by Adam Carter
Thompson finished her pasta and pushed the plate away. “You know, you’re a decent guy, Baronaire. I always pegged you as a jerk, but you’re OK.”
“Since we’re being honest, I never saw you any better.”
“Oh?”
“You tend to be cold, aloof, you’re incredibly difficult to talk to sometimes. And you seem to care more about machines than people.”
“Just following the rules.”
“Rules are made to be broken, Jen.”
“Are ... You’re not hitting on me are you?”
“Perish the thought. I’ll get the bill for this one.”
He walked over to the counter and paid the bill, producing the photograph while he did so. The short, dumpy man in a too-tight T-shirt who ran the café took it in pudgy fingers and scratched his balding head beneath a red baseball cap. “Yeah, I remember her. Trouble that one.”
“Trouble?” Baronaire asked, surprised the man had seen her at all. He supposed he should not have been so shocked, however; if the girl was heading north this was the only café to stop at for miles. Any rides she was hitching on would have to have passed through here.
“She came in with a trucker, but he was turning west and she wasn’t going that way. I could see she was just after a ride; wanted to turf her out on her ear, you could tell she didn’t have no money.”
“Right. Why was she trouble?”
“Started on some bikers. Three guys, like hippies or something. She drapes herself over the first one, God-damned hussy, whispering stuff in his ear. His hand starts on her leg and she just laps it up, see? Then the hand goes under her skirt, and I said to myself: Al, that’s it. I don’t want that kinda stuff happening in my place, I got families coming through here. Kids.”
“She is a kid,” Baronaire said grumpily, shoving the photo back into his trench coat. “Which way did they go?”
“North.”
“How long?”
“Three, maybe four hours. Damn, she was a kid?”
“Fourteen.”
“Looked about seventeen, far as I figured. Bikers probably thought so too, if they cared that is. Hey, you her father?”
“No.”
Thompson could see something was wrong, and waited for Baronaire to pass her before she asked him what was happening.
“They got a four hour head start on us,” Baronaire said as they went back to the motorbike, which had been refilled with petrol. He sat upon the back and strapped on a helmet. “But we can still catch them. You said you got this thing up to one sixty?”
“Might be able to do one seventy at a push.”
“Then let’s get some speed on, Jen. And just remember, we’re police officers. We’re allowed to do this kind of stuff.”
Thompson was sure they weren’t allowed to do this kind of stuff, but if Baronaire was asking her to pour on the speed she was hardly going to complain. If nothing else it would be the perfect test for her custom job.
They fired away from the café. There was still a chance they could catch their quarry before she disappeared forever into the darkness.
CHAPTER FOUR
Understanding the mind of Charles Baronaire was like licking honey out of a woman’s bellybutton. Sounds like a fun thing to try, but once you start it just gets everywhere; then there’s a whole lot of mess to clean up afterwards. So far Thompson had not pried enough for there to be any mess, and she fully intended to keep it that way. She didn’t want to talk about her family and he respected that: she didn’t have much right to be prying into his affairs.
They had a mission to focus on anyway, which was something of which Thompson was glad. She liked Baronaire, truth be told. He was the tall, dark and handsome stranger her friends all seemed to want to meet; but of those four things, the strongest was certainly strange. Baronaire wasn’t like ordinary guys, but what it was that made him so different she couldn’t quite say. That he was teacher’s pet was obvious to most people; yet Thompson could see something else in his relationship with the DCI. The two men were confidants, that much was true, it was just that Thomson felt there was something else between them. Something sinister. For a while she wondered whether they were an item, but their body language said something altogether different. They were wary of one another, afraid almost.
She didn’t understand and it wasn’t her place to pry. Sanders liked his secrets and Thompson was fine with that.
Presently they were racing up the motorway at speeds in excess of one sixty. She was having some ideas of how to increase the speed even further, but they all involved being in a garage, and they couldn’t afford the time to stop. Baronaire had said the bikers they were after had a four hour head-start, but they wouldn’t be going anywhere near the speeds Thompson was. There was a good chance she could be going twice as fast as they were, which meant, if her maths were correct, she should be catching up to them in two and a half hours.
It was after midnight when Baronaire shouted something into her ear. Thompson was lost in the euphoria of speed, the wind slapping at her face and goggles, that she could not quite hear what he was saying. Plus the helmet deadened the sound somewhat. She slowed when she saw what he was pointing at. There had been an accident up ahead, a lorry had overturned, and the motorway had been partially closed off. Not enough to stop traffic, but certainly enough to cause a nuisance. There weren’t many cars on the road currently, but Thompson could see this would have been a severe problem for commuters if they were headed to work.
Thompson could sense Baronaire wanted her to stop, so she pulled up on the hard shoulder. There were two police cars at the scene of the accident, and a fire engine, and she realised he probably wanted to ask the officers if they had seen the bikers, and how close behind they were. It was a good plan. Lost in the moment Thompson had not even considered it.
