by Mistry, Liz
DS Nancy Chalmers sat with a tall man who wore a Colombo raincoat despite the sun that had penetrated the last few days’ drizzle. She wore her trademark floral dress slightly too tight over her breasts, a pair of wedge heel sandals and no tights. Her blazer, flung haphazardly over the back of the chair, had on the lapel a blob of strawberry jam that had fallen from her doughnut earlier. She glanced up as the door to the CID room opened and Sergeant Hedges walked in, accompanied by Cathy Clegg. With a half-smile on her face, Nancy stood up and moved to greet the other woman. Cathy, she noted, looked dreadful. Already skinny the woman had become positively emaciated over the past few weeks. Her face was haggard and pallid with wrinkles around her mouth and across her brow.
Nancy directed her to a chair next to the other man, asked Hedges to bring coffee and then sat down. ‘This is Sergeant Jankowski, Cathy. He’s from Poland and he has come here for a very specific reason that we’ll discuss in a bit.’
Jankowksi smiled at Cathy, his hand extended in greeting. Nancy waited till the greetings were complete before she continued. ‘How have things been?’
Cathy snorted. ‘If you’re asking what it’s like to share your bed with a paedophile and act like you don’t know how sick he is, then it’s fucking shit.’
Nancy nodded, but kept her face neutral despite her pounding heart. She felt for the woman, she really did, but she knew that Cathy was their only hope of reeling the bastards in. ‘You’re doing really well Cathy, really well.’
Cathy put her head to one side and crossed her legs. When she spoke her tone was accusatory. ‘So, does that mean you’ve made progress? Have you nailed down the rest of the gang? Are you going to arrest him so my daughter and I can get back to normal?’ She rapped her finger on the table to emphasise her point. ‘It’s been three fucking weeks and I’m not sure how much longer I can do this.’
Nancy waited till Hedges had deposited mugs of coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits on the table before gesturing for him to join them. He and Cathy had built up a rapport and she wanted him there to support her when she disclosed the new information they had.
‘Well Cathy, it’s not as easy as that.’ She lifted a folder and tapped it lightly on her desk. ‘We’ve been working closely with Interpol and about a month ago two young children from the Roma community were abducted in Poland. There have been similar abductions throughout Poland and Eastern Europe over the past year and we think your husband’s paedophile ring is responsible for this. What makes this momentous for our investigation is that normally the children disappear completely. When they’ve been found it’s been in another country and usually dead.’ She paused. ‘This time a girl, ten-year-old Magdalena Lauk, was sexually assaulted, killed and dumped near her home. Her brother Paul was taken. The only good thing to come out of this is that Magdalena’s post mortem revealed DNA evidence that we can use to convict her killer and her brother’s abductor.’
Cathy, face taut, jumped to her feet. ‘Good news? Not for her parents is it? Not for that poor girl’s parents.’
Sergeant Jankowksi cleared his throat, then in good but accented English said, ‘Cathy, nothing can bring Magdalena back. Nothing. Her parents are desolate by her death. The fact that we now have some physical evidence is a good thing. Combined with the information we are gaining daily from your husband’s computer activity we are much closer to shutting these animals down.’ Cathy looked at Jankowski, nodded briefly and sat back down, shoulders hunched, fingers clenching and unclenching in rapid succession.
Nancy bit her lip and leaned forward, elbows on the desk. ‘Cathy, we found Magdalena’s brother Paul.’
Cathy’s head jerked up, the expression in her eyes hopeful.
Nancy quickly shook her head. ‘Oh Cathy, I’m sorry but Paul was found dead in the Thames estuary. His body had been what we call ‘sanitised’. In other words, whoever dumped him removed any physical evidence we could use to identify his killers. We feel sure he was brought over here by your husband’s colleagues, sold to a ‘client’ and then dumped.’
Cathy groaned. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
Nancy glanced at Jankowksi before she replied. ‘We need you to stay on track, Cathy. We need you now, more than ever. Through James’ activity we’ve identified some of the people who’re ordering these children. We just need a bit longer, that’s all.’
