The Network (3 page)

‘I’ve heard of it.’

‘It’s kind of like our own internal e-mail system, only it spans the whole world, or at least the computer-boffins tell me it will soon. But as usual the criminal element is on to it quicker than us, particularly the less savoury types – paedophiles and other types of sex offenders all keen to share their experiences with each other. We have a couple of guys here who understand this information technology – that’s what they call it – better than most. We’ve attached them to the Serious and Organized Crime Group, largely because we didn’t know what else to do with them. However, a few months ago they hooked into a paedophile ring sharing around some pretty heavy-duty kiddie-porn – real nasty homemade stuff. The group calls itself The Network and apparently prides itself on the ability to share this stuff around and still avoid detection. Except they’re not as clever as they think and the boffins not only found out about them, they infiltrated them as well. Just online, though – no live contact. They’ve been pushing for a chance to meet the members who are actually making and distributing the pornography – raping and sexually abusing children.’

Chopra’s words tore at Sean like grappling hooks, ripping his own past and childhood from the places he’d tried to bury them for so long. He could see the children being abused and filmed – the face of each of the abusers turning into the face of his father – and he could see himself, a small boy again, as the monsters one-by-one … Chopra’s voice snatched him back. ‘You alright?’ he asked. ‘You look like shit!’

‘I’m fine,’ Sean lied. ‘Just knackered, that’s all. Go on.’

‘Kid stuff isn’t easy to deal with. If you’d rather not I can always look for someone else.’

‘No,’ Sean argued too quickly and loudly. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Got any kids yourself?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I’ve got three,’ Chopra told him. ‘Two girls and a boy. Sean, I’ve dealt with just about everything I could have dealt with and I’m not ashamed to tell you very little of it ever got to me – maybe I just don’t care enough. But this shit – with kids – it’s the worst, you know. If I ever got one of these fuckers on their own … well, let’s just say it’s probably best I never do. My point is there’s no shame in not wanting to get involved in something like this. If we’re going to get you next to these guys, and if you’re going to convince them they can trust you, then you’re going to have to say and do some things you’re going to be very uncomfortable with, and it’s going to leave you feeling pretty dirty for quite some time. So if it’s not for you, be honest and tell me – here and now.’

Sean wanted to leap from his chair and run from the tiny backroom, blitz through the main office, hurdle the counter and escape into the streets of Victoria below – the fear of facing his past leaking panic into his every sinew. ‘No,’ he forced himself to lie. ‘But why me?’ he asked, suspicious Chopra knew more about his childhood than he possibly could and had picked him for this job for that very reason.

‘Because you can think on your feet.’ Chopra answered.

‘Can’t all UC’s? Seems to me a UC who can’t think on his feet wouldn’t be much use to anyone.’

‘Fair point,’ Chopra almost smiled. ‘Let’s just say you seem to have a little more … criminal cunning than most. Last night’s performance confirmed that. You’re going to need it if you’re going to successfully infiltrate The Network’s hierarchy.’

‘Okay,’ Sean relented. ‘So what’s my way in?’

‘The Crime Unit managed to form an online relationship with one of The Network’s members – just a joy-stick-jockey, but it got them in.’ Chopra pulled a photograph from the file and passed it to Sean. ‘That’s one Justin Cramer. The plan was to win his trust and eventually meet him in the flesh, tease him along, promise him anything he wanted in the hope that eventually he’d lead us to the next level up.’

‘The people actually making the films?’ Sean asked.

‘If not them, at least a layer closer to them. Slow, but usually effective.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ Sean agreed.

‘Or at least it did,’ Chopra told him, ‘until Cramer went and died on us.’ He saw the concern in Sean’s eyes. ‘Nothing suspicious,’ he reassured him. ‘Heart attack. The point being, his untimely demise has moved things along apace.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Let’s just say the Crime Unit have borrowed his computer and had a little look-see inside. They’ve dug out all his contacts – even the ones he thought he’d hidden – and cross-referenced them with criminal and intelligence records. It was easy enough to see which of his online buddies were also members of The Network, but that wasn’t what they were looking for – this is what they were looking for.’ He pulled another surveillance photograph from the file and handed it to Sean. ‘John Conway,’ he told him. ‘Definitely had email contact with Cramer, but nothing that obviously linked him to The Network. There was something off about his email style – too formal and polite, nothing criminal or suggestive – as if they were maybe coded. Intelligence Records show that about four years ago Conway was stopped by uniform and found with a nine-year-old boy in his car. Conway said he’d found the boy wandering the streets and was on his way to drop him at the nearest police station. The boy turned out to be a runaway from the Midlands and was safely returned to his not too interested parents – no allegations made. Two years later Conway’s not so lucky and gets caught with his hand in the cookie-jar again and gets a two year conviction for indecently assaulting a minor.’

