was her regular Saturday chore. “Neither has lard arse in there,” she said. “It was Casey's job, till they replaced her with you.”

  “Lard arse,” Sasha sniggered. “That's so funny.” Their foster mother was sitting in the lounge with her feet up, eating a family bag of Doritos, while Sasha, Tracey, and Melissa, cleaned the house from top to bottom.

  “Shush,” Melissa muttered. “She'll hear you.”

  “I can't help it,” Sasha laughed.

  “Seriously, kid,” Tracey whispered fiercely. “Shut the fuck up.”

  Sasha held her stomach, rolling around on the floor as the giggles took hold. It felt like a lifetime since she'd laughed. Suddenly, pain shot through her scalp. Her limbs scrabbled for purchase as she was dragged by the hair across the kitchen, and her head shoved inside the oven. She coughed and spluttered and her eyes stung and streamed as her fingers clawed at the hands holding her there.

  “Does that look clean to you?” her foster mother's voice shrieked as she ground her face into the dirty foam at the bottom of the oven.

  “Stop it, Kim. You're hurting me!” Sasha cried out as the bitter foam burned her lips and skin.

  Kim lifted her by the hair off the floor to meet her eyes. “You call me Mum, understand?”

  “You're not my mum!” Sasha cried struggling to free her hair from her grip. “Let me go, I want to go home!”

  Kim shoved her in the chest and back handed her with a blow that sent her crashing to the kitchen floor once more. In shock, Sasha stared up at her defiantly, holding her cheek. “You're not my mum.”

  Kim's face went red with rage. The first kick she delivered hit Sasha in the leg. She curled up in a tight little ball against the fridge to protect herself as the blows kept coming. She lost count after the first three, but still felt every single one.

  When the kicks stopped, Sasha remained huddled and trembling on the floor, terrified of what might come next. Her whole body hurt as her head was yanked upright once more to meet Kim's sweaty flushed scowl. “You ungrateful little bitch,” she snarled. “Repeat after me: Thank you Mum, for feeding me and giving me a lovely clean home.”

  Sasha stared at her.

  Kim tightened her grip on her hair. “Say it!”

  “Th, th, thank you.” Sasha trembled as the next word lodged in her throat. It took Kim to smash the back of her head against the kitchen wall to dislodge it. “M...mum, for ....”

  “Feeding me and giving me a lovely clean home,” Kim prompted.

  “Feeding me and giving me a lovely clean home,” Sasha repeated.

  Kim smiled and stood up. “Now we've got that sorted, you can get on with your chores,” she said calmly wiping her hands on her jeans. “Don't disturb me again.”

  As their foster mother closed the kitchen door behind her, Tracey raised the iron and said, “I swear to god, one of these days I'm gonna smash that fat bitch's face in with this.”

  Sasha cowered in the corner, crying silent tears. She'd never been hit before.

  “Don't ever let them see you cry,” Tracey said kneeling beside her and holding out her hand for the wet dish cloth Melissa offered. Pressing it into Sasha's palm, she said, “Wipe the blood off your face, and I'll teach you the rules.”

  Badger Farm Estate, Winchester, Hampshire.

  India rolled up her sleeve and reached into the airing cupboard. Shaking her head in disbelief, she patted around behind the hot water tank. Her hand touched on something small, solid, and square. Hooking her fingers around it, she tugged it free of its hidey hole, and let out a surprised grunt as she turned a wooden jewellery box in her hands.

  She slumped down on Lisa Lewis's sofa, convinced she’d find no answers inside. It was too small to hold the worldly treasures of a grown woman. Lifting the lid, she let out a small mirthless chuckle as the ballerina inside turned to a tinny tune. She'd had a box like this herself once. It held nothing of value, but then neither had life.

  India frowned at the contents of the first drawer she opened. For a jewellery box there wasn't much in the way of jewellery. She poked through a few broken necklaces and odd earrings, the scrap value of which wouldn't even cover the cost of a stamp.

  In the second drawer India pulled out a yellowing piece of paper and unfolded it. A child's crayon drawing of a deformed stick woman and flower, announced: 'Happy Mother's Day,' in a guided hand.

  Pushing aside a gruesome collection of small teeth and a lock of hair, she pulled out a strip of passport booth photos. The series of pictures showed a younger, brighter Lisa, and some bloke with a dodgy moustache, pulling faces for the camera. On the back was scrawled Adam Grant, Blackpool 1999. She could hazard a guess this was the sperm donor who gave Sasha her surname.

  And then he
r eyes narrowed and her heart began to pound.

  At the back of the drawer were two tiny hospital bands. She hooked them out with a finger and stared at the details on the newest one. 'Billy Lewis. 2nd July.' Deep in thought, India slipped the band into her pocket, and the creepy box into her hand bag. Lisa Lewis wasn't crazy after all. Baby Billy existed. So, where the fuck was he?

  Chapter 16

  The Daily Herald, London

  Ryan Reynolds scrolled through his emails; he had so many his inbox was fit to explode. His desk phone hadn't stopped ringing all day, and his voicemail was full. It was going to be midnight by the time he got out of here.

  He'd struck gold.

  But it wasn’t his article that had provoked the response. It was the pictures of the unrelated minor scuffle outside the court that he’d chucked into the mix. Email after email outlined horror stories of exactly what went on behind the closed doors of the secretive Family Court.

  Right time, right place. And now it was snowballing. He had hundreds of follow up stories from irate parents to investigate. Their allegations of state sanctioned kidnap ranged in reasons from the sublime to the ridiculous. If only 1% of what he was hearing was true, it meant the Family Division was conducting trials in secret in order to engineer society.

  When his computer signalled the arrival of yet another email, Ryan raised his brows at the sender and subject line. From: Stephen Charmers MP. Re: Complaint Filed to Press Complaints Commission. He clicked 'open,' and rested his elbows on his desk as he read.

  The email was short and sweet. The MP had taken offence at his use of unrelated photos to accompany the sentencing article, and had reported him accordingly. Ryan shrugged. It wouldn't be the first time he'd got under the skin of an elected official. Last year, seventeen of them - Charmers included - filed complaints when he printed their ludicrous expenses claims. None of them were upheld.