SECRET IV

By James Haydon

The fourth in a cycle of books, SECRET IV finds Michael James back in his work environment as a litigator and assigned a client who appears to be a victim of sexual abuse. It soon transpires that the girl (Annie) is unable to communicate in any known language and may well be an escaped kidnap victim. Michael sets out to find whom the perpetrator

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookTrail Publishing
• Release date: Oct 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781951505653

James Haydon

James Haydon was born in Blackfriars, London. His works are predominately London based, depicting various epochs and using London as a backdrop for his novels and its ever-changing stages throughout history.

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Copyright © 2020 by James Haydon

Paperback: 978-1-951505-66-0

eBook: 978-1-951505-65-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020916280

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of nonfiction.

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For James

‘There is nothing to writing.

All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.’

Ernest Hemingway.

CHAPTER ONE

-1-

I was sitting in my office and trying to understand how this company functioned these days. So much had changed. Half the people I didn’t know and the ones I did were giving me a wide berth. I was trying to come to terms with who was dealing with what; the individual departments Badger had set up in my absence. A year ago, if I wanted something, I would simply ask Sylvia or Theresa. Now I had to go through half a dozen people to achieve the same results. Getting nowhere fast I pushed the button on the intercom.

‘Sylvia?’

‘What?’

‘Charming. Who is in charge of research nowadays?’

‘That’ll be John.’

I tried to put a name to a face but couldn’t. ‘And John is… who?’

‘John Lambert, on the first floor.’

‘Oh right. Well, can you ask him to come up and see me sometime today? As I own this company I’d kind of like to know what we’re doing.’

‘Will do.’

I looked at my cluttered desk, not knowing where to begin. It had been that way for a month now. Every day the same as the one before, and every one a deliberate attempt to fool my unsuspecting employees that I was very much in control. In truth, I wasn’t. I had lost touch, not only with my profession but with me as a person – with the people who trusted me and the people I had come to depend on. I truly believed that I was going to pick up where I left off, as if the last six-years had never happened and that all the changes which had been made during my nonattendance would have no effect on me. But I did have my own reasons for being distracted. Today was the big day, the day when Colonel Westwood would stand before the Investigation Committee and answer for all his past misdemeanours. Rachel would be there, of course, to watch him squirm as charges of treason were made against him. I didn’t much fancy his chances. The government were merciless when it came to dealing with trusted figures that had run roughshod over their alleged full-proof system, and no one had abused his privileged position more than Colonel Westwood; misappropriation of government funds, extortion, manipulation, even murder. Of course, I was forbidden to discuss the subject openly and so, at least for the time being, I would have to keep it to myself until I got home and found out the results.

Technically we were heading towards winter, but according to the weather forecasters we were in the midst of an Indian summer, and the days still lingered long and could be as hot as July. Perhaps my lethargic disposition was because my mind had not yet switched from holiday mode to work mode. Several weeks ago I was sipping cocktails in Rome, cavorting with a beautiful redhead in Spain, and coming face to face with dark figures who I considered my nemesis. It had been a long road, littered with dark figures, intrigue, and dubious organisations that had remained undetected for two-thousand-years. My father, the prestigious physician William James, died in 1941, and for reasons known only to himself decided to leave me a hand-written account of his early days in medical school and just happened to mention that quite apart from being a brilliant mind, he had dispatched four prostitutes living in and around the Whitechapel area in the autumn of 1888. The press assigned him a name, a designation that would permeate throughout the annals of criminal history and would epitomise everything evil: Jack the Ripper. With my respectability under threat, and on behalf of my dearly departed mother, I decided to investigate the validity of his claim which, of course, was just one of the many mistakes I had already made in life. The last six-years were strewn with dead bodies, unresolved mysteries, and discoveries which were more at home on the shelves of fictitious literature than they were in the world of fact. As far as I was concerned my quest was over, and although the adage that time heals was the stuff of bunk and nonsense, I was more than willing to put it all behind me and pick up the pieces of my life.

Badger entered my office with a broad smile and a stack of miscellaneous files under his arm.

‘Settling in all right, are we?’ he said, enquiringly.

‘Not really, no. Couldn’t you have left things the way they were? If I want something done I haven’t got a clue who to see.’

My partner took a pew on the corner of my desk.

‘You’ll get used to it. This is how all the big firms work these days – streamlining they call it.’

‘Do they? Well, it gives me a headache.’

‘You have got to learn to move with the times, Michael, and not let the grass grow under your feet.’

‘Any more pointless clichés you care to share with me?’ I huffed.

‘You feel like a new boy, I understand that, but it’s just like riding a bike…’

‘God! More clichés. For your information, my bike worked perfectly well before you started mucking about with it.’

Badger laughed. ‘Streamlining; you’ll thank me in the end.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’

With that, the door flew open and Sylvia marched towards me with all the fervour of the advance on Leningrad. She leaned over my desk and flicked the switch up on my intercom.

‘How many more times have you got to be told?’ she berated me. ‘Switch it off! I’ve been listening to you two prattling on like a couple of old women and it’s messing up my natural rhythm. If you leave your channel open I can’t get in touch with anybody else.’

‘Sorry. I’ll try to remember next time.’

‘It’s like talking to a brick wall. It’s not like I’m asking you to build a combustion engine or construct a suspension bridge or anything like that. Just turn the bloody thing off when you’ve stopped talking to me, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Jesus!’ And out she stomped again.

Badger and I waited for the door to slam closed, both of us cowering in unison when she did so.

‘Look, Michael, I know how difficult it must be for you,’ he resumed. ‘If you’re feeling stifled, why not take a case that gets you out of the office for a few hours a day.’ He shuffled through the several files he had brought in with him. ‘Here, how about this one. It came in from the Essex Police at Chelmsford this morning. I was going to give it to Gordon, but he’s already got enough on his plate at the moment. It’ll do you good; nice little drive out in the country… get you back in the swing of things.’

I looked at the folder warily.

‘Since when did we start accepting commissions from the Essex Police?’

Badger looked at me sheepishly. ‘It’s pro bono.’

