What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel

by Carla Vermaat

  Once more I hesitate. However, I keep telling myself that it’s becoming almost an obsession I can’t resist to check if Carter’s car is still parked on the road, if there is a man, or two, in it, keeping an eye on God knows what. Like a burglar in the dark on the way to his next robbery, I sneak away from the car park and round to the front of the building.

  Dusk is setting in early this evening. After the overnight rain and a grey, overcast morning, finally the sun came out at mid-day, warming the wet earth. A mist hangs over the Gannel river like watery milk, reaching out towards the lake. I can just work out the shape of a pair of white swans floating on the surface, the air trapped in-between their well-oiled, water-repellent feathers. The water ripples in a widening circle as something moves under the surface.

  The quietness is almost unnerving. Sometimes, I dream that I am walking through empty streets in a city centre where all the shoppers and shop-staff have disappeared, run away like in a disaster movie; I’m the only survivor and I am desperately looking for my family. Or someone else. Anyone. Like after a nuclear attack, or an alien invasion when everyone has been taken away except me and now I’m being spied on by big green eyes.

  Sweat breaks out on my neck. I stand still on the tarmac path, my eyes darting across the lake. There are no dog walkers in the park. Not even the lady with the swollen ankles and white fluffy slippers. No one in trainers and tracksuit bottoms preparing for a charity run. A motorcycle passes on the road. A brief burst of the engine breaks the silence as it speeds up out of the roundabout until the driver has to slow down for the next one. Then it’s quiet again. Something rustles behind me but when I turn there is nothing out of the ordinary.

  There are two groups of trees marking one of the exits to the park. Within reach of their branches, five cars are parked on the road. One is a small white van marked Chloe’s Cleaners, suggesting it employs more people than just Chloe Barnett, who lives one floor down from the flat next to mine. The other cars are unmarked, their colours subdued by the mist to various shades of grey.

  The mist is damp and drenching cold and I walk quickly towards the exit. Reaching the pavement, I make up my mind that this will be the last time that I let myself do this, and that I definitely will not listen any more to Mr Curtis’s suspicions about men sitting in parked cars with binoculars. A car passes. I can hear the bumping sound of loud rock music. The driver is a youngster with a baseball cap, his face a pale blur as he accelerates and speeds away.

  There are footsteps behind me. This time it isn’t just my imagination. As I turn my head to look over my shoulder, a car door is opened in front of me. I have to step aside to avoid bumping into it. I suppress an annoyed curse as the passenger sticks out his leg, half rising to his feet with the grunt of someone who’s been behind the wheel for too long. His black shoes are polished and he’s wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, his face hidden under a dark baseball cap.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ His voice is faintly nasal as though he’s just sneezed and is hiding his nose behind a hand. It sounds familiar, somehow, although I can’t think where I’ve heard it before. There’s no time to consider it anyway. Another man emerges from behind me, blocking my escape route. A firm hand grips my arm. Fingers lock.

  ‘What …?’ I say, perplexed.

  ‘Shall we?’ He says almost politely, opening the back door as if I’m employing him as my private driver.

  It happens so quickly that I don’t realise the situation before I am sitting in the car staring at the back of the man with the baseball cap with my hands tied together with a cable tie that is looped through the buckle of my belt. I guess it would have been much less comfortable if they’d tied my hands behind my back, like the police do.

  ‘I think you are making a mistake,’ I say, trying to let my voice sound as casual as possible in an attempt to hide my fear. No answer to my question is given. Instead, the man who pushed me in the car, mutters something, folding up like origami as he leans over me to adjust my seatbelt. His face is obscured in the dim light and I don’t recognise him. It’s sullen and devoid of any emotions as he slides a simple white pillowcase over my head. I’m not exactly in the dark but it doesn’t make me feel any more comfortable.

  ‘No worries,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘Just a precaution.’

  I feel like I’ve just woken up from a deep sleep, slightly disorientated, wondering what day it is and what I am supposed to do that day, failing to comprehend where and in whose company I am.

  Child safety locks click to lock the doors and the engine starts. We pull out and we pass the petrol station; I can see the red lights of the sign with fuel prices through the fabric of the pillow case.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, trying to let my voice sound as casual as possible in an attempt to hide my fear. Unsurprisingly, again, no answer.

  We drive round a few roundabouts as though we are retracing our steps all the time. A radio is turned on. Loud classical music fills the inside of the car, drowning out any sounds that might come from the rest outside. The pillowcase over my head, I’m trapped in a little cocoon wondering what’s going on, where I am, why I’m handcuffed and who has instructed the two men to do this to me.

  ‘Are you taking me to Carter?’ I try, but either they haven’t heard me or they choose not to reply.

  Fewer roundabouts. I’m guessing we’ve left Newquay behind us though I haven’t a clue in which direction. It seems strange but not being able to figure out where I am and where I’m going makes it difficult to work out how long we’ve been in the car. I try to count the seconds but the loud music annoys and confuses me so I give up.

  Who is behind this? Carter, no doubt. These men have been watching my place for days. But why?

  When I met Carter, he denied that his daughter was missing. He must have lied. It’s the only explanation I can give for his behaviour. For some reason he didn’t want to get the police involved when his daughter was missing. Perhaps he knew she’d been kidnapped. Perhaps he had contact with the kidnappers. In films and books, kidnappers warn the parents, or those closest to the victim, not to alert the police. Therefore some kidnappings stay under the radar. Ransom is paid and the victim returns home unharmed. Physically unharmed. Nothing is said about the emotional or psychological damage. Perhaps Carter thought it would be easier to follow the instructions if Siobhan had been kidnapped, pay the ransom money and wait for her return. Which she did.

