by Gwyn GB
Today she was anxious.
Chief Inspector Graham McDermid was making the final preparations for the operation. He was the Territorial Support Group commander who was leading the raid on Cameron’s lock-up. He hadn’t been overly pleased to see DCI Barker arrive in the middle of his operation, but she’d promised to keep out of the way while he and his team did their job. Her boss, Detective Superintendent Robert Jackson, had made the call that the firearms squad wasn’t needed. There had been nothing so far to indicate that Cameron Platt had any weapons. Even Darren’s death had been nonviolent, so they’d gone with the Territorial Support Group, well used to gaining entry quickly and efficiently during drug raids. They had Tasers on them, as well as the standard issue PAVA spray every officer carried for protection.
If Platt was holed up in garage number five, with young Alex Fuller, then what they needed was the element of surprise. They couldn’t give Platt the opportunity to grab the boy and threaten him or kill him. The other option was Alex was in there alone. Question was: in what state? Dead or alive?
Sandra Barker wasn’t a religious woman, but it was at times like this that she wished she were. She knew lots of coppers who had some kind of ritual they did before going in on a big job. For her, it was about state of mind. She’d once read a book called The Secret, which basically said it’s all down to the law of attraction and if you visualise and believe in something enough, you’ll get it. If you asked her in the pub if she believed all that, she’d give an ‘as if’ look and brush it off as nonsense. When faced with life-or-death situations, however, she privately grasped at it. Willing for that garage door to open and reveal a little boy sitting alive and well and waiting to be rescued. Some days she even added in a secret little prayer. Today was one of those days.
CI McDermid had established a perimeter of lookouts and secured the area, ensuring they weren’t caught on the hop if Cameron decided to drive up or walk to his storage unit. Once the operation was about to begin, they’d be boosted by uniformed officers to ensure the public didn’t get tangled up and that no one got away.
Two TS guys had done the reccy, scoping out the area and looking at access points, including the lock-up’s security, and bringing back the information so a plan could be drawn up. Images of their walk around had been sent to the TV screens in front of CI McDermid and DCI Barker via their body cams.
The garages were all front entrance only. A small alley ran behind them, giving access to the back gardens of the houses behind but no points of entry into the garages themselves. Two young guys were working on a motorbike in unit three, which was two doors down from Platt’s unit. Their banter and the sound of the grinders and sanders they were using would be good sound cover. They were going to have to drill the lock to get into Platt’s garage, which would mean precious seconds of time when he could hurt the boy. At least with some other noise, they’d gain a few of those back by the time he realised it was his door that was under attack. They couldn’t contact the owner of the garage for a spare key, in case he tipped Platt off. Besides, it turned out he was someone well known to them, after more than a few visits to their custody suite; and he was currently residing in Spain. The likelihood of him wanting to assist the police, was slim to say the least.
On the right side of Platt’s garage, unit six was empty, its door open and damaged. CI McDermid had considered stationing someone in there and just watching and listening, seeing if Platt ventured out, but it was too risky. If he heard they’d found his flat, he’d know it could be just a matter of time before they came looking for him here. Alex Fuller could be in there dying right now. They had to act.
Jack Salter caught up with DCI Barker as the team was making its final preparations. Two officers were in position to speak to the young men in lock-up three, and they were to be escorted away from the area and put under watch in a patrol car, just in case they decided to use their mobiles and tell someone. Six officers were making final preparations to their equipment and getting back into the van, which would take them to the entrance of the lock-up area. Joining them was a specialist at gaining entrance to properties. Sergeant Thompson had a flawless reputation in the Met; he’d never failed to open a door in seconds, and he carried the specialist drilling equipment he’d use on the lock.
‘All okay?’ Sandra asked Jack as he took his place next to her.
He knew she wasn’t talking about the enquiry, but with other officers in close proximity she wouldn’t voice the exact nature of her question.
‘They’re fine. Thank you, ma’am,’ he replied. She was right; he was going to have to deal with this somehow and soon.
Meanwhile, they both had their eyes glued to the screen, and their ears followed the whispers of the officers as they one-by-one confirmed they were in position and ready to go.
First priority was to remove the two young men from any danger. The officers moved swiftly; two of them took the equipment off them so there was barely a hiccup in the noise, while two others led the shocked men away to safety.
At their unit, the two police officers continued the grinding and sanding noises and spread themselves out a bit farther to be closer to their target. If Platt could see out through his garage door, he wouldn’t be able to spot them due to the angle. Having the unit next door empty was helpful; it had given them the chance to work out the size of the units and visibility. They knew just how close they could be before they potentially came into the line of view.
The radios went silent but stayed open for emergencies. It was all sign language now. A well-practiced set of hand movements and facial expressions everyone in the team understood. Watching their colleagues’ every move and following the team leader was essential. They all knew it could mean the difference between the success of an operation or its failure—or even the death of one of them. They were ready for anything, adrenaline was pumping. Every single one of them hoped that behind the door of garage number five, they’d find a little boy unharmed.
