Broken

  ‘Well, thanks for the SP.’

  The man shook hands with them and walked to his brand new Merc. They both watched him pull away.

  ‘That was a touch, Pat. He’s normally very tight-lipped, old Tom Ellis. Must have been well annoyed with Partridge to spill that little lot.’

  ‘He owes me a favour. His boy’s doing life for murder. I gave him an easy set in Durham. Single cell, et cetera.’

  Willy nodded. ‘Least he can do then really. Where to next?’

  ‘To be honest, Willy, I don’t have a clue,’ Patrick sighed.

  Christian ran into his mother’s arms and Kate was pleased to see there was a genuine closeness there. She was dreading the woman’s next question.

  ‘Where’s Ivor?’

  Caroline’s pretty face was expectant and Kate sat her down gently before explaining how Christian had been found, and that he was alone.

  ‘You’re telling me that my son was thrown into a bin van and my other son’s still on the missing list?’

  Kate could hear the rising hysteria in the woman’s voice.

  ‘So where the fuck is Ivor then? Who’s got my Ivor?’

  Kate shook her head sadly. ‘We don’t know. Until we heard from you, how were we to know that two children were missing? Also, three witnesses gave a description of a woman who could be you at the scene. So we have a dilemma on our hands. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  Caroline looked as if she had been punched in the solar plexus.

  ‘How come you didn’t notice you’d mislaid your children until nearly lunchtime today? Most kids are up and about by eight. And how come you don’t have any idea who could have taken them from under your nose? In short, if you tell us the truth about what happened, maybe, just maybe, we can try and locate Ivor for you. But without you telling us the full story, we can’t help you at all. A three-year-old child is wandering around out there somewhere and it’s imperative we find him before he harms himself. So, Caroline, let’s start at the beginning, shall we?’

  The other woman looked into Kate’s eyes and felt the tears welling.

  ‘You think a nutter has him, don’t you?’ Fear was all she felt and tasted. ‘Where is he? Where’s my little Ivor?’ she said frantically.

  ‘I was hoping you could answer that,’ Kate told her. ‘Listen, Caroline, you were placed there at the scene. We’re going to ask you to take part in an identity parade some time today. I suggest you get a solicitor and take advice.’

  Caroline’s eyes were terrified, giant orbs in a white face. ‘You think I have something to do with all this, don’t you?’

  Kate shrugged. ‘An ID parade could clear you, remember that. But as we have three witnesses who gave a description that sounded remarkably like you, we cannot rule you out of our investigation just yet. I feel, though, that there are a lot of unanswered questions here and only you can provide us with the necessary answers.’

  Caroline’s face changed. ‘My boys are my life, whatever anyone might think. I admit I do a few things wrong but I love them boys and I do what I do for them. You must believe me.’

  ‘I deal in facts. Plain and simple facts. The only ones I have now are that your children were taken from under your roof, one child was dumped in a bin van, the other is still missing. We need to find him. Fast.’

  As Kate watched the changing expressions on the girl’s face she wasn’t sure whether the mother was behind the children’s disappearance or not.

  Suddenly, Caroline leaped from her seat and roared at the top of her voice: ‘Where is my little boy? You’re the police. Fucking go and find him!’

  As she began screaming uncontrollably Kate bundled up the small boy who stood as if turned to stone by his mother’s shrieks and hustled him from the room. She called a medic, watched as the girl was sedated, and then when she was under a modicum of control, Kate started to question her properly. At the back of her mind she was always aware that somewhere a three-year-old child was either dead, dying or being held captive.

  Time was running out for Ivor Anderson. If it hadn’t done so already.

  Patrick looked around his office in Canning Town in sheer disbelief. The place had been well and truly trashed. All his papers were strewn across the room; his account books had been ripped apart. Even the photographs of his dead wife Renée and daughter Mandy had been destroyed, and this upset him more than anything.

  Willy stared at the scene open-mouthed. ‘Blimey, Pat, someone was after something.’

  ‘You know what, Willy? You always state the fucking obvious. Sometimes it really gets on my tits.’

  ‘I was only saying . . .’

  ‘Yeah, well, don’t in future. But I tell you one thing: whoever did this is on a fucking death wish. I will find out who is responsible and kill them.’

  ‘Could it have been kids?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘This is too professional for kids. My guess is they were after me holding books. Even the floorboards have been prised up. Luckily I keep them separate. What we need to know now is why someone wants them. I own the businesses so why are the books of any interest to an outside party?’

  ‘Well, maybe whoever did this is after a slice of the pie themselves.’

  ‘Precisely. Now we have to guess who that could be and rout the fuckers. Put the fear of Christ up them.’

  Willy wiped one large hand across his face. ‘My guess is either Partridge or Gunner.’

  Patrick’s voice was a sarcastic growl as he answered, ‘Fuck-all gets past you, eh, Willy? Magnus Magnusson been on the blower yet for Mastermind?’

  Willy was hurt and it showed. ‘No point getting all bolshie with me, Pat. I’m on your side.’

  As he spoke he picked up Renée’s photo and tried to smooth it out with his big clumsy hands. ‘Whoever did this will get a right-hander off me just for this little fiasco,’ he mumbled. ‘This is getting bleeding personal.’

