The Stolen Child Read online

  It wasn’t a foolproof system but it functioned well enough.

  It would be possible to work out what had happened, but you’d need to know what you were looking for. It would have to be a pretty painstaking search by the police to find anything incriminating. They’d have to sift through a couple of acres of mud. It wasn’t something you might stumble across. It was certainly better than burial or cremation.

  With these pigs on the island, Conquest would now have a

  ready-made waste-disposal system and, as he joked with Pete, it was very eco-friendly.

  Clarissa watched the pigs as they nervously explored their new, unfamiliar surroundings. They snuffled the strange salt air with their snouts. Pigs have a keen sense of smell. They hadn’t enjoyed the lorry journey and they were still unsettled. They were not in the best of moods. To Clarissa’s eyes they looked monstrous. She wasn’t a country girl and it was the first time she had ever seen a pig. They were the size of Chesterfield sofas and their eyes were disconcertingly intelligent. They gleamed. I’m not going in there, she thought, staring at their paddock from behind the barred gate where she stood watching them. Not if you paid me. They creep me out.

  She turned and looked at the house behind her. The two downstairs front rooms of the house overlooked the island’s jetty and, beyond that, the flat, green line of the Essex coast. One of the rooms was a lounge; the other, which had been a former snooker room, Conquest used as his office. In the course of his life, he had never bothered to collect art or mementos but occasionally he’d ended up with things salvaged from properties. He’d used these to decorate these rooms. It gave them a homely feel. The London address in the Bishops Avenue was kept on purely as an investment and for impressing clients; he didn’t like living in it. It was the island that felt like home.

  Among these random objects – a mounted tiger’s head, stuffed fish, a framed poster for some music hall acts – was a pair of hunting spears, as tall as a man, with long, barbed iron heads, said to have been used by Hermann Goering at his enormous countryside retreat of Carinhall. Robbo, who worked for Conquest and lived in the house’s basement, venerated these. He coveted them. Robbo worshipped the Nazis. The money that Conquest paid him, and he paid him very well, went chiefly on

  Nazi memorabilia. The spears would have crowned his collection. Frequently he pestered Conquest to let him have them. ‘Over my dead body,’ Conquest said. They were vicious things, designed for boar hunting. Clarissa hadn’t thought anything of them until she’d seen the size of an actual pig. One of the pigs in the field was indeed a boar, with protruding tusks that Glasgow Brian had explained were simply overgrown front teeth. Clarissa wouldn’t dream of approaching it, certainly not armed with only a primitive spear, no matter how sharp or effective it might be.

  Conquest had made a joke about someone called Rabbit and his dental similarities. How old’s the boar? he’d asked Glasgow Brian. About five, said Glasgow Brian. Conquest had laughed and said, ‘That’s the age Rabbit likes them. Maybe a bit too old for him in fact. He’ll be here in a few weeks, I’ll introduce them. They’ll get on.’

  Rabbit Bingham was currently in no position to appreciate jokes. He was fastened to a wooden chair in a capacious store cupboard in the education block. The cupboard was built into the building itself, part of its actual fabric. Its walls were brick, its door metal-panelled wood. His arms had been duct-taped to the chair, his legs to those of the chair with tape round his ankles. More duct tape secured his mouth.

  Bingham’s trousers and underpants were currently around his ankles too and Anderson was looking at him expressionlessly. Anderson had closed the door of the cupboard, which was more like a small room. He sat down on an upturned bucket directly in front of Bingham. Light came from a candle that Anderson had lit, which made the scene look like something from medieval times. A scene from the Spanish Inquisition painted by Goya. Sweat trickled down Bingham’s forehead, occasionally stinging his eyes.

  Anderson said in a conversational tone, ‘These walls are surprisingly thick and so is the door. I don’t think anyone will hear you scream but I don’t like noise, so I’ll leave the tape on for now.’ He paused for effect. ‘Now, doubtless, you’ll be wondering why you’re here.’

  Bingham shook his head helplessly, a wordless pleading for mercy.

