Girl:Broken Page 5

  ‘Over two hundred and fifty thousand children fought for Britain in the First World War. In total, from all parties, almost a million. They were rounded up and boot-conscripted with no regard for the statutory minimum fighting age.’

  Another image dropped. The tension increased.

  ‘In the Second World War the German army had an entire regiment made up of children. The Hitlerjugend, or Hitler Youth. The entrance age was thirteen, where boys were expected to be shaped into soldiers and girls were prepared for motherhood.’

  The image showed a row of smiling, blond-haired children, their uniforms gleaming in the sun.

  ‘But we don’t have to go all the way back to the world wars of the twentieth century. This was taken thirty years ago.’

  On the screen was a suburban house. Something about the framing was wrong. The colours seemed too bright. The photo was taken from some distance, through a telescopic lens. It was replaced with an enhanced image of the same photo, concentrating on a downstairs window. There was a tightening in the room. Through the window could be seen three blindfolded girls, maybe eleven years old. They were kneeling on the floor. Standing over them was a man.

  ‘The cults. The shot you’re looking at was clipped moments before the house was raided. It was one of a few properties this particular cult had peppered around Britain. A network of like-minded pederasts creating their own food supply. This particular shot is quite unusual. Each house usually had only one girl. Due to the suicidal nature of the cult, we never knew why, but possibly to take away the chance of alliance. And if you think it doesn’t happen today just check out Operation Doublet in Rochdale.’

  The image changed, replacing the kneeling girls with a rural setting. A boy and girl, grinning and firing machine guns at the corpse of a deer, or possibly an antelope. Both the children were white. Marble white, as if the photograph was capturing their first exposure to sunlight.

  ‘And this is what happens when indoctrination goes unchecked. We think that they are probably brother and sister. We put them at around twelve or thirteen. The girl is pregnant, by the way.’

  More tightening. More tensing. This was not what the students had been expecting. Not easy for them to process.

  ‘Where was this taken?’ asked a boy near the back of the group, just in front of the man and woman in the opposing suits.

  ‘Arkansas; with a long-range camera. It is what is sometimes called a survivalist commune, or Prepper site, hidden away in a private forest in the foothills. As far as we can determine, there are over one hundred children living there.’

  Joseph ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the weight of his lecture on the room.

  ‘I hope you have found this informative. You will find all the relevant information on your devices. If you do not have one with you, a link to the lecture will have been sent via email to your university inbox. All the cases we’ve looked at today are indexed in your notes. If you wish to research them any further, Professor Google will be available to you at your leisure.’

  There was a smattering of applause and Joseph bowed his head. Once the applause had died down all the students stood and began packing away their notebooks and phones, and tossing their empty cans in the bins.

  Joseph packed his satchel and walked down the aisle to the back of the room. The man and the woman stood and walked towards him. Now he was closer he could see that the woman was in her mid-fifties, her jacket and matching trousers a dark blue, with a pair of sturdy brogues. Her hair was dirty-bleached and choppy. The man looked older, maybe sixty. His features were hard and unreadable. They stopped in front of Joseph, blocking his path.

  ‘A very interesting lecture, professor,’ said the woman. Beside her, the man reached into his jacket. ‘Did you do much work in the field yourself?’

  ‘A fair bit,’ said Joseph, eyeing them suspiciously. ‘It’s not the kind of research you can do third-party. I’m sorry, but are you with Admin? I’ve emailed my invoice over–’

  ‘No, we’re not with Admin,’ interrupted the man. Joseph now saw that the object he had removed from his jacket was some form of identification. ‘My name is Collins, and this is Inspector Slane. We are working in conjunction with a task force attached to West Yorkshire Police.’ He handed Joseph his ID. Joseph looked at it. The government stamp was quite impressive. Joseph handed it back.

  ‘I wonder if we might ask you some questions?’ said the woman, Slane.

  Joseph smiled nervously. ‘About the lecture? I didn’t realise the police were so academic.’

  The two officers didn’t smile back.

