A DCI Anna Tate Crime Thriller

CHAPTER THREE

Ruth Brady checked her watch and saw that she had time for one more cup of coffee. She didn’t have to be at the restaurant until midday and it would only take her roughly forty-five minutes to get there.

She put the kettle on and as it started to boil she decided to phone her husband to let him know about her change of plan.

She went back into the living room, fished her mobile from her handbag, and speed-dialled Ethan’s number. While she waited for him to answer she stepped over to the window and looked out on a lovely bright morning. Their two-storey town house was in the heart of Bermondsey and overlooked a busy main road. But rush hour was over and the traffic was moving freely.

When Ethan didn’t answer she assumed that he must be in a meeting, so she tapped out a short text message.

Had to drop Liam off at the nursery after all. Will explain why later. Will you be able to pick him up at 4pm if I’m not back in time? Xx

She hadn’t planned on taking Liam to the nursery today. Ethan had bought them tickets for the Shrek Adventure attraction in central London. He’d had to pull out himself but had insisted that she should go and treat their son to a fun day out.

And she’d intended to do just that until she got the call from Howard Browning, the editor of a new London-based magazine. Browning had invited her to a meeting at a restaurant close to his office across the Thames in Wapping. He wanted to talk about some feature ideas Ruth had submitted. As a freelance journalist keen to increase the income from her work, it was too good an opportunity for her to pass up.

Ethan earned a good salary as a computer programmer, but living in London was expensive. There was the usual mortgage and bills, but council tax and parking fees were extortionate in comparison to other parts of the country. Plus there were the costs associated with Liam’s condition, a condition that blighted his life and theirs.

She still turned cold whenever she thought back to how the hospital consultant broke the news to them shortly after their son was born three years ago.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Liam has cystic fibrosis,’ he said, and when he saw the confusion on their faces, he added, ‘It’s a condition that can be treated but not cured. And life expectancy is in the mid-forties.’

In the weeks that followed they found out all they could about cystic fibrosis, or CF. While Ruth had become used to reeling off the same line as means of explanation: ‘It causes mucus to clog vital arteries and the digestive system, making it difficult to breathe and digest food’, she didn’t think she would ever come to terms with the fact that Liam’s life would be short and difficult, a journey he’d only just started.

Coping with it wasn’t easy. Ruth hadn’t been able to return to her full-time position as a staff journalist after maternity leave because looking after Liam was a job in itself, with frequent trips to the hospital for check-ups and physiotherapy sessions. They also had to administer regular doses of medication and do their best to ensure he didn’t fall victim to infections.

And that was one of their concerns when they decided to enrol their son in the Peabody Nursery School. They wanted him to grow and develop and learn how to socialise with other children and adults, but they also wanted to make sure that he was in safe hands.

‘We’ll take good care of him, Mr and Mrs Brady,’ the nursery owner, Sarah Ramsay, had assured them. ‘We know how to respond to the needs of children with serious conditions who are nevertheless able to lead relatively normal lives.’

That had been seven months ago and not once had they had to call Ruth to say that he’d had any difficulties, or taken a turn for the worse.

Still, she couldn’t help feeling guilty for not taking him to see Shrek today. And Ethan was surely going to be annoyed, having gone to the trouble of buying the tickets.

But Ruth was confident that Liam would be having just as much fun playing with his little friends, including his best pal Daniel, a little boy whose parents had moved from Ghana to the UK only a year ago. The pair were inseparable, and when she’d dropped Liam off this morning he had run straight over to Daniel who had surrounded himself with piles of colourful wooden bricks.

She’d noticed that there were relatively few children in – only nine as opposed to the usual twenty or so. Sarah Ramsay had explained that attendance always fell off once the holiday season got underway.

Ruth put her phone back in her bag and returned to the kitchen to pour her coffee, which she drank with a couple of digestive biscuits.

Before leaving the house she checked her reflection in the hall mirror, and contemplated the fact that the woman staring back at her looked older than twenty-nine. The last few years had taken their toll with the strain of looking after Liam.

Her long, ash-blonde hair was still in good shape, but there were bags beneath her eyes that seemed more pronounced through her wire-framed glasses. She’d also lost weight without meaning to, and she was sure that it made her look slightly emaciated.

Still, she’d never been one to fret about her appearance so she hadn’t allowed any of that stuff to dent her self-confidence.

She always made an effort to look smart, and today she was hoping that the new trouser suit she was wearing would impress Howard Browning. She wanted to come across as a sharp and savvy journalist who could write interesting and original features for his new magazine.

