by Vince Vogel
“We need to go down there ourselves. Find her. She’ll be—”
Otis stopped. Tina had taken him by the arm. He turned to her and she was gazing into his eyes.
“He’s right,” the girl said. “I know this city. You just keep heading in one direction and it never ends. If she’s running, she’ll be moving all the time. And this place is massive. People can easily disappear. It’ll be just as hard for them to find her as us.”
“I’ll pass this on to the police,” Dorring said. “Get them looking for her. But before we do anything, I need you to take the girl somewhere. I’ll come find you when I’m done.”
“When you’re done?” Otis muttered.
“Just take her.”
For the first time, Otis noticed the stern look shimmering like burning coals in Dorring’s face. His gray eyes were so dark they were almost black and there was a murderous scowl imprinted on his countenance.
Otis merely nodded, stood up from the bench and turned to Tina.
“Come on, my dear,” he said. “I’ll tell you what all them different flowers are along this river.”
Tina was looking up at Dorring. He looked like a ghoul standing there. Like a version of Frankenstein’s monster you see in an old black and white B-movie.
“Come on, girl,” Otis said as Dorring stared back at Tina.
“Sure,” she said, getting up from the bench and joining Otis.
Dorring watched them go. When they were about a hundred yards up the river, shielded from him by the tall marsh grass, he went back to the car and opened the driver’s door. Crosby turned to him sharply.
“What now?” he asked.
“Now I let you go.”
Dorring leaned into the car and cut the tape away on the steering wheel, freeing both hands. He cut the tape holding Crosby to the seat. Then he stood back. Crosby was shivering violently. He slipped on the wet grass as he stepped out and found it difficult to hold himself up. He held his flayed and fingerless hand against his shoulder.
The two men stood opposite each other, silhouetted against the flowing brown waters of the river.
“They’ll find you, you know,” Crosby warned Dorring.
“You rape children,” Dorring said back.
Crosby frowned at him. The look on Dorring was horrifying. He wasn’t snarling. Or frowning. Or even wearing an angry look. There was something worse in it. The expression was the purest blankness. The eyes were those of a shark. The countenance of a predator. Of a cold-blooded killer.
Dorring lurched forward and grabbed ahold of Crosby. The pervert was too weak to push him off. Before he knew what was happening, Dorring was marching him through the bank of bulrushes into the river. He was splashing through the water. It was up to his knees. Then Dorring was over the top of him and forcing his head underneath. He was struggling. The cold water stung his damaged hand as it splashed about. He tried to push back, but his feet sank into the mud and Dorring forced him to bend over further underneath the water. He began choking. Couldn’t keep himself from opening his mouth and gasping for breath. The water filled his mouth, sucked down his throat and began choking his lungs. One last violent struggle, then slowly he felt himself disappearing.
The struggling stopped and Crosby went limp on the end of Dorring’s arm. Having been tricked before, he held him for another minute to make sure. Then he pushed Crosby’s body out into the water and it floated downstream.
Three hundred yards along, Tina happened to gaze out at the brown water as the body came floating past.
28
Detective Sergeant Bob Barker stood sleepy eyed and sleepy faced at a lectern, its polished wood shining underneath the shuddering strip lighting. In front of him, a field of bloodshot eyes and yawning mouths. He’d received an anonymous call ten minutes prior and had scrambled to get a team of officers together, as well as inform the media that he would be making a speech on the steps of Scotland Yard within the hour.
“Jess Rawly is on the streets,” a man’s voice devoid of emotion had said over the phone earlier that morning. “She was taken to and then from the Belgravia by a man named Darren Crosby the night Charles Carter was killed. Coming from there, she escaped Crosby’s car in Fulham. Dawes Road. She ran up the alley next to the college. Check CCTV in the area.”
“Who is—?”
Barker never got the chance to finish the question before the line went dead.
“So have you all got your coffees?” the detective asked the crowd of uniformed officers sitting or standing in front of him.
“Aye!” was the general din that went around the room.
“Okay. Then I’ll begin. At twenty-six minutes past five this morning, I received an anonymous phone call. The person stated that on the 11th of August—two days ago—on the night that Charles Carter was killed, Jess Rawly was taken from the Belgravia by one Darren Crosby. Whilst in his vehicle, Jess Rawly then escaped and ran off on foot. This happened on Dawes Road in Fulham.”
A general murmur went around the room like a Mexican wave.
“I’d like to bring your attention to the television screen next to me,” Barker said.
The lights dimmed and the television switched on. It was CCTV footage of the junction on Dawes Road, where Jess Rawly escaped. The traffic lights were red. A black Renault Traffic stopped at them. A few seconds passed and then something emerged from the passenger side window of the van. A skinny, young girl with blonde hair pulled herself out and then ran off. Head down, she darted across the road towards a rectangular concrete building. This was Fulham College. The camera changed to one pointed at the building. The girl ran into an alleyway that traveled along the side of the building. Then it was college footage, a camera on the far end of the alley. The girl was running towards it. When she was right underneath, the footage paused.
