Out of Promises

by Simon Leigh

  Baker’s operation went way above McGowan’s pay grade. It went above his own. He was given the job of infiltrating Matherson’s business regardless of his rank, his undercover knowledge in Bridgewater made him the ideal man to get someone inside. If it wasn’t for Baker, there wouldn’t be much of a case on Matherson. Simple as that.

  But he couldn’t deny that McGowan’s knowledge unsettled him.

  Baker said, ‘I hear there was a lot of corruption in the force when this place went to hell?’

  McGowan raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s right, but not anymore I hope.’

  They both knew better.

  Baker said, ‘Let’s hope not.’

  ‘What exactly are you saying?’

  ‘Nothing. Just curious how a tragedy like this managed to go on without being formally investigated.’

  ‘Hey, I’m doing my job,’ McGowan snapped, looking around. ‘This place is a shithole. I was naïve back then and tried to arrange a proper investigation when this happened, you know, but it was almost impossible. Every hurdle got higher, and everybody seemed to be on the wrong side. Plus I was only a rookie officer, I had no influence.’

  ‘OK, McGowan. I just want to make sure we understand each other. I want this case closed, and soon, before that son of a bitch kills anybody else.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  ‘So what did you find out all those years ago?’

  ‘Not a lot, only that a man and child managed to escape. We did find a body out back in the woods, a kid who made it out before dying of his burns.’

  ‘I just can’t believe someone would do this. Why is this place even still standing?’

  ‘Nobody ever traced the owner and eventually it was forgotten about and left for nature to take care of.’

  ‘Julius Matherson was the owner. He ordered it torched.’

  ‘My god. Any evidence?’

  Baker shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

  They continued deeper into the home.

  Baker said, ‘Terrible things happened here. I dread to think what it was like.’

  ‘I can still feel what I felt the last time. The burning smell, the dead bodies scattered around. Some were in the corridors and some died in their sleep.’

  Baker said nothing.

  ‘Your undercover told you about Freddie, Matherson, and this place didn’t he?’

  ‘Give it a rest. But, you know, it makes sense that Freddie could be the kid you said managed to escape, right?’

  ‘Do you think Freddie was involved with Matherson?’

  ‘I saw Freddie’s ex earlier, Lucy Decker. She told me he was working for a criminal. She didn’t know who, but I think it was Matherson. She told me that their son and his babysitter were murdered four years ago because of his work.’

  ‘I remember that. This is all starting to make sense. It’s about time people answered for this atrocity. But I still don’t understand what brought you here.’

  Baker ignored him and reversed the conversation, ‘You said you’re here because you had information for me?’

  McGowan held his hands up. ‘You got me.’

  Baker frowned. ‘I don’t like being followed.’

  ‘I don’t like being kept out of the loop.’

  They continued through the empty, darkened halls. McGowan was happy to be free to look around without restraint after all this time.

  Each room they passed told a different story: kids scrambling to escape, screaming, dying.

  At the canteen, they looked at what remained. Nobody spoke for a while. What could they say? The place was a death infested mess.

  Baker held up the badly charred photo album in the evidence bag. ‘Have a look at that,’ he said, passing it to McGowan.

  He lifted it, seeing only parts of photos with more of it crumbling in his hands. ‘Who could do that to a child? To anyone?’

  ‘The same person who could burn down a children’s home with children still inside.’

  ‘You think Matherson knew about it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’ Baker’s phone started ringing. He held it up to McGowan. ‘See how easy it is.’

  McGowan ignored him.

  Baker walked away and answered. ‘All right, what is it?’

  McGowan walked around the canteen. He couldn’t hear the conversation as Baker had covered his mouth, speaking in a low voice. It made him feel out of place, like an outcast.

  When the call finished, Baker turned to him and said, ‘You remember Han Wong’s murder in Amber Heights?’

  ‘Yes. That’s when I got this,’ he said, pointing to the scar on his eye. ‘I was attacked in an alley. Some punk jumped the barrier, I confronted him and he hit me.’

  Baker smiled. ‘Anyway, the bullet that was pulled from the wall above the alley has been matched with the bullet that killed Freddie. We couldn’t match it to a weapon as ballistics didn’t bring anything up, which means the weapon was never registered. But we believe it could have been sold by Fosters and Co. One of only two arms dealers around back then that specialized in revolvers, and the only one still active.’

  ‘No fingerprints in the church?’

  ‘Lots, it’s going to take some time.’

  ‘Why has it taken until now to trace the bullet back to that shop?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to say. Come on, we’re going to Fosters and Co. arms dealers.’

  TWENTY FIVE YEARS AGO. VALERIE’S STORY

  i

  Twenty five years ago, Valerie Lambert’s parents, Victoria and Joe Lambert, moved her from a small and cosy home to a larger house more suiting to their needs, putting every minute they could into designing it perfectly, to be the home they would live in for the rest of their lives, and something to leave Valerie when they die. Her mother worked for a successful advertising company and, due to her father’s contacts as a realtor, they’d bought the house at a reasonable price. Both parents brought home healthy wage packets giving Valerie almost anything she could want and they were all very happy together, or so she thought.

