Snatched From Home: What Would You Do To Save Your Children? (DI Harry Evans Book 1)

by Graham Smith

  ‘DI Evans and DI Campbell. We’ve a few questions for you, Miss…’

  ‘Hughes. And it’s Mrs.’ She brandished her left hand to emphasise the point. ‘Will I need my lawyer present?’

  ‘Not at all. We just need some help with our enquiries.’ Campbell took the lead as Mrs Hughes watched Evans with evident suspicion.

  ‘OK then. Come with me.’

  They followed her to a quiet spot at the bar. Taking up station on a stool, Evans reached for a handful of the salt-coated nibbles on offer, while Campbell began the questioning.

  ‘Do you have many VIP members?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to give specifics. All I can tell you is that we currently have between two and three hundred members. We cap membership at three fifty so the casino doesn’t become overcrowded. If customers want to bet on sport, they can do it via our secure website.’

  ‘How much is it to join?’

  ‘It is two thousand pounds to join and one thousand pounds a year after that.’

  ‘How often does Nicholas Foulkes come here?’

  ‘I will handle that question, thank you, Rachel.’ Unnoticed a suave man in his mid-fifties had arrived behind them. Dressed in an expensive three-piece suit, he looked every inch the successful businessman. Campbell guessed he was the real power behind the casino, and that Mrs Hughes was his daughter, employed so he could maintain control over her. He walked towards the two detectives, right hand extended and introduced himself. ‘Gerry Potter. If you would like to come through to my office, I will help you in any way I can.’

  Potter’s office was both grandiose and functional. There was an ego wall featuring pictures of him with various Liverpool footballing legends. There were two different mayors, along with people Campbell supposed were local dignitaries.

  Gesturing at the two seats on the opposite side of his desk, Potter settled into his own chair. ‘I am afraid my daughter can be very protective of our little empire. Our customers are often influential people and we pride ourselves on our discretion. However, we understand that there are occasions when we are required to be more forthcoming. I feel it would be a dereliction of duty to not help you wherever possible. To summarise, tell me what you want to know and I’ll answer any questions you have to the best of my ability.’

  ‘You have a member called Nicholas Foulkes.’ Campbell ignored the man’s evident love of his own voice. ‘We want to know everything you can tell me about his gambling and specifically how much money he owes you.’

  Potter consulted his computer for a couple of minutes, before a printer click-clacked into life and spat forth five pages of headed paper. ‘I am breeching client confidentiality by giving this information to you, detectives. However in consideration of the circumstances, I am of the opinion that I would be guilty of neglecting of my morality code were I not to facilitate your request with the utmost expediency.’

  He sounds like the love child of a thesaurus and a dictionary.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘He said he’ll help us, you imbecile. D’you not understand the Queen’s English?’ Evans took the offered sheets and moved his arm back and forth until the top sheet was in focus.

  ‘That is correct, detective. If you look at his account history you will see that he is very lucky when selecting horses, but whenever he comes in to play cards he loses all the money he has amassed.’

  ‘That’s fishier than a North Sea trawler. No way can he win on the horses and lose at cards. There’s got to be a con somewhere.’

  ‘Detective, I resent the insinuation that my establishment would engage in confidence tricks with our customers. We merely provide comfortable amenities where our clients may fulfil their desire to take a financial risk. The very suggestion that either I or my staff are obtaining money from customers by unfair means is abhorrent to me.’

  ‘It’s transparently obvious to the appreciative observer that there is a serious anomaly in the finances displayed here.’ Campbell bit his lip as Evans played Potter at his own linguistic game. Looking up from Foulkes’s account statements Evans locked eyes with the man. ‘Pursuant to our investigations, Mr Potter, our mandate is crystalline in its opacity. We have authorisation to procure a warrant to impound the previous and incumbent year’s accounts for your organisation. Our intention is not to cause unnecessary disruption to your business. However, we will be consulting with all of your customers, to seek illumination upon our enquiries. I should imagine those conversations will have a detrimental effect on customer perception of your confidentiality practices. Now will you please tell us what the fucking score is, before I have Blackpool’s finest rip your business apart!’

