Lethal Ties

by Christmas, Helen

  “He was not my friend!” Thomas rounded on him. “And I did not join this news group he supposedly founded. Now what is this about?”

  The inspector’s steel hard gaze turned him cold.

  “The clue is in the name. Babes in the wood. A secret group established to fuel the fantasies of men obsessed with ritualistic child abuse and with specific reference to sex parties...”

  Thomas clutched his tie, feeling sick, and for the first time since this relentless questioning began, he was struggling to know what to say.

  “You cannot deny you were a participant,” the DI kept goading him. “We’ve had a computer specialist look into this, and the material was embedded in your browsing history, which brings me on to another matter. Something that did not make pleasant viewing.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Thomas whispered, his voice trembling.

  “The most disturbing characteristic of this newsgroup,” DS Havers intervened, “is that anyone who was a member had access to illegal images. I refer, as you already know, to satanic rituals involving children.”

  The force of his words twisted a knife in Thomas’s gut. “This isn’t true.”

  “If only that were the case. Unfortunately, your hard disc was found to contain hundreds of such images downloaded between 1996 and 2006.”

  “No,” he gasped - he could barely recover the breath to form the words. “I have never downloaded anything of the sort.”

  “So how did the material end up on your computer?” the DS persevered.

  Thomas shook his head. Havers had always come across as the gentler of the two, but now there was an icy edge to the sergeant’s tone that chilled him.

  “I don’t know. It could have been planted.”

  Even to him it sounded pathetic, but on the other hand...

  He recalled the day he had left those girls in his apartment, and was struck by an alarming thought.

  “Planted?” DI Fitzpatrick echoed with a smirk.

  “Dear God, if only I’d thought to report this,” he shivered, “but there is something I haven’t told you. The morning I left those cleaners in my home, someone was loitering outside. Some youth dressed in one of those baggy hoodies...”

  The DI gave a sniff. “Is that the best you can come up with?”

  “I’m not making it up,” he answered, the rage swelling in him again. “Can’t you at least check it out? Someone is trying to set me up and I wouldn’t be surprised if it had something to do with those girls who visited.”

  “We can talk to them,” DS Havers shrugged, “though I should warn you we will have to run further checks. You see stuff like this is rarely just ‘planted’ on a hard disc. Everything leaves traces, and from the age of your Mac, it appears this material was not added overnight. It’s been there for years.”

  “How do you explain that?” drawled the inspector.

  Thomas faced him angrily. “I have nothing else to say on this matter. I did not download those images, nor belong to any news group. So let’s get to the point, shall we. Are you charging me? Because before this case goes any further, I have a right to consult my solicitor.”

  Chapter Forty

  “He’s been charged,” Joe smiled in disbelief. “Police found over two hundred indecent images on his computer. The dirty bastard!”

  I did not smile back. Conscious of Jess lingering in the background, I should have relished the seclusion of her apartment. A gentle breeze cooled the air and with its calming interior, this place was fast turning into Joe’s sanctuary.

  Ever since that harrowing accident, though, he had shied away from the pub.

  I could hardly blame him. They might have kept his name out of the press but everyone knew it was him.

  “Really?” I whispered under my breath, “so will he stand trial?”

  Joe spun around as if he had momentarily forgotten I was there. Slender as a reed, he formed a striking silhouette in the light of the balcony, eyes glued to his mobile as he pored over the latest news feed.

  “Dunno,” he muttered. “He’s pleading innocence but then he would, wouldn’t he? It weren’t just the kiddie-porn he was into but some newsgroup. You know they found a link to old Toad Face...”

  “Shh, Joe,” I interrupted. “Don’t say too much.”

  “It’s okay, Maisie,” Jess purred, moving away from the balcony. “I know who ‘Toad Face’ is. The guy who ran the dodgy care homes.”

  Her words sent a dart of fear through me, though I wasn’t sure why.

  “How much has Joe told you?” I challenged her.

