Tom Douglas Box Set 2

by Rachel Abbott

  The three of them watched, almost mesmerised, until Natasha reached out and slammed the laptop lid shut.

  ‘It won’t work, you know. I’m not stupid. Do you think I’m a normal kid who does what she’s told, scared of getting in trouble and being grounded?’ She gave a cold laugh. ‘When you come from where I do, what you’re scared of is being thrown in The Pit, starved until you’d do anything – yeah, anything – for a piece of bread. Or worse, you’re scared one of the big guys – the real evil bastards – is going to deal with you. Do you know what they call these men? No – I bet you don’t. They call them enforcers. So you see, a bit of mince and a family photo really, really doesn’t cut it.’

  Emma wasn’t able to pull her eyes away from Natasha’s. An image of this girl’s life for the past six years was painted clearly in her mind and suddenly she felt no hope at all.

  29

  One look at Tom’s face as he walked towards her, and Becky knew something had happened. Tom had what Becky’s mum would call an open face; wide blue eyes that looked straight at you, and a relaxed, confident expression. Not tonight, though. His face seemed narrower, his eyes slightly downcast with a smidgeon of a wrinkle between his brows. His skin seemed paler too, and his generous mouth was set in a straight line, as if his teeth were clenched. Forlorn was the word that sprang to her mind.

  He was a good-looking bastard, by anybody’s measure. Six foot tall or more with those wide shoulders and broad chest, he usually had an easy way about him that felt comfortable and secure to be around. Mind you, he had a temper. On more than one occasion Becky had seen him come close to losing it with a suspect – particularly when kids were the victims. And he could be a bit gruff and direct when the mood took him. But all that just added to the interest, in her book. Not that she should be thinking that way. After all, he had Leo – studying for a degree in psychology, no less. Smart as well as beautiful, it seemed.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked, squashing the twinge of irrational resentment of a woman she had never met. Tom barely registered her question, giving her a distracted look as he marched into his office. Taking that as a yes, she diverted into the kitchen.

  ‘How did it go with Emma, then?’ she asked five minutes later as she plonked a mug of tea on Tom’s desk.

  ‘Nothing much to tell you, really,’ he replied shortly, staring at the drink in front of him.

  ‘I sat with David and Natasha, as instructed,’ she said, thinking that if she jabbered on for a bit it might give him time to pull himself out of whatever was bothering him. ‘Course, I was careful because of the bugs, so I asked her questions about where she’d been living. I knew she wouldn’t tell me anything. She walked out – so I followed and cornered her in the hall – a bug-free zone. I said we’d had some new information, and I wanted to run some names by her. She was quite sneery about it, as if to say, ‘Do you think I’d tell you?’ but it didn’t matter because I made them all up. I did, however, think there was a flicker of something when I mentioned the name Rick or Richard Harvey. Whether it was the first name or the last I don’t know – but if I had to put money on it, I would say that it was the name Rick that did it. I’d only wanted to unnerve her – so that was a bit of a bonus.’

  Becky waited. Tom had been looking at her throughout, but his eyes were distant, unfocused.

  ‘Good. Well done, Becky.’ Tom closed his eyes for a second and she saw his shoulders move up then down as if he was trying to get himself under control.

  ‘We’ve got bugger all to go on, if we’re honest about it,’ he said. ‘What exactly do we know?’

  And so it had begun, the trawl through the information on whoever had taken Natasha in the first place, who had brought her back and who had taken Ollie. They had just about nothing.

  Tom’s phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the screen, suddenly pushing himself forwards, sitting upright in his chair for the first time.

  He raised his eyes from the phone and looked straight at Becky. Her heart rate increased. Tom’s expression said it all.

  ‘A text from Emma. It’s moving. Whatever they want, whatever is planned, according to Natasha, it’s going to happen tomorrow,’ he said.

  *

  Alone in his office once more, frustration was coursing through Tom’s veins. He had now selected and briefed a small team to work on the kidnap, and they were pursuing every line of enquiry they could think of, but he felt they were working completely blind.

