Scion Read online

  “Hello, Parkside Police Station.”

  “Hi, I’m phoning about the young man on TV, how is he please?”

  “Can I ask who’s calling?”

  “Just a family friend,” replied Ashley, watching another re-run of the day’s biggest news.

  “I’m sorry but can you confirm his name to prove you’re a friend,” asked the officer 3,000 miles away.

  Darius’ body stopped twitching, the Taser’s charge had run out.

  “I’m sorry I can’t talk now, I’ll be there in a day or two. Can you just tell him I know who he is.” Ashley dropped the receiver and ran out of the office, leaving Rosie the prostitute behind forever.

  Chapter 4

  The moment the caller had acknowledged knowing the suspect, the officer on the call had raised his hand and waved it around in the air frantically, only stopping when he received a tap on the shoulder from his supervisor confirming that the call was being recorded and a trace initiated.

  “She’s gone.”

  He removed his headset and turned to his supervisor disappointed not to have kept the caller on the line longer.

  “Sorry.”

  The supervisor turned towards the desk at the back of the communications room. All calls to Parkside were being re-routed to the Cambridgeshire Police headquarters in Huntingdon where a specialist communications team was helping to track any potential leads as to the identity of their suspect. Being a Sunday, there was little chance of the DNA check being completed.

  The officer operating the array of equipment at the desk to the rear of the room was motionless. His headphones remained in place as he listened intently to the line the call had come in on. Catching the supervisor’s eye he pointed to the headphones. The line was not dead. As he listened, his fingers continued to tap at the keyboard in front of him, fine tuning the equipment in order to pick up even the faintest of voices at the other end.

  Before the supervisor could place a headset on, the specialist jumped from his seat and threw his headphones to the ground holding his ears.

  “Jesus!”

  “What happened?” shouted the supervisor running to the specialist’s side.

  “I had the pick up set to max and I think she just kicked him in the balls. After she stopped talking, I heard a noise like the phone being dropped, something being scraped along a surface and then footsteps. I heard the woman say something quietly, it may have been “prick” and then an almighty thud and a rough sounding guy screamed “YOU FUCKING BITCH.” I’ll just rewind, hold on.”

  As the supervisor and the original officer donned their headsets, the specialist rewound the feed to the point where the woman had dropped the phone and checking they were ready, played the tape at a less deafening volume. The three listened as the woman took something from the desk and apparently kicked a man as she fled from the room before slamming the door behind her. They then listened as the man screamed in fury at the fleeing woman he called “Rosie” vowing to kill her in a variety of unpleasant ways.

  “He doesn’t seem to be moving,” said the supervisor.

  “Neither would you if you got kicked as hard as he was. I’m surprised he can even talk.”

  A shuffling noise silenced the group as they listened carefully to events unfold thousands of miles away. The man was obviously pulling himself towards the phone. The sound of a click followed by a short conversation suggested an intercom system was being used.

  “Did you get the bitch?”

  “Who?” asked another male voice.

  “Rosie, she just kicked me in the nuts and ran out of here.”

  “Sorry, boss, she just left. She said you asked her to go see the doctor down at the clinic.”

  “Fuck, well get after her and don’t come back ‘til you get her or she’s dead. You hear me?”

  “Yes boss.”

  “Fucking soundproofing!” was the last the three heard as the man replaced the receiver of the phone.

  “I’m not sure Rosie’s going to be much use to the investigation, sounds like her days are numbered,” offered the specialist.

  “Doesn’t sound good. The quicker we get the location of the call, the sooner we can help her. Any ideas?”

  “Washington D.C., here’s the address.”

  He handed a printout to the supervisor along with a copy of the recording.

  The news of the breakthrough was immediately relayed to DCI Harris and DS Kelly along with the imminent threat to their potential witness.

  DCI Harris looked at the address that had been passed to him. ‘The Palace, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C.’

  “That street sounds very familiar,” mused Harris.

  “Sherlock wouldn’t have had a look in with you around,” replied Kelly sarcastically. “It’s only the most famous address in the world… Pennsylvania Avenue…” Kelly paused giving Harris a final chance to redeem himself but with only a blank expression, she gave up. “It’s the same street The Whitehouse is on!”

  “Oh,” replied an embarrassed Harris, a feeling that was becoming all too familiar. Before he could impart any further evidence of his encyclopaedic knowledge, the door opened and the Chief Constable entered the office. Harris’s heart almost stopped beating.

  “Good morning Sir,” said Kelly.

  “Is it?” he responded. “Well?” he asked looking into Harris’s eyes.

  Harris explained himself and ran through his version of events. He stopped a number of times to elicit some response but each time he stopped, the Chief just nodded for him to continue.

  “So it’s all just a big misunderstanding?” asked the Chief Constable angrily.

  “Actually yes. I genuinely believed he was making a break for it,” said Harris.

  “In front of fifty officers and the worldwide press?!” shouted the Chief.

  “I know Sir but he head-butted me in the stomach and you know how it is, it was just automatic.”

