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

by Bo Brennan

  “The Guv filled me in on this case,” Sangrin said pressing the cut off button on her phone. “You should've discussed it with me first.”

  India stared at his hand and banged the handset back into the cradle. Sangrin moved his stubby little fingers just in time. Shame. She swivelled in her seat to face him and he held his ground. The cheeky bastard even pulled up a chair.

  “Whether you like it or not, I’m the boss of you now.”

  India stared at him and gritted her teeth.

  Sangrin dropped his eyes back to the report. “You got a photo to go with this?”

  India slowly shook her head.

  “Birth certificate or medical files?”

  Again, she slowly shook her head.

  Sangrin frowned. “Please tell me you've got the other kid's statement at least.”

  “Nope.” India leant back in her chair and drew a deep breath. “Social services have dumped her somewhere. Their systems aren't linked so I have to call around every child protection department in the country.” She nodded at the list on her desk. “It could take a while.”

  Sangrin tutted and shook his head. “Use your charms, Kane.” Rising from his seat, he took a step back and lowered his voice. “You're fucking a man with access to every kiddie database in the country. If you were a half decent shag - you'd have her statement by now.”

  India stared after him as he scurried off to his office calling back, “And you wonder why you didn't make Sergeant?”

  She knew very well why she didn't make Sergeant. He did too. And he'd be fucking wise to remember it.

  Haltingbury, London.

  “Young people today think they're entitled. They should be sterilised at birth. When they've worked all their life, like I have, and paid into the system, that's when they should be entitled. There wasn't any child benefit or free houses when I was a nipper. The government should make them prove they can raise them, and pay for them, before they let the buggers breed. This country's gone to the flippin' dogs.”

  Colt raised his eyebrows. “Mrs Breacher, did you witness the abduction of your neighbour Sharna Clark or not?”

  The woman gave a hearty laugh and several of her chins wobbled. “Abduction? Who told you that?”

  “You told her social worker you saw her bundled into a van one night last week.”

  She rubbed her chin and gazed up at her window. “Oh, that's who he was. Social Services, eh?”

  Maggie sighed and took out her notebook. “Can you give me a description of the van?”

  “I'm Neighbourhood Watch, love. I can do better than that.” Mrs Breacher folded her arms across her ample low slung breasts. “I noted it all down in my log. Got date, time, registration number, the lot.”

  “We'd like a copy of that, please.” Colt smiled. Mrs Breacher smiled back. He wished she hadn't, her teeth were rotten.

  “You can have anything you like, my love. Follow me,” she said beckoning him with crooked, nicotine stained index finger.

  “You've pulled,” Maggie murmured as they followed her inside. Colt smoothed down his waistcoat and shuddered.

  The High Courts of Justice, London.

  Felicity Firman sat in the court room staring straight ahead. The couple were both weeping. She couldn't bring herself to look their way. Leon, seated alongside her, arms crossed in defiance, had no such trouble. His pitiless glare hadn't left them once since they were hauled in by the court officers.

  The court appointed solicitor made no comment in their defence. He just sighed and shook his head as Judge Queensbury read aloud from The Daily Herald. To be fair, Flick herself would've struggled to mount a defence in the face of such compelling, and clear cut, evidence of contempt of court. But, she would've at least tried.

  She hadn't read the article herself. Set her standards of news fodder higher. It was a stark reminder of why, when the sensationalised conspiracy theory emerged. Flick winced as the Judge frowned hard and raised his voice, sharing his disdain at the mention of his own name as a co-conspirator in a cover up.

  Flick dropped her eyes to the floor. Things were bad enough already. They just got a whole lot worse. She pursed her lips and thought of Ryan Reynolds. Wondered if he was pleased with himself and the damage that he'd done. So much for his warped and worthless code of ethics, and his more worthless word.

