‘I just thought it could be a motive,’ Varcoe explained.
‘You’re right, and the timing works. The death of the father in July, a few months to track down Pollard, Kent, Brady and Bowles and start planning, follow their movements. How would he know who they were though, the four of them?’ Knight frowned.
‘If they mentioned each other’s names when they were out on the moor, it wouldn’t be too hard to track them down, would it?’ Catherine asked.
‘It took us a while, and he wouldn’t have anything like the resources we have.’ Kendrick wasn’t going to let them forget that.
‘We don’t know how long he was planning this for. If he was determined enough, he’d find a way,’ said Knight.
‘True. We need to keep searching. I’m late for a meeting with the Super. I’ll be back soon. Keep at it. We’re almost there. I can practically smell him.’
Wrinkling her nose at the DCI’s imagery, Catherine turned to Knight.
‘Still missing it, aren’t we? Even though Bowles has given us all he can.’
‘For now. We’ll get there.’ Knight spoke with more conviction than he felt.
Chapter 59
Brady isn’t dead. I knew it. That bloody dog. I should have killed it too, then made sure Brady was definitely gone. The newspaper says he’s in a coma, and from the miserable tone of the piece, it doesn’t seem likely he’ll be waking up in a hurry. As good as dead. Bowles has judged himself apparently, made an attempt at suicide. There was no mention in the paper; I suppose the police will be trying to keep it quiet just in case the nasty old murderer turns up to finish the job for him. They’ve served their purpose, anyway. I followed one of his neighbours into the newsagent and heard her gossiping about it in there. She’d seen the ambulance take him away and the man who lives in the flat below Bowles told her two policewomen had found him and called the ambulance.
It will soon be over. Such a relief.
Chapter 60
Paul Hughes swore to himself that if he survived this day, he would try to persuade his father to concentrate on trafficking drugs, not people. It was so much more impersonal, less involved, and there was still plenty of profit to be made. They’d done all right out of drugs before, after all. Perhaps this was the lesson his captor was teaching him – the terror and discomfort of the confined space, the unknown, the images dancing through your mind, each imagined version of your fate worse than the last. Hughes had a nasty sense though that the real lesson would be much more violent than a ride in the back of a van, however uncomfortable. Sure enough, before too long, the van apparently left the relative smoothness of the road behind, turning left onto what seemed to Hughes to be the roughest track on the planet. Pothole after pothole, bump after bump, the speed the vehicle was travelling at worsening the ordeal. Eventually, to Hughes’ relief but also to his horror, the van stopped and the doors were flung wide. Two men stood grinning at Hughes, their eyes registering his discomfort.
‘Comfortable?’ the taller man asked, his English heavily accented.
‘Who are you? What do you want? You’re making a big mistake here,’ Hughes told them.
The shorter man shook his head slowly.
‘So many questions. There is no mistake, Paul Hughes. You are our guest.’ This man’s English was more fluent, though still accented. Hughes stared from one to the other.
‘Guest?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the shorter man said, reaching into his coat, his hand reappearing holding a gun. Hughes’ eyes widened. ‘You will learn what it feels like to be taken to a place where you have no identity, where you have no personality and are just there to be used by others who have no regard or respect for you,’ the man told him.
He waved the gun at Hughes, indicating he should get out of the van. Hughes scrambled forward, terrified, wide eyes searching his new surroundings. There was a barn and a yard – no further buildings in sight, no other vehicles. The taller man had taken Hughes’ mobile phone from him when they’d first bundled him into the van and had turned it off then. He now made a show of removing the SIM card and battery, snapping the SIM in two and stamping on the handset until it was no longer recognisable as a phone, just a pile of debris.
The smaller man grinned. ‘Much better. No interruptions. Now,’ he shoved Hughes so he had to start walking, ‘move.’