  ‘There is no need to resort to foul language or threats, detective. I have offered unresisting cooperation and will continue to do so. Some of our clients win and others lose. That is a simple fact of gambling.’

  Campbell could see the first signs of serious resistance in Potter. To prevent Evans from alienating the man altogether, he tried another tack, ‘Say we believe you, Mr Potter. He named this as the place where he ran up the gambling debts, which led to the case we are now investigating. If you owe him money, why didn’t he cash it in to pay his debts?’

  ‘Our policy is that a client can only draw money out of the casino when they have more than five thousand pounds amassed. It’s in our terms and conditions.’

  Evans opened his mouth to speak, but Campbell shot him a look then turned back to Potter. ‘So where do you think his debts are from then? Did he meet with other clients to play elsewhere? Or is he a member of another such club?’

  ‘I cannot possibly comment on his membership at other establishments. If you are prepared to wait, I’ll look at our records and see if there is a pattern to his visits.’

  ‘Would you also be able to ascertain if specific individuals frequent your establishment in conjunction with his visits?’ Evans’s request was well-mannered but there was no mistaking the anger in his tone.

  ‘Yes, I can do that for you.’

  Evans took up station behind Potter, watching everything that happened on the computer screen.

  After fiddling with system reports, Potter leaned back in his chair and reached across to the printer, which had spat out several more pages. Sorting them he found the report that detailed the clients whose visits had matched those of Nicholas Foulkes. There were fourteen names on the list.

  Campbell looked at the list before asking, ‘Is there a way you can bring up the number of visits each of these people made without Foulkes being present.’ He pointed at the names of some minor celebrities. ‘You can discount these guys as they’re not likely to be mixed up in anything.’

  Potter turned back to his screen to fulfil Evans’s request. Another sheet of paper exited the printer. Five of the remaining eleven were regular visitors who were at the casino most weeks, another three were also more regular visitors than Foulkes, which left the last two. One of whom matched the visits of Foulkes with a perfect accuracy. The other had just three visits to his name.

  ‘I do believe that Mr Teller is from the Cumbria area as well and that they travel here together.’

  ‘Teller? Not Frankie Teller?’

  Campbell ran his finger down the list. ‘That’s the name on here, Harry. Who is he?’

  ‘He owns the largest building firm in Cumbria. Now then Potter, what can you tell me about the other guy on here. Keith Morgan?’

  ‘I am afraid that I do not know him well. He has always conducted himself well at Aces High, but there are some rumours about him being connected with… um… organised crime. I’ve tried to find out more so I could exclude him, but nobody would confirm any of the rumours. When I think of it, he and Mr Foulkes enjoyed a game of poker at the same table.’ Potter interpreted Campbell’s sceptical look. ‘Because Mr Morgan was a person of interest, I spent no small amount of time and resources observing him in close detail.’

  ‘I want to speak to him. What’s his address? What information do
you have on him?’

  Potter aimed a finger at the printer, which started to whirr.

  Evans snatched its latest missive and held it at arms length, squinting at the information. ‘Do you have his personal details as well?’

  ‘I am not sure I should disclose such private information unless you can prove its pertinence to your investigation.’

  ‘You’ve got ten seconds before I leave and come back with Willy the Warrant.’

  Potter sighed, turned back to his computer and sent the required information to the printer.

  Campbell got the sheet containing Morgan’s details and strode towards the door with Evans in tow. As Evans reached the door he turned to deliver a parting shot. ‘D’you understand what’ll happen if I find out you’ve been holding out on me? To quote a well-known actor – I’ll be back!’

  Campbell managed to keep his laughter inside until they reached the car, then he doubled over, tears streaming from his eyes. ‘I can’t believe you just said that. And your attempt at the accent was terrible.’

  ‘Bastard deserved it. Did you hear him speak? It was like listening to some bugger reading a legal document. If he’d used the word aforementioned, I was gonna punch him. Now pull yourself together and call Chisholm with that info. I want him on the trail of this guy’s money.’

