‘Now, my friend,’ said camera-man in a voice that commanded respect, ‘just remember that you are never to speak unless given permission, otherwise the sticky-tape goes back on.’
Camera-man turned to leave and then suddenly halted. ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ he said swivelling to face his captive. He pressed a button on the Polaroid and the picture whirred out. He waited a few seconds and then tore off the backing paper. ‘Hmm, nice one. You look good, Professor. I’m sure you’ll appreciate it. In fact, it’s so good I’ll leave it with you.’
Tring stared at the photograph. In it, his eyes reflected the fear that he felt. Only now it became apparent just why, for behind him stood balaclava-man with a raised syringe in one hand and a drug phial in the other.
‘Triamerol, just in case you were wondering,’ said camera-man. ‘You know all about that, Professor, don’t you, especially if it hits the arachnoid membrane?’
‘But—’
‘Shush, Professor, not a word, remember.’
Fiona Harrington looked squarely into the eyes of the stocky country bumpkin standing before her and said firmly, ‘I know he’s been abducted, Inspector.’
‘You say, Miss, that you received a call from Professor Tring saying he was being chased by another car.’
‘Yes,’ she lied, ‘he told me this on his mobile. I could hear the screeching of tyres and then the connection went down. That was the last I heard from him. Anyway, you found his car abandoned in that ditch. You know all this. I told it all to the first copper who questioned me. For God’s sake, it’s been almost twenty-four hours since Jonathan went missing.’
Detective Inspector Keith Barnard bit hard on the stem of his pipe. The thing was an anachronism he used solely as an aid to thinking. Anyway, smoking was an evil habit he’d given up years ago. ‘We’ve got every available man on this, Miss,’ he said importantly.
‘You mean the one man and his dog at the local nick.’
‘Look, Miss,’ the policeman drawled, trying hard to disregard her facetiousness, ‘don’t you think it might be a bit early to assume the worst?’
‘No, I don’t, Inspector. My boyfriend has been abducted and if you don’t believe me, then read the newspapers in the morning.’
‘Okay, so let’s assume – er, say – he’s been abducted. Who by, and for what reason?’
‘How should I know, probably something to do with his work.’
‘Did he ever say to you that he might be in some danger?’
‘No.’
‘What was he working on?’
‘You’d better ask his boss.’
‘We already have.’
Fiona’s raised eyebrows begged an answer. She was intrigued by how the Proctors would handle an incident in which they were so closely involved.
‘Mr Proctor said he’d had a few crank calls recently from some anti-vivisectionists. Said the voices were Irish.’
‘Irish?’
‘Yes, although that doesn’t mean much nowadays. There’s more Irish living here than in Ireland.’
‘So what do you intend to do, Inspector?’
‘We’ll have to go through the phone records. The company’s, Tring’s … and yours, of course.’
‘Be my guest,’ she said, her mind still racing with the revelation about animal rights activists. Somehow, the whole idea just didn’t gel. The Inspector put the empty pipe in his pocket. The time had come for him to get personal.
‘Miss Harrington, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some questions about your relationship with Professor Tring. It’s necessary, I’m afraid.’
‘To eliminate me from your list of possible suspects?’
‘Well, if you put it so bluntly. You know the score. After all, you’re an investigative journalist, aren’t you?’
For the first time Fiona Harrington felt uneasy. If the police found out he was working on a story to expose Parados Pharmaceuticals, they might see an ulterior motive lurking somewhere in her relationship with Jonathan and direct their investigation down the wrong channels. It was important not to reveal even a trace of culpability. ‘Fire away, Inspector,’ she said firmly.
For the next hour, Fiona Harrington fielded Barnard’s questions as best she could. Thankfully, there was no mention of any investigation into Parados, but she reckoned it might be just a matter of time before they found out.
