by Bo Brennan
“I just think…”
“You’re not paid to think,” the doctor snapped. “You're paid to make sure our suppliers don't step out of line.”
“Do you want me to sever our supply agreement, Boss?”
“Not just yet.” The doctor smiled as he unlocked room 16. “We currently have a minor supply and demand problem. Our friend John's indebtedness merely serves to remedy that.”
Haltingbury Social Services, London.
Colt sipped his freshly brewed coffee from the bone china cup, and set it down on the dainty saucer on Sandra Cavendish's desk.
Sandra cleared her throat when he picked up the pile of missing girls’ files and began flicking through them. “Usually we deal with the regular police in these circumstances,” she said.
Colt raised his brows and glanced up at her. “Do you usually have twenty seven young women go missing in a month?”
“Well, no.” Sandra smiled uneasily. “But women with children on the at risk register do frequently go missing. I'm not quite sure I understand why the Paedophile Unit is investigating.”
“The majority of them are between 13 and 17 years of age,” Maggie said. “Your initial report stated possible abduction and trafficking. Assuming their ages, did you not think paedophilia could be involved?”
Sandra Cavendish frowned. “Considering they're all heavily pregnant, it didn't really cross my mind.”
“Have the police investigated any of these pregnancies?” Colt said. “A couple of these girls are 13 and due to give birth this month.”
“Some girls become aware of their sexuality earlier than others,” Sandra Cavendish said. “And some of them use it to get what they want. In this borough all the sheltered housing units are full, so that means a flat of their own.”
“At 13?” Maggie said incredulously.
Sandra Cavendish smiled. “No, at that age we place them with specialist foster families. But we take a proactive approach with the older girls. These girls are streetwise, more than capable of living on their own at 15.”
“With a new born baby in tow,” Maggie said dully.
Sandra Cavendish pursed her lips. “Unfortunately, most of their babies end up in care, which is usually where their mothers are from in the first place.”
Colt had heard enough. “We're going to need to speak to each of these social workers,” he said rising from his seat. “Are they all here now?”
“They're updating their case notes. They'll be heading out in a minute,” she said setting her jaw. “I'll convene a meeting tomorrow, that's what we usually do in these circumstances. A group interview saves us all a lot of time.”
Colt looked to Maggie and back at Sandra Cavendish. “We don't do group interviews I'm afraid.” He smiled as he split the pile of folders in his arms and passed half to Mags. “I'll start with Alan Roberts and my colleague will start with….” He looked across at the name on the top file in Maggie’s arms, “Brian Fleming. Could you direct us to your vacant interview rooms and send them in, please.”
The Detective Chief Inspector stood up and extended his hand as Alan entered the tiny oppressive room without windows. The man was a giant. Alan Roberts cautiously gripped his hand and shook it as firmly as he dared. The man could probably snap his neck with one finger.
“Take a seat,” he said.
Alan did as he was told, and watched silently as he flipped through his case files.
“I understand you're new here.”
Alan coughed and nodded. “This is my second week.”
The DCI glanced up from the files and smiled. “Two girls missing in your first week - that must be a department record.”
Alan laughed nervously and wiped his top lip. Jesus it was stifling in here. He had no idea how the parents stood it when there was a full on case meeting. “Probably,” he said.
“Your boss thinks these girls have been abducted,” he said. “Apparently a van was seen at several of the locations.”
Alan nodded vigorously. If he could keep the focus on the van, everything would be fine. “That's right. The neighbour of Sharna Clark said she was dragged into a van and it sped off. All her stuff was left scattered on the pavement.”
“And this neighbour didn't think to call the police?”
“She didn't want to get involved.”
The copper stared at him and frowned. “So why didn't you call us as soon as you found out this sixteen year old had been abducted?”
Shit. Alan shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. This wasn't how his colleagues had told him it would be. They said a group meeting with a uniform, a couple of notes taken. Done. Not a one on one inquisition by a man who looked like he ate liars for breakfast. Alan was out of his depth. He swallowed hard.
“We have protocols. And I'm new here.” He glanced down at his own jittery leg to avoid the DCI’s dark, unswerving stare. “I didn't want to mess up. I followed the department procedures and reported it as soon as I got back.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Alan stared at the floor wondering why he didn’t get that homely looking little woman who was talking to Brian. He almost breathed a sigh of relief when he looked up to find the giant copper smiling at him.
“Thanks Alan, you've been a great help,” he said. “Can you show the next person in please?”
Chapter 20
Hampshire Social Services, Winchester.
“Take a seat, Detective,” the receptionist said with an overtly cheery tone. “Mr Stapler will be with you in a moment.”
India took one look at the tatty stained seats in the reception area and headed for the balloon festooned notice board instead. She doubted anyone had ever pissed on that.
The pink and blue helium balloons were pinned to a colourful banner declaring 'National Adoption & Fostering Week.' Below it were pictures of hundreds of children, each with their own couple of line blurb to entice the reader. “What's this all about?” she called over her shoulder.
