Discarded

by M. A. Hunter

  ‘I don’t give a shit!’ Precious snapped back. ‘We had a deal! She isn’t ready for all this. It was a mistake to bring her tonight.’

  Grey looked down at Joanna, and she could see the longing in his eyes – stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  ‘The deal’s off. If Mr Brown says Kylie’s available, then that’s how it is. She goes with Bill, or there’s going to be trouble for all of us. Listen, I’ll make it up to both of you, okay? Double wage tonight if you stop all this nonsense and just go along with it. What do you say?’

  For a moment Joanna thought Precious was actually considering the offer, but then she shook her head firmly. ‘She’s going nowhere with this… this filthy pervert.’

  Bill discarded Joanna’s wrist, his face a deep shade of beetroot, and waved a finger of warning in Mr Brown’s face. ‘Just what bloody shambles are you running here, Brown? Either control your girls or you and I are going to have problems with that planning application of yours. Am I clear?’

  ‘I will handle this, Bill, and I’m sorry for the trouble. Can I suggest you make a different selection for tonight – on the house – and I’ll make sure we don’t have a repeat of this next time? I truly am sorry.’

  Bill looked at the unchosen ones at the back of the room, before pointing for two to step forward for closer scrutiny. Joanna watched as he stalked around the two of them, and then back to her, clearly annoyed by the situation.

  ‘Why don’t you take both?’ Mr Brown said, all smarmy smiles now. ‘On the house. Consider it a gesture of my goodwill to redress the situation.’

  Bill chewed hard on his cigar before nodding and clicking his fingers for the two girls – both younger than Precious, judging by their underdeveloped physiques – to follow him to his room.

  The man whom Precious had been sat with had also selected an alternative girl, and with the room cleared, Mr Brown closed the doors before turning his attention back to the three of them.

  ‘Bill’s choices are coming out of your cut,’ he growled at Grey. ‘Never have I been so humiliated. And as for you,’ he said, glowering and turning to face Precious before slapping her hard across the face, ‘it seems someone is going to have to teach you some goddamned manners.’

  The sound of the slap echoed off the walls of the room, but she remained on her feet, tears splashing against her cheeks and made no sound of protest.

  Grey stooped and lifted Joanna, holding her firmly though she tried to kick and butt her way free. Her efforts were in vain and he carried her out of the room. She screamed for Precious, who nervously watched as Brown unfastened his belt and closed the door to block Joanna’s view.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Now

  Uxbridge, London

  It feels so weird being back where it all began. Uxbridge Police Station hasn’t changed much in the eight months since Jack and I last worked missing children cases. For all of our best intentions to reunite parents with their lost ones, Jemima Hooper was the only new victim we could tie to the videos found on Arthur Turgood’s hard drive. Her body had been dumped in woods in Tamworth years earlier, so we didn’t even manage to reunite her with her family. Instead we broke her parents’ hearts by informing them of what she’d been subjected to after her abduction. Not exactly the worthy achievement we’d aimed for.

  All that seems so long ago now though, and I think I’d sooner be back in that time than where we are now. Everything we’ve learned since we first stumbled upon Turgood’s hard drive suggests there is a wider paedophile ring that has been taking these children and subjecting them to various horrors. Aurélie Lebrun is another who still carries the scars of her time with such a monster, and she too has spoken of the parties that Freddie told us about. ‘Party’ feels like such an inappropriate word to describe an evening where dirty old men degrade and violate children; maybe ‘cattle market’ would be more appropriate, but then that would do a disservice to the agriculture industry. There are no words to properly describe what these people have done other than vile and evil, and even those don’t feel adequate.

  Jack takes a deep breath as he gets the words straight in his head, before knocking on the large ply door.

  ‘Come in,’ the voice booms from within the office, and Jack holds the door open for me to enter first and take one of the seats across from Detective Chief Superintendent Jagtar Rawani. His gaze remains fixed on the laptop screen before him, and it’s only when Jack has closed the door and is seated beside me that he looks up to the two of us.