Hughes stumbled towards the barn, following the taller man, who had by now overtaken them. Nausea gripped his stomach; bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it down. He didn’t think he’d get much sympathy from these two. Trying to think clearly through the panic, he stammered, ‘You don’t need to do this. I’ve got money, I can—’
‘What? A bribe?’ sneered the man with the gun.
‘Think of it as a gift.’
Both men laughed.
‘No, Paul. We don’t want your money.’
Hughes managed a sneer. ‘My dad will murder you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
They reached the huge double doors of the barn, which were padlocked. The smaller man kept the gun trained on Hughes while the tall one unlocked the doors. Hughes was then shoved inside. Dingy straw was scattered here and there on the floor. The smell of animals remained but there were none here now, unless you counted the two men, which Hughes supposed he did. Against one wall, a scarred pine chair stood waiting. A wave of the gun indicated that Hughes should sit. He moved slowly towards it, wondering if he should just try to run. If they shot, at least it would be quick. The smaller man seemed to read his mind.
‘Sit down, Paul. We want to talk to you,’ he said.
Hughes lowered himself gingerly onto the chair. The smaller man handed the gun to his friend, who levelled it at Hughes. Standing to one side, out of the line of fire, the smaller man stood relaxed, hands in his trouser pockets.
‘So, Paul,’ he said, tone friendly. ‘Have you guessed who we are?’
‘How should I know? Amateur gangsters from some shithole country in Eastern Europe, I suppose.’
Both men narrowed their eyes.
‘Be polite, Paul,’ warned the smaller man. ‘We can just shoot you now.’
Hughes swallowed. He knew they would. They’d not bothered to hide their faces from him, which couldn’t be a good sign.
‘So, again, do you know who we are?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said.
‘You will have many enemies.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘No, because your victims never have the opportunity to accuse you. We are here to represent them.’
Hughes wriggled in the chair. ‘To represent who? What are you talking about?’
The taller man gave the gun back to his colleague, then took a length of clothes line from a reel on the floor and securely tied Hughes to the chair. He struggled, but the smaller man waved the gun at him and Hughes contented himself with shouting abuse instead. The smaller man came close, slapped him hard around the face.
‘I told you to be polite.’
Hughes stared back, blood running from his nose.
‘You are part of a group who has brought people, women and girls, some men, with promises of work and money, into your country as slaves. Is it true?’
‘No,’ Hughes said firmly.
‘A reminder, then,’ said the smaller man. He nodded to the other man, who took a photograph from his pocket at held it in front of Hughes. A girl smiled out, dark-haired, her eyes huge and expressive.
‘Who is she?’
‘My sister,’ the taller man said without expression. ‘Now dead, because of you, your father, your friends.’
‘Dead?’
‘A drug overdose. Taken after eighteen months working as a prostitute in one of your filthy houses.’
The man breathed heavily through his nose then spat at Hughes’ feet. He stepped back and reclaimed the gun.
‘My cousin also came to this country to work for you. We rescued her from the place she’d been held for almost two years, forced to ser
vice men, hundreds of men, perhaps thousands. You dare to ask who we are?’ He moved closer, leaning towards Hughes until their noses were almost touching, staring into Hughes’ wide eyes. ‘You will be punished and then you will be killed, though your suffering will still not be such as theirs. You will not exist for long in the hell they did, where not even their body was their own. Perhaps then your father and his friends will see the wrong they have done.’
I doubt it, Hughes almost said, but he thought better of it. Under no illusions, he knew his dad saw him less as a son, more as an employee. His father didn’t seem to have the emotions other people had, either for his family or anyone else. Hughes knew he was entirely dispensable. His captors exchanged a glance and the smaller man left the barn, soon returning with what looked to Hughes like a toolbox which he set down at Hughes’ feet, along with several large petrol cans.
Hughes stared the box warily. ‘What’s that?’
‘Tools, of course. The tools we need for our work.’
