Be Not Afraid (9781301650996)

by Ellis, Tim

  The power distribution box was secured in a wire cage. It didn’t take him long to gain access. He was saved an enormous amount of time because hotel maintenance had kindly labelled all the fuses, so he found the incoming feed for the security system easily enough.

  He worked quickly. It wasn’t enough to disable the system, because there was a recording of him somewhere in the hotel spinning round and round in a DVD. What he did, was send an electrical surge along the power line for a period of thirty seconds. The effect of an overvoltage of such duration was to fry all the electrical equipment connected to the power line, which included CCTV cameras and recording equipment – the DVD in the recorder tray would resemble a fried egg.

  Now, there was no evidence that he’d even been in the hotel, or that the electrical surge was anything other than a freak occurrence. He locked everything up, returned to his hotel, and grabbed some sleep.

  ***

  It was a bit crowded in the briefing room, and for that matter on the raised table, which was meant to seat three – four at a push – but had five on it. If that wasn’t bad enough, she was perched on one end like an unwanted gatecrasher.

  In the middle was DCI Colville. To her right were SDI Bollock, and Stick. To her left were the press officer – Jenny Weber – and herself.

  Colville raised a hand. The noise subsided, but before she could open her mouth a plump woman with greying hair and an eye-patch over her left eye stood up.

  ‘Sharon Nicol from the Stortford Chronicle. Can you tell us what exactly happened at Chief Kowalski’s house this morning? I’ve been in war zones more organised that that.’

  Colville smiled. ‘All in good time, Ms Nicol. First of all, let me introduce myself. I am DCI Miranda Colville, and I will be standing in for DCI Kowalski until such time as we know the outcome of the investigation into the allegations of satanic ritual abuse of his children…’

  There was uproar.

  She held up her hand for quiet again.

  Ms Nicol remained standing. ‘Most of us here have known Ray Kowalski for a long time… Satanic ritual abuse of his children! You must have come from the crazy farm. Who made up those allegations?’

  ‘I’m afraid we were acting in support of Chingford Social Services…’

  ‘I bet the allegations were anonymous, weren’t they?’

  ‘I’m sorry…’

  A woman with a face like a bulldog jumped up. ‘Sue Whitfield from the Harlow Camera. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought people in this country were innocent until proven guilty? Why have you arrested Chief Kowalski and his wife, and taken their children away?’

  ‘I’m sure you understand that satanic ritual abuse is a very serious…’

  ‘Clare Lincoln from the Hunsdon Daily. Have you actually got any evidence of satanic ritual abuse, or did you take this action based solely on the say-so of an anonymous caller?’

  ‘Well, of course, Social Services have substantial evidence…’

  ‘Jackie Whay representing the Ongar Standard. You have this opportunity to convince us that Ray Kowalski is a Satanist. Tell us what this substantial evidence consists of?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t pre-empt the outcome of…’

  ‘Ian Russell from the Epping Gazette. Doesn’t anybody know their history at police headquarters? The last time we had reported cases of SRA they were found to be bogus, and the furore surrounding them resulted in a moral panic. Well, I for one won’t be playing that game again.’

  ‘I can assure you…’

  ‘Michelle Mabe with the Broxbourne Bugle. Is it true that the raid on Chief Kowalski’s house brought on another heart attack, and he had to be rushed to hospital?’

  ‘I can’t discuss the details of…’

  ‘Hannah Doughty from the Buckhurst News. You can tell the Chief Constable that we’ve agreed among ourselves not to give the reports of satanic ritual abuse any credibility by reporting on it. What we will do, however, is begin a campaign for Ray Kowalski’s release, and the return of his family.’

  Xena had never seen anything like it. The media obviously liked Chief Kowalski. Every time DCI Colville tried to speak they booed and shouted over her. In the end, she got up and left the briefing – and they clapped and cheered her departure.

  ‘Can you tell us anything, DS Blake?’ someone called from the back of the room.