  Anderson took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and pulled them on slowly and thoughtfully. He had heard that the anticipation of pain is almost as effective as pain itself. He wasn’t sure. One day he would ask but usually when he’d finished with someone, they were in no fit state for measured reflection. They were pathetically grateful to be alive even if the gratitude was mixed with extreme pain.

  He leant forward and said, ‘This isn’t about you, Rabbit.’ He studied his gloved hands carefully. ‘Your friend Conquest has taken a boy and I want to know where he’s put him. That’s fairly simple, isn’t it. You are going to tell me where, aren’t you? I’ll just repeat that for you, you don’t look all there, Rabbit. Do try and concentrate. I want to know where Conquest would be keeping a boy. You’re going to tell me, so you might as well get it off your chest now.’

  It wasn’t a question. Anderson’s freedom, ten years of his life, rested on Bingham telling him what he wanted to know. He would talk. Unable to speak, Bingham’s responses were limited to a yes or a no. A nod or a shake of the head. Had he been able to talk he would have tried to plead ignorance or buy time.

  He knew exactly where the boy would be held. It was where he intended to stay after he left prison. He shook his head. Anderson sighed as if he’d been expecting this. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a Zippo lighter.

  He flicked the lighter and a ragged yellow flame appeared. Anderson and Bingham both looked at the flame, then Anderson shook his head sadly and leant forward with the lighter. His other hand took Rabbit’s penis. Bingham’s agony began.

  A little while later for Anderson, a lifetime later for Rabbit, he extinguished the flame, ‘Well?’ Bingham shook his head. His face was wet with tears. Unable to scream, unable to move, he had just endured pain like nothing he could have ever imagined. Anderson put his head close to Bingham’s.

  ‘It won’t get any better. I’ve only just started. Tell me what I need to know.’ Anderson re-applied the flame. A thin plume of dark smoke rose and the smell of burning flesh started to fill the room.

  Bingham’s head started nodding frantically. Anderson put away the lighter and took out a pen and paper. He removed the tape from Bingham’s mouth and listened carefully as he told Anderson the location of the island and where the boy would be held.

  ‘Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?’ said Anderson. He looked with distaste at Bingham.

  Anderson had grown to dislike Bingham greatly in their short meeting. He opened the cupboard door and glanced out to check the time against the clock on the wall. An hour before Jardine would reappear to take Bingham away. He had paid Jardine a great deal of money for this. It was hugely expensive but money was not a problem for Anderson. Included in the deal was another bribe for the warder in charge of the relevant security cameras, another five-figure sum. He’d promised Jardine he wouldn’t kill Bingham. Neither of them wanted Bingham dead. He smiled to himself. Bingham noticed the smile and, like a dog eager to ingratiate itself to his master, smiled back, despite

  the pain. It was all over now. He had done as Anderson had asked; he had betrayed Conquest.

  Anderson leant forward and replaced the tape, which had been hanging by one corner from Bingham’s cheek. He patted it gently. ‘I guess they call you Rabbit because of your teeth,’ he said conversationally.

  Bingham nodded. He was wary but he’d done everything asked of him. A bargain was a bargain; it was only fair. Surely to God this was the end of it.

  Anderson reached behind him. He had a brick in his hand, a conventional house brick. Nothing special. Without warning he slammed the end into Bingham’s mouth. Bingham’s head snapped back with the
force of the blow. Anderson had to restrain his immediate instinct, born of a number of vicious fights in pubs, car parks and streets, to slam the brick, or his hand, into Bingham’s exposed throat. He pushed his fingers against the rapidly swelling skin of Bingham’s upper lip to check the damage he’d done. He felt the ridge of Bingham’s front teeth with the tips of his fingers. They were still surprisingly intact. Blood seeped from around the black strip of duct tape that dramatically punctuated the very pale parchment of the skin on Bingham’s face.

  It took two more blows before Anderson was satisfied.

  Rabbit Bingham would need a new nickname.

