by Bo Brennan
“You’ll get both kids back, Lisa,” the doctor said. “But this has to be an end to it. Stalemate.”
Lisa inclined her head and stared at the phone in George’s hand. “Stalemate?”
“Yes,” he said. “We involve no one else, and we all agree to go our separate ways as though this unfortunate episode never happened.”
Lisa’s entire body clenched at the thought.
“And money,” George wailed as the head of his penis turned purple in her fist. “We'll give you lots of money to compensate you.”
“I don't want your money,” Lisa spat staring down at George’s bloated face. She could still see the remnants of the white powder he’d made her snort - to get her in the party mood -clinging to his nasal hair. After everything they’d done to her, could she bear to just walk away? She hated these men and the depths they’d driven her to, but she loved her babies more.
“I just want my children,” she murmured. Wanted them safely tucked in their own beds on Monday night. “Where and when?”
“Somewhere neutral,” Dr Johnson replied. “You know the multi storey car park in Winchester?”
“I know it.”
“No one ever uses the top floor, it's open and exposed,” he said. “I'll be there with Billy at ten on Monday night. Come alone and we'll end this.”
As the line went dead Lisa let out a sigh of relief that slumped her shoulders and relaxed her grip. That was the moment George Sarum seized to buck her from his body.
Park Gate, Hampshire.
Colt pulled up on the hard standing between India and Gray's cars and let the engine idle. At just gone 2 am both houseboats had all lights blazing. Unsure whether that was a good sign or not, he cut the engine and stepped from his car. Looking to his own place he wondered if he should speak with Gray first to test the waters, and then looked back to India's.
If he was ever to appreciate the calm, he needed to learn how to weather the storms.
Taking a deep breath, he cracked his knuckles and headed for her rickety steps.
Twisting his key in the lock he thought what a stupid concept giving someone 'time and space' really was. Worse than stupid, it was a lie. What he'd done was run away. Run away when the going got tough. He was good at that, considered himself well practised. And, as usual, he'd run into a shit load of trouble.
Colt smiled when a wide eyed Gray greeted him on the other side of the door. “All right mate, I thought you were....,” he started, stopping abruptly when Gray stepped aside. Colt frowned hard and stared at the frantic coloured scribbling all over the previously whitewashed wall. “Jesus Christ,” he murmured. “What the fuck is all that?”
“I don't know,” Gray said. “I've being looking at it for a couple of hours and I can't make head or tail of it.” He pointed to Sasha Grant’s name. “I know this is the kid her and Terri have fallen out about, though.”
Colt moved closer to the wall, silently digesting the tangle of bubbled names and intricate lines, tracing them with his fingers. “It's a mind map,” he finally said.
“Knowing what's going on in her head has gotta be a good thing, right?”
Colt glanced at him sideways. “Not really. They've closed the case. The mother said there was no baby after all.”
Gray frowned. “That's not what Terri says.”
“Yeah, well, Terri's had a lot to say lately. And most of it unpleasant.”
Gray sighed and shook his head. “Her bark’s worse than her bite.”
“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Colt said. “She was well out of order blaming India for all of this.”
Gray raised his hands in self-defence. “When those two go at it I stay well out of it, mate. You'd be wise to as well. They'll be best buddies again next week and ganging up on you otherwise.”
Colt traced the line marked ‘Social Services,’ and raised a brow when it reached a bubble encasing a name he knew. “Why the fuck is Alan Roberts up here?” he mused.
“Because he's Sasha Grant's new social worker.”
Colt cleared his throat and turned to see India staring at him from the open doorway. She was wearing the red dress she wore the first night he watched her dance. Face made up like a Hollywood starlet, her long dark curls cascaded around her shoulders and tumbled down her back. She looked incredible. A vision of beauty he didn't like one little bit.
“Where have you been?” he said.
“I had an appointment with a doctor,” she said dully.
Colt looked up at the wall. At the name, Dr Johnson, circled in red. “Have you been drinking?”
She rolled her eyes and laughed.
Colt felt his skin begin to prickle, goose bumps traced his spine. He looked to Gray shuffling uncomfortably and staring at the floor. “Are you done with embarrassing me?” Colt said as his flesh began to burn.
India kicked her stilettos off and shrugged.
Colt could feel the rage bubbling. He drew a deep breath in through his nose and began a silent count to ten in his head. He only got to three.....
“Did you fuck him?” he shouted slamming his hand against the wall.
Her reaction was immediate. “Did you fuck Maggie?” she screamed back.
In the charged silence that followed they stared at each other across the room. Gray covered his ears with his hands, ducked between them, and said, “That's me done. I'm outta here.”
Colt didn't breathe again until the door slammed closed. “No,” he said quietly. “I didn't.” He ran a hand across his parched lips before thrusting them both in his pockets. He swallowed hard. Dread filled him as he readied himself to ask the question that could turn his world upside down once more. “Did you fuck him, India?”
India shook her head. “No. All this,” she said spreading her hands, “it’s purely work.”
As Colt closed his eyes and let out a relieved sigh, she padded bare foot to the fridge.
