THE STOLEN BOYS a gripping crime thriller with a huge twist (JACKMAN & EVANS Book 5), page 1
THE STOLEN BOYS
A gripping crime thriller with a huge twist
(DI Jackman & DS Evans Book 5)
JOY ELLIS
First published 2018
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to corrections@joffebooks.com
We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.
©Joy Ellis
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
CONTENTS
NOTE ON STREETWEAR
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
OTHER BOOKS BY JOY ELLIS
The DI Nikki Galena books
Glossary of English Slang for US readers
Character List
FREE KINDLE BOOKS AND OFFERS
This one is for Luke. Thank you so much for introducing me to the strange and exciting world of the ‘drop day’ and weird and very expensive streetwear!
Also to Ivan and Jackie, for all your help and support over the years. What a great family to know!
NOTE ON STREETWEAR
It may seem to stretch the reader’s credulity to suggest that sports clothing and streetwear could sell for thousands of pounds. However, in fact, brands like Supreme attract dedicated fans who will queue overnight and some of the items do end up selling for very high prices. And for our American readers, trainers are what British people often call sneakers. Ironically, the term has crossed back over the Atlantic and is sometimes used by British youths. Please note “resell” is used by aficionados to describe resale sites for these items.
CHAPTER ONE
Late one night, two young men sat opposite each other, faces pale in the half light of the café, empty but for them. Elbows on the table, faces cupped in their hands, heads close together, they kept their voices low.
‘What’s the risk?’ Tommy said.
‘Minimal, I promise you.’ Dean’s conspiratorial smile was very white, the perfect teeth gleaming. ‘I’ve been doing this stuff right here in Saltern-le-Fen for over a year now, and no shit, Tommy, it’ll be the easiest money you’ll ever make.’
The first boy wasn’t so sure. He’d been caught out before, sold a whole spiel of lies. He stared at Dean, trying to work him out. Dean had been two years above him at school, the kind of boy everyone wanted to be friends with but was scared of too. Dean was wild, unpredictable and clever. Always in trouble but getting away with it every time. Tommy knew that Dean’s father was well-off and wondered if money talked when it came to rescuing his offspring from bother.
‘Honest, Tommy, you’re made for this game, and I can get you in — if you want it. There’s plenty of perks if you do the job well. I’m telling you, this could be your big break.’ Dean pushed his chair back. ‘I’ll get us another coffee, and you think it over, okay?’
Tommy watched Dean saunter up to the counter and order two more Americanos. He was still charismatic. Tall and well-built, unlike Tommy, who was small for his age and scrawny. Dressed in urban, sports-inspired streetwear, Dean was clean cut, everything minimal. Tommy, on the other hand, was now a skinny nineteen-year-old, his low-cut hipster jeans barely staying up. Dean’s hair was blond, Tommy’s was almost jet black. Most importantly, Dean was loaded and Tommy was on his beam end.
He stared at the table. Shrugged. What did he have to lose? His parents were screaming their way towards a divorce, his brother had joined the army, and his sister had moved in with her boyfriend, an apparently charming man who was privately frying his brains with cocaine. When the rift between his parents finally came, Tommy knew that his father would go back to Scotland, and his mother, well, his mother spent a lot of time with a “close friend,” who wouldn’t want a teenager in his home. So Tommy couldn’t even be sure of having a roof over his head. He’d lost his job — through no fault of his own for once. Things looked grim.
By the time Dean set down the coffee cups, Tommy knew what he would say. He was terrified of going to prison. He had a rather “cute” face and looked much younger than nineteen. Tommy had heard the stories about what happened to newbie inmates that looked pretty. Still, he’d do it.
Dean flashed those teeth in a white grin. ‘So, you’ve come to a decision, our Tommy.’
‘Low risk, you say?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘So, what do I have to do?’
‘Just shake my hand, Tom-boy. You’ve made a wise decision there. Now you sit back and wait till you hear from me, okay? Just be ready to move at short notice. Can you do that?’
‘No sweat. I’ve nothing else to do right now.’
Dean handed him a mobile phone and a charger. ‘Take this. Keep it safe and switched on at all times. Never use it to ring anyone other than the number that’s already in it — me. The only calls you’ll get on it are from me. Understood?’
Tommy nodded, and pushed the phone deep into his pocket.
‘And this is to tide you over until you start earning. Keep it to yourself, and don’t go mad and have people looking at you and wondering. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that, I know you’re no fool, Tom-boy.’
If Tommy was surprised, he didn’t show it. He didn’t count the money but stuffed it into his pocket with the phone.
Dean drained his coffee. ‘Now, you keep a low profile and I’ll set the wheels in motion with my boss.’ He held out his hand once again. ‘You won’t regret this.’
