The Stolen Child

by Alex Coombs

  To a certain extent, Fordham didn’t care about the cost and the administrative hassle of Bingham being sent to a mainstream hospital. He was hardly a flight risk. Certainly, with the condition his genitals were in, he posed no threat to children. Added to that, it would be a while before he could even move a muscle in his lower limbs, much less run away.

  What Fordham did object to was being made to look as if he couldn’t control his own prison and the implication, the clear conclusion, that whoever did this had inside help. The assault on Bingham must have had the tacit support of at least one of the prison officers. Almost certainly more than one. Fordham

  was a pragmatist, he knew that with more than three hundred dangerous prisoners on site, not to mention the ever-present problem of bribery, a certain amount of trouble was inevitable. Prison officers are not well paid, they have difficult working conditions and some of the prisoners in their care have access to huge amounts of money. Blind eyes were often turned inside. The presence of illegal substances, a given. Arguably, anything that calmed a volatile prison population down was not necessarily a bad thing. You’d be a fool to think otherwise. Fordham was not the kind of man to launch a moral crusade over anything. But this was provocatively bold. It was an in-your-face challenge to his authority. Bingham had been discovered in the library he was supposed to have been cleaning. There was no trace of the violence that had been inflicted on him to be found, so the assault had obviously taken place elsewhere. A quick enquiry revealed that several key CCTV monitors had ‘malfunctioned’. Certain key officers had become very forgetful, either because they were involved or were unwilling to voice suspicions. The general amnesia seemed contagious. Nobody knew anything. It would be useless asking the prisoners. Nobody would dare implicate Anderson. No one was

  going to grass.

  The assault also had the effect, like any violent incident in a prison, of creating a hysterically ugly mood. Prisons are very finely balanced places; they rely as much on the prisoners making it work as the staff. They were all in it together. But they are febrile, hothouse environments and the effect of Bingham’s attack was like poking an anthill. The natives were restless. He’d had to cancel leave and put on extra shifts. The last thing he needed was a riot. That really would be the icing on the cake. Fordham was furious about this damage to his reputation. Other governors would be rubbing their hands.

  Fordham personally suspected Anderson. He had the showman’s flamboyant touch, the imagination, that most of the other prisoners lacked. Everyone knew the reason for his ‘Jesus’ nickname. Fordham also harboured a feeling that it might be connected with Hanlon’s visit. He didn’t believe in coincidence. Not in prison.

  When he’d been in the army, in Iraq and in Afghanistan, Fordham had seen torture of suspects first hand, or ‘enhanced interrogation’ as the army put it. He wasn’t squeamish – you can’t fight a war with clean hands – and having met Hanlon, he knew that neither was she. Well, he wasn’t going to launch a complaint to the Met, to Hanlon’s boss, or to air his suspicions; by nature he believed in closing ranks, but he certainly wasn’t going to make life easy for anyone.

  He ordered an immediate cell lockdown on Anderson’s wing and a thorough search. He put his most trusted men on this. Rip the place apart, he’d told them. Prisoners are only allowed a certain amount of personal effects, more or less enough to fill two shoe boxes, but stuff still accumulates. Anderson’s phone, minus its SIM card, was discovered. An incandescently angry Fordham – what else was Anderson up to? – ordered Anderson strip-searched, with replacement clothing issued, and that he be put in a holding cell indefinitely until Fordham had decided exactly what to do with him.

  Anderson paced his solitary confinement cell angrily. He hadn’t had his phone with him when Bingham had grassed Conquest up. It had been in its secure hiding place that had turned out to be not secure at all. He guessed that Hanlon wouldn’t be allowed to see him, no one would be. He’d demanded to see his lawyer and was told his request would be considered. That could be days, maybe weeks. Today was Wednesday; if he

  couldn’t tell her where Bingham thought the boy was being held by Friday, the deal was off. All of this would have been in vain. Not only would he lose the money, which he didn’t particularly care about, but he would lose his chance to get out of jail. If he’d been in the main part of the prison he could have found someone who was due a visit that week to pass a message on; that wasn’t going to happen now.

