I know this is a kind of madness. I know my thinking isn’t rational or logical. It hasn’t been for six weeks, since I realised Aiden was gone. I’m working almost entirely on instinct now, or, as some people would call it, winging it.
Like I said, a little instinct is a good thing. I’m chasing the silent messages, the invisible crime scene, the hidden world I know is around here somewhere, waiting to be discovered if only I can make sense of all the signposts, all the patterns. Gut feeling. But now I’ve pulled the threads together and come to a conclusion, I’m wondering if I am actually mad. Mad with grief. Mad with anxiety. Or am I saner than I’ve ever been?
Day to day, policing and working with people makes you used to it. Used to the horror stories, used to crime. Sometimes the determination disappears and it’s all routine, bordering on the boring, and I have to get Mike to give me a metaphorical kick up the arse to remind me that this is peoples’ lives that are affected.
And vice versa. If he lacks motivation I give him a push. We always work best when we’re right up to the line. Working on that feeling in the pit of our stomachs, sitting in a bar afterward, with the suspect in the cells, drinking ice-cold lager. But this is more than that. I’ve crossed the line. My motivation is my son, the most important person in the world to me.
To make it worse, everyone else thinks I’m wrong. I’ve been in this situation before, with Sal. A couple of years into our marriage I was miserable. Our families were as pleased as punch that we had made a go of it. But I knew even then it would never work.
All my friends told me I was mad, that Sal was ‘The One,’ that I could never find someone so perfect for me. But they were all wrong. Sometimes it takes years to realize you are right, that the gut feeling you had was right all along, and in the end, when I got the divorce absolute and Sal snapped again and finally showed his true colours in front of all his family when he poured a drink over my head at a family party and called me all the names under the sun.
I just sat there, and Aiden walked out. I just sat there because it was a defining moment, something I’d made no effort at all to make happen. On the contrary, Sal had proved me right all by himself.
That’s how I feel now. As if I’m on the brink of something here, something that, for some reason, no one else had seen. Then it all starts to cascade into place. Maybe other people do know about it. Other people higher up, other people who could prevent Connelly from being found out.
Operation Hurricane. It seemed like it would be so successful, but shut down because somehow Connelly had found out all the information. All the ops, all the chasing information, all wasted. And paperwork disappearing. Reports that officers had sworn they had filed, gone. Data everyone, including myself, had seen, disappeared off the system overnight.
At first Jim Stewart thought it was some kind of virus, recoverable. After all, we were the police, weren’t we supposed to be secure? But it soon became obvious that it was gone, and we all began to doubt each other. If there was a small personality clash, it became a chasm of suspicion, where accusations of lies over how much work had been done and what had been reported was flying.
It had been chaos at the station for months, but when Jim announced Operation Prophesy informally, four weeks before its official launch, everyone relaxed a little. It was as if we’d get a second chance at Connelly, a chance to recover all the lost work and finally stop whatever was happening. I rationalise this with myself now. Isn’t that what I’m doing too, investigating Connelly’s wrongdoing?
I ride up the road to the derelict factory. The Gables. Tatters of age-old messages hang from the wires above me and my blood runs cold. It’s dark now and I might as well get this over with, find out for once and for all what is going on. If anything. Like Old Mill, this could easily be used for nothing at all. In the distance, the building certainly looks like it’s mostly derelict. It had never cropped up in our investigation before. Why would it? The records show that Connelly’s butchers went bankrupt years ago. No activity there, so far out of town, and derelict. I find a lane reasonably far away from the gates, away from any surveillance. I push the bike into the bushes and sit down on the cold grass and phone Mike. Two rings and he’s answered.
‘Shit, Jan, where are you?’
I snort.
‘No polite chit chat, then?’
‘No. You’re in the shit big time. Stewart’s had me in going on about some baby in a house, you know, the one where you found that woman? He’s got Sal in there right now, something about another sighting of Aiden. You know he’ll be scoping him for info on your state of mind, don’t you? And going into Northlands, seeing Pat Haywood without ops? He knows all about it. Fuck Jan, what the hell . . .’
‘Look, Mike, just stop. I’m on to something here. I’m up at Old Mill and I’m going in. I need backup.’
There’s silence. I can hear his breath. I know Mike will do this. I know he will. Despite everything, he’s still there for me.
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding.’
‘No. I’m round the side of the mill. I need assistance.’
Silence again. I expect he’s trying to understand if I’m sane or not.
‘Come on, don’t do this. Not on your own.’
‘Well, I won’t be on my own when you call it in, will I?’
‘No, but you’ll be suspended. Straight away. No messin’. Career suicide.’
‘I’ll take that chance. Please, Mike. Full back up, yeah?’
‘Can’t you tell me a bit more? About what it is?’
I smile. Good try. He’s obviously pressed the panic button on his other phone, and they’ll be listening now in the operation room. Keep me on the line. Try to track me. But at the end of it, he’ll phone it in.
‘Sorry, Mike, have to go. I’m going in.’
