Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller) by Caroline Mitchell (best love novels of all time .TXT) 📗

It made her sick to the stomach to think of the teenagers being transported like cattle. Criminals who traded in human flesh were the vilest of all. She exhaled a low breath. ‘We need to bring these kids in.’

‘They’re victims, not criminals.’ Rachel’s expression was taut. ‘It’s your job to catch the killer. It’s mine to look out for the kids.’ And yet she had asked for Amy’s help when they first met.

Amy bit her tongue. She needed to keep her on side. There was an undercurrent of darkness in her nature that unsettled her.

As Amy left the coffee shop, she wondered what had just gone on. Suspicion was cast on their male victims, which seemed justified since the discovery of another Blackpool victim. Had he discharged himself from hospital anonymously because he was involved in something unspeakable? And was the group of teenagers now fighting back? Had Carla come to the same conclusion? Was that why she had kept her investigations to herself? In the back of Amy’s mind, a clock ticked mercilessly on. Time was running out. They had just days to reach the teenagers before they were moved on – or somebody ended up dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Donovan stared through the car window as they turned off the motorway. Steve was humming to Fleetwood Mac as he drove. He liked that they could travel in companionable silence. He wondered if returning to Clacton had been a mistake. Was it really for Carla’s sake? Even during his last case, he had persuaded Amy to visit Southend to speak to a witness. Why was he so compelled to return to his old stomping grounds? The uncomfortable sense of unfinished business tugged on his periphery. But it wouldn’t be settled today. Today they were on their way to Leicestershire to see Mr Anonymous, the man who checked himself out of Blackpool hospital after suffering a head injury. His real name was John McCafferty, and despite his Irish surname he had been born and bred in the UK. He was also on the sex offenders register. Steve had been thrilled with his discovery. Leads were coming in thick and fast. But McCafferty would hardly be keen to impart what he knew, given he’d land himself in prison if he admitted to breaching the register. Donovan wouldn’t give him any choice. Lives were at stake. Nobody liked dealing with nonces, but this could lead to wrapping up the case.

‘We call him the wanker,’ DC Chowdhury said, as Donovan and Steve asked about his history. They were sitting in the offices of the Public Protection Unit, at Chowdhury’s desk. A half-dozen officers worked with heads down, some on the phone, some typing reports, each one carrying the weary expression of someone buried in work. Each had a caseload of offenders to monitor and set visits to make. During each visit, they would check the offender’s phones and computers, should they have access to them, as well as obtain the latest updates on their work and relationships. Some had restrictions on where they could live, shop, visit and who they could talk to.

‘That’s an affectionate term.’ Steve laughed. ‘Fond of him, are you?’

‘It’s what he does.’ Chowdhury smiled. ‘Wanks in public places in the hope he’ll be seen.’

‘An exhibitionist then,’ Donovan replied, his gaze flicking around the room.

‘He started off hanging around secondary schools, trying to talk to the girls on the way in. Earned himself a black eye from the father of a thirteen-year-old after he took her to the cinema and got his “lad” out in the car on the way home.’

‘But it didn’t stop him,’ Donovan said.

Chowdhury shook his head. ‘He’d park up outside schools, calling girls over so they could see him having a wank. Now he masturbates in his garden in the hope he’ll be seen. A bit of a shock for the new neighbours when they moved in next door.’

‘I can imagine,’ Donovan replied. ‘And he’s not said anything about his latest adventure?’

‘He’s walking on thin ice as it is. He won’t risk breaching his order. And there’s no point in trying to appeal to his better side. He doesn’t have one.’ Chowdhury turned down the volume on his desk phone as it began to ring. Like the phones in CID, the unanswered call would do a round robin, diverting to another officer’s phone until someone picked it up.

‘So, what do you think he was up to?’

‘The next step,’ Chowdhury said. ‘We cleared him to go on holiday as he had to run it by us first. We notified local officers, but you can’t watch them twenty-four seven. My guess is that he was back to his old tricks. Someone’s caught him out and given him what for.’

‘But he’s not admitted to anything?’

Chowdhury shook his head. ‘We’ve interviewed him about breaching the register, but we didn’t have any proof. He said he went to the beach, had too much to drink and someone hit him from behind. I didn’t know about the injury until you got in touch.’

‘And what was his explanation for that?’

‘He said he was disorientated and confused. I rang the local neighbourhood policing team, but they said there had been no sexual assaults reported that night. At least, nothing that he could have been involved in.’

‘That call should have been forwarded to us.’ Donovan frowned.

‘Well, hopefully you’ll have more luck with him than me. From what you’ve told me, the old bastard is lucky to be alive.’

Steve grinned. ‘Maybe it’ll teach him a lesson.’

But Chowdhury did not look hopeful. ‘He’s in the interview room. I’ll bring you over.’

McCafferty had also given a witness statement with regards to his alleged mugging, and this was the line of enquiry that Donovan was going to follow. A voluntary interview would suffice, unless they gained further information in interview, although Donovan planned to throw some strong challenges in.

McCafferty was a rotund man who looked beyond his fifty-two years. He