by Michael Kerr
Following the serpentine road through a stretch of thick woodland, with the car’s headlights cutting through drifting patches of gossamer fog, Beth made a momentous decision that should not have to be contemplated, let alone made, and was outside the parameters of normal reasoning. She chose to court self-destruction, rather than face the silent promise of a fate that she could not bear to consider. Rounding a bend, she gripped the steering wheel tightly and accelerated across the asphalt, aiming the Cherokee at the dense wall of forest directly in front of her.
Too late, Paul realised what was happening. He shot his hand out and pulled Beth’s left hand off the wheel, but her right hand was unfaltering, resolute with purpose.
“What the fuck?” he shouted, a fraction of a second before they crashed.
The sudden, violent impact threw them both forward, catapulting them towards the windscreen amid the sound of tearing metal and shattering glass. The bonnet rippled back, folding like a concertina’s bellows; the engine first racing and then dying as the leads, tubes and cables that were its life support were split, ripped and torn free from the shifting, hurtling block of steel and alloy.
Paul had braced himself in the moment before they ploughed through the bushes and tall ferns to slam into the thick trunk of a mature and unyielding pine. The 4x4 had not been travelling at high speed as Beth negotiated the twisting road, and the impact, though serious, was further lessened by the branches and vegetation that fronted the forest proper.
Paul’s left wrist took the initial brunt of the jarring forces that resulted from the vehicle pile-driving into the resolute tree. He had instinctively pushed his hand against the dash, and the bones of his wrist and forearm shattered with the fragility of dry twigs. His head snapped forward, back, then forward again, bouncing off the hard and inflexible facia to instantly open a grinning wound just below his hairline, releasing a curtain of blood to cover his face in a crimson wash. A white-hot relay of pulsating pain shot from his ruined arm to his shoulder and neck, and the blow to his head brought grey, curling waves crashing onto the beaches of his brain, threatening to drown him in an undertow of swirling blackness. Fighting against the assault on his senses, and breathing deeply to increase his oxygen levels, he turned to Beth.
On impact, the driver’s airbag had exploded from the centre of the steering wheel, bouncing Beth off its billowing surface and saving her from serious injury or death. Her right leg screamed with pain, though, from where it had connected with some part of the console that housed the radio and CD player.
“You stupid, fucking whore. You could have killed us both,” Paul screamed, smashing his uninjured right fist into her face, breaking her nose and then rendering her unconscious with another vicious blow, this time to the point of her chin. As she slumped down in the seat, he reached across and turned the ignition and lights off, to then sit back to and evaluate the new, unexpected situation he was in. He had thought that the woman had been far too scared to do anything but follow his instructions to the letter. But he had been wrong. She had far more spunk than he had given her credit for.
Forcing open the passenger door, he climbed out, unable not to acknowledge the shooting pains from his right ankle, that he hoped was only sprained and not broken. He took time to recover his senses fully, before leaning back inside the Jeep to release Beth’s seat belt and drag her across to him, to then hunker down and manoeuvre her over his right shoulder. Standing, he adjusted her body for balance, then steeling himself for what he knew would be a painful trek, set off through the trees in the direction of his house, which was little more than half a mile away, as the crow flies.
Beth came to her senses, not slowly, but with a jolt; an instant awakening that was due to bouncing, moving face down in the semi-darkness with gravity aggravating the pounding mass of pain in her face and leg. Her head felt as though wild horses were stampeding through it, shredding her brain with their hooves. The blinding fire of her broken nose vied for supremacy over her right knee, that if given voice would have bellowed loudly in rebuke. She would not have been surprised if a six-inch nail had been driven into her kneecap, splitting it in two. Each movement was causing forks of agony to shoot up to her hip and down to her toes. She realised that she was being carried. She was over his shoulder, her face jouncing against his back. He was limping badly, favouring his left leg as he lurched along, breathing raggedly and grunting with the pain and the effort of having to carry her exacerbating his discomfort.