Tommy gripped the hand across the table. What the hell had he just signed up for?
* * *
Some thirty minutes later, on the other side of town, Dean stood before an old banker’s desk, almost hopping with excitement, looking across at the man in the chair opposite him.
‘What kind of boy is he?’ Darke asked.
‘A boy in crisis,’ Dean replied.
‘Excellent. And what else?’
‘Shrewd, can think on his feet, but he lacks direction. He’s struggling with a disintegrating home life.’ Dean said.
Darke nodded. ‘Malleable?’
‘Absolutely, with the right handling.’
‘And you want him, do you?’
‘He trusts me,’ Dean laughed, ‘up to a point. But the main thing is, he has huge potential.’
‘So, not a foot soldier?’
‘Definitely not. He’s no street kid. He comes from a nice home — well, it was before the parents fell out. You need to see him. He’s perfect for what we want. Elite material, I know it,’ Dean said eagerly.
Darke stared down at a leather-bound notebook on the desk in front of him. ‘Okay, give me his details.’
Dean rattled off Tommy’s name, address and date of birth. He had done his research, he knew a lot more than that about Tommy Peel. But for now that information would stay with him.
Darke scribbled in the notebook. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Just one. But he’ll be more suited to Trez’s unit. He’s feral — a dangerous, greedy lad.’
Darke raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m assuming he does have something that’ll make him useful to us?’
‘He’s fast, ruthless and not very bright. Unless I’m wrong, he’ll see Trez as his hero and follow him into hell if need be.’
‘The best kind of foot soldier, then? But is he malleable?’
‘Too much so, I should think. Trez’d have him eating out of his hand in no time at all.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell Trez to check him out tomorrow, and then we’ll make a decision on him.’
‘And Tommy?’ Dean asked.
‘He’s all yours. Usual stipulations — a short trial period and watch him clos
Dean nodded, but failed to meet those ice-cold eyes. He loved and hated this man, idolised and feared him.
‘Don’t forget, Dean, don’t get too close. That boy’s expendable.’
‘Aren’t they all?’
CHAPTER TWO
It was an hour before their shift was due to start, and DI Rowan Jackman and DS Marie Evans were alone in his office. Jackman wanted to talk to her privately before the others got in.
‘How’s the leg?’ he asked.
Marie shrugged. ‘Well, I passed the fitness test, that’s the main thing, but it still aches, and it doesn’t like the cold mornings. I’m actually considering buying a lighter motorbike this time, not my usual kind of big beast. With this leg as it is, I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle a heavy bike for quite a while. Still,’ she smiled at him sadly, ‘I keep reminding myself it could have been worse. Much worse.’
Jackman knew exactly what she meant. They had both been injured on duty some months before, but both had survived and come through pretty well intact, so they had a lot to be grateful for. They were still haunted by the fact that the killer they’d been chasing had got away. Now, although things seemed to have returned to something like normality, Jackman knew that each member of the team was waiting for Alistair Ashcroft to return and launch a new reign of terror.
They sat opposite each other at Jackman’s leather top desk and sipped coffee.
Jackman looked at her over the top of his mug. ‘Apart from the influx of illegal steroids into the area, and a few rather odd break-ins, we’re not exactly run off our feet, are we?’
‘Do I sense a new job hanging in the air?’
Jackman smiled at her. ‘You know me too well.’ His smile faded. ‘Look, I know they launched a major manhunt to track down Ashcroft after he took off, and it came to nothing, but—’
‘It’s time to start again?’ Marie became equally serious.
‘Yes, it is. Okay, it’s an ongoing investigation and another team’s still looking into it, but the super has given us the go-ahead to make some enquiries ourselves. This time we’ll be very thorough indeed. One area at a time, until we are happy there’s nothing more to glean, then we move on to another path.’
‘And where do we start, boss?’
‘We need to find out exactly where he went after the crash. He was hurt, wasn’t he? So where did he go?’
Marie’s face darkened. ‘Hurt badly, I think.’
Jackman knew Marie’s thoughts had gone back in time to the moment before Alistair had kicked her into unconsciousness.
‘His arm was all but useless. Definitely broken. And there was blood on his face, although I don’t know where that came from,’ she said.
‘Well, that’s our starting point. We hit every medical facility in the area and we look for a badly broken arm presenting on the same date as he disappeared, and also several days afterwards, just in case he lay low somewhere before having to seek help.’ He took in her dubious expression, ‘I know it was all done at the time, but we could get lucky. We might find someone who wasn’t on duty for the last enquiry, or maybe just get lucky, end of. We need to pick up a scent and run with it. Someone must have seen him or helped him.’
