Seven Days

by Alex Lake

  ‘There is no type,’ Ryan said. ‘At least not in my experience.’

  ‘I know. But I think there’s more to this than a runaway teenager.’

  ‘OK. It’s your case. What do you think happened?’

  ‘I think someone took her,’ Wynne said. ‘Could be random. Rape, maybe. Or murder. Or both. But I think she was taken.’

  ‘If she was, you want to hope she’s dead,’ DSI Ryan said. ‘Because the alternatives are not pretty.’

  Wynne nodded. This was the reason she’d come to talk to Ryan. She was an expert in the kinds of criminal gangs who trafficked young girls. Boys, too, sometimes.

  ‘What are the alternatives?’ Wynne said.

  ‘Forced prostitution. If it’s that, she could be anywhere in the world by now. Those people know how to move their victims around quickly. Or pornography. The really vile kind. Snuff movies, rape movies. Live shows on the internet where the punters tell the gang what they want them to do.’ Ryan caught Wynne’s gaze. ‘I’ve seen some bad things, Detective Inspector. People mutilated. Killed even. All so some bastard can get an erection. You want to hope she’s not caught up in that.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who might be able to tell us if she is? A grass?’

  Ryan shook her head. ‘No. It’s a closed world. Some of the gang bosses might know something, but even they keep away from this stuff. And they won’t talk to us anyway.’

  ‘Who would be most likely to know something?’

  Ryan looked at Wynne, her head tilted. ‘They won’t tell you anything. You’re police. The enemy.’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘It’s your investigation.’ Ryan lifted her mug to her lips. ‘One name springs to mind. He might know how to find out what’s out there. If there’s a new video, or live event or whatever they do.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mullins. Mike Mullins.’

  Wynne nodded. It was a familiar name. ‘I’ve heard of him. Manchester?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Thank you, Detective Superintendent,’ Wynne said.

  Ryan took a deep breath. ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘Be very careful.’

  2

  She had brought a uniformed officer, Mark Edwards, a tall man in his twenties. She didn’t think there’d be any trouble, but the presence of a uniform added a certain formality that could be useful.

  It also drew attention, which Wynne knew would piss Mike Mullins off. He had bought a large house on a tree-lined street in Lymm, a wealthy commuter village which was home to doctors and lawyers and accountants as well as a handful of gangsters who wanted their kids to go to good schools and have respectable friends, and he would not want his neighbours seeing the police show up.

  She didn’t care. She was glad to remind him how he had got hold of the money he’d bought his newfound respectability with. She parked by one of the trees – she didn’t know which type of trees they were, only that she couldn’t afford to live on a street with trees like them – and got out of the car.

  An electronically controlled gate blocked the long driveway leading to his house, but, as she and PC Edwards approached it there was a click and it swung open.

  The gravel crunched underfoot as they walked up to the large, black front door. Wynne rang the bell.

  No one came.

  ‘Bastard’s in,’ Edwards said, gesturing to a red Range Rover parked next to a Bentley. ‘He’s messing with us.’

  Wynne nodded. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘Time’s a-wasting.’

  She turned and started to walk back down the drive. The gate swung shut. Behind her, she heard the sound of the front door opening.

  ‘So,’ a voice said. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  Mike Mullins sat in an armchair facing them, his legs crossed. He was wearing tan brogues, green cords and an expensive-looking V-neck sweater over a pale blue shirt. He could have been a banker at his golf club. He probably had similarly well-developed moral principles.

  ‘I’ve never met you,’ he said, little more than a hint of a Manchester accent left in his voice. ‘Although I’ve met quite a few of your colleagues over the years. Which one sent you?’

  ‘Ryan,’ Wynne said.

