by Bo Brennan
“My office now, Detective Chief Inspector.”
“My pleasure.”
Colt stormed down the corridor behind him. Two twig like legs hung from the bottom of his Bermuda shorts and disappeared into white towelling socks and Jesus creepers. If Bob was here he'd call him out for dressing like an eighties kids TV presenter. 'Paedophile stamped all over him,' he'd say. But he wasn't here, and Colt was fuming that the Commander hadn't even noticed.
His personal secretary hung her head as they passed, and flinched when the Commander flung the door of his plush designer office open. Once inside, he slammed it shut so hard behind them the glass in it shook.
“What the hell did you think you were doing turning Knightsbridge into the bloody Wild West?”
Colt clenched his jaw and thrust his hands in his pockets. “My job.”
“The Prime Minister is furious. He's had to come back from Chequers to chair the COBRA emergency committee,” he raged pacing his office. “And the South African Ambassador has fled the bloody country thanks to your antics. He thinks we're in the middle of a civil war!”
“They'll have other holidays,” Colt said balling his pocketed hands into fists.
“When I left Chequers you had an eminent Lord in custody and his son-in-law in the mortuary. Now, I find a respected High Court Judge in one of my cells and talk of a government paedophile ring trending on fucking Twitter!” He dropped into his chair and threw his hands in the air. “These are friends of mine. Do you have any idea how much embarrassment you've caused me?”
Colt felt the blood rush to his head, planting his hands on the desk he leaned towards him. “Fuck you,” he spat. “One of my officers, your officers, is dead because of them. Do you even know his fucking name?”
The Commander stilled, and cocked his jaw.
“Green,” Colt said. “Detective Sergeant Bob Green. My friend. Eighteen years of service. An outstanding copper, husband, and father. One of the best. Dead because your friends - Lord Professor Barrington and the Right Honourable Judge Gideon Flackerly, get their rocks off raping and murdering small boys.”
Commander Hussein edged a hand along his desk towards his panic button.
“Press it,” Colt said. “And I'll make damned sure every vigilante in the country knows there's still one paedophile outstanding amongst your high profile mates.”
The Commander slowly withdrew his hand and cleared his throat. “I'm sorry about Sergeant Green,” he said rummaging through the documents on his desk. “But you are out of control, Detective Chief Inspector. None of this was in your report.”
Colt straightened up and drew a deep breath through his nose. “We didn't know where the social worker was taking the girls until Sunday afternoon.”
“I understand Haltingbury Social Services is being thoroughly investigated by your colleagues in the Child Protection Unit and Fraud Squad,” he said without looking up. “Sounds like this Fleming fella is the most likely candidate for the outstanding member of the Sanders paedophile ring, wouldn't you say?”
Colt frowned and stared at the top of his head. He hadn't mentioned Fleming. The Commander had been well briefed. Funny how he remembered the dead social worker’s name but not that of his dead officer. “No, I wouldn't. We've ruled him out,” he said. “That's why abuser four is still listed as outstanding. You're not scapegoating him.”
“Your cheque's here. Who do I make it payable to?” he asked glancing up. “Are your financial affairs personal, or under the name of a corporation, Detective Chief Inspector?”
Colt narrowed his eyes. “I'll fill it in myself,” he said snatching it from him and tucking it in his top pocket. “I guess I should expect a tax inspection real soon.”
Hussein smirked. “Use it to enjoy your fortnight’s leave.”
“I don't have....”
“You're on a fortnight's leave starting now,” Hussein snapped clasping his hands together on the desk in front of him. “Take it, or your entire unit will face an indefinite suspension period while I carry out a thorough review.”
Colt glared at him and his whole body tensed. Hussein wasn’t a policeman, he was a fucking politician. Colt could only imagine the hushed conversations that had taken place in the last twenty four hours, and the damage control strategy him and his high powered friends had concocted. Whatever they threw at him personally, he could deal with. But not his team. “I'll take the leave,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I’m warning you - you'd better stay the fuck away from my unit and this investigation, because if you and your mates even try to cover it up, I'll go public and take you all down.”
“Enjoy your holiday, Detective Chief Inspector.”
When Colt slammed the door, the glass in it shattered.
Hampshire Social Services, Winchester.
Rob Stapler rose from his seat when the snarky Detective India Kane bowled into his office unannounced.
“No need to stand on my account,” she said snatching the newspaper from under his nose and holding up the front page. “I don't normally follow the news, but a social worker getting shot dead at a baby farm is an interesting turn of events. With Sasha Grant ending up in Haltingbury and her baby brother still missing, it must make you wonder how well Fleming and Sarum knew each other.”
Rob Stapler spread his hands. “Only they can answer that, Detective.”
“They're both dead,” she said tossing the paper onto his desk as she made herself at home in one of his visitors chairs. “That's why I'm asking you.”
“I didn't know Brian Fleming,” he said slowly lowering himself into his seat. “And I certainly didn’t know anything about what Haltingbury have been up to.”
She stared at him. “You knew about George Sarum, though. When Alan Roberts raised concerns about him sleeping with a fifteen year old, he got transferred to the Haltingbury cesspit.”
