Lost Girls (16 page)

K
im's finger
had pressed the call button before she'd reached the car.

‘Stace, work harder on tracking down the Billingham family. They may be far more important than we thought.'

‘Already started looking, Guv,' Stacey answered. ‘But this is a family that don't want to be found.'

Kim was not surprised. ‘Keep on it, Stace. We're not sure but it's possible they paid the ransom.'

She heard the intake of breath on the other end.

‘There's nothing in the files to indicate …'

‘There's nothing in the files to indicate much of anything, Stace.'

‘On it, Guv.'

Kim ended the call. ‘So far, we've assumed the crew got panicked because the news broke in the media. We never considered that one of the families actually paid.'

Bryant nodded. ‘And if they did then they had some further contact with the kidnappers: an instruction, a drop point, something.'

As horrific as the thought was, Kim had to consider that the actions of the other family had resulted in the death of Suzie Cotton.

S
ymes smiled
. Nothing could spoil his mood today. He had a lead on the loose end that would very soon be tied up.

Yeah, he could go running around the area, chasing after Inga, expending pointless energy re-treading her steps. Or he could remain where he was and wait for her to come to him. And she would.

The stupid bitch had been on the run for almost forty-eight hours. She would be tired, dirty and scared out of her fucking mind.

Her body would be exhausted by the constant moving to avoid danger. Her mind would be drained of rational thought. Desire for self-preservation would be running low.

To catch her was to understand fear.

After two tours of Afghanistan, Symes knew the choices prompted by deep fear. It was a fear that didn't live in the everyday world. It only existed when you were frightened for your life.

Before a bungee jump, fear surged around the body mixed with excitement and adrenaline. But real fear left no room for any other emotion. It worked in from the skin and burrowed until it reached the bone.

It didn't become a part of you. It
became
you. Every breath, every glance, every movement was filled with fear and no amount of breathing exercises would make it go away.

In the army that level of fear was accepted, daily, but Symes had chosen to trick his subconscious. Rather than spend each day trying to live, he'd spent a minute each morning preparing to die.

Every day of his tours he had convinced himself this was his day to die. Every morning he had pictured his own death and every night was thankful to be brushing his teeth.

If Inga feared both himself and the police, it was only a case of what she feared least. And Symes already had that answer worked out.

He smiled and cracked his knuckles.

I
nga put
one foot in front of the other and hoped for the best. The fear inside was gnawing away at her flesh. Everywhere she looked, people were staring at her. Every male she saw was either Will or Symes. Every shadow had been placed strategically to terrorise her.

The whole world was closing in. Her surroundings were a mass of right angles and dangerous shapes, ready to pounce at any second.

The last couple of days had been a lifetime. She couldn't recall the weeks, months and years that had come before. She couldn't remember a time when every cell of her being wasn't weighted down with fear.

Menace lived everywhere.

Although she'd been on the run for forty-eight hours, these last few moments felt the most hazardous.

Her target was no more than a hundred feet away. She could see it. All that lay between her and sanity was a surging lunchtime crowd, a pelican crossing and a busy crossroads.

She allowed the rushing throng to nudge and push her across the road.

Seventy feet; she didn't take her eyes from the building for fear it would disappear.

She would tell them everything. She would start with what she'd done and then take them to the girls. They would be safely home by tea time; back with their families and she would happily take her punishment.

Thirty feet away she stumbled over a raised kerbstone. She managed to right herself. A couple of males sniggered behind her.

She didn't care. Another twenty feet and she would laugh along with them.

The safety of a police cell called out to her. Whatever her punishment, she was ready to accept it. Nothing could be worse than this.

Five feet away from the entrance, her body began to relax.

The hand on the back of her neck was strong and forceful. It turned her away from the door to the police station that had been almost in touching distance.

‘Nice try, yer little bitch, but not quite.'

Inga felt herself being carried along by his grip. Her feet were barely touching the ground.

‘If you make one sound I'll slit your throat right here.'

Inga couldn't speak as she felt the muscly arm land around her shoulders. She tried to scream but the moisture had been sucked from her mouth.