  ‘I remember her. A superintendent now, correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘She deserves it.’ He shook his head. ‘Incorruptible, and I tried. Most of your lot have a price, higher or lower, but not her.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘Not that I’d say if I had bought her,’ Mullins said. ‘That would be stupid, right?’ He leaned forward. ‘And if there’s one thing I’m not, Detective Inspector Wynne, it’s stupid.’ He sat back again. ‘Now we’ve got that out of the way, what can I do for you?’

  Wynne was impressed he had remembered her name. She had only mentioned it once. ‘I need help. Information, if you have it.’

  ‘And why would I help you?’

  ‘Because I’ve done my research.’

  He stared at her. His eyes were dark. ‘What does that mean?’

  Wynne held his gaze. ‘It means I know you have a fifteen-year-old daughter. Amanda goes to Withington Girls’ School.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What the fuck are you saying? Is this some kind of threat?’ He pointed at Wynne, his finger stabbing the air. ‘Because if it is, and you bring my daughter into this, I will destroy you, understand? Do you under—’

  PC Edwards got to his feet. ‘Watch it,’ he said. ‘Be careful, Mr Mullins.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Plod,’ Mullins said. ‘This is between me and her.’

  ‘Your daughter is of no interest to me,’ Wynne said. ‘Other than the fact you have one. And she’s fifteen.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A fifteen-year-old girl has gone missing,’ Wynne said. ‘And we have reason to believe she has been abducted. It’s possible it was opportunistic and she has been killed, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Mullins said.

  ‘That she’s being forced into prostitution or pornography or something similar.’

  ‘And you think I might be involved in it?’

  ‘No,’ Wynne said. ‘But you might know someone who is.’

  Mullins shook his head. ‘No. I don’t. I know those people exist, but I have nothing to do with them. They’re filth.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re so principled,’ Wynne said. ‘But I’m sure there’s something you could tell me.’

  Mullins laughed. ‘It’s not principle,’ he said. ‘It’s lack of information. The scum who peddle that kind of shit keep themselves to themselves. It’s a very secretive world, Detective Inspector. It has to be. If people like me found out who they were, we’d take care of them. For good. We’re not as squeamish as you.’

  Wynne felt her hopes deflate. She’d been right that Mullins would find it disgusting, but she was wrong that he would have anything he could tell her.

  ‘But you would inform us if you heard anything?’ she said.

  He studied her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I would. Just this once, I would.’

  She stood up.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  3

  DI Wynne knocked on the door of a semi-detached house on a quiet street about a mile from the Coopers’ house, in the village of Stockton Heath. It was a lively place, prosperous and growing, populated with a mixture of long-established inhabitants and more recently arrived commuters.

  In Wynne’s experience, the arrival of new people changed the character of places like Stockton Heath: they were less embedded in the life of the village, less likely to call on their neighbours. Once, everyone would have known everyone’s business in the village. Now, people kept themselves to themselves.

  She looked to her right. There was a large bay window. The curtains were open, but there was a blind drawn halfway down. Through the gap she could see a floral couch and a large television. To the left was a garage; it was closed, and no car was in the
driveway.

  She rang the doorbell again.

  PC Edwards nodded at the side of the house. ‘Want me to take a look around the back?’

  ‘Give it another minute,’ she said. A few seconds later, she heard footsteps, then the sound of a chain being put in place. The door opened the length of the chain.

  ‘Yes?’ a man’s voice said. ‘How can I help you?’

  Wynne gestured to Edwards to step back so that he would be visible to anyone looking through the side window. She wanted the occupant to see that it was the police.

  ‘We’d like to talk to you, Mr Best,’ Wynne said. ‘There’s something you might be able to help us with.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s an ongoing inquiry.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing,’ Best replied.

  ‘I only want to talk to you.’

  ‘I have nothing to say. And you’re not coming in without a warrant. You can’t, and you know it.’

  Wynne was expecting his answer. People like Best knew the system. They knew their rights, and they claimed them at every turn.

  At least, they thought they knew the system. The system had some tricks of its own, and Wynne was not above using them, especially with people like Best.

