by Vince Vogel
“It’s funny that I’m so hungry,” she commented as she munched through the food. “I mean, after what I did. Int it weird?”
Nobody said anything. Merely let the girl finish her food.
Once that was done, Alice started the interview.
“So, Tina,” the detective began, “tell me what happened tonight.”
“From where?”
“Anywhere you want to start.”
The girl had to think about this. She turned to the social worker, as though needing her support, and the woman told her gently that it was okay to proceed.
Turning back to Alice, Tina started.
“I was taken to the house.”
“By whom?”
“I only know one bloke by his initials. AJ. But I don’t know the others’ names. They never tell you. They keep you at this place, see, ’n’—”
Alice held her hand up for the girl to stop. Tina glanced sideways at the social worker, as if she’d done something wrong.
“I’ll stop you there,” Alice said. “If we can stick to tonight for the time being. We’ll get to the other thing later. I just need to clarify what happened tonight.”
“He kept stranglin’ me,” the girl complained. “I’ve been to him before ’n’ he’s always trying to put that cord ’round your neck. He got really rough. Threw me against a wall. That’s why I’m all bruised. Then he pinned me down so I couldn’t get up.” Her speech was getting frantic. “Began puttin’ his hands ’round me neck,” she went on, almost out of breath. “He began stranglin’ me real bad. I nearly went to sleep. I screamed at him. But he wouldn’t listen. I thought he were gonna kill me. Then I saw the knife sittin’ near the bed. He’d been using it to cut limes for his drinks. I grabbed it ’n’ just hit him. That’s when he let go. I just remember there bein’ loadsa blood. Like everywhere. It got in me eyes ’n’ everythin’. I wiped it off me face ’n’ that’s when I see him just starin’ out. He looked ’orrible.”
She paused. Frozen in time. Frozen in the moment she realized that she’d killed a man.
“Then what happened?”
Her eyes came back to life.
“I went ’n’ got a shower. Washed the blood off. Then I felt hungry. I went to make a sandwich ’n’ that’s when you ’n’ the other bloke came.”
“Did you know the name of the man you stabbed today?”
“He likes to be called ‘Daddy’.”
Alice cringed, as did the social worker.
“Let’s get back to these other men,” the detective pressed on. “You say you don’t know their names. Can you tell me something about them and how you ended up with them?”
The girl gazed into space with wide eyes. She brought her fingers up to her mouth and began chewing the nails.
“A year ago I were on streets,” she began. “I’d taken train down to London. Thought I could make somethin’ of me-self. Lie about me age ’n’ get a job. Though to tell truth, I didn’t know what I were doin’. Just wanted to get away, I guess. So anyway, I’m in London beggin’ ’n’ the like when some bloke offered me a place to stay.”
“Who was he?”
“I only ever knew him as AJ. He took me to a place. Looked like a boardin’ house. Full o’ other young girls. The first night, they gave me somethin’ to eat ’n’ a room on me own. I thought it were some kind o’ charity place. I kept tellin’ them that I didn’t want them to take me ’ome ’n’ they said they wouldn’t let me. I thought they were dead kind. But I were wrong. The next day one o’ the older girls came to see me. She told me that I would have to work. That I owed money for the food ’n’ room. I said I were cool wi’ that. Then she told me what I’d have to do. When she did, I tried to get out o’ there. I were a virgin. But the doors were locked. Then some bloke beat me. Told me that if I didn’t pay back what I’d already had, they’d kill me ’n’ bury me somewhere no one would ever find me.”
“Where was this house?”
“I don’t know. They moved us from there.”
“When was this roughly?”
“About a month after I got there. Put us in a minibus and drove us somewhere else. That’s where we’re at now.”
“Do you know where this place is?”
“Nah. They put cardboard over the windows o’ the van so you couldn’t see where you were goin’.”
“What about in the house? Were there windows?”
“Some. But they don’t like you opening the curtains and looking out.”
“But you do look out?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you see?”
“A cemetery. Graves for as far as I can see. A train runs behind it. I hear this a lot.”
“Do you know the name of the cemetery? Is it written anywhere?”
“Not that I see. The gate’s at the other end o’ the fencing. We’re at the back of it.”
“What about other buildings?”
“There’s houses at the other end o’ it, but not on the road we’re on. Only boarded up buildin’s. It ain’t much, I know, ’n’, like I say, if they catch you at the windows they give you a hidin’. All I ever really got a real look at were the inside o’ men’s houses. Old men. I get to look off their balconies. They have such nice houses. It ain’t fair, really. Such nice houses ’n’ yet they’re such ’orrible bastards.”
14
Jack stood smoking the second cigarette of his second pack. Stood at the bottom of Tommy Lewis’ garden underneath some conifers, watching the windows of the house as forensics moved about in the lighted rooms inside. The body was well gone and the crime clean cut. However, what they were after was what they’d originally come for: evidence of illegal guns. In one way, the murder of Lewis had made their job a little easier.
Jack spotted Lange come to the back door. He then watched his younger colleague walk across the manicured lawn and join him.
“What kind of monster could do that to a child?” he asked.