‘A boy?’ Sean asked.

‘Yes,’ Chopra confirmed. ‘Does it matter?’

‘No,’ Sean lied. ‘I suppose not.’

‘And that’s where Conway is now, banged-up in Wandsworth coming towards the end of his sentence, due for release in a little under three weeks.’

‘And you think he could be a central figure in The Network?’

‘We do. We don’t have much on him, but he feels right as someone who could be pulling the strings and finding the kids – probably takes part in the abuse and filming too. If we can get to him, we could get to the core of The Network.’

‘So, what’s your plan?’ Sean asked.

‘Try and get to him before he leaves prison. Once he’s back on the streets we lose control of the theatre. In prison we know where he is and when he’s there.’

‘And if I should bump into anyone I’ve put inside while I’m there?’

‘You won’t,’ Chopra assured him. ‘Conway’s on Rule Forty-Three, banged-up with the other sex-offenders away from the main prison population. It’s a fairly limited number of inmates – we’ll be able to ensure there’s no one there who knows you.’

‘What about surveillance? Pick him up when he leaves prison.’

‘Way too expensive, way too difficult and way too unreliable.’

‘Informants?’

‘We don’t have any.’

‘Fair enough. But even if I agree to do it, why’s he going to give me the time of day?’

‘Ah,’ Chopra told him, ‘because you’re not going to be you, you’re going to be Justin Cramer.’

‘The member of The Network?’

‘The very same.’

‘Who’s now dead?’

‘We couldn’t try it if he wasn’t.’

‘Then I’m assuming you’re assuming Cramer and Conway have never met?’ Sean asked.

‘From what we know we think it’s highly unlikely they would have met. Cramer was definitely not inside the core of the organization.’

‘But you can’t be absolutely sure?’ Chopra just shrugged. ‘And you’ve had this operation approved, despite the risk assessment?’

‘You’ll find the Director of Intelligence can be quite flexible around risk assessments when vulnerable children are involved. So are you in?’

Sean felt the demons that silently waited just below the surface of his conscious mind reaching up for him, and he pushed them back down. The thought of not seeing the beautiful young doctor he’d only recently met made his heart sink further – a picture of Kate’s face, her golden-coloured skin and long, black ringlets, tormenting him with what he was about to miss. ‘Yeah,’ he forced himself to say. ‘I’m in.’

The heavy key turned in the ancient Victorian lock and allowed the prison officer to open the iron-barred door that led into the prison wing where the prisoners on Rule Forty-Three were all kept together, isolated from the main prison population for their own safety. Convicted prisoners and those on remand awaiting court hearings and trials mixed together freely here – the convicted in prison uniform, the remanded still allowed to wear their own clothes. ‘This luxury wing of the hotel’s for you, Cramer,’ the prison officer told him, oblivious to Sean’s true identity. Only the Prison Governor and Head Prison Officer knew about the operation. Sean was posing as a prisoner on remand awaiting trial for sexual assault on a boy under the age of fourteen. The thought of staying in this place for weeks made him feel sick and froze him to the floor. ‘Come on, Cramer,’ the officer barked, ‘I haven’t got all day.’

‘Sorry,’ Sean replied meekly and stepped into the inner sanctum of the prison carrying his supply of bedding and towels. The door was slammed shut and locked behind him.

‘This way,’ the officer told him, striding along the metal-grid walkway that circled the entire wing, leading to the first-floor cells and two separate staircases, both zig-zagging down to the ground floor where more cells surrounded the communal and dining areas. ‘Hurry-up Cramer. I told you, I haven’t got all day.’

Sean increased his pace, following the officer to a cell that was little bigger than the ones he was used to locking prisoners in across various police stations around London.

