by Karla Forbes
He seemed to find the notion amusing. “I’m not asking for a ransom.”
“Then what?” she asked, bewildered.
His smile slipped. “Don’t ask questions.”
She had to know. “Is this something to do with my husband being an MP?” she persisted.
The knife flashed in his hand and was immediately back at her throat. He stroked it almost lovingly over the soft pale skin.
“You’re making me angry. You shouldn’t do that. I might kill you, and then your kids will never see you alive again.”
She shuddered at the matter-of-fact way he talked of death, but again forced herself to sound calm. “Will you release my hands please?”
His face twisted into a sneer.
“I’m begging you,” she called in panic as he turned to go. “The handcuffs are cutting into my skin.” She saw him hesitate and pressed home her advantage. “I won’t try to escape, I promise.”
He regarded her for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “I won’t take them off, but I’ll fasten them in front as long as you don’t try anything.”
“I won’t,” she said, too quickly.
“I mean it!” he snarled. “If you scream, or try to escape, you’ll never see your kids again!”
“I’ve given you my word!” she shot back at him, desperation making her reckless. “My kids mean everything to me. I’ll do anything you say.”
“You’d better, because if you don’t you’re going to die.”
Sarah nodded in acquiescence. He pushed her, roughly, onto her belly and with one deft movement unlocked the handcuffs. Before she had time to react he flipped her onto her back, grabbed her wrists and fastened them together in front. He had come prepared. He fished a padlock and a length of chain from his pocket and used them to secure the handcuffs to the floor of the van. He then sat back and admired his handiwork.
“You’ll be more comfortable now,” he said, almost solicitously. “You’ll be able to move around. There’s a bucket in the corner when you want a piss, and I’ll bring you something to eat later. Remember though, if you try anything stupid, your kids will be going to a funeral.”
He rattled the chain, checking that it was secure, then stepped out of the van without another word. The door was slammed shut behind him, plunging her into darkness, and she heard a key turning in a lock.
She waited a long time until she was sure that he wasn’t coming back, then, very carefully, tried her luck with the handcuffs. They felt solid and unyielding. She tried forcing them over her hands but all she managed to do was chafe her skin. Next she tugged on every inch of the chain, searching for the slightest evidence of weakness. It was light but strong, and easily withstood her efforts to break it. Finally she examined the device that secured the chain to the floor. It was a simple inverted U-shaped handle that appeared to be welded to the metal. She yanked and pulled but it didn’t budge. She knew then that she wasn’t going anywhere by her own efforts.
She let her hands fall to her lap, unable even to cry, and then crawled into a ball and lay immobile, apart from the shudders that convulsed her. She began to pray.
***
Hubner glanced up as Wilson walked back in. “How did it go?”
“No problem,” Wilson said with a grin. “I should have studied psychology instead of chemistry. First I put the fear of God into her and then I let her think that I was being kind by doing what I was going to do anyway. By the time I finished with her she was acting like a grateful puppy when you stop kicking it.”
“I hope so,” Hubner said. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“She won’t try anything,” Wilson assured him. “I left her believing that all she’s got to do is shut up and behave herself and she’ll see her kids again. A useful tool, mother love.”
He sprawled into an armchair and flicked on the television. “I almost feel sorry for her. She really believes that she’s going home again. It didn’t seem to occur to her that the moment she saw my face in the lane, she was dead.”
***
Ed disconnected and sat for a while deep in thought, torn between staying quiet and going to his boss and telling him everything. He didn’t like what he had heard about these three men. Nick was heading for trouble. The problem for Ed was that he was already in too deep. He had said nothing when Nick had first gone to him for help, and had then compounded his complicity by using police facilities to check out Fox on Nick’s behalf. He wandered distractedly over to the coffee machine and helped himself to a paper cup.
“You’d better leave that,” a voice at his side ordered. “The Guv wants you in his office.”
Ed jumped guiltily. “What?”