‘Pro bono! We don’t take on pro bono work. There’s no money in pro bono and never has been. When we set this company up, we agreed – no pro bono commissions.’

‘For the good of the people, that’s what pro bono means, Michael.’

‘I know what it means. I just don’t understand why we’re doing it.’

‘It’s bread-and-butter work, Michael. It gets us through the lean times. I’ve agreed to accept ten-percent of pro bono assignments. It keeps us in good with the authorities.’

I rolled my eyes and sighed witheringly.

‘What is it?’ I asked snappily.

‘It’s a simple job. You’ll have it wrapped up in a few days. Ever heard of a country village called Mountford Row in Essex?’

‘No.’

Well, why would you?’ said Badger as he opened the file. ‘A young woman was stopped by the police in the early hours of yesterday morning and she assaulted one of the officers. All you have to do is go there, get the details of the case, and see if she intends to plead guilty or not… simple. After which we’ll prepare a defence and present it to the court.’

I held out my hand. ‘What’s the girl’s name?’

Badger searched for the information. ‘Annie.’

‘Annie who?’

‘It doesn’t say. It just says Annie.’

‘Good start.’

‘Clearly, Annie has decided to remain silent until her lawyer is present,’ Badger remarked.

‘Sounds like she knows the ropes. Why did the police stop her? Was she drunk?’

My partner perused the file once again and shrugged. ‘It doesn’t say. Obviously, the girl has been charged with assault and read her rights, and as she couldn’t afford or didn’t have legal representation, we’ve been assigned the case.’

‘Pro-bloody-bono,’ I grumbled under my breath.

‘Yes. Look, Michael, if nothing else it will break you in gently and get you used to the old routine. You’ve got to get back on the horse, as they say.’

‘Okay, I’ll take it, if only to get away from your incessant platitudes!’

‘That’s my boy,’ he said as he registered his watch. ‘I’ll call the Essex Constabulary and let them know you’re on your way.’

‘Now! You want me to go now?’

‘No time like the present, old boy.’ He consulted the file again. ‘You’ve got to meet with a Detective Inspector Dawes. I’ll get Sylvia to call you a cab. Is that all right with you?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Your client is rotting in a police cell, Michael. She requires your immediate attention.’

-2-

It was not a court of law in the conventional sense. There were no prosecution or defence barristers, no clerks as such, no ushers, no juniors skittering about, or no last-minute rebuttal witnesses to dispute given testimony. It was just a room and a bland one at that. It was long and thin with four high windows which stared across Whitehall towards Downing Street, the sills of which seemed to be a permanent rendezvous for fat pigeons scouting the pavements below for discarded titbits. The room was many things and served many purposes. On Monday mornings, it was a venue for executive meetings, a laborious two-hour assembly in which civil servants listened with feigned attentiveness as the section head outlined his policies for the forthcoming week. On occasions it was used for exams, for those seeking promotion. On other days, the room might be used for in-house discussions and debates concerning new legislations passed through Parliament, but most days throughout the week it stood silent and empty, the wooden chairs and elongated tables stacked in high columns in the farthest corner, the polished wooden floor shining within the strips of autumn sunlight piercing the lofty windows. Today it was the setting for Colonel Geoffrey Westwood’s hearing, presided over by three judges only, of which made up the Investigation Committee, where after having deliberated on the evidence at hand for the past month would listen to statements and depositions and, today, pass sentence.

Rachel had arrived one hour early to keep a prearranged meeting with Group Captain Morris Harrison-Gibb, Chief Administrator for the Secret Service, and the man responsible for chloroforming the GSO and relocating its operatives. As his title suggests, Harrison-Gibb was an RAF veteran, a man who had done his bit for king and country and had earned his wings during the first conflict. He epitomised the English gent, eloquent and, for a man in his autumn years, remarkably dashing and courteous. His garb was as consistent as the English weather; charcoal grey pinstripe with waistcoat, grey overcoat with black velvet collar, and a black bowler set just so on his upright head. His steely pencil moustache gave him that aura of sleaziness, but his piercing blue eyes conveyed the integrity of the man and an honesty few could ever hope to possess. He was waiting on the pavement when Rachel’s taxi drew up and, being the gentleman that he was he opened the door and extended his hand to take her by the elbow. Rachel wore a two-piece, pastel blue suit, her hair sculpted high on her head with ringlets falling about her cheeks, her overall appearance impeccable. At once Mr. Harrison-Gibb removed his wallet from the breast pocket of his overcoat and met the cab driver’s demands, despite Rachel’s objections.

‘Think nothing of it, my good woman,’ he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘What is the point of having an expense account if one cannot abuse the privilege?’ As he tucked his wallet back from whence it came, he observed Rachel smilingly. ‘Now then, you look to me like a woman who may enjoy a nice cup of coffee. Would I be correct, or do I assume too much, Mrs James?’

Rachel looked down at her feet and tried not to laugh.

‘I’ll take that as yes, shall I?’ he resounded. ‘In that case, there is a splendid coffeehouse close to the underground by Parliament, and I was rather hoping we might go there and discuss matters. There are things to say.’

Rachel nodded and swept a hand towards the House of Lords. ‘Lead on, Mr Harrison-Gibb,’ she said.

The paths of Rachel and the administrator had crossed several times in the past, he being the chief overseer of combined GSO and MI6 missions, whose role it was to deploy the right people for the right job and to ensure the safety of all operatives involved. As head of the GSO Department, Rachel would sit in on the meetings between Colonel Westwood and Morris Harrison-Gibb, but rarely was she ever given the chance to voice her opinion and even then, when the topic cried out for her view, the colonel ensured her narratives were sparse. Nevertheless, Rachel liked his militant deportment and the quips he made that were funny to no one else but him. Even now as they walked down Whitehall, with the gentleman thrashing his rolled-up umbrella in stride with his long and ruthless steps, and his tendency to touch the brim of his bowler whenever a woman looked his way, Rachel had trouble keeping a straight face. On the corner of Whitehall, where the looming tower housing Big Ben dwarfed the pedestrians and vehicles, Morris Harrison-Gibb stopped stock still and turned his eyes back the way they came, and then they fell worriedly on Rachel.

