‘Well, as we know, the Langley woman appears to be attaching some importance to a turkey feather found in the throat of that turkey basher. They’re going to discover the remains of this cretin at some point and, while I’m keen not to be caught, I’d like to help them make some connections to the motives behind our . . . work.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m thinking the feathers might become a sort of calling-card that’ll capture the media’s and the public’s attention. I want them to become a symbol of fear for those who abuse animals. What do you think?’
‘I think,’ he’d taken a long pull on his roll-up, ‘that you terrify me, lassie!’
She’d given him the briefest of smiles, acknowledging the joke, before heading over to the two Land Rovers; one containing four dead dogs, the other three terrified boys.
‘Make sure you take that fag end with you!’ She’d sounded angry.
He was just back from Scotland, where he’d been organising the setting-up of a specialist kennels for less ‘experienced’ fighting dogs. Ellie hoped they could be given some sort of rehabilitation — although they’d never be up for rehoming with families. Early arrivals at the shelter had reminded him of war-weary squaddies: animals living on their nerves, never off guard, aggression their default setting.
Entering the pub, Alex ordered a pint from Bert and settled down to an afternoon of interviews. Candidates had been given a time and a map reference.
‘As the song says, you’re young, dumb and full of cum — too young and too dumb for this sort of work.’ He dismissed the twenty-something ex-marine with a wave of his hand. ‘Bert! Another pint, mate — these youngsters are doing my head in!’
It was one thing to recruit ex-military to protect people and places, quite another to recruit those capable of intentionally inflicting pain and killing unarmed civilian men and women, without the heat of battle coursing through their veins and brains.
A large shadow fell across Alex’s table, blocking out what little light seeped in through the door.
‘You Alex?’
‘You are?’
‘Bill.’
‘Take a seat, Bill, and tell me about Basra.’
‘As you know, I was seconded to intelligence, operating out of JFIT between 2003 and 2005. We were responsible for the fast-time initial interrogation of the bastards before they got sent somewhere where conventions count.’
‘My understanding is some didn’t make the onward transit.’
‘Your understanding is correct.’
Bill’s directness reminded him of Ellie.
‘The pay’s a grand a week retainer, cash in hand, with a ten grand bonus per completed mission. You’ll stay at our base camp, a small cottage in the Beacons, and you’ll obviously keep your gob shut to anyone outside the unit.’
Bill gave a quick nod. The latter was a given.
Alex took a white business card from his coat pocket and scrawled a number on it. ‘Call me when you’re ready to move in and I’ll give you directions.’
Bill picked the card up and turned it over; a single black feather was embossed on the reverse. He put it in his pocket without comment and got up to leave.
‘One more thing.’
He sat back down, but on the edge of the stool, ready to move.
‘Are you on IHAT’s radar?’
‘As I said, I was with intel.’
Alex just stared at him.
‘That bunch of civvie investigators have no knowledge of intelligence personnel, and of all the squaddies they’ve got names for, they’ve only managed to fine one bloke in three years of investigation. I wouldn’t be losing any sleep over the Iraq Historical Allegation Team, mate.’
‘On that note, I presume you still have intelligence contacts.’ Alex took Bill’s blank face as an affirmative. ‘I need an in-depth background check on a woman called Doctor Mia Langley. She works for the NCA as a criminal psychologist.’
Bill gave a nod of assent.
‘When I say in depth, I mean in depth. I want to know everything about her, including her childhood. I want to know her every strength and every flaw. Her mother still lives in the house where she grew up so start there. Census and voters also show neighbours have been in situ for decades, so check them out too. We need to know everything about this woman — everything.’
Bill was team member six. Alex now had a cohesive core-unit experienced in covert operations with each man having a specialization: marksman, security systems, chemicals and explosives, communications, pilot — fixed-wing and rotor and now . . . what? An intelligence operative and part-time torturer? He wondered how Bill saw himself. But they’d all just get on with it — take the money and follow the golden rules of don’t ask too many questions and don’t tell anyone more than they need to know.
The thing was . . . he had been asking questions . . . of himself. Ever since he’d entered Wilma’s stable, he’d found himself thinking about man’s capacity for cruelty in a completely new way. As his right hand lifted his glass, his left stroked the sleeping Hamish, who was curled up on the bench beside him. The little dog had snuggled into his thigh, keen to stay as close to his new master as Alex would allow. He’d never had a pet before, but this little one-eared Westie now followed him everywhere. The dog’s absolute, unconditional devotion was something he was finding both addictive and unsettling.
Once or twice throughout his too-busy-for-relationships life, he’d tried to imagine being a father but, if he was honest, these daydreams had revolved around male pride and rugby. Hamish had brought out the paternal in him. He found himself returning the unconditional love unconditionally — something he had never been able to do with a woman. If anyone ever hurt Hamish again he’d not have to be paid to kill them. In fact, he’d already tracked down Hamish’s last owner, who now had the same number of ears as the Westie.
