BABY SNATCHERS (A Detective India Kane & AJ Colt Crime Thriller)

by Bo Brennan

  “Any chance it was stolen?” Colt asked.

  “No. I've checked,” India said. “I've also spoken to the tax man. Markham's gone legit. He's been employed by the NLF as a security consultant since the day he got out. Been paying Income Tax, National Insurance contributions, the whole nine yards.”

  “It's all falling into place,” Colt said. “Hopefully our social worker will lead us to the girls on Sunday. It's looking highly likely they're ending up with Barrington. If that's the case, we're definitely going to need your eyes on his son-in-law, Johnson.”

  The line began to buzz. In the background a nasally voice warned the train for Haltingbury was about to depart platform one. “We'll talk later,” Colt's broken voice crackled before the line went dead.

  Sangrin cleared his throat. “He'll be at Royal South Hants on Sunday. I'll start getting a team together.”

  “Johnson's my collar,” India said.

  “You won't be there.” Sangrin brushed her off without bothering to look up from his notes. “You're not on the roster for Sunday.”

  “Then change it. Colt said he was my collar.”

  “That’s the voices in your head, Kane,” Sangrin mumbled. “All I heard him say was that we'll talk later.”

  India bit her lip and stared at her boss. “Tell him, Guv. He told you Johnson's mine.”

  Firman rested his chin on his clasped hands. “He's India's collar. I want you on his car and someone on every exit in case he runs.”

  “What?” Sangrin looked up with wide eyed astonishment. “I can get closer to him. The idiot thinks we're best mates. He's less likely to be concerned if he makes the surveillance team and spots me. I can play it down, she can't. Everything will blow up if she's near it. There are sick bloody kids up there.”

  “Exactly,” Firman said throwing her a death stare. “No one would put them in harm’s way. We'll use India to drive him away from the kids unit. He'll run. And when he does he'll be running for his car, right into your arms, Lee. He'll be desperate so expect a fight.”

  India looked away when Sangrin went all mini macho man and puffed his chest. The wanker couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. But then he wouldn't have to. Renowned Paediatrician Dr Dale Johnson was a wife and child beater. He knew his limitations. Their kind always did. He was far more likely to throw a punch India's way. And when he did, he’d find not all women were as accommodating as his wife. Johnson wouldn't be running anywhere.

  Haltingbury, London.

  Colt spotted the middle age man as soon as he set foot in the hotel car park. It was hard not to; the stream of cigarette smoke drifting in the late afternoon summer air laid a cloudy trail straight to his open car window.

  As Colt walked across the packed car park, he observed him light a fresh cigarette from the smouldering remnants of the last one, before discarding it to the little pile of spent butts outside the driver's door. Not once did he divert his eyes from the hotel entrance, and all the while his puckered lips strained on the cigarette like it was pure oxygen, critical to his continued existence.

  A man that nervous was worth remembering. He consigned the Silver Ford's registration number and driver to memory, and entered the hotel without a backward glance.

  He breezed through the budget hotel's unmanned reception, passing an assortment of vending machines as he followed the wall mounted arrows upstairs to rooms 122-162. When he reached the first floor landing he rumpled his nose at the smell of stale air, thinking it doubtful the building had a single window open on such a glorious day.

  Standing outside room 142, he took a moment to remind himself why he was there. It was a risky strategy. The man staying here was either a paedophile, or the victim of one - possibly many - such men. Highly respected and powerful men, who had abused their positions of trust to prey on the vulnerable young boys placed in their care.

  Colt wrenched his tie from his neck and undid a couple of shirt buttons. India had once told him he looked more relaxed and less stuffy without it. He thrust the tie in his jacket pocket, downgraded his copper's knock to one of room service severity, and waited.

  He could hear a male and female voice inside. Ryan Reynolds had said nothing about Niamh Maloney being on this trip too. Colt wondered if a woman being present would assist or hinder the course of their conversation.

