Paper Girls

by Alex Smith

  “That all?”

  “He aggravated with a mallet,” she said. “A rubber mallet. It was more for show, I think. To be honest, he’s not the brightest prawn in the ocean. He was serving over in Oakwood.”

  “And he’s still in Wolverhampton?” Kett asked.

  “According to his father he is. David Walker claims he hasn’t spoken to his son since he was sent away the second time. Claims he’s given him too many chances. As far as the old man knows, Brandon’s still skulking around in the Midlands, and I checked. He had a job out there, farm work. Castrating sheep, if you can believe it.”

  Kett shuddered.

  “Rented a small place, kept himself to himself. Right up until a year and a half ago, when he just didn’t show up to work one day. Stopped paying his rent, officially evicted from his property.”

  “And?” Kett asked.

  “He’s been off the grid,” she replied. “No job, no house, no sign of him.”

  “And you called me here to tell me this?” Kett said. Savage shook her head, pointing across the street.

  “I called you here because the idiot just popped his head up right there.”

  Kett peered at the row of windows above the Walker shop. They were drenched with sun. There could have been a naked marching band in the flat and Kett wouldn’t have been able to see them.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Eighty per cent, sir,” Savage replied. “About thirty minutes ago there was a cloud right in front of the sun, the whole street went dark, and I saw a face there. I’m certain it was him, he’s pretty memorable.”

  “Makes sense,” said Kett as the barman placed the drinks down on the table by the window. Despite the man’s mood, he managed a smile and a wave at Moira. She blew a raspberry at him and his frown returned as he muttered his way back to the bar. “Walker was obviously lying about the flat being empty. But why was he lying about his son being there?”

  “Embarrassment?” she said. “Ex con. Doesn’t do much for a family newsagent’s reputation.”

  “One way of finding out,” said Kett. He took a big sip of his stale, milky tea and grimaced. “Jesus, what is it with this city and hot drinks?”

  He slammed the mug down and started for the door, then his heart gave a mighty lurch as he remembered Moira. He doubled back.

  “We need to get inside that flat,” he said.

  “You think he’s got the girls in there?” Savage asked. “That’s a pretty big leap, sir, I’m not sure it would stand up in court.”

  “He’s one of only a few people who would have had some kind of access to both girls,” Kett replied. “He could have found out their routes, he would have known their home addresses, and other personal information from their files that he could have used to form a friendship with them.”

  Savage considered this, unsure.

  “It’s a big leap from robbery to kidnapping,” she said after a moment.

  “Yeah, but Brandon knocked over the Albanians, and you know how ruthless they are. A pretty big chunk of the human traffic in the country is moved by Albanian gangs, so maybe they’re twisting Brandon’s arm, getting him to snatch girls as a way of paying back what they think he owes.”

  “That actually makes sense,” said Savage. “So we get a warrant? Go talk to him?”

  Kett looked over at the flats again.

  “I think I can make out another person in there,” he said, knowing how obvious the lie was, and well aware that Savage knew it too. “Maybe two other people. They could be girls.”

  “You’re really going there?” Savage asked, her face deadly serious.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “And one day I’ll tell you why. Don’t worry, I’ll do it, you don’t have to get your hands dirty. I need you in here to make sure he doesn’t bolt. And, you know, to make sure she doesn’t drink a whole bottle of rum.”

  The baby seemed to find this hilarious, her chest heaving with cartoonish chuckles.

  “I’ll call it in,” Savage said. “We can wait. We can have half a dozen PCs here in ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes. It was how long he’d waited on his first ever case.

  Those ten minutes had cost a young boy his life.

  “Walker Senior is sharp, he probably knows we’re here, and if he knows then there’s a chance that Brandon does too. If—and I know it’s a big if—those girls are in there, he could be doing anything to them.”

  Savage nodded, her young face etched with concern.

  “Call it in,” Kett said. “Just let them know I’m in there.”