  Leon rested his hand on her arm, Flick glanced up to face him. He raised his eyebrows and peered at her, silently questioning if she was okay. She patted his hand and gave a small nod, returning her gaze to Judge Queensbury for his grand finale. She wished that she could leave. She had no desire to be present for what she knew was coming next. What she had had a hand in.

  The Judge was red faced and furious when he delivered his verdict. “Never in all my years on the bench have I seen such a flagrant disregard of the law. I find you both in wilful contempt of court, and sentence you each to six months imprisonment. Take them down.”

  Flick swallowed hard, her grip on her briefcase tightening as the weeping turned to wailing. She momentarily closed her eyes as Carol and Simon Crossley were wrenched apart and dragged screaming from the closed courtroom.

  Chapter 23

  St.James’s Psychiatric Hospital, Hampshire.

  Terri Davies signed the visitor's book, and waited anxiously for her escort to emerge from behind the secure glass panelled door.

  It was her first visit to a psychiatric hospital, and if all went to plan, it would be her last.

  As she waited, apprehension consumed her. She had no idea what to expect. She hadn't really given this much thought.

  The male nurse who opened the door had a kind and open face. When he smiled she immediately felt at ease. “You're here to see Lisa Lewis?”

  Terri smiled back. “How is she?”

  “Come on through,” he said propping the door open for her. “She's having a good day. Won six games of Scrabble on the trot this morning.”

  Terri let out an impromptu laugh. Sasha was her mother's daughter; she too had an extensive grasp of the English language and a voracious appetite for books. They walked side by side down the sterile corridor, making idle chit chat as they progressed to the day room.

  “Morning Johnny,” the nurse said as a young man with a constantly nodding head made his way towards them.

  “Who, who, who, who is she?” he replied nodding in Terri's direction.

  “This is a friend of Lisa's.”

  Terri smiled awkwardly.

  “Nice, nice, nice, nice lady,” he said, and nodded his way into a side room.

  Terri's eyes followed him. “He's too young to be locked in here,” she murmured.

  “He's a nice lad,” the nurse mused. “Extreme OCD. The first word of every sentence has to be repeated four times.”

  “Must make for long conversations,” Terri mused.

  “It does. He comes in for two weeks respite care every six months to give his parents a break.”

  Terri jumped as a woman with wild hair, and wilder eyes, popped her head out from the room next door. “Paul,” she hissed.

  “Hi Mary. How you doing?” She grinned maniacally as she held up her heavily bandaged wrists, showing the blood seeping through. The nurse raised his eyebrows and sighed. “I'll be back to see you in a minute.”

  He grimaced at Terri. No explanation needed.

  Reaching the day room door, the nurse pointed to a small crowd in the corner. “You'll find Lisa over there,” he smiled. “It looks like she's still winning.”

  “When can she come home?” Terri asked.

  “The key step for any patient is acknowledging they have a problem.” Terri stared at him blankly, and the nurse smiled sympathetically. “Her medication has stabilised her moods and she’s not dangerous, so the only hurdle preventing her from returning home is her accepting she’s unwell.”

  “Thank you,” Terri said and watched as the nurse made his way back to the wrist slasher.

  Terri stood on the threshold of the day roo
m and smiled. The room was brightly coloured, and buzzing with laughter and activity as men and women mingled freely. This wasn't what she'd expected at all. And she certainly hadn’t expected the trump card to be so simple. Taking a deep breath, she clutched her handbag to her chest and briskly made her way towards the corner.

  New Scotland Yard, London.

  “I hear you've been to Social Services, Detective Chief Inspector.”

  Colt raised his brows as Commander Hussein sidled up to him at the door of his unit. “At least I know your hearing’s good.”

  “A press savvy Commander keeps his ear to the ground. Anything I should be aware of?”

  “Not sure yet,” Colt said. “A lot of unaccounted for girls, but, according to the last three years of filed police reports - that's nothing unusual. I've got someone looking for the registered keeper of a van one of them went off in, but the witness thinks she might’ve gone willingly.”