Silently they approached the garage, careful not to step on anything that might give away their presence. Three came from the left and three from the right. A pincer movement that would ensure the whole garage was covered the second the door was open.
The two officers at unit three stepped up the sanding and grinding noise. As Barker and Salter followed the action, they watched Sergeant Thompson shoot out from the blind side of unit five with his large lock drill. He had it in position and the lock was demobilised within seconds.
It all happened really fast after that.
Warnings shouted. All six officers converged in a coordinated movement, Tasers ready as the garage door was flung up.
On the screens in front of Barker and Salter, they saw beams of white from the searchlights as the officers scoured the dark lock-up for any sign of Alex.
Left. There were some mounds on the floor. They strained to see, but it was just carrier bags of rubbish.
Right. Was that a weapon on the ground? The light shone on it and picked up the detail of a spray-paint gun.
Upwards. Nothing.
Back. More rubbish. An empty milk carton and an old copy of a tabloid.
They systematically scanned the whole of the interior. It was empty.
‘Clear,’ came the message from the team leader.
The TV screens showed nothing but red spray paint on the walls and floor, and the rubbish.
It was all Barker could do to not let out a groan. Realising she’d been holding her breath, she allowed a sigh to escape. Beside her, Salter muttered an expletive.
‘Get forensics in there now. We need to know if Alex or Darren have been in that lock-up, or if Platt has been holding them somewhere else. And find out what date is on the newspaper and the milk carton. That might at least give us a timeframe.’
DCI Barker turned away and cursed The Secret and her own stupidity for believing a prayer might be answered. Her hopes of reuniting a little boy with his family were dashed. She had to get back to the station
and get everyone together to try to figure out what they needed to do next.
28
Harrison was in his office. He’d just finished writing a brief report on the Dulwich house case. The Brazilian couple were under arrest, and the Crown Prosecution wanted as much information as possible ahead of charging. There was also something else that had been niggling him since he’d left the scene. It was one of those hunches that he was never quite sure came from experience or from what he’d observed in the photographs of the family and the situation. He suggested to DI Chowdhury that she get both the children DNA tested and cross-referenced with the dead woman.
He knew the raid on Cameron Platt’s lock-up had garnered nothing that they didn’t already know. Harrison heard the pain in Sandra’s voice as she told him on the phone and requested he come over for a team briefing in the next hour. He knew she was feeling it, but it was nothing compared to what the Fullers must be going through. He needed to get under Cameron’s skin, walk in his footsteps, and see the life and environment in which he lived. The forensics team was still in the flat and removing John Platt’s body wouldn’t be a quick process. He had to wait awhile.
Harrison went to pick up his jacket to head to Lewisham. Just as he was about to leave, an email pinged into his inbox.
It made him stop and click to read. He’d been waiting for this one.
Afternoon, Dr Lane,
I can confirm that Mr Desmond Manning had been resident in this county at 22 Ridgeway Drive, Cardiff, CF10 1ZP, but unfortunately, he moved in 2001, and we don’t have a forwarding address. I suspect he might be living under a false name. There are several debt orders against him and his wife Freda. We did have occasion to arrest him after a disturbance at the property involving a neighbour (photograph attached), but no conviction was attained, as the alleged victim dropped their complaint.
Best wishes,
Sergeant Adam Evans
Harrison thumped his desk in frustration before scrolling down the page to look at the photograph. It was the same man from the photograph now on his pin board, only he wasn’t in black robes, just an ordinary T-shirt. Despite the situation and his clothing, and his grey hair and sagging skin, his dark eyes still bore into the camera lens with an intensity and confidence that spoke only of evil.
Harrison clenched his jaw and closed his eyes to calm the rage building in him. If he could only get his hands on that man.
‘Y’all right, boss?’ Ryan waddled into the office, a steaming hot chocolate in his hand.
Harrison didn’t answer immediately.
‘Boss?’
‘Fine. Thanks, Ryan,’ Harrison replied. He shut down his computer, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, and crashed out of the office.
‘Okay. One of those moods then,’ Ryan said to himself as he sat down. His eye caught the photograph on the pin board Harrison had been looking at. He went over to take a closer look.
He knew his boss’s history, the tragedy that drove him. He also knew just how many people had benefitted from that drive, himself included. If something had pissed him off, tomorrow he’d be back stronger and more determined. Ryan had tried so many times to emulate him, find the concentration and ability to see what he saw—be the person he was—but he never could get close. Dr Harrison Lane was one of a kind, and it didn’t matter if sometimes he was moody; he knew it wasn’t personal, and Ryan would do whatever he could to help him.
When Harrison arrived at Lewisham, the incident room was packed. DCI Barker had called everyone in for a brainstorm and to assess what they’d found and, crucially, missed. There was a definite feeling of disappointment following the empty lock-up. A heaviness in the air, but they weren’t beat yet.
DCI Barker walked out her office and clapped her hands for quiet. The room fell instantly silent. She had everyone’s respect.
‘Forensics just confirmed a match between the fingerprints found at Cameron Platt’s flat and the partials on the torch with Darren Phillips. I don’t need to tell you how critical this is. It’s been fifty-two hours since Alex went missing; we could be running out of time. All resources need to focus on Platt and where he might be now.’
