The Wages of Sin (A Detective India Kane & AJ Colt Crime Thriller)

by Bo Brennan

  “That’s because you sent me there when I had absolutely nothing to tell him.” She leant to her left, bypassing the monkey to talk directly to the organ grinder. “He’s had me running around like a blue arsed fly, guv.”

  Sangrin blocked her view, perching on the edge of the guv’nor’s desk. India raised a brow. ‘You’re brave,’ she mouthed.

  “Get your arse off my desk,” Firman growled.

  With a huffed apology, Sangrin dropped into the chair beside her. “What new leads have you got on the bank robbery?” he demanded through gritted teeth.

  India tilted her head, narrowed her eyes at the ceiling, and thoughtfully tapped her lips with her index finger. “Err . . . absolutely nothing,” she said, dropping her eyes to her phone when it pinged with incoming mail. The file from the sketch artist had finally arrived. “Got something on the abduction, though.”

  She stared at the picture on her screen. Paul Smith was bang on the money with the Pocahontas quip. India had seen it. Twice. In fact, she’d seen every Disney film ever made – regarded it as a minor character flaw. “It’ll capture the press attention, guv,” she said, forwarding it to Firman.

  The deadline had passed an hour ago for making tonight’s TV news round, but there was still time to get to the bus stop where Pocahontas was taken. She pulled up the template she’d used for the bank robber appeal poster and did a swift cut and paste, dropping Pocahontas centre stage and rewording the text. Within seconds, the first of fifty hard copies dropped into Firman’s printer tray. “If I go now, I can get the jump on it. Can we do this later?”

  Firman gave a curt nod. “Take Smith and Wesson with you.”

  Sangrin threw his arms in the air and frowned.

  “Cheers, guv.” India collected the posters from his printer and swiped the Sellotape off his desk. “Don’t mind if I nick this, do you?”

  Firman gave a tired shake of his head.

  Royal South Hants Hospital, Winchester

  Gray took the stairs like he always did when there was an option. They got so many call-outs to broken down lifts, he’d never live it down if he had to be rescued from one himself. And this particular hospital’s lifts were notorious; his crew had attended so many rescues here the nurses knew how they took their tea.

  When he reached the ward, he approached the crowded nurses’ station with caution. “Evening, ladies,” he said, his grip on the bunch of flowers tightening.

  “Firefighter Davies,” Ward Sister Kennedy said breathily, clutching one hand to her heart and fanning her face with the other. “Just when we thought you couldn’t get any hotter, you go and crawl under a damn bus to save a damsel in distress.”

  Gray felt his cheeks flush, a bit of flirtatious banter between the nurses and his crew was a standard occurrence on their frequent visits. But standing here in civvies, on his own, was a whole different party altogether. He was seriously outnumbered, and quite frankly – a little bit scared.

  “Aww bless, he’s blushing,” one of the younger women in light blue scrubs cooed, causing his cheeks to burn furiously. “Leave him be, he’s a shy baby.”

  “The camera woman wasn’t shy that’s for sure,” one of them chirped.

  “Oh God,” he groaned, cringing with embarrassment as the burn spread throughout his body. “You’ve seen it.” His arse had been playing on a Sky News loop for the last twenty-four hours.

  “Seen it?” Sister Kennedy trilled gleefully. “Sweet cheeks, we’ve recorded it for posterity!”

  Gray hung his head and laughed nervously as they relentlessly ripped the piss out of him.

  “Okay, ladies. Fun’s over. Back to work.” Sister Kennedy briskly dispersed them and gestured to the bunch of flowers. “Are those for the lucky lady?”

  The notion of ‘luck’ always confused him. Gray wasn’t sure getting deliberately rammed off your pushbike and ending up under the wheels of the number 52 bus could be considered lucky – but he got the point, things could have been worse. “Yeah. How’s she doing?”

  “She’s in a lot of pain. Going through morphine like it’s gin at a Women’s Institute Christmas bash,” she said glancing up at the clock. “Due another bag in twenty minutes.”

  His mouth went dry. Didn’t like the sound of that. “Is she going to make it?”

