Bound By Blood

by Paul J. Teague

  Once she’d got Rowan out of his car seat, she laid him gently in the pram, making sure his tiny knitted hat was on securely and his white scratch mittens were tucked into his cardigan. She arranged the sheets and blankets around him to keep him warm. His features gave no indication of who the father might be, even though she knew it was Brett. He couldn’t possibly be David’s child; the marriage had moved to coldness too quickly. She couldn’t wait for Georgina to get the test results from her friend at the university; the paperwork would confirm everything.

  The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced David had been after her money and the land from the start. She’d been vulnerable, reeling from her failed relationship with Callie and Jane’s father, a man who was there for the good times but struggled to cope with the bad times. The caesarean had needed a long physical recovery and she was still reeling from a debilitating bout of post-natal depression.

  David had seemed like a knight in shining armour, fulfilling her desperate need for adult company and physical closeness. But the moment the ring was on her finger, the drawbridge came up and he no longer seemed to care. In her less trusting moments, she wondered if the whole thing had been a set-up. Had she been manoeuvred into loving David Irwin? She was like a stray dog, accepting love from anyone; had he preyed on her in a moment of weakness?

  Having organised all three children, she led them up the main street and took the turn towards the church. They would grow fractious if she spent too long at the graves, so they would conclude events by going to the walled, wooded area which led up to the ruined chapel at the top of the cliffs. This was always a highlight of their visits. She would release Jane from the pushchair and the two girls would be happy toddling and crawling among the trees, counting their way up and down the steps built into the gentle slope. It would provide a brief period of respite for her too, knowing the girls were safe from any harm; she could sit on one of the benches.

  The sight of the fierce grey sea and the crashing waves beyond the church never ceased to take her breath away. Perched on the cliff tops against the backdrop of the bay, the structure stood proud and defiant against the ravages of the weather, as it had done for years. She wondered if she would be buried here, like generations of the Armstrong family, or if events would drive her away from the place she called home.

  Her mother and father’s burial plots were at the back of the graveyard, and whenever she visited them, she knew there wasn’t a better place for the two of them to lay at rest. They’d met in this part of the world, married and died here. But as much as she loved the area, it was beginning to feel like she didn’t belong.

  At least she hadn’t married Callie and Jane’s father. The moment life had become tricky, he’d disappeared. He wasn’t interested in staying in touch with the children, nor did he make any demands on Tiffany. Now, with her hasty and ill-judged marriage to David, it had all gone wrong again.

  But with Brett, she could put it right. It felt like they were being cast aside from this part of the world, steered into living somewhere else. She hoped it would be a fresh start; Brett was different, so good with the children. She would tell him he was Rowan’s father just as soon as the paperwork was all sorted. It would be the icing on the cake when they left with the children, her thank-you gift to him for the faith he’d shown in her.

  Her mother’s grave was weather-beaten now, the name Lilian Armstrong worn and faded, but her father’s was still new, the granite bright, the gilded lettering clear and distinct. She wished she could have cried more when her father died. Theirs had been a difficult relationship; she’d always felt second best to Fabian, as if she wasn’t up to taking over the farm and running it just as capably as her brother. Her mother had always believed in her though, whatever mistakes she had made. She missed her mum.

  Tiffany reached under the pram section of the buggy and pulled out the wreaths. Jane started to push forward, tugging on the reins which kept her safe in the pushchair. Tiffany handed a wreath to Callie, guiding her little gloved hands away from the prickles of the holly, and asked her to place it on Granddad’s grave. She unclipped Jane and repeated the action, her heart ready to explode as she watched her beautiful tiny children laying the wreaths as if it were the most important job in the world.

  With the wreaths laid, Tiffany let Callie and Jane toddle at their own pace towards the wooded area. They knew where they were going so didn’t hang around long. After a run around among the trees, Tiffany was often lucky enough for all three of them to fall asleep in the car at the same time. If they did, she would park on the drive outside the house and sleep in the car with them. Joanne was supposed to be helping more, but it didn’t seem to be making much difference to how tired Tiffany felt.

  As she let the girls run ahead beyond the old stone wall, she spotted Aida Bryn sitting alone on one of the benches by the entrance. She pulled up the buggy at the side, put on the brake and took a seat next to her.

  ‘Hello, Aida, I haven’t seen you around here in ages. I’d heard you were ill; is everything all right now?’

  Aida looked like her body was all but worn out. She was in her late nineties, still taking care of herself, a widow since her husband lost his life at sea forty years previously.

  ‘Hello Tiffany, my darling. The child has been born, I see, a boy too.’

  Tiffany brought Aida up to date with what had been happening since she’d last seen her. People like Aida were her last remaining link to her mother and father. They’d all lived in a time that seemed better, one without computers and even televisions for many people, an era when this place was dedicated to fishing and a life based around the sea.

  ‘You’ve been to see your Ma and Pa?’ Aida asked.

  ‘Yes, and the girls love the wood so much.’

  As if on cue, Callie shouted in the distance.

