I push the money under the seat, still distraught that I took it, more distraught that I couldn’t put it back, and seeing no way to return it now. I decide that, in return for it, I’ll do what I can to see Bessy Swain’s case resolved. I’ll do what I can to find out why she had to hide a baby. Someone owes her that, at least.
CHAPTER TWO
Back at the station I’m just in time for the briefing and Mike smiles widely when he sees me. I sit at the back and look at him. He’s been my sidekick for five years now, enough time for him to get to know me well. He cheers me up. Even now, with all this going on, I can’t help but smile back.
He’s a regular guy, married to a woman who hates me. And who can blame her? I’m out with her husband at all hours, in all kinds of dangerous situations. He’d do anything for me, I’m sure of it.
I know she calls me Barbie because Mike has his phone volume set too loud. When I was younger this would have made me smile and a little bit proud of my average good looks, but now it really is an insult. I can’t think that anyone is farther away from the image of Barbie than I am right now.
I stare down at my feet, slightly too big, made worse by flat pumps. Highly inappropriate for the late autumn weather, but I’m in such a rush every morning I never end up wearing what I have planned. Always the same black pumps, jeans, and T-shirt. My mind’s always on something else. My mind’s always on Aiden.
Jim Stewart steps up and begins to speak.
‘OK, people. Operation Prophesy. We need to nail this once and for all. Connelly’s slipped through the net too many times now. He might look like a saint on the outside but we’ve got hard evidence that he’s keeping explosives at his HQ. We’ve got reliable information that he’s storing drugs on the premises, but they’re like Fort Knox so we have to get the evidence first then do it the right way. With a warrant. Initially, I want Keith and Jason on a fact finder locally. I’ve brought in Sandra and Alison to do some undercover with his girls, and Jose and Julia will concentrate on the comms and the vehicle movements. I want proper logs kept of everything. I don’t want a repeat of Hurricane.’
I sigh under my breath. Operation Hurricane. Twenty-two months of work thrown out of court because of poor record keeping. Jim Stewart had tried to get Connelly on his own, but his solicitor was shit hot and got him bail. That was the first mistake. Then, it turned out, the comms team hadn’t been keeping records correctly and there was a huge gap, which meant that the rest of the evidence didn’t make sense.
This time, we’d all been on admin courses and the operation was bigger. Jim Stewart wasn’t a man to be beaten, and Operation Prophesy would be run with a hand of steel. Which would make it much more difficult for me to do what I have to do. To search for my son.
‘OK. So, Mike and Jan, I need you to be the general eyes and ears, feeding back. Bring in the usual informants, get them interviewed. We only have a small budget for this one after the big spend last time so don’t go mad.’
I raise my hand and everyone turns around.
‘Haven’t you forgotten something? Sir?’
Jim Stewart turns slowly. He’s seething and he knows exactly what’s coming.
‘No, DS Pearce. I don’t think I have.’
I stare at him for a second.
‘What about Aiden? What about the link between Connelly and Aiden? Aren’t you going to include that in Operation Prophesy?’
The room is heavy with silence. No one’s looking at me now. Alison, who’s been drafted in from the Met, looks a little bit embarrassed. Even she’s heard about me. Mike’s shaking his head. Jose is texting someone, giving them the Jan Pearce update, how mad she is today, how she should be signed off sick. Jim is sweating now. He walks toward me.
‘What do you think has happened to Aiden, Jan? Really? Let’s get this out once and for all, eh?’
He looks around the room for nods of support, but everyone is suddenly busy. I nod though. We’ve been through all this before, but not publicly. Although I know he’s setting me up, gathering witnesses to my mental state so he can have me suspended, I carry on.
‘I think he’s got Aiden, sir. I think he’s kidnapped him. As a kind of revenge for Operation Hurricane.’