  “And what about our celebrity, Mr Sanders. Any news for me there?”

  “No bones you can chuck to your press hounds, if that's what you're asking.”

  Commander Hussein set his jaw and peered wistfully through the glass panel in the Paedophile Unit door.

  “Anything else?” Colt said tapping in the entrance code.

  “I was just looking for Inspector Bevan.”

  “She's in the viewing room,” Colt said. “Are you coming in?”

  “No, no, you carry on, Detective Chief Inspector.”

  Colt smiled and tilted his head to one side, and then the other. “Maggie's right you know. Your left side is definitely your best side.”

  The commander jutted his jaw to the left. “You think so?”

  Colt raised his brows. “Absolutely. You should strike that pose more often.” He let the door fall closed in Commander Hussein's face and crossed the unit to the viewing room. Maggie opened up on his second knock.

  “You've been up to no good,” she said staring at him.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The mischievous grin.” Maggie's eyes narrowed. “Have you been playing with the Commander again?”

  “He’s on the prowl for a new wife, I reckon you might be in there, Mags,” Colt teased before sobering. “Any sign of the deceased boy's mother yet?”

  “Not yet. But we know Sanders has had four different housekeepers in the last year, and none of them are accounted for. And we’re still working through the list of people with access to his home. They all come through the same employment agency as the housekeeper, and most of them don’t speak a bloody word of English.”

  Colt rubbed at his forehead. “What about all the CCTV? Have we not got anything on the comings and goings at his place yet?”

  “We've pulled every registered surveillance camera in the immediate vicinity. And not one of them covers his front door. We've got nothing, Boss.”

  Colt slumped into a chair and drummed his fingers on the table; sure he'd seen some pictures somewhere of the moment they went in. “Has anyone got a copy of the newspapers from the morning of the raid?”

  “Yep.” Maggie reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick wad of newspapers. Colt raised his brows and glanced at the rest of the perplexed team. “What?” she said dumping them in front of him. “I always clip our press cuttings. Reminds me why we do it when I'm having a shit day.”

  Colt held up The Daily Herald's front page. A nice clear shot of them in Flak jackets with guns drawn, just after they'd smashed the fuck out of the door, was accompanied by a promise of exclusive video footage online. “Someone has got a camera on Dwight Sanders' front door.”

  “Not a registered one,” Bob said peering at the by-line. “I'll get onto this Ryan Reynolds and find out where he got that footage.”

  “Don't waste your time,” Colt said. “We've been down this route with the press before - they won't tell us. Get your arses down to Sanders’ place and see if you can work out where that camera is.”

  He was crushing the cigarette butt under his foot when the Range Rover pulled up alongside him. He diverted his eyes, hoping it wasn't them. But then the door opened.

  “Get in,” the familiar voice called from the back seat.

  Fuck. His immediate reaction was to run. If they’d sent the big black bastard to his place of work, he was in deep shit. “What for?” he muttered, focusing on the cigarette butt his foot rolled back and forth across the pavement.

  “A little chat about your bonus. We can do it in there if you want.”

  He swallowed hard and looked across the car park to the windows of his office block beyond. No one was watching. Under the circumstances, that might not be a good thing. The Range Rover's windows were blacked out for a reason. If he got in, he might never be seen alive again. But he'd done well for them, he reasoned. And if this was about the bonus, more might be due. He could do with the money.

  Confident of good news, he climbed into the back seat. As he did, the front seat passenger climbed in behind him.

  The central locking engaged as the car pulled away. He suddenly felt very small, as the two brutes either side of him jostled for space. “I, I'm due at a meeting shortly,” he stammered. “They'll miss me if I'm not there.”

  The main man laughed. “No one will miss you, John,” he said pressing the gun against his temple.

  John clambered for the door. The man mountain to his left pressed him back in his seat. And John began to cry. “Please,” he pleaded. “Please don't kill me.”

