The Stolen Children

by Oliver Davies

  “No, we were out on a call, but we’re about done, I think.” I glanced over to Stephen to see if he agreed and he nodded. We’d been searching for Lawrence for almost two hours, and he didn’t seem to be anywhere nearby. If he wasn’t lingering around a bus stop at this point, I think we could assume he’d found somewhere to bunk down and wouldn’t be in easy sight.

  “I’ll message you the location,” Keira said, before pausing briefly. “You’re aware you haven’t got a warrant to search the place, aren’t you?”

  I exhaled on a humourless laugh. “I won’t do anything stupid, like breaking any windows. Promise.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Good luck, Mitchell.”

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  She ended the call, and I looked down at my phone until the text came through with the details on the van and its location.

  “That was Keira, I’m guessing?” Stephen said.

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Yes, it was Keira. In more important news, the van has turned up.”

  “No way!” He grinned. “Brilliant, where are we headed?”

  I copied and pasted the address Keira had sent me into the sat-nav. “Not too far. Other side of the city.”

  “Neat,” he said. His stomach growled, and he looked down at it. “Maybe we could hit a drive through first, though?”

  “Fine,” I sighed. “You and your stomach, I swear.”

  “Hey,” he protested. “Staying fuelled up is good for the brain, Mitchell.”

  I made a noncommittal noise, busy programming the sat-nav to go through the nearest drive-through Costa on the way to the van’s location. I couldn’t imagine how Stephen could be hungry after the news we’d just received, since my own belly was in knots, but I wouldn’t mind grabbing a coffee.

  I filled Stephen in on what Keira had said, and what the van looked like, as we drove over. The traffic was slow enough to be frustrating, but it wasn’t too bad, so we made good time.

  Stephen picked up his lunch from the drive-through, and I got a coffee and crisps. The coffee was scalding and a little weaker than I would’ve made for myself, but it did the job.

  “Nearly there now,” Stephen said, his mouth half-full of BLT.

  “Okay,” I acknowledged.

  Stephen sent me a sideways look. “Do you think we’ll need back-up?”

  I pressed my lips together. “I doubt it. We’re mostly information gathering here. We’ve not got a warrant, as Keira so kindly reminded me,” Stephen chuckled at that, “and we’ve no reason to think that Lydia is at this exact location. More likely, the gang borrowed the van, and has stashed Lydia somewhere outside the city.”

  “If this was a one-off case, I’d probably agree,” Stephen said, pulling up outside a daggy looking garage, “but Lawrence was found in a townhouse, in Tang Hall. That’s not exactly the wilds.”

  “Good point,” I conceded. “We’ll stay alert, see what we can find out.”

  He put the handbrake on and unclipped his seatbelt. “Hopefully something useful,” he said seriously. “It’s been too long already.”

  “I know.”

  We got out of the car, and Stephen locked it before we headed towards the garage. There was a dirty, off-white sign up above the entryway that looked like it’d been new about a decade ago. There were various raggedy tyres and other rubbish piled around the front yard amidst a number of cars which ranged from seeming mostly functional, to rust buckets that looked like a firm push would make them collapse.

  “Upmarket place,” Stephen muttered as we headed over.

  I elbowed him. “You’ve gotten too used to the posh life,” I teased. “Visiting all these mansions has gone to your head.”

  He chuckled. “Hardly, mate. This place just needs a good clear out.”

  “And a lick of paint.”

  A couple of guys in overalls were moving around in the workshop inside the garage entrance. They looked over at us with cold expressions, staring without saying anything. Stephen being as mean looking as he did when he wanted to, I let him take the lead with these two, who looked like they’d respect physical brawn over authority.

  “We’re looking for the owner of this place,” Stephen said. “They around?”

  The right-hand guy kept chewing on whatever was in his mouth and didn’t say anything. The older bloke on the left, after a long pause, jerked his thumb towards a door at the back.