‘Do we liaise with the other team, sir?’ asked Marie.
‘Absolutely. We’ll use every bit of intel they have, but we won’t let it colour our judgement. We’ll look at it from our own perspective, re-interview everyone concerned, basically we’ll be starting again, but using their database as a platform.’
‘Well, no one knows Alistair Ashcroft as well as us, so maybe we are better placed to do this, even though . . .’
Jackman didn’t need her to complete the sentence.
Ashcroft had decimated Jackman’s own family, terrified the team, and his legacy plagued their every waking moment and troubled their nights. For all their brave talk about catching him, their assertions that justice would prevail, they all knew that until he really was located and locked up, he would continue to taint their lives.
It was Jackman’s job to lift their spirits, fire them up and inspire them to keep going, but in the wee small hours, he was as tormented as any of them. Even more so, because apart from the personal heartbreak that Ashcroft had caused, Jackman blamed himself for the killer’s escape.
‘I have to catch him, Marie. I have to.’
‘I know, sir.’ Marie gave him a brave smile, and he was relieved to see that it held a touch of her old resilience. ‘He got away once. He won’t do it again. This time round, we’ll get the bastard.’
* * *
Rain started to lash down on Cassel Hill Fen, and the horizon disappeared into a grey miasma.
Daisy Cotterill had lived on the fen for sixty-four years — all her life. The rest of her family swore she had a “nervous disposition,” whatever that meant. She didn’t tell them that her “condition” disappeared overnight, after her husband Barry dropped dead while shovelling the coal.
Just like her father, Barry had an acid tongue and a quick temper. She had never loved him. She didn’t know what loving someone actually meant. She was pretty sure her mother had never loved her father. Mum always said that she respected Dad because he was her husband, but Daisy thought it had more to do with fear.
She had only married Barry Cotterill because in this backwater of a rural wasteland, that’s what women did. The women of Cassel Hill grew up, married and had children. No other life was possible. She and Barry had produced two boys. She didn’t like either of them much, but Terence was by far the worst. He had been a spiteful child and had grown into a cruel and hateful young man. Just after Barry died, Daisy caught him kicking Sheba, her German Shepherd dog, and she threw him out. Now he lived with people more suited to him, in a secure unit somewhere up north. A year later, Sidney had left home, to try to make a life for himself in the city. Evidently there were more takers for drugs on the streets of London.
Now she and Sheba were alone on the fen, and Daisy had never been so contented. The two of them would walk for miles, following the sea-bank and watching the birds out over the marshes and the Wash. Her home was small and she needed very little. Luckily Barry had taken out a life insurance policy without telling her. He’d never been that thoughtful when he was alive. So, with the savings that she had squirrelled away from her days working on the fields, and a meagre inheritance from her mother, Daisy and Sheba managed quite well.
From the moment she had found herself alone in her tiny cottage on Cassel Hill, she had never once felt afraid. Until a few nights ago.
Sheba had stood at the door, refusing to go out for her night time pee, a low growl rumbling in her throat. Daisy had had to practically lift her over the step to get her into the garden, where she’d stood stock still, staring into the darkness and growling.
Daisy had seen and heard nothing, but the dog’s odd behaviour had sent her hurrying inside, where she locked and bolted the door.
The next night Sheba was still edgy, but better, and Daisy chanced a walk to the sea-bank. She suspected poachers, but if so, they would probably be some of her relatives and she wasn’t unduly worried. Then, after she had climbed the steep sided bank to be rewarded with a view across the marshes to the black waters of the Wash, she had seen the lights. Tiny pinpoints in the darkness, then answering ones from somewhere else. They flashed, remained constant, before disappearing. Later, there had been stronger beams, moving this way and that.
Daisy was a country girl with little schooling but strangely, she wasn’t superstitious. She didn’t believe in the jack-o’-Lantern, or the corpse candles that supposedly hovered over the marsh. The dead didn’t scare her, it was the living she was wary of. And there was definitely some hanky-panky taking place out on the marsh.
Daisy and her dog hurried home. She pulled the curtains tightly closed and checked the doors and windows twice. They turned in early and snuggled together in her big old double bed.
This morning the rain had started before dawn, and it was still drenching everything. She had planned on taking a flask and her binoculars and setting out early to walk the three-mile length of the Cassel Hill to the Tanner’s Fen stretch of the sea-bank. Maybe she’d see something that would explain the strange lights. She wondered, not for the first time, why her village was named Cassel Hill, when the terrain was flat as a witch’s tit. Still, it made it difficult to hide things. If something was going on close to the river or the marsh, Daisy would probably see it. She was an observant woman, some might say nosey. She preferred curious.