“The Guv’s office, now. He looked to me as though he didn’t want to be kept waiting.”
Ed immediately dropped the paper cup and hurried away, wondering how much his boss knew, and anticipating the worst. He knocked on the Inspector’s door and entered in response to a curt grunt from within. His boss was sitting at his desk. Another man, sitting to one side, looked up curiously as Ed walked in.
“This is DC Gaskin from Kent Police,” the Inspector said by way of introduction. “He’s here to ask you some questions about a friend of yours. I’m on my way out, so you can use this office.” He pushed his chair away and stood to leave. “Tell him everything you can, Sergeant. I don’t want Kent Police thinking we’re uncooperative.”
He strode out, closing the door behind him. Ed and the visitor were left looking at each other in mutual suspicion.
“I’m here about Nick Sullivan,” Gaskin said without preamble. “Are you aware that Kent Force is looking for him? A friend of his was murdered. We’re hoping he might be able to tell us what happened.”
Ed felt a wave of panic wash over him. A few minutes before he had been considering telling the truth, but now, faced with the consequences of his previous actions, all he wanted to do was stay out of trouble. The lie came easily to his lips.
“Nick? No, I haven’t heard from him for a while now.”
Gaskin appraised him with a penetrating look. “You haven’t? That’s strange. According to his wife, you two are good friends.”
“We are good friends,” Ed quickly agreed, “but we don’t see as much of each other as we used to. We both work long hours. You know what it’s like.”
Gaskin gave a grimace of empathy. “I certainly do. There’s never enough time to see your family, let alone anyone else.”
Ed allowed himself to relax slightly. “Anyway, we move in different circles nowadays. He’s loaded, whereas I’m scraping by on a sergeant’s pay.”
Gaskin gave a sour grin. “Tell me about it. I’m not even a sergeant yet.”
Ed felt his confidence returning. “It makes you think, doesn’t it? We’re putting our lives on the line every day, whereas people like that sit in a comfortable office and play the stock markets. He can afford an Aston Martin and all I can manage is a Ford. He’s got a nice little cruiser berthed at Brighton Marina, whilst I spend my spare time sitting at home wondering how I’m going to pay the bills.”
Gaskin nodded. “Yeah, it doesn’t seem right does it? So when did you last see him?”
The question temporarily threw Ed. “What? Um…I can’t remember exactly. A few weeks ago, I suppose.”
“But you’ll let us know if he shows up?”
“Yes, of course.”
Gaskin stood to leave. “Well, I guess that’s all, Sergeant Burgen. Thanks for your time.”
“No problem,” Ed said, surprised that the interview was at an end. “If there’s anything else you need to know, just shout.”
***
The two men shook hands and Ed left the office, leaving Gaskin brooding in silence. He used the desk phone to put a call through to Mason.
“I’ve just spoken to Sergeant Burgen,” he said, quietly. “He told me he hasn’t seen Sullivan.”
“Do you believe him?” Mason asked sharply.
Gaskin shook h
is head. “No, he was lying through his teeth. He looked as nervous as hell, and not once did he ask what was going on. I told him briefly that a friend of Sullivan’s had been murdered, but he didn’t look shocked or ask for the details.”
“Because he already knew,” Mason stated. “Listen, Bill. I don’t want you coming back yet. Stay there a while. Do some digging. Find out if Sullivan is staying in his house. If he isn’t, then he might be staying with a mutual acquaintance.”
“Will do, Guv.”
“One way or another, I want this resolved,” Mason said bitterly. “This bastard has given me the runaround for too long now. He’s making a fool of me, and I won’t have that. Do you understand?”
Gaskin understood only too well. He put down the phone and went off to find the Inspector, catching up with him just leaving the building.
“I’m not entirely satisfied with the answers I received from Sergeant Burgen,” he said. “Do I have your permission to dig around?”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the Inspector said grimly. “Do what you must, I suppose. But keep me informed, and tell me first if there’s any chance of this becoming a formal investigation.”
