by Bo Brennan
She ran her tongue over her teeth, and rubbed at them with the cuff of her top. Straight after breakfast the social worker came to get her. He didn't even let her brush her teeth or her hair before bundling her out the door of Orchard House. Not that she had a hairbrush or tooth brush anyway, but her mum would have a dickey fit if she found out.
“Come on then,” George Sarum said patting her thigh. “Let’s introduce you to your new foster carers.”
Sasha didn't move. She didn't want carers, she wanted her mum.
“Come on, Sasha, I haven't got time for this, I've got to drive back to Winchester,” George snapped, pulling at her crossed arms.
Sasha slunk down in her seat, gripped her own elbows and held her stance rigid. “I want to go home,” she said.
“You can't go home,” George said. “There's no one there to look after you.”
“Aunt Janet can look after me,” Sasha protested.
George frowned. “She isn't your Aunt, and she isn't capable of looking after her own kids let alone you.”
Sasha looked down at the dated shell suit she'd been given to wear. “And I want my own clothes, and my school uniform back. I can't go to school from here.”
“You'll get a new uniform for your new school,” George said.
“I don't want a new school,” Sasha sulked. “My friends and favourite teacher are there.”
“Miss Davies?” George said and Sasha nodded. “She got into a lot of trouble because of you. Now come on.”
George stepped from the car, and Sasha tucked her chin into her chest. A big fat tear rolled down her cheek, dropping onto her red washed out top, turning it dark as blood. She'd let Miss Davies down and got her into trouble, now she'd never see her again. Now, she was stuck in London.
As the social worker tugged her from the passenger seat and dragged her to the front door of the house, Sasha mumbled, “I want my mum.”
“If she wanted you she wouldn't have left you on your own,” George said thrusting her rucksack into her hand. “Now behave yourself, because these are the only people who do want you right now.”
Red Wall Chambers, London.
“Out, Lackey,” Jasper boomed storming into Flick's office. Leon made a hasty exit. “Have you seen The Daily Herald this morning?” he demanded.
“Not since high school, Jasper,” Flick murmured and briefly glanced up from reading The Times to playfully coo, “I prefer the Beano - more cutting edge.”
“This isn't a joke,” he said flinging the paper on to her desk and glaring at her. “Read it.”
Flick pursed her lips and sat back in her seat, her morning catch up interrupted.
“You've got a centre spread,” Jasper fumed pacing up and down her office.
Flick frowned and thumbed hastily to the middle pages. She took a sharp intake of breath when she saw her own phlegm covered face staring back at her under the headline: ‘Justice is Served,’ by Ryan Reynolds.
In angry scenes outside the High Courts of Justice yesterday, high profile Family Law barrister, Felicity Firman QC, became a victim of the secretive system she serves. The Daily Herald's award winning Investigative Journalist Ryan Reynolds was on hand to capture the dramatic moment events unfolded.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been assaulted?” Jasper demanded.
“It was something and nothing,” Flick shakily mumbled.
“An officer of the court being assaulted is not something and nothing, Felicity. It got a centre page spread for goodness sake!”
“Jasper, please,” Felicity snapped. “I’m trying to read.”
“Those shots are purely to add drama. The bloody story isn’t even about you. It’s about the appeal of that teacher who raped and murdered those children. Not only has Reynolds had the bloody audacity to use the photographs of your attack to titillate his Neanderthal readers, but he’s pixelated their bloody faces so they can’t be identified! Who are they, Felicity? We need to press charges. Those animals need to be held to account.”
Flick tossed the paper aside, hopeful that would be the end of it, Reynolds’ minor mark against her suitably erased. “There’s no need for it to go any further. The case is over.”
Jasper set his jaw and glared at her. “What sort of message does that send out? That we’re a soft target, that’s what. If you let this go you’ll have every Tom, Dick, and Harry, for miles thinking you’re fair game. You mark my words; before you know it they’ll be targeting the bloody chambers. We’ll have to fight our way through placard waving loony lefties to get into work in the morning!”