  With Valerie’s best interests at heart, Victoria and Joe did anything they could to protect her, but things happened behind closed doors, like her father’s growing paranoia over her mother’s male dominated work.

  At 22:00 on one very hot night, Valerie was lying awake in bed. Too humid and sticky to sleep, she was restless. Her mother had tucked her in two hours earlier and left her alone, but she was thirsty. The heat was unbearable and she craved fluid.

  She knew she should be asleep as it was a school night, but she couldn’t bear it. Climbing out of bed and opening her bedroom door, she made her way along the hallway passing a bathroom and bedroom on the left, with two more on the right; her parent’s room and two guest rooms.

  Nearing the end of the hallway, the sound of her parents arguing in the living room reached her ears. This was something new. She knew people argued, but not her parents, not this much. This was different, stirring up a sense of worry within her.

  As she sat at the top of the stairs looking through the banister, she saw them standing nose to nose, their voices tense, but low for her benefit.

  In the low light of the room, she could see her mother’s face, red with anger.

  ‘I’m not having an affair!’ she whispered, sharply.

  ‘Why were you home late tonight?’

  ‘Traffic was bad, there was an accident. Come on, I love you. I would never do that to you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ her father yelled, loud.

  She grabbed his arms. ‘Will you keep it down, you’ll wake Valerie.’

  ‘Don’t use her as an excuse to get out of this.’

  ‘Damn you, Joe.’

  ‘What did you say?’ He clenched his fists into a ball.

  ‘Can’t you see? It’s all in your head,’ said her mother, turning her back to him.

  He grabbed her, spinning her back to him.

  ‘You fucking slut,’ he shouted, slapping her hard across the fac
e.

  The slap was loud enough to reach the far extents of the house. Valerie almost screamed, just about managing to control herself before running back to her room and jumping into bed.

  For the rest of the night, she couldn’t think of anything else. The palm of her father’s hand slapping her mother repeated in her mind and she was afraid he’d come for her next. Adding the fact she was thirsty and her throat was sore and she was sweating from a mixture of fear and heat, she was in for a long night.

  ii

  Out of fear, Valerie said nothing about what she saw to anyone. Part of her wondered if it even happened at all with her parents going about as normal showing no sign or stress in any aspect of their lives.

  Not for a few days anyway.

  Not until one night when Valerie was sitting downstairs on the floor hooked on cartoons and the sound of crying and screaming was heard. At first, she thought it was somebody outside because the screams were faint, but when she heard it again, she realized it was coming from above her.

  Eventually, her curiosity got the better of her.

  She was afraid, but something was drawing her towards the noise like some deep needed satisfaction to convince herself that she wasn’t dreaming the other night.

  As she walked the hallway and approached the bedroom door, she heard another cry from her mother sobbing uncontrollably through the door. ‘Get off me!’ she screamed. ‘Joe, please’.

  Valerie had never heard her mother cry before. ‘Mommy?’ she shouted. ‘Mommy?’

  ‘Valer-,’ her mother yelled before being cut short.

  Pushing the door, Valerie stopped in horror and confusion. Pinned to the bed, her mother absorbed punches from her father like she was a piece of meat needing tenderizing, the dull slaps as each fist pounded her mother’s face like the beating of an old drum.

  Shaking, she froze, her eyes fixed on her father’s strong, bloodied hands rapidly descending into her mother’s face, relentlessly dodging her flailing arms as she desperately tried to defend herself.

  He turned to Valerie, and in doing so, he revealed the full extent of damage to her mother’s face. Blood poured from her nose and mouth and her eyes were red from the broken eye socket and cheek bone. Her blouse was also ripped open.

  ‘Valerie!’ she shouted.

  She didn’t say anything, staring at her, full of panic. With her heart pounding in her little chest and without thinking, she turned around and ran down the stairs.

  Her father shouted after her, ‘Hey!’

  Slipping at the foot of the stairs, she scrambled to find her balance with the sound of footsteps tearing after her close behind. Climbing to her feet, she ran barefooted out through the front door, never looking back.

  She got as far away from the house as her tired legs could take her, and they took her far.

  She was never found.

  Valerie never saw the missing person’s leaflets and posters hanging around town. Even if she did, would she really want to go back? She might, she missed her mother.

  She also failed to notice the newspaper articles about Joe Lambert’s murder at the hands of Victoria. It hadn’t happened right away, but over time it became apparent that she blamed Joe for her disappearance and could never forgive him. That, along with his paranoia and beatings, she couldn’t take it any longer.

  The trauma and image of seeing her mother in that state had stayed with her for many a night and followed her into adulthood. She didn’t speak of it, but seeing it happen had made Valerie stronger in some ways and she swore she would never find herself in that situation.