  The main man smiled. “Your goods were defective. The Boss wants a refund. With interest.”

  “I haven't got it,” John cried covering his head as the barrel of the gun jabbed at his temple. “I, I, had debts to pay.”

  “Only a foolish man would give what belongs to the boss to a bookie, John,” the main man sneered. “I think the first instalment will have to be a kneecap. Hold him down.”

  John screamed as the other backseat passenger clamped his left leg in a vice-like grip, pinning him to his seat with his body weight. The driver turned the stereo up, 50 Cent's Get Rich or Die Tryin', the maimer’s soundtrack of choice. The hard-core beat reverberated through his head, as he waited for the pain to rip through his body. And then the car was silent. Just the sounds of his own blubbering and ragged breathing remained.

  “Open your eyes,” the main man whispered in his ear.

  John tried, but he couldn't. Cried out as the butt of the gun smashed against the side of his head. “Open your eyes, you blubbering, pathetic piece of shit!”

  With a marathon effort, one of his eyes opened. And then the other. He blinked rapidly as the barrel of the gun teased his lips apart. “Suck it,” the main man said forcing it into his throat. “Go on, John. Suck it good.”

  John did as instructed, and gagged. If he thought it would keep him alive, he'd suck their fucking dicks.

  “Is that nice John?” the main man said cocking the safety catch. “Let's hear some sexy, satisfying noises.”

  John's eyes widened. The only noises he could muster were whimpers and snot snuffles as he stared death in the face. The main man smiled as he pulled the trigger, and John's eyes slid closed.

  He felt nothing. No searing pain, no burning heat. It wasn't what he expected when your head explodes and splatters brain matter everywhere. It was a relief it was finally over. Maybe now he'd get some peace.

  But then he heard laughter.

  He opened his eyes to see the two brutes laughing at him. He raised his trembling hands to his head - it was still in one piece. His stomach churned. He wasn't dead after all.

  “Fucking hell, John, that was class. I always knew you were a cocksucker,” the main man laughed throwing an arm around his shoulders. John's throat began to burn as bile crept up his larynx. “I wanted to kill you, but the boss seems to like you. He's giving you another chance. You've got two weeks to bring him three ready to drops in settlement of your debt. Or, I'll be coming to collect you - piece by fucking piece.”

&n
bsp; “I can’t,” he whimpered. “It’s too many. The police are all over us.”

  The car pulled up at the kerb just as his stomach began to convulse. The silent brute to his left stepped out and held the door open for him. John clambered towards the waning daylight and spilled out onto the pavement, where he landed on his knees.

  “See you in a fortnight,” the main man called from the back window as the car sped off.

  John hung his head in the gutter, his vomit mingling with long strands of sluggish snot. Wiping a hand across his mouth, he sat back on his haunches and raised his face to the heavens. Tears of relief and dismay, mingled with nervous hysterical laughter when he realised that he'd pissed himself.

  Chapter 24

  Winchester, Hampshire.

  Terri Davies sat on the edge of her sofa, knees clamped together, staring at her mobile phone on the coffee table. She reached for it, then withdrew her hand and crossed her arms.

  She growled and stood up. This was ridiculous. He was just a man. She gave the coffee table a wide berth as she shuffled past it to the kitchen. In the glow of the fridge light, she sighed. It was stacked with food. Not a bottle in sight. She imagined India's fridge and the stash of Dutch courage it would contain. Terri slammed the door shut. It was that frigid bitch’s fault she was in this bloody position in the first place.

  Terri pulled the stool over to the worktop, and climbed aboard, rummaging through each kitchen cupboard in turn. She must have a bottle around somewhere. The Head always bought the teachers a bottle of plonk each for Christmas. It was always spirits. And it was always relegated to the back of a cupboard and made available to guests. Terri didn't do spirits. She preferred the cheapest bottles of vino, or paint stripper, as India called it.