  She too lied to me about that night. They weren’t offered a place to sleep by Stacey. There was no Stacey.

  Stop. Rewind. Play again. Think about the facts. They left the school together. Leanne was seen in the bus by her mother’s cousin. They both lied to their parents about the sleepover party at Carensa Pencreek’s. Pop star Sammii, Leanne’s idol, has definitely given the concert in Plymouth; I’ve seen a recording of it on YouTube. I have also seen the girls together on the images of Mirek Schmidts CCTV footage. About twenty hours later, they were back together, getting off the bus as if nothing had happened, as though they’d been to school as normal.

  If Siobhan was kidnapped it must have happened during or after the concert. But what about Leanne? I can’t imagine that Carter paid ransom money for her as well.

  ‘I want to speak to Carter,’ I say, but there is no reaction from the two men in front of me.

  After a while, we turn slowly and drive onto a lane that seems to be scattered with potholes. The driver eases the car round them with care and patience. A country lane leading to a farmhouse or deserted village I wonder, which seems to be confirmed when the music is turned off and I can hear no other nearby traffic.

  ‘Here we are.’ It is declared with a hint of relief, and the car slowly comes to a halt. Once more the child safety locks click, and unlock the doors and the one on my right side is opened.

  ‘Get out, please.’

  I am no hero. I am not Bruce Willis fighting the evil in the world. I am not Jason Bourne trying to find out who stole his identity an
d why. On the contrary, I am a coward. Perhaps Jason or Bruce or any other movie hero would make a brave attempt to attack the two men, and win as well, but I don’t even see the point in trying. I am not someone who will start a fight. I especially don't want to be kicked at, or land hard on the floor, bruising my body. Or have my stoma damaged.

  Obediently, I get out of the car and wait, lifting my elbows as I am told to with my cuffed hands in front of me and I let them take all my belongings from my pockets. My wallet. Mobile. Coins and keys. Even the pen from my breast pocket. Becca’s birthday card with ‘Happy birthday, from Andy’ written on it after I’d had a long think about what to write on it. ‘Get well soon,’ seemed the most appropriate line for someone in a hospital, but I couldn’t bring myself to write such encouraging words laden with hope. I thought ‘Happy birthday’ was more appropriate. She wouldn’t notice anyway. Not her birthday, not the card, not what is written on it. It mattered to me more than to her.

  ‘Come.’ The driver seems to be in charge; the one with the nasal voice keeps quiet. ‘No tricks.’

  As if I would consider trying to escape with my wrists in handcuffs and my head in a pillowcase so that I was unable to see where I was going. It almost makes me laugh.

  We are in open air. I can smell the salt in the air, feel minuscule droplets on my skin, hear the waves crashing on the rocks. For a brief, devastating moment, I strongly believe that they are going to push me off the cliffs. Stage my suicide.

  There are tall grasses beneath my feet. Wet and damp. Every now and then I manage to detect the remains of an old path or track, disused, with loose pieces of old tarmac and grits crunching under our feet as we walk. The low ‘baa’ of sheep comes from a nearby field. I count the steps. Twenty, thirty. We must pass a building or a wall because we are sheltered against the wind for about fifteen steps, and then a cold wind blows from across the ocean.

  ‘This way.’

  We turn left. A solid path. Concrete.

  ‘Careful. There is a step here.’

  I lift a foot, finding a threshold. A house. Relief settles in, but only very briefly. The floor is littered with debris and dust. We must have entered a barn or a shed.

  I am pushed to one side and my shoulder touches the rough surface of a brick wall.

  ‘Now. Sit down, Mr Tregunna.’ If I still had any doubt about the reason for all this, addressing me by my surname confirms at least that I have been the original target after all. It’s not a case of mistaken identity.

  ‘On the floor against the wall.’

  It may be my last chance to escape. I consider it briefly. Dismissing it. Stumbling blindly on my feet with my hands still cuffed in front of me will hardly give me the benefit of surprise. I may have more chance when they go away and leave me alone. After all, I am not a hero.

  Carefully I lower myself to the ground, keeping my back against the wall. Pulling up my knees. I bow my head and the pillowcase hangs loose. I can see my hands, which is somehow comforting.

  ‘Spread your legs.’

  The upright foetus position was fairly safe; spreading my legs makes me feel more vulnerable than ever.

  But the voice quickly puts an end to this train of thought. ‘Here’s some food and water.’ There is a snippet of amusement in his voice as he tucks a plastic bag between my legs. You don’t supply food and water to someone you’re going to kill, or push over the cliffs or make otherwise disappear.

  ‘Your right leg, please.’

  I don’t move, not understanding what I am supposed to do with my leg. He grunts, picks up my foot and wraps another plastic cable tie around my ankle and attaches it to a metal pole which is firmly rooted in the concrete floor, once probably holding a metal gate to keep cattle indoors.

  ‘Good luck,’ he says and I listen to their footsteps disappearing. The car engine is started and they drive off. I am alone.

  Not alone. I feel the sweat prickle beneath my hairline. Something, or someone, rustles beside me.