by Bo Brennan
They’d been driving for hours. God knows where they were. All he could see was a craggy wilderness stretching for miles without a road sign or landmark in sight. “We should've taken my car,” he said.
“We'd have arrived on the back of a recovery truck,” she murmured.
Ryan crossed his arms. “It's inconspicuous and discreet. You didn't notice me following you all the way to Wales.”
“It was quite a surprise you made it to Wales at all,” she said dully.
Ryan cleared his throat. “Where are we going exactly?”
“I told you,” Flick said staring straight ahead and swerving a pot hole the size of a dustbin lid. “To say goodbye.”
Actually, she hadn't told him. South West was all she'd said, and she'd given no indication whatsoever about whom the goodbye was for. Ryan Reynolds was a man used to being in control; he didn't like the sense of unease that came from not knowing where he was. He wouldn't ask again, she was being cagey as hell. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and scrolled through his apps, looking for one with GPS or a mapping function.
“You won't get a signal out here,” she said matter-of-factly.
Ryan stared at his defunct mobile phone as the ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach grew. He'd messaged into work from the ferry. Told them he was away for the whole weekend, but he’d given no indication where he was or who he was with. If he didn't come back his credit card statement would put him on the ferry. His car would be found at the port - exactly where she’d insisted he leave it. But no one would find him out here. And no one would make a connection with Felicity Firman QC.
He glanced across at her, and wondered if she'd drawn him in like he'd seen her do so many times in the criminal courts. She had a knack for making a victim feel like her best friend, before ripping them to shreds in defence of her obviously guilty clients. A good few dangerous people were walking the streets today solely because of her acting skills and powers of persuasion. If half of what she'd told him on the ferry crossing was true, the most dangerous ones of all had never been bought to book. Why would they? They wore suits, made policy, and money. Lots of money. A set up that she herself benefited from. If there was one thing his work had taught him - it was that rich people would do anything to defend their money. Even kill for it. And Felicity Firman was the master of defence.
Ryan rubbed at his brow as sweat began to bead there. What the fuck was he thinking relinquishing control and going to an undisclosed location, in a foreign country, with this woman? He swallowed hard as his predicament hit him, and the realisation dawned of exactly how it had happened. Like a wanker he’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book. Tears.
“We're here,” she murmured driving through a gap flanked by giant trees.
Ryan's pulse began to quicken as the rambling old farmhouse and outbuildings came into view. He checked his phone signal one more time, finding nothing, he discreetly slid it under her passenger seat. “Flick, I want you to know I'm really sorry about what I did to you,” he said.
She let out a hefty sigh as she pulled the car into a dilapidated old barn. “Which part?” she said cutting the engine and staring at him.
Ryan ran his tongue over his teeth and then across his parched lips. “All of it. I put you in an impossible situation and I'm sorry.”
Flick shrugged. “Doesn't matter. We're here now. C'mon, it's time to say goodbye.”
She stepped from the car and walked to the barn opening. Ryan swivelled in the passenger seat and stared after the tiny black silhouette she cut against the brightness outside. If it came to it he was confident he could take her. But, there could be twenty burly blokes toting guns inside that farmhouse. Bodies turned up in the Irish mountains all the time. He knew. He'd read about them. Hell, he’d written about them on occasion. He was screwed.
And then he frowned and narrowed his eyes. Felicity Firman was five foot nothing. Unless her henchman consisted solely of midgets, the little people surrounding her could only be children. As she stepped fully into the brightness of the day, she looked back at him and smiled, beckoning him to join her.
Ryan tentatively stepped from the car and tugged at his t-shirt. It was almost welded to his body with nervous sweat. He hadn’t anticipated going on a journey. Had not as much as a toothbrush with him let alone a change of clothes, and at a respectable 5'8 he didn't see any loan opportunities on the immediate horizon. Stepping into the sunshine, he squinted at Flick and the couple she was embracing, as the little people trailed across the grass towards the house.
“Ryan Reynolds, meet Niamh and Declan Maloney,” she said. “The sole beneficiaries of the Crowley Trust.”
St James’s Psychiatric Hospital, Hampshire.
The psychiatrist gave her a sympathetic smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Good, really good,” Lisa Lewis said. “Everything seems so much lighter and clearer now.”
He silently observed her, nodding gently as though he expected more. Lisa offered nothing, and he made a note on his pad. “Coping alone with a teenage daughter must have been very stressful for you at times,” he said.
“Yes, it has.” Lisa nodded solemnly, and pressed her hands underneath her thighs to prevent her from slapping his face. Sasha was a blessing. Being a mother had been many things over the years, but never stressful. Stressful, was being locked in this bloody place unable to protect her. “There's a constant pressure to provide everything her friends have, and more. The fear of failing her became crippling, but the most frightening thing of all was how it crept up on me without my even realising. My mind seemed to tell me I had to start over and everything spun out of control so fast. I can certainly understand why stress is referred to as the silent killer.”
The psychiatrist steepled his fingers and studied her intently. “And what about Billy?”
Lisa hung her head and took a deep breath. “Billy doesn’t exist,” she sighed. “He was a figment of my mentally unstable imagination. I know that now.”
