by Bo Brennan
Ryan picked up the empty glass and sniffed it. “Bourbon? Not my first choice but it'll do,” he said. “Is the right honourable Mr Stephen Charmers joining us?”
Flick shook her head and wiped her incredibly dry mouth. She couldn't stand living like this anymore. Couldn't bear the thought of Stephen's girls being caught in the crossfire when it all came crashing down. “Please leave Stephen out of this,” she pleaded. “He's got a young family. They'd be torn apart. I'll tell you everything, but I need your assurance you'll leave him alone.”
Ryan studied her with interest. The woman looked more composed when he'd hijacked her in the Oxfordshire woods than she did now. Now, she looked frightened and overburdened, yet, oddly relieved. As the barman brought their drinks Ryan patted the seat next to him, wanting her to sit down before she fell down.
He'd seen her in action during criminal trials. The woman took no prisoners. Nothing fazed her. A fumble with a married MP was water off a ducks back to him, pure fodder for the gossip columns. But if she wanted to get things off her chest and lighten her load, he was certainly going to listen. “When did it start?” he said passing her drink.
“It's been going on forever,” she said quietly swilling her glass. “But things hotted up in 2000.”
“Blimey.” Ryan raised his brows. This was far more than a fumble. Stephen Charmers hadn't even celebrated his tenth wedding anniversary yet; they must've been at it before he got married. He had her down as far too astute to fall for the old 'of course I'll leave my wife for you’ line, especially when the man in question had a track record like Charmers.
“I didn't get involved until 2007 though,” she hastened, as though banging someone else's husband for only three years softened the blow. “It was impossible not to, they were taking so many for such stupid fucking reasons.” Flick looked up with pleading eyes. “You have to understand - I had to do something. I chose family law to help children, if I'd wanted to be in commodities I'd have picked the trading floor of Goldman Sachs.”
Ryan stared at her, glass pressed to his lips. Fucking hell, he was expecting to hear the words Charmers had wooed her with, but this wasn't about Charmers at all. She was talking about work. She thought he knew something. Ryan thought he knew something too, but he was getting the growing feeling that he didn't know jack shit. He needed to be careful here and not give the game away. “What happened in 2000?”
Flick ran her finger around the top of her glass and sighed. “The targets,” she said quietly. “Do you know about them?”
Ryan silently shook his head. He had no idea what she was talking about but he damn well wanted to.
Flick sighed and stared at her glass as she spoke. “The government wanted fewer children stuck in long term care, so they introduced a target for Local Authorities to increase adoptions by 40%.”
Ryan sipped his drink, wondering how fewer kids in care, and more in stable homes, could possibly be a bad thing. “Sounds like a good plan to me,” he murmured.
She glanced up at him. “It might have been if it wasn't for the Performance Reward Grant.”
“I'm guessing that was a financial incentive,” he said, knowing full well that nothing happened in government without money changing hands. “What sort of sums are we talking about?”
“Haltingbury alone received a PRG of two point seven million in 2007 for meeting their increased adoption targets.”
Ryan let out a long, low whistle. No wonder they were so busy in the courtroom. “Bloody hell, they can’t have a kid left in care.”
Flick frowned and huffed a mirthless chuckle. “No one wants to adopt abused kids with issues, everyone wants a baby. While the Local Authorities are busy maximising the scheme’s potential, the children already in the system are left to rot. Not to mention the ones in daily danger at home.” Flick shook her head. “When you write those headlines about social services missing umpteen opportunities to save a child’s life, don’t you ever wonder ‘how’ or ‘why’?”
“Always.” Ryan cocked his jaw. “Are you saying it’s deliberate?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Flick sighed and raked her fingers through her hair. “But, while they're busy making money balancing supply and demand, the kids in danger are being ignored.”
“So you think Social Services are focusing on taking healthy babies to make money?”