***
Nick had been strangely quiet for the last two hours. They had driven back to Annelies’s house to pack a few clothes before setting straight off for Hampshire, but in all that time, he had barely uttered more than a few words. Annelies didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. She was pleased to have won the argument and be tagging along, but she couldn’t help wondering if something was wrong. At first she chattered endlessly in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but had eventually given up and lapsed into a silence of her own. Another half-hour passed before she made another attempt at conversation, this time through necessity.
“I need help, Nick,” she admitted, mildly exasperated. “I don’t know exactly where I’m supposed to be going.”
He seemed to come to, as though returning from a distant place. “Sorry… Oh yes, of course.” He scrutinised the dashboard. “Where’s the SatNav?”
“Under the seat,” she said brightly. “It’s called a road atlas.”
He shook his head in mock dismay. “Isn’t it about time you got yourself a decent car instead of this old wreck?”
She poked her tongue out at him, relieved that he seemed to have shaken off his mood. “It might be an old wreck, but at least it won’t attract the attention of every copper in the south of England like a certain fancy Aston Martin that I know of.”
He scrabbled under the seat for the atlas. “Yes, point taken. Where are we exactly?”
“We’ve just left the M27 and we’re on the B3078.”
Nick glanced from the atlas to a sheet of scribbled instructions that he had pulled from his pocket. “In that case, we’re nearly there. First right, then second left, and the gates to the park should be about fifty yards along.”
She followed his directions, slowing up as they approached a large road sign that proudly proclaimed the entrance to the Forest Lodge Holiday Park.
“How do you want to play this?” she asked, peering down the long twisting driveway through the gathering gloom.
“Before we do anything, we’ll drive around and see if we can see Fox’s car. There’s no point in booking ourselves in if he’s not here.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, looking around with interest. “It’s really isolated here; the perfect place for you to hide away from the police.”
“I’m not just hiding,” he reminded her. “I’m trying to track these men down. If they’re not here, there’s no point in staying.”
“But if they’re not here, where else can you look?” she pointed out. “The trail will be dead.”
“In that case,” he said stubbornly, “I’ll go back to square one and look for a new trail.”
She looked at the obstinate tilt of his chin, and decided that if she were a criminal with Nick Sullivan on her case, she would spare herself a whole load of grief by giving herself up straight away.
“Do you always get what you’ve set your mind on?” she asked, slightly awed.
“No,” he admitted, “but I always give it a damn good try. Stop! Over there… Can you see?”
He was pointing towards an elderly black BMW parked up alongside a white unmarked van.
“That’s it,” he said, looking at the reverse of the sheet of paper. “That’s his registration number. And by the looks of things, he’s not alone.”
“What now?” she asked with a nervous shiver.
He turned to her with a broad smile. “How do you fancy a nice break in the country?”
“Now you’re talking,” she said, enthusiastically.
He reached under the dash and pulled out the baseball cap and glasses.
“What do you think?” he asked, eyeing himself up in the mirror.
She appraised him with lopsided grin. “It’s unnerving. You look really different…sort of…mean and moody. It might be the stubble.”
He ran a hand self-consciously over his chin. “Before we book in, we need to take a look around,” he said. “Take a slow drive past.”
He slumped down into the seat as Annelies set off. There were three lodges near the one that Fox’s car was parked outside, one with lights blazing and two in darkness.
“We’ll try and book that one,” he said, pointing to the nearest unoccupied lodge. “It’s perfectly placed for watching them come and go without them even knowing we’re here. Come on, we’d better find Reception. Ideally I’d like to keep a watch on them twenty-four hours a day, so we’ll need to devise a rota where we can take turns to sleep.”
“Oh, I see,” she said with theatrical mock-annoyance. “First you don’t want me to come along, and then you’re putting me to work.”