I walk down the lane and, once on the main road, I duck behind a huge oak tree. I’m almost opposite the Gables, and I can see the wrought iron arch above the gates outlined I the evening sky. I look up at the moon. Like Bessy says, wherever Aiden is, we’re sharing the same moon. It’s a sliver of hope in the distance, a constant that connects me and my son, wherever he is.
I sit and wait, a few more minutes then, as predicted, the gates are unlocked and four black BMWs roll out. One of them is the BMW that fronted me on the lane when I was meeting Mike. Same number plate. I wasn’t imagining the connection. On their way to Old Mill, no doubt. My heart sinks. So the message got to them so soon, absolute proof of an insider. Just like Operation Hurricane, Connelly’s henchmen appearing out of the woodwork almost immediately when we got close to anything incriminating. But on the better side, less people here, guarding whatever is here.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There’s always a way in. Sometimes you have to smash your way in. Sometimes you have to wait. Sometimes the doors are just open, because they aren’t expecting anyone to just walk in without invitation.
I know the front gates are open because I saw the guy in the last car jump out and shut them. No keys. I stand just behind the huge iron girders that form the support for the wrought iron lettering, shaped art nouveau suggesting that this place was built in the 1920s or 1930s. There’s no way to tell really because most of the building is in disrepair.
I can’t see any cars parked outside, so hopefully there will be minimum people left in there guarding. Even though the gates are open I press through a small gap in the wooden fence. I’m inside the grounds and I look around for a chink of light, somewhere I can gain entry. Nothing at all.
I walk around the side staying close to the perimeter, looking around all the time for cameras. There don’t seem to be any. Surely it can’t be unguarded, like Old Mill? Oh my God. Maybe I’m wrong again and there’ll just be more fucking kitchens.
No. I see a row of strategically placed cameras pointing to the front gates. I evaluate the angles and duck below them, using my evasion training.
There are two rows of high windows, indicating two floors. No
more cameras, just at the front. I stand behind them and see that the wires are networked inside, where there would be more security. I walk around the building, checking for coal chutes of grids that indicate a cellar; there are none. I arrive back at the front.
So here we are. It’s like a cube, on two floors. I spot a small window at the rear on the left, probably a toilet or washroom. Or a storeroom. I walk around, looking for any gaps. Looking for any sign of life. Most of the windows are partially frosted and I peer through them, into apparent darkness.
I have to go in. I take off my jacket and wrap it around a nearby stone and push hard against the glass. It cracks but doesn’t break. I push a little harder until it moves in the frame, the heavy layers of ancient paint holding it in. I wiggle a piece, like a toddler’s tooth, and it becomes looser.
I drag the shard toward me and place it up against the wall. I dismantle the widow piece by piece, until it’s no longer dangerous for me to climb through. As I thought, the room is a toilet.
I stick my head inside and sniff. Pine. This place is being used. For something. I heave myself up through the window and I’m standing in a small bathroom, with a toilet, wash basin, and shower. It’s clean and the fittings are quite modern.
I open the door swiftly and it leads onto an unlit corridor. The whole place smells of disinfectant and I look up. False ceilings. Pristine white tiles. I make my way up the corridor to the swing doors at the other end, checking the light fittings for sensors. There are none.
Through the swing doors and into what appears to be a bar area. Chrome and walnut, very ’70s, but the sophisticated lighting gives it away. This is new technology. As I walk along the bar it lights up. Sensors here, but not for an alarm, just for the lights.
There are two double doors at the end of the room and I make for them. I hold one slightly open and peep through. There’s a woman mopping the laminated flooring, and another with what appears to be a hotel cleaning trolley, standing outside a door.
I wait and wait and finally they go into one of the several doors that line each side of the corridor. I pad silently past them and open the last door on the left. It’s a bedroom. Luxurious and made up with an open bar.
What is this place? Derelict on the outside, but inside a palace, complete with dance floor and bar. Maybe it’s where Connelly spends his leisure time? Maybe it’s where he hides away. Oh. God. Maybe that’s all it is. I sit on the bed. I’ve got that feeling again, the one where everyone else is right and I’m mad.
Maybe this is nothing, but I still have to find out. I suddenly get a sense of something ending. The mass of blue lights would be descending on Old Mill anytime now, looking for me in the grounds with searchlights. Mike would be standing there, worried and pale, as I didn’t appear. I need to get on.
I open the bedroom door and slip quickly through the double swing doors and I’m in a huge white room, not unlike the stark upper floors of Old Mill. The disinfectant smell is stronger here, and I choose the doors to the left that I know will take me deeper into the building.
The windows here are lined with a foil-like material that I haven’t seen before. No one is around, so I hurry down another corridor. There’s a security desk at the end of the corridor, unmanned. I scan for cameras or sensors, but there are none. I can hear voices now, and I listen at the last door to the right.
‘Yeah, down at the Mill. Seems like the pigs are there en masse. Come and look on the security. Come and look, Jed.’
They’re linked to cameras at Old Mill. Finally. A connection. I hear another door open further along, I duck behind the steel door at the end. Jed appears, then disappears into the room.
‘Bloody hell. I hope they don’t come here and find this lot.’
‘Yeah. Not likely though, is it? No one knows about this, and them who do won’t be telling anyone in a hurry. Anyway, them in there’ll be gone soon. On Bunty Night. That’s when they get rid of them, on Bunty Night, so’s no one’ll notice. Just the once a year.’