Flick rubbed at her temples with her fingers as her face flushed and the pressure in her skull began to build. “It’s my decision. Let it go.”
“I’m not sure I can, Felicity,” he said. “The partners are up in arms. They’re looking to me to take decisive action and stamp all over this Reynolds rat.”
Flick's heart began to pound as anxiety engulfed her. She couldn't afford to get into a war with an Investigative Journalist of all bloody people. She was in too deep, had too much to lose. And lose she would. By the time he finished with her she'd be dead or in prison. “Just back me up, Jasper. Please,” she pleaded. “It’s over and done with, there’ll be no repeats.”
Winchester, Hampshire.
India Kane had just taken a bite of her sausage and egg McMuffin when her mobile phone rang on the passenger seat. “For fuck's sake,” she mumbled reaching for it. The number on the screen was unknown.
She tossed her brunch on the dashboard, and rested the phone against her shoulder as she answered the call. “DC Kane,” she said abruptly.
“Hello, Detective,” the woman on the end of the line said. “It's Annie Whatley. I've been given a message to call you.”
Thank fuck for that, India thought. Her morning sitting in the Registry Office, going through every conceivable combination of names, had yielded nothing for a Billy, Bill, William - Lewis, or Grant - born in the last six months.
“Give me a second to pull over,” she said flashing her headlights at a bus indicating to pull out of the stop up ahead. When it didn't move she honked her horn and stuck her head out the window. “C'mon, neither of us has got all day!”
As the bus slowly pulled out, the driver’s hand came through the window and flipped a one fingered salute. “And to you, mate,” she hollered, pulling her battered 4x4 into the space the wanker had vacated.
She retrieved her notebook and pencil from the glove box and went back to her phone call. “Lisa Lewis,” she said. “Are you her midwife?”
Annie Whatley cleared her throat. “Possibly. But, I've got so many women on my books I couldn't honestly say without going through my diary and records.”
India sighed and threw her notebook on the passenger seat. “She only had her baby a fortnight ago. She's about 5'1”, blonde, a hundred pounds. Lives on the Badger Farm Estate.”
Annie Whatley laughed. “We haven't got time to look at their faces, Detective. We're stretched beyond our limits.”
“When can you let me know?”
“I won't be back in the office until Monday morning,” she said.
India rolled her eyes. “I don't want her life story. Go through your diary and come back to me with a simple yes or no.”
Cutting the call she tossed her phone on the passenger seat, and shook her head. She was due to meet Terri for coffee in an hour. Her text message had been curt, demanding, and without her usual sappy ‘x’ at the end. The woman could hold a grudge, and without anything concrete to tell her, India couldn't see relations thawing anytime soon.
She snatched her cold McMuffin off the dashboard, and resumed eating, as she sped away from the bus stop in the direction of the Badger Farm Estate.
Haltingbury Social Services, London.
When Sandra Cavendish slammed her hand down on the table, Alan Roberts flinched. “Where the hell are they all?” she demanded. “Twenty seven pregnant women can't just vanish into thin air!”
&
nbsp; Oh yes they can, Alan thought. It happened in Hampshire. Granted, on a lesser scale, but it happened all the same. He cleared his throat to speak, and Brian Fleming jumped in before he could utter a word. “Sharna Clark’s neighbour, said she saw her getting bundled into a van late at night, didn't she Alan?”
“So she's been snatched?” Sandra said. “Taken against her will?”
“Well, I wouldn't say that exactly,” Alan said.
His boss raised her eyebrows and glared at him. “From what I understand, you have plenty to say, and most of it unconstructive. You've only been here a week and you’ve lost two already.”
Alan felt his cheeks begin to burn.
“One of mine was last seen getting into a van at night, as well,” Brian Fleming said. Alan was thankful for his colleagues save, until he added: “I agree with Alan. There could be something amiss.”
