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The Network: A DI Sean Corrigan short story
Luke Delaney


A chilling short story taking us back to DI Sean Corrigan’s days as a detective from Luke Delaney, ex-Met detective and author of COLD KILLING. Perfect for fans of Mark Billingham, Peter James and Stuart MacBride.INCLUDES AN EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM THE TOY TAKER.DI Sean Corrigan is not like other detectives. The terrible abuse he suffered as a child has left him with an uncanny ability to identify darkness in others. Early in his career as a Detective, Corrigan is approached for an undercover assignment. He must take on the identity of a prison inmate and befriend a suspected paedophile, then on release infiltrate an early internet child abuse ring. Can he tap into his dark side for long enough to uncover the identities of the abusers without serious harm to himself?









The Network

Luke Delaney








Table of Contents

Cover (#ue7c6853f-5a88-561b-ad5e-9cec60018548)

Title Page (#u31eb7079-8dd1-5db5-85d9-c1d69ac63ae2)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Read an extract from The Toy Taker

About the Author

Also By Luke Delaney

Copyright

About the Publisher




Chapter One (#u91a2417a-01a3-5829-bccd-97e87c383155)

August 2002


The black Range Rover cruised through the streets of Tottenham, North London, the tinted windows hiding the two men inside. It drew both admiring and threatening looks from the youths who seemed to infest the pavements outside, yellow lights from the open shops illuminating their hooded figures even though the time approached ten p.m. – the demands of imported cultures ensured the streets stayed alive well into the night. The traffic along the Seven Sisters Road was as busy as most streets would be at rush hour – a mixture of small-time drug dealers and lost causes who fancied themselves as gangsters, always on the lookout for a rival crew to wreak havoc on, but only so long as they outnumbered them. Knives would be drawn and young lives lost. The owner of a decent semi-automatic could rise quickly to king in a place like this, their coronation fanfare the ubiquitous wail of sirens.

Detective Sergeant Sean Corrigan flicked the indicator on to turn right onto Park Lane, next to the Spurs Football Ground. His passenger looked across at him. ‘That’s a no right turn,’ DC Zack Benton told him, his dark skin making his face almost invisible in the car’s dim interior.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Sean told him, swerving across the oncoming traffic and inducing a cacophony of screaming horns, enjoying the power of the engine and the feel of a car he could never afford himself. ‘We’re criminals, remember?’

‘You are – not me. I’m just here as your minder,’ Benton reminded him. Sean studied him from the corner of his eye, assessing the man he’d met a few hours earlier at the briefing at Stoke Newington Police Station. Sean had been paraded in front of the arrest team so they would know he was the undercover officer when they moved in on the targets, just in case anyone was looking to dish out some summary justice. Sean didn’t fancy a kicking from his own kind. It was at the briefing that Benton had been assigned as his minder – his first job to escort Sean close to the meeting point before crawling through the undergrowth to get as near as possible to the target venue and call for urgent assistance if Sean ever appeared to be in serious trouble. His second task would be to summon the arrest team once the target vehicle came onto the plot. The arrest team would have to hang much further back or risk compromising the entire operation and weeks of work – not least all of that done by Sean himself in infiltrating a criminal gang and arranging the purchase of the stolen Sony laptops the gang claimed to possess.

‘I’ll get you as close as I can in the motor, but you’re gonna have to hump the last few hundred yards,’ Sean told him. ‘The warehouse is out by the old reservoir – they can see me coming a fair distance off so I’m going to have to cut you loose well before then.’

‘Suits me fine,’ Benton told him with an air of relief. Sean noted he seemed a little jumpy, but he’d rather that than some gung-ho lunatic looking to make a name for himself. Benton would do his job well enough and nothing more and that suited Sean fine.

‘You got the phone?’ he checked, making sure Benton still had the mobile he was given at the briefing – on which Sean would reach him if he needed to warn the team something was wrong.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Benton replied, patting his waistband.

‘D’you want to go over it again?’ Sean asked.

‘No, I’m good,’ he replied unconvincingly.

‘Let’s go over it again,’ Sean encouraged him. ‘Can’t be too careful on a job like this.’

‘If you say so.’

