Forced to Kill

by Emmy Ellis

“Oh, fuck me sideways,” Langham said, moving forward at speed.

  Oliver stared ahead at several cages holding children whose ages ranged from about four through to eight. “Oh my God. I wasn’t expecting… I didn’t know… Shit!” He walked towards them, smiling to put them at ease, but they continued squawking, their pitch rising, as did their volume. “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Langham fussed with a padlock, trying unsuccessfully to get it open. The children had retreated to the backs of their cages, looking stunned and frightened to death. What the hell were they doing here? Had Alex been hiding them for PrivoLabs? What kind of outfit were they, to not have them at least kept secure in a proper environment? Not that keeping them locked up like this was right, but fuck, in a basement? In cages?

  A rapid-fire shift of movement caught Oliver’s eye, and the kid inside the cage Langham was working on darted forward.

  “Langham! Watch it!”

  That child’s pupils were black slits in a circle of lurid blue. Langham jumped back just before the kid crashed against the cage door, mouth open, teeth gnashing where the detective’s hands had so recently been on the padlock.

  Langham stepped back, eyes wide. “He was going to bite me!”

  Oliver’s heart hammered, and his legs went weak. They needed to get out of here—and now. Something else was about to go down if they didn’t leave this place. Them being here had clearly upset the kids. Who knew, if they were angry enough, whether they could break out of those cages and attack. He wasn’t sure what urged him to grab Langham’s sleeve and propel them up the stairs, but he wasn’t about to hang around to analyse it.

  Chapter Seven

  Shields and other coppers had shown up within minutes of Langham making the call. The big, greasy bastard strolled towards them, a smug smile filling his fleshy face as though he thought them a pair of wimps for not remaining in the basement.

  “So there are kids down there then?” Shields raised his hands and waggled his fingers. “Oooh, kids that fly at you with intent to bite. Nasty business, that. I’ll have to go down there and give them a good telling off.”

  “Be my fucking guest,” Langham snarled, striding towards his car. He shouted back, “And if they chew your fingers off, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He got in his car. Oliver joined him. Langham sped up Saltwater Street, and Oliver refused to think about what could be happening to Shields.

  “Where do we go now?” he asked, looking at Langham. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be once I forget about Shields. He isn’t worth wasting thinking time on, but you know what it’s like. He gets under your skin.”

  “He does. I wonder if they’ve bitten him yet.”

  “Probably.”

  “He’ll be cursing us. That you warned him and he didn’t listen.”

  “Good. A bit of humility won’t hurt him.”

  “I take it we’re going to Privo?”

  “Yep.”

  “To do what?”

  “Talk to the manager, the owner, whatever. Tell him we heard rumours, see what he has to say, check out his reaction.”

  “But wouldn’t that be alerting him? Letting him know we’re on to him?”

  “It’ll be all over the news shortly. No way those kids being found can be contained. Someone will leak it to the press. Better we go to Privo before the owner sees the news and gets his story straight before we speak to him.”

  Oliver absently rubbed the bandage keeping his broken finger strapped to the one beside it. It ached.

  “My brother came for lunch.”

  “Pardon?” Oliver said, unsure whether he’d heard the voice in his head right.

  Langham sighed. “I said—”

  “No, I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “Right. Okay, I’ll keep quiet.” Langham gripped the wheel tighter.

  Oliver prayed Mark hadn’t just managed to make a connection with one sentence that told him jack shit. He closed his eyes and waited.

  “Alex came to lunch where I work. I’m—I was an accountant. That’s why… Louise, that’s her name… That’s why Louise was filing, why she found the notes. They were in PrivoLabs’ papers. She showed them to me, and I rang Privo, let them know we had something that didn’t belong in their account file.”

  “And?”

  “I went back to work and did a bit of digging. Asked this lab technician I know at Privo to keep an eye out, see what was going on. Told him what was on the note. He said it was about a new drug he’d been testing. That it wasn’t ready yet. Next day, some bloke I hadn’t seen before, from Privo, turned up when I was eating lunch in the courtyard outside my work with Alex. The bloke, he said he needed the note, and I gave it to him—had it in my inside pocket, didn’t I. Anyway, after he’d gone, Alex started asking questions. I told him what the note had said, what the lab man said, and…”

  “And what?”

