by Bo Brennan
The mere thought of her so called sister had her stomach clenching and her jaw clamping. She wasn't sure they could ever come back from this. She clambered off the stool and began scouring the bottom cupboards, sighing with relief when she saw a red bottle top behind the bleach under the kitchen sink.
She poured an inch of Vodka into a glass and inclined her head, staring at it. Sod it. She filled the glass half way, pinched her nose, and downed it in one. Slamming the glass down on the counter, she screwed up her face, grimacing as her body shuddered in bitter disapproval. The warmth spread through her belly, and her cheeks flushed as her confidence grew.
Terri took a deep breath and refilled her glass.
Now, she was ready.
She swilled the neat Vodka around the tumbler as she settled down on her sofa and dialled his number. His voicemail kicked in on the second ring.
“Hi Gorgeous George, it’s Teacher Terri. I feel awful for my behaviour on our last date, and I'd like to make it up to you.” Terri closed her eyes and gulped her drink. “I'm up for filthy fun at yours on Saturday. If you want me, call me, Big Boy.”
Park Gate, Hampshire.
AJ Colt pulled his car onto the hard standing and unfolded the Knightsbridge street map across his lap. They'd spent hours ruling out streets one by one until they'd run out of light. He traced the small red triangle, encompassing Pont Street Mews and Walton Street, with his finger. Somewhere inside that triangle was an unregistered camera showing the comings and goings of Dwight Sanders’ house. Tomorrow they'd check every building externally. If they didn't find it, they'd start checking inside the buildings one by one. But none of them would rest until they'd found it.
He let out a sigh and leant back in his seat, cracking his knuckles. Glancing at his houseboat he smiled. His windows were open. Hopefully India was paying him a visit and not a burglar. Colt hastily refolded the map, and headed for his front door.
Scooping up the morning mail still scattered across the floor, he dumped it on the kitchen worktop. He knew she was here, felt her presence as soon as he stepped inside, but she was nowhere to be seen. The open plan layout meant she could only be in one of two places. The bedroom or the bathroom.
Either way he was glad she was here at all.
Ever hopeful, he popped his head round the bedroom door first. The bed was made and empty. He pushed the bathroom door open with his foot and stepped inside. India sat in bubbles up to her neck. Hair messily piled high atop her head, no attempt made to cover her scar, and glass of wine in hand. “What kept you?” she said, seductively extending a wet, bubble-covered foot towards his crotch.
He grinned and ran his hand up her moist, silky leg. “Believe me, if I'd known I was getting a welcome home like this - I'd have been here a shit load sooner.” Colt kicked off his shoes and began unbuttoning his shirt. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Sangrin. He said I should use my charms.”
Colt gave a startled jerk of his head. “Since when did you start paying any attention to that little prick?”
“Since I found out you have access to every child protection register in the country,” she said reaching for his belt. “I need to find Sasha Grant.”
He took her hand and sat down on the edge of the bath. “You don't need to do this to get anything from me, India,” he said softly. “All you've got to do is ask.”
“I know.” She shrugged and took a gulp of her wine. “You gonna do it or what?”
Colt scrubbed a hand over his head. He’d had a gut load of work, he’d come home to unwind. “You know I will. Just, not tonight. Give me a call at the office in the morning and I’ll get you whatever you need.”
She let out a strangled little chuckled. “I meant the bath, Big Man. Are you joining me or not?”
Colt raised his brows and inclined his head. “Well, it is built for two. It would be awful rude not to I suppose.” He sighed dramatically and leaned in for a kiss.
India tugged at his bottom lip with her teeth, hooked her arm around the back of his neck, and pulled him in fully clothed.
Knightsbridge, London.
Felicity Firman opened her apartment door only to be caught off guard when Ryan Reynolds pushed his way inside. She slammed the door and gave chase down the hallway, confronting him in her lounge. “You can't just come barging in here. I'm expecting company. Get the hell out!”
