Chapter 17
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“Bert Alan said the cop’s kids were on that bus. That presumes sisters. What have you got for me?” Aislinn’s voice was sharper than a knife edge. She was damned if she was going to lose an exclusive on the busload kidnapping to the big television networks.
Troy peered over Aislinn’s shoulder at the social media sites open on her laptop screen. “There are two sets of sisters on the bus. Carly and Lucy Walker. Hannah and Imogen Morgan. Before we go any further, you passed this story through Ted, I presume?”
“Relax. Ted’s been busy. Don’t worry, he’s not going to throw a spanner in the works of an exclusive. And I booked the news van for the whole morning. So, to get back on track, we’re looking for cops with the surname Morgan or Walker. Did you pull that archive footage from the Freakin’ Saint case?”
Troy slotted a memory stick into one of his computers and opened the file on his monitor. They both donned headphones and fast-forwarded through reams of footage, with most of the air-time devoted to Detective Superintendent Sophie Dresden. Aislinn pressed the pause button as Quinn Standing’s face appeared. The words, “Acting DCI Quinn Standing” were flashed along the bottom of the screen. Aislinn and Troy listened as Quinn mentioned the good work of his team members. Reuben Richards. Idris Carson. Eli Morgan.
Aislinn snapped her fingers. She leaned in towards Troy, urgency written across her features. “Bingo. Now we know who to target.”
Chapter 18
Henridge Towers, Nottinghill
Reuben narrowed down the haulage firm that supplied the articulated truck to Hogan’s Haulage Company and managed to track down someone who could provide them with the name of the driver: Lenny Dalton.
Lenny lived in a housing development in Notting Hill, rising like a poisoned finger high into the sky and mirroring three other similarly high monstrosities of grey clad buildings. Quinn guessed there were nearly a thousand homes divided amongst the four twenty-five story towers standing like castle sentinels and connected by rows of low rise maisonettes.
Stepping into the elevator heading to the fourteenth floor where Lenny lived, he wondered if he and Reuben were risking their lives. The elevator looked like it hadn’t been serviced since the block was originally built in the 1960s. The few tenants they passed had the lived-in look of inhabitants who had resided here for decades rather than years. Quinn suspected that as parents passed away, their children simply inherited the flats and continued to live on. In comparison, Quinn and Reuben stuck out and were as welcome as tax collectors.
Reuben’s attention was glued to his expensive smart phone.
“I’d put that away if I were you, before it’s nicked. People here don’t care that we’re cops.”
Swiping strands of hair out of his eyes with one hand, Reuben nervously pocketing his technology with the other. The look he shot Quinn made it clear he was uncertain if Quinn was joking, but had decided to play it safe.
“So tell me, Reuben, how much would a flat here be worth?”
Reuben gave a snicker. “Why, Quinn, are you thinking of moving in? Neighborhood’s bit of a come down for a Fitzrovia-living guy like you, though. But I might be able to swing a deal for you.”
“Smartarse. Just remember I’m acting DCI right now and give me the proper def…”
The elevator shuddered as it hiccupped to a stop. Quinn fell silent as a couple stepped inside. The man was wiry, his arms darkened with tattooed sleeves that extended up his neck, the woman was twice his size, her breasts loose and sagging against a cotton dress. Quinn and Reuben averted their eyes.
“Scum.” The man hissed.
With amusement, Quinn saw Reuben’s shoulders tense. Reuben would have to toughen up, he thought and learn to cop the abuse heaped on them as part of their job. Quinn’s phone buzzed. He checked it and let it go to voicemail when he saw it was Dresden. He didn’t need more flak right now.
The elevator jolted up two more flights to the fourteenth floor. As the doors opened, Quinn propped one side open with his hand and turned to the man with a knowing smile and a wink. “Have a good one, mate.”
“Get stuffed!” the man retaliated with a rude two fingered gesture. Quinn returned the salute as he let the door slide shut on him and the woman.
“How could you let him get away with that attitude?” Reuben was almost spluttering with outrage. “We should have arrested him!”
Quinn shrugged, moving along the hallway where cement blocks were exposed through peeling paint, in search of Lenny’s apartment. “I wasn’t going to take my life into my hands having a scuffle in that birdcage of a lift. Any sudden movement and we’d probably be hurtling fourteen floors to our death.”