Beth had hoped that he would have been killed, or at least seriously maimed in the crash, and that she would have escaped him, or alternatively, that she herself would have died, and thus avoided a worse fate. Her only chance now was that Matt would somehow be able to find and save her.
Paul had to stop with growing frequency, dropping her once and taking the time to cuff her hands behind her back. He knew that had she not been so dazed, and had been able to summon up the strength to run away from him and hide, then all would have been lost.
At last he came out from the treeline onto the lane just yards away from his gate. He struggled with the padlock key, whining with frustration before finally unlocking it.
Hannibal did not venture out from the relative safety of his kennel, just watched as his master limped up to the door.
He shrugged her from his shoulder, letting her fall to the boarded porch floor as if she were no more than a sack of bone-meal or potatoes, causing her fresh pain to vie for dominance as her back hit the wood, knocking the wind from her lungs and sending spearheads of cramping, stabbing agony through her already suffering body.
Once inside, he grasped her by the ankle, dragged her in, locked the door and sank down to the floor to rest for a while and regroup.
Neither of them spoke, just stared at each other for long seconds. He wanted to kill her there and then for the hardship and pain she had caused him to suffer. But he would not act on impulse. She would live a little longer, to rue her desperate actions.
Somehow, he regained his feet, went into the lounge and pushed the settee back and opened the trapdoor to the cellar, before pulling the handgun from the waistband of his jeans and returning to where Beth lay with blood dripping from her swollen nose.
“Get the fuck in there and down those stairs,” he said.
She cried out against the pain. Pulled herself upright – using the wall for support – and hobbled through to the square hole in the floor, where she immediately sat down and descended the stairs on her bottom, with her injured leg stuck out in mid-air.
He followed, took the bolts off the door at the bottom and opened it. Kirstie was sitting up on the bed, trembling, expecting to be abused or killed, not to be receiving company.
“Tell this dumb cow how it is, Kirstie,” Paul said. “And that if she tries anything else or doesn’t shape-up, it will be you who gets punished for it. I might just treat Hanny and set him on you both. I’m beginning to think that you bitches are more trouble than you’re worth.”
He locked them in, staggered up into the living room and made it as far as the kitchen before passing out and collapsing to the floor.
It was six a.m when he came round and found the strength to climb to his feet and go to the bathroom. He turned the shower on and then sat on the toilet seat, light-headed and weak at the knees, needing a minute to steady himself. He removed his clothes one-handed with great difficulty, due to the pain in his shattered wrist and arm. Stepping into the bath, under the shower, he took stock of his injuries as the hot water sluiced the blood away and warmed him. He dismissed the wound to his forehead, deciding that he was not seriously concussed, ignoring the vertiginous sensation that was threatening his balance. It was his arm that caused him concern. It was still swelling, ballooning up bright red, and so tender that the jets of water from the shower head felt like red-hot needles piercing his skin from shoulder to fingertips. His ankle was painful and swollen, but only sprained. He could live with that.
Sitting on the edge of the bath,
he patted himself dry, poured antiseptic over a wad of cotton wool and pressed it to his head wound before taping a piece of lint over the gash. He then bandaged his left wrist and forearm as tightly as he could bear, immobilising the limb. He dry-swallowed six painkillers; only Nurofen, but better than nothing. He supposed that if he took enough, they would help dull the crippling pain to a more manageable level.
He was feeling deflated, sensing that he was running out of time. The Cherokee would no doubt be found in daylight. And the area he had stolen it from was significant. He had to assume that the police would put it together. Would something as simple as a trail of footprints and blood lead them to his door? He went into his bedroom, laboriously dressed in loose clothing; thick, baggy sweater, chinos, long woollen socks and sturdy walking boots. Turning off the light, he eased back the curtain at the window, looked out and somehow forced a smile. The odd snowflake drifted down from unseen ash-grey clouds that crowded the dark sky. It was as if scouts had ascertained that the lie of the land was suitable, and the tumbling flakes he could see were just forerunners of waiting hordes.
