‘One of my colleagues said he’d heard something else. An outreach worker in Kennington reported them for assaulting a kid one night. She was doing her rounds among a group of homeless ex-servicemen and walked in on two men holding this kid down on a piece of waste ground. She asked what they were doing and they said the kid had attacked them, probably after a bad drug reaction, so they’d had to subdue him. She thought something didn’t look right, so she got the kid out of there and took him to hospital. It was lucky she did.’
‘What was wrong with him?’
‘What shocked the medics was that he had signs of severe scalding on the inside of his mouth and throat, and fresh bruising around the lips and nose area. There was also a large amount of bruising on his chest, like somebody had been kneeling on him.’
‘So he’d been in a fight. It happens.’
‘Not this one. They said the injuries were consistent with someone pouring hot liquid down his throat, then holding him down so he couldn’t spit it out.’
‘Christ. What did the victim say?’
‘Not much. He was able to communicate that it was a disagreement over a squat which got out of hand. He discharged himself the next day and disappeared.’
Riley digested the idea for a moment. The thought that someone could actually try to kill someone by drowning them in scalding water was appalling, if unlikely. Then Nikki dashed that notion.
‘I had a trawl through the files, looking for anything similar. There was another one. It was the boy they found dead the other morning off Piccadilly.’
‘This last one?’
‘Yes. I’ve only got some brief notes, but the preliminary examination concluded that he died due to choking on his own vomit. It’s not unknown for heavy drug users or drunks, especially if they’ve also picked up respiratory problems. Their system just can’t cope and they don’t have the strength to resist it, especially after a big hit.’
‘But this one?’
‘He had no history of heavy drink or drugs use, and no signs of injecting. In fact, he hadn’t been on the streets more than a month. What they did find was an area of bruising on the upper chest, and what might have been finger marks around the nose and mouth. But that’s not what killed him.’
‘So what did?’
‘Suffocation. More bluntly, according to a mate in the police, he drowned in hot tomato soup.’
Chapter 27
Nikki referred again to her notepad. ‘It set me going through the files for details of some of the other cases of dead street kids. These are the easy ones, in reverse date order, starting with two weeks ago. Peter Casey, 17; father an industrialist, manufacturing electronics, primarily for use in radar systems. Paulette Devington, 16; father a scientist and director of a research facility, at the time working on a big project for the Royal Navy. James Van de Meuve, 16; parents on the board of a Dutch-owned engineering firm, specialising in submersibles for deep-sea salvage but building what is thought to be a drone tractor for the navy. And then I looked up the one you mentioned, which goes back even further: Nicholas Friedman, 17…’
‘…father a lawyer with the MOD,’ Riley finished off.
Nikki nodded. ‘There were quite a few more, though; the survivors. Most of them didn’t make the news — they simply went back home and got on with their lives.’
‘How many?’ Riley was beginning to feel the heat of excitement under her skin, pulsing away like a drum. ‘Dead ones and survivors?’
‘Roughly? I haven’t covered all of them. Once I got the idea I just went for the obvious ones.’
‘As many as you have.’
‘Twenty, approximately. Covering both groups.’
They sat and stared at each other for a while, and Riley found herself wondering where Nikki bought her jewellery. It was an idle thought prompted by the fact that a part of her didn’t want to speculate on what had been happening. All those kids. The parents. The loss. The pain.
‘There’s a clincher,’ Nikki said finally.
‘What?’
‘With only two exceptions, who turned out to be groupies, all of the survivors were tracked down and sent home by the Church of Flowing Light. I must be blind — I just never saw the significance.’
Riley decided to play devil’s advocate, although she felt reluctant. But objectivity at this stage was necessary if she didn’t want to make mistakes. ‘Fair enough. But don’t forget it’s what they do: they track down missing kids.’
‘Sure. But what are the odds of all those parents knowing that? The Church of Flowing Light is hardly Ghostbusters. I’ve been reporting on this stuff for a while, but I only heard of them through colleagues. Not once have I ever picked up on the grapevine that the place to call when your kid goes missing is The Church of Flowing Light. In fact, I’d be surprised if more than a couple of the parents involved had stepped inside any kind of church in decades. They’d more likely go to the Salvation Army.’
‘So the Church must have approached the parents.’
‘I would think so. What I don’t know is how the Church would know about them.’
Riley said nothing. A good question. There were the inevitable posters people put up, and even enquiries on the street were apt to spread quickly among its inhabitants, which is probably where the Church picked up most of its information about potential targets.
Nikki flapped the notes with her fingertips. ‘And looking at this list, we’re talking about one hell of a success rate. Do you know how few missing kids get traced and returned even by experts? It’s so small it doesn’t even show up. Most is down to coincidence, the kids’ desire to get back home to mummy or a chance sighting by someone who calls in and gets the parents or the police to make a pick-up. But there’s something else.’ She sounded excited and Riley let her continue. ‘Most of these kids came from wealthy homes. Nearly all of them, in fact. I’m not a statistician, but the likelihood of this number of runaways coming from good backgrounds, all showing up on the radar in connection with the same organisation is pretty low. In fact, it wouldn’t happen, not unless Debretts started running a tracing organisation for runaway Guys, Sarahs and Deborahs.’