Symes used her stunned silence to shepherd her into an alleyway behind the police station.

She had been so close.

To onlookers it would look like a loving embrace. Only they couldn't feel the strength of the fingers crushing the bones in her shoulder or the fact her feet were barely touching the ground.

The noise of the high street died in her ears.

‘We're just gonna go and have a little chat; get yer head straight.'

‘No, no,' she cried, trying to get her feet to land on the ground.

She summoned her last reserve of energy to flail her arms. His grip moved to her neck. The pain seared up into her head. She knew he was capable of breaking it with one move.

‘Please … don't … hurt …'

‘Yer shoulda thought about that before yer did what yer did.'

Inga wasn't too proud to beg. It was now her only chance to live.

‘Symes, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have … I just got … scared …'

He chuckled as he opened the door of the van. ‘Not as scared as you're gonna get.'

He slammed the door closed and sprinted to the other side. He pressed a button that locked both doors.

Inga fought the urge to cry. Suddenly the moments she had left were precious. She knew she was going to die and only one thing mattered now.

‘The girls?'

He turned to her. His eyes were alive with excitement, the anticipation was shaping his mouth. His gaze was almost trancelike. Every inch of him was in a heightened state, waiting to take her life.

‘The g-girls,' she stammered.

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Because of you, they're dead.'

T
here was
an eerie silence to Hollytree as Dawson parked the car in front of the row of shops that marked the entrance to the sprawling estate.

It was commonly known that once beyond the boundary of the shops, you were ‘in' the estate. Although it was like entering another country, it wasn't a passport that ensured safe passage, but rather an ASBO, prison stretch or possession of illegal substances.

Many other council estates in the Black Country were cleaner, healthier and happier because of Hollytree.

Each community breathed a sigh of relief as a problem family was evicted, but they had to go somewhere and it was never a good idea to put them all together. The result was a gang-ruled community that operated independently of any local authorities.

Dawson acknowledged the irony that Dewain Wright had lived in a flat above one of the shops. At the edge of the estate. Closest to getting out. It's what the poor kid had been trying to do.

Gang culture was not new to Dawson. He understood it better than he would care to admit, but not on the level of Hollytree.

As a child he'd been weighty. There was no underlying hormonal imbalance or obscure medical condition. His excess weight was simply the result of a single, working mother who relied a little too heavily on the ease of the frying pan.

By the time Dawson was fifteen he would have done anything to belong to a group, any group. And he almost had.

There was a day in his teens that still incited a shameful blush to his cheeks and it always would. But it was a day he'd never forgotten.

When he'd turned sixteen he'd enrolled in a gym, prepared all his own food and watched his saturated fats. He would never go back there again.

Dawson accessed the properties using a stairwell at the rear. Although classed as flats the properties were split over two levels. The terrace of each dwelling was separated by a single metal railing and looked on to a maze of rented garages, very few of which were used for storing cars.

He negotiated the outside space that was littered with two rusty barbecues and a collection of mismatched patio chairs. A discarded doll pram sat to the right of the door.

He knocked twice and instantly saw a form darken the patterned glass.

The door was opened by a girl Dawson guessed to be in her late teens. From the photos he knew that he was looking at Dewain's older sister, Shona. Her hair fell in tight, glossy curls around an attractive face that was scowling at him.

‘Whattdya want?' she asked, having obviously decided he wasn't welcome.

‘Detective Sergeant Dawson,' he said, showing his card. Her eyes never left his face. He'd seen the quality of fake ID cards that circulated around Hollytree and most of them looked more authentic than his own.

‘May I speak with your father?'

‘What for?' she asked.

‘It's about your brother,' he said, patiently. As irritating as her attitude was, this family had suffered a loss and the police force had failed to prevent it. ‘There have been developments.'

‘What, he ain't dead no more?'

‘Is your father home, Shona?' he asked, firmly.

‘Hang on, I'll check,' she said, closing the door in his face. These flats consisted of two bedrooms, a lounge, a kitchen and a toilet. He suspected she knew if he was at home.

A few seconds later the door opened.

