With Courage With Fear

by AD Davies

  * * *

  “I discovered the first one a few days before I heard my father was to be released.”

  Beside Kuno Kae, from the upper angle of the camera in Harrogate’s central police station, Jacob appeared calm. He wore the usual towelling outfit, his clothes having been confiscated for forensic examination, and he was not bound in any way. Although they heard of his outburst during the arrest of his friend Norman Faulkner, he showed no signs of aggression following his own arrest at the Lakeside property.

  Because this fell under the area assigned to North Yorkshire, DI Blakewood out of Harrogate handled the booking and charged him with kidnapping, false imprisonment, and the concealment of a crime— namely the murder of at least three children. Alicia had been checked out at Harrogate General where Murphy joined her for a couple of hours sleep; her in a private bed, while he dozed in a tough cushioned chair. Once they declared her fit to leave, he now allowed her to watch this interview with him. His phone rang a lot so, after setting an out of office reply on his email, he turned it off.

  Jacob continued. “After what he did to me, I knew exactly what happened here. Dozens of children go missing each year, from all over. These kids, I don’t know where he found them, they weren’t local. You’ll probably find they were migrants. He had a lot of contacts in those communities. He helped illegals settle, helped them through the asylum process. Back when I ran with my firm, I hated those pakki bastards. Now … thanks to my time out here, I don’t hate anyone. Except my father.”

  The DI and his DC asked for clarifications on the timeline, of when Horatio left prison, to when Jacob subdued and incarcerated him. Jacob was sketchy on the details, only that he was sure the old man was not done yet. It’s easy to lose track of time in a place like IROMOV, so he was unsure if it was two years he kept Horatio in that place, or three.

  “The time he served was for sexual assault on a minor,” Jacob told them. “On six minors, actually. There were dozens that couldn’t be proven. But because he was an old man already by that point, he served less than he deserved. Even if I reported the bodies to the right people, he would not see justice. So I took care of that.”

  Again, the detectives asked for more information, the details of what happened, Jacob furnished them with such, ending with the care he took in keeping his father alive.

  “I intended to kill him. I wanted to torture him first, but that was at the beginning. The beginning of IROMOV, when I didn’t really believe in it. So I kept him alive, cut off his eyelids and sliced out his tongue. But then things changed. I felt guilty about it. I took my pledge to renounce violence seriously because I knew, by then, it was wrong. I figured I could just kill the old man as an act of mercy, but when I tried…” He sniffed. Swallowed. “I couldn’t do it. So I kept him alive. I hosed him down sometimes, I force-fed him baked beans, cold meatballs, sometimes spaghetti, sometimes soup. Twice a week was enough.”

  Kuno sat silently as he explained. More detail than they needed. Jacob barely needed any questions, simply talking and talking, as if someone had wound him up and he couldn’t stop. At the end, the detectives asked if he wanted to add anything before they terminated the interview.

  He said, “Other than the removal of his tongue and eyelids, I looked after him, gave him a jail cell where he could consider the nature of his crimes. The way I had. The way, every night, I felt a hammer sink into that kid’s skull. The crack, the squelch, the blood. And his face in the papers, dribbling down his chin, and that vacant look…” He inhaled, exhaled loudly. “I never forgot that. The feeling, the sounds, the consequences.” He addressed Kuno directly. “Take care of the Institute. I know what I’ve done here looks like the embodiment of pure evil, but I would never go back to my old ways, even though the rage returned sometimes. The other men don’t deserve to suffer for what I have done.”

  “I will,” Kuno said.

  * * *

  After the detectives finished with him, and Alicia and Murphy thanked them and asked to pass on their gratitude to the uniforms who showed up so quickly, Paulson put in an appearance. They were allowed the use of the DCI’s office, where Paulson asked Alicia what she had to say for herself.

  Alicia leaned against the wall, stroked her stomach, and said, “We can never escape our sins, not really. Everything we do has a consequence, be it good or bad. Sometimes, what we intend isn’t what people view as the result.”

  “Another speech,” Paulson said. “I’ve told you before, speeches, your little talks, they don’t wash with me. Your whole method of policing does not wash with me. From everything I’ve seen, the SCA is better investing in the Cyber division, merging that with our intelligence services, and let the detective divisions merge with local forces.”

  “Meaning cutbacks,” Murphy said. “And more work on the shoulders of everyone else.”

  “If today has taught me anything, it’s that we need more control over our teams. And that’s the recommendation I’ll be making to the Home Office next month.”

  “If it’s okay with you, ma’am,” Alicia said, “I like to nip home and change, take a shower.”

  “By all means,” Paulson said. “Have a bath. Go to sleep. If you feel the need to pop into the office and pick up any personal effects, you’re more than welcome. But as soon as I can file the paperwork with human resources, you are officially on maternity leave. Only one day early, but you will still be refused entry to any police service property in the country.”

  “Ma’am, I’m—”

  “No, Detective Sergeant. Go. Just be glad you’re up the duff, or I could make this far worse. And be glad you don’t have to clean up the mess at IROMOV.”

  “Mess?” Murphy said. “What mess?”

