The Missing Children Case Files
Trafficked
The Missing Children Case Files
M. A. Hunter
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021
Copyright © M. A. Hunter 2021
Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
M. A. Hunter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008443320
Ebook Edition © January 2021 ISBN: 9780008443313
Version: 2020-12-14
Content notices: suicide, domestic violence, paedophilia, sexual assault, drug abuse, child abuse.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
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About the Author
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About the Publisher
Dedicated to all who have
struggled during the lockdown.
We’re all in this together.
I shall choose the target
His arrow deserves;
I shall trace and mark it
In scarlet curves.
Small and bloody
As a fallen sparrow
My own dead body
Shall receive his arrow.
— Lucifer Sings in Secret, Elinor Wylie
Chapter One
Then
Poole, Dorset
The concrete burned her feet, even though the sun was already starting to disappear behind the hills in the distance. She couldn’t say how long she’d been moving in this direction, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew sticking to a straight line was not the best method of keeping out of sight. But the quickest distance between two points is a straight line, and her need to find help was stronger than the panic of what he would do if he caught up with her.
She wanted to scream, as another sharp stone dug into the rough skin of her heel, but any momentary stop to check whether it had drawn blood would have meant slowing her escape.
Escape.
It had been merely a pipe dream for so long; so much so that she couldn’t even be sure she was out in the open now. For all she knew, she was still in that dingy hole, and this was just another cruel dream from which she’d be painfully woken at any moment. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
Regardless, she had to keep striving onwards. To fail now would be to waste the best chance she’d ever had to flee that musty, windowless room beneath the ground. With no watch, she had no frame of reference for how long she’d been stumbling along the road, though her grumbling stomach told her she would be gobbling up the scraps right now if she hadn’t made for the unlocked door.
What if this was all part of his plan? Just another torturous trick for which she’d be forced to pay a heavy price. Promise freedom, only to snatch it away. How many times had he told her he loved her one day, only to violate her the next?
She tried to shake the thought from her exhausted mind, and just focus on putting one foot in front of the next. She had to come into contact with somebody – anybody – soon, if she could just keep going; but this was the most exercise she’d had in years. She couldn’t even say for certain that she wasn’t walking around in circles now. She’d tried to keep the dying sun’s glow ahead of her the whole time, using it as a fixed point to aim towards; through the forest, low branches scratching at her cheeks and bare arms as she’d torn through it.
That part had been a surprise. With no clue where they’d been living for all these years, she hadn’t expected to come out of the hole into such a wild and unyielding monster of trees and undergrowth. The few occasions he’d brought her up, he’d kept her blindfolded; less trouble if she was disorientated. She’d fallen at one point, a thicket of thorns drawing blood from her right palm, and she’d been certain that’s where he’d catch up to her, and drag her back by the ankles. She hadn’t allowed herself to wait for that; tearing off even faster, ignoring every bite, scratch and sting as her barely clothed body bore the brunt of the forest’s clutches.
The nightdress was practically glued to her skin, such was the expulsion of sweat as she persevered, vowing to take just one more step. Cars had passed, but she hadn’t allowed any of them to stop and check if she was okay. Every time a set of headlights neared, she’d try and cower out of sight, uncertain whether it would be him out hunting for her. Again, for all she knew, he had friends out here who would also be only too willing to watch him take her back as his prisoner. She’d come too far now to allow him to catch up with her.
Another stomach grumble, and she was consciously cursing herself for trying to get away on an empty stomach. The scraps he gave her each day were barely enough to satisfy the smallest of appetites, but it had to have been at least twelve hours since she’d devoured the stale crust for her breakfast. It had been enough for then, but had she known how the day would play out, she would have saved some for this journey. Last night he had promised her chance would come, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it when he’d told her he loved her. How could something so forced be love? Even as she’d found the door ajar, and had felt the cool breeze filtering through the gap, she’d been sure he would appear and force her back down the narrow tunnel to her cell.
She’d moved unsteadily forward, unwilling to believe the possibility, her heart racing, as she tugged on the tiny edge, and felt it move beneath her broken fingernails. She’d pulled it open just wide enough so she could peer out, half-expecting him to be there, ready to kick it in and send her stumbling, but all she’d seen was the darkness of the wooden boards lining the dirt floor. Opening the door wider, she’d dared to step out, again expecting to feel the pain of his anger that she’d dared to defy him, but he didn’t emerge from a secret hiding place to punish her.
