A few murmurs spread among the audience. Starling watched, envying the officers who hadn't been on duty through the night.
“We need to contain this situation before it escalates. Contact has been made with the Draytons. We managed to speak to Tommy who politely told the police they didn't want to be involved with our investigation.”
“What does that mean?” A young officer, whom Starling had never formally met, spoke up.
“It means the Draytons are going to burn this fucking city to the ground to find this guy themselves.”
Again, wild murmurs and questions excitedly flew around the conference room. Starling stretched his back, the plastic seat wreaking havoc on his spine. He focused on Fletcher, standing at the side of the room with an old file rested in his arms.
Bailey stood patiently to let the officers compose themselves, understanding the excitement which accompanied a situation like this. Fletcher could appreciate it also, having spent many nights of his long career in the same situation. He stood and observed the room: smart uniforms, rapid-fire questions, and a buzz of excitement. Bailey's hands rested on his hips as he waited.
“Who on earth would want to attack the Drayton's?” a question flew out from the room.
“I can answer that one.'
All heads turned to Fletcher as he pushed himself slowly from the wall. He could feel the confused stares of the room locked on him. Bailey strode to the side with his arms folded.
Fletcher coughed nervously and ran a hand through his thin white hair.
“Eighteen years ago, probably before most of you were even thinking of joining the Met, I attended a crime scene I’d never forget. Three teenaged boys, no older than sixteen, had been brutally beaten at a foster home. They all kept saying the same thing. They all kept saying 'We all knew he was crazy.' The foster parents came home to find the three boys in such a state and were terrified that the fourth was missing. What they should have felt guilty about was that they never stopped it from happening.”
Empty expressions faced Fletcher; he sensed they were not following. He adjusted his glasses and flipped open the folder he’d been clutching, looking down at the printed words.
“Apparently, the missing child had been played a shit hand from birth. Drug-addled mother, a father who was never there. Eventually the social services placed him into care. Throughout the three other houses in which he’d been previously placed, he never quite fitted. Very withdrawn. This obviously made him a target for other wayward kids with a temper and for drunken parents who never felt a true connection to him. The boy took more beatings than Audley Harrison.”
A few sniggers around the room which ceased as soon as Bailey scowled.
“I know we’ve all heard this story before. Run of the mill, scum of the earth kid, never had a chance. But unlike the usual ones who act out because they grew up at the bottom of the barrel, he was different. He educated himself. He taught himself patience. He prepared himself for violence.”
Before any questions could be thrown out, Fletcher continued, his confidence growing as he took a few steps to the board behind him. Helen's beaming smile still illuminated the room.
In the back row, Starling began to feel uneasy, as the pieces began to fit.
“Eventually, the day came when he snapped back. The three boys – two of whom are now inside and one of whom is unaccounted for, were tied down and beaten with a cricket bat. No words were spoken. Not one shred of remorse. At fourteen years of age, he systematically beat them to within an inch of their lives. He then walked out calmly, his shirt covered in sweat and blood. He walked through the doors of this police station. They led him to a room and he sat in front of me and told me what had happened. He told me everything.'
The uneasy silence echoed off the cheaply painted walls of the conference room. Fletcher reached into the folder, pulling out a sheet of paper that he held face down on top.
“He begged me to put him somewhere where those violent urges, the need to make this world beg for forgiveness, would all go away. He told me he never enjoyed it, nor did he feel an ounce of guilt.”
Starling sat up straight, his back screaming from the plastic chair.
“He told me that sometimes the bad people need to see what bad truly is.”
A hand shot up amongst the crowd. All faces turned to attention and Officer McCarthy lowered it, his words carrying the heaviness of his Irish accent.
“What the hell does this have to do with anything?”
Fletcher shook his head. He turned and tapped the photo of Helen with his knuckles.
“This woman here, whom the Draytons raped and killed, was his wife.”
Realisation swirled around the room, nervous voices murmuring inaudible phrases. McCarthy sat back in his plastic chair, silent. Fletcher lifted the sheet from the folder, a photo of a handsome man, his smile rich and genuine. A snapshot from a heartfelt memory.
He stuck it to the board, next to the beautiful wife he’d lost. The happy couple together one last time.
Fletcher turned and faced the room, holding their complete attention.
“Lucas Cole.”
The name was written in several different handwriting styles in similar notepads. Starling felt his fists clench, a surge of guilt and anger rendering his knuckles white.
“The reason this gets worse, is that, after Lucas came to me, he was tried and he was sentenced to the London Institute of Mental Health for an undetermined amount of time. They pumped him with the standard medications, listened to him from time to time. He never improved but he never worsened. For eight years, he merely existed as another name on a list that people had given up on.
“Until one day, Helen Murphy began her internship, a bright and beautiful girl, who was on the path to becoming one of London's top psychotherapists. Instead, she fell in love. I remember it vividly, I used to drop in from time to time, to show Lucas that the world hadn't given up on him. I don't know why – I guess eventually, you get sick and tired of seeing people treated like dirt. He told me about the moment he’d first seen her, how the world suddenly wasn't screaming at him to leave any more. He felt that he had a reason to talk to people. A reason to get better, and a reason to live.'