“The Crossleys are in prison!” he raged, pacing like a mad man.
“I know,” Flick muttered. “I was there.”
“And I've been fucking gagged!” He stopped abruptly, confusion filling his face. “What did you just say?”
Flick pursed her lips and folded her arms. “I was there.”
“You sent them to prison and gagged me?” he said furiously looming over her.
“I didn't do anything,” Flick protested. “I was just .....”
Ryan set his jaw. “Why the fuck would you do something like that?”
“They were in contempt of court. You all were,” Flick said. “Did you honestly think you could print all that bullshit and get away with it?”
“Bullshit?” Ryan spat. “It's fucking criminal what you lot have done to them!”
Flick glared at him. “What's criminal is people who hurt their own children whining to the press when the state steps in.”
Ryan frowned hard and stared at her. “You callous bitch. Have you even read their file?”
“I'm a barrister, I do my job. And you're a bloody journalist, you know the rules.”
“The rules?” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Your kangaroo court makes the fucking rules up as they go along. From here on in we'll be playing by my rules, Felicity.”
She raised her hands to quieten him when the doorbell rang. “Flick. Are you in there?” Mickey's voice sounded down the hallway through the letterbox.
She held her breath and stared at Ryan, seeking the slightest glimmer of recognition in his eyes. When Mickey called again, she crept to the lounge door and gently closed it. And then her secret phone began to ring.
Ryan's eyes darted to the Pay As You Go mobile on the kitchen side. He beat her to it, picked it up, and waved it at her. “Mickey's persistent,” he whispered. “Surely not another boyfriend?”
Flick snatched it from his hand. “He's just a friend.”
“Then you'd better answer it.”
Flick stepped away from Ryan as she took the call. “I'm too busy to talk right now; I'll have to call you back.”
“Don't worry. I just want to give you the heads up,” Mickey said. “There’s whispers the Dwight Sanders case is coming your way. Make sure you're too busy to take it.”
Flick peered over her shoulder and frowned. Ryan Reynolds was standing right behind her, listening intently to every word. He raised his eyebrows and gestured for her to respond. Instead, she ended the call - there and then, and switched the phone off. “How dare you,” she snapped. “What the hell is your problem?”
“Who was that?”
“None of your damned business.”
Ryan laughed. “Of course it's my business I broke the Dwight Sanders story. He hasn't even been charged yet, so why would someone be telling you not to take the case?”
Flick clenched her jaw and pointed at the door. “Get out.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going,” Ryan said. “But if you think I’m going quietly like all those parents you lock away - you’d better think again.”
Chapter 25
Wednesday 20th July
London.
Ryan Reynolds rolled his head as he refilled the kettle. His bloody neck was killing him. He’d worked late into the night again, and woken up on the sofa for the second morning running. He scooped two spoonfuls of coffee powder into his mug and tapped the spoon against his palm, waiting for the water to boil.
Mug in hand, he went back to his lounge and stared at the documents spread across the floor. Taking a seat amongst them he picked up his notepad and scanned the list of
names he'd extracted from the Crossley file. That article was merely a simple overview of events. The fact it had got them imprisoned, and him gagged, smacked of more than petty rules. The state had stolen their children. And the state had gone to extremes to silence them.
Ryan sipped his coffee, wondering what heavy handed response today’s article would provoke. What went on behind those closed court doors had intrigued him for years. A chance encounter had given him an insight. He'd talked the Crossleys into telling their story, believing they had nothing left to lose. How wrong he was. He owed that couple. This stank.
Every one of the names on his list would need to be investigated thoroughly. But time was of the essence. With Carol and Simon now behind bars, the only thing they genuinely had left to lose, was their lives. Ryan shuddered at the thought, and pulled his laptop onto his knees.
Logging into his work email account, his eyes widened at the new glut of mail his latest article had generated. Donna would be ripping her hair out fielding the calls. She was probably calling him all the bastards under the sun for not coming in today and leaving her to it.
