by Conrad Jones
“It’s not ours, sir,” a confused reply came back.
Tank jogged across the manicured fairway until he reached a copse of trees. A narrow path ran through them to the perimeter fence. He leapt over a wooden gate which accessed the main road and headed towards the control vehicle. It was parked two hundred yards from the caravan. Detective Inspector Alec Ramsay stood open-mouthed as he approached. He was wearing a padded bubble jacket over his sports jacket, shirt and tie. Fashion wasn’t his strong point. Tank recognised him as an officer that he’d had some dealings with previously. Their previous encounters had never been polite or pleasant and from the expression on his face Tank had no reason to believe that this encounter would be any different.
“What the bloody hell brings you here?” Alec asked. “I’m DI Ramsay, by the way, senior officer on the case. What are you doing here?”
“I need to know everything that you know about Jack Howarth’s condition,” Tank replied, guiding the detective away from his colleagues.
“The task force has no jurisdiction here and you know it,” Alec protested.
“You and I both know that I can take over this scene with one phone call.” Tank kept his voice low so as not to attract too much attention. The counter-terrorist units were always given priority access over traditional law enforcement departments, much to the annoyance of the uniformed divisions.
“Why would you be interested in this?” Alec frowned and deep lines furrowed his forehead.
“Let’s just say that we need to speak to Howarth urgently.” As Tank finished his sentence, the ambulance sped off towards the town’s general hospital, sirens blaring and blue lights flashing.
“He’s in the back of that.” Alec pointed after the speeding ambulance. He grinned sarcastically.
“What can you tell me about the call that he made?”
“Why, Agent Tankersley?” Alec replied as he walked back towards his men, tiring of the interference from the counter-terrorist agent.
“Forget it,” Tank took out his mobile phone and dialled. “I’ll have control of this scene in thirty seconds.”
“Okay.” Alec waved his hands. Blood boiled in his head but he didn’t want his crime scene taken from him. This was a high profile case and he wanted to keep hold of it as long as he could. Careers were made and broken on cases like this one. He turned and walked towards the caravan, waving to his men as he went. The uniformed men began to move away from the scene in a well-rehearsed series of actions. The police vehicles that were at the scene were driven away and hidden from view.
“What’s going on?” Tank asked.
“Jack Howarth called us and reported a serious assault,” Alec began. He guided Tank towards the rear of the scene behind the transit van. There were six armed police officers in full black body armour ready and waiting for something. Tank wasn’t sure what though.
“What’s with all the hardware?”
“This is my DS, Will Naylor,” Alec introduced them briefly as they reached a hedgerow. Tank didn’t even look at him, let alone acknowledge him.
“Howarth gave us the name of his attacker, and he told us he was on his way back to finish him off,” Alec continued.
“You think he’s coming back?” Tank asked.
“Well that all depends on whether or not he’s been scared away by your fucking helicopter or not,” Will growled at him. “We could have put the flags out if we’d known you were coming to fuck things up.”
“Why would he return to an assault?” Tank ignored the obvious dig at him.
“Howarth accused his attacker of taking the Kelly twins, that’s why he attacked him. He must have been panicked into moving them, and now he’s coming back to finish off the only witness.” Alec explained his theory.
“I don’t buy it,” Tank said, more to himself than to anyone else. He knew that Howarth’s DNA had been found at the campsite, but he couldn’t tell the police that he knew that. Not yet anyway.
“Look, Agent Tankersley,” Alec hissed. “I don’t give a toss what you buy and what you don’t. I still haven’t got a clue what you’re doing here, but while you are here you will not interfere with my crime scene.”
“Who has Howarth fingered?” Tank knew that there were some shenanigans going on.
“The name he gave us was Alfie Lesner.” Alec didn’t give away any more than he had to.
“Have you run him through your records?” Tank pushed.
“You know, that never crossed my mind, perhaps we should do that when we get back to the station.”
“It’s a good idea,” Will added sarcastically. He shook his head in disbelief. “Of course we have, what do you take us for, fucking amateurs?”
