by Bo Brennan
“Shit.” Maggie raised a giant eye to Colt as she passed him the magnifying glass. “Check out Barrington's hand.”
“Not you as well,” he muttered. “It's out of view. It's probably on Dwight's lower back.”
“No, the left hand,” she said almost bouncing with excitement. “The one on the other boy's shoulder.”
As Colt scrutinised the magnified picture, his heart began to thump in his chest. The positioning of Barrington's right hand may well be inconclusive, but there was nothing inconclusive about the left hand, nothing at all. Casually draped over the other boy's shoulder, it displayed a very distinctive masonic ring on the pinkie finger. “Jesus Christ, he's one of them.”
Bob frowned. “One of what?”
Colt handed him the magnifier and picture as Maggie held up an abuse image from the Sanders investigation. “The ring on his left hand,” she said. “Look familiar?”
His mouth dropped open as he stared down through the lens. When he looked up again, he gasped, “For fuck's sake, we can't trust any fucker.”
Colt cleared his suddenly parched throat. “I'll get the techies to put it through recognition software,” he said. “Give us a run-down of the other abusers’ distinguishers we've got for the Sanders images, Mags.”
“Abuser one with a left hand signet ring, I think we can safely assume that’s Barrington,” Mags said as Bob waved the photograph in the air. “Abuser two with the gavel cufflinks who we suspect is a judge, is circumcised and his penis bends prominently to the left.”
“Barrington must have a link to every fucking judge in the country,” Colt murmured.
“Abuser three has a hairy mole on his right buttock. And Abuser four appears to have no distinguishing marks whatsoever, and believe me - I've searched them all.”
Colt gave a weak smile, had no doubt she'd searched. She had a keen eye. “What about Sasha Grant's foster father. He's connected to Barrington through the NLF. Do any of those distinguishers fit him?”
Bob shook his head. “No. I was there when they stripped him, the son too.”
Colt frowned. “The son's twelve. He went to the hospital to get checked over didn't he?”
Maggie shook her head. “He was the one in the database raping a young girl in the bath. The mother’s sweatshirt was hanging out of the laundry basket with the logo partially visible.”
Colt woefully shook his head. Round and round it went. Abused to abuser and consistent no comment interviews from the lot of them. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Like attracts like,” he said. “If Sanders has been inducted into an existing ring, we need to look at Barrington and his long term associates. Everyone he's ever been photographed with I want pinned to this wall. “
“A hairy arse mole and a circumcised bent dick, isn't the sort of thing we're going to find in Horse & Hounds magazine,” Bob said. “And we sure as shit ain't gonna get a body warrant to make Lord Barrington or his associates drop their pants. Especially if the beak we put it in front of is the bastard we’re after.”
“Let’s get a feel for who we’re dealing with first so we can whittle them down,” Colt said smoothing his furrowed brow. “I can assure you - if I want any of them to drop their fucking pants they'll be doing it. With, or without, a body warrant.”
Chapter 49
New Scotland Yard, London.
Colt moved the picture of Commander Hussein from the side of the wall marked 'Persons of Interest', to the side they'd marked 'Ruled out.' He was in good company. The South African Ambassador, Felicity Firman QC, and a host of others resided there.
When Bob tugged the picture of Michael Moore free of the wall, Colt said, “On what basis?”
Bob frowned. “He's one of us. He's our prosecutor. There's more chance of Commander Hussein being involved in a paedophile ring with Sanders and Barrington, than there is him.”
“Hussein's only out because he's Asian,” Colt said. “All of the abusers are white. Michael Moore is white with strong links to Barrington. Unless you can categorically say he doesn't have a hairy mole on his arse, a bent dick, or own a set of legal profession cufflinks, he remains a POI.”
Bob nodded and returned his picture to the wall.
“It's ten to six. He'll be here in a minute,” Maggie said. “How are we going to explain why we’ve got him, and all the people he hobnobs with, stuck to our viewing room wall?”