Sandra Cavendish turned her glare on him. “I’ll tell you what's amiss, Brian - our bloody targets are amiss. At this rate I'll be making redundancies.”
As his boss drummed her fingers on the table and stared at her team of eighteen, Alan Roberts hung his head. He knew what was going through her mind. The bonus payment for twenty seven adoptions was more than the team’s combined annual wage. The department couldn't afford to lose that sort of money. But they could afford to lose him.
“So, what do we think is going on here?” she asked, before swiftly suggesting the answer herself. “That these vulnerable young women are being trafficked? Their babies being sold on the black market, and their mothers doomed to a life of prostitution?”
Everyone around the table muttered in agreement. Alan Roberts swallowed hard. Personally, he was thinking Sharna Clark had panicked and run. Her unborn child was only on the register because she'd grown up in care herself. But his more experienced colleagues were backing the boss, and right now, that suited him. Agreement would save his job and his skin.
“It wouldn't be the first time it's happened,” Brian said, looking straight at him. “These girls are low hanging fruit for paedos and weirdos looking to make a quick buck.”
Sandra Cavendish sighed, and pushed away from the meeting room table. “Get your files in order. I'll have to alert the authorities.”
Chapter 13
Knightsbridge, London.
AJ Colt was vomiting in Dwight Sanders’ kitchen sink, when the Commander and Mayor arrived unannounced.
“I'm so sorry about this, Tony,” Commander Hussein whined. Colt ignored them and ran the cold tap, swirling the sick down the plughole with his gloved hand. “Inspector Bevan, could you give the Mayor an update please?” the Commander said ushering them to the corner.
Colt discarded his gloves and stuck his head under the flow of water, rinsing his face, while Maggie rattled off the results of the nationwide raids to the Mayor in the background.
“Should you be at work if you’re ill, Detective Chief Inspector?” Commander Hussein enquired.
Colt used one of Dwight Sanders’ luxury hand towels to dry himself as he spoke. “It's work that makes me sick.”
The Commander frowned as Colt pulled a toothbrush and toothpaste from his back pocket, and proceeded to brush his teeth. “Perhaps you should see the force counsellor,” he said.
Colt stared at him as he wiped his mouth. “My unit has its own part- time counsellor,” he said, and threw the towel down on the kitchen side. “You wouldn't fund it unless I lost a member of my team, so I fund it myself.”
The Commander's cheeks flushed crimson as the Mayor appeared beside him. “You fund your team’s counsellor yourself, Detective Chief Inspector?” he said incredulously.
“Yes I do, Sir,” Colt said popping a chewing gum in his mouth. “They do a very traumatic job. I won’t have them waiting in a queue for months to see someone who hasn’t got a clue what they go through on a daily basis.”
“Tony, I can assure you I wasn't aware of this,” the Commander stuttered. “Come and see me with the paperwork on Monday, Colt, and I'll sign it off.”
Maggie gave Colt a wink from the doorway as she fiddled with her phone.
“It costs forty grand a year,” Colt said. “The paperwork's on your desk already. Let me know when you've signed it.”
“And obviously you'll reimburse the Chief Inspector, won't you Commander?” the Mayor said.
“Of course,” Commander Hussein said forcing a smile. “What has it been, two months?”
“Two years,” Colt said, wiping the smile off the Commander’s face completely. “I’ll collect the cheque on Monday. Now, let me show you what we've found.”
Colt led the way into a sprawling windowless room off of the basement kitchen. A double bed was positioned at its centre, professional film cameras and lighting rigs surrounding it. A myriad of plush designer seats were dotted around the room, providing a comfortable, uninterrupted view from every conceivable angle.
The Mayor frowned and went to lift a teddy bear from the bed, Colt grabbed his arm. “It's evidence,” he said pulling a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. “The room's already been videoed, but you'll need these if you want to touch anything.”
The Mayor pulled them on.
“You want some?” Colt said offering a pair of gloves to the Commander.