“Look, I’m not trying to rain on your parade. I need to know what you know and then you can have your precious crime scene to yourself.” Tank tried to appease the offence that he’d caused.
“He’s a small time drug dealer from Liverpool, previous for assault, fraud, and possession with intent to supply. We don’t know who he works for, but we do know it’s not one of the Liverpool based gangs,” Alec kept his voice low.
“Doesn’t sound like your typical child kidnapper to me,” Tank commented cynically. Will was about to bite back when the coms unit hissed.
“Vehicle approaching,” a voice whispered.
“Do you have visual?”
“Affirmative, it’s a navy blue Mercedes. You’ll have an eyeball in twenty seconds or so,” the coms hissed again.
A vehicle turned a long bend and its headlights swept across the stationary vehicles. It was travelling at speed as it approached the scene. The driver brought the Mercedes to a screeching halt outside the caravan. Dirt and grit sprayed the area. The driver’s door opened and Tank heard footsteps running towards the caravan. The door opened and he heard a Liverpool accent.
“Jack.” The driver stepped into the caravan.
“Armed police!” A shout came from the officers who were positioned inside the caravan. Several officers shouted it as they swooped on the confused driver. Tank and the detectives moved out of the shadows and walked around the caravan to the scene of the arrest.
“What’s your name?” Alec asked the man as he was bundled down the caravan steps, and handcuffed roughly. His face was in the damp grass and brown goo clung to his skin, smearing his face with something that looked like mud.
“Fuck’s sake!” The man struggled violently beneath the crush of armed officers. “You’ve put me in dog shit, move me, it stinks.”
Alec couldn’t help but smile. “Unlucky, what’s your name?”
“Alfie Lesner,” he replied. He looked shocked and weary, and stopped fighting. As they pulled him to his feet, he didn’t put up much resistance at all.
“Where are the Kelly twins?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The five-year-old twins that you kidnapped from the Lake District?” Alec snarled into his face.
“I didn’t kidnap anyone, fuck you!” Alfie spat and a globule of saliva hit Alec on the neck of his bubble jacket; it dribbled towards his chest. Alec raised his hand to strike him and then thought better of behaving in such a manner in front of his junior officers. The case was too big to jeopardise.
“He’s carrying a weapon.” A uniformed armed response officer searched him and discovered the concealed pistol.
“Read him his rights.” Alec ordered, and Alfie was dragged off towards a waiting police car. Tank watched as he was led away. He’d seen many men captured under these circumstances, and he’d learned to read the way that they reacted. Alfie had been surprised, that was obvious. He hadn’t expected the police to be waiting for him. Why would he? Who could have called them except Jack Howarth or him? Alfie had reacted violently when he was accused of taking the twins from the Lake District, and Tank could tell that it was genuine anger, not staged. When he’d said that he didn’t know anything about the twins he was lying, of that Tank was certain. He had to spea
k to Alfie before he was processed and lost in the legal system, and then he had to speak to Jack Howarth. First, he had to work out how he was going to get to them, and if the twins were being moved, he had to do it quickly.
“I want to take a look inside the caravan.” Tank walked away from the detectives.
“Do not touch anything.” Will muttered under his breath. Tank shook his head at the childish remark. Three ambulance men and at least three members of the armed response unit had entered the caravan. A defence lawyer could now challenge any evidence found in there as the integrity of the scene had been compromised. Tank had a feeling that Jack Howarth knew all about that, and that was part of the reason why he’d called the police.
He reached the metal steps which led up to the caravan and looked at the shoeprints in the soil using a small pen-sized Maglite. There were several sets of boot prints. Tank recognised deep ridges left by the moulded soles of combat boots worn by the armed response unit. There were other tracks too, including flat prints left by dress shoes. Alfie Lesner had been wearing a sharp suit and highly polished shoes. They could belong to him. The rest of the ground had been mashed by the emergency services, and there was nothing there that could help him.