‘My dear, I hope you didn’t take my comment earlier to heart – about me abusing my expense privileges. I’m very frugal when it comes to spending the taxpayers’ hard-earned money. It was a joke, you see.’

Rachel nodded pensively, as if his declaration was of the gravest importance.

‘Well, I appreciate you clearing that up for me, sir. You had me worried there for a minute,’ she said.

The group captain forced another disarming smile and tapped the brim of his hat.

‘I wouldn’t want there being any misunderstandings between us, Mrs James. You know how people can be.’

The coffeehouse was quiet and almost empty, the tables glistening from their wipe-down after the morning rush, the chequered black and white floor a sheen of moisture confined only to the well-trodden aisles. The executive ordered two coffees to a docile looking woman in a white pinafore uniform and guided Rachel to a table furthest away from the counter. Morris Harrison-Gibb leaned his umbrella against the wall next to him and removed his bowler hat, revealing a fine head of metallic grey hair parted customarily down the centre. Rachel settled opposite with her attaché case on her lap and looked at her chaperon expectantly.

‘This is all very nice, Mr Harrison-Gibb, but you do realise that I can’t discuss anything to do with today’s hearing.’ she said.

Her escort took a silver case from his overcoat pocket, and removing a cigarette he gently teased it into a stumpy cigarette holder and placed it between clenched teeth. After lighting it he eased back in his chair, fanning away the wafts of smoke obscuring his face.

‘I have no intention of discussing the hearing, my dear,’ he said in a low tone, his eyes moving towards the counter to gauge the whereabouts of the coffeehouse staff. ‘I would like to discuss you or, to be precise, your intentions from this moment on. I have it on good authority that you have officially retired, and that in-keeping with the stipulations laid down by the GSO your resignation period has now expired.’

‘As of one month ago, yes. I am no longer under the government’s jurisdiction.’

‘No. You are, as they say, a free spirit. However, and if I may mention the colonel just this once, I believe that what you have done is most courageous, an exemplary and praiseworthy example to us all; high time the corrupt were brought to book and their sins exposed. Perhaps Colonel Westwood is only the tip of the iceberg, or maybe he is the iceberg, who can truly say. Either way, justice will be served today and I fear it will be served without mercy or compassion. Does that worry you, Mrs James? Do you feel pangs of remorse for revealing the colonel’s treachery? I read your deposition and it makes interesting reading. You were close, yes?’

‘I was being used.’

Morris Harrison-Gibb discharged the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray, his long and slender, almost womanly fingers daintily tap-tapping the holder. He fixed his stare to the spiral of smoke snaking its way from the glowing end. Rachel was gazing absently into her lap now, her fingernails clicking and scratching at the buckles of her bag.

‘I do hope I haven’t upset you,’ he said.

Rachel raised her eyes and looked him squarely in the face. ‘Not at all, though I am wondering why you set this meeting. I won’t be coerced into retracting any statement I’ve made against the colonel.’

The administrator stifled a laugh and arched his eyebrows. ‘My good woman, I wouldn’t dream of it! I’m not here to dissuade you from your objective. I’m here to offer you a position with the Secret Service.’

Rachel’s hands flew open beneath the table, her fingers rigid and separated. Her face wasn’t spared the initial shock, either. It was the last thing she expected to hear on this day of days. Morris Harrison-Gibb observed her with that same charming smile, a drift of white smoke seeping lazily from the corner of his mouth. She began to shake her head but the administrator leaned forward.

‘Before you refuse, would you allow me to outline the terms I’m prepared to offer?’ he said.

‘Look, Mr. Harrison-Gibb…’

‘To reiterate, I have read your file, and I’m cognisant and completely sympathetic towards your reasons for retiring, but the truth is MI6 are looking for people like you, someone who knows their way around the workings of government security and all it entails. Your credentials are unimpeachable and your honesty has already been proven beyond question. To my detriment, the Secret Service is full of public schoolboys who in my opinion have read one too many adventure comics. I need people who believe in the cause we are fighting for and not empty-headed popinjays who believe the defence of the realm amounts to nothing more than drinking pink gins and mounting any of the female species they encounter.’

Rachel looked up to the ceiling wearily, her neck stretched and a finger supporting her tilted chin. The bureaucrat rested his cigarette and holder on the ashtray, watching it smoulder there for a second.

‘You have a nice house, Mrs. James, I’ve seen photographs. Nice things cost money.’

‘I have money,’ she said.

Harrison-Gibb sighed wistfully. ‘You had money, Mrs James. The banks have made an art of giving money to people that don’t need it, but I wonder what will happen when the large amount of funds deposited into your various accounts by Colonel Westwood have to be returned to the rightful owner. Your reserves will be reduced to a handful of loose change by comparison.’

‘I have a partnership in my husband’s law firm,’ said Rachel, lowering her head and letting her hand drop to her lap. ‘I’ll survive.’

‘Ah, yes, of course, your husband’s law firm.’ The group captain’s smile possessed the ghost of cynicism. ‘And what exactly is your role in your husband’s law firm, Mrs. James? What precisely is it that you do?’

A girl, seemingly fresh out of school, her white pinafore uniform swimming about her tiny frame, set two coffees on the table and flashed a brief smile.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ said the administrator as she turned away. He watched her return to the counter, only to be pointed towards the kitchen by the docile looking woman, where Mr Harrison-Gibb was sure a sink of washing up awaited her. When he turned to Rachel she was leant forward on folded arms, her stare intense.

‘You have no right to interrogate me, sir,’ she said. ‘Furthermore, I have no intention of returning to that line of business ever again. Don’t think me ungrateful, because I really do appreciate your kind offer, but I won’t sit here and be disrespected by someone who is nothing more than a casual acquaintance to me now. I don’t wish to adopt this tone with you, but…’

‘Your tone is the very reason why I want you in MI6,’ the official interrupted. ‘Your tone, as you call it, makes you exceptional in the sycophantic world I presently occupy. You have the strength of leadership and a stubborn determination most men cannot even begin to fathom, nor wish to. That is why I’m willing to double whatever the GSO was paying you.’