It was approaching eleven o’clock when she left the house and went outside. Their car – a Peugeot 308 – was parked in a designated bay at the rear of the block. Because they lived in London it didn’t get used much and there were still only seven thousand miles on the clock. Ethan travelled on the tube to work and when they went out as a family they used public transport.

Ruth was feeling upbeat and confident as she climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. It helped that it was such a pleasant Monday morning. Up until the weekend August had been a washout and heavy showers had blasted London and the South East.

She switched on the radio and caught a top-of-the-hour news bulletin. There was a sense of real urgency in the announcer’s voice as he told listeners about a breaking story in South London. Intrigued, Ruth paused before backing out of the bay.

‘Reports are coming in of a serious ongoing incident at a nursery school in Peabody Street, Rotherhithe. Armed police have been called there and the street has been cordoned off. It’s understood the incident involves children and staff members. That’s all we know at the moment, but we’ll bring you further details as soon as we have them.’

Ruth froze as she tried to process what she had just heard. She couldn’t believe it. Or rather she didn’t want to believe it. Surely it had to be a terrible mistake – or a cruel example of fake news.

Nevertheless the announcer’s words sat cold inside her, and her heart started banging in her throat.

She took out her phone and her hand shook as she scrolled through her contacts for the Peabody Nursery number. But after tapping the call icon all she got was the engaged tone.

She knew what she had to do. The nursery was only about a mile away and she could be there in minutes, traffic permitting.

As she shoved the gearstick into reverse the fear and dread swelled up inside her. She started yelling at herself not to panic, that everything was going to be all right and that Liam was perfectly safe.

But there was a voice inside her head that said otherwise. It was telling her that something bad had happened to her precious little boy.

CHAPTER FOUR

The paramedics who attended to Tasha Norris confirmed that her condition was serious and that it was touch and go as to whether she’d survive.

She was the only one who’d been attacked and it was because she put up a fight when they were being forced into the storeroom.

She’d received two vicious blows to the head and one to the face. Her nose was shattered and there were two open wounds below her unruly mop of dark brown hair.

As Tasha was being stretchered out of the building, Anna was approached by Sarah Ramsay, who was understandably still shocked and confused after the ordeal.

‘One of us should go with her to the hospital,’ she said. ‘We can’t let her go by herself.’

‘You and your colleagues need to stay here so that you can give me more details about what happened,’ Anna said. ‘But don’t worry. She’s in good hands and will be accompanied by one of my officers.’

‘Then someone should call her husband,’ Sarah said, as she took a mobile phone from her jeans pocket and held it up. ‘This belongs to her. His number will be on it.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Steve. Steve Norris. They live in Salter Road.’

Anna took the phone from her and gave it to DI Walker, who was standing beside her.

‘Make the call, Max,’ she said. ‘And then phone the office and get more bodies down here, fast. Tell them to drop everything else.’

Anna returned her attention to Sarah, who was still struggling to compose herself. She was a tall, sinewy woman of about thirty, with thick, lustrous black hair and a pale, flawless complexion. Black rivulets of mascara stained her cheeks.

Just thirty minutes had elapsed since she and the two teachers who worked for her had emerged from the cramped storeroom. So far they had given only a brief account of what had happened because of the state they were all in. Anna now needed them to flesh out their story; every detail could be pivotal to the investigation and to the search for the children.

‘I’d like you to join your colleagues,’ Anna said. ‘I want to go through everything again from the moment the three men turned up.’

Sarah nodded. ‘Of course, but I don’t think there’s much more I can tell you that would be helpful. It happened so quickly.’

‘Let me be the judge of that, Miss Ramsay. I’ll come and talk to you in just a minute. There are a few things I have to do first.’

Anna asked a PC to escort Sarah next door to the community centre, which had been commandeered because the nursery was now a crime scene and forensic officers would soon be all over it, looking for any evidence the men had left behind.

Sarah’s two colleagues were already there, but Sarah hadn’t yet joined them because she’d been asked to provide a list of the children who’d been taken. The list, complete with photographs, was now being circulated, and the parents were being informed as a matter of urgency.

There were four boys and five girls. Their innocence shone through in each photograph and Anna blinked away the tears that began filling her eyes as she stared at them, desperately trying to keep her mind on the next steps of the case to avoid thinking of what awful things might soon be happening to them.

She paused for a moment to take stock of the situation. She was still in the playroom, surrounded by detectives and uniformed officers who were waiting to be told what to do.

This was a high-impact crime that was going to appal the nation and present MIT with its toughest ever challenge. As the SIO, Anna would be under considerable pressure to resolve it quickly. But she knew already that it wasn’t going to be easy. It was obvious that the gang had carefully planned the crime and had executed it with shocking precision.

