The Hawkshead Hostage

by Rebecca Tope

  This was stupid, Simmy told herself. The people were just chatting. She ought to call Bonnie to check she was all right and then get back to work. Nothing here would help to find Ben or catch Dan’s killers. She got her phone out and turned it on. It felt good to have the means to connect to a friendly voice. Perhaps she’d call her mother, or Ninian or even Helen Harkness, before Bonnie. Ninian never answered his phone, though. It had surprised Simmy to learn that he even had one. Helen might not be in any mood to chat, and her mother was likely to have nothing but depressing things to report about her father.

  She looked up again, thinking about her options, her gaze on the big picture window of the empty shop. Something inside moved. Something light-coloured, barely visible against the sunny glare of the street. It was impossible to be sure what it was, but the way it moved indicated a person, darting unnaturally fast across the open space. When she blinked, it had gone, and none of the handful of people close by showed any sign of having seen the same thing.

  No longer caring about remaining concealed or conducting her idiotic shadowing of the hotel guests, she went to the window and peered in. There was a dusty blue carpet on the floor and a door was open in a corner. Nothing moved. There was every reason to think she’d imagined the ghostly figure that had looked so worryingly like Bonnie Lawson. And even if she had seen something, how could it possibly be of any significance? No reason, and yet she knew in her guts that something climactic was happening. Then her phone rang.

  ‘Simmy? It’s Bonnie. Where are you?’

  ‘Standing outside a big empty shop in the middle of Hawkshead.’

  ‘I thought I saw you just now. I’m inside it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Listen. You’ll have to call the police for me. Call Moxon – I haven’t got his number, and my battery’s almost flat. We’ve got to go carefully, or they’ll get away. Do you see? Tell him … tell him …’ Her voice broke and there were no more words for a moment. Simmy peered desperately through the dusty window, forgetting the Lillywhites and the smart woman just the other side of the building.

  ‘Bonnie? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Ben’s here. He’s almost unconscious. But he won’t let me call an ambulance until the criminals are caught. Do you understand? We have to have evidence, and catch them now, before they get away.’

  ‘That sounds like Ben,’ said Simmy, still not fully convinced of the reality of the situation.

  ‘Right.’ The voice choked again. ‘He’s got to have water,’ she said. ‘Can you get some to us somehow?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Put a bottle through the broken window, round the back. Low down behind a parked car. Just drop it in.’

  ‘All right. Yes. I’ll do that first.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I don’t know what else we can do, though. Moxon’s not going to just arrest them on my say-so, is he? They’re right here, right now. They must be coming in. They must have a key or something. How did you get in?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ Bonnie sounded faint and weak. ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Okay. Let them come in. I’ll hide. They might be bringing water for Ben. He hasn’t had any for ages. He thinks they meant to leave him for dead, but maybe they’ve changed their minds about that. Or they might be planning to take him somewhere else. We need to keep them here until the police come.’

  ‘Oh, Bonnie. That’s not going to happen, is it?’

  ‘You can help. It’s great you’re here. You can lock them in. Or create a diversion or something.’

  Simmy felt useless and wholly lacking in any sort of initiative. She couldn’t see the three apparent criminals, so had no idea what they were doing. They might even have moved away, never to be seen again. If they had spotted her, they might have guessed she was following them. ‘How will they get in?’ she whispered. ‘All the doors are padlocked.’

  ‘They’ve got a key to one of the padlocks. They must have scammed it off the agent or something. They’ve been walking in and out as if they owned the place, Ben says.’

  ‘So he’s all right? Talking and everything? Just thirsty – is that it?’

  ‘He’s not all right,’ said Bonnie, also in a whisper. ‘Not at all. He can only say a few words at a time.’

  ‘How long have you been in there?’

  ‘Never mind that now. You have to do something. We’re trapped in here until you do.’

  ‘All right. Hang on. Leave it to me.’ She had no idea what made her say that, but it sounded reassuring, and Bonnie most definitely needed reassurance.

