by Bo Brennan
“Let's assume Hector Johnson's medical records provide the means and opportunity,” Sangrin sighed. “What motive is there for his father, a respected paediatrician, to steal a baby?”
India chewed at her cheek. She hadn't got that far yet. The whole thing was just a bad smelling feeling until she'd scrawled the connections out on her lounge wall. “I don't know,” she admitted.
Sangrin let out an exasperated sigh. “When you've pieced together this little fantasy of yours, and can back it up with solid evidence, let me know,” he said pushing away from the table and rising from his seat. “Excuse me, Guv. I've got a murdering psychotic mother to track down.”
India glanced at Firman. He crossed his arms and jutted his chin in Sangrin's direction. She rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Anything I can do to help, Sarge?”
Sangrin stopped dead in the doorway and spun to face her, eyebrows raised so high they were blending with his hairline. “Yeah, you can piss off home. You're off the overtime roster.”
Chapter 42
Park Gate, Hampshire.
“I didn't expect to see you tonight,” Colt said pushing out the final set of repetitions on his weight bench. “I thought you'd be working the murder case that's all over the news.”
India shrugged and put the bottle of wine down on his side table as he secured the loaded barbell onto its stand. “Sangrin doesn't want me.”
Colt stood up and stretched his shoulders. “I think you'll find half the problem is that he does, babe.”
India gave an involuntary shudder. If he ever touched her again he’d get the Lisa Lewis treatment. “I see you got yourself a wall. Not so whack after all.”
He laughed as he slung a towel round his neck and joined her in his lounge, where an entire wall had been taken over by the Dwight Sanders case. “Makes sense,” he said kissing her forehead. “You make sense. Notice how mine's on paper, though.”
“My lounge is long overdue a decorating job,” she murmured keeping her eyes on his impeccably neat and organised mind map, instead of his impeccably toned body. “You got anything on this sweaty social worker, Alan Roberts, yet?”
“I've located one of his missing girls, but her disappearance wasn't anything to do with him,” Colt said. “I'm paying him a visit tomorrow.”
India turned her head to meet his gaze. “Do me a favour, take Sasha Grant's flimsy file with you and find out how well he knew George Sarum,” she said. “And quiz him about Dr Dale Johnson too.”
“Come with me and ask him yourself. He's in a safe house in Pimlico until Lisa Lewis is caught.”
“Can't,” India said glumly. “Sangrin's calling the shots. It's officially open season on moi.”
Colt grinned and brushed the stray hairs from her face. “Forget about Sangrin. Crack open that bottle while I jump in the bath.”
Haltingbury, London.
Melissa was taking ages in the bath. If it wasn't for the fact Sasha could hear her splashing around she would've knocked on the door to check on her.
She didn't really mind if the water was cold by the time she got in. It was Melissa's thirteenth birthday today and with Tracey gone she had clean bath water. Sasha couldn't blame her for making the most of it, especially now the bathroom door was closed.
Sasha wished she was as old as Melissa and trusted enough to take her bath in private. It was the only decent birthday present she'd had. All Sasha had to give her was a homemade card and the greasy free flapjack from her school canteen lunch. But Melissa was grateful. She'd hugged her so tight that Sasha couldn't breathe. And all the kids at school had spent the whole afternoon calling them lesbos.
The taunts had continued as they left school for the day. The mob of jeering kids only stopped when Sasha and Melissa were met by their foster mother and a policeman at the school gates. Apparently only one thing was worse than being a lesbo around here - being a policeman. The kids oinked as they passed.
Sasha tiptoed to her bedroom window and peered through the small sliver between the floral curtains. He was still down there. In the glow of the streetlamp she could see her foster mother, Kim, handing the policeman outside the front door a cup of tea.