A man's voice came back. “They’re all in need of new loving homes or, 'Forever Families' as we like to call them. NAF week is a wonderful incentive to bring children and potential new parents together. Why not come along, Detective? You could have your photo taken with a David Beckham lookalike this year.”
India frowned and turned to face him. Naff was about right.
“Rob Stapler,” he said smiling like a demi-god on crack, and thrusting his hand towards her.
India ignored it. “The RSPCA advertise dogs like this.”
He cocked his jaw and withdrew his hand. “Come through.”
India took a last lingering look at the board and followed him into his plush office. While Rob Stapler relaxed into his luxurious leather swivel chair, India crossed to the floor length window. “Nice view,” she said looking out onto the River Test.
“I like to fish it when I can,” Rob Stapler said.
“Is that often?” India asked.
Rob Stapler smiled. “Most weekends.”
India raised her brows and sat down in one of the inferior seats facing his desk. It wasn't cheap to fish the Test. She'd bought Gray a one day ticket for his birthday. It set her back five hundred notes.
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
“Tell me where Sasha Grant is.”
Rob Stapler frowned. “Who?”
“Sasha Grant. Eleven year's old from the Badger Farm Estate.” India watched as he tapped her details into his computer.
“She's not one of ours,” he said shaking his head.
“Try again,” India said staring at him. “Your lot dragged her out of the City Secondary School on Wednesday afternoon.”
“Ah, I think I know the one,” Rob Stapler said leaning back in his seat. “Her mentally unstable mother left her home alone. She was one of George's cases I believe.”
“Where is she?” India said.
“Not here,” he said spreading his hands. “She was transferred out for specialist care.”
I
ndia sighed. “So press some buttons, and tell me where she is.”
“I can't I'm afraid. She's in protective care outside of our jurisdiction.”
India clenched her jaw and stared at him. Perhaps she wasn't making herself clear enough. “Are you taking the piss out of me?”
Rob Stapler's jaw went slack. “Excuse me,” he spluttered.
“I have police business with Sasha Grant and you’re refusing to tell me her whereabouts. That's a criminal offence.” India pulled her handcuffs from her bag.
The colour drained from Rob Stapler's face. “No, no, I'm not refusing,” he stammered. “The systems aren't linked. If they go out of county we can't access that information. She's not our case anymore.”
India tapped the handcuffs against her thigh. “How do I find her?”
Rob Stapler rummaged through his desk drawer and pulled out a wad of stapled documents. “She could be in the care of any one of these,” he said shakily handing the document to her.
India flipped through the alphabetical list of local authority addresses and phone numbers that went on forever, and then glanced back up at Rob Stapler. “I suggest you start phoning around,” she said rising from her seat. “I'll start at A, you start at Z. If you find her first I won't have to come back and arrest you for obstructing my investigation.”
Haltingbury, London.
Sasha shuffled along in the never ending lunch queue, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on her tray. She could hear the kids behind her giggling and whispering. Saying she was smelly.
The uniform had smelled okay when she'd put it on this morning. As the day progressed, and got warmer, it had started to hum. It was bad enough having to wear it in the first place, but now it stank of fusty damp. Like it had spent too long in the washing machine before drying.
Sasha flinched and coughed as the overpowering body spray engulfed her from behind. She covered her face with her tray, trying to protect her eyes, as a chorus of laughs and jeers rang out around her.
She was still coughing and spluttering when her turn came to order. The woman in the hair net stared at her from behind the counter, shovel full of chips in hand. “Well, what do you want?”
Sasha didn't have money, she had a note. She passed it across the counter. The woman unfolded it and sighed. Sasha frowned as she dumped half the chips back in the metal tray and the other half on her plate. “Beans?” she said. Sasha nodded, and half a ladle of runny beans was poured on top of her chips.
She looked at the meagre offerings. They weren't given breakfast, her foster parents were still in bed when they’d left for school this morning. Her stomach rumbled. She looked at the basket of bread rolls and licked her lips. “Help yourself, love,” the woman said. Sasha put her tray down and reached out with both hands. “Just the one mind,” the woman scolded loudly.
A chorus of ‘scav’ rang out from the kids around her as her hand hesitated over the dry rolls. They were uniformed size. She grabbed the nearest one, muttered “thanks,” and turned away with her tray.
The dining hall was vast. A noisy cacophony of sickly green crowded the tables. She cautiously made her way through, guarding her tray as she headed for the vacant seat she'd spotted in the midst. Hovering behind it, she looked up at the group of heavily made up girls.
“Fuck off skank,” the one painting her nails said. “Your lot sit over there.”
Sasha followed the crystal studded talon’s point, towards a table in the far corner occupied by one. When Melissa looked up and waved at her, she hurried towards it.
Red Wall Chambers, London
Flick looked at the clock, and then at Leon. Her diligent pupil hadn't left his desk all day. The file she wanted was bound by legal ribbon, sitting somewhere amongst the pile on the desk next to him.
“Leon, when you go for lunch could you fetch me sushi and a skinny latte please,” she said.
Leon glanced up and smiled. “Of course, Miss Firman.”
Flick frowned when he returned his eyes to his work. He wasn't showing any signs of going anytime soon. In less than half an hour, Jasper would be collecting the bound files and archiving them for client collection. If that happened, her life would be over.