  ‘Wait,’ came Bonnie’s small voice. ‘Don’t call me, okay? If the phone goes off, it might give me away, if I’m hiding. Do you understand?’

  That little detail had to have come from Ben, thought Simmy. Even in a state of delirium, his brain was functioning better than hers. ‘Got it,’ she said. ‘Bye for now.’ She almost ran round to the Co-op on a parallel street and bought their biggest bottle of water. This was the shop, of course, where that Barnaby boy had met Ben. But … that made no sense, if Ben had been tied up inside that building since Tuesday. She shook her head, and went to find the broken window.

  It took a little while to see it. Was this how Bonnie had got inside, then? It looked dreadfully small and tight. What a brave girl she must be! And when she bent over and peered in, the floor looked a long way down. Wouldn’t the bottle crack when she dropped it, spilling the precious water?

  But she could see no other alternative but to do as Bonnie had asked. Glancing around, seeing that nobody was watching, she pushed her arm through and let go. It sounded all right, as it landed, just a plastic thud, with no suggestion of cracking. She wanted to wait and speak to Bonnie, down there in the gloom, but she had other tasks to perform, and it was foolish to linger near the window, risking giving away what Bonnie had done.

  Before she could start keying in Moxon’s number, she wanted to rehearse what she should say for the best effect. She knew so little about what the police would do, once they were told where Ben was. There had to be procedures for rescuing kidnap victims, and those procedures had to be trusted.

  She would keep it simple, then. Just that she’d spoken to Bonnie who was hiding inside the empty shop with Ben, afraid that his captors would return and be dangerous.

  Her thumb was actually on the first key when the phone tinkled in her hand, indicating an incoming call. The screen told her it was Melanie.

  ‘Mel? Sorry, can you wait a bit? I’ve got to call Moxon.’ She glanced around, wary of observation or even attack, if the Lillywhites and their friend really were the criminals. Why hadn’t she asked Bonnie to confirm their identities when she’d had the chance? But of course, they must be. Why else would they be there, just the other side of a wall from the suffering Ben?

  ‘Why’re you calling him?’

  ‘I can’t explain now, but we’ve found Ben.’

  ‘What? Wow – that’s brilliant!’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘And I’ve got news for Moxon, as well. I think there’s something dodgy being planned for the upstairs room. I can’t work out what exactly, but it’s to do with that Sheila woman you told me about …’

  Simmy went cold. How could she tackle the people she’d been following when she had no idea which, if any, had evil intentions? ‘Thanks, Mel,’ she said. ‘I’ll get back to you the minute I’ve made this call. I promise I will. But I’ve got to go now.’

  What were the three people doing, she wondered. It seemed unlikely that they would stay in the doorway attracting attention to themselves for no good reason. Warily, she walked back around the corner for a look. They were still there, but the body language had changed dramatically. The woman in the tight skirt was plainly angry, stabbing a finger at Mr Lillywhite and glaring into his face. Mrs Lillywhite had her arms folded, feet planted firmly on the pavement, the image of an immovable object.

  Crazily, Simmy saw this as an oppor
tunity. Suddenly decisive, she walked up to them and smiled. ‘Hello!’ she chirped. ‘Remember me?’

  It seemed for a moment to have been an inspired thing to do. The three shifted awkwardly and glanced at each other. ‘Um …’ said Mrs Lillywhite.

  ‘You know – the florist at the hotel. I found Dan Yates’s body on Tuesday, with Melanie Todd. It was terribly traumatic for her, you know. And me, of course. A dreadful thing.’ She prattled confidingly, throwing random smiles at them in turn.

  ‘Of course,’ said the man. ‘You poor thing.’

  ‘Yes. Well, nice to see you. I’d better get on. Things to do.’ She looked up at the blank window beside them. ‘Time they got someone to take this place on, don’t you think? It spoils the look of the village like this.’ She tilted her head in a poor show of ingenuousness. ‘Or are you thinking of taking it on yourselves? Are you in business?’

