His pursuer must have been some crazy country yokel who’d decided to play games with him. They said the Fens had a weird effect on people.
Tring, slowing almost to a halt, was just about to hit the buttons on his mobile to call Fiona when blinding lights suddenly appeared from his right and forced his car, almost in slow motion, into a nearside ditch.
The minor impact did little more than propel him sideways onto the front passenger seat. The element of surprise was so great and angle of his posture so acute that he found himself totally disorientated. By the time he fought free of the seatbelt, the front door had been opened and Professor Jonathan Tring found himself facing a man in a balaclava. In the man’s right hand was a gun.
‘He’s stopped dead, boss. We’ve got him now, the fuckin’ arse’ole.’ Jack Proctor felt the blood drain back into his body. Cockney villains had their virtues, after all. He then heard the sound of a strange voice from the microphone in Tring’s Mercedes.
‘Get out of the car quietly, Professor Tring, and we won’t hurt you. Do anything stupid and you’re a dead man.’
The chairman of Parados suddenly felt the blood drain to his feet. The voice was Irish.
There was little that Jonathan Tring could do other than comply with the gunman. His car was in a ditch, so a getaway was out of the question. The pistol in the man’s hand was also extremely persuasive. As the professor struggled to get out of his car, he felt the strong arms of another man grab him and haul him upright. Within seconds, his hands had been cuffed behind his back and plaster stuck over his mouth. For a moment the eyes of the man holding the gun sparkled blue in the headlights. Those eyes, cold and impersonal, were the last things Tring saw before a blindfold plunged him into darkness.
‘Can you breathe, okay?’ asked the man with the gun. Tring nodded. ‘Okay, get him in the car.’
Tring felt the splatter of rain on his head as he was led into his attacker’s vehicle. The smell of the upholstery told him that it must have been a fairly new model. He was aware of a man sitting beside him, but it was the voice of the man who held the gun that he heard next. It was in front and to his left. That meant there was a third man, the driver.
‘Now, Professor,’ said the gunman in an accent that was clearly Northern Irish, ‘from now on you don’t speak without permission. Is that clear?’
Tring nodded.
‘It’s a big vehicle, Professor, so feel free to have a lie down.’
With this, Tring felt a tug on his sleeve and then his hair. He tried to shout ‘ouch’, but it just came out as a muffled moan.
‘My, you’re a big lad,’ came the voice again. ‘I’m afraid it’s not going to be too comfortable, so we’re going to give you a little something to help you relax.’
Tring suddenly felt a sharp stab in his thigh. He gave another muffled moan and, almost immediately, felt himself being suffused by a welcoming warmth. Blackness swiftly followed.
Fiona Harrington was beside herself with worry. She had tried repeatedly to raise Tring on his mobile. He had said half-an-hour max, and yet ninety minutes had gone by and he still hadn’t arrived.
‘Might have broken down, love,’ her father said comfortingly. ‘If you like, I’ll go out and look for him.’
‘No, dad, if his car had broken down, he would have called me right away.’
‘Unless…’
‘Unless he’s had an accident.’ The sound of her own words shook her to the core. It was the first time she had enunciated her fears. Perhaps Jonathan was lying broken and bleeding in some godforsaken country lane. Visions of mutilation and even death flashed through her mind. Then the bulldog spectre of Jack Proctor appeared. She couldn’t help thinking that the ruthless Yorkshireman was behind whatever had happened, especially now that she knew Martin Locke’s secret.
‘Shall we call the police, love?’
‘I think it’s time,’ she said quietly. She moved towards the phone in the lounge when it suddenly rang. She picked up the receiver.
‘Is that six-seven-three-five-one, and is your name Fiona?’ asked an officious voice.
‘Yes,’ she answered apprehensively. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Police Constable Brian Little, Miss.’
‘Oh, my God, what’s happened?’
‘Presumably you know the driver of a Mercedes SLK, reg. number PAR three and owned by Parados Pharmaceuticals.
‘Jonathan,’ she half-screamed, ‘what’s happened to him?’
‘We’ve found his car abandoned in a ditch, Miss. We found a cell phone still inside. Yours was the last number he dialled. What relation is he to you?’
‘He’s my boyfriend.’
‘What are his full name, address and date of birth?’
Fiona gave Tring’s details and thanked the officer for his help.
‘Strange that he left his mobile phone in the car, Miss. He doesn’t appear to have called the emergency services or the AA. The car is hardly damaged and there are no signs of blood inside. He might have got a knock on the head and wandered off somewhere. We’d like you to come to the car’s location if at all possible, or we can send someone to collect you.’
‘Of course, officer, of course. I’ll come in my own car. It’ll be quicker.’
The policeman then proceeded to give her the details. ‘Are you sure you know where it is, Miss?’
‘No problem, I’m a local girl. It’ll take me about twenty minutes.’
‘We’ll see you in twenty minutes, then.’
Fiona replaced the receiver, her mind racing with ideas. If Jonathan had indeed been abducted, then the tape might still be in the car. The police would hardly think that CDs and cassette tapes could have any relevance. If that bastard Proctor was behind it, then the tape might prove a useful bargaining chip. ‘What am I thinking about,’ she chided herself under her breath, ‘this whole thing is preposterous.’
