Rules of the Earth: A dark gripping detective thriller (Crane and Anderson Book 1)

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Where’s our daughter?”

  “When can we see Bethany?”

  Mr and Mrs Franks spoke at the same time and were looking anxiously around as they stood at the entrance to the ward where Bethany was, barely able to keep still, craning their necks for their first glimpse of their daughter.

  “Let’s just have a chat for a minute, shall we? My colleague Sgt Major Crane and I would like you to come into the family room first.”

  “What? Really? Why can’t I see my daughter now? Right away?” Mrs Franks was becoming strident in her repeated requests to see Bethany as she was herded away from the ward and Crane couldn’t blame her, but Anderson had insisted that he needed to prepare them first.

  “Please sit down,” Anderson said.

  “What? Why? Is there something wrong with her?”

  “No, Mrs Franks, there’s nothing wrong as such, but Bethany has been severely traumatised by her ordeal.”

  Crane kept out of the conversation, preferring to watch the parents. Mr Franks wasn’t saying much, but he put his hand over his wife’s. Was it a sign of solidarity, of comfort, or did he want her to shut up? Either way it worked, as she fell silent and looked at him, smiling at his gesture. A sign of comfort then. They both looked rather bedraggled. Mr Franks had casual clothes on underneath his overcoat and his hair looked as though he’d been running his hands through it all the way from Birmingham, which to be fair he probably had. Mrs Frank’s face was devoid of any make-up and her eyes were red rimmed. Crane hoped that at last they were tears of joy, not of sadness. She pulled together the edges of her short coat and shivered slightly despite the warmth of the room.

  “I don’t know what Birmingham have told you, but-”

  “Nothing really,” Mr Franks butted in. “Just that you’d found her alive and well and that she was in hospital being treated for shock. Do you know what happened to her? Where has she been? Who had taken her?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to explain to you,” Anderson was calm and patient despite the questions being fired at him. “Your daughter was last seen a few streets from her home, is that correct?”

  “Yes, she heard the ice cream van and wanted an ice cream. I didn’t think much about it at the time,” said Mrs Franks. “I just gave her a quid to buy one as I was busy in the kitchen and she said she’d be right back.”

  “But she didn’t come back,” said Mr Franks. “We waited and waited, but in the end we had to call the police and report her missing.”

  “We’ve been in a living hell since then,” Mrs Franks finished for her husband.

  Indeed they both looked gaunt and had that hollow-eyed look that frightened parents had as they were traipsed across the TV screens by concerned police forces, their anguish lapped up by the media. Crane didn’t know for sure, but it was a safe bet that they had been on the local Birmingham television news programmes.

  “I’m sure you have, the wait must have been awful. Well, as strange as it may seem, Hope, sorry, I mean Bethany…”

  “Why aren’t you calling her Bethany? That’s her name. Not Hope. Where did you get Hope from?”

  Crane could see his friend struggling with that question. Anderson made several attempts to speak, opening and then closing his mouth again. In the end Crane squared his shoulders as if bracing himself for the shock and outrage he was expecting from Mr and Mrs Franks and spoke. “Your daughter won’t speak. As we didn’t know her name, we wanted to call her something more personal than Jane Doe.” Mrs Franks flinched at that reference to unidentified females. “So as we always hoped we could find out what happened to her, we referred to her as Hope.”

  “What? She won’t speak?”

  “Why not? Is her throat damaged?”

  “No, Mrs Franks, there’s nothing wrong with her voice. The doctors think she’s become a selective mute, as she is still traumatised from her abduction.”

  Mr Franks said, “Will she remember us?”

  Mrs Franks said, “Do you think she knows her own name?”

  “Yes and yes. But helping children who have undergone trauma is not an exact science. Bethany,” Anderson said her name slowly as if he were making sure he didn’t get it wrong again, “has been working with a Child Psychologist, Dr McAllister. She seems well physically and is communicating with the doctor through drawing therapy.”