  His personal mobile phone rang.

  ‘Tom Douglas,’ he answered.

  ‘Hi Tom, it’s Leo,’ Tom breathed out slowly. He had forgotten to tell Leo he wouldn’t be home – maybe not at all – tonight. He realised he had no idea how she would react on the rare occasions that he might have to be secretive.

  ‘Bollocks. I’m sorry, Leo – I’m a useless cretin. Look, I’ll call you back. Sorry – we can’t use my personal mobile at the moment. Give me two minutes.’

  He hung up. This was the number that Emma would use if she needed him, and he couldn’t be tied up talking to Leo if she wanted to get through.

  He quickly dialled Leo’s number on his office phone.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I need to leave my other line free.’

  ‘Is it Lucy?’ Leo asked, the concern showing in her voice. She had met Lucy a few times, and they were getting along better on each occasion. There had been a slight wariness on Lucy’s part to start with, but Leo had been sensitive to any possible jealousy.

  ‘No, nothing like that. It’s work, but I can’t go into it. Sorry.’

  There was a brief silence – as if for a moment she hadn’t believed him. Tom felt an unexpected flash of irritation, although Leo’s next words betrayed nothing.

  ‘I wanted to know if I should put my limited skills to the test and make something for supper,’ she said. She was a fairly useless cook, but he didn’t want to undermine her completely.

  ‘I would love you to cook me supper, but it’s highly unlikely that I’m going to be home at all tonight. If I am, it’ll be the early hours.’

  ‘What’s up? I thought your current cases were all in hand.’

  ‘Hah. Unfortunately crime in Manchester is relentless. There is no such thing as clearing your caseload, I can promise you that. Some bastard is sure to do something that needs attention the minute you think you’re on top of things. But this is different. I need to stay and sort this. Sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘And you’re not going to tell me what it is?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Oh well, I’ve got loads of reading to do anyway. The question is, shall I stay here – I’m at yours – or should I go home?’

  ‘Let’s just say I hope and pray that if I get home, and it’s a big if, it will be to your warm, naked body in my bed. Is that okay?’

  There was a soft chuckle down the line. That’s better, he thought.

  ‘Wake me when you get in, then. I wouldn’t mind some of your warm, naked body while we’re on the subject.’

  For a moment, all thoughts of Jack and Ollie disappeared as his mind conjured up a picture of Leo, her long dark hair spread across the pillow and her beautiful slender body lying waiting for him.

  ‘You’ve gone quiet, Tom?’ she said, the laughter still evident in her voice. ‘Glad I’ve cheered you up. You sounded very grouchy when I called. Oh – before I go, you’ve got a message on your answerphone. Do you want me to play it to you?

  His mind now firmly back on the job, Tom answered. ‘Yes please.’

  He heard Leo’s footsteps on the bare wooden floorboards of his hall, going softer as she walked across the rug. Then a click.

  ‘This is a message for Mr Tom Douglas. My name is Raoul Charteris calling from Honegger, Wyss & Cie in Switzerland. We have received your request regarding the account beginning with the numbers and letters 53696C766. It appears you are the beneficiary named on the account. However, there are some irregularities regarding the account that we need to
discuss with you before we can proceed further. Please give me a call on +41 43 733 5360 at your earliest convenience. I’m keen that we speak as soon as possible, Mr Douglas, so this number will get through to me at any time.’

  30

  The night was very still, and through the open curtains of Ollie’s bedroom window Emma could see a thin crescent moon and a sprinkling of stars. She wanted the window and the curtains to be open. She needed to see the sky and the moon that would be looking down on Ollie, smell the air that he would be breathing, wherever he was. Somehow, by closing the curtains it was as if she was creating a cocoon of comfort that excluded her son, so she had pushed them as far back as possible, feeling that she could reflect her thoughts and love from the stars down to her baby.

