by Ellis, Tim
‘Yes, so do I, but it’s looking increasingly doubtful.’
Chapter Thirteen
It hadn’t occurred to him before, but he’d now need to explain to the press why he and Richards were here, otherwise they’d draw their own conclusions.
‘Did they find a body in Icehouse Grove?’ Richards asked.
‘Did you doubt that they would?’
‘Not really. I suppose the tongue was a bit of a giveaway.’
‘We’ll see what we can find out here, go and have a quick lunch with Doc Riley and then drive over there.’
‘Okay. What are you going to tell the press?’
‘I have no idea.’ He stepped out of the car and walked over to where they were congregated.
‘Is the child dead?’ someone shouted at him.
He held a hand up for quiet. ‘Nobody is dead,’ he said. Although that wasn’t strictly true. Sally Bowker was dead and so was Henry Rattinger.
‘Somebody must be dead if you’re here, Inspector.’
There was a ripple of laughter.
‘I’m here purely as a precautionary measure.’
Someone from the back said, ‘A precautionary measure against what?’
‘You’ve linked this abduction to the murder of Sally Bowker in Hangman’s Wood, haven’t you?’ another person said.
The noise levels increased.
He had the feeling that he was losing control. ‘We’re investigating a possible link, nothing more. That’s why Constable Richards and I are here.’
‘The other abductions,’ someone said.
‘Of course,’ someone else shouted. ‘They’re all linked, aren’t they, Inspector?’
‘I don’t think we’re in a position . . .’
‘It’s the removal man,’ a woman said.
People stopped talking and turned to stare at her.
‘I’ve heard rumours of a man calling himself “The Removal Man” who’s taking children . . . It’s true, isn’t it, Inspector?’
‘What’s true is that we’re still at a very early stage in the investigation and are not in a position to rule anything in or out . . .’
They weren’t listening to him now, they were far too busy working out how best to create a mass panic across the southeast of England.
‘That went well,’ Richards said.
He pulled a face. ‘I thought so as well.’
‘Chief Bonnard isn’t going to be happy that you spilled your guts like a snitch before they’d even touched you.’
‘You watch far too much television. Come on, let’s go inside before I tell them about the business card and the symbol.’
The house at 29 Maltings Lane was a two-bedroom mid-terraced dwelling with steps leading up to a door that badly needed painting.
Billy’s mum – Wanda Crockett – was waiting for them in the living room. Her face was all puffy and tear-streaked, and she looked as though she was all cried out.
‘Go and get some fresh air,’ Parish said to the female victim support officer.
She nodded and left the room.
Richards sat down next to Wanda and gently squeezed the woman’s hand.
‘Is there a Mr Crockett?’ Parish asked.
Richards gave him a look.
‘No. As soon as Billy’s father found out I was pregnant he did a runner. There’ve been a few others, but men are all the same – horrible.’
‘You’re preaching to the converted,’ Richards said.
Wanda forced a smile.
Richards led. ‘Can you tell us what happened?’
‘There’s not much to tell. I woke up this morning and Billy was gone. The front door was wide open and there was a white business card on the table by the lamp. It had “The Removal Man” printed on it. Do you know who he is?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘What’s going to happen to Billy?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Yes you do, you just don’t want to say.’
‘No. We don’t know anything for certain yet, Wanda.’
‘Billy’s going to end up like that little Sally Bowker you found hanging in Hangman’s Wood, isn’t he?’ She burst into tears. ‘Please save my Billy.’
Parish was wondering where all the tears came from. Whether there was an endless supply, or if a person ever ran out of tears. He thought about the length of time it took to replenish the tear reservoir, about the longest period anybody had ever cried for and whether crying time had ever been measured, about whether “dry eye” was a result of having no tears. He wanted to think about anything other than somebody taking Jack like they had Billy Crockett.
‘We’re going to do everything we can to find Billy,’ Parish said. ‘I have a son of my own, and I can imagine how you must feel.’
‘Promise me you’ll bring him back.’
‘You know I can’t do that, Miss Crockett. All I can promise you is that we’ll do our very best.’
‘I don’t see a computer,’ Richards said. ‘Have you got a computer?’
‘No.’
‘What about Billy, does he have one?’
‘No, he hasn’t got one either. I’ve never been able to afford one. Of course, he uses the computers under supervision at school, but not here.’
‘Does he have a mobile phone?’
‘No.’
‘Have you got a mobile phone.’
‘Yes, of course I’ve got one.’
‘Can you describe your online activity.’
‘I don’t have any online activity.’
‘No Facebook or Twitter accounts, not a member of any other social networking sites?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Is your phone an internet phone?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t use it on the internet if it is.’
‘Do you use a computer at work?’
‘No, I’m a waitress at the Bean Machine cafe on Witham High Street.’
Richards glanced at Parish and shrugged.
The victim support officer returned.
Parish and Richards went upstairs to examine Billy’s bedroom.
