Lost Girls (12 page)

S
ymes necked his second beer
, which did nothing to improve his mood.

All day he'd been chasing after this slag and he'd not got one sniff.

He held up his hand for another pint. If there wasn't work to do he'd be downing the spirits but he just wanted to relieve a bit of his anger. Just take the edge off.

He'd argued against involving her in the first place. They hadn't needed the stupid cow and he'd been right. But fucking Will had insisted on it.

One thought did amuse him briefly. He tapped his pocket. She wasn't going anywhere without her passport.

Some of the damage he'd done to her place had been a by-product of his efforts to find the document that would keep her close by. The rest had been to give her an idea of what she'd be getting when he caught her. And he would.

The thing was, Will's assessment of his intelligence had been seriously underestimated. He wouldn't have seen off two tours of Helmand if he was as stupid as he looked.

Symes had researched Inga first. His natural distrust of every living being dictated that you had to know who you were dealing with.

He knew where she went for coffee, where she had her hair done and did her shopping. He knew everything about her. He also knew that human nature dictated that in times of high stress people returned to their places of safety.

She would not be far. She'd been trying to stay alive for almost thirty hours and she was running out of time.

But, he sobered, he had to go back and tell fucking Will that he hadn't got her yet. He could imagine the look that would pass over his face before he turned and stared at his precious screens. It would be a knowing expression, with a hint of disgust and revulsion. And for a minute Symes would be tempted to pummel that look into the back end of next week; but he couldn't. They needed each other – for now.

Even as a kid Will had been a pain, full of sickness and allergies. Symes had been mates with Will's older brother who had held his own against him in a fight. Larry was tough as nails and used to beat up the little shit for fun. He had been invited to join in a few times and the stupid kid had just taken it.

Larry had been put away in his late teens for fencing stolen goods. Somebody had grassed on him, sending him inside, and Symes had a pretty good idea who.

Two weeks into a three-year stretch his mate had been stabbed during a prison riot. Will never even attended the funeral. Fucking family. Symes was glad that his bastard father had died when he was twelve. He was only sorry that it wasn't him that did it.

When he'd seen Will in a Gornal pub eleven months ago he'd been surprised by his friendly greeting and generosity at the bar. They'd met again a couple of weeks later and Will had hinted that he was working on something interesting. Symes's antennae had detected something big.

His colleague was not the easiest person to work with. A permanent sneer shaped his face and just the thought of Will's constant derision set Symes's blood on the hob.

He knew how this worked. If he didn't calm down before going back he'd have no choice in hitting Will. The mist would come and he'd only remember what he'd done later.

From experience there were only two things that would ease the tension from his body. He downed the third pint as he thought of a way he could get both.

He exited the pub and headed to the car parked at the Tesco Express. He drove towards Stourbridge with a smile on his face.

He parked in the high street and entered a bar he'd been in a few weeks ago with a couple of mates. He'd been given the eye and he'd cocked a deaf 'un but now he was listening.

He stepped up to the bar and ordered a Scotch. He saw recognition dawn in the eyes before him.

‘Well, hello, big boy. How are you doing?'

The voice was gentle and soft and came from a guy called Stuart who looked slightly displaced in a working man's pub.

‘I'm good, lad, yourself?'

‘All the better for seeing you.'

‘D'ya ger a break?'

Stuart checked his watch. ‘About now if you'd like.'

Symes smiled. ‘Yeah, I'd like. See yer round the back.'

He exited the pub and headed around the side of the building. A narrow dark, alleyway separated it from the fishmongers next door. He leaned against the wall and waited.

The heavy metal door to his left opened and Stuart stepped out with a coy smile.

Dressed from head to toe in his uniform of black shirt and trousers, Symes supposed he was a good-looking lad. Almost pretty.

Stuart stood before him, forced close by the narrow space.

‘So, big boy, what did you want to talk about?' Stuart asked, running his finger along Symes's forearm.

Symes shook him off and opened his zip.

‘Oh my,' Stuart whispered, looking down into the space that separated them. His hand travelled down and stroked the erection.

Symes grew even harder. Stuart groaned as he caressed the shaft. He moved closer and sought eye contact but Symes stared over the top of his head.