“There’s plenty of them about.”
“If you ask me, he got what he deserved.”
“Are you advocating murder, George?”
“Self-defense, Sarge.”
“It still makes you a killer.”
“But one with little choice.”
Circumstances made you a killer, echoed in Jack’s ear.
“I guess,” the detective replied, throwing his cigarette down and twisting his heel over it.
“We found something!” someone called out from the house.
Both detectives looked over. A forensics operative stood at the back door gazing across the lawn at both of them.
The man led them inside the house to a basement, a concrete cell with some shelves along one wall and the rest of the room filled with boxes and other junk. At the wall farthest from the stairs, several operatives stood before a gap. A false panel leaned up against a corner.
Jack and Lange followed the operative through the gap and into another room. Immediately, both men observed the innumerable weapons lining the walls like tools in a hardware store. Lewis had even gone to the effort of drawing an outline around each. Jack did the same in his shed so that he knew what went where. The guns were ordered appropriately. There were shotguns in a line, ranging from a simple pump-action to some sort of military grade thing that looked ready to take down a helicopter. Semi-automatics took up the next space that Jack’s eyes settled on. The M16A1 he recognized from his time during the Falklands conflict. He’d killed with it. There was a series of carbines dotted up another wall. Then came a vast group of handguns. It was when his eyes settled on the outline of the .44 Magnum that Jack felt something jolt.
“Have any weapons been found in any other part of the house?” he asked as his eyes stared at the outline.
“No,” the operative replied.
“Sarge?” Lange said.
Jack turned to him. The detective constable was standing at the wall opposite. It was where the sniper rifles stood. There was a long outline where one should be.
“George,” Jack began, “I need you to find out who else has access to this house. I also need you to look into Lewis. Family. Everything. Find out who he’s in touch with. Who he may have leant his guns out to. Who he deals to. Whatever you can get.”
“Could’ve been a theft,” Lange suggested.
“You could be right, but he may have known the thief, so get on it.”
“Will do.”
Lange left the room, picking his phone out as he did. Jack turned back to the operative.
“Is there any way of finding out what’s missing?”
“You’re in luck,” the operative replied. “We found a log book. It appears that he kept a list of the weapons.”
“Okay. I want to know exactly what’s missing. I want a thorough search done. Have you found the ammunition yet?”
“In these drawers.”
The operative went over to a wall, kneeled down and pulled a drawer out from the bottom. Inside were boxes of ammunition. Handgun bullets that increased in caliber as the boxes went from left to right. When Jack’s eyes reached the .44, he saw one box remaining. On its cover: Remington .44 Hollow Point Cartridges. It was as if he’d left it there to taunt them.
“It looks like he was planning to start a war,” someone said from the doorway.
Jack turned around and saw several operatives staring in.
“And other clichés,” he mumbled to himself before turning back to the lone box of bullets.
His phone went off. It was Alice. Nodding to the operatives, Jack left the room.
“I think I’ve found out where he got his gun from,” he said as he walked up the stone steps of the basement.
“How?”
“Secret room in the basement where Lewis keeps his guns. Got a pretty big arsenal. Dunn wasn’t lying.”
“But how can you be sure our killer got his weapon from there?”
“There’s a rather big handgun missing and a load of .44 hollow point bullets gone, too. He left one box behind.”
“To let us know?”
“That’s what I felt. But there’s more. Several other guns are also missing. A sniper rifle for sure, but there could be more.”
“Have you got anyone attempting to catalogue them?”
“Yeah. It appears Lewis kept a log.”
“Good.”
“What did you get from the girl?”
“Tina Shaw. Missing for a year. Came to London from Barnsley.”
“The streets paved with gold scenario,” Jack quipped.
“Whatever it was, she found them paved with something else. For most of the last year, she’s been locked up in some building, only to be shipped around the country to old men. She’d been to Lewis’ several times. He liked to strangle them. Just like his previous conviction. He went too far. She thought he was going to kill her, so she grabbed the knife and hit it into his neck.”
“What do you reckon on sentencing?”
“Mitigating circumstances. Continued abuse. Probably placed under observation and then given a suspended sentence under the condition of continued observation. She’s not a killer, but she is damaged and needs help. She’s being taken to a psychiatric hospital for vulnerable girls in an hour or so.”
“What about the people who kept her there?”
“She doesn’t know their names. I’ve got her giving physical descriptions of them now. Also of the other girls and the women working at the house. Maybe some of the photofits will match people we already know.”
“She not know where this building is?”
“They don’t let them look out the windows. She gave a vague description and I’ve got some people on it now. They’re looking for a building near a cemetery. A train track at the end.”
“Could be anywhere.”
“It’s all we have.”
The two were silent. Jack found himself back outside under the conifers. Without even realizing it, he’d lit a smoke and it dangled from his bottom lip.
“What are you doing now?” Alice asked him.
“I’ve got George looking into connections to Lewis and I was gonna go see Dunn again. See if he can’t elaborate on our good friend Tommy Lewis.”
“That’s good. See if he won’t tell you a thing or two about how girls like Tina Shaw end up being strangled by men like Tommy Lewis.”
