Fallout (The Nick Sullivan Thrillers Book 1)

by Karla Forbes

  Sarah stepped back, giving her son a final appraisal before coming to the conclusion that he was in a fit state to hand over to his teachers. “OK then, darling. I’ll pick you up at the usual time. Make sure you wait inside for…” She found herself talking to William’s rapidly-disappearing back as he turned and ran off to join his waiting friends.

  She watched him go with exasperated pride. He was growing into the image of his father in every way, not just physically but also in his mannerisms and character. She wondered if, like his father, he would lean towards politics when he grew up. She hoped not. It wasn’t an easy life being a Member of Parliament. It was even harder being married to one.

  As the small figure of her son disappeared from view, she turned back to the Land Rover parked outside the school gates. Her face softened at the sight of her two-year-old daughter strapped into the back seat. The toddler was threatening tears, her mouth pulled into an unhappy pout.

  “I know, Chloe,” Sarah said indulgently. “We’d both like William to stay at home. But he’s a big boy now; he has to go to school.”

  “Want to play Willum!” the little girl demanded.

  “I know you do, darling, but he’ll be home again soon. Now, if you’re a really good girl, when we get home I’ll read you a story from your new book.”

  “Mummy read story!” the little girl gave a delighted chuckle. Sarah pulled herself up into the driving seat wishing that all life’s little upsets could be solved so easily.

  The drive from school to home was an easy seven-mile journey that took her through peaceful unspoilt countryside. Today was particularly beautiful. The autumnal sun, lying low on the horizon, dazzled her each time it appeared intermittently through the trees which lined the sides of the road. The heavy golden-brown foliage still clung stubbornly to the branches in spite of it being late October. So far, the weather had been mild, with none of the autumn storms that often caused the trees to shake off their dead leaves in one huge overnight frenzy. She drove on autopilot, thinking through her plans for the rest of the week. Her husband, James, was staying in town for an important sitting in the House of Commons. It was one of those occasions when every vote counted, and only sudden death was justification to stay away. She didn’t mind; it wasn’t often that she had time to herself. She would cherish every moment of it.

  The familiar old-fashioned milestone at the side of the road told her she was nearly home. She and James had bought a pretty cottage in the country when William had come on the scene, both preferring the idea of fresh air and a more relaxed pace of life to the frenzy of London. The cottage lay along a half-mile track bordered by fields, with only cows from the distant farm for company. It could have seemed isolated if it wasn’t for their burgeoning social life, and their 4x4s that kept them in touch with civilisation whatever the weather threw at them.

  She turned into the lane and jumped on the brakes, screeching to a bone-jarring halt that elicited a wail of protest from her daughter in the back seat.

  “It’s OK, Chloe,” she said, in a soothing voice that belied the anger she was feeling. If she had been driving faster she would have piled straight into the black BMW that was slewed across the track and blocking her way. She hurriedly locked the car doors, remembering warnings about the constant need for vigilance when married to a Member of Parliament. The car was empty and seemed abandoned. She peered around looking for the owner, but her only companions were the birds twittering overhead in the autumn sunshine.

  Without warning, a figure stepped into the road ahead of her from a gap in the hedge. It was a man in his late forties, who seemed just as startled by the sight of her as she was of him. He was holding a mobile phone above his head as though searching for a signal. He gave her an apologetic grin and walked over to her side window. Sarah’s hand closed nervously over her own mobile phone.

  “Sorry,” the man mouthed at her through the glass. “I didn’t mean to startle you. My car’s broken down. I tried pulling off the road to avoid blocking any passing traffic but I managed to get stuck completely and now I’m in a worse position than I was before.”

  Sarah found herself relaxing slightly. He sounded both articulate and friendly, and certainly quite harmless. She opened the window a couple of inches. “Have you phoned anyone for help?”

  He gave an embarrassed shrug. “I’ve been trying to. I don’t seem to be able to get a signal. That’s why I was creeping around the hedge. I hope I didn’t frighten you too much, looming into view like that.”

