by Bo Brennan
“Have you got a picture of Billy?”
Lisa shook her head. “I haven't even got any clothes,” she said tugging at her hospital gown. Then she grabbed the handbag at her feet and rifled through the contents, excitedly pulling out her purse. “There are pictures of the kids in here.”
India watched her excitement turn to confusion and despair as she emptied the contents of the purse into her lap. A Tesco club card. A library card. A National Insurance card. £17.36 in notes and small change. But, not a single picture in sight.
“I don't understand,” she said tipping it upside down and shaking it. “I had pictures of Sasha and Billy in here.”
India sighed and chewed at her cheek.
“You've got to believe me,” Lisa whimpered. “Take my keys. There are loads in the flat. Take as many as you need, take them all, but please just find my baby.”
India stared at the keys in the woman’s outstretched hand, and thought of Terri’s dogged insistence. She knew this family, and she wouldn’t ask for India’s help lightly. “Who are your GP and midwife?” she said jutting her chin, expecting silence.
Without hesitation, Lisa Lewis reeled off the full details for both. And India took the keys.
Chapter 11
Haltingbury, London.
Ryan Reynolds blew a breath up his face and shook his head when Carol Crossley offered him another cup of tea.
“Not for me, thanks,” he said fanning himself with a court document. “D'you mind if I open the door?” They were sitting in the conservatory, the late afternoon sun steadily increasing the temperature until it felt like a pressure cooker.
Carol and Simon Crossley exchanged an apprehensive glance. When Simon stood up, Carol hung her head and silently disappeared into the kitchen. Ryan tugged at his shirt collar, if he didn't get some air soon he was going to die. “Sorry, have I missed something?”
Simon gently shook his head and unlocked the door. Slowly pushing it open, he gazed solemnly out into the overgrown garden. “We haven't been out here since, well, you know,” he said quietly.
Ryan joined him at the threshold and rested a hand on his shoulder, wishing he'd brought the cameraman with him. Abandoned toys, a faded plastic slide slick with algae, and a miserable half deflated paddling pool littered with blossom, proved painful reminders of happier times for the Crossley family. But it would've been a great photo to accompany the article. Still, he wasn't about to dwell on the missed photo opportunity when he hadn't established if there was a story here worth running with yet.
“There’s not much here for a four year court battle,” he said returning to the table. “Where are the rest of your court papers and documents?”
Simon swiped at his eyes with the back of a hand and sat down. “That’s it. That’s all we’ve got. You get more paperwork when they take your taxes than your kids.”
Ryan leant back in his chair, chewing the end of his pen. The file the barrister had dropped outside the court was heavy and busting at the seams. The Crossleys had given him only a thin smattering of dog eared documents. He didn’t doubt for a second their pain and despair, but he was finding this couple’s story hard to believe, and even harder to evidence. They were clearly holding out on him.
“You need to start being straight with me,” he said laying his pen across his notebook and clasping his hands together. “I can’t write a story with only half the facts. And if I write it based on what you've got here, you’ll be labelled as abusers.”
“I knew this was a bad idea.” Simon Crossley pushed his chair away from the table. “You might as well get the hell out of here if you don’t believe us either.”
“That’s not what I said,” Ryan protested. However, everything he’d seen so far pointed the finger of blame directly at these parents for the fractures their new-born’s tiny body had sustained. “Outside the court you told me they’d stolen your kids. And you claimed to have an independent medical report that proved it. I’ve been through all these legal documents and there’s no reference to it here,” he said spreading his hands.
Carol appeared in the doorway, clutching a brown A4 envelope to her chest. “It's not there because they wouldn't allow it in the courtroom,” she said handing it to him.
Ryan sighed and pulled the contents of the envelope free. Expecting an afternoon wasted in the company of child abusers, and with his deadline looming, he began to read. Half way through the second page his eyes widened and he shifted in his seat. This was more like it. Now they had a story. He glanced up at the broken couple anxiously awaiting his verdict. “This report blows the expert testimony, in fact, the whole case, completely out of the water,” he said. “Why didn’t your solicitor raise it? This would’ve changed everything.”
Carol let out a bitter laugh. “Because we wouldn't admit we'd caused Brett's injuries, they decided we were too mental to appoint our own solicitor. The court appointed the Official Solicitor to us.”
“He was about as much use as a fucking chocolate teapot,” Simon said. “Just went along with everything they said. The cheeky bastard even tried to get us to sign the adoption papers. They locked us in the fucking room.”
“We didn't sign anything,” Carol added hastily. “But they still adopted the other two out.”
Ryan rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the medical report's conclusion. “This is unbelievable,” he said. “Brett should never have even been in the system. This clearly states Carol had such a severe vitamin D deficiency that Brett's fractures could have been caused in the womb.”
“Our GP prescribed her a course of supplements the month after Brett was born,” Simon said reaching for her hand. “He wrote to Social Services with his findings but they wouldn't let him test the baby. He was the one who put us on to the independent expert too. We remortgaged our house to pay for it, but our solicitor said because he wasn't a court appointed witness he wasn't allowed to testify for us, neither was our GP. Can you help us get our kids back, Mr Reynolds?” he said eagerly leaning across the table towards him.