“I don't think, I know,” she said bitterly. “Babies under one week old being snatched from their mothers had risen three fold by 2007. Haltingbury were taking so many I couldn't keep up, it was like a bloody conveyor belt in that courtroom. I raised my concerns with the court and chambers but was told not to rock the boat because everyone was making money. I even tried to resign. I sat down with Judge Crowley and found out she’d been fighting the system from inside for years. But she was also fighting cancer, and more powerful vested interests. She wanted a legacy that changed things. I wanted to stop children being wrongly taken from loving homes merely to satisfy government adoption targets.”
Ryan wet his lips. This was way more than he'd bargained for. “Where does Stephen Charmers fit into all of this?”
“He was fighting from the outside. Trying to change legislation and end secrecy in the Family Courts. He was in parliament, I was in the courtroom,” she said casually raising a shoulder. “Anne Crowley thought us perfect partners to officiate change.”
Ryan cocked his jaw. Unable to comprehend exactly what sort of change could come from shutting Stephen Charmers up. “So what, you and he hopped into bed together in 2007 and he shut his mouth?”
Flick glared at him. “The only bed fellows Stephen and I have ever been is in the carrying out of Anne's dying wish. They silenced him by threatening to take his own children.”
Ryan spluttered on his drink. “He's a prominent MP for fuck's sake. Who the hell are these people?”
Flick threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know. Even the Justice Secretary has no idea what goes on in there. It's a multi-billion pound industry completely out of control.”
Ryan raised a brow. “Just out of curiosity, how much does an expert witness get paid to testify?”
Flick shrugged. “Anywhere from three to forty grand depending on what they're asked to do.”
“Fuck me, Professor Barrington must be rolling in it.”
“He is,” Flick muttered. “And it’s Lord Professor Barrington.”
Ryan cocked his jaw. “He's a fucking Lord?
Flick nodded slowly. “Since last year.”
Ryan frowned hard and tilted his head. “I thought he had some involvement with the adoption and fostering industry.”
“He does,” Flick said. “He's also the government's chief advisor on child protection policy.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ryan gasped, mystified at how he could've mistakenly thought Flick shagging Charmers was a conflict of interest. “How has none of this shit ever come out?”
“It's against the law to discuss the workings of the Family Division.” Flick rested her elbows on her knees and hung her head in her hands, covering her face.
Ryan leant back in his seat, reeling. He let out a long low breath and rubbed at his furrowed brow. He had no idea how he was going to tackle this, but this was the story that had to be told. The state sanctioned baby snatchers, trading in children and thriving on misery and silence unchallenged. “This needs to be in the public domain,” he said staring down at her.
“I know,” she whispered behind her hands.
Ryan swallowed hard. “Help me get the story out there and I'll protect you.”
She said nothing in return. Continued hiding behind her hands as the silence extended between them. “Flick, please,” he pleaded resting a hand on her shoulder. “You can make this right by helping me. I can't do it on my own, the story's too big. I'll never be able to unravel it without someone inside.”
When she finally looked up at him and nodded, tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Just give me the weekend to say goodbye firs
t.”
Chapter 30
New Scotland Yard, London.
“Jesus Christ, this is so frustrating,” Colt said dragging his hands down his face. “I fucked up good and proper by not searching that church sooner.”
“The camera was probably long gone,” the prosecutor said. “Whoever was filming was quick to sell the footage.”
Colt cracked his knuckles. “But why were they filming in the first place? Blackmail? Extortion?”
“Possibly.” Michael Moore let out an exasperated sigh and drummed his fingers on Colt’s desk. “Someone else obviously knew what was going on in that house. Any sign of the missing housekeeper yet?”
Colt spread his hands and shook his head. “There's no sign of the last four housekeepers. According to the agency all were Eastern European with young boys. They went to work for Sanders and none have been seen since.”
The prosecutor frowned and jerked his head.