Rob Stapler frowned and set his jaw. Alan Roberts had a big mouth. He'd been wise to ship him out. “He wasn't transferred. Hampshire trained him but didn't have a job opening, Haltingbury did. It's standard practice for a social worker to be trained by one local authority and posted to another when they qualify. It's also standard practice for social workers to find themselves at the mercy of idle gossip.”
“Is it standard practice that they get the shit kicked out of them when they make a serious allegation against a colleague, as well?” she said putting her clumpy Doc Marten boots up on his desk.
Rob Stapler swallowed hard and resisted the urge to slap them off. She was trying to intimidate him, but she had come alone. Detective Kane was fishing. “Alan Roberts got into a drunken fight. I investigated all of his claims and none of them could be substantiated.”
“Why not?”
Rob Stapler threw his hands in the air. “Because there was no truth in them, Detective. Even the girl wouldn't talk to us. She ran away.”
“No she didn't,” she said nodding at the newspaper on his desk. “Casey Brown was found at Lord Professor Barrington's baby farm. Your man Sarum took her there. She's due to give birth any day now. Wanna bet on it being his baby? A simple DNA test will clear things up.”
Rob Stapler set his jaw and crossed his arms. Her keep going on about Barrington's business dealings was a step too far. “Do I need to consult a solicitor?”
She shrugged. “Only if you're guilty of something.”
“Well, I can assure you I'm not. I run a tight ship here. Our record is exemplary. George Sarum was a one off rogue who's damaged our profession and tarnished our reputation.” He narrowed his eyes. She had nothing and he wanted her gone. He yawned and made a pointed show of looking at his watch. “Was there anything else, Detective? I have an important function this evening.”
“Yeah, there is actually.” India Kane dropped her feet to the floor and reached into her handbag. Rob Stapler held his breath. “Sasha Grant is back in your care, this time with her friend Melissa,” she said handing him court documents. “Both girls are currently staying with
a teacher from the City Secondary School, Terri Davies. She signed up for one of your fostering courses this morning, and regardless of your rules and regulations, I expect their current living arrangements to continue indefinitely.”
When he saw the words ‘New Scotland Yard Paedophile Unit,’ he rested the documents on his desk for fear his hands might shake. “This is highly irregular, Detective,” he murmured as he read. “But, if they're both happy and safe where they are, then I'm sure on this occasion I can accommodate your request.”
“Good,” she snapped eyeballing him one last time as she stood up to leave. “If any harm comes to those girls, I'm going to hold you personally responsible.”
“They'll be perfectly safe with me,” he smiled.
Rob Stapler watched psycho cop strut out of his office, and tossed the court documents into his top drawer. Stupid woman. Of course they'd be safe. Sliding his hand to the underside of the open drawer, he carefully peeled at the tape securing his hidden treasure, and plucked the photograph free. He smiled longingly as he ran his fingers over the picture of the delicious little boy they'd left in Dwight Sanders’ basement as his homecoming present.
Letting out a weary sigh, he leant back in his chair and gazed out the window. This was all very inconvenient and stressful. He could do with a holiday, but with the others in custody his options were limited. Flackerly's cabin would be vacant for a while. Good salmon fishing was to be had in the Scottish wilds. Good fun too. They had like-minded contacts in a few children’s homes up there. In his profession new playmates were easy to come by.
Rob Stapler licked his lips as he booked himself a flight.
Epilogue
Wednesday 10th August.
Winchester, Hampshire.
If there was such a thing as a good day for a funeral, this was it. The sun was at its brightest, the birds were in full song, and the mourners, although sad faced, wore a riot of rainbow colours.
In life, Penny Cordwell had been a vibrant girl. It was only fitting her parents had chosen to celebrate her short vibrant life, instead of mourning her death, by specifying no black today. Colt wore a yellow waistcoat and matching tie. When he'd set out India had said he looked like a wedding usher. But now, standing at the graveside between Queen's Counsel Felicity Firman in a floral frock, and Crown Prosecutor Michael Moore - who had really pushed the boat out by teaming his sharp black suit with a salmon pink tie, he fitted right in.
“For a man who's on leave, you look exhausted,” Michael said patting his shoulder.
A good exhausted, Colt hoped. India was on a mission to shag him to death. “Enforced leave. Back on Monday.”
“Thought so. Can't wait. Just to keep you in the loop, there's been some interference in the Barrington and Flackerly situation.”
Colt glared at him. “What sort of interference?”
“Pressure, threats, so far nothing too major. But I'd appreciate your brooding presence around the halls of power,” he murmured. “Of course, neither of them has ever been to Dwight Sanders’ home. I've jumped the masonic heads and taken this straight to the Director of Public Prosecutions. She's on side. For now. Must mingle.”
Colt gritted his teeth. Monday couldn't come soon enough. He looked on as Michael moved around the grave to pay his respects to Peter and Elizabeth Cordwell.
Peter smiled at him when their eyes met. Colt nodded and smiled back, pleased to see him holding his wife's hand. And then his eyes fell on the woman in the big hat next to them, giving him daggers across the grave.
He nudged Flick. “What's she doing here?” he said jutting his jaw in Sandra Cavendish's direction.