Judging from the subject lines, the emails contained further horrifying stories of state sanctioned kidnap. There was no time to read them all. Ryan glanced at his pad and decided to cross reference each name involved in the Crossley case with the stories sent to him by other parents.
He typed Felicity Firman QC into his search email function and hit enter. Ryan raised his brows when her name returned thirty two hits, and proceeded to open each email in turn. Every case had taken place in the High Court. Every time she'd acted for the local authority. Ryan bit his lip. She was an unbeaten family law barrister; the results were to be expected. He blew a breath up his face as he scribbled them next to her name.
Judge Queensbury was next. Ryan frowned when he returned fifty three hits. Scanning the emails contents, his results were much the same. A High Court Family Division Judge was bound to feature prominently in London cases.
Brian Fleming, Social Worker. Ryan reeled when sixty eight hits were returned. He circled his name on his notepad as he scanned each email in turn. Mr Fleming was a very busy little bee for Haltingbury Social Services. He tapped their name into the email search function and spluttered on his coffee when an astonishing two hundred and forty seven hits came back. On his notepad he marked a big fat arrow next to Brian Fleming's name, and pointed it at Haltingbury SS.
Professor Barrington, Expert Witness. “Fucking thing,” Ryan muttered, and gulped at his coffee as the system took its time. When the results finally appeared on the screen, Ryan dropped his mug.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Righting the upturned cup, he wiped the dregs of coffee from the court documents with his sleeve, and returned his eyes to the laptop, staring at the results. Suspecting a system glitch, he cleared the search thread and retyped 'Professor Barrington,' hit enter, and waited.
“Bingo,” he murmured and began opening the four hundred and thirty eight emails featuring his name in turn.
Sasha, Melissa and Tracey, huddled together at the top of the stairs in their pyjamas, straining to hear what was going on down there.
They'd been woken early because the social worker was coming. Sasha hadn't set eyes on a social worker since she’d been dumped here. Neither had Melissa and she’d been here six months. But Tracey said they were all workable, if you knew what you were doing.
Kim had packed their foster brother and father off out of the house, leaving her and the social worker alone in the lounge. They were talking about sending Tracey away. Sasha shook her head and gripped Tracey's hand tight. She didn't know what they'd do without her.
“Don’t worry,” Tracey whispered. “It’s all planned. I’m coming back for you both.”
Sasha whimpered and Tracey raised a finger to her lips. “Shush.”
“I'm not losing money because the little tramp got herself knocked up,” their foster mother said.
“You won't,” the social worker replied. “Your payments will continue as normal until she comes back.”
“Last time, I got a loft conversion as well. What did you get?”
“Nothing,” the social worker spluttered. “You're one of our top foster families. We paid for the loft conversion so you'd have more room.”
“Don't take me for a mug,” their foster mother snapped. “I know you're making money out of this. And if you want me to keep my mouth shut, I want a cut.”
There was a prolonged silence, and then the social worker said, “Who was it this time, Kim? Your husband or your son?”
Kim laughed. “It could be you for all I know. The slag whores herself for a packet of smokes.”
“A hundred pounds,” the social worker said. “And I'll take her now.”
“A thousand pounds and she's all yours,” Kim said.
“I don't have that kind of money. Look, I've got a hundred pounds on me, and I can get you two more placements by the end of next week.”
“Specialised?” their foster mother said.
“Deal,” the social worker responded.
The girls crawled across the landing and into Tracey's room as the sofa downstairs began to creak, indicating lard arse was on the move.
“Tracey!” she shouted up the stairs.
Tracey gestured Melissa and Sasha to stay where they were as she ran to the top of the landing. “Yes, mum?” she called back.
“Get your shit together, you're leaving.”
Red Wall Chambers, London.
“Where are the fucking Crossley files, Lackey?” Jasper demanded, storming into the office and smacking Leon around the head with a newspaper.