  He started for the door, but Savage called him back. She popped a stud on her belt and pulled out her telescopic baton.

  “Take this,” she said.

  Kett nodded a thank you, then strode out of the pub.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A fresh bank of clouds was moving across the sun, and the temperature plummeted as Kett closed the door of the pub behind him. The road was thick with traffic but there weren’t many pedestrians, the parade of shops almost entirely deserted.

  He tucked the heavy baton into the inside pocket of his jacket, glancing up at the flats across the road—but only for a moment, because he didn’t want to give himself away. He ignored the crossing, cutting between the stationary cars and walking to the off-licence next to Walker’s. Down here he’d be practically invisible to anyone in the flat above, and he kept close to the giant windows as he passed the newsagent’s. David Walker was still there, but he was facing the shelves behind him, restocking cigarettes.

  He reached the door of the flat and peeked through the letterbox again, then he put his ear to it. There was a definite current of air in there, which was weird because none of the windows were open. Kett knew when a house was empty, and this one didn’t feel that way at all. The way the air moved, the quiet noises it carried, made him think that someone was up there.

  Someone holding his breath.

  He let the letterbox close slowly, then he cut down the alleyway beside the shop. It was thick with weeds, strewn with empty bottles, and it stank of piss—probably those kids who were here yesterday. It led around to the rear of the parade, which was made up of a small paved area and a handful of bike racks—three lonely, severed wheels locked to the metal bars. Across from them was a collection of rickety, graffitied fences and barbed wire that shielded the row of houses beyond.

  There were two more doors back here, both of which led to more flats above the shops, and both of which were sealed tight with metal panels. Kett was surprised to see that Walker had been telling the truth: signs on both of the doors mentioned hazardous materials. Shielding his eyes from the reappearance of the sun, Kett saw the windows of both flats were boarded up on this side too. Only the one above Walker’s looked in any way fit for habitation.

  He made his way back to the door at the front. There was no handle, just a Yale lock, but Kett had faced off against doors like this a million times. He popped the letterbox again and slid his hand through, grunting as the metal rubbed against his flesh.

  “Come on,” he said, straining, his fingertips brushing against something metallic. “Get over here, you bastard.”

  He found it, twisting the latch and shoving with his shoulder at the same time. The door popped open, the hinges as fresh as a daisy. Quietly, Kett crept inside and closed it behind him. Then he pulled the baton from his pocket and flicked it to its full length. He hadn’t used one in years, not since his uniform days, but it felt good. It took some of the edge off breaking into the home of a convicted thug.

  He took the steps as slowly as he dared, every creak deafening in the small, quiet space. His heart revved hard behind his ribs and all the tea he’d drunk that morning boiled inside his empty stomach. This wasn’t strictly legal, of course, but he’d been doing the job long enough to know that it was better to trust your instincts and smooth out the wrinkles later, otherwise—

  Thump.

  Kett’s breath caught in his throat. The noise was clos
e, from right at the top of the stairs. He hesitated, holding the baton by his shoulder, ready to bring it down hard.

  Thumpthump.

  That definitely wasn’t the sound of an empty flat.

  Taking a deep breath, Kett charged up the last few steps and burst through the door at the top.

  “Police!” he roared.

  No reply.

  The dark, narrow hallway was empty, but it hadn’t been for long. He sniffed, making out the distinctly unpleasant aroma of an unwashed male.

  “Brandon?” he said. “Brandon Walker? If you’re in here, make yourself known. I’ve got a baton here that really doesn’t want to play hide and seek.”

  Nothing.

  Kett walked through the nearest door, finding a living room that was empty apart from a mattress covered in a bundle of filthy sheets and a full ashtray. If there had been any doubts about the flat being occupied they were immediately shot down by the wisps of smoke that still rose from the butts there.

  “Brandon,” Kett said. “I’ve seen your photograph, man, I know there aren’t many places you can hide.”