  “Oh, Gray.” Sister Kennedy pouted sympathetically, leaning her head to one side and rubbing his arm in that way only nurses do when you’re being all pathetic and emotional. “Of course she is. Got a steel plate in her arm and a couple of broken ribs, but otherwise just cuts and bruises.”

  “Seriously? That’s it. No head injury?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s it.” Susan Kennedy smiled. “You did a great job under there, sweet cheeks. Thanks to you, she’ll be ready to go home by the weekend. She’d lost a lot of blood so we gave her a transfusion when she came in, but she’s an incredibly lucky lady. Must’ve been pretty relaxed when it happened.”

  “Hit her from behind,” Gray said. “Didn’t have time to tense.” She was certainly tense underneath that bus. From some of the things she’d said he got the distinct impression she was expecting it. But that wasn’t his business. His business was getting her out of there in one piece. Alive. “Can you make sure she gets these, please?” he said, offering up the bouquet of flowers.

  “As much as I’d love to take flowers from you, Gray, I think she’d appreciate seeing a friendly face. Especially yours.”

  Gray glanced up at the clock. He’d only intended a fleeting visit. On the bike, he could zip easily through the rush hour traffic back to Portsmouth, but he was already cutting it fine. His prearranged pager would be going off before he sat down at this rate. “I’ve got –”

  “She had the pleasure of Detective Sergeant Sangrin straight after breakfast,” she said, woefully shaking her head. “No one else has visited. Hasn’t even had so much as one phone call asking after her welfare. Imagine being trapped in here, in pain, with just DS Sangrin’s company to look forward to every day.”

  Gray grimaced. He’d waited over a year for Cara. It wouldn’t hurt for her to wait a few minutes for him. “Well, when you put it like that.”

  “That’s my boy.” With a wink, Sister Kennedy reached underneath the nurses’ station, pulled out a simple vase and handed it to him. “Behind you. Room 4. There’s a sink in her room for the water.”

  “Thanks. I won’t stay long.”

  She smiled salaciously and tilted her head. “Stay as long as you want. If you get bored I’m sure we could find ways to keep you entertained.”

  “I’m sure you could,” he said, turning to knock the door as his cheeks began to burn again. When no response came, he glanced back at the nurse, she gestured him onwards.

  Securing the vase under his arm, he cautiously turned the handle and popped his head around the door. Shayla Begum was lying motionless, staring out the window, heavily plastered arm resting on a pillow at her side, her broken body a tiny bump under starched bed sheets. “Hi,” he said softly. “Are you up for a visitor?”

  She slowly turned to look at him, squinting as her sad eyes focused. With a simple smile, she beckoned him inside the stifling hot room. “I bought you these,” he said, holding up the flowers as he pulled the door closed behind him. “A belated birthday present.”

  “They’re beautiful,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been hit by a van and squashed by a bus,” she said, wincing as she tried to sit up.

  Gray placed the flowers and vase on her bedside locker, hooked an arm around her back and gently helped her up, rearranging her pillows before settling her back against them. “Comfortable?”

  She smiled up at him and gave a gentle nod. Gray held her glazed gaze, wanted to reassure her about Sangrin, let her know he was a harmless dickhead – no one for her to worry about. Instead, he cleared his throat, diverted his eyes to the flowers and tugged at the collar of his jacket. “I’d better put th
ese in water. They won’t last long in this heat.”

  “You shouldn’t have come,” she whispered, as he filled the vase at the sink. “But I’m glad you did.”

  “It was worth it then.” He smiled across the room at her as he made a lame attempt to arrange the flowers. “Sorry,” he said, setting the vase of randomly jutting blooms down on the windowsill. “I’m not very good at this sort of stuff.”

  “You’re a good man,” she said, reaching for his hand as he sat down. “Thank you for everything.”

  Gray wrapped her small palm in his and glanced around the sterile room, devoid of all personal touches and well-wisher’s cards. “I can come again tomorrow if you like. Is there anything you need?”

  She smiled wearily, her eyelids growing heavy. “Stay away from me,” she murmured, squeezing his hand. “It’s not safe.”

