The Stolen Child Read online

  Hanlon followed the retreating figure of Clarissa at a brisk walk. Her arm was still agonizingly painful but the adrenaline coursing through her more than compensated. The relief at still being alive was incredible. She had never felt so euphoric. Even the shrill pain from the break in her arm reminded her she was still alive, the boy was still alive, Enver was still alive. And her enemies were dead. Conquest, dead. Robbo, dead. The judge, dying. The sight of the moon and the clouds in the night sky, the occasional glimpses of stars, the scent of the earth underfoot and the smell of the sea, the noise of it breaking on the shore in a series of whooshing audible dips and troughs was amazing. Everything was hallucinatory real.

  She put her head back and laughed with the pleasure of it all. Clarissa heard the laugh, carried by the wind. She was crying now and almost blinded by tears as she ran and ran, pursued by the grim figure behind her.

  Hanlon saw Clarissa in the distance in front of her reach a barred fence and hesitate briefly, looking into the field and then back at Hanlon. Scylla and Charybdis, a rock and a hard place. The DI behind, the pigs in front. The moon was momentarily revealed from behind a cloud and light glinted off the rifle. Clarissa remembered the way Hanlon had looked at her. She thought of what Hanlon had done to Conquest. She saw again in her mind’s eye the body of Robbo on the floor, and the judge, dying, tied to the bed. She knew Hanlon would have no mercy. She looked over into the field at the pigs and climbed over the fence, into their field. She was more frightened of Hanlon than of the Large Whites.

  Enver looked around the Bridal Suite. The judge was still breathing, but Enver thought his face looked oddly shrunken. The insulin that Hanlon had given him meant his body was hypoglycaemic, the sugars in his blood now dangerously depleted. He had slipped into a diabetic-style coma induced by Hanlon’s injection and already the irreversible process of brain damage had begun. If the judge had been fitter, if he hadn’t had so much alcohol or cocaine and Viagra in his system, his body might have been able to fight back. Peter would have recommended an injection of glucagon, he had some in his schoolbag, but Peter was still in his drugged sleep.

  Enver couldn’t have cared less about the judge. To be honest, it was better for him and Hanlon if the judge was dead. It was Peter that concerned him. He looked for the boy behind the curtains, feeling as if he was playing hide-and-seek. The

  boy was not there and then Enver bent down. There he was, under the bed, still unconscious. Enver tried to move the bed to one side but it seemed fixed to the floor, so he gently pulled Peter out. The boy stirred and Enver noticed his eyelids flicker. He didn’t want the boy waking up and seeing the glassy-eyed corpse of Robbo, or the naked judge come to that, so he cradled him in his arms – the boy felt feather light – and, limping heavily, gasping with the pain, carried him outside the room to the landing. The dog followed. Enver gently carried Peter down the stairs to the hall. The pain from his foot was a lot less and he guessed the opiates in the pills must be starting to kick in. He sat on the bottom step and put the boy down on the floor. Through the doorway he could see the still erect body of Conquest, the spear end clearly visible. He went into the room, collected the handset from the satphone docking station and returned to the boy’s side, closing the door behind him. He didn’t want the boy to see that bloodstained corpse when he came to.

  The dog was gently licking Peter’s face. The child opened

  his eyes suddenly and looked around startled. The first thing he saw was a very large, hairy man, naked except for a pair of pants. He froze in terror, wide-eyed. Then he saw Tito. He put his arms round the dog and Tito pushed his muzzle into his face and sneezed with pleasure. The man held up both hands placatingly. He had a pleasant, open face and an old-fashioned moustache. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, ‘I’m a police officer.’

  Peter looked at him suspiciously. He certainly didn’t look like one. ‘Where’s your badge?’ he asked.

  The man smiled and started to laugh. Peter held Tito close to him. ‘It’s a long story, Peter Reynolds,’ he said. ‘Let’s phone your mum, shall we.’ Peter nodded and the man handed him what looked like a large mobile phone.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Use that. Phone her. She’ll be worried about you.’ Peter took the phone suspiciously and dialled his home number. It rang once and he heard his mother’s voice, ‘Hello?’

  By the time Hanlon reached the fence, Clarissa was halfway across the field. The pigs were following her. Pigs have very sensitive noses. Despite her orders from Conquest, Clarissa hadn’t bothered to change. She’d assumed that they would kill the two police and bag the bodies, and her new clothes would get equally contaminated, so she’d left the dress on. It was a mistake.

