Lethal Ties

by Christmas, Helen

  Her face buckled into a frown.

  “We were easy prey. Kids whose mums were prostitutes, like Sam’s mum. Kids who’d been prostituted themselves. Damaged, messed up kids that men like Mortimer didn’t give a shit about!”

  “Victims,” Maisie whispered, hands shaking as she lifted her mug. “I’ve always woken up with a bad feeling after my nightmare but just say we were drugged? Taken to a forest, somewhere secret. What could have happened that we don’t remember?”

  “Some place out in the sticks,” Joe pondered, “and no witnesses...”

  He could only imagine the horror in her mind. Her face was drained of colour, but even with the cat already crawling out of the bag, could he bear to voice his suspicions aloud?

  “I knew exactly what sort of man Mortimer was. A predator.”

  The degradation hit him even now.

  “It’s obvious why he got into that line of work and I bet those homes were magnets for all sorts. Private homes, so I doubt the authorities got too involved. I don’t know about you but I never saw my social worker after I was dumped in that place.”

  “Did you ever tell anyone he threatened you?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “Nah! Who’d have listened to me?”

  “But this is serious, Joe!” Lowering her mug, she gaped at him in panic. “Isn’t it about time we reported it?”

  “And say what?”

  Looking at her now, he so wanted to reach out to her. Hold her in his arms, whisper tender words into her ears, anything to reassure her there was nothing to fear.

  Except he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lie.

  “You’re scared,” she accused him. “You think there’s still danger.”

  “Yes,” he nodded in reluctance, “but let’s deal with this one step at a time, eh?”

  He risked a smile.

  “I’ve got an interview next week.”

  Her head snapped upright.

  “Wow, Joe, that’s great! Sorry if I burst your bubble.”

  “Don’t be. We needed to have this conversation but now we’ve talked, let’s not dwell. Like I say, it’s better we try and move on.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Regrettably, I couldn’t ‘move on’ quite as fast as Joe hoped. Now the Pandora’s box was open, and with an eerie thread of possibilities unspooling, I knew where my thoughts were leading.

  Was there a way we could find proof of Mortimer’s strange parties?

  A blackness closed around my mind as my hideous dream crept back to me. For the horror I felt was the same as on the day Mandy’s friends had tried to lure me into a forest. As if the worst kind of evil was lurking...

  Terrified to face my demons, I hugged a cushion to my chest.

  Thank God I had Joe to confide in.

  Ever since he had moved in, we had tumbled into a clumsy harmony. Joe had his own friends and he went out sometimes, leaving me to catch up on my own pursuits. Wednesday night I had attended a Zumba class for the first time in weeks. What’s more, Jess had agreed to meet me, buzzing for gossip about Joe.

  But on the nights he stayed in, we watched TV, chatted, shared news and even recipes. And how could I forget the first time he had cooked for me? His pièce de résistance, beans au gratin had me in fits; thick slices of toast smothered in baked beans and cheese, heated under the grill, until bubbling and golden.

  Even my foster mum laughed at that when I phoned her.

  Tonight, however, I was in no mood for humour, given the turmoil my therapy had stirred up.

  But I wasn’t alone: Joe seemed unable to hide his own anxiety, for some reason. It manifested itself in his face, from the grooves etched in his brow to the way his eyes darkened.

  He had not long returned from town. Lingering in the kitchen, slowly unpacking the groceries, I saw his eyes flitting to a newspaper.

  “What have you got there?”

  “Just something I picked up from the Salvation Army headquarters earlier,” he said.

  Odd, I thought, flipping the pages apart, why the Guardian? He usually read the Mirror. I carried on flicking through until one particular headline caught my eye. My head shot upright.

  That story. The allegations Stewart had mentioned weeks ago.

  “Claims that the establishment covered up a paedophile ring at the heart of Westminster are finally being investigated, decades after rumours first surfaced.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Joe snapped. “You must wonder if there’s a connection, given what we were talking about.”