Chapter 11
2015
Sunday 4:15pm, Inkerman Street, Bradford
Sleet drove at a 45-degree angle onto the muddy alley. It hammered relentlessly on the sides of the ambulance and police cars that were squashed into the alley and it rattled against the buildings. DCI Nancy Chalmers moved rapidly through the trampled snow, her coat flapping behind her like a super hero’s cape, her sturdy winter boots sploshing through puddles. Her gaze was intent on Alice huddling against the fence, a polystyrene coffee cup in her hand, her black hair matted and damp. Spheres of hail mottled Alice’s coat and clung to her woollen scarf. Her eyes looked huge in her ashen face and Nancy noted the slight tremor in her hand as she lifted the cup to her mouth.
Nancy followed Alice’s gaze and saw that her eyes were trained on the ambulance that was parked, one wheel embedded in a slush-filled pothole, as if it had been abandoned. The back doors were ajar and a huddle of children with vacant eyes, wrapped in blankets, sat unmoving on the row of padded seats in the back. A small female paramedic leaned over to fasten their seat belts and the smallest child flinched. The paramedic smiled reassuringly, muttering nonsensical soothing words as she completed the task and moved on to fasten the other kids’ belts. Nancy saw Alice’s fists clench at her side and guessed she wanted to slam her fist into the wall. The paramedic slammed the doors shut, blocking out the final huddle of children waiting to be transported to Bradford Royal Infirmary.
An angry thrum pulsated in the air. Paramedics, social workers and translators worked professionally but without their customary ribaldry. Each one was profoundly horrified by the discovery of the children and each was directing their anger into doing their best for the victims. Chalmers knew the aftermath of today would have long and lasting repercussions for each and every professional here. The attic crime scene had been compromised in deference to treating the children DS Cooper and DC Sampson had rescued. Most of the children were in a fugue state, all were irreparably damaged physically and mentally. Two were dead.
Chalmers stepped in front of Alice. Deliberately removing all emotion from her voice she said, ‘DS Cooper, fill me in.’
As Chalmers had intended, Alice responded to her authoritative tone. She pushed herself away from the wall and straightened. Hesitating only to take a sip of coffee, Alice, her tone dull, summarised. ‘Eighteen living, ten boys and eight girls. Two dead. All abused, malnourished and severely traumatised. From what we can gather so far, none are British; most appear to be Eastern European.’
Chalmers bit the inside of her cheek and stamped her boot into the icy ground. ‘Fucking Hell!’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget this,’ said Alice, her voice trembling.
Chalmers drew her coat around her and with fumbling fingers began to fasten the buttons. Giving up after three, she put her arm round Alice and hugged her firmly. ‘No, you won’t ever forget this, Alice. And nor should you. But what you can, and will do is your best to find the sick fuckers who did that to those kids.’ She turned and saw Sampson approaching. He looked equally shaken but she noticed with approval his firm determined stride. ‘Not the best initiation into CID is it, Sampson?’
He shook his head and she placed her hand on his arm. ‘Both of you have done good. Bloody good!’
Alice nodded abruptly. ‘Yeah, but I wish Gus was here.’
‘Well, he’s not here so you’re just going to have to hold it together till he gets back. Hopefully that’ll be soon. Anyway, what’s the state of play?’
‘Social services pulled in huge favours and have managed to secure a weekday only ward at BRI for most of the children. The Yorkshi
re Clinic have provided two rooms for the most traumatised. We’ve kept them as near as we can in national groups and where possible have employed female translators. The hospitals have pulled in as many Eastern European nurses as possible and we’ve asked for secrecy, but as you can see the lions are already prowling.’
Chalmers turned to see that already the Yorkshire-based representatives of the national papers were already congregating behind the barrier alongside their local news counterparts.
Alice continued, ‘Forensics are working the attic. Doc McGuire, the pathologist on call, has already been and he’s fast-tracking the PMs on the two dead children. Says he’ll start first thing tomorrow.’
Hissing Sid approached, still wearing his white suit but with the hood pulled down. He nodded at DCI Chalmers but directed his words to Alice and Sampson. ‘You can come up if you like. We’ve got what we can from the stairs and, for what good it’ll do, we’ve paved off a viewing area.’ He turned to Chalmers. ‘It’s not pleasant, you know.’