  Evans punched Morgan’s postcode into his satnav before gunning the engine and setting off towards Liverpool.

  Chapter 51

  Frances was a light sleeper. The barn door creaking open was enough to rouse her. She awoke with a suddenness only an unfamiliar noise can produce. Swinging her arthritic legs out of the bed, she padded across to the window.

  As she drew back the curtain, she could see human shapes moving around in the moonlight. A small cattle wagon was parked by the barn, its rear door formed a ramp. Two of the figures were pushing her quad bike towards the ramp.

  Moving back to the bed, she dialled her son, the number recalled by practiced fingers rather than memory. Since her husband’s death last year, he now ran the farm despite living in a two-up two-down in Ambleside. Frances had suggested they swap homes but the offer had been declined. She knew that once her day had gone, her daughter-in-law would gut the house, throwing out the things she’d amassed over a lifetime and adding her own minimalist touches.

  His mobile went straight to answering service. Presuming, once again, he’d let the battery go flat, she dialled treble nine and recounted her story to the bored sounding operator who told her someone would be there within an hour.

  ‘That’s no bloody good. They’re robbing me now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but that’s the soonest we can have someone with you. Make sure that you stay inside with the doors locked. Don’t switch on any lights. If they are the gang we’ve been chasing, they are not believed to be dangerous. All the same, we don’t want you taking any unnecessary risks. Hello… Hello… Mrs Elliott?… Are you still there Mrs Elliott?’

  Frances lost patience with the call handler and dropped the receiver onto the bed. If the police weren’t going to be here for an hour, she’d have to stop the thieves herself.

  The farm had been in her family for generations. Over the centuries, they had battled sheep rustlers, encroaching neighbours and herd-destroying epidemics like foot and mouth. She’d be damned if she was going to allow anyone to rob her now.

  Pulling on her quilted dressing gown, she crept downstairs and went to the cupboard where the shotgun was kept. According to the letter of the law, the shotgun ought to have been in a locked gun cabinet but the idea was ridiculous to her. There had always been guns on the farm and they’d never been locked away, even when Andrew and Elaine were children. She broke open a twelve bore and inserted two cartridges with experienced hands, despite not having fired a shot for twenty plus years. Removing the security chain from her front door, she eased it open and flicked the hall light on so she was backlit. Lifting the shotgun to her shoulder, Frances took a deep breath and raised her voice to a yell. ‘Bugger off. I’ve called the police and they’re on their way.’

  She squeezed the trigger of the shotgun and fired a blast of pellets high into the air. Frances had forgotten the power of a shotgun’s kick and failed to pull it tight against her shoulder. The stock smashed into her collarbone and rocked her off balance. As she fell backwards her head slammed against the dresser. She was unconscious before her frail body hit the floor.

  Chapter 52

  Campbell was perturbed. There was a distinct lack of residential property in the area. They were on the outskirts of the city centre, and all he had seen for the last couple of hundred metres were shops, various bars and restaurants and a stream of takeaways.

  Evans interrupted his train of thought with a complaint. ‘This isn’t bloody Penneigh Lane. It’s Matthew Street!’ He drove along the narrow street until bollards halted his progress. The satnav announcing they’d reached their destination.

  ‘Look.’ Evans cast his gaze to where Campbell was pointing, and saw the world-famous Cavern Club – the place where the Beatles started on the road to fame.

  ‘Fucking satnav must be wrong.’

  ‘This must be wrong too.’ Campbell showed him the app on his phone.

  ‘The fly bastard! I’m gonna go back there and rip that Potter a new arsehole.’

  ‘It’s not him. Morgan is the one we’re after. You heard what Chisholm said: he’s run both of them and Morgan is definitely a person of interest to Merseyside Police. Potter checks out.’