“This is the best image we have of her,” Barker pointed out.
It was grainy. Green night vision. You could tell very little.
“As you can see, it’s not much,” Barker went on. “She’s dressed in a black cocktail dress and is barefoot here. She has medium length blonde hair. Is around five feet six and of skinny build. She may be dressed differently now. She’s been on the streets for nearly two whole days. She may be hiding somewhere. She may be with someone. A member of the public could have found her and she’s told them not to tell anyone. So they’re keeping her safe. If that’s the case, we need to let that person know that we can protect Jess. In all likelihood, though, she’s hiding somewhere on the streets, so I need you out there looking.”
The footage continued. Jess disappeared underneath the camera. Half a minute later, the shaved head of Darren Crosby came into view. The footage paused once more.
“This is Darren Crosby,” Barker said.
On the television, the screen changed to a mugshot of Crosby.
“This is a little dated,” Barker stated. “An old mugshot from seven years ago. Crosby was arrested on a misdemeanor and let go. Other than that, he’s stayed out of direct trouble. Nevertheless, his name has come up more than once during investigations into sex trafficking and vice. No arrests or convictions. However, only ten minutes ago, I received a call from the crime lab. The car found at the scene of the Rigsby Road fire last night belonged to none other than Darren Crosby.”
“So Jess Rawly was being held there?” someone asked.
“From the statements we gathered off the girls last night, it appears so. This morning, CID detectives went to Crosby’s house, but were unable to locate him.”
“What about the three bodies they pulled out of Rigsby Road?”
“Through dental records, the men have been identified as Steven Harold, Charles Daniels and Gareth Crawly. None are Darren Crosby. They were shot with a .270 caliber bullet fired from a hunting rifle. From the girls’ statements, we know that Crosby was taken by the two men who it is believed started the fire.”
“And are we any closer to identifying the two perpetrators?” asked a det
ective standing towards the back.
Barker breathed in deeply. Breathing out, he said, “We have reason to believe that the perpetrators are Otis Rawly and the other man identified as Dorring.”
The screen filled with an image of Otis Rawly and a photofit of Dorring.
“So the father’s come to London for retribution?” someone wanted to know.
“It would appear so,” Barker said.
The room filled with chatter and it was some time before Barker calmed them down.
29
The hotel was underneath a viaduct, which had a railway running along it. Every ten minutes, a freight train would rattle past and you would think that the sky was crashing down on top of you, the lampshade swinging from side to side as it hung from the ceiling and plaster dust raining down. The hotel—an exhaust fume-stained tombstone—was hidden like a tick in the middle of the London Docklands. All around it were fenced off piles of bricks that resembled giant mole hills. They’d once been buildings like the hotel. In all probability, the hotel would be next for destruction. Heck, it was already halfway there now.
They took Tina inside. The receptionist was too busy sleeping to notice the two men arriving with a young girl and a dog. They went straight up to their room and locked the door.
“What a shit hole,” Tina remarked as she gazed about the room.
It was like staring into the past. The wavy gray, red and orange patterned carpet must have been there for decades. The laminate covered furniture also. There were two beds. They could have been coffins, for all the comfort they were worth. The net curtains were yellow. The curtains over the top were pockmarked with cigarette burn holes that let the early morning sun through in poles of light that glittered on the carpet in golden polkadots.
“Make yourself at home,” Dorring said.
“Home?” Tina retorted.
She decided to get a shower, complaining of the smell and the general grime that she found inside the closet-sized bathroom. The door shut and the two men were alone.
“What next?” Otis asked.
Dorring went to his rucksack and took out a small laptop he’d purchased the day before with cash. Flipping it open, he took a seat on the end of a hard bed and laid it on his lap.
He typed the name Carlton James into the search engine. There were social media profiles. Many of them. Dorring began going through them. Several lived in London. Several didn’t state. It would be impossible to find the exact Carlton James they were after. Heck, it might not even be his real name. He could have used a fake one to those working under him. He probably wasn’t on social media. Or at least not as Carlton James. Dorring would need something better than the public available internet. He would need to contact someone who had access to more.
“Looks like I’ll have to make a call,” he said to Otis. “You stay here. I need to find a pay phone that’s working and isn’t too close.”
“What about her?” the old man asked, signalling the closed door of the bathroom with a nod of the head.
“Keep her here. Do not let her out of this room.”
“I can’t stop her. If she wanna leave, she wanna leave.”
“You have to keep her here. I’ll pick up some clothes for her on my way back. I have to meet someone, so I’ll take a few hours. Just sit tight. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“What about Jess? You said she’d run off. We should go look for her.”
“We will. But when I come back. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
The old man thought for a while and then asked, “Who you gonna see?”
“An old friend. You remember the signal if someone comes?”
“Yeah. I’ll make sure. You think someone’s gonna find us here?”
“You never know.”
