by Emmy Ellis
“I know the one. Robins rents the whole block?”
“Yes. Chambers goes outside to smoke a lot, stands in the courtyard round the back. I know this because I was left with him once, and he cuffed me to a chair in the office while he went out.”
A muscle flickered in Greg’s jaw. “Fucking animal.”
“He is a bit.”
“Okay, we’ll do that then. You’ll be at work with Debbie on Thursday, acting the same as usual, but one of us will pick you up out the back after we’ve got Robins and Black at the warehouse. We’ll need the times of when they arrive and leave the casino.”
“Always the same each week—arrival is eight, leaving is twelve.”
“Works perfectly. Ask Debbie to keep your night clear from half twelve onwards.”
“Okay.”
It was really happening, they were going to die. She had to believe they deserved it, because if she didn’t, it meant she was a monster, the same as them.
The voice of her darker side came through: Think of the lives you’ll save. Dad’s, Shona’s, the homeless men, and anyone else he decides to murder. Think of yourself. If he comes for you, do you really think he’s going to let you live?
Chapter Eighteen
Martin found himself dumped on the kerb, an aching, painful mess. It was broad daylight, and they’d had the balls to deposit him where they’d taken him from, on a bustling street full of shoppers. His ice cream tub fell from his hand and tipped over, money spilling, the fiver snatched away by the wind, dancing and spinning, pressing itself to someone’s leg. That someone picked it off and stuck it in her pocket, and Martin’s heart sank. He didn’t have enough change for tomorrow’s food.
The car drove away, and no one came to help the clean man in dirty rags. He was an invisible eyesore—invisible because they chose not to notice him.
He managed to roll from his side to his hands and knees, each movement agony. The man called Johnny had given him some Savlon, but how was he supposed to put it on, and where? It wasn’t like he had the luxury of privacy, nor could he reach much of his back. If he waited for long enough outside the public loos, he could catch hold of the door as someone came out. That’d save him putting ten pence in the slot. He’d smooth the cream on as many welts as he could.
His hours in that attic had been surreal. Sometimes, Martin thought he’d imagined it, that he was stuck in a nightmare, his body still out on the street, his conscious mind oblivious to the torment. Other times he knew full well where he was, and every strike bit into him, eventually cutting his flesh.
Kevin had told him why he did it to people, why he whipped them until they bled. It was to have some control, a way to release tension since his position as leader meant he didn’t have the time to mete out pain as often as he’d like.
He ‘missed the old days’.
What kind of person whipped you then fed you?
What kind of person whipped you then brought you hot chocolate?
Martin didn’t know, but ‘warped monster’ came to mind. The food and drink were as if the man was apologising for what he’d done, even though he’d enjoyed it.
Martin reached out for his coins scattered on the ground but didn’t catch the ice cream tub. It tumbled end over end the same as the fiver had, the wind nasty and mean today. He’d do a bin dive later and find something else to use. People might not give him money for a while, not until his hair and beard grew, and his face got some dirt on it. He didn’t look genuine enough at the moment. They’d think he was one of those scammers who deliberately put filthy clothes on and begged for cash.
He got to his feet and staggered over to the wall of Gregg’s, and for once, his stomach didn’t pang at the smell of food. Johnny had fed him a fry-up earlier, and that would last Martin until tomorrow. That was good, because he had something he needed to do today.
The walk to the local police station took ages, his shuffle extending the time and, with the sun at its highest, he trudged up the steps and hobbled inside. At the desk, he stated what had happened to him, and the sergeant seemed interested in his story. Others must have reported Kevin and Johnny then.
The sergeant showed Martin into a ‘soft’ room, whatever the hell that meant, but the sofa he sat on, it wasn’t soft enough. Anything touching the welts brought on a fresh burn of pain.