‘You’re not listening to me.’

‘You drive a hard bargain, Mrs James. I’ll treble it.’

Rachel slumped back in her seat, sighing exhaustively. ‘God!’

‘Let us for a moment address the true purpose of why you retired,’ said the gentleman as he stirred his coffee. ‘You did it for love.’

Rachel shifted her eyes to his, loaded with indignation. ‘And that’s funny to you, is it?’

‘On the contrary,’ he smiled. ‘I can’t think of a nobler cause. Love is everything. But now let us address the unwanted realities of your present situation which will tear asunder your cherished values. Notwithstanding the monies that the colonel squirrelled away in numerous accounts bearing your name, he sanctioned the finance on the house that you and your husband presently occupy. I think I can safely say it is a foregone conclusion that Colonel Westwood will be charged on every indictment put before the Investigation Committee and, that being the case, they will order the aforementioned capital to be returned into the government coffers immediately. That, of course, will include the amount he endorsed to bankroll your home. Will you be able to meet their demands when the order comes?’

Rachel stared into the eyes of the group captain for as long as she could, but her act of bravado failed her and she looked away, shaking her head. Harrison-Gibb smiled sadly.

‘It would be a pity to lose everything you’ve worked so hard for and, in my opinion, everything you deserve. I can’t picture you living in any other house.’

‘Nor I,’ Rachel sighed.

‘I have no wish to dwell on the past, Mrs. James, but nobody is more aware of how badly you have been treated than me. I am offering you office hours, London only, and I personally guarantee that you will never be asked to go back into the field again. You will work from your own office; nothing more will be expected of you.’

Rachel’s hands were balled into fists beneath the table, and she had this sudden urge to scream at the top of her lungs.

‘I have a son,’ she said. ‘A son I have practically neglected since the day he was born.’

‘I see no reason why flexible hours cannot be arranged; a son must have his mother’s love.’

Rachel shook her head like a stubborn child. ‘Please, sir, I’ve said no, and I mean no.’

Harrison-Gibb sipped tentatively at his coffee, and then leaned back and began to nod with resignation. ‘And is that your final word on the subject?’ he asked.

‘It has to be,’ replied Rachel.

‘As you wish,’ he conceded. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me asking, but I had to be sure before the Investigation Committee formulate their stipulations against you.’

‘Against me?’

‘Why, yes. To reiterate, any endorsements Colonel Westwood made on your behalf, including finance, will undoubtedly be considered spurious and, therefore, the amounts will have to be returned – including the funding of your present home and any loans you may have outstanding authorised by him. However, if you remain in government the aforementioned endorsements will simply be passed on to the head of whichever department you work for and then countersigned, rendering that department responsible for the debt. In short, Mrs James, you will only have to pay back the debt if you leave government. Work for us and your troubles are over. I will personally guarantee any endorsements the Colonel made on your behalf. The money in your various accounts, however, will have to be returned to the government.’

Rachel fell forward and dropped her face into her hands. It was yet another setback. After spending countless years trying to escape the clutches of Colonel Geoffrey Westwood and, finally exposing his deceit, she was still trapped. The group captain observed her torment briefly and delicately lifted his smouldering cigarette from the ashtray.

‘There is a way out of this, Mrs James, and one I believe worth considering,’ he said in a sympathetic voice. ‘I have taken the liberty of drawing up a contract…’

Rachel let her hands drop from her face and stared at him narrowly. ‘Have you now? A little optimistic, don’t you think, Mr Harrison-Gibb?’

‘Please. Allow me to clarify a few points before you make a decision which could be both damaging and costly. The contract I have prepared is for a three-year term only, after which you can remain with us or leave. As I have explained, once I countersign the debts sanctioned by Colonel Westwood I will be held completely accountable for its reimbursement. How you choose to refund the money will be strictly between us. You may choose to re-mortgage your house or secure a loan, but either way you will not be constricted by the conditions of the Investigation Committee. In my view, Mrs James, this is your only way out.’

‘That’s it!’ said Rachel in a eureka moment. ‘I’ll re-mortgage the house!’

The group captain addressed his watch with a rueful smile. ‘Unless you can raise the money within the next forty-five minutes, I fear your plan is a wasted cause. The Investigation Committee is not in the habit of extending favours, and their rulings are final and non-negotiable.’

‘This is entrapment!’

The group captain mustered a wry smile. ‘It is nothing of the sort, Mrs James. I am offering you nothing more than a way out of your present situation. Unfortunately, you and I work for an entity that is neither sympathetic to your predicament nor cares about your future once you leave the security they provide. Once you’re out, you’re out. If you choose to decline my offer then that is your prerogative, but be aware that you will leave the hearing today with considerably less than when you went in. They will demand settlement.’

‘And if I can’t pay?’

‘They will seize anything bearing your name, including the firm known as James, Banner & James, your husband’s company. When it comes to reimbursement, the government gives the word ruthless a whole new meaning. You see, Mrs James, as much as you see yourself as the victim in the Colonel Westwood conspiracy, in the eyes of the I.C. you’re nothing more than a whistle-blower, a government lackey who exposed the treachery of a well-respected administrator and laid bare the intricate workings of government security. You haven’t so much as bitten the hand that feeds you as ripped it off at the elbow.’

‘But… But they can’t do that!’

Rachel was close to tears, her eyes languid, and her breaths trembling.

‘What did you have in mind for the rest of your life, Mrs James?’ enquired Harrison-Gibb with a soft smile. ‘The doting wife keeping house and raising a child; tending to your garden in the summer, perhaps catching up on a little light reading in the winter months? I think not. You have been in this profession since you were a girl, ever since your father introduced you into our dark little world. It is in your blood. The defence of the realm runs through your veins. Don’t let them destroy everything you have worked for.’

Rachel sat there desolate, watching all her dreams and aspirations dissolve. She stared at her untouched coffee turning uglier by the second, a gossamer skin forming on the brown, muddy surface.

‘Office hours only?’ she murmured.

‘You have my word.’

‘And I’ll never have to go outside London?’

‘I will have it written in your contract.’