Tank stepped up into the narrow doorway and had to turn sideways to navigate his way in. He located the light switch and flicked it on using the end of the Maglight so as not to smudge any latent prints that may have been left behind. The caravan was clean and tidy apart from thick dark stains on the carpet; there wasn’t a thing out of place. There were splatter marks across the pale carpet and up the lower edges of the upholstery. Tank could tell that it was blood, and that it wasn’t from an open wound. It was too dark and too thick, which indicated that it had been vomited by the secretor, and not dripped from a cut. The bleeding was consistent with a sustained attack on a prone victim, broken ribs or a stomach rupture could have caused it. There were several blood-stained swabs discarded in the sink, probably left by the ambulance men after they’d treated the victim in situ. Apart from that, the interior looked remarkably bland. There were no personal items, photographs, ornaments, books or magazines. Tank knew that was the classic sign of an intelligent predator, sexual or otherwise. Many of his terrorist adversaries had lived the same way, never leaving anything behind that could be used to identify them later. He opened the kitchen cupboards, and then the fridge. They were empty.
Tank stepped down the corridor towards the sleeping areas. The smell of a chemical toilet grew stronger as he neared the bedrooms. He opened the first door. It was a toilet closet the size of a small wardrobe. Tank could not have used the convenience without keeping the door open. The smell of deep blue camping disinfectant cloyed at the back of his throat. He closed the door and moved on. The next door was already ajar. Tank moved it with the end of the torch. He reached inside and flicked on the light. The room was empty apart from a narrow cot bed. There was a thin mattress and a grey woollen blanket covering it, the type that makes your skin itch. It looked like a prison cell from an old spaghetti western. If Jack Howarth had slept in there recently then his DNA would be all over it. Tank stepped into the tiny room and studied the bed. There was a dark blue inflatable travel pillow under the blanket. Tank noted a human hair on it. One end was black, probably dyed, and the other was greyed by old age. It belonged to a man of Jack Howarth’s age, no doubt. He left the hair in place, as it couldn’t tell him anything that he didn’t already know. Tank backed out of the room, flicked off the light and left the door ajar as he’d found it.
The main bedroom was next door, and its entrance was the end of the corridor. He opened it and repeated the process of illuminating it by flicking on the light using the end of the torch. The room was decorated in stark contrast to the rest of the caravan. The walls were pastel colours, pinks and blues, and a child’s mobile hung from the light fitting. On the bed was an empty sleeping bag. Tank remembered the mother’s evidence, and she stated that the twins had been taken in their sleeping bag. He leaned over the bed and studied the material. Sure enough, there was fine blond hair there. From the presence of the hair, he could guess that the twins had been kept in this room. He couldn’t make any sense of it. Maybe Alfie Lesner had been an accomplice in the abduction, and then the kidnappers had fallen out, resulting in Jack Howarth receiving a severe beating. There was only one way to find out, and that was to ask them. He needed to speak to both of them, tonight, and that would not be easy, especially now that they were both in police custody. Tank reached for his mobile phone; it was time to apply some Terrorist Task Force priority.
Chapter Nineteen
The Child Taker
Jack Howarth awoke to the strong odour of antiseptic. Through the haze of anaesthetic, his senses started to function. His sense of smell told him that he was probably in hospital. He could feel clean crisp cotton against his skin. There was no pain any more and he was numb from the belly button down. Jack moved his left hand and he heard a metallic rattle against the bed frame. There was a metal bracelet around his wrist; handcuffs. He opened his eyes and the glare of the strip lighting hurt him. His mouth was bone dry and he could still taste the coppery flavour of his own blood.
“He’s coming round,” a voice said. He didn’t recognise it.
“Shame, it’s a pity the pervert isn’t dead,” another voice answered the first.
“I’ll let the inspector know, and inform the nurse,” the first voice spoke again.
“Inform the blond nurse, will you? She’s fit. She can give me a bed bath any day.”
“Do you ever stop? Give it a rest will you.”