“We're not going to explain anything. I don't want him back in here until this case is over. In fact from here on in, we are the only people who set foot in this room. We'll have the meeting in my office.”
“Then we'd better get our shit together,” Bob said. “He's always five minutes early.”
“Do you seriously think this is linked to the Dwight Sanders case?” Michael Moore said wearily.
“Don't you?” Colt asked. “We've got John filming the comings and goings at Sanders’ house. John buying babies from hookers. John spiriting young women away from the cemetery. A whole host of pregnant young women still missing from just up the road in Haltingbury, and we still have absolutely no idea where all Sanders’ housekeepers and their kids have vanished to.”
Michael frowned. “John's a common name.”
“One of the young women he took from St Saviour's turned up dead in the toilets at Waterloo, staged to look like a heroin overdose,” Colt snapped. “Her parents are glad someone's finally taking their daughter's murder seriously.”
“I'm sure they are,” Michael sighed. “But I don't see how the girl’s death is a Paedophile Unit investigation. A flimsy link to Sanders, through a man named John, is grasping at straws. Between Sanders and Haltingbury, you're spread too thin as it is, without taking on anything else. If you don't come up with something substantial soon, this department will be facing a wrongful arrest suit.”
Colt clenched his jaw. Sanders. They'd found a boy in his basement with the worst injuries any of them had ever witnessed, and he had the audacity to even think about suing! “What are we going to get sued for, Michael? Doing our fucking jobs?”
Michael Moore set his jaw. “Your job does not entail keeping a Haltingbury social worker imprisoned in a bloody safe house for no reason,” he spat. “Sandra Cavendish has lodged a formal complaint that you’re harassing her staff.”
Colt gritted his teeth. Shit. He'd forgotten about sweaty Alan Roberts. “Sandra Cavendish is covering her own arse because she’s cooking the fucking books. Her incompetence has led to twenty seven young women going missing in a month, and that’s just the ones we know of.”
“They didn't tell us about fourteen year old Tracey Jolie who's still missing from the paedophile foster family's home,” Maggie snapped. “Melissa’s going to be fine by the way. Of course she doesn’t have a womb anymore, but she’s going to be fine all the same. Thanks for asking, Michael. Thanks a lot.”
Michael turned to Bob - sitting unusually quiet in the corner with his arms crossed, eyeballing him. “Anything you want to shout at me about while I'm here?”
Bob pursed his lips and raised a brow. “Not really.”
Michael sighed and took off his glasses. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, “All right, we’ve all vented. It’s been a tough day all round. Have you got anything worth me being here tonight, or not?”
“No.” Colt stood up and opened his office door for the prosecutor to leave. “I'll phone you when I have.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, Bob said, “He was wearing 'Guilty' and 'Not Guilty' cufflinks, Boss. If he'd stayed another minute, I think I might have had to yank his trousers down myself.”
Knightsbridge, London.
“I thought you might need some company, what with it being a bad day and all that,” Ryan said holding up an expensive bottle of bourbon that had almost broken the bank.
Felicity Firman smiled and welcomed him into her home.
“It must make you cringe when you win and they’re all slapping you on the back in chambers,” Ryan said handing over the bottle.
“The expert was Professor Barrington,” she sighed. “Unfortunately, you're guaranteed a win with him on your side.”
Ryan hung his jacket and baseball cap on the stand in the hallway. “I'm running another story about him tomorrow.”
“That will make tomorrow night’s law dinner fun.” Flick sighed. “His son-in-law has just been appointed to the CAFCASS board. Apparently it’s cause for celebration.”
“What's that?” Ryan said following her down the hall to the lounge.
“A celebration or CAFCASS?” she mused. Ryan inclined his head and smiled. “The Children and Family Court Advisory and Support Service. They're supposedly independent and speak for the children.”
Ryan dropped onto her sofa. “I thought his son-in-law was a doctor.”
“He is,” Flick said pulling two lead crystal tumblers from a cabinet and passing them to him. “He's a paediatrician at the Royal South Hants in Winchester, and an expert on shaken baby syndrome.”