Apart from mealtimes and the emptying of his slops bucket, Tring was left alone to reflect on his predicament. The meals were nutritious, if a little bland, and were brought to him by balaclava-man. There had not even been a hint of the torture suggested by the photograph, and he reckoned around twenty-four hours had elapsed since his abduction. The shackles, though annoying, were infinitely preferable to the ropes that had cut into his wrists and ankles. He had been dying to ask questions of balaclava-man but was dissuaded by fear of the return of the mouth plaster. He almost thought it would be a relief to see Jack Proctor walk through the door. At least then he might be allowed to find out what the pit bull wanted of him.
For most of his waking hours, Tring had thought about how Fiona would be coping. She must have been beside herself with worry when he didn’t show after his phone call. He reckoned she would have called the police immediately and given them the full story of Proctor and his machinations. His boss would have denied everything of course, but there was no smoke without fire, and the police would be forced to look into every nook and cranny of Proctor’s alibi. The scientist thought it strange that his captors had not mentioned one word about why he was there. As for location, he didn’t know whether he was in a residential building, a factory, or, indeed, where the hell he was in the United Kingdom. The threat of using Triamerol was intriguing. He knew the effects of injecting it in the wrong place would be catastrophic, but why Triamerol particularly? Perhaps it was just Proctor’s sick sense of humour. Suddenly, Tring was shaken from his morbid thoughts by a commotion coming from below. He heard the words ‘stop yer fuckin’ struggling, you bastard’ being shouted by balaclava-man followed by the sound of clumping boots on a stair-case. There were a few muffled grunts from what appeared to be an adjacent room, followed by the familiar sound of chains and shackles. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that he was no longer the only captive in the building.
Stephen Sellars was in a hurry to get home. It had been a gruelling day at the department, made none the better by news of the abduction of Proctor’s man. The Yorkshireman had had the temerity to call him at the office and rant on about his fears that something untoward was about to happen to them both. The nerve of the man! There were eavesdroppers everywhere at Richmond House, and two plus two usually made four where he came from. He had cut Proctor short and told him he would stop off at a public telephone box on the way home to discuss the events with him. It was already quite late and he would probably have to face a barrage from Linda when he got home. She didn’t take kindly to resurrecting yet another burnt offering in the kitchen.
There was, however, one advantage to leaving Whitehall late, in that he missed the God-awful rush-hour traffic. If he left the office at a ‘normal’ time, it might take him two hours to reach home, but travel time could be cut in half if he left after seven. He preferred motorways, picking up the westbound M4 at Chiswick, then onto the M25 at West Drayton, and off again at junction 16 for the M40. It would then take him a few minutes to reach the turnoff that eventually led to his palatial bungalow off the Amersham road. Some days he took an overcrowded train, but he preferred the car. Travel at a reasonable speed on an empty motorway meant that he could mull over the events of the day in cocooned seclusion. Apart from Proctor’s hyperactive intervention, it had been an extremely good day. The Prime Minister had hinted that he was preparing to groom his obedient servant to be his successor. ‘You’ve done an excellent job at Health, Stephen,’ the PM had said. ‘I don’t want a third term, and I’m looking towards someone who is popular with the public. Anyone who can take on the poisoned chali
ce of your ministry and still remain popular has more than an even chance.’ He had thanked the PM for his support and said he would do everything in his power to justify his leader’s faith. He could have telephoned Linda with the exciting news, but he wanted to save it for a bedtime story. The promise of ultimate power would prove a powerful aphrodisiac.
The drizzle had ceased and a full moon could be seen breaking through the clouds by the time the Secretary of State for Health drew his Volvo up alongside a telephone box in a village that was just a short detour from his main route home. He just hoped Proctor would not delay him too long. The gruff Yorkshireman on the other end of the line sounded agitated.
‘Stephen, is that you?’
‘Yes, Jack. Now what’s up?’
‘I wish I knew, Stephen, but I don’t like it.’
‘Look, Jack, I’m sorry this has happened to one of your men, but there must be a rational explanation as to why anyone would want to abduct him. Was there a new drug he was working on? Maybe it was over a lover’s tiff or something. You know how those things can get out of hand.’