  She smiled back at him, taking in his appearance of middle-aged normality. He was wearing a neat jacket over a dark navy fleece and grey slacks: an ordinary man, not a rapist or a car thief. She lowered the window another few inches. “It used to be difficult getting a signal round here, but I’ve had no problem since they put up another mast. Perhaps some mobiles work better than others. Would you like me to try for you?”

  He looked both apologetic and grateful. “Would you mind? I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “No trouble,” she assured him.

  “In that case, perhaps you could call my brother-in-law. He lives nearby and he’s a car mechanic. It’ll probably be faster to call him than the AA. We’re a bit in the sticks here aren’t we?”

  He scribbled a number down on a sheet of paper and handed it to her. As she wound the window down to take it from his hand, he suddenly stared at the toddler in the back seat.

  “Oh dear!” he said in alarm. “I think your little girl’s choking.”

  Sarah turned in panic, but even as her brain was registering the fact that there was nothing wrong with her daughter, she was aware of a hand reaching in through the open window and releasing the door lock. She whirled back again, too late. The man was wrenching open the door and gripping her tightly by the collar. She began to scream but his other hand clenched firmly down over her mouth.

  “Shut up, or I’ll slit the kid’s throat.”

  His face was inches from her own, his features twisted into a parody of his previous easy-going smile. She could feel his saliva spraying her as he spoke. She froze, but in the same moment, was aware of another figure coming up behind him, holding a small bottle and something else that looked like a wad of cotton wool. She panicked and tried to bite into the fingers that were jammed against her mouth, but he released his grip just long enough to slap his hand, hard, across her face. Her head sang with the force of the blow and she tasted warm salty blood. The other man unscrewed the bottle with his teeth and drenched the cotton wool with the contents before reaching over and holding it over her nose and mouth. She knew what it was and tried to pull away, kicking and scratching with all her strength, but the first man forced her back down into the seat as the second one held the chloroform pad in place.

  The last thing Sarah heard before darkness descended was the thin terrified wail of her little girl.

  ***

  James Feltham yawned and stretched and glanced at his watch, wondering if he had time to fit in a short stroll in the fresh air before the next sitting. Reluctantly, he decided the answer was no. He had journeyed to town the evening before and had been too tired to complete his paperwork, preferring instead a large malt whisky and an early night. He was now paying the price. His suitcase was bulging with work that he had optimistically hoped to finish before breakfast but was still mocking him in its untouched state.

  He turned back to the pile of papers, attacking them with fresh determination, and barely responded, five minutes later, to a knock on the door. A second knock, louder and more urgent, caused him to stop what he was doing with a resigned frown.

  “Come in,” he barked.

  The two men who strode in seemed not to notice his resentment at the intrusion. They carried their gravity and authority with them like a well-worn coat. Feltham leaned back in his chair and blinked nervously as one of them flashed his ID.

  “Mr Feltham? I’m Detective Chief Inspector McKay, SO12; my colleague is Inspector Baker. We need
to speak to you urgently.”

  McKay was middle-aged and stocky, with dark receding hair and a pugilistic appearance that seemed strangely at odds with his smart suit. He stood ramrod-straight and alert, the tension flowing off him in waves, and his presence felt vaguely uncomfortable like the supercharged atmosphere before a storm. Feltham looked uneasily from one to the other and his stomach gave a lurch. Whereas McKay was frowning, Baker’s expression, Feltham realised with a start, was sympathetic.

  Feltham gestured to two nearby chairs. “You’d better take a seat,” he said. “SO12, you say? This sounds serious.”

  McKay slipped his badge back into a pocket. “Can I ask you when you last spoke to your wife, sir?”

  “Last night,” Feltham stuttered. “Why?”

  “Not since then?”

  Feltham pushed back his chair to stand up. “I phoned her to say I’d arrived safely. I haven’t spoken to her since. What’s this all about?”

