Scared (12 page)

He wondered why they'd taken
him
, what with him being twenty-three, but he did look a lot younger. Maybe, after Croft had downed the lemonade, he'd revealed his true age, and Frost deemed him too old. The punters liked them young. Croft couldn't remember
what
he'd said after that drink, so yeah, it made sense he'd blabbed his age.

He talked to the boys. Eased their fears without telling them what life held in store. Croft couldn't risk any one of those lads blabbing. It had been hard not to become attached. Some, those as young as twelve and thirteen, were so fucking distraught to begin with that Croft had a difficult time not revealing his plans.

He just couldn't risk it. To get them to safety meant playing Frost's game, following the rules.

Frost had a smooth operation going on, Croft had to admit it, one that gave Frost the lifestyle he'd grown accustomed to. Maybe some of those lads
would
get a better life if they were purchased—those who'd led a life like he had prior to coming here—but surely being placed in care was a safer bet. Then again, through the friends Croft had made while living on the streets, he'd heard tales that even good foster parents and care homes seemed rare.

What the fuck was the world coming to?

Sickened, Croft vowed to work his arse off for Frost, gain his trust quickly—in time to release the ten kids currently in residence.

Tomorrow night they'd be auctioned if his plan went wrong.

Earlier, when he'd left this place and headed for Wraxford, he'd contemplated fucking off, driving past that small town and on into Scotland. Starting again up there. But he reminded himself how Frost had tracked Russell and Toby down, how even though it had taken well over a year, the man had reached his goal. Croft had no doubt whatsoever that he'd be found too.

And the thought of abandoning those kids...

He couldn't do it.

Before he'd picked up the old man Jacob, he'd telephoned the police and asked to speak to a detective. He'd known him from the times he'd been picked up for “soliciting", a policeman who concerned himself with Croft's welfare for no reason Croft could fathom. Maybe the guy was just a good bloke. Maybe he saw something in Croft's eyes—an abused kid living the best way he knew how, still abused as an adult but on his own terms. Detective Mick Darrow had made it his business to appear on Croft's turf a couple of nights a week, asking if he'd eaten, whether he'd made enough money to survive another day.

Darrow had come on the line, his tone jovial but with a tinge of unease. Croft didn't want to fully believe this fella really did give a shit, but the concern in the policeman's voice had warmed him, gave him hope that what he was about to do this day would change more than the ten innocent lives in those rooms.

Quickly explaining his plans, Croft had secured Darrow's attention and support and also his mobile phone number. Scribbling the digits down on a pad, Croft had explained why the police couldn't storm the mansion now—Croft wanted the purchasers caught too.

Croft agreed to telephone Darrow when he had further news or needed a little help along the way. That call had come in the form of Croft asking for the roadblock to be set up. The original plan had gone awry—him picking Toby up first hadn't panned out, and Croft had to quickly remedy the situation. After shoving Russell in the van, he'd called Darrow and explained that if he was to snatch Toby without some do-gooder member of the public telephoning the police, Darrow would have to help.

The detective had agreed, sending a police colleague to visit Jacob & Sons offices and place the pile of mail on the reception desk. As for the roadblocks, the colleague had taken that job on, too, nodding to Croft as he drove past the van on his way to propping the fake signs either end of the road.

Darrow had promised no one would follow Croft—Croft had to trust him on that, had to trust
someone
in his damn sorry excuse for a life—but the detective did insist on knowing the vicinity he'd need to be in the following night. Croft had yet to pass on the exact information, but Darrow
did
know whereabouts to meet Croft tonight.

He left the mansion now, the bellyful of noodles he'd eaten churning in his stomach.

Croft took one of the many black vans Frost owned and drove off the property, having had Jonathan open the gates from inside. He released a heavy breath, his heart ticking fast and his hands a little shaky. What he was about to do would either sign his death warrant or get him arrested. He just had to pray Darrow stuck to his promise of only moving in on Croft's command.