“Go now,” Flick snapped. She immediately felt guilty when he jumped in his seat, and his puppy dog eyes met hers. “I'm sorry,” she said pinching the bridge of her nose. “I'm hungry and I've got a headache.”
“I was just finishing up this last file for Jasper,” he spluttered and glanced at the clock. “I don't think I'm going to make it in time.”
“Then you'd best not be here when he comes,” she said. “Make yourself scarce, leave Jasper to me.”
Leon breathed out a sigh of relief, and his shoulders slumped. “Thank you,” he said pushing away from his desk. “Sushi and a skinny latte?”
Flick smiled and nodded as he beat a hasty retreat from the office. As soon as he was gone, she hurried from her desk to his. Jasper would be arriving any minute. She searched the files, hurriedly checking each one in turn. Hearing Jasper’s voice in the corridor outside, her urgency increased. Her hands began to tremble when the distinct sound of his Cuban heels against parquet drew closer to her office, and the whole pile of files wobbled and fell to the floor.
“Shit,” she spat bending to retrieve them. Restacking them hastily on Leon's desk, she slipped back into her own seat as Jasper appeared in the doorway.
“Felicity,” Jasper said. “You look....flushed.”
“Just a headache,” she said, silently praying the unfinished one on Leon's desk was the Crossley file.
“Where's the lackey?” Jasper said perusing the files. “That one's not even bound yet.”
“Entirely my fault he's behind,” Flick said. “I've sent him on an errand.”
“Headache tablets I hope,” Jasper said. “We can't afford for you to be out of action.” He flipped the open file on Leon's desk, tutted and shook his head. “It would be one of the Haltingbury files he hasn't finished with. Their brief is coming to collect in fifteen minutes.”
As Jasper turned on his Cuban heels and clip clopped down the corridor, he took her last chance of salvation with him. Flick Firman hung her head in her hands as the world fell away beneath her. She couldn't negotiate with a man like Ryan Reynolds. At best she was a bargaining chip. At worst a headline.
That file was the only chance she had to save herself. He didn't want anything else, made no other demands. But she wasn't stupid. The Crossley file would be just the start. Once she'd handed it over, he'd come back for more. But that file would have bought her some time. Time to cover their arses, and leave Ryan Reynolds puffing nothing but hot air.
That file was everything.
Flick let out a resigned groan, and leaned back in her seat massaging her temples. “Are you okay, Miss Firman?” Leon said softly. “I took the liberty of fetching you some pain killers as well.”
Flick smiled and opened her eyes. She hoped her imminent fall from grace didn't adversely affect her attentive pupil. “Thank you, Leon.” She looked down at the tray of sushi and felt nauseous.
“You're welcome. Would you like a glass of water for your tablets?”
Flick smiled and shook her head. “No thank you. You've done quite enough.”
As he stepped away from her desk, Flick's eyes followed him. She'd try and ensure his pupillage continued when she was gone. But she didn't hold out much hope. Her reputation would be in tatters. It twisted her gut to know Leon would be another innocent casualty of her recklessness.
And then she saw it. And everything changed.
“I will have that glass of water after all,” she said rising from her seat.
Leon smiled, and eager to please as always, made his way back into the corridor where the water cooler resided. Flick rounded her desk at lightning speed, and got down on all fours to reach it. As she tugged the file out from under Leon's desk, her heart skipped a beat. The word CROSSLEY was emblazoned across it in bold black type.
She scurried across the floor to her briefcase and dropped it inside. Clambering back into her seat, she popped two pain killers from the blister pack in anticipation of her water. She didn't need them, but needs must.
That file was everything. And now that she had it, everything was going to be fine.
Haltingbury Social Services, London.
Colt squirted the alcohol hand cleanser into his palm and rubbed his hands together vigorously.
“They were social workers, not lepers,” Maggie said as she drove away from Haltingbury Social Services.
Colt frowned. “Alan Roberts had a proper clammy hand. And a sweaty top lip. It was like the bloody arctic in that room, the air con was cranked up higher than ours. He's definitely hiding something. How'd you get on?”
“Plenty of arse covering, but no sweaty ones. A couple of them mentioned a van hanging about, but it was all a bit vague.”
“That's one for the morning,” Colt said plucking one of the files from his lap. “According to Alan Roberts’ exceptionally detailed report, one of the girls’ neighbours got a good look at it. He's only been in the job a week and two of his girls have vanished.”
“Poor bastard,” Maggie said. “No wonder he was sweating.”
Colt raised his brows. “Before he got assigned to them, everything was fine and dandy according to their files. Don't you think that's odd?”
Maggie shrugged. “Could just be bad luck or coinc...”
“Coincidence?” Colt slowly shook his head. “DI Bevan you disappoint me.”
Maggie laughed. “Okay, so there's no such thing as coincidence. But even you have to admit there is such a thing as shitty luck.”
“Okay, I'll give you that one.” Colt grinned and returned his eyes to the files. “But for a man who writes such detailed reports, there's a scant lack of detail about the other missing girl.”