Throwing a twenty down on the bar, he left with the little dog trotting at his heels. He lit another roll-up before starting the engine of the unit’s newest Land Rover. He was not looking forward to returning to the barrack-room atmosphere of the cottage, which Ellie had bought and refurbished for the unit’s use. It was a well-hidden three-bed, one-bath property, surrounded by wooded hills and only nine miles from the farm. They only really used it for planning and pre and post briefings, but Alex was finding the close company of men, even mature ones who had grown out of the need to continually arse about and make their presence felt, somehow wearing.
Nowadays he much preferred the company of a small Welsh lass. He worried that he was getting soft.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Do good by stealth and blush to find it fame.
‘That’s four feathers and four acts of violence directly related to animal cruelty!’ Mia waved Johnny Claybourne’s bagged turkey feather at the SIO. ‘You appear to have yourself a serial killer, Mark!’
‘Good work, Mia — although organising four separate forces into one investigation is going to be hell.’
‘Oh, I think there’ll be far more than four. It looks like this will have to come back to the NCA.’
Mark looked disappointed but nodded.
‘I’ve had another thought about our woman, though.’
‘Oh yes?’ Mark perched on the edge of Mia’s desk, breathing in her perfume.
‘There’s no financial gain, only expenditure. It’s obvious she’s got access to a considerable amount of money: extending the pit, hiring specialized personnel, transporting chimps back to Africa. And all these crimes have erupted within a relatively short timeframe. So, my thinking is that she could possibly be someone who’s come into a large amount of money quickly and unexpectedly — like a lottery winner.’
‘I’ll get someone to look into it.’
‘Any joy with our missing pit lads?’
‘Nothing. No bodies, no info.’
‘Well, keep trying! Let me know as soon as you find any of them.’
‘What’s your view of this Ellie?’ Mark wante
d to keep Mia there. ‘Is she a psychopath?’
‘Still too early to say, but I don’t think so.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I think she prefers animals to people. I think she is probably an only child with at least one missing parent and I think her violence is likely to escalate in both form and frequency . . . but I know she’ll not stop until we stop her.’
Mia got up to leave.
‘Are we still on for tonight?’ Mark kept his tone casual.
‘Shit! Sorry, Mark. I’m off to Scotland tomorrow and need an early night.’
The SIO shrugged and she leant in and kissed his cheek. ‘I promise, as soon as I get back, Mark. My treat!’
The drive north was long and lonely. Normally such a journey would be by plane or train to be met by a police chauffeur, but this trip was off-grid — from both a public transport and sanctioned enquiry point of view. Her feelings of guilt about Mark were being overtaken by her intrigue with Ellie. She wasn’t sure why, but the more she learnt about this woman the less she found herself willing to communicate her findings and thoughts. Careful, lady — or you’ll find yourself going over to the dark side.
This rather confusing situation would be made easier by the NCA taking over. She’d only have to evade the questions of one person — who she wouldn’t know as well as Jayne Sykes or Mark Johnson.
Her phone rang and she turned off the radio. ‘Mark, found our missing boys?’
‘No, and we’ve drawn a blank at Lottery HQ too. The DC I sent to Watford was met with smiles and complete silence. Without a court order they’re not about to tell us anything, and we’re not about to get a court order without a name so it’s catch twenty-two.’
‘Never mind. Look, I’d better go, the traffic’s bad and it’s pissing down.’
‘Why are you going to Scotland — you never said?’
‘A friend’s wedding.’
‘No plus one on offer?’
‘You’d hate them — not your sort.’
‘And what is my sort, Doctor Langley?’
She could hear the wry smile in his voice.
‘Clever, but without being up their own academic arses!’
‘Will I see you Monday?’
‘Not sure. It’s a long way to drive for just a weekend and I’ve some leave I need to use up. I might stay on a few days.’
‘Okay . . . well . . . drive safely . . . Bye, Mia.’
‘Bye — and I haven’t forgotten that dinner!’
Putting on a CD, she turned up the volume. ‘Brothers in Arms’ was a favourite: one she and Mark had played a lot on the long trips they’d undertaken for the sacrificed baby enquiry. But her thoughts continually wandered back to Ellie and Johnny Claybourne’s implied promise that she’d be meeting ‘his boss’ in the near future. The prospect both terrified and excited her.
Ellie would have made a brilliant subject for her thesis. Cold cruelty was the domain of psychopaths, and psychopaths could be roughly divided into two categories — functioning (the bad) and non-functioning (the mad). Ellie was neither. Psychopaths didn’t believe in redemption. They didn’t seek it for themselves and would not offer it to others — unlike Johnny Claybourne and, to a lesser degree, the professor.
But the media still wanted expert explanations as to what motivated such human savagery. Most people, including some detectives, didn’t want to contemplate the existence of pure malevolence, surviving on its own without cause and effect, without blame or explanation. The thought of people hard-wired to play and then kill, like a cat with a mouse, usually terrified Joe Public. But Ellie wasn’t terrifying them — at least not the animal-loving ones. In fact, she was being hailed, especially on some social media, as something of a hero.
Using a false Facebook profile, Mia had engaged with various chat rooms, animal-welfare sites and protest groups. Nearly a year before the Norfolk murder, some of these groups had begun receiving large anonymous donations. Not unusual in itself, but each had conditions attached that stated exactly what the money should be spent on — the donor was a generous control freak.