“You took them for archive,” Leon spluttered.
“Jasper?” In the charged silence that followed, Flick rose from her seat. And then the hurricane hit full pelt as Jasper’s temper exploded.
“The file is missing and you have the fucking audacity to blame me!” In a flurry of fury he sent the contents of Leon's desk crashing to the floor, while her terrified pupil cowered in his seat.
Flick rounded her desk and grabbed Leon's arm. “Take the rest of the day off,” she said hurrying him safely out of the office and blocking Jasper's route after him. “Calm down,” Flick said pressing herself against the closed door. “What the hell is going on?”
“The press have got the fucking Crossley file,” Jasper raged.
Flick swallowed hard. “What on earth makes you think that?”
He tossed The Daily Herald onto her desk and dropped into Leon's chair, fists clenched, breathing heavily.
Flick stared at the front page and lowered herself into her seat. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she silently read the article entitled: Forgery, Fraud & Family Law. When she'd finished, she cleared her throat. “He doesn't mention any names,” she said evenly.
“For god's sake, Felicity, he doesn't have to,” Jasper said throwing his hands in the air. “He named the fucking Crossleys last week! This Reynolds arsehole has got around a gagging order, and managed to defame you without even naming you.” Jasper gripped the edge of the desk in fury. “It can only be the lackey.”
Flick frowned. “What can?”
“The leak,” Jasper spat. “He was the last one to have the file.”
“That's a big jump,” Flick said brushing the paper aside so she didn't have to see it in her peripheral vision. “The information would've come from the Crossleys’ solicitor.”
“I've had the Local Authority on the phone all bloody morning.” Jasper smoothed his furrowed brow. “The article contains information they say the Crossleys don't have access to.”
Flick felt her stomach twist. “Ryan Reynolds is making some very serious allegations, Jasper. Are you saying they could be true?”
Jasper let out a long exasperated sigh. “I don't know. We don't build the case do we? We just work off the summary their brief gives us, and the bloody file has gone AWOL. If they call in the police, our name will be mud.”
Flick leant back in her seat. “If they call in the police - Mr Reynolds’ allegations will have to be investigated.”
Jasper narrowed his eyes and stroked his chin. “That's something we'll discuss with them at the meeting,” he said rising from his seat. “Full chambers meeting, board room, six pm. Don't be late.”
As Jasper's Cuban heels tapped swiftly away from her office, Felicity Firman hung her head over her waste paper bin and began to heave.
Chapter 26
London.
“Are you still smoking?” the social worker asked as he started the engine.
“Why, you got a packet going spare and want me to suck your dick for them?”
The social worker frowned. “That's a terrible thing to say. I've never asked you to do any such thing.”
Tracey crossed her arms and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was one of the only ones who hadn't ever touched her. But then she hadn't been on his books for long. “Where are we going anyway?” she said.
The social worker sighed. “To get your little problem sorted out.”
Tracey laughed. “It ain't a problem if it gets me my own place.” And it certainly ain't little, she thought.
“You're only fourteen, that's not going to happen.”
That's what you think. She hadn't had her period for ages. She was confident she'd dropped her bombshell at just the right time. They'd arrive at the hospital, get told she was too far gone, the foster mother wouldn't have her back in the house, and then they'd have to make alternative living arrangements for her. She'd already decided to make life unbearable for whoever they dumped her on next. Eventually they'd have to give her and the baby their own place. Someplace Sasha and Melissa could runaway to.
“Do you know who the father is?”
Tracey shrugged and shook her head. She knew who it was, but she wasn't about to tell this numpty. It was either her foster father or his son. It couldn't be her foster mother because she didn't have a dick, and Tracey wasn't stupid - she knew only a real dick could duff you up. She also knew they wouldn't have little 'uns in the house. Thirteen was their golden age. Kim's rule. They liked to break them in. She'd been surprised when Sasha turned up. She was far too young for them.
