Dead Weight

by John Francome

  Standing in the hall, he called her mobile number but it was switched off. Then he rang his mum and Russell - but she wasn’t at the farm or Deanscroft. Russell made some enquiries and told Phil she’d left at lunch-time to do a freelance job.

  What freelance job? Perhaps it had turned into something complicated and she was still working. Or maybe she was stuck on the road somewhere. Phil listened to the answer service on the home phone, but there was only his own message, saying he was on his way, and one from DS Petrie.

  He dug out his mobile and checked his messages. Two more from Petrie, the second requesting he ring back urgently.

  His stomach contracted. This must be to do with Julia. He misdialled

  in his eagerness to return the policeman’s call. His anger had vanished, replaced by anxiety. And fear.

  Car tyres rumbled on the gravel at the front of the house and headlights flooded the unlit front room to his left.

  She was back. Thank God. He put the phone down.

  But it wasn’t Julia’s car. Two uniformed policemen were striding towards the front door as he opened it.

  `Mr Nicholas?’

  `Yes?’ His heart was pounding and his insides were in a knot. This was real panic - not some neurotic flight of fancy. What had happened to Julia?

  The policemen did not look concerned; indeed, the man who had spoken was smiling.

  `There’s nothing to worry about, sir. CID couldn’t get you on the phone so we’ve come to see if you’re all right.’

  `Me? Why wouldn’t I be?’

  `There’s been another letter from the kidnapper. We’re just checking on possible targets.’

  `Like me?’ `Yes.’

  `And my wife?’

  The two men looked at each other.

  `I’ve just got back and I don’t know where she is. No one’s seen her since lunch-time.’

  The policeman’s smile had vanished and his colleague was reaching for his radio.

  `Do you mind if we come in, sir?’

  Phil said nothing as the officers ushered him back inside, a vista of hideous possibilities opening up in his mind.

  Julia was cold. He’d put a blanket on top of her but she still shivered as she lay in the dark, the straw of her bed scratching the raw skin of her neck. Not that she cared about her physical discomfort or even the loss of her hair. What did it matter? Apart from the monster who had kidnapped her, no one was ever going to see her alive again. She knew he must be intending to kill her. Why else had he allowed her to see his face?

  He’d taken the straitjacket off her, that was something, but he’d chained her to the low frame on which she lay. She recognised it as a dog’s bed. The smell of dogs was all around, and she was aware of animals, lots of them, in buildings near by. She could hear them shifting around. They were aware of her too, she knew, and curious about her. Their presence comforted her.

  Perhaps she could come back as an animal in her next existence. A horse would be best, of course - especially a thoroughbred racehorse, pampered and praised all its life - but a dog would be almost as good. She’d always lived with dogs, though she didn’t have one now. Suddenly it seemed a terrible omission. If she ever got out of here she’d get a dog. A big, bounding Labrador. If she’d had a Labrador with her today, would the monster have been able to snatch her?

  Of course he would. He’d have killed the dog with his knife, that’s all.

  She wondered how he was going to kill her.

  Charlie was contemplating a bowl of bran flakes when the phone rang. It was 7.30 in the morning. Jan had always said bran flakes were good for you and he had no doubt they were. He just wished they didn’t taste like wood shavings.

  An excited DC Jenkins reported that a navy-blue Fiesta had been found abandoned on farm land near Down Sutton. The farmer had discovered it in the early hours of the morning up a track behind a field where he kept his daughter’s horse.

  The car was unlocked; a Barbour jacket was bundled on the driver’s seat and a woman’s handbag lay in the footwell on the passenger side. Amongst other possessions in the bag, the farmer had found a purse and a driving licence belonging to a Julia Nicholas.

  A preliminary examination suggested that Julia had been snatched, but there were plenty of places where she could be lying out of sight. Down Sutton was fifty miles off, but Charlie reckoned he could do it in half an hour if he stepped on it. He abandoned his breakfast and fled the house clutching his jacket and mobile phone.