“But he knew we were police detectives,” Reuben protested. “He was egging us on. And we just let him get away with it.”
Quinn stopped abruptly and turned to face Reuben. “You better think long and hard about why you’re trying to be a detective, mate. If you’re in it because you think this is a power trip filled with accolades of glory and recognition for being some sort of authority figure, you’ve picked the wrong profession. People don’t give a rat’s arse about cops unless they’re in some sort of trouble. Even if you save their arse they’re more likely to spit on you than give you a pat on the back. The fact of the matter is that bloke back there is probably the nicest chap you’re going to meet in this complex.”
He moved on, forcing Reuben to catch up.
“Doesn’t that kind of attitude make you aggro, Quinn?”
“Idris would tell you that everything pisses me off.” Quinn offered Reuben a tight-lipped smile. He paused, turning to stare intently at Reuben. “Here’s a bit of advice, Reuben. You had an eighteen-week detective training course. No doubt they took you out on a few rides in panda cars to see what ‘being on the job’ was all about. Mate, I spent my rookie years at Hackney CID. Better known as Crackney, for obvious reasons.
“Let me paint a picture. There are more people per square mile in Hackney than your precious Wynter’s New York City. People crammed together like rats on a sinking ship makes them antsy. Can you imagine what it’s like dealing with pissed off people who would as soon boff each other as sit down for a cuppa and a chat? The only thing they all agree on is that they hate bacon. Police bacon that is. If I got affronted at every insult hurled at me there wouldn’t be enough room in Her Majesty’s Prisons to hold the overload. You’ve got to learn to roll with the punches, or you won’t last in this job.”
Reuben fell silent as Quinn rapped sharply on Lenny’s front door. When it opened he shoved his foot inside before Lenny could shut it.
“If you’ve got nothing to hide, mate, you won’t mind a quiet word.” Quinn flashed his warrant card through the narrow opening.
Lenny took a reluctant step backwards and Quinn took that as an invitation to force through into the tiny sitting room. The walls were plastered with ornamental plates of horses, while on a coffee table supported by cinder blocks, sat a week’s worth of dinner plates crusted with leftovers. Quinn’s glance took in a small television in the corner of the room blaring out results of a horse race.
The doorway led straight into the kitchen and utilities area, combined into one room. Visible was an old gas stove, its top covered with plastic soda bottles and a dull surfaced round kettle that looked like a renegade from an earlier decade. Dirty dishes and pots were piled on the draining board and in the sink. Trash escaped from a plastic shopping bag stuffed into a space beside the stove. The place smelt of flatulence and stale smoke. Very welcoming.
A mouse darted across the floor and Reuben did a quick hop.
“You live here alone, Mr Dalton? No Mrs Dalton?” Quinn asked.
Lenny grunted. His skinny arms were laced with tattoos that climbed along his caramel colored skin. Dragons and roses, snakes and skulls, all entwined and meshed together. His pot belly was a testament to days spent sitting in a truck cab.
Being
Welsh-African, he spoke with a lilt that he had inherited from his father. “The wife scarpered a few months ago. She be living in another tower with some other bugger. Good riddance, I say.” He rolled some tobacco into a cigarette paper. “She’s gone all ladidah. Says she’s in favor of the regeneration of the towers. That’s all the talk now since Grenfell. What are they going to do with everyone living here if they gut this place? She thinks she’s going to end up in a penthouse. Fat chance.”
“Okay, Mr Dalton,” Quinn headed off Lenny’s rant. “I’d like you to tell us about the job you had yesterday afternoon. Your company said you picked up a forty foot high cube container.”
Lenny took his time rolling the cigarette. Then he popped it into his mouth and a match flared between his fingertips. He took a drag and cocked his head to the side, listening to the television. Quinn had the feeling he was rehearsing his next words inside his head.
“That’s right. Some client needed one up at Peel Port. The forty foot high cubes aren’t that common and they didn’t have any empty spares, so I took one from here. Managed to pick up a full container intended for London so I got paid haulage on the way back. Delivered that early this morning to an address in Kent.”