Removing her helmet, she joined Baronaire just as he was opening a dialogue. The officer at the scene seemed more interested in trying to move them along, but when Baronaire flashed his badge he grudging stepped aside from the oncoming traffic to answer any of Baronaire’s questions. Thompson heard him asking about the bikes and the officer said he hadn’t been paying that much attention. They had a lot of bikes going through here, he said, but the only one which stuck in his mind was going like a rocket.
“How long ago was that?” Baronaire asked eagerly.
“’Bout thirty seconds ago,” the officer replied, indicating Thompson. “You people need to slow down, you’re gonna get someone killed.”
“If you could keep your opinions to yourself,” Baronaire snapped, “we might all get home sometime tonight. We’re after a kidnapped minor and she was last seen with three bikers. They would have passed this way recently, so I’ll ask you again.” He was close to the officer now: so close he didn’t have to raise his voice. Even Thompson shuddered; she could hardly imagine what the officer was going through. “Did you see any bikers?” Baronaire asked slowly. “Think. Carefully.”
The officer took a step back, looked away and coughed to cover his nervousness. “I don’t know,” he replied, “but we’re diverting as much traffic onto the slip-road, so it’s possible they went down there. A lot of the smaller vehicles are; it’s an easier route to navigate than the main motorway at the moment and the pile-ups’ll be less down there.”
“Thank you for your time,” Baronaire said, turning back to stride past Thompson. “Let’s go.”
They headed down the side road, as instructed, and Thompson killed the speed. The lighting wasn’t as good here and the road wasn’t as level. Finding the kid quickly was one thing, but splattering themselves across the tarmac before they even got to her was stupid.
“I see something,” Baronaire told her from behind, his strong arms clutching her stomach tightly. “Looks like a B and B.”
Thompson pulled up into the car park. The side road was leading them into an urban area, and there was indeed a bed and breakfast directly ahead of them. It was a good idea, she reflected, to
have such a place right next to the motorway. Travellers could stop the night and continue on their way after a hearty meal. If the size of the car park was any indication, the owners expected to do a lot of business. At the present time it was almost half full. Thompson did, however, note three motorbikes across from them.
“They’re here,” Baronaire said, stepping off and removing his helmet.
“They’re hardly even motorbikes,” Thompson said disdainfully as she killed her engine. “More like pushbikes. I hotwired better bikes than that when I was thirteen.”
“I’m sure Brigadier Dad was proud of that. I’m going around the back. Go through the front door, see what you can get out of the proprietor.”
“Baronaire, it’s after midnight. No one’s gonna be up.”
“They might be. They know tired travellers will be passing this way and they won’t want to lose business by closing at night.”
It was a fair point, and Thompson was just about to confess such, when she suddenly realised she was standing all by herself. She turned, startled, but Baronaire simply wasn’t there any more. One moment she had been talking to him, the next he’d vanished.
Zipping up her jacket against the sudden chill in the air, and down her spine, Thompson shoved her hands into her pockets and walked across to the entrance. The house was large, with probably twenty or so rooms, and it was a detached building so the neighbours would not likely complain about the noise of people coming and going at all hours. Thompson found the door unlocked and walked into a charming homely abode. She had expected something grotty and grubby, with paint peeling off the ceiling and paper coming away from the wall. Instead she found herself confronted by an ornately-carved pillar which formed the basis of a stylish winding staircase. Beyond this several healthy-looking plants grew in large pots, protecting a reception desk of shining cleanliness.
Thompson stopped at the desk, but there was no one about. Hands still in pockets, she looked about the area, visually browsing the various leaflets on display. Some of them were for local attractions, but a lot were adverts for London sights. It was strange, she always felt, that no matter how far one travelled from London, there were always leaflets telling you what was on in the heart of the city.
“Can I help you?”
Thompson looked back to the reception desk. There was a young woman standing there now. Her long red hair was tied back in a ponytail, her eyes sparkled with intelligence, her freckles only heightened by the flame of her hair. Her slim and slender body seemed to have been poured into attire which seemed half uniform, half semi-casual.
Thompson smiled and the young woman returned the smile a little sheepishly.
“You own this place?” Thompson asked, trying to remember she was here on business.
“My parents do. I’m only nineteen, I don’t think I’m ready to run a business like this yet.”
“All you need is the right partner and you can do anything you set your mind to.” Thompson smiled again and her heart quickened when she noticed the girl blush slightly, although she masked it by looking down to her books. Books which she produced, along with a pencil.
“We have a few rooms free, I guess that’s what you’re here for, miss?”
Thompson leaned her elbows on the counter and crossed her arms. “Depends which room you’re offering me.”
The girl looked back down to her books, and Thompson watched her moist lips part, confusion flitting across her eyes over what she should reply. Thompson had always found being forward was her best approach in chatting up women. After all, the worst reaction she could get was for the girl to say no.
The girl’s eyes flickered back up to meet hers, but then looked away again quickly. “My ...” She coughed slightly. “My folks are upstairs.”
“You don’t have any spare rooms on the other side of the house?” Thompson asked with raised eyebrows.
“I’m supposed to be working?”
This brought Thompson back to her own reason for being there and she suddenly felt guilty that Baronaire was trusting her. Clearing her throat, Thompson took a professional step back – both physically and figuratively – and drew her warrant card. “Sorry, yeah, I’m supposed to be working too. Detective Jen Thompson.”