A uniform stood beside the door, silent, and Martin had to lie on his side where the marks weren’t so severe. He didn’t care what the copper thought, months on the street had erased his modesty, and he closed his eyes while he waited for someone to come and speak to him. Times past, he’d slept on the street, shoppers gadding about as if he wasn’t there. This was a luxury compared to then.
He woke to the sound of the door opening and a man speaking to the copper. The newcomer was a somewhat rough-looking bloke in plain clothes, and he ushered the uniform out, closed the door, and came to sit in one of the chairs. He smiled, his teeth long and yellow.
“I’m Detective Inspector Rod Clarke, and I’m investigating similar cases to yours. Several homeless men appear to be missing—that or they’ve changed their begging and sleeping spots. I only knew this when the first one came in here with the whip marks—he informed me his street buddy, as he called him, had disappeared, then he’d been taken. Now, it became clear that someone is snatching men off the street, abusing them, and dropping them back off. The desk sergeant said this happened to you, is that right?”
Martin didn’t bother sitting up to talk. He didn’t have the energy, nor did he want to set the wounds off. “Yes, that’s right.”
“We’ve had no leads on who these men are—the abductors—as CCTV didn’t pick up their cars, and the others who came here didn’t know their names. Do you?”
Martin wanted to nod but didn’t dare. It’d stretch the skin on his back. “One’s called Kevin, the other one Johnny.”
DI Clarke paled. “Oh.”
He must know them.
“That’s…interesting,” Clarke said. “Now, tell me what they did to you, from the moment you were abducted until now. I want to know what the house looks like, where you were kept, how you were treated during the times you weren’t being hurt.”
Martin closed his eyes and saw it as if it were a film. He remembered it all, even the moments when it was like a dream, and by the time he’d finished, his mouth was dry, his throat sore. It felt like his cuts needed Savlon. They throbbed.
“Okay, I’m going to go and get you a drink and a sandwich,” Clarke said. “I should have done that at the beginning—sorry about that. Next, a doctor will be in to see you. Then we can get on with finding you somewhere to live—I know a couple of people who can help you out there.”
Martin opened his eyes, his head groggy. Had he heard right? Somewhere to live? It must be a hostel or something. “Thanks.”
Clarke left the room, and the uniform stood by the door again, pity in his eyes. Martin didn’t need pity, he needed action, Kevin and Johnny banged up.
He watched the clock, the second hand and how it jolted each time it moved. It was clear Clarke knew who’d done this. Why had he paled, though? Surely he had the right of it, could arrest them. They were scary men, but the police were in charge.
Weren’t they?
Clarke returned with a vending machine tea and a pre-packed sandwich. Martin was hungry now, even though he hadn’t thought he would be, and he sat up, wincing, crying out in pain. Clarke opened the sandwich, telling the uniform to get out.
Once they were alone, he said, “I’ve informed my colleagues to keep you here until I get back. I’ll have secured you some accommodation by then, guaranteed. Rest. I shouldn’t be long, about an hour. In the meanwhile, like I said, the doctor will be in.”
Martin didn’t know what to say so cried instead. This bloke was kind, cared what happened to him, and it was the first time in ages anyone had given a shit, apart from that passersby who’d handed him the fiver. He waited until the detective had left and let the te
ars flow fully, stopping them once the uniform came back to stand beside the door.
It was going to be okay, he could feel it, but a whispering voice in the back of his head said that if Kevin and Johnny weren’t caught and they found out he’d grassed, Martin was done for.
Chapter Nineteen
Greg and George sat in their home office, thrashing out the finer points of the plan. It was a pest, not involving their men on this—they could have done with the extra help at the offices when they went to pay Chambers a visit, a lookout here and there—but it was important to keep this job quiet. Lavender was upstairs in one of the bedrooms, catching up on sleep as they’d turned up at hers in what amounted to her middle of the night.
“So Chambers is a shot to the head, silencer on, in the courtyard of the office block,” Greg confirmed.
George nodded. “Yeah, we’ve got time to take him to the warehouse, use the saw, and dump him in the river before we go to the casino in the taxi.”