Dorring left the hotel and got in the Vectra. Driving away from the shabby industrial area of the Docklands, he entered a high street lined with shops, many of them closed with To Let signs in the windows. It appeared that the whole place was slowly dying, not just the hotel.
He found a working pay phone. Again, a collage of cards advertising escort services dominated the urine-stinking booth.
“Alex?” a man on the other end answered on the first ring.
“Yes, Mr. Foster. I get the impression you’re expecting me.”
“Yes. I am. Don’t talk now. Come see me. Are you close to east London?”
Dorring didn’t reply straight away. He was too busy thinking.
“You know that,” he said.
“Yes. Meet me at the Westfield shopping center in twenty minutes. I’ll be sitting in the downstairs food court. Come find me.”
The phone went dead. Dorring was still thinking. When his mind couldn’t be made up, he left the phone box, got in the Vectra and started driving towards the shopping center.
30
It wasn’t a fake name. Carlton James was real.
He stood at a window in his apartment, looking out at the street below. He was on the phone, a grave look on the face that reflected back at him from the window pane.
“They have Daz,” he was saying to the man on the other end of the line. “If he gives them my name, I’ll be next. I need to leave London.”
“I agree,” the man on the other end said. “Get out as soon as you can. I’m told that one of the men is very dangerous.”
“I’m already packed. I’ll call the office later and tell them I need to take my holiday. They’ll be cool.”
“I’m sure they will. Let me know if you notice anyone hanging around. Anyone following you. This could get very messy before we get to clean it up.”
James didn’t say anything. He was staring at the street outside and trying to get to grips with the fear that was slowly taking him over.
“Okay,” he said in a hollow voice.
“Let me know when you’re clear of the city.”
“Will do.”
The line went dead and Carlton James sighed heavily, his breath frosting the glass. He wiped it away with his shirt sleeve and suddenly froze, the blood in his veins turning to ice.
Staring back at him from the pane was a face he’d never seen before. If he had, he’d surely have remembered it. Because it was an ugly face of stunted proportions.
He turned rapidly and was facing him.
The man was short, dressed in a black suit and tie. His upper body was massive compared to the rest of him and he resembled a chimpanzee in his physical proportions. His round head was covered in black, curly hair. But it was the face that left the most impression. His snub nose was very small and stuck out of his face like the knuckle of a thumb. His ears looked too small also, screwed up and sticking out of the sides of his head. As for his beady little eyes, they looked like raisins staring malevolently at Carlton James.
Then there was the gun in his hand. A suppressor attached to the end.
“Who sent you?” James asked.
“I’m afraid that’s not something I’m willing to tell,” the man said in a cool, emotionless voice. “Sit down.”
He pointed the gun at a table and chairs to the side of James. Without taking his eyes off the gunman, the latter took the proffered seat.
“Where’s the girl Jess Crawly?” the man asked.
“So it’s you who set fire to our place then. You with the dad?”
“No. I am not. I work for someone on a much higher level.”
“God?” James joked.
The thin lips of the monkey man curled up and his malevolent little face screwed into the most terrible scowl.
“You joke with a man pointing a gun at you?” he asked James.
“I like to make things lighthearted, yes.”
“Then let’s see how lighthearted you find this.”
There was a zip sound. James lurched forward and grabbed his knee. The pain was terrible. It felt like the whole leg would split apart. He fell sideways off the chair. The man swooped on him, shoved a hand over his mouth and shoved the gun to James’ temple.
“My master has sent me on a mission,” he snarled into James’ face. “A mission to bring back his love. So the next time I ask a question, you answer it respectfully.” He glared into James’ eyes and the latter balked from them. “Now I’m going to remove this hand. If I were you, I’d try not to scream.”
He let go of the mouth, removed the gun and stood up from Carlton James, who merely remained on the floor, holding his leg.
“So tell me where Jess is,” the man said as he stood over him.
“I don’t know.”
The barrel of the gun pointed at his head and he cringed back, couldn’t help closing his eyes.
“Honest!” he cried out. “She ran off from one of my guys. Ran off in Fulham.”
“Where exactly?”
“I can’t remember. But it’s on my phone. On the text messages. The last one from Daz.”
The phone was on the table. Never taking the gun off of James, the ugly man picked it up and went through the messages until he reached the most recent one from Daz.
Girl escaped. Ran off on Dawes road near the college. She’s there somewhere.
Glancing up from the phone at the man on the floor, he asked, “This was after she left the Belgravia, I take it?”
“Yeah.”
“You people track them, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but she took it out.”
“So you don’t know exactly?”
“No. She’s gone.”
“And you’re not lying to me?”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
The man breathed slowly in and then exhaled in the same labored manner, closing his eyes as he did. Opening them, he came before Carlton James and crouched down, staring into his eyes.
“Your boss stole her from my master,” he said. “Did you know that?”
“No,” James grunted.
“He knew that my master loved her and he stole her. Why would your boss steal from my master when they were friends?”
“I haven’t got a clue. I don’t even know who your master is.”