‘Anything?’ Parish said to Di Heffernan.
‘I could tell you that we’ll have to wait for the analysis of all the samples that we’ve taken to come back, but the simple answer is that no – we haven’t found anything. The front door was easily forced open. There were no bolts, no security chain and no other security measures in the house. The removal man simply walked in, climbed the stairs into Billy’s bedroom and took him. Men are just the vilest creatures – present company excluded.
‘Very kind,’ Parish said.
He looked around Billy’s bedroom. It was definitely a boy’s bedroom. Painted predominantly blue, there were posters of the Transformers and Decepticons on the walls, which matched the quilt cover and the toys scattered around the room. A current poster of Manchester United was in pride of place above his bed. Underneath the bed was a football and a muddy pair of football boots.
‘There’s nothing here,’ he said.
They went downstairs and back into the living room.
‘We’re going now,’ Parish said. He saw a picture on a side table of Billy with his mum. He was a good-looking boy with blond hair, freckles and a toothy smile. ‘One last question before we do go. Is there any way that Billy’s picture could have been posted onto the internet?’
‘I don’t see how. Unless . . . Well, you see all these children on the television, in movies and so on, and everyone says how Billy is a real cutie . . . I saw this advert in the local paper for child models. . . . Oh God! You’re not saying it’s my fault that Billy was taken, are you?’
Richards sat on the arm of the sofa and put her arm around Wanda Crockett’s shoulders. ‘We’re not saying anything, Wanda. All we’re doing is trying to find a lead to follow. Have you still got the advert?’
‘Yes.’ She got up, opened the drawer of the sideboard and rummaged around in it. ‘Here it is:
/>
Does your little boy or girl have what it takes to become a child model?
Have they got bright eyes, a stunning smile and are they bursting with confidence?
Do you want to see them in catalogues, magazines, on packaging, in feature films, on stage, in TV soaps, commercials, dramas, pop videos and idents?
Have you answered “YES” to those questions?
Give us a call:
Kidz Agency: 07890 567432.’
‘And you rang the number?’ Richards asked her.
‘Yes. I had to take Billy to a warehouse on the industrial estate next to the A12. There were at least a thousand people there. We queued for hours. I was just glad I’d taken some food and drink with us.’
‘What happened when you reached the front of the queue?’
‘They took our details, where we lived, where Billy went to school, his date-of-birth, height, weight, and any medical conditions . . . there were three pages of information that they wanted. Once we’d answered all their questions and signed a contract . . .’
‘Did they give you copies of anything?’
‘No. The man said that if Billy was selected as one of their models then I’d get copies of everything.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘A photographer took a series of pictures – you know, like a portfolio to show clients. They thanked us for coming and said they’d be in contact, but they haven’t yet.’
‘How long ago was this?’
She sat back on the sofa and pulled out a thick diary from behind a pillow at the back of her. ‘Yes, here it is. Six weeks ago tomorrow – Thursday, March 14.’
Richards took the newspaper advert from Wanda. ‘We’ll look into this and find out if they’re a proper agency.’
‘I think you’ll find they will be. There were hundreds of people there – some driving BMWs, you know. Why not ring them now, just to . . . ?’
‘No, we’ll get the number checked out first.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Miss Crockett,’ Parish said. ‘I’d like you to talk to one of our forensic officers now and give them as much information about your visit to the warehouse as you can.’
‘Of course. I’ll do anything to get Billy back.’
They made their way outside.
‘This is it, isn’t it, Sir?’
‘Could very well be. You were very good in there, Richards.’
‘What are you after?’
‘It’s a pity you’re not as suspicious with the men you want to fall in love with at the drop of a hat. Phone DI Gold and tell her what we’ve discovered.’
‘Huh!’
***
His art appreciation had been neglected. He had no idea where the Tate Modern was, so he looked it up on his phone and discovered that the nearest tube station was Southwark.
Standing in front of the tube map in Holborn station he tried to work out his journey. There wasn’t a direct route from Holborn on the Central Line to Southwark on the Jubilee Line, so he had to resort to counting stations and the number of changes. One route had more stations than changes, the other way had more changes than stations. He decided to make less changes and caught the westbound train on the Piccadilly Line to Green Park, and from there switch to the Jubilee Line.
By the time he arrived at Southwark station and made his way out of the relatively new circular building, he was starving and felt guilty for needing food when Koll could be fighting for her life somewhere.
He phoned Xena, but it was diverted to voicemail. He guessed she was getting her own back. He left a message: ‘Any news yet?’
The thought of phoning his old colleagues in Special Ops crossed his mind, but he dismissed the idea. They’d asked him to leave because he’d disobeyed a direct order. There were some things he just wouldn’t do, and assassinating people – even if they were classified as enemies of the state – was one of them. He hadn’t joined the police to become a criminal.