  ‘I don’t know anything about what’s happened to Chief Kowalski, but I can tell you that Super Detective Inspector Pollock has been parachuted in to take charge of the paedophile investigation…’

  ‘Jess Coleman from the Chelmer Epitaph. What’s a Super Detective Inspector when it’s at home? Have you got super powers DI Pollock?’

  Pollock smiled. ‘It’s an initiative that the Chief Constable has borrowed from education. He considers vigilante attacks on registered sex offenders to be a dangerous precedent and as such the case needs careful handling…’

  ‘Sounds like a load of bollocks to us,’ a man near the door shouted.

  There was a burst of laughter.

  ‘Sarah Hooper from the Waltham Hippograph. Have you made any progress on the case, DS Blake?’

  ‘As you know, the graves of three children were found in Reynkyn’s Wood during the night…’

  ‘How do you feel about these people doing your job for you?’

  ‘Okay, I can understand that there would be some sympathy for these vigilantes, but let’s consider what they’re doing for a moment. First of all, they’re not doing my job. Contrary to what you may believe, the police are not in the business of torture and execution. Second, we have a justice system in place…’

  ‘Which is rubbish,’ someone shouted.

  ‘And in a democratic society we have the power to change the system, but not by taking the law into our own hands. Like the police, the press is meant to be impartial, but this case does raise a number of important issues concerning our legal system, which I’m sure would benefit from a frank and open discussion in the media. As a minor representative of that legal system, however, I can tell you that these vigilantes will be caught and feel the full force of the law.’

  ‘You mean they’ll get a two-week holiday in Barbados?’

  Xena decided to ignore that unhelpful comment, but she knew exactly which case they were referring to. A judge had recently decided that a two-week holiday would be more beneficial to a troubled teenager who had mugged a woman pensioner and beaten her senseless than incarceration.

  ‘This morning forensics has made a breakthrough, and provided us with a lead. That’s all I can say at the moment, but I’m sure that once SDI Pollock has become familiar with the case we’ll be following up that lead with all due haste and diligence. Thank you for your time and support, and I hope DCI Kowalski is found to be innocent of all the allegations thrown at him.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Where am I?’ Ray Kowalski said as he opened his eyes. There was an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth, and he tried to wrench it off with his right hand, but found that some idiot had handcuffed his right wrist to the metal frame of the gurney.

  ‘You’re in the accident and emergency department at King George Hospital,’ a black nurse with an explosion of hair and a mouthful of perfect white teeth said. ‘And I’m Staff Nurse Stacey Speakman.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What happened, Mr Kowalski, is that you seem to have had another heart attack.’

  ‘I have to get out of here,’ he said, trying to sit up.

  Staff Nurse Speakman gripped his shoulder and pushed him back down. ‘I think he would have something to say about that,’ she said pointing to a police officer standing outside the door. ‘And Dr Meredith wouldn’t be best pleased either.’

  ‘Hey you,’ Kowalski called to the officer.

  The constable leaned his head in. ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I wish I knew. I was just told to stand here and stop you from escaping if you had a mind t
o.’

  ‘What’s your name, Constable?’

  ‘Brad Fulghum, Sir.’

  ‘Well listen, Brad, can you get me someone who does know what the hell’s going on? I need to find out what’s happened to my wife and kids.’

  Brad pursed his lips. ‘I can do that, Sir. I was told to let DCI MacGregor know when you woke up anyway.’

  This wasn’t good. He felt like crap, and there was a large bruise on his chest where the paramedics had used the defibrillator to stabilise the rhythm of his heart. He’d probably keel over with another heart attack if he tried to make a run for it, and even if he could wriggle his wrist out of the handcuff he probably wouldn’t get very far with just his boxer shorts on.

  It didn’t take a genius to work out he’d been set up again. Who the hell was it? And why couldn’t the Chief Constable see he was being set up?