The texture of the snow was light and airy, and the ground was cold and dry. Within minutes a thin white layer covered the yard, and Paul knew that the forest floor – where the canopy above was too sparse to halt its descent – would also be blanketed. All tracks would be obliterated. The weather was his ally and had bought him time. Maybe he was worrying needlessly. The 4x4 might not even be visible from the road. It could be days or even weeks before it was discovered, and that in itself would give them nothing. So why did he feel so nervous? Was it time to bail out? He had choices. With foresight, he had purchased a small crofter’s cottage in the Black Mountains, little more than twenty miles west of Hereford. It was a long drive, especially in this weather, but he would be ultra safe there. The property was in the name of Alec Mitchell, an alias he had only used when purchasing the rundown dwelling six months ago. Yes. He would ditch his current persona and move on. The only other decision to make was whether to kill the two women now, or keep them as human shields for the time being.
He flinched involuntarily at the pain in his arm. Closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness and nausea hit him. He partially blocked it out, mentally smothering the area of his brain that received the transmission of pain from the mass of damaged nerve endings. His decision was made for him. He could not possibly drive one-handed over such a long distance. And there was every chance he would pass out. Kirstie would have to drive. And Beth could come along for the ride, to be dealt with at leisure, when he had assumed his new identity, had his injuries treated, and was recuperated enough to properly enjoy her.
His mood lightened. First things first. He needed to get one of the cars up and running, and pack a few things for the trip. He went down to the kitchen, brewed coffee and let the painkillers kick-in before going out into the yard to take the tarp off a cherry-red Volvo.
“Kirstie?” Beth gasped with a nasal twang, due to her nose being broken, and the clots of blood that were congealing in her nostrils.
“Yes,” Kirstie answered coolly, not approaching Beth. She saw the other woman as another Anita, who might soon be raped and butchered in front of her. She did not want to bond with her; to know her as a person.
“I’m Dr. Beth Holder, a criminal psychologist. I’ve been helping the police to try and find you. They know the area we are in. I’m sure It won’t be long before they get here.”
Kirstie began to cry. A part of her had come to accept that she would not survive the ordeal. Now, this injured stranger was promoting hope that might be of the false variety. “Do you have any idea what he’s capable of?” she whispered, sure that he would be listening at the door.
“Yes, Kirstie. Do you know why he has kept you alive?”
“No. He brought another girl down here, and...”
“I know. He sent us a photograph.”
“Why he hasn’t killed me is a mystery. I tried to hurt him and escape. I would have made it too, if it hadn’t been for his bloody dog.”
“Hannibal?”
Kirstie nodded.
“We know all about this creep,” Beth said. “He’s in contact with a Detective Inspector Barnes, who he has fixated on.”
“Why did he abduct you, Beth?”
“Because...the Inspector and I are more than colleagues. Sutton found out and is using me as a means to hurt Matt.”
Whispering, Beth and Kirstie talked for a long time, exchanging everything they knew about their captor. Beth wanted to find a weakness; a way to exploit any crack in Sutton’s defences. She was not so naive as to bank wholly on Matt being able to reach them in time. If they got the merest of chances to outwit Sutton, then they would have to take it.
When the door opened, Kirstie drew back, cowed and dreading what might be about to happen. Beth sat up straight and faced him, somehow ignoring the pain in her face and knee.
“You’ve caused us both a great deal of needless pain, Beth. I didn’t expect you to risk your life like that. My oversight,” Paul said, pointing the gun at her head as he spoke. Keys dangled from a split ring that was looped over the little finger of his gun hand. “We’re leaving here soon. Just one big happy family. I have a place on the Welsh borders that will give us all the privacy we need.” And to Kirstie he said, “Are you up to driving? Beth and I are a little incapacitated at the moment.”
Kirstie nodded.
