The Stolen Child

by Alex Coombs

  ‘Who is it?’ said Enver. She handed him the glasses. He put them to his eyes and adjusted the focus. The magnification was excellent and the resolution high. There, talking to the lodgekeeper was a man who he recognized from his TV appearances as a prominent, crusading QC. Not that long ago he’d heard the man had been made a judge; the papers had talked about a poacher

  turned gamekeeper. The man in the car was Lord Justice Reece. The last time Hanlon had seen Reece was when Bingham was sent down. Reece was the presiding judge at the trial. She was beginning to feel a strange sense of fate about this investigation. The protagonists had all met before. Reece, Bingham, Conquest. Bingham was connected to her by his past trial and his current role as unwilling informant. Anderson was linked by virtue of proximity to Bingham and as a direct result of

  Hanlon’s vendetta.

  Reece was a surprise. She guessed it shouldn’t be. Sex crimes were democratic, they cut across all bounds of class and money and societal divide. Why should a paedophile judge be worse or more unusual than, say, a famous paedophile film director or child rapist pop star, DJ, TV presenter or actor? Or carpet fitter, labourer, postman or bank clerk, come to that? She supposed because it was a double betrayal, a betrayal of the innocent and a betrayal of justice. Hanlon was ambivalent about the law, but she was passionate about justice. Corruption and hypocrisy turned Hanlon’s stomach. She preferred the company of criminals like Anderson. They didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were. Anderson was at least honest. He might nail people to doors but he didn’t bleat about upholding their human rights while he did so, or righting wrongs. Reece was far worse. Anderson’s words to Julie Demirel came back to her as if borne on the sea breeze, ‘He’s a supplier, not a user.’ Reece would be the customer. Hanlon clamped her jaw tight in impotent rage. She wouldn’t be able to do anything until evening, until darkness could cover her movements.

  She watched through her binoculars as Reece parked the

  car and the man from the lodge pulled a small rowing boat in from a mooring buoy with a rope on to the shore, a running mooring as it was called. The judge climbed in awkwardly and sat

  uncomfortably in the bows. He was obviously unused to boats. The boatman handed him his suitcase, tied the mooring up with a sheet-shank, then pushed the old clinker-built boat out into the sea and jumped gracefully into the stern as it moved away from the shore. He started the outboard motor and they headed off towards the island. The boat’s keel bounced a little on the choppy surface of the sea. The judge sat stiffly on the thwart, clutching his suitcase as it balanced awkwardly on his knees. Hanlon’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she examined the water. She was thinking of currents, tides and wind strength. She looked at her watch: seven o’clock. Maybe an hour, an hour and a half, before it was dark enough for her.

  Peter had spent the day feeling lethargic. He wondered why he felt so tired. Perhaps he was ill. He had finished Animal Farm and was rereading it. He had cried when Boxer, the horse, was taken away to the slaughterhouse. He felt a certain kinship with the animal, bewildered by events he couldn’t understand and beyond his control. Deep down, though, he didn’t really think anything bad was going to happen to him. He had a child’s faith in his own immortality.

  This lunchtime there had been a welcome variation in his routine. He had been given soap, shampoo, a towel and clean clothes, jeans, underwear, a T-shirt and a fleece, all in his size. He took a shower for the first time in a week, revelling in the sensation. He was a bit concerned about the TV camera in case it saw him naked, he was a shy boy, but he’d lived with the camera so long now he hardly noticed it. He put his new clothes on and played with Tito for a while. He was feeling a lot better. He suspected that the clothes might be a sign he was going home. His heart thudded with wild excitement at the thought.

  On the other side of the heavy steel door the judge, recently arrived on the island, watched him play with the dog through the one-way spy hole at eye-level. His eyes drank in the boy’s physical grace, his long-limbed beauty, his straw-blond hair. The thought that soon the boy would be his to do his bidding was incredibly arousing. Saliva flooded his mouth as he watched unseen. He played various sexual scenarios in his head and decided that, as before, for a while he would want the child unconscious while he explored his body for a couple of quiet hours at least. He found the thought incredibly arousing.