“Yeah, you're thinking the same as me,” Colt said rubbing the back of his neck. “But according to the Border Agency it’s par for the course. Once they get close to the end of their visa they often vanish into thin air apparently. The latest one had only been with him a couple of weeks. The cable and stool had been in that bell tower a while, so we can rule her out of any blackmail attempt. Besides, something would've flagged in Sanders' financials if he was paying out.” He slid a batch of photographs across his desk to Michael. “Going on skin tone alone, we think the victims might be the kids of the missing housekeepers.”
“Maybe it's not Dwight Sanders who's being blackmailed,” Michael mused. “After all, the camera was only capturing outside the property. Apart from the obvious stuff in the basement room, you didn't turn up any other recording equipment inside the house.”
Colt scrubbed a hand over his head. “And we're right back at square one. Faceless, nameless visitors did it while he was out of the country.”
“Not quite,” the prosecutor said handing him a headless photograph. “Take a close look at the cufflink just visible in the bottom right hand corner, and tell me what you see.”
Colt studied the picture carefully. “It looks like a gold gavel,” he murmured raising his eyes to the prosecutor. Michael Moore inclined his head and raised his brows.
Colt stared at him. “Are you telling me we're looking for a fucking Judge?”
Michael Moore slowly nodded.
St James’s Psychiatric Hospital, Hampshire.
India narrowed her eyes as the crazy bitch clocked her coming and bolted from her chair leaving it upturned on the Day Room floor.
“Mary, what are you doing? It's your go,” Lisa Lewis said glancing up from the Scrabble board.
“Morning,” India said picking up the chair and straddling it.
Lisa Lewis rubbed at her furrowed brow in dismay. “Why won't you just go away and leave me alone?”
India shrugged. “Someone's gotta give a shit about your kids.”
“I do,” she muttered frowning hard and crossing her arms.
India stared at her and drew a deep breath, preparing to machine gun her with a flurry of rapid fire questions, and harsh words intended to sting. “Do you? Do you really? Shall I enter you for the mother of the year awards? Line you up against real mothers and let the judges decide? How do you think you'd fare? You wouldn't get anywhere near a podium. Hell, you wouldn't even get a certificate for entering. Mothers who give a shit would take a bullet for their kids, jump in front of a speeding train for them, dive into shark infested waters to save them. What the fuck would you do? How far would you go for yours?”
Lisa Lewis bit. She bit hard. “I'd kill for my children!” she screamed flipping the Scrabble board through the air.
India sat motionless, studying her over the chair back as tiny plastic letters rained down around them.
“Is there a problem?” a breathless male nurse panted as he restrained Lisa's arms.
“Bring us a dictionary,” India said pointing at a cluster of plastic letters around his feet. “If QUARTZY is a real word she’s just nabbed herself a whopping score.”
The nurse looked down and shifted from foot to foot reading the letters, when he looked back up, India said, “Dictionary. Now please,” as she ushered him away with her hand.
The nurse sauntered off, shaking his head and grumbling under his breath.
“Get your arse in a seat before you make yourself look really crazy,” she said returning her attention to Lisa. “Where were we?”
Lisa Lewis stared at her as she lowered herself into the chair. “You're the crazy one.”
“I guess I'm in the right place then, for now at least.” India inclined her head. “You said children, as in more than one.”
Lisa frowned. “What?”
“I'd kill for my children,” India said making quotation marks in the air. “I saw Sasha yesterday.”
“How is she?” Lisa said. “Is she okay? Is she being well looked after?”
India nodded. “Yep, she’s fine.” Not really, she thought. But guessed she was better off in Haltingbury Social Services care than locally, considering that dickhead in charge of Hampshire, Rob Stapler, had only come up with her whereabouts and flimsy file an hour ago. “She talked a lot about you and Billy. She misses you both.”
Lisa's face crumpled and she swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “There is no Billy,” she said shakily. “How many times do I have to tell you? I made him up. And I made her ill.”