  As Mrs Franks broke down, sobbing into a handkerchief she had dragged from her coat pocket, Mr Franks said, “What on earth happened to her?”

  “At the moment, we’re not sure. She was abducted and brought to this area, but managed to escape somehow, but we don’t know from where, as she was found wandering in local woodland.”

  Crane coughed into his hand, a gentle nudge to Derek that this would be a good time to mention the henna tattoos.

  Anderson looked at Crane and his eyes widened in an unspoken question. Crane took the hint and said, “Mr and Mrs Franks, there’s something else you need to be aware of before you see Bethany.”

  “Yes?”

  “What is it?”

  “She has marks on her arms, drawings and symbols. They’ve been painted on in henna, so they will fade with time, disappearing altogether eventually, but your daughter is very conscious of them and she’s happier keeping her arms covered at times.”

  “Oh my God, what have they done to my baby?” Mrs Franks fell against her husband in a fit of weeping.

  After giving her a few minutes to recover, Crane went on. “I’m afraid that your reaction is precisely why we needed to warn you first, before you meet Bethany. Otherwise seeing them without being prepared would have been such a shock. And you need to be strong for her.”

  “Am I not allowed to be upset?” Mrs Franks said. “What mother wouldn’t be upset, tell me that!”

  Mr Franks slid his arm down from where it rested along his wife’s shoulders and rubbed his hand in circles on her back.

  Anderson said, “Please, Mrs Franks, you must try not to be distressed about them. It’s very important that Bethany doesn’t see your upset as a rejection of her. For now all she needs is love and acceptance. The rest can come later. Now, if you can compose yourself, we’ll take you through to Bethany.”

  Mrs Franks seemed to find some strength for somewhere deep inside her. She opened her handbag, grabbed a tissue out of it, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She then took out a comb, pulling it through her short dark hair. Those familiar actions seemed to help ground her, for when she clicked her handbag shut she said, “Alright, I’m ready now.”

  Crane and Anderson hung back as her parents entered Bethany’s room, Mrs Franks going first, with her husband behind. Just before Anderson closed the door to give them some privacy, they heard Bethany utter one word. “Mum.”

  34

  Rushed off his feet, with several people waiting for tattoos, Blake didn’t take much notice of the man who had just walked through the door.

  “Be with you in a minute, mate,” he called as he heard the old fashioned ting of the bell announcing those arriving and departing, and then he shouted for his wife who was making coffee in the small kitchen at the back of the shop.

  “Mimi, customer,” he called as he concentrated on finishing his present client’s artwork.

  Blake was in the middle of the latest phase of a full sleeve and he couldn’t afford to get any of it wrong, as the whole job was worth several thousand pounds to him.

  Glancing round he saw that his two co-workers were finishing up, putting dry gauze over the new tattoos and handing out instruction leaflets detailing their after-care. Excellent, that meant two more customer’s off the settees where they were waiting and into the chair.

  Blake had done well with his business, deliberately siting it in the middle of two housing estates, the local authority kind, not the commuter type. He had a good business antenna and so far it was paying off. He was responsible for the shop, paying the rent, rates and dealing with the bureaucracy that went hand in hand with being a small business owne
r. He rented out the two ‘chairs’ which meant that he had a fixed income coming in every week, as well as the takings from his own tattoos.

  Finishing the part of the tattoo he’d been working on, he applied the gauze, but dispensed with the advice and thanked the man profusely as he made an appointment to come back in three days to continue the work on his sleeve.

  “Right,” he looked at the customer’s waiting. “Are you next?”

  “Clay, you’re up,” Mimi said. “I’ve taken his details,” she turned to Blake and handed him a welcome cup of tea to take with him back to his booth.

  “Okay, mate, what can I do for you today?” he said as Clay stripped his shirt off revealing a few existing tattoos on both arms.

  “I want this,” he said and thrust a piece of paper at Blake. “At the top of my arm, about here, see? Then I’ll come back next week and get another one done on the other arm. I hope you can do freehand. You were recommended as one of the best in the area.”