  He’d requested via one of the prison officers that he be allowed to see Hanlon. He was given a frosty reply that the matter would be looked into. He had to get a message to her, but he couldn’t see how.

  As Fordham expected, he received a formal request from DI Hanlon for a further meeting with Anderson. This chimed with the Anderson request to see her. It confirmed the governor’s suspicions. No way, thought Fordham. You’ve got a bloody nerve, DI Hanlon. This was turned down until a thorough review of Anderson’s conduct had been made.

  Hanlon sat in her office, frustrated and worried. She had known that calling the prison would be a bad idea, but she hadn’t been able to resist. Every moment she didn’t find Peter increased the danger he was in and increased the pressure on her. The same thoughts ran over and over in her head like a washing-machine cycle. She knew Conquest had the boy, but she had no real proof. She had nothing she could take to even the tamest of magistrates. Even if Corrigan were to go crazy, throw caution to the wind, and agree with her, she still had no idea where Peter was being held. A man like Conquest, with a property network, could have him almost anywhere. Conquest would never tell her where the boy was. She knew that even if she had incontrovertible evidence – a busload of witnesses, forensic evidence, the whole thing on film even – Conquest wouldn’t

  talk. It would be beneath his dignity. There was nothing she could threaten him with.

  The thing that really got to her was that she was certain Anderson had fulfilled his part of the bargain. The answer as to where Peter was lay maddeningly close, but just out of reach. Suddenly she thought of Cunningham. Her heart leapt at the thought. Momentarily a golden scenario unfolded in her imagination: Cunningham in an interview room alone with Anderson, the information passed on, the lawyer phoning her from the prison car park. Surely Anderson was entitled to see a lawyer? Cunningham could get the access that Fordham had denied her. After her calls to the governor went unanswered, his secretary stone-walling her, she’d called a couple of people she knew in the prison service and they’d made discreet enquiries. They quickly found out what had happened at HMP Wendover and filled her in on Anderson and the sorry state of Bingham. That’s how she knew Anderson had succeeded. If Bingham hadn’t talked, Anderson would have killed him out of annoyance. They also let her know about the governor’s

  frame of mind. She was persona non grata. Everyone was.

  Hanlon didn’t have many friends; in some respects she didn’t have any, not in the conventional sense. She strongly disliked socializing. She didn’t really understand it. Hanlon had little time for Jean-Paul Sartre but she did agree that hell was other people. She would never meet or talk to anyone purely for the pleasure of their company; she hated small talk. Fortunately, friendship doesn’t have to be a two-way street. If you admired Hanlon you had to accept that there would be a great deal of giving with very little reward. There were, however, more than a few people, a significant number, who liked Hanlon very much and were prepared to go to great lengths to help her. People like Corrigan and James Forrest. People like Laidlaw

  and Brudenell, the evidence storage manager, who had given Whiteside the clothes when they’d trapped Cunningham. The prison service people she knew were in that category. But even they couldn’t reach Anderson.

  She sipped a cup of coffee, black as her mood, and tried to think how she could get access to Anderson. Whatever she did, Fordham, already suspicious of Anderson, would smell a kingsize rat. No way would she be allowed to see him. Eventually yes, but not in the
limited time frame that she was operating within. Nobody would be allowed to see him. No visitors for the foreseeable future. Peter would be dead by then.

  There was a knock on the frosted glass of her door. She looked around her storeroom-cum-office gloomily. This is where they put the furniture that’s too old-fashioned, that they don’t want but don’t know what to do with, the stuff that’s useless, she thought to herself, a suitable metaphor – in Ludgate’s eyes – for me. At this moment, I tend to agree, she thought.