  “Ta,” I said. We headed over to the door indicated, and I knocked loudly. There wasn’t a response for long enough that I rolled my eyes at Stephen and banged on the door again. Stephen had kept himself angled sideways while I waited at the door, sensibly keeping an eye on our surroundings.

  “Anything?” I asked, without turning around.

  “Nope.”

  I was about to knock the battered door a third time when we finally heard a gruff voice from inside, which I took as permission to enter. I shoved the stiff door open and stepped in. A man was sitting comfortably in an old desk chair, his hair greying, face wrinkled, and oily muck lodged under his stubby fingernails.

  I slid my badge from my pocket, and Stephen did the same at my side. “DCI Mitchell, and this is DI Huxley.” I let the silence hang for a minute, hoping that he’d defy my expectations and be helpful, but it ended up that I had to prompt him, “And you are?”

  The man looked up and narrowed his eyes at me like I was asking for his bank details. “Allen,” he said finally.

  His hair was neatly combed, but his eyes were sluggish as he considered us and I couldn’t tell if he was tired, drunk, or not interested. He didn’t smell drunk, but the chemical smells from the garage were strong enough to cover most other things.

  “Alright, Allen,” I said. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Questions about what?” he asked, his voice a slow drawl.

  “We’re looking for a van that’s registered to this garage.”

  He looked at us for a long moment, before shrugging. “We have a lot of vans here.”

  “Right,” I said stiffly. “We’re looking for a specific one.” I pulled out my phone, found Keira’s message, and read off the van’s age, description, and make.

  Allen sniffed. “Doesn’t sound familiar. You probably got outdated records.”

  I clenched my jaw. “Yeah? Why would that be?”

  He shrugged again. “Lots of vehicles run through here, don’t they?”

  “So, what, it’s been sold on?”

  “Maybe it has,” he said with a vague nod.

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, but barely. “How about we have a look around. Just to see if it’s hanging around someplace.” He looked none too keen to agree to us snooping around, so I added, “then we can clear you off the record.”

  “You don’t see it, you’ll change the record?” Allen said.

  “Sure,” I lied, having absolutely no intention of doing so.

  “Fine,” he grumbled, taking his time to get up out of his seat and moving round the side of the desk to lead the way out of the small office. “Follow me.”

  He headed out through the front of the garage and round the side, gesturing at the vehicles lying about the place. There was one van parked up in the corner, but it didn’t look like the right make. Also, it had its wheels taken off.

  “We don’t have the one you said,” Allen said flatly, but with an almost smug look in his eyes.

  “I see that,” I said. “And round the other side?”

  Allen grunted, leading the way over to the other side of the garage. Stephen and I shared a look behind his back, and I knew that we wouldn’t find the damn thing here. This place was a cover for illegal vehicles, I would guess, but they certainly didn’t keep them on the premises.

  “Alright,” I said, after Allen had walked us around the garage and back to the front. “Thank you for showing us around.”

  He gave us an unimpressed look. “Get us taken off that record. Clearly a mistake,” he said, before he turned and wa
lked off.

  “Well, that was useful as a chocolate teapot.”

  I exhaled heavily, turning to give Stephen an exasperated look. “What now, huh?”

  He pulled an apologetic expression. “Back to the station?”

  “Guess so.” We headed back towards the car, significantly less upbeat than we’d been when we’d set out. But maybe I’d been naïve to expect to find something so easily, and I sighed.

  “Chin up,” Stephen said, though his expression was sympathetic. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “How much longer will it take, though?” I demanded, my disappointment shifting into anger. “That little girl doesn’t have-”

  Stephen raised his hands in surrender. “I don’t know, Darren, okay? We’re both doing our best.”

  I slumped back in the car seat, passing a hand over my face. “Aye, let’s just go.”

  Stephen started up the car and drove us out of there, back towards the station. I looked out the window at the city rushing past and thought about Lydia and Lawrence being out there somewhere, waiting to be found. The city was becoming busier with tourists now that winter was warming up into spring and I looked at them in envy.