Greg thought about the pitfalls. “Do you think it’s risky, though? What if Robins and Black leave the casino early? There’s only two of us…”
George shrugged. “I can do Chambers on my own while you keep watch at the casino if you like.”
“There’s two of them and one of me,” Greg said. “I can pick them up in the taxi, disguise on, no problem, but once they realise I’m taking them to the warehouse…”
“We’ll just have to stick to what we agreed then. If they leave the casino early, we’ll get them on the Friday night—that’s when they go to The Dragon’s Head for a knees-up.”
“Fair enough. So long as it’s inside the week, Lavender’s safe.”
A knock on the front door startled them both, and they stared at each other. Apart from parcels being delivered and their men, who knew to phone before they turned up, no one should be fucking knocking.
“Who the hell is that?” George asked.
“I have no idea, can’t see through doors.”
“Funny bastard.”
They got up at the same time, and Greg led the way, his heart thumping.
He peered through the peephole. “I swear to God, if he keeps doing this…” Anger boiled, quick and hot, and heat filled his cheeks.
“Who is it?”
“Clarke.”
“That fucking bloke…”
“Don’t. I’m warning you, I’m likely to blow.”
“No mess at home, we said that,” George reminded him. “Besides, if you whack him in this hallway, blood will get on our nice white stair carpet.”
Greg tsked. He opened the door, shot his arm out, and grabbed Clarke’s coat lapel. He hauled him inside and slammed the door, letting Clarke go so forcefully the man staggered backwards into the red chair in the corner.
“What have we told you?” Greg snapped.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, phone first.” Clarke straightened his coat and rolled his shoulders. “I could have you for that, assaulting a police officer.”
“Fuck off,” George said. “We’ve got too much on you. Honestly, do you want your boss to know you’re in with us? Seems you do. That’s twice now you’ve come here unannounced.”
Clarke held his hands up to placate them. “Look, I need your help, so guffing on at me isn’t going to get things sorted. Robins and Black are up to no good.”
“We know.” Greg sighed. Great, the copper was in the know. The question was, what did he know? They wanted to keep Lavender out of this as much as possible.
“And?” Clarke looked from one of them to the other. “Got it in hand?”
“Yep.”
“These homeless men.” Clarke shook his head. “It’s bloody rotten what they’re doing.”
Greg relaxed. Clarke didn’t know about Lavender. “We heard a bit about that, but we’re getting them for another reason.”
“Which is?”
“Never you mind. Just so long as they’re gone, it doesn’t matter.”
“I need a coffee after you manhandled me—you owe me that as an apology.” Clarke headed for the kitchen.
Greg glanced at George: Make himself at home much? George shrugged and followed the copper. Greg stood there for a moment, calming himself down. Anger over Clarke coming here had to take a back seat, but they’d have to find somewhere they could meet him that was safe. No more arriving on their bloody doorstep.
Greg entered the kitchen, and George passed Clarke a coffee then sat opposite him. Greg chose a stool beside his brother at the island, the pair of them against Clarke, an obvious message.
Clarke sipped and closed his eyes. “I need to get myself one of those drinks machines.”
“Sod the machine,” George said. “How come you know about the homeless men?”
“A couple of them came in after they’d been abducted—there’s no other word for it. Bundled into a car, taken to a house. Kept in an attic where they’re whipped, and all the while, the one doing the whipping justifies why he’s doing it, like he has the right to inflict pain on them.”
“Robins?” George asked.
“Yeah, and get this weirdness. He cuts their hair, shaves them, forces them into a hot shower—all other times, it’s cold. Then he gets stuff out of a cupboard set in the wall and cuffs them, attaches them to the ceiling. He whips them until they bleed or die. If they remain alive, he tells them they’ve earnt the right to be let go, that they fought for something better than what he’d dished out to them, and if they had the fight for that, they had the fight to stop living on the streets. Warped thinking, if you ask me.”
