by Steve Mosby
'Fifty,' the man noted. 'Do we have sixty?'
It was the woman's turn. She moved her fingers down by her side. A queen, signalling someone's execution.
'Seventy?'
The pale man nodded.
'Eighty?'
They were auctioning her. It was clearly happening, right there in front of me, but I still found it hard to believe this was happening. Even from across the bay, I could hear Rebecca Wingate struggling inside the van. Yet these people were bidding, calm and uncaring, for the right to… own her. Simply because she was Roger Timms's last victim.
They were going to allow her to die so they could watch, so that they could feel part of something larger. To touch her murder, just as one of them, I presumed, had pressed a fingertip to the foreheads of the previous victims.
'One hundred thousand?'
It was almost incomprehensible.
But it carried on.
The pale man dropped out at two hundred. The woman and the bearded man battled the scientist back and forth up to two- thirty, but then they fell silent as well.
'Two hundred and forty thousand?'
At this, the small man in the waistcoat nodded. He was the last of the five to join the fray and he appeared the most nervous: still mopping at his face with that handkerchief. His skin was glinting under the lights, and his expression was pale, deadly serious. Was this his first time, I wondered. Or did it just mean so much more to him than it did to the others?
'Two hundred and fifty thousand?'
A pause. It took a moment for the scientist to nod.
'Two hundred and sixty?'
The small man signalled immediately, more confident now.
'Two hundred and seventy?'
A longer pause this time. Then the scientist nodded again.
I watched them fight it out. Despite the reticence, the bids stretched all the way to three hundred and thirty. When the man in the waistcoat went ten higher, the scientist was visibly fighting with himself.
The whole time, I could hear Rebecca Wingate struggling in the back of the van.
'Three hundred and fifty?'
The man in the grey suit looked between the members of the group, giving each of them one last chance to come in if they wanted. None of them did; they'd reached their limits. The little man in the waistcoat was staring at the vehicle now.
Focusing on it intently.
'Anyone?'
'Here.'
My voice echoed round the bay. The group turned, almost as one, and noticed me for the first time. For a second, the little man was so startled I thought he might bolt for the door.
And then they began clamouring:
'What the hell is this?'
'Who is that?' 'What do you think-'
The man in the suit held up his hand, attempting to placate them. He didn't even glance in my direction.
'Everybody,' he said. 'Please relax.'
'What are you trying to pull here, Mr Garland?'
It was the little man in the waistcoat who'd spoken. In fact, he'd actually stepped forward, his face flushed. He'd seemed timid before, but something had risen up in him quickly, his temper flaring indignantly, like a struck match.
The man in the suit - Garland - looked down at him.
'Please don't use my name, Mr Hammond: He let the moment pan out. Then turned to look at me. Again, that blank expression. 'None of you need to worry about Mr Connor. He won't be discussing today's events with anyone.'
'Three hundred and fifty,' I said. 'Seriously.'
'Is that legitimate?' the scientist said.
Garland held my gaze a little longer. He'd read the letter. Not only had I written about Peter French, I'd also told Sarah all about the insurance money I received from Marie's death, and I was hoping he remembered that part too. I thought he did. His expression seemed to have shifted slightly. It was closer to the look of curiosity I'd seen when he cuffed me to the pipe.
A moment later, he turned back to the group.
'Do we have three hundred and sixty?'
Hammond was flustered. 'This is ridiculous. We've come here in good faith, with credentials. What-'
'Hey, fuck you,' I shouted.
'Mr Connor does have the money,' Garland said. 'It is up to him what he does with it.'
'But money isn't enough!'
Garland considered that. 'He has other credentials.'
It was obvious Hammond wanted to protest further, but he looked from me back to Garland, and saw the implacable expression return to the man's face. Up went the handkerchief again. His hand was trembling slightly.
Good, I thought.
'Do we have three hundred and sixty?'
Hammond nodded. 'Yes.'
'Do we have—'
'Four hundred thousand,' I said.
'For God's sake!'
'Mr Hammond.' Garland actually pointed a finger at him this time, and the little man flinched. He lowered it again very slowly. 'Remember where you are, and who you are talking to. You will observe house rules. Do you understand?'
'Yes. Of course.' Hammond glanced at me for a second, then looked at the van. 'Four hundred and fifty.'
'Five hundred.'
I had no idea what I was doing. I thought I knew what Garland meant by my 'credentials', but he'd also said it was up to me how I spent my money, and there was a certain implication to that. I was never going to walk out of here with Rebecca Wingate. But even though Hammond was glaring at me with unconcealed hatred, he was clearly squirming below the surface. And I liked that.
'Five hundred and fifty?' Garland said.
Nothing. I kept Hammond's gaze.
'Mr Hammond?'
Then Hammond took a deep breath and looked back at Garland. He nodded once, emphatically.
'Five hundred and fifty.'
That was out of my price range. I could have carried on regardless, just to spite the little man some more, but when Garland looked across at me I decided not to. Maybe it was just that, for some stupid reason, it felt important to be honest. It wouldn't save me, but it would at least differentiate me from these people in some small way.