‘No lover’s tiff, Stephen.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Know what, man? Stop talking in riddles.’
‘He knows about us.’
Stephen Sellars turned cold, the icy grip of fear beginning to tie his stomach in knots. ‘How?’ he croaked.
‘He has a tape.’
‘Oh my God, Jack, you and your big mouth.’
‘And I thought –’
‘You thought maybe I had something to do with it, you bastard.’
‘Well it damn well wasn’t me, Stephen, and there’s no need to get abusive, my lad.’
‘You’d better explain, Jack.’
‘Not over the phone. I’ll see you at the golf club tomorrow, midday.
The health secretary suddenly became aware of a tapping on the pane of the booth. Ten o’clock at night in a deserted village and there was a queue to use the phone. Ridiculous. ‘Okay, Jack, got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Sellars’ mind was such a hotchpotch as he hung up the telephone that he failed to hear Proctor’s parting admonition: ‘Be careful, Stephen, be very careful.’
Sharon Proctor was apoplectic. ‘Jack, you’re a fucking idiot,’ she fumed.
‘You’re so busy bugging everyone else that you can’t even imagine them doing the same to you.’
‘But I –’
‘But nothing. You fouled up big time, buddy. If that tape is ever made public, we’re all washed up.’
Jack Proctor had sworn he would never tell his wife what had happened, but now he had poured out his heart to her. What could he do? He’d felt the loneliest man in the world and he desperately needed the support of the only woman he had ever loved.
‘Maybe they’ll just want money, my dear.’
‘These guys ain’t Somali pirates, Jack. Anyway, if they knew about that damned tape, they would have had it by now. Presumably it was still in the car when they stopped Tring. Maybe they listened to it and it didn’t mean a damn thing to them.’
‘Tring would have told them. He had nothing to lose.’
‘He had plenty to lose,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘His life. Maybe they killed Tring, dumped his body and then played the tape. There are a thousand and one scenarios.’
‘Maybe the police found the tape, my dear.’
‘Bullshit. That hillbilly cop who came to see us didn’t have a clue.’
‘I just don’t understand it.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t understand, Jack.’
‘What do you mean, Sharon?’ asked Proctor, his voice quavering.
Sharon Proctor’s eyes narrowed in contempt. She didn’t need to go down with a sinking ship. She hadn’t clawed her way from the back of the freight yards in Savannah to the high society of a European capital for nothing. If Jack Proctor was heading for the jailhouse, she sure as hell wasn’t planning to join him. ‘If you’re stupid enough to bribe a government minister, then you can go to the devil – alone.’
‘You wouldn’t leave me,’ said Proctor, scared by the doubt in his own voice.
‘God knows what the Parados empire will be worth if the truth comes out, but at least I’d be entitled to half of it. I sweated just as much as you did, Jack. The company means everything to me, and you go and jeopardise everything with your damn stupid mouth.’
‘We’re in this together, my love,’ he said meekly.
So that was it, she thought. Her good husband was planning to take her down with him. He would try to implicate her, try to make out that she was a corrupting influence, the reason why he did what he did. ‘You bastard,’ she seethed.
‘I won’t let you leave me without a fight, lass,’ Jack Proctor threatened unconvincingly. ‘You’re all I’ve got.’ The chairman of Parados Pharmaceuticals, his whole world crumbling around him, already felt a beaten man. He could take anything from any man, but he could not take his wife’s scorn.
Sharon Proctor finally lost the self-control that had guided her through the barren years of her sham marriage. ‘You’re a pitiful motherfucker, Jack,’ she hissed, slipping into the vernacular of the trackside urchins of Savannah. ‘You’re an old man with a limp dick. You talk a good game, Jack, but you can’t cut the mustard.’
‘Stop it,’ he cried. ‘Stop it.’
But Sharon Proctor had no intention of stopping. Years of pent-up frustration were about to be vented in a way that she knew would destroy him, for nothing could hurt a jealous man more than the knowledge of his wife’s infidelity.