  As Declan opened the door, Colt went to speak but couldn't. Found himself struck dumb by the teary, black ringed stare of the woman sitting on the double bed behind him. “I can't believe Peter phoned you,” Elizabeth Cordwell cried. “Is my husband really too much of a coward to come in here himself?”

  Colt glanced back to Declan, he clutched a tissue in his hand. This wasn't an illicit encounter, the likes of which Ryan Reynolds vehemently insisted him incapable. Both were fully clothed. The air wasn't charged with sexual tension, it was heavy with sorrow. “May I come in?” Colt asked.

  Declan blew his nose and stepped aside. The medical dressing across Elizabeth's nose and the tampon like cotton plugging each nostril, confirmed she was still a long way off the same luxury. She snuffled heavily through her mouth, dabbing at her bruised wet eyes with a tissue, as Colt pushed the newspaper aside to sit down on the bed next to her.

  “Peter needs to accept it,” she said. “I'm not burying my daughter without all her family there.”

  Colt watched as Declan's face crumpled and he slumped into the corner tub chair covering his face. He sobbed like a baby. And so did Elizabeth. Colt knew what she had lost. He put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close in comfort. But he had no idea how her grief extended to Declan's current state of distress.

  He sat silently waiting for the moment to pass and dropped his eyes to the newspaper at his thigh. Inclining his head, he read the boldly circled public notice, urgently seeking the whereabouts for blood relatives of an adoptee born Mairead Maloney. The contact details listed Elizabeth Cordwell and her telephone number.

  Colt swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He could've wept himself. As Declan's body shuddered with grief, he realised it was so much more than innocence they'd taken from him.

  Chapter 55

  “We've got ourselves a witness,” Colt said as soon as Maggie answered the phone. “Declan Maloney is coming in tomorrow morning to give a statement.”

  “That's fantastic, Guv,” she chirped. “Any names yet?”

  Colt let out a heavy sigh. “We'll save it till tomorrow. He's having a rough time of it right now. Just found out his sister's dead.”

  “Oh my god. Not Niamh?” she gasped.

  Colt rubbed at his brow, still struggling with it himself. “No. The youngest one. Mairead. Otherwise known as Penny Cordwell.”

  There was a brief moment of silence on the end of the line. “Elizabeth's girl?” she finally said.

  “Yep. Small world, huh?” Colt peered from reception as the man in the Silver Ford continued his attempts to smoke himself to death in the hotel car park.

  “Jesus Christ,” she murmured. “On the bright side, we're all set for Sunday this end. The trollop’s agreed to do it. Can we dirty her up and put a bit of chip fat in her hair?”

  Colt laughed aloud, grateful for the lift in mood. “I can't see why not. She has got to look like a hobo. Can you do me a favour before you knock off for the night?”

  Maggie laughed. “How can I say no after that?”

  “I need you to locate Ryan Reynolds for me,” he said perusing the items on offer in the hotel vending machines. “I want to put him out of his misery, but he's not answering my calls.”

  “He did get himself in a bit of a state, didn't he,” Maggie mused. “He doesn't strike me as the type to do anything stupid, though. Don't worry, I'll find him and call you back.”

  Colt put his phone in his pocket and started pumping money into the vending machine. One of the many things his job had taught him over the years was that when it came to human beings - there was no such thing as a type. Anyone was capable of anything. He reache
d through the flap to retrieve his ten pound prize, and headed outside for the smoker.

  “Peter Cordwell?” he said cutting through the cloud of smoke at the Silver Ford's window and avoiding the butts at his feet. The man startled and silently nodded. “Detective Chief Inspector Colt,” he said extending his hand into the car. “I'm sorry for your loss, Sir.”

  Peter Cordwell stubbed his cigarette out in the overflowing car ashtray and wrapped both his hands around Colt’s. “You're the one who helped my wife find her. We're so very grateful for everything you’ve done,” he said shaking his hand vigorously. He bit at his lip and looked back to the hotel entrance. “I don’t know how we’re going to get through it,” he murmured. “She was our only child, and it feels like they’re trying to take her memory from us as well. We were her family. Me and my wife. These other people Elizabeth’s clinging to in there,” he cried jutting his chin towards the hotel, “they didn’t even know my girl.”