'Mr Connor has reached the end of his funds.' Garland turned back, giving the other members of the group a chance to intervene. 'Is anyone else willing to continue?'
It was clear they'd passed their limits long ago; Hammond and I had left them far behind. I stared at him, willing him to look at me. But now that he'd won the lot, his attention was focused on the van.
'Very well,' Garland said. 'The item is sold for five hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Congratulations, Mr Hammond.'
The scientist clapped Hammond on the shoulder, and then the others stepped in, one by one, to shake his hand. As it continued, he began to look relieved. The victory was sinking in. I watched him smile and thank them, but it was obvious he was distracted. His gaze kept drifting back to his prize.
As the others began to move away, shaking Garland's hand on their way to the door, Hammond reached out to the side of his vehicle. His hand touched the panel there gently, almost with a sense of wonder.
'Congratulations,' I called over.
And he jerked back a little, as though it had shocked him. Stared at me again. I did my best to communicate with my eyes how much I'd like to get hold of him right now.
Garland walked back over to the van and held out his hand.
'We still have the issue of payment to address, Mr Hammond. If you'd just like to…'
He trailed off, but the meaning was clear. Over by the door, one of the other men had opened a laptop on a small table. Hammond looked at me, but then he took in the sight of me properly - chained to the pipe - and he realised I was no threat to him. It was his victory: he was the one who'd be driving out of here shortly, and I'd remain where I was right now, waiting for it to be over.
'Yes.'
Hammond smiled at me unpleasantly.
'Of course.'
* * *
Chapter Forty-One
Todd was surrounded by the ghosts of children.
Except these were children that had never even lived. He was sitting in the offices of the Child Protection Unit, the hub of Operation Victor. On the shelves around the walls, there were several PCs running on separate monitors and servers, and each of the hard drives had a white sticker on the front, with a different name scribbled on it in marker pen. Every name represented a fake child. An imaginary identity that did not exist anywhere in the real world - only inside these computer cases, and the thoughts and dreams of men sitting in dark rooms around the country.
By way of contrast, the lights in this office were always turned on. It wasn't a health and safety issue. Todd understood the rationale perfectly: you didn't want to sit in the gloom and stare into a bright monitor, not when you did this kind of work. The screen would start to feel dangerous.
He was sitting with an officer named Robert Cole. Cole was half reclined in a swivel chair, holding a pen close to his mouth, occasionally tapping it against his teeth. He seemed totally at ease, and not remotely unnerved by the soft hum of activity going on around them. There was a poster above his desk: a painting of a tobacco pipe, with the words 'Ceci, ce n'est pas une pipe' written beneath. This is not a pipe.
'So,' Cole said. 'What can I do for you, Detective Dennis?'
'It's about Paul. Paul Kearney.'
'Yes. I thought it might be.'
Todd leaned forward, feeling awkward. He didn't really know why he was here, or quite what he expected to gain from this.
He said, 'I realise it's ongoing. I just…'
'It's just that he was your partner.'
'Yes.'
'Well, like you said, it's ongoing.'
'I realise that. I was just wondering where it might be right now.'
Cole nodded once. 'I can tell you a little, in confidence, but you should be aware that none of it's, well…'
It was his turn to trail off, but he gestured with his hands slightly and Todd got the message. This was off the record: a professional courtesy that would not be mentioned again, not until the information they'd gathered had been analysed, set in stone, and charges settled upon.
'I understand.'
'We've been monitoring a number of sites here, at various stages. It's a delicate operation. I can tell you that Kearney's credit card details were used at several.'
Todd rubbed his hands together. Did he want to know this?
'When did it start?'
'Around the beginning of the year. His use appears to have steadily increased over the last six months. To the point where he's recently been spending several hours online every evening.'
'Becoming more and more obsessed with it?'
'It's a pattern we notice a lot.'
'But he only downloaded three clips?'
Cole clacked the pen once. Didn't reply.
'I'm not excusing it,' Todd said.
'Only three,' Cole agreed. 'But they were three files he had absolutely no right to possess, and which he paid money to access. Thereby-'
'Increasing demand for supply,' Todd said. 'I know.'
That wasn't what was bothering him. There was no argument against what Cole had said - Kearney was totally in the wrong. But the behaviour concerned him. Something had set his partner off scouring these sites, and he seemed to have become more and more desperate as time went on.
And yet he'd only actually downloaded three files. It was as though he'd been searching for something. Paul had always asked why, of course, but this time the question felt more specific than it had in the past. He hadn't just been staring at random atrocities, trying to understand them. He hadn't been collecting anything and everything. It had been more… targeted.
'The three files,' he said.
'Yes.'
'Were they similar?'
Cole stared at him for a second. Another clack of the pen.
'Please,' Todd said.
'Yes. Different boys, but part of the same series.'
'Series?'
'I agree. It sounds horrible. But we hear rumours of these things all the time, and every so often we find them.'