  Especially when something so important was on the line.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘You’re right. We can’t come in. We’ll go.’ She turned to PC Edwards. ‘But we might need to come back. My colleague thinks he may have heard a noise from inside this abode. Sounds like possible domestic violence. And it wouldn’t be the first time there’s been a complaint about this address.’ She rubbed her forefinger on her lips, as though thinking. ‘And that would be grounds for a warrant, I’m pretty sure of it.’

  She leaned forward and put her face near the gap between the door and the frame. She spoke in a stage whisper. ‘I don’t want my colleague to hear this,’ she said. ‘He’s young and I wouldn’t want to shock him. But when he and his buddies turn up with that warrant they’ll turn this place upside down. Rip up your mattresses, smash your cupboards, take a shit on your bathroom floor, dig into your computer. And they’ll find something, won’t they, Best? Because people like you always have something. Kiddie porn, stolen knickers, evidence of hours spent in chatrooms pretending to be the same age as the people you’re talking to. We’ll find it, Best. We’ll find it and then we’ll use it to unravel your life and lock you up for as long as we see fit.’

  She stopped then stepped back.

  ‘So, Mr Best,’ she said. ‘If you aren’t going to let us in, we’ll be on our way. But we’ll see you soon.’

  The door closed, and there was a click as the chain was undone.

  4

  Wynne stood in the hallway. To the right was the room with the bay window. At the far end was a door open on to a kitchen. A pale green carpet covered the floor and ran up the stairs to her left. There was a faint smell of disinfectant.

  She recognized it from the last time she’d been here. The neighbours had called in a domestic dispute. She’d been in uniform then, and had come in to find Best’s wife, Carol, hiding in the upstairs bathroom. Her nose was broken and she had a contusion on the back of her head. Best was gone; another unit picked him up on the M56 heading towards Manchester.

  He said he’d had an argument with his wife and was going for a drive to clear his head. Carol Best had a different explanation. She said he’d gone to destroy the photos they’d been arguing about.

  Photos of school girls that he’d taken with a long lens camera and collected in an album, which he had hidden at the back of a cupboard where they kept the computer manuals. She had found it when the computer failed to start and she called customer support. She couldn’t follow their instructions, so they suggested she find the manual and look through it.

  She found more than the manual, and, when she confronted her husband with the album, he went crazy and said he was going to kill her.

  He didn’t; she managed to get away and lock herself in the bathroom. Best left the house, taking the photo album – and any negatives, Wynne checked the house for them – with him. He’d developed them himself, so there was no other record of them.

  Despite the darkroom he had, he denied the photos had ever existed, claiming Carol had invented them to cover up an affair she had been having, which was the real cause of their argument. He had confronted her with it, and she had attacked him. He had hit her in self-defence – and he apologized for it, he really felt truly sorry, he’d not meant to hurt her – and then fled the house, worried about the police.

  In the end, she declined to press charges in exchange, Wynne suspected, for a quick and generous divorce and the chance to get as far away from Best as quickly as possible.

  Wynne, though, asked around, and heard from more than one teenager – boys and girls – that they had seen him at the window with his camera.

  He’s a creepy fucker, one girl said. Always lookin’ at you.

  That in itself wasn’t a crime, but Wynne hadn’t forgotten it.

  And now a fifteen-year-old girl was missing and she was going to look Best in the eye and ask him if he knew anything about it.

  Maybe Mike Mullins knew nothing about the people who sold this stuff, but he was different to Best. The people who sold it needed Best. He was a consumer. And consumers of any commodity made it their business to know how to get hold of it. There were hidden networks, and she would have bet that Best knew all about them.

  Best nodded towards the kitchen. Wynne and Edwards followed him through the door. He and Edwards sat down. Wynne stayed on her feet.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘Fine. This isn’t a social call, I take it?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘Any ideas?’ Wynne asked.

  ‘None.’

  ‘A girl has gone missing. She’s fifteen. Local.’