  Evans’s temper wasn’t appeased. He turned the air blue with a rant that lasted until they left Liverpool and were on the motorway back to Cumbria. Ignoring the older man’s invective, Campbell attacked the puzzle from as many angles as he could. Whichever way he looked at it, he could not get past the thought that while Morgan was the likely candidate to be behind the kidnapping, there was no easy way to find him. He hadn’t attended the casino since the children were taken. The information Chisholm had unearthed on Morgan supported the name and address he’d registered at the club. That the address was a dead end pointed to the whole identity being false. With no real name, address or other information to go on there was nothing they could pursue, unless Potter had retained CCTV footage of his last visit. The chances of that were low. With so many cameras in the casino, the amount of footage would be immense. Plus, he suspected the cameras would automatically over-write the previous day’s footage unless there was a specific incident.

  The Merseyside police neglecting to tell Chisholm that address was false didn’t surprise him. There was supposed to be full cooperation between different forces. In reality, each force was territorial: when one encroached on their patch, the other offered the minimum help possible. However, Campbell was surprised Chisholm hadn’t spotted the address was false. Campbell expected that the computer geek to have used Google StreetView to check out the site. He knew he would have. Five minutes on a computer would have saved them a wasted hour travelling to Liverpool, not counting the hour it would take to get back. He would have to take it up with Chisholm in private the next day.

  Rather than draw Evans’s attention to the mistake, Campbell asked him what he thought they could do next.

  ‘Fuck all tonight. It’s gonna be after two by the time we get back to Carlisle. We’ll grab a couple of hours’ kip. Tomorrow will be a bloody long day.’

  Evans put a call through to Chisholm, told him of the false address and gave him a set of new instructions.

  Chapter 53

  The attic was pitch black. She used touch alone as a way of navigation. A sliver of light seeped through the hole she’d made and what did, gave her no help whatsoever. She was on edge with each movement she made. There was so much that could go wrong. A careless foot could go through a ceiling. If the TV aerial was in the loft, knocking it could bring the men into the roof space to realign it. The scratchy glass-fibre insulation against her bare skin made her body shiver involuntarily. Though she couldn’t see it, every move she
made kicked up a plume of dust which swirled up her nose. The only way she prevented a sneezing fit was by sacrificing one exploring hand to keep her nostrils pinched together. Cobwebs adhered themselves to her groping fingers and tangled into her unkempt hair, their fine threads caressing her face.

  Samantha lowered herself through the hole in the ceiling and groped with her toes. Finding one of her improvised steps, she clambered back down into the bedroom. Reaching floor level, she related to Kyle what she’d found up there and then took a quick shower to try and ease the discomfort caused by the loft insulation.

  Clumping footsteps sent panic through her. It would be terrible to be caught again, when she was so close to fashioning another escape route. She didn’t fear Elvis’s threat of dismemberment anymore. She had resigned herself to the fact it would be her fate at midnight tomorrow unless her latest escape attempt worked. She breathed a sigh of relief when the door didn’t open, and then concentrated on finessing the details of her plan for tomorrow.

  She’d found the access hatch into the loft. There was no loft ladder, but she was confident she could hang down and drop the last couple of feet both quietly and without injury. If Kyle lowered himself down, she could take his weight and lower him to the floor. It was too risky to try now with the men settling down into their bedtime routine. She would have wait to try until tomorrow. With the decision made, she prepared herself for a long night of sleepless anticipation.

  Chapter 54

  Victoria lay curled up on Samantha’s bed. Clutched in her arms was Kyle’s beloved soft Super Mario toy. Everything had unravelled. Her plan to raise the money had been so close to completion when she and Nicholas had been arrested. Now the only chance she had of getting her children back unhurt was in the hands of a semi-alcoholic detective whose best days were behind him.

  The first thing she had checked, upon returning home, was the attic but just as the police had told her, the money had been confiscated. She hadn’t had chance to speak to Nicholas at the police station. Not that she had anything she wanted to say to him. But the chance to shout at him, to berate him once more for the trouble he’d caused would have given her a small crumb of comfort. The rage at Nicholas’s stupidity was a growing fist within her gut. It held her intestines in a vice grip which twisted and pulled without mercy.