  ‘Miss Hunter, Jack didn’t tell me you were tagging along too. You look well.’

  Although DCS Rawani can often cut an unassuming figure, I know he doesn’t suffer fools lightly and that this comment is a formality rather than a genuine concern for my wellbeing. I could tell him of the challenging week I’ve had, but I already know that he has witnessed and experienced far worse situations in his twenty-plus years in uniform. The room is decidedly warm for the time of year, even though the only window is wide open.

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘How are you?’

  He narrows his eyes as his mind works a hundred calculations to determine the potential consequences of revealing anything meaningful about himself. ‘Well.’

  ‘And how is Mrs Rawani?’ I don’t know why I’ve asked that as I’ve never met the woman, and he’s never spoken of her to me, but the picture of the two of them on their wedding day has pride of place on the corner of his desk.

  ‘We are both well, thank you.’ He turns to Jack, the limited pleasantries now complete as far as he is concerned. ‘What is so urgent that I had to postpone lunch with the mayor?’

  Jack shuffles uncomfortably in his chair, as if the cushion is packed with pins. ‘Well, sir, I don’t know quite where to begin.’

  I cringe inwardly. It’s not a good start. Rawani despises indirectness, and I can see we are already losing his attention.

  ‘There’s something I need to escalate,’ Jack continues, still wriggling, ‘and I didn’t know who to speak to, or how to…’

  Rawani’s eyes have returned to the laptop screen and we are probably only seconds away from being ejected from the room.

  ‘We’ve uncovered a sinister ring of paedophiles and we believe former Met Police Commissioner Anthony Tomlinson is involved,’ I come out with hurriedly, refusing to meet Jack’s disapproving glare.

  Rawani slowly closes the laptop and looks straight at me. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to repeat that, Miss Hunter.’

  ‘We – Jack and I – believe the ring of individuals who abduct children and force them into the sex industry does exist. It all ties back to the videos recovered from Arthur Turgood’s hard drive following his arrest three years ago. You’ll recall Jack discovered a video featuring my missing sister, and that we later also identified Jemima Hooper on a second video.’

  Rawani makes no move to acknowledge what we have said, remaining emotionless behind the desk, but listening to every word. His navy turban is wound tightly, but despite the warmth of the room there isn’t any sign of perspiration on his face.

  ‘In the last week I have been sent photographs of two missing children – Faye McKenna and Cormack Fitzpatrick – who have been missing since 1998 and 1996 respectively. Faye’s remains were recovered from the site that was the Pendark Film Studios and which is now under development, and we believe Cormack is buried in another man’s grave in Hayling Island, Hampshire. Today I received a photograph of the two main suspects in those murders, laughing with the former Metropolitan Police Commissioner. Jack?’

  Rawani’s gaze moves from me to Jack, but still he doesn’t speak.

  Jack lifts the evidence bag onto the desk but keeps it sealed. ‘She’s right, sir. I have the photograph of Sir Anthony and the two suspects in here. For context, there is nothing within the photograph to imply that Sir Anthony has any awareness of who the two men are, or what they were involved in. Furthermore, Sir Anthony’s name has not come up in our investig
ation at any point before today.’

  Rawani is giving nothing away as to how he feels about this claim, and I sense he would be an astute poker player. ‘I know you better than to assume you’ve jumped to such a conclusion based purely on his presence in this photograph.’ He is looking straight at me when he says this.

  ‘It’s not so much him being in the photograph,’ I begin, uncertain of quite how to describe the feeling in my gut. ‘It’s more about who sent the picture.’

  He remains silent.

  ‘The photograph of Faye McKenna arrived on Friday, right after remains were discovered in a suitcase in Newbury. The picture of Cormack arrived yesterday and included the imprint of a postcode, which led us to Hayling Island, and a particular grave. So, two photographs, and two dead bodies—’

  ‘Potentially two dead bodies,’ Jack interjects. ‘We don’t know for certain that Cormack is buried in that grave. The bunch of flowers is hardly conclusive.’