  It was too much; far too much. All three gave her strange looks. But they did start to move away from the building, which struck Simmy as a positive development, even if it contravened Bonnie’s order that the kidnappers not be allowed to escape.

  ‘Bye, then,’ she said, and gave a fatuous little wave. This reminded her that the phone was still in her hand, and she was still supposed to call DI Moxon as a matter of extreme urgency. How many minutes had she wasted already?

  The Lillywhites and the second woman were still in earshot. There was a frozen aspect to the situation, everyone apparently waiting for someone else to move. If this was a dramatic climax, unfolding to a spectacular denouement, there was no outward sign of it. People were passing by, chatting and laughing, entirely unaware that anything interesting was going on before their eyes. Their very presence was a rock-solid protection, Simmy realised. Not just for her, but for Ben and Bonnie inside the shop. And yet the urgency remained. Crossing the road again, she stood close by the display on the pavement outside the National Trust shop, and made her call.

  Thankfully, Moxon answered almost instantly, with his habitual, ‘Mrs Brown? How can I help you now?’

  ‘I’m in Hawkshead,’ she gabbled. ‘We’ve found Ben. He’s inside the big empty shop, in the middle of the town. Bonnie’s in there with him. The people who kidnapped him are here as well. She says they mustn’t escape, so you shouldn’t all rush here and frighten them away.’

  His response was impressive. ‘Who are they?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Lillywhite, guests at the hotel. And another woman. Sheila something. Melanie thinks she might have found out what it’s all about. She called me just now.’

  ‘I see. And is Ben all right?’

  ‘Not really. Very dehydrated and not fully conscious.’

  ‘We’ll need medics, then.’

  ‘And I’m not sure Bonnie’s okay, either.’

  ‘Where are the Lillywhites now?’

  She looked round. ‘They’ve gone. Oh, no, they’re still here – it looks as if they’re going into the shop, through the door at this end. Oh, my God. You’ll have to get here quickly. They’ve got a key to the padlock. I never thought they’d do it. I thought I’d frightened them off. Oh, please – please send someone as quick as you can.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘Stay where you are.’

  But of course, there was no way she could do that.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bonnie had not exactly found a hatch leading to a coal chute. Instead there was a low window opening onto the pavement, in a shadowy angle between two high walls. The pavement must have been built up over the years to half-cover the opening. There was about eight inches of glass pane, grimy and barely noticeable. A black car was usefully parked between it and the street, shielding her almost entirely from sight.

  She could almost certainly wriggle through there if she could remove the glass. It was divided into three sections, each probably nine inches wide. She might even kick away the wooden dividers, making a hole over two feet long by eight inches high. That would be plenty. But her scalp tingled and her skin crawled at the thought. What was on the other side? Some small, cramped cellar, with a locked door and no light? There’d be light from outside, she reminded herself. It wouldn’t be so bad. It might be a massive cellar, with an easy access into the rest of the building.

  She had to do it, right away. Standing with her back to the wall, holding her phone and gazing intently at it, she kicked backwards as hard as she could, wishing that traffic was allowed into Hawkshead, to provide some covering noise. As it was, the place was entirely too quiet for comfort. But the tinkling glass was blessedly subdued, and although two or three people looked up, none of them spotted her, tucked behind the car.

  She kicked again, trying to choose moments when nobody was close by. The brittle old glass fell into the cellar, and the wooden struts soon followed. It was done in a minute. She turned and looked at her handiwork. There were still some jagged spikes of glass, which she quickly disposed of, the resulting aperture quite big enough to admit her.

  Again, her scalp reacted, the hair follicles behaving like a threatened dog’s. She could feel all her hairs rising, in an atavistic attempt to make her look more alarming. An old memory had her in its grip, of being pushed into a filthy, airless little space and left there. This, she assured herself, was altogether different. This was going to be easy. And the reward at the end would be immense. She was going to save Ben, because Ben mattered more than anything.

