by Conrad Jones
“Move it.” The officer pushed him hard in the back, and Alfie walked down the corridor. There were two men dressed in plain clothes leaning against the wall.
“In here,” Alec Ramsay instructed him. He’d taken off his coat and was wearing a dogtooth-patterned sports jacket and black trousers that had become shiny with age. His wife Gail hated them but they were comfortable and he liked them. Alfie reckoned he was dressed head to toe in Matalan budget clothing. The second detective, Sergeant Will Naylor, shopped at Armani, and was sporting a dark blue suit and black shoes.
Alfie stepped into the interview room and immediately felt claustrophobic. There was barely room to swing a cat in there. A duty solicitor was already sat at the table, and Alfie realised immediately that he was a state-appointed brief, and therefore useless. The table and the four chairs around it were fastened to the floor with metal brackets to prevent a prisoner using them as a makeshift weapon. Alfie’s solicitor remained seated and he shifted a pile of loose papers that were on the table in front of him.
“I need a moment alone with my client, Inspector,” he said to the detectives. Alec Ramsay rolled his eyes to the ceiling and tutted.
“Five minutes,” Alec mumbled, looking at his watch. “Every fucker needs five minutes tonight, and we don’t have five minutes to spare.”
“I’ll need longer than that, Detective,” the brief replied.
Alec marched up to the table and placed both hands on it, leaning aggressively towards the solicitor. He looked at Alfie as if he was something that he’d stood in. “This man is involved in the kidnap of five–year-old twins. Every minute you’re fucking about means they’re a minute further away. Five minutes is all you’ve got,” he snarled.
The solicitor was a young man, not long out of university. He was learning his trade by taking defence jobs for pro bono clients on legal aid. He couldn’t look the detective in the eye, and he certainly didn’t have the stomach to defend this child taker.
“Of course you’re assuming that my client is in fact guilty.” The brief tried to be assertive.
“You got four minutes left.” Alec turned and headed towards the door.
“I am guilty, and I’ll help you to find them if I can,” Alfie called after the detective.
“I must advise you to say nothing until we have spoken in private.” The solicitor stood up.
“Shut up, Williams.” Alec said from the doorway. He pointed to Alfie and said, “You’d better not be messing me around sunshine.”
“I’m not.” Alfie shook his head.
“Get the tape on.” Alec indicated to Will Naylor, his younger colleague. “Sit down.” He ordered the solicitor as Will opened fresh cassettes and inserted them into a tape recorder that looked like it had sailed on the ark.
“I must repeat that this is against my advice, Mr Lesner, and that I would like it noted that my client has volunteered to assist you with your enquiries.” The brief sat down again and ruffled his papers nervously.
“This interview is being conducted on 2nd July 2012 at three o’clock in the morning by detectives Ramsay and Naylor. Also present is duty solicitor…” He waited for the brief to introduce himself.
“Alan Williams,” he said.
“The suspect is Alfie Lesner and he is being interviewed under caution. What can you tell me about the whereabouts of the Kelly twins?” Alec interlinked his fingers and looked Alfie in the eyes.
“I didn’t kidnap them, let’s get that straight,” Alfie began nervously. He didn’t know what to say for the best but he had to get his side over to them before Jack started shifting the blame.
“Who did?” Alec asked bluntly.
“Jack Howarth. He kidnapped them. I was the delivery man, a go between, but I thought they were going for adoption.” Alfie sounded lame.
“Adoption?” Will raised his voice. He spat the word out.
“Yes, it sounds silly now I think of it, bloody stupid, but I believed him.” Alfie put his head in his hands.
“For the tape please, Alfie. You were told that the twins were going to be adopted?” Alec was astounded.
“Yes, honestly.”
“By who?” Will asked sarcastically.
“I don’t know, rich Moroccan families that couldn’t have children of their own,” Alfie answered quietly.
The detectives exchanged glances and pressed on with the questioning. They weren’t sure whether Alfie was genuinely duped by Jack Howarth, or a totally complicit player in the crime.
“Where are they now?”
“I don’t know for certain.” Alfie looked from one detective to the other, and he could see anger in their eyes. “The last time I saw them they were being put into a horsebox.”
“A horsebox?”
“Yes, a big navy blue wooden horsebox,” Alfie expanded.
“What was the registration?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was driving it?”
“A Moroccan, I don’t know his name.” Alfie tried his best to answer, but he couldn’t help sounding vague.
“Was the number plate British, or Moroccan?”
“British, I think.”
“You think?”
“It was British, I’m sure. I think I would have noticed if it was foreign.”
“How many wheels did this horsebox have?”
“What?”
“Was it a double wheelbase at the rear?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Was it being towed?”
“No, it was the type with a driver’s cab, like a converted truck.”
“What make?”
“I’m not sure, but the cab looked like the front end of a DAF truck.”
“Were there horses in it?”
“Yes, they loaded the kids and then put a couple of horses into the back.”
