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

by Bo Brennan

  Maggie narrowed her eyes. “Go on.”

  “She doesn't live their anymore.”

  “And?”

  “That's it. He visited on Wednesday 13th July, and was informed by the new occupier that she doesn't live there anymore.”

  Maggie let out a long exasperated sigh as they pulled up outside the train station. “You win. Mr Sweaty's in the frame.”

  “It's got to be five nil now, Mags,” Colt said packing the files into his briefcase. “You need to up your game.”

  “And you need to play nice if you want me to pick you up in the morning.”

  “Ouch, sore loser,” Colt said stepping from the car.

  “Usual time, Boss?”

  Colt gave her a nod and a wink as he leant on the car door. “We'll deal with the neighbour first and see if they can shed any light on this van. Then we'll go into the office and see what's come in on Dwight Sanders. Have a good night.”

  Maggie smiled weakly. “I’ll try.”

  Colt stared after her as she drove away. After thirteen years of marriage and two kids, it couldn’t be easy finding yourself alone at night. Her husband’s life had continued without interruption since abandoning his responsibilities for a mid-life crisis. When Colt had run into him at Charing Cross last week, he looked like a twat. Men in their forties, with thinning hair, had no business trying to grow a ponytail.

  Colt shook his head, and hurried for the platform when he heard the announcement for his homebound train. Slipping into his first class seat just as the whistle blew; he made himself comfortable and pulled Alan Roberts’ case files from his briefcase.

  Chapter 21

  Knightsbridge, London.

  The knock at the front door broke her concentration. Flick wasn't expecting anybody tonight. She marked her law book and took off her reading glasses.

  On the way to the door she checked herself in the hall mirror. Her impatient caller knocked again. “Just a minute,” she called, and powdered the red marks her glasses had left at the sides of her nose. She'd have left her contacts in if she'd known someone was calling.

  She took one last look at herself, straightened her blouse, and opened the door. She squinted at the man standing there. And then she realised who it was. A rush of adrenaline engulfed her and she slammed the door closed. Her trembling hands engaged the chain as she slumped back against the door breathing hard.

  “Felicity, let's be mature about this and not create another scene,” he whispered through the letterbox. “I don't want to, but I will raise my voice if I have to.”

  Flick took a deep breath and rested her head against the door. The arsehole wasn't even bothering to veil his threat. People weren't accustomed to raised voices around here. At the first sign of trouble, her neighbours would be hitting their panic buttons en masse. The last thing she needed was for the police to arrive.

  Flick gritted her teeth, opened the door, grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him inside. After taking a cursory glance up and down the deserted hallway, she closed the door. When she turned around, he'd gone.

  “You've got a great place here,” Ryan Reynolds called from her lounge.

  Flick stormed down the corridor after him. When she reached the lounge, Ryan Reynolds was standing on her balcony admiring the view of the park. “Are you fucking insane?” she hissed tugging at his arm. “Do you want us both arrested?”

  Locking the French doors she pulled roughly at the blinds. They'd never been closed before. She wasn't even sure how they worked. “Here, let me,” Ryan said taking the cord from her hands. The blinds smoothly slid into place across the wall of glass. Flick let out a heavy ragged breath and slumped onto the sofa. “You need to chill out,” Ryan said.

  Enraged, Flick sprang to her feet. “Don't you dare tell me what to do in my own home. How the hell do you even know where I live?”

  Ryan raised a shoulder. “It's my job to know.”

  “You've got no right knowing anything about me. You're not a fucking police officer!”

  “No I'm not. But your dad is.”

  Flick swallowed hard and narrowed her eyes as he made himself comfortable on her sofa. “What else do you know about me?”

  “Everything.” When she stared at him furiously, Ryan sighed. “I'm a Journalist. What did you expect me to say, Felicity?”

  “You said forty eight hours.”

  Ryan shrugged. “I can come back at 5 am if you like. But, I figure you've already got them and, well, let's face it, you're not really a morning person are you.”

