by Bo Brennan
Firman raised his brows. “And you know this how?”
India sifted through the crime scene images, searching for anything to back up what she already knew. She wasn't prepared to tell him Lisa said she'd kill for her kids, or divulge Terri's involvement, and the 'I'm a woman' line simply wouldn't wash with him.
“See that in the sink?” she said handing him a photo of Sarum's bathroom. “That's mascara all over the flannel. He already had the uniform from when he snatched Sasha. I reckon he's got a kink, made Lisa take her make up off so she looked young when she wore it for him. She's not mental. I think she just saw red. All Lisa Lewis wants is her kids back.”
Firman stroked his beard as he pondered her theory. “The Met have got a police guard on the daughter in case she turns up there,” he murmured.
“What about Johnson?”
Firman raised his brows.
“He stole her baby and got her sectioned. I'm convinced he and Sarum were working together. If she's going to turn up anywhere, it's there.”
Firman sighed and folded his arms.
India rubbed at her furrowed brow. Why the fuck was no one listening? “I might be a pain in the arse, Guv, but I'm telling you - something bigger is going on here and Johnson's involved. I know it.”
“Sangrin's gone to Royal South Hants to see him,” Firman said curtly pulling an evidence bag from his drawer.
India cocked her jaw. “Why? Johnson doesn't even work there on Mondays.”
Firman stared at her and drew a deep breath. “You'd better tell me exactly what you've been up to and what you know about Dr Dale Johnson,” he said holding up the evidence bag containing a blood spattered mobile phone. “He's the last person George Sarum called before he inadvertently choked on his own dick.”
London.
Flick peered out of the slats in the closed blinds as the battered Volvo pulled up outside Flynn & Associates. “He's here,” she said as Ryan Reynolds stepped from the car.
Jerry Flynn scurried to the door and unbolted it, beckoning the newcomer inside.
“Are you sure about this, Felicity?” Stephen Charmers said his face set in a hard frown. “This guy has caused both of us a lot of grief.”
“It was his idea,” Flick murmured. “Damage control.”
“Hey,” Ryan said pulling her into an uncomfortably tight embrace as soon as he was inside. “I thought you had a law lecture today.”
Flick cleared her throat. “I cut it short. Unforeseen circumstances arrived in the form of an ex-rugby playing cop.”
“Bloody hell, he doesn't let the grass grow under his feet does he.”
Flick smiled. “Ryan, I'd like you to meet the other two trustees.”
Ryan laughed as he shook Mickey's hand. “Ha,” he said. “I should've recognised the voice.”
Mickey frowned and looked to Flick. “Long story,” she said. “I'll fill you in later. Ryan, this is Stephen Charmers MP. Stephen, Ryan Reynolds.”
“It will be a pleasure to work with you, Sir,” Ryan said offering his hand.
Stephen kept his hands rigid at his sides, staring at Flick's replacement. Weighing him up.
“We're on the same side,” Ryan said keeping his hand on offer. “Both of us want the system to change, and neither of us wants Flick to join the Crossleys in prison.”
Stephen glanced her way, his demeanour softening slightly at the prospect. Clasping Ryan's hand he said, “The Crossleys are just the tip of the iceberg. Over two hundred parents are secretly imprisoned every year for something as simple as waving at their kids on the street, or sending them a birthday card.”
“Let me help,” Ryan said. “Not only can I assist you carrying out Anne Crowley’s wishes, I can make this main stream news as well.”
Stephen Charmers sighed and nodded wistfully.
Ryan smiled and patted his shoulder. “Where do I sign?”
Chapter 41
Winchester, Hampshire.
Glad that Firman had cut her loose before Sangrin's return, India marvelled at the abundance of blooms in the formal gardens as she yanked the old fashioned bell cord for a second time. No wonder the NHS was skint. Dr Johnson was getting paid too much. Way too much, she concluded, when the mansion door was finally opened by a formal old fashioned butler.
“May I help you?” the snooty old boy asked.
“I'm looking for Dr Dale Johnson,” India said holding up her warrant card.
He peered down his nose at her for a moment, before responding, “Mrs Barrington-Johnson is in residence. May she be of assistance?”
Damn right she will, India thought. “She would indeed,” she said.
He led her into a magnificent panelled entrance hall with a marble floor and a sweeping two-way staircase. “Wait here,” he said with a curt nod before disappearing through one of many side doors.
India wandered the hall, looking up at generation after generation of family history on canvas. She paused, transfixed by a striking portrait captioned 'Eloise Barrington.' If she needed further confirmation that Johnson married money - it came in the form of the plummy voice behind her. “Beautiful wasn't she?”
India turned to face the elegant woman addressing her, bone structure defined by years of careful breeding. “She was,” she said extending her hand. “Detective Kane, Hampshire CID.”
“Arabella Barrington-Johnson,” she chirped. “Eloise was my great, great, great, great grandmother.”
India looked back to the bright blue eyes of the 19th century oil painting. “I can see the family resemblance.”
Arabella gave a horsey smile. “Thank you,” she said without the faintest hint of pretension. “But I'm sure you're not here to talk about my genealogy, so what are you here for Detective? I understand you asked for my husband.”
