`I’m feeling good about Callisto’s race,’ she announced to Phil as she sat down next to him on the sofa, dislodging a notepad from his lap.
`Oh yeah?’ he said, slipping an arm around her waist. `I think he’s going to love it.’
Later, sitting in the kitchen, Julia told herself off for barging in on Phil, prattling about her horse. She’d not thought she was interrupting something important. When she’d found him scribbling away, she’d assumed he was doing one of his exercise tasks for Simone. It turned out he was writing an open letter to the sicko who’d kidnapped Louise Fowler’s friend.
He’d asked for her help and she didn’t know what to say. How do you appeal to a lunatic? Phil’s instinct, she knew, would be to confront him, to demand this girl’s immediate return. But he couldn’t do that. He had to get on the kidnapper’s side. `How do you do that?’ he’d asked her, and she’d not been able to help.
She’d promised to leave him alone to think. At moments like this she craved a cigarette.
She got to her feet and opened the door to the front room. He looked up at her expectantly.
`Have you thought,’ she said, `of calling Simone?’
Keith was anxious about the girl. Every time he looked in on her, she was lying comatose, not responding to his pokes and prods. At first he’d thought she was doing it just to spite him, but when he’d given her a bit of a slap she’d scarcely protested. It was a worry - he didn’t want a seriously ill person on his hands.
At least her condition made it easy to conceal her presence. There were comings and goings all afternoon, with Fred and a couple of dogwalkers turning up. The feeling was that the next day’s hunt would be called off because the ground had been frosty all week. When the confirmation came through it was a relief. Now he wouldn’t have to worry about dealing with the girl on a hunting day.
He took her some tea in the evening and, to his relief, she drank it. She refused to answer when he asked how she felt, but he wasn’t bothered by that. At least there was more colour in her cheeks.
He had a job for her but that could wait until tomorrow.
`I’m cold,’ she said, and he fetched an extra blanket - not that she thanked him for it. Ungrateful little bitch.
Phil’s column appeared next morning on the front page of the Racing Beacon, beside a story combining speculation about Rebecca’s disappearance with a discussion of prospects in the day’s big race `CLOUD OVER GREENHILLS AS EASY DOES IT HEADS FOR HAYDOCK’).
Phil’s contribution - `CHAMPION JOCKEY APPEALS TO STABLEGIRL’S KIDNAPPER’- was by far the most difficult piece he’d ever written. He’d listened closely to Charlie Lynch and had also taken Julia’s advice by phoning Simone. Then Hugh had lent a hand, to the point where Phil couldn’t be sure exactly who had suggested what. Even so, it was his name on the front page. And his neck on the line.
The article was set out like a letter and attempted to talk straight, as one man to another.
`You have to show him some respect,’ Simone had said, `even if only by implication.’
`Respect!’ Phil had been appalled. `He’s a scumbag.’
`I suggest you don’t refer to him as such. If, as you say, you want to open a line of communication.’
In the end, it read as follows: Dear Sir
I don’t know you but, as you are obviously a follower of racing, there’s a good chance you know of me. You’ve probably backed some of my horses - and cursed me when your money’s gone west. And sometimes you’ll have been right to do so. We jockeys do make mistakes, as do trainers and starters and everyone else involved in the racing game. But believe me, no racing professional ever deliberately sets out to cheat the average racing fan.
Even if you find that hard to believe, I’m sure you’ll agree that the last person who deserves to suffer because of the industry’s faults is a part-time stablegirl like Rebecca Thornton. If you are responsible for Rebecca’s disappearance, I beg you please to release her at once. You cannot possibly have any quarrel with an innocent young woman whose only crime has been to love horses and to offer a helping hand to her friend, Louise Fowler.
Right now you might be regretting your actions. Or maybe you need to talk to someone who will listen to your side of the story - someone from inside racing who can make sure your voice is heard. In that case, I offer myself as a go-between. I have no axe to grind. I just want what’s best for a missing girl who is in all our thoughts.