“Why can't you look at me, Lisa?” the psychiatrist probed.
She shrugged. “I'm ashamed.”
“There's no need to be,” he said. “Acknowledgment is part of the healing process, shame is simply a barrier.”
Lisa instantly looked up. “The worst thing is knowing I've damaged my own daughter.”
“She’s receiving specialist care to help her recover,” the psychiatrist said, scribbling notes on his pad. “You've made significant progress, Lisa. In time, your daughter will too.”
“I feel as though I'm ready to face the world again,” Lisa said. “Maybe, in time, with the help and support of the community health team, I'll be able to re-establish contact with my daughter.”
The psychiatrist raised his brows and smiled. “I see you've been giving the future a lot of clear and concise thought,” he said.
Lisa smiled back. “I have, and I can’t thank you enough for helping me,” she gushed. “There's no way I could have done this on my own. Do you think I'll be able to go home soon?”
The psychiatrist’s smile broadened. “I think there’s a very strong possibility.”
London.
Colt scowled at the festering black sacks stacked high against the shop frontage, and looked up at the peeling painted sign. On paper, Flynn & Associates had an air of decorum about it. It certainly didn't in the flesh. The place was a shit hole.
Inside was equally disappointing. One desk, with vacant chairs on either side, was the sum total of the furnishings. Why bother with shelves when files could be stacked ceiling high in almost every available inch of floor space?
“Hello. Anybody in?” he called out, curious as to what sort of legal eagle was conducting business from here.
Somewhere out back a toilet flushed. Colt raised his brows when a rotund little man shuffled out from behind a stack of files in the corner doing up his belt. More legal pigeon than eagle, pretty much what he’d expected in this last chance saloon for the desperate.
<
br /> “Jerry Flynn, at your service,” he said hoisting his trousers to sit comfortably under his beer belly.
Colt opened his jacket to show his ID. “I'm with the Metropolitan Police Service,” he said.
Jerry Flynn smiled. “I know. Such a waste. You were one hell of a prop head back in the day. Take a seat and let's discuss what on earth you were thinking when you jacked in the rugby to become a copper of all things.”
“Let’s not,” Colt said taking one look at the dusty visitor's chair and clearing a space to perch on the edge of the desk instead. “Let's talk about the Crowley Trust. What can you tell me about it?”
Jerry Flynn pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nothing.”
Colt stared at him. He was in no mood for being dicked around, especially not by a man with week old egg dribbled down his tie. He reeled off the van registration from memory, and said, “That vehicle is registered to the Crowley Trust, which is managed by you. I want to know who drives it, and I want to know now.”
Jerry Flynn smiled and raised his hands. “All I am is a mailing address.”
“You must know who you're a mailing address for.”
“I can't tell you anything that would reveal the trust’s assets or interests of its beneficiaries. Everything is confidential.”
Colt let out an exasperated sigh. He was tired. Tired of jumping through hoops. Tired of playing by a warped set of one sided rules. And tired of beating about the bloody bush. When he abruptly stood up, the legal pigeon flapped in his seat. Colt dropped the latch on the office door, engaged the bolts top and bottom, and tilted the broken blinds.
Jerry Flynn's eyes widened as Colt cracked his knuckles and approached the desk once more. “Not the face,” he spluttered covering his head with his hands.
“Stop dicking around, I’ve got a train to catch in thirty minutes,” Colt said pulling his wallet from his inside jacket pocket. “How much is it going to cost me for a name and address?”
Chapter 31
Park Gate, Hampshire.
“Fuck off, Sangrin!” India spat rejecting his call once again. His incessant ringing was ruining her concentration and grating on her nerves. Seconds later it beeped with another voice message.
She glanced at the clock. The poisoned dwarf would have been in the pub for a good couple of hours by now. The bloke needed to get a life. She rolled her eyes as it rang again, didn't need to look at the screen to know it was him, booze made him brave. She switched her mobile phone off and slung it on her sofa. And then some bastard knocked the front door.
She turned her glare on the door. Thought about ignoring it. But that hadn't worked with the phone and the only people welcome here had keys. The door was bolted and whoever it was hadn't even tried the lock. Her eyes narrowed. Sangrin, brave and stupid. She glanced at the gun cabinet as she stood up and thought better of it. She didn't need a weapon to take out Sergeant Lee Sangrin. She’d get more pleasure throttling him with her own bare hands.
Peering through the port hole she frowned. Colt was standing on the deck tossing his keys in his palm. She unbolted and stepped out to greet him, pulling the door firmly closed behind her. “What's up?”
“Nothing,” he said fiddling with her front door key. “Just wondered if you wanted to go out tonight.”
“I'm busy.”
Colt peered at her. “What with?”
“Work.”
“That's funny,” he said inclining his head, “because no one at work has seen or heard from you since yesterday.”
India glowered and cocked her jaw. He might be a DCI but he wasn't her DCI. “What's it got to do with you?”
He raised his brows and slid the keys into his pocket. “Len phoned me on my way home.”
India huffed and rolled her eyes.