Keeping her foot in the gap between the door and the entrance to her makeshift room, she’d reached into the darkness, feeling the cool air blowing from above, but then she’d rushed back into the room. It was too good to be true, and she’d learned from her mistakes. She’d been about to push the door closed and allow it to lock when something had stopped her. Was it possible that he had been telling the truth? That he would grant her the freedom she’d so desperately craved?
Taking one final look at the room she’d called home for so many years, she’d taken a deep breath, and headed out of the door, crawling on hands and knees, certain the wooden boards would whine and groan beneath her frame and reveal that she was revolting against her captors. Yet she’d made it to the top of the tunnel without hearing him coming for her, and as she’d leaned into the door at the top, expecting to find it closed, it had swung open, and she’d felt the gust of fresh air wash over her. She hadn’t waited a second longer, tearing out, refusing to look over her shoulder in case he was there waiting to pick her off with his hunting rifle.
When she’d made it to the edge of the forest, where a grey strip of road divided the woods in two, she’d turned onto it, and tried to keep her feet and legs moving in tandem, despite the agony it caused. That felt like hours ago now, but with the terrifyingly slow pace it probably was less than an hour. He could still be on her trail; watching and waiting.
The dark of the bordering forest swallowed up the route she’d come by, and the road continued to twist and wind. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t come across any kind of habitation where she could seek shelter.
Another set of headlights appeared in the distance, hurtling towards her at some speed. Looking around, she could see nowhere to duck and cover. She’d yet to come across a property, but there was now a barbed-wire fence along the line of trees, and she didn’t have the strength to get over it without inflicting further injury. If this was him, she had no means of escape.
Stumbling forwards, she crashed to her knees, yelping as her right wrist buckled beneath her weight, breaking her fall. Exhaustion had set in, and no amount of will power and fear could get her back to her feet. All she could do now was wait for him to come and find her, and take her home.
Lying perfectly still, save for the deep lungfuls of breath she willed into her body, she waited for the headlights to pull over, but as they neared, and her pulse quickened to breaking point, they continued past.
It wasn’t him; or at least, if it was, he hadn’t seen her.
Rolling onto her back, she stared up at the ever-darkening sky. She had a simple choice: lie here and wait for death to take her, or continue the journey; the former felt like the easier option, but she was too resilient to give up. He’d told her as much last night.
When the time is right, you’ll know it. You can do this!
Rolling over, she pressed her left hand against the ground, and forced her legs to lift her back up. Over her shoulder, she could see the tail lights of the car that had passed, now long gone, and too far for the driver to see the lurching figure now continuing along the potholed road.
Another five minutes passed before she came across a sign on the edge of the road, but whilst she recognised the words, she couldn’t say for sure what they meant. She’d always been good at reading at school, but her eyes were too tired to focus properly. The fading sun was to her right, such was the nature of the bends in the road. The only way to right the course of her journey would be to scale the wire fence, and head back through the trees, but the path of the road could easily correct itself if she just continued along it. Breathless, she strode onwards, leaving it up to fate to determine her future. If her escape was to be completed, then the road wouldn’t lead her straight back into his waiting arms.
I love you. Let me prove it to you.
She just had to keep believing.
And that’s when she saw it. A large building, at least four storeys high, and with a mismatch of lights glowing from windows in its sides. It reminded her of one of the crossword puzzles he’d once allowed her to attempt. He’d offered to set her free if she could complete it, but she hadn’t come close. Another of his sick games.
Rubbing her eyes, as her legs threatened to give way once more, she again questioned whether what she was witnessing was real or the final embers of the dream. This side of the building burst into flashes of blue as she neared, and her heart raced harder at the prospect of what she’d finally stumbled upon. She had to get inside; that much she knew. It would be just like him to be parked up somewhere, revelling in the glee in her face suddenly being torn away when her eyes fell on him. It would be the cruellest of tricks, but if she could just get inside, she would be safe; of that she had no doubt.