Outside the building he noticed one of the Mayor of London’s bicycle docking stations and wondered how he could hire a bike. He looked around and noticed a newspaper stall advertising keys and hire. He paid three pounds for the key and three pounds for three hours hire. Once he’d crossed the A201, he climbed on the bike like a child with a new toy and headed down Scoresby Street, turned left up Gambia Street, right into Dolben Street and a final left along Great Suffolk Street. The weak sun bounced off the glass and concrete structure of the Tate Modern in the distance.
As much as he wanted to share Koll’s suffering, he decided that she would be better served if he kept his strength up with food and drink, so he parked the bicycle outside The Refinery on Southwark Street.
An overly happy waitress appeared when he sat down and gave him a menu.
‘Can I get you a drink, Sir?’
‘A large fresh orange juice, please.’
‘Coming right up.’
He decided on the mushroom crostini, parma ham and poached egg, and that’s what he ordered when the waitress reappeared with his drink.
Was he getting close to unravelling the mystery of Mathew Pitt? What about those children – where had they come from? Who was their mother – Anna? Why did they only have first names? Where was the big house? Why was it surrounded by a metal fence? Where did the other two children that were in the cages go? And if Pitt was a paedophile – as they now knew he was – why hadn’t he touched the children?
Once he’d eaten the meal and drunk his orange juice, he made his way outside through the hordes of diners to find that the Mayor of London’s bike had disappeared. He looked around with his mouth agape. Somebody had stolen Boris Johnson’s bicycle! Apart from the personal inconvenience, he was disappointed with humanity in general and astounded that somebody would sabotage the Mayor of London’s initiative.
Now, no doubt, he would be considered a criminal. They’d hunt him down and make him pay a fine for losing the Mayor of London’s bike - shameful.
He walked the rest of the way to the gallery. An “LS Lowry and the Painting of Modern Life” exhibition was being shown – he really liked Lowry’s paintings and had a couple of prints in his house: Barges on a Canal from 1941 and The Pond from 1950. Jennifer hated them, but he wasn’t going to get rid of them – he felt an affinity with the matchstick people in them. She would grow to love them just as she had grown to love him.
He found a pregnant female advisor standing in the atrium like a pillar of salt eager to help visitors looking lost and confused.
‘I’d like to see someone about a painting,’ he said.
‘I see, Sir. Anyone in particular?’
Her superior attitude changed to one of subservience with the flash of a warrant card. ‘Someone who knows something about Otto Steinert.’
‘Just one moment, Sir.’ She spoke into a radio she was holding in her hand and then said to him, ‘Someone is coming to speak to you, Sir.’
‘Thank you,’ he said and she wandered off. He craned his neck backwards to look at the vast space above him.
His phone vibrated.
‘Are you all right?’ he said when saw it was Xena.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I phoned you earlier.’
‘Do you think I’ve got nothing else better to do than wait for you to call?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, that’s what I think.’
‘Well, here’s something else for you to think about, Detective Sergeant Stickamundo – all three children were snatched in the early hours of this morning.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘That’s a stupid question.’
‘Sorry. Where were they snatched from?’
‘A secure unit – and don’t say it wasn’t very secure. The whole incident was recorded by security cameras – they’re sending me a copy.’
‘Sending you a copy – what are you going to do with it?’
‘Tom Dougall is bringing a laptop in for me t
onight.’
‘You’ve got a whiteboard in your room, haven’t you?’
‘Don’t talk nonsense.’
‘I’ll be in later. If I find a whiteboard anywhere on that hospital floor I’ll take you off the case.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I can – you’re not on active duty.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I would.’
‘Excuse me, Sir,’ a man said tapping him on the shoulder.
‘Hang on a minute,’ he said into the phone.
‘Yes?’
‘You can’t use your mobile phone in here.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s the rules, Sir?’
‘Why?’
‘It could interfere with our security measures, Sir.’
‘Utter nonsense.’ To Xena he said, ‘I have to go, but you better get rid of that whiteboard.’
‘I’m seeing a different side to you . . .’
He ended the call.
‘Are you here to tell me what you know about Otto Steinert?’ he said to the man.
‘Everything, Sir?’
‘No, not everything.’ He went to the menu screen on his phone. ‘Is it all right if I use it to show you a painting?’
‘I think that would be acceptable, Sir.’
He found the Steinert and revealed the picture.
‘The “Luminogramm” dated 1952. You’d better come through, Sir.’
Stick followed the man across the vast space of the atrium and through a smoked glass door.
***
‘Got them!’ Ade Powell said, coming into the canteen and waving a wodge of papers around in his left hand.
Brightmore was playing Tetris on his old Gameboy and waiting for confirmation that the GCHQ computer technician and Nana Rodriguez were dead. It was a low-level task, but it meant going to Cheltenham. He and his team had more important irons in the fire, so he’d sent Faysal Nefti – a Tunisian with a penchant for necrophilia.
‘Uh huh!’
‘It was a tricky little bastard, but I finally reconnected all the silicon pathways.’