Warning for swearing, sexual crimes, violence and general gangster horribleness.

Chapter 16

In an otherwise innocuous, nettle lined county lane, lorry headlights swung around a corner and found a resting place on the ten foot high iron gates of the Faulke Estate. A muscled Albanian in his shirtsleeves unlocked the gates from the inside and guarded the driver of the red artic through to the farm complex.

It wasn't much to look at from the outside, but that was the whole point.

Inside was another story.

Molly Hooper stood with her feet apart for stability and wielded the plank of wood as confidently as she could. She tried a few practice swings. She would have to hit Wade, or whoever came through that door, hard and fast. She may not get the chance for a second try as these people were probably seasoned to violence. Her only advantage was an intimate knowledge of human anatomy. It was more than enough to ensure she emerged the victor, as long as she kept her nerve. She tipped her face up to the heavens and offered a silent prayer. John Watson had told her once, no matter what people believed before joining the army, there were no atheists on the front line. It wasn't until you were in a hopeless situation that you figured out what was really important to you and what you believed.

There was always the chance that once she'd taken out the first intruder, there would be more lackeys behind the door. But she had to take that chance; she had to try…

Her thoughts were interrupted by a scuffling sound outside the door. Someone was trying to find the key.

Oh, God. This is it.

Who knew what they would do to her if her escape attempt failed?

The door began to open.

Molly braced herself and gripped the plank tighter, splinters digging into her fingers.

Wade's grey hair appeared at the threshold. She saw his baffled expression at the empty bed for a split second and then she swung.

The wood collided with his unguarded larynx and he faltered and started to plunge toward the floor with an expression of pure shock and pain. There was anger there too.

Molly gave a little yelp of surprise and watched with helpless dismay as he staggered forward and recovered a little. She hadn't hit him hard enough.

Oh, well, only one thing for it. There was no going back; she was committed now. Before he could rise and retaliate, she swung again and hit him in the back of the neck, possibly severing the spinal cord. He pitched over with an oomph.

Self-defence, self-defence, she kept telling herself. She wasn't going to go through all this only to be charged with GBH. She almost gave in to the temptation to check him for signs of life when her better angel kicked in and told her to get the hell out of there, never mind the rapist/con-artist.

When she dropped down the two steps into the main building she could see that she had indeed been inside a porta-cabin inside a big warehouse. Shelves were stacked to the ceiling with unmarked cardboard boxes. The floor was unsealed concrete, dusty and crumbling. A smell of damp and animal feed hung in the air, malty and sweet but repulsive at the same time. There was an iron grate conspicuously welded across the fire exit. No way out, no way in, except through a door which could possibly be hiding certain doom.

Heart beating out of control, she scurried across the warehouse and pressed herself up against the wall by the door. She held on to her plank for dear life, but as the initial adrenaline of her attack on Wade started to wear off, she noticed the injuries to her wrists more and more. This made her angry more than anything else.

Remembering the rules of surviving an abduction, she pulled loose a few strands of her own hair and sprinkled them around, then she smeared some of her blood on the door-frame.

She steeled herself to go through the next door, putting her hand tentatively on the handle and letting the plank hang by her side. Time seemed to slow down again. Moonlight glinted off her terrified eyes. If only she could control her heart, which was careening out of control.

The door creaked as it opened. Molly winced at the sound and prepared for capture and more pain. But none of those things came. She was in another cavernous warehouse, but this time it was dimly lit with stuttering, fluorescent strip lights, and someone had strung a system of ropes across the room about eight feet off the ground. From the ropes hung a network of sheets, some of them old and stained. They formed rows of makeshift cubicles. What was in them she daren't speculate. It could be a hangout for junkies… anything. The smell was thick in the air. Mould, sweat, cigarettes, and the unmistakable aromas of sex.

There was no door in sight except the one she had just entered through. This place was deliberately maze-like and she despaired of ever getting out.

Fear overtook her then and she sunk to the ground in her safe corner by the door and hugged her bare legs to her chest. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry… she told herself. When she looked up, one of the sheet curtains was twitching and out stepped a rat-faced young woman in a black bra and mini skirt. She didn't have any shoes on either.

For a second they stared at each other, startled. When Molly truly looked at her face she could see that she was either older than she first assumed or else deeply lined by the stress of abuse and drugs. Behind the curtain, she could now see that there was a camp bed and a bedside cabinet.

As they stayed there, neither of them sure what to do, Molly's mind caught up with what she was seeing. This was a brothel. The realisation nearly made her vomit. She covered her mouth with her hands, transferring blood onto her face.

"Nou?" said the woman, all of a sudden.

Molly twitched, hovering between her limited options. Could it be that this woman thought she was one of them, that she was supposed to be there?

"New?" asked Molly.

The woman held out her hand. "I help. Come."

Seeing as she was out of ideas and this woman was in a similar predicament to hers, she decided to see where the offer would take her. She levered herself off the floor, but she did not take the other woman's hand.

"What's your name?" Molly asked tentatively. The woman ignored her question and led her down the sheet alley to the other side of the building, where she flung more curtains aside. Inside was another filthy bed and table. On the table was a polystyrene tray containing two full hypodermic needles. The woman picked up a rubber tourniquet and before Molly knew what was happening she'd grabbed her arm and was forcing her to sit down on the bed. "This help," she kept saying, "sit still, this help."

"No!" Molly screamed, kicking her in the shins, but the woman was stronger than she looked. She held on with grim determination and had the needle poised. Her thin fingers dug into the wounds on her wrists. Stalemate. Molly was damned if she was going to best a grown man and then let this bitch stick her with a needle. God, why did she leave the plank of wood behind?

She twisted away from the needle and punched her attacker in the face. It was hardly the elegantly choreographed move you saw in films, just ugly and jarring and frustrating. Like the dreams she used to have of fighting off a monster and not being strong enough to help herself.

