by Simon Hall
They walked out onto the silent moor and found the stony uphill track. He looked carefully around, saw no one, breathed out a relieved sigh.
It was a clear night, lit bright by the beacon of a perfect half moon. Dots and pinpricks of silver stars littered the inky sky. Only a breath of wind ruffled the moorgrass and yellow-flecked gorse. A stream chuckled by, the rushing water tumbling over the rugged granite. The air was sharp and cold and the ground crunched underfoot as they walked. Back towards the village an owl hooted out its lonely call. Her little feet sped to keep up with his strides.
‘I’ve never been out at night like this, Ed. It’s so exciting,’ she whispered, holding his hand tight. ‘This is the best adventure I’ve ever been on. Look, look! There’s one.’
He looked towards the brow of a hill, to where she was pointing. Silhouetted against the lowly stars was the dark shape of a grazing pony. ‘Is it that one?’ she whispered. ‘Is that my birthday pony?’
He felt his pulse quicken, pulled her gently along. This was another risky part of the plan, but it was unavoidable. Surely no one would see them at this time of night? They only had to walk for fifteen minutes, if that. But there was just the chance, soldiers on exercise, youngsters on a camping trip, even the police being clever enough to solve his clues. But he didn’t think so. Later in the day they’d be on his trail, but not just yet. He’d planned it perfectly.
‘I don’t know if that’s the one,’ he whispered back, still gently pulling Nicola along by her tiny hand. ‘We’ll have to see which you like best. There are lots of them around to choose from.’
She skipped back alongside him, staring over at the pony. They neared the brow of the hill and he saw the familiar shapes of the tumbledown piles of granite blocks. ‘Come on, little lady,’ he whispered. ‘It’s this way.’
He guided her through the boulders, then stopped and looked around, north, south, east and west. The moor was shaded silver by the luminous moon and there was no one in sight. Perfect.
They picked their way carefully though another stretch of the granite wreckage strewn carelessly over the moorland. Ahead was the peak of the Tor, but just below it a yawning arch of black vacuum cut into the hillside.
‘Come on,’ he whispered again. ‘We’re nearly there now.’
Chapter Eighteen
DAN WAS SURE HE would have fallen asleep if it hadn’t been for Adam’s continual pacing and prompting. His watch said seven o’clock, so it was probably about quarter past. Dawn was colouring the sleeping sky across the city to the east, and the first steady streams of cars were gathering on the roundabout encircling the ruined church.
They were back at the MIR in Charles Cross, still working on Gibson’s clues, ready to direct the teams of searchers gathering with the first light. Dan hadn’t slept at all and his mind felt slow, anaesthetised, his body numb and leaden, alive only with the sharp, incessant pain in his ankle.
It was funny, but at times like this he missed Rutherford. The dog was fine he knew, fed and exercised by his obliging downstairs neighbour, always happy to cover for emergencies at the minimal cost of a goodwill case of wine a year. But he missed that stupid tongue-out smiling expression as the dog sprinted across HartleyPark in pursuit of a stick, and he missed the cuddle they always had when he walked back into the flat after a day at work.
He realised Adam was staring at him. The detective’s eyes were bloodshot, his black hair spraying untidily and his face taut. The shadow of beard he always carried was rough and dark. Dan felt a sting of guilt for succumbing to his selfishness, getting lost in his own thoughts. He forced his mind back to Nicola.
Was she lying on the floor of some barn or shed or cottage, tied up? Sobbing through a gag? Cold and frightened? Was Gibson leering over his prize, wondering how best to use her to taunt them next? He could see similar thoughts in Adam’s unblinking eyes, driving him on.
‘Got anything yet?’ the detective asked again, his voice hoarse with tiredness.
Michael and Eleanor looked up from their computers, shook their heads, as they had the countless times that he’d asked the question.
‘I can’t see anything in the band of gold thing,’ replied Eleanor softly. ‘All I get is references to weddings, dress designers, florists, photographers and wedding planners. Oh, and a song by Freda Payne. I can’t see anything in there that helps us. As for the elements in it, well, gold is the obvious answer. I can’t see what else it could be. But that doesn’t help us either. There used to be some gold mines in Cornwall, but they’re way down in the west and we know he’s not there.’