Symes placed his right hand on Stuart's shoulder and pushed him down to the ground.

Stuart cupped his balls as he took the length of him into his mouth.

Symes smiled to himself. No one gave a blow job like a queer.

He found the heat building inside him. He wound his fingers into the mop of blond hair and pulled the head back and forth as he plunged in and out.

Symes did not look down but sensed Stuart was pleasuring himself at the same time. He dared not look down. The sight of another man on the end of his cock would disgust him.

As the heat built within him everything else receded into the distance. All that mattered was that he reached his destination. He thrust harder into Stuart's mouth and pulled hard on his head. Beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead. He could see it approaching. He raced towards it, focussed only on crossing that line.

Symes roared as he exploded through the tape.

The effects were immediate. His stress levels were depleting like a leaking bucket but not yet gone.

‘Jeez, man, you coulda waited—'

Stuart's words were cut short as Symes punched him in the head. The kid fell onto his side.

Symes quickly zipped up his flies and then kicked Stuart in the back.

Stuart cried out in pain.

‘What the fuck you expect, bum boy?' Symes asked. ‘You fucking faggots are all the same.' He kicked him to the stomach. ‘Yer fucking queer. You're disgusting.'

Stuart rolled around on the floor, groaning, his hands clutching his stomach. Just below, his flaccid penis lolled around on the ground.

Symes was disgusted at the sight. Nausea rose in his stomach, which fuelled his anger. He kicked Stuart in the back of the thigh, hard.

‘You're a fucking disgrace. Don't yer know it's a fucking sin to do what you just did? It's unclean to suck another man's cock.'

Symes kicked again.

Stuart groaned and rolled himself further down the alley to get away.

Symes followed.

‘Please … no more …' Stuart begged.

Symes kicked him again. ‘I should put yer out of yer fucking misery.'

‘Please … don't …'

Symes stepped over the squirming body so his feet were planted either side of Stuart's torso. He stared down into the terrified face.

‘Okay, I'll leave you alone once you say you're sorry.'

‘Wh … what …'

Symes nudged him in the ribs with his right foot.

‘I said, say you're sorry. Apologise for being a dirty, filthy queer and say you're sorry for what you just made me do.' He nudged again. ‘Fuckin' say it.'

Symes saw a tear escape from the boy's eye as he repeated Symes's instruction word for word.

Symes smiled, satisfied. The kid had taken responsibility for his actions so he would let him live. He himself had been absolved of all responsibility and was now cleansed.

He straightened his clothes and headed out of the alleyway.

Now he was ready to go back.

K
im paused
as she came across a header sheet entitled 'Transcript of 3rd text message'.

There was no second sheet.

She looked around at the strewn piles. A picture of needles and haystacks came to mind. Her eyes rested on Alison at the other end of the table. The woman was regarding her with a half-smile.

Kim tried to form the same expression but it felt like a reflection from a fun-house mirror.

‘Why are you trying to be nice to me?' Alison asked, bemused.

‘I'm not trying to be anything,' Kim lied.

‘Yes you are, and now you're lying.' Alison's eyebrows moved closer together. ‘I just don't understand why.'

‘What makes you think I'm pretending?' Kim asked.

‘I'm a behaviourist, Inspector. I can spot an adopted demeanour a mile away. So why?'

Kim offered the first genuine expression she'd felt since meeting the woman. ‘I'm not particularly easy to work with, my boss tells me.'

Alison looked relieved. ‘Aaaah, so it's not that you particularly dislike me. You just tend to dislike most people.'

Kim admired her perception. ‘Something like that, but while we're having this chat, I won't lie. Profiling in general turns my stomach.'

Alison chose not to correct her terminology. ‘You don't think that helping to identify criminals through their psychology is a benefit to the police force?'

‘I know that it wasn't long ago that criminal profiling was done by measuring body parts. Rapists had short hands, narrow foreheads and were light-haired. Thieves had skull anomalies and thick hair.'

Alison smiled. ‘I think we've moved on a little from that. There are many established profiles in use today that have been scientifically developed: the Myers-Briggs, Guilford-Zimmerman, the Edwards personality profile scale.'

Kim put down the piece of paper she was holding.