  What was happening to Jerry and the kids? Where were they? God he was tired.

  ‘We can’t have you doing all this fretting,’ Staff Nurse Speakman said. ‘Time you went back to sleep, I’m afraid. You’ll be going into v-tach again if we’re not careful.’

  ‘No…’ but it was too late, she had already injected enough tranquilliser into his arm to put down a full-grown elephant.

  ***

  Harlow Police Station used to be a sturdy Victorian brick building that resembled a schoolhouse, but in the 1960s it was replaced with a modern flat-roofed brick and wood monstrosity that deteriorated year after year. Now, the roof leaked during bouts of heavy rainfall, the floor tiles were cracked and broken, and the metal-framed windows didn’t shut properly.

  Also, there was only one serving police officer who remembered the old building with fondness – Constable Paul Kellet – but in three months time he was due to retire, and then there would be nobody.

  ‘It would go easier for both of you if you simply told us the truth about the satanic cult you and your husband are involved with, you know?’ DCI Debbie MacGregor said. ‘Who are the other members? Where do you meet? Give me the dates and times. Tell me what it is you actually do at your meetings. A DVD would be helpful.’

  Jerry Kowalski gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Call yourself a detective? You wouldn’t know the truth if it sat on your shoulder and pissed in your ear. My Ray is more of a detective than you’ll ever be.’

  They were sitting on opposite sides of a metal-framed Formica-topped table in one of the interview rooms used by the zealots in the Child Abuse Investigation Team on a regular basis. And as any member of the team would say: “Child abuse is big business. The more we find, the more there is to find. Yeah, we need to cut out this cancer infecting our society.”

  The duty solicitor – Jason Lewis-Paynter LLB – hadn’t long passed his bar exam. He had light brown hair that looked as though it had never seen a comb or a brush, extraordinarily long eyelashes, and a five o’clock shadow. If Jerry’s mind wasn’t on other things, she might have given him a second look. He put a hand on her forearm, and whispered in her ear. ‘In my experience it’s best to say nothing.’

  Jerry wasn’t used to saying nothing though, and in the face of injustice she always had a lot to say.

  ‘We’ll get the truth out of your children,’ MacGregor taunted her.

  Jerry scrambled over the table in her nightdress, and clamped her hands around MacGregor’s neck. ‘I’m going to kill you, and then I’m going to rip your heart out and eat it.’

  ‘Is that what you do in the cult? Is the heart a sacrifice to Satan?’

  Jerry released MacGregor’s neck and sat back down. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Yes, probably a good idea. We have enough evidence to put you and that sick bastard of a husband of yours away for a very long time.’

  ‘Considering it’s all a pack of lies, I doubt that very much.’

  ‘We have reports relating to mysterious bruises, injuries, and illnesses. Days when your children were missing from school with no adequate explanation…’

  ‘You’re pathetic. If you’d done what detectives do – detect, you would have discovered that it’s all been made up. Someone’s trying to destroy Ray, and you can’t see the light up your own arse.’ She turned to the solicitor. ‘Well, are you going to get me out of here, or stare at my breasts all day?’

  Lewis-Paynter tore his eyes away from Jerry’s cleavage and said, ‘Charge my client or let her go.’

  ‘Your client is free to go, but under police caution. She’s to hand in her passport, report to the local police station daily, and have no contact with her children or her husband.’

  ‘I’m going to the hospital to see my husband, and you’d better not try to stop me.’ She reached the door, turned, and said, ‘And I want a car to take me home, bitch.’

  ***

  Seeing as Jack was still with them in the room, they decided to have breakfast brought up – going down to the restaurant was more trouble than it was worth. It also meant that they could take their time in getting ready.

  Thankfully, they didn’t need to knock on the connecting door for Alicia Mae, because they had Jack’s entire luggage of nappies, clothes, toiletries and food stuffed in a holdall. Parish did the honours of bathing and dressing him, while Angie heated up the milk, and then fed him – it worked like a well-oiled machine.