Michael threw a paper coffee cup into the bin. It was full of them. ‘I’ve been through all the letters and the hints he says he’s giving in his phone calls. I can’t see anything at all. I’m sorry.’
Adam ran a hand through his hair and fiddled with the knot of his sagging tie. ‘I’ve just been speaking to the police family liaison officer who’s with Karen Reece. She hasn’t slept a wink since Nicola was taken. She’s sitting in her front room, surrounded by pictures of her daughter, picking them up and holding them, crying incessantly and jumping with fear at every ring of the phone. She’s talking about committing suicide if Nicola isn’t found safely.’
Adam’s voice tailed off and he turned to the window, stared out at the ruined church. ‘Jesus, I’d do the same if it was Tom.’
No one spoke. The room was quiet, only the dull rumble of the growing morning traffic seeping through the windows.
‘Is he conning us?’ rasped Adam, turning back to them. ‘Is he just taking the piss, giving us false trails to waste our time and put us off his track?’
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Dan. ‘I know I’m no expert,’ he added, looking at Eleanor and Michael, ‘but he’s been playing a game from the start, hasn’t he? He used the women’s names to set out his pattern, so he’s obviously got a plan. I don’t think he’s going to change that now. And he wants to be caught, doesn’t he? He says he’ll see us again – although he won’t be in much of a position to talk he says – so he obviously expects that. He wants to taunt us. He wants to be able to show that he gave us the clues to find him and Nicola, but we weren’t smart enough to get them until he showed us how. I’m sure the answer’s in there.’
‘OK, where then?’ snapped Adam. ‘Where the hell is it? Come on then, you cracked that stupid Death Pictures riddle. But that was only a bloody game. Now do something worthwhile. Find the bloody answer for us.’
Dan glared at him, felt his voice rising too.
‘For Christ’s, sake Adam, I am trying,’ he shot back, getting to his feet, suffering another stabbing pain from his ankle. ‘I’m trying my damned best. I don’t have to be here remember? I’m trying to help you out. I could have just sodded off home and got some bloody sleep like I’d love to. As you’ve pointed out often enough, I’m a bloody journalist, not a cop. I’m trying to help you find her.’
They stared at each other. ‘Now then, come on,’ said Eleanor soothingly, getting up from her desk to put a hand on each of their shoulders. ‘Come on … we’re all tired but we’re doing our best. If there’s anyone who’s not pulling their weight, it’s me and Michael. We’re supposed to be finding the solutions, remember? So let’s calm down and have another go. That’s all we can do.’
Adam sat down on the edge of a desk. ‘That’s what you can do. I’m going up to Dartmoor with the search teams. I want to be at the heart of it.’ His voice was calmer now. ‘Dan, you can help us with that if you’re up to it.’
Dan sat back down too, on a desk facing Adam and massaged his aching ankle. He sensed the disguised apology, accepted it. ‘Sure, I’m in for the long haul. I’ll come up with you. What have you got in mind?’
‘You can have another exclusive for your lunchtime news. You can tell the people out there who we’re looking for. And you can say we’re concentrating the search on Dartmoor after finding some clues. I want as many people looking for Gibson and Nicola as I can get
. I think it’s time we named him publicly and told people exactly what kind of a man it is we’re looking for.’
Zac had been in the middle of a favourite dream and took some rousing.
She was a new age criminal, a techno villain. She was brilliant, defied the finest minds in the country as they tried to track her down. But she was a moral criminal too, a modern Robin Hood. She only stole from the big banks and most dubious companies, those that exploited Third World workers and levelled the rainforests for profit. And she did it all from her laptop. She’d plug in to a system, dart through its firewalls, raid the treasury, and disappear. The single clue she’d leave was an electronic calling card. The Cyber Minx.
