by Jaime Raven
My body started to tremble as more unanswerable questions invaded my thoughts.
Was her nappy being changed regularly? Was she being given enough to eat and drink? Was she being teased and tormented? Was she at the mercy of more than one evil predator?
The nausea was building up inside me again and I suddenly felt faint.
I got up and stumbled out of Molly’s room, went downstairs to pour myself a glass of water. My body was cold and clammy and my stomach was making unpleasant noises. I probably needed to eat something but I knew I’d never be able to hold it down.
I opened the medicine drawer in the kitchen to see if there was anything I could take to still my nerves and settle my stomach. But as I rummaged among the out-of-date tablets and used tubes of ointment, the doorbell rang.
It was the last thing I expected, and it triggered a new rush of adrenaline through my veins.
A mounting sense of trepidation closed in on me as I hurried to the front door.
On the way, my right leg banged against the hall table, but the pain was swamped by the adrenaline.
When I opened the door I expected to see Brennan or Sergeant Palmer on the landing. But instead it was Adam who was standing there.
He was wearing a brown leather jacket and a shirt that was loose around the neck. And there was a strange look on his face that stole my breath away and made me stiffen.
‘Oh God, Adam. Please don’t tell me you’re here because something bad has happened.’
He shook his head. ‘No, no, no. Not bad. But it could be good. That’s why I came straight over.’
‘What is it?’
‘Well let me in and I’ll tell you.’
He went straight into the living room and poured himself a large glass of whisky without asking if I minded. It was then that I realised his face was covered in sweat and his hands were shaking.
He gulped down the whole glass of whisky and poured himself another. I just stood there watching him with bated breath, the blood thumping in my ears.
After he had downed the second glass, he grated his fingers through his hair and turned to me. His face seemed to sag with exhaustion, and the emotional strain he was under radiated out of his eyes.
‘I went to see Victor Rosetti,’ he said, his voice soaked with emotion. ‘At first the bastard tried telling me what he told Brennan – that he hadn’t known that something bad was going to happen to me. But I managed to force a confession out of him, along with the name of the man he thinks abducted Molly.’
My brain was slow to make sense of what he’d said, and his words hung in the air for a few moments like an echo.
‘I’ve already spoken to Brennan,’ he continued excitedly. ‘He’s getting straight onto it.’
My heart began to race and I had to take a breath before I could speak.
‘Who is it?’ I said, my voice shaking with desperation. ‘Do I know him?’
‘You do. Bobby Knight. D’you remember him?’
It came as a tremendous shock, in part because I’d thought about him only yesterday. But not in my wildest imagination would I have linked him to Molly’s abduction. He was just another villain who claimed he was innocent despite the weight of evidence that proved he wasn’t.
‘He got out two months ago apparently, probably on licence after serving just over half his sentence,’ Adam went on. ‘But while he was inside he crossed paths with Victor Rosetti. They had a few conversations, during which he told Rosetti that he planned to seek revenge against you for getting him sent down.’
Adam went through what the Romanian had said to him and as I listened I poured myself a whisky and dropped onto the sofa.
The Knight case was in the distant past but I was still able to bring to mind most of the details. The raid on his home, the discovery of the gun and drugs, him insisting he was innocent and accusing us of planting the evidence. Then the subsequent trial, including my own testimony. I even remembered how his mother broke down in court when the jury returned a guilty verdict. And then later, when sentence was passed, his father stood up in the public gallery and shouted at the judge, claiming that his gangster son was the victim of a blatant miscarriage of justice.
‘After the news broke that Molly had been abducted, Rosetti suspected that Knight was behind it,’ Adam said. ‘But he’d just been acquitted so he kept quiet because he was happy to see me suffer. His mistake was to approach me outside the Bailey and tell me that he’d heard I was in for a nasty surprise. If the smug cunt hadn’t said that we’d be none the wiser.’
My thoughts spun wildly, but out of the chaos an image emerged – Bobby Knight standing in the dock. He was twenty-eight back then – so thirty-two now – and he looked every inch the villain that he was. Slicked-back dark hair, broken nose, rubber lips, a scar on his left cheek from a knife attack in his youth. He was suited up for the big occasion, complete with smart tie and red poppy in his lapel. I remembered thinking at the time that he was the stereotypical gangster, in the mould of Ronnie and Reggie Kray, and just as ruthless as those two were.
He’d worked for the still-notorious gang boss Tony Kemp, whose daughter Lauren he was planning to marry. She turned up in court every day of the trial, a pretty young thing with red hair and a taste for expensive designer clothes. I wondered if she had waited for him to serve his sentence or had decided to cut him loose and get on with her life.
‘Do you really think he could be the kidnapper?’ I said to Adam.
Adam sat down beside me, a fresh glass of whisky in his hand.
‘I’d stake my life on it,’ he said. ‘The guy was a right nutjob. That was why we were all so keen to put him away. We knew he’d been responsible for at least two gangland murders and God knows how many blags. But we could never pin anything on him until you got the tip about the drugs.’
‘Which he claimed we planted, along with the gun.’