  As Blake stared in horror at the symbol before him, badly drawn on a scrappy piece of paper, Clay said, “Here mate, are you alright?”

  Blake didn’t think he was alright. Not by a long chalk. The sight of the design the man wanted on his arms had made him go faint and hot and cold all at the same time. It was that sulphur sign. The same as before. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  “Yeah, sorry, I’m fine. I’ve, um, just got to top up the ink, won’t be a minute.”

  Blake disappeared into the back room, well back cubbyhole really, and grabbed a glass from the sink. He filled it with water from the tap and gulped it down. Jesus, another one. What should he do?

  The small room went dark as Mimi appeared in the doorway, blocking out the light.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you,” she hissed, so as not to disturb the customers.

  “It’s that design, the same one, my bloke wants one.”

  “What design, stop gibbering.”

  Blake leaned against the sink for support and tried again. “The bloke in my chair wants a sulphur tattoo.”

  “Christ Almighty. The same one?”

  “Near enough, a bit more elaborate than the last, but it’s clearly the same symbol.”

  Mimi delved into her voluminous skirts and brought out her mobile phone.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed, grabbing her wrist.

  “Phoning the police, of course.”

  “And lose today’s profits? Not likely. There’s customers waiting and one in each of the three booths. Calling the coppers will empty this place quicker than a dose of the runs. No. We’ll phone them after we close up. You’ve taken his contact information?”

  “Of course, I already told you that,” Mimi sniffed.

  “Well that’ll do then. Now I need to get on.” Blake pushed his way past his wife, not an easy thing to do given her size, and returned to his booth.

  “You alright now, mate?” Clay asked as Blake took his place on his stool. “Only you don’t look too good.”

  “Oh I’m okay. I’ve just a bit of a bug, nothing serious, don’t worry I’m okay to work.” Blake was conscious that he was gabbling. Well he’d have to stop his mouth running away with him and his hands shaking and think of the business. It wasn’t anything to do with him who the customer was, or why he wanted that sign tattooed on his arm. The rozzers would just have to wait to pick up the bloke, once Blake had finished with him and pocketed the cash.

  “You did what?” Blake spluttered at his wife when they’d closed the shop for lunch and they were alone at last. The other two tattooists had gone to the pub, but Blake had declined their invitation to go with them. “You really took a picture of him?”

  “Bloody right I did. If you weren’t prepared to ring the police right away, then I thought that the least we could do was to give them a photograph of the bloke.”

  Mimi indicated Anderson and Crane who had gone directly to the shop as soon as they received her phone call, just as Blake had known they would. He was relieved that at least they weren’t in uniform and driving a traffic car. But there was no getting away from it you could clock them as police from a 100 yards. There weren’t many people on the estates that a) wore suits or b) had conservative haircuts.

  “And I’m very pleased that you did,” said Anderson to Mimi with reference to the photo. “Why don’t you WhatsApp that to me, please,” and he handed Mimi his card with his mobile number on it.

  “WhatsApp, again, Derek? I’m impressed.”

  “Shut up, Crane, or I’ll knock your stick out of your hands.” Turning to Blake, Anderson said, “And you say it was the same sign?”

  “Yes, it had a few more fancy bits on it, but it was the same basic design.”

  “I’ve got that as well,” Mimi chimed in.

  “Jesus, woman,” Blake admonished his wife.

  “Don’t fret. I told him that you liked the tattoo so much that you wanted a picture of it, so we could display it and I thanked him profusely for coming to us and for giving you the opportunity to work on his design.”

  “You never!”

  Crane laughed.

  “Tickled pink he was and let me take several close ups. Shall I WhatsApp them to you as well Mr Anderson?”

  “Um, yes, thanks,” The two policemen looked bewildered by Mini as she handed them a piece of paper with Clay’s full name, address and telephone number on it. But Blake just laughed. That was his Mimi alright. Always full of surprises.