  ‘Actually, it is related, circuitously, to your academic work, professor,’ Slane said. ‘I wonder if you would mind coming with us to the incident room. There is something, we believe, that you may be able to help us with.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve got a hair appointment at twelve, but if you’d care to ring me I’m sure my secretary could set up–’

  ‘It won’t take too much of your time, sir.’ Inspector Slane smiled. Joseph noticed she had slightly yellow teeth. Smoker’s teeth. ‘It has nothing to do with you personally. More that we would like an insight from you. In your professional capacity.’

  Joseph knew he was being buttered up, but it still felt nice. He pushed his chest out slightly and looked at his watch. ‘I suppose I have a few moments. It is far, the station? Or perhaps we could get a coffee here?’

  ‘Incident room,’ said Collins. His voice was rough and wet, like he’d swallowed an autumn garden fire. ‘No, not far.’

  ‘Thank you, professor,’ said Slane, retreating a few steps and opening the door. There were only himself and the police officers in the lecture room. ‘It really is good of you to give up your time.’

  ‘Joseph, please,’ he said, putting on his overcoat.

  Slane nodded and walked through the door. Joseph followed, with Collins bringing up the rear. Slane walked with authority through the corridors and out of the university building.

  Outside, the rain seemed to be in a hurry to leave the sky and hit the ground. So much so that it was bouncing right back up like it had forgotten something. Joseph put his briefcase over his head in an attempt at shelter.

  Seconds later, an unmarked police car pulled smartly up next to them. Joseph felt Collins’ firm grip on his arm as he was bundled into the back of the car. Collins got in next to him and Slane walked around and climbed in the front passenger seat. As soon as his door was shut the vehicle pulled smoothly away and accelerated into the stream of traffic.

  12

  23rd October

  The ringing of the phone ripped through Daisy like lightning, and she thought she might throw up again.

  ‘Daisy! Open up, It’s me! I’ve got coffee!’ The voice was muted by the thick wooden door, but instantly recognisable. Daisy felt relief wash over her.

  Jay.

  She realised that the sound wasn’t the phone, with its picture like a bullet from the past, but her doorbell. She raised her head and looked at her reflection. There were flecks of vomit around her mouth and the white of her blue eye was scarlet with a burst blood vessel.

  The doorbell rang again, this time for longer, with little urgent stutterings. Daisy turned the cold tap on and washed the sick from the sink. Splashed the icy water on her face with her hands. She didn’t dry her skin with a towel. She didn’t own any towels. Towels could be weaponised. Taking in a shaky breath she left the bathroom and stood in the hall. Her tee and boxers were wet from the sink. She stood still, unsure of what to do. She hadn’t known Jay long but she trusted her. Or at least she trusted her as much as she trusted anybody, which was close to zero.

  But that was okay because she trusted everybody else less than zero.

  The picture of the mermaid kept on staggering across her view.

  What the hell had happened the previous night? How did the phone get into her flat? And how did the picture of the tattoo get onto the phone? How could anyone know?

&
nbsp; Because nobody knew about the tattoos. Not anymore. Not for a long time.

  Daisy jumped as the doorbell sliced into the silence. This time it was accompanied by an urgent knocking.

  ‘Daisy! Open up. It’s me! I’ve got coffee!’

  Daisy made a decision.

  She ran to the door, her bare feet slapping on the wood, and grabbed the keys off the hook. Fumbling, she turned the keys in the lock, slid the bolts back and flung open the door.

  ‘But you took so bloody long to open the door that I’ve drunk the coffee.’ Jay stood on the landing, a smile on her face and her arms wide, a corrugated cardboard cup in each hand. The smile quickly slipped as she took in Daisy’s appearance. The soiled T-shirt and sodden boxers. The bloodshot eye. The smell of fear and the jumpy micro-movements of her tensed body.

  ‘Jesus, Daisy, what the fuck happened to you?’

