The Child Taker & Slow Burn (12 page)

“That’s exactly what the investigating detective thought until he interviewed him in prison.” Grace held up her hand. “The convict described an unusual birthmark on the victim’s hip, and it matched the distinguishing marks which were given to the police by her parents.”

“And it hadn’t been released into the public domain?” The Major asked.

“No, it had been withheld to filter the real culprits from the phoneys.” Grace closed the file. “It all points to the fact that the little girl had been stolen to order, and sold to a sophisticated internet paedophile ring for profit.”

“Why is Howarth linked to this particular abduction?”

“He was staying on a lay-by nearby, on the edge of the campsite, and one of the community leaders remembered seeing the packaging for a paddling pool in the refuse that he’d left behind when he left the area.” Grace shrugged. It was tenuous at best. “It was innocent enough before the abduction, but after the event it was obviously incriminating evidence.”

“The police didn’t agree?”

“It could have been dumped by any of the travellers.” Grace shrugged again. “By the time it had been brought to their attention Howarth was long gone.” The three task force members remained silent while they thought over the different scenarios that were unfolding in front of their eyes.  

“What do you think?” The Major sighed.

“I agree with Grace,” Tank said. “Howarth is the key to this abduction, and if we find him, then we find whoever has the twins.”

“I want every resource at our disposal used to find this bastard John. Do whatever you have to do to find my grandchildren.” the Major stood up and left the room without saying another word.

Chapter Fifteen

The Moroccans

Hajj Achmed heard the Mercedes engine approaching and he could see the headlights sweeping across the night sky as the vehicle neared. He was a Moroccan national with dark skin, olive-green eyes and jet black hair greased back onto his head. Hajj had smouldering Arabian good looks and a smile that men found sickening and women found irresistible. He looked ten years younger than his forty years, and he was dressed in a tailor-made grey mohair suit from Carnaby Street over an open-necked black shirt, which revealed a heavy gold chain around his neck.

“They’re here, boss,” A man named Rahid informed him. He was wearing a white polo shirt, beige jodhpurs and black riding boots. Like his boss, he was of Moroccan origin, although his features were more African than Arab. His nose was flat and wide, and his skin was deep brown.

“Good, move the horses,” Hajj ordered. Rahid walked towards a large blue horse transporter and barked orders to three men who were loading the vehicle with hay and tack. The rear of the horsebox had a wooden ramp that had already been lowered, and the smell of horses and manure wafted on the evening breeze. Hajj could hear the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves as several of his employees led them from the horsebox onto the farm road. One of them, a woman called Ramah, calmed the powerful animals as she led them from the transporter, and Hajj eyed her shapely body as she worked. Moroccan gangsters had been the biggest exporters of hashish since records began, and they often used animals to mask their contraband. In recent years they had ventured into the class ‘A’ market. Horses and camels were often force-fed condoms full of opium before being transported across the world’s borders. Once they arrived at their destination, they were given veterinary laxatives to flush out the packages. The Moroccans had made an art form of smuggling drugs from Africa and their biggest customers were Europeans: Spain, France, Germany and the United Kingdom all consumed thousands of tonnes of dope every year. Their smuggling routes were well established. From the Moroccan port of Agadir, Columbian cocaine and hashish were shipped by the boatload to the Spanish ports of Barcelona and Malaga. Small open motorboats known as Zodiacs sailed return trips nonstop from North Africa to Spain, carrying drugs, arms and people. Hajj worked in Britain for one of the biggest Moroccan exporters, and he’d been handpicked for the job because he was a ruthless gangster with a good head for business. The Moroccans used a system called ‘road buying’, a term used to describe the bribing of border guards and customs officers to allow their cargo safe passage no matter what was contained inside. The most lucrative cargos that they smuggled were women and children, stolen to order for the sex trade in Marrakesh. Hajj wasn’t a paedophile, this was business; the children were just valuable commodities that he was charged with smuggling.

The Mercedes turned off the main road and began the bumpy journey up the farm track towards the stable block. The driver turned off the headlights and Hajj followed their progress along the track by listening to the engine noise. The stable yard was a concrete square lined on three sides by wooden stables. The concrete sloped towards a central drain in the middle of the square, so that the yard could be hosed down and kept reasonably odour free. Rahid had the horse transporter parked in the yard with the cab pointed towards the farm track. As the Mercedes entered the stable square, he switched on the headlights and illuminated the area. The two men in the Mercedes held their hands up to protect their eyes from the blinding light. They brought the vehicle to a halt and turned off the engine.

