by Andy Wiseman
While the hire car didn’t have the rumble of power that her beloved Saab’s V-6 engine had, it was surprisingly nippy. Or at least it had been; the evening traffic now starting to build was slowing the car to a walking pace.
Izzy checked her wristwatch, and then puffed out her cheeks in a heavy sigh. Having grown impatient with Detective Constable Steve Marshall’s lack of response, she had consulted the on-line Electoral Register and located his home address, to which she was now heading.
The traffic lights up ahead changed, allowing half a dozen cars to get through. She moved forward, before yet again grinding to a halt.
Izzy was trying to work out what she was going to say to the policeman, what cover story she should use. As a cutting-edge reporter looking for a story, it wasn’t in her nature to be honest and upfront with the people she interviewed. Being honest and upfront sometimes scared people off, or made them clam-up. Izzy had only ever met Steve Marshall on one occasion. What few dealings she’d had with him had been by telephone, and that was usually to try and elicit information on a recently committed crime for a North London Gazette news story.
The lights changed, and a few more cars got across the junction. Izzy moved forward a few more car lengths.
She realised that Mollie’s parents’ house was only a couple of miles away from Steve Marshall’s home. She wondered whether to make a detour, to call in and see how Patrick was doing, and to see if maybe he’d heard from Mollie. She then remembered how upset Patrick had been the last time she’d seen him, and the state he was in. She hoped he was okay, and that he hadn’t done anything ‘stupid’.
She decided she would leave it. Maybe she’d give him a ring tomorrow, when she had more time. She wasn’t to know this, and wouldn’t find out until much later, but that decision probably saved her life.
Izzy wondered why she was so hung up on finding Mollie. She had yet to hear or see any solid evidence that something had definitely happened to the girl. And as for getting any help from Harry, she hadn’t seen him in almost twenty four hours, so she certainly couldn’t ask him. As her train of thought moved onto Harry, her feelings and thoughts started to become unsettled. She wondered whether she was really pursuing Harry, rather than Mollie.
The lights changed, and she again moved forward. She was now two car lengths away from the traffic lights. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Her left foot tapped a rhythmic beat on the clutch pedal. The more she thought about Harry, the more unsettled and agitated she became.
A little earlier, she had again called at Harry’s house. She’d rung all three doorbells, but, getting no answer, she’d returned to the warmth of her car to wait.
An hour had passed, then two, and just when she’d thought she was going to totally die of boredom - or pee her pants because her bladder was full - she’d seen a young woman in what looked like a nurse’s uniform walk up the garden path to Harry’s front door. Lucy, Harry’s other tenant, she’d guessed, getting out of the car, quickly crossing the road, and trotting up the short garden path just as the young woman found her door keys.
‘Excuse me? Hello?’ said Izzy.
The young woman, who had one hand on the partially open door while slipping her keys back into her shoulder bag, turned at the sound of Izzy’s voice.
‘Hi,’ Izzy said to the young woman.
The young woman just frowned.
‘I’m looking for Harry,’ a smiling Izzy then said, hopping from foot-to-foot. ‘Is he here?’
The furrows deepened on the young woman’s brow. She pulled the door closed with what seemed an unnaturally loud click, before then giving Izzy a long, cool, look.
‘Err, I’m a friend of his,’ said Izzy, still jigging from foot-to-foot. ‘Isobelle Harker - Izzy,’ she added, wondering whether to offer her hand, but then deciding against it.
The young woman’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Ah,’ she said, realising. ‘The reporter from the North London Gazette. You’re that Isobelle Harker!’ she added, smiling - though the smile didn’t quite reach up to her eyes.
Izzy started to feel uncomfortable under the steady gaze of the young woman’s green eyes. God, I really hate nurses! ‘It’s Lucy, isn’t it?’ she said, trying to break the ice. ‘Have you seen Harry? It’s really important I speak to him,’ she told Lucy, trying hard not to sound like she was pompous or pleading. ‘We are friends, you know,’ she then added, failing at both pompous and pleading.
Lucy nodded slowly, her green eyes twinkling, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘Mm, he has mentioned you.’