  Patrick saw that the big man was visibly upset and put an arm round his shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry, Willy, but all this is getting to me now. I have someone after me and I don’t even know who for sure. I can guess, I can fight, I can hurt . . . but I still have to find out for definite who I’m dealing with and, more importantly, why.’

  ‘My poke is on Gunner, Pat. I’ve never liked him, the ponce.’

  ‘Well, whoever it is had better have some heavy weapons because they’re going to need them. A joke’s a joke, as my old mum used to say. But this is turning into a fucking pantomime.’

  There was raw anger in Patrick’s voice. Then the phone rang and they both realised it was the only thing in the room that had not been destroyed.

  He picked it up. ‘What?’

  A woman came on the line. A quietly spoken woman.

  ‘Mr Kelly?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘You have two minutes to vacate the Portakabin. It is going to blow.’

  He stared at the mouthpiece for ten seconds in incredulous silence before looking at Willy and saying loudly, ‘This place is going to blow up in two minutes. Some sort just told me they were blowing up my fucking drum! Can you believe the nerve of that—’

  Willy took him roughly by the arm. ‘In that case, Pat, let’s get out of here, eh?’

  As they hurried outside Patrick stared around him at the yard he had had for over thirty years.

  ‘This has got to be a wind-up.’

  Willy pushed him into the car and backed it out on to the road. Then, parking as far away from the yard as he could, they sat and watched.

  The yard blew all right.

  Patrick could still hear the ringing in his ears when the fire brigade and police arrived, but by that time he and Willy were driving sedately along the A13, Patrick muttering over and over: ‘Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.’

  Willy kept quiet.

  Chapter Three

  Leroy Holdings was tired out. He had been up for two days speeding and knew he should go to bed but he had a
meet with another dealer about broadening their horizons around the capital. Drug dealing and prostitution were more lucrative than he could ever have dreamed. Thank God for women and pharmaceuticals - that was his mantra these days.

  As he looked around his state-of-the-art kitchen he smiled contentedly. He had come a long way from Manchester. He liked living in Docklands. There was an anonymity about the place that appealed to him, but his girlfriend Letitia had left the place in a mess and that irked him.

  Lately she couldn’t be bothered to do anything. Pregnancy was not doing her much good. In fact, since she had found out about the baby she had done practically nothing. That included the bedroom department as well.

  When he heard the door open he shouted: ‘Hey, Letitia, I’m in here.’ His voice was loud and aggressive. He was going to bawl her out, he had decided. He might not have been home for a while but, hell, it was her job to see that the place was kept in good condition.

  As he looked across the Thames he felt his usual stir of pride at living in a Docklands loft. Coming from a council estate in Manchester, he appreciated this turn in his fortunes more than the average dealer. Not for him a cage in a local authority flat where everyone came calling at all hours of the day and night. He didn’t need to do that himself any more and certainly didn’t live on top of the business. He had invested his money in property and cars, the latter being his first love.

  When he went to friends’ houses and saw the bars on their doors and windows he felt stifled. It was like being banged up again. No, he liked his smart new life, it suited him fine.

  He strolled from the kitchen area into the large lounge. It was then he saw the two men with shotguns standing on his immaculate white shag-pile carpet.

  ‘Hello, son.’

  The man’s voice was friendly. Friendly enough for Leroy to think all he was getting was a warning of some kind.

  When the guns went off he was so shocked that the look of utter incomprehension was still on his face when Letitia found him there twenty-five minutes later.

  Stingo Plessey was old. Very old in comparison with the other men who lived on the caravan site with him. As he walked carefully across the rubbish tip he was whistling. The smells of rotten food and stinking garbage meant nothing to him. He was used to it. Today he was keeping his eye out for stuff he could clean up and sell on. Anything, in fact, that caught his eye.

  Seeing a child’s brand new trainer he grinned, showing greying false teeth. Picking it up, he saw it was a Nike. Now if he could find the other one he would be set. A good clean and he had at least a fiver in his pocket. A nice bottle of sherry or fine ruby port. He rubbed his hands together in glee.

  As he pushed the rubbish about with his thick yew walking stick he saw the other trainer. Only this one was bloodied and stained. He swallowed down fiery bile as he realised that inside the small trainer there was still what looked like a foot.

  Glancing around the rubbish tip he saw the other sifters looking through the trash with the seagulls and the gypsies. He tried to call out but couldn’t. His throat had seized up, his whole body stiff with revulsion and fear.

  As the police turned up in three large minibuses Stingo realised he had just found what they were looking for. Digging his stick into the rubbish, he marked the spot and started to wave his hands in the air to let people know he had found something important.

  No one took any notice.

  The wind picked up and flapped newspapers and soiled nappies in its wake. It picked up the smell of the trash and forced it into noses and mouths. Stingo felt the prick of tears in his eyes as he started calling out with all his might. To end your days on a rubbish tip seemed a terrible fate.

  It never occurred to him that that was exactly what he had to look forward to himself.

  ‘Sweet Jesus. Have they found his head?’ DC Golding was subdued even by his standards. ‘Well, what have they got then?’