“I’ll try. But he’s only ever willing to feed me scraps. I’d be surprised if he gives us anything concrete.”
“Well, do what you can and then call it a night. I’ve got to meet the parents of the victims early tomorrow and then deal with the autopsies, so I’m gonna call it a night too.”
“Okay. Nighty night, then.”
He heard her groan down the phone and then the line went dead. Rolling his eyes and placing his phone back in his pocket, he looked up and saw Lange coming towards him.
“I put a check through on Tommy Lewis,” his young colleague stated. “No immediate family. Divorced back in 2000. Never married again. Parents both dead, being that he was sixty-three. A sister that lives in Manchester.”
“You speak with his neighbors?”
“Apparently he doesn’t go out much. Not since he came out of prison two years ago. Doesn’t have many guests except for when his nieces come to visit.”
Jack cocked an eye at Lange.
“Oh yeah?”
“Apparently they visit once a month, but the neighbors haven’t seen anyone else.”
“Okay,” Jack said, tossing his cigarette onto the floor. “Then me and you need to go somewhere.”
“I take it I’ll be staying in the car again?”
15
Jack found himself led back to the fireplace. It was half past eleven now so most of the rooms were empty, and when he’d come up the back stairs, he’d noticed that the staff were more relaxed. Busy cleaning down the kitchen and mopping the floors.
A table now stood between the chairs. On it was a silver tray holding a decanter of amber fluid, an ice bucket and a glass. Harry Dunn ordered another glass and it was soon brought, even though Jack had tried to tell Dunn he didn’t want the drink.
“Nonsense,” Dunn had insisted. “It’s oak aged scotch. Forty bloody years it’s been stuck in some barrel in the Scottish glens.”
When the waiter returned with the glass, he poured the drink and left. Jack tried it and Harry glanced sideways at him as he did, an eager look on his well-moisturized face. It was very good. A creamy aftertaste existed in Jack’s palate that lingered in his mouth long after the fluid was warming his stomach. The detective was used to supermarket own brand. Fifteen quid a bottle. Compared to that, this was supreme.
Nevertheless, he didn’t want to show his pleasure. So when Dunn asked him how good it was, he merely shrugged and said it was okay.
“Okay!?” Harry scoffed. “That whiskey costs nearly five hundred quid a bottle. I guess some palates never know sophistication.”
“I guess they don’t,” was Jack’s casual answer. Then, wanting to hurry things up, he added, “Where did Lewis get his young girls from?”
Dunn grunted a laugh. His chest going in and out.
“I can’t tell you, Jack.”
“They’re kids, for fuck’s sake.”
“The world isn’t that simple,” Dunn replied in a matter-of-fact way. “Child slavery is what brought you your cheap shoes and your high street bargain white shirts for twenty quid.”
“Don’t moralize when you’re amoral, Harry. It doesn’t work. Sitting at a sewing machine is different from sitting on a pedophile’s lap. I don’t condone either. They’re both evil realities of this poisoned world. But one sickens me more than the other.”
“So you found a young girl at his place?” Harry said, wanting to change the direction of the discussion.
“Yeah. One. She’d just slit his throat.”
Harry turned sharply to him.
“Tommy Lewis is dead?”
“Yeah. And we found his cache, too. Looks like
you were right, the gun came from Tommy. From his private collection. But who?”
“Tommy doesn’t have family or friends,” Dunn remarked, turning back to the licking flames. “Not since he left nick after abusing that poor girl. In fact, I can only mention one name who might have seen or spoken to Tommy lately. Well, someone other than the men delivering him young girls, anyway.”
“Who?”
“Nick Morrison. He’s another gun nut. Used to be a member of the same club as Lewis. Morrison got chucked out years ago when police raided his farm and found a shit load of illegal guns. What with Tommy being chucked out not long after when he was convicted, I hear the two still hook up from time to time for some shooting. Morrison might be able to tell you something about who’s been hanging around Lewis.”
“You think this Morrison bloke could’ve taken guns from Lewis?”
“Could be. He was a mate of Tommy’s.”
The two were silent for a moment, only the crackling fire for company. Though he was no more than two feet from the flames, Jack still felt cold sitting next to Dunn. His gentlemen’s club, successful banker facade was just that: show. Behind it was both a killer and a high stakes criminal. One that should be in a prison jumpsuit, not a Hugo Boss three piece suit.
“Where’s he get the girls from?” Jack felt the need to ask again.
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“You can’t say you agree with it.”
“What other worth have they got? These waifs and strays. Some people think their children are special and worth their weight in gold. Others have them merely for something to kill the boredom and think they’re not worth their weight in shit. I guess some were always meant for men like Tommy Lewis.”
Jack was feeling physically sick listening to him. He had hold of the crystal glass in a tight grip. His fingers squeezing it like a neck.
“There are buildings all over this city, Jack,” Dunn went on, “housing all sorts of horror. These girls are hoovered up from the streets or sourced into the country. Kept in rooms until they go insane or die. I have personally nothing to do with it, but I can see why it exists. Everything is for sale, Jack. Even a child with no other worth.”