  He left the room, crossing the corridor and seeing a kitchen that was almost too small for him to fit inside. There was nothing at all in the cupboards, and only half a pint of milk in the fridge.

  “You’re running out of room, Brandon,” Kett said, adjusting his sweaty grip on the baton. “And I’m running out of patience.”

  There was nobody in the lime green bathroom, or the airing cupboard, which left the flat’s only bedroom. Kett peeked through the crack in the door, frowning, then he walked inside. It was empty, just a small chest of drawers against the far wall, and a broken mirror facing the window. He shivered in a sudden breeze.

  “What the…” Kett muttered. He walked to the window and tested the handle, but it was locked tight. Cupping a hand to the glass he made out the pub opposite, seeing Savage sitting in the window, Moira bouncing on her lap. The PC looked relieved to see him, then confused as Kett lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug.

  He walked away, doing another quick search of the flat and finding sweet FA. But there had definitely been somebody here. How the hell had they managed to get out? It had to have been just before he arrived, maybe even as he was speaking with Savage in the pub. Kett swore. Not only had he broken the rules of a search, he’d managed to lose the suspect—and there wasn’t even any sign that the paper girls had ever been here.

  He folded the baton, sticking it back in his pocket and wondering if he could make it out before backup arrived. That way he could let the uniforms in, and they could officially discover that the flat was empty. He made his way back down the corridor, stopping only when he heard that noise again.

  Thump.

  There was no sign of an attic hatch—and no room for one either, given how low the roof was. The floors, too, were fake wood laminate and positioned right over the shop beneath. It could have been birds scratching overhead, he guessed. Maybe a delivery van dumping stuff on the street. But it sounded too close for that.

  It sounded like it was coming from next door.

  Kett walked back into the bedroom, his eyes falling on the chest of drawers. It was too small to fit a person, especially a fat bastard like Brandon, and when Kett pulled out a drawer he saw that it was empty.

  There was that breeze again, though, kissing its way up his sleeves and making his skin break out in goosebumps.

  He suddenly understood. Grabbing the corners of the chest of drawers, he yanked it across the floor.

  “Fuck me.”

  There was a hole in the wall, maybe two feet across and lined with jagged teeth of brick and concrete. It was empty apart from an unfathomable darkness and that same ghostly current of cold air.

  Kett took a deep breath, rubbing his face. Under normal circumstances there was no way in hell he’d stick any part of his anatomy through a hole like that, but these weren’t exactly normal circumstances, and for all he knew there were two eleven-year-old girls bound and gagged on the other side of this wall. Two girls who Brandon Walker might be leaning over right now, who might be gasping for their last breaths as he strangled them…

  “Fuck me,” he growled again, flicking the baton to its full length and using his other hand to fire up the flashlight on his phone. He leant down and shone the light through the hole, revealing a bedroom identical to this one—only crawling with shadows. “Brandon Walker, if you are in there I’m giving you to a count of three. If I get to three, I swear to god you’re leaving this place on a stretcher. One.”

  Trying not to scream, he pushed an arm into the hole, then his head, kicking his way through. Bricks dug into his skin, snagging his belt, and for a horrible second he thought he was going to be stuck there. Panicking, he swung the phone back and forth, waiting for a shape to come bounding out of the dark. He wriggled, grunted, his foot finally catching on the chest of drawers in the other room and giving him enough leverage to push himself through. He plopped to the floor with a groan, scrabbling to his feet and wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “Two,” he said, clutching the baton and itching to swing it. This guy was seriously pissing him off.

  The bedroom was empty, and Kett made his way into the hallway that mirrored the one next door. It was so dark in here, not even a crack of light able to break through the boards on the windows. The little flashlight did its best to compensate, but it was almost powerless against the vast weight of gloom.

  Nothing in the bathroom. Nothing in the airing cupboard. Nothing in the kitchen.

  That left only one place for Walker to hide.

