by Alex Carver
Since he couldn’t call the police, he had to come up with some other way of saving Alice, and he knew he didn’t have long in which to do so. He hadn’t heard all of the phone call that Crash had made earlier, but he had heard enough to know that neither he nor Alice would live long past the collection of the ransom.
A morbid corner of his mind wondered how he was supposed to die, while a cowardly part thought he should forget about saving Alice and focus on saving himself – he was sure he could manage to creep downstairs and out the kitchen door without waking Crash, from there he could take the van from the barn and disappear.
As much as he wanted to just disappear, he knew he couldn’t. He wasn’t a brave man, he never had been, but neither did he think of himself as a coward; he couldn’t leave Alice Keating to whatever was going to happen to her, not when he was in a position to help her.
After running the problem around his brain for an interminable period of time, the length of which he wasn’t sure, he decided that his best chance of saving Alice was to wait until Crash left the following evening to collect the ransom from Alice’s father. When Crash did that, he would be able to get Alice away without much in the way of risk to either of them. There was always a chance that Crash would go out at some point in the morning, if he did, Lewis could save Alice then, rather than waiting until the evening, but even if he didn’t, he had less than a day to wait – as endless as that day was likely to feel, he was sure he could tolerate it.
The farmhouse where Alice was being held was not the only place witnessing a lack of sleep. Sleep was just as hard to come by for those under the roof of the Keating house. Mrs Wembley and Mr Chambers, both of whom had been with the family since before Alice was born, tossed and turned in their beds, worrying about Alice’s safety.
Maria Keating also tossed and turned, unable to sleep, despite the medication the doctor had prescribed her; she felt as though she was caught in a nightmare, a nightmare she had always feared, but which she had never thought would come true.
Next to his wife in their luxurious, king-sized bed, Owen Keating lay as still as a statue. He could tell that Maria was awake, and that she continued to be troubled by the thoughts that had occupied her mind since he told her what had happened to Alice. As much as he wanted to roll over, take her in his arms, and comfort her, he realised it would do no good; it was irrational, he knew, but she blamed him for Alice’s kidnapping.
The worst of it was that he agreed with her; despite knowing, intellectually, that his money made his family a target, he had not taken any serious steps towards ensuring they were protected. He had relied on Brian Jacobs, and his training with the Royal Marines, to keep his family safe, training which had proven unequal to the task when it came down to it.
Foremost in his thinking was not how he could fix the mistakes he had made, though, rather it was his daughter’s kidnappers, and what they had in mind for the ransom drop. Not knowing what he would have to do to get his daughter back worried him as much as anything else. What films he had seen that involved kidnappings – not many he realised – featured ransom drops that were either convoluted to the point of absurdity, or which were spoiled by police interference; he hoped the ransom drop for his daughter would proceed more smoothly than any he had seen, and he would get Alice back without complications.
Downstairs in the library, Stone was another person finding sleep hard to come by. As tired as he was, he had too much on his mind to sleep; like Owen Keating in the master bedroom, he wondered what the kidnappers had planned for the ransom drop. It was clear to him that at least one of the people who had taken Alice was of above average intelligence, and that meant they were likely to come up with something to make following or tracking them difficult. Inspector Evans had tried to convince him that no matter what the kidnappers did, he and his assistant would be able to track the money and guide the following officers to wherever those holding Alice were hiding, but he remained doubtful.
Until they heard from the kidnappers, they could do nothing except make the most generic of plans based on the two biggest possibilities: the first was that the ransom drop would take place somewhere in the open where the kidnappers would have a wide field of visibility, while the second was that the kidnappers would want the exchange to take place somewhere crowded, so they could slip away amongst the civilians. Both had advantages and disadvantages, for police and kidnappers alike.
While his partner slept, seemingly having no difficulty in getting comfortable in the reading chair he had settled into, and Evans and his partner went over their programs and equipment in readiness for what they would have to do tomorrow, Stone attempted to get comfortable. Even the copy of Oliver Twist he had borrowed from Owen Keating’s well-appointed library, which was one of his all-time favourite books, couldn’t help him to relax.
In contrast to those who were finding sleep difficult to come by, Jerry Logan was fast asleep. Years of prison beds meant he had no problem drifting off, despite the lack of comfort provided by the thin mattress and hard wooden shelf on which it rested.
46
Exhausted and bleary-eyed, Lewis made his way slowly downstairs and along to the kitchen, where he switched on the kettle. After a restless night, in which he had gotten no more than a couple of hours’ sleep, he needed the biggest and strongest mug of coffee available; unfortunately, the kitchen cupboards held no large mugs, they were all decidedly average in size.
Disgruntled, he took down the first mug that came to hand, and quickly filled it with a heaped spoonful of coffee, two similarly heaped spoonfuls of sugar, and a splash of milk. He then made himself some toast while he waited for the kettle to boil, slathering it with butter and a generous amount of strawberry jam.
