by Simon Hall
“We were out walking,” Dan shouted. “You said it was urgent, so he had to come.”
Adam rolled his eyes, but began striding away, bent double to shelter from the assault of the chopper’s noise. It echoed from walls, street, windows and pavements. The man-made hurricane of flying air pulled and pummelled at their hair and clothes.
He led Dan to an alleyway opposite the SOCOs. They were concentrating on a large picnic basket. The wicker cradle was on its side and spilled out a series of packets wrapped in cling film.
A couple of thermos flasks lay there too, with another resting in the gutter.
The alley was narrow, lined with the litter of cigarette butts and streaked with dark fingers of damp. The mustiness of dirty drains lurked. A spray of graffiti claimed the territory for Caz.
The Valkyrie of the helicopter banked east and clattered off into the night, the sudden quiet a release of the booming pressure in the surrounding air.
“This’ll have to be quick,” Adam said. “The victim’s Annette Newman, only child of Roger Newman.”
“The kitchens and carpets man?”
“That’s him.” Adam pointed to where a couple of white-overalled figures were dusting at the doorway, the odd puff of a silver-sparkled cloud lingering in the half light. “She was taken there. A witness saw her being dragged into a white van.” A police officer ran past, talking into his radio. In the distance, more sirens wailed.
“What time?” Dan asked.
“Quarter to eight. Just as it’s getting dark.”
“So the city’s got a few people about if you need to blend in, but not too many if you want to avoid loads of witnesses.”
“And the roads are still quiet for a getaway.”
Adam’s mobile rang. “As many as you can get,” he said, quickly. “And fast.” The detective hung up and added, “Firearms teams.”
“So – the soup run?” Dan prompted, nodding over to the SOCOs. “Which would make sense of the sandwiches and flasks.”
“You know about that?”
“It was all over the media. A part of settling that well-publicised spat with her dad.”
“Right,” Adam replied thoughtfully. “Which means…”
“Any criminal would know too. And if she does the same routine each week, there’s your opportunity.”
“Or invitation,” the detective added, grimly.
Rutherford lifted a leg and left his traditional insignia on the alley. It was a mark of the intensity of Adam’s focus that this figurehead of the law didn’t even comment.
“We’ve got a partial plate for the van,” he said. “Can you do a newsflash?”
Dan was about to head back for the cordon when the fast sound of hard shoes stopped him. He knew who it was without needing to turn around. Rutherford had begun a low whine of delight.
The z of Caz looked more like a two. Graffiti artists should take better care. Illegal though the art may be, if it was worth the risk of creating then surely it was worth making it understood.
The line of a perfect bob of dark hair edged into vision.
Dan stepped back, a crumpled drink can creaking underfoot. The C was far more artistically formed than the z. A fine three quarters of a ring. A steady circle suggested a natural talent, or so it was said.
The whining from Rutherford was growing louder. The dog started to pull at the lead.
An elegant figure in a black trouser suit was blocking Caz’s artwork and dominating Dan’s eyes. He managed a tight smile, before busying himself calming Rutherford, whispering to the dog and smoothing his fur.
As calmly as ever, in her gentle but authoritative voice, Claire said, “Mr Breen, we’ve got the ransom demand. But there’s something very strange about it.”
Chapter Three
Darkness. Dense blackness. The tight pressure of thick cloth. Gripping teeth and mouth, binding her head and swaddling her eyes.
No light. No matter how hard she blinked, the blindfold wouldn’t move.
Pure darkness.
But noise. A continual rumbling. Wheels running on tarmac.
She was in a car. In the boot. Trussed up in a box of metal, resting above some tools and a spare wheel.
No. She could bend her knees and stretch her legs. There was space. And air.
And it was moving. Fresh air flowing and playing over nose and hands and ankles.
A memory. Bending down. To the tramp. With a sandwich, a smile and a flask of hot coffee, steaming in the evening light. A hand coming up to meet her. A sweet smell and a swirling sickness.
Legs buckling. Falling. Eyes rolling and mind running along a narrow corridor, towards a distant circle of light. Head lolling, too heavy to hold. Arms grabbing. Doors opening, two doors, white doors, more hands. Floating free in a spinning netherworld.
Then blackness.
She felt her stomach churn, snorted in a breath, bit back the bubbling vomit.
A van. She was in the back of a van.
A new noise: a whine of brakes. The engine growling.
A different momentum. Turning.
Her body sliding across the cold metal floor. Faster. Unable to stop.
And now a shock. A presence in the blackness. A sudden pressure in the small of her back. A foot. Pushing her casually away. As indifferent as if she were a sack of rubbish waiting to be discarded.
Someone was there. Hiding in the darkness.
Someone unfeeling and uncaring. Heartless and ruthless. With no picture, no sense of who it could be, still she knew. As surely if it had been tattooed upon her thoughts.
She tried to call out. Form words, force them from her mouth, through the biting gag.
Hello? Who is that? Where are you taking me? What’s happening?
But the constricting material allowed only a breathless moan.
And no voice rose in return. There was only the noise of the van. Building again.
But he was here. Alongside her. Studying her.