“Could I have some water, please?” Jack hardly recognised his own voice. His mouth and throat were so dry he could hardly speak.
“Shut up, you nonce,” a voice replied. Jack’s vision began to clear and he focused on a fat police constable who was next to his bed. The police officer was wearing black combat pants, boots and an armoured stab vest over his tee shirt. On his hip was a holstered Glock 14.
“I’m thirsty,” Jack croaked.
“I couldn’t care less if you choke to death.” The police constable crossed his legs and picked up his newspaper. Jack tried to sit up but his muscles were still immobilised. A pretty blond nurse entered the room. She walked quickly as if she didn’t have much time to waste. The fat constable put his newspaper down and breathed in to lessen the bulge of his beer belly. He smiled at her as he eyed the curves of her body through her starched navy blue uniform.
“So he’s woken up has he?” The nurse chirped without actually looking at the police officer.
“Yes, pity really,” the Constable scoffed. The nurse ignored him and reached for Jack’s pulse. She checked it against her watch.
“How are you feeling?” She asked him abruptly.
“Tired, unappreciated, underpaid, and my wife doesn’t understand me.” The Constable answered her question, trying to make a joke.
The nurse looked at him as if he was stupid. “I was talking to the patient.”
“I’m very thirsty, nurse,” Jack croaked.
“That’s to be expected after anaesthetic.” She poured water from a jug on the bedside cabinet into a paper cup, and put it to his lips. Jack gulped greedily at the cool liquid, savouring it as it rehydrated his mouth. “The doctor will be with you any minute.” The nurse put the paper cup into a waste bin, and then she picked up a chart at the end of the bed and scribbled Jack’s stats in the relevant boxes.
“You couldn’t put your number on there, could you?” the police officer tried a more direct approach.
“Do you know I’m not sure who is the worst pervert, you or him.” She looked at him frostily as she hung up the chart again, and then she walked out of the room without saying another word.
“Silly bitch,” the police officer muttered.
No sooner had she left than the door opened again and a tired-looking doctor walked in. He looked too young to be a doctor, and his wavy brown hair was clipped back fr
om his face by a black elastic hair band. His white coat was open, showing faded blue jeans and a dark tee shirt underneath.
“How are you feeling?” The doctor picked up the chart and analysed it as he spoke.
“Numb,” Jack croaked.
“You’re a lucky man, Mr Howarth, any longer and you’d have lost both testicles,” He sounded disproportionately happy about it.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m afraid we had to remove your right testicle, but we managed to save the left, and one is better than none,” he chirped.
“That’s why I feel numb from the waist down?”
“Believe me, it’s better to be numb at the moment. I’ll pop in and see you in the morning.”
“I can still taste blood in my throat, doctor,” Jack coughed. “I’m really thirsty too.”
“You had a pretty bad beating, Mr Howarth. A rib punctured your left lung, but we’ve fixed you up, and with some rest and recuperation you’ll be up and about in no time.” He placed the chart on its hook and left the room without acknowledging the police officer was there.
“Pity they didn’t cut both your bollocks off,” the Constable goaded him, and turned back to his newspaper.
“The nurse had you sussed out all along,” Jack croaked. The police officer flushed red with anger. He stood up slowly and folded his newspaper before placing it on his chair. Jack tensed his body as the fat constable approached the bed. He expected the officer to strike him for daring to ridicule him. A huge shadow filled the obscured glass in the door, and the police officer stepped back away from the bed.
“There’ll be plenty of time for you, nonce,” he hissed as the door opened. Detective Inspector Alec Ramsay walked into the room flanked by a huge man with a shaven head. Jack looked from one to the other trying to make out who they were and what they wanted.
“Is there a problem, Constable?” the Inspector asked. He removed his jacket as he entered. Alec felt unbalanced by the situation he found himself in. On one hand, Jack Howarth was in police custody, on the other, counter-terrorist agents were butting into his investigation. He couldn’t fathom how or why they were officially involved. It was a fine line between letting them share information and losing the case to them completely. “I said, is there a problem?”