Riley had a pretty good idea. It was where the soup vans came in.
‘What about money changing hands when the runaways were returned?’
Nikki blinked. ‘You mean a bounty?’
‘You’ve got a charity group relying on donations who track down missing kids and return them to the fold. Most of the parents are frantic with grief and fearing the worst. Nearly all of them have money and position. With maybe one or two exceptions, they’d do almost anything to get their kids back in one piece. And most of them would hope to do it as quietly as possible, to avoid any scandal. I doubt the Church does this for fun.’
As the implications of what Riley was suggesting sank home, Nikki looked stunned. ‘Christ, am I glad to be getting out from this side of the business. Isn’t that a form of extortion?’
‘Why? They perform a service. If the grateful parents wish to make a donation to show their appreciation, where’s the harm?’
‘But these parents are all rich. It’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. They know their market and target it, like any other service provider.’
‘Are you defending them?’
‘I’m simply saying how it would look to an investigation. I bet they can hold up their hands and prove beyond doubt that they’ve never asked for anything of the parents or the children.’ Riley recalled the way the Boothe-Davisons described their encounter with the Church, and the function she’d walked in on at Broadcote Hall. How many among that crowd were other parents whose wayward kids had gone walkabout and who, magically, had been contacted by the Church of Flowing Light with good news? And if they showed their gratitude then, it probably continued being carefully drawn on for a long time afterwards, like an emotional bank account. Generosity born of gratitude doesn’t always have a time limit.
Nikki looked a
t her notes. ‘But look at the jobs these parents have: MOD, army, navy, defence contractors, industrialists… are you saying they’re using blackmail, too?’
Riley shrugged and decided she needed another talk with Friedman. He could fill in some of the gaps — especially about the potential for extortion. Personally, after hearing about the kind of parents involved, and their closeness to authority, she had doubts. ‘I’m not sure they need to go that far. Why risk it? All they need is to target runaways from good homes. And these particular good homes are probably easy to read; high-flying parents, good jobs, newsworthy, they move around a lot and leave lots of footprints. The kids become disaffected through all the upset, being placed in boarding schools, lack of care, time, etc. Chuck in military or public school backgrounds and you get parents who are tough on their kids and have high expectations which can’t always be met. Add pressured jobs and positions open to scrutiny and the press, and the same parents have a hell of a lot to lose if their kids run off and end up begging for handouts or exchanging money for sex in some grotty underpass. If it is blackmail, it’s very subtle.’
As Riley left Nikki Bruce in the pub and hailed a taxi, Quine was watching from the passenger seat of the white van along the street. He was toying with a spray can of black paint, a tinny rattle indicating it was empty. The atmosphere inside the vehicle was pungent with the smell of cellulose, and he sniffed appreciatively.
‘We should see who she was with,’ said Meaker, and made to open the door. But Quine put out a hand and stopped him.
‘Forget it. We know who it isn’t, that’s the important thing. Let’s see where she’s going.’
Chapter 28
The Puttnam Hotel had seen better days, and had the tired air of a stately home worn down by the passage of too many visitors. The carpets were dull and lifeless, the woodwork of the doors and stairways scarred by wear, and what had once been an elegant, if gloomy structure for well-heeled out-of-towners, was now simply a stop-off point for economy travellers seeking a cheap but convenient place to lay their rucksacks and holdalls.
Riley approached the front desk, where a young Asian girl was arranging brochures in a wooden rack, and asked for Eric Friedman’s room. The girl checked the key-board, saw number eighteen was empty, and rang the room. ‘Sorry,’ she said, flicking back her long hair and tapping glossy, dagger-like fingernails on the phone cord. ‘He must have taken his keys with him. Do you want to leave a message?’
‘Thanks,’ said Riley. ‘I’ll come back.’ She took a quick tour of the ground floor, checking there was no second entrance, then went outside and waited in a café across the street. If Friedman was still spooked from their meeting, he’d most likely head for somewhere he considered safe. She guessed that might be here.
Twenty minutes passed before she glimpsed a familiar figure ghosting along the pavement. Friedman. He was scanning the street with nervous darts of his head. She watched him disappear into the Puttnam and gave it two minutes before following him inside.
He answered the house phone with caution. His sigh of relief when he recognised her voice was audible. ‘I’ll come down,’ he said. ‘The room’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.’ He hung up and Riley waited for him to appear on the stairs. When he did, he looked even more tired and drawn, his appearance not helped by the dull interior lighting.
Riley suggested a nearby pub where they could melt into the background. When they were seated with drinks, he gave her a look of apology.
‘I’m sorry about before,’ he said quietly. ‘I get a bit jumpy. Thought I saw a familiar face.’ He took a sip of beer and pulled a face. ‘You must think I’m a sad case.’
‘No,’ said Riley frankly, ‘I don’t. You’ve been through a horrible ordeal.’ She decided to steer the conversation back to Nicholas. As tragic as it was, it at least seemed to make Friedman appear more comfortable. She could always introduce the subject of who or what he was scared of later. ‘You were telling me about your son.’