‘OK. Look, Jan. I see what you’re saying, but we’ve got no evidence. If we had some evidence, then we could investigate, but as it is, we don’t have any. No evidence at all linking Aiden to Sean Connelly. In fact, we’ve got nothing on Connelly at all, not actually on him. Some of his cronies, but not a single shred of evidence on Sean Connelly. We might think things, but we have to actually prove it. And that’s why we’re gathered here today. So, again, there’s no evidence to link Aiden and Connelly.’
I nod. On the surface he’s right. But I know there’s something going on. I’ve pieced it together. I’ve met Connelly twice, and he’s the opposite of what you would expect someone into extortion to be. Blond and hefty, he’s polite and humble. But his eyes give him away, mocking and cruel. Of course, there’s no direct evidence. That’s the problem. He uses other people to do his dirty work, and we’re so near to finding out just what he’s up to. The problem is, proving it. Until then, it’s hearsay.
But I know what he’s up to. When I was in surveillance I had to do the legwork. Sitting around on the sink estates, watching what happens and feeding it back. Endless days in grubby cafés and half-stocked mini-markets mean you get to know the people, what goes on, and who’s behind it.
You become ingrained in it, and it in you. I heard stories about Connelly and his boys, stories about if you crossed him, he’d hit you where it hurt. Stories about abductions and violence, so terrible that it was hardly believable. But the trouble was, and still is, that it’s all contained. All kept on Northlands.
No evidence, and therefore, as far as the police is concerned, all unproven. Rumours and speculation. But I’ve seen and heard things about Connelly that make me sure that he’s got Aiden. Things that the officers here in special operations haven’t seen or heard first hand.
‘I understand that, but you won’t get evidence unless you investigate it. So it’s a bit chicken and egg, isn’t it?’ I realise that I’m doing an egg shape with my hands, which makes me look more mentally disjointed. ‘And now we’re investigating Connelly as a whole, shouldn’t we include this?’
He’s shaking his head.
‘No. And that’s the end of it. We need all hands on deck with this. We need to get something solid, something to smash that saintly image Connelly seems to have built up for himself on Northlands. And I don’t want to find out you’ve been wasting time with this while you’re supposed to be doing your job. Understood?’
I stand up. Even though my head’s telling me to sit down. It’s my heart doing this.
‘Wasting time?’
Most of my colleagues are looking at the floor. I sink back down and he smiles a corporate smile.
‘Sorry, Jan. Wrong words. But Aiden’s a separate issue. Come and have a chat with me later and we’ll see what we can do. But for now, it’s Operation Prophesy. And I don’t want any mistakes on this one. No petty crime, no small time scams. I want to go right to the top on this one.’
Mike goes to stand up to defend me, but Jose pulls him back into his seat. There’s a bustle toward the door, leaving me sitting alone in the room. I think about the money under the seat of my car, and why I took it. Because I feel so alone. I feel I have to do this on my own and I’m desperate.
I watch through the glass plates that separate the rooms as Jim Stewart goes back to his office. He’s laughing now with his PA, and he’s shaking hands with one of the local councillors who’s come to be briefed on the battle against crime.
I wonder if I should sign off sick for a while? I’ve considered it before, but I’d just be sitting at home all the time then, unable to do anything. At least this way I’m hearing the latest on Connelly, on any leads that might be worth following up. Like the one this morning on Ney Street.
I’d he
ard about that one by sitting in the Tameside area with a police radio tuned in. Person not seen for days and bad smell coming from house. This would normally go onto the investigation log and be attended that day, but I was only around the corner and recognised it as one of the houses Connelly rents out.
I go to my desk now and start to type up the report, sticking to the story that I overheard two women talking about it. I’m not supposed to have the radio; I took it out of the operations room in case I was ever in danger in an area where there’s no mobile signal. And, of course, to find Aiden. I only use it outside our area, so I won’t be tracked.
I know all the backdoors. I should do. Up until five years ago, I was responsible for closing them. I was originally brought in to monitor internal wrongdoing, and I learned all the little tricks of the trade that way. I learned advanced surveillance techniques. I know this area like the back of my hand.