  Daisy stepped forward and grabbed Jay’s waistcoat. Pulled her into the flat. Jay stared at her, concerned. From across the landing Daisy caught sight of her nosey neighbour, peering suspiciously out of his flat, before she slammed the door closed.

  ‘What’s going on? I was joking about the coffee. Has something happened?’ Jay stretched out her hand but didn’t touch Daisy. Just offered her the coffee. She knew better than to touch Daisy.

  ‘Has someone done something?’ Jay searched Daisy’s face, as if trying to work it out. Daisy wasn’t looking at her. She was still holding her keys in her hand, her knuckles white. Jay looked down the hall, checking the flat, then gently pressed the cup against the back of Daisy’s hand. After a moment the heat from the liquid registered, and Daisy looked at her.

  ‘Daisy, tell me what’s wrong,’ she said gently.

  Daisy’s gaze finally settled and she took the offered coffee. Jay looked back, eyebrows raised in a question, then wrinkled her nose. ‘Have you been sick?’

  Her eyes slid to Daisy’s shirt, normally so pristine; took in the vomit. ‘Jesus, Daisy, have you OD’d?’ Jay pulled her phone out of her cargo pants. ‘I’m calling for an ambulance!’

  ‘No!’

  Daisy reached over and placed her hand over Jay’s wrist, stopping her before she had even swiped the device awake.

  ‘No, I’m okay. I haven’t OD’d.’ Daisy couldn’t remember what she had done the previous night, but she was certain she hadn’t taken a bucket of drugs. Her body didn’t feel that way. Didn’t have the sensation of separation that heavy medication brought. The acidic smell of lemons flashed across her mind, but she shook it away. If she’d OD’d it would be more than lemons she’d be smelling. It would be the olfactory equivalent of concrete.

  ‘What is it then? What’s wrong?’ Jay searched her eyes, careful not just to focus only on the blue one, but to allow her gaze to flicker between the two, passive and inclusive rather than aggressive and dominant.

  ‘I need to show you something. Make sure it’s not just in my head.’

  ‘What is it?’ Jay said again. She was beginning to feel stupid, repeating the same sentence over and over. Daisy grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. When they walked into the living room she merely pointed. Jay followed her gesture, staring at the mobile sat on the low table.

  ‘But you don’t have a phone, do you?’ she said, brow creased. ‘Why is there–’

  ‘Someone’s been in. Someone’s been in without me knowing.’

  Jay looked down at Daisy’s hand, still clutching her own like a lifeline. ‘But how? You always lock the…’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Daisy, her voice beginning to rise. ‘But they have.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jay said softly. The flat was ticking with the sound of Leeds-rain hitting the windows. Moving with the grey shadow-rain seeping down the walls.

  ‘It woke me up. Wouldn’t stop ringing until I answered it.’

  ‘It’s not ringing now. Whose is it?’ Jay started to walk forward, but Daisy pulled her back.

  ‘I answered it, but it wasn’t a call. It was a picture thing. Whatever you call them.’

  ‘A photo file?’

  Daisy looked at her.

  Jay saw the confusion on her face. And fear. Fear beginning to come through strong.

  Daisy shook her head slowly.

  ‘It’s not mine. Someone put it there when I was asleep. It made me wake up wrong.’ Daisy let go of Jay’s arm and turned to look at the phone. ‘Not mine,’ she repeated like she needed to convince herself. Jay stayed looking at her for a moment, then walked forward and picked up the device. She pushed the power button on the side and swiped the screen. There was a moment of image static and then the phone showed the last thing that had been viewed on it.

  ‘Is that…’ Jay squinted. ‘Is that a child’s drawing? A girl on a swing?’

  ‘It’s a mermaid,’ said Daisy quietly. ‘It’s a tattoo of a mermaid.’

  ‘Right!’ Jay nodded. ‘It’s not very good, is it? And what’s this line coming out of her back?’

  Jay turned the phone sideways, trying to get a better look.

  ‘It’s a fishing line,’ said Daisy, staring at the shadow-rain trailing down her wall. ‘The hook is in her back, and she’s being reeled in.’

