Discarded M. Hunter (the snowy day read aloud TXT) 📖

years earlier, so we didn’t even manage to reunite her with her family. Instead we broke her parents’ hearts by informing them of what she’d been subjected to after her abduction. Not exactly the worthy achievement we’d aimed for.

All that seems so long ago now though, and I think I’d sooner be back in that time than where we are now. Everything we’ve learned since we first stumbled upon Turgood’s hard drive suggests there is a wider paedophile ring that has been taking these children and subjecting them to various horrors. Aurélie Lebrun is another who still carries the scars of her time with such a monster, and she too has spoken of the parties that Freddie told us about. ‘Party’ feels like such an inappropriate word to describe an evening where dirty old men degrade and violate children; maybe ‘cattle market’ would be more appropriate, but then that would do a disservice to the agriculture industry. There are no words to properly describe what these people have done other than vile and evil, and even those don’t feel adequate.

Jack takes a deep breath as he gets the words straight in his head, before knocking on the large ply door.

‘Come in,’ the voice booms from within the office, and Jack holds the door open for me to enter first and take one of the seats across from Detective Chief Superintendent Jagtar Rawani. His gaze remains fixed on the laptop screen before him, and it’s only when Jack has closed the door and is seated beside me that he looks up to the two of us.

‘Miss Hunter, Jack didn’t tell me you were tagging along too. You look well.’

Although DCS Rawani can often cut an unassuming figure, I know he doesn’t suffer fools lightly and that this comment is a formality rather than a genuine concern for my wellbeing. I could tell him of the challenging week I’ve had, but I already know that he has witnessed and experienced far worse situations in his twenty-plus years in uniform. The room is decidedly warm for the time of year, even though the only window is wide open.

‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘How are you?’

He narrows his eyes as his mind works a hundred calculations to determine the potential consequences of revealing anything meaningful about himself. ‘Well.’

‘And how is Mrs Rawani?’ I don’t know why I’ve asked that as I’ve never met the woman, and he’s never spoken of her to me, but the picture of the two of them on their wedding day has pride of place on the corner of his desk.

‘We are both well, thank you.’ He turns to Jack, the limited pleasantries now complete as far as he is concerned. ‘What is so urgent that I had to postpone lunch with the mayor?’

Jack shuffles uncomfortably in his chair, as if the cushion is packed with pins. ‘Well, sir, I don’t know quite where to begin.’

I cringe inwardly. It’s not a good start. Rawani despises indirectness, and I can see we are already losing his attention.

‘There’s something I need to escalate,’ Jack continues, still wriggling, ‘and I didn’t know who to speak to, or how to…’

Rawani’s eyes have returned to the laptop screen and we are probably only seconds away from being ejected from the room.

‘We’ve uncovered a sinister ring of paedophiles and we believe former Met Police Commissioner Anthony Tomlinson is involved,’ I come out with hurriedly, refusing to meet Jack’s disapproving glare.

Rawani slowly closes the laptop and looks straight at me. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to repeat that, Miss Hunter.’

‘We – Jack and I – believe the ring of individuals who abduct children and force them into the sex industry does exist. It all ties back to the videos recovered from Arthur Turgood’s hard drive following his arrest three years ago. You’ll recall Jack discovered a video featuring my missing sister, and that we later also identified Jemima Hooper on a second video.’

Rawani makes no move to acknowledge what we have said, remaining emotionless behind the desk, but listening to every word. His navy turban is wound tightly, but despite the warmth of the room there isn’t any sign of perspiration on his face.

‘In the last week I have been sent photographs of two missing children – Faye McKenna and Cormack Fitzpatrick – who have been missing since 1998 and 1996 respectively. Faye’s remains were recovered from the site that was the Pendark Film Studios and which is now under development, and we believe Cormack is buried in another man’s grave in Hayling Island, Hampshire. Today I received a photograph of the two main suspects in those murders, laughing with the former Metropolitan Police Commissioner. Jack?’

Rawani’s gaze moves from me to Jack, but still he doesn’t speak.

Jack lifts the evidence bag onto the desk but keeps it sealed. ‘She’s right, sir. I have the photograph of Sir Anthony and the two suspects in here. For context, there is nothing within the photograph to imply that Sir Anthony has any awareness of who the two men are, or what they were involved in. Furthermore, Sir Anthony’s name has not come up in our investigation at any point before today.’

Rawani is giving nothing away as to how he feels about this claim, and I sense he would be an astute poker player. ‘I know you better than to assume you’ve jumped to such a conclusion based purely on his presence in this photograph.’ He is looking straight at me when he says this.

‘It’s not so much him being in the photograph,’ I begin, uncertain of quite how to describe the feeling in my gut. ‘It’s more about who sent the picture.’

He remains silent.

‘The photograph of Faye McKenna arrived on Friday, right after remains were discovered in a suitcase in Newbury. The picture of Cormack arrived yesterday and included the imprint of a postcode, which led us to Hayling Island, and a particular grave. So, two photographs, and two dead bodies—’

‘Potentially two dead bodies,’ Jack interjects. ‘We don’t