by Cari Hunter
“She’s being a pain in the arse,” Spence said, by way of a greeting.
“Is she now?” Jem smoothed sodden strands of mucky hair from Rosie’s face and kissed her cheek. “Are you misbehaving, Rosie Jones?”
Rosie’s eyes fluttered open, and she pawed at her oxygen mask, stretching its elastic band until Jem relented and lowered it.
“You’re all right?” Rosie asked, her words rolling together like warm toffee.
“I’m fine.” Jem huffed at Rosie’s cross-eyed look of disbelief. “I’ll be fine.” She turned to Spence. “What in the blazes have you given her?”
“Ketamine.” He shrugged. “She kept trying to get up.”
They looked round at the sound of approaching footsteps: HART and Fire, storming in en masse about ten minutes too late. Spence went to meet them, and Jem settled in his spot by Rosie’s side.
“Jem?” Rosie said.
“What?”
“Do I get to keep my metal?”
“Your what?” Jem followed Rosie’s gaze to the chunk of rebar still protruding from her thigh. “This? What the hell for?”
Rosie smiled. “Memento.”
“Of the day you almost drowned?”
Jem assumed it was the ketamine talking, but Rosie shook her head, her expression clear and adamant.
“Of the day we took our chance,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-two
“Ow.”
Even smacked off her head on a concoction of general anaesthesia and morphine and who knew what else, Rosie regretted trying to roll onto her back.
“Stay on your side, Rosie.” Jem’s flat instruction suggested she’d been saying this a lot. “You had five inches of metal stuck up your—oh, hello.” Her tone brightened as she realised Rosie was actually focusing on her.
“Hiya.” Rosie pulled a face at the reediness of her voice and was relieved to be offered a sip of fruit juice rather than water.
“Not too much, you’ve been puking all morning,” Jem said, easing the straw from Rosie’s lips.
“I have? What time is it?”
“Almost ten.”
Rosie scrubbed at her cheek with fingers still pruney on one side and battered on the other. Her addled brain was sluggish at joining the dots, but when it had, she narrowed her eyes. “Jem?”
“What?” Jem said, all Bambi-like innocence. She was dressed in multiple layers of normal clothing rather than pyjamas, but the oxygen tubing beneath her nose somewhat gave the game away.
“Why aren’t you in bloody bed, that’s what?”
Jem pushed her chair back. “I’ve been in bed.” She gestured to the adjacent bay and the bed with its rumpled sheets. “Then I asked nicely, and Katya let me get up.”
“Katya? Your nurse from last time?” Rosie frowned; she was apparently still missing a few dots. “Okay, fill me in from the top.”
Jem pinched a handful of grapes from a stash beyond Rosie’s limited field of vision and popped the largest into her mouth. “What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked around it.
Rosie stared at a blank bit of wall, filling it with images of rising water and darkness and Jem, clearly terrified but trying not to show it.
“Hey.” The soft word came with the gentlest of kisses, pulling her back to the hospital room. Jem stayed almost nose to nose with her, cradling her face with warm hands. “Sorry, that was a stupid question.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Rosie’s mood improved as everything else suddenly slotted into place. “I remember you kissing me upside down.”
Jem laughed. “Okay, well, that’s the most important thing. The rest of it isn’t quite so exciting. You had an op to sort your leg out, I spent a few hours in Resus, and we were both admitted onto Respiratory because they need to monitor you for secondary drowning, although you’re not showing any signs of that.”
“Good,” Rosie said. “That sounds very unpleasant. What about the case? And Tahlia?”
“I can’t shed any light on the case,” Jem said. “No one has been in with an update, and I’ve not seen anything on the news. Kash told me that Tahlia is settling in at home, and he thinks they’re interviewing her today, so we might know more later.” She wheeled an overbed table crammed with tins and bags into view. “On a happier note, my dad brought more Aztec biscuits, and your mum cooked us a roast dinner. Kash collected clean clothes and trainers for you, and Ferg popped round about an hour ago with hot toddies he swears are medicinal.” She patted a tall silver flask and then glanced at the vomit bowls stacked in readiness. “Maybe wait till the morphine wears off, eh?”