Rachel straightened. ‘I need to discuss it with my husband first,’ she said.

‘Understandably so,’ agreed the group captain. ‘I will submit a forty-eight-hour postponement concerning settlement prior to the colonel’s hearing, informing the I.C. that negotiations are ongoing between us.’

-3-

Mountford Row stands to the east of Chigwell in Essex, on the very edge of Epping’s sprawling forest and before London urbanisation as we know it begins. It epitomises what romantics interpret as a hamlet, a sleepy little village with a population of a depleting eleven-thousand. It is what many would call ‘a one-horse town’, adorned with quaint cottages, a blacksmith’s, two or three village pubs, and enough shops to provide the necessary provisions for the local community. It is a remnant of a bygone age, where nothing ever happens but everyday life. The police station – for the want of a better word – is a small, redbrick building leaning against the larger edifice of a village pub, little more than a small house with Georgian-style windows and a low doorway. The taxi dropped me directly outside and I took a moment to look around me. It was a tranquil place, exceedingly neat and tidy, where the few people I saw were the essence of respectability and would never stoop so low as to stare at a stranger, at least not unashamedly. I made my way inside to the cramped, low beamed front office, and to where a desk sergeant straightened from his slouch to smile at me.

‘Michael James,’ I said, passing him a business card. ‘I have an appointment to see a Detective Inspector Robert Dawes.’

The sergeant observed the card with a nod. He raised the flap in the counter, and ushering me through, he pointed down an adjacent corridor. ‘He’s been expecting you, sir. It’s the second door to the left.’

Within a few steps, I was standing at the open door. A man, mid-forties and wearing a troubled expression was perusing the contents of a newspaper, a trail of cigarette smoke spiralling around him. He almost jumped out of his skin when I knocked on the door to gain his attention. He clutched his chest and stared at me wide-eyed. ‘Jesus! You nearly gave me a heart attack!’

I tried not to laugh. ‘Sorry. Michael James,’ I announced. ‘I believe you have a client of ours in custody… Annie something-or-other? We’ve been assigned legal counsel.’

At once he stood up and held out his hand to shake. ‘Yes, of course. Please, Mr James, come in and take a seat.’

I sat down and opened my briefcase and removed the scant dossier I’d been given.

‘I’m a bit unprepared, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know the girl’s full name.’

‘You and me both,’ replied the DI ‘I want you to understand that this isn’t my domain. I’ve just been sent here to sort this bloody mess out,’ he explained.

I looked at him with an uncertain smile. ‘Sorry, I don’t follow. The information I have is that this girl, Annie, assaulted one of your officers and is presently being held in custody at this station. What ‘mess’ would you be referring to?’

The detective inspector sighed jadedly. ‘Firstly, her name isn’t Annie. We just call her Annie because we don’t know what else to call her.’

‘And secondly?’

He paused to consider me before resuming.

‘Two nights ago, there was a fierce summer storm. It was pouring; thunder and lightning… the whole shebang. At around 3:20 in the morning the girl, Annie, was seen walking down the middle of the road at the north end of the village by a midwife on her way back from a call. She immediately phoned this station and two police constables were dispatched in a patrol car to find her.’

‘But why? Why would you feel the need to dispatch two police officers to apprehend a girl who was probably just walking home?’

‘Woe there, Sherlock,’ said the DI with a frown. ‘It was for the same reason Mrs Roundtree, the midwife, didn’t approach her. The girl was completely naked and covered in blood. It’s no exaggeration to say that she was in a really bad way; cuts and abrasions all over her body, and so weak she could hardly stand.’

By now I was beginning to realise that this wasn’t going to be a cut and dried case after all.

‘Go on,’ I prompted cautiously.

‘PC’s Arnold and Cochran caught up with her at the south end of the village. They tried to stop her but she just kept on walking. By their account she eventually stopped, and Cochran took his waterproof cape from the car and put it around the girl. As he did so, she lunged forward and sunk her teeth into his ear, tearing off a substantial amount and spitting it on the ground. And this is the part where it really gets messy. After reeling back, Cochran instinctively struck out, catching the girl a blow to the side of the face. The girl was rushed to a nearby hospital and she’s still unconscious. And that is all we know to date.’

The story had taken me aback, but I lowered my eyes to my folder in an attempt to look unshaken.

‘And the constable involved?’ I said.

‘PC Mark Cochran is suspended pending a full inquiry.’

‘Ah, bless. So, you’re telling me that one of your officers punched a distraught girl so hard that she still hasn’t regained consciousness, and his punishment is suspension?’

‘He was only released from hospital himself this morning. She tore off half his ear, for Christ’s sake!’

‘I don’t care if she bit his head off. If this girl doesn’t pull through, then your man is going to prison for manslaughter, or murder if I can make it stick. Do you understand me, Detective Inspector Dawes?’

He nodded and held his hands up submissively. ‘I do, I do. And you’ll have my full support,’ he said.

I stared at the report before me blindly. I didn’t have a clue where to start.

‘The girl: what do you know about her?’ I asked. ‘The information I have says she’s twenty or thereabouts.’

‘And that is the only thing we know for certain. She came from nowhere. For the last twenty-four-hours, we’ve had over one hundred and fifty uniformed officers knocking on every door within a ten-mile radius, and we have absolutely nothing. Nobody knows who she is or where she came from. The hospital allowed us to take her prints but nothing is showing on file.’

‘How was her condition - prior to the savage attack by one of your officers, I mean? You said she was covered in blood and had cuts and abrasions all over her body.’

‘As I have already explained, Mr. James: I am an intermediary. I wasn’t here. I saw her yesterday, and the hospital has done a very good job of cleaning her up. Their priority is keeping her alive. We’ll have to wait for further information.’

‘What about the other constable? Has he been suspended, too?’

‘You wish to speak with him?’

‘If that would be at all possible, yes.’

DI Dawes sighed as he stood up. ‘I thought you might say that.’

He walked to the doorway and shouted down the corridor. ‘Arnold, get your arse in here now!’

In a moment the constable appeared, looking tired and nervous. He was relatively young, tall, and with a shock of black hair. The detective inspector returned to his seat and pointed the constable to a chair beside me.

