Delving into the first aid box, she pulled out a roll of gauze. Joe dabbed away the last of the grit before applying a layer of antiseptic cream.
Vicky’s words nevertheless hung darkly.
“Colin swore that van deliberately drove you off the road.”
“Bastards shot out of nowhere,” Joe whispered. “No lights, no warning... I’m not mixed up with the criminal world though, I swear. The only place I seem to have enemies is in this town.”
Holding his stare, she lifted his hand and wound a filmy layer of gauze around his palm. He detected not a hint of recrimination. What stirred him the most was that look of motherly tenderness, a look that filled him with anguish.
His enemies had known exactly where to find him.
For several days he had cycled to work in the early hours, same route, same shifts, and despite the absence of the black car, they had tracked his every move.
An uneasy buzz wheeled around the shop floor as news of his accident spread like wildfire. A short time later the police turned up, the suspense building to fever pitch. But as each and every witness stepped forward, Joe grew ever more nervous, until eventually it was his turn.
“We found the van,” one of the officers informed him, “abandoned just off the A27 in Slindon Woods. Turns out it was a hired van from London.”
“Have you traced the driver?” he whispered in hope.
“Not yet, but that’s our next line of enquiry, as soon as the office opens. We’ll also be examining the CCTV footage.”
Joe nodded, unused to the law treating him so courteously.
“Mr Winterton,” the second officer’s voice intruded. “Do you have any idea who your attackers were? If so, it would help our investigation.”
Joe froze, eyes flitting to the glass door panel. Enclosed in a tiny office, he couldn’t fail to notice other members of staff sneaking past, as if hoping to glean snippets of his statement.
“Yeah, I do. In fact it’s time we came clean about what’s been going on these past few weeks, but not here...”
“We?”
“This involves a friend,” he shivered, “and she needs to be present. But is there any chance we could do this at home?”
Once they had left, the tension around the building began to dissipate. Joe lingered in the cafeteria, his mind and body numb, but he knew he had done the right thing. There were too many people around to piece his story together with any lucidity.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Hello, Maisie,” DC Anderson greeted me.
“Mark,” I answered gravely. “It’s good to see you again.”
Staring at the man in my doorway, I felt a roll of unease. How many weeks had passed since that eerie sighting of a boy on the edge of the woods?
At least his blue eyes twinkled, setting my mind at rest.
“Come in and take a seat. This is my friend, Joe.”
“It’s good to meet you, Joe,” Mark said, “and I heard what happened this morning. How are you feeling now?”
Joe raised his head. “Not too bad, thanks.”
Perched in a chair at the dining table, he looked smart and composed in his clean denim shirt and chinos. The only blemish was the graze on his cheek, and a swelling of purple bruising.
But Mark wasted no time, lowering himself into the chair opposite. “Well, I’ll tell you what we discovered about the van first. According to the rental company, the customer was a large, heavily built man with thinning blonde hair. Spoke with an accent, German they think. Ring any bells?”
An icy chill slid over me as I watched colour drain from Joe’s face.
“Schiller,” he hissed.
I was catapulted straight back to Orchard Grange.
Mark glanced at his notepad with a frown. “Hmm, that’s not the name he gave the rental company, but then it’s not impossible he used a fake ID.”
As Joe met my eye, an invisible thread of fear pulled between us.
“He goes under many names,” he added darkly. “Like the Watchman. So maybe it’s a good time to mention the trolls...”
Yanking his mobile from his pocket, he placed it on the table before Mark’s eyes, and in the minutes it took for him to digest the screen shots, I momentarily left them to make coffee.
By the time I returned, Mark looked stunned.
“Why didn’t you report this stuff?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Yes, Maisie, I know,” Joe sighed, “except ‘trolling’ someone on Twitter in’t exactly a crime is it? I didn’t think they’d be bothered. Some sick bastard trying to scare the shit out of me.”
“So what about the creep tailing us in the black car?” I argued, “which is something else we should have reported...”
It didn’t take long to relay our memories, but the faster Joe spoke, the more the atmosphere in the room seemed to blacken.
“We need to look into this,” Mark insisted. He had turned very still, his face giving nothing away as he glanced at me. “CCTV cameras cover the main roads around Bognor and the automatic number plate recognition will flag up the number of times this car has travelled in and out of town.”
“Good,” Joe responded, “cos we know someone’s watching us and while we’re on the subject of trolls... one goes by the name Shadow of the Grange.”
“So what’s the connection there?” Mark broke in.
“Orchard Grange was a children’s home Maisie and I lived in. The owner went by the name of Mortimer, Schiller one of his thugs. Built like a brick shit house he was, German accent - someone who sounds very much like the fucker who tried to run me over this morning...”
“Hey, slow down,” Mark spluttered, “I can hardly keep up - but are you saying this case involves both of you? See, I know I shouldn’t be telling you this, but talking to my superiors, their immediate concern was of your former conviction, that maybe this had some link with organised crime...”