She felt sure that it would have involved more than just three men. It was likely that they’d had at least one other person waiting outside while they went into the building. He or she might have been tasked with looking after whatever vehicle was used to take the children away.

Anna had already made it clear to everyone that she was in charge and had called DCS Nash to update him. Now she began issuing instructions to those around her.

‘Someone should check the security camera at the front entrance,’ she said. ‘It should have picked up the men when they arrived. I also want details of all CCTV cameras located within a half-mile radius of Peabody Street. And start questioning neighbours. I can’t believe the kids weren’t seen being led out of the building and into a large van or small coach. It would have taken time, especially if some of the children were upset and didn’t want to go.’

She was told that a couple of the parents had got in touch before being contacted because the story had broken and was being carried on TV and radio bulletins.

‘We should make preparations to talk to them in the community centre,’ Anna said. ‘My guess is they’ll be desperate to come here and see for themselves what’s going on. I know I would. It’ll suit us because we can speak to them all together as well as individually and that’ll save time.’

‘I’ll put the wheels in motion,’ Walker said. ‘Meanwhile, I just spoke to Tasha Norris’s husband. He was at work but now he’s on his way to the hospital.’

‘Well, let’s hope that the poor woman pulls through,’ Anna said. ‘If she doesn’t then we could find ourselves dealing with a murder as well as a kidnapping.’

Anna left it at that for the time being and went outside. Two support vehicles were now parked on the community centre forecourt, and more people had joined the crowds at either end of the street. Some were holding mobile phones aloft to take photos of what was going on.

Anna was gagging for a cigarette but there was no time. She needed to have another conversation with Sarah Ramsay and the teachers, then bring a semblance of order to the investigation. Right now, things were a bit chaotic and too many questions remained unanswered.

As she walked towards the community centre she spotted a Sky News van with a large satellite dish perched on the roof. It never ceased to amaze her how quickly the media managed to turn up at crime scenes. She suspected that they were regularly monitoring police radio frequencies.

It suddenly occurred to her that the sooner they appealed for help from the public, the better. The Yard’s media liaison team would probably tell her to hold fire until she had more information. But she saw no need to.

She made it known that she wanted to give the media a short statement and told uniform to allow the TV crew and any press people through the cordon.

It transpired that there were two newspaper reporters present as well as the Sky crew. Anna introduced herself and explained that she was only prepared to make a brief statement and was not in a position to answer lots of questions.

‘The facts are these,’ she said, making a point of not looking directly into the camera. ‘Three men with pistols burst into the Peabody Nursery here in Rotherhithe just before nine this morning. There were nine children inside at the time and the men herded them into one of the side rooms. The men then forced the four members of staff, all female, into a separate room. One of the women is on her way to hospital to be treated for a serious head injury.

‘The police were alerted at nine twenty-three a.m. from a mobile belonging to a member of staff. We arrived at the scene approximately fifteen minutes later to find that none of the children were present at the nursery. We are therefore treating this as a serious abduction and are appealing for anyone who might have information to come forward.

‘The kidnappers would almost certainly have put the children into a small bus or large van. Hopefully we’ll soon know more about that after we’ve examined CCTV footage. But in the meantime we’d like to hear from anyone who saw the children being led away or saw anything else that appeared suspicious this morning in Peabody Street.’

‘Have you got descriptions of the men?’ the Sky reporter asked as she thrust her microphone towards Anna.

‘They were all white,’ Anna said. ‘Two of them looked to be in their late twenties or thirties and one was older, perhaps mid to late fifties. They were wearing suits and they were posing as detectives from a local police station, which is how they gained access to the building.’

‘Is it possible this is a terrorist attack?’ This from a young fresh-faced hack who identified himself as Luke Dennis from the Evening Standard.

Anna’s expression remained neutral. ‘At this stage we don’t know who they are or what their motive is. But we’ll be liaising with the Anti-Terrorism Command as well as the Met’s Kidnap Unit. Currently the Major Investigation Team, of which I’m the senior officer, is leading the operation.’

The same reporter then asked a second question that completely threw Anna.

‘Can you please confirm that you’re the same detective whose own daughter was abducted ten years ago and who recently gave an interview to a Sunday magazine?’

Anna drew a sharp breath and felt an uncomfortable tightness in her chest.

She could see where the reporter was going with this and she wasn’t happy. It was a good human interest angle to the story, the sort of thing the papers loved, but Anna refused to let it be pursued.

‘That has no relevance to the investigation,’ she said brusquely.