With the toast in one hand and the gently steaming mug in the other, Lewis made for the living room. He was relieved to see that Crash was still asleep on the sofa - that meant he didn’t have to try and pretend that there was nothing wrong; just being in the same room as the man who intended killing him was difficult enough. He tried not to do it, but he could not stop his eyes darting constantly to the man he now considered an enemy while he munched on his toast and sipped at his coffee. He found it impossible to shake the fear that at any moment Crash was going to leap to his feet strangle him, or choke him with his breakfast, or kill him in one of the hundred or so ways that were running through his mind.
Once he had finished his breakfast, which left him feeling no better than he had before, he made a second and took it upstairs to Alice – as he set it down in front of her, he wondered if it would be the last she would ever have. That thought made him feel even worse than he already did.
“You’ll be back home soon,” he told her. “Your dad will be paying the ransom for your release later today, and then you’ll be going home.” His good news failed to alter the look on Alice’s face, she remained downcast, and he didn’t waste any time with a second attempt at perking her up, instead he left and locked the door behind him.
On his way downstairs, Lewis wondered why he didn’t just take Alice from the room and leave with her. He could drive her to the nearest police station and let her go down the road from it, she would be safe then, as would he; the only possible danger to Alice then would be Jim, who was close enough to the teen to get at her whenever he wanted, there was nothing he could do about that, however. The answer was obvious, and came to him almost immediately – he was afraid that Crash would catch them.
47
The satisfied sounds from Burke, who was next to him at the kitchen table, made Stone reflect that as unpleasant as Alice Keating’s kidnapping was, it did have its up-side. His cup was filled with a coffee that was good enough to delight his partner, and the plate before him held a fried breakfast which pleased his nose as much as it did his stomach.
He was halfway through his breakfast when the post arrived. Out the corner of his eye, he watched Mr Chambers as he sorted it, separating it into piles for the various family members;
he turned all his attention on the house-manager as Chambers set before him an envelope with Owen Keating’s name and address written on it in the same hand as that used on the envelope of the ransom demand received yesterday.
“Have you told Mr Keating it’s here?” he asked, making no effort to touch the envelope, let alone open it; he saw no reason to do so until he had finished his food.
“I’m just on my way to do so,” Mr Chambers said. With brisk movements, he turned and left the kitchen, his footsteps sounding in the passage outside before he started up the wide staircase.
Stone finished his fried breakfast just before Owen Keating arrived in the kitchen, and was sipping at his rich coffee when the multi-millionaire joined him. He immediately set aside his mug and reached into his pocket for a pair of latex gloves; pulling the gloves on, he took up the envelope and sliced it open so he could take out the single sheet of paper that was inside.
He unfolded the ransom note and laid it on the kitchen table so all three of them – Owen Keating, Burke and himself – could read it. The latest ransom note was as short and to the point as the previous two, and once again it lacked the final details of what Keating had to do to exchange the three and a half million Euros of the ransom for his daughter. The lack frustrated Stone as much as, if not more than, it did Owen Keating.
“So,” Stone began when they were in the library with Inspector Evans and his partner, both of whom had breakfasted on cereal since they didn’t want to be away from their equipment for any longer than was necessary. “How difficult is it going to be to put together a surveillance operation to cover St George’s Park?” he asked of the assembled group.
Evans didn’t need to be the focus of his fellow inspector’s attention to know that he was the one expected to provide an answer. Before he did so, he turned his attention to his laptop; in just a few moments he had Google maps focused on Branton, and with a few more clicks he had the map zoomed in until St George’s Park filled the screen, he then spent a short time examining it.
“It won’t be easy,” he said finally. “The place is too big - there’s too much ground to cover. If we knew where in the park the drop’s supposed to take place, we could maybe come up with something, but we can’t even take a guess at where they’re thinking of doing this; there’s four roads into the park and several footpaths, they could be planning on using any one of them to get in or out. It’d be impossible for us to cover it all, especially without being noticed, and far too easy for them to slip away.
“We could try and put teams to watch each of the roads, and as many of the footpaths as possible, but we’d be stretching ourselves thin, which might be what they’re after. Our best chance of catching them is by bugging the money, and even that’s not going to be as easy as I thought.”
“Why’s that?” Stone wanted to know. He had had his doubts about their chances of getting a result from the tech experts, but Evans had spoken confidently about what his equipment could do, so Stone was disappointed to now hear him express doubts.
“Because there’s a limit to the range of whatever bug we use, which means we’ve got to be within a certain distance of it to pick up the signal,” Evans told him. “If the money is handed over in the centre of the park, then we’re going to have to be within the park to be able to follow the bug, and that means the chances of us being spotted go up.” He was just as unhappy about the situation as he could see Stone was. “I think the best we can do, at the moment, is prepare a non-descript vehicle for the surveillance operation, and plan to put it near to the main entrance of the park. I may be able to rig up something so that we can have multiple people able to pick up the signal from the bug; if I can do that then we can position them, one on each side of the park, and increase our chances of being able to follow the money. Time is against us, though.”
“What about using the pavilion in the middle of the park as a base of operations?” Burke asked, pointing to the screen on the laptop to show the building he was referring to. “It’s fairly centrally located by the looks of it, so it should give us a better chance of receiving and following the signal from the bug than hoping we can find a spot on the perimeter close enough to where the drop is going to happen.”