“We didn’t,” George said.
Clarke rolled his eyes. “Very funny. Where he’s put the dead ones I don’t know, but according to the fella who came to report it earlier, Robins told him his name. What kind of sick shit is he? Or does he think himself so untouchable, he doesn’t think the homeless will tell anyone what he’s called?”
Greg had to steady his anger. He wanted to go to Robins’ place and shoot the fucking lot of them, gun them down and leave their bodies to rot, maggot-infested heaps of worthless shite. “So someone was freed today, yes?”
Clarke nodded. “Martin Galbraith. Nice chap, if a bit sore from the whippings. The other two who gave statements said they’d noticed men were disappearing off the streets, but they assumed they’d moved on. I’d say they’re dead. They didn’t have any names to give, nor did they know where they’d been taken—bags over their heads. I can only assume Robins got bold with Martin and let his name slip. Saying that, Black did, too.”
“Are they taken from Robins’ patch?” George asked. “I mean, is he cleaning up his area by doing this? Is that his reasoning?”
Clarke coughed. “No. They’re from your patch.”
The anger erupted, and Greg stood, pacing in front of the sink. He wanted to punch the living daylights out of someone, rail at them. Clarke would do. “Who the hell does he think he is? People are homeless for a reason. What right does he have to use them like they’re rubbish, like they don’t matter? I’m going to enjoy ending him, I can tell you.”
“Just do it soon, before another man gets taken,” Clarke said.
“We’ve got Thursday earmarked.” George closed the notebook they’d jotted the plan in—shit, he should have done that the minute Clarke sat at the island. He could have read their plans and got it into his head to turn up and help them out. The last thing they needed was him standing outside the fucking casino. “It’s the easiest day. We’re also doing Nigel Chambers, some nutter who works for them.”
“Why are you doing it if it isn’t for the homeless?” Clarke probed.
“Honestly, you don’t need to know anything other than it isn’t just homeless men they prey on.” George folded his arms: Don’t ask us anything else. “We’ll get rid of them for you, don’t worry about that, end of discussion.”
“What about if there’s another abduction?” Clarke stroked his chin. “When you see the state of the men, what’s done to them… I’m a bast
ard, I’m a copper more bent than an Allen key, but the sight of their backs, their arses, their legs… I can’t let it happen again.”
“Then put people at the homeless points,” George said.
“I can’t. Budgets…”
“I’d say arrest him, but you want him gone as much as we do, so tipping him off isn’t the way to go.”
Greg stopped pacing and clenched his fists. “We’ll deal with it.”
Clarke’s eyes widened. “What, your lot at homeless points? That’s a lot of your men on the streets. What if there are more spots we don’t know about?”
Greg smiled at Clarke’s inability to think outside the box, although to be fair, he didn’t know they had inside men all over the place. “One man, one location.”
“What?” Clarke’s eyebrows knitted.
“At Robins’ house. He intercepts if a car turns up with a homeless bloke in it.”
“Problem there,” George said. “They might be like us and go into the garage before they take him out of the car.”
“I know, which is why we’ll use Simon Spencer on the inside.”
Clarke’s face sagged.
George smiled. “Yeah, I forgot about him for a minute there.”
“What’s going on?” Clarke drank some coffee. “Who’s this Spencer?”
“Simon Spencer is our man, in Robins’ camp. We’ve got a bloke in every estate,” Greg said.
Clarke slapped his thigh. “Fuck me. So why didn’t he tell you about the homeless, about whatever else it is that got Robins on your radar?”
“Because he wasn’t there when our other issue was, that was before our time, and he was told to only inform us of anything if it involved us.” Greg would have to have a word with him. Spencer should have said the homeless were being taken from The Cardigan Estate—if he even knew.
“So we assume he didn’t know about where the blokes were taken from,” George said, as always, reading Greg’s mind.
“That had better be the bloody case,” Greg muttered. Otherwise, he’s in the Thames.