“Get out of the car and put your hands on the roof,” Hajj shouted. He took a Cuban cigar from his inside pocket and rolled the tube that held it between his fingers. He twisted the cap and sniffed the cigar inside. It smelled smooth and moist, as a fresh cigar should.

“Do we have to go through this bullshit every time Hajj?” Alfie shouted from the Mercedes. Alfie was a small-time hashish dealer from Liverpool. He sold the substance in kilo blocks to doormen and dealers all over the city. The Moroccans supplied him with drugs and threw extra work his way every now and again. He wasn’t in the slightest bit happy about picking up kids from that scumbag Howarth, but the money that they paid was ridiculously good. When he’d asked Howarth where the children were being taken to, Howarth had told him that they were being sold to rich families that couldn’t have children of their own, and that they’d be better off with their new adopted parents. Alfie believed him because he didn’t want to think about the alternative. He loved the fact that he was a gangster, smart suits and polished shoes, bling and all the young women that he could handle, but he hated the Moroccans with a passion.

“You know the routine, Alfie, get out of the car.” Rahid approached the Mercedes from the rear. Two Moroccan affiliates jumped down from the back of the horsebox and moved to opposite sides of the car.

“Do I have to listen to this arsehole?” Alfie shouted to Hajj. He respected Hajj because he was a decision-maker, high up the chain of command within the Moroccan syndicate. Rahid, on the other hand, was a foot soldier, and Alfie didn’t like taking instructions from a man in his lowly position.

“You are so uncouth, Alfie,” Hajj scolded him. “Rahid is one of my top men, worth ten of your idiot lowlife dealers.”

“Put your hands on the roof of the car, ‘arsehole’.” Rahid mimicked him, and pulled a nine-millimetre Tokagypt automatic from his waistband. It was a standard issue weapon in the Egyptian military, and was part of a stolen cache that had found its way to Morocco. He pointed it at Alfie.

“Now he is really out of order, Hajj, he has absolutely no respect,” Alfie whined. His Liverpool accent grated at the back of his throat as if it were full of phlegm.

Rahid ran a scanner beneath the car, under the sills and over the seats inside. He wasn’t going to pat down the British gangsters; there was little point as they were undoubtedly armed. He was looking for tracking devices or recording equipment. Alfie tutted and began whistling an inane tune to demonstrate how bored he was with the routine.

“The vehicle is clean,” Rahid announced. He glared at Alfie provocatively. Alfie grinned at him like a fool, and then raised his middle finger aggressively.

“Fuck you, Rahid.” He laughed nervously.

“When you two have finished behaving like kids, we have business to attend to.” Hajj lit his cigar with a match. The tip glowed red in the darkness. He pulled deep on the smoke and puffed it out in a grey cloud.

“The kids are in the boot. They’re chloroformed.” Alfie walked to the boot of the vehicle and opened it. “Take them so that we can get away from here. I can’t stand the stench here.” He sneered at Rahid, and the Moroccan moved forward, angered by the insinuation that he stank. Alfie pulled his own pistol from his shoulder holster and the two men faced each other in a Mexican standoff.

“I swear to God I’ll drop this prick, Hajj,” Alfie growled. His sidekick, Brian, pulled a Mach 10 machine pistol nervously and pointed it at Rahid. Alfie was in the direct line of fire and he stepped clear of Rahid. The Mach 10 was a small compact weapon, but it sprayed nine hundred bullets a minute and was renowned for its inaccuracy. He didn’t fancy being caught by a couple of stray nine millimetre slugs.

“Gentlemen, please, do we have to go through this testosterone-filled charade every time we do business?” Hajj puffed his cigar again.

“Tell this prick to put the gun away before I take it off him and stick it up his arse.” Alfie was losing his composure. His hatred of the Moroccans was clouding his judgement.

“Charming, Alfie.” Hajj blew smoke rings. “Get the children and give them to Ramah to look after. She will stay with them.”

Alfie stepped back from the boot of the car and two Moroccans carried the twins into the horsebox. Ramah followed the men into the vehicle, cooing at the children as she climbed up the ramp. Above the driver’s cab was a sleeper unit big enough to fit a single bed and a cot bed. The compartment was hidden by false panels fitted with rows of hooks and brackets which were then covered by leather bridles and saddles. Ramah took the children one at a time and placed them into a cot. She handled them as if she was their mother, gently and lovingly. She spoke softly to the slumbering children as she laid them down, but they barely stirred. The men slid the panels over the cabin and replaced the bridles on the hooks. With their cargo hidden, they led the horses back into the transporter one at a time. By the time they’d finished there were four fifteen-hand geldings between any would-be inspector and the secret compartment. The wooden ramp at the rear of the transporter was pushed closed and bolted into place. Without another word, the Moroccans started the engine and the blue horse transporter trundled out of the yard towards the main road, leaving Rahid and Hajj alone with the deliverymen.