  Gray Davies wet his lips to respond, but she slipped into sleep before he could utter another word.

  Chapter 9

  The Paedophile Unit, New Scotland Yard, London

  Colt paused outside the interview room to speak to the uniform standing guard. “Mr Jones been behaving himself?”

  The uniform grimaced. “A bit gobby with the missus, sir. But kept his hands to himself.”

  Taking a deep breath, Colt stepped inside to meet the stabbing glare of Nigel Jones and his forever weepy wife. The air in the small space was palpable, a thick toxic cocktail of beer fumes and rage set the stage for an ominous encounter.

  Colt pulled out a chair opposite the couple so wrapped up in nurturing their young son’s burgeoning football career they’d all but forgotten they had a daughter – leaving her to fall prey to the false affection and predatory attentions of the most organised grooming network he’d ever encountered. “Mr and Mrs Jones, what can I do for you?” he said, clasping his hands together on the table in front of him.

  “You can keep those filthy fuckers away from my little girl for starters,” Nigel Jones shouted.

  “Nige, don’t,” his wife whimpered. “I’m sorry, Detective Chief Inspector. We just don’t know what to do with her for the best. She won’t listen to us. And the only time she talks is to tell us how much she hates us.”

  “Why didn’t you lock the bastards up?” Nigel Jones demanded.

  “We’re trying, Nigel,” Colt said calmly. Christ knows they were trying. Why the judge hadn’t deemed the defendants worthy of remand in the run up to the trial was a mystery, and a major blow to the investigation. It meant his team had spent months running around in circles trying to keep the witnesses and defendants apart. Just days into the trial and the stakes were rising, so was the pressure. It was proving harder than ever to control escalating tensions, especially with the press constantly stirring the pot. “We’re almost there. Kylie’s part is almost over.”

  “He’s told her not to testify,” her father ranted. “She says she’s not going tomorrow. And you can’t fuckin’ make her.”

  “She blames us,” Angie Jones cried, wiping her tired eyes with a ragged tissue. “Says she loves him. Says she’s going to be with him and there’s nothing we can do to stop her.”

  Nigel Jones’ face twisted with rage. “That’s because he’s in her fuckin’ ear all the time to drop the charges, you stupid bitch!”

  The he being Mohammed Bashir. The man personally responsible for grooming Kylie Jones and pimping her to over a hundred different men across three counties from the age of eleven. Colt’s team had served him alone twenty-seven Child Abduction Orders warning him to stay away from their daughter and several other vulnerable young girls.

  Colt cleared his throat. “Has he been in contact with Kylie?” If he had, and they could prove it, they might have enough to get him remanded for the duration of the trial. Kylie Jones might be a hostile witness but she was also a child. The CA orders had clearly, and repeatedly, stated that she was thirteen years old and warned Bashir of the legal consequences of being in her company.

  Nigel Jones snorted and threw him a contemptuous glare. “Of course he has! Why else would she be behaving like this?”

  Colt stared at him. Nigel Jones was too late to play protective dad now. The damage had been done.

  He hadn’t noticed her behaviour for the last two years when she’d become increasingly withdrawn from her family. In fact, according to his daughter, he hadn’t noticed her since the day his son first kicked a football. But Mohammed Bashir and his mates had. At least two of the other nine men currently standing trial were charged with having sex with her on repeated occasions.

  “Angie?” Colt asked, redirecting his gaze. He needed the truth, not hot-headed emotional assumptions.

  “I’ve been taking her to school and collecting her every day. I never let her out of my sight. Last night she was in the kitchen getting a drink, and she crept out the back door. Before I could get to her I heard a car door slam and wheelspin away. I called the police but they couldn’t find her. She was gone all night. Turned up this morning, stinking of fags and booze. I think she was with him.”

  “You think or you know, Angie? It’s important.”

  The distraught mother hung her head, her nervous fingers shredding the tissue in her hand. “We took her phone and computer away, like you said, so I don’t know how he’s getting to her, but –”

  “His lot drive past our house in their flash fuckin’ cars, music banging, all hours of the day and night.” Nigel Jones slammed a fist down on the table. His wife flinched and shrank away from him, trembling in her seat. “What does it fuckin’ matter who it was? If it wasn’t him – they fuckin’ took her to him!”