He nodded and twirled the glass on the beer mat. ‘His being gay was the root of his problems at school. Nicholas had known for some time. He’d tried to fight it, but the older he became the more certain he was.’ Friedman looked up at her. ‘We couldn’t believe it, either. But in the end it seemed simpler to try and help him come to terms with it, rather than put up barriers. Unfortunately, some of the other boys found out. They wouldn’t let go. You know what children are like — they pick on the weakest and exploit their fears and failings. He tried to deny it, but they didn’t believe him.’
‘Is there any likelihood he tried to prove it?’
‘And Katie became pregnant by mistake? I don’t think so. Nicholas didn’t want to change. He was highly intelligent, and in spite of the… problems, he wasn’t ashamed of what he was. It was others who made living with it so difficult.’ He sat back with a sigh. ‘I was very proud of him for that. It took guts. I’m sorry, that’s not what you wanted to hear, is it?’
‘Not really.’ So she was back to square one. If Eric Friedman was right, then all it did was raise the spectre of someone else in Katie’s life; another person who knew what had happened to her. But who? She took a deep breath. ‘Did the Church of Flowing Light initiate the contact?’
Friedman flinched. She’d obviously struck a nerve. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Did the Church approach you or did you contact them?’
‘They rang me.’ He wasn’t looking at her now. It was as if he was retreating into himself, having used up a storehouse of energy coming this far and finally running out of steam. ‘I’d put out posters wherever I thought it would do some good; on walls, lamp-posts, trees — anywhere I thought he might see one. One day they rang with offers to help. They said they might be able to intercede on my behalf… to talk to Nicholas.’
‘So he was with them?’
‘Yes. But he wouldn’t come home. They were kind… understanding… considerate — the way you’d expect. Not at all judgmental. They spent hours talking to him, trying to get him to call us. But it was no use.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘How do you know they spent hours talking to him?’
He didn’t answer right away, but stared right through her. It was almost unnerving, and Riley wondered if the question had ever occurred to him before. Eventually he nodded and gave a flinty smile. ‘You’re right. I don’t. I suppose I took it on trust. Not that I was the first.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘The Church of Flowing Light,’ he replied, taking a deep breath which made him tremble, ‘is a scam. They operate as a charity, dishing out soup to the homeless, shelter for the needy and tracking down missing children. You’ve been to their headquarters; you’ll know the man who runs it is a self-styled pastor called Paul de Haan. He’s clever, articulate, charming and dedicated to helping the homeless.’ The expression on Friedman’s face belied the true meaning of the words.
‘I’ve met him.’
‘His real name is Paulie James Deane and he was born in Fort Worth, Texas, one of six children. His father was a convicted rapist and petty burglar and his mother was a prostitute whenever she could crawl out of her trailer and find herself a fix of smack so she could stand upright. Amazingly, given that background, Deane aspired to a different lifestyle.’
Riley didn’t say anything; she was too stunned — not least by the strength of passion in Friedman’s voice.
‘Deane started out as a petty con-artist, duping old people out of cash in return for worthless medicines and faith treatments. Then he got more ambitious. He’s now wanted in the States on several charges of embezzlement and using criminal means to take money from gullible and desperate people. Three of his so-called churches have been closed down because of tax fraud and alleged money-laundering, and attempts at getting him extradited from the UK have failed because of poor paperwork by the FBI and the skill of de Haan’s lawyers.’ Friedman took a deep draught of his beer
and Riley guessed he had been waiting a long time to get this off his chest. It must have been as stressful as it was cathartic.
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because I’ve spent a long time looking into Deane and his enterprises. Too much time, as it happens. That’s what I was doing when you saw me outside the gates. Over the years, it cost me my job and my marriage.’
‘I’m sorry. What put you on to him?’
He looked down at the table and twisted his hands together. ‘When de Haan told me Nicholas didn’t want to… to come home, I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t, I suppose — it was too much to take in. I told you we were close… and in spite of him running away, it was true. But to suddenly cut us off like that… ‘ He shook his head again.
‘Go on.’
‘We decided to be patient and wait. It seemed the sensible thing at the time, because the Church was talking to him. But every time we rang them they said pretty much the same thing: that it was delicate, that Nicholas was fine but needed some time to come round. He was fairly happy, they said, but it was best to wait.’ He shrugged. ‘They seemed to know what they were doing, so we did as they suggested.’
‘How do you know they actually had him?’
‘I thought of that. I demanded proof that he was in their care or I’d get the police involved. Every now and then they let us have something… a comment or something that could have only come from Nicholas. Something about himself or school or a friend, things like that.’ He toyed with a beer mat, the ghosts of the memories in his face. ‘It was when they told me he’d talked about being gay that I knew for sure. It wasn’t something we’d made public, you see. How else could they have known? It was quite wicked, what they did. It was as if they’d kidnapped him. I think they worked on him, his insecurities and his… fears, until he couldn’t distinguish between what was real or false.’
‘Brainwashing?’
‘No. They’re too clever for that. They don’t want acolytes, or groups of disciples going around preaching their philosophies — they don’t need them. They’re far more interested in money.’
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