'So he got better?' a voice jumped from the seated audience.
“Not better, no. He just stopped. No violence. No outbursts. It was as if there was nothing to get better from. It wasn't exactly by the book, but it worked. And she fell in love with him just as quickly, much to the disapproval of her superiors, as you can imagine. Eventually they agreed to release him on the grounds that he was no longer a danger to anyone. They relocated to a sleepy village called Brinscall in Lancashire. She started up a private practice with an old university friend and Lucas got a job as a mechanic and spent his spare time being trained in the discipline of Muay Thai by his best friend, Alex. We’ve contacted Alex, who hasn't seen or heard from Lucas since he buried his wife.'
“So what does this all mean?” A young, brunette officer asked, aware that most of the guys looked at her with a hint of lust.
Bailey stepped into the centre again.
“It means we need to catch this man before this gets a hell of a lot worse. We have interviewed his work colleagues back home, his few friends. No family apart from the in-laws who didn't want to talk about it, which I'm not entirely surprised about.”
“What do we know?” Boulder, ever efficient, offered.
“We do know that he hasn't been seen in Brinscall since Helen's funeral. However he did withdraw eight thousand pounds from his and Helen's savings account on Saturday. We’ve checked CCTV for both Preston and London St. Pancras station for the entire weekend and nothing. His car is still parked outside his house in Brinscall, so unless he was given a lift which we doubt, we can assume he took a coach. Howson, Jeffers, I want you both running through all the major coach companies that travel either direct to Preston or link to Preston.'
The two officers, both middle-aged and world we
ary, nodded as they scribbled down their orders.
Fletcher looked on, his heart slowly throbbing as the feeling of failure set in. He could see the station all those years ago, his hair darker and thicker, as a gangly fourteen year-old boy sat across from him.
Blood stained his hands. His shirt.
His eyes were wet from tears.
Fletcher had promised him he was safe now. That he would make sure he would never go down such a path again.
He had failed.
“Do we know where he’s staying?” a voice brought Fletcher back to the room. Bailey shook his head.
“No we don't. Baker and McGuire have been checking with the leading chains: Premier Inn, Travelodge and so on, but nothing. We can assume, that if he’s taken out that amount of cash, he’s using it. No cards means no trace. Also, the chain hotels require ID and, as Fletcher has said, he seems to think about these things.'
“B&B's?” Officer Hatton, the pretty brunette, suggested.
“I'd say it's likely. I want you, McCarthy and Dobbs to start filtering through websites. Rooms to let, bed and breakfasts, the lot.”
“That's like chasing a small needle in a big, fucking haystack.” McCarthy sneered.
“Then maybe we’ll get lucky!' Bailey raised his voice. The room shook and all conversation stopped. “Bottom line people, we have very little to go on right now. I want the rest of the Draytons shadowed. Jensen will be delegating the babysitting. If you’re selected, don't get too close, we aren't exactly high up Curtis Drayton's Christmas card list right now. If we’re lucky, then maybe we can catch this psycho before he goes off again.”
The officers nodded in unison.
“Get to it.”
On those words, the officers all stood, the teams wandering off together with an unmistakable buzz of excitement swarming around them like bees. Starling stayed seated, his eyes transfixed on the back of the chair in front of him.
Fletcher approached Bailey, lowering his voice.
“With all due respect sir, Lucas isn't a psycho.”
“I'd say what he did at the batting cage begs to differ.”
“Sir, he’s a man who was exceptional at violence when pushed. I'd say he’s been pushed as far as possible.”
Bailey looked at Fletcher, his eyes betraying the confidence he’d projected to his officers.
“So what are you saying, Fletcher?”
“Sir, this is only going to get worse.”
“It's just one man.”
Fletcher turned and looked at the board, at the smiles that he’d never see again. He looked the sergeant dead in the eyes.
“One man with a reason.”
Starling pushed himself up off his chair, the room empty apart from the Sergeant and Fletcher who were talking quietly at the front. The weight of last night’s pandemonium hung from him like a medallion.
He needed his bed.
He wanted to see Annette.
He exhaled deeply, knowing she wasn't going to be there when he got home. He could get in his car and drive to Romford Hills Retirement Home and spend some time with his Dad, but it wouldn't do any good. He felt exhausted but, worst of all, he felt guilty.
He had willed something to happen that night. He didn't believe in fate or karma, or the idea that you need to be 'careful what you wish for'. But he still felt guilty.
What made it worse was he had seen the look in Lucas's eyes when he’d come back through that hospital door. That tell-tale aura of vengeance hanging around him like a spectre after he’d said goodbye to his wife for the last time. He’d let his sympathy cloud his judgement and now two people were dead and London was on the verge of a Drayton backlash. The last thing he needed was his father catering to his ego.
Bailey's boots echoed as they clomped towards the door.