‘He has?’ Izzy replied, a little too quickly and a little too eagerly.
‘Mm. But to answer your question, I haven’t seen him since last night. If he’s not answering the door, I think we can safely say he’s not in.’
‘Oh...’ said Izzy, shifting from foot-to-foot and looking deflated.
‘I presume he’s got your number?’ Lucy politely enquired.
‘What?... Oh, yes.’
‘Then I’m sure he’ll you ring you when he’s ready,’ Lucy replied, as she turned back to the front door.
‘Erm, excuse me?’ said Izzy, who was now getting quite desperate. ‘Could I possibly use your toilet?’ Lucy just rolled her eyes, before taking out her keys, and then turning to unlock the door.
In the hallway, Lucy picked up her mail from a small table, before then starting up the stairs. Izzy paused to look across at the door to Harry’s flat, fighting back the urge to dash across the hallway and hammer her fists upon it. Instead, she enviously followed Lucy’s shapely calves up the stairs.
When Izzy emerged from the bathroom, the door to Lucy’s flat was still standing open, and Lucy was still leaning against the adjacent kitchen door frame, arms folded across ample breasts, an amused smile on her face.
Guessing she wasn’t going to be invited to stay for coffee, Izzy hesitated, reluctant to leave. ‘Are you sure Harry isn’t in his flat, and just not answering the door?’ she asked.
‘It’s possible, though unlikely,’ Lucy replied.
‘How can you be sure?’
Lucy shrugged. ‘I can’t. But Harry isn’t the kind of guy to hide away. Besides, his mail is still on the table downstairs. But feel free to knock on his door on your way out,’ she said, moving towards the flat door. As she did so, Izzy got a quick glimpse into the kitchen, and there, hanging on the back of a kitchen chair, was Harry’s leather jacket.
Izzy felt her stomach lurch.
‘Was it very late, when you last saw Harry?’ she asked Lucy, trying not to sound like a jealous schoolgirl, but failing miserably.
Another sigh, another check of the wristwatch, the lights still on red. The late afternoon was turning into early evening, and the daylight was quickly becoming twilight.
Izzy’s shoulder bag was on the passenger seat next to her. She reached in, rummaged around, and then finally found what she was looking for: an opened packet of cigarettes and a disposable gas lighter.
Izzy was a casual smoker. So casual in fact, she couldn’t recall how many cigarettes were left in the pack. There was one left. Ignoring the sign on the hire car’s dashboard, which clearly stated smoking wasn’t allowed in the car, she placed the cigarette into her mouth and struck the lighter, taking three attempts before she managed to produce a flame. She touched it to the tip of the cigarette, drawing deeply, seeing the tip glow red. Just at that moment, the vehicle behind her loudly blasted its horn to tell her the lights had changed to green. Startled, she dropped the cigarette, only for it to land on the carpeting of the passenger side footwell. Fighting against her seatbelt, she desperately scrabbled about trying to locate the cigarette, the smell of singed carpet and the tiny plume of rising smoke, finally helping her to pinpoint the offending article.
Shoving the cigarette into the corner of her mouth, she then crunched the car into gear, hit the button to wind down the side window, floored the accelerator, and then shot forward through a red light, at the same time maki
ng eye contact in the rear view mirror with the driver behind and giving him the finger: multitasking at its best.
CHAPTER 33
Harry’s return to consciousness was painfully slow, and very confused. He was unable to comprehend where he was, what time of day it was and, more importantly, how long he’d been there. Just how much time had passed? Was he awake or was he dreaming?
He started to lift his head from the cold surface that it rested upon until a sharp bolt of pain shot through his skull, causing him to cry out. He eased his head back down, allowing the pain to reduce to a mere hammering.
Everything was black. Totally, totally, black. No light, nothing. Am I blind? And it was cold. So, so, cold. Bone achingly cold. His entire body seemed to be numb.
He tried to move, to wrap his arms around himself and rub some life back into his achingly cold limbs and stop the violent shaking, but he was unable to. What little sense of feeling Harry had left in his body indicated he was lying on the floor, and that he seemed to be wedged tight into a corner, his arms trapped behind him, his knees up towards his chest. He also appeared to be naked.
