Dangerous Shadows

by Whitelaw, Stella

  Dangerous Shadows

  Stella Whitelaw

  © Stella Whitelaw 2017

  Stella Whitelaw has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2017.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “Don’t make a sound or I’ll toss you overboard. No one will hear you. We are miles from anywhere. It’s already ten metres deep and you’d drown in minutes.”

  Holly realized the uselessness of any struggling. Her wrist and her ankles were both handcuffed, the chain between each pair four links long. She was in her black one-piece swimsuit, the one that Danielle had ridiculed. It covered her modesty. One of the straps had got broken when Jake dragged her along the beach.

  “Now you and I have a lot to talk about,” said Jake, opening a new bottle of Jameson’s Irish, 40% proof. “I know you don’t drink much so all I can offer you is water.”

  “Thank you. I’d like some water,” she said, her mouth dry with fear.

  “Remember the roll-over lottery? You said I could keep the winnings, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t remember.” The words were damaged in her throat.

  “No remember, no water.”

  *

  Danielle was in seventh heaven. She had never been so happy. She was having supper with the man she loved, the man she was going to marry tomorrow afternoon. He was so relaxed and easy to get along with. It was going to be a wonderful marriage. She knew he would look after her, take care of her, be the perfect father for her children.

  The stars had laid on a special brilliance for this night. Calypso music was playing. She swayed with the castanets of her heels.

  “I’ll have to take this outside,” Barry said getting up, searching for his mobile which was bleeping a standard call sound. “I hate people who take calls in public. They are my Room 101 hate.”

  Danielle nodded and smiled as he went out onto the veranda of the restaurant. He had ordered the best wine. She took several sips. It tasted light and fruity. Everything about the future was going to be delicious.

  He came back, his face grim, the hawkish cleft in his chin deeper. She read disaster in his eyes. “We have to go back to Tiger Bay House,” he said. “Holly has been abducted.”

  *

  Luke hated doing it. He was searching through Holly’s personal belongings in her bedroom at Tiger Bay House. It was a violation of her privacy. Everything was tidy. Holly had always been neat and tidy, even during chaotic rehearsals at the television studios. She knew where everything was. All her notes were up to date. She was efficiency with a capital E.

  None of this would have happened if he had not tried to protect her. His guilt was a humiliation. How could he survive with this gnawing pain?

  He went through the contents of her shoulder bag. Another violation. Her address book was there, every entry clear and concise in her feminine handwriting. What was the name of her flatmate? Sadie, Sally… something?

  He found Sadie’s email address and opened his laptop. It was a sleek chance, a long shot. He emailed Sadie: Holly has been abducted. She is in danger. Can you help?

  Maybe Sadie would know something. Maybe she could stitch Holly’s name to some clue. He had to find her. Despair was snapping at his heels.

  *

  Jake was congratulating himself after his second glass of pure peat-scented whiskey. He knew his plan was going to work out well. Holly was huddled in a corner of the cabin of the speedboat, being rocked by the turbulent waves. She looked cold and uncomfortable. The north coast of Barbados was rougher than he had expected. But then this was the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Do you still want some water?” He was standing at the helm, steering the SB770. She was a nifty speedboat. He’d picked the right one. No idiotic flapping schooner sails for him. He would have had no idea how to hoist them up or down. He liked a powerful engine. Switch on, switch off. No problem.

  “Yes, please,” she said.

  “Starting to remember that you said I could have the lottery win if I went and bought the ticket for you?” He was grinning on a raft of booze.

  “Starting to remember.”

  “Good on you. Not quite so smart now, are you? I can’t manage to open the bottle of water and steer the boat at the same time. You’ll have to wait. Lick your lips. Do something foxy.”

  Holly knew she had to stay sane and alert. Jake was dangerously mad. They would have missed her by now at Tiger Bay House. Lily would, no doubt, be weeping as she had been party to the late swim. She would think it was her fault.

  Luke would have called the police in Bridgetown. There must be furrows on the sand. She had dragged her feet purposely, leaving heel marks. The white speedboat had been half drawn up on the beach, tethered to a takamaka tree, anchored to a rock. But maybe a high tide would have washed away the evidence? She couldn’t remember the times of the tides.

  She knew love could be an act of courage. She had to prove that now. Her only chance of escape was to cling to the love of the man who would do everything to save her. She had to stay alive for him, even though he had once fractured her heart

  “If you unlock one of my wrists, I could cook something for your supper,” she offered. “It’s such a well-kept speedboat. There must be lots of provisions.”

  Jake was always hungry. It was his lanky frame. Food went straight through him. She remembered when she and Sadie had given him the use of their sofa-bed for a few nights when he had been flat-hunting. Their refrigerator emptied overnight.

  “Cordon Bleu?”

  “Of course,” said Holly, biting back a sarcastic retort. “Only the best.”