They’re watching the furore at Old Mill, laughing loudly, and I know I don’t have much time. I swing through the door and I can see the red eye of a security camera in what is otherwise a completely dark room. I know it’s a camera and not a movement sensor because otherwise they would be on to me.
I move backward and feel the coldness of steel against me. It feels like a huge steel hook and I remember that this used to be a butchers. From the look of it, now my eyes were becoming accustomed, it was still in use. Enormous meat hooks, just dim shapes in the red light of the security camera, form avenues in what was obviously a refrigerated area.
I feel my way around the edges of the room, feeling for a door somewhere, but finding only another hook. I lose my balance slightly and hold onto it. It’s sticky, and I expect to smell disinfectant but it’s something much more earthy, much more iron-y.
Even in the darkness I know it’s blood. Logic kicks in. It’s a butchers warehouse. Why wouldn’t there be blood? But where are the animals? Where are the carcasses? Kitchens and butchers. Just my luck.
Then I feel it. The coldness of dead flesh against my hand. Touching the firm muscle makes it swing on the hook and as it touches me again I feel something on the end of the limb, something I don’t want to believe is a hand. But it is.
I feel it and feel the fingers. The fingernails. Stiff and dead, but still human. I feel the legs, the torso, the face, and the hook that pierces the solar plexus. I want to scream, but I can’t make a sound. I have to hurry. I feel my way, all arms and gangly legs, short hair and skinniness. I know what it is. I know who this is.
I spin round, my eyes accustomed to the light a little now, and see another body in the far corner. I know who these boys are. I know I should go, carry on, phone it in. But instead I follow my heart and turn my phone on, lighting the room. He’s an angel, hanging in midair, bathed in blue light, pale skinned and eyes shut. I hold the phone up to his face. Oh please, please don’t let it be him. Selfish, Jan. Selfish. Let it be some other mother’s son. Don’t let it be Aiden.
It isn’t. Neither is the other boy. I know my own son. Maybe he isn’t here. I shine my phone around the room and there are lots more hooks but no more bodies.
Across from me, and in a corner, is another door. Wooden this time and set into the wall. Just over from that is another steel door. I try the handle and it’s locked. I hear the far door open and Jed enters.
I duck behind one of the bodies, holding it still so it doesn’t swing. He’s carrying a tray and he hurries past the boys in the darkness, toward the steel door, which he unlocks.
He goes inside and my stomach lurches as the smell of fried chicken wafts past me. I move toward the door. Obviously there’s someone in there. I have no choice but to find out.
I pick up a piece of chain and wait. I wait for what seems like hour, but is only minutes. When he comes out of the room, I swing it until it makes contact with his head. It makes a deep thud and he falls over, groaning at first and then silent. He’s unconscious. I drag him out of the way, over to the wooden door, which, now I open it, appears to be a cleaning cupboard. I drag him inside and take his keys. Then I secure the door the old fashioned way, with a brush stale.
I hurry over to the steel door and open it. Inside are several cells, all of them empty. I close the door behind me without locking it. It’s coming together now. Hotel, cells, dead boys. My worst nightmare for Aiden.
What if he was here? What have they done with him? Maybe he’s still here. I know there are more rooms beyond here, I can see doors leading off a long corridor in the distance. I rush along, unlocking the first door. It’s a cell, wooden bed, toilet, washbasin, no windows. Clean and tidy, as if no one’s ever been here.
I’m rushing along now, looking in any room for traces of Aiden, any small sign that he might have been here. I open the third door and it’s set up like an office. Once inside, having checked for cameras and found none, it’s like respite from the horror of outside.
I switch on my phone again and call Mike. He answers on the first ring.
‘You’re in fucking trouble. Jesus Christ. Sending us there when nothing’s going on? Eh? Where the fuck are you?’
‘The Gables. Just get here right away.’
‘You’re having a laugh. Stewart won’t authorise it. Not after before.’
I sigh.
‘It was a decoy. To get them away from here.’
‘Right. So you use the whole of Greater Manchester police as a decoy. Brilliant.’ He pauses. Then his tone changes. ‘Look, Jan, love, I respect you, but is everything all right? I mean, you’ve been doing some funny things lately . . .’
‘Mike. I’m here, in the Gables. It used to be a meat factory.’
‘Yeah, I know where it is. Old derelict building on the other side of Northlands. It’s out of use. Derelict. Bloody falling down.’
‘Except it’s not derelict at all. It’s being used to . . . to . . .’
‘What? Jan? What’
I take a deep breath.
‘It’s being used for storing the bodies of dead boys. And keeping the ones who are alive here, but I haven’t found them yet.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re fucking inside? On your own?’
‘No one would listen, Mike. You all thought I was nuts. But now I’ve found out what’s going on. Look, just get Stewart down here.’
There’s a long silence. Then he speaks.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve seen them.’
‘Is Aiden . . . ?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t fully looked yet.’
‘Leave it there Jan, leave it. Let us look. You shouldn’t have to . . .’
Random Acts of Unkindness Page 18