“Well, they would, wouldn’t they?” Joe snapped and lifting his eyes, his gaze rested upon me again. “Now you know why I didn’t wanna bother the Old Bill before this. Who’d take some low-life like me seriously?”
“Joe, stop it,” I said with a shudder. “At least Mark’s prepared to listen to us.”
Mark offered me the gentlest smile in response. “So what’s your take on this, Maisie? Joe mentioned a children’s home... but I’m beginning to suspect something else went on.”
Sipping my coffee, I was battling to put my thoughts into words. Joe remained rooted to the spot for now, rolling himself a cigarette. Anyone could see how much that comment from Mark’s superiors had stung him, but I was pleased he had stayed put. The abrasion on his cheek flared like a brand, serving a chilling reminder.
“The people who ran the children’s home were monsters,” I began. “One of my first memories was of a beating they gave Joe with a metal hose. Mortimer sanctioned it. He hated Joe, and all because he tried to protect me. That’s how we know they’re behind this - the clues are in the tweets...”
Mark froze, a look of dread passing over his face as he finally grasped the horror behind those steel hose adverts. But it inspired me to keep talking.
“It’s not the only abuse that went on though, so I might as well tell you now, but you know that night in February when I called the police out?”
“How could I forget?” Mark said. “I’d never seen you look so distraught. You said you were suffering from nightmares - did these relate to the home too?”
“Yes,” I shivered, “everything goes back to these strange parties Mortimer organised, and this is what Joe was trying to warn me about.”
“The reason they thrashed the shit out of me,” he added sourly.
Mark jerked his head upright, a frown crinkling his brow. Watching him warily, I wondered what else might have crossed his mind at this point.
“What sort of parties?” he blurted.
It took several minutes to explain everything I knew. The fact those parties didn�
�t take place in the home was questionable enough; private functions held in a remote country house and far from the eyes of public scrutiny.
The notion we were drugged was the next detail to trigger alarm bells. I told Mark about the punch, and Joe’s warning not to drink it, before he had taken the unusual decision of locking me in the laundry room.
“These are my lucid memories, but I should also point out I’ve been seeing a psychotherapist and a lot more has emerged...”
“Secret parties,” Mark muttered aloud, the speed of his pen gathering momentum.
He was struggling to jot it all down, yet at the same time I saw a subtle flush in his face, and his eyes would not meet mine.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but are you suggesting the nature of the abuse went beyond physical violence?”
My mouth dropped open of its own accord.
“You’ve seen the stories in the news, haven’t you?”
“The scandal surrounding Westminster? A political hot potato as far as the police are concerned because of the people named, but they have to protect the victims.”
“And you wonder if this is connected?” I pressed.
“No, but I see similarities, in so much as vulnerable children were taken out of care homes and driven to highly organised sex parties...” Breaking his flow, he risked a glance in Joe’s direction. “And you can relate to this too?”
Joe said nothing but his eyes narrowed, glittering with foreboding.
“Neither of us are a hundred percent sure what happened,” I butted in. “Like I say, we were drugged... but there’s something else. A friend of ours went missing. Sam Ellis. He was taken to one of those parties and we never saw him again.”
“A missing child,” Mark reflected. Shock tightened his breath as he lowered his pen to the table, and in that moment I knew I had him spellbound.
“I’ve been wanting to report this for ages,” I added, “but without proof we were never sure if the police would take us seriously. Do you see what I’m getting at? Twice I called you out under false pretences, so I had to be sure I got it right this time. I even asked a friend if she could trace him.”
“Maisie, you didn’t have to do that,” Mark sighed, “but I admire your honesty. If it’s any consolation, I’d like to run this past my DI if I can just confirm the facts.”
His eyes wandered to Joe again, whose silence was beginning to disturb me.
“The first thing the police need to understand is why someone tried to run you over today, Joe. They could have killed you. But if we’re looking at attempted murder, there has to be a motive.”
At last Joe cleared his throat. “Mortimer swore he’d deal with me one day, and I reckon this is what those threats were about.”
“That being the case,” Mark said, “these people need to be caught and arrested before they inflict any more harm.”
“So what happens next?” he probed.
“Given the amount of information, I think the next best thing would be for you to give formal statements at a police station...”
“Oh no,” I baulked, “not Bognor!”
“Littlehampton,” Mark reassured me, “and if you like, we can send an unmarked car around to escort you. At least it minimises the prospect of anyone seeing you. Would you agree to that?”
“Sure,” Joe said, “I don’t think we’ve got much choice really.”
Mark started scribbling again. “You’ve given me two names to go on, one being Mortimer and the other, this Schiller character, but is there anyone else who could be connected that you can think of?”
I felt the weight of Joe’s stare again. But as his fingers fidgeted with his roll-up, he looked so down-trodden, the answer hit me in a flash.
“There might be,” I gulped. “Someone who’s been in the news recently...”
My lip trembled as Mark’s eyes seemed to grow bigger. Pleading eyes.