  31

  In Brussels, Lord Justice Reece showered carefully and washed his thick, silver-grey hair. He looked at his face critically in the bathroom mirror. He had never been good-looking, his lips were wide and blubbery, his eyes slightly bulging, his face fleshy, but his ugliness had worked to his advantage. People don’t want their lawyers to look like male models. They want ability, they want reassurance, and Reece’s messianic self-confidence, boosted by carefully chosen, high-profile pro-bono work and remorseless media networking, had made him very reassuring indeed.

  Before he had become a judge there were few TV or radio programmes about civil rights that didn’t feature Reece. He’d made his name in the law by championing unpopular causes and the downtrodden, but only if they were also popular media topics. He was also a fixture on the lecture circuit, a regular at places like the Oxford Union and the Cambridge Union Society. He had many friends in the BBC. He had adopted a strategy of professing modesty, but reluctantly appearing in the full blaze of publicity for ‘moral’ reasons. Media fame had brought high-profile cases, which in turn brought the ability to charge astronomical fees. Representing the underdog and fighting injustice was lucrative work for Reece, but of course he’d only do it if there was interest from the intelligentsia. Before

  becoming a judge, Reece was a multimillionaire from his legal practice but he kept this quiet from the public, who viewed him as an ascetic seeker of truth. Now he had set his sights on bigger things than fame or money. Now he was after power.

  The interviews he had attended in Strasbourg for the presidency of the European Court of Human Rights had gone extremely well the day before, he knew that. He had expected nothing less. The questions he had been asked, the outline of the future for the law he’d been invited to express, could have been expressly designed to play to his strengths. The legal profession usually draws its top tier of lawyers from a particular class, connected, arrogant, ambitious, wealthy; it’s an exclusive club. The role of a senior legal position is not concerned with justice or ethics; it is primarily to safeguard salaries, reputation, power and status for the legal profession. Lord Justice Reece was a highly safe pair of hands and well used to dealing with civil servants, government and the European Union. He spoke their language, bureaucracy, and he spoke it fluently, mellifluously and persuasively – it’s a universal language, the Esperanto of power.

  That morning he would meet the advisers to the French

  and German Justice ministers – agreeable, civilized, likeminded, legal minds. Then there would be a long lunch and another meeting. In the evening, dinner with the EU Justice Commissioner at Bruneau, one of Brussels’ best Michelin-starred restaurants, centrally located in Avenue Rousting in the shadow of the Koekelberg.

  Reece liked to think of himself as a gourmet. As a child he’d had to endure the horrors of English boarding-school cooking, the lumpy mash, the lukewarm, gristly, grey mince with its congealing gravy, and tapioca pudding. Now he was a Michelin Guide addict. Any trip to any city for whatever reason

  would find Reece booked into one of the red guide’s entries, and nine times out of ten someone else would be paying. He was particularly looking forward to Bruneau as he’d never been before; he only knew about it by repute. Its chocolate soufflé was said to be superb, as was the cheese board. The rack of lamb was legendary, the turbot alone worth the enormous EU fisheries subsidy.

  The 200 euro set menu came with a selection of recommended wines. Reece was particularly pleased by this. He was knowledgeable about food but choosing the correct wine was such a terrible problem. Choice itself was the first hurdle. You were normally faced with a massive leather-bound menu containing the names of hundreds of wines, making selection haphazard at best. Then there was the question of which vintage to go for. He had an app on his phone which had more or less sorted this problem out. The year 2005, for example, was a superb year for Bordeaux, but which one? You could take a risk and go with the sommelier’s recommendation, which could be, and often was, based on what would give the restaurant the best profit margin, or, scandalously in his opinion, what needed using up. Having the choice made for him lifted a huge burden off his shoulders.

  Then he would fly home on the Wednesday, back to his

  office in the Inns of Court, and Thursday would see him alone with the boy, for forty-eight hours of pure, sensual pleasure. It would be the culmination of a dream.