  “He wanted to blackmail them. Said he’d make some money out of them. That he’d threaten to go to the papers. So after he left, I went back inside and rang the lab technician again, but…”

  “But what? Mark? Mark? Shit. You still there? Tell me what happened then?”

  “I guess they got to Alex. Fed him those meds.”

  “Yeah, that much is pretty obvious. Who’s the technician?”

  “Ronan Dougherty, lives in the flats above the corner shop on Kater Road, but I can’t—couldn’t—get hold of him. His phone rang off the hook.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I think—”

  “Yep, me, too.”

  “Alex…”

  “Yep, he’s probably paid the tech a visit already.”

  “He wasn’t like that before. Not mean like he is now.”

  Oliver shielded his thoughts. If Alex was willing to resort to blackmail, he wasn’t your average kind of bloke. Anyone who could hatch a plan pretty quick like that and go off to make it happen… Yeah, Alex was a bad lot, no matter what Mark thought—the drugs had just made him worse. Privo had him under their control, offing everyone who knew about what they were doing. It was only a matter of time before Alex got to him and Langham.

  “Anything else?” he asked Mark.

  Silence.

  “Mark?” Oliver waited.

  No response.

  “Well?” Langham demanded.

  “We’re next on the list. Got to be. We know about Privo, therefore, Alex has to kill us. After we’ve been to Privo, we need to go back to Louise’s field. Mark’s body is still there, remember?”

  Langham handed Oliver his phone. “Shit. Sorry to do this to you, but ask for Shields. If he can’t come to the phone, we know he’s been bitten.”

  Oliver stifled a smirk. “So I’m telling him, or whoever, where Mark is?”

  “Yeah, you need to lie, make out you’ve only just been told by the dead. If they find out about the time lapse and that we already knew Mark’s location, I’m fucked.”

  Oliver made the call and was put through to Shields, who never mentioned the kids and said he’d head over to the field now and asked that Langham report to him once they’d been to Privo.

  Oliver put the phone in the cup holder and asked Langham, “Why did Shields ask that you report to him? He’s not above you in command, is he, so…?”

  “Like I said, he wants people in his pocket. He knows I’ll know exactly what he means by telling me to report to him. It’s a game. If he tells the chief I’m bent, even though I’m not, someone will look into it—I’m to let him call the shots so he doesn’t do that. Come on, we’re here. Time to question whoever’s in charge of this fucked-up place.”

  In Privo’s reception, Oliver expected to feel some familiarity, but he didn’t. The plants had gone—some soil was still scattered around the base of the pots—and one sofa was missing.

  The receptionist looked at them with fear in her eyes, and her mouth worked like she wanted to tell them something but struggled to get the words
out. “C-can I help you?”

  “We need to speak with the person in charge here.”

  “Mr Jackson isn’t available at the moment. We had a…” She stared ahead at the space where the sofa had been. “An unhappy visitor an hour ago, so Mr Jackson is…indisposed.”

  “Indisposed in what way?” Langham produced his ID. “Is he ill? Not here?”

  “No, he’s here, but he said—”

  “I don’t care what he said. I need to speak to him.”

  The receptionist widened her eyes at Langham’s tone and maintained eye contact as she reached out for the phone. She dialled without glancing at the keypad and jumped when someone answered. “S-sorry. Yes, I know you said… There are detectives here.” She eyed them keenly. “Yes, that’s them… Oh, right. Well, I’ll send them up then.”

  Oliver’s stomach muscles tautened. If the push inside his brain was anything to go by, spirits were trying to warn him that something wasn’t right.

  “Mr Jackson will see you now,” she said, pasting on a fake smile. “Use the lift. Top floor, the only office up there.”