“Yeah.” Rosie experimented with bending her leg but didn’t get very far. “Shit. I’m not sure I want it to wear off.”
“I’m not surprised.” Jem handed her a sealed plastic bag. “That’s your culprit. The bottom bit did most of the damage by digging itself in around your thigh bone.”
The rebar rolled lazily as Rosie held the bag to the light. One end of the metal was snapped clean where Smiffy had cut it, the other twisted almost into a hook.
“You’ve got quite a few stitches,” Jem continued. “But your surgeon said you’ll be right as rain after a course of antibiotics and some physio.”
“Don’t mention the bloody rain,” Rosie said.
“Puddles and sore hands.” Jem displayed fingers as shredded as Rosie’s. “Isn’t that our theme?”
Rosie chucked the bag out of sight and tapped Jem’s knee until she got the message and kissed Rosie full on the lips. Rosie tasted cinnamon and whiskey on the tip of Jem’s tongue, and felt her sway sideways as her breathing went haywire. When they parted, Rosie traced Jem’s smile with her finger.
“I think this is a much better theme for us,” she said.
* * *
Rosie used her crutch to tag the wall and shimmied around to face her bed again. The abused muscles in her thigh didn’t appreciate her efforts, but she swung her crutches onward regardless. Jem was sitting with her feet up in her usual spot, and she peered over her reading glasses to watch the next lap. Far more accustomed to hospital admissions than Rosie was, she had tolerated their two-day incarceration with enviable fortitude.
“If I tell them I smoke, will they let me go outside?” Rosie asked.
Jem turned the page in her well-thumbed novel. “No, they’ll slap a nicotine patch on your arse.”
“So much for that brilliant idea,” Rosie said, and tripped over a crack in the flooring. “What time is it?”
“What time was it when you last asked?”
“Eleven twenty-eight.”
“It’s eleven thirty-eight, then,” Jem said without looking at her watch.
Rosie’s arms were beginning to tire. She wobbled another couple of feet, passing the bottom of Jem’s bed and the pair of slippers she’d designated as her midway marker. “Have you chosen your lunch?”
“Cornish pasty. And no, you can’t steal half of it.” Giving up on her book, Jem pushed her glasses to the top of her head and stretched her arms out. She was only wearing a thin T-shirt, and as the fabric pulled taut across her chest, Rosie overbalanced, colliding with a bedside cabinet.
“You okay there?” Jem sounded amused, and she didn’t lower her arms.
“Yep, I am definitely okay.” Rosie righted herself. “I meant to do that.”
Jem laughed and came to stand in front of her. The heat of the room had dashed pink across her cheeks, and her eyes were bright with mischief. “You should sit down before you fall down,” she said, going up on tiptoes to nibble the end of Rosie’s nose.
Rosie groaned, lowering herself carefully into one of the chairs they’d set by the window. Her legs felt like jelly, and it wasn’t wholly due to exertion. “I want to go home,” she said. “I want to watch crap films with you and Fluffy, and mix my painkillers with alcohol, and fall asleep in your arms.”
Jem perched on the side of the chair and ran her fingers through Rosie’s hair, separating the tangled strands. “We’ll
have a serious chat about option B later,” she said. “But we can pencil the other two in for tonight. If Harriet said early evening, she meant early evening, so we have”—she did the sums on her fingers—“about four more hours to kill.”
The knock on the door would have been a welcome distraction, had Steph’s outline not shown clearly through the glass.
“Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any worse,” Rosie said.
“Come in,” Jem called. Then, quieter, “You’re not allowed to weaponise your crutches unless severely provoked.” She stayed where she was, casually parked at Rosie’s side as if daring Steph to make an issue of it, but Steph sank into the chair opposite, looking so weary that Rosie would have offered her a brew had it not involved getting up again.
“Sorry to come unannounced,” Steph said. She fiddled with her bag, drawing a file out of it and then a box of Special Toffee. She set the box on the windowsill, tapping its top with one finger. “For you to share.”