  ‘Come,’ she called out and Enver’s paunchy frame entered the cluttered room. His jacket was folded across his left arm and his stomach strained against the fabric of his shirt. Hanlon was pleased to see him despite her unaccustomed gloom. There was something very reassuring about Enver. She motioned to the chair opposite and Enver sat down, gingerly, as if he didn’t quite trust it to carry his weight. Hanlon filled him in on the Anderson story. ‘Which prison is he in again, ma’am?’ he asked her as she told him about her interview with the crime boss. As she did so, Enver felt a growing sense of pleasure, no, make that delight, at being able to provide some possibly good news. It was about time something went their way. Hanlon finished her narrative. Enver stopped playing with his moustache and looked at her. ‘When all this began, ma’am, when my uncle got me to agree to help Mehmet Yilmaz, I was kind of annoyed because

  my community, Turks, had pressurized me with the “you’re one of us” argument. You know, blood is thicker than water, don’t forget where you’re from, that sort of thing.’

  Hanlon nodded.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if that’s the case, it cuts both ways.’

  Hanlon looked at him with interest. Enver continued, ‘My cousin’s wife is a prison officer at Wendover. I’ve put myself out for Uncle Osman, it’s about time he returns the favour. Time for him to put a bit of pressure on his son.’

  ‘Will she do it, though?’ queried Hanlon. It was like a gift from God but she didn’t want to get too excited. It was a lot to ask. If Fordham found out one of his officers had made unauthorized contact with Anderson, he’d be furious. It would be a sackable offence.

  Enver stroked his moustache. He looked at Hanlon. ‘There’s a Turkish saying, “Bilemmek ayyup degil, sormamak ayyup”. Do you know what that means?’

  ‘No,’ said Hanlon. It sounded strange to hear Enver, with his London accent, speaking a foreign language. The sonorous Turkish words rolled off his tongue fluently.

  Enver stood up. ‘I do,’ he said, somewhat smugly. ‘I’ll go and arrange it. I’ll see you later, ma’am.’

  Gently, but triumphantly, he squeezed his way back through the furniture towards the door. Hanlon watched him leave with what she realized was growing affection. She hoped to God that Enver’s cousin’s wife would help.

  I wonder what the saying meant, she thought. If that gloomy sod can look cheerful, it has to be a good sign. Hanlon’s mood brightened for the first time in days. She began to make plans for action when, not if, she got the information she needed.

  32

  ‘Not knowing is not shameful, not asking is.’ That was the meaning of the proverb. It was time to ask for a favour. If Hassan demurred, Enver would call his father, the imam. Enver texted Hassan, who he’d always got on well with, and checked the shift patterns of Julie Demirel, Hassan’s wife. She was working that day and would be home about five. The other question was, yes, she’d be working Thursday. Enver arranged to meet her that evening. He could imagine the puzzlement his request to see them would have caused. Enver rarely left London. He’d never been to their house before, although they probably saw him at least a dozen times a year when they came up to London, to Southgate, home of the extended Demirel family, for family do’s. He thought there was a reasonable chance they’d cooperate. With luck, they would know where the boy was being held within twenty-four hours. He texted Hanlon to that effect and

  got a laconic ‘good’ by way of reply.

  Enver put his phone away. His police station was frenziedly busy. The Reynolds disappearance may have elbowed the Whiteside shooting off the front pages but Whiteside was one of their own. The thoughts of most officers were centred on the Whiteside shooting. He was still in a coma, stable but with an uncertain prognosis. In everyone’s mind was the thought that whoever had done this was quite likely to kill again, or had

  killed before. Although Whiteside wasn’t dead, the attempt on his life had been unambiguous and so it was being investigated by a murder investigation team. This MIT was being led by DCI Simon Harding, an affable, well-respected officer with a reputation for pedantic thoroughness. The MIT team in charge of the Yilmaz family was still in the charge of DCI Murray. They’d been elbowed to one side in terms of importance by the Whiteside shooting. Both teams were working out of the same station, the two incident rooms separated by a corridor. Supervising the two MIT teams was the Specialist Crime Directorate’s Homicide Command, represented here by DCS Ludgate. Despite his dislike of Ludgate on a personal level, Enver was impressed by the stamina and energy that Ludgate was putting into everything. He was inspirational. He guessed maybe these cases would be Ludgate’s last hurrah before he retired, and he wanted to leave with a reputation enhanced by the investigations. There were about thirty police working on the Whiteside shooting alone; the station was full to bursting. The only quiet room in the place was Hanlon’s office-cum-

  storage facility.