Bending, the smaller man opened the box, took out pliers, a hammer, a chisel, screwdrivers and a Stanley knife. Hughes’ eyes bulged, panic hurtling through him, one word racing through his brain. Torture. They were going to torture him to death. The smaller man grinned, picking up the hammer and weighing it in his hand.
‘I see you guess our intentions, Paul. We will have fun, just like your customers had with our sisters, our cousins, our friends, our compatriots. Now,’ he bent over the box again and retrieved a digital camera, ‘smile for your daddy.’
In the glare of the flash, Paul Hughes screamed.
Chapter 61
‘What do we do with Bowles?’ Catherine asked Knight, who shrugged.
‘He can go back to the hospital for now. The DCI will probably ask Superintendent Stringer about it.’
‘What could we charge him with?’
‘I’m not sure. Finding the boy from the moor has to be our priority; we know where Bowles is.’
‘Yeah, crying like a baby in his cell apparently.’
‘Poor thing,’ said Knight.
With a shake of her head, Catherine turned back to her monitor. Knight moved over to Varcoe’s desk. The DC shook her head despairingly as he reached her.
‘Nothing, boss. I can’t find anything. How can we have no records on these people? Tommy Heron and his parents seem to have arrived from nowhere and after Tommy’s death, his parents must have gone back there.’
‘It’s difficult with no permanent addresses,’ Knight said. ‘Where did the parents die?’
‘The mother Birmingham, the father Newcastle. Seems he’d been on the streets for some time.’
‘Get onto Northumbria then, please.’
Knight went to his office, half closed the door and turned on his monitor. He knew they were close, yet the man they sought still seemed to be in control, out of their reach. An email from Caitlin had arrived since he was last at his desk and, feeling guilty, he quickly read through it. She was well, and the baby was fine, that was all. He’d hardly thought about the unborn child, possibly his own son or daughter. There was already a stirring of emotion, a sense of wonder, almost a longing, and Knight knew to protect himself he would need to take care. There was no point allowing himself to become attached to a fantasy. He might never see it, never hear it mentioned again after its birth because he was not after all its father. He swore, deleting the email, then immediately regretted doing so. Caitlin should never have told him, not until she knew herself. She would find out the sex of the baby, he knew, regardless of what she had said before. She would want to start shopping and if Knight himself heard whether the child was a boy or a girl, it would be harder still. The child would become even more real than it was now, a person in its own right with the beginnings of an identity. He would ask Caitlin not to tell him, not to contact him again until after the birth and the paternity test. Jed could do that. A test before the child was born was apparently possible, Caitlin had said, but she wouldn’t consider it. Knight wasn’t sure why; a risk to the baby, perhaps? Or to Caitlin’s power?
* * *
An hour or so later, there was a thud as his half-closed office door was barged open by Varcoe, closely pursued by Catherine, Sullivan and Rogers. Varcoe triumphantly waved a piece of paper at him.
‘Jamie Fletcher, boss, he’s our man. Here, look.’
She slammed the paper down on Knight’s desk and he scanned it. Fletcher was the son of Annie Bacon, born before she married Christian Heron. Tommy’s half-brother, and there was a half-sister too. The age seemed to fit what Bowles had said. Jamie was six when Tommy was born, making him twelve when Tommy died.
‘We need to find Fletcher,’ Knight said. ‘Great work, Anna, everyone.’
He picked up his phone and called DCI Kendrick, who shot through the door from his own office in record time.
‘Where does this Jamie Fletcher live?’ Kendrick demanded.
‘There’s an address, over the other side of town,’ Varcoe said.
‘Right. Let’s get some transport organised, bring him in. No messing this time.’ He glanced over at Catherine, who was shutting down her computer. ‘Sorry to break it to you, Sergeant, but you’re not going.’
Catherine turned to stare at him. ‘Not going? What do you mean?’
‘I mean what I say. You are not going to bring Jamie Fletcher in.’
‘But—’
‘No. These messages, the photos, we’ve still no idea why he’s been taking them, much less sending them to you. I don’t want you anywhere near him. Go home.’