  Best shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Wynne stared at him. His demeanour was unassuming, meek, broken by life, but the look in his eyes belied it. They were cold and unflinching. He was, she saw, a dangerous man.

  ‘Hundred per cent,’ he said. He crossed his arms. He was wearing a white shirt and grey trousers. Behind him by the sink was a plate with some boiled vegetables and fish fingers on it.

  ‘Early for dinner,’ Wynne said.

  ‘I eat when I want. I’m hungry now.’

  ‘For fish fingers?’

  ‘I like them.’

  ‘Aren’t they kids’ food?’ Wynne said.

  Best sighed. ‘They’re easy to cook, and I’m not fussy.’

  Wynne placed a photo of Maggie on the table.

  ‘Recognize this girl?’ he said.

  ‘No. Never seen her before in my life.’

  ‘You sure? You sure she’s not the kind of girl you might have taken an interest in?’

  Best’s eyes narrowed. ‘That is a vile allegation, and it is totally unfounded. What my wife – ex-wife, thankfully – accused me of is disgusting, and I would never do anything like that.’ He pointed at Wynne. ‘And you need to understand that.’

  He picked up the photo and passed it to Wynne.

  ‘We both know that’s not true,’ Wynne said. ‘Which is why we’re here. Since we are, you mind if we have a look around? Still got that darkroom?’

  Best nodded. ‘It’s upstairs. And look all you want. There’s nothing to find.’

  ‘We’ll take a look anyway,’ Wynne said. She was unnerved by his confidence. He certainly didn’t seem at all perturbed by the prospect of his house being searched. Perhaps there was nothing.

  Or perhaps it was just well hidden. ‘We’ll start upstairs,’ she said.

  She and Edwards walked out of the kitchen and up the staircase. There were four doors, three closed – bedrooms, she assumed – and one ajar. She could see a sink in the gap.

  She gestured to
Edwards to go into the furthest room. She took the nearest.

  It was the darkroom. There was a table with pans of liquid on it, and a rack on to which Best had pegged photos. A duck on a pond, a view of a woodland, a boat going past a swing bridge.

  ‘Those will be ruined now,’ Best said.

  ‘You’ll live.’

  ‘I have the negatives. I can make more.’

  Wynne backed out of the room. She opened another door. A guest bedroom, by the look of it. A single bed that had not been slept in, a bookcase, and a wardrobe. She looked around, glancing under the bed, then opened the wardrobe. There were a few old suits hanging in it, dust on the shoulders. On the floor was a ukulele, the strings broken. Other than that it was empty.

  She went on to the landing. Edwards was standing at the top of the stairs. He shook his head, then gestured to the ceiling. ‘I’ll check the attic,’ he said.

  ‘I can get you a stepladder, if you’d like,’ Best said.

  Edwards shook his head. ‘No need.’ He went into the master bedroom and came out with a chair. ‘I can use this.’

  He stood on the chair and opened the hatch, then pulled himself through it. A light went on, then Wynne heard his muffled voice.

  ‘It’s empty.’

  They went back downstairs and into the kitchen. Edwards opened the back door. The garden was small, surrounded by a high fence. There was a patio and a fish pond and a messy, overgrown lawn. At the far end was a shed. Wynne walked slowly to it, looking for places – maybe a corner cut off behind the fence – where something – someone – could be hidden.

  There was nothing. Nothing in the shed, either. Just some old tools and a push mower.

  ‘Let’s check the garage,’ she said.

  It was a one-car garage, Best’s blue Ford Focus taking up most of the space. Wynne and Edwards entered through the kitchen; there was a door to the garden on the far side.

  She tried the car door. It was unlocked and she pulled the lever that opened the boot.

  It – and the garage – was empty.

  When they had finished, she went back to the kitchen. Best was drinking a cup of tea. The plate was in front of him, empty. There was a smear of ketchup on the edge.