A DCI Anna Tate Crime Thriller

LITTLE BOY LOST

J. P. Carter

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © J. P. Carter 2020

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Cover photographs © Stephen Mulcahey

Cover photographs © Shutterstock

J. P. Carter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Contains Parliamentary information licensed under the Open Parliament Licence v3.0.

A catalogue copy 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 ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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: 9780008313333

Ebook Edition © January 2020 ISBN: 9780008313340

Version: 2019-12-04

Dedication

This one is dedicated to little Oliver Proctor, the latest addition to the family.

Epigraph

‘The whole country has been shocked by the most appalling scenes of people looting, vandalising and thieving. It is criminality pure and simple. And there is absolutely no excuse for it. We will not put up with this in our country. We will not allow a culture of fear to exist on our streets. And we will do whatever it takes to restore law and order and to rebuild our communities.’

Prime Minister David Cameron speaking in Parliament during the London riots, which shook the capital in August 2011.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by J. P. Carter

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

The tension was mounting in the back of the armed response van as it sped towards its destination.

Officer Barry Noble’s mouth had gone dry and his heart was thumping against his ribcage. He didn’t doubt that the other members of the seven-strong team were just as nervous as he was. But then they had every reason to be as they prepared to confront members of one of London’s most notorious gangs. They were taking part in a series of coordinated pre-dawn raids across the capital, targeting a major drug-dealing network. More than a hundred officers were descending on fifteen addresses south of the River Thames, and Noble knew that they could never tell just how much resistance they’d encounter.

This was the second operation in just over a week that he had taken part in. The first raid, on a flat in Lewisham, had been hugely successful. No shots were fired and three significant arrests were made. The team also recovered a large haul of Class A drugs and an arsenal of weapons, including a sawn-off shotgun, two Beretta pistols and a Kalashnikov assault rifle.

This morning’s target was a house in Balham that had been under surveillance for several days. An Afro-Caribbean man named Warren Fuller was renting it. He was one of the gang leaders responsible for the huge rise in violent crime across London during the past year, which included over a hundred and forty murders.

Officer Noble was all too familiar with the grim statistics. He was reminded of them every day at Scotland Yard briefings and when he read the papers or tuned in to TV news programmes. It was a sad state of affairs all right, and there was no sign of the situation ending any time soon.

As a Londoner it filled him with sadness. And as the father of two children it scared him shitless. The streets were no longer safe; youths as young as twelve were carrying knives and running drugs, and some inner-city council estates were fast becoming no-go areas.

‘We’re approaching the property,’ the team leader announced suddenly. ‘So brace yourselves and be ready to expect the unexpected.’

Noble felt an instant jolt of adrenalin. He sucked in a silent breath and tightened his grip on the assault rifle he was carrying.

Less than a minute later they turned into a quiet residential street that was lined on both sides with parked cars.

The van came to a stop in the middle of the road about thirty metres short of the mid-terrace Edwardian house, and three support vehicles pulled up behind it.

Warren Fuller and several other people were known to occupy the property. The surveillance team weren’t sure exactly how many there were because a number of men and women had been seen coming and going. At least one had been identified as a guy who was wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of a rival gang member. For that reason the team had been warned to expect fierce resistance.

Noble and six other officers exited the van and with cool professionalism moved onto the pavement and jogged towards the house. The sun had yet to rise so their dark, padded vests and visored helmets were like shadows against the low walls and hedges.

There were no lights on in the house, which Officer Noble hoped meant that the occupants were still in bed and would therefore be less alert and responsive.

As they moved through the small front garden, Noble noticed it was paved over and held only a selection of wheelie bins. The team had been instructed to force open the front door with a battering ram and charge right in and, as he watched from the relatively safe distance of a few men back, he saw they wasted no time getting on with it.

Within seconds the door was off its hinges and they were piling inside. The three officers at the front moved along the narrow hallway to check the ground-floor rooms, while Noble and three others started up the stairs.