  “They're good people,” Colt said gently. “They don’t want to take your memories; they just want to share them. They weren’t fortunate enough to share seventeen wonderful years with Penny, like you and Elizabeth were, but they loved and lost her too.”

  Peter wiped his nose with the back of his hand and peered into his cigarette packet. Finding it empty, he groaned as he crushed the pack and tossed it on the dashboard.

  “Your wife needs you right now, Peter. A lot more than you need these,” Colt said placing the new packet of cancer sticks on the dashboard next to the crumpled pack. “We will get to the bottom of what happened to your daughter. I can promise you that,” he said patting the grieving father's shoulder. “Take care of each other.”

  Colt straightened up, smoothed down his waistcoat and jacket, and walked off in the direction of the tube station. When he reached the corner where the car park met the street, he glanced back over his shoulder to see Peter Cordwell heading towards the hotel entrance.

  Knightsbridge, London.

  “It's Friday night, Jim. You need to get a life.”

  AJ Colt raised a brow. “Says the woman wearing gym gear.”

  “Point taken.” Flick smiled as she welcomed him inside. “I'm going out shortly. Is this a business call or a pleasure call?”

  “Strictly business,” he said following her into the lounge. “Pleasure is waiting at home.”

  “Wow. You really do have a life,” she said picking up her running shoes and perching on the edge of the sofa.

  He made no attempt to sit, remained standing over her as she put on her shoes. “Did Michael Moore tell you about the Sanders case?” he said.

  Flick dropped her eyes and focused on tying her laces. “Why would he do that? I barely know the man.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Flea. Ryan told me about Michael.”

  Flick drew a deep breath and sat back on the sofa crossing her arms. “I’m going to have to have words with him. He's got a habit of running his mouth. Declan phoned me earlier. Did he tell you about him too?”

  He fixed her with a stare that she found deeply unnerving. She was used to being eyeballed in the courtroom, but not with such intensity. It made her squirm that he knew her so well. Reminded her of less complicated times from her youth. “You want to cut him some slack,” he said. “If it wasn't for Ryan Reynolds I'd have hauled all your arses in by now.”

  Flick rolled her head. Knew she had to give Ryan some credit. No matter what loyalty AJ Colt had to her father, he was far too straight a cop for that alone to have kept her from prison. “I know,” she said quietly. “I have a lot to thank him for.”

  “Have you heard from him?” he asked.

  “I got a text from him half an hour ago,” she said. “We're meeting in Hyde Park at nine.” She smoothed her palms down her lycra clad thighs and gave a coy smile. “Looks like I have a new after dark jogging buddy.”

  Colt's shoulders relaxed and a half smile crossed his lips. “You could do a lot worse than Ryan Reynolds,” he said turning to leave. “Tell him from me - life is good and it's worth living.”

  “What does that mean?” Flick said following him.

  “Just give him the message,” he said. “He'll understand.”

  Flick raised a shoulder. “Okay.”

  As they reached the front door she picked up her water bottle and keys. Her hand hesitated over her iPod. “Conversation killer,” Colt said shaking his head. “Take it from me - those things are a man’s worst enemy if he wants to get to know you better.”

  Daunted by the mere thought of getting to know someone, Flick looked up at him and found herself yearning for the simplicity of times past. “We used to talk about everything, you and me.”

  “We were kids,” Colt said. “Our everything was Top of The Pops and comic books.”

  “Let’s not forget rugby,” she murmured feeling more than a little foolish at his smooth brush off.

  “I wish people would.” He ran a hand over his stubbly jaw as she locked up her apartment. “Like you forgot my question about Michael Moore,” he said casually as they walked side by side down the stairs to street level. “Did he tell you anything about the Sanders case?”

  Flick cringed. She should've known better than to think she’d got that past him. “No. He just informed me there were whispers that his legal team would be seeking me to defend if charges were laid.”

  Colt held the external door open for her. “And will you?”