“That’s a four hour trip one way to Manchester. Do you usually travel that far?”
Lenny blew smoke out the side of his mouth and rubbed his nose. His eyes flicked towards the television. He seemed mesmerized. As the horses galloped towards the finish line he let out an audible groan. Quinn snapped his fingers in front of Lenny’s face to recapture his attention.
“Do you usually travel that distance, Mr Dalton?”
“No, I usually do local drop offs. Pick up from the shipping company and deliver the container to an address and let the people unload. Then I return the empty containers. Like I said, the high cube containers are rarer. So when someone wants one we sometimes shift it long haul.”
“You said the container you picked up to transport to Manchester was empty. Did you check it?”
“What?” For the first time he looked taken aback.
“I said, did you look inside the container to make sure it was empty?”
A bead of sweat broke out along his forehead and traveled down a grungy dreadlock. He puffed earnestly at his cigarette. Quinn had a feeling Lenny was debating which answer to give.
“No I didn’t,” he responded after a moment’s silence.
Reuben waved a hand frantically in front of his face to disperse the smoke spiraling away from Lenny.
“It was a soft top, wasn’t it? So was the top secured?” Quinn asked.
“I-I think so. I don’t really remember.”
“Oh, come on, Mr Dalton. You mean to tell me you used your HIAB crane to load that container on your lorry and you don’t remember whether it had the top on?”
“I mean sure, yes it did. That’s why I couldn’t tell if it was empty.”
“Well, I’m telling you it wasn’t empty. It contained some very precious cargo and we’d like to know how that got on board.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I picked the container up and transported it to Peel Port. That’s all I did.” The voice grew insistent as he set his jaw in a stubborn line.
Flickering images on the television caught Quinn’s attention. Looking like a surly bear trapped by a hunter with an electric cattle prod, Eli Morgan stared into the camera lens. His collar was askew, his shirttails hung out of a wrinkled pair of pants. The camera zoomed in on bloodshot eyes, weary lines pulling down his mouth and creasing his forehead. “I can’t talk about the case.” His lips barely moved over the terse sentence.
Quinn edged forward to hear more clearly, leaving Reuben to continue questioning.
“You picked up the container at 11:15 a.m. according to the dispatch sheet. You dropped the container off at 7:20 p.m. at the port. There were no traffic jams, no accidents on the motorway, nothing out of the ordinary to delay you. So why did the trip from here to there take longer than four hours?”
Lenny’s eyes shifted uneasily around the room, before dropping to the cigarette dangling between his fingers.
On the television screen, the camera flashed to Aislinn Scully who tossed back her frosted blond hair as she thrust her microphone under Eli’s nose. She asked her powder keg question in a suave, professional tone. “What do you think of the speculation the girls have been taken to be used as sex slaves?”
Eli looked haunted, his face paled to a sickly white. “Where did you hear that?!” he bellowed, looking more than ever like a surly bear.
The camera remained tight on him as Aislinn’s voice floated over the image, “Are you fearful for your daughters’ future, Detective?”
“Of course I’m bloody fearful! Some bastard’s snatched my girls and their friends. Wouldn’t you be fearful?!”
The reporter looked intoxicated by the high drama of his reaction.
“I guess maybe I stopped for a burger on the way,” Lenny finally answered Reuben.
“I put it to you, Mr Dalton, that you drove your lorry to Welwright Lane in Bromley to rendezvous with the Fairbridge House school bus. Once that was loaded onto your lorry, you then took off for Manchester.”
Beads of sweat pinpricked the top of Lenny’s lip. He licked it off, his tongue circling around his mouth as though it had suddenly gone dry.
Quinn couldn’t drag his attention away from the news report.
“What would you say to the kidnappers, Detective, if they could hear you now?” Aislinn’s voice held a note of gloating.
Eli looked straight into the camera, his eyes tormented. Quinn’s blood ran cold at the menace infused in his voice with his next words. “I’d tell them to watch their backs because I’m coming for them.”
A woman barged out of the house, crying and shouting abuse. Eli’s expression softened and he quickly turned, hustling the woman into his arms as he maneuvered them both inside the house, slamming the door in Aislinn’s face.