Dawson looked up into the face of Vin Wright. The expression was neither pleasant nor hostile. Just set.

‘What're you wanting, son?'

Being called ‘son' narked Dawson. His own father hadn't called him that, not even the night he left to find himself in the Scottish Highlands. For all Dawson knew he was still looking.

But that wasn't the only reason he disliked it. He was a police officer, a member of CID and he was not this man's son.

‘Mr Wright, I need to inform you of a development regarding Dewain. May I come in?'

Vin Wright hesitated before taking a step back.

Dawson knew there was no Mrs Wright and hadn't been for twelve years, since her death due to complications during the birth of their fourth child.

Dawson stepped into a narrow galley kitchen where Shona was busy placing jars and packets back into the cupboard. A roll of plastic food bags lay on the side. Clearing the debris from the packed lunches for his younger two daughters, Dawson guessed.

A collection of literature displaying headstones and flowers was scattered in front of the kettle. This man was planning the burial of his son.

Vin remained in the doorway, keeping the discussion confined to the small space. Dawson suspected he was not staying long.

And that was okay, because he did not want to prolong the pain of this man for a moment longer than he needed to.

‘Mr Wright, it wasn't the reporter who leaked the fact your son was still alive.'

A plate clattered into the sink, causing both Dawson and Vin to look towards Shona. She didn't turn immediately but continued to stare at the object that had slipped from her grip.

Vin's eyes remained on her for a few seconds before turning back to Dawson.

‘I don't understand. It was obvious …'

‘The times don't match. We have confirmation that the newspapers were only just leaving the printers by Dewain's time of death. Everything happened so quickly we assumed …'

Dawson allowed his voice to trail away as he realised a note of apology had crept in.

Vin heard it too. His eyes held no accusation, just a deep well of sadness. ‘We all did, son.'

‘Which means that someone else leaked it.'

Vin nodded his comprehension. He'd already worked that out.

‘I need to ask you, who other than family members knew that Dewain was still alive?'

Vin rubbed the short, wiry hair on his head. ‘I don't know, it's all just a blur. This time last week my son was … It all happened so quickly. I got a phone call at work. I called the kids and …'

‘Lauren,' Shona said, quietly.

Dawson waited. She finally turned.

‘We called Lauren. She is … was Dewain's girlfriend. I left her a message but she never called me back.' She looked to her father. ‘Remember, Dad, she never even turned up at the hospital?'

Dawson felt the stirrings of excitement in his stomach. The only call the police had made was to Dewain's next of kin. He knew that they had been instructed not to tell anyone that the boy was still alive until his condition stabilised.

‘Do you know where I can find …?'

‘I'll write it down,' Shona offered, almost running out of the room.

Dawson turned to Vin whose gaze had followed his oldest daughter out of the room.

‘Any bother with the gang since Dewain died?'

He shook his head. ‘Since you lot arrested Lyron for the murder, Kai stepped up. He's not as bad as Lyron. I think they're under instruction to leave us alone.'

Dawson doubted that somehow. One death in the family at the hands of the gang didn't keep his three daughters safe. Gangs didn't work that way. Vin Wright would be watching over his girls until the second they were free from the Hollytree estate.

Shona returned to the kitchen and thrust a piece of paper into his hand. ‘This is where she lives.'

‘Thank you, I appreciate—'

His words were cut off by the sound of his mobile ringing in his ears.

‘Excuse me,' Dawson said, turning away.

It was dispatch.

‘Finally, I locate a detective,' offered the voice at the other end. ‘Can't get your boss or DS Bryant either. So, I'll have to pass it to you.'

He knew he was third out of four on the food chain of their team but he hated being reminded of it.

‘Hang on,' he said, slipping his palm over the microphone. He turned to Vin Wright. ‘Thank you for your time and I promise I'll be in touch.'

Vin nodded sadly and opened the door for Dawson to step through.

‘What's up?' he asked the control room as he stepped around the garden debris.

He stopped dead as the voice uttered the words he'd ached to hear for the last six years.

‘We have a dead body and, until we can get hold of your boss, it looks like you're it.'

Finally, however briefly, he was the Officer in Charge.