‘Who was that, Fiona?’ Bill Harrington asked with growing concern.
‘Police, Dad,’ she said donning her hat and coat. ‘You hold the fort. Jonathan may have been in some kind of accident. Nothing serious. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.’
She kissed him and swept out of the front door. Thankfully, the rain had stopped and the cloud had cleared enough to allow a full moon to cast its silvery aura over the countryside. Fiona Harrington knew the Fenland roads like the back of her hand, and in less than twenty minutes she had drawn up alongside the abandoned Mercedes. There was neither hide nor hair of the police. She opened the car’s offside door and peered inside. Almost choking with emotion, she first checked the cassette player and then other possible receptacles for the damning tape. She withdrew Tring’s driving gloves from their box, stared at them for a few seconds and then sniffed the lining. The faint lingering odour of him made her feel even more desperate.
‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you?’
The gruff Cockney voice behind her came as such a surprise that she bumped her head on the door frame as she hauled herself out of the car. Standing before her was a brute of a man.
‘My boss would like a word with you, Miss Harrington.’
With this, the man grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly towards some headlights that had suddenly been switched on. It was only when she was a yard or two from it that she saw that the car was a Rolls-Royce bearing the registration number PAR 1. Jack Proctor’s wagon.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she cried as the man opened the nearside front door of the Rolls.
‘Fiona, my dear,’ came the familiar Yorkshire growl from the driver’s side. ‘How nice to see you.’ With this, Proctor’s heavy pushed her into the front seat.
‘Bill, you follow in her car and let Ben drive the Porsche.’
‘Right, boss,’ said the man named Bill and firmly closed the door of the Rolls.
‘Where’s Jonathan, you bastard?’ hissed Fiona, surprised at the sudden fearlessness in her own voice.’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘Don’t
fuck with me, Jack. You’re not here just by coincidence.’
Jack Proctor smiled as he accelerated the Rolls away.
‘You won’t get away with this, Jack, the police –’
‘You’re referring of course to Constable Brian Little. My man did a pretty good impersonation, don’t you think, lass?’
‘What have you done with Jonathan?’
Proctor took a deep breath. ‘Look lass, why don’t you tell me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe you faked his disappearance because of that tape.’
‘So you know about the tape?’
Proctor spent the next few minutes relating to her details of his various surveillance techniques and how he had heard the Irishman taking Tring hostage, then, ‘so you see, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you now if I had the tape, would I?’
Fiona could see the logic of Proctor’s argument. As far as they both knew, there was only one copy of that tape, and there was no knowing where it was now or with whom.
‘Look, lass, I admit I was tailing your boy friend.’
‘You would have killed him, wouldn’t you?’
‘Not necessarily, not if I had that tape. Without it you haven’t got a case. You wouldn’t be able to prove a thing.’
‘Why don’t I believe you, Jack?’
‘All that’s redundant now, my girl. All we both want to know is where the hell Jonathan Tring is.’
‘I assure you, Jack, I don’t have the faintest idea and I intend to inform the police – the real police – right away.’
Proctor sniggered. ‘You’re assuming I intend to let you go.’
For the umpteenth time that evening, Fiona Harrington felt the icy grip of fear. She knew Jack Proctor was capable of anything in order to protect his interests.
‘So, let’s continue this conversation, shall we. Who, my dear, are our prime suspects? Maybe Abe Klein, or that Scotch shit Kinloss who now works for me. Blackmail is the sort of game he would play.’
‘And see the value of his share options disappear. I don’t think so, Jack. And Klein would never stoop to anything this low.’
‘Then who?’
‘I said I don’t know. One thing is for sure though –’
‘Yes?’
‘Unless that tape reappears, I can’t write a thing about you or your nefarious deeds.’
Proctor smiled. ‘That’s why I’m going to let you go, lass.’
Fiona Harrington felt a surge of relief as Proctor brought the Rolls to a halt. The pug-face turned towards her. His voice was sad, almost poignant.
‘For the first time, Fiona, I’m not in control of my own destiny. Both you and I will have to hope and pray, but for opposite things. There’s never owt for nowt in this world. There is always a payback.’
‘You shouldn’t have done the things you did, Jack. You could have made it without all that corruption.’
‘Don’t be so naive, lass. There isn’t a major pharmaceutical company in the world that hasn’t corrupted itself in the search for profits. It’s the name of the game.’
‘And you’ve lost.’
‘Not yet, lass, not yet.’ With this, Proctor motioned for her to step out of the Rolls. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘Sharon doesn’t know the ins and outs of all this. She’s feeling betrayed by you, as it is. Just leave her alone.’
Fiona nodded and closed the door of the Rolls Royce behind her.
‘Your keys, Miss,’ hissed the brute that was now standing before her. She took them from him and, feeling more alone and desperate than ever, walked towards her car at the rear of the convoy. As she pulled out, she heard the thug call out sarcastically, ‘Drive carefully.’