On the journey to a town a few miles away, Croft thought about his day. It had been a long one, and he was fucking tired, but after tomorrow night he hoped he could sleep the sleep of the dead—though not literally. He was so tense his neck muscles ached like a bastard, and his head felt a little muzzy. Still, he'd sworn he'd see this through to its conclusion, and he wasn't about to back out now.

He'd hated punching Mr Jacob. It had been like hitting his granddad, but a necessary evil, a means to an end. Darrow had promised his colleague would drive to the other end of Fountain Street and wait for the old man once he'd been released, putting the poor sod's mind at rest that he wouldn't have to live in fear for the rest of his life, that the police were aware of what had happened.

And Croft
hadn't
had a headache like he'd said when he told Jacob and Russell to shut the fuck up. It was the only thing he could think of, so he had time to blank his mind from what he'd done. Blank his mind of the fact he wanted to cry.

Yeah, cry.

With Mr Jacob gone and the journey to London well underway, Croft had heard every word between Russell and Toby. Several times he'd had to bite his tongue to hold back from telling them that everything would be all right, that they didn't have to worry. But for all he knew, the van was bugged. Also, he knew the basement treatment was coming their way, and most men gave up information once the chain started striking their flesh.

Croft couldn't risk it.

Shaking his head, clearing it of the past and focusing on what he had to do now, Croft turned into a countryside pub car park, The Red Lion, and left the van in plain sight. He could have been followed by a couple of Frost's men. He knew the deviousness of the bloke, expected that he hadn't quite earned the sadistic bastard's trust, and knew meeting with Darrow in such a public place wasn't an option.

Which was why he wasn't meeting Darrow here.

Croft entered the pub and sat by a window facing the car park, non-alcoholic pint in one hand, the other resting along the sill. He had a good view of outside here and spotted one of Frost's cars straight away—a red Fiat Punto, two shadowed figures inside.

They can sit there as long as they fucking like.

They remained in the car park for two hours then slowly peeled away, the Fiat's taillights fading into the darkness of the road leading back to Frost's place. Croft sat on for another hour, casually glancing out the window every so often and scoping out the cars.

They were all empty.

His instinct telling him it was safe to move, he dialled Darrow's number and waited for him to answer. The detective picked up on the second ring and agreed to meet Croft at The Spotted Duck in the village of Framcott. On the way there, Croft kept glancing in the rear view mirror to check for any tails and went through everything he needed to tell Darrow.

Framcott's sign glowed in his headlights all too soon, and Croft's gut clenched. Blowing out through pursed lips to steady his pattering heart and rapid pulse, he drove into the pub's car park and cut the engine. He sat for a moment, waiting for any traffic to drive past or someone else to enter the car park. They didn't. Telling himself he was doing the right thing, he got out of the van and pushed the pub door wide, approaching the bar on legs that were a bit unsteady.

Again ordering a non-alcoholic beer, he finally chanced a look around the pub. Darrow sat in the far corner at a small round table beside a roaring fireplace. The detective nodded a greeting, and after checking his surroundings again, Croft walked over to him and took a seat.

"Fucking fair can of worms you've opened for me, Croft.” Darrow leaned forward and rested his elbow on the table, cupping his cheek in his hand.

Croft wondered whether this was to shield his face from anyone who might be sitting outside. Nice touch.

Darrow lowered his gaze to an A4 pad on the table. “I'll need the layout of the house. And the address."

Croft took a sip of beer then placed the glass on the table. Taking a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, he began sketching the ground floor, paying specific attention to the door in the kitchen and the corridor beyond.

"This is where the lads are right now,” he said, jabbing the pen nib on the pad. “But when you arrive—if everything goes all right—the lads will be in here.” Croft added more of the mansion's layout on the other side of the foyer, drawing the large dining room then the showing room beside that. “A bloke called Jonathan usually mans the front door, and one called Kevin mans the back. In the viewing room, when you first go in, you'll see a row of chairs, the bidders sitting in them. Frost will be there, too, plus some of his employees.