Alec turned to his colleague and nodded his head towards the door. His partner understood that he was to put out an immediate all-ports bulletin to every police force in the country to look for a large blue horsebox. He stood up and left the room. It wouldn’t be the first time livestock had been used to hide drugs or humans from border guards and customs officers.
“Detective Naylor has left the interview for a moment.” Alec said for the sake of the tape.
“Were the twins alive and well?”
“Yes, they were sleeping.”
“Were they sleeping, or drugged?”
“I’m not sure. They could have been drugged I suppose.” Alfie didn’t know because at the time he hadn’t cared. He hadn’t looked at the children that he’d transported as if they were somebody’s sons or daughters. Not the way he did with his beloved nephews and nieces. Somehow Alfie had been able to differentiate between the two, business and family. Maybe it was akin to what the Nazis had done to the Jews: blanked all recognition of them as fellow humans, so that they could be complicit in their extermination without feeling any guilt. Now in the cold light of day it felt completely different. He felt very guilty indeed.
“How did you transport them to this Hajj character?”
Alfie swallowed hard before he answered. He realised how it would sound. What on earth would his family think of him if this came out in court? Uncle Alfie the kidnapper.
“In the boot of my car,” Alfie said, ashamed.
“You put five-year-old children into the boot of your car?” The detective repeated for effect.
“Yes.”
“Could you answer a little louder for the tape please?” Alec wanted this recorded with complete clarity.
“Yes, I put them in the boot of my car.” Alfie felt sick.
“Where did you take them to?”
Alfie realised that he was digging a big hole for himself. The more he said, the worse things sounded. He leaned over to Alan Williams and whispered to his brief. The brief took a deep breath and then spoke next. “My client has been very helpful so far, Detective Ramsay, and now we’d like to know what’s on the table if he helps y
ou further.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, detective, he’s got some valuable information that he’d like to exchange for some leniency.” The solicitor cleared his throat. He was uncomfortable with the situation, to say the least.
Alec sat back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. The deep lines in his forehead creased. “Your client admits assault, carrying a firearm, and kidnap. He carried five-year-old children in the boot of his car and sold them to a Moroccan paedophile ring – and you’d like us to consider making a deal?”
“Yes.” Alan Williams undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. He suddenly felt like he was choking.
“How does life without parole sound?”
“Obviously that’s not for you to decide, Detective, but we’d appreciate your report being favourable to my client.”
Alfie whispered again. The colour drained out of his solicitor’s face as he spoke to him.
“I believe that my client can shed some light on a recent murder.”
“How recent?”
“I believe it was today.”
Alec stood up and removed the dogtooth sports coat. He undid the buttons on his shirtsleeves and rolled them up while he contemplated the issue. There were large sweat patches spreading beneath his arms. “Let’s just say that I do believe a single word that your scumbag client has said – and I don’t by the way. Why would we consider any deals?”
Alfie whispered to his brief again. The brief shook his head, obviously disagreeing with his client. “If you recover the twins alive, and my client divulges as much information as he possesses about the incident, will you recommend leniency?”
“I’ll mention that he cooperated fully with the investigation, and that’s as far as I’m going.” Alec sat down and looked hard at Alfie Lesner. “Where did you take the twins in the boot of your car?”
Alfie looked to his brief for guidance, and then paused before speaking. He was thinking of how to explain everything without digging himself any deeper. It was already obvious that his liberty would be taken from him, it was just a matter of how long now.
“The farm is called Rookery Farm. It’s near Delamere Forest.”
“What road is it on?”
“It’s just off the A49, in the forest,” Alfie explained.
“How many men were there?”
“Half a dozen or so, maybe more, but he has hundreds of men working for him, all over the country. They’re a nasty bunch.”
“Nasty?” Alec raised his eyebrows. “Similar to people that transport five-year-old children in the boot of their car?” he said sarcastically.
Alfie sat back in his chair and sighed. The situation was dire, and the more information he gave, the worse he sounded.
“Weapons?” The Detective carried on building a picture of the criminals that he’d be dealing with.
“Yes, he has everything from mortars to machineguns. Hajj deals them,” Alfie shrugged.
“Deals weapons?”
“Yes, his men sell to most of the drug gangs in the city,” Alfie explained.
“This gets better and better.” Alec scribbled the details down as Alfie spoke.
“Is it his farm?”
“No, he rents a stable yard there for his racehorses.”
“I wonder how many racehorses a five-year-old could buy me in today’s climate, eh?” Alec commented sourly.
“There is no need to be obtuse, Detective Ramsay. My client is trying to answer your questions honestly,” Alan Williams interrupted. He tried to look sternly at the detective, thinking how much he looked like the celebrity chef who shared his surname, but it barely registered.
Alec thought for a second, and decided that if Alfie was on the level about the location of the farm that he’d taken the children to, then that’s where they needed to start their search. He walked to the door and called to a uniformed police officer. He handed him a piece of paper with the address of the farm written on it.