  Waiting for a moment when nobody was walking close by, she dropped to the ground and pushed herself head first through the broken window. Head first had not been her primary choice. There was a lot to be said for going in backwards, stomach to the ground, feet and legs leading the way. Sideways would have been ideal, but there was nowhere near enough space for that. But she could not summon the courage to go blindly into the unknown. She had a horrible image of her feet being grasped and pulled by some monstrous entity waiting for her on the floor. She had to see. So she dived through, head, shoulders, arms, catching herself on her hands as she tumbled from a height of five or six feet, cutting her right palm on broken glass and spraining her left wrist. At least there was no monster. Nothing but a lot of dust and cobwebs, and a flight of steps just visible across the open space.

  The sprained wrist shot a painful jolt through her when she tried to lever herself to a vertical position, but she ignored it. The steps were in semi-darkness, made of stone and leading nowhere. She peered upwards in disbelief. Why wasn’t there a door? She tried to think of cellars she had seen in films, and slowly concluded that there must be a hinged hatch, set into the floor of the room above. It would open upwards, pulled by some sort of knob or handle and propped open. Or else pushed from below. It would have to be operable from below, she insisted to herself. What if it swung closed by accident while somebody was in the cellar? They’d have to be able to open it. There had been a film she’d seen not long ago with Corinne, a western, where there was just that sort of arrangement. This must be the same.

  The light coming in through the broken window was not reaching the top of the steps. Her eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, she told herself. Soon she’d be able to see everything much more clearly. She looked back across the dirty floor, seeing her own footprints as darker smudges. There was no way she could get out again without assistance. Only by shouting for help to passers-by in the street could she leave the way she’d come. And that was not an option until she knew what was happening to Ben, and what danger he was in.

  So she climbed the steps, soon being forced to crouch in the dwindling space between the upper steps and the floor overhead. Which side would the hinge be, she asked herself, trying to work out the structure. Most likely above the top step, she concluded – otherwise the flap would have to be opened back across the floor of the room above, occupying excessive space, and being difficult to prop. This meant that she should push at the other edge, hoping desperately that there was nothing heavy on top of it, and no bolt or catch fastening it.

 
Her active brain was doing its best to subdue the physical reactions that her body was independently undergoing. Her legs trembled, her heart raced and she was very cold. Small whimpers came involuntarily to her lips, before she could bite them back. While there were definitely spiders on all sides, there could also be bats, mice, woodlice, and a whole lot more. Bonnie Lawson was not afraid of any of these things individually, but the idea of an accumulation of them was horrible. Much more horrible, however, was the dirt. Bonnie was very frightened of being dirty. She could feel sticky black stuff on her hair already. Her hands were not just injured, but foul from the grime on the floor. The shivering was totally out of control by this point, fuelled by disgust and horror at what was touching her.

  Because that was the permanent legacy of the stupid prank played on her when she was little. Stuffed into a tight tunnel, she had soon tumbled free onto a forgotten heap of coal. But then she had come away blackened by the dust. Her tears had welded it to her face. Her mother had screamed at the sight of her, and pushed her roughly away. She had used words like filthy and disgusting. From that day, Bonnie had needed to be very clean at all times. Otherwise, nobody would ever love her. At its worst, when she was thirteen and her body suddenly chose to develop its own special monthly dirt, she translated the associations via blood into food itself. Meat was dirty. Tomatoes and beetroot, butter and potatoes – they each had their particular revolting elements. Slime, crust, crumbs, seeds, juice – it was all impossibly vile.

  Therapy had finally managed to dispel these extreme connections, and she was almost okay again about food. But dirt itself remained insupportable. And blood was hardly any better.

  And now, in this neglected cellar, she was really quite dreadfully dirty, as well as bloody.