  “To Orchard Grange?” I replied. “My foster dad said the same thing... victims taken out of care homes.”

  My eyes flashed across the lines of news print.

  “It says ‘a chauffeur driven car was used to drive them to locations where they were abused.’”

  “I know,” Joe broke in softly, “but there’s no mention of a country house, is there? Just a block of apartments, so don’t get freaked out. It’s the wrong decade. This stuff is reported to have happened in the 70s and 80s and to be fair, I don’t remember any ‘high establishment figures’ on the scene, do you?”

  I took in the names and shuddered. “No, but it’s a horrible story and there are even allegations of murder...” I glanced up. “Isn’t this what you suspected all along about Sam? That he might have been killed?”

  This time Joe was the one who stiffened. “I didn’t wanna say this but Sam’s just the sort of boy who’d get picked out by nonces. Mortimer’s homes were like buffets for certain types, and we had no way of communicating outside them.”

  “So what else do you know?” I pressed. “I’ve told you everything I remember but you must have your own recollections surely...”

  ******

  The light was low, a cloak of shadow embracing him as he allowed his mind to wander into the past. Like Maisie, Joe could not dismiss the news stories out of hand. Someone had come forward with a set of horrific allegations - only one person - but enough to send him reeling back to the savage world of Orchard Grange.

  There was noise, so much noise. Children shouting, doors slamming, the bellow of adults ordering them to shut up! Occasionally fights broke out and there was damage, kids stamping up and down the stairs, desperate to get out, objects thrown and smashed. Then came the restraints, the banging of heads against walls or worse... He didn’t know if anyone else had suffered a beating the way he had, but it was enough of a deterrent for him to keep his mouth shut for a while.

  Whatever had happened to Maisie, though, no one knew the truth. Ramona had gone. Most likely shifted into an unfamiliar home the same way he’d been. Days blurred into each other, the passage of time vague... and then Sam had turned up. Sam, who captured Mortimer’s interest, stirring deep waves of dread in Joe.

  “What did he say,” Maisie gulped, “after Sam disappeared?”

  “Spun some bullshit story he was adopted.”

  A frown knitted his forehead as the words ripped through his mind.

  ‘Sam has a new family now, someone who’s chosen to adopt him. Pity the same couldn’t be said for you, Winterton, but then who in their right mind would want an ugly little tearaway like you in their home?’

  Joe knew when to back off. It wasn’t so much the insult but the way he voiced it. Puffed up like a toad, Mortimer towered over him in a way that made him feel worthless and crushed any possible defiance.

  No, that would come later...

  “I don’t believe that!” Maisie intervened. “I remember the process when I was adopted. It took months. Meetings with social workers, bonding sessions with my foster family. When did anyone ever turn up to see Sam?”

  “That’s just it, no one did,” Joe pondered. “Just another one of his big lies to throw me off the scent, except I wasn’t buying it.”

  Sure, there had been ‘meetings’, but they had nothing to do with Sam’s alleged adoptive family. This was around the time Joe had gleaned some notion Mortimer owned several homes. Private
homes used to run an undisputedly dodgy business.

  “The only person I saw visiting was some smart geezer. I overheard him talking... something about Government funding.”

  “I remember him,” Maisie whispered. “Professional, sharp suit, silver hair... at least he was kind.”

  “Kind,” Joe echoed cynically. “Maybe I’d run out of trust by then but I always thought there was something a bit creepy about that guy.”

  Given Mortimer’s loathing, Joe often found himself outside his office, which was where he had first spotted this enigmatic stranger. A man with impeccable charm who had smiled at him.

  Maisie leaned forwards. He had just been about to elaborate, but the glint in her eye stalled him.

  “And you overheard him talking about Government funding?”

  “Yeah...”

  “So he was a politician?” she murmured. “Someone in power.”

  Joe frowned, hardly able to take this in. With his thoughts locked in the past, the memories were swirling faster, a volley of hateful words.