“Is there somewhere we can sit down?” India said. “I have a few questions for you.”
The formal dining room was sumptuously decorated, and dominated by a massive antique table almost as long as the room itself. India was relieved when Arabella directed her to the cluster of armchairs in front of an ornate open fireplace. She planned to ask some discreet and sensitive questions, and didn't fancy screaming them from one end of the table to the other.
“Where's your husband today?” she asked settling into the surprisingly comfy old chair.
Arabella frowned. “He's working with Daddy at the clinic. Why? Has something happened to him?”
“The clinic?” India said pulling out her notebook.
“Dale is okay, isn't he?” she said wringing her hands in her lap.
“I'm sure he's fine,” India said. “I just thought he'd be around today considering Monday is his day off.”
Arabella gave a haughty guffaw. “Dale doesn't understand the concept of a day off. He lives for work,” she said. “When he's not being paid, he's offering his considerable skills and expertise to daddy's charities for free.”
“I looked your father up,” India mused. “Lord Professor Barrington does some outstanding work with children.”
“Not everybody is born this fortunate,” Arabella said spreading her hands. “Daddy likes to give something back.”
“Is that why he gave your husband a house elsewhere on the estate when he broke your son's arm recently?”
Arabella Barrington-Johnson went completely still. From the follicles of her immaculately coiffed hair, down to her undoubtedly pedicured toes - nothing so much as twitched. India waited as the flush of shame spread across the bridge of her nose, contaminating her cheeks then ears. “Hector broke his arm playing football,” she said mechanically.
India stared at her. “And when was this?”
“Two weeks ago,” she murmured, dropping her eyes as the hand wringing resumed. “Hector's clumsy; he spends most of his life in a plaster cast. Fourteen hundred acres provides a young boy ample opportunity for mischief.”
India silently calculated the dates in her head. If it was two weeks ago exactly, Hector broke his arm the s
ame day Lisa Lewis’s son was snatched. She decided to hedge her bets. “Which hospital did your husband take him to?”
“The Royal South Hants.” Arabella sighed. “He wasn't very happy at having to go there on his day off either, but unfortunately, I don't drive.” She subconsciously touched the smooth skin around her left eye with the memory of the day. “I suppose I should learn really. Get out and about more instead of being cooped up here all day.”
“You should,” India said. “One day you might feel the need to escape.”
London.
Colt rode the rush-hour tube to Knightsbridge. Too early for his meeting with Flick Firman, he found himself leaning with one foot propped against Harrods’ back wall, staring at Dwight Sanders’ house of horror.
An unnamed child had been so badly abused there he'd died. They had tons of images, recording equipment, even the scene of the bloody crime with the victim in it. All the paraphernalia of a prolific paedophile ring was present. And yet they had nothing on him.
The bastard was going to walk.
The mere thought had Colt clenching both fist and jaw. He pushed away from the wall, wanted to go over there and beat the information out of him. The real information. Not the piffling bullshit about half the world having access to his home and credit cards while he was out of the country. Colt wanted their names. He wanted the Judge. He wanted them all.
For now, that's all it could be - a want.
Blowing a breath up his face, he turned away and began walking in the direction of Flick's exclusive apartment block. When he saw her silver Mercedes pull up further down the street - he stopped dead in his tracks. Colt hadn't given any thought to the fact they lived in such close proximity to each other. He glanced over his shoulder, remembering what Ryan Reynolds had said about Flick defending Sanders if they charged him. When he looked back, Felicity Firman was standing outside her apartment block, watching him.
“Bourbon?” Flick said raising a glass, hoping to ease the tension.
Colt shook his head, watching her as she poured one for herself.
“Do you want a tea or coffee, or anything?” she said.
“I want the truth. Sit down, Flea.”
Flick gave a perfunctory smile at the use of his long forgotten nickname for her. All was not lost. She could play on the affection he held for her thirty years ago. “Do you remember that conker tree in your mum and dad's garden?” she chuckled, dropping casually onto the sofa next to him.
He abruptly turned and glared at her. “Don't do that. You're meant to be better than that.”
Flick swallowed hard and dropped her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she murmured.
“I gave you an hour of my time to explain, and you've wasted fifteen minutes of it already,” he said. “All I'm here to talk about is how you got mixed up in human trafficking.”
The words jolted through her body so hard she almost dropped her drink. “I'm not,” she spluttered. “How could you even think that?”
“Young women in the care of Haltingbury Social Services are going missing without a trace and you're fucking involved!” Colt dragged his hands down his face and slumped forward in his seat. Bringing his forearms to rest on his knees he drew a slow steady breath and raised his eyes to hers. “In about three seconds I'm going to start reading you your rights. If you're not trafficking these women, now is a bloody good time to convince me.”
Flick swallowed hard as his eyes bored into hers. “We're not trafficking them,” she said. “We're saving them.”
“Who's we?”
Flick stared at her glass. “I'd rather not say.”
“Fine, save it for the judge,” he said moving to stand up. “Felicity Firman, I'm arrest...”