Ryan tilted his head and raised his brows as he poured them both a hefty measure. “Good guy or bad guy?”
“Dr Dale Johnson has wandering hands and a roaming eye,” she said slumping onto the sofa next to him. “But inside the courtroom, the answer to your question will boil down to the same as the rest of us - it all depends on who's paying the most.”
“Yeah, well, you don't get a choice but the so called experts do,” Ryan said passing her a glass. “And you atone.”
Flick gave him a weary smile. “Doesn't make me feel much better.” She chinked her glass to his. “Cheers. You have no idea what a bad day it's been. I had Declan on the phone earlier. One of his pick-ups went into labour two weeks early.” She tilted her head. “They got her. And another hasn't been seen since the SS visited her on Monday.” She gave a little shrug as she drew her feet up underneath her. “He’s got some personal matters to deal with in London, so he’s going to hang around for a few days and see if he can locate her.”
Ryan’s pursed lips gave way to a half-hearted smile as he studied her. She seemed relaxed enough in his company to comfortably unburden her woes, but he still wasn’t sure if the trust between them extended beyond a courtroom ruse on her part. He still needed to tread as carefully as he picked his words. “If it's any consolation my place got broken into and totally trashed last night.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh god, I'm so sorry.”
“It's not your fault,” Ryan said. “But I think they were looking for the Crossley file.” He stared at the rich brown liquid as he swilled the glass in the palm of his hand. “So does AJ Colt,” he added quietly.
“Colt?” Flick straightened up on the sofa. “What's Jim got to do with it?”
Ryan glanced up at her. Her eyes were full of fear. “He knows you gave me the file, Flick. I didn't tell him, but he definitely knows.”
She looked away as she downed her drink and poured another with trembling hands. There were only a couple of people who knew of his recent involvement with the Crowley Trust, and to his knowledge, only one of them knew DCI Colt. He was feeling more like a sacrificial pawn in a game of chess with every beat that passed.
“Why didn't you tell me Declan Maloney grew up in care?” he asked.
“All of them did,” Flick said. “That's why they do what they do, Ryan.”
“No,” Ryan said shaking his head to correct her. “His wife does it because her mother set up the Crowley Trust. I'm asking about Declan.” And he knew that sooner or later AJ Colt would notice and be asking too.
Flick spluttered on her drink and frowned. “Declan and Niamh aren't married. They're brother and sister. I thought you knew that.”
Ryan stared at her. Succumbed to an involuntary shudder as he remembered how they looked at each other. How they shared the same bedroom at the isolated Irish farmhouse. “But they...”
“They grew up separately, the courts broke them up when their mother had a breakdown,” Flick cut in. “Niamh was adopted by the judge in the case. Declan went off to an orphanage. And the youngest one, Mairead, was adopted by a relative of one of the social workers who took them.” She shook her head. “Like you need more evidence of a corrupt system.”
“Where's Mairead now?” Ryan said quietly.
Flick raised a shoulder and spread her hands. “She'll be eighteen next month. They'll be able to list her details on the adoption register then. Declan and Niamh already found each other, so they're confident they'll find her too.”
Ryan twisted his lip between his forefinger and thumb. “Has Declan ever told you anything about his time in care?”
Flick sighed and shook her head. “He doesn't talk about it. The little I know is what Niamh has told me. I know it wasn't good. He's incapable of having a relationship, or sleeping on his own.”
“So he and Niamh aren't....you know,” Ryan probed.
Flick frowned. “They share a room, not a bed. There's no genetic sexual attraction if that's what you're thinking.”
Ryan blushed with shame. “You read it about, don't you? Separated siblings meeting up later in life and, well, you know. I imagine sexual preferences can be distorted by circumstance.”
“They're just lost and lonely, Ryan,” Flick said and sipped her drink. “Niamh didn't even know she was adopted until Declan knocked on her door when she was twenty years old, but she said her life suddenly seemed to make sense. She packed her stuff, dumped university, and moved in with him the following day. Never spoke to her mother again. It came as a huge shock when Judge Crowley died and left everything in trust to her and Declan.”