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  If anyone were to fly over the compound occupied and operated by the Institute for Reformation of Men of Violence that morning, they would have described a lake beside a village-like assemblage of huts, cottages, and roads. The largest building, their “church”, stood like an Amish barn, built years earlier by the first intake of troubled men, voluntarily seeking to expunge the demons from their souls.

  Twenty-five homes in total, fifteen of which burned under a cloudy sky, the blackened horizon carrying a storm too slowly to make any difference at all.

  From the top of the entry road, Kuno Kae tried hard not to compare herself to a Roman emperor. She forgot which one supposedly played his fiddle while Rome burned to the ground, but the sensation of falling surrounded her on all sides. Standing stock-still, she could do nothing but dial 999 and ask for the Fire and Rescue Service, but she knew more than firefighters would descend upon this place once again.

  Kuno discovered the remaining men gathered in the community centre/church, sat on the floor, staring into their laps. The one she least expected to remain did so, his shoulders slumped but the rest of his body somehow stiff and ready to move quickly should the need arise. She and Jacob discussed expelling him, but Norman Faulkner swore he was honest when he said certain urges drove him to remain, that he could not face the real world, or it would consume him.

  He committed the crimes he was accused of. Because his motives differed from the official story, did that make him less deserving than Bill Khan?

  “Philosopher Bill”, whose military history was shrouded in mystery, revealing only his time in the Navy resulted in a dishonourable discharge, and sent him spiralling into a tornado of confusion and anger. Alcohol and fear, he told the group, were a toxic potion that turned him into a super-man, an avenging angel charged with beating sense into anyone he deemed inferior. Late in his sentence, access to an online university earned him a philosophy degree, and sure, he obsessed on the big questions and bored his fellow residents with it sometimes, but it kept him occupied. It kept him human.

  And Vernon Slater, that ox-strong chav. A dreamer. A wannabe. Never willing to play the long game, demanding immediate results. Kuno’s father thought of her as impatient, b
ut he’d never encountered a true millennial. Not one like Vernon. He wanted to run his own business, but the loans, the form-filling, the learning required stretched before him like a carpet of nails and broken glass; a career in “that easy shit they do in the city,” he once suggested, “gambling on shares and what-not, taking home millions while normal folk lose their houses…” But upon investigation he decided four years of university and a year of internships only to reach the basic ground floor entry positions, well, may as well ask him to dip his head into a barrel of horseshit and breathe in. No. Vernon was better off here, with small goals, ones that could be achieved easily, such as building a home, a bookcase, a chair. Farming, oddly, allowed his personality to shine, again setting him minor goals, never talking about the endgame, or he would look too far forward and throw a tantrum; hoe the field one day … achieved; sow seeds the next … achieved; water and irrigate … achieved! Now settled into this micro-tasking format, Vernon became, and remained, an active and valuable member of the community.

  And Jacob himself, who had never been fully punished for what he did to that Millwall fan so long ago. Kuno genuinely believed Jacob changed, but after learning what he did to his father, even though he conducted himself calmly and with a detachment that frightened her more than Norman’s torture of prostitutes, Kuno would not object to his return.

  His return was unlikely, though. Jacob would not see the outside world for another fifteen years, possibly more.

  The core group had not splintered, and for that she was thankful. They could rebuild, and go on to achieve great things. Maybe she could tempt her husband, Jack, out of his fast-track career with the council where he worked in risk management for several departments.

  Would he return to the place that gave him his life back?

  Did Kuno have the right to ask him?

  What of these other people, beyond the core? Close to twenty men freaked out at the news of Jacob’s incarceration, and despite the best efforts of—mainly—Philosopher Bill to talk them down, so many allowed despair to sweep over them, and undo months, sometimes years, of hard work.

  The core three, plus Kuno, and four more—Lamar Reynolds, Julian Vincent, Henry Black, and Tony Potter—made eight. The other four bonded over countryside activities designed to instil a sense of teamwork and personal accomplishment: archery, rabbit hunting, fishing, clay pigeon shooting, land maintenance … and they excelled at it. No wonder they stayed.

  The sirens neared, and tyres crunched closer. Calls of “armed police” rang loud and true, and Kuno was the first to open the door to their hall. Four ARV—armed response vehicles—crammed the access road, and the afore-warned armed police took cover behind the high-powered estate cars.

  She’d left the barrier open for them to prevent the damage she knew would follow.

  “No one here is armed,” Kuno called, keeping her hands in place at all times. “You may enter and search this hall, but there will be no arrests without a damn good reason.”

  * * *

  No one showed a good reason. Their lead officer insisted on guns leading the way inside and holding the residents securely while the cops conducted their search, finding only licenced hunting rifles stored properly under lock and key. Once satisfied, the cops allowed the Fire Service to enter, and to stamp out the dying embers of the fires set as the majority of residents fled into the big bad world.

  When Stevenson and Murphy arrived, IROMOV was all-but finished. The cops left one ARV behind, parked discretely atop the access road, and the fire investigators made sure no stray sparks would threaten the remaining shacks. The camaraderie gleaned during the departing men’s time here seemed to have blessed them right at the end, as they did not deliberately torch any of the other remaining residences; only their own.