'What was in this one?'
'Are you sure you want to know?'
Todd wasn't.
'Yes,' he said.
Cole put the pen down on the desk and leaned forward.
'The MO for these particular videos was normal, everyday children being targeted at random. Boys were abducted off the street and abused horribly, in each case by the same individual, and that abuse was captured on film. The boys were then returned close to the place they'd been taken from, as though nothing had happened. The camera captured that as well. They showed it in place of credits.'
Jesus Christ, Todd thought.
'When was this?'
'It depends who you listen to. Allegedly, there were several instances in the late seventies and early eighties. Nationwide.' 'You say "allegedly"?'
'Yes.' Cole nodded. 'Until recently, we only knew about the films through hearsay. People have mentioned this series in the past, but only the same way they talk about snuff films. They saw it at someone's house once, but can't remember where. A friend of a friend saw it. The story gets passed around.'
'Some fucking story.'
'Yes.' Cole blinked. 'I agree totally. But this one turns out to be real.'
Todd shook his head and looked down at the floor, still rubbing his hands together. It had begun to feel like he was washing them.
He'd known it was going to be bad, but somehow it was even worse than he expected. If nothing else, it confirmed his suspicions. This sounded like the exact type of thing Paul would have been fascinated by. He would have seen it, been appalled and then become driven to look into it. Searching out examples of absolute evil so he could try to figure out why.
Todd said, 'And that's why he only downloaded three.'
'Yes. Obviously, examples are very difficult to find. But that's what he had: three videos of The Yellow Man.''
Todd looked up. 'Sorry?'
'The offender who appears in the clips,' Cole said. 'That's how people always referred to him and it's where the title came from. The series is known as The Yellow Man.'
* * *
Chapter Forty-Two
The number plates on the white van had been changed.
Even so, as he watched it pull out of the industrial complex, Kearney knew what he was seeing. It was Roger Timms's missing vehicle, disguised so as to pass unnoticed amongst the other cars on the road. Just as Hammond and the others had been dressed down, scattered amongst the crowd at the auction.
And Hammond was behind the wheel now.
Kearney kept his face turned downwards, moving his hand around near the car stereo, and the white van went past him. There was no sign Hammond had seen him.
Preoccupied, are you?
Kearney gritted his teeth. The driver who had brought the collector here had already left, heading off alone in a different direction. And now Hammond was disappearing away with his prize.
After the van had taken the corner, Kearney started the engine. He presumed Hammond was going back to his mansion, but needed to be sure. There was oncoming traffic, but he ignored it, swinging the car around in the road. A horn sounded, and he saw someone gesticulating at him. Furious. Kearney blanked him. Just shifted into gear and then headed off after the van.
The van, and what was inside it.
We will find her. I promise you.
He caught sight of the back of the vehicle, approaching a roundabout about a hundred metres ahead, and decided he was going to pull it over. He no longer had the authority - not officially - but Hammond probably wasn't going to know that. The longer he left it, the greater the chance of harm coming to Rebecca, assuming she was still alive.
Assuming she was actually in there.
After the auction itself was over, Kearney had loitered as carefully as possible, moving from the main hall to the corridor outside, and then back again. He'd seen one
man approach a doorway at the far end of the room, and been allowed through it. He hadn't seen Hammond go that way, but, looking around, the man wasn't there any more either, and he hadn't come out the front way.
Two men in suits stood to either side of the back door.
Kearney hadn't wanted to draw attention to himself by forcing his way through. Not before he'd figured out what was happening. Instead, he'd gone back outside, and walked around the side of the buildings.
There was a thin drive running up behind them, then waste ground bordered by a fence. No other obvious exit from the complex. Up ahead, at what he estimated was the back of the auction house, a metal shutter was pulled down; another of the men in black suits was standing outside it, talking on a mobile phone. Looking the other way for the moment.
Kearney had retreated before he was seen, then returned to his own car to wait.
Hammond had gone backstage with the others. A little later, he'd emerged with Roger Timms's van. And so Rebecca must be in there. The old man had… bought her, and now he was taking her home to complete whatever fucking collection he was building.
The van took a right at the roundabout.
Kearney reached it a few seconds later, but couldn't pull out straight away: too many cars were sweeping past him, all of them going too quickly to risk pushing out.
'Come on,' he said.
A break in the traffic, and he took it: screeching out too quickly, and nearly losing it as he circled round. There was another angry blare from somewhere behind him. Now he was on the long, straight hill that Hammond had taken. But the white van was far ahead of him now, shining in the sun, with perhaps ten other vehicles separating them. And here, the oncoming traffic was so close there was no chance of overtaking.
Calm down and pay attention.
Hammond took a left at the next roundabout. At first glance, he was reversing the route his driver had used on the way to the auction, which meant he was almost certainly taking Rebecca to his house. But if he wasn't, Kearney was going to lose him.
That sent a jag of fear through him. Suddenly he was bumper to bumper with the car in front.