DCI Barker looked around at everyone’s faces, which were all turned towards her. A few heads hung down, dejected. She knew they were all working flat out. If any of them had managed more than a handful of hours’ sleep for the last two nights, they were very lucky. They all knew the first forty-eight hours of the case were the most critical. That golden window when you were most likely to catch your culprit before the trail went cold. She had to rally them, keep them giving their all for Alex, as well as Darren Phillips’s family.
‘We’ve made progress,’ she said. ‘We now know who the killer is, who has Alex. We’ve just got to find him.’ She breathed for a moment and let the words sink in before she went on. ‘I want every one of you to share the latest information, no matter how tiny, no matter how much you think it’s insignificant, with all of us. One or two things you’ve heard or found out about Cameron Platt that you think are important. With the collective experience in this room, we need to pull together, and rather than just read words on a screen, give me your hunches and instincts. I want your human intuition, not just data from the computers.’
It was a game she’d played at conferences before, when you first meet everyone and the person who is leading the day gets you to do an ice breaker so you can get to know a bit about each other. Only this time, she wanted her team to get to know Cameron Platt better.
One of the uniformed officers volunteered to kick it off.
‘Ma’am, I spoke to a prostitute that works the Berry Lane area. Showed her a photograph of Platt. She reckoned he used to come round about once a month. "Shifty little shit" were her words. Never wanted full sex, just hand and blow jobs and he wanted her to be fully clothed whenever she was doing it.’
‘So he does like women, but from what we know about his religious background going to a prostitute was clearly not allowed. That cause him some psychological issues, Dr Lane?’
Harrison was in his usual spot, leant against the wall at the back of the room. He’d been listening. Thinking.
‘Definitely. We know he has a love-hate relationship with the Church and Christianity. That’s because of his father’s behaviour and his own inner devil coming out. He knows he should be able to control it and banish it, but if he’s going there regularly, he obviously can’t. Repressed sexuality is important, but it’s not the motivation for us.’
PC Deborah Fletcher raised her hand to speak.
‘Ma’am, he was a loner. Never any sign of friends, let alone girlfriends according to the closest neighbours. One of them reckoned he’d barely left London all his life. Certainly never went on holidays.’
‘So he has to be holding him somewhere local?’ DCI Barker said, aiming her question to the back of the room again.
‘If he’s been upset by his father’s death,’ said Harrison, ‘and I’m not talking upset because he’s going to miss him, but because his father was a domineering individual who controlled most of Cameron’s life even as an adult. If he’s upset, he’ll want familiarity and comfort. So yes, everything points to local.’
‘A couple of the street sleepers reckon there’s a new bloke bedding down around the big church on Fenton Road.’ A young DC volunteered.
‘Check it out,’ said DCI Barker. ‘He could also be sleeping in his van so make sure you keep an eye out for a post office van. Get the Specials involved, they might have better relations with those on the street. Ask them to see if anyone has seen anything or noticed a man and a boy in a squat somewhere.’
‘In the lock-up, ma’am,’ said one of the forensic team, ‘we didn’t find any teak oil. There were definitely traces on Darren’s clothing.’
DCI Barker and the rest of the room stashed that information away. They also listened and noted down every other morsel that their colleagues shared with them. It took just half an hour, but it gave
colour to a man who until a few hours ago hadn’t even existed for them.
DCI Barker suddenly felt tired. The adrenaline from earlier had worn off and in its place was a weariness that came with expecting her mind and body to be on permanent full throttle. She gave a final rallying cry to her troops.
‘I want a result. Don’t leave anywhere unchecked. Ask every person you meet if they’ve seen him, a boy’s life is depending on us.’
The gathering broke up without a crescendo of noise. The weight of responsibility had quelled that. Every man and woman in the room wanted a result. They wanted to find Alex Fuller alive.
DCI Barker waved Harrison over. Her bloodshot eyes looked at him from within dark circles. She looked beat, her skin dry and pale. Harrison knew just how much she put into her job and as a mother, just how hard cases like this were.
‘Forensics have said you can go into the flat now. They obviously still want it kept intact as a crime scene, but the initial work is done, and Platt Senior’s been removed. Can you get over there please? See if there’s anything else you can determine about this man. Any clues in what he’s written on the walls. We’re drawing blanks, Harrison. We’ve searched everywhere we can think of. I need a miracle.’
29
Harrison loved how riding his bike cleared the anger from his bloodstream and freed his spirit. It wasn’t easy in London, not like getting out on the open road, but just the feel of the bike beneath him and the fact he was in full control of a powerful machine, helped. By the time he pulled up to the Marion Estate flats, he’d calmed down about his disappointment with the Mannings. Harrison slowly rode around the area looking at the parking situation and decided that putting his prized Harley into an official car park was going to be a lot safer than pulling up and leaving it outside the flats. Besides, the walk would give him time to focus. He needed to get his head together. It irritated him how anything to do with Desmond Manning could wind him up and wreck his concentration.