Luke Delaney - The Network

‘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.’

Two Days Later

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.