  By the time Charlie reached the farm, the area had been cordoned off and Scene-of-Crime Officers were examining the location, in particular the spot by the gate leading into the horse’s paddock.

  `They’ve found tyre tracks that don’t match the Fiesta or Mr Watt’s

  Land Rover,’ said Terry. He pointed out Mr Watt, the farmer, who was sitting in the back of the squad car making a statement. `He says he won’t go down to the station because he’s already lost half the morning.’

  Charlie nodded. He’d have a word with him in a moment and smooth his feathers. They’d be camped on his land for a bit and it would be best to keep him sweet.

  He approached a SOCO he knew well from past investigations. `What do you reckon, Pete? Any sign of a struggle?’

  Pete shook his head. `There’s a whole mess of boot and shoe impressions in front of the gate but that’s what you’d expect. I imagine the farmer and his kids are up here often to keep an eye on the horse. He’s a friendly fellow.’

  Charlie looked over the gate. A chunky brown horse wearing a thick waterproof rug was surveying them with considerable interest, his ears pricked.

  `Pity he can’t make a statement,’ said Pete.

  Charlie ignored the remark. `So what have you got?’

  The officer held up a plastic envelope with something yellow inside. Charlie took it. The envelope contained strands of curly blonde hair, eight or nine inches long.

  `We’ve found quite a lot of it,’ said Pete. `On the ground there and in the grass fringe beneath those trees.’

  `Any idea how long it’s been here?’

  The other man thought. `Based on the fact that it’s relatively dry and contained within this small area, I’d say a couple of days at the most. Probably less than twenty-four hours.’

  Charlie handed the envelope back. He didn’t know what this meant but he didn’t like it. It was creepy.

  `The missing woman’s a blonde, isn’t she?’ said Pete, stating the obvious.

  Charlie nodded. `Have you looked inside the handbag they found in her car?’

  `Not yet.’

  `When you do I bet you’ll find a hairbrush. And I’ve a good idea this hair you’ve found will match the hair on the brush.’

  `What’s he doing cutting off her hair, Charlie?’

  Charlie had no answer to that. He looked beyond the parked vehicles and the men scouring the hedgerow, over the head of the inquisitive horse, at the soggy acres of field and trees ahead. He wondered whether Julia’s body was out there. If so, it would take some finding.

  Phil didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d been scheduled to attend the two-day Newbury meeting and he had a full book of rides. When he’d explained to Russell the reason he couldn’t go, the trainer had been shocked. So far, Julia’s disappearance had been kept from the media. Nevertheless, Russell had rung off pretty quickly - to fix himself up with a substitute jockey, Phil assumed.

  A policewoman had been instructed to keep an eye on him - Maureen, a middleaged Family Liaison Officer who offered him food and drink at regular intervals as he prowled Barley Cottage. He couldn’t see the point of Maureen’s presence - was she supposed to prevent him harming himself? In the event, since his dad had also elected to stay with him, the pair of them chatted away and he was left with his thoughts - which were increasingly dark.

  The phone rang mid-morning and he rushed to answer it. The call was for Maureen, who took it on the upstairs extension. When she came down she told him they’d found Julia’
s car at Down Sutton. Down Sutton? He couldn’t understand it. As far as he knew, she wasn’t even aware of its existence.

  He wanted to go to the place but Maureen said no. Police teams were searching the area and DCI Lynch promised he’d drop by later to talk to Phil.

  She told him they’d found Julia’s bag and personal effects, including her purse containing ?60 in cash. What about her mobile phone? Phil asked. He’d been ringing it hopefully, without success, since last night.

  She’d called Charlie and asked about it. The phone, it seemed, was missing.

  Phil bombarded her with more questions. Were any of Julia’s clothes at the scene? Did it look like shed been harmed? Was there blood in the car?

  She stonewalled him nicely. Phil would have to wait for a full report till DCI Lynch came but he shouldn’t torture himself. There had been no blood or signs of a struggle. Phil wondered whether she was telling him everything.

  His father suggested they take a look at the horses down at the farm. Maybe Phil would care to ride Callisto out? Julia would like that.