  The judge believed himself to be a connoisseur of pleasure. He wouldn’t tip a fifty-year-old brandy thoughtlessly down his throat out of the bottle, or guzzle a Roux brothers’ meal as though it was motorway service-station food. No, beautiful things should be savoured, and he fully intended to savour Peter. He would take his time. This treat had cost him a great deal of money but it would be worth every penny.

  The child was due to eat soon. The judge had already issued his instructions to Conquest and the Rohypnol would be given in his drink, as it had been the day before. He’d allow time for the drug to take effect, and the child would be delivered to the Bridal Suite in the upstairs part of the house at about nine o’clock. He turned and went up the stairs that led to a door beside the kitchen in the entrance hall, and walked up the broad, heavy, carved wooden staircase to his bedroom. Conquest had offered him food but the judge had tasted Robbo’s cooking. He shuddered at the memory. It was as crude as Robbo. It was as criminal as Robbo. Such things really shouldn’t be allowed; they certainly shouldn’t be encouraged. The only people in the house tonight would be Robbo, Conquest, Clarissa and the judge.

  Upstairs in his room the judge stripped slowly, and wrapped

  his aged, thin, naked body in a silk, Chinese robe and laid out

  what he would need for later. Viagra to sustain himself, he needed to last. Cocaine, to heighten his pleasure, and a bottle of 1986 Premier Cru Margaux, his favourite Bordeaux. He also had a pack of three Cohiba Esplendido Cuban cigars. He looked up in irritation at the smoke alarm on the ceiling; he would have to lean out of the window because of Conquest’s ludicrous smoking ban. He turned on the TV and selected the channel that would bring him the feed from Peter’s cell. He rewound the image and watched the boy undressing for his shower, making judicial use of the freeze-frame. He looked at his watch. Not that long to go really. He stared hungrily at the boy’s buttocks. Very soon, oh yes, it would be very soon now.

  Enver looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock. The sky was darkening and soon it would be night. There was a three-quarters full moon in the sky, but it was obscured by cloud. The boat, minus the judge, had returned from the island and lights showed in the lodge. They also showed around the lodge as well. The jetty and foreshore were floodlit. There was no possibility of taking one of the boats unobserved. He wondered how they would get over to the island. There seemed no chance now. For a delirious moment he hoped they would call in the police on some spurious excuse. Hanlon would think of something. The boy was over there, there was an Appeal Court judge over there, Conquest was over there presumably, what more did they need? Everybody could be scooped up in one fell swoop.

  He had tried talking to Hanlon about what they would

  do, but had been rebuffed. Now she turned to him. ‘Come on, Sergeant. Follow me.’

  He knew then they wouldn’t be calling for help. His hopes faded and reality set in. Hanlon would say, yes, they could call

  for help and with a high court judge barring the door which copper would dare enter the premises? They’d need a search warrant and what magistrate would issue one based on their evidence? Enver thought, maybe we could stretch the PACE section 18, which permitted an inspector to search premises if the suspect was in custody. They could claim Bingham qualified, albeit indirectly, and hopefully if they found the boy they’d be home and dry. Then he thought, and if Conquest has him elsewhere, we’ll be found guilty of causing Bingham’s torture. We have broken so many rules, so many laws, we’d make police history and not in a good way. No, there was no question of outside help. They’d be doing this the hard way. H
anlon’s way, as she’d doubtless intended all along.

  Hanlon slithered backwards on her hands and knees, Enver

  following, and they dropped into the gully where the stream was. They followed its path down to the beginning of the beach where it trickled across the pebbly sand, into the sea. On the island they could see lights in the window of Conquest’s house. The lodge to their right was about five hundred metres away from where they stood, ablaze with light. Enver guessed they would be practically invisible in the gloom.

  A sand dune screened them from view of the house. Hanlon turned to Enver. She looked at her watch. ‘What time do you make it?’ she asked.

  ‘Ten past eight,’ he said.

  ‘Fine. I’m going over there.’ She pointed to the island. In an Iron Man triathlon, Hanlon could swim 2.4 miles at sea in an hour and a half. This was only half a mile, but there would be currents and the sea was choppy. Still, she reckoned she could do it in half an hour. On the plus side, the salt water would be buoyant and she certainly had all the motivation she needed. ‘If I’m not back with the boy by ten, call for backup. You can

  get a signal from the car, but my phone’s dead down here, have you got a signal?’