  I don’t like that Jack is undermining our assertion that Tomlinson is involved; I’m sure Rawani is capable of debunking the theory without Jack’s help. I try to ignore his doubts because I know he’s only playing devil’s advocate.

  ‘We know that Turgood spent time at Pendark Film Studios from Freddie Mitchell’s testimony, and we know that Peter Saltzing had dealings with Turgood at the St Francis Home from the newspaper cuttings we found, and he oversaw the burial of Jean-Claude Ribery in Hayling Island. Whoever sent the pictures of Faye and Cormack wants me to follow this road, and this latest photograph leads us to Tomlinson. I’m not saying it’s enough to arrest him, nor to even present our findings to the squad that handles police corruption, but I do think it warrants further investigation.’

  Rawani sits back in his chair, his eyes moving so quickly it’s almost imperceptible. ‘You have nothing else?’

  I look to Jack, hoping he can talk in a language that will help Rawani understand that we both feel this is right in our guts, even if we have nothing tangible to support it, but he remains silent.

  ‘An accusation like that, with nothing to support it, will mean dismissal, Jack, do you understand that? And for you, Miss Hunter, you’d probably spend the next decade in civil court for libel. The ramifications would be enormous.’ He pauses again, before turning to Jack. ‘Why did you bring this to me? Why not take it to your boss at the NCA? Harry Dainton is heading up your investigation, is he not?’

  ‘He’s good friends with Sir Anthony, sir. They were playing golf together only yesterday. I thought it best to wait until we have something more solid before speaking to him.’

  Rawani doesn’t look impressed. ‘And what did you think I would do about it?’

  Jack opens his mouth to speak before thinking better of it.

  ‘We need help,’ I speak up. ‘This is bigger than Jack and me, but we don’t know who to trust and how to approach something like this. We came to you because you aren’t part of any boys’ club or masonic lodge. You believe in doing things by the book, and I imagine you’ve seen enough examples of internal corruption to know the best path to steer us towards. We need someone we can trust.’

  I don’t think Rawani is one who bends to flattery, but I mean every word.

  He stands and tucks the chair beneath his desk. ‘I have another meeting across town that I need to attend. Tell me something: aside from this Faye McKenna’s remains being discovered in Newbury, do you have anything else to link her to what was going on there at the site?’

  Jack and I look at each other before simultaneously shrugging.

  Rawani straightens his tie. ‘If you could tie Faye and Cormack to the videos found on Turgood’s drive, that would put you a step closer to linking their deaths to this potential ring or syndicate, or however you want to refer to it.’

  ‘We could have the photos you were sent compared to the video footage,’ Jack says to me.

  Rawani picks up a briefcase from behind his desk. ‘Do that and then meet me back here at one o’clock.’

  He opens the door and holds it until we realise it is our cue to leave. Locking the door, Rawani moves around us without another word, and to any casual observer it would be as if he didn’t even know we were here. Jack directs me along the narrow corridor before diving into a small kitchen room, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Have you still got the images on your phone?’

  I nod and unlock the screen to show him.

  ‘Good. Can you forward those to me? We’ll go to my office in Vauxhall and have the pictures checked against what was taken from the videos.’

  ‘But won’t that take days rather than hours?’

  Jack shakes his head. ‘The team examining the footage have captured cut-outs of every face for quicker comparison. They can now run any picture against the selection in a matter of minutes. We’ll know one way or another before the end of today.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Now

  Uxbridge, London

  ‘Why didn’t you back me in there?’ I ask Jack once we’re in his car and underway.

  He lowers the volume of the stereo. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘With Rawani… I thought we were on the same page regarding Tomlinson’s involvement, but as soon as we got in there, you started backtracking.’