Sasha and Melissa had no idea what he was doing here. Or why he'd driven them home from school in his police car. All he'd said was that there was nothing for them to worry about. But they were worried. They were worried about Tracey. What if something had happened to her? Kim had halted all their questions with a scary glare in the back of the police car. Sasha was worried what she'd do when they got home if she pushed, so she held her tongue, and Melissa's hand, instead.
She needn't have worried. Her foster father was already home when they got in from school. Kim kept her hands to herself when he was around. Sasha heard him laughing and joking with the policeman earlier. When he'd told her not to worry and gave her a cuddle, she felt instantly better.
As she heard the bathroom door creak open she moved away from the window and gathered her pyjamas together. She stepped from her bedroom to see her foster father smiling up at her as he walked down the stairs. Sasha smiled back, and stopped at the empty bathroom doorway to hear Melissa crying in her room.
Winchester, Hampshire.
She'd come straight here yesterday morning, hadn't left the car since. Knew they'd be looking for her but thought she'd have more time, somehow she couldn't imagine George Sarum receiving many willing visitors.
She'd flattened the car battery by constantly listening to the news on the radio. Heard the first reports of his death this morning, but was more concerned about the death of the car, not that it mattered, it was useless now anyway. According to the news reports everyone was looking for that too.
No one would believe it was an accident.
Why couldn't he just let her go? Why did he have to thrash about like that? It was over. She'd got what she'd come for. She'd paid his price and was happy to leave. But, oh no, he wasn't happy with that. He wanted more. Wanted her to suffer further.
Lisa Lewis closed her eyes, trying to block out the moment blood sprayed her naked body and splattered the walls. With her eyes closed his screaming intensified in her head, sharpening the image and making it all the more vivid. His open gaping mouth, the blood, the panic, that thing in her hand, the need to make him stop. She shuddered and her flesh prickled.
She couldn't take it back. She could only move forward.
She had cash. Lots of cash. Found a shoebox stuffed with rolls of notes at the back of George's wardrobe. She hadn’t counted it, but there was plenty enough to get her kids, a car, and all of them out of the country. She looked at her watch and stepped from the vehicle. Didn't bother to lock it, she wouldn't need it again. In ten minutes she'd have Billy.
Everyone was looking for her and the car, but no one was looking for him. No one was looking for a mother and child on foot.
She'd check them into the nearest bed and breakfast for the night. Tomorrow she'd pay cash for a car and they'd drive to Haltingbury and find Sasha together. The three of them would be on a ferry for a new life in Ireland or France before sunset. She hadn't decided which yet - the ferry to France was closer, but there was a language barrier. Sasha could speak some French, she'd let her decide. Lisa Lewis let out a happy sigh of relief as she walked up the car park slope to the top level. And then froze when she saw someone she knew.
Marky Markham was leaning against a black Range Rover talking to another giant of a man. Lisa put her head down and began to backtrack down the slope, hoping there was another way to reach the top level. He was hardly the type to keep up with the news or call the police, she had no worries about that, but if the doctor thought she'd come with heavies he wouldn't stop. She wouldn't get her son back.
“Lisa, how you doing?” he called from the top of the slope, and her heart sank.
She looked up, and feigned surprise. “Mark. I didn’t know you were out,” she said hurrying towards him, hoping to get this unexpected exchange out of the way as qui
ckly as possible. “How's Craig?” she asked.
He shrugged. “No idea. The bitch got a restraining order.”
Lisa grimaced. He’d never bothered with the daughters he’d fathered all over the estate, was only ever interested in his boy. Took him places, paid support, made sure he never went without. But it had come at a cost to the mother. A black eye here, a back hand there, no chance of ever having another relationship - every bloke on the estate was too terrified to go near her. She was enslaved to him for life. That was not a life any mother envisioned for her kids.
She glanced around the open air level. It was too small for them not be seen by the doctor when he arrived.
“Are you expecting someone, Lisa?” Mark said smiling at her.