‘Tell the nice man what occurred, Constable Arnold,’ said the DI tersely.

The young officer took a nervous swallow. ‘Well, Mark and me were in the muster room having a cuppa. It was about 3:15…’

‘Skip to the part when you find the girl,’ I urged.

‘We were in the car and heading to the end of the village…’

‘The south-end?’

‘Yes,’ nodded the PC. ‘And suddenly we saw her, caught in the glare of the headlights and walking in front of us, the rain chucking it down. She was in a real state; covered in mud and blood, her whole body covered in cuts and bruises. We got out and tried to help her, but she just barged right through us. She looked like something out of a horror movie. Anyway, Mark… that’s PC Cochran, run to the car and took his waterproof cape from the boot, and when he put it around her she bit his ear off. The next thing I knew the girl was on the ground.’

‘Did you see PC Cochran hit the girl?’

‘It all happened so quickly.’

‘That wasn’t my question. Did you see him hit her or not?’

PC Arnold nodded and lowered his head. ‘Yes, but it was a spontaneous reflex. He didn’t think.’

‘Then he has no business being a police officer, has he? And then what happened?’

‘We called for an ambulance and they took her away.’

I looked to DI Dawes and then back to the constable, and then I shrugged. ‘And that’s it, is it?’ I said.

‘As much as we know. I’m going to the hospital after you leave,’ said the detective inspector.

‘Then I’ll come along with you, if you don’t mind.’

‘Fine by me. You’re her brief.’

DI Dawes dismissed the constable with a sharp jerk of his head, and then he eased back in his chair to observe me steadily. I was still perusing the scant report Badger had given me.

‘What lies beyond the north-end of the village?’ I enquired without looking up.

‘Nothing but 2.5 miles of open road, mostly forest, though there are a few smallholdings scattered here and there.’

I lifted my eyes.

‘All of which have been investigated and the inhabitants questioned fully,’ resumed the DI. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr James, and you’re wasting your time. Nothing happens ‘round here, it’s a quiet place – occupied with locals and retired couples looking for a little peace and quiet in the autumn years of their lives. Two-years ago, a local hanged himself out by Ryan’s Gate: it was front page news for months. Notwithstanding the occasional burglary and drunk-and-disorderly, this village is the epitome of Shangri-La. In my view, Annie was molested by an assailant or assailants’ unknown and dumped by the roadside.’

‘And no thanks to one of your police officers, she is now lying unconscious in a hospital bed,’ I returned. ‘Who’s the SIO? Someone must be running this circus.’

Dawes craned his head curiously.

‘Who was in charge on the night in question?’ I emphasised.

‘Ah! I see what you mean. That would be CI Richardson.’

‘And CI Richardson is where at the moment?’

The detective inspector began chewing on his bottom lip.

I glared at him expectantly. ‘Well?’ I purged.

‘The thing is, Mr James…? What I mean to say is…?

‘How difficult is this?’ I said. ‘All I want to know is where the senior police officer is.’

‘Sick,’ Dawes replied.

‘Come again.’

‘Sick. He’s never been a well man. Gastric problems have plagued him most his adult life. Three weeks ago, he keeled over and has been bedridden ever since. I don’t profess to know him well, although we have met on several occasions. He always looks ill. I mean, really, really ill.’

I sighed witheringly. ‘Okay, so CI Richardson is out sick. Who, then, was his replacement? In essence, detective inspector, who do I talk to in order to get the full SP on this charade?’

The DI hunched his shoulders. ‘That’d be me.’

‘But you said you were sent here to clear this mess up, which implies you arrived yesterday. If – as you say – CI Richardson went on sick leave three weeks ago, who was in charge for the nineteen days prior to your arrival?’

‘Em…? Well, it’s like this…’

‘Are you saying that no one was in charge? Are you actually telling me that for nineteen whole days and nights you had low ranking officers doing what the hell they liked, with no senior officer in charge?’

Dawes scratched his chin and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘But nothing ever happens here!’

‘Well, evidently it does, detective inspector! A naked girl, broken and bleeding walked into this village to seek help and was punched out by the very authority who swore an allegiance to help her!’

‘I did say it was a mess, didn’t I? Look, it isn’t like the constables were unsupervised. On the night in question, Sergeant Lohan was in charge.’

I started buckling up my briefcase. ‘I think I can safely say that the Met. will be subject to a full inquiry from the government for gross negligence, Detective Inspector Dawes, and you and anyone else associated with this investigation will be joining the ranks of the unemployed – that is providing your lawyers can manage to keep you out of prison. I’ll get the desk sergeant to call me a taxi.’

‘You won’t get one. Taxis are like rocking horse shit ‘round here. Can’t we discuss this?’

I was up on my feet now, the handle of my briefcase clutched in my tight fist.

‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ I rebuffed. ‘By neglecting to supply a replacement for CI Richardson, your superiors’ have contravened every article in the rule book with regard to public safety and, as the actions of the heavy-handed PC Cochran has proved, a helpless girl has become a victim of that neglect. Tell your bosses they’re going to trial.’

‘Wait, wait, wait, wait!’ said the DI, standing up and ushering me back into my chair. ‘You’re right, of course. Everything you say is correct, but whether Richardson or me were here or not wouldn’t have made any difference to the outcome, would it? It’s a technicality. Furthermore, wouldn’t you be neglecting your sworn duty to your client if you walked out that door now? It’s Annie that matters. The rest is bullshit.’

I hesitated, but slowly I sunk back into my chair, thinking that the detective was probably right. There were more important issues to consider than red tape.

DI Dawes resumed his seat, lit a cigarette, and leaned forward.

‘All right, Mr James, I think by now we’ve established that you have me by the short and curlies, and therefore I am duty-bound to suck up to you in every way possible and make your life heaven on earth. What will it take to win you over, huh? A woman? Money?’

Acknowledging my astonished gaze, he cracked a smile and began to laugh.

‘A joke,’ he said. ‘God knows this tragedy has to have a bright side, surely.’