“She gave me this.” India slipped a hand in her pocket and slid the baby photograph across the table. Lisa gasped. Her shoulders shuddered as her fingers lovingly traced his face. “I made copies,” India said. “You can keep that one.”
Lisa wiped reams of snot from her nose with the back of her hand, and pushed the photograph back. “He's a beautiful baby,” she said crossing her arms. “But he's not mine.”
India rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “I know he’s yours. And I know he’s missing. But, here’s the rub, Lisa – I got the hospital work rosters, and Dr Johnson doesn’t work on Mondays.”
Lisa Lewis's mouth gaped open but nothing came out.
“I’m not a mother,” India said. “But I guess one who would kill for her kids wouldn't have a problem denying their existence if she thought it would get her out of a place like this.” She put the picture in her handbag and rocked the chair forward until she was nose to nose with her. “But just so you know - I will find out what happened to your boy. So whatever it is you’re planning, don't go doing anything stupid.”
New Scotland Yard, London.
“Any updates for me, Detective Chief Inspector?” Commander Hussein asked.
Colt glared over his shoulder at Bob for letting the tosspot in, and then glanced back to Maggie who gave him a discreet thumb up. “Other than the report sitting on your desk, just the one,” he called across the unit.
Hussein raised his brows in question.
“You still haven't signed off the funding for our counsellor,” Colt said. “And I haven’t received the reimbursement cheque you promised either.”
The Commander shifted uncomfortably on the spot and cleared his throat. “Maybe we should discuss this in your office.”
“There's nothing to discuss,” Colt said returning his eyes to the documents on Mag’s computer screen. “You said you'd do it and you haven't. That's the outstanding update. With regards to the Haltingbury and Sanders cases, you'll find it all in the report on your desk. Now if you don't mind we're wading knee deep in shit here.”
Colt clenched his teeth as Maggie’s nails dug into his thigh under the desk. He straightened up in his seat and forced a smile. “Of course, if I had more time, nothing would give me greater pleasure than entering into discussion with you, Sir.”
The red faced Commander stared at him and the air thickened. “Expect to have that discussion very soon, Detective Chief Inspector,” he spat. “And expect a large proportion of it to be about your attitude.�
��
“I'll look forward to it,” Colt said, and felt Maggie cringe beside him. “Anything else, Sir?”
“That's all,” Commander Hussein said goose stepping to the door. “Carry on.”
“Prick,” Colt muttered shaking his head.
“Oh my god.” Maggie buried her face in her hands. “What the hell is going on with you lately?”
Colt shrugged. “Nothing. The man's a prick.”
“He's always been a prick,” Maggie said. “So why is it getting under your skin all of a sudden?”
Colt stared at the details on the screen. “The only thing getting under my skin is this fucking van,” he mumbled. “So that's it is it? That’s the sum total from all of the government agencies and databases?”
Maggie nodded. “The van's registered to the Crowley Trust at a PO Box number. Turns out Trusts have no legal disclosure requirements, and they don’t have to be registered with any government agencies either, so that's the closest the systems will take us to finding out who drives it. The rest is old fashioned leg work I'm afraid. I’m surprised you don’t know about Trusts, they’re a great tax screw if you’re loaded.”
Colt sighed. They'd gone from wading in shit to drowning in it. “So, who are these people?” he said tapping the screen.
“They’re a law firm,” she said. “Companies House came back with them from the address attached to the Crowley Trust PO Box number. From what I can work out, they manage it. I’ve just printed off their details for you.”
Colt pushed his chair back, stood up and smoothed his waistcoat. “You lot stay on Dwight Sanders’ connections. I’m going to see Flynn & Associates and find out who’s been bundling Haltingbury Social Services girls into the back of this bloody van.”
Ireland.
Ryan jerked awake and grabbed the Mercedes’ dashboard, frowning at the pot holed mountain track ahead. He glanced at the clock and then across at a silent, stony faced Flick Firman behind the wheel.