“He’s just been admitted to the House of Lords, but we both distinctly remember seeing him at Orchard Grange. Thomas Parker-Smythe. He was very pally with Mortimer - and present when he mentioned the party I was invited to.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
If Detective Inspector Burke had been present at the start of the investigation, there was every chance he would not have taken their claims seriously, Mark thought. The first hurdle was Joe’s criminal record. Reported as a runaway, he was known to the police for his part in aiding and abetting a brutal robbery, and it was inevitable that in his years behind bars, he would have mixed with some particularly nasty convicts.
His homeless days were a blur, but nevertheless on record.
As for Maisie, she had been right about one thing; his superiors did harbour some concerns about her instability. Referring to her as ‘a bit of a do-gooder,’ DI Burke upheld the opinion she was ‘prone to hysteria,’ someone whose judgement could not always be relied upon.
Mark felt a shiver of unease. Back on the night of her hallucination, he had sensed some underlying torment. It lurked in the depths of her eyes; the same haunted look he had observed in many child abuse victims. So the moment a children’s home had sprung its way into the discussion, he knew damn well they were looking into something far bigger than a regular hit and run.
“So what do you make of all this, Sarge?” he whispered, as they were making their way to the DI’s office.
Maisie and Joe had left, escorted back home as promised to protect their anonymity. A glance at the sergeant, who had been present when recording their statements, was enough to tell Mark he was not the only one who felt spooked. A shadow of anxiety passed over the man’s face, his lips compressed in a line.
“What they suggest is highly plausible, given the level of victimisation Joe’s been through,” he muttered, “but I bet you if there’s even a sniff of a paedophile ring behind this, Harold will pounce on it like a dog with a bone.”
He wasn’t wrong. In the instant DI Harold Burke glanced up, his eyes met Mark’s with a glitter.
“So let’s run over the facts. What we have is a group of privately owned children’s homes. Hired thugs to keep the kids under control. Organised parties in a remote house and two youngsters who believe they were drugged. Yet at the crux of the matter, we’re looking at the disappearance of a child from twenty years ago.”
“That pretty much sums it up, Sir,” Mark nodded. “So have you come to a decision with regard to the next phase?”
“Well, Mark, to put your mind at rest,” he snapped. “I assure you we’re taking the matter very seriously. I know you think my judgement of the victims has been harsh up until now...”
“I didn’t intend to malign you,” he interrupted.
Yet the DI held up his palm. “For now, I want this kept out of the press. Regrettably, there is little I can do to stop reporters asking about the hit and run, but word has got out. What I fear, however, is that we lack the manpower and expertise to investigate something this momentous, so for that reason, I’m consulting the division in the Metropolitan Police that deals with these cases.”
Mark felt his shoulders sag. “You’re referring this to the Met?”
“I have no choice,” Harold sighed, “and whilst I realise the attack was local, the historic nature of this crime happened in or around London.”
“But what about the van driver?” Mark protested. “Not to mention the black car that’s been stalking them?”
“You can look into the CCTV footage,” Harold placated him. “Obviously we’ll gather whatever local intelligence we can, but that’s all can I suggest for now.”
His face retained its steely resolve, a look which left Mark in no doubt there was nothing else to be gained. Examining the last traces of evidence Maisie had reported was as much involvement as he could hope for, though he could not deny how deflated he felt.
“So what about the victims,” he dared ask, “especially Maisie?”
“They are not to be named,” the DI barked. “But what I propose is you act
as their liaison officer. I must warn you, though, that once the Met get involved, this investigation is out of our hands, especially now she’s mentioned a known public figure.”
******
Before 12:00 noon that same day, the Metropolitan Police were alerted: a report emailed from DI Burke of West Sussex Police outlining a sustained campaign of intimidation, which had culminated in a near fatal road accident.
As predicted, it wasn’t so much the crime of attempted murder that piqued their interest, as the motive. Given the victims’ statements, the dilemma rising behind the walls at HQ had taken a sinister twist: with hints of a paedophile ring rearing its ugly head, officers faced the grim task of investigating another child abuse scandal.
“This can’t be a coincidence,” muttered the Detective Chief Inspector at the head of the investigation. “I’m not suggesting the cases are linked, but we can’t rule it out. Now where do we start?”
Detective Inspector Andrew Fitzpatrick glared at the reports, feeling a cold sweat shimmy over him. “I want to track down this Mortimer and his accomplice. Can we access the CCTV footage from the van rental company? I know it’ll be grainy, but if this is the thug who attempted to mow down Joe Winterton, we could use those images to appeal for witnesses, anyone who might lead us to him.”
Fingers steepled on the desk, the DCI nodded shrewdly. “Good, though I must warn you that this Mortimer character is proving to be elusive... There is, however, another man I’d like you to investigate. Thomas Parker-Smythe. It seems these ‘gentlemen’ were well acquainted in the children’s home. So let’s see what we can uncover and if any mud sticks, I propose we bring him in for questioning.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Charing Cross Police Station, The Strand, London
Conducted by officers of the Metropolitan Police
Suspect: Lord Thomas Parker-Smythe
RECORDED INTERVIEW
22nd April 2015
Lethal Ties Page 19