  The Chief looked at the ageing detective. He did know ‘how it was’. When he had joined the force at roughly the same time as Harris, police brutality towards criminals was not only tolerated but actively encouraged. Those days, however, were long gone and even looking at a criminal the wrong way could have you under investigation.

  “We shouldn’t forget you caught the bad guy,” he pondered.

  “Exactly. That guy is a scumbag rapist, it seems the press are forgetting that,” added Harris a little more forcefully.

  “So who is he?”

  “Absolutely no idea. He came to, gave us his first name, Scott, and claims not to have a surname.”

  “What about the victim, how’s she doing?”

  “I’m not sure, she’s disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? You have got to be fucking joking. She kicks off rumours of a Virginia Tech massacre and pulls a fucking Houdini?!” The Chief looked at Harris questioningly. “You sure you’ve got the right guy?”

  “Absolutely. Everything but the injuries he inflicted on the previous victims match.”

  The Chief wasn’t convinced. He had investigated enough cases to know something didn’t feel right.

  “It’s him Sir, rest assured it’s him and the DNA will prove it outright.”

  “How long?”

  “The samples have just been sent and I’ve asked for a quick job, couple of days maybe.”

  “I’ll call the boss at FSS and see if we can make it quicker than that.”

  The FSS was the Forensic Science Service, the custodians of the UK’s National DNA Database.

  “I’d appreciate that Sir,” replied Harris.

  “I’m not doing it for you, you pillock. The only thing that’s going to take the heat off this case is to confirm the bastard is our serial rapist.”

  Kelly interrupted their conversation.

  “I’ve just got off the phone from the Assistant Director in Charge of the FBI’s D.C. office. The plot thickens.”

  “It seems The Palace is a very popular destination for some of
Washington’s more powerful individuals. As such, they have some extremely influential friends and there is no way the D.C. police will be allowed anywhere near to help us find this Rosie woman.”

  “So what is The Palace?” asked Harris. He didn’t see Kelly’s eyes raise to the heavens.

  “I would guess a brothel,” replied the Chief. “So, to summarise, we have a suspected rapist. Who, while being arrested, we abused on live TV. A serial rapist who no-one can identify. We have a first name, Scott, and have no idea whether it’s real or not. The victim who didn’t even give an accurate description of the suspect seems to have disappeared. And we get a call from a prostitute in Washington who appears to be the only person on the planet who knows who he is and who is now being chased across the city by a lawless pimp desperate to kill her. Does that sound about right?”

  “Unfortunately yes,” replied Kelly.

  “We’ll clear it all up when we get to talk to the bastard tomorrow Sir,” encouraged Harris.

  “I hope so for your sake, Harris, I hope so,” said the Chief, alarm bells ringing in his head. None of it made any sense, none of it.

  Chapter 5

  The Chief Executive of the FSS did not normally check his phone messages on Sundays but after the debacle in Cambridge he had a funny feeling he may get a call from the Chief Constable. As predicted, the call came in just after lunch, requesting a fast-track procedure for checking the DNA of the suspect against the DNA left on the victims and against the database of known offenders. With a branch in Huntingdon, the CEO felt the least he could do was contact the Director responsible for the branch and ask if they could get someone in to start the testing. Unfortunately, the Director of the Huntingdon branch was a keen golfer and had teed off just after one. It was seven p.m. before he picked up the message and called in some favours.

  The favour fell down the hierarchy to one of the most junior staffers, John Yates, who had only been with the FSS for eight months and when his supervisor called with a big favour, unlike the previous recipients, he had nobody to delegate it to. Not that he wanted to, the key words ‘Chief Executive’ and ‘special favour’ were all the ambitious young scientist required. Twenty minutes later, he had opened up the Huntingdon Office and collected the DNA sample from the Post Box and was already in the process of running the tests.

  ***

  Daniel Koning looked out across the skyline and felt as though he should pinch himself. His dream job. Chief Operations Officer. One of the corner offices in one of Manhattan’s tallest buildings. Whoever said hard work didn’t pay? Daniel had put work before everything. Marriage had come late, only three years earlier, at 44 and that was only because his lack of relationships were calling his sexuality into question. Within a year he was the proud father of twins, one boy, one girl and only then did he find something that could compete with his love for the company. His children completed what he believed to be the perfect life. A beautiful wife, two lovely children, a lovely house in the suburbs and as of the next day, Monday, his new job. Life didn’t get any better.

  The previous incumbent, his old boss’ last day had been Friday. Daniel, keen to get off to a good start, had decided to come in on the Sunday to move into his new office and prepare a presentation for his new team. He was keen for the transition to be a smooth one. Their old boss had surprised everyone only a month earlier by announcing his retirement. A number of names were voiced as potential replacements and after a few sleepless nights, Daniel got the good news. Some of his peers had been candidates and Daniel was keen not only to impress them but to make them feel they were still valuable members of the team.