‘Of course he did. They all do when we catch ’em bang to rights.’
I sipped at my whisky, savouring the gentle burning sensation in my gullet.
‘But he never threatened me like Edwin Sharp and Frank Neilson did,’ I said.
‘That doesn’t mean anything.’
‘But the kidnapper has made it clear that it’s me, not you, he wants to punish.’
‘And from what Rosetti told me you were the one Knight was planning to target before he learned that we were married and had a daughter together. It appears he then decided to hurt us both.’
The more I thought about it, the more credible it seemed. By now my heart was going like the clappers.
‘Hopefully it won’t take them long to find him,’ Adam said. ‘I’m assuming his family are still living here in South London and I expect he had a probation officer.’
I desperately wanted Adam to be right and it was impossible not to feel excited. I could tell from his expression that he was convinced that Knight was the kidnapper. But then he’d had longer to get his mind around it. He was the one who had confronted Rosetti, the one who’d got off his arse and done something, the one who’d deserve the credit if our nightmare was soon to be brought to an end.
This line of thought started alarm bells ringing in my head.
‘Just a sec,’ I said. ‘You told me that you forced a confession out of Rosetti. What exactly did you do to him?’
Adam shrugged. ‘If you must know, I kicked him in the mouth and threatened him with a fake gun. You should have seen his face, the fear in his eyes. It was priceless.’
I clapped my hand over my mouth and looked at him aghast.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘He’s not seriously hurt, and I warned him that if he puts in a complaint I’ll make sure he regrets it.’
‘But what if he does?’
Another shrug. ‘I’ll say the fucker attacked me when I went to see him. It’ll be my word against his. Plus, I’ve dumped the gun and there were no witnesses to what happened.’
I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand I f
eared that he might have torpedoed his career in the police, but on the other I was glad he’d done what he’d done, however reckless it was. He’d managed to elicit crucial information from a good-for-nothing drug trafficker that would, God willing, lead us directly to Molly.
I put a hand on his knee and said, ‘Whatever happens, I want you to know that I’m proud of you, Adam. I’ve been telling myself that we should be doing something and that’s exactly what you’ve gone and done.’
Adam stared back at me and I saw his eyes start to fill.
In that moment I didn’t care that we were no longer married, or that he cheated on me. All that mattered was that he was Molly’s father and he’d put his love for her before everything else, including his job.
So when he started to sob I reached over and pulled him against me. And as he cried into my shoulder I stroked the back of his head, and for a while it was as though the last few years had never happened.
34
DCI Brennan
Brennan and his uniformed companions headed back across the Thames into South London.
Peckham was part of his patch, an area that had always been a breeding ground for people like Bobby Knight. Even at this early hour, the city was teeming with life; shift workers going about their business, homeless people looking for somewhere warm and safe to bed down, revellers walking home after a night out. And on the roads the ceaseless hum of traffic, mostly red buses and black cabs.
Brennan watched it all through the window of the patrol car, but he took nothing in. He was too busy thinking about how events were unravelling following the unlawful actions of Molly Mason’s desperate father.
DI Adam Boyd had put his job on the line by attacking Victor Rosetti in his own home. But, as a result, there was now a new suspect in the frame – except that Bobby Knight had apparently disappeared and his mother believed he’d been topped.
It was an extraordinary development and one that had Brennan wondering what the hell was going on.
According to DC Foster, a missing persons report was filed two weeks ago after Knight’s mother, Emily, said she hadn’t heard from her son for twenty-four hours. His probation officer confirmed that Knight had failed to turn up for meetings and had given no indication that he was going to drop out of sight.
Mrs Knight had also told officers that she was convinced her son had been murdered by his former boss, Tony Kemp. The reason she gave was that after his release Knight started stalking and making threats against Kemp’s daughter, Lauren, whom he’d been engaged to. But she moved on while he was inside. The mother had absolutely no evidence to back up her claim. Nevertheless detectives from Peckham had interviewed Kemp who’d acknowledged that Knight had been pestering his daughter, but had emphatically denied doing anything about it, except to warn him off.
What Brennan had to do was find out, and quickly, whether all this was in any way connected with little Molly’s abduction. If not, then there was every chance that he was about to waste more precious time.
But there were questions that needed to be answered.
Did Bobby Knight follow through on his threat to punish Sarah by snatching her child? And did he drop out of sight in order to do so? Or did something happen to him before he got the chance to abduct her? If so, then someone else must have been responsible.
Yet again Brennan reflected on how grotesque and bizarre this case was, and how it revealed the true depths of human depravity. Any man who could steal a child and then torment the mother with pictures and videos had to be the devil incarnate.
From what Brennan had learned about Bobby Knight the guy would probably fit the bill. He’d been a violent criminal before he was sent down and although he’d never been convicted of murder, it was strongly believed he’d committed several while working for Tony Kemp.
Brennan doubted that the guy had been rehabilitated during his spell in prison. And from the sound of it, he’d come out even more bitter and twisted than when he went in.