“Just a friend,” she said glancing over her shoulder towards the incoming ramp. When she turned back his brooding acquaintance was staring at her from just a foot away, the dim glow of the car park lighting reflecting off his bald head. His demeanour unnerved her. Gave her the distinct impression she'd interrupted their evening.
“I thought I was your friend,” Mark said tucking her hair behind her ear and bringing his hand to rest on her shoulder.
Lisa flinched. He wasn't a friend. He was a five minute drunken mistake in the bathroom of her neighbour's flat. Janet hadn’t spoken to her since. He’d already wrecked her only friendship. He wasn’t going to wreck this too. The minutes were ticking away.
“I have to go,” she said turning back to the slope, deciding it was better to intercept Johnson on the next level down. She stopped abruptly as Marky Markham grabbed her arm.
“Johnson's not coming,” he said poking out his bottom lip in a childlike pout. “You didn't really think he would, did you? I mean, not after what you did to his mate.”
Lisa's eyes widened. “Have you brought Billy?”
Mark maintained his pet lip and shook his head slowly. His dark eyes looked like shiny little pebbles in the dim light. “No, but I have a message for you,” he said and hooked a finger, beckoning her closer. Lisa leant forward into his grip, held her breath as he inclined his head. “Don't fuck with the big boys,” he whispered in her ear.
Before she had a chance to respond she was airborne.
Marky Markham turned to his colleague, dusted his hands, and said, “Shame really. She was a good fuck. I liked her.”
Chapter 43
Tuesday 26th July
London.
Colt picked up the end of the single bed and tipped it. “Sorry. Did I wake you?” he said when Alan Roberts cried out as he rolled to the floor. Everybody else had been up for the best part of the night so he didn't see why this sweaty little shit should snooze soundly.
“It’s quarter to six,” he grumbled rubbing his eyes and clambering to his feet, a vision of scrawniness in union jack y-fronts.
Colt ignored him and glanced around, turning his nose up at his surroundings. He hadn't been to this location before. It was new. And it was pokey. A room in a shared semi made it more a safe bedsit than safe house. Nice to know budget restraints were affecting them all. “Sleep well?” he said making himself comfortable in the room’s only chair.
Alan Roberts slumped on the edge of the basic single bed. “Not really,” he yawned. “I don't even know why I'm here.”
“For your own protection,” Colt said crossing an ankle over his knee and staring at him. “Lisa Lewis wants you dead.”
“Never heard of the woman,” he muttered.
“She's Sasha Grant's mother.”
Alan picked the crusty sleep from his eyes and wiped it on the duvet. “Never heard of her either.”
“That's strange.” Colt tilted his head. “Sasha Grant's social services file says she was personally handed over to you less than a fortnight ago.”
That woke him up. He jolted upright on the bed. “Not to me she wasn't. I've never even heard of her.”
Colt reached down into his briefcase and pulled out Sasha Grant's two page Hampshire Social Services file. Smiled as he held it up to leave Alan Roberts in no doubt it was official, before resting it in his lap and flipping it open to read an entry aloud. “Sasha Grant. Transferred into the care of Haltingbury Social Services caseworker Alan Roberts. Friday 15th July.”
Alan Roberts frowned. “Can....can I see that?” he stammered.
Colt tossed it on the bed and watched him, his mouth opened and closed like a guppy while he silently read. Cracking his knuckles, he said, “Think very carefully about what you say next, Alan. My tolerance of bull shitters is a whole lot lower where children are concerned.”
“George Sarum,” he murmured.
“Is dead,” Colt said matter-of-factly. “It wasn't pretty. Someone cut his dick off and rammed it down his throat. You're probably next.”
Alan Roberts dropped the file and pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his ashen face in them. “How old is she?” he mumbled.
“Eleven.”
His hunched back rose and fell as he drew a deep breath before mumbling again. “She's too young.”
“Look at me.” Colt reached forward in his chair and slapped Alan’s legs away, sending him scurrying backwards on the bed until he was pressed against the wall. “What is she too young for?”