“I'm sorry,” Ryan murmured, reeling at the injustice they'd suffered and the potential for more of them out there. “I'm no barrister, but I'm pretty sure an adoption order can't be overturned.”
Carol's body shuddered as she crumpled in her seat. Simon slumped forward and wrapped his arms around her. “C'mon, love. Please don’t cry. It’ll be all right,” he said softly.
“How can you sit there and say it'll be all right?” Carol said tearing away from her husband’s embrace. “They took our kids and gave them away, Simon! And you just fucking stood there and let them! What sort of man are you? What sort of father?”
“What choice did I have?” Simon leapt to his feet. “You want me to play into their hands like you did today? You think attacking that barrister is going to get our kids back? We'll probably never see any of them ever again now, thanks to you!”
When Carol sprang to her feet as well, so did Ryan. “This is what they want, you two at each other’s throats,” he said stepping between them. “Let’s all calm down, stick together, and we might be able to change things.”
“How can we do that?” Carol cried. “We can’t overturn the adoption orders!”
“Maybe not,” Ryan said calmly. “But let me tell your story and we might be able to get Brett back before he’s adopted too. Don't let the bastards take your marriage as well.”
Hampshire Social Services, Winchester.
George Sarum poked his head round his manager's office door and cleared his throat. “Sorry for disturbing you,” he said. “Have you got a minute?”
“I always have time for you, George,” Rob Stapler said glancing up from his fly fishing magazine. “What can I do for you?”
“Sasha Grant,” he said dropping her file on top of the magazine. “Eleven years old from the Badger Farm Estate. Her mother’s had a mental breakdown. She’s been overnight in Orchard House as an emergency case.”
“Orchard House,” Rob
said raising a brow. “Another violent little turd from the bowels of the Badger?”
George put his hand in his pocket concealing the bite marks on the fleshy part of his thumb. “Far from it,” he said. “She's emotionally damaged and needs specialist support. It was the only bed available last night.”
Rob Stapler sighed as he looked over the flimsy file. “Specialist support is expensive, George,” he muttered. “I’m not sure our budget can run to that. If she's already settled at Orchard House why not leave her there? It is half the cost.”
George was prepared for that response. He had swerved his afternoon visits to ensure Sasha Grant was removed from his hair for good. “They're not equipped to cope with her. Besides, spaces for violent juveniles are in short supply at the moment,” he said. “I've managed to find her a specialist placement. It's out of our jurisdiction so won't impact our budget.”
Rob Stapler looked up and smiled. “I see you saw Judge Flackerly this morning. How is the old boy?”
“Fine.” George shrugged. “We didn't really get an opportunity to talk, it was a busy morning.”
“I haven't seen him for ages.” Rob Stapler rested his jaw in his hand and gazed forlornly out of his office window to the fast flowing river outside. George glanced at his watch. He wanted to be somewhere else too. He had an online date tonight with a primary school dinner lady who was gagging for some action.
“The placement is in London,” George said. “I can take her myself first thing in the morning if you're in agreement.”
“Agreement?” His boss jerked his head and smiled wistfully. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
George gritted his teeth. He hadn’t been listening to a bloody word he'd said. “The girl,” George said pointing at the file. “Sasha Grant. She’s suffered severe emotional abuse and needs specialist care. I've found her a qualified foster placement in London. It won't cost the department a penny if I transfer her out.”
“Oh the girl,” Rob said dropping his eyes to her file. “Sure, ship her out.” He smiled as he flipped the file closed and handed it back. “If you take her now you can save us the cost of another overnight stay at Orchard House.”
George returned the smile. “Normally I would, Rob. But unfortunately the bed's not vacant until the morning.” That wasn't strictly true. The bed would be vacated under the cover of darkness later tonight, right around the same time George planned to be balls deep in the dinner lady.
India Kane darted through the doors of the health centre as soon as they opened for evening surgery, the ill and infirm traipsed across the car park behind her like extras from The Walking Dead. “I need to see Dr Logan,” she said to the top of the lacquer matted bouffant of the woman behind the counter.
The bouffant didn't flinch. “On holiday. I can book you in with the locum next Wednesday.”
“I'm not sick,” India said waving her warrant card under the bouffant owner’s nose.
“He's still not in until next week.” The receptionist looked up and issued a challenging stare through heavily made up eyes. “You'll have to book an appointment.”
India sighed. “What about Annie Whatley, the midwife, is she in?”
The receptionist looked her up and down.
“I'm not pregnant either,” India said and glared over her shoulder at a woman impatiently huffing and chuffing at the back of the queue. “Where can I find her?”
“The midwives work in the community. Leave your number and I'll get her to call you when she comes in.”
India could feel the growing queues pain. She was starting to get impatient herself. “Just give me her number and I'll call her myself,” she snapped.
“No can do, I'm afraid,” the receptionist said with a plastered on smile. “The system doesn't work like that.”
India rolled her eyes. She didn’t have time for the system. The system was a pain in the arse. “How about we cut out all this crap,” she said. “Can't you just press some buttons on your computer and tell me if Lisa Lewis has got a baby?”