  Phil felt guilty for not having thought of it himself, and the three of them drove down the lane to Ted’s stables and Phil spent an hour exercising the old champion. It didn’t exactly take his mind off his predicament but it helped pass the time. This was proving to be the most terrible day of his life.

  When they returned to the cottage it got worse.

  A padded cardboard envelope, too big for the letterbox, was propped against the cottage door. The printed label on the front was addressed to Phil, care of Deanscroft; someone at the yard must have brought it over in their lunch break.

  Phil opened it without thought. He didn’t think it had any relevance to Julia’s disappearance. But he was wrong.

  The silky golden locks tumbled from the envelope into his hands, filling the kitchen with a familiar perfume.

  There was a handwritten note with the hair. Darling Phil

  I am being held hostage but it’s all right. I am given food and have not been hurt though my hair had to be cut so I could be gagged with tape. Honestly, it doesn’t hurt.

  Tell my mum and my sisters I’m OK and I love them very much.

  Please look after Callisto for me. Whatever happens I want him to run at Cheltenham for Jack and Yvonne.

  Please, please do what he asks or else I will never see you again.

  I love you so much. Your Jules

  Phil buried his face in his wife’s butchered hair and wept.

  The ransom demand turned up at the Beacon on Saturday morning. DS Petrie, the policeman with the violent tie, opened the envelope in front of Hugh and Frame. He quickly scanned the sheet of paper inside and then placed it on the editor’s desk for the two journalists to read.

  Re: Mrs Julia Nicholas

  At present this woman is in my custody. My only concern is to

  return her safely to her family and friends. This letter sets out the terms on which that event can occur.

  At 7.30 pm on Saturday 3rd March a courier will drive to Hillminster town centre. He will have a full tank of petrol. He will also have with him a hold-all with a carrying handle containing half a million pounds (?500,000) made up as follows. ?400,000 in used ?50 notes, ?80,000 in 20s, the rest in 10s. The notes must be wrapped in bundles of clear sellophane, three parcels of ?50 notes, the other dennominations all separate.

  There must be no police, no radios, no helicopters. If I see signs of the courier being followed I shall call it off. And don’t think of putting a bugging device in with the money. I have electronic detecting equipment and will find it.

  At 7.45 the courier will wait by the telephones outside the town hall. He will answer the phone that rings and follow the instructions that are given.

  The courier is to be Mr Phil Nicholas. If you send a policeman instead Mr Nicholas will never see his wife again.

  If he wants his wife back this is one appointment he better not forget to weigh in for. He must follow the instructions he will receive to the letter.

  I have had it with racing. It is rotten to the core. After this I am giving up my campagne for good. At half a million pounds you are getting off light.

  May I remind you that Julia’s life is in your hands. Think of poor Rebecca. It would break my heart for another young woman to die because of the callus attitude of the racing world.

  Petrie turned the envelope over in his hand. `Posted on Thursday,’ he sai( So it had taken two days to arrive, Hugh thought. It should haN been delivered at the same time as the package Phil had received. Petrie was already on the phone, talking to DCI Lynch. They we] relieved the demand had turned up but concerned that the deadline w,, so close. Seven-thirty that evening.

  The detective replaced the receiver and said, `We’ve got to go for il `What about Phil Nicholas?’ asked Frame.

  The editor was looking at Hugh, but Petrie answered. `Charlie’s o to talk to him now.’

  `He’ll do it,’ said Hugh. `He’ll do anything.’

  `So will the Beacon,’ said Frame. `But it’s going to be tight getting the money together on time.’

  He picked up the phone. `And bang goes my career if we don’t get it back.’

  In an ideal world Charlie would not be asking the husband of a hostage to carry the ransom money to her kidnapper. But there was nothing ideal about this situation. And after the balls-up when Patsy had stood in for Louise, Charlie was going to go along with whatever Bernie asked for.

  If he wanted the husband, he got him. If he said no trace on the money, then there’d be no trace. A woman’s life was at stake.