“Get this to Detective Naylor immediately,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him to organise a helicopter and an armed response unit there pronto.” He closed the door and sat back down at the table. Alec felt edgy now, as he had enough information to be going on with, and he’d rather be out looking for the bad guys than sat sweating in this tiny interview room. “What else can you tell me?”
“Jack Howarth was paid to supply the Moroccans with children to order.” Alfie wanted the real kidnapper identified before the spotlight fell on him. “Myself and an associate, Brian Croft, were the intermediaries. We picked up the twins and took them to Hajj at the stables. Last night Hajj shot Brian with a Mach 10 machine pistol.”
“You witnessed that?”
“Yes.”
“Was he dead?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be sure?”
“His brains were all over the stable yard, how sure do you want me to be?”
“How many times have you done this?”
“Done what?”
“How many times have you transported children to the stables?”
“I’ve just told you that Hajj shot Brian with a Mach 10.” It was Alfie’s turn to be annoyed. He thought that the revelation would have more of an impact than it had, but Alec was more interested in building a case against him.
“We’ll look into it when we get to the farm, Alfie; if you play with fire then you expect to be burnt. How many times have you acted as intermediaries?”
Alfie’s brief nudged him before he could answer. It had become obvious that the detective was trying to stitch Alfie up tighter than a drum.
“My client is here to answer questions about the events for which he has been cautioned, nothing else.” The solicitor interrupted.
“Okay, I’ve got enough for now.” Alec eyed Alfie suspiciously. “Tell me, why did you assault Jack Howarth?”
Alfie’s solicitor shook his head again.
“No comment,” Alfie replied.
Alec stood and picked up his jacket. He opened the door and called a uniformed officer into the room.
“Put this scumbag back into his cell.” He ordered. “You’d better get used to hearing that door slamming closed, Lesner.” Alec headed down the corridor. The police officer motioned for Alfie to stand which he did without protest.
“I will not be requiring your services again,” Alfie said without looking at the duty solicitor.
“Thank God for that,” Alan Williams muttered.
Alfie smirked as he walked down the corridor to the detention area. He didn’t know why he found the solicitor’s comment funny, but he did. The smell of stale urine grew stronger as he neared his cell. A hard shove in the back launched him forwards through the doorway and he landed painfully on his knees. The police officer sneered as he slammed the thick iron door closed, and the sound echoed through the cellblock. Alfie grimaced as a tear ran from the corner of his eye. It would be a sound that he’d have to get used to for the foreseeable future.
Chapter Twenty -two
Tank
John Tankersley waited outside Warrington General Hospital for a task force vehicle to pick him up. The chopper that he’d arrived in had been dispatched to pick up a unit who would be on standby until they were required. The night had turned cold and drizzle began to fall steadily. Puddles of water began to form, reflecting the yellow streetlights. The car parks were empty bar a few isolated vehicles here and there. Tank thought about the way things had progressed as he watched a couple of drunks swinging punches at each other outside the casualty department. The two men staggered back and forth like human windmills in slow motion. The automatic doors opened and two women staggered out of casualty to join in the fray, and the action intensified. The drunken quartet wobbled around, hurling punches and abuse until two huge black security guards managed to separate them.
A bla
ck Mitsubishi Shogun turned off the main road and headed towards the foyer area. Tank recognised Grace as the driver. She pulled the vehicle to a halt, much to the annoyance of the ambulance driver who was in the vehicle behind her. He honked the horn and gesticulated wildly to the double yellow lines, which indicated that she should not have parked there. Tank waved at him in apology and opened the passenger door, climbing in as quickly as he could.
“Road hog,” he joked.
“Do you think he’s annoyed?” Grace added. She signalled and pulled the Shogun away from the curb, freeing up the lane again. The ambulance driver honked again, and this time Tank gave him the finger. The paramedic thought better of returning the gesture and steered his ambulance around the warring couples to the casualty department.
“What do we know?” Tank asked as he clicked the seatbelt into its socket.
“Well, the good news is we have a file as long as your arm on our friend Hajj Achmed,” Grace began.
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Is it because of your deep mistrust in human nature?”
“Probably,” he grunted. Tank had a bizarre respect for the people that he usually hunted. Terrorists had a cause to fight for, a reason to cause others harm, as they justified it, anyway. An organised business that dealt with paedophiles all over the globe was just plain evil in his mind. “Tell me about Achmed.”
“He has been investigated for extortion, counterfeiting, arson, people trafficking, prostitution and, wait for it, arms running.”
“What type of weapons?”
“Everything, he’s in charge of British operations for a huge crime family based in Marrakesh. They have supplied several militias with weapons, ammunition, explosives, and according to the Americans they sent a shipment of Stinger missiles to the Taliban. We have loose ties to extremist groups in Somalia, Afghanistan, Pakistan and Yemen.”
“Do we have enough evidence to justify stepping into the investigation?”
“No, and I think we’re too late anyway.” She slowed the vehicle before pulling out onto Lovely Lane. It was a ten-minute drive to the main police station in the town centre, where Alfie Lesner had just finished his amazing confession. She had a feeling that’s where he’d want to go.