Eyes caressing her cheeks. Sliding downwards. Across her chest. Stopping, lingering, savouring the sight. To her stomach now. On to her thighs.
And between.
He was moving closer. Just the hint of motion. A creak of the van’s floor.
And breath. Into her ear. Hot breath. Creeping across her face. Stinking breath. The curdling stench of a filthy mouth. So close against the prickling flesh.
The vomit rose again. She gulped and heaved. Shuddered, whimpered.
And now a touch. A finger. The scraping edge of an uneven nail. On her neck. Just below the ear. So softly she could only just feel it.
But her skin jumped at the sensation, as if trying to run.
The teasing pressure was toying with a patch of fine down. The dirty, exploring nail. Hovering above a single freckle. Lingering. Circling it. Pressing a little harder.
The rumbling of the van grew again. But joined by the beat of a regular bumping. And the sideswipe of a rushing wind.
A bridge. They were crossing a river, maybe a valley.
The finger was moving again. To her throat.
Her body tensed with an iron tautness. Ready for the soft touch to switch to the sudden slash of a knife. The killing blade slitting through helpless skin.
And to feel the life’s blood flood from her.
She waited. And waited. Because there was nothing else she could do.
But still the finger teased her throat.
And now slipped downwards. Over clenched and tense muscle. To her chest. Pushing aside the cotton modesty of her shirt.
Inching towards her breast. Reaching the laced edge of her bra. And rubbing it. Running along the patterned ridges. Picking at the delicate whiteness. Moving towards her shoulder.
Pulling at the strap.
And now back to the swell of flesh. Stopping, hesitating.
Annette tried to curl herself into a ball. But the gripping ropes would grant no refuge.
The finger pushed harder, as if to penetrate her body.
Sweat flooded around it. Tiny rivulets rushing to escape the fearful pressure.
As she waited for the next assault.
But the finger was gone.
There was only blackness. And the incessant rumbling of the van.
But the man was still there. In the darkness.
Close by her side. All around her.
And everywhere inside her mind.
Chapter Four
Early in his career, Dan learned that an old cliché took on a new meaning in the life of a television reporter. There were storms aplenty, with only a rare few calms to precede them. And a journalist who becomes subsumed into the parallel world of police investigations only exacerbates the storms.
The ageing process wasn’t helping. He’d done his best to ignore it, but it was like trying to overlook the influence of gravity. Eventually you had to accept something was going on, however hard it may be to define.
Morning runs with Rutherford, which had been an easy half an hour, were down to an arduous twenty-five minutes. And waking in the morning afresh after a few beers the night before felt like the lost fantasy of a distant youth. School night drinking had been quietly curtailed.
The conclusion was unavoidable: the years were going silently about their insidious work.
With a quiet nod to the importance of vanity, the bathroom light had been reduced in the revealing power of its merciless wattage. But, in truth, it was a poor compensation, as effective as shouting into a hurricane.
Thus Dan would take any precious chance for a moment’s respite from the onslaught of the working day. And so, this fine Friday evening, amidst the white water rapids of a major investigation, he found a few minutes to disappear to a place where the mainstay of Plymouth’s population had found calm throughout the years.
The great rocky promontory of Plymouth Hoe was at peace tonight. Atop the line of flagpoles the standards of the world hung limp, as if they too were resting in the sanctuary of the darkness. Amidst the harbour of the Sound a couple of merchant navy ships waited at anchor, highlighted by the red and green jewels of the lights of the breakwater.
To the west, above the easy arc of the Cornish coast, a half moon was rising. The waters were dark and still, as black as oil. The dart of a lone yacht made its unhurried way towards the sanctuary of Queen Anne’s Battery, the churn of its engine softened by the distance.
Around the road that skirted the Hoe, a single low-slung car boomed its beating way. Dan followed the speeding path. It had always been a puzzle how the drivers of such cars longed to draw attention to themselves, when surely a wiser policy would be entirely the opposite.
The pillar of the Naval War Memorial watched over the Hoe, monument to the sacrifices of the fighting years, the countless lights of the city beyond. Rutherford tugged at the lead, and Dan – after securing a promise of good behaviour, however pointless – set the dog free. On one of the benches overlooking the Sound he settled and took out a photocopy of the blackmail note.
It appeared a simple demand for money, with just the one oddity. The mystery of those two, very deliberate, concluding initials.
***
The respite was a brief fifteen minutes, no more. Dan was due at Charles Cross Police Station at ten for a briefing. A report had been cut and left for the late bulletin, and the newsflash just about negotiated, albeit as a perilous voyage through rocks and storms.
After the discussion with Adam, Dan jogged back to the cordon to find exactly the cast he expected assembled. Brothers, if not in arms, then in the words and pictures of the media. Nigel was filming the scenes of crime officers going about their careful work and the policeman on guard duty. The cameraman was dressed in tatty jeans covered in white paint and a pullover upon which many a moth had grown fat. The ensemble was a sure sign of a scramble call.
Next to Nigel lurked the chubby, wild-haired, modern-day Machiavellian court jester that was Dirty El, camera fixed unerringly to his eye. He was wearing a familiar grimy, battered body warmer, bulging and misshapen with spare lenses, cloths, batteries, light meters, and all the disreputable armaments of the paparazzi kind.