  “Don’t fret, Maisie, we’ve got no secrets,” Joe butted in. “With all this stuff in the media, it don’t take a genius to figure it out.”

  “And you know I’ve got your backs,” Jess simpered.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled, feeling a flood of warmth in my cheeks, “except Joe and I are crucial witnesses in this case, so it’s important to retain our anonymity.”

  “Nothing gets repeated outside this apartment,” she added smugly.

  She held my gaze, and from the spark in her eye, anyone could see the thrill she was getting out of this. I bit my tongue, not wanting to be drawn into her drama. Behind the scenes, however, I knew exactly what was happening. Joe was right. Even before the Met had decided to press charges, stories had found their way into the papers.

  Lord Parker-Smythe questioned over child sex abuse allegations.

  With a shiver of dread, I averted my eyes. But even with institutionalised child abuse exposed on a massive scale, nothing could be proven until the net closed in on Mortimer, and until that day came there would be danger.

  The truth behind Sam’s disappearance, meanwhile, continued to evade us all, though after speaking to Sarah, a ray of hope lit our path.

  The possibility Sam might be alive.

  Furthermore a national enquiry had been launched for other witnesses to come forward. With a powerful social media campaign backing it, would the tentacles of the past find a way of reaching him?

  ******

  Joe, on the other hand, didn’t want to build his hopes up.

  Waking up in Jess’s bed next morning, the trauma of his accident still resonated. Lying on the ground prostrate, imagining the crunch of his bones under the wheels... Still, at least he was getting a regular lift to work now.

  From the day the investigation had begun, he had kept his eye on the news. CCTV footage released by the van hire company had at least cast a spotlight on his attacker in the car park, but the image was so blurred, his face was barely discernible.

  Joe felt his blood run cold. Going by his frame and gait, he knew damn well that man was Schiller. Police wanted to question anyone who knew him, whilst warning the public not to approach him. He could be dangerous.

  “What are you thinking about?” Jess drawled.

  Lying on his back, he stared empty-eyed at the ceiling. She traced the contours of his face, the caress of her fingers calming the beast in him.

  “Sorry,” he sighed, “got a lot on my mind.”

  She propped herself up on one elbow, her hair a river of golden waves tumbling over her perfect breasts. He felt the questioning stab of her gaze.

  “You’re worried about the investigation, aren’t you?”

  Turning to face her, he ran his fingers through her lovely hair, sweeping it away from her shoulders. It wasn’t a lie. None of them were expecting the arrest of Parker-Smythe but the news brought little comfort. Unless the net closed in on their real enemies, he was never going to be safe.

  “Yeah, well at least the tweets have stopped.” He kissed her on the lips. “I ‘spect the bastards are lying low, now the cops are involved.”

  “Then why don’t we do something to take your mind off all this?” she whispered seductively, kissing him back.

  The message was not lost on him, and he decided to go with the flow.

  Pleasurably distracted, he had a lot to thank Jess for, even if this snatch of a romance was only tr
ansitory. He wanted to savour it while it lasted, having never imagined they would be together this long. But Jess was such a beauty, he couldn’t help being a little in love with her, and as her arms snaked around his back, he knew he wasn’t about to step out of her bed any time soon...

  From the depths of his mind, however, another thought surfaced. They were due to visit Charing Cross Police Station tomorrow, as Maisie had just confirmed in a text. Jess seemed insistent on driving, and he didn’t argue. The police only wanted to pick over the finer details of their statements. So why was he struck with a bad feeling? A sense of no turning back, and that nothing would be the same again?

  ******

  Charing Cross Police Station, The Strand, London

  Before meeting the victims, DI Andrew Fitzpatrick and his colleagues had set up an area, in which all intelligence collated had been pinned to the dividing screens. This included a map of London, on which the location of every one of Mortimer’s care homes was marked with a circular red sticker.