He tried to blink away the darkness, to focus, but something seemed to be across his eyes. As he scrunched up his face, he also became aware of something across his mouth. Then he realised: there was a cloth bag, a hood maybe, over his head, also heavy duty adhesive tape over his mouth allowing him to breathe through his nose only.
Harry desperately, desperately tried to remember. Where had he been? Who had he spoken to? Where the fuck was he?
Nothing. His mind was totally blank. He wasn’t even sure if he was who he thought he was, and it seemed the harder he tried to remember, the more his head hurt: so he gave up. He stopped trying to think. He rested his forehead on the floor, to again feel the numbing cold seep through the thin cloth, his resolve and strength draining away as it did so.
With his mouth taped, Harry was breathing hard through his nose. He could smell dirt and traces of paint on the floor. He could also smell stale alcohol... whisky... the old man! He could smell his own stale body odour... Izzy... the car... Cutter! Realising his heightened sense of smell was triggering threads of memory, he desperately tried to grasp one, to hang onto it. Muddy footprints... gun barrel... Eastern Europeans...
Harry groaned inwardly, more at his own stupidity than physical pain. He had to make a move. He had to get out of there. He had no doubt that the reason he was unable to move his arms and legs - other than the cold and cramp - was because they were bound with tape.
Naked, blind, and tightly bound, while lying in the corner of a cold stinking room and feeling like an maltreated scrap yard dog, Harry weighed up his options. He figured that if he were to jerk his body upright while pushing hard against the wall that the soles of his feet were pressed against, he would end up in a slouched position, from where he could then shuffle into a sitting position. He also figured that the moment he moved, his cramped body would be wracked with excruciating pain.
He took a number of deep sharp breaths in through his nose to fill his lungs and oxygenate his blood, before then exhaling hard, jerking his body upwards at the same time pushing against the wall.
The muffled cry of agony that shot through his cramped body was suddenly cut short when his head slammed into an overhead steel plate.
He slumped, dazed, but only for a few seconds. Fear and adrenaline raced through his body like express train, kick-starting his senses and sharpening his dulled thoughts, as the realisation and horror of his plight sank in.
He was in a box.
A steel box.
Horrific memories of early childhood, so carefully managed and suppressed, came hurtling back.
Please, God, no! Not this! Please!
Harry fought hard.
He fought hard against the terror that threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to breathe calmly, to focus his mind on anything other than the fact he was locked in a box. He desperately tried to ignore his greatest fear. His only fear.
Claustrophobia.
He failed.
His breathing became erratic. He started to hyperventilate. The strictures of the cold and cramp were quickly forgotten as he fought against his bonds, his body thrashing around the confined space of the box, impervious to the pain he was inflicting upon himself, the scraped skin, and the bruised bones.
He tried to scream for help. But no one heard him.
No one came.
CHAPTER 34
Izzy parked her Smart Car in a parking bay reserved for local residents. As she locked it, she cast an appreciative eye over the top-of-the-range Mercedes sports car parked adjacent. She rang the doorbell to Steve’s house long and hard. She waited ten seconds before again pressing the bell. She was about to press it for the third time, when the door suddenly opened.
Still wearing suit trousers, waistcoat, shirt - sleeves rolled up - and tie, stood Detective Constable Steve Marshall, tea towel in one hand, and a frown of annoyance creasing his handsome forehead.
‘Hi,’ said Izzy, thrusting a bottle of wine - which she’d bought from a supermarket on her way over - out towards Steve.
Moments passed. They continued to stare at each other.
‘Izzy,’ said Izzy, with her arm out ramrod straight, still clutching the bottle of wine.
Steve’s frown deepened.
‘Isobelle Harker,’ she added, feeling awkward and turning red in the face, ‘from the North London Gazette.’
Steve’s frown quickly disappeared as he realised, then reappeared as he wondered at the purpose of her visit to his home. ‘How did you find out where I live?’
‘Electoral Role,’ replied Izzy, whose arm was beginning ache and waver under the effort.