  Colt said nothing. There was nothing he could say, so he let the charged moment fizzle out in uncomfortable silence. He was just as frustrated as them to have nothing that was going to stand up in court. All he could do tonight was placate them. He waited for Nigel Jones to slump back in his seat before speaking again. “How’s the counselling going, Angie?” he asked.

  “I take her every week, but she refuses to talk to them. Just spends the whole hour in silence.” She sniffed and glanced up at him with desperate, wet eyes. “I’m at my wits end. I’ve put our names down for a housing exchange, but it could take years.”

  Her husband jerked bolt upright in his seat. “What the fuck did you do that for?” he roared, glowering at her in disbelief. “Why the fuck should we move? Our son’s doing all right here, he’s making a name for himself with the under twelve team. It’s the dirty bastard Pakis that’re the problem. We ain’t going nowhere. They fuckin’ are.” He shifted in his seat and leant across the table, spewing beer fumes inches from Colt’s face. “You need to get those fuckers banged up and shipped out!”

  Colt bit back the question dancing on the tip of his tongue: Where the fuck do you think I can ship British Pakistanis to, exactly? Drawing a long, chest swelling breath through his nose, he counted to ten in his head. Nigel Jones narrowed his boozy bloodshot eyes and backed off.

  “Nigel, we only investigate and put the case to the Crown Prosecution Service,” Colt said evenly. “The CPS prosecutes, the jury reach a verdict, and the judge passes sentence. If any of them live in council or social housing and are found guilty, we can work with the authorities to get them moved. I know it’s a long hard process, but we can only take one step at a time.”

  “You don’t know fuck all about how hard it is! It’s not your thirteen-year-old daughter getting raped by filthy fuckin’ Pakis every day, is it! But I’ll tell you who does know and is doing something about it – the National Front. They know what it’s like. I’ve joined ‘em. They’re on our side,” he said, clenching his fists into white-knuckled hammers. “Councillor Cooper is right.”

  Councillor Cooper is right down the hall, Colt thought. And wondered if knowing the revered local leader of the National Front was facing similar charges, would make any difference to this man’s hate fuelled politics.

  “You lot are fuckin’ useless. You couldn’t even get the cunts for that B
ecky kid and you ain’t gonna get ‘em for this, either,” he said, banging his fist on the table.

  Colt remained silent, professionally passive. Contrary to the skewed press reports – Becky Adams had nothing to do with his unit.

  “I should take Coop’s advice.” Nigel Jones leapt to his feet, sending his chair clattering to the floor. “Get a fucking baseball bat and sort it out myself.”

  “That would be a very bad idea,” Colt said, rising to his full 6’ 6” height, and rounding the table to tower over him. “You’re understandably angry, so I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Don’t make me regret it.”

  Nigel Jones stared up at him, undaunted. “Don’t you get it? This country’s at war. It’s us or them. Pick your side, copper. C’mon, Ang, we’re going.” He grabbed his wife’s arm and hauled her to her feet, dragging her roughly to the door in temper. Her wet eyes made a final desperate plea to Colt.

  He’d done all he could so far, and he intended to carry on doing everything within his power to help these families regain control and rebuild their lives. And if Angie Jones was sporting a black eye in court tomorrow, that included arresting her husband.

  Chapter 10

  Three Years Previously

  The Daily Herald

  Monday, 9th March

  POLICE APPEAL TO FIND MISSING TEEN

  By Ryan Reynolds, Crime Correspondent

  THE Metropolitan Police are appealing for the public’s help in finding a heavily pregnant teenager missing from hostel accommodation in Haringey.

  Becky Adams, 16, was last seen on CCTV exiting Richmond Station at 1330hrs on Friday, 6th March. She was wearing a pink tracksuit and beige ‘Ugg’ style boots.

  Becky is described as a white girl, of a medium build, with blue eyes and shoulder length blonde hair.

  Officers are growing increasingly concerned for her health and wellbeing as Becky is 39 weeks pregnant and considered vulnerable.