“He's worried, India. So am I,” he said rubbing her arm.
India brushed his hand away. “Anything else?”
Colt smiled. “Sangrin's spitting feathers. Wants your head on a stick.”
“What's new?” she shrugged.
“I thought maybe we could go out to dinner tonight. Talk over whatever’s troubling you.”
India stared at him, chewing at her cheek. The only thing troubling her was inconvenient truths. A baby was missing and no one was looking. His mother was stuck in the nut house and his sister rotting in the system. On top of that - Terri wasn’t talking to her, and now her boss had a placeman living opposite, a spy in her camp. “I'm busy,” she said backing through the door. “Some other time.”
Colt flicked through the TV channels. He'd been playing couch commando for the last three hours, merely skirting the issue and resisting the urge. He growled and clenched his jaw as he folded and gave in, switching the TV over to the live camera stream he sat back to watch.
Swigging from his bottle of Bud, he studied the screen intently as India paced her lounge. He'd never seen her pace before; she did her best thinking in stillness. He wondered what had her so agitated, and frowned as she stopped mid stride, hands on hips, staring at the out of sight wall. He tilted his head when she momentarily vanished from view, wishing he knew what she was up to. Wishing he could help.
He reclined back on the settee, chastising himself for not just going over there and asking outright. But she'd already cold shouldered him once and he didn't intend to give her another opportunity to make him feel small. She knew he'd give her whatever she needed, whenever she needed it, and right now that felt like space and time. He cracked his knuckles and reached for his phone. You up? he keyed and hit send.
Almost immediately his phone began to ring. Smiling he picked up the call. “What are you up to this weekend?” he said.
“Trying to keep busy and failing miserably,” Maggie said dully. “The kids are with their father and PC Homewrecker.”
“Fancy a trip to Ireland?”
“Does the Pope wear a funny hat?” she mused. “What am I booking and when?”
Colt laughed out loud. “Flights to Cork, car hire, and a hotel for tomorrow night. Do it on my personal account.”
“On it,” she chirped. “I'll email you all the details. See you tomorrow.”
Colt shook his head and grinned as the line went dead, pleased he could make at least one person happy this weekend. He looked back to the TV screen. India had resumed pacing. Scrolling through his phone contacts, he called Gray.
Chapter 32
Saturday 23rd July.
St James’s Psychiatric Hospital, Hampshire.
Terri Davies chewed at her thumb nail watching the secure door. When it opened and a nurse emerged carrying a white hospital bag, she sighed and nervously checked her watch. She'd signed the paperwork precisely seven minutes ago, but it felt like hours had past.
“Please get me the hell out of here before they change their minds,” a woman's voice said.
Terri looked up to see Lisa Lewis, fully clothed, carrier bag in hand, anxiously looking back at her. She leapt to her feet and embraced her like a long lost friend returned. Wiping a tear from her cheek, she grabbed her hand, and said, “Let's go.”
Lisa drew a deep breath and tilted her pale face towards the warm summer sun as she stepped from the hospital a free woman. Terri couldn't stop looking at her; she was finding it hard to believe they'd actually pulled it off.
“Can we go to the police station first?” Lisa said as they reached the car.
“There's no point.” Terri sighed. “The police have closed the case.”
Lisa slid into the passenger seat. “They can't have, India came to see me yesterday.”
Terri frowned. “Well I don't know why. I cornered her Sergeant in the pub last night. He spoke to your psychiatrist yesterday and officially closed the case. No one's looking for Billy, but everyone's looking for India. She's gone AWOL.”
“She must be acting off her own back then,” Lisa said. “She gave me such a hard time I almost blabbed.”
Terri huffed a mirthless chuckle. “Giving you a hard time so
unds about right, but if you think she's doing it out of the goodness of her heart - think again. She doesn't have one.”
Lisa raised her brows. “You and your sister are both pretty relentless; maybe that's why you clash.”
“She's not my sister.”
“I thought you said...”
“It's complicated.”
Lisa sighed and gazed wistfully into the distance. “Sasha's dad said that when I phoned him up and told him I was pregnant.”
“Are you still in contact?”
Lisa shook her head. “Turned out the magical weekend we spent together in Blackpool was his stag do. He got married the following week.”
“What an arsehole.”
“He wasn't all bad,” Lisa said crossing her arms and pursing her lips. “He did offer to pay for a termination.”
Terri shook her head in disgust. The arsehole didn't deserve to be in that little girl’s life. “Where to first?” she said starting the engine.
“Royal South Hants,” Lisa said without hesitation. “If the police aren’t doing anything, I’ll have to speak to Dr Johnson myself.”
Terri grimaced. “I don't think that's such a good idea, unless you want to end up right back here.”
“He took my son. If I can find him, I can get Sasha back.”
“I figured it would be easier to get Sasha back first,” Terri said. “She’s easy to find. I've got the home address of the social worker who took her. He's expecting to get laid tonight. I thought we could turn up together and ambush him.”
Lisa raised her brows and shifted in her seat. “I'd rather go on my own.”
“I don't think that's such a good idea either.” Terri bit at her bottom lip. “He's a right perverted piece of shit.”