  Flick clenched her jaw. “Mr Reynolds…..”

  “My name's Ryan,” he said smiling as he stretched his arms across the back of her sofa. “You're not in court now, Felicity.”

  Flick could feel the rage building in her. “Stop calling me Felicity,” she spat through gritted teeth.

  Ryan inclined his head and smiled at her. “Why?”

  “Because I fucking hate it, that's why.” Flick dropped into an armchair and buried her face in the cushions. She felt like she was back in school with the class bully.

  “Then what should I call you? I can't keep calling you Miss Firman now that we're working together.”

  Flick glared at him. “We are not working together, Mr Reynolds.”

  “Ryan.”

  “This is a one off, Mr Reynolds.”

  He grinned. “Whatever you say, Felicity.”

  Flick took a deep breath and pulled the file out from underneath her armchair. “I'd like you to leave now,” she said clasping it tightly to her body.

  Ryan extended his hand. “Give me the file and I'll go.”

  “You'll get it at the door,” she said rising from her seat.

  Ryan gave a curt nod. “Fair enough.”

  He followed closely behind her as she led him down the hall. She wanted him out of her apartment and out of her life as quickly as possible. “I'm supplying this in confidence,” she said slamming the file against his chest as they reached the front door. “Whatever you're up to, keep my name out of it.”

  Ryan studied her intently. “I'm a Journalist. I live by an ethical code. I'd never divulge you as my source. You have my word.”

  Flick laughed humourlessly. “You're a blackmailing gutter hack, Mr Reynolds, oozing professional misconduct. Your ethics and word stand for nothing.”

  Ryan's eyes flashed with anger as he braced her against the hall wall. Flick held her breath as his intense green eyes bored into hers. For a brief moment, her dream flashed into her mind and she was frightened he might kiss her. More frightened that she'd enjoy it. And then he whispered in her ear, “I might occasionally push the line of professional conduct to get what I want, but you're so far over the line you're batting for the other side now, Felicity.”

  Haltingbury, London.

  Sasha Grant stood in the bathroom looking at the bath. The water was shallow, a dirty opaque cream, and soap scum clung to the edges. Melissa and Tracey had both bathed in it first. As the youngest Sasha had the misfortune of going last.

  “In you get,” her foster mother said behind her. “Hurry up or it'll be cold.”

  Sasha glanced over her shoulder at her. “Can you close the door please?”

  Her foster mother smiled. “You know the door has to stay open, sweetheart. What would happen if you drowned? How would I get to you?”

  “I'm a good swimmer,” Sasha mumbled clinging tighter to the towel wrapped around her.

  “If you slip and bang your head you won't be able to swim. Now stop being silly and give me the towel. It's nothing I haven't seen before.”

  Sasha swallowed hard and tried to cover herself with her arms as she handed over the towel. Cringing with embarrassment she climbed into the dirty bath and brought her knees up to her chest.

  “That wasn't so bad was it?” her foster mother said. “I'll pop downstairs and get the jug and then I'll help you wash your hair.”

  Sasha sat motionless in the cool water. Afraid that if she moved the scummy bit
s would land on her. She'd never had to share a bath before. She was going to be dirtier when she got out. Her real mum let her bathe on her own. And shut the door. At home she just wasn't allowed to lock it.

  God, she hated it here so much. She just wanted to go home. She closed her eyes and rested her face against her knees willing herself not to cry. When she felt the warm liquid flowing over her hair, she breathed out a sigh and tilted her head back. If she had to help, Sasha was thankful her foster mother was at least using fresh water. Her hair being clean might make the kids at school back off.

  In the distance she heard her foster parents laughing. Confused, Sasha opened her eyes to see their son laughing too. As he zipped up his jeans and flushed the toilet, Sasha plunged her face into the soap scum.

  Chapter 22

  Tuesday 19th July

  London.