Gripping the handrail of the staircase directly in front of her, her toes scraped across the hardened concrete steps as she dragged her feet up them, until she arrived at the set of automatic double doors. Nobody seemed to notice her at first as she stepped through and was immediately struck by a wave of cool, conditioned air. So bright inside too that she could barely keep her eyes open and focused on finding that one person who might tell her she was safe after all these years.
A man’s face appeared in her immediate vision, and for the briefest of seconds she thought it was him, dressed in some kind of brown shirt and sweater, but as the spirit left her body, and she collapsed into the man’s arms, relief washed over her. The man was now shouting to others, calling for help as far as she could tell, but she didn’t care. In that moment, she would have happily allowed death to take her in his embrace.
She was out.
She was free.
Chapter Two
Now
Uxbridge, London
Is there anything worse than being trapped inside when you can see how warm and clement the sunshine looks through the poky window, which doesn’t even open wide enough to allow a draft in? The whirring electric fan on top of the filing cabinet is doing little to cool the stuffy atmosphere inside the box room where Jack and I have been sitting for the best part of two hours; me with my eyes buried in a typed report, and Jack hunched over his laptop.
‘You’re doing it again,’ he says now, bringing my attention back to the desk.
‘Doing what?’ I ask, frowning.
‘Staring out of that tiny window. You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re secretly working on the plot of your next novel, rather than concentrating on Jemima Hooper.’
His tone is playful; teasing; he isn’t criticising, and yet I still invoke a stern face for my reply.
‘Plotting is for fiction writers, Jack. We both know that my work is stranger than fiction.’
He smiles thinly, nodding as he does. ‘You can say that again. If I hadn’t been with you when you found Cassie Hilliard, I never would have believed the story in Ransomed. And as for where Natalie Sullivan’s suicide led you six months ago…’ He pauses. ‘You have a talent for reading between the lines, Emma, a real talent; you see things that others don’t.’
I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, but rather than arguing against the compliment as is my default setting, I hold my breath and count to five. ‘Thank you, Jack, but we never would have found Cassie if it weren’t for your help too.’
He pulls a wounded face. ‘You came so close to just accepting a compliment there, and then at the last second, you rejected it. I wish you could see just how brilliant you are.’
I have to look away this time, because I can see in my periphery that he knows he’s said too much, as his five o’clock shadow has taken on a beetroot hue.
‘I should get us both a fresh drink,’ he says, quickly standing, and avoiding eye contact. ‘You want tea? Coffee?’
I know that tea is supposed to be able to help regulate body temperature, but I’m certain that a hot beverage is only going to crank up the temperature in the already stuffy box room. ‘Water, please.’
‘I’ll run the tap to get it as cold as I can,’ he says with a nod, leaving the room without another word.
I push myself back in the hardened plastic chair, picking up the typed page I was failing to read, and wafting it near my chin like a fan. After a fairly soggy spring, they are predicting one of the hottest summers on record, and even though it’s early June, it already feels like we are more or less breaking records. The thin cotton dress I’m wearing is clinging to my front and back, and with Jack out of the room, I take the opportunity to peel it away, and give my skin a breather. Jack will have wandered to the small kitchen near what was once Uxbridge police station’s canteen, and, knowing him, he’ll stop for a natter with any of his colleagues floating about, meaning I have at least two minutes until he will be back, though more likely closer to five. I don’t blame him for wanting a different view, as it almost feels like these four walls are moving steadily closer to the table.
It was quite a surprise when Detective Chief Superintendent Jagtar Rawani reached out and invited me to come and work with Jack in the capacity of Public Liaison. Jack’s role as cold case review officer has evolved in light of the files discovered on Arthur Turgood’s hard drive, and Jack has been tasked with identifying every child’s face on the images and videos Turgood had produced or downloaded during his years running the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys. In prison, but in poor health, Turgood will likely be dead long before his sentence expires, which is why the Crown Prosecution Service has decided against bringing further charges for being in possession of indecent images of children. ‘Not in the public interest’ is how they officially described it. Jack told me off the record that prosecuting Turgood further would be a waste of taxpayers’ money, which I can understand, even if I don’t like the thought that he is getting away with more crimes. It is bad enough he wasn’t captured and tried for the abuse he inflicted on Freddie Mitchell and the others until he was eighty years old. After a long life evading prosecution, he will likely serve less than a quarter of his sentence for his crimes.