“Stephen Charmers,” Flick blurted before sinking her drink and shuddering.
Colt remained in his seat, but raised his brows. “MP Stephen Charmers?”
Flick nodded and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “We were joint trustees of the Crowley Trust.”
“What do you mean were?” he said. “Your car was at Anne Crowley's daughter’s place in Ireland at the weekend.”
“I was there with the new trustee who's replaced me.” While Flick stretched the truth, Colt spread his hands - waiting for a name. “Ryan Reynolds,” she finally said.
Flick watched the two deep lines carve deeper through his brow as he tried to piece things together in his head. “I don't care for politics, and I don't care for the press,” he said. “But I knew Anne Crowley, she was a good woman. And I've known you all my life. You're gonna have to fill in the blanks for me, Flea. What the fuck does the Crowley Trust do exactly?”
“It strives to change the system, Jim,” she said softly. “It offers protection to those powerless against the state gulag of the Family Courts, and provides them safe harbour out of the country.”
“Are you saying these women chose to disappear?”
Flick nodded. “It was their only option to keep their children.”
“Some of them are thirteen and fourteen years old,” Colt snapped. “In the eyes of the law they’re incapable of making that decision.”
Flick frowned hard. “We don’t take anyone under the age of sixteen.”
Colt narrowed his eyes and pulled the list of Haltingbury's missing girls and a pen from his inside jacket pocket. “Mark off who you’ve taken,” he said tossing it into her lap.
Flick went through the list name by name and ticked the ones she’d helped. Half of them she’d never heard of. At least one of the women on the list had been declined help by the Crowley Trust, their extensive background checks revealed her current partner was on the sexual offenders register. It wasn’t a relationship she was prepared to end.
“There,” she said handing the list back to him.
He scanned it for several seconds and held it back out to her. “Check it again,” he said staring at her.
“I don’t need to,” Flick said holding his stare. “Your underage girls are not in Ireland.”
“Why should I believe you?” Colt snapped waving the list in the air. “You’ve got no fucking problem spiriting away the ones with kids already on the child protection register.”
“Only the ones that shouldn’t be on there in the first place,” Flick snapped back.
Colt shook his head. “Don’t take me for a fool, I work in child protection. If they're on the fucking register - they're there for a reason.”
“Only the ones you see.” Flick scooted towards him on the couch. “Most of the children the trust helps haven't even been born yet. They're snatched at birth to satisfy government targets and forcibly adopted against their parents’ wishes. Parents who have done nothing wrong! Some are simply deemed too young, or too thick, or they vote for the wrong political party.”
Colt cocked his jaw. “This is England, Flick. Not fucking North Korea.”
“Exactly! That's why we do it.” She finally felt like she was winning the battle. Knew if she could just make him understand he'd be on her side. One of the good guys like he always was. “It was Anne's final wish that these families had backing against the state.”
Colt rubbed at his brow. “I was being sarcastic. If this shit was going on here, the press would be all over it.”
“They can’t report on proceedings, it’s against the law,” she said. “The press aren't even allowed in the courtroom. Everything’s done in secret. The parents don't have a voice.”
He threw his hands in the air. “Your mate Reynolds ran a double page spread the other day!” he said incredulously.
“And he's been gagged! The couple in the article are in prison because of it!” Flick pulled out her mobile phone and thrust it towards him. “I'm not bullshitting you, Jim. Ask him yourself.”
Colt pushed her hand away. “I'll speak to Mr Reynolds when I'm good and ready,” he said standing up. “In the meantime don't even think about leaving the country again.”
Flick remained on the sofa as he stormed down her hall
. When she heard the front door slam, she let out a ragged breath and began to shake.
Hampshire CID, Winchester.
“We need the boy's medical records to put Dr Johnson at the Royal South Hants the night Lisa Lewis took her baby in,” India said jabbing her note book with her index finger, labouring her point.
“You just said he works in London with his father-in-law on Mondays,” Sangrin said eyeballing her from the opposite side of the meeting room table. “Make your mind up. He can't be in two places at once.”
India tutted. “Well, obviously he comes home at night,” she said trying hard to ignore the two panda rings appearing under his eyes. “His wife said he took Hector to the Royal South Hants when he broke his arm a couple of weeks back.”
“But she didn't say it was the same date Billy Lewis allegedly went missing,” Sangrin said.
“No, she didn't. But she did say Johnson was pissed because he had to go there on his day off - which is Monday. Couple that with two weeks ago and we're at the exact date Lisa Lewis took her baby to Accident & Emergency.”
“I thought she took him to Paediatrics,” Firman said.
“She kicked off in Paediatrics the following morning when Billy wasn't there,” India said. “It was an emergency, so presumably she took him into A&E the night before, which is the same place you'd take a little boy with a broken arm.”
Firman leant across the table, pointing at her. “You’d better have more than speculation, Kane. This is the family of a Lord you're fucking with now.”
“A Lord who's turning a blind eye to his daughter and grandson getting knocked about,” she shot back, before catching herself and winding her neck in. “I'm not accusing Lord Barrington of anything, other than being weak,” she added. “Dale Johnson's the one up to no good.”