He swallowed hard, but seemed to think even harder, before he gave his answer. “The target list.”
Colt's eyes narrowed. “What target list?”
“We have too many,” he spluttered. “We can’t visit them all. Something’s gotta give.”
Colt clenched his jaw. “What target list?” he repeated.
“The adoption target list. We don’t set it, the government do,” he blurted. “If we’re only involved with them because they’re on the list, sometimes we don’t visit them until the baby is due, but we fill in their file to make it look like we have.”
Colt studied him intently. Alan Roberts had just made a blatant admission of fraud. What bothered him the most was not that he'd made it, but the ease and eagerness with which he’d made it. Experience said when a fluid admission was so easily made, worse deeds remained unsaid. “What gets them on this target list?”
“Age, upbringing, education, trouble with the law, postcode. I don’t know.” He threw his hands in the air. “It all boils down to risk of emotional harm.”
“What the fuck is risk of emotional harm?” Colt snapped.
“The potential for them to harm their baby when it’s born.”
Colt shook his head in disbelief and rubbed at his brow. How the hell could someone be judged for a crime that had never been committed?
Alan Roberts sighed. “Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, but that’s what we have to work with.”
Colt sat silently digesting this Orwellian development. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This sweaty, jittery little social worker had just backed up what Felicity Firman had told him in defence of the Crowley Trust.
But Sasha Grant wasn’t pregnant and she wasn’t missing. She didn’t end up here, miles from home, because of a government baby snatching target. “How well do you know Dr Dale Johnson?” he probed.
Alan Roberts raised his shoulders to his ears. “If I tell you I’ve never heard of him, are you gonna punch me?”
Colt stood up and pulled his phone from his trouser pocket as it began to ring. Stepping outside to take Maggie’s call in the hallway, he pulled the door closed behind him. She was talking as soon as he answered. “Guv, I’ve got a database image match for Sasha Grant’s foster mother. It's an unsolved from two years ago.”
“Shit,” he said looking at his watch. “What time do kids go to school?”
“Well, my mum usually sets off with mine in about an hour,” Maggie said.
“All right, get a rescue team together. No social workers,” he added staring hard at the reinforced door between him and Alan Roberts. “I want that girl out of that house right now. I’m on my way.”
Turning to the uniform stationed in the corridor, he p
ointed at the door, and said, “He goes nowhere. I’m not finished with him yet.”
The uniform frowned. “I understood the threat had been removed and you were turning him out, Sir.”
“I was wrong,” he shouted running towards the exit.
Hampshire CID, Winchester.
India Kane was furious, beyond furious. She was absolutely fucking livid. She glanced at the clock and dug her pencil into her pad a little harder, breaking the lead. Lisa Lewis should be feeding her baby and getting her daughter ready for school right now, not lying dead on a mortuary table.
If she’d kissed Sangrin’s arse - instead of shouting ‘suicide my arse’ in his smug little face - she’d be out there, working Lisa’s case right now, and not confined to her desk digging through the dry financials of arse wipe George Sarum. She gritted her teeth and rested her head on her notepad, letting out a long frustrated growl. When she looked back up her boss was staring at her.
“Found anything yet?” DCI Firman quizzed.
“No,” she snapped. “It's ridiculous me sitting here when there's two murder cases...”
“One murder case,” Firman corrected holding a finger in the air.
India took a deep breath, preparing to respond with calm control. “A woman, who would kill for her children, would not kill herself. Lisa Lewis went to ridiculous lengths to be reunited with her kids. Topping herself was definitely not part of her plan. Please don't fall for all this mental illness bullshit, Guv. It's just an excuse not to listen to someone who's been pushed too far.”
“I am listening,” Firman said softly, perching on the edge of her desk. “I'm the one who put you on Sarum's financials, India, not Sangrin.”
India frowned and dropped her hands beneath her desk, snapped her pencil in half and released it to the ground to prevent seething rage forcing her to stab him in the eye.