Evans thought about that for a moment as he examined the map on his laptop, finally he nodded. “That might work. Of course, it’ll depend on where the drop is to actually take place, but I think it’s the best idea we’ve got. We’re still going to need all the officers we can get; how many do you think your superior will give us?”
Stone grimaced. “Not enough, not nearly enough.”
48
Jim yawned hugely and rubbed his eyes, which threatened to close and remain that way, before he picked up the large Starbucks cup that sat in front of him. As he sipped from it, and returned his attention to the bank across the road, he wondered why he hadn’t gone to bed earlier, he could have done with the extra sleep – it wasn’t particularly early, the bank’s door had been unlocked an hour before, on the dot of 9 a.m., but it had been 4 a.m. when he crawled between the sheets.
After about five minutes of careful observation, during which he tried to avoid being too obvious, lest he be suspected of planning a bank robbery, or something equally as ridiculous, he saw Owen Keating enter the bank. That was what he had been waiting for, and he forgot all about his coffee, and about caution, as he watched for Owen Keating’s reappearance.
“Good morning, Mr Keating,” the secretary outside the office of Tom Andrews, the manager, greeted the distraught father, who acknowledged her with the briefest of nods. “You can go straight in, Mr Andrews is expecting you,” she said, rising to her feet so she could open the door for him.
Tom Andrews was on his feet and already on his way round his desk when Owen Keating and DS Burke entered the office. “Owen, how are you doing?” he asked with genuine concern. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard what’s happened; how are you and Maria coping?”
Keating took his friend’s outstretched hand and shook it briefly. “I’m getting by,” he said. The strain he was under was clearly visible on his face, which was lined and drawn. “But Maria is struggling; the doctor has her on medication. Thankfully, it should all be over by this time tomorrow – his relief at that thought eased the lines on his face, for a moment – and we can try and get on with our lives.”
Andrews nodded, not knowing what else he could say; anything he did say, he realised, would only be platitudes and useless in comforting his friend. “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee while I go and get the money?” he asked of Keating and the –he assumed – police officer with him equally. He was unsurprised when both men declined. “I’ll be back shortly then.”
49
Stone threw open the passenger door the moment Grey stopped his car alongside the porta-cabin that housed the office of Tredegar Scrapyard. He was out and at the door before Grey had his seatbelt off.
“Good morning,” he said pleasantly when the office’s sole occupant had finished on the phone.
“Morning,” the stocky scrapyard worker returned the greeting absently as he searched the desk in front of him for a pen. “How can I help you?”
“DI Stone,” he introduced himself. “I’d like to speak to someone about a car that was sold for scrap in the last month. Can you help?” he asked, taking out his notepad, in which he had the details of the car stolen from Sharon Hawkins.
“I’ll do my best,” Clark – Stone assumed that the name stitched across the pocket on his grubby denim shirt was his – said. “Are you sure it was sold to us?” he queried.
Stone nodded. “Yes. It was declared a write-off after being stolen and torched, and the remains were sold to this company for scrap by the insurance company; it’s a Renault Clio, registration, Y715 CLH.”
“In that case it should be in our records.” Clark crossed to a shelf at the rear of the office and took down a ring binder. “I don’t suppose you know the date the wreck was sold to us, do you?” he
asked hopefully, flicking through the receipts in the binder in search of the one for the car in question – there were hundreds for him to go through.
“I’ve got the date from the insurance company’s letter,” Stone said, “but I don’t know if that’s when you guys got the car.”
Clark looked at the date Stone had scribbled in his pad, and then quickly flipped through the receipts and invoices until he reached the start of the paperwork for that date. “Why’re you interested in the car?” he asked. “Nothing wrong, is there?”
Stone wondered if Clark’s question stemmed from natural curiosity, or worry that the scrapyard had gotten itself involved in something illegal. It might even be, he thought, that Clark was involved, somehow, in the kidnapping, and was concerned that the police were on to him.
“A vehicle used in a serious crime,” he said, “was recovered yesterday – the license number on the van belonged to the Clio. I’m trying to discover if the license plates from the Clio were stolen from here and used, if they were sold to the people I’m looking for by one of your employees, or if someone made copies. What are the chances of you being able to answer that for me?”
Clark was silent for a few moments while he continued his search for the Clio’s paperwork. “Ah, here we are,” he said in relief when he finally located it. “According to this, a variety of parts were recovered.” He held the binder up briefly so Stone could see the short list of recovered parts at the bottom of the paperwork. “And then it was crushed; this was about two weeks ago, and the DVLA was informed of the vehicle’s destruction the same day. The license plates would have been put with the rest of our collection – we’ve got a shed at the back of the yard where we keep all the plates from the vehicles we’ve destroyed.
“It’ll take a bit of time, but I can have someone check if the plates are still there.” The look on his face suggested he would rather not have to get someone to do that. “I can’t imagine anyone would waste their time breaking in here to steal a set of plates, though, or that any of the guys would sell plates; they wouldn’t get enough cash to make it worthwhile.”