Noble was the first to reach the landing, and just as he did so a door to the right was wrenched open. A man wearing boxer shorts and a startled expression stood there. Noble recognised him instantly as Warren Fuller.

‘Don’t move,’ Noble screamed as he pointed the rifle at him. ‘Just stay there and put your hands behind your head.’

But Fuller ignored him and quickly stepped back into the darkened room, pushing the door shut behind him.

Noble rushed forward, twisted the door handle, and pushed it back open. As he entered the room, Fuller charged at him and grabbed the barrel of his assault rifle, which he tried to rip from his hands.

Noble’s finger was poised on the trigger, and the sudden movement caused him to squeeze it unintentionally. The gun exploded and a split second later a cry rang out as the bullet claimed a victim.

But the victim wasn’t Warren Fuller.

CHAPTER ONE

Three days later

The images on the television screen filled Detective Chief Inspector Anna Tate with a deep sense of despair. They showed police officers under attack, buildings and cars on fire, shops being looted, and other acts of mindless, wanton vandalism.

It would have been shocking enough if it had been happening in some far-flung, lawless country. But these appalling scenes were being captured by news cameras right here in her beloved London. What’s more, most of the action was taking place south of the River Thames, where Anna lived and worked. When she turned down the volume on the TV she could hear the urgent chorus of sirens outside.

According to the news, the neighbourhoods worst hit were Brixton, Peckham, New Cross, Rotherhithe and Clapham, all within a short distance of her terraced house in Vauxhall. It was why she’d changed her plans and decided not to take her daughter out for dinner at the local McDonald’s. Far too risky.

Civil unrest had descended on the capital three nights ago following a police raid on the home of a known drug dealer named Warren Fuller. During the raid his twenty-seven-year-old wife Grace was shot and killed by a firearms officer who claimed it was a tragic accident. She was in a bedroom with her husband when the officer entered. The gun apparently went off during a struggle between the two men, and Mrs Fuller, who was cowering in a corner, was hit in the chest, the shot killing her instantly.

Within hours of the news getting out there was a backlash, with Grace Fuller being described as the latest victim of brutal police tactics. Her family called for the officer who fired the shot to be charged with murder.

It didn’t matter that she was the wife of a dangerous gang member. What mattered was that as well as being unarmed, she had also been four months pregnant with her first child.

The situation quickly spiralled out of control as people took to the streets to protest against what they were calling the murder of an innocent bystander. They were even claiming that the killing had been racially motivated because the victim was black.

Anna, who had spent the last month off work, had already contacted the office and offered to report for duty. She’d been told to stand by and wait for a call back.

Meanwhile, she had heeded the warnings to stay indoors and so had watched the drama unfold from the comfort of her living room sofa.

She had expected the riots to be short-lived, but instead they’d spread like wildfire and had become increasingly more violent. Disbelief had given way to anger as her city was being torn apart before her very eyes.

‘We’re now hearing that Scotland Yard is calling for re-inforcements from forces around the country,’ the newsreader was saying over footage of a pitched battle between hooded rioters and police. ‘So far two hundred arrests have been made and fifty people have been injured, including ten police officers. This afternoon the Prime Minister convened another meeting of the Government’s emergency response committee to discuss the growing crisis, which is being likened to the riots that engulfed London in 2011.’

Anna was a detective inspector back then, and she could well remember how bad it was. The unrest lasted for five days and nights and spread to other parts of the country. Five people died and damage to property topped two hundred million pounds.

Those riots started after an undercover police officer shot dead a man of mixed race who was suspected of being armed and a threat. Since then the seeds of disorder had again been taking root, and what was happening now had been widely predicted. In fact, Anna had been surprised when she heard the Metropolitan Police Commissioner himself describe London as a powder keg. The comment came during a speech in which he criticised the latest round of spending cuts that were being imposed on the force at a time when the city was in the grip of an epidemic of knife and gun crime. In the previous year the number of murders in the capital had reached a ten-year high.