‘It’s simple enough – you make your way to the forward O.P. and I make my way to the warehouse for the meet. The baddies will want to talk a load of bullshit before anything gets done, they always do, but eventually they’ll get down to business and if they’re happy they’ll call the lorry onto the plot. I’ll check it out and if it’s loaded up with the nicked laptops I’ll call you on the mobile, making it sound like you’re the guy who’s going to come and take one of them to where the cash is waiting so he can verify I’m good for the money – understand?’

‘Wait, wait, wait,’ Benton argued, ‘this isn’t how they said it was going to go down at the briefing. As soon as the lorry comes onto the plot I’m supposed to call in the arrest team. Nobody said nothing about you calling me first.’

‘Yeah, well there’s been a change of plan.’

‘The briefing was only a couple of hours ago – nobody’s told me about any change.’

‘That’s because nobody knows about it.’

‘I really think we should stick to the plan,’ Benton argued.

‘Listen, Zack – how much undercover work you done?’

‘None,’ he admitted. ‘I’m not a U.C.’

‘Would you like to be?’ Sean asked. ‘You look the part, or at least you could.’

‘Yeah, sure – sometime in the future maybe.’

‘Then you’d better understand that the people you’ll be dealing with aren’t cops. They don’t play by rules. They live day-to-day and rely on their cunning to survive – to get the best for themselves and fuck everyone else. They’ll agree on a price for something then change it. They’ll agree on a place to meet then pick a new one at the last minute. They’ll agree on how much back-up they can bring to a meet then turn up with three times as many. They’ll agree not to bring weapons then turn up with shooters. This fella I’m going to meet is no different – in fact he’s worst than most. Enrico Ismain or Tricky Ricky as he’s known on the street. He’s a good operator, you have to admire him for that. But he’s up to something. I can feel it.’

‘You think he knows you’re Old Bill?’

‘He doesn’t know anything, but he’ll suspect everything. That’s how he stays out of prison.’

‘You should have mentioned this at the briefing,’ Benton told him shaking his head.

‘Fuck that,’ Sean answered. ‘I mention I have doubts, the whole operation would have been cancelled and I would have wasted the best part of a month setting this up. We do it my way and everything’ll be fine.’

‘I’m not sure about this, man.’

‘Like I was saying, you just wait for my call before summoning the cavalry – no matter what happens – understand?’

‘Okay – fuck it. But if it goes tits-up, it’s on your head.’

‘Nothing new there, then,’ Sean told him as he pulled the Range Rover over to the side of the road. ‘This is your stop – I can’t get you any closer.’ Benton opened the door and jumped out without speaking. ‘And remember – don’t make the call until you’ve heard from me.’ Benton nodded and slammed the door shut before disappearing into the wasteland to the west of where the warehouse lay.

Sean eased the accelerator and rolled towards the meeting venue, his heart beginning to pump with excitement. He welcomed the feeling, like an actor before they walked onto the stage, the nervous tension and stress in his body helping to concentrate his mind and increase his speed of thought – if he was going to out-manoeuvre Tricky Ricky Ismain, he’d need to think on his feet.

He followed the road that looped around the huge reservoir hidden behind rows of modest houses, its existence unknown to everyone but the locals, and headed for the warehouse where he’d met Ismain several times over the last few weeks. The ambiguous sign lit up above the front of the building merely stated Ismain Import-Export. He pulled up close to the entrance; fast enough to make the two hooded figures guarding it jump back a little as he leapt from the car. He smiled at them, trying to look as confident as he possibly could. They were clearly expecting him and he walked past them and into the warehouse without a word being exchanged. Once inside, two more hoods stopped him. He recognized them from his previous meetings – they were higher up in Ismain’s organization than the foot-soldiers still hanging around outside.

‘You’re late,’ the black one told him.

‘Traffic’s shit,’ he answered. ‘You know how it is.’

‘Ricky’s waiting,’ the white one added. ‘He don’t like to be kept waiting.’

Sean had expected the bullshit. ‘Yeah, well he’s not going to give a fuck about being kept waiting when he sees the cash I brought him.’

The two goons looked at each other before the black one spoke again. ‘Put your hands up, brother. We need to search you.’