“Haven't you got a girlfriend to go home to?”
Bailey stood by the door way, gesturing for Starling to leave.
“Sir, surely if this guy is targeting the Draytons then we should have more than one person shadowing them?”
Bailey sighed and pushed his glasses up as he rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“Look, Starling, it's been a hell of a night. I really don't need my directions being questioned, okay?”
Silence between them. Fletcher shuffled slowly to the door as Bailey, again, gestured for Starling to exit. He approached his Sergeant, his head shaking in disappointment.
“But we don't even know if they did it?”
“You were the one the other day who was banging the Drayton drum, saying that we needed to go after them.”
“That's because I'm pretty sure they did it.”
“Then what the hell is your point?” Bailey’s voice rose, a reminder of his seniority. A few heads in the office turned with interest.
“Just because we think they did it, doesn't mean they have. And that sure as hell doesn't give somebody else the right to take the law into their own hands.”
“I know what the law is, son. You’ll do well to remember that.”
“Lucas Cole has killed two members of a violent crime family, sir. I feel like we should be doing more.”
“A lot of the guys in the station wouldn't agree with that.”
“Fuck the other guys!”
“OFFICER STARLING!” Bailey lifted one of the plastic chairs and slammed it down, the metal legs clattering loudly. Fletcher took a step back and Starling took a breath.
“I'm sorry sir, it's just...”
“Just nothing. You’re a good kid, Starling, and a fine officer. I know the Draytons are the scum of this earth and I would like to see them all sitting in a cell, ticking the years off a calendar. However, this is the real world and we do what we can and we do our best.'
“Yes sir.” Starling said quietly, defeated.
“Right now, we don't have a lot but we’ll hunt Lucas to the ends of the world if we have to and hope we find him before they do. So let's be ready, see what his next move is and go from there.”
Bailey had simmered down, his authoritative demeanour had returned and he reached out and gave Starling a strong pat on the side of the arm.
“What if his next move is the same as his last?”
'Then you can give me a big, fat, fuck off 'I told you so'.”
Bailey smiled, for the first time in hours and Starling found it surprisingly irritating. He drew his lips shut and stormed past the Sergeant, aware that their already strained relationship would need even more repairing. Maybe if he caught Lucas, then this would all be put behind them. Bailey had a reputation for holding a grudge from time to time and Starling cursed himself as he headed to the locker room for arguing - yet again - with him. As he got to the door, he checked his mobile phone.
Annette had sent him a text.
Hey gorgeous. Just waiting for my brother now. Hope you’re okay, sounded like a rough night. I have ten mins if you want to talk? Smooches. Xx
Starling could once again smell her shampoo, his heart fluttering slightly at the thought of hearing her voice. To tell her everything that had happened, how he felt responsible but knew he wasn't. How he couldn't imagine the pain of losing her like Lucas had lost Helen. He turned from the locker room door and headed to the car park entrance, the phone already trying to connect him to the woman he was becoming ever more dependent on.
The oak desk had cost over five thousand pounds and sat proudly in Curtis Drayton's office. The value was diminishing every second as he pushed the blade of a knife into the polished wood, nuzzling a deeper cut as he twisted it.
Dry, maroon specks still clung to the blade.
The warm, comforting feeling began to flow back through Curtis, reminding him of a time when he took charge of a situation and protected his family. A feeling he wanted again, having spent a sleepless night in a blind fury.
Two of his brothers had been viciously slain.
He closed his eyes and took a calming breath. He remembered all of those years, missing sch
ool to earn a living by running drugs for local dealers. He recollected all the evenings where his father took his own inadequacies out on him in a downpour of insulting tirades and wild fists. The conversations with a crying Ashley, her face strained with horror as she tended to another bout of their father’s wrath, dabbing blood-soaked towels to his beaten face.
He remembered Mr Hamilton, the naïve PE teacher who’d taken Tommy under his wing and introduced him to boxing. Whenever Curtis came to collect his younger sibling, Hamilton would try and convince him to join. To learn how to protect himself.
How foolish, Curtis had thought, a man trying to take Curtis from a world he’d never understand.
Why be the one who throws the fists?
Curtis chuckled upon his recollections, the knife slowly twisting into the oak, shreds of dust pinging up and landing beside the glass of expensive scotch.
He looked at the blood which decorated the blade like a tattoo. He smiled.
Billy Mulgrave had run a series of drug rackets in East and South East London for over twenty years. A highly feared man, he ensured his business was large in scale, but small on people. He kept the company of only three men, entrusted with keeping certain people away from his door. Like Curtis, he had people willing to pull a trigger or take a few years in prison to stay in his good books. But his trust only belonged to a few.
That night, six years ago, he sat around the table in his office with the trusted men. Jack Grigg, Steve 'The Hand' Nickson and of course, the hulking figure of George Drayton. The rain clattered against the window as they discussed business, Mulgrave handing out instructions with quiet authority.
One by One: A brutal, gritty revenge thriller that you won't be able to put down. Page 22