  McKay’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Mr Feltham. You might want to stay sitting down. It’s your wife; we believe something has happened to her. This morning her car was found abandoned in the lane near to where you live.”

  Feltham lowered himself slowly into his seat. “What do you mean, abandoned? I don’t understand. Where is Sarah?”

  “We don’t know,” McKay told him gravely. “Her car was found unlocked and standing empty; your daughter was still strapped into the back seat.”

  “My God!” Feltham gasped. “Is Chloe alright?”

  “She was badly frightened, but otherwise unharmed,” McKay assured him. “We think she was on her own for less than twenty minutes. She was discovered by your cleaner, who usually arrives for work soon after your wife gets back from dropping your son off at school.”

  Feltham looked from one man to the other. “I don’t understand. My wife would never leave the baby alone. Something must have happened. Perhaps she was taken ill. Have you searched the fields around the lane? She might have wandered off and fainted.”

  McKay and Baker exchanged glances. It was Baker who spoke. “We don’t think your wife was sick, Mr Feltham. We have reason to believe that she was taken by force.”

  Feltham looked stricken. “No! What are you saying?”

  “We found a note stuck to the dashboard. Forensics are examining it now, but we don’t expect them to find anything.”

  “A note?” Feltham repeated, bewildered.

  Baker hesitated, clearly unwilling to add to Feltham’s agony. It was McKay who explained.

  “We believe it was left by your wife’s abductors.”

  Feltham gasped as the implications of the policeman’s words hit home. “A ransom note?” he asked, distraught.

  McKay looked uncomfortable. “Well no…not exactly.” He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket on which he had scribbled down a copy of the message. He darted a quick glance at Feltham before reading. “It says: ‘Once Sarah Feltham has been returned, the government will have less than 48 hours to act on the instructions that follow. Failure to comply with them will result in loss of life and social and financial chaos on an unimaginable scale.’.”

  He returned the paper to his pocket and Feltham stared at him for several moments in stunned silence. “What the hell does that mean?” he asked, his voice cracking with fear.

  “That’s the problem,” McKay admitted. “Until such time as your wife is returned, we have no idea. I do believe, though, that it was meant to put us on standby.”

  ***

  Nick and Annelies sat in silence, peering through the windscreen. The object of their attentions was a small scruffy end-of-terrace house in a road full of parked cars.

  “Do you think anyone’s at home?” Annelies asked at length.

  “I don’t know,” Nick said, quickly scanning the registration numbers for one that matched Fox’s. “There’s only one way to find out. Wait here.” As he began to open his door, Annelies reached over and quickly yanked him back. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, annoyed.

  “I might ask you the same,” she snapped back. “You can’t just walk up to the front door. They know what you look like.”

  “I don’t have much choice,” he pointed out. "We can’t sit here all afternoon.”

  “Then I’ll go,” Annelies announced firmly.

  “You certainly will not!”

  She pulled her mouth into the tight line that Nick recognised with a sinking heart. “But it makes more sense for me to go first,” she urged him. “I won’t do anything stupid. I’ll knock on the door, and if anyone’s in, I’ll make an excuse and leave.”

  “I’m not happy about it,” Nick said, realising even as he protested that her idea made perfect sense.

  “I promise I won’t go inside,” she said, jumping out of the car before he had a chance to change his mind. Nick watched her with misgivings as she searched for a bell, gave up, knocked on the door then stood back listening. A few minutes passed. She knocked again, peered through a window, and then turned back to Nick, her hands raised in a ‘What now?’ gesture.

  He was by her side within seconds. “OK,” he said. “l don’t know what I’m going to find in there, so let me borrow your mobile and then go back to the car and sit tight.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off before she could speak. “You’re more use to me if you stay outside and act as a lookout.”

  “OK. If anyone comes, I’ll give three loud toots on the horn,” she promised, handing over her mobile. Without warning, she reached up to him and gave him a brief kiss on the lips. “Take care, Nick. I’ve got used to having you around.”