The woman was far from knocked out, but at least she let go long enough for Molly to battle her way out of the sheets and run off down the corridor. She looked back briefly, tripping over her own legs.

The bitch didn't seem to be following. Molly breathed hard, her chest heaving with the effort of her escape. She felt dizzy, so she ducked down and hid in the nearest corner, behind some water damaged boxes, to try and plan her next move. Her fingers grasped at the corrugated steel of the wall. It was cold with condensation. She rested her forehead on it. She would not let this place and these people defeat her. A sob escaped involuntarily. She would give anything to be home right now.

Was this how they felt, the girls, when they tricked them and drugged them and tied them up in a dank room to break them? When they pumped them full of heroin to make sure they didn't run away?

She could hardly blame the needle bitch for thinking that she was one of them. She probably thought she just needed something to take the edge off the pain when all those men… Molly swallowed again. That was a point. Where were all the clients? This place was clearly set up to serve a lot of visitors, probably round the clock, so where were they now? Where were all the other girls? Was the needle bitch just a Madam, sent round to collect all the money and check on the girls? She seemed experienced. Why was she left behind when all the others had abandoned the place?

Then she realised that there were others in this world in a worse situation than her. She might be trapped, but she still had her self-respect and the determination to survive. If you lost that, you were fucked.

The cold metal wall offered her little comfort, so she pulled herself together and began to calmly and systematically search for a way out.

Three figures watched the comings and goings of the farm complex from a vantage point on a grassy bank. A half-moon helped them navigate the yard, and they stopped by the high back doors of what used to be a huge cattle rearing shed.

John felt around in the dark for the lock. The door had been retrofitted with enormous dead-bolts secured with the biggest padlocks he'd ever seen. Each one must have weighed a couple of kilos. There was no hope of getting through that lot with bolt cutters.

"This place is a bloody fortress."

"It's what I expected." Sherlock pulled something from his rucksack. He duct-taped the canister to the uppermost padlock and lit the fuse with the monogrammed lighter. The flame illuminated the three men's faces briefly and then the magnesium ribbon jumped and sparked into life.

"Don't look directly at it. It burns at over four thousand degrees," said Sherlock, as John stood back in awe and admiration. They averted their eyes as the mixture inside the canister came to life and melted its way through the padlock. The flask quickly became part of the padlock, dripping in molten globules down onto the locks, and soon the whole lot was a puddle of glowing metal on the ground. It was a far from silent process, the device fizzed and spat like a Roman candle, but it was far, far preferable to making a racket trying to get in by any other means.

Sherlock produced an oven-glove from the bag and cautiously prised the door open. He stepped over the glowing puddle into the unknown and the others followed him.

The three men swept the place with their penlights. It took a couple of beats for their eyes to adjust, and a couple more beats for them to realise that there was no-one inside the building. The cattle shed had been converted to house hundreds of migrant workers and they'd left evidence of their squalid existence everywhere… abandoned clothes, bedding and food packaging littered the cramped stalls and in one corner there was a huge pile of shoes, of all things.

"They confiscate their shoes so they can't run away over the fields," Sherlock whispered, "I wouldn't be surprised if we find a lot of broken glass."

In another corner was what looked like a pile of dog shit, crawling with parasitic toxocara worms. John shuddered with revulsion. The whole place reminded him of one of those zombie flicks, where mankind was reduced to a desperate, itinerant existence. This might be what it would be like for everyone if they didn't stop this Maupertuis guy and his polonium apocalypse.

"Right," continued Sherlock, "we'll split up. Turn your phones to push-to-talk so we can communicate."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" John's question was immediately cut down by Sherlock's gaze.

"You two find Molly, I'm going after Maup Junior. Keep your gloves on and don't touch anything unless you absolutely have to."

"Sherlock," John hissed, but it was too late, there was no stopping him striding off into the dark.

It had looked like the most promising door at the time, but it had turned out to be yet another unit in the maze of fortified farm buildings. Molly quailed at the sight of the sprawling vehicle workshop, lit only by moonlight streaming in through the slits of windows near the roof. It was devoid of the expected tractors, but filled with all kinds of work benches. One of them housed a safe and a portable gas hob with a steel crucible on it, and more of the plastic trays she'd seen in the needle bitch's cubicle. Other paraphernalia was scattered around. It looked like the bench had been used to prepare many, many doses of heroin for the girls, either voluntarily or… or otherwise. On one side of the room was a desk, which made the whole chamber look like it had been used as the centre of operations, and a round table in the centre was covered in playing cards and shot glasses.

She looked around hopefully for some tools that she could use as a weapon, but was interrupted by the sound of someone approaching the door from the other side. She rushed to the door on bare tip-toes and flattened herself against the wall. The person seemed to be hesitating on the other side of the door.

Their steps were furtive. This was not the sound of someone confident in their surroundings; it was the sound of a person who was either trying to find someone, or hide from someone. She hadn't time to furnish herself with a weapon; the best she could do was to hide when the person came through the door.

Ever so slowly it crept open. A flashlight beam entered first and then the tall dark-coated figure. Messy curls silhouetted against the wall. Had he seen her… had he seen her? And then gloved hands were snaking around her and covering her mouth to stifle any screams. Molly began to kick and punch, but the man was stronger. She was already exhausted so it wasn't much of a stretch to go limp and become a dead weight. But the person didn't drop her, he hugged her tight and lifted her off her feet tenderly. She was confused. Her face rubbed on a dark wool overcoat. She breathed a familiar smell… not Sherlock's expensive scent but something else, something cheap and generic from Marks and Spencer.

She yelped with relief and wrapped her arms around his neck; she couldn't help it…

"Tom!"