  ‘Mum, look, Jane can walk up the steps!’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ Tiffany shouted. She turned to Aida. ‘I do like it here; they can’t fall and hurt themselves and the walls make a natural boundary so I don’t lose sight of them.’

  ‘They’ve got your temperament,’ Aida continued, smiling at the sight of the girls absorbed in their play. ‘I’m pleased they didn’t get your brother’s traits; he was a rascal, that one.’

  Tiffany loved hearing Aida’s stories from their family’s past. It was like travelling back in time to revisit her childhood.

  ‘Your mother saw the devil in that boy. She asked me once what she should do about it. She’d caught him shooting robins with his air rifle in one of the fields. “What kind of child shoots robins, Aida?” she said to me. “Children love robins; they shouldn’t want to kill them.” She was worried, all right.’

  ‘I never knew that,’ Tiffany replied. She knew Fabian could be a bully, but she’d never seen that spiteful side to him. Or had she? An image came to mind of him kicking a cow in calf once when she was younger. Maybe the cruel streak had been there all the time.

  ‘What did you say to her?’ Tiffany asked, sensing Aida was going somewhere with this.

  ‘I told her to watch that one. I said evil shows itself early in children, and it never goes away once it shows its face.’

  ‘What did she do? Did she take notice of you?’

  ‘She did, though she was angry with me at first for suggesting it. But we met in the village two weeks later and she apologised to me. She said, “Aida, you were right. I never saw it before. There’s something about Fabian which isn’t quite right.” Don’t get me wrong, she loved your brother; he was her child after all. But she knew she’d have to watch him. Because if he wasn’t shooting robins, she knew he’d be hurting something else.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was growing dark outside and the staff in the tearoom were beginning to clear the tables, wipe them down and neaten the chairs. Charlotte knew the signs. Although you’d never read it in a brochure or hear a proprietor admit it, this was catering code for buzz off, we want to go home, w
e’re tired. There was a definite point in the evening at the guest house when diners were overstaying their welcome, and most took the hint as the staff began clearing up around them.

  Charlotte and her two young companions had been engaged in lively conversation for some time, and each had an empty glass or cup in front of them. They hadn’t even been spending money while they’d been taking up a full table.

  ‘It’s time we made a move,’ Charlotte prompted. ‘Are you happy to declare a truce, Hollie? For now, at least?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m still furious with you for taking my phone, but I’ll take your word for it, for now. It makes more sense that we’re all being played than it does you taking a page out of the Fatal Attraction handbook.’

  ‘Good, I’m pleased about that. If we can agree to work together for a little while, you have my permission to steal my phone and send rude messages on my social media accounts. You might want to warn people first though. Any dodgy pictures you send wouldn’t be a pretty sight.’

  Callie laughed, but Hollie gave a look of distaste that was typical of a young person barely out of their teenage years, born out of a firm disbelief that anybody over the age of thirty could have anything remotely attractive about them.

  She’ll soon learn, Charlotte thought.

  ‘Hollie and I are probably going to go into town to make an evening of it,’ Callie said. ‘There’s so much to talk about that neither of us is ready to go our separate ways yet. Are you joining us, Charlotte?’

  ‘No, I have something I need to do,’ she replied, mindful that she wanted to return to the industrial unit as soon as possible. If Will was inside, there would be a light on, a car parked nearby or at least some clue. She handed Callie the hat she’d been using as a disguise.

  ‘You’d better take this,’ Charlotte suggested. ‘Remember, the police are still looking for you. Thank your lucky stars the only photograph of you they’ve published is from twenty years ago. There’s not much chance of the general public spotting you for now. But promise me you’ll take care.’

  Callie touched Charlotte’s arm.

  ‘I will. Thank you Charlotte, you’ve already helped me more than the police. I’ll walk into the police station when I’m ready, but I can’t work at their pace; I have to understand what’s going on. This is my life – our lives – after all.’

  Charlotte handed Callie a ten-pound note from her pocket.

  ‘Take this, and at the risk of sounding like your mother, make sure you hold back enough for your bus fare or a taxi. If you need to draw any money to lend to Callie, I'll pay you back, Hollie.’

  Callie nodded and Charlotte picked up the bill which had been deposited on the table. She settled it by payment card and left a good tip, apologising to the waitress for delaying the staff.

  ‘We’ll be expecting you at the guest house,’ Charlotte said, returning to Callie and Hollie. If she hadn’t known beforehand, she’d have placed them as sisters if they’d been random customers in her own restaurant area. They seemed in tune with each other already; it was uncanny how quickly the two had bonded.

  As she made her way back to the car park in the town centre, a wave of resentment swept over her, then passed as quickly as it arrived. For a moment, she felt a pang of jealousy that Hollie and Callie had some form of resolution already, while she was still a castaway at sea, with only a hunch about where her husband might be. Moreover, she still faced danger from Vinnie Mace, who would use his military skills to find her sooner or later. The conversation in the tearoom had distracted her, but now she was apprehensive about the task ahead.