  “God, I need a holiday,” I muttered aloud, closing my eyes briefly as I settled back.

  “Yeah you do,” Stephen said. “Maldives, maybe?”

  I chuckled. “I was thinking more along the lines of running up some Scottish hills. Or Welsh.”

  Stephen snorted. “Of course you were. Your idea of a holiday is my idea of torture.”

  “You’d rather get sunburned, lying around on your back all day beside a chlorinated swimming pool? Give me some fresh air and scenery any day, mate.”

  “Whatever you say,” Stephen laughed quietly. “The beach is plenty scenic for me, and the margaritas are much closer by.”

  We bickered back and forth about our dream holidays, and I slowly relaxed. This was what I liked so much about having a partner, and Stephen in particular. He knew the seriousness of the situation, of course, he did, but he also knew that dwelling on all of that pressure and worry for too long hindered the case rather than helped it.

  So rather than getting so caught up in my concern and frustration that I couldn’t think straight, Stephen’s banal chatter relaxed me enough to allow me to think again.

  Stephen glanced over at me as I picked up my phone and called Gaskell, waiting while my phone rang.

  “What’re you thinking?” he asked.

  But Gaskell picked up before I could respond, “Mitchell?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “We’ve got a favour to ask.”

  “Well, go on then.”

  “I’d like a couple of constables posted outside a location, would that be doable?”

  “You think it’ll give results?” Gaskell asked after a short pause.

  I hesitated. “Might do, sir. The van that took the second kidnapping victim is registered-”

  “Alright, alright,” Gaskell cut me off, “I don’t need the details. I trust your judgement. I’ll send a pair of constables your way, and you can set them up.”

  “Understood, thank you, sir.”

  Gaskell grunted his acknowledgement before hanging up, and I looked down at my phone, slightly bemused.

  “He was in a tense mood.”

  “You want constables outside the garage?” Stephen asked.

  “Aye. It can’t hurt. If they’re moving vans and the like through there that are involved in cases like this one, it’d be good to know about it.”

  Stephen hummed. “Yeah, or it might just be the address they’re registered to. Maybe they never step foot near the garage, you know?”

  “Maybe so,” I admitted. “At least it’ll rule that out, I guess.”

  “True,” Stephen said, still sounding sceptical.

  I was aware that it wasn’t the strongest of leads, but it was the best we had right now. I didn’t want to let anything slip through the cracks if I could help it. It might turn out to be a waste of resources, but maybe it’d turn out to be useful. It was a gamble, but the best bet I had available. The whole of policing was a game of risks and chances, where luck was the biggest player and could only be influenced to a certain extent by hard work. The stakes were the highest possible, but so were the rewards, when we cracked a case and got it right.

  I hoped that this would be one of those times, and we wouldn’t have to fold before we’d gotten the answers we were chasing.

  Seventeen

  “Off on another outing?” Keira asked. She’d been walking past with a mug of tea in her hands but paused when she saw us putting our coats.

  I gave her a slightly tired but genuine smile. “Aye, we’ve got a break-in.”

  Keira raised her eyebrows, her painted lips turned up slightly in amusement. “Kidnapping, burglary, fraud,” She ticked them off her fingers, “this case of yours has it all.”

  I winced. “You’re not wrong,” I said, thinking of Mr Wooding and how ‘murder’ could be added to the list, too. “Thanks for the tip-off on the van yesterday.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  I shook my head. “Not really, but I hope it might turn something up soon.”

  She accepted my vagueness with a nod. “I’ll update you if we get anything else,” she said, giving me a polite smile before she headed off.

  I could feel Stephen looking over at me as we walked out of the building and over to the car, clearly dying to ask me something.

  “Fire away, Steph,” I said when we’d climbed into the car, and he still hadn’t spat it out.

  He grinned. “Sorry. Just, did you guys have a tiff or something? I thought it was going well. You went round for dinner, didn’t you?”

