‘Jason Andrew Bevan?’ asked the blond man, an unmistakable snort of satisfaction in his voice. Bevan nodded weakly, still wondering what on earth was going on.
‘I am Detective Inspector Michael Carter of the Metropolitan Police’s Child Exploitation and Online Protection Unit. I am arresting you on suspicion of using a computer to groom a child. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say may be given in evidence against you.’
‘But I haven’t done anything,’ blurted Bevan. ‘I haven’t even touched her.’
Other officers helped Carter drag Bevan up to his feet, where he was immediately handcuffed. Carter plunged his hands into Bevan’s pockets and extracted his house keys, then gave the signal for the prisoner to be led to a waiting van.
Using the keys to gain entry, Carter led a group of officers into his house to examine his computer. The team had spent the last three months posing as a young girl online using the name DreamGirl99 and hoping to catch Carter in the act of grooming. When he ignored their most recent communications, they suspected he had found a genuine victim and knew they had to move fast.
Unable to intercept his communications, they had put him under surveillance and watched out for the warning signs, key among them being the departure of his wife and children.
In the attic room that served as Bevan’s office it took only a few minutes for one of the tech guys to call up that day’s internet activity.
‘Guv, he’s supposed to be meeting her this afternoon. We’ve got a record of the IR chats. Supposed to be there in half an hour. Gladstone Park. The bench by the rotunda.’
‘Okay, who can we spare?’
‘Got a whole bunch of uniforms to choose from.’
‘Nah, that’ll just scare her off. We need to send someone in plain clothes. Whoever she is, she’s obviously very vulnerable and delicate. I want this handled with care.’
‘All the plain clothes people are men. DC Lyons has been off this week. I could call the station and get them to send someone along.’
‘There’s no time. Send O’Neill. He’s got a kind face. That will have to do.’
15
It had taken Detective Sergeant Patrick O’Neill quite a while to find the right bench, the one where the girl who had been due to meet with Jason Bevan was supposed to be. It had been close to the car park, in the midst of a fenced-off area of flower beds, well shielded from the main road by trees and a pain in the arse to get to.
When he finally located it there was no one to be seen. For a while the young officer worried that he had got there too late, but then, off in the distance, he saw a young girl who seemed to be heading his way and tried his best to look as relaxed as possible. It was, he decided, important to get the balance right, If he looked too much like a pervert, she might be put off, but then again if he didn’t look like enough of one, she might not come over at all. But O’Neill needed to talk to her. Urgently. The inquiry team needed to ensure she was safe and understood the danger she had potentially placed herself in every bit as much as they needed to ensure that Bevan was out of circulation.
His heart began to beat a little faster as the girl came closer and closer, through the centre of the main tree-lined path that led to the gate. She was looking directly at him now, he was sure of it. Was she the one? It was too soon to tell. She looked a little older than a teenager, but he knew only too well that clever make-up could work wonders. He turned away for a few moments so as not to intimidate her. When he looked back she had turned off on to a smaller side track and was rapidly heading away from him. He didn’t know what to feel. Disappointment, relief? Was it her? Should he go after her or wait just in case it was someone else?
O’Neill was still weighing up his many options when he felt a sudden sharp pinch in the back of his shoulder.
‘Hey! What the …’
O’Neill spun around as quickly as he could, just in time to see light glinting off a syringe. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, the cloudy liquid in the chamber, the streaks of blood glistening at the end of the long silver needle. What the hell do you think you’re …’ He never managed to finished the sentence. After those first few words everything started to spin and his breathing began to get laboured. He could feel his eyes travelling up into the top of his head and knew he was going to pass out.
He came round some time later and found himself sitting in what appeared to be the passenger seat of a car. It was hard to tell for sure. He was looking straight ahead and slightly downwards, and could see his legs in the footwell, part of the seat and the bottom part of the glovebox. On the edge of his field of vision he could see that the door to his left was wide open.
When he tried to turn his head to look around, nothing happened. For some reason his body seemed to have stopped working. His legs, his arms, his hands, even his lips and tongue had all become useless. He couldn’t swing his legs out to escape. He couldn’t even blink. All he could do was sit there.
From somewhere behind came the sound of footsteps. Solid shoes on a tiled floor. A steady clip, clip, clip, coming closer and closer. Then the sound of heavy machinery, a grinding of gears, a squeal of metal on metal. Then footsteps again coming closer still. O’Neill watched helplessly as something that looked a bit like a steel cable passed between his legs and tightened around both of his ankles. Pressure started to build up, as if the bones were being crushed. And then, almost inexplicably, he began to move.
He fell to the right first, his arm smashing into the gear lever, his head against the edge of the steering wheel. He felt both blows but any noises he made sounded only inside his head. He continued to move. It was as if his feet were being pulled out from underneath him, out through the door of the car with his body following, the motion completely unnatural. Within a few seconds his legs were high in the air and he was being hauled upwards, swinging upside down with the weight of his entire body supported by his ankles.
The pain was like nothing he had ever known. And he couldn’t even scream. He couldn’t even cry.
Once he reached some ten feet off the ground he stopped rising and instead began to move sideways. He looked around as much as the swinging motion of the cable would let him. He was in a cavernous warehouse building. He could feel cold air rushing past him, burning his cheeks and nose. The floor was tiled, and the walls were painted a dull grey and lined with shelves and bookcases.
A sudden slapping sound on the ground below was followed by a halt in his movements as the machinery controlling his journey was switched off. O’Neill knew at once what had happened. His warrant card had fallen out from his back pocket. The footsteps approached once more. O’Neill was still gently swinging and could see nothing. He didn’t need to. It was obvious what was happening. Whoever had attacked him had walked over to retrieve the wallet and was now opening and inspecting it.
It would, he felt certain, change everything. The card clearly identified him as a serving police office. Whoever had taken him, surely they had to let him go. Whatever sick game they were playing would, he assured himself, now come to an end.
There was a pause. A long pause during which time seemed to stand still. The room became very silent and O’Neill became acutely aware of his own racing heartbeat. Then another slapping sound, softer than before, and the machinery started up once more. O’Neill began to move again.
He felt a sick wave of horror pass through him when he realized in one bigger than usual swing that he was heading towards a large stainless-steel table in the centre of the room. Not only that: he also realized what the soft slapping sound had been – the sound of his warrant card being casually tossed aside. Whoever had taken him cared nothing for the fact that he was a police officer.
Sure enough, he continued moving until he was directly above the table and then was slowly lowered down until he was lying on it, flat on his back.