  Equally frustrating was the slow-moving line of traffic out of Lancaster. It seemed to take forever to crawl through the city, but eventually she was on her way to the White Lund Industrial Estate, where she hoped she would find Will. She pulled up some distance away from the unit, deciding to use the welcome cover of their regular cash and carry, which was a short distance away. Did fictional tough guys like Jack Reacher ever consider topping up with supplies at the cash and carry before embarking on what might turn out to be a hazardous operation? Probably not, she decided.

  It had grown dusky, and the streetlights were coming on. She wanted to see if there was any life at all at the former craft store. If she felt out of her depth, she made a promise to herself that she would involve the police. But she refused to give up Kate Summers. Kate was everybody’s way out of this. But she had to get to that industrial unit first.

  The unit was straight ahead. Her heart jumped as she saw a car parked outside: a Tesla, just like the one owned by Doctor Maxwell Henderson. The excitement turned to raging panic when she realised why he might be there. Had they hurt Will? She tried to calm down, telling herself there were all sorts of reasons why the doctor might be in their dingy hideout. Vinnie and his mate had been involved in a minor accident on the motorway, and if one of them had been hurt, the doctor was probably patching them up. She couldn’t see any other cars though, which suggested he was there alone.

  She walked to the front of the building and set off a security light. Cursing, she stepped back into a shadowy area and waited a while. All seemed quiet.

  She didn’t want to enter the building from the front. The security light would give the game away every time. There was only one thing for it: she’d have to get over the gate and sneak round the back. On closer examination she realised that wouldn’t work either; there were deadly spikes on top.

  On a whim, she checked the padlock, not expecting it to be unlocked for one moment, but she was in luck. Someone had arranged the lock to give the appearance of being secured, but they hadn’t pushed it in fully. Working quietly, she unhooked the chain from the lock, unwrapped it and slipped through the gap. She took care to replace the restraint as she’d found it. At least she could make a fast escape if someone spotted her.

  The side of the industrial unit was in darkness, with no security lights. At the sound of voices, she stopped at a barred window to listen, straining to hear. It was no good; the sound was too muffled. Yet this had to be the place. Will was inside, she was certain of it.

  Once she reached the end of the building, Charlotte peered around the corner. There was Vinnie’s car, the front wing crunched by the impact from the earlier motorway chase. She was delighted to see his vehicle had fared worse than the company car, but it also meant he was probably in there, gun and all. She had to do everything possible to find Will without Vinnie realising she was back in circulation. If he had his gun, she was in above her head and would have to alert DI Comfort or Toni Lawson to get the gun squad in there. She had no desire to stare down the barrel of a deadly weapon again.

  Alert for more security lights, she moved to the rear side of the unit, hugging the wall. There was a window ahead, a clear one which would finally give her a view of what was going on inside. She edged towards it, alert for the voices which didn’t seem to be coming from the room. It was worth risking a look; she was desperate to see Will. If they’d hurt him, what would she do?

  She stooped below the window, listening for sounds of life inside, but there was nothing. Slowly, she pushed herself up to see over the window ledge. Doctor Henderson had his back to her, and he was sorting through his medical bag.

  As she raised herself up a little higher, she heard the crunch of a footstep on gravel to her side and felt a sharp jab in her neck. Her legs gave way beneath her and she felt herself dropping to the ground.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The first thing Charlotte recognised was Will’s voice. She’d never heard him like this before: nervy, on edge, fearful. Then there were footsteps, on a hard, concrete surface, echoing along the floor. Aside from the woozy sensation in her head, a persistent sting in her neck suggested she’d been injected, no doubt with some drug from Dr Henderson’s medicine bag. Her head was covered too, with something like a pillowcase. She tried to move her hands, but they were tied to her front. Of course they were. Her ankles were secured too.

  ‘Will?�
�� she ventured.

  ‘I’m here, Charlotte—’

  The dull thud of a fist on flesh was followed by a guttural sound from Will.

  ‘You bastards,’ she shouted. ‘This is nothing to do with my husband. If you want information, you’ll have to get it from me.’

  There was relaxed laughter, from familiar voices. Vinnie and Fabian’s doctor friend sounded calm and in control. She struggled against her restraints, but they were tight and there was little she could do to loosen them.

  ‘So, you’ve come round at last. You can’t beat a drop of Propofol to stop someone dead in their tracks. It took virtually nothing to knock you out.’

  ‘Just tell me what you want, Vinnie. What’s all this about? Why are you so desperate to get your hands on those documents?’

  ‘This doesn’t work like the films, Charlotte. I don’t confess all our plans to you so you can make some death-defying escape. What happens here is that I get to showcase some tricks I learnt in Afghanistan. If you’re sensible about things, your husband walks away with all his fingers intact and you get to retain your knee caps.’

  Charlotte had always wondered why people in films who found themselves in a similar situation to herself continued to struggle despite being tightly bound. She’d got her answer. It was a natural instinct when your entire body was overcome with a cocktail of hate, anger, frustration and helplessness. It seemed to be the only way to express herself, however futile.

  She heard a rip of tape and a scuffle to the rear of her. Will called out.

  ‘Just do what you have to, Charlotte. Kate can take care of—’