  ‘Sneaking around again, Joe? I wouldn’t bother associating yourself with that one, Sir, he’s a lying, devious little troublemaker.’

  Joe had barely acknowledged the other man at the time. The bigger problem was Mortimer, his spiralling animosity towards Joe - not just for attempting to protect Maisie, but for his unrelenting curiosity about Sam. With no further clue as to whether his friend was alive or dead, Joe could not resist cranking the pressure up.

  Where did Sam’s adoptive family live?

  Was there a way they could contact him?

  Joe had relished watching Mortimer squirm, until the day his temper soared to a staggering new level.

  “Joe,” Maisie prompted. She touched his arm gently. “Is there something else you want to tell me?”

  His heart hammered harder. It was so much easier to forget the vile things hissed at him, but as days stretched into weeks, his yearning to know the truth about Sam’s disappearance tore against the struggle to keep himself safe from Mortimer’s violence.

  Mortimer had grabbed him by the throat once, and pressed him against the wall of his office, kicking the door shut.

  ‘Breath one more word about Sam Ellis and I will wring your scrawny neck!’

  Next came the night they had him trapped in the boys’ toilets.

  Schiller had accompanied him, a mammoth of a man in his twelve-year-old eyes. The dark sky pressed down heavily, the other kids in their beds, just a rectangle of light shining around the door frame.

  ‘Time we dealt with you once and for all, you piece of scum...’

  If it hadn’t been for a cough escaping from the corridor, he might not have lived to tell the tale.

  Locking eyes with Maisie, he felt the breath on his lips tremble.

  “Joe, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you...”

  “You wanna go to the cops, don’t you?” he shuddered. “Report the parties, even though we ain’t got proof.”

  “This isn’t just about us any more though,” she argued. “What about Sam? I want to know why he vanished, and as for this story he was adopted, I know someone who could check it out. My friend, Sarah, is an adoption reunion counsellor and an expert when it comes to tracing people.”

  Joe expelled a sigh. At the back of his mind, he would forever agonise over Sam’s disappearance. If it was possible to trace him he would.

  But neither could he ignore his nemesis, Mortimer, and the fear he was still at large.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rage pounded through the man’s head as he studied the images emailed to him. Or more specifically, the image of the man who had been spotted with Maisie.

  “We have a problem. Joe Winterton has resurfaced!”

  In all the days this worthless vagrant had taken shelter on Bognor seafront, no one had really noticed him. Head concealed under a hoodie, he was not worthy of attention, but freed from the shadows and the facial hair, there was no denying who that face belonged to. The long lens captured every detail, from his misshapen nose to his soulful dark eyes.

  Joe bloody Winterton.

  “Hardly a wonder he’s so pally with Maisie then,” his associate sniffed. “They were friends already.”

  “But he’s living with her!” He drew in a deep breath, teeth bared.

  One would think they had scared Winterton off long ago but no... they should have guessed that young trouble-maker would appear one day.

  “Can you believe he’s turned up in Bognor of all places?”

  “It must be fate,” his ally warned. “You’ll definitely have to watch your back now, and the same goes for our watcher.”

  A slick of sweat moistened the man’s forehead.

  Seven weeks they had been stalking her. If it hadn’t been for that Fostering Information Evening last year, he might never have discovered her workplace. But the trail had eventually led to Bognor, the house she was living in now.

  “We can’t drop our surveillance. As if it’s not enough there’s some psychotherapist poking her nose in, recovering God only knows what...”

  “Still seeing the shrink then?”

  “Yes, but you’re missing the point! Those two are bound to talk!”

  Staring at the images of Joe, he felt the acid burn of hate. With his long term plan coming together at last, they had been on the verge of ensnaring her. Yet Joe’s jagged profile mocked him, filling him with an insatiable thirst for vengeance.