It still rankles; especially as my missing sister Anna was one of the victims in the footage. That is why I accepted DCS Rawani’s invitation to support Jack. Not only will identifying these victims help in some way to bring closure for their families, deep down my motivation for helping is far more selfish: I hope that somehow we’ll find the pattern that tells me what became of my sister. It’s twenty-one years now since she walked from our family home in Weymouth to visit our maternal grandmother, never to be seen again. If it takes me the rest of my life and every resource at my disposal, I will learn the truth about what happened to Anna and why she never made it to her destination less than five minutes up the road.
For now, though, my attention must remain focused on Jemima Hooper, the eleven-year-old girl who wandered off while waiting with the family Beagle outside Greggs six years ago. This was in Gateshead, so I wasn’t overly familiar with the story until Jack presented me with the file yesterday morning. Since then, I must have read nearly every report filed by the investigative team in Northumberland. As far as they’re concerned the case was closed the moment Jemima’s body was found dumped just inside the gates of a public park on the outskirts of Tamworth eighteen months later. The image of her blue and broken body – covered in fresh welts, and left tangled in nettles – is permanently engraved on my long-term memory.
The Jemima in that final picture looked nothing like the innocent freckled-faced girl with ginger plaits who stares back at me now from the desk. It is this image that facial recognition software estimates as a seventy-six per cent match to the girl in the still captured from the horrific video footage. I’m grateful that I don’t have clearance to see the video in full, as I don’t think there’d be any way back for my subconscious if I was subjected to it. Jack has seen it, and the haunted look he wears whenever he has to reference the footage tells me everything I need to know.
That is why we are determined to find out as much about Jemima Hooper as we can, to confirm whether the software match is correct. There is a part of me that really hopes it isn’t, as I don’t want to think of her being tortured in such a disgusting manner for other people’s gratification. Security camera footage taken from the Greggs shop shows Jemima through the shop window, standing patiently, talking to the Beagle, when something catches her eye off camera. The lens is trained to take in as much of the shop as possible in an effort to capture potential thieves, and so when Jemima wanders out of shot while her mum is paying for the two sausage rolls and bag of doughnuts, it is impossible to know where she goes next. The Greggs is next to a jeweller’s which had its shutters down following a break-in the week before, so we don’t see Jemima again until she and the Beagle wander past the front of the butcher’s, only this time she is holding the hand of a figure in a baseball cap and denim jacket. He or she is approximately five feet ten, slim build, but the face is never captured on camera. A team of trained detectives watched every frame of every security camera feed and dash cam for the hour before and after Jemima wandered off, and the footage at the butcher’s is the only one where the figure is seen.
Who this person is, is anyone’s guess. For some reason, Jemima walked away with him or her willingly, and even released her grip on the Beagle’s lead somewhere before the railway track, where he was found tied up, whining. That strip of track isn’t even five minutes from Greggs, and yet the Beagle wasn’t found for nearly an hour, by which point there was no trace of Jemima. In those fifty-five minutes that sweet eleven-year-old girl became just another statistic.
Frantic with worry, Jemima’s parents made a television appeal for the return of their daughter, and despite an initial onslaught of online abuse (aimed at Mrs Hooper for taking her eyes off Jemima for the three minutes it took for her to order and pay for the sausage rolls and doughnuts), neither parent was ever in the frame for being involved in the abduction.
Fast forward eighteen months, and a jogger training for The Great North Run spotted what she thought was a distressed animal trapped in the nettles beside the park gates. It was only on closer inspection that she realised just how wrong her initial impression had been. A hurried DNA test confirmed Jemima’s identity, and the Hoopers – who had still believed they would find their daughter – were dealt the cruellest heartbreak.
Post mortem examination of the body confirmed she had been the victim of sexual assault, kicking, scratching and whipping. I can’t even begin to imagine how terrified she must have been throughout such a painful experience, and in many ways death was probably the kindest fate that could have befallen her in those circumstances. I’ve met with victims of abuse and the mental scars never heal. At least Jemima is at peace now, even if she probably experienced more cruelty than any one of us will ever have to face.