  The pigs were hungry. They scented the dress and snuffled and grunted deeply. They smelt food. Their eyes gleamed. Conquest had wanted them starving so they would make quick work of Peter’s body. They were starving. Now, they could smell Hanlon’s blood on Clarissa’s clothes. It was what they’d been trained by Glasgow Brian to respond to.

  Clarissa heard them grunt and turned and saw the pigs trotting after her, in a dreadful procession, led by the boar. The fitful moonlight shone on his sharp tusks. She increased her speed as her fear grew and the pigs, maybe smelling her terror as her eyes dilated, her heart pounded and sweat and tears streaked down her face, picked up their pace too. It was an uneven race, a race she couldn’t win. She doubled her speed. The pigs followed suit. Then her bare feet, wet and muddy from the grass field, slipped, and Clarissa fell. Boars are very aggressive animals and when he saw her stumble and fall, he attacked. She was just getting to her feet when the boar was on her. It bucked, then scythed its head upwards, and its tusks and snout thudded into her bent-over stomach. The knife-sharp, strong tusks ripped through her blouse and skin into her gut.

  She cried out and doubled over. Now there was a great deal of blood to attract the animals, blood and soft, warm food. They went into a kind of feeding fury, butting each other out of the way, their sharp hooves trampling and stamping as they fought for the meat beneath them.

  Hanlon leant on the fence. She heard Clarissa screaming for maybe a minute and a half before she died. The pigs were on top of her in a bucking, tearing frenzy as their prey struggled helplessly beneath them. Then, as her movements stopped, the pigs grew quieter and calmed down as they started to feed, grunting with pleasure, their stomachs filling. Hanlon could hear them from where she stood. She laid the rifle down and started to walk back to the house.

  As Hanlon reached the half-open front door, she stopped and listened quietly. She could hear a boy’s voice talking. ‘Hello, Mummy. It’s me, Peter. Yes, I’m fine. I’m with a policeman now, his friends are coming. Yes. I love you too. Oh, Mum, I’ve got a dog now, please can I keep him. Thanks, see you soon. Mum, I love you.’

  Then she heard Demirel’s voice. ‘This is Sergeant Enver Demirel, Mrs Reynolds. Metropolitan Police. Your son is fine. Please could you pass me on to my colleague who I’m sure is with you. Thank you.’

  Hanlon sat down heavily on the doorstep, staring over the sea. She didn’t want the child to see her coated in blood. Enver finished speaking and she heard him tell Peter to wait a moment with the dog and not to move, while he spoke to his colleague.

  He padded out to join her and sat next to her as they looked out together at the mainland. He thought, from a distance we must look like some couple enjoying the romantic moonlight over the seascape, then, when you look more closely…

  ‘Do you know what Rize province is famous for, ma’am?’ he asked.

  ‘Tea,’ she said simply. Enver nodded. He felt hugely tired. He didn’t ask what had happened to the woman. He looked at Hanlon, her hair a wild mane, her face streaked with blood.

  ‘I thought you’d know that,’ he said as he stood up. He could hear the sound of a helicopter on the night air. He’d better go and rejoin the child.

  Hanlon looked up at him and smiled. It was the first time he had seen her do that. ‘Thank you, S
ergeant,’ she said simply. ‘Thank you.’

  More from Alex Coombs

  We hope you enjoyed reading The Stolen Child. If you did, please leave a review.

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  Explore the next book in the The DI Hanlon Series, The Innocent Girl.

  About the Author

  Alex Coombs studied Arabic at Oxford and Edinburgh Universities and went on to work in adult education and then retrained to be a chef. He has written four well reviewed crime novels as Alex Howard.

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  Also by Alex Coombs

  The DI Hanlon Series

  The Stolen Child

  The Innocent Girl

  The Missing Husband

  The Silent Victims

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  The Hanlon Private Investigator Series

  Silenced For Good

  Missing For Good

  Buried For Good

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  First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Boldwood Books Ltd.

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  Copyright © Alex Coombs, 2021

  Cover Design by Nick Castle Design

  Cover photography: Shutterstock

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  The moral right of Alex Coombs to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  Paperback ISBN 978-1-80048-808-3

  Large Print ISBN 978-1-80048-804-5

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