He grimaced and shook his head. “Not much air in here is there?” he said fanning his face with his hat.
“My daughter has this bear,” the Mayor said solemnly handling it. He stared at the sheets. “Is that blood?”
“And faeces,” Colt said. “We found a little boy in here this morning. He's in the hospital with serious bowel and abdominal injuries.”
The Commander’s face went ashen. “If that's all then, we should be moving along now. The press are waiting, Tony.”
Colt chewed at his gum, and raised his eyebrows.
“I'm not ready yet,” the Mayor said staring at the teddy bear. “The boy. Who is he?”
“We think he's the son of the Romanian housekeeper,” Colt said. “The Border Agency is trying to locate her for us.”
The Mayor swallowed hard. “What else did you find, Detective Chief Inspector?”
“How much can you stomach?”
The Mayor sucked in a breath and rolled his shoulders. “Let’s find out shall we.”
Colt led him out of the room and up to the street level hallway, intercepting one of his officers carrying a box. “We've got thousands of printed images, and mixed media,” he said popping the lid. “He was manufacturing in the basement room.”
The Mayor peered briefly inside the box, and then covered his face with his hands as he reeled and turned away. Colt resealed it, and with a simple nod his officer continued towards the front door. Colt’s eyes followed him. Inspector Pauline Slater, Heckler and Koch in hand, guarding the waiting van, was briefly visible as the front door opened.
“Is it...” The visibly shaken Mayor began to speak and couldn’t. Colt offered him a chewing gum and he took it. Working it with his teeth, he let his mouth build up some saliva before he spoke again. “Is it like this every day?”
Colt ran his tongue over his teeth and nodded. “Pretty much.”
“So what happens next? I suppose you have to take it all back to the station and record it, item by item.”
Colt smiled. “Not quite. We’ll take everything back to the station and get it logged and locked down in the unit’s secure viewing room. Then we’ll make use of the work facilities - get showered, change our clothes, and bugger off home. We won’t start cataloguing it all until tomorrow now. Most of the team have their own kids. They'll be in dire need of them tonight, Sir.”
The Mayor blinked back tears, and glanced at Commander Hussein - looking shifty by the door, itching to get outside and tell the world’s press how great he was. “I think we can find the budget to make your counsellor full-time,” he said patting Colt's shoulder. “Stay in touch, Detective Chief Inspector. You're doing a fantastic job. My door is always open.”
; Badger Farm Estate, Winchester.
India wandered the tight confines of Lisa Lewis's little flat. The place was immaculate, and had the distinct whiff of baby about it.
There was plenty of evidence of someone planning a new arrival, but apart from the smell, not much in the way of proving a baby had actually been born.
In the kitchen cupboards, she found unopened formula. On the kitchen side were sealed packs of baby bottles, and an unopened bumper pack of nappies.
In the main bedroom, there was no rumpled bedding in the cot to indicate a child had ever rested there. A small chest of drawers next to Lisa's own, revealed new, and unused, baby clothes and paraphernalia.
The second bedroom obviously belonged to Sasha. It was way too neat. And flowery. Very girly. India didn't remember ever making her bed when she was a kid, but then she didn't remember much about those years at all. Those years, were mostly blank.
The most striking thing of all was that there was not one solitary baby photo anywhere. And Lisa Lewis had promised plenty.
India's imminent coffee catch up with Terri was already promising to be uncomfortable. But, if she had to tell her she'd been suckered by a mad woman, and the kid didn't exist, well, things could get ugly. As a teacher, Terri wasn’t exactly au fait with being made a fool of.
Almost as an afterthought, India pulled a pair of latex gloves on and stepped into the bathroom. She lifted the lid on the laundry basket and stared at the contents, not relishing the task of rooting through someone else’s dirty smalls. Taking a deep breath, she plunged her hand in, and pulled out every item of dirty washing individually. Shaking and discarding each one in turn into a pile on the lino floor, revealed nothing. Not so much as a bib.