“She's Elizabeth Cordwell's sister,” Flick murmured. “Believe it or not she was the lowly social worker who broke up the Maloney family in the first place.”
“Oh, I believe it all right.” Colt stared at her until she glanced away, and then scanned the rest of the mourners. “Good to see Ryan up and about,” he said watching him wobbling about on crutches. “Have you signed his plaster cast yet?”
Flick groaned. “He's not talking to me. The idiot thinks I put Leon up to battering him.”
“Leon was carrying quite a torch for you,” Colt murmured. “He thought our reporter friend was trying to ruin your career over the Crossley case.”
“Michael thinks we might be able to overturn their conviction based on Barrington's flawed evidence,” she said. “They'll never get their kids back, but getting them out of prison would be a good start at putting things right. That stubborn arsehole won't even take my calls so I can tell him.” She sighed and rocked her body into his. “Will you have a word with him for me, Jim?”
Colt raised a brow and glanced down at her. “I'll try, but he's still pissed off with me for picking up Barrington and Flackerly while he was sleeping. How's Declan holding up?”
Flick raised a shoulder. “Struggling. Your investigation has opened a lot of old wounds, but no doors to help him cope with them. If it had happened to Niamh, she'd have no end of support services.”
Colt looked on as Declan threw a daffodil into the grave of his youngest sister and stared longingly after it. It wasn't fair. The system had taken almost everything from him, and given nothing in return. Not even access to adequate male abuse survivor services to help get his life back on track. He deserved a life. The state owed him. Colt owed him. He'd sliced open his old wounds by making him their primary witness in a decades old abuse investigation, and now he felt like he was personally rubbing handfuls of salt into them.
“I want to make a donation to The Crowley Trust,” he said. “But it comes with strings attached.”
“We don't do strings,” Flick said.
“You'll do this one. I want you to make sure Declan gets the sort of specialised counselling he needs.”
Flick frowned. “Services for male abuse survivors are few and far between,” she said. “And they cost a bloody fortune. He'll never agree to that.”
“Make him.” Colt pulled out his wallet and pressed a cheque into her hand. “That's what this is for.”
Flick unfolded the cheque and widened her eyes. “This is an MPS cheque signed by Commander Hussein. Is it legit?”
Colt frowned. “Of course it's legit. What do you take me for? It was meant for me but it's better spent here.”
Flick stared at him. “Jim, it's for eighty grand.”
“Is it enough to get him help?”
Flick huffed a breathless laugh. “I should say so.”
“Then make sure he gets it. I'm off to give our intrepid reporter a helping hand.” He edged around the graveside to where Ryan Reynolds was wrestling with his crutches, trying to work out how he was supposed to manage the carrier bag the Crowley Trust's solicitor was intent on him taking.
Jerry Flynn stepped back on his approach. “Good day, Detective Chief Inspector,” he said.
Colt narrowed his eyes. “Not really, Mr Flynn, it's a funeral.”
Jerry grimaced and dropped his eyes to the bag.
Colt extended his hand. “Is that for Mr Reynolds?”
“I'm fine. I can manage,” Ryan snapped reaching for it and failing miserably in an attempt to defy gravity. Colt caught him as he fell forward, heading face first for the freshly dug hole.
“Stop being a dick,” Colt said picking up his scattered walking aides and handing them to him. “You'll never manage that on the train. C'mon, I'll drive you home.”
Ryan cocked his jaw. “I live in London.”
“I know. We've got a lot to catch up on.”
Ryan studied him as he thought about it.
Colt inclined his head. “You know it makes sense.”
The corners of Ryan's mouth curved. “All right. You can come back to mine, but I'm not inviting you in for coffee.”
Colt raised his hands defensively. “I wouldn't expect it on a first date.”
Ryan laughed a little too loudly for the circumstances, and hung his head when a few people glanced their way. “Wha
t the hell's in there anyway?” he mumbled gesturing to the carrier bag.
Jerry Flynn shrugged. “Dunno. A client lodged it with me a couple of weeks ago. Specified in the event of his death it should come to you.” He held the bag out to Colt. “He's dead. So, here it is.”
Colt peered into the heavy carrier bag. “Documents and DVDs,” he said holding it open for Ryan to inspect.
Ryan pursed his lips and grunted. “Who was the client?”
Jerry spread his hands. “Some social worker from Haltingbury. He came a cropper in that shootout at the old children’s home last weekend.”
Colt's heart banged in his chest. His mouth went dry. “Fleming? Brian Fleming?”
Jerry nodded. “That's the fella.”
Ryan and Colt stared at each other with wide eyes. “That could be the Sanders tape,” Ryan spluttered.
Colt grinned. “Change of plan. Shake your sticks, we're going to mine.”
A few miles south in St James's Psychiatric Hospital, mental Mary Maloney was overwhelmed with a pain she couldn't describe. In her mind's eye she saw her birds assembled. The little one had flown.
The End.
Thank you for taking the time to read BABY SNATCHERS. If you enjoyed it, please consider taking a moment to leave a review – it would be greatly appreciated.
Best wishes
Bo Brennan.