“I bet it did,” Ryan said topping up her drink and refilling his own. “Do you think Declan would speak to me about his time in care?”
Flick frowned. “Why? What business is it of yours?”
Ryan swallowed hard. He needed to know if Declan was the good guy he’d been sold as, or still part of Sanders’ clique. He needed to be sure the children they entrusted to him and Niamh were safe. And he needed to hear it himself. “My name’s on the Crowley Trust now,” he said. “It’s in both our best interests to know the motivations behind the people we’re dealing with.”
She raised a shoulder, eyeballing him suspiciously. “You know their motivations - a system beyond corrupt, and Judge Anne Crowley's dying wish to change it.”
“I've heard that from you,” Ryan said. “I'd like to hear it directly from them myself.”
Flick slammed her glass down on the table and leapt to her feet. “You’re fucking unbelievable. I actually thought you were here because you cared.”
Ryan frowned. “I am.”
“The only thing you care about is advancing your own career. I'm not going to let you use these people. You already got the Crossleys locked up. How many more lives do you want to ruin?”
Ryan clenched his jaw, put his glass down, and stood up. He thought they were on the level. Thought they’d reached an understanding. Thought they could talk like adults, on an equal footing, about the things bothering them. Seemed he was wrong. His underlying sense of unease was justified. He’d always be shit on her shoe. “You really don’t think much of me at all do you?”
“Stephen warned me about you,” she spat following him down the hallway. “He said you were a selfish arsehole!”
Ryan stopped at the front door and jabbed himself in the chest. “This selfish arsehole kept your arse out of prison. I didn’t see your MP chum stepping up to do the honours.” He stopped and stared at her. “How much do you really even know about Charmers? Have you ever questioned why they threatened to take his kids?”
Her face contorted with fury. “You wormed your way inside just to hound Stephen, didn’t you?”
Ryan tugged his jacket on in a state of disbelief. “I’m trying to keep the kids you care so much about, out of the hands of a fucking paedophile ring that’s operating right under your stupid stuck up nose, and you throw that shit at me?”
“What are you talking about?” Flick said grabbing his arm as he rea
ched for the door.
Ryan pulled his arm away and flipped his baseball cap onto his head. “You need to speak with Declan about Lord Professor Barrington and his mates before AJ Colt does, or we’re all going to get fucked up the arse, Felicity.”
Chapter 50
Thursday 28th July
Hampshire CID, Winchester.
India eyeballed Sangrin as he swaggered into the meeting room displaying the red eye, and accompanying halitosis, of a boozy night out.
“Dale Johnson did not take his son to A&E. He was at work, in London, with Lord Professor Barrington at the time of his son's accident,” he said tossing a serviette on the table in front of her.
India stared at it. Scrawled across it was a brief handwritten note, signed by Lord Barrington, confirming his son-in-law’s whereabouts at the time of his grandson's football related injury, and his understanding that his daughter drove him to the hospital in their absence.
India clenched her jaw. The embellished gold CC in the corner meant Sangrin's big night out had been at the Concordia Club. “You were meant to be talking to Johnson’s son, not getting pissed with the people that abused him,” India spat flicking the serviette back at him. “That's not worth wiping your arse with.”
Sangrin's nostrils flared. “I was being discreet. Something you’re too crass to comprehend when it comes to dealing with people in power. I also got statements from witnesses confirming they were both at the Concordia Club the night Lisa Lewis was killed.”
India stared at him. “Short of bog roll in your house are you?”
Firman picked up the serviette. “She's got a point, Lee. This won't stand up in a court.”
“It doesn't have to,” Sangrin said. “It rules them out of our investigation. Dale’s just phoned me. A signed statement from his wife, Mrs Barrington-Johnson, is on its way over.”
India threw her hands in the air. “You can't seriously have been bought off by a beer and a bog roll? They were paying George Sarum for fuck's sake.”