‘One would like to think so, but I seriously doubt it.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with you. This whole matter is shit with a capital ‘S’. But here’s the thing: who would have guessed that something like this could happen in such a quiet place?’ He looked down on his desk and pushed the local newspaper towards me: The Mountford Post. ‘And to make matters worse the local rag has got hold of the story, so it won’t be long before this sleepy little village is infested with journalists and nutcases from all over the country. Not that I care, but I’d like to give this girl at least a fighting chance of a normal life from here on.’

I lifted the edition and glanced at it briefly. ‘If nothing much happens here, then what is there to report?’ I said, pushing it back towards him.

‘Cats up trees, the odd stolen bicycle… The local church is having a new roof, and the vicar has become something of a celebrity. He thinks he’s the living carnation of Christ himself. If you like tractors, sheep and cows, then this is the place to be. I tell you, the fun never starts.’

My eyes wandered around the small, wooden panelled office and fixed, eventually, on a map of Mountford Row set in a dusty wooden frame. It depicted the geography of the village back in the fifteenth century, replete with farms, lakes, and rivers and, of course, the expansive forest. I stood up and examined it at closer quarters.

‘It hasn’t changed that much since that map was scribed,’ said the detective inspector. ‘They stuck a new housing estate up at Ryan’s Gate, another at Silverwood, a new sewage works on the outskirts of Mountford, and a brickworks at Pelham Woods, but apart from that it’s all very much like it was – just more people. Are you trying to get your bearings, Mr James?’

‘No. I just like history.’

‘Then you’ll fit right in. This place is full of the rotten stuff.’

I looked closer at the chart, noting that today places like Ryan’s Gate fell within the boundaries of Mountford, even though it was miles away. I pointed to a region called Molly’s Finger set on a straggling line of a river, and couldn’t help but smile; it reminded me of the Wild West which used names like Broken Jaw and Little Whiskey. I looked to Detective Inspector Dawes for elaboration, who simply shrugged his shoulders.

‘Mountford Row is mentioned in the Doomsday book in 1085, and it was held by some French aristocrat whose name escapes me. The whole place is steeped in history, most of which is made up of rumours and folklore. They say that Molly had a brothel on the river which catered for highwaymen and smugglers – ostensibly a hideout for thieves. Somewhere in the 16th century she was suspected of betraying a vicious criminal by the name of Clover or Glover, who was her lover, and who cut off her finger as a warning. The story and the name stuck. Back then, all the names on that map were hamlets and, to some degrees, still are – Ryan’s Gate, Molly’s Finger, Wintergate, Devil’s Mouth, Silverwood, Windy Gap, and the others were all independent settlements.’

‘So, what changed?’

‘The invention of the stamp changed it, or to be specific, the introduction of the postal service. All the hamlets became part of Mountford, because Mountford had the larger population.’

I returned to my seat, looking at DI Dawes partly obscured by a haze of white smoke.

‘And what about the natives, are they friendly?’

‘From what I can gather they’re good people, respectable people… mind-numbingly boring people. But hey, who am I to sit in judgement? Each to their own, that’s what I say. It’s a friendly community. No hostility. Everybody gets on with one another. The crime rate is practically zero.’

‘Not anymore.’

It was at this point a grey suited gentleman with stern features and a shiny bald head entered the office; a blue folder in one hand and a fedora hat in the other. DI Dawes looked at him with a ghost of a smile on his lips but displayed no outward sign of pleasure or courtesy, from which I gleaned he could either take him or leave him. The man dropped the folder on his desk while simultaneously eying me as if I were an enigma.

‘This is Michael James, by the way,’ explained the detective inspector in a dull and tired voice. ‘He’s Annie’s brief.’

The gentleman, clearly a fellow detective, made no remark towards me and instead set his hat on his head at a slanted rake and pushed his hands in his trouser pockets.

‘Well, it’s official,’ he said, looking at no one particular. ‘Nobody in Mountford knows anything about this girl. Whoever she is, she’s not from around here. Probably brought up from the smoke and dumped.’

Dawes leaned forward to hiss at me. ‘This is Inspector Roach, and he’s very pleased to meet you.’

Inspector Roach managed a hostile nod in my direction by way of acknowledgment. I reciprocated in much the same way.

‘Okay then, looks like we’ll have to get started on the Mispers,’ sighed the detective inspector.

‘We’re on it,’ said Roach. ‘Carlton has everybody working ‘round the clock to give this girl an ID.’

Mispers is an abbreviation of ‘Missing Persons’, and Carlton, I knew to be the commissioner of the Essex Constabulary, Sir Edward Carlton. What it amounted to was that the Met. had been caught with their pants down, so to speak, and was doing everything in its power to find the appropriate answers before the media came out in force. In this way, they were probably hoping that the impropriety of failing to replace Chief Inspector Richardson the day he went sick might be overlooked. By now I was in no doubt that DI Dawes had been sent to Mountford for that very reason – to dupe the press into believing that he had been in charge the whole time, including the nineteen days he wasn’t. It was in nobody’s interest, least of all Detective Inspector Dawes, to piss me off. Like he said, he was duty-bound to extend me every courtesy at his disposal and, hopefully, dissuade me from reporting the Met’s blatant disregard for the rules to the Home Office. It was a trivial matter considering what had occurred, but the media excelled in exploiting trivia.

As I listened to the murmured debate between Dawes and Roach, I tried to fathom the logistics of it all, and why Annie – weak, naked, and bleeding – would walk the entire length of the village seemingly in silence. Why didn’t she stop at the first house she came to? Why didn’t she go to one of the farms or smallholdings before she even reached the village? Why, for God’s sake, wasn’t she screaming hysterically in order to gain someone’s… anyone’s attention? I was no detective, but Jesus, had no one thought to mention it? I sat there brooding, while Inspector Roach ambled over to the map on the wall and studied it pensively for a few seconds.

‘She could have come from anywhere,’ he said, ‘Cambridge, Stevenage, Reading, London… Who knows?’

‘With respect, you have given out a general description of Annie, a generic portrait which is vague to say the least. If she was raped and beaten, where was she raped and beaten? If she isn’t local, why was she naked? Are you seriously proposing that Annie was dumped here from a big town in the condition she was found?’ I said.