‘I fucked them all, Jack,’ she hissed contemptuously.
‘What do you mean?’
‘All your friends, I fucked each and every one of them. They laughed at you behind your back because they knew they’d had the one thing you prized above all else – me.’
Jack Proctor slumped deeper into the dralon armchair, hoping that somehow it would swallow him up. He covered his ears, ‘Stop it, Sharon, stop it.’
‘Look at me, Jack,’ she thundered. ‘Look at me!’
He looked up at his exquisitely beautiful wife with the anxious eyes of a submissive lap dog. ‘I’ll do anything you want,’ he quivered, ‘anything.’
‘There’s nothing more you can do for me, Jack Proctor. I put up with your petty jealousies and your intrigues for years. Sure I married you for your money, but I was just a trophy wife. I looked good on your arm, Jack, that’s all.’
‘But I love you, Sharon. Don’t do this to me.’
‘Love,’ she spat, ‘you don’t know the meaning of the word.’
‘Tell me you’re lying about those other men,’ he pleaded.
‘Your fucking ego, that’s all you care about. Don’t worry, I was selective in who I chose to service me. They had to be tall and lean and with dicks the size of baseball bats. Oh, and I almost forgot. You remember your birthday, the fancy dress party? I fucked Jonathan Tring. I fucked him so hard, his powdered wig nearly blew off.’
With this, the statuesque Sharon Proctor turned on her heels and stormed out of the room. Whether or not the incriminating tape surfaced, her marriage was over.
CHAPTER 17
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Kelly told the two men slumped exhausted in armchairs before him. ‘You’re to take the first available flight back to Belfast. It’s my show from here on in.’
‘How are you going to cope, Kieran?’ the shorter man asked. ‘There’s three of them to take care of. You can’t manage on your own.’
‘Sean, I promised you and Gerry that once I had these bastards in chains, you were free to go.’
‘But if the police know there’s just you here, they’ll be more likely to storm the place.’
‘There’s no reason they should believe that I’m on my own. Anyway, I can’t go wrong, can I?’
‘What do you mean?’ Callaghan quer
ied.
‘Well, I’ve got everything I need in-house,’ said Kelly, smiling. ‘If I feel ill I can visit the doctor, if I need a pill I can go to the chemist, and if I need advice on how to lie to the police, I’ve got the politician.’
The three of them laughed, a welcome break in the tension that had enveloped them in the last few days.
‘When do you intend to go public?’ Gerry O’Connor asked.
‘As soon as you and Sean are safely back home. Now are you two sure your alibis are watertight?’
O’Connor nodded, ‘I’ll get the first EasyJet flight out of Stansted in the morning, Kieran. God bless you.’ If the truth was known, he couldn’t wait to get out of there. Friendship and loyalty was one thing, suicide was another. Kelly was in a no-win situation. Even if the whole affair ended peaceably, his comrade would probably get life imprisonment. He suspected that Kelly planned to go out in a blaze of glory, taking some members of the establishment with him. The British Government would not take lightly to the kidnap and incarceration of one of its own. The might of the authorities would be brought to bear on this little cottage, but then so would the eyes of the world.
‘I suggest, Sean, that you get the flight after Gerry’s,’ said Kelly, turning to Callaghan for confirmation. He would miss them both, especially the wiry older man. There was an endearing quality about Callaghan. He was the kindest of men to his friends and that was all that mattered.
‘I’m not going anywhere, Kieran,’ Callaghan said quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that I’m staying with you. There’s no way you can handle this situation on your own.’
‘Do you know what you’re saying, man?’
‘Yes, Kieran. Look, my friend, there’s nothing for me back in Belfast. Times are hard. I’m out of work and living off the state. I’m on my own, and it’s been a dull and lonely life one way or another since the peace. I need the adrenaline, man.’
‘I can’t accept it,’ Kelly declared. ‘It’d be unfair of me to endanger your life. This is now my battle and my battle alone.’
Cry of the Needle Page 22
