DC Waters parked up outside Taylor’s house. He knew better than to knock on the front door. Taylor emerged with a Yorkshire pudding held between his teeth. Struggling against the wind to pull his coat on, he hurried down the path.
Waters leaned across and opened the car door. ‘Sorry, gov.’
Taylor got in, took a bite, then cupped the remaining half, careful not to let the gravy drip onto his clothes. ‘This better be good, Waters. First time the kids have seen me for a week.’
‘It’s Martin Tredwell, he’s gone AWOL.’
‘Not this again.’
‘Witness protection haven’t had any contact for five days. They went round to the Stockport safe house after I called in Anderson’s complaint about the zoo. He’s gone. Packed a bag.’
‘Bloody marvellous. That’s all I need. More time-wasting. He’s got nowt to do with the death by dangerous. Not our problem.’
‘I know but they say there’s stuff at the house you ought to see.’
Taylor huffed. ‘All right, let’s go.’
Waters started the engine and used the back of his hand to make a cursory wipe of the condensation on the windscreen.
Once Taylor had swallowed the last bite: ‘What else do we know?’
‘Very little, gov. Witness protection are concerned that the bloke he grassed on in the trial has caught up with him.’
‘What’s his name? Ahmed?’
‘Yeah, Waqar Ahmed. But they’ve got nothing on him.’
‘What do we know about Tredwell?’
‘Some mental health issues – clever though. NCIS say he likes kids. Sexual violence but never been caught for it. Even though he got a suspended sentence in the Ahmed trial, apparently he took the defendant’s acquittal very badly. As always happens, he blamed the lawyers.’
The safe house was in fact a flat on the fifteenth floor of a council block minutes from the centre of Stockport.
‘Surprised he was prepared to be so near home,’ said Taylor as they came out of the lift.
‘He insisted apparently.’
A middle-aged man wearing a cheap grey suit answered the door. ‘Hello, gents, thanks for coming. Bob Smith, witness protection. I would shake hands, but…’ He raised his arms to show a pair of yellow marigolds. He went into the lounge, tied up a black bin bag, tossed it in the corner, then took off the rubber gloves. ‘Just cleaning up for the next unfortunate.’
‘Already?’ said Taylor.
‘Resources, you know the score. A lot of witnesses and very few properties. He broke the rules so someone else gets it. Thought you’d better see this, before I take ’em down.’ He opened the bedroom door.
Taylor and Waters stepped inside. Photographs covered every inch of wall space, ceiling included. All of children.
‘We think he printed them off on that,’ said Smith, pointing to a PC and printer.
Taylor took a closer look at the walls. Some of the pictures made him wretch. Mutilated bodies, in the throes of an agonising death. ‘Jesus, are these mocked up?’
‘Dunno yet. I bloody hope so.’
Taylor exchanged glances with Waters, conveying a mutual understanding that there was always something new to chill the bones of even the most experienced police officers. Waters picked up a pile of photos by the computer. ‘Did Tredwell take them himself?’
‘Well, we know most of them are just files other nonces trade and share on the net. The paedophile unit had a quick look. They recognised half of them, but not those,’ he said, pointing to the bundle in Waters’ hand.
Taylor took them and sifted through. Unsuspecting children outside a school, some in a park. ‘Do we know who any of these kids are?’
Smith shook his head. ‘Potential victims? Who knows? With all the level 5’s on the wall, he’s high priority.’
Taylor nodded.
‘All right,’ said Taylor. ‘If the paedophile unit catch up with him, let us know, but he’s not actually part of our enquiry.’ Forcing himself to take one last look at the walls, Taylor said, ‘Which means my chief would go ape if I spent any time on this.’
‘Understood,’ Smith replied. ‘Will do.’