  AJ Colt saw the crime scene tape as soon as he arrived at Waterloo station. He couldn’t miss it. The gents’ toilets were cordoned off at his usual exit, and he was breaking his neck for a piss.

  The British Transport police officer on the entrance tilted his hat as Colt approached. “Any chance of a leak, mate?” Colt asked closing in on him.

  “Help yourself, Big Man,” he said lifting the tape. “They're only scraping up the body of a smack head. Did you see the game at the weekend?”

  “Recorded it, don't tell me the score,” Colt called back as he hurried down the stairs and into the gaggle of uniforms standing around chatting.

  “That was a hell of a match at the weekend, Chief!” a Sergeant enthused from the centre of the gaggle.

  “Don't tell me the score, I recorded it,” he shouted back disappearing into the nearest cubicle. Once inside he shook his head. He hadn't watched a match in months. He hadn't recorded one either. He'd moved on. Just wished everybody else would do the bloody same.

  Colt opened the door to find a fresh faced uniform standing between him and the sink. “Pleasure to meet you, Sir,” he said extending his hand.

  Colt frowned, and sidestepped him. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll wash my hands first.” He clenched his jaw as the uniform followed him, babbling on about rugby. In the mirror he watched as the Sergeant leant into the far cubicle and began dragging a body out by the feet. Colt heard a sickening thud as a skull hit the floor.

  “Ease up!” he called nudging past the young lad still babbling at the sink and making his way to the pair of green canvas high-tops poking out of the cubicle. They stopped and stepped back as he pushed the waiting gurney aside.

  “It's only another dead smack head,” one of them mumbled.

  Colt stared down at the young woman, the needle still stuck deep in her vein. “She's someone's bloody daughter. Treat her with some respect.”

  “She's a pain in the fucking arse,” the Sergeant mumbled. “She's the third this month.”

  Colt hunched down and inspected her arms. Wondered how much pain someone so young could be trying to escape in order to stick that needle in their arm the first time. “Looks like a new user,” he said. “You might have a pure batch on the block.” And then his eyes caught sight of the gold bracelet at her wrist. Fuck. “You might want to contact Charing Cross,” he sighed. “This girl’s mother is searching for her. How long's she been here?”

  The Sergeant shrugged. “The attendant called it in when he came on duty. We've had to wait for the rigor mortis to ease to get her out, so probably all night.”

  “Might be worth putting a warning alert out,” Colt said sliding his arms underneath her. “Move the gurney over and I'll put her on it.”

  “Why would we put an alert out?” the Sergeant said lining up the gurney. “Every time a pure batch of heroin hits the streets, the crime rate drops as the body count rises. Last time we saw a 62% drop in underground robberies overnight.”

  Colt shook his head as he laid the young woman on the gurney, stepping back to allow the body bag to be zipped. “Do you ever wonder what drives them to it?” he said making his way back to the sink, and ultimately the door.

  “They're scumbags,” he laughed. “They'd sell their own granny for a hit.”

  “You keep telling yourself that, Sergeant,” Colt said drying his hands. “And one day it might be your daughter lying there.” He bolted up the stairs towards the cab rank where Maggie would be waiting, ignoring the young uniform holding out his notebook and pen for an autograph.

  City Secondary School, Winchester.

  Terri stood in the doorway, staring at Sasha's empty seat, as her class filed in around it. She'd been gone a week now. School wasn't the same without her. It was only kids like her that made Terri bother to get out of bed in the morning. As the days had worn on, so had the nights. She'd lie in bed for hours wondering where she was. And when she did close her eyes all she heard was her desperate screams for help.

  “Oi Miss. If you ain't doing a lesson can I go home, or what?”

  Terri's eyes jerked away from the empty desk and around the expectant young faces staring back at her. “No, Craig, you can't,” she said. “Today you'll all be writing a hundred word essay on the meaning of family.”

  “That's crap that is.”