  *

  Detective Sergeant Colin Woodley had a date with Sadie. He liked her immensely. She was fun and she was pretty, all that long blonde hair. He had a thing about long blonde hair, mermaid’s hair. He didn’t have much money. Dating was a strain on his resources. His old car cost a bomb, falling apart, generating rust.

  They went to see a film, an Oscar nomination. It was good. They went back to her flat for coffee. Only coffee. They both knew it was early days.

  The light on her laptop came on. There was an email for her. It was from someone she didn’t know, Luke Kenyon.

  “It’s about Holly. She’s gone missing. They think she’s been abducted. In B-Barbados.” Sadie was shocked, barely able to speak.

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “I don’t know. You’re a detective, aren’t you? You’ve got to help.”

  He had no idea what Sadie was talking about. He mainly covered domestic abuse and drunk driving. Abduction in Barbados was way out of his league.

  Run Holly, Run.

  Chapter One

  “Don’t let out a sound or I’ll tip you overboard. No one will hear you. We’re miles from anywhere.”

  Holly awoke with a shock. It was no dream. She could hear the words clearly in her head, an echo from the future propelled int
o hearing. Her bed was rocking as if at sea. She felt sick. She reached for the clock on her bedside table. The digital numbers said it was one fifteen. She had to get some sleep, tomorrow was special.

  *

  Everyone was on edge, nail biting. Everyone except Holly. The television studio was writhing with cables and cameras, madly busy, like worker bees swarming round a hive. A new producer was arriving from the States to resurrect the current series.

  Holly stayed cool and calm. Five foot seven of English calm. Black jeans, black turtle-neck, black sneakers. Her abundant red hair tied back with black ribbon.

  Everyone called Holly the Foxy Lady because of the spirit in her wide green eyes and the masses of red hair. She might be cornered but she always came out fighting. But her face was not foxy, it was oval and serene, perfectly proportioned with a smile that could stop traffic. And she didn’t only fight her own corner. She was there for anyone in trouble.

  “Foxy, what are we going to do? He hasn’t said what he wants.”

  “Play it cool,” said Holly Gray. “Wait till he speaks the first command.”

  “We’ve heard that the man is a tyrant.”

  “Tyrants are no problem. They stand on shifting sands. Wait and see what happens. We’ll acquisition a few spades, just in case.”

  They all laughed, reassured. Holly could cope with anyone.

  Holly was not as assured as she sounded. The new producer from the States might be a nightmare. This on-going crime series meant work for a lot of people. If he screwed it up then their careers would take a downward spiral.

  He walked on set, a man seriously jet-lagged. His suit was creased, his short dark hair tousled. He slammed a briefcase down on a desk, flicked it open.

  “Where’s Holly?” he said. “I need her. Immediately.”

  Holly knew, from the sound of that deep, vibrant voice, that she was doomed. Only a few words from the man and she was his slave. And he spelt trouble, only then she did not know it. Nor did she know that one day her life would be in danger because of him.

  *

  “Barbados? I don’t know anyone in Barbados,” said Holly, peering at the stamp. The envelope was good quality, handwriting unknown.

  “Has the post come?” her flatmate, Sadie, called out from the bathroom.

  “It has.” Holly waved off the cloud of perfumed steam. Was it jasmine or honeysuckle? Sadie always used intensely flowery products.

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Junk mail and bills.”

  Holly put the envelope with the colourful Barbados stamp in the back pocket of her jeans. She saved foreign stamps for a dog charity. She knew no one in Barbados.

  “Coming out tonight with the girls?” said Sadie, towelling her long blonde hair. Sadie worked in an employment office and Holly now helped to run a model agency where she interviewed and booked skinny hopefuls for the fashion pages.

  “An early night in might be a good idea,” said Holly.

  “Nonsense,” said Sadie. “Come out with the girls and forget your sorrows. They only produce wrinkles.”

  “Four new ones appeared this morning.”

  “Lunch time Botox?”

  “Not me. I’m scared of needles.”

  Sadie had been a good friend, steering her through the aftermath of two bad relationships. Episodes that Holly wanted to forget. Boyfriend number two, the scurrilous Jake Furrows, had been a walking disaster zone. She sometimes saw his photo in a tabloid newspaper, smudged and out of focus, on the arm of a glitzy pop star or girly under-age actress, coming out of a posh night club. He looked different now, sleek, well-dressed, streaked blonde hair. Not like the creased jeans and cheap anorak garb when they’d had a few dates. He’d been short of money in those days.

  *

  The shoulders of the cheap anorak were soaked through before Jake had even reached the corner shop. Typical that Holly didn’t want to go out in this weather. Girls hated getting their hair wet. But OK to ask him even though he was watching a football match on television.

  “I forgot to buy my lottery ticket this week,” said Holly, waving the pink slip. “I’ve filled in the numbers. All you’ve got to do is pop round to the corner shop and register the ticket. Here’s the pound to pay.”