The reporter spoke directly to camera. “We’ll be bringing you more live updates throughout the weekend as the police attempt to locate a busload of school girls, some no more than eleven, who have been abducted on their way home for the long holidays. The fate of these girls is unknown. Are they still alive? We just spoke to one of the parents of two girls caught up in this kidnapping. Strong emotions there, from Detective Elijah Morgan of the Youth Crimes Team who are investigating this crime. This is Aislinn Scully with…”
Shit, shit, shit! The agitated litany ran through Quinn’s mind. A police officer just made threats on national television!
Chapter 19
Henridge Towers, Nottinghill
Lenny dropped the smoldering cigarette stub and bolted between Quinn and Reuben, heading for the front door. Quinn was caught off guard. Reuben lurched forward. He tackled Lenny around the waist and the two men struggled. Slippery as an eel, Lenny wrenched himself out of Reuben’s grip. Quinn’s nerves jumped alert and he launched himself headlong, slamming Lenny against the wall. The force knocked Lenny to the ground.
Quinn and Reuben bent and dragged Lenny upright, cramming him into an easy chair in front of the television. Another race was being run, the announcer’s voice calling the race in escalating faster and faster tones.
Quinn shelved the problem of Eli to apply pressure on Lenny. “Like the ponies do you, mate? Take a bet or two on them do you? Perhaps owe a bit of money to some dodgy people?” Lenny wouldn’t be the first to get into gambling difficulties that lead to crime. “I don’t want to have to charge you with kidnapping, Mr Dalton. But if you don’t spill the beans, you’re limiting my options.” He jabbed Lenny in the chest. “Do you understand? I will bring you into the station and place you under arrest.”
Lenny was breathing hard through his nose, the breaths coming out in snorts. His eyes were like the whites of two hard-boiled eggs as they rolled around the room, not focusing on either of his tormentors.
Quinn’s voice softened
and grew friendly. “Did someone put pressure on you to take that container to Manchester? If so, it’s not your fault. Not your fault, at all, mate, that twenty-two schoolgirls are missing.”
“Sod you, you scummy bacon. I know nothing.” But the words were uttered without conviction.
“Help us, Lenny, and that way we can help you,” Reuben added, playing along with Quinn.
“You owe some bad people a few quids, and maybe they offered you an easy way to pay off your debt. Is that what happened, Mr Dalton? I understand. Like I said, if that’s the case, then it’s not really your fault.” Quinn dropped his casual stance. He leaned forward, pushing his face close to Lenny’s and letting all his frustration show. “But if you keep all that information bottled up, I’ll have to take my hands out of my pockets and do something about it. Maybe you’ll be safer in prison. But the more information you give us the more likely we can put these bleeding bastards away instead, where they won’t bother anyone else again. Do you understand, Mr Dalton?”
Reuben threw him a nervous look and Lenny caved, the words tumbling out of his mouth.
“Listen, I ain’t never done time and I don’t want to! Keep me out of prison and I’ll tell you what I know.”
Quinn straightened. His phone vibrated and he darted a quick look to see it was from Dresden. He ignored it. “Spill your guts, and we’ll see what we can do.”
“I’m not saying who, but, yeah, I was being leaned on. I owed a few thou. Money I just didn’t have. Said they were going to break my hand. Can’t afford that! How’m I going to drive if they break me bleeding hand?”
“Cut to the chase, Lenny.” Reuben was poised to take notes.
Lenny rootled in his pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarette papers and tobacco. “I got a message. Said they’d clear all my gambling debts and all I had to do was locate a forty foot high cube scheduled to head out of London on Friday. So, I swapped my run with another bloke and loaded the container. They texted me instructions. I was to take the container to Welwright Lane. Park it there and wait. This bloke barged into the cab and shoved me over into the passenger seat. Told me to sit and wait quietly. He put a set of headphones on my ears and a bag over my head so I saw and heard nothing. He wrapped the seat belt around my wrists and tied me up. I stayed like that for awhile. Then I felt the crane being operated, so maybe he used the controls to load something into the container. When he released me, he told me to drive. He punched the coordinates into the GPS and said once I got there I was to park and grab a coffee.”
Bex Wynter Box Set Page 23