Sean did as he was told, lifting his arms and spreading his legs – all standard procedure for a meet where money was expected to change hands. But this search was more thorough than usual – too intimate to be just a search for weapons – clearly they were looking for a transmitter or recording device. It was the first sign Ismain might have doubts about Sean. Satisfied, the black one spoke again. ‘Alright – he’s clean. Follow me.’ He turned and walked deeper into the bowels of the warehouse, Sean following close behind, trying to remember everything he saw, taking in every possible escape route, until eventually they reached the closed door of Ismain’s office. The white hoodie knocked gently on the door before opening it and leading Sean inside where he was met with a beaming smile from Ismain, who stretched out his hand for Sean to shake.

‘Sorry about having you searched, brother,’ Ismain told him. ‘You know what it’s like when money’s changing hands – everybody gets a little nervous.’

‘Don’t you trust me?’ Sean asked, shaking Ismain’s hand with a false smile of his own. ‘Think I’ve come here to rob you?’

‘No, man,’ Ismain laughed, ‘nothing like that. You’re cool. You’re sound. I know that. Now, how about a drink?’

‘Naturally,’ Sean answered. ‘I could go a large bourbon, ice if you have it.’

‘Dalton,’ Ismain told the black hoodie, ‘get the man a drink.’

‘You not joining me?’

‘Maybe later,’ Ismain told him, ‘after the business is out of the way. I’ll take you to a little strip-club I own – get you sorted out, know what I mean?’ Ismain and his cronies laughed together – Sean kept the smile fixed in place. When the laughter stopped, Ismain eased himself back into his oversized leather desk chair, smoothing his Hugo Boss pinstripe suit as he did so, its elegant simplicity contrasting sharply with his shiny black shirt and heavy gold jewellery. He had zig-zag patterns cut into his hair, heavy rimmed glasses and huge diamond earrings in each lobe. As he sat he suddenly became serious, waiting for Sean to be handed his drink before speaking again. ‘So, you got the cash, Sean?’

‘Yeah, I got the cash,’ Sean told him. ‘Seventy-five grand – as we agreed.’

‘Yeah, you see there’s a little problem with that figure. Ismain told him, pursing his lips. ‘Seventy-five grand ain’t gonna be enough no more.’

‘Really,’ Sean said expressionless. ‘How so?’

‘You know how it is, Sean – people hear about a good thing on offer and they come to the table. Now normally I wouldn’t even listen to offers after I’ve made a deal, but when someone offers you fifty grand more, hey, brother, I got to take them seriously. You understand? But if you can match their offer, then I’ll give you first rights, in the interest of our friendship – fair enough?’

Sean had expected some late change in negotiations, there always was. ‘So let me get this right,’ he asked. ‘You want me to pay an extra fifty grand more than we agreed?’

‘There you go,’ Ismain mocked, ‘I knew you were smart. I knew you’d understand.’

‘I understand you’re fucking with me,’ Sean told him.

‘I ain’t fucking with you, Sean.’

‘Yeah you are. You’re definitely fucking with me a little bit.’

‘No, man. You’re getting this all wrong. It’s just business.’

‘Well here’s my business,’ Sean told him. ‘I got seventy-five-grand here and now. You give me the five-hundred laptops and I give you the seventy-five grand – just like we agreed.’

‘Seventy-five ain’t enough anymore,’ Ismain barked. ‘They’re worth three-hundred grand, brother.’

‘Maybe,’ Sean laughed, ‘if they weren’t stolen and you were PC World, but they are and you ain’t, so seventy-five or I walk with the cash.’ Ismain sank deeper into his chair.

‘You got the cash here?’ Ismain asked, an unmistakable glint in his eye.

‘Close by,’ Sean told him. ‘Not in the motor, before you get any funny ideas. A phone call away, once I’ve seen the goods. When I’m happy with the merchandise I’ll call one of my people in, then you send one of yours with him to where the cash is waiting. Once you know I’m good for the money, my man will come back alone and drive the goods away. When I’m happy he’s not being followed I’ll make another call and tell my people to hand the cash to your man. I’ll wait with you until he brings the cash back here where you can check it – that way everyone’s safe, no one gets ripped off – okay?’

‘I knew you was a professional, Sean. First time I met you I says, that guy’s a professional. Okay, what the fuck, let’s call it seventy-five and get this fucking thing done. I didn’t like those other fuckers anyway.’

‘Good,’ Sean told him, the excitement rising in his chest again. ‘Then let’s call the goods onto the plot so I can check them.’

‘Sure,’ Ismain agreed. ‘But there’s just one thing, one little problem that’s come up.’ Sean felt his excitement quickly turning to anxiety. ‘You remember Jimmy Logan?’