  “I'm a barrister, Jim.” Flick spread her hands. “Cab rank rules mean I don't get to choose my cases. Everyone has the right to a defence, no matter what the charges.”

  He let out a sigh as his phone rang. Flick reached up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “If pleasure's waiting, go home,” she said and set off jogging towards the park.

  “Don't forget to give Ryan my message,” he called after her. She lifted a hand in acknowledgment, her stomach fluttering at the mention of his name.

  “Ryan Reynolds is in the hospital,” Maggie said. “Someone took a baseball bat to him on the underground this afternoon. He's in a bad way, Boss.”

  Colt frowned and looked up the street. Felicity Firman was gone. “That's impossible. He just texted Felicity Firman to meet up. Are you sure it's him?”

  “I'm looking at the British Transport Police footage of the attack now,” she said. “The dude with the bat gave him a right pasting and ran off with his satchel. Whoever sent that text - it wasn't him.”

  “Fuck.” Colt gritted his teeth and headed up the street knowing exactly what Barrington's heavies were capable of. Ryan was convinced they'd ransacked his flat. And India was convinced they'd killed Lisa Lewis. He believed them. If they had Ryan's phone and satchel, they could easily make the connection to Flick. As he rounded the corner onto the main road, she was nowhere to be seen. “Get some units to Hyde Park. They're on the lookout for a female jogger, five feet tall, wearing a red lycra top and black leggings. She'll be coming from the direction of Brompton Road. I'm in pursuit on foot.”

  He cut the call and started to run.

  Winchester had wanted to bring this Markham character in. Len was adamant he was picking the fucker up, wanted him off his streets pronto. Colt didn't want to jeopardise Sunday's operation, had spent the ten minute walk from the station to Declan Maloney's hotel, having a heated phone conversation with him about it. He'd talked Len round. His decision had left Ryan in the hospital and Len's daughter’s life hanging in the balance.

  He sprinted across the Brompton Road, dodging traffic and ignoring horns. Reaching the other side he stopped and caught his breath, faced with a simple left or right decision. He had no idea which route she'd take from here. He looked up and down the street; she could've taken any number of the side roads. He opted for right, as the shortest most direct route, and was rewarded with a flash of red turning left in the distance.

  She was minutes from the park, blissfully unaware that whoever was waiting for her wasn't Ryan Reynolds. Colt’s heart and legs pumped faster, adrenali
ne rendering him oblivious to the screaming pain in his thigh. He shouted her name as she ran under the canopy onto South Carriage Drive, but the traffic noise was deafening.

  Up ahead she paused at the green lights of the pedestrian crossing, jogging on the spot. A small stretch of banded tarmac was all that remained separating her from the vast wilderness of Hyde Park. If she made that crossing she'd be dead. Colt shouted her name again as the green lights flashed through amber to red, and the whole area lit up in a circus of electric blue lights and sirens.

  He ground to a breathless walk and staggered towards the police car blocking her route. As he braced himself against the squad car with his hands on his knees, gasping for air, Felicity Firman insouciantly passed him her water bottle.

  Chapter 56

  Park Gate, Hampshire.

  Colt almost fell through her front door. India glanced up from the YouTube video to see him clutching a bottle of wine and dragging his leg. “Are you pissed?” she said.

  “No, just dog tired, babe.” He kicked his shoes off and chucked his jacket on the stand at the door. “I've had a hell of a fucking day. Can I stay here tonight?”

  “If you want,” she said returning her eyes to the screen as the lily white arse pounded into the girl on the bed from behind, doggy style.

  “Are you watching porn?” Colt said over the grunts and groans coming from her laptop.

  “I can assure you it's not for titillation,” she said as he bent over the back of the sofa and kissed her neck. “This is purely for research purposes.”

  “Right.” Colt laughed as he grabbed a couple of glasses from the kitchen. “I used that one on my mother once. She caught me with my hands down my pants watching Baywatch. I was so embarrassed I even signed up for a lifeguard course at the local pool the next day. Scarred me for life.”