“I only drink wine with you,” she said waving a bottle at him from the galley kitchen. “And I haven't had it for days. Are you with me?”
Colt grinned. That was a good enough declaration of exclusivity for him. “Make it a big one,” he said dropping onto her sofa. “Then you can tell me all about your whack decorating job.”
“That can wait until tomorrow,” she said handing him a corkscrew and bottle. “I’m more interested in you, Maggie, and Ireland.”
Chapter 37
Sunday 24th July.
Co Cork, Ireland.
Niamh rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn as she set the teapot down on the table. Ryan smiled and reached for the mugs to do the honours. They'd sat up late into the night discussing the unnerving drama that had unfolded, whilst he, Flick, the mothers and their children, were having a whale of a time at the beach.
“I didn't sleep a wink,” Flick said toying with the business card in her hands. “I just don't understand what he was doing here at all.”
“It's my fault,” Declan said scrubbing a hand over his tousled hair. “Someone must've got the van registration when I picked up one of the girls.”
“It still doesn't explain how he found this place,” Flick murmured. “The van wouldn't lead to here. We made sure of that.”
“AJ Colt is full of surprises, he's a man of means too,” Ryan said passing the filled mugs around the table. “He even paid me a visit last week.”
Flick frowned and hugged the mug between her hands. “What about?”
“You mainly,” Ryan said glancing her way.
“Why the hell didn't you tell me?” she snapped.
Ryan shrugged and ran a hand across his itchy stubbly jaw. “We talked about other things as well. It was all off the record.”
Flick let out an exasperated sigh and leant back in her chair. “For God's sake, Ryan, nothing is off the record where the police are concerned.” She glared at him. “Don't underestimate Colt. I know him of old. He's like a blood hound once he picks up a scent. And you led him right to us.”
“I di
dn’t lead him anywhere,” Ryan countered. “He warned me to lay off you that's all.”
Flick threw her head back. “My bloody dad,” she growled. “They're close friends.”
“Ah bejesus,” Declan said pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m supposed to be collecting three more girls this week.”
Niamh cleared her throat. “If this policeman is a family friend, maybe you could speak to him, Flick. Buy us enough time to move the girls and set up someplace else.”
“He might be a family friend, but he's as straight as a die. If he even thinks I'm involved in something dodgy he won’t think twice about slapping me in cuffs. He'd bloody smile while he did it too.” She rubbed at her furrowed brow. “Besides, if he's seen my car it’s only a matter of time before he comes knocking. We need to work out what to say when he does.”
“He didn't take the registration,” Declan offered optimistically.
Flick glanced up at him and sighed. “Oh, you can bet your life he did.”
Park Gate, Hampshire.
Colt opened his eyes to see the river view from India Kane's bedroom window. Rolling over, he sighed at the empty space beside him. Knew it was too good to be true. Waking in her bed was one thing. Waking next to her would be something else. Waking in her bed, next to her, after sober sex - well, that would be utopia.
She'd fallen asleep at dawn with her head on his chest. Left him feeling sated, content, and too afraid to move. Afraid that she might wake and remember she preferred to sleep alone. He ran a hand across her pillow before climbing from her bed and rummaging through his discarded clothes, seeking out yesterday's boxers.
He found her in the lounge and silently watched from the bedroom door as she added more scribbling to the wall with a green marker pen. The newly coloured additions indicated she'd been up for some time. Padding up behind her he slid his arms cautiously around her waist, bringing them to rest on the gentle curve of her belly.
“There's fresh coffee in the pot,” she murmured handing him her empty mug. “Were you jealous last night?”
Colt smiled. He was. Very. Judging by her uncharacteristic curiosity in Maggie, he got an inkling she was too. But he liked it, made him feel wanted and secure. And relevant. Saw no point in telling her she had cause to be. She could trust him. “Can't blame me,” he said kissing her dead cheek and taking her mug. “Dale Johnson's a good looking fella, with an even better looking bank balance.”
Her eyes followed his semi naked body to the kitchen. “You know him?”
“I've met him a few times at seminars and functions. He generally tags along to carry the old man's bags, and to suck the fuck out of the networking opportunities,” he said pouring coffee from the jug. “He’s very well connected.”
India stared at him. “What old man?”
Colt raised his brows, pleased he could add to her craziness. “May I?” he said taking the pen from her hand and replacing it with a fresh mug of coffee.
She took a step back. “Feel free.”
He drew a dotted line from Johnson, culminating in a new bubble higher up the wall to where India couldn’t reach. 'Lord Professor Barrington' he wrote inside it. And then scribbled 'father-in-law' along the dotted line and handed her back the pen. “Anything else you want?” he said reclining back on the sofa with his arms behind his head, and his legs spread as wide as his smile.
India chewed at her cheek as her eyes coursed his body. “What you got on this social worker Alan Roberts?” she said twisting the pen in her agitated hands.
Colt grinned. “Tell me why he's up there first.”
India cleared her throat. “The only person other than me and Terri, that knew Sasha Grant was home alone, was Dr Dale Johnson. He's also who Sasha's mum claims stole her baby, Billy.” She tapped the wall with her pen and scowled. “And he's also the son-in-law of Lord Professor Barrington. And a wife beating, child abusing scumbag.”