Steve was still frowning. Then, remembering his manners, he reached out to take the wine. Izzy, taking this as an invitation, breezed past him and into his home, leaving him at the front door holding a tea towel and a bottle of Chablis, with indecision written all over his face.
‘Come in,’ said Steve, who then had to hurry after her as she disappeared down the hallway, veering off and into the kitchen. When he caught up with her, she was closely inspecting the food produce he’d bought earlier that day, and which was now laid out on the island kitchen unit ready for preparation and cooking.
‘You’ve got an island!’ said Izzy, excitedly. ‘I’ve always wanted an island, but my flat’s too small,’ she added, dumping her shoulder bag and coat on the floor in a corner of the kitchen, to then perch herself on a barstool at the end of the island. ‘It’s a beautiful kitchen. And so many gadgets,’ she said, eyeing the wall mounted TV, coffee machine, and various other top-of-the-range kitchen appliances. ‘And it’s so tidy, too.’
Steve stood and watched her, totally at a loss.
‘It’s chilled, you know,’ she said, beaming at him.
‘Sorry?’ he replied, blinking.
‘The Chablis. It’s chilled. It would be a shame for it to get warm.’
Steve glanced down at the bottle of wine in his hand, and then back up at Izzy, his brain proving a little slow in catching up with the whirlwind which had just entered his home. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, finally.
‘Ooh, that would be lovely,’ she replied, as though the thought had never occurred to her. Steve located a glass, filled it, and placed it on a coaster in front of Izzy, who promptly took a large sip and then smacked her lips in pleasure. ‘Aren’t you having one?’
‘I don’t drink,’ he replied, to which Izzy’s eyebrows immediately shot up. ‘Well, the odd glass of wine on occasions,’ he then added.
Another long awkward moment.
‘Mm, something smells good,’ said Izzy, finally breaking the silence.
‘Oh, yes. Naan bread,’ said Steve, remembering.
‘I adore naan bread. Especially the flavoured ones. You know, garlic with herbs, or sun-dried tomatoes?’ she said, taking another sip of wine, and then tucking her blonde hair behind one ear. ‘Out of the pac
ket, into the oven, two mins, done. Delish!’
‘Oh, no. It’s not out of a packet,’ Steve told her, having a quick glance into the oven, ‘it’s homemade.’
‘Fuck-a-duck!’ she replied. ‘You actually make your own naan bread?’
Steve frowned. He didn’t like swearing. And he especially didn’t like women swearing. He always felt it was... common. He reached out to replace Izzy’s glass back on its coaster, wiping the circles of moisture from the worktop surface as he did so.
Izzy could see that Steve wasn’t comfortable. His body language was turning defensive. He clearly didn’t like his private space being invaded, and she could see he was close to asking her why she was there. ‘So, what are you cooking?’ she asked, quickly.
‘Well, the dish is called Italian Roast Peppers,’ he answered, hovering over the food, hesitating.
‘Are you expecting company?’ asked Izzy, as the thought finally occurred to her that she might be interrupting something.
‘No. Nobody,’ he replied, still hesitating.
‘Maybe you should wear an apron. You are very smartly dressed.’
Steve nodded, hesitated, and then reached for a bundle of cloth that was scrunched up on the worktop. It was a full-length apron. He shook out the creases, looped it over his head, and then tied it behind his back.
Izzy struggled to suppress a giggle. The reason for Steve’s hesitation was because it was one of those joke aprons: printed on the front, from the neck down, was a picture of a woman’s body, bare breasted and only wearing black lace panties with stockings and suspenders. ‘Nice legs,’ she said, struggling not to laugh out loud.
It was Steve’s turn to colour-up with embarrassment. ‘It was a present,’ he managed to say.
‘From a girlfriend?’ asked Izzy, teasing.
Steve quickly turned to the preparation of the food, explaining to Izzy what he was doing, warming to his theme as he went. ‘I put the lightly oiled red peppers into an ovenproof dish, sprinkle over chopped capers, black olives and garlic. Then, grated mozzarella, fresh white breadcrumbs - ciabatta in this instance - a sprinkle of olive oil and white wine -’