‘Yeah. I remember him.’

‘Of course you do, because he introduced us. He vouched for you – said I could trust you – that you were a man I should do business with – right?’

‘What’s your point?’

‘My point,’ Ismain shouted, ‘is that Jimmy’s a fucking grass – so what do you think about that, officer?’

Sean’s belly tightened as he swallowed rising bile. ‘What do I think? What I think is you’re still fucking with me.’

‘No fucking bullshit this time. Jimmy’s a grass and that means everyone he touched is tainted, man.’

‘Fuck Jimmy,’ Sean bluffed. ‘My business is with you – here and now. Jimmy’s nothing but a low-life fixer. So what he introduced us – he’s probably been a grass for years. It doesn’t mean everyone he did business with is dirty, and that means you as well as me, Enrico.’

Ismain sat back in his chair, seemingly calm again. ‘You know what,’ he said, ‘you make some good points. But I got to know if you’re Old Bill, so I had a little think about things – you know what I mean?’

‘I’m listening,’ Sean told him.

‘And I was thinking that if you is Old Bill then right now this warehouse will be being watched, right, and that as soon as the truck pulls up outside all your policemen friends will come swooping down on it, arresting everyone they see, right?’

‘If I was Old Bill – which we both know I’m not – then yeah, I guess you’d be about right.’

Ismain began to laugh, delighted with his own cunning. ‘Only thing is, the truck is going to be empty – so when your police colleagues come running, all they’re going to find is an empty fucking truck and I’ll know for sure that Jimmy Logan is a fucking grass and you’re a fucking cop.’

‘And when nothing happens,’ Sean asked, ‘when none of these imaginary cops come crashing down on us, what then?’

‘You just worry about that empty truck,’ Ismain warned him, lifting a mobile phone from his desk and pressing a sequence of numbers before speaking into the mouthpiece. ‘Send the first truck in,’ he ordered before hanging up. So long as Benton followed Sean’s instructions and held the troops off until he got the call from Sean, they could still spoil Ismain’s day. The two hoodies from outside stepped into the room, meaning Sean was now outnumbered five to one – not good odds if the proverbial hit the fan. Ismain stood. ‘Let’s go. You too, Mr Policeman.’

Sean followed Ismain from the office and along the corridors – a henchman on either side and two more close behind. He tried not to dwell on what they might be armed with – guns would be bad, really bad. He concentrated on his breathing, keeping it short and shallow, enabling him to control his voice when he needed to speak, disguising any nervous tremors. His life was in Benton’s hands – if he called in the cavalry at the sign of the first truck, Sean would be in trouble. Any hint of the police and he could be bundled into the back of a car and driven away to an uncertain future. But if Benton held off until Sean called him, Ismain and his crew would relax, imagining the easy seventy-five grand they were about to pick up. By the time they worked out they’d been played, it would be too late. Benton had to hold his nerve – Sean’s neck depended on it.

They exited the warehouse the same way Sean had entered and stood in the car park waiting. Sean felt the presence of the two men behind him and tried not to imagine the guns, knives or metal bars they could be holding, just waiting for Ismain to give them the sign. He winced at the imaginary pain of a bullet or blade punching through his skin, shattering bone or slicing through vital organs; or the dull, sickening thud of a blunt object caving in the back of his skull. He felt his legs almost give way until he was distracted by the headlights of a single vehicle bouncing down the rough road towards the warehouse – the empty truck. Whatever you do, Benton, don’t make the call – not yet.

‘Now we find out, right?’ Ismain’s voice broke the silence.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ Sean told him, managing to sound sure of himself despite the tightening of his chest. Ismain looked away from him and waited as the truck pulled up in the car park, the driver and passenger remaining in the cab with the engine still running, the back of the truck pointing towards the warehouse. No one else would be able to see whether it was full or empty. Ismain stepped forward and rolled up the truck’s back cover, the noise disturbingly loud in the semi-darkness.

‘Take a look inside,’ Ismain gestured to Sean, a wide smile spreading across his face. Sean stepped forward and peered in before moving away. ‘No, no,’ Ismain told him, ‘all the way inside.’ Every fibre of Sean’s body told him not to climb inside the truck. He weighed up his chances of escape if he made a run for it, which he decided were pretty good – he was in decent shape and doubted whether his would-be captors were, but if they had guns … He climbed into the back of the truck and looked around – empty, just as Ismain had promised.