  Baby Ali’s death and the Yilmaz disappearance had slipped far down the agenda. His investigative team numbered four: DCI Murray, heading it, Enver, and two constables. There was no media interest in the child’s death and none of the crusading zeal that a cop killer creates among his fellow officers. There was no ‘it could have been me’ or ‘there but for the Grace of God’ feeling about the Yilmaz family. They were a footnote now in Haringey’s crime stats. There was even, as Corrigan had predicted, a growing feeling that maybe they hadn’t been killed. The theory was that faced with the possibility of deportation, the Yilmaz family had staged their disappearance. And there was no proof they were dead. After all, where were the bodies?

  Murray, as far as Enver could see, was doing everything reasonably well. He was a conscientious officer despite the rumours that the Yilmaz family was alive. Until the axe fell on the investigation, and he was secretly convinced the time was not very far away, he’d do his best. With Enver he was very hands off. He was inclined to leave Enver very much to his own devices after Corrigan’s descent on the investigation. He issued Enver with basic investigative duties, particularly liaising with the local community and the sexual assault unit together with the child abuse unit.

  Murray was investigating racial attacks on Turks as well as the obvious paedophile angle. Enver felt increasingly uncomfortable watching the vast display of resources that the two investigations were consuming. The media briefings, the endless interviews, the progress meetings, the liaison committees that were needed to make sure that nobody else was holding a vital piece of the jigsaw, the logjam of logistical problems as detectives were taken away from different cases – when two people, he and Hanlon, knew who was responsible. Or, more accurately, he felt, thought they knew who was responsible.

  Then there was the ongoing fact of Peter Reynolds’ disappearance. That was the real focus of most of the Met’s resources. It was Whiteside’s misfortune to have been shot when something as newsworthy as Peter’s disappearance had happened. It was a huge news story. BBC, ITV, Sky, and all the newspapers were covering it. Hanlon’s point, that there was no way of knowing where he was being held except via Anderson, was horribly true. Enver didn’t know what she’d said to Anderson to get him to cooperate, but obviously it wasn’t police approved. Given that, would they even be able to legally act on the information as to where the boy was? It had after all been acquired through

  torture. A human rights lawyer would say they had no right to act on it, even if it meant the rape and murder of Peter. Bingham’s rights had been well and truly
violated. It was all so difficult. Many times Enver had wondered if he was doing the right thing. Should he go directly to an increasingly harassed Ludgate? The DCS was doing a difficult job with tremendous skill and energy. He was at almost every key meeting for the investigations, he put in a staggering amount of hours and, since he was coming to the end of his career, none of this would result in promotion or financial reward. Maybe, Enver felt, he should go to the assistant commissioner? As far as he could tell, Hanlon’s decision to play this alone was based mainly on a feeling that somewhere in the police force, Conquest had a source of information. That to involve the Met would be to tip off Conquest. But there were many informants in the Met. It went with the turf. If you adopted that attitude, nothing would get done. You might as well give up and go home. Or, if you were concerned about the Met, you could use a neighbouring constabulary. Surrey, Herts or Kent and Essex, for example. What if Hanlon’s go-it-alone policy was directed purely by personal revenge and she had suckered him in to help. Yes, she was charismatic, but so, by all accounts, were the Kray twins.

  That didn’t make them wise leaders.

  One of Enver’s worst fears as well was that Corrigan was right. That she was going to take the law into her own hands and he would end up arrested as an accomplice to a police execution. That Hanlon would blow Conquest’s head off in revenge for Whiteside. He certainly believed her capable of it. His own defence would look pathetic. I helped her because I believed in her. That was no defence at all.

  Enver’s own emails to Corrigan had been masterpieces of selective information and factual avoidance. He had been greatly