The reporter raised his brow. ‘Well, I beg to differ, DCI Tate. Surely you can see—’

She shook her head. ‘All I can see is you trying to make something out of nothing, Mr Dennis. What happened to my own daughter has no bearing on this case whatsoever. And I’m not prepared to waste precious time talking about it.’

‘But the families will want to know that—’

He didn’t get to finish what he was saying because he was suddenly distracted by an ear-splitting scream.

Anna, along with everyone else, turned towards the sound and saw a woman struggling with a police officer in the road between two squad cars.

She knew instinctively that the woman would turn out to be the mother of one of the nine children – and that she had rushed here to confront what was her and every other parent’s worst nightmare.

CHAPTER FIVE

Ruth screamed again, this time at the stupid fucking copper who was holding her back. He had her arm in a vice-like grip and was squeezing so hard it hurt.

‘You need to calm down, madam,’ he was saying. ‘This area has been closed off to members of the public.’

‘But I want to see my son,’ she told him for the third time. ‘I need to know that he’s all right. He’s in the nursery.’

The officer put his other arm around her shoulders and his voice softened.

‘Look, let me sit you in one of the patrol cars while I go and find someone to help you.’

‘You can help by letting me through,’ she yelled at him. ‘I need to know what’s going on. Is Liam OK? Has he been hurt? Please let me go inside so that I can find out.’

‘I’m sorry, but that’s just not possible.’

She was suddenly aware that she was attracting a lot of attention. Other people were coming towards her, including a man who was holding what looked like a large video camera. It made her panic even more, and a wave of fear crashed over her like a wave.

‘Will someone please tell me what is happening?’ she cried. ‘My name is Ruth Brady and my son Liam is here in the nursery. Why won’t you let me see him? He’s three years old for heaven’s sake.’

She was hyperventilating now, unable to get her breathing under control. Tears of frustration blurred her vision, and her heart was pumping so fast it was making her dizzy.

The policeman released his grip on her arm and said something to her that she didn’t understand.

Then she heard another voice. A woman’s voice. It was calmer, clearer, friendlier.

‘Just try to relax and take some deep breaths,’ the woman was saying. ‘You’re going to be all right. I promise. My name is Anna. Detective Anna Tate. And I’m going to explain everything to you.’

Ruth gradually started to breathe normally again as she was taken under the wing of the detective with the strong but kindly voice.

The woman held onto her elbow and steered her away from the group of people who had gathered in the road. A couple of individuals tried to ask her questions but they were prevented from doing so by police officers who shouted at them to step back.

When Ruth realised that she wasn’t being escorted into the nursery she stopped walking and turned to the detective.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she said, her voice high and shrill.

‘Next door to the community centre,’ the detective said. ‘The people who manage it have made it available to us.’

Ruth shook her head. ‘But I don’t understand. Why are you stopping people from going into the nursery? Where are the children? Where’s my son?’

Detective Tate sucked in a breath and cleared her throat. For some reason the woman seemed familiar to Ruth, though she was sure they had never met.

Ruth guessed that Tate was in her early forties. She had an attractive face, but the lines around her mouth and the sagging skin beneath her eyes told Ruth that Detective Tate hadn’t had an easy life.

‘The thing is, a serious crime has been committed here,’ the detective said. ‘I’m really sorry to have to tell you that your son and the other children who were here this morning have been abducted by three men who entered the nursery posing as police officers. The staff were locked in the storeroom. We’re going to do everything we can to get the children back safely.’

Ruth felt a tight spasm in her chest as the shock resonated through her. Her centre of gravity seemed to tilt, and she had to lean against Tate for support.

On the drive here, she had tried to brace herself for bad news, but this wasn’t what she had expected to hear. This was simply beyond belief.

She attempted to speak, to ask another question, but all she managed to do was make a strange noise in the back of her throat.

‘Let me get you into the centre,’ Detective Tate said. ‘You’re in shock and you need to sit down.’

Ruth felt the detective’s arm around her waist and then she was gently urged along the pavement to the community centre, a building she had seen many times but had never set foot in before.

She walked quickly, autopilot taking over, while at the same time her mind flooded with images of Liam. She saw him as he was this morning, dressed in his favourite Superman T-shirt and baggy denim jeans with the drawstring waistband.

She recalled how she had kissed him goodbye and told him that either mummy or daddy would pick him up later. And she remembered how excited he’d been as he rushed across the playroom to join his little pal Daniel.

But then Ruth remembered something else. She remembered that today she was supposed to have taken Liam to the Shrek Adventure on the South Bank. But she had decided not to because she’d elected to meet up with a magazine editor instead. A hot spike of guilt sliced through her chest.