“Very good, gentlemen, another consignment has been successfully despatched.” Hajj clapped his hands together, gripping the cigar between clenched teeth. “There is one more issue that we need to discuss, Alfie.”

Alfie slammed the boot of the Mercedes and looked annoyed. He winked at his partner Brian.

“I thought there’d be something else. There always is with you fucking camel jockeys,” Alfie sneered. He was pushing his luck but he didn’t really care. Delivering the twins would net him twenty grand, which would be loaded onto a pre-paid Master Card and given to him any minute now. He wanted the card and then he wanted to get away. The whole exercise had made him feel nauseous. Brian had nearly kicked Jack Howarth to death, and he’d be very surprised if he wasn’t already dead. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone too far. The man was a liability. He was a veteran Paratrooper, invalided out of the Army on mental health grounds, and Alfie could understand why. Brian was a psycho.

“Watch your mouth, Alfie.” Hajj dragged deep on the Cuban. He straightened his jacket collar and approached the Mercedes. “I need to know that Jack has been taught a lesson, because the boss is very insistent that the next deal doesn’t have the same issues as the last one.”

Alfie glanced sideways at Brian, and Brian blushed red. It didn’t go unnoticed by the Moroccan gangster.

“Is there a problem?” Hajj asked.

“No, there’s no problem, Hajj,” Alfie replied, but his facial expression belied the truth.

“So, he was reprimanded?”

“Yes.”

“Why am I detecting a problem with this, Alfie?” Hajj chewed the cigar in the corner of his mouth.

“Like I said, there’s no problem.” Alfie looked uncomfortable. Brian had beads of sweat running from his temples onto his cheeks.

“Brian, you look hot my friend.” Hajj switched his attention to the big ex-Para.

“Alfie has told you twice now.” His voice cracked nervously. “Are you deaf or something?”

“I see that your monkey has the same good manners as you, Alfie.” Hajj eyed him coolly. He could sense that something was amiss. “I’m concerned that our asset has not been debilitated completely, Alfie?”

Alfie sighed and shook his head. He looked at Brian and shrugged his shoulders. He was backed into a corner, and he knew that the truth would come out eventually.

“Look, Brian was a little over enthusiastic, I’m afraid.” Alfie shifted the blame straight away.

“Alfie, you fucking grass!” Brian hissed.

“Shut up, Brian, its best that we get it out in the open.” Alfie smiled at Hajj. “These things happen.”

“I hope you’re not telling me that he’s dead?”

“Not quite.” Alfie smiled again, unsuccessfully trying to use his Scouse charm.   

“Alfie, I’m not playing games here.”

“I realise that.”

“Then you will understand that I need to be certain that I can inform my employers that their very valuable asset has been reprimanded but is still operational.” Hajj blew smoke rings. The muscles in his jaw line twitched with tension.

“Come on, Howarth is a lowlife nonce, nothing more.” Alfie tried to devalue the child taker.

“What he ‘is’ can be of no consequence to me, Alfie.” Hajj walked towards them. “However, he possesses a set of skills which are extremely valuable to my employers.”

“How badly beaten is he?” Rahid piped up.

“Shut up arsehole, no one is talking to you.” Brian pointed the machine pistol at Rahid. Rahid responded by lowering his own gun and raising his hands slightly to calm the ex-Para. Brian nodded and lowered the Mach 10.

“My employers have built up a substantial international following for their particular kind of entertainment. Jack Howarth ensures that there is a broadcast every month, without fail.” Hajj sucked deep on the cigar. The smoke was smooth and had a calming effect. He had to find out what had happened to their main supplier.

“I’m not sure that I follow you,” Alfie said. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end and a shiver ran down his spine.

“Oh come now, Alfie. I’m sure that you get the gist of it.” Hajj was becoming increasingly concerned, and increasingly annoyed.

“No, I’m not sure that I do, to be honest.” Alfie felt sick. The use of the word ‘broadcast’ indicated that the children weren’t going to rich childless families at all.

“The child taker guarantees our supply.”

“I’m not sure where we are going here, Hajj,” Alfie could feel the tension rising.

“It’s simple, Alfie. Is Jack Howarth alive?”