“Thanks,” Rosie said. She wasn’t sure what to do with this sombre, non-combative version of Steph. It wasn’t one she had ever encountered. Jem must have been similarly wrong-footed, because she cleared her throat and shifted to the edge of the chair’s arm.
“Can I get you a coffee?” she asked.
“No, no. I won’t be long.” Steph draped her coat over her lap and opened the file. “I was in the neighbourhood and thought you’d appreciate an update.”
“We would,” Rosie said. She and Jem had given statements to a detective from Major Crimes, but his visit had been brief, and he hadn’t divulged much information. “Being in here is like being stuck in a vacuum. Have you been keeping things out of the media?”
Steered back onto safer ground, Steph seemed to relax. “Yes, which has been relatively easy with the flooding dominating the news. We’ve worked around the clock with the TAU to round up the last of Fagin’s crew, and we think we’ve finally got them all.”
Rosie heard Jem catch her breath and took her hand without thinking. “How many were involved?”
“As of three a.m. this morning, we’ve arrested and charged seven adults,” Steph said, which went some way toward explaining her dishevelled state. “And you were right, Rosie.”
“I was?” Rosie bum-shuffled; the constant ache in her thigh was making it difficult for her to concentrate. “About what?”
“About Mrs. Galpin.” Steph took a photo from the file and passed it over. It was a custody suite mug shot of Frank Galpin’s mother, and if looks could kill, the photographer would have been six feet under by now. Gone was the fondant-fancies-toting old dear, replaced by a glowering, five-foot-three battleaxe.
“Wow, really?” Rosie peeked again at the image. “Fucking hell, she’s giving me the willies. Was she running the whole shebang, then?”
“It would appear so. Mrs. Fiona Galpin was identified by Tahlia Mansoor, who had seen her ordering Frank about at the main shelter, Olly’s. Only one of the other children we’ve spoken to was able to ID her. It seems her involvement was very much of a behind-the-scenes nature.”
“How many children have you found?” Jem asked. Her hand felt damp against Rosie’s, and her posture was as rigid as a board.
Steph checked her notes. “Eighteen at the last count. About half have been reunited with their families, and the remainder have been taken into care. They were scattered around five of Frank Galpin’s renovated houses, and I use the term ‘renovated’ very lightly. Olly’s was refurbished to a high standard, to lull the kids into a false sense of security, but the others were barely habitable and seem to have been selected for either their isolation or their lack of sober neighbours.”
“It’s easier to pimp kids out to respectable husbands and fathers when there’s no one around to witness it,” Rosie said. She had been clenching her jaw so hard it was beginning to hurt. For the first time, she was almost grateful to have been sequestered away in the hospital, kept away from the perps being processed through the custody suite, from the fingertip searches, and from sifting through the devastation the Galpins had caused.
“Were all the kids being used like Kyle?” Jem asked quietly.
“No, not all of them,” Steph said. “Preliminary interviews suggest the children tended to start out stealing, a few using tricks similar to those described by Ava and Chloe, but most just performing common or garden shoplifting or burglaries. Once they were recruited and trained, they were kept compliant by rewards, punishments, and recreational drugs. The longer they remained involved, the more likely they were to end up addicted and dependent, and that’s when they were moved on to the prostitution side of things.” She sighed and rested her hands across her notes. “A handful of the kids have been pissed off at us for interfering. Frank Galpin painted himself as a good mate; a big brother or a father figure, which is obviously something these children have been missing. They were paid for their work and had a roof over their heads, even if it was a crappy one. It was only those who stepped out of line who really suffered, and many of these kids had suffered far worse in the care system.”
Jem nodded, but she didn’t seem capable of replying. Rosie could only imagine what she was thinking. It was little wonder she had been so obsessed with the luck surrounding her adoption, given the alternatives that might have awaited her.
“How the hell did Tahlia get away?” Rosie said. “I’m assuming she was one of their kids at some point.”
“She was, briefly,” Steph said. “But she cottoned on to the downsides almost immediately and did a runner. There was no real urgency for them to find her until you showed Mrs. Galpin her photograph.”