  It was symbolic, Kuno supposed.

  When the men arrived, they renounced everything from outside, barring themselves in a different prison. Yet some were still a danger, which is why they stayed.

  She told Murphy and Stevenson, “Too many of the men lost faith in their leader. I can’t guarantee they are no longer a danger, but … there are some whose licence to leave prison depends on them living here. I’ll give you their details, but please, if you can … give them the option to return before sending them back inside.”

  “Good grief, woman,” Stevenson said, pacing, jittery. “The Joker has broken the whole gang of villains out of Arkham Asylum.”

  “And are you going to put on a Batman outfit to round them up?” She shook her head as a peel of thunder rumbled nearby. “They were never locked up here. But like alcoholics they did place their troubles in the hands of a higher power. This place sustained them. Now, with their leader’s actions making a mockery of IROMOV, that faith has lapsed.”

  Murphy turned a full 360-degrees, taking in the arson, the singed trees, pausing at the hundred-square metre vegetable patch, trampled and wrecked. Back at Kuno, he said, “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Just know,” Kuno said, “I won’t give up. I may change the name, rebrand, liquidate, and start again. But this Institute worked for so many people. And I will defend it to my dying breath.”

  * * *

  At his car outside the compound, Murphy waited until Stevenson departed in his own vehicle, then fished his phone out of his inside pocket and inserted a bud in one ear, speaking into the mic on the wire without dialling.

  “Get all that?” he asked.

  “Affirmative,” Alicia replied. “I heard enough. Those who remain, though, those clinging to their faith, those are our suspects. Four possibles: Kuno, Vernon Slater, ‘Philosopher’ Bill Khan, and Norman Faulkner … or Tolya.”

  “We sticking with this place as the centre of it all?”

  “Unless you think someone at the school is responsible?”

  Murphy agreed, hung up, and prepared himself mentally for how to proceed next.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Nigel Swank’s office in main school building screamed “closet homo” at the three girls gathered before him. Posters of musicals, immaculate organisation, not a speck of dust anywhere. Holly acknowledged it wasn’t particularly liberal of her, and caught herself playing to stereotypes, but she couldn’t help it. All she could do was accept this bollocking like a grownup, and be on her way.

  “Holly Costa, Nicola Dupree, Fiona Michaels.”

  Swank stood with his hands behind his back, that stupid robe hanging loose. He raised his head, his vulture-nose aimed right at them, as if that added anything to his height. Holly and FiFi were both taller than him, and Rhi-Rhi was around the same. The man was a tool, but he ran the school well, and it was a really great place to live. Certainly preferable to their parents’ homes, even if Swank was a bit too strict at times.

  He said, “You do understand these men are here for your protection, don’t you?”

  The three girls, all seventeen, nodded with downcast eyes. The “guilty” expression they practiced beforehand.

  “And you do understand that we have already had one of them removed because of a dalliance with one of the sixth-formers.”

  FiFi said, “Veronica’s eighteen, sir—”

  “Which is all that has allowed that officer to keep his job. You three … are not yet eighteen.”

  “We’re still legal,” Rhi-Rhi said before dropping her chin to her chest and resuming the “guilty” expression. “Sir, sorry, but I’m just saying…” She let it peter out.

  “The Police and Crime Commissioner for this region spoke to a number of parents, and all parties have agreed that additional security is a benefit, no matter how unlikely the threat. Many, like yours, Fiona, are coming up to stay the night of the prom so they can take you straight home or on holiday on Sunday morning. They promise not to interfere with your … party shenanigans.” He smiled hopefully, like a trendy supply teacher.

  Holly nodded. “Sir.”

  Not that it will help you.

  Swank spun on his heels and gazed out of his
huge window and in turn over the sprawling grounds of Excelsior Academy, all the way to his enormous house. Without looking at the girls, he said, “A dozen armed officers will rotate on-site until either the threat is nullified, if indeed there is a threat, or you all return home for the autumn break next week. During that time, you will treat them as if they are invisible.” He rotated on his heels back to the girls, just as a pair of police officers carrying submachine-guns patrolled into view. “There will be no more flirting with these gentlemen, or your prom privileges will be withdrawn. No matter how much effort you put in. Clear?”

  They all mumbled they understood, and Swank dismissed them with one of those camp waves using his whole arm.

  Outside his office, Swank’s matronly assistant watched them with her beady eyes, then they exited into the corridor and finally broke into giggles. FiFi and Rhi-Rhi performed impressions of the pompous peacock of a headmaster, and Holly laughed along. But she wasn’t laughing at their mickey-taking or the memory of the two hunky cops blushing bright red as the three girls inched up their skirts to reveal their tanned thighs.

  … until either the threat is nullified … or you all return home for the autumn break next week…

  Okay, the joshing of the policemen did fill her heart with pleasure, as well as making herself tingle between her legs at the teasing, but it was all very childish. Rhi-Rhi and FiFi ceased being virgins approximately four penises ago, but Holly held onto hers, and was not ashamed to admit it. The others respected that, or said they did. And it wasn’t like she didn’t want to discover the wonders of sex, but she wanted to do it right. She wanted someone of experience, not some fumbling boy.