‘Maybe she was a victim of boys’ joyriding and out having a little fun. They all take turns in raping her, and kick her out in the forest.’

I rolled my eyes.

‘It happens! She may well be an escapee from a trafficking cartel,’ he reasoned.

‘She isn’t a traffic victim.’

The inspector looked at me indignantly and gave a derisive snort.

‘And what would you know about traffic victims?’

‘Considerably more than you,’ I snarled.

‘We check the woods,’ intercepted Dawes. ‘Get every available man into the forest and make a sweep. If we’re lucky we might find her clothes or the spot where the rape took place.’

‘Providing a rape did take place,’ I put in.

Inspector Roach looked more indignant than before. ‘You want us to traipse through the forest in the slender hope of finding something that probably isn’t there! I only have one hundred and fifty men.’

‘Then get more,’ Dawes shrugged with callous disregard. ‘Get the army in, I really couldn’t give a shit. Either way, I want it done. I don’t want some smart-arse, armchair detective finding something we should have found. Be sure. And when you’re sure, go back again and be certain. End of discussion!’

Roach gave us both a thunderous look and stormed out of the office. Dawes sighed beneath a victorious grin and ignited another cigarette.

‘I tell you, Mr James, this is not going to have a happy ending. I can feel it in my bones.’ He looked at his watch and stood up. ‘Time for you to meet your client,’ he said.

-4-

The Holy Cross Hospital was reminiscent of a sprawling country mansion, mostly clad in rambling ivy and nestling within manicured gardens bordered with robust oaks; the kind of residence that frequents Jane Austen novels. DI Dawes pulled his Ford Anglia into one of the many parking bays available, and turning off the ignition he looked at me with an air of resignation.

‘I think there’s something you ought to know before you go in there and get the damage assessment,’ he said.

‘Really? What’s that?’

‘About PC Cochran.’

‘What about him?’

‘He has a hobby.’

‘Lots of people have hobbies.’

‘Yes, well, his is boxing. And he’s no slouch, either. He was on the verge of turning professional before he got called up for the war.’

I drew a deep breath and stared at him pointedly. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘So, let me get this straight. One of your officers, a boxer up to professional standards, knocked a young girl in desperate need of help into the middle of next week and he’s sitting at home with his feet up? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘That’s pretty much the long and short of it, yes. By the look on your face, I’m guessing that you’re angling for his immediate arrest.’

‘It’ll save me the time of going to the courts and having a warrant sworn out to bring him in. Either way, I want him under lock and key.’

‘I’ll see to it.’

‘Yes, you do that. In the meantime, I need to find out how much damage he’s done,’ I said, opening the car door.

‘Of course, he’ll plead self-defence.’

‘I’d like to see the bastard try.’

We walked up a flight of stone steps and in through the main entrance to where a reception desk was right in front of us. DI Dawes flashed his warrant card and asked to use the phone, while I introduced myself to a buxom receptionist with a permanent scowl but who was otherwise quite amiable. After stating my business, the woman consulted a ledger and then peered at me over a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

‘Dr. Stratton is the man you need to see,’ she said, ‘but at present he’s doing the ward rounds. If you want to wait for him I’ll send someone along and tell him you’re here. He shouldn’t be too long.’

‘Thank you. We’ll wait.’

‘Then it’s up the stairs and third door to your right. His name is on the door, so you can’t miss it.’

I smiled. ‘Thank you for your help.’

I turned to look at the detective inspector.

‘Just bring him to the station,’ he said into the receiver. ‘Tell him he’s under arrest for…?’ The DI looked at me for guidance.

‘Assault, for the time being,’ I said.

‘Tell him he’s under arrest for assault for the time being. If he gives you any trouble, hit him with your truncheon. I don’t care if he’s your cousin. I don’t care if he’s your overbearing mother. Arrest him now!’

The DI put the phone down. ‘See what I have to put up with. Where to?’

‘Upstairs.’

We found the doctor’s office and took a seat on a long wooden bench in the corridor. The detective inspector looked like a typically overworked, tired copper, who had been given an assignment he neither cared about nor wanted. But he told me about the police search and the villages and houses they had visited north of Mountford, presuming that was the direction the girl came from, for obvious reasons. He told me they had even brought tracker dogs in, but as Annie was naked and a rainstorm had erased any tracks she might have made, there was little to see and no scent to follow. He held steadfastly to the idea that she had been abducted in a different location and brought to Epping Forest to be raped and, in all probability, murdered. Somehow, he thinks, she managed to escape her captor and make her way to Mountford, using the woods as cover. Given her weak condition he didn’t think she could have walked far – a mile, perhaps… two at the most. Therefore, the investigation concentrated on transport or, moreover, the means of transport used when Annie’s abductor conveyed her to the forest. As we spoke the police were searching the woodlands for where the rape might have taken place, and roadblocks had been set up so the locals could be questioned. DI Dawes said that when he saw Annie yesterday she had marks on her wrists that he naturally associated with ropes or straps, and that her bruises and abrasions were received while making her escape.

‘She wouldn’t be the first,’ he remarked. ‘It’s a common occurrence in the forest. Girls are brought here miles from anywhere and then left, giving their attackers plenty of time to get away before the victim is discovered.’

‘How common?’

The DI shrugged indifferently. ‘Two or three times a year, I’d say. Nothing to the extent of that poor little cow, I mean, but it happens, regularly. It makes you wonder, though.’

‘What does?’

‘Dig that forest up and who knows what they might find.’

A tall balding man, his white coat bellowing behind him, approached from the end of the corridor. The detective inspector and I stood up in unison to greet him.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ said the doctor shaking the D.I’s hand, where he paused to look at me. ‘And you I take it are a police officer, too,’ he added with a smile.

‘No, sir, my name is Michael James. I’m a litigator, and I represent the girl… Annie.’

‘Ah, I see. Please, come into my office.’

In an exceedingly tidy room, Dr. Stratton sat behind his desk and motioned us to chairs in front of him.

‘I’m afraid there has been little