“Ta for the tip off,” he chirped, without lowering the lens. “Not another snapper in sight and I’m filling me memory card full of cash.”
Behind both, sitting in the satellite truck and complaining, as ran the script of his life, brooded the champion misanthrope that was Loud. “What kind of bloody story breaks on a Friday night?” he grumbled, beard twitching in time with the moans. “I was going out for a curry. A hot one, with a nice fat naan bread.”
Loud patted his stomach. The blue, red and yellow Hawaiian shirt was already straining to contain his impressive girth. Had the garment known what a taxing fate awaited it, the manufacturers may have riveted on the buttons, rather than sewn.
Dan put on a placating smile, the kind a parent might adopt for a recalcitrant toddler. He took the talkback unit which linked the outside broadcast truck to the studio and slipped the moulded plastic coil into his ear.
Rutherford was starting to pull at the lead again, so Dan pushed him into the safety of the van. The dog immediately started growling.
“Hey, what?” Loud protested. “What’s his problem?”
“He’s got good taste,” Dan muttered.
“What?”
“I said he’s not keen on facial hair. But keep still and quiet and he probably won’t savage you.”
In Dan’s ear came the sound of the studio preparing for the newsflash. Nigel had positioned the camera with the police tape and sentry officer in the background.
“This is Emma in the Plymouth gallery,” the director’s voice broke through. “We’re on air in three minutes. We’ve got 30 seconds exactly.”
Dan grabbed a piece of paper and began scribbling notes. The newsreader’s introduction would take about five seconds. Following the broadcaster’s rough rule of three words a second, he had 75.
“On air in two and a half,” came Emma’s voice again.
“Move to your left a little please,” Nigel said. “I want to get more of the scene in the background.”
Dan shifted, but continued working on his words.
Two minutes.
The door of a bar crashed open and shouting echoed down the street. A group of young lads had seen the satellite truck. They tumbled out and began yelling abuse. Some was of a scale that might make even Channel Four think twice about broadcasting it.
Ninety seconds.
The men lurched over, juggling pints and bottles of beer, splashes spilling onto the pavement. One made a play of getting down on his knees to lick up the sacred liquid. Others formed a line and began dancing a conga, singing, We’re all on the telly, we’re all on the telly. Another ran into the background, bared his rear and patted a tune in time. The pallid, pasty flesh proudly sported a Plymouth Argyle Football Club tattoo, and a large one given the expanse of available space.
Yet again a fundamental rule of the TV business had been proven in an instant. The camera is a magnet for the insane, drunk, stupid or simply offensive. Whatever the limits of their faculties, they can somehow sense television being made from a range of several miles and are inexorably drawn towards it.
Sixty seconds.
“We can’t go on air like this,” Nigel yelled, above the cacophony. “We’ll have to pull the broadcast.”
“No way. We don’t fail.”
Dan glanced around. Where the hell was Adam? He’d be able to gather some cops to control the men, but the detective was nowhere in sight.
Thirty seconds.
Dan lurched for the satellite truck, reached in and grabbed Rutherford. The dog produced a movingly loving look, so Dan thrust him towards Loud. The Alsatian bared his teeth and began growling.
Twenty seconds. Dan, where are you? What the fuck are you doing?
He jogged back to the camera. At the sight of the snarling Rutherford the men backed off.
Ten seconds.
Dan sat the d
og beside him, just below the camera’s shot.
“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a newsflash,” came Craig, the presenter’s voice.
Cue Dan.
“In the last hour, a well-known young woman has been kidnapped from this street in Plymouth,” he intoned. “She’s Annette Newman, daughter of Roger, the millionaire entrepreneur famed for pulling himself up from one of the city’s toughest areas to found the Roger’s Rugs empire. The police believe the kidnappers got away in a white van. Its registration plate ended in the letters TN. If anyone spots such a van, they’re asked to call 999 immediately.”
***
A young couple walked past, hand in hand. They stopped by the war memorial to steal a kiss.
The woman bent to pat Rutherford, but hesitated. “Does he bite?”
“Only undesirables,” Dan replied. “You’ll be fine.”
The dog accepted a few seconds stroking in that disinterested manner of his, before trotting back to the bench.
“You did well with the newsflash,” Dan told him. “Operation Anti-Chav went impressively smoothly. Now, I need to ask you a question – how do you think I did with Claire?”
Rutherford lay down and let out a sizeable yawn.
“Thanks, dog. But you may have a point.”
After the broadcast, Claire had stopped at the satellite van. She was carrying a weight of papers and was on her way to Charles Cross to prepare for the briefing. They exchanged an awkward peck of a kiss, then stepped back into silence.
It was one of those emotional stalemate moments, high in the order of human embarrassments. Two people who knew each other so well, but still had no idea what to do next.
“Well?” she asked, eventually.
“Well what?” he replied, with a little shuffle.
“You know what.”
“If I knew what I wouldn’t be asking what.”
Claire sighed. “Will we have a chance to catch up in the next few days?”
The shuffle became a jig. “I hope so.”
“But?”
“This case is going to be busy.”