“Good girl,” he said, throwing the handcuff keys onto the bed. “Set Beth loose.”
Kirstie picked up the split ring with the two small keys attached to it and obeyed.
“And here’s the key to your shackles,” Paul said, tossing it onto the blanket, keeping his distance and his finger on the trigger at all times as he ordered Beth to strip, then told Kirstie to cuff her left wrist to Beth’s left, before relaxing a little, and even managing to smile at his two naked captives.
“Leave the keys on the bed and go take a shower, then we’ll hit the road,” he said, moving well out of their way as they shuffled past him awkwardly, due to the manner in which they were cuffed to each other.
Half an hour later the three of them were sitting around the kitchen table. Paul had selected some of his own clothes for them to wear, suitable for the weather. He had also brought Hannibal inside, fed him, and ordered him to sit. His presence was as intimidating as the gun, ensuring that neither of the two unpredictable women made any untoward moves when he again threw them the cuff keys, so that they could get dressed.
“Finish your coffee,” Paul said. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”
When they finally set off, Beth was re-cuffed, this time with her hands behind her back, and with duct tape securing her ankles together. Because of her injured nose, he did not gag her, not wanting her to suffocate. He told her that if she shouted for help or made any sound at all, that he would at very least cut her tongue out. She was in the boot of a car, lying in darkness on her side. The folded duvet beneath her, and the pillow under her head afforded a degree of comfort that she had not expected. His actions were impossible to predict.
Hannibal had the rear seat to himself. Kirstie was behind the wheel, with Paul next to her.
“This is how it is, sweetheart,” he said. “If you do anything stupid, then it’s not just your life. Hold on to the thought that Beth is in the boot. And try to believe me that if I was going to kill you, then I would have done it before now. You can live through this Kirstie, and be with your husband and daughter again. You are no longer part of my game plan.”
Kirstie wanted to believe him. His words nurtured the small kernel of hope that she had somehow retained.
She drove out into the still falling snow and followed his directions: M25 all the way around to strike west on the M40.
He had never felt safer. No one on the planet but Kirstie and Beth knew his whereabouts. He was now Alec Mitchell. His other alias, Paul Savage, no longer existed. Once at the cottage he would change his appearance
yet again and blend with his isolated surroundings. And he would not contact Barnes. From hereon in there would be no phone calls or letters. Maybe a single Polaroid when the time came to destroy Beth Holder. And he would post that from at least a hundred miles away from his new home. As for Kirstie, there was no reason why he shouldn’t keep her. Why not carry on with the programme? She would be his not only in body, but in every way that one person can possess another. She would be his slave, pet, lover, and his companion throughout the long winter. Hannibal was his pal, but the stimulus of conversation and ever available supply of sex would be a much needed commodity, once that he was ensconced in his bleak mountain retreat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
LUCY Cameron trudged through the falling snow, sniffing and dabbing at her cold and runny nose as she angled across the forecourt of the filling station to the door of the small shop.
“You sure you can cope?” Tony Dixon said as Lucy pushed the hood of her duffel coat back and shook and patted the snow off herself.
“Yeah, Tony. I feel a lot better. Sorry I got laid low over the holiday.”
“That’s okay, kid. I closed the place on Christmas Day.”
Lucy had come down with a heavy cold and had spent the festive period in bed. Her mother had plied her with several remedies for headache, blocked nose, sore throat and a chesty cough, and the virus had run its course.
Taking her coat off, Lucy went through to the small office at the rear of the shop and hung it up on the back of the door, then filled and switched on the kettle.
“You want a brew, Tony?” she shouted.
“You ever know me to not want one?” he said by way of an answer.
Tony took his tea out to the workshop across from the shop, and Lucy had only just got herself settled behind the counter when a car pulled up outside, not at a pump, but by the door. A fit looking guy who she thought might be pushing thirty came in. He wore a chocolate-brown fleece zipped up to his neck, and his hair was fair, cut short at the sides, but left long and unruly on top.