I know where every camera is, where the holes in the mobile networks are. And by association, I know how they can be avoided by people who don’t want to be seen or heard. I’ve honed my skills. I never imagined in my wildest dreams I’d ever use them.
Right on cue, I get a call from Jack asking me for a report about the incident earlier, Ney Street and Bessy. I feel the tears return as I think of Bessy dying alone in that stinking mess.
‘Funny how you were right there, Jan, isn’t it?’
I nod. Even Jack knows my daily habits and the reason for them.
‘Right place at the right time. I’ve filed the report already. And before you ask, the back door was unlocked. That’s how I got in. Not even a break and enter without a warrant.’
‘Funny that, though, who leaves their back door open in this day and age? Great. Oh, by the way. We found further human remains at the property.’
I feign amazement now.
‘You’re joking. Who is it?’
‘A baby. Newborn, it looks like. Forensics are there looking for anything else.’
I panic for a moment, and go over me stealing the money again in my mind’s eye. What if one of my eyelashes had dropped onto the shawl? What if a stray hair had dropped in the bedroom? They can even detect tiny snot globules. Shit. I’m an opportunist thief, no better than the fucking lowlife working for Connelly.
‘Bloody hell. That poor woman was bad enough.’
He pauses.
‘That poor woman’s probably a child killer. So don’t feel too sorry for her.’
I take a breath and then let it out. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, Jack. Who says it’s her baby? You’re making big assumptions there.’
He sighs.
‘Yeah. I suppose. Anyway, I might need to talk to you further about this.’
‘OK. But just so you know, I’ve been assigned to Operation Prophesy. You know, with Special Ops, so I might not be available. All hands on deck.’
Except you, Jack. You don’t work with the big boys here at HQ, do you? The silence is palpable and eventually he breathes out.
‘OK, Jan. I’ll be in touch.’
Aiden surfaces in my consciousness again and I make a plan. The money. The opportunity. Everything’s in place now. Everything I need to find Aiden. In only six weeks everyone’s forgotten him. No body, Mum and Dad divorced, area with high youth crime statistics, so everyone’s assumed that he’s just another teenage runaway. Everyone except me.
I’ve settled into a pattern of living that involves putting on a front at work, basic eating and sleeping, and an underbelly of deep grief over his disappearance. Two lives, merging into one in my nightmares about Connelly and his threats.
I feel bad about the money. I can’t put it back now, no matter how much I want to. It would probably have gone to Bessy’s son, the one with the Manchester United bedroom. Or would that be her grandson? Her son would be too old now to have a room like that. I don’t know, but I’ll keep my promise to find out what happened to her. It won’t take much interfering to find out about the baby and her life. Someone’s probably onto it, saving me the trouble.
For now, I’ve got to keep up the façade of Operation Prophesy. It’s going to be difficult, because, underneath it all, every waking moment is focused on getting my son back.
CHAPTER THREE
I wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. I go downstairs and get a drink of milk, because something in milk helps people to sleep. Something in mother’s milk helps babies to sleep. That’s what the midwife told me when Aiden was very young and screamed all night.
I look through the kitchen window and into the garden, where he used to play with Ruby, our little Jack Russell. Ruby’s gone now, and so is Aiden. His cat, Percy, is sitting on the wheelie bin and jumps down when he sees me. I let him in and bury my face in his fur. He’s all I’ve got left that’s Aiden’s. I pour some of my milk into a saucer and he laps it up as I stroke his head.
It’s two o’clock. I check my phone and there’s a message from Sal. Aiden’s dad. My ex-husband. The reality trickles back into my sleepy brain as I remember what has happened. Aiden had stayed over at Sal’s for the weekend while I worked overtime on a tricky case. I’d spoken to him on the Saturday morning; he’d been nagging me to get him a pair of expensive headphones. He’d told me that he was going out later, with some friends.
‘What friends?’
There had been a silence.
‘Just some mates.’
‘Anyone I know? Maybe you could give your dad a contact number?’
I couldn’t see him, but I could imagine him standing in Sal’s flat, frowning.