The only problem was he couldn’t quite decide on her hairstyle. The rest was easy: slender, tall and elegant, dressed in high-heeled black boots, tight black jeans and a black jumper, which hugged the curves of her swelling breasts. Full and alluring lips, green eyes, and a flawless complexion. It was just the hair that was giving him trouble. It would be dark of course, almost black, but what style?
From the earliest days of puberty he’d always liked women with clinical bobbed hair, cut sharp at chin length. But recently he’d started to turn his head to the current fashion, much shorter and spikier cuts. It was a problem, but only a small one, and it wouldn’t be unpleasant to resolve over the coming days and nights. He was looking forward to it.
She’d stolen hundreds of thousands of pounds from a big bank where the Prime Minister himself had an account and SOCA had been called in. But again they’d failed to track her down. Zac shifted in his bed as his mind worked its way into his favourite part of the dream. The government had called for the best computer man in the country, and he, Zac, had been suggested. He’d laid his trap, tracked and caught her.
But when they met, when he knocked on the door of that fine Chelsea flat, then came the dilemma. Continue crime fighting and turn her in, or do as she begged and join her in a moral crusade? So long I’ve been waiting to meet a man like you, she’d said, waiting so long for someone who’s my equal. Come away with me …
He shifted again and his mouth relaxed into a contented smile. It was just the question of her hairstyle.
Something was jabbing at his brain and he couldn’t understand what. He was about to take the Minx’s hand and walk off into the sunset. It was a perfect Hollywood ending. Who was being so inconsiderate as to interrupt?
He opened one eye and glared at the blue pulsing mobile next to the bed. It was that bloody Adam Breen again, it had to be. Not content with keeping him up all night, he no doubt wanted poor sleepy Zac back in the office to work on another of his mad ideas. He checked the bedside clock. 7.28. He’d only had two hours sleep.
He grabbed the phone. ‘Hi, it’s Zac.’
‘Zac, it’s Claire, Claire Reynolds.’
He sat up in bed. Detective Sergeant Claire Reynolds. Claire with the gorgeous dark bob and fine figure. Not to mention the sharp brain. Claire who was part of the model for the Minx. Calling him as he lay in bed. Shit! It was almost worth being woken.
He tried not to stammer. ‘Hi, Claire, how can I help you?’
‘Zac, it is work but it’s a bit of a favour too. After that last case we worked on you said I should ring you if I needed any computer work done? I’m sorry to call you so early but I need your help.’
‘Sure Claire, no problem.’ Why was he shaping his hair into a reasonable style, he wondered? ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m following a bit of a private hunch, so could you keep it to yourself?’
‘Sure, Claire, you know you can trust me.’ He hoped he didn’t sound too eager. ‘What is it?’
‘I think there may be some kind of crime going on which involves the internet and a chat room. What I need to know Zac, is if I log into a room and start talking to people in there, can you trace them? And particularly, can you trace whoever’s set it up and is monitoring what’s said in there?’
Zac ruffled his hair again. It always took some work in the morning.
‘Sure, Claire, it’s not too difficult to do. It’s very similar to tracing a phone call. When were you thinking of doing it?’
‘Probably tonight, Zac, if you’re free.’
Was he free? That was the sort of question he liked to start the day. A perfect no-brainer. But he’d have to find time to get into town and buy himself something new to wear, wouldn’t he?
‘I don’t think I’m doing anything else tonight,’ he said happily.
Adam stood on a dry-stone wall at the edge of the car park and looked down on the crowd. A couple of hundred people had gathered. They’d set up base in the campsite at the back of the Spray of Feathers Inn at Princetown, high up on the open moor. There was a ring of uniformed police officers at the front, with some plain-clothes detectives too. About forty soldiers, in their khaki camouflage fatigues, had been called in from survival exercises to help. There were around a hundred others, all ages, wearing colourful waterproofs, blue and green wax jackets, hats and stout boots, all there to help in the hunt for Nicola.
Nine o’clock on a clear October morning. Nicola’s birthday. This had to be the day Gibson was talking about. His deadline. They had to save her today.