‘Now what?’ he bluffed.

Ismain looked at his men, all of them smiling and laughing at the joke they thought they were playing on the police. ‘Now,’ Ismain told him, ‘now you get the fuck out of the truck.’ Sean shrugged his shoulders pretending he didn’t know what was happening and jumped down from the back. ‘And now,’ Ismain continued, ‘we wait.’ He held out his hand. ‘Shake my hand,’ he ordered.

‘Why?’ Sean asked.

‘Because I fucking told you to,’ Ismain barked, still smiling. ‘Because I want all your police friends to see you’re happy with the goods.’

‘Like I said – you’re wasting your time – and mine,’ Sean told him, reaching his hand forward for the shake.

‘We’ll see,’ Ismain insisted, searching the night around them for signs of life, approaching lights, the sounds of sirens or revving engines, ready to drag Sean to one of the waiting cars and spirit him away. Sean stood close to him, praying Benton remembered his instructions and followed them to the last. The seconds crawled by, each one feeling like a lifetime, until finally he was sure enough time had passed and Benton had held his nerve.

‘Well?’ Sean asked. ‘We gonna stand here all night, or we gonna do some business?’ Ismain looked him up and down before returning his gaze to the surrounding land. ‘I got seventy-five grand sitting in the back of a motor with one of my boys – d’you want it or not? Laptops I can get anywhere – you ain’t the only supplier.’

‘Okay,’ Ismain relented. ‘I was wrong – you’re good. But I had to be sure. No offense meant.’

‘None taken,’ Sean played along.

Ismain nodded and pressed another sequence of numbers into his mobile. ‘Bring the truck round. Everything’s cool. Everything’s sound.’

As they waited for the truck, Ismain spent his time apologizing and appeasing, explaining why he’d been within his criminal rights to be suspicious of Sean and anyone who’d done business with Jimmy Logan in the past. Sean waved his apologies away as if they were unnecessary, aware that there is no honour amongst thieves, just greed and paranoia: and greed overcomes even the deepest of suspicions. Finally another truck pulled into the car-park, only this time Sean stepped forward and rolled the rear cover up, letting out a long satisfied whistle when he saw the stacks of boxes still wrapped in cellophane and bearing the name Sony. He felt Ismain at his side – all friends now. ‘Nice,’ Sean told him and pulled himself into the back of the truck, tearing the cellophane open and pulling a box free, opening the lid and peeling back the thin foam sheet that covered the laptop inside. ‘Beautiful,’ he added as he took the computer from the box and flipped it open, turning the power on, the screen blinking into life.

‘I can’t guarantee they’re charged,’ Ismain warned.

‘They’re fine,’ Sean told him, ‘more than fine. You get any more like this I wanna know – understand?’

‘You’ll be the first person I call,’ Ismain promised.

‘Okay,’ Sean continued. ‘I’ll call my man forward and he’ll take your man to the cash – alright?’

‘Make the call, man,’ Ismain told him. ‘Make the call.’

Sean pulled his mobile from his pocket and found the number for Benton in the directory. He made the call, Benton’s anxious voice answering almost too quickly. ‘Hello.’

‘It’s me,’ Sean told him. ‘The goods are sound. Send Danny to the warehouse. He can take one of Enrico’s men to see the cash. I’ll wait here.’ He hung up and began the wait, his heart pounding with excitement now rather than fear. Ismain had tried to double-cross him, but Sean had seen it coming and turned the tables. Soon Ismain and his cronies would be scattering around him like frightened rats as the arrest teams moved in on all sides.

‘What’s that?’ Ismain suddenly asked.

‘What’s what?’ Sean asked, jumping down from the back of the truck.

‘I heard something.’

‘You’re hearing things,’ Sean said casually.

‘No, man. I fucking heard something.’

‘You’re talking shit,’ Sean stalled.

‘Fuck. Old Bill,’ Ismain declared, his instincts serving him well, as if he could smell the approaching police no one else had seen or heard. ‘Get the truck out of here,’ he barked at his subordinates.

‘Wait a fucking minute,’ Sean tried to stop him. ‘We got a deal. These goods are mine.’

‘Not yet they ain’t,’ Ismain told him, the sound of approaching cars increasingly obvious to them all despite the lack of sirens or flashing lights.