Chalmers bristled. ‘Don’t you patronise me, Sid. I’ve seen more fucking crime scenes in my thirty years on the force than you have. Cheeky bloody brat!’
Sid smirked. ‘I stand corrected, DCI Chalmers. Didn’t mean to offend.’
Hissing Sid and DCI Chalmers moved towards the dilapidated gate leading into the yard. They’d almost reached it when Nancy realised Alice wasn’t with them.
She turned and saw her, hands in her pockets; scarf bundled haphazardly round her neck. Her head was tilted towards the upper window of the row of terraced houses that sandwiched the alley they stood in. Chalmers followed her gaze and saw that most of the windows were filled with the silhouettes of ghoulish bystanders gazing down on them. She took a step towards Alice and saw her small body tense as a flash from one of the windows evidenced the extent of their morbid curiosity. Before she could intervene Alice’s hand was out of her pocket and her small fist waved angrily at the offending photographer. ‘What the hell are you sick fucks doing?’ she yelled. ‘You didn’t fucking notice what was going on in your own back yards, but now you want to document it!’
Nancy strode over, grabbed Alice by the arm and pulled her towards the gate. She nodded to one of the constables. ‘Go to that house and threaten the bastards that if we find evidence that they’ve spoken to the media, allowed them access or posted anything pertaining to this on social media, we will lock them up for perverting the course of justice. In fact, get that message over to all these bloody people.’
The constable hesitated, then turned abruptly on his heel and scurried away. Alice, breathing heavily leaned on the gate. ‘I’m sorry. ‘Chalmers shook her head, ‘You’re not the ghoul taking photos Alice. You don’t need to apologise.’
Chapter 12
2015
Sunday 5pm, Manchester
The Green Man pub nestled under the arches beneath Victoria train station in Manchester. With its reclaimed wooden pews it could have been an old church; a chapel for worshipping real ale, with a congregation praising the good fortune that led them into its holy precincts. It was dotted with incongruous sinky-soft leather couches. Before each stood hefty coffee tables, sprinkled with scriptures offering advice on motorbikes, ‘sins of the flesh’ and Mary Berry recipes. The fervour of students intent on debating testament, chapter and verse buzzed throughout.
After that drug-whore was found in Bradford, The Facilitator had panicked like the girl he was and, as usual, The Matchmaker had been obliged to meet him. Preferring a bit of distance from Bradford, he’d suggested Manchester because here he could remain anonymous. Looking round the pub, he nodded in approval and, with his overcoat slung carelessly over one arm and his expensive leather man-bag hanging over his shoulder, he was satisfied that he blended perfectly with the other patrons. Carrying a pint of Theakston’s, he made his way toward his friend who sat uncomfortably on the low couch, skinny knees bent awkwardly and a pint of soda water and lime on the table. The Matchmaker’s grin widened as he approached, savouring the fact that his friend felt the need to keep his wits about him for this meeting.
He slid gracefully into the empty space beside him, took a long sip of his real ale, sighed appreciatively and licked the froth from his lips with relish. He turned to the man beside him, amused by his nervousness. For all his keen organisation and dedication to their business, he knew that The Facilitator still hadn’t found a way to master his stress and he relished his obvious discomfort. It kept him on his toes and gave him the edge.
He waited, a benign smile curving his mouth and his head cocked enquiringly until the other man coughed and glanced furtively around the pub. He leaned in so closely that The Matchmaker caught a waft of mint on his breath. He covered his grin by taking another long draft of ale, amused that they looked as guilty as a couple of old faggots sharing illicit drinks whilst their wives explored the Sunday shopping malls.
Finally, The Facilitator spoke. ‘You heard the news? She’s dead! Murdered! Don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do now.’
The Matchmaker frowned watching as the other man shredded a napkin with his long fingers. Flakes of it fell on to his trousers like desiccated skin. He waited without speaking until the other man continued.
‘We won’t be able to fulfil our orders and who knows what they’ll find in her house.’