As a senior officer with the Major Investigation Team based in Wandsworth, Anna had seen first-hand how dangerous London had become in recent years.

It was due to a combination of factors – the sheer number of ruthless gangs, a growing sense of alienation felt by ethnic groups and those living in deprived areas, and a significant reduction in police numbers. Plus the skyrocketing cost of living that was pricing many Londoners out of their own city. A culture of grievance and blame had been allowed to take hold and now the city was suffering the consequences.

Anna’s eyes remained anchored to the TV screen as she sipped lukewarm coffee from a mug. The newsreader had linked to live coverage from Brixton where a double decker bus was completely engulfed in flames. A reporter at the scene explained that the youths responsible had been chased off by police in riot gear, and went on to remind viewers that the district had also experienced mass rioting back in 1995, sparked by the death of a black man in police custody.

Next came pre-recorded footage of a supermarket being looted in Clapham. The looters were making so much noise that Anna almost didn’t hear her phone ringing. She had to rush into the kitchen where she’d left it on the table.

The caller ID told her it was her boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Bill Nash.

‘I’ve been expecting you to ring, guv,’ she said. ‘I’m surprised it’s taken you so long.’

‘Well I was hoping I wouldn’t have to,’ he replied. ‘But as I’m sure you’ve seen for yourself, things have got much worse out there today and I’m afraid your compassionate leave is over. I want you back at work immediately.’

‘Is it for general support or something specific?’

‘Specific. We’ve got an unusual case, and I need someone on it I can trust to do a good job. It’s like a war zone out there and we’re stretched to breaking point.’

‘So what is it?’

‘Four hours ago rioters set fire to a derelict pub in Camberwell,’ Nash said. ‘The brigade were on the scene pretty quickly and put the blaze out before it destroyed the building. But there was a fatality. A boy no older than ten or eleven was found inside and it seems he died from smoke inhalation.’

‘Do we know who he is and what he was doing in a derelict boozer?’ Anna asked.

After a beat, Nash said, ‘He hasn’t been identified yet, but we know why he couldn’t escape the fire. He was chained to a wall in the cellar.’

CHAPTER TWO

Even after seventeen years on the force, Anna still found it hard to believe some of the things that people did to one another. The thought of a small boy dying while chained in a cellar like an animal caused the blood to stiffen in her veins.

‘Forensics haven’t yet processed the scene but it’s believed he’s been there since before the riots began,’ Nash said. ‘If so, then whoever put him there probably wouldn’t have known the building was going to be set on fire.’

‘Has anyone been dispatched to the scene?’ Anna asked.

‘DI Walker is there but I want you on this as senior investigating officer. And bear in mind that we’ve been drained of resources. Some of your team are helping out elsewhere and things are going from bad to worse so who knows how the hell we’re going to cope …’

‘Should I arrange for a squad car to pick me up?’

‘No point. You’ll need to make your own way. Virtually every vehicle in the Met is being deployed as we speak.’

‘OK. What’s the address of this pub?’

‘I’ll text it to you. It was known as The Falconer’s Arms before it was abandoned four years ago.’

‘I’ll get there as soon as I can.’

‘Thanks, Anna. There is something else you need to know. You’re probably aware that the rioters have been targeting police cars, ambulances and fire appliances—’

‘That really doesn’t surprise me, guv. It’s what they always do.’

‘I know, but the homes of about half a dozen police officers have also come under attack. And some addresses are even being circulated on social media.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I’m telling you because I assume you won’t want to leave your daughter alone in the house. Once it gets dark, we’re expecting another night of complete mayhem as many more nutters take to the streets.’

Anna checked her watch. It was four-thirty p.m. Only a couple of hours of daylight left.