She knew of all the tests Alison had quoted.

‘And they all rely on the subject answering the test questions truthfully. That calls for the criminal to be totally honest and self-aware. That's the first flaw.

‘The second is that you only get to question the criminals that have been caught, so you're missing all the ones that got away. The data is incomplete.'

‘I understand what you're saying—'

‘The third problem is that your data is historic. You are predicting what will happen based on what already
has
happened. This type of person will react in this way. Your systems reduce people to predictable machines and they're not.'

‘But people typically act consistently. Personality traits are ingrained.'

‘People act differently if going through stress. People make choices and those choices cannot be predicted.'

Alison sat forward. ‘But the comparison of behaviour profiles is a comparison of patterns – and patterns matter.'

Kim opened her mouth but Bryant's head appeared around the door.

‘Fresh coffee?'

‘Bryant, I'd love a nice cup of tea.'

His eyes widened. ‘Guv, you never drink tea.'

She turned to Alison. ‘That's my point. Just because I normally drink coffee doesn't mean that now and again I might not fancy a change.'

‘But the majority of the time you drink coffee. Clichés are clichés for a reason.'

‘And there's always an exception to prove the rule,' Kim countered. ‘Each case and criminal is unique so can't be predicted by the historic actions of others.'

‘So, you see no merit in behaviour analysis at all?'

Kim thought for a moment. ‘I believe firmly that a good investigation is a mix of observation, deduction and knowledge.'

‘Aah, the Sherlock Holmes approach.'

‘Well, not really, because he wasn't real. But there are certain things of which I can be sure. No offender acts without motivation. Different offenders exhibit similar behaviour for completely different reasons. Human behaviour develops uniquely in response to environment and biology.

‘Quite frankly, I don't care if our kidnapper has a Freudian fascination with his mother or if he's an anti-social recluse who knits in his spare time, because unless you can give me his address it ain't a lot of help.'

Alison surprised her by laughing out loud. ‘Did you even take a breath?'

Perhaps she had gone in a little hard. She hadn't meant to trash the woman's career choice.

‘Look, any help you can offer on potential behaviour based on demonstrated actions would be appreciated.'

‘Certainly, Inspector.'

Kim looked her up and down. ‘And for heaven's sake, come dressed appropriately tomorrow. A look that severe unnerves the family members. You look like a bloody undertaker.' She studied her. ‘What's with the power dressing anyway? It's a bit late eighties.'

‘As a woman I have to fight to be taken seriously. My dress code ensures that I will be respected and not disregarded.'

Kim knew that respect from a team did not come from a dress code. It came from making good decisions.

‘Well, rest assured, Doc, that my team will not disregard you because you're a woman. We'll just do it because you talk shit.'

The woman offered her a cold stare.

‘Now, that was a joke.'

‘Oh, got it, Brummie humour.'

‘Oh no, no, no and talk like that will get you killed. The Black Country is most definitely not Birmingham.'

And that wasn't a joke.

‘Inspector, I think—'

Alison's words were cut short as a shriek sounded from the lounge. Kim launched herself at the door, trampling piles of paper, and tore through the hallway.

‘Text message,' Dawson said, handing her Karen's phone. Kim had asked the families not to read the next one but Elizabeth's phone was firmly clamped in Stephen's grip.

Kim held out her hand towards him. ‘Mr Hanson, if you—'

‘I'll read it, Inspector,' he said, wiping his thumb across the screen.

Kim took a step towards him. ‘Mr Hanson, please pass me the—'

He stepped away. ‘She's my child, not yours,' he insisted.

As he opened the message on Elizabeth's phone the two mothers gravitated to each other on the sofa. They held hands tightly.

Her team, including Alison, were scattered around the room. Kim would have preferred Stephen not to read the message before she knew what it said but she could not forcibly take his property.

He started to read and a drop of colour left his face with every word.

How much do you love your daughter? Measure it in pounds. Healthy competition brings out the best in people. The couple that offers the highest amount will see their daughter again. The losing couple will not. These are the rules and they will not change. I will be in touch. Make no mistake. One child will die.

The room erupted into a cacophony of screams and exhalations.

Kim turned her gaze to the distraught mothers and watched as the two women's hands fell apart.