  Charlie briefed Phil as best he could. He assured him that police surveillance teams would be watching at all times and instructed him on the use of the two-way radio they had fitted in his car. They also agreed he’d be carrying his own mobile.

  `Your task,’ he told him, `is to follow Bernie’s instructions and keep us informed. And once you’ve handed over the money your job’s finished. Don’t be a hero - leave the rest to us.’

  Phil murmured agreement.

  `Can I ask a question?’ he added. `Do you think Julia’s been mistreated?’

  ‘She won’t be having a comfortable time. She’ll be restrained. Tied up and gagged probably.’

  `What else?’

  The detective hesitated. `I don’t think she’s been sexually assaulted, if that’s on your mind.’

  Phil’s face gave nothing away but Charlie carried on - he might as well spell it out.

  `I’ve got two reasons for saying that. One is that Rebecca wasn’t attacked in that way. The other is that I don’t think this man would do it. He fancies he’s clever. He likes playing games with us - that’s why he wants you to carry the money. He would consider deviant sexual behaviour beneath him.’

  The jockey nodded, lost in thought. Finally he said, `What kind of a place was Rebecca kept in?’

  Charlie thought hard. He didn’t want to distress Phil if he could help

  it. `Difficult to say, except that it’s probably not in a town. Rebecca and her clothes were covered in the kind of fibres you’d expect to find in a farmyard. Mud, straw and a lot of dog hair.’

  Phil nodded. ‘Jules loves dogs,’ he said.

  All the same, Charlie wasn’t sure it was much comfort.

  Julia lay on her back, scarcely able to move. The monster had tied her to the supports of the dog bed and put sacking over her head. At first she’d thought that was to prevent her seeing; now she realised it was to conceal her.

  She could make no noise - the gag was in place - but she could hear what was going on. When the dogs were moved she listened to them banging and thumping against the metal sides of her prison. They knew she was in here and they wanted to come and say hello. She could imagine their wet little snouts sniffing and prodding, their tongues licking her skin. She longed for their company, but they were chivvied past.

  She recognised the monster’s voice urging them on. But there was another voice as well, anot
her man out there. An accomplice? Or a possible friend? She didn’t know. But why was she gagged and covered up unless the other one didn’t know about her?

  She had a craving. Not for water or food or a bath - or any of the things she might have imagined.

  He’d offered her food and drink first thing that morning. And made her pee into a bucket.

  Then he’d asked if there was anything else she wanted before he tied her up, and she’d said, `A cigarette.’

  That was her craving. A desperate urge to wreathe herself in tobacco smoke and blot out, for just a split second, all the other hurts in her life. He’d refused her, said he didn’t have any.

  She’d pleaded with him. Asked if he could get some. Begged as she’d not done for anything else.

  He’d laughed and said cigarettes were bad for her health. Very funny.

  She knew he was going to kill her eventually because he didn’t care whether she saw his face. And the dogs. She’d worked out she was being held in a kennels and that these were hunting dogs. Either hounds or beagles.

  If she got out she could easily identify him. And she knew how long they’d been travelling yesterday. There couldn’t be that many kennels in the area they’d covered. If she ever spoke to the police, he’d be caught.

  And he’d killed Rebecca Thornton. So there was no reason why he wouldn’t do the same to her.

  In the circumstances, he owed her a cigarette. Like any condemned prisoner, she was entitled.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Phil nervously eyed the row of three pay-phones outside Hillminster town hall. He had the collar of his waterproof jacket turned up against the weather. Rain was falling in a fine sheet, gusting in the swirling wind, dancing in the glow of the streetlamps lighting up the old town square. It was a nasty night.

  A girl was arguing with her boyfriend on the middle phone. She wore a pelmet-sized skirt and a silver jacket which exposed a lot of robust white flesh. She didn’t appear to notice the rain blowing into the open-sided booth as she shouted into the receiver.

  It was 7.49 by Phil’s watch, four minutes after the specified time. Suppose Julia’s kidnapper was trying to get through on the engaged phone? Surely things weren’t going to screw up right at the start?