Please call the number below and let’s discuss how we can all get out of this mess - and return Rebecca safely to her family and friends.
Keith read the article in the car outside the shop. He’d gone down to collect his papers first thing, as he did every morning. He forced himself to stick to his routine - somehow it seemed important.
The front page of the Racing Beacon immediately grabbed his attention. Jesus Christ, the letter from Phil Nicholas was addressed to him!
He read it once through fast, hardly taking it in. Then he started again, slowly. Exactly what was going on?
He knew Phil Nicholas, of course, in the way that every punter knows the stars of their sport. He was one of the best, no doubt about that, though maybe not as good as he once was. He’d been the bastard on Snowflake who’d pipped January King at Wincanton. That was what had kicked it all off for Keith - and the Beast - but he’d not held it against Nicholas. The jockey was just a pro, doing an honest job.
Despite his contempt for the racing establishment, it was still something to get the attention of the champion jockey.
It was tempting to ring the number in the paper. To speak to the top man and reassure him the girl’s life was not in danger. What would he say?
Don’t worry, Mr Nicholas, you’ll get Rebecca back. When you’ve paid me my money.
After he’d cleaned the hounds out, he went to see her. He took with him a pencil, paper and tomato soup in a mug. And, as always, he wore the Balaclava.
She was in the same position as when he’d looked in first thing to let her use the bucket, lying on her side on the pallet. Her mouth was still taped up and she was chained by one wrist. He’d told her he’d break her fingers if she tried to pull the gag off.
She shifted her head as he came in, looking up at him accusingly, her face white and pinched. She was shivering, from pain or cold, he couldn’t tell which - not that he cared. There was more life in her than there had been the day before.
He bent down and held the soup where she could see it.
`You can have that,’ he said, `if you do what I tell you. OK?’
She just stared at him defiantly. Was he going to have to tame the little bitch? Knock her into line so she’d see there was no choice but to do as she was told?
He moved closer and she edged away from him. Then he realised. It wasn’t rebellion but fear.
`I won’t hurt you,’ he said. `I won’t lay a finger on you, but you’ve got to do what I say. Right?’
She nodded her head.
He put the soup and the other things on the floor.
`I’m going to take the tape off your face so you can drink this. If you scream…’
He didn’t finish the sentence. There was no need.
He’d used wide brown parcel tape, a lot of it, wound round and round the bottom half of her face. He had made sure to leave her nose clear so she could breathe.
He took a folding knife from the pocket of his overalls. Opened it. `Keep still,’ he said, then slid the metal blade between the sticky strip and the skin of her cheek. He held it there for a few seconds, with her frozen, terror struck, not even breathing through her nostrils. He let her feel his power - it was necessary. If he wanted he could turn the blade just fractionally. Slice her face open as easily as cutting a peach. They both knew it.
He slit through the tape. Yanked the strip from her lips.
She made no sound. There was just the ragged intake of breath as she gulped air into her lungs.
He stepped away from her, folded the knif
e and put it back in his pocket.
`Drink the soup,’ he said.
She sat up, moving slowly and painfully.
`What are you going to do with me?’ she asked in a small voice as she reached for the mug.
`Don’t ask questions,’ he said. There was only one master here. The Beast was enjoying this.
There was a wooden straight-backed chair in the corner. He placed it next to her and put the paper and pencil on top of it. It would do as a surface to lean on.
`You’re going to write a letter,’ he said. `To your mum.’
She looked at him over the top of the mug. `She’s dead.’ `Your dad, then.’
`He lives in America.’ Shit.
`Who’s your closest family? Here in England.’
`My gran. But she’s in a home. I can’t write to her for help or anything.’
Keith was annoyed. `What are you? A fucking orphan or something?’ She said nothing, just stared at him, her eyes full of reproach. Then it came to him. Why change a winning formula, after all? `You’re going to write to the editor of the Racing Beacon. Say you’re being treated all right but you’re a prisoner and won’t be allowed to go unless he does what he’s told. Say please help me or something like that. Make him feel sorry for you. Then sign your name.’