  “If only we’d dealt with the little shit beforehand. We should have beaten every last breath out of him...” His voice shuddered to a snarl. “It’s not too late.”

  “Calm down, Cornelius,” his associate sighed. “Let’s not get carried away.”

  He could almost picture the smirk on his face.

  “You always suspected Maisie might expose you one day, but if you take any drastic action, if you resort to violence, you know she’ll go bleating to the police before we’re ready. All Joe needs for now is a warning.”

  ******

  London

  Thomas tucked away his mobile and crossed the busy main road. To the unfamiliar eye, he looked like any other suited businessman; immaculately groomed and silver-haired. The city was full of them, a place where it was easy to remain inconspicuous. And right now, he was craving a cup of tea.

  He breezed into an elegant tea room, favouring this particular establishment as much for the gorgeous young waitresses as for its decor. Palm resting on the door rail, he relished the coolness of polished brass. Large windows with delicate gold etchings looked directly out onto the pavement but Thomas had no desire to sit and people-watch. Instead, he chose a secluded table near the back.

  “What can I get for you, Sir?”

  He looked at the waitress, holding her gaze for as long as he dared.

  Dear God, what a beauty. Smooth skin the colour of caramel and thickly lashed brown eyes... she was enough to snatch a man’s breath away.

  “Tea for one and some cakes please. What would you recommend?”

  “Strawberry slice is good,” she said, scribbling down his order, “made with fresh cream, otherwise, have you tried our banoffee cupcakes?” She rolled her eyes heavenwards. “Now they are lush!”

  “I’d like to try one of each, then.”

  With a polite nod, she wandered up to the counter, hips rolling nicely under her tight black skirt. Fifteen, perhaps? She would have to be if she was working here but oh, that figure... Thomas shook his head. A man of his status, he shouldn’t be thinking like this, but he couldn’t help himself. The young had always fascinated him, the innocence of youth, the untrained mind he so longed to nourish.

  “What’s your name?” he muttered, the moment she returned.

  She lowered a pot of tea and milk jug carefully onto the table. “Poppy.”

  “Poppy,” he echoed. “What a pretty name.”

  A slow, rich smile spread across her face. “Well, thank you, Sir.”

  The slenderness of
her fingers was next to catch his eye, entwined in the handle of his tea cup. Not a chunky white cup like a soup bowl, but delicate bone china infused with a pattern of roses. Such refinement pleased him and, with a political career spanning three decades, he had developed a taste for the finer things in life.

  But as Minister for Education in the 90s and a short spell as a backbencher when the opposition were in power, his resounding success as Minister for Social Care had at last granted him a position in the House of Lords.

  Yes, he had cause to celebrate, and what better place than this exclusive tea room with its quintessential English charm?

  Poppy was back, her deportment calm and meticulous, with none of the rush that so irritated him in those commercial chains. Even the cakes she presented resembled works of art. Their eyes met and her smile lingered.

  “Lovely,” he muttered. “Thank you.”

  Whether he was referring to her or the cakes was open to speculation, but how he loved her little titter, the way her fingers crept to her mouth. Such coyness.

  He looked away. Diverted his stare from her budding breasts. With his newly acquired status, he should be mentally rehearsing the speech he was going to give at next week’s press interview.

  Thomas Parker-Smythe newly appointed to the House of Lords.

  He had all the reason in the world to relish his success, and easily enough to leave Poppy an extra large tip.

  “Treat yourself to something special,” he said warmly. “A pretty pair of earrings maybe...”

  Her last glittering smile was the one that stayed with him; one that would reel him back to this place again and again, powerless to fight it.

  ******

  “Poppy,” her mother scolded her. “What have I warned you about flirting with older men?”

  “Got a result didn’t it?” Poppy argued. “Stop fussing.”

  “You’re going to get yourself into trouble one day, young lady.”

  But regrettably, Poppy wasn’t listening. Fingering the ten pound note her customer had tucked in with the bill, she was glowing with the compliments he had showered her with.