  “Three,” said Kett as he positioned himself by the closed living room door. “A stretcher it is.”

  He raised his boot and gave the door a mighty kick. It didn’t stand a chance, almost disintegrating under the attack. Three steps was all it took to reach the centre of the room, the baton raised and the torch sweeping from side to side—a huge wooden table piled with stuff, a desk chair, and there, in the corner…

  No.

  Two binbags, wrapped tight with tape, each the size and shape of a small, thin, broken body.

  “No,” Kett spoke aloud, running to them. He dropped to his knees, putting down the phone and the baton so that he could work at the plastic with his fingers. “Come on, don’t be—”

  He heard the footsteps too late, twisting his head in time to see a man running out from behind the table. He was big, huge, but he moved fast, the edges of the torchlight just catching the lump hammer in his hand.

  Kett ducked as the man swung, adrenaline taking over. He wasn’t quick enough, the hammer’s heavy head skimming the top of his scalp. The room burned flashbulb bright for a second, Kett’s ears ringing like he was standing inside a cathedral bell. He dived—at least he thought he dived, he couldn’t even be sure which direction was down any more—scrabbling over the binbags.

  The man roared, pain flaring in Kett’s shoulder as the hammer hit again.

  Get up! he screamed at himself. If he didn’t, he was going to be pummelled to death right here. He thought of Moira, of Evie, of Alice, knowing that if he died then they would be orphans. It was like a burst of nitrous oxide in the engine of his rage.

  “No!” he found the wall, pushed himself up, turning just in time to see the hammer drop towards his face. He sidestepped to his left, the hammer crunching into the wall hard enough to put a hole in the plaster.

  Kett bunched a fist and threw it up into the man’s solar plexus. Brandon was a big guy, plenty of padding, but the shot was true and he made a noise like he was vomiting. He lumbered back, trying to pull the hammer out of the wall, and Kett threw a second punch right into the flabby pouch of his throat.

  Brandon attempted to breathe as he staggered away but the double whammy of a strike to the gut and to the windpipe was making it impossible. His foot landed on Kett’s phone, cracking the flashlight, and suddenly the room went dark.

  “On your knees!” roared Kett, his boo
t scuffing the ground to try to find the baton. “Now!”

  There was a soft thump, and for a moment Kett thought the man had obeyed. Then a deeper shadow barrelled out of the dark and suddenly Brandon was on him, his immense arms pulling Kett’s face into his chest. A fist hit him in the ribs but it was a badly thrown blow that didn’t do much damage. Another followed, this one harder. Kett tried to breathe but his mouth was full of the stench of BO. He threw a punch of his own into Brandon’s stomach but the man didn’t seem to feel it.

  A third punch, this time to his back, and Kett reacted before he even knew what he was doing—his teeth clamping down on what could only be the man’s nipple. He chewed, hearing Brandon unleash a glass-shattering screech. But it worked. He was free. He fumbled for the wall, found the hammer, swung it blindly in the dark. Something cracked, and this time the sound of falling flesh was unmistakable.

  “Fuck,” Kett said, his voice just a whisper. His head was pounding like somebody was taking another hammer to his brain. With every heartbeat the room flashed white, and he felt like he was out at sea, like the whole building was swaying. He put a hand to the crown of his head, his fingers coming away warm with blood.

  But Brandon Walker had it worse. He was rolling on the floor making wet, sobbing noises. Kett reached down and found him.

  “Stay there,” he said, fighting to form the words. “Don’t give me an excuse to put this hammer through your face.”

  Crunch.

  The sound of a door being knocked down, then the thunder of feet and voices from the flat next door.

  “In here!” Kett shouted, the effort making the pain in his head sing. “Through the hole in the wall.”

  He got onto his knees, feeling his way back to the corner of the room. The binbags were tough and he couldn’t break them with his fingers. He kept trying, though, kept working at them, because there was a chance the girls inside were still alive. There was always a chance.