`Do I have to have this on?’ She raised her hand with the shackle on the wrist.
He considered the request. Right now he needed her to cooperate. He unlocked the shackle and pocketed the key. Then he thrust the pencil towards her. `OK. Now get on with it.’
As she pulled the paper towards her he heard the car. They both did. Who the fuck could that be?
His first impulse was to stay right where he was, keeping an eye on her until the unwanted visitor had buggered off. But suppose whoever it was didn’t go? He’d left doors open and the wagon was in plain view. It was pretty obvious he was about the place. Suppose it was Jellicoe? It would be just like him to turn up out of the blue. He didn’t want him sniffing around the buildings. Coming in here …
He pulled the parcel tape from his pocket - he’d come prepared to muzzle her when he’d finished. Now he pulled a band of tape from the roll and advanced on the girl.
For a split second he could see her hesitate, wondering whether to make it difficult for him.
`Don’t you fucking dare,’ he growled as he slammed the tape over her mouth. He wound it round and round her head, stifling the squealing from her throat as she tried, too late, to cry out.
He was a bit rough with her but he had to be quick. There was no time for niceties.
He cut the tape, checked the knife was back safely in his pocket and moved swiftly to the door.
`Don’t you even move,’ he whispered before he locked her in.
He ran to the house and in through the back door, half expecting to find Jellicoe on the way. The bastard treated the place like he owned it - which, as a matter of fact, he did.
But, to his relief, the hall was empty. He slipped into the front room and looked through the net curtain into the yard. A muddy Volvo estate he did not recognise was parked there.
At that moment the doorbell rang.
Keith retraced his steps into the hall, coming face to face with his image in the mirror by the coatstand. It was just as well he did.
There was no plausible explanation for wearing a woollen hood over his face.
He snatched it off with one hand as he opened the door with the other. Rebecca’s mind was racing. Now she knew for certain she was being held by the man who’d attacked Louise’s father - surely no one else would get her to write to the Racing Beacon. In some ways that was a relief - at least she wasn’t being held by a sex pervert. On the other hand, he was the brute who’d half killed Gerry Fowler and that poor jockey who’d been shot with a crossbow. Who knew how he’d behave if the paper didn’t pay him the money he demanded? Or what if things went wrong, like the other day when they’d messed up the handover? What might he do to her if that happened again?
And now, out there, someone had turned up in a car who her captor had not expected. Was there something she could do? Some way she could call attention to herself?
She put her feet on the floor and slowly stood up. It hurt - God, how it hurt, at the base of her spine and all down her left leg. She’d hobbled to the bucket in the corner earlier on and it had been agony. Now it was even worse.
She forced herself to breathe in deeply through her nostrils. She mustn’t panic. This might be her one chance to save herself.
She had to do something.
At first Keith didn’t recognise his visitor. The grey moustache and walking stick were familiar, but it took a moment for him to make the
connection. Henry Carrington, the man who’d asked him to slaughter his horse, was the last person he expected to see standing on his doorstep.
The pensioner had a bellicose set to his jaw and a glint in his beady eyes behind his spectacles.
`So there you are, Jeffries. Thought for a moment you weren’t around.’
The patronising tone added to Keith’s irritation. `I was just out the back with the hounds.’ He reminded himself to be servile. `How can I help you, sir?’
`Well …’ The little man looked up at him, craning his neck and sticking his chin out. `You took care of my old hunter, didn’t you? Put him down for eighty pounds cash, as I recall.’
`That’s right, sir.’
`So what would you say if I told you a friend of mine has seen my horse as large as life, out hunting in Derbyshire, just last weekend?’ `I’d say your friend has made a mistake, sir.’ Keith put as much confidence into his voice as he could muster.
The old man blinked. `Would you indeed?’ he said. `My friend knows Monty well. Used to hunt regularly with me down here until he retired. Then he moved north, you see.’