  “Creepy, isn’t it?” DS Mike Havers commented. “Looking at it from this angle, they form the shape of a pentagon with Orchard Grange at the centre.”

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Andrew shrugged. “What else have we got?”

  The next incident board contained pictures of the homes, the lively celebration unearthed from Thomas’s home among them. Mike almost shivered as the cold eyes of Cornelius Mortimer seemed to follow him, one of the only photographs they could find of the man, from around 1995.

  But as his gaze drifted further, he clocked the CCTV images Joe had been thinking about earlier - and there underneath was a crime report detailing the hit and run in Bognor. It served a chilling reminder of the seriousness and long-term effects of the crimes they were investigating. From the age of twelve, Joe Winterton had battled through life with an ever-prevailing threat of violence hanging over him.

  It was substantiated in the blown up screenshots taken from his mobile. Mike winced as the shining metal hose seized his attention; for not only had Schiller beaten him senseless as a child, but more recently he’d tried to kill him...

  “Are you still with us, Mike?” Andrew piped up.

  “Just reviewing the online stuff,” he sighed, “especially the Instagram post. Who’d have thought ‘Silver-Fox’ would turn out to be our suspect? As if he wasn’t in deep enough, he had to resort to that tactic.”

  “Miss Bell thought it from the start,” Andrew snorted, “even if he denies it.”

  Mike nodded in agreement. Lord Parker-Smythe clung to the conviction that not only had his computer been hacked, but his social media accounts too.

  “Anyway, to answer your question, we have statements from everyone we’ve approached, not just the victims but their friends and relatives...”

  The moment he said it, a shadow of dread passed over Andrew’s face, jamming the breath in his lungs. For what Joe and Maisie did not realise was another witness had come forward - one whose statement had sent shockwaves through the department - and even the DI was struggling to cope with the horror of it.

  “Right,” he said. “Then let’s see how authentic this latest statement is. We’ll start by interviewing Joe, who is without doubt our most reliable witness.”

  “And Maisie?” Mike added.

  “We need to be careful,” Andrew cautioned. “The most telling clue is her nightmare, but as for these recovered memories... no court in the land will treat them as substantial enough, although I’d very much like to talk to her therapist.”

  ******

  All the while the police were reviewing the evidence, Maisie, Joe and Jess had been steadily making their way to Central London.

  Glancing at Maisie now, Joe knew she wasn’t thrilled about Jess driving, though he had talked her around. It made sense. Why risk public transport when anyone could be stalking them? Whereas Jess knew London like the back of her hand from the numerous press functions she attended. She’d found somewhere to park just a few minutes’ walk from their destination, too.

  “Are you alright, Maisie?”

  Fiercely protective as ever, he slid an arm around her shoulder. Yet the uneasy feeling that nagged him earlier had not gone away, and judging from her expression, he was not alone.

  Taut with nerves, she quickened her step. They paused in Covent Garden, her eyes flitting wildly.

  “I feel as if we’re being watched,” she murmured.

  Jess stroked her arm, her expression laced with kindness. “You won’t come to any harm,” she reassured her, “not with all these people around.”

  “So what about you, Jess?” She attempted a smile.

  “Don’t worry, Covent Garden is one of my favourite places, I’ll be fine. How long do you think you’ll be?” Her gaze wandered back to Joe.

  “God knows,” he shrugged. “We could be there for hours but I’ll text you...”

  Her smile faded, their eyes locked. Tilting his face towards her, he planted another kiss on her lips, wary of his heart hammering faster.

  Heading in the direction of The Strand, neither of them looked back.

  But Maisie was not wrong.

  Loitering behind the shrubs on the other side of the railings, a shadowy figure had been monitoring them. With a hood pulled over his head and eyes disguised behind dark glasses, he managed to blend into the foliage undetected.

  They were approaching the pillared facade of Charing Cross Police Station now, unaware of his scrutiny.