  He took his phone out of his pocket and checked. No signal. ‘No,’ he said bitterly, thinking, we wouldn’t have this problem in London.

  ‘How are you getting over there, ma’am?’ he asked, feeling stupid.

  Hanlon stood up and unzipped her tracksuit jacket. She took her training shoes and socks off, then her T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. She was wearing nothing now but black Lycra shorts and sports bra. Her supple, muscular body gleamed palely in the fitful moonlight. Enver suddenly thought with a shock, she’s unbelievably attractive, and then smiled at how ridiculously inappropriate the thought was. Then he smiled again at the cliché of the ugly duckling’s transformation into a swan, like in a film when the unattractive girl turns out to have been a stunning beauty all the time. He should, by rights, now gasp in amazement and say, ‘My God, Detective Inspector, you’re beautiful.’ Of course, he thought, Hanlon was perfectly aware of how attractive she was. She just didn’t choose to show it. He thought too, thank God it’s not me having to take my clothes off, I can’t imagine DI Hanlon swooning in delight at the sight. ‘Why are you grinning like that, Sergeant?’ she said in an

  irritated voice.

  ‘I was just thinking you’re a very beautiful woman, ma’am,’ he said, with mock solemnity.

  She nodded her head in her Hanlon equivalent of laughter. It was an almost Whiteside comment and it cheered her up more than she could say. ‘I know that,’ she said, matter-of-factly. She stuffed her clothes into the small bag. It was obviously waterproof. She turned and said in a warning tone, ‘Ten o’clock.’ He nodded and watched Hanlon as she walked

  down to the beach and slipped into the water, as sleek as a seal or a porpoise.

  A mile or so away from them, the unknown man whom Hanlon had named the Joker was examining the Volvo with a flashlight. His brow was furrowed thoughtfully. He was 90 per cent sure it was hers, but he was a man who liked to know. If it was Hanlon’s, then he was sure he could guess her next move. He walked over to the barbed-wire fence and by the light of his torch looked carefully. Hanlon’s light feet had made no trace on the ground, but he could see in the bent grass the marks of shoes and some deeper prints from a heavier weight than the detective inspector’s. There on the fence was a torn piece of cloth caught on a barb of the wire. He smiled grimly and nodded to himself.

  He climbed over himself, first breaking open the shotgun

  he was carrying for safety purposes. The two copper shells gleamed in the moonlight. He himself was no longer young and he was cautious with firearms. He didn’t want any accidents. He walked down to the stream and in the mud by the side of the water he saw the confirmation he was looking for. There they were, the two sets of footprints he was expecting. He smiled to himself. The Volvo had been a neat touch and he congratulated her forward thinking. She’d guessed he would investigate any stray vehicle, and she had nearly had him fooled. The Volvo was perfect. He’d been checking for either her Audi or a car he would associate with that fat idiot sergeant. He snapped the shotgun closed and slid the safety off. He was not the kind of

  man who underestimated Hanlon.

  35

  Half an hour later Hanlon emerged from the sea, downwind of the jetty, just in case Conquest had brought his dogs. She was bitterly cold and her body ached with effort. Natural swimming, as opposed to a pool, is by its very nature unpredictable. She had guessed before she entered the water that it would be tough, but the current had been stronger than she’d imagined and the sea viciously choppy. It was only as she reached a few hundred metres from shore and entered the protection from the offshore breeze of the lee of the island that the water became calmer and she could relax. It had been more of a battle than she’d anticipated. She was now about a hundred metres from the simple, block-stone jetty. The rocks around her were large and black, their surface a mixture of slick, slippery stone and cheesegrater-rough barnacles, fringed with iodine-smelling bladderwrack seaweed. She felt her way to the dryness of the tideline, careful not to cut her feet on the sharp edges of the mussels that were attached to the boulders, unzipped her bag and quickly put on her clothes and shoes. Now she pulled a ski mask over her head, so that only her eyes were visible. On her hands were dark, fingerless gloves. There would be no white flash of skin colour to give her away. She was completely invisible in the shadows. She studied the house in greater detail while her heart rate slowed

  after the exertion of the swim.