Estate agents like to tell prospective clients that Peckham is no longer one of London’s most dangerous inner city areas. But Brennan knew that to be total bollocks.
Despite the gentrification and influx of white-collar workers, it was still a place where shootings and knife attacks were fairly common.
The latest near-fatal stabbing had taken place only three nights ago and he had actually asked Sarah to go and interview the victim in hospital. Of course that was before she received that first text from the kidnapper.
Peckham had for years been blighted by a brutal gang culture, and Brennan was reminded of it as they drove through the area’s dark, dingy streets.
It was at the epicentre of Tony Kemp’s criminal empire and where Bobby Knight and others like him had cut their teeth as wide boys and villains.
The Kemp firm was one of several operating across South London. It was second in size and reach only to the outfit run by Danny Shapiro, another top dog in the underworld. Brennan had met them both and they were very different characters.
Shapiro was in his thirties, good-looking and quite personable. He was once married to a television soap star. But Kemp was a rougher diamond. He was an ugly, fat thug of pensionable age who was renowned for his vicious temper.
Brennan had questioned Kemp a year ago in connection with a double murder. A Polish prostitute and her pimp were both shot in the head and their bodies dumped on a piece of waste ground in Clapham. The victims were linked to an Eastern European gang that had ignored warnings not to set up business on Kemp’s manor. So the finger of suspicion naturally pointed right at him, but unsurprisingly he claimed he didn’t kill them and didn’t pay someone to do it for him. Brennan and his team weren’t able to prove that he was lying, though he so obviously was.
During the interview, Kemp came across as a charmless oaf who got his rocks off by intimidating people. He swore a lot and made it blatantly clear that he had no respect for any form of authority. In fact, Brennan came away with the distinct impression that Kemp wouldn’t baulk at targeting anyone who upset him or he felt threatened by – and that included police officers of any rank.
It was why the detective wasn’t looking forward to another unpleasant session with the man. But as things stood it would probably have to happen at some point if he followed through with this current line of inquiry.
Emily Knight actually lived in one of the better parts of Peckham. Her semi-detached house overlooked the common and was set back from the road behind a narrow grass verge.
Brennan had only been told that she was a widow aged sixty-six and retired.
He had no intention of going in heavy-handed. The house was in darkness, and if she was at home they were about to wake her, which was bound to come as enough of a shock.
He was hoping she’d cooperate after he told her why they were there. This wasn’t about her son’s links to organised crime or his failure to meet probation commitments by disappearing. This was about finding a fifteen-month-old child who’d been abducted. That was the overwhelming imperative for Brennan and his team. And he hoped that as a mother Emily Knight would understand that.
An upstairs light came on seconds after he rang the bell. Brennan looked up to see someone pull back the curtain and peer out. Shortly after, more lights were switched on and the front door was opened by a grey-haired woman wearing a dark blue towelling robe, belted at the waist.
‘Emily Knight?’ Brennan enquired.
‘Yes,’ she said, and her startled eyes flicked beyond him to the two uniformed officers.
Brennan held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Brennan. I’m really sorry to be bothering you …’
‘Is this about my son?’ she interrupted. ‘Has he been found? Is that it?’
‘No he hasn’t, Mrs Knight. But we do need to talk to you about him. It’s very important, which is why we’ve had to disturb you in the middle of the night. So may we come in?’
She looked confused and then suspicious. But curiosity
prompted her to wave them in.
They followed her into a brightly lit kitchen where she went straight to the sink to fill the kettle.
The two officers stood just inside the door while Brennan sat at the table. He looked around and decided that there was something oppressive about the house. The kitchen walls were a bilious shade of green and everything looked a little dated.
When the kettle was boiled, Mrs Knight turned to face them. But before she spoke she pulled a pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter from her dressing gown pocket.
Brennan studied her as she lit up. He’d seen photos of her son and he could see him in her face, especially the full lips and sharp features. She was heavy-bodied and fleshy, with eyes that were rheumy and unfocused. Below them pads of flesh stood out and broken capillaries mapped her cheeks. It occurred to Brennan that here was a woman who’d had a tough life.
‘So why are you here?’ she said, fixing him with a steady gaze.
‘Firstly can I ask if anyone else lives here with you, apart from your son Bobby, of course?’
She shook her head, and her cheeks hollowed as she drew on her cigarette.
‘Before Bobby moved back in I’d lived here by myself since my husband’s death three years ago. My other son, Noah, has a flat in Norwood.’
‘I see. And can I just confirm that you reported Bobby missing two weeks ago?’
‘That’s right. He left here the day before to go to the job centre. He said he’d be back later. But he didn’t come home and I’ve not heard from him since. That’s why I know that something bad has happened to him. Bobby always stayed in touch and if he’d planned to go away he would have told me.’
‘So why did you tell the officers who were looking into his disappearance that you believed he’d been murdered?’
‘Because it’s bloody obvious. That arsehole Tony Kemp had already threatened him twice. He said if Bobby didn’t stay away from his daughter Lauren then he’d make him regret it.’
‘So did you actually witness these threats?’