  He spun his seat around and looked back at his new office. Two walls of floor-to-ceiling glass on the 92nd floor and over one thousand square feet of the most expensive real estate in the world. It had taken him less than fifteen minutes to pack up his old office, one floor down and about five seconds to realise just how much bigger his new office was. He was going to have to sit down with his assistant and organise some books, photos and ornaments to try and make the office a little less sparse. He hadn’t realised just how much personal stuff his old boss must have had in there.

  As he pulled his box across the desk and extracted the family photo that would take pride of place on his desk, the phone rang. His hand immediately moved towards it but stopped. He could tell from the flashing red light next to ‘Ext 1’ that it wasn’t security letting him know they had moved his car into the car park. It wasn’t his wife, she didn’t know the number and would have called his cell phone. The rest of the building was empty so it wasn’t even a transferred call. The dilemma was a tough one. The old COO had left on the Friday but his contract didn’t kick in until the Monday. Was it his line to answer? He knew that after six rings the phone would kick to either Voicemail or Call Divert and it was already at ring number five.

  “Hello?” he answered, bellowing authority. This was it, he was the new COO.

  “We’ve got a problem, I’ve just got a DNA match flashed through to me.”

  “Sorry?” asked Daniel, a corporate banker. He had no idea what the person was talking about.

  “It’s Clark here, we’ve scored a match on the DNA, 100% positive it’s him, he does exist.”

  “Who is this?”

  Daniel’s voice had lost the authoritative tone he had inherited from his old boss.

  Clark was immediately on the back foot.

  “Who the fuck is this?” he panicked, knowing he had said too much.

  “Daniel Koning, the new COO,” imparted Daniel angrily. “And who may I ask are you? Wait a minute I know you, Clark, Joseph Clark., I’m your new boss!”

  “Mr Koning, please forget we had this conversation,” suggested Clark slightly more forcefully than Daniel liked.

  Daniel was not going to let it go that easily. It was important to get off on the right foot.

  “I’ve always wondered what you did for us here, you’ve been a rather closely guarded secret, Clark.”

  Daniel had asked several times who the mysterious Joseph Clark was. Each year he had been asked to sign off Clark’s budget, a not insignificant sum of money, for which, the company, it appeared, received no return. His old boss had just brushed it aside as no concern of Daniel’s, intriguing him further. He hadn’t even thought that his new role would allow him to uncover the mystery that was J. Clark, $2,000,000 on the budget spreadsheet.

  “So what do you do?”

  “I’m sorry Mr Koning but that’s not for me to tell you.”

  “But I’m your boss,” said Daniel a little less masterfully than he would have wished.

  “On paper only. Now please, for your own sake we didn’t have this conversation.” Clark hung up before Daniel could respond.

  Daniel stared at the lifeless receiver. He then pulled a pad of paper from his box and tried desperately to remember exactly what Clark had said.

  ***

  The phone was answered on the second ring. The recipient having recognised the number, was worried. It was Sunday and there was no reason for a call, particularly from him.

  “It’s me,” said Clark.

  Daniel Koning’s old boss tightened his grip on the mobile.

  “What?” he asked gruffly.

  “We found him, we’ve got a 100% DNA match, it came through about 15 minutes ago.”

  William Walker III almost dropped the phone as the words hit him. Speechless by the revelation it took some time to respond.

  “Who knows?”

  Clark did not want to admit to his earlier mistake.

  “Just me and you.”

  “Containment?” asked Walker.

  “Difficult, he’s in England in a prison cell.”

  “What?”

  “Did you watch the news today?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well chances are you’ve seen him, it was his head that smashed into the ground in Cambridge.”

  “Jesus!” Walker’s home phone rang and his wife
called out to say it was for him and it was urgent.

  “Hold on Clark,” he said before picking up the phone on his desk.

  “Hello?”

  Walker’s face reddened as Daniel relayed the conversation he had just had with Clark.

  “Daniel, can you just hold a second please.”

  He muted the phone as he placed the cell phone to his ear.

  “Clark, I thought you said it was just you and I that knew?” he asked menacingly.

  Clark had known William Walker III for many years and realised he should have been more forceful with Daniel Koning about forgetting the conversation. Not for himself but for Daniel’s own sake. There were very few men in the world as ruthless as William Walker III.

  “He doesn’t have any idea what I was talking about,” pleaded Clark.

  “Quote “we’ve scored a match on the DNA, 100% positive it’s him, he does exist”,” answered Walker coolly.

  “Point made, I’ll deal with it immediately.”

  “Good, I thought my retirement may have been premature.”

  The chilling message was not missed on Clark.

  “I need to make some calls, you know what to do.” Walker hung up and demuted Daniel.

  “Sorry about that my wife wanted to know what I wanted for dinner. Will you be there much longer?”

  “Couple of hours, maybe.”

  “OK, I’ll call Clark and call you back.”

  Walker sat back in his seat and contemplated what the news meant. For twenty four years they had had the prospect of the boy’s existence hanging over them. Some, after a few years, had suggested they should forget about it, he didn’t exist. Walker had been a lone voice calling for vigilance but even he had begun to relax and drop his guard by retiring on his seventieth birthday, just a month before the deadline was up. He knew what had to be done and picked up the phone. He needed some very specialist help.