‘There’s no way I’m going home,’ Catherine retorted. ‘I want to be here to interview him at least.’
Kendrick folded his arms, every inch the immovable object. ‘It’s taken us long enough to find him. I don’t want the investigation compromised by you arresting him or interviewing him. I don’t want him to see you. Now, off you go. We’ll let you know how it goes, I promise you that, and there’s nothing to stop you coming in once he’s here to watch the interview on the monitors, but there’s no way you’re conducting it. Do I make myself clear, Sergeant Bishop?’
Catherine muttered, ‘Crystal,’ and turned away. Without a word to her colleagues, who were all watching sympathetically, she picked up her bag and slipped on her coat.
‘Good luck, then,’ she said over her shoulder, and then she was gone, the door banging closed behind her.
Chapter 62
Paul Hughes could no longer see, could no longer feel. His body was numb, senses overloaded, his will broken, his mind almost gone. His last conscious action was to offer a prayer to the God he had never believed in to end his life.
Chapter 63
Catherine drove as quickly as she dared through the quiet streets. It was raining, more like fine mist than an actual downpour. The orange glow of the street lights blurred in the drizzle, traffic lights changing to a fizzing red as she approached them.
‘Typical,’ Catherine muttered to herself, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She glanced around as she waited. An old warehouse had been converted into flats, the lights in the windows warm and welcoming. Catherine looked beyond them, to the River Trent. It was wide at this point, just down the road from the only bridge that spanned its depths for miles. Catherine glanced at the icy blackness, the whirlpool currents and deceptive pace of the river well known by all who lived in Northolme. She thought of Richard, the brother she had never known, who had died at the age of two. Her parents had always tried to make sure Catherine and her younger brother Thomas were aware of Richard. They celebrated his birthday, lit a candle on the anniversary of the day he died, spoke of him often and had lots of photographs on display. Against her will, she felt a link to Jamie Fletcher, having lost a brother in a similar way to herself. How much worse would it have been for him, though? His brother’s death had not been an accident, but a result of the callous actions of four young men.
A car horn sounded sharply behind her and Catherine cursed, shov
ing the car into gear and moving off. Who knew how long the light had been on green? Her colleagues would be no doubt on their way to Jamie Fletcher’s house now. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Kendrick couldn’t let her go with them, of course he couldn’t, but she still felt hurt, dismissed, as if it were all her fault somehow. She drove on, concentrating only on the road ahead.
* * *
Jamie Fletcher was unlikely to be expecting them, but Knight, Varcoe, Sullivan, Rogers and Lancaster were accompanied by a van full of uniformed officers as they made their way to his address. This was it; the final hours of their case.
Varcoe felt Sullivan shift in the seat beside her and glanced around at her colleagues. They all seemed apprehensive, nervous but excited. Only Knight sat still, preoccupied with his own thoughts. Varcoe had to smile; nothing new there then. Rogers caught her eye and smiled. She nodded back. They were about a ten-minute drive away from Fletcher’s address. Varcoe tried to relax, chewing on a fingernail. Sullivan grinned nervously at her.
‘All right?’ he asked softly.
‘Yeah, fine. Hope Catherine is.’
‘Oh, you know her. She knows it’s for the best, however much she might sulk to begin with. She’ll be there with bells on later, you watch.’
‘No doubt,’ Varcoe replied, gazing past Sullivan and out into the rain.
‘Eight minutes,’ called the driver.
Chapter 64
Catherine aimed her car carelessly at a space in the hotel car park, grabbed her bag and ran through the now pouring rain. The wind was strong too, her hair immediately drenched to rat’s tails, whipping around her face. She reached the main entrance, dragging her mobile from her bag.
Claire was waiting at the door to her room, a huge smile on her face. She slid an arm around Catherine’s shoulders and guided her inside; rainwater was dripping from her coat onto the beige carpet.
On Laughton Moor Page 24