  He listened for a few seconds before replacing the receiver. Then he made his way to the interview room with a heavy heart. This was going to put everyone on a downer. The death of a kid was every Old Bill’s worst nightmare.

  He slipped into the interview room and listened to Kate’s interrogation, making sure he wasn’t interrupting it at a crucial point.

  Caroline had her solicitor with her, a woman called Angela Puttain. She was an experienced brief and Golding felt glad that at least the woman had some kind of support with her when she was told the bad news. He was actually sorry for her now, even though he still suspected that she was the culprit.

  Caroline was crying as she gave her statement.

  ‘I know what I did was wrong, Miss Burrows, but I was at the end of my tether. Their dad had jogged on. He only gives me money when he remembers. I started escort work last year and it sort of went on to prostitution. I never meant to go on the game, it just sort of happened. I don’t have a sitter for the kids because I never wanted anyone to know what I was doing. People are streetwise where I live and they would have sussed it out quick smart. So I locked the kids in their room with some food and drink and that was that really. They were safe enough. I locked the house up after me and they were always asleep in bed when I left. They didn’t even know I was gone half the time.’ Her voice was low, full of pain and shame.

  ‘Did you ever give them Valium to make them sleep?’ Kate asked.

  Caroline was scandalised at the thought of giving her children drugs. ‘Never! What makes you ask that?’

  Kate shook her head. She wondered if this was the new thing with some young mums. Knock the kids out, then if there was a fire or whatever they could sleep peacefully right through it.

  Golding took his chance to tap her on the shoulder and ask if he could have a word. As Kate followed him to her office she felt depressed. It was as if all the effluent of the world was parading about as regular people. She wondered what went through the minds of women like Caroline Anderson. If she was earning good wedge - and Kate had never met a tom yet who wasn’t - then she could easily have used a babysitting service.

  ‘What’ve you got for me?’ she asked the detective tiredly.

  Golding looked her in the eye. ‘We have a small pair of trainers from the dump. One still has a foot in it.’

  Kate ran her hands through her hair in despair.

  ‘It’s murder, then? I was hoping we were wasting our time looking over the dump.’

  ‘I had a feeling we’d find something there,’ he told her. ‘I think she did it. I think her and that Regina are a pair of murdering bitches.’

  ‘If I were you I’d keep that particular gem of wisdom to yourself. Innocent until proven guilty in this station, mate. Now is there anything else I should know before I go back in to her?’

  Golding shook his head. ‘It was a Nike trainer. I’ll keep you posted as to what else turns up. Do you want me to get you some coffee sent in?’

  She nodded. ‘Any calls for me?’

  He shook his head again. ‘Not a dicky bird.’

  Kate watched him as he left the office. David Golding was a strange man. A good officer, he got the job done but he didn’t really mix with the others. In fact, Kate could never remember him talking about anything personal ever.

  He was a good-looking man in a boyish, intellectual way. He had the large blue eyes of an innocent that seemed to take in everything at once, and sandy-coloured hair and eyebrows which made him look amiable. However, after even a brief conversation, people were in no doubt as to his strong opinions and his rather aggressive personality.

  Golding despised burglars and petty thieves and he hated sex offenders, but he seemed to have an affinity with what he regarded as career criminals - bank robbers, big-time hoods. He was a prime candidate for the Serious Crimes Squad; they were also renowned for their ability to like - even admire - the people they were going to bang up.

  Kate dismissed Golding from her mind. She normally would have had a message from Pat by now. He hadn’t been right for the last few da
ys - he had seemed very edgy somehow. But she couldn’t think about that at the moment. She had too much else to worry about. This was murder, and she was starting to get a bad feeling about it all. For starters, why would two women decide overnight to try and murder their own children, and in such strange ways? People battered kids, they lost their temper with them, some people even tortured or harmed them. But to her knowledge nobody just upped and dumped them on building sites or in bin vans. Not while they were still alive, anyway.

  Nothing shocked her any more, or so she had thought until today. She had honestly believed she was past shocking. But something here was all wrong, and she didn’t know what it was. Something was bugging her - really bugging her, but maybe it was just the circumstances. She thought of Christian and his little smiling face. Had his brother been dumped in a bin van too? Had he been alive when it had happened?

  It was almost too awful to contemplate, the terrible fear young Ivor must have experienced. Kate became hot and clammy at the thought of it. Christ knows what the child must have felt, having it actually happen to him.

  She shooed Golding from the room and sat alone, smoking a cigarette for a few moments. She needed to pull herself together and quick. She had some serious work ahead of her.

  As she walked from the office her phone rang, but she ignored it. It would be Chief Inspector Ratchette for an update and at this moment in time she wasn’t ready to share anything with anyone. Not until she had sorted it out in her own mind.

  A picture of her daughter Lizzy in a white dress at her third birthday party came into her mind. Kate pushed it away. This case was emotive enough as it was without making it any harder on herself by starting to judge the women involved.

  As she had said to Golding, innocent until proven guilty.

  Patrick heard the door shut and took a deep breath. Kate came into the drawing room like a gale-force wind. She kissed him hard on the mouth.