  ‘That’s not what I was doing. I was being pragmatic and keeping my personal feelings out of it. You don’t know the DCS like I do. He isn’t one for gut instincts and sixth sense. For him, it’s black or it’s white, and there is no middle ground. If we actually had anything tantamount to evidence against Tomlinson, he would have sanctioned the arrest warrant himself.’

  I lower my window for air. ‘I wish you’d warned me that was the stance you were going to take. It felt like I’d imagined our discussion in Maddie’s office.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head turn towards me. ‘I’m sorry if that’s the way I made you feel; it certainly wasn’t my intention.’

  I keep my eyes fixed on the window so he won’t see the tension in my face. ‘So where do you really stand on the Tomlinson situation? Is he involved? What does your intuition tell you?’

  Jack’s head turns back to the road, but he is quiet for several seconds before replying. ‘Ever since I read Freddie’s story in Monsters Under the Bed, I’ve suspected collusion at some level. Those kinds of accusations levied at a children’s home don’t disappear without pressure from somewhere. It’s not like it was in the 60s when enough money could silence even the loudest critic. Freddie’s original claims were made in the 90s when the world was more switched on to the kind of abuses that could occur in certain areas of social care. For Freddie’s and the other boys’ claims not to be pursued would have taken a lot of effort. I suppose I figured at some point we would stumble across some relatively senior figure manipulating things behind the scenes. I hoped we wouldn’t, and that I’d be mistaken, but it seems not. You want to know whether I think Tomlinson is guilty. My answer is that I can’t say without evidence. If you’re asking if I think he could be involved somehow, then absolutely.’

  I try not to show my relief that Jack’s thoughts mirror my own. I still remember some of the negative attention I received after Monsters was first published. Even now, the likes of Zoe Cavendish see me as someone trying to muddy the good name of law enforcement when it simply isn’t the case. If there are a few bad apples, then I’m duty-bound to find and remove them wherever they are.

  The offices of the National Crime Agency in Vauxhall are fancier than I was anticipating, with tall glass windows marking the public entrance and a taller red-brick building sprouting from the back, plus a secured gated entrance. Jack drops me by the entrance and tells me he’ll come through and sign me in once he’s parked his car. He appears at the door a few minutes later and after explaining who I am to the officer on the front desk, I’m given a visitor’s lanyard and allowed through.

  The freshly painted walls and open-plan office space make it feel more like a contact cent
re than a centre investigating some of the most serious and violent crimes in the country.

  ‘The team dealing with missing persons overall is based in Hook in Hampshire,’ Jack explains as we take the lift up to the fourth floor. ‘I have a video call with them most mornings to review progress in the investigation. The videos retrieved from Turgood’s hard drive are here, but as I explained, they have been carefully reviewed and individual faces of the victims have been captured to allow for facial recognition. It’s been painstakingly slow but the database is virtually complete, and once it is we should be able to run the faces of any missing children against the database and find matches.’

  My phone vibrates as I receive a text message from Rick asking if I’ve decided where we should go for dinner tonight. It had totally slipped my mind and I don’t now know whether I’ll be back in Weymouth by seven. I don’t want to mess him about, but I know he’ll see me cancelling the date as exactly that.

  ‘Trouble?’ Jack asks, clearly noticing my furrowed brow.

  ‘No, nothing to worry about,’ I reply, quickly typing a response that I’ll let him know later.

  The lift doors part and we exit into another open-plan office, but this time with dividers separating some of the desks. There are only a handful of people on the floor and Jack nods at one or two as we arrive at his desk on the far side of the room. A photograph of Mila has been stuck to the bottom of his monitor with Sellotape.

  ‘Emma Hunter, this is Jasminda Kaur, one of the smartest women I’ve ever met, and this is Geoff Macaulay who is the man who helped…’ He pauses, choosing his words carefully. ‘Geoff was the one who found your sister’s face on the video.’

  I shake both their hands in acknowledgement, but neither stand, quickly returning their attention to their monitors. If they’ve recognised me neither lets on, and it’s a relief.