Colt inclined his head and raised his brows. “Really? We'll talk about that in a minute,” he said keeping her on track. “Get to sweaty Mr Roberts.”
She traced the solid line from Johnson to the bubble directly beneath his name. “George Sarum. The Hampshire social worker who snatched Sasha from Terri's class. He can only have found out about her from Johnson. No one else knew. The family wasn't known to Social Services before that day.” She tapped a bubble on the right. “Rob Stapler, Sarum's boss. Total wanker who gets paid far too much money, and hasn’t got a fucking clue what kids are where, or why.”
“Mr Clueless, against all child protection guidelines, approved Sasha Grant's removal out of Hampshire and miles away into the hands of your man, Alan Roberts,” she said bringing her hand to rest next to his name. “Haltingbury Social Worker extraordinaire.”
She drew a breath, slumped down next to him on the sofa, laid her bare legs across his lap, and said, “Your turn.”
“That's interesting,” he said. “I know we found your girl, but I didn't realise he was her social worker. We've got a succession of young girls and women missing from the care of Haltingbury SS. The only lead we've got to go on is a van sighted in the possible abduction of one of them. We tracked it to an address in Ireland, and ended up stone walled by some complicated Trust Fund tax screw.”
India rolled her eyes. “You're boring me with the tax stuff. Get to what you've got on Roberts.”
Colt laughed and stroked her legs as he spoke. “So far, nothing solid. But some of the missing girls were on his books. He's new, sweaty, jittery, and definitely hiding something. I've got him in the frame as somehow connected with their disappearance.”
India huffed a chuckle. “So apart from wild speculation you've got jack shit on him then. Same as me.”
Chapter 38
Knightsbridge, London.
He waved at his Latvian debt instalment as she left the shade of the cemetery oak tree. He had no doubt this one would be waiting. She was a good girl and had come to him before. Their arrangement suited her. She couldn't turn tricks looking like that. Track marks could be hidden. A ready to drop sprog couldn't.
She was such a scrawny little thing; it looked like she had a football shoved down her pants. She could only have days to go. They’d caught up with each other in the nick of time.
After her, he needed two more to square them up, make them even. He'd have no trouble pulling one from the church next Sunday, but he'd have to look elsewhere for the intermediary instalment. Knew just where to find her too. A nice little quiet one, with no one to miss her, and ready to drop in days. He was eager to wipe the slate clean, get himself off their hook. Things were about to change.
It hadn't just been the church kitchen where he'd been busy slicing and dicing lately.
He'd garnered new skills. Got him some home editing software and learned how to use it. Sliced and diced hundreds of hours of footage down to a simple three minute movie, starring every single one of them on their frequent visits to the Hans Place basement room.
It was a shame about Dwight. He was a sweet kid. A looker. He didn't stand a chance. He could've used his wealth and power to change things. Expose them. Bring them down.
Instead he became one of them.
The untouchable elite.
They'd got inside his head as well as his body. Corrupted his innocence and skewed his take on normal. Warped him forever and made him one of them.
But, he'd still walk away from this unscathed. The police wouldn't. The police would be vilified. Accused of a witch hunt. Forced to publicly apologise and back down. Questions would be asked. Resignations would be demanded. The inevitable brush was already out, primed and ready to sweep everything back under the carpet as usual.
Only this time wasn’t usual. This time there was a tape. A tape that had already made him money.
Keeping their dirty little secret would come at a price. And it wouldn’t be club membership.
He smiled as the legging clad football appeared at the window. Leaning across to open the door for her
, he took the pile of newspapers resting on the passenger seat and tossed them into the back.
Oh yes, things were about to change, a lot. He was about to become a very rich man. A very rich man indeed. No one would put a gun in his mouth ever again. And if they did, Ryan Reynolds would be receiving the biggest story of his career.
Ireland.
Ryan and Flick stood side by side on the ferry deck, silently looking out to sea as Ireland faded into the distance.
This whole thing had been such a huge revelation; he was still struggling to take it all in. One of the biggest revelations of all was Felicity Firman. She wasn't the cold, hard faced bitch she portrayed, quite the opposite in fact. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and could see that she was crying again.
He knew her tears were real. And he understood why she was hurting. This place, these people, the hopeless despair and blind restitution, had all been a part of her life for so long, it was her. It defined who she was, who she really was. Something her silk gown and wig would never achieve. He felt like a better man just for knowing her. And it felt good. Worthwhile. Something he wanted to be a part of.
He reached out and placed a comforting hand on her back.
Flick glanced up at him. “What a mess,” she said. “The police will be coming for me soon. Once they find out about this, they'll know I gave you the court documents.” Her face crumpled. “They'll bring them all back, and they'll lock me up, Ryan.”
He pulled her to him and held her awkwardly, felt her sobs against his chest. This was all so wrong. She'd sacrificed so much. It wasn't fair to fight as hard as she had and still become a victim of a corrupt system.
“Let me help you,” he whispered. “Let me take your place as a trustee.”
She choked against his chest.