The Matchmaker took another sip before replacing his glass on the scarred coffee table. With one finger he idly traced the ‘I love sex’ logo that had been etched into the varnish, encapsulated in a love heart. Then, he turned and, casually feeding the gay scenario he’d already built in his mind, he flung his arm round his friend’s shoulder before speaking. ‘On the contrary, we know exactly what they’ll find in her house.’ He laughed and, much to the other man’s disgust, leaned close, kissed his cheek and winked lewdly at him. Rising to his feet, he swung his bag back onto his shoulder in an exaggeratedly camp manner, casting a regretful glance at his still half-full glass and continued, ‘After all, we deposited the packages there, did we not? You and I both know that there’s no trail back to us and, as for fulfilling orders,’ he shrugged, ‘the commodities are ten a penny. Anyway it’s time to move on to operation revenge.’ Seeing The Facilitator’s grimace, he rubbed his hands together and grinned. ‘I can’t wait.’
Chapter 13
Sunday 8pm, Hawarth
‘Charles… is that you?’
‘No, No. Charles is, em, well he’s unavailable at the moment I’m afraid.’
‘It’s Fergus McGuire here. Is that you Hazel?’ He didn’t wait for the woman’s response before ploughing on. ‘What do you mean he’s not there? Where the bloody hell is he then? I’ve been trying to catch him at The Fort but he’s not there either and DCI Chalmers says he’s not at the crime scene, so where is he?’
Hazel’s voice trembled as she spoke and Fergus felt contrite. He could imagine the woman biting her lip and wringing her hands which, in his experience, seemed to be her default mode. Fergus had always thought Detective Chief Superintendent Charles Bowles and his timid wife, Hazel, an unlikely pairing. Bowles himself was self-assured, some would say arrogant, yet, despite his frequent peccadilloes, he seemed to genuinely care for his rather nondescript wife.
‘I’m not sure. He left after lunch, just after Nancy phoned to tell him about the house in Bradford. I thought that’s where he’d gone. I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, Hazel, hen, there’s no need to be sorry’ Fergus said, ‘I didn’t mean to snap but it is important I speak to Charlie, ASAP.’
He listened for a minute as Hazel executed a stammering apology ending with the promise to pass on his message as soon as her husband made contact. He was just about to hang up when Hazel’s voice, raised in agitation, stopped him. ‘Oh hold on a minute, Fergus.’
He heard her wittering tones, followed by a deeper tone and then Charles’ voice boomed down the phone. ‘Is that you Fergus? What can I do for you? I’m just about to head into The Fort so you better be quick.
We’ve got a lot on at the moment, you know.’
Fergus pursed his lips. He didn’t like the other man, but now wasn’t the time for a pissing contest, so he responded in a mild tone. ‘Yes I appreciate you’re busy, I’ve got three bodies lined up myself, but I just wanted a few words.’
DCS Charles Bowles sighed, ‘Look, Fergus, I know why you phoned.’
Fergus frowned. ‘You do?’
‘Well of course I do! It’s the same bloody reason you always phone. You want me to exert pressure on Gus’s psychiatrist to get him signed fit for work. And you think that the current discovery of abducted foreign children, as well as the murder of the prostitute, who rented the property where they were found, is reason enough for me to do so.’
Fergus chuckled. Through the phone he could hear the other man’s relentless tapping. It was such an irritating habit, but he’d more important things to think about. ‘Couldn’t have put the argument better myself.’
Fergus heard the other man’s slow exhale before he responded ‘I know your boy’s an excellent detective. He shows initiative, thinks outside the box and has exceptional closure rates. The question is whether he’s mentally fit to return to work’.
‘Poppycock, Charles. You’ll not get a better detective to lead on this than Angus. He needs to get back to work and no amount of pussy-footing around with a bloody shrink is going to help him. He needs to be on the job. Using his brain, getting things done.’
‘Dr Mahmood is a well-respected psychiatrist. If she has reservations, it’s with good reason.’
Fergus’s voice got louder, his already flushed face becoming hot. ‘That’s just it. The physio has signed him physically fit for work but that damn shrink’s playing silly buggers. Fannying about wasting his time. How the hell does she know what will help him? He needs to be back at work and this case will help him. You know he’ll deliver on this. He always does.’
Charles sighed. ‘What do you expect me to do, Fergus? You know he can’t come back to active duty till he’s been signed both physically and mentally fit. Dr Mahmood is excellent at this sort of PTSD stuff and if she thinks he’s not ready then, he’s not ready.’