  ‘The hook,’ Jay read. ‘I get it.’ Then she looked up at Daisy. ‘Actually, I don’t have a fucking scooby. What’s this all about?’

  ‘I told you. I woke up to it ringing. When I answered, that was on it.’

  ‘But it means something to you? I know you said you’ve never seen it before but it means something to you, yeah?’

  Jay watched with dismay as tears formed in Daisy’s eyes. Form, be born, then slowly slide down her face. Jay wanted to run to her. Hold her. Protect her.

  But she didn’t.

  Because she was work.

  Shit, thought Jay.

  She stood, putting the phone back on the table.

  ‘Okay, Daisy, what the fuck’s going on?’

  13

  3rd November

  ‘It’s been a while since I’ve been in the back of a police car,’ said Joseph, as they slipped through the traffic. The rain had eased off somewhat, but the driver was still having to use the wipers. Joseph studied him in the rear-view mirror, oversized so that the passenger in the front seat could use it as well, as was common in an unmarked police car. He noted the broken nose and the scarred tissue around the dead-stare eyes. The leather jacket and Swarovski-crystal earring. Joseph thought he looked more like a gangster than a policeman, with his boxer’s face and street clothes. The driver never glanced at him, just stayed focused on the road.

  ‘When?’ Collins asked, turning in his seat and looking at him.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ The bulk of Collins made Joseph feel a little crowded. Collins had the kind of squat, solid musculature one would normally associate with a brick.

  ‘When?’ repeated Collins. ‘When were you last in a police car?’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ said Joseph. ‘About ten years ago.’

  ‘What was it involving, if you don’t mind me asking?’ said Slane, turning in her own seat and looking back at him. Her gaze was clear and penetrating. Joseph suspected she made a good detective; decisive and direct.

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t anything criminal,’ said Joseph quickly. ‘Similar to this, really, I imagine. I was helping the police on an immigration matter.’

  Slane smiled at him. ‘I see. That doesn’t sound like it would be part of your specialism, professor.’

  ‘Yes, well, there were, um, complications. There were trafficked children involved. I’d really rather not discuss it if that’s all right?’

  ‘No problem, Joseph, I was just interested. Is it all right if I call you Joseph?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good,’ she said, then: ‘Ah, here we are! I told you it wasn’t far.’

  Joseph looked out of the window. The car had stopped in what appeared to be an abandoned industrial estate. Everywhere was grey concrete and steel shutters. Glass-ripped carpet on the roof perimeters and fire
-scarred breeze blocks.

  ‘Bloody hell, where have you taken me to, Beirut?’

  ‘It’s up for redevelopment,’ said Collins. ‘Therefore cheap rent. You know how under-resourced the public sector is? With a police presence here the owners lease it to us for nothing. They know that no one’s going to come and do any damage while we have a base on the estate.’ Slane got out of the car and walked round to let Joseph out. There were no door handles on the inside of the vehicle.

  The car had stopped in front of a two-storey building. The upper windows were blocked with sheets of riveted metal, with barbed wire and glass shards on the flat roof perimeter. The lower windows were protected by rusting metal bars and the door to the building was barred by a padlocked roller shutter.

  ‘Where’s Fielding?’ Collins eyed the locked door, his wet-dry voice sounding annoyed. The driver slipped past him and walked up to the shutter and undid the padlock.

  ‘She’s gone to check on Lawrence, sir,’ he said, heaving the door upward. The scrape and screech of the cog system set Joseph’s teeth on edge. ‘He hasn’t radioed in for a while so she’s making sure everything is kosher.’ The driver’s accent was hard Nottingham; all dead vowels and backstreet consonants. Joseph watched him as he disappeared into the mouth of the building.

  ‘You know, I’m really not sure if I do have time…’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Slane smiled and took Joseph’s elbow. ‘I know it looks grim but it really isn’t what it seems.’ She steered him towards the doorway. Joseph reluctantly allowed himself to be guided. ‘The investigation is quite delicate and so this environment suits us perfectly.’