"On the opposite wall to the door, there's a massive two-way mirror. The lads will be taken in there one by one so the punters can see what's on offer.” Croft winced and swallowed. Adding more of the layout, he said, “There's a door here, to the right of the mirror. One of Frost's men will be standing in front of it. Armed. Behind that door is a corridor. First door on your left leads into the room behind the mirror. Second door on the left is the room where the boys are kept while they wait to be shown off."

Darrow sipped what looked like whiskey and grimaced. “And beyond that? Any rooms I should know about?"

"No, that's it.” Croft folded the page over and started drawing the first floor. “Now, there's this kid called Stephen. He got picked up late—the other night—because one of the ten managed to hang himself using his bedsheet.” The memory of finding that boy, fourteen years old and desperate, hanging from the ceiling light fitment, pierced Croft's mind. He blinked—damn tears, he didn't need them now—and cleared his throat. “But, uh, Frost kept Stephen for himself."

"So there are only nine kids going on show tomorrow night, right?"

"No. Jonathan and Kevin picked another one up today while I was out getting Russell and Toby. They discussed it over dinner earlier. I haven't met him yet, but I will in the morning when I take in his breakfast.” Croft's throat swelled with emotion, and he took a swig of beer to ease the pain.

"Do you know any of these kids’ names?” Darrow swirled the ice in his drink around with his index finger.

"Yeah. Memorised them after I got to know them—but one won't tell me fuck all. You want the eight I know?"

"Please. Write them down. Their parents can be informed that we
might
have found their sons, depending whether they're the right kids. Whether the parents even realise their sons are missing. Some don't file reports, you know."

Croft nodded. “Yeah, I know. Like my situation."

Darrow shook his head. “Fucking amazes me how some parents don't give a shit.” He stared out the window, the side of his face still shielded.

Croft wrote down the names then looked up. “I don't know the name of the new one. I can tell you tomorrow some time. Text you if I manage to find some time alone."

"All right.” Darrow looked down at the pad. “I can run these names through the computer when I get back to the station. This is a hell of a thing you're doing here, Croft. We've had our ears to the ground for a long time over Frost, but we had no idea he was into this shit. We thought—"

"He was into drugs. Yeah. He finds that funny.” Croft shook his head. “Listen, Croft gave me the job of making sure an outside security team is in place. That will be you lot, right? I'll open the gates for you because Frost gave me that job for tomorrow night as well. If anything goes wrong, you'll have about an hour after the last bid before you need to really get a move on if you want to catch them. From listening to conversations over the past few months, I gathered the bidders have a bit of a drink before they take their purchases home, know what I mean?"

The detective nodded. “Fucking bastards."

"Ain't that the damn truth. Oh, and I'm not sure what Frost's doing about Russell and Toby. He usually leaves men strung up all night after the basement treatment, but he wants me to take them down when I get back."

If I get back. If I haven't been watched.

"And that kid who hung himself? They buried him in the forest out the back. I'll show you when this is all over."

Croft stood and, giving Darrow a nod, left the pub.

He hadn't asked what would happen to him when the police raided Frost's place.

Going to prison for his part in Frost's warped organisation was a million times better than the shit he'd been through in his life so far.

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Russell's shoulders burned. Even his armpits burned.

Everything fucking burned.

Hanging like this...he'd seen it in torture scenes on TV but never quite got to grips with how much it must hurt. Now, he knew
exactly
how much it hurt.

It was indescribable. Something he thought he wouldn't be able to tolerate.

Funny how the mind and body works so you can cope.

At first, the pain was too much to handle. With every ache and gripe, every spear of agony, he thought about how it felt and wallowed in it. But, as with a toothache, when he forgot about it, when something else took his attention and his mind wasn't focused on that god-awful throb, the pain went away.

He tried that, taking his mind to another level, centring on images from the past or memories he cherished. Anything so he didn't feel the pain.

It didn't work all the time.

Talking to Toby wasn't an option either. Finding the words, or even the energy to speak them, brought on fresh bouts of anguish that ripped through him, jangling every nerve ending and magnifying the stress until he thought he'd pass out.