‘I’ll call Tom and get him to come over,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’

‘Good. Sorry, I should have asked … how are things working out between you and Chloe? It’s been a couple of weeks since we last spoke.’

‘It’s not been easy to be honest, especially for Chloe. She’s still struggling to come to terms with what’s happened. And who can blame her? She’s been to hell and back.’

‘But she’s back where she belongs now, Anna. And you’ll both get there in the end, of that I’m sure.’

A wedge of anxiety lodged in Anna’s chest when she hung up the phone. She had spent every day of the past month with her daughter and she didn’t feel ready to leave her now and return to work. But in the circumstances, she really had no choice.

It had been a tough four weeks for both of them, not least because they’d been the focus of frenzied media attention, which was understandable given the level of interest in their story.

Anna had reluctantly agreed to take part in several press conferences and to give interviews to a number of journalists. After all, the papers and TV news organisations had played a vital part in helping to reunite her with her daughter, and she felt indebted to them.

The story was still considered to be newsworthy even though there had already been blanket coverage. The latest edition of a popular magazine, which had been delivered that morning, carried one of the interviews Anna had given, and the feature was spread over no fewer than four pages.

But naturally Chloe had hated being thrust into the limelight, and not only because she was a mere twelve years old. Her life had been turned upside down and she was trying to deal with a tsunami of emotions from grief to the shock of learning that she wasn’t the person she thought she was. For most of the time she suffered in silence, but the tears flowed whenever she was asked about her father and the woman named Sophie who had helped to raise her. The pain and sense of loss was there in her eyes for all to see, and it broke Anna’s heart.

She had done her best to shield her daughter from the glare of publicity and to make her feel safe, comfortable and loved. But the poor girl had been so traumatised by events that it had proved to be a real challenge. It was only in the past week that Chloe had started to open up and engage with the mother she’d been told had died ten years ago.

Anna had been granted two months’ compassionate leave and she’d been hopeful that by the end of it they would have formed a much-belated bond. But now she feared that these bloody riots might set them back and shove a dirty great spanner in the works.

CHAPTER THREE

As usual Chloe had spent most of the afternoon closeted in her room. It wasn’t the room she had occupied when she’d last lived in the house – up until the age of two. Anna continued to use that room as her study, and the walls were still covered with photos taken before Chloe’s father abducted her. Anna had wanted to leave it be so that Chloe could see that her real mother had never stopped thinking about her … Or given up searching for her.

This bedroom was a work in progress, and Chloe had yet to put her own stamp on it. Many of the belongings she’d brought from her previous home were still in boxes, including books and posters and some of her clothes.

The door was ajar so Anna knocked lightly and then eased it open and stepped inside. Chloe was sitting on her bed with her back against the wall. Her knees were up and her precious photo album was resting against them. Anna had laid eyes on the album for the first time a month ago, and it had been a moving experience. It was her daughter’s link to the past, filled with ten years of memories that Anna hadn’t shared with her. And for Anna it was a painful reminder of what she had missed. All those Christmases and birthdays that made a child’s formative years such a joy. They were all there in the photos, but Anna found it hard to look at them without choking up.

‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’

Chloe looked up and smiled. It was a half-hearted smile, but Anna was used to that. She knew her daughter needed more time to embrace her new life. Things could only get better.

Anna crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The fact that Chloe no longer flinched when she got close was the clearest sign yet that they had made significant progress in the short time they’d had together.

‘I’m afraid I have to go out to work,’ Anna said. ‘I know it’s sooner than expected but it can’t be helped.’

Chloe frowned. She seemed curious rather than alarmed. ‘Is it because of all the rioting?’ she asked.

Anna chose not to tell her about the boy in the cellar. It would only play on her mind and stir up painful memories of her own kidnap ordeal at the hands of a brutal villain.

‘It’s connected to the riots, yes,’ she said. ‘There’s been a serious crime and they need me to take charge of the investigation. But I’m going to call Tom to get him to come and stay with you.’