  Reece had experimented with rent boys, courtesy of Bingham, over on the island, but lived in fear that one of them would recognize him from his many TV appearances. Bingham thought the chances of this happening were practically zero. How many rent boys, he’d asked Reece scornfully, watched Newsnight or Hard Talk on BBC News 24? Almost certainly zero. But to

  reassure Reece, he had come up with the idea that the judge should wear a mask, an idea he’d adopted with great enthusiasm. But sex with prostitutes wasn’t what he wanted and he also didn’t like having to take precautions. He wanted a pure, untainted body; he wanted sex free of condoms. He wanted a boy that he could use without fear of contracting AIDS or a pernicious STD. Reece felt he had done more than enough to deserve it. It was really what he was due, what he was owed by society for his rare legal expertise. Bingham had reassured him on this. It was only right he should receive his due reward. You are a guardian of civilization; without you we’d be at the mercy of racists and fascists. It’s people like you who preserve decent society, said Bingham, and it’s only right that an exceptional man gets an exceptional reward. He strongly believed that the labourer was worthy of his hire. The law was there to protect children from predatory perverts, but he was the embodiment of the law. He decided what was just and what was unjust, and only a keen mind like his was able to make these distinctions.

  He decided what was legal.

  Society is run, Bingham had assured him, on utilitarian principles: good was what was good for the greatest number of people. Since Reece, with his masterly legal mind, a man in a hundred million, had seen fit to devote his stupendous intellect to the good of society, it was only fair that society pay the reward. Reece, in taking Peter Reynolds, would only be taking a tiny part of what society owed him.

  The judge had nodded.

  Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s. Come Unto Me.

  Hanlon sat in her dusty office, wearing her usual impassive face but inside screaming at her mobile to ring. She hated having

  to rely on other people, but there was nothing she could do to hurry Anderson. The rolling TV news still carried reports on the missing Peter Reynolds, mainly live from outside New Scotland Yard. It was infuriating that she felt she knew the truth but was powerless to act. She had everything and nothing. There was a figure out of Greek mythology called Cassandra, who had the gift of seeing the future, but her curse was that no one would believe her. That’s what I am, she thought bitterly, a modern-day Cassandra. Come on, Anderson, call me!

  Back in London, Kathy was eating a Ryvita and drinking water. The coarse crispbread scoured her tongue and palate and she found its abrasive texture somehow comforting. She would have liked to be able to hurt herself, to gash herself with a razor blade, for example. The pain would have distracted her, and it would have been a sympathetic magic, as if by drawing bad things down to her own body she could take them away from Peter. She had another piece of crispbread. Normal food would ha
ve made her vomit. Until Peter was found, the thought of eating revolted her. She knew she had to have enough to function, so she didn’t collapse, but crackers were all she could really face. Her sleep at night was fitful at best, more like drawing a thin grey veil around her than the oblivion she craved. She lay on her bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. She refused sleeping pills. Peter might be found at any time and she had to stay sharp.

  Peter may not have been able to guess why he had been

  kidnapped but Kathy could imagine all kinds of terrible reasons. She didn’t dare think about them. Her head felt as if it was going to explode, like it had been pressurized. When she was awake, her thoughts virtually shut down. She didn’t want to think. She was like a TV on standby. It wasn’t a comforting,

  meditative state of non-ego, of awareness; it was a pointless, numb nothingness. She couldn’t bear to think. Life for Kathy was a prolonged, silent, howl of pain, separation and dread.

  Rabbit Bingham was in the prison infirmary. The second degree burns to his penis would require a skin graft; the smashing of his mouth would result in the extraction of what was left of his upper and lower front teeth. The damage to the soft tissue of his lips was also extensive and had required a lot of stitching. Bingham had refused to name his attacker.

  Drifting in and out of consciousness from the morphine they’d given him for the pain, he told the guards he’d fallen down stairs and hurt his mouth. The burns he claimed were self-inflicted. They were a sex game gone wrong.

  Alastair Fordham, the governor, was in a state of understandable rage. He didn’t care about Bingham as a person, nobody did. If the story leaked out to the press no one would care that a paedophile had been seriously injured in prison. But although non-newsworthy, what Bingham most certainly had become was both an administrative headache and the subject of an embarrassing investigation.