It had started small. Badger watchers in Gloucestershire and Somerset had received hi-tech night-vision goggles for their volunteers, enabling them to spot the government sponsored marksmen and effectively disrupt the cull with whistles and banging. But the donations had quickly risen in scope. Sea Shepherd, the anti-whaling organisation, had received over $100,000 to help with the running of their super-fast intercept boat, and various schemes to stop the poaching of elephants and rhinos had received nearly half a million pounds to help pay for locally armed guards and a helicopter.
Using the NCA’s logo, she had contacted many other world-wide organisations actively fighting for animal rights and welfare, all of whom confirmed receiving significant anonymous donations, many of them with conditions attached. Conditions were unusual, but they gave the donor a sense of control. Ellie struck her as someone who liked to be in control — as with the horses she referred to Johnny Claybourne.
None of these bodies could or would give her any information about the source of this sudden influx of targeted donations. But because the number and average value of these anonymous gifts was so statistically disproportionate, it had created a spike that had led her to the idea of a lottery winner. Of course it could just as easily have been an inheritance, but it was far harder for these large payouts to remain anonymous; they were all open to Custom and Exercise inspection and audit. Also lottery winners tended to be more flamboyant, more . . . extreme in their purchases. When luck rather than family legacy played a part, the winner tends to feel less constrained.
Although Lottery HQ had been unsurprisingly tight-lipped, an NCA statistician had already tied the start of the spike to two months after a massive UK win of £88,000,000, which Mia found interesting as she’d also discovered four new, privately-financed shelters had been created in the same time period; one in each of the countries that make up the UK. The odd thing about these shelters, the very odd thing, was that none of them were registered with the Charity Commission. They all held relevant council licences, but under the names of the people in day-today charge.
She wasn’t surprised. She was fairly certain Ellie was the sort of person to have prioritised the rescuing of animals over the punishment of their abusers — although this could just be down to logistics. Her interest had been piqued in one chat room which mentioned a rescue centre in the Highlands of Scotland that specialized in the rehabilitation of fighting dogs. No ordinary shelter could afford to spend time and money on such animals. She’d eventually got the location of this kennel from the RSPCA, who were the main referring agency.
Getting the information had been no easy matter. When she’d first rung the organisation she’d been put through to their SPOC for dog fighting matters. This single point of contact was a dick named Ian who behaved as though he was employed by MI5 rather than the RSPCA. He’d been very reluctant to even admit the existence of the centre, but it turned out that secrecy was part of the deal with the person who had taken over the sponsorship of all their work in this particular area.
After several phone calls and emails, Ian had got back in contact and given her a map grid reference and permission to visit the centre — and no, it didn’t have a name.
In the nearest village, which was seven miles from the shelter, the post mistress had been huffy.
‘They have all their needs catered for by a truck that comes through once a month. You’d think they send some trade our way, but no, nothing — not so much as a pint of milk!’
‘Do you know anyone who works there?’ Mia reached into the small fridge for a cold drink and selected some sweets she wouldn’t eat.
‘No one from these parts. You’re not intending driving up there now are you, lassie? It’s a bad road. You’d be much better staying in the pub tonight and starting out fresh tomorrow — Dougie does a mean full Scottish!’
But Mia couldn’t wait. She needed to
know if her hunch was right, and she now found herself halfway up a Scottish mountain on a single lane road that was rapidly shrinking to little more than a scree track. It kept winding back on itself in large snake-like loops as it continued climbing into a falling mist. As she leant forward over the steering wheel, peering at the slowly disappearing road, Mia was unsure whether to be grateful for the fact she could no longer see the sheer drop to one side. She was exhausted and already dreading the descent which was likely to be in the pitch black of a winter’s evening. But she was fairly certain it would be worth it.
At last her dipped headlights picked out a new metal five bar gate. It glistened in the thickening mist, barring the way to her studiously understated destination. Honking her horn, she set off a wall of sound from unseen but obviously nearby buildings. The barking reminded her of a pack of hounds in full cry and the sound made her skin crawl as the Leeds pit flashed into her mind. Getting out of the car, she saw a dark shadow striding towards her. It was shouting but the voice, like the barking, was muffled by the mist that had turned into a thick fog. She suddenly felt like she’d fallen into an old black and white version of The Hound of the Baskervilles.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing sounding your horn? You’ve gone and upset the dogs when I’ve just got them settled for the night!’
Mia grinned at the angry face that emerged from the rolling white clouds. It belonged to Kai Williams, one of the three lads missing from Leeds.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He that will not apply new remedies must expect new evils.
Ellie had what she wanted. A shadow of fear was beginning to ripple through members of the public who were guilty of animal cruelty. She found herself revelling in the various descriptions of the small, unknown, female mastermind behind the horrific attacks and killing.
They’d really plucked up the feather of death and run with it. Some of the tabloids were even talking about a Robina Hood — fighting for rights of the literal underdog. Shame about that bitch Sally getting paid for ‘an exclusive’, but at least her neighbour pissed all over her parade by talking to all and sundry about what she’d done to that poor dog.
She Will Rescue You Page 9