`How long ago would that be, sir?’Keith tried to adopt as conciliatory a tone as possible. He needed to fob the old boy off - and quickly. `Granted, it’s a while.’ Carrington had pulled his chin in - a good sign, Keith concluded. `Must be three years since he moved on.’ `Anyone can make a mistake after that length of time, sir. And, forgive my saying so, but nobody’s eyesight’s as good once they get past a certain age.’
`Don’t I know it.’ The old man barked out a mirthless laugh then stuck his chin out again. `So you swear to me that you put Monty down as I requested?’
`On my word of honour, sir. I did it the moment you drove out of the yard. You didn’t want to watch, if you remember.’
`I see. Well …’ He took a step backward, his chin now tucked into his muffler. `I’m sorry to have troubled you in that case.’
`No trouble at all, sir. I quite understand.’
Carrington nodded and turned towards his car. He called a curt goodbye over his shoulder. As he opened the car door, a loud crash split
the air, followed by a cacophony of barking.
The crash came again. A regular and deliberate thud of something solid hitting metal.
Carrington whirled round to look back at Keith. `What the devil is that?’
Keith hadn’t a clue, but it had to be something to do with the girl. The old man walked back across the yard. `Is everything all right?’
`It’s the hounds, sir. I’ve got to go and sort them out.’ `What on earth are they doing to make a noise like that?’ Carrington’s dander was up, and he was gazing down the passage at the side of the house, towards the kennels. Keith thought fast.
`There’s a bloke out back doing some work on one of the pens. Bit of a noisy job, I’m afraid.’
`I thought you were here on your own.’ Had he said that? He didn’t think so. `No, sir. Fred’s up from the village.’
He noted Carrington’s perusal of the yard, empty but for the Volvo and the wagon; his own car was in the garage with the quad bike. `Fred parks his cycle out the back,’ he added to forestall the inevitable query. This nosy old fart was getting to be more than a nuisance. If he knew what was good for hi
m he’d be on his way quick.
The banging continued, maybe at a slower tempo now but the noise was still loud and insistent, stoking the hounds into a frenzy. Carrington had evidently come to a decision. `Bloody awful racket,’ he said, turning on his heel. `I’ll leave you to it.’
Keith watched him go from inside the house. Not until he’d seen the Volvo reach the bottom of the track and then, through a gap in the hedgerow, glimpsed it drive off along the road did he retrieve the Balaclava and head towards the back door.
Keith surprised himself with his self-restraint. The Beast was excited, slavering within him at the prospect of blood, but Keith kept him under control. He was impressed with himself.
The girl was using the chair to batter the corrugated-iron wall of the shed. She turned as he unlocked the door, her hair flailing, her cheeks flushed red, her eyes wide with desperation. When she saw it was him she came at him, swinging the chair. But the blow was feeble and he caught the chair in one big hand.
She tried to kick him in the crotch but he’d taken her footwear and her sock-clad foot bounced harmlessly off his thigh. Deliberately, and without malice, he felled her with one well-aimed shove. She crumpled on to the floor.
He pictured crashing his boot into her pale face. Jumping on her leg and hearing the bone snap. Stringing her up from the ceiling with his belt and watching her dangle.
He let the Beast enjoy these images as she grovelled on the floor at his feet.
He dragged her to the bed then dumped her on the straw. Using cord, he tied her hands and feet together till he was convinced she couldn’t move.
He took hold of her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. Only then did he speak.
`According to the newspaper,’ he said, `you’re a clever girl, Rebecca. But that wasn’t very bright. That’s the kind of behaviour that’s going to cause you a lot of unnecessary pain.’
Her clear hazel eyes were overflowing with unreadable emotion. `I’m sure you don’t want me to feed you piece by piece to the dogs, but if you do anything like that again I will.’
Her face blanched.
He got up. `I’ll leave you to think about it. And what you’re going to say in that letter.’
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