  “Thank you.” Langham strode towards the double silver doors of the lift. He jabbed the button and tapped his foot.

  Oliver joined him, whispering, “He knows.”

  “Yep.” Langham flexed his jaw.

  “How are we going to play this?”

  “Don’t speak—make out you know what I’m talking about once we’re in the lift. He could be listening, so I need to spout bollocks.” Langham stepped inside and glanced up into the top corner.

  Oliver followed him and his gaze. A camera studied them.

  “Right,” Langham said, clearing his throat. “We’ll alert Mr Jackson about the ridiculous rumours circulating about his company, then we’ll go to that corner shop where we got those microwave curries from before, you know where I mean?”

  Oliver got the gist—the lab tech’s flat—and nodded. “Yep, been a long day. I’m starving. Pick up some beer, too.”

  “Sounds good.” Langham sighed. “I hate having to bring this kind of information to someone. The potential those rumours have to ruin a company doesn’t bear thinking about. Malicious, that’s what people are.”

  “Too right.”

  The lift came to a perfect, gliding stop, and the doors slid open. A huge space met them, an open-plan office that took up the whole floor. Several desks were dotted about, but only one was occupied. It was situated rear centre, shielded from the others either side by black zigzag screens. A man sat behind the desk, head bent, giving them the impression he was hard at work and had nothing to hide, thank you very much.

  Langham cleared his throat again, and the man looked up.

  “Mr Jackson?” Langham asked.

  Jackson stood, rounding his desk and strolling towards them with the air of someone who was at ease with who he was. His dark-grey suit—pressed so well that his trousers still bore the strict line down the front despite the fact that he’d possibly been sitting for untold hours—fitted him just right. No pulling material on broad shoulders here, or a tight waistband. Shoulder-length wavy hair, that strange colour between brown and black, Antonio Banderas in his eighties days.

  “Ah, hello, Detectives,” Jackson said.

  Langham didn’t correct him.

  “What can I do for you?” Jackson walked towards his desk, looking back over his shoulder with eyebrows raised as though asking if they wanted to follow him.

  They did, and once they were all seated, Langham said, “I’m sorry to bother you with this, but we thought it best we told you personally. Rumours are circulating about your company doing experiments on children—and on a man named Alex Reynolds. Of course, this is utterly ridiculous, but we felt you should know in case something unfortunate hits the news later tonight.”

  Jackson sat straighter, covering his slip of alarm by making out he was reaching for a pen and notebook. He held them in hands that didn’t shake, held their gazes, too, an unwavering stare that spoke of him being calm and collected now.

  Clever bastard.

  “Really? How on earth did you come by this information?”

  Langham rolled his eyes. “Some children were found in the basement at Alex Reynolds’ home. If he’s to be believed, your company has been conducting experiments on them.”

  “Experiments on children? That’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think?” Jackson did the flabbergasted look well.

  “Indeed,” Langham said. “Between you and me, we think Reynolds is trying to hide the fact he had the children down there for…other reasons.”

  “Oh God. That’s disgusting.” Jackson put his pen and pad down.

  “People will do anything to get themselves out of trouble, sir, but we wanted you aware. If it leaks out what he’s said… I don’t have to tell you the devastating effects this could have on your company. Even if he’s lying, people will remember the PrivoLab name for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Well, thank you for coming to tell me. I’ll alert my staff and let them know we have a ‘no comment’ policy should they be approached by the press.”

  “Very sensible.” Langham paused. “So, you wouldn’t object if we asked to take a look around? Specifically at your labs?”

  “Of course not. I’ll take you on a tour immediately.”

  “Very good, sir. I can phone my chief once we’ve had a nose about and tell him the rumours are totally unfounded—he’s expecting us to call him in half an hour or so. Hopefully, if we’re quick, I can get that information to him before the news airs. Perhaps he’ll be able to telephone the newsroom and let them know he’s available for comment. It can only help your company.”

  Jackson stood quickly. “Yes, yes. I’ll show you around right now.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Well, that was a waste of time,” Oliver grumbled.