  Yet still the figure did not move, his eyes tailing them to the door, two icy grey slits of pure hatred.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Joe glanced up, filled with dread, as the sculpted beige walls towered over him.

  “What now?” he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth. “Do we just go in?”

  “I suppose so,” Maisie said, stealing a glance at her watch.

  Following her into reception, he inhaled deeply, assailed by painful memories.

  It seemed hard to imagine the last time he’d set foot inside a London nick, he was bricking it, wrists locked in handcuffs, about to face serious criminal charges.

  Today, though, he wore a jacket and tie, something else Jess had insisted on. If the situation hadn’t been so grave, he would have laughed, but shuffling from one foot to the other, he waited anxiously by the desk as Maisie announced their arrival. There was a gentle bustle of activity, various conversations humming in the background. Reluctant to draw attention to themselves, they found a corner in the waiting room where a cluster of chairs seemed to beckon them.

  But a moment later, a voice shot across the area. “Maisie!”

  Raising his head, Joe felt the tension evaporate from his body at last.

  “Hello, Mark,” she gasped, rising, “what are you doing here?”

  The familiar face of DC Mark Anderson beamed through the blur of bodies as he inched his way across the floor to join them. “I’m here to back you up as part of the local liaison team, since it was me who took your statements. The officers leading the investigation have gone over them, but they want to ask some specific questions...”

  “Like what?” Maisie frowned.

  He never got to answer. The next man to approach was taller and of heavy build. Judging from his sharp blue eyes and pristine suit, Joe guessed him to be a figure of authority.

  “Mark,” he began warmly. “I trust you’re looking after these two.”

  Mark’s smile did not waver. “Allow me to introduce you to Maisie Bell and Joe Winterton. This, folks, is DI Fitzpatrick, in charge of your case. He’ll be joined by a Sergeant but before we proceed, would either of you like a coffee?”

  Finally Joe felt he could relax, appeased by their cordiality.

  Yet was it too much to hope they had tracked down Mortimer?

  Twenty minutes later, he found himself being led into an interview room, where the thought of delivering justice brought a much needed shot of confidence.

  “The time is 14:00 hours. This is
DS Mike Havers, accompanied by Detective Inspector Andrew Fitzpatrick. Before we begin, would you mind giving your name and date of birth please?”

  With the formalities out of the way, Joe shrugged off his jacket, facing the officers with courage. Whatever they wanted to check out, his story had not changed. In 1994 he had been dumped in a care home, aged eleven.

  “Can you remember which one it was?” Mike probed.

  He observed the photocopies laid out in front of him.

  “That one,” he said, pointing to an austere grey house. “Willow Court.”

  The sight brought a wave of sadness, but only in the aftermath of the party had his life taken a horrible turn for the worse.

  “I know this is traumatic, Mr Winterton,” the Sergeant coaxed him, “but can you tell us what you remember about the party? In as much detail as you can.”

  He felt the room turn cold as he repeated his story; from being chauffeur driven to some large country mansion to quaffing that glass of punch.

  “When you say spiked, what were the effects? Did it make you drowsy?”

  “Not drowsy. I blacked out.”

  “What, you don’t remember a thing afterwards?”

  Joe shook his head.

  Whatever had taken place beyond that point was a massive black hole, Willow Court confined to the past, the memories blurring into a new home.

  “You were moved to a different home?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t remember that. Just that one day I came out of sick bay and found myself in another gaff. It was that one. Orchard Grange.”

  “Okay, can I just stop you there and go back a step. When you say you came out of sick bay, why did you end up there? Were you hurt?”

  Joe closed his eyes, the shadows in his mind growing darker. “I-I was in pain. They said it was gastric flu but b-but...”

  “Take it easy, Joe. You can tell us.”

  “It was more than pain... it was horrible, excruciating, like - like my innards had been gouged out with a knife. I saw blood on the sheets and started yelling. Next thing I knew there was a load of shouting outside, a commotion...”