Adam’s tiredness had fled. He didn’t know if it was the coffee, the frosty chill of the Dartmoor air, or the energy and anticipation he could feel from the crowd, but his mind felt alert and his body ready.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he called, and the rumble of conversation died. ‘Thanks to everyone who’s come here today to search for Nicola. Your help could be vital. In a moment you’ll be divided into teams, each led by a police officer. We’ve got a large amount of ground to cover and only a limited time before it gets dark, so all I want to say is this. Out there somewhere is a young girl who is in grave danger. It is no exaggeration to say your presence here today could help save her life.’
He paused, let the words settle on the crowd. ‘So look for anything suspicious; tents, signs of a camp or fire, discarded clothing, particularly a child’s, any unusual activity in a house or cottage or barn, anything like that. The smallest of leads could take us to Nicola. Remember that, and let it guide you in your hunt. Now go, and let’s bring her home safely.’
He clambered down from the wall and walked towards one of the police incident vans when a familiar face made him stop.
‘Hello, Whiting,’ said Adam warily. ‘What are you doing here?’
The man diplomatically ignored the stupidity of the question. ‘You said you wanted everyone who could to come. I suspected your need would mean even I was not excluded.’
Adam looked at him. That cold smile had gone, as had the hissing voice. ‘Well, thanks, for taking the time away from your investigation …’
‘There is no investigation,’ Whiting cut in. ‘I examined all the facts of the case and my preliminary conclusion is that there is nothing criminal about it. I have submitted my initial report and I expect PC Crouch to be reinstated in the next few days. I did my duty there and now I’m doing it here.’
Adam nodded. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’
Whiting held his look for a moment, then nodded and walked off to join a search party. Thoughtfully, Adam watched him go.
There was something odd in what the man had said. He’d emphasised the words “preliminary” and “initial” in a strangely meaningful way. It wasn’t like him to give up – quite the opposite – nor let word get out about the state of his investigation. He was usually highly secretive. But what did he have to gain by admitting he’d failed?
Adam turned back to the police vans. Maybe he was just being overly suspicious. Whatever, it didn’t matter. He had more important things to think about. He pulled himself up into a van, bent over a map of south and west Dartmoor spread out across the table. A helicopter buzzed overhead.
‘It’s a standard search pattern sir,’ said a TAG sergeant, dressed in their all black uniform. ‘The helicopter’s spotting an
ything that might be suspicious. They’ve got the thermal imaging camera working to check for anything that looks like an adult and a child. On the ground, I’ve divided the moor into a grid and given each search team a square. They’ll fan out across it, checking the land and any outbuildings. In the villages there are some of the lads doing door-to-door inquiries. If she’s here, we’ll find her sir.’
If she’s here, thought Adam, gazing out of the van’s door on to the open moorland where lines of searchers were heading out. If …
Last night Dartmoor had seemed the obvious place. But now, it looked vast. And there were so many buildings here, barns, farmhouses, cottages, so many woods and valleys, places to hide. And they didn’t even have any firm evidence Nicola was here. Just his best guess, nothing more scientific. No more than a considered hunch. How would he feel if they found nothing, then, in a fortnight, the body of a little girl was discovered in a field in the South Hams?
A thought of Gibson as the Security Guard goaded him. The bastard had conned them before.
He couldn’t think like that. He’d done his job as well as he could, done what he thought was right. They had to narrow down the search area. They couldn’t just look everywhere in the hope of finding Nicola. They had to focus on their best guess. This was it. He’d done the right thing.
How long did they have? It had to be today, didn’t it? Today or nothing. If she was out on the moor, how long would she survive? It was bitterly cold. He’d noticed the car’s thermometer display on the drive up here. Three degrees it said, but that was without the windchill. It was dangerously cold, icy enough to quickly sap a little girl’s strength.
A knock at the van’s door interrupted his thoughts. ‘Hi Adam,’ said Dan.
‘Come in, hop up inside,’ he replied.
‘I’ll stay here thanks. My ankle’s killing me and I’m trying not to stress it. I’d be out on one of the searches otherwise. Nigel’s gone to get some pictures, but I couldn’t manage it. How are you getting on?’
‘The helicopter’s up and the search teams are doing their bit. All we can do now is wait.’