‘Fuck this,’ Sean kept bluffing. ‘I’m outta here. This is your shit, Enrico – you sort it out.’ He pushed past Ismain and his bodyguards and headed for the Range Rover while Ismain banged on the side of the truck and shouted his orders.

‘Get this fucking thing out of here,’ but it was too late, the unmarked police cars swarmed into the car park and around the warehouse, cutting off the only road of escape. A mixture of plain-clothed and uniform cops spilled from the vehicles, chasing down the hooded figures running in all directions. Ismain stood still, resigned to his fate and already planning his defence, watching as one of the plain-clothed cops kicked Sean’s legs away and booted him in the stomach as he lay on the floor. Sean pretended to groan with pain and gave the big cop standing over him a wink of appreciation.

‘You fucking set me up, Ismain,’ Sean shouted. ‘You’re finished, you dirty bastard, you’re fucking finished.’

‘No,’ Ismain protested above the din of the screaming, shouting police. ‘It wasn’t me, man. It must have been Jimmy – he set us both up. I’m gonna kill him, man.’

‘Fuck your bullshit,’ Sean spat back as the burly cop led him to an awaiting police car and tossed him in the back before jumping in next to him. The driver sped off, leaving the scene of settling anarchy behind them; Ismain’s protesting voice trailing away till there was nothing.

‘Alright, Sean?’ the burly cop asked.

‘Yeah, cheers Nathan.’

‘Didn’t hurt you, did I?’

‘No, I’m all good.’

‘Interesting last-minute change of plans.’

‘I knew Ismain would try something.’

‘How come?’

‘Because it’s what I would have done,’ Sean told him. ‘It’s exactly what I would have done.’




Chapter Two (#u91a2417a-01a3-5829-bccd-97e87c383155)


Next morning Sean sat in the back office of the small, crowded room that was the official epicenter of all undercover operations undertaken in London, the South-East and beyond. The offices of Specialist Operations Ten, more commonly referred to as SO10, were tucked away off a long corridor in New Scotland Yard – suitably covert for an organization that existed to be exactly that. Visitors were met with a small sign on the door stating ‘Admission Strictly for SO10 Personnel Only’. Beyond the door was a chest-high wooden counter where all visitors had to wait until they were checked by whichever member of the team happened to see them standing there. Sean hadn’t been kept waiting long before he was whisked through the main office – small as it was – and into the back room, where he now sat watching DS Arif Chopra reading through the report of the previous night’s fun and games. Finally Chopra looked up, dark, sunken eyes peering out from his square face, the grey stubble that spread down from his cheekbones matching his thick, short, salt and pepper hair – all connected to his short, stocky body by a squat, muscle-bound neck. His overall look of menace and distaste had been honed through fifteen years of permanent undercover work.

‘So,’ Chopra said, ‘you changed the plan at the last minute, without telling anyone.’

‘I had to,’ Sean argued. ‘I had no choice and I did tell someone – I told DC Benton.’ Chopra stared at him darkly, his face impossible to read – like the face of a snake.

‘Fair enough,’ Chopra eventually agreed. ‘Looks to me like you did the right thing. The goods turned up and the baddies got nicked and you’re alive and well, so that’s a result.’ Sean exhaled the breath he’d been unconsciously holding. ‘You can go back to Southwark now and get on with investigating all them frauds that must be waiting for you – if that’s what you want.’

‘Meaning?’ Sean asked.

‘Meaning,’ Chopra began, ‘there’s a job come up – something a little unusual, but important – not a deployment you can do part-time. You’ll have to stay away from the CID Office at Southwark for a few weeks at least, probably longer.’

‘And you can swing that with my DCI, can you? She won’t be happy losing one of her few DSs for weeks.’

‘She won’t have any choice,’ Chopra told him, an expression as close to a smile as he ever had slightly bending his lips, ‘but don’t worry, we won’t piss her off too much. I’ll get the Commander here to give her a call and promise her that her assistance won’t be forgotten. That’ll keep her happy – always does with the ambitious types.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Sean answered, ‘although I haven’t said I’ll take the job yet.’ Chopra tossed the file he was reading to one side and lifted another that had been propped up against the side of his chair, opening it up at the first page.

‘Heard of the internet?’ Chopra asked.

‘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.’




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