‘Your new home,’ the officer told him with a grin, ‘and you get it all to yourself – lucky you. We’re not too busy in here at the moment so enjoy the privilege while it lasts. Now make up your bed and put your wash stuff away, and keep an eye on your body wash and deodorants – they’re valuable things in here.’ Sean said nothing, standing in the middle of the cell still holding his bedding and towels, a sense of claustrophobia creeping into his body and mind. ‘Right,’ the officer exclaimed loudly, ‘I’ll leave you to make yourself comfortable. Dinner’s at six, lock-up’s at eight, TV’s off by eleven or at least turned down so I can’t hear it.’ With that he spun on his heels and walked out, leaving Sean alone to study his cell. An uncomfortable-looking double-bunk was riveted to the lime-green wall on one side, and a fold-down desk on the other. A small white toilet and sink that looked like they belonged in a school not a prison filled the space in one corner. At least Wandsworth didn’t have the pleasure of morning slop-out anymore.

Sean threw the bundle he was holding onto the bottom bunk and kicked the side of the bed. He closed his eyes and cursed himself for accepting the deployment – for allowing his ego to rule his better, humbler senses – the word hubris ringing loud in his head. ‘Shit,’ he whispered to himself, wondering what the point of being a cop was if he was going to live the rest of his life as a criminal would – deceiving all around them, locked up in prison.

He moved to the sink and poured a little cold water into the basin, lowering his face into the coolness, holding his breath while he allowed his mind to calm, the sounds of the prison outside becoming magnified by the absence of other senses – taste, smell, sight. Only when his lungs felt like they were on fire did he pull his head up, scraping the water from his face with his fingers before snatching a small towel from the bunk and patting himself dry, wet strands of hair sticking to his brow. He carried the towel with him as he wandered from the cell out onto the walkway, scanning it for prison guards and prisoners alike, checking for faces he knew, despite Chopra’s assurances there wouldn’t be any. One or two other prisoners stood around looking over the barrier down onto the communal area below, but no one he recognized, so he moved forward and peered below, trying to become accustomed to the sights, sounds and smells of the cell block.

As he looked over the balcony he saw about fifteen prisoners below, most in prisoners’ uniforms, but some like him, in their own clothes – those there on remand. He scanned them all, trying to see them in his peripheral vision instead of searching hard for them like a cop would. Some were watching TV, others reading newspapers and one group of five men sat at the central table playing cards. They behaved slightly differently from the others – a little louder and more at ease with their surroundings. Sitting in the middle of the group, saying less than the others, but somehow dominating them, was the man Sean was here to befriend – John Conway. Over six-foot-tall, slim and athletic looking with short blonde hair cut like Steve McQueen, his angular face gave him a harsh, threatening appearance.

Sean forgot his training, forgot not to be seen searching the faces of the men around him. His head was flooded with the images Chopra had shown him of young boys and girls being systematically abused. The ugly nakedness of the men contrasted grotesquely with the beauty of the strange animal masks they wore – exquisitely handmade and painted, feathers streaming from the peacock mask, long thin horns rising from the gazelle, a real fur mane for the lion – all leaping and rejoicing as they did unspeakable things. But the thing that had disturbed Sean most had been the acceptance of the children. There was no crying, no pleading for the abuse to stop, just a cold, lifeless performance of the terrible tasks they’d been given, even when they were told to do things to each other. Their occasional smiles when the adults praised them made the scenes on the film all the more nightmarish – as if for the children this had become normal.

Sean’s belly was a tight knot as he fought the desire to fly down the stairs and drag Conway to the nearest cell, gripping him by the back of the hair and drowning him in the small toilet. Conway lifted his head to look up directly at Sean and smiled – a small almost flirtatious smile, but threatening at the same time. Sean gave a slight nod and retreated back into his cell. He sat on the bottom bunk and listened to the sound of his heart punching inside his chest, fury and doubt a heady, intoxicating cocktail. Did Conway know something? And even if he didn’t, would Sean be able to control his anger or would he pour his bloody revenge onto Conway – the revenge his father had cheated him out of by choosing death instead? He closed his eyes and calmed his breathing, allowing the anger and hatred to sink back into the black water, a sense of who he was and what he was there to do returning. ‘Just get the job done, ‘he whispered to himself. ‘Just get the job done and get the fuck out of this hell-hole’. He inhaled deeply and lay down on the mattress, pushing Conway and his past from his mind and allowing thoughts of Kate in.