  I started up the engine and turned up the heating, the air in the car still cold from sitting outside overnight. “I’m gonna regret telling you that,” I huffed. “Keira made it clear our thing had an expiration date, and that’s fine with me, seriously. I’m not secretly pining after her, though she’s a lovely woman.”

  Stephen looked at me for a minute, obviously trying to tell if I was telling the truth or not. “Okay,” he said finally. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  I smiled. “I’m good,” I assured him, rolling the car out of the car park and onto the main road.

  “Back to where we started,” Stephen said as we headed towards the Wooding’s manor house out in the Dales.

  “Aye, ‘tis a bit cyclical,” I agreed.

  “Who do you think might have broken in?”

  We’d had a call from Rebecca, the Wooding’s housekeeper, almost as soon as we’d arrived at the station to report that someone had broken into the house and taken some items that were worth nothing, but also a large quantity of cash from the safe.

  “I have a few ideas,” I said, “but I want to hear more from Rebecca before I decide on anything for certain.”

  “Give me a hint?”

  I chuckled. “No, use your own brain, you big lump.”

  “Dammit,” Stephen said and, though I focused on the driving, I could tell he was smiling.

  The drive seemed to go more quickly than it had the first time we’d visited, perhaps because I was more familiar with the route now. I was almost sorry to arrive, since I’d been thoroughly enjoying the scenery on our way there.

  “Did you bring your running shoes?” Stephen asked as we climbed out.

  “Not this time. I figured we’ve got too much on, better to get back to the station.”

  “Fair enough,” Stephen sighed. “I wouldn’t have minded a nice pub meal, though.”

  I laughed quietly. “We’ll go out for one when this is over, okay?”

  “You’re making me hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry,” I fired back, and Stephen acknowledged that with a grin.

  “True, true.”

  We headed up the drive towards the stone steps. Stephen rapped firmly on the big door, and we waited for Rebecca to come and get the door. />
  She turned up a moment later, wearing flared red trousers and a white blouse and looking as impeccable as she had last time we’d seen her.

  “DCI Mitchell, DI Huxley,” she greeted us formally. “Come in. I’ve put tea on for you both.”

  “That’s very kind,” Stephen said. Despite his bulk and mean-looking face, he still managed to look like an excitable puppy at the prospect of tea and biscuits.

  It wasn’t biscuits this time, but homemade scones with jam and cream, which Stephen all but inhaled and I found myself eating two of them in quick succession.

  “It’s damson jam,” Rebecca said. The kitchen was spotless, like before, but also empty. Her husband was likely outside, tending to the grounds, I thought. “We make it here at the house.”

  “It’s delicious,” Stephen praised warmly, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  Once I finished, I fished my notebook out of my pocket and put it down on the kitchen table. “What can you tell us about this break-in?” I asked her.

  Rebecca sighed quietly. “It happened in the night. I’m not entirely sure when it was, but somewhere between half ten, when I went to sleep, and six, when my husband got up.”

  “So it was Nicholas who discovered the burglary?” Stephen asked.

  Rebecca inclined her head. “Yes. He found the back door left open and realised that something was wrong. He woke me and I went to check the rest of the house.”

  “And what had been taken?”

  “Come,” Rebecca said, standing up, “I’ll show you.”

  She took us up the stairs and through the long, complicated hallways towards Mr and Mrs Woodings’ rooms. It was the latter that she entered first, leading the way inside with Stephen and I following after her.

  Nothing looked immediately amiss, but it became clear that things were missing the more I looked.

  Rebecca stepped forwards to open the chest of drawers, revealing an empty drawer. “Mrs Wooding’s clothes are gone, plus a number of items from the wardrobe,” she told us, gesturing to the other side of the room.

  “And her toiletries from the dressing table,” I said, nodding to the dresser.

  Rebecca made a noise of agreement in her throat. “There is also the safe,” she said, walking out of the room. Stephen and I shared a look and followed her. She crossed the corridor and moved into Mr Wooding’s room. I slowed as we entered, knowing what I knew now about his fate.