  Like the lodge on the mainland, it was brightly lit by spotlights. She couldn’t see or hear any dogs, which she was grateful for. The building was Victorian, fairly unremarkable. She guessed it would have half a dozen bedrooms upstairs. She had no way of knowing how many people it contained. The two front rooms had lights on behind drawn curtains. The front of the house gave on to a lawn and a grey stone balustrade with a stone staircase, both mottled with patches of lichen, which led down to the illuminated jetty. The side and rear of the house were in darkness.

  Hanlon made her way to the back of the house. The fact that there were lights on in the front rooms led her to think that was probably where Conquest was. She guessed that one would be a living room with a sea view, it was the obvious place for a lounge; the other, she had no way of knowing. She crept round the side of the house. The hill she had seen from the shore of the mainland was directly behind it. The house was practically built in to the rock, snuggled up to it as if for comfort. She guessed that the winds coming from the sea would be so strong that it made sense to position the house in the lee of the high ground. It was this shelter too that protected the small harbour and made it viable.

  She climbed up the hill through pungent low bracken and

  tall grass – the gradient was practically sheer – on hands and knees until she was parallel with the eaves and guttering, and looked again at the back of the house.

  From her current position, she could see into the windows of three rooms at the rear. One, on the right, was in darkness; the one in the middle was brightly lit. It had no curtains and its windows were frosted glass. Obviously a bathroom, she thought. The third set of windows on the left were curtained. They’d been drawn but not fully and, from where she was

  crouching, some six or seven metres away, she could see the end of a bed and a pair of naked legs. As she watched, the legs swung off the bed and in a sudden movement the curtains were drawn back. There, framed in the window, the open robe exposing his stick-like limbs and naked chest with its sparse, grey hair and pendulous, aged, man-breasts, was the figure of Lord Justice Reece.

  He lifted up the sash of the window about thirty centimetres and lit a cigar. It was sizeable, about the length and thickness of a candle, and she could see its tip glow red periodically as he puffed on it. Momentarily she wondered why he was leaning out of the wi
ndow to smoke it, like a guilty schoolboy. Then she saw the plastic circle and flashing warning light of a smoke alarm on the ornate ceiling with its moulded decorative plaster friezework. She guessed that any smoking inside the room would trip the alarm.

  Reece turned round as if summoned by someone, so she could see his back, and the door to the bedroom opened. As she watched, the muscular back of a freakishly tattooed shaven-headed man came in, carefully walking in reverse, pulling a trolley. It was like room service in a hotel, except lying on the trolley, without moving, was the body of a fair-haired boy. Her heart beat faster; this had to be Peter. She saw the man speak to the judge and the latter point to the bed. The tattooed skinhead lifted the boy carefully as if he weighed nothing, the huge muscles standing out on his body like an anatomically correct drawing, and laid him gently down. Then he withdrew from the room, taking the trolley with him and closing the door. There was a bolt on the door and she watched the judge as he pushed it home to make sure he wouldn’t be disturbed. He stood looking at the boy, one hand playing gently with himself, the other holding a glass of red wine that he sipped

  carefully. He shrugged off his robe and Hanlon saw his flabby, elderly buttocks, their loose skin swaying as he walked round the bed like a predator eyeing its prey, on his spindly legs. Then he turned and went to the curtains and pulled them across. As he did so, Hanlon saw he was fully aroused, the shaft of his tumescent penis swollen with heavy, dark blue veins.

  She unrolled herself from the crouch she was in and slipped gracefully down the hill to the back of the house. Below the lighted window of the bathroom was a thick drainpipe. As she had hoped, it was the same age as the house, made of cast iron. It wasn’t a modern, thin plastic one. It would easily take her weight. She pulled her shoes and socks off, tied the laces together and hung the shoes over her neck. She started climbing the drainpipe. Its surface was pitted and corroded and it provided a wonderful non-slip surface for her powerful grip, while the rough stone of the walls of the house gave her purchase with her toes and the soles of her feet. Like all climbers, she leant hard into the surface she was climbing up. She excelled at climbing. She had that wonderful mix of a head for heights, balance, mental and physical, and huge strength. Hanlon could do one-armed push-ups and she could also pull her own body weight up by her fingertips on one hand. The ascent for her was ridiculously easy.