  “Can’t it wait? England are winning. Kicking the guts out of the Irish.”

  “It’ll be too late. Tickets have to be bought by a certain time. It might be my lucky week.”

  Jake stopped at the Rose and Crown on his way back. The pub had a really big flat screen on the wall. He could see through the steamed up windows that the match was into overtime. He slipped in, ordered a pint of larger, and took it to a seat where he had a good view. There was a hole in the sole of his shoe and rain had seeped into his sock, squelching.

  He’d wait till his sock dried out. The pub was warm and busy, customers flocking in from the torrential rain. All the programmes were running late because of the match. He might have another pint or treat himself to a whiskey.

  Holly wouldn’t worry if he was late back. She didn’t really care for him, that was obvious. She was only being helpful to let him stay while he was flat-hunting. That damned sofa-bed gave him back-ache.

  *

  “Tonight, Holly, we’ll hit the town. Find ourselves some hunky dates and have a good time.”

  “I don’t want a hunky date.”

  “Holly,” said Sadie, exasperated. “You need help. You’ve left the media circus, remember? This is your new life.”

  Television work had been invigorating. Holly had loved it. Then she met the wrong person, or rather she thought he was the right person, on the set. That was a long, idyllic summer she preferred to forget.

  She had been nineteen when she fell for him. He’d flown in from the States to save a series on classic crime films from disaster. Holly Gray was the perfect assistant, she was always available, efficient and good natured. She bloomed, bought lots of trendy tops from Monsoon and H & M, had her unruly hair cut into a fashionable shape.

  It had been tumultuous, falling in love with such a charismatic and talented man. From the moment she saw his dark hair, heard his jet-lagged voice, she felt the instant tug of attraction. It was like being hit with a life-time of dreams. When his granite grey eyes met hers, she knew that this was the man she had been waiting for all her life. It was mutual recognition. So she thought.

  “Where’s my little slave?” Luke used to say in the studio, teasing her. Not little at five foot seven, but she was his slave. He got that part right.

  She tried not to think of that summer with Luke, but it had been wonderful. Everyone noticed the difference in her, saw her bloom.

  “Say, can I have some of that?” her friend Sadie had teased with a wicked grin. “Has he got a brother?”

  The last thing Holly expected was an email from Luke saying he had to go back to the States on urgent business. Would she see him off at Heathrow airport and bring a packet of his favourite ginger biscuits? Holly went to the vast airport, lost among the travelling crowds and waited, and waited. She watched the departure board light up the gate boarding sign for the flight to J F Kennedy, New York. Where was he? She began to panic, imagining a road accident, her love lying in a gutter. When she enquired at the checkin desk, she found that Luke had taken an earlier flight. He had left a note.

  Holly opened the envelope with trembling hands. Luke gave no reason, merely thanked her for a great time and wished her well in the future.

  She sat on the edge of a seat in the airport, biting back bitter tears of humiliation. How could she have ever thought she meant anything to him? She left the biscuits on the seat. Some itinerant traveller might appreciate them.

  *

  Luke Kenyon refused all refreshment in the first class cabin. The seat was comfortably wide, leg room enough for his long legs. He turned off the overhead light and closed his eyes. He had a migraine coming on.

  “Would you like to look at the menu and chose your lunch, sir?” the
flight attendant asked him. She was a trim blonde, uniform immaculate.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Some champagne, sir? Or can I fetch you anything else?”

  “Nothing, maybe some water.”

  She returned with a glass of iced water, sat it on a coaster on his tray.

  “Thank you. I’m going to sleep. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  Luke knew he wouldn’t sleep. He was thinking of Holly and how she would feel when she got his note. He had to do it, for her sake. He had to get out of her life, give her time to grow up, find a young man who would want to marry her. There was no way he could think of marriage. He lived out of a suitcase.

  *

  Holly grew up overnight. Her good nature went into hibernation. She lost interest in men, neatly side-stepping any male landmines and concentrated on work. Her mother despaired.

  “Holly, you can’t stay at home forever,” said Grace, her mother. “You need to get a flat of your own, a life of your own, be independent. Sadie is always asking you to share with her.”

  “I don’t want to do anything,” said Holly. She was wallowing in grief. Being alone was like a bereavement.

  Months later Holly bumped into Jake Furrows. They were both hurrying along the corridors of Television Studios and collided. Amid showers of fallen paper, files and mobile phones, Jake managed to catch sight of Holly’s studio number and within the hour was phoning her for a date.

  “You’re wasted in television,” he said over a glass of chilled Chardonnay in a famous Fleet Street bar. “Running around after producers and directors who don’t even bother to learn your proper name. Miss Dogsbody.”

  “But that’s what I like doing.”

  “You should be running a business, something that’s modern and glamorous. Not exactly show business but on the fringe. A classy business that pays serious money. You could make a bomb. You’ve got style and class.”