  She had started the night lying next to David, hoping they could give each other some support, but that was harder than it seemed. How could she sympathise with his feelings for his daughter – the girl who had stolen Ollie? They seemed to be separated by a chasm a mile wide.

  David had eventually fallen into a fitful sleep. She didn’t know how he could but she also knew he was exhausted, and she suspected from the smell of his breath that he had resorted to drinking brandy to numb his pain. Since they had known that ‘it’ was going to be tomorrow, there had been no reason for David to resist the lure of alcohol. She couldn’t drink, though. What if Ollie needed her?

  She had to feel close to her baby. Ollie’s bedroom was where she wanted to be, and as soon as she was sure David was sleeping, she had escaped their bed and rushed to the place she felt closest to her son.

  Emma wondered what was going through Natasha’s head now. It was so hard to reconcile the young, frail-looking girl with the kid standing before them, telling them that nothing they did would frighten her.

  Then she reminded herself that children much younger than Natasha were fighting wars in the Middle East and being trained to kill, and she’d seen a documentary on the television that said as many as five hundred children in the UK under fourteen had been found guilty and sentenced for violent crimes in the last twelve months. Much as it beggared belief, perhaps Natasha’s behaviour wasn’t as incredible as it seemed.

  Emma pulled a blanket over her legs. She didn’t really know why she had got ready for bed at all. Even though she had hardly slept since Natasha had arrived days ago, she couldn’t bear the thought of closing her eyes. What if she missed something important? What if they brought Ollie back and couldn’t get in – left him outside crying – and she was asleep? Or what if he was ill and they panicked? She had to be awake, alert, ready for anything if it meant getting Ollie back.

  Just one thin wall separated her from the cause of their problems. One wall. There was no doubt that Natasha would have barricaded herself into her room, but Emma formed thoughts like spears to penetrate the wall and get inside Natasha’s head.

  ‘How could you do this to your baby brother?’ she asked silently, directing the flow of her thoughts by imagining Natasha’s sleeping form. ‘What did this baby ever do to hurt you? What did any of us do to hurt you?’

  Her focus was so intense that she almost missed it.

  What was that?

  It was a noise. Natasha was moving around in her bedroom. Emma lay still, focusing all of her strength on listening to the sounds from the next room. She could make out a hum that sounded as if it could be a voice, but it was so low that it was nothing more than a distant murmur.

  Yes, it was definitely a voice and then Emma heard one word, louder than the rest, but with a distinct edge of despair. ‘Why?’ And then nothing. Just the sound of the wind rustling the leaves of the holly tree outside the window.

  Emma crept from the chair towards the door. Even though there was no Ollie, she had left his door ajar out of habit. Shutting it would have simply underlined what she already knew: Ollie wasn’t there. But now she was glad, because she thought she might hear better. She sat down on the floor beside the open door, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

  The murmuring had stopped. There was silence for a few moments, then Emma heard a different sound – a drawer being slowly and carefully pulled out.

  What was going on?

  She sensed, rather than heard, movement in the next bedroom, the sounds so subtle that they were only recognisable because she was listening so intently. But then there was a noise that was clear. It was the sound of Natasha’s door opening.

  Emma shuffled quickly back from the doorway into the shadow of the room as Natasha tiptoed along the landing, silently creeping down the stairs.

  *

  Emma waited behind the bedroom door, listening to the sounds of the house. She was certain that David hadn’t put the alarm on before going to bed. She’d asked him not to – in case somebody broke in to bring Ollie back.

  It took Emma less than two seconds to decide: if Natasha was going somewhere, Emma was going after her. She didn’t know if Tom was wrong and the house was being watched, but right now she didn’t care. She wanted to know what Natasha was up to.

  Where on earth could she be going? Emma heard the back door open and then close quietly. Please, Natasha, don’t take the key and lock the door from the outside, she prayed.