“Oh.” The girl’s worried eyes widened. “There any trouble here, miss?”
Thompson sighed in half-contention. “It’s the eyes, you know. I’m a sucker for beautiful eyes and a cute smile.”
“Detective?”
Thompson noted the girl had not admonished her in anger or fear. Indeed, there was the ghost of the aforementioned cute smile playing upon the girl’s lips as she spoke.
“The bikers who came in,” Thompson said. “I assume they’re staying here?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl turned the book around to show Thompson, who leaned in to read the scrawl. She caught the young woman’s scent then and forced herself once more to remember she was here on a job. “I put them in the north wing, here.”
Thompson took her word for it. “They give you any trouble?”
“Trouble? Not really. Bikers have a reputation, you know, but I know how to handle bikers.”
Thompson grinned. “You ever ridden a Suzuki RF600R?”
The girl’s eyes lit up. “God, no. Never even seen one, but they’re new out. What I wouldn’t do for a ride on a Suzuki RF600R.”
“That’s good to know. I’m sorry, you haven’t even told me your name.”
“Sorry. Julie. Julie Rose.”
“Oh you so are.”
“Have those bikers done something?” Rose asked, suddenly concerned.
“Yeah. Maybe not intentionally, but the law doesn’t discriminate for things like that. Which one had the girl with them? I don’t want to have to bother all three of them.”
Rose indicated a room in the books. “Fourteen A.”
“I need to talk to him. He’s probably breaking the law as we speak.”
“Uhm ... OK, I guess. I should go tell my dad though first. We don’t get many visits from the police.”
“Introducing me to your folks already, Julie?”
“Good God!”
Thompson saw the stark fear in the girl’s eyes and span, her hand half drawing her baton. She stopped when she saw Baronaire standing in the shadow of the staircase, looking grim as ever and decidedly unhappy.
“He does that,” Thompson said.
Baronaire fixed his companion with a steely glare. “If you’re through sorting out your love-life, we need to get a move on.”
“Fourteen A,” Thompson said. “I have been working, Baronaire.” She felt a flush of anger that he should have suggested otherwise, but the anger, she knew, was only to cover the fact he was right. She was neither embarrassed nor angry that she had allowed her mind to wander whilst on the job, but she had to admit there were times and places for dalliances, and this was most certainly neither.
“It’s not her,” Baronaire replied. “They brought a different girl in, this one was even an adult.”
Thompson blinked. “You’ve seen her already?”
“I talked to the biker. He was most cooperative. Turns out Abigail didn’t want to stop here for the night, went on hitchhiking further up the motorway. The officers probably didn’t see her because she would have caught a ride outside here.”
“You didn’t ...” Thompson was very aware Rose was still listening, “uh ... interrogate him too bad did you?”
“Didn’t touch the wuss,” Baronaire snorted. “You, girl; anyone checked out of here in the last half hour or so?”
It took Rose a few moments to realise he was talking to her, and when her brain caught up with her she frantically searched through the book. “Yeah. A, uh, guy in a van. His name was ...”
Thompson could tell by her sudden increase in heart-rate and her laboured breathing that Baronaire had spooked her badly, and was continuing to do so. Thompson leaned over to read from the book, offering Rose a reassuring smile as she did so. Ros
e even half returned the gesture.
“Barry Manfield,” Thompson said.
“He was driving a company van,” Rose offered. “If that helps.”
“Which company?” Baronaire asked darkly.
Rose fought to remember, and Thompson placed a calming hand upon her shoulder. “Uh, Charles?” she asked. “Could you perhaps wait outside?”
“I’m not ...”
“Please?”
He likely caught something in her stern glower, because he grunted and stormed off. Thompson all but breathed a sigh of relief once he was gone. “Sorry about him,” she said to Rose. “He’s a bit intense sometimes.”
Rose was fighting to control her breathing, and her eyes projected their thanks over Thompson’s actions. “How do you put up with him, miss?”
“Don’t partner with him often, to be honest. And call me Jen.”
Rose’s smile was back. “I think it was a builder’s van,” she said, her mind working properly now. “Andrews or something? I remember thinking it was a pretty common name.”
“That helps. What colour?”
“White.”
“Don’t suppose you have the vehicle reg?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
“No worries. We know which way they’re headed, and we’re certainly closer to them than we were. Here.” She took up the pencil and scribbled a number. “This is my work number. If you think of anything else, call it and they’ll pass the information onto me.”
“We’re up to exchanging phone numbers already, Jen?”
Thompson could almost feel Baronaire staring at her through the front door and was determined not to look around to see if she was just being paranoid. She wanted to spend longer here, but was finding a decreasing amount of work-related reasons to stay. “Call me anyway,” she said, and quickly leaned across the counter. Her lips brushed against Rose’s, whose eyes showed surprise, but whose body did not pull away. Thompson had meant the kiss to be brief, but her body just didn’t want to move away, her hand reaching up to hold the back of the young woman’s head while they kissed.