  He retaliated by tweaking her nose and pushing her away from him towards the car. Without another word, he hurried down the side of the house, picked a large pebble off the ground and used it to smash a small kitchen window. He pulled back into the shadows, listening. A dog barked in the next garden, but was quickly silenced by a man’s voice yelling at it to shut up. Nick pulled his sleeve over his hand, punched out the remains of the glass and reached through to open the window. As he pulled his hand clear, it caught on the glass causing a bright red jewel of blood to well up from his finger. He swore mildly and hauled himself up on the ledge to wriggle through.

  He took in the kitchen with one sweeping glance; it was cold and deserted. On the draining board lay a half-empty carton of milk which he sniffed, wrinkling his nose at the rancid contents. He threw it to one side and walked through to the hall, peering cautiously into the living room; it too was deserted. Next he ran up the stairs, checking each of the bedrooms and the bathroom in turn, and then, once he was sure that he had the house to himself, hurried back down again and picked up the post off the mat. There were several letters, mainly circulars and bills, which judging by the dates on the envelopes had been posted over a three-day period.

  Nick’s spirits sank. He stood for a moment thinking through his options. If the trail had gone cold, he was back to square one.

  He went upstairs again and began a more systematic search. It was clear that Malcolm Fox had packed in a hurry. Cupboard doors were standing open, and items of clothing were scattered over the bed as though he had been deciding what to take and what to leave. Nick pulled open drawers and rifled through the contents but he had no idea of what he was looking for. The bathroom was equally unhelpful. Apart from an absence of toiletries that reinforced the suspicion that Fox had left for good, there was nothing.

  He went back downstairs and searched the living room. It was an unlovely place that painted a dreary picture of its owner. There was a pile of downmarket newspapers and magazines fighting for space on the sofa, and the congealed remains of a takeaway dinner strewn over a scuffed and rickety coffee table. Nick glanced through a yachting magazine and recognised, with a resigned sigh, a picture of Mrs Jackson’s boat.

  There were no pictures on the walls or photographs to give a hint of the life behind the man. Nick upended a wastepaper bin but found only empty crisp packets and flatt
ened beer cans. He sat on the sofa and looked around him, wondering where to go from here. The sense of frustration he felt at successfully tracking down one of the men only to come up against a dead end was demoralising.

  Then he had an idea. Jumping to his feet he hurried back into the hall and pressed the message button on the answerphone. There were no messages. Next he pressed 1471 and scribbled down the last number that had called. It was from a mobile. He reached out to ring it before quickly changing his mind. If it belonged to one of the three men, the last thing he wanted to do was alert them to the fact that someone was phoning from the house. He used Annelies’s mobile to phone it but after five rings it went into answerphone. Next he checked the digital display showing the last number that had been called. He scribbled it down and again used the mobile. It was answered almost immediately by a young lady with a friendly, sing-song voice.

  “Forest Lodge Holiday Park. How can I help?”

  Nick was startled. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.

  “Sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

  “Forest Lodge Holiday Park,” the voice repeated in the same friendly tone.

  He thought fast. He couldn’t afford to ignore any leads, however improbable.

  “I’m hoping to book up a few days away,” he said. “I was wondering if you’ve got any vacancies.”

  “I’ll just check sir. How long were you thinking of staying?

  Nick began making it up as he went along. “Initially a week, maybe longer. Would it be possible to leave it open?”

  “That’s not a problem at this time of the year. Once the schools have gone back, we’ve usually got spare capacity. How many people would it be for?”

  “I’m not sure at the moment; one, two at the most.”

  “Would you like the studio flat in the main building or a lodge in the forest? The flat will be cheaper.”

  This was going too fast. Before he knew it, he would have booked a holiday. He decided it was time to ask some questions of his own.

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t got a brochure. A friend gave me your name. Can you tell me something about yourselves?”