  They sat in the car in the delivery area out the back of PrivoLabs.

  A massive bush, which had protested with a groan of branches and the spiteful scratch of thorns on car paintwork as Langham had reversed into it, shielded them from view. Of course, Jackson could have seen them hiding the car in his shrubbery, but then again, he may well have been too intent on covering his arse to have bothered peering out of the window at whether they’d driven away or not. Maybe Langham’s ruse about the rumours had worked, put Jackson at ease. Perhaps the bloke had believed him.

  “I’m not qualified to know what the fuck we were looking for,” Oliver went on, “and any drugs they had on the shelves appeared to be the same as any I can get over the counter in the supermarket. And you do realise he’s going to dump any drugs relating to those kids now, don’t you?”

  “He won’t. They cost too much. Shit, these leaves are seriously thick. I can’t see much except the back door of the place. He’ll call someone, you’ll see.” Langham leant forward and squinted to see through the foliage. “They’ll come and collect the drugs and anything related to them.”

  “And I take it we’ll follow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what about visiting Ronan Dougherty’s flat? Seeing if he’s been cut up, has arms missing like Mark? See if those strands are all over him?”

  “Shit!” Langham whacked the steering wheel, narrowly missing blasting the horn. “What the hell is wrong with me? I forgot about him. Call it in to Shields, same deal as before—you’ve only just been told by the spirits. Tell him what we’re doing, too.”

  Oliver did that, wincing at the sound of Shields’ smarmy voice coming at him over the airwaves.

  “I told you to tell Langham to report to me,” Shields barked. “Not you. What’s he doing that has him so tied up he can’t speak to me?”

  “He’s the one who’ll be driving, following the people, if they come to collect the drugs.” Oliver closed his eyes, willing himself not to snap back, but his mouth worked before he could stop it. “Why, did you want to taunt him about being a bent copper again, is that it?”

  �
��Fuck off, you spirit-hearing little bastard.”

  “Ah, so you admit I do hear them then? That it isn’t me killing these people?”

  Shields spluttered. “No, no, that’s not it at all. I still think it’s you. That you have a gang, some blokes who kill when you’re with Langham so it just looks like it isn’t you.”

  “Oh, give me a fucking break, shithead.”

  Langham lifted his eyebrows at that, smiled, then continued studying ahead.

  “Shithead? I’ll have the chief take you off civilian duty for that. You shouldn’t even be with Langham now. You’ve probably had a quick chat to the drug-makers in those bushes, haven’t you. Langham going to sell them on, is he?”

  “Knob off. I’ll speak to the chief about the crap you come out with. The way you treat me.”

  Shields laughed, hard and rough. “Prove it. Just let me know if something goes down.”

  Oliver ended the call.

  Langham quickly glanced at him then back at the Privo building. “Jesus, I knew you were a mouthy little sod, but I didn’t think you had it in you to bite back at Shields.”

  “He’s pissed me off for long enough.”

  “Fuck, someone’s here. Hand me the camera, quick.”

  Oliver fumbled in the glove box and pulled the digital out. He switched it on. “Battery’s low.”

  “I always forget to charge the bloody thing. Thanks.”

  A large white truck backed into the Privo yard, reverse alarm bleeping. Once it had stopped, four men dressed head to toe in black poured out of the cab and approached the back door. It opened, and Jackson appeared in the doorway, head darting left to right as he inspected the area. Obviously deeming it safe, he ushered the men inside and closed the door.

  “You catch all that?” Oliver asked.

  “Yep. Got some good close-ups, too. Keep your eye on the door. Let me know when they come out again. I’m just going to check the pictures I took.” He glanced down at them then switched the camera off. He reached for his radio. “I’m going to need backup.”

  He relayed that unmarked cars needed to be at the rear of Privo for when Langham and Oliver followed the truck once it left. Whether that meant those coppers would go in and arrest Mr Jackson, or wait to follow him in case he left, Oliver didn’t know. He had no time to contemplate further either—the black-clad men were coming out, loading boxes into the truck.