  Glancing at her navy-blue pyjama bottoms and thinking they would have to do, she darted into their bedroom, grabbed a black jumper from where she had thrown it earlier and ran down the stairs, not bothering to mask the sound of her footsteps. David wouldn’t wake up. He seemed to have trained himself to sleep through anything – including Ollie’s occasional bad nights – and Natasha was already gone. Emma just hoped she could catch up with her.

  Stopping to grab a pair of moccasin slippers with rubber soles that would make no sound on the road, she quietly opened the back door and slipped outside, pulling the door closed behind her. It was bitterly cold, but Emma barely noticed.

  Keeping to the grass rather than the gravel of the drive, she ran to the gate and looked both ways. The moon wasn’t very bright, but she could see a moving shadow to her left, heading towards the very same wood where she had met Tom earlier. If she followed now, she would be exposed. She thought quickly. The other side of the road had a steep grass verge and a tall hedge. If she could make it over there, it wouldn’t be the obvious place to look if Natasha checked to see if she was being followed. Emma waited a couple of seconds and then risked the quick dash across the road and up the verge, standing still for a few seconds.

  Natasha slowed down and glanced over her left shoulder to where Emma had been only moments before. Emma held her breath. Natasha turned back and carried on walking, and as she moved forwards Emma crept along the hedge, keeping her head low. Natasha took the first path into the wood.

  Giving her prey a moment or two to get further away from the road, Emma waited until she thought it was safe, then ran back across the narrow strip of black tarmac to the edge of the pathway.

  It was completely silent in the wood. There was no wind, and they were too far from town to hear any traffic noise. Emma could hear herself breathing, her breaths short and sharp with fear. The sky was clear with only a sliver of moon to give any light, and the leaves that had littered the paths since autumn were crisp with frost, certain to crunch as she walked. With no other sounds of the night to disguise her movement, she stood stock still.

  Guessing that Natasha would be heading to the little clearing where Emma had met Tom, she took a chance and decided to skirt the wood, keeping to the field where the soft grass would absorb the sound of her footsteps, hoping to see and hear everything from the cover of the sparse trees.

  Staying low, she crept into the field, keeping to the very edge of the trees. She could hear Natasha crunching along the path. Emma stopped as the sounds grew louder. The girl was heading her way. Suddenly Natasha was in view, not ten metres away, standing still and looking around her. Emma crouched even lower, dropping her head so the weak moonlight wouldn’t pick out her white face.

 
Natasha was on the move again, this time with purpose and direction. She was striding further into the wood and Emma knew she would have to follow. She could hear voices. One was unmistakably Natasha’s. The other voice was a man’s.

  Emma crept closer, watching the ground to avoid the biggest patches of frozen leaves. The voices became clearer.

  ‘You’re a stupid bugger, Shelley,’ the man said, his voice tense with suppressed anger.

  Emma peered around the trunk of the tree. She couldn’t see anybody apart from Natasha. Who was Shelley?

  ‘If we fuck this up, it’s not just you that’s going be screwed – it’s me too – and I don’t like being messed with. Are you hearing me? I need you to tell me you’ve got this. And I want to watch your face, because you’d better not be lying to me.’

  Emma edged closer still. She could see the man now. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was stocky with a belly, wearing ill-fitting jeans and a brown leather jacket. She looked at his face. What moonlight there was illuminated his features; the man’s hair was slicked back and greasy, and his face looked oddly scarred until she realised that the disjointed reflections of light from his skin were due to pockmarking, probably from his teenage years. The scowl on his face said that Natasha – or Shelley as he called her – was in trouble.

  Natasha bravely looked him in the eye, but Emma could see her hands, clenching and unclenching.

  ‘I told you yesterday, Rory – it’s not my fault the pigs came. I told David I wouldn’t speak to them. But they’d been to see him at work because of that girl who was found dead. They thought it was me.’

  ‘I bet he wishes it had been, now.’ The man gave a throaty laugh and spat on the floor.

  ‘Tell me it wasn’t Izzy. It wasn’t, was it?’ Emma heard a note of distress in Natasha’s voice. Who’s Izzy, she thought.