  That was until twenty five years later when she was sent to Saint Patrick’s to find Freddie.

  iii

  She was ten now and it had been a year since that part of her life had thrust her onto the streets, living in alleyways and under bridges with close encounters coming frequently while stealing money or food to support her existence on this earth. But it was what she had to do. She was wasting away. Cold, dirty, and hungry, she would steal anything she could get her hands on whether it knocked her sick or not.

  One cold night she was begging on the sidewalk, her clothes torn and dirty, hanging from her frail skeleton, feeling like closing her eyes and letting death take her. Her red bottoms, dirty white sneakers, and a once white sweater littered with small holes were gifts from a charity some time ago where an elderly lady who had taken kind to her volunteered. They helped each other and the lady had offered her a roof over her head, but one day, the lady was nowhere to be found, leaving Valerie alone again.

  Long, tangled hair badly in need of a wash stuck to her forehead as she sat cradling her stomach in the bitter coldness of the evening. The blanket underneath her helped somewhat, but she could feel every stone and crack on the hard, chilly ground digging into her like shards of glass on her weakened frame.

  With her head down to the ground, a coin or some food would land in front of her, but it was never enough. For a decent meal it would take her a week to save, and by that time she’d be dead anyway. The city had a booming population, too concerned with their own lives to worry about a little girl alone on the streets.

  Pick-pocketing was becoming more difficult for her too as her declining state of mind and body hindered her, making her victims more aware of her presence.

  What little money she’d collected would buy her a chocolate bar or a bottle of clean water, nothing close to what she needed.

  As she gathered what lay in front of her, a middle aged man approached her, blocking her path.

  She held out her hands in a cup shape, looking up at him with hopeful eyes. He smiled and handed her a bottle of water, which she gratefully accepted, happy now she could use the money she had to buy a snack to go with it.

  ‘You want some food to go with that?’ he asked, gently, before ushering her to follow him.

  Being young, naive and extremely hungry, she smiled, her eyes wide with excitement. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘For some food,’ he said without looking back.

  They continued on along the streets, her stomach rumbling at the thought of a nice, hot meal inside her.

  ‘What food are we having?’

  He didn’t answer, staying on his path.

  Ahead was a café. Her mouth watered it and her mind was filled with thought about what she would order. A burger and fries? Chicken? She couldn’t believe how lucky she was.

  Feet from the door, the man walked right by without as a glance inside.

  Confused, she asked, ‘Hey, where are we going?’

  He ignored her.

  They walked by a newspaper stall. She very rarely looked at newspapers, but this one caught her eye:

  CHILD KIDNAPPING ON THE WAY UP.

  She stopped. ‘Where are we going?’

  The man turned to her, put his hand on her shoulder and said, ‘You’ll come with me, we’re going for food.’

  Fear bubbled up from her stomach and she began stamping her feet in a rage. ‘No! Where are we going?’

  Raising his right hand from her shoulder, he slapped the back of her head, knocking her forward. ‘Shut up, we’re going for food.’

  She started crying.

  Passers-by’s turned to watch. When she needed them before, they didn’t care, but now something was happening, they couldn’t look away.

  The man looked around at all the staring faces before scurrying away quickly. Nobody followed him.

  Wiping her face, she looked helpless, feeling more alone than she’d ever been, but still nobody helped her and just went about their lives as usual.

  She headed to the alleys to beg for some leftovers.

  iv

  The next night, Valerie couldn’t face begging on the streets. Having managed the day on scraps from food bins and any charity that people could muster, she searched for something real. She’d already suffered from what felt like her millionth bout of sickness and diarrhoea and there was nothing left inside her.
r />   She walked the streets hunting for food when she stumbled across a greasy small time hotdog vendor closing up for the day. There were no hotdogs left, just bread rolls and a money box.

  Money?

  He was cleaning his stand ready for tomorrow.

  She knew it wouldn’t be like picking apples from a tree, so she asked him if he had any spare food.

  The man looked down at her. ‘You got any money, kid?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No money? No food. Go away.’

  ‘Please, I’m really hungry.’

  ‘I said no.’

  She felt hurt, physically and mentally. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please. I need some food.’ She started crying again, rivers streaming from her eyes. She felt this was her last chance. Her last chance for food. Her last chance for money. Her last chance to live. Her last chance. Period. She couldn’t endure anymore of this life. She even felt regret for running out on her parents. It wasn’t perfect with them, but it was a roof over her head and food in her stomach.

  ‘Beat it,’ he said and closed the cart.

  That hurt her. A bread roll wouldn’t hurt, would it?

  She walked away in tears, though only as far as across the street where she wiped her face and watched the money box glistening in the night’s light.

  He didn’t leave right away, cleaning the outside of the cart for ten minutes first. Then he grabbed the money box and left.

  She followed, shadowing him to a quiet part of the city. This part was easy, it was up close and personal she had a problem with.

  She followed for over a mile to his house, thankful he didn’t have a car, waiting for him to disappear inside.

  The house was small, but cosy. It was the fifth house in a row of eight, each with front gardens or driveways. There wasn’t enough room for both.