“Shit,” Rosie whispered. “I could have got her killed.”
“Hey,” Jem said in a tone sharp enough to make Rosie look at her. “Tahlia would still be fending for herself in the old mill if it weren’t for you.”
“I suppose.”
“Jem’s right,” Steph said, shocking the hell out of Rosie. “The Mansoors are pushing for some kind of commendation.”
“Oh God, really?” Rosie had never been one for ceremony, especially if it involved rubbing shoulders with the top brass. “Can we nip that in the bud?”
“We can try. But you know how starved our lot are for positive media attention.”
“Aye.” Rosie wasn’t going to argue with that one. “Did Frank own the house on Mansfield Street?” She didn’t think the Galpins would have been stupid enough to torch a property with their name on it, though, and she wasn’t surprised when Steph shook her head.
“It belonged to the deceased mother of one of their associates. Fiona Galpin didn’t just prey on vulnerable children, she used her own social care package as a trawling ground.” Steph’s voice had hardened, and her lips were pressed into a thin line. “She had three local council-subsidised care calls a day, ostensibly to help her dress and prepare her meals, et cetera, and all the adults we’ve arrested had links to her care agencies. She would take her time, get to know them, and suss out their susceptibility. Those she deemed desperate enough or easy enough to manipulate, she would offer jobs to. The woman the kids knew as Nancy was one of her first: twenty-five years old, with two toddlers, debts, and a deadbeat baby daddy. She swapped a minimum wage, zero-hours contract for a supervisory role in Galpin’s operation.”
“It’d be easier to sympathise had a child not died because of them,” Rosie said.
Steph hadn’t been making much eye contact with Rosie until then, but it was rock solid as she nodded her agreement. “I know. At the moment, we’re not sure how deep anyone’s involvement went. The Galpins were up to their eyes in it, but the other adults are all claiming their input was minimal, and three of them have pinned the fire on Frank. Number plate analysis from ANPR cameras has placed the FGN1 Range Rover close to Mansfield Street that same night. It’s not definitive proof by any means, but it’ll help us to build a case against him.”
“Will Ava and Chloe have to testify?” Jem asked.
“We’ve discussed the possibility of them testifying via a video link.” Steph’s dour expression altered to one of admiration. “Ava is definitely up for it; she’s a proper little spitfire, but Chloe’s struggling, and they’ll both be seeing a counsellor on a weekly basis.” She closed her file, as if to signal that her unofficial briefing was drawing to an end. Rosie felt Jem tighten her grip, readying them both for whatever was to come.
“I interviewed Adrian Peel on Tuesday,” Steph continued. “He no-commented the first hour, before going to pieces when I presented him with the burner and the bag of clothes you found.”
“Should’ve bet Smiffy a bloody tenner,” Rosie muttered.
“He never pays up anyway,” Steph said. Her expression was reminiscent of a cat full of cream, and Rosie knew the interview had gone precisely to plan.
“How much did Peel cop to?” Rosie asked.
“He admitted to taking Kyle Parker out to Abbey Vale that night. Unbeknownst to him, Kyle had filched his wallet and got hold of his name and address. When Kyle tried to extort money, there was a struggle, during which Peel ‘lost the plot’—his words—and punched him. Just the one punch, he says, but Kyle landed badly, hitting his head. According to Peel, Kyle got up and staggered off toward the river, at which point Peel panicked, abandoned him, and ran.”
“Fucking arsehole,” Rosie said.
Jem put an arm around her shoulders. “We’ll never know what really happened, will we? For all we know, Peel threw him into the water, or he could have stood there, watched him fall in, and then walked away and left him.”
“Without an independent witness, Peel’s word is all we have to go on,” Steph said. “Crown Prosecution are edging toward manslaughter rather than murder. We’re almost certain to get a conviction on the former charge, but whether he’ll pay a fitting price for his crime…” She opened her hands helplessly. “We can only do what we can do, and the law often falls short in these cases.”
“Not your fault, Steph,” Rosie said. “This was a shitty case from day one.”