The receptionist raised her thin pencilled brows as though India had just asked for a hit of morphine. “Not without breaching patient confidentiality, no,” she said matter-of-factly.
India clenched her jaw. This woman was seriously getting on her tits. “All I need to know is whether or not she had a baby recently.”
“Then you can leave your number for the midwife, or, book an appointment with Dr Logan for next week.” The receptionist gave her a smug, self-satisfied smile as she slapped a memo pad and swanky pen on the counter. “The choice is yours.”
India scribbled her details on the pad. Wrote 'URGENT' in giant letters at the top and underlined it twice. The receptionist smirked as she tossed it in a tray with a million others.
“I’m curious,” India said slipping the pen into her pocket. “Is there a leftover gestapo training camp somewhere that your lot go for finishing school?”
The elderly gentleman behind her, let out a gruff chuckle that swiftly turned into a rattling, bronchial cough. India was contemplating thumping the poor old bugger’s back, then the receptionist snatched her note from the tray and gleefully buried it underneath all the others. “Next please,” she called peering past her.
Not hurrying herself to leave, India checked her watch. Thanks to Miss Fucking Jobs Worth she'd missed the Registry Office for today. She'd make it her first call in the morning. By the time anyone bothered looking at her note she'd have a copy of Billy Lewis's birth certificate in her hand. Sauntering to the door she smiled inwardly as the gruff old man bellowed, “What sort of receptionist doesn’t have a bloody pen?”
London.
Felicity Firman couldn't relax at home. Her Pay-As-You-Go mobile had rung seven times. She'd ignored it. The only way to get away was to run. Literally.
But she had her iPod cranked up to ear splitting volume and it still couldn't drown out the voices in her head. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but it was too late to turn the clock back now. She was in way too deep. She stood to lose everything. They might send her to prison if it came out. She wouldn't stand a chance inside. All those people she'd helped send down would be gunning for her. Not to mention her dad.
Oh god, dad. He'd never get over it. Her supposedly de-stressing evening jog through Hyde Park turned into a foot pounding sprint as anxiety engulfed her crossing the Serpentine.
She could imagine his dismay and disgust at what she'd done. He'd probably take her in himself. The irony was not lost on her when she doubled up with a stitch, panting and exhausted on Rotten Row.
No matter how hard she ran, she couldn't run from herself.
Chapter 12
Friday 15th July
London.
Maggie slowed down and pulled alongside the blacked out unmarked van on the Brompton Road. The driver and Colt exchanged nods. The van pulled out behind them as she continued on and made the turn into Hans Road, away from the makeshift tents and media circus awaiting the Ambassador.
“Pull up after the service entrance,” Colt said. “I don't want their security team getting jittery.” The Firearms Unit van had seen better days. The last thing they needed was Harrods thinking there were armed robbers outside.
“Nice,” Maggie said parking her Mondeo behind an electric blue Masserati. The van parked up behind them. At 4.48 am there were still thirty minutes to go before sunrise.
Colt picked up his Airwaves handset from the central consul as he and Maggie stepped from the car in unison. The back doors of the van opened on their approach. They climbed in silently, and secured the doors behind them.
The tension inside was palpable. “Morning,” Colt said as he slid onto one of the cramped benches.
“Morning, Sir,” Inspector Pauline Slater said, Heckler and Koch MP5 laid across her lap. “Pass their gear, Keith.”
Sergeant Keith Goodman handed Colt and Maggie bullet proof vests and holsters. Maggie stood up and slipped hers on with ease. Colt crouched and struggled in the
tight confines of the van, Keith helpfully yanking at the back of his vest when he finally got it over his shoulders.
Perspiring heavily, Colt returned to the bench. “Open a window up front before we all suffocate in here,” he muttered to the driver as he fastened his vest.
The driver obligingly cranked the window an inch as Pauline Slater passed their weapons. Colt firmly pulled back the Glock’s slide, checked the chamber, and locked it to the rear. He nodded at Pauline and she passed the live magazine. Colt clicked it into place and pushed the slide catch down with his thumb, chambering the first round.
As he secured the Glock in his shoulder holster, his handset crackled to life. “Go ahead,” he said.
“All units in position, Sir,” the voice came back.
Colt ran a hand across his mouth - his top lip was wet, but his mouth dry - and checked his watch. 4.56 am. “All units stand by,” he said into the radio set as he clipped it to his vest. “Move to position,” he instructed the van driver.
The van slowly crawled around the bend into Hans Place and parked outside the multi million pound London home of film star Dwight Sanders. As the officers in Colt's van secured their helmets, Sergeant Keith Goodman rested his wrecking bar against his shoulder with one hand, and gripped the van door with the other.
Colt stared at his watch in the interior glow, and readied the handset to his lips. The second hand of his watch was moving in time with his heart. When the hands clicked to 5 am, he spoke into the radio. “All units, go, go, go.”
Sasha Grant picked the crusty sleep from her eyes as she gazed out the car window. She'd been to London before. Miss Davies took the whole class to the British Museum as an end of term treat last year. Well, the whole class except Craig Markham, because he couldn't behave himself. But she didn't recognise any of this. Everything looked grey and grimy.