‘I doubt it. I’m not a child. I don’t need you telling me what to do.’
It had been my turn to pause. I’d thought about saying that I only cared because I loved him, and I wish I had now.
‘Yes, you are, Aidy. You’re fifteen.’
‘I’m sixteen next week.’
Sixteen. He’d reminded me that he was sixteen the next week then vanished. That was the last time I spoke to my son. Sal had called me on Sunday morning asking to speak to him, demanding to know why neither of us had bothered to let him know that Aiden was coming home that night. We still called this house home, all of us. It was home to all of us at one time. Now it’s just mine.
I’d waited until Sal had finished his shouting and accusing; I know how to handle him. Then I’d quietly stated my own case.
‘But he didn’t come here, Sal. He’s not been home.’
He went off on a tangent about teenage girls and Aiden’s friends and didn’t I know where my own son was. What kind of a police officer was I? What kind of a parent was I? All questions that I have continually asked myself ever since. But it’s futile when he’s like this to call him out now and remind him that he had Aiden that weekend. When the bickering finally stopped, Sal was silent for a full minute then spoke.
‘So where is he? What do we do now?’
I remember my mouth being very dry and feeling faint.
‘We should wait until teatime, give him a chance to come back. If he’s not back by then, we should phone the police.’
Sal snorted.
‘Yeah, great. But you are the police. Aren’t you going to do something?’
I did do something. Even though I knew it would be fruitless, I called all of Aiden’s school friends’ parents. I called my family and Sal’s family. At three o’clock, I heard a knock on the front door. He’d forgotten his keys. Been in a fight? Been mugged? Was he hurt? But it was Sal, all angry. I told him whom I’d phoned and we looked at each other, strangers now.
‘I suppose I’d better ring it in then.’
Sal nodded.
‘Yeah, you ring it in. Make a report. If anything’s happened to him I’ll . . .’
‘What? What will you do? Eh?’
My tolerance for Sal’s threats is zero. I’m used to being blamed for everything, but I don’t have to take it. We couldn’t even pull together with a crisis looming. He’s all red and huffy now, a sure sign that any min
ute he’s going to explode.
‘You. That’s the problem. You. Your fucking job. He’s probably run away because of you. You drove me away and now you’ve done it to him. Shit, Jan, this is down to you.’
If I were a different person I might have taken this on board and felt guilty, but I’m so used to Sal’s blame and shame routine by now that it bypasses me. I watch as he reaches into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of wine. He goes to the cupboard and gets one glass and pours. I turn away and dial the operation room number.
‘Hi. It’s Jan Pearce. Can I speak to Ian Douglas, please?’
The call is transferred and I wait. Eventually he answers.
‘Ian, it’s Jan. I’ve got a bit of a situation.’
Ian is the missing people guy at the station, the one who coordinates the searches.
‘Hi, Jan. You do know it’s Sunday, yeah? Only I’m round at family.’
I suddenly stepped back into reality.
‘I’m so sorry, Ian. Look, I’ll get uniformed out and file a report that way, maybe you could have a look at it tomorrow?’
I can hear children in the background, laughing. And music.
‘Report? Why? What’s happened? Are you OK?’
I’d swallowed back the tears. Someone asked if I was OK. The first time in ages anyone has bothered to ask.
‘No. Not really. Aiden’s gone missing. He hasn’t been home.’
‘Right. How old is he? How long’s he been gone?’
‘He’s been gone since yesterday teatime. He’s fifteen. Sixteen next week.’
I heard Ian walk into a silent area.
‘OK. And has he done this sort of thing before?’
‘No. Never. He’s never spent a night away from at least one of his parents. He’s round at his dad’s a lot. There was one time, after an argument, between me and Sal really, not him, that he stayed out at his friends but . . .’
There’s a silence as we both mentally latch onto the word ‘runaway.’
‘Any problems recently? Drink? Drugs? Arguments?’
I think. I hadn’t noticed any signs. I hadn’t noticed anything.
Random Acts of Unkindness Page 2