  35

  “Right, gather round please,” Anderson called to the team as he walked to the front of the room. Bullock wondered what the hell Anderson wanted now. Why couldn’t he just leave them in peace to do their allotted tasks? The trouble was he was too fond of his own voice. But he supposed he’d better listen.

  “A local tattoo artist has reported to us that another man attended his premises and requested a sulphur design tattoo.”

  Christ, what was coming now? Unfortunately Bullock had an idea what it was and the thought of it was making his stomach feel like a washing machine on the rinse cycle.

  DC Douglas pressed a couple of keys on his computer and a photograph flashed up on the wall behind Anderson.

  “This is the tattoo the man so proudly asked for.”

  Bullock was desperate to sit down, but had to stay standing with the rest of the team. So he remained upright, clenching his buttocks as tightly as he could.

  “And this is the photograph of the man who had it done. Not as clear an image as I’d have liked, but it gives us a lot to go on.”

  Bullock groaned and put his arms out onto his desk to keep himself upright. Things were going from bad to worse as Anderson had just shown everyone a photograph of the supplicant, Clay. He had to hold it in. He must. But the more anxious he was as each revelation hit him, the more unsettled his stomach became. The whole of his intestines were rolling around in his belly and he couldn’t stop them.

  “Now we also have his full name and address, so Crane and I are off to see him. It would have been better, obviously, if the tattoo shop had rung us while he was still there, but at least we have an identification for someone who is definitely a person of interest.”

  Anderson went on and on, then at last began allocating tasks, which meant that he was near the end of the briefing. Sweat was popping up all over Bullock’s face, back and neck. He was beginning to feel like a menopausal woman, going hot and then cold by turn. One moment on fire and the next chilled to the bone. His hands couldn’t support his weight much longer, his arms were starting to tremble with the strain and when Anderson at last dismissed them, Bullock collapsed onto his desk. But his relief didn’t last long. His stomach was calling and doubled over in pain with his buttocks clenched, Bullock hobbled to the toilets, promising himself that he would find Clay and it better be soon, before Anderson did.

  After relieving himself of the day’s consumption of coffee, tea and stale sandwiches, he was finally able to think straight. Glancing at his watch, Bul
lock knew precisely where Clay could be found. And as soon as he could get off the bloody toilet he’d make his way over there.

  36

  The click, clack of the balls greeted Bullock as he climbed the stairs leading to the snooker club. He couldn’t remember the name of it now, but it was located over shops in what could laughingly be called Bordon’s high street. As he pushed through the door, there were half a dozen people at the bar, talking in muted tones and five of the eight tables were in use. The atmosphere was a strange mixture of calm, which was energised every now and then by a player potting the ball from a particularly difficult shot. Luckily Clay was at the bar and not at a table, so his presence shouldn’t make too much of a mark on the customers.

  “Clay,” he hissed.

  “Hey, what are you doing here? Want a pint?”

  “No I don’t want a bloody pint,” Bullock grabbed Clay’s arm. “We need to talk,” and he pulled Clay into the toilets, which was a place he’d visited far too often for his liking recently.

  “What’s with the tattoo?”

  “Oh, you heard about that did you? Well, you had one and so I thought I’d get one too, as I’m your assistant like. Want to see it?” and Clay started to pull off his top.

  “No I don’t want to bloody see it,” said Bullock, ignoring the disappointment on Clay’s face.

  “Well, I suppose it does just look like a big scab at the moment, but it’ll be great once that’s fallen off.”

  Bullock stood and stared at Clay. What had he been thinking when he’d decided to use Clay as a general dogsbody? The man was nothing but a bloody idiot. A liability.

  “You have not the faintest idea about keeping things quiet have you? Who’ve you been blabbing to? What did you tell them at the tattoo shop?”

  “Now look here, I’ve not blabbed. I never told them nothing!”

  “No, but you got that tattoo and now the police have got you.”