  He’d ordered nearly everything on the menu – blueberry flapjacks with cream and maple syrup to start, waffles, muffins, French toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, corned beef hash, orange juice… It came on a trolley inside a silver-plated domed platter.

  He thanked the busboy with a ten-dollar tip, and wheeled the trolley into the room.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he said, moving the food onto the table and licking his lips.

  ‘You’re always starving. I had this idea when we first met that one day you’d be a healthy eater like Mary and me, but I see I’ve failed miserably.’

  ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’

  ‘Inside, you must be riddled with fat and cholesterol.’

  ‘You’re confusing me with someone who likes healthy food. What I’d like to know is, why does all healthy food taste like plastic?’

  ‘I give up.’

  ‘In the face of certain defeat, a wise decision.’

  Jack went back to sleep once he’d been fed, and Parish got stuck into the breakfast. Angie had a dish of cereal with some warm milk.

  ‘I wonder how those two got on last night?’ she said

  ‘I dread to think. I’m surprised Alicia Mae hasn’t knocked on the connecting door already.’

  ‘We can look after Jack, and she deserves some time off.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying. It’s five past nine – she never sleeps in this late.’

  ‘Maybe she’s got someone with her.’

  ‘Oh well, no doubt we’ll find out when Mary materialises.’

  ‘If… she materialises.’

  ‘If she’s not here by five to ten I’ll go and drag her out of bed myself.’

  ‘You’re so mean to her.’

  ‘Mean – me? I haven’t got a mean bone in my body.’

  Richards arrived at quarter to ten.

  ‘Tell us all about what happened once we left then,’ Angie said.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. We stayed another hour or so, but most of the men were nothing special, so we said goodnight and came back to our rooms.’

  ‘Alone?’ Parish said.

  ‘Yes, alone.’

  ‘You deserve an entry in the Guinness Book of Records.’

  Richards finished off the orange juice he’d been saving for later. ‘Maybe I’m growing up.’

  ‘You could have two entries in the record book.’

  ‘So, where’s Alicia Mae?’ Angie said.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since last night.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  Parish opened it to find a tall man – probably in his mid-forties – wearing a dark blue suit and tie fillin
g the opening. He was bald, wore rimless glasses over bushy eyebrows and intense eyes, and sported an untrimmed greying beard.

  ‘Hi, I’m Senior Special Agent Harrison Smedley from the BAU, but everyone calls me Harry.’ He grunted. ‘With a name like that I could be a future King of England.’

  Parish smiled politely, stood to one side and offered his hand. ‘Jed Parish – Detective Inspector.’

  They shook.

  Smedley entered, and Parish introduced Angie, Richards and Jack.

  ‘You look nothing like those people on Criminal Minds,’ Richards said.

  Harry’s face creased up. ‘No,’ he said, but then smiled. ‘Hey, I’d heard you’d brought your whole family.’

  ‘No one else has?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, but that don’t matter none. Good luck, that’s what I say. You ready for a quick briefing?’

  Angie said, ‘I’ll take Jack into Alicia Mae’s room, so that you can have some privacy.’ She knocked on the connecting door, but there was no answer, so she unlocked it and went inside.

  ‘Oh God,’ Parish heard her say. ‘Jed, you’d better come in here.’

  Wondering what had caused Angie’s outburst, he moved quickly through the connecting door.

  Alicia Mae was arranged on the bed like a goddess painted on a Grecian urn – blonde hair falling about her naked shoulders, and her lifeless eyes staring into the underworld. In her right hand she held a mask, and in her left a knife. She looked as beautiful in death as she had in life.

  ‘Jesus!’ Parish said, and tried to hustle Angie out of the room.

  She shrugged him off. ‘I used to be a nurse on the Intensive Care Unit, remember. I’ve seen more death than you’ve had hot dinners.’