CHAPTER 16
Jonathan Tring felt as if his body weighed a ton and his head had been crushed by a stampede of rogue elephants. It was a good few minutes before he was savvy enough to be aware of his surroundings. The first thing he realised was that his mouth was stuck fast and that breathing through his nose was uncomfortable. His first instinct was to try to remove the offensive plaster, a move thwarted instantly by the fact that his hands were tied behind his back. Lying on his left side on a mattress, he twisted his body to peer at the rope that was binding his legs. Lying close to them on the parquet floor, like a nest of resting snakes, were two sets of chains and shackles. There was a bucket for slops. A window set in ochre-coloured walls was about two eight feet away. Rolling over onto his right, he was greeted by another set of shackles and chains. A white door was about twelve feet away. Apart from the mattress, the bucket and the arresting metalwork, the rest of the room was bare. It was only when he looked up into the far corner that he noticed a small CCTV camera. It suddenly dawned on him that with all this paraphernalia, his captors intended for his stay to be a lengthy one. But why? What on earth could Proctor’s henchmen hope to gain by this? Why not just kill him and be done with it?
It was only then that the professor remembered the tiny cassette nestling between sock and skin just above his right ankle. They hadn’t found it, and they must not find it. It might prove his only trump card. If their intention was to kill him, then he could only hope that they would dump his body where it, and the incriminating tape, could be found. Overcome by morbid thoughts, he imagined Fiona standing stoically at his funeral in a windswept Fenland graveyard, her garments billowing like some black Bedouin tent; his brother looking on completely crestfallen; the church bell ringing balefully as he watched his coffin being lowered into the ground; earth hitting the coffin lid. Then came a vision of the Pitbull hovering over Fiona with malevolent intent, willing to torture her for information about her meddlesome boyfriend. He rolled once more onto his left side and tried in vain to slip back into a kind of semi-consciousness that might release him from this nightmare. Immersed in his own black thoughts, he failed to notice that someone had entered the room.
‘Penny for your thoughts, Professor,’ came an Irish voice.
It took a few seconds for Tring to register that he was no longer alone. He slowly rolled over. A shortish figure wearing a balaclava stood before him, his right hand resting on the back of a wooden chair. The scientist stared at the hand, which appeared to be inside some sort of surgical glove.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ said the man with a giggle, ‘you can’t answer, can you?’ He moved towards his captive and struggled to get him to his feet. ‘My, you’re a big one, ain’t you?’
Tring swayed groggily, trying in vain to make some kind of intelligible response.
‘Now,’ said balaclava-man, ‘just do as I say and you won’t get hurt. I want you to drape your body over the back of that chair and rest your chest on the rim.’
Tring did as he was told, although the position was uncomfortable, especially if he tried to raise his head to stare out of the window.
Okay,’ the Irishman said. ‘He’s ready.’
Jonathan Tring heard the door open and another man enter the room.
‘Hold it like that,’ came the man’s voice. It was both familiar and threatening.
Tring then heard footsteps as the man passed his chair and stood between him and the window. Craning his neck, the scientist was surprised to see that the man before him did not wear the ubiquitous balaclava. He was of above average height, probably in his early thirties and with jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes. The slight hook to the nose gave masculinity to features that were otherwise finely drawn. Around the man’s neck hung two cameras and in his right hand was a pistol.
‘Polaroid and digital video,’ said the man as if reading his thoughts. The voice was the same as he remembered when he had first been abducted.
Proctor appeared to prefer hiring Irishmen to do his dirty work.
‘Now just stare up at me. Try not to blink at the light. I want those eyes of yours wide open. Look scared.’
That shouldn’t be too hard, thought Tring, his attempt at a wry smile stifled by the tape. His handsome captor then clicked the Polaroid.
; ‘Just a few seconds with the camcorder, my friend, and that’ll do nicely.’
The scientist began to feel close to collapse with the strain, and he was relieved when a rough pair of arms hauled him off the chair rim and guided him over to the mattress. While balaclava-man began untying the rope around his wrists, Tring peered up at the other protagonist facing him. A pistol was in the man’s hand.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ said the man laconically.
Once his hands were free, the scientist felt a welcome rush of blood back into his sore wrists. ‘Now strip,’ ordered balaclava- man. Tring muffled a protest.
‘Down to your underwear,’ said camera-man. ‘We’ll at least grant you that dignity.’
‘And your socks. You can keep them on as well,’ said balaclava-man. ‘We don’t want you catching a cold now, do we?’
Tring’s first thought was that they were bound to find the tiny cassette. Undressing slowly, he managed to manoeuvre it round to rest against his lower calf. Balaclava-man then grabbed hold of his captive’s right wrist, and, after unclasping the expensive Dunhill watch, clamped a shackle around it. He locked the shackle and removed the key. The man then proceeded to clamp Tring’s left wrist, followed quickly by his legs. The scientist’s stomach knotted as his jailer grabbed his right heel in order to clamp the ankle, but balaclava-man was so intent on his task that he failed to notice the slight bulge caused by the mini-cassette. With a silent sigh of relief, the professor squirmed to rest his naked back against the wall. The man with the cameras lowered his gun and leant towards him. Tring flinched, as the sticky-tape was torn from his mouth in one swift movement.
Cry of the Needle Page 21