  “Just do as you're bloody told for once!” Craig Markham's hate filled eyes stared back at her as he stabbed at his desk with his pen. Terri took a deep breath and lowered herself into her seat. “Get on with your work. All of you.”

  She glanced at her handbag in the void under her desk. Her resignation was in there. She'd written it at the weekend. Maybe today would be the day she handed it in. She loved teaching; there had never been a need for a back-up plan. She had no idea what she'd do for work if she quit.

  Terri propped her elbows on her desk and hung her head in her hands. But she knew she couldn't do this anymore. Couldn't bear it if another Sasha Grant was wrenched from her care. She glanced up at her silent pupils, all diligently getting on with their work. Her eyes narrowed at Craig Markham. Even he had his head down and was getting on with it. That was a first.

  She'd shouted, and they'd listened.

  No one seemed to be the slightest bit bothered that Sasha was gone. Even India didn't give a shit. Maybe she simply hadn't shouted loud enough. Her profession put her in a precarious position to be shouting about how shit the system was. And she already knew what social workers thought of teachers. And the police it seemed. But, what about the mother? She gave a shit.

  Terri sat back in her seat and smiled. It was simple really. All she had to do was get her mother out, and Sasha would automatically be returned. Everything would go back to how it was before. She glanced at the clock, and rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles. If she was going to feign a migraine in the next hour or so, she was going to need to look the part.

  The Daily Herald, London.

  Ryan Reynolds sat hunched over his desk rereading this morning’s copy. His phone had been ringing off the hook again, and his email had crashed. The Crossley story had touched a nerve, created hysteria on a national level.

  He knew it would. It had all the right ingredients. Secret courts, corrupt experts, forged documents, fabricated records, and above all - innocent middle class parents, who had been shat on from a great height. The whole system was rotten to the core. No one seemed to bat an eyelid when it happened on the council estates. But the great British public wouldn't stand for middle class suburbia coming under attack.

  Ryan leant back in his seat and clasped his hands on his head. This was ground-breaking, investigative journalism at its absolute best. His editor agreed. They’d even held the printing press for the story to run. This was the stuff that he lived for. But he was far from done yet. Too many parents had the same story, and too many names were coming up time and time again.

  He raised his eyebrows as the burly bloke in a suit talking to Donna, started heading his way. “Mr Ryan Reynolds?” he said clutching a brown envelope in his hand.

  Ryan grinned. “That's me.”

  The man pressed the envel
ope against Ryan's chest and said, “Consider yourself served, Sir.”

  Ryan frowned as the man turned and walked away. Rising to his feet, he tore the envelope open. “Donna,” he shouted across the office, “who the fuck was that?”

  Donna threw her hands in the air. “No idea. Said he had official business with you. Why what's up?”

  Ryan scrubbed a hand over his head as he read the official court document in disbelief. “I've been fucking gagged by the family court!”

  He slumped into his seat and clenched his jaw. Those corrupt bastards wouldn't beat him. This was a cover up of epic proportions. Someone, somewhere, was gaining, making money from this misery. That left a bitter taste no amount of award night champagne would quench. He logged onto the internet, mumbling his favourite mantra: ‘follow the money.’

  Hampshire CID, Winchester.

  Detective Sergeant Lee Sangrin stood silently at the far end of India's desk. If he was waiting for her to hang up, he'd be waiting a bloody long time. In her alphabetical list of local authority Social Services departments, she'd just reached B.

  When the person on the other end of the line confirmed Sasha Grant wasn't in their system, India pressed the cut off button and proceeded to dial the next number.

  Sangrin cleared his throat. “What are you working on?”

  India cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear. Without glancing up, she slid the missing child report across her desk in his general direction. With the other hand, she continued dialling.

  While Sangrin made disgruntled little huffs and puffs, she tapped her pencil on her notepad, waiting while the person at Ballsbridge LA checked their system. As soon as she heard the immortal words, “I'm sorry,” she cut the call, drew a line through their name, and began dialling again.