He turned to her, his face serious. “No, nothing’s changed. I meant what I said. You stay out of harm’s way. It’ll certainly help if you can keep watch, but that’s all. On no account are you to go anywhere near these men. They killed Tim, remember.”
Her smile faded. “I wish you’d stop worrying about me like this. I don’t need protection.”
“Yes you do. Ed has no idea you’re with me. If he knew what I was getting you into, he’d probably come after me with a gun.”
“I see,” she said, her voice subdued. “It’s not me you’re worrying about. It’s just the thought of having to face Ed that’s bothering you.”
He pulled her towards him, tweaking her nose.
“That’s partly it, but facing Ed would be nothing compared to having to face myself.”
“So you do care?” she said, brightening.
“Don’t ever doubt it,” he told her fiercely. She turned the car around with a warm smile on her face.
***
Detective Inspector Mason’s mood was growing darker by the minute. In spite of all his efforts, his suspect was running rings around him. It had been more than an hour since the message from Sullivan had been passed to him, and his fury, when he discovered that it had already been languishing in an in-tray for nearly two hours, was truly awful. It was his opinion that a fugitive from the law should at least have the courtesy to lay low and be fearful, not phone in with mocking suggestions on how the police should be carrying out their investigations. As Mason had bellowed at those around him and raged at the world in general, his determination to see his only suspect brought to justice had begun to take on the energy of a holy crusade.
He had called Croydon Police immediately, demanding that someone be despatched to the address Sullivan had given, and since then he had been never more than a few yards from his desk. He glared angrily at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, and finally he could stand it no longer. He snatched his phone and demanded to be put through to the person dealing with the matter.
“DI Mason here!” he barked, when a young constable eventually came on the line. “What’s happening? It’s been over an hour!”
“We’ve ju
st finished checking out the address, Sir,” the younger man assured him, “but Sullivan wasn’t there.”
“I assumed that,” Mason growled with exasperation. “Tell me what you found.”
The hapless constable hesitated. “Well…nothing really. We knocked, but there was no one at home. So we had a look around. There was a smashed window at the back, so we went inside but it was deserted. If your suspect was ever there, he was long gone.”
“What about this Malcolm Fox? Who is he?”
“He served a stretch for rape and aggravated burglary, but he’s been out for over a year now and seems to keeping his head down.”
Mason lapsed into thoughtful silence. “What have you done to investigate the break-in?” he asked at length.
“Nothing,” the younger man admitted. “We couldn’t tell if anything had been stolen, and as Fox himself hasn’t reported a burglary there’s nothing to investigate. It was probably just kids who broke the window.”
“No,” Mason corrected him. “It was Sullivan.”
“We don’t know that for certain, Sir,” the constable pointed out.
“Keep me informed if anything turns up,” Mason said coldly, before disconnecting. Another dead-end; he had guessed it would be. His only hope now was that Detective Sergeant Burgen might prove more interesting.
***
Sarah Feltham had spent two days locked inside the van, and her mood had swung from terror to stoicism, and finally to despair. During that time she had seen no one but her captor, and the boredom had become a crushing, non-ending torment. She had tried at first to keep her spirits up by sleeping when she could and occupying herself with various mind games during the endless hours that she was awake. She had tried to measure the length of her captivity by the thin glint of light coming in through a crack in the door, but even that had proved difficult as she would wake from a fitful doze, with no idea whether she had slept for just a few minutes or several hours.
She had attempted to strike up a conversation with her captor, but he had proved uncommunicative, staying only long enough to leave a plate of food on the floor and empty the bucket. At first, having little appetite, she had refused the food, but he had turned on her, angrily telling her she had to eat or she would never see her children again. She had forced herself then but was immediately sick, and his anger had been truly frightening. He had brought her another plate and stood over her while she had taken a few tentative mouthfuls but when even that small amount of food had gone the way of the first, he had pulled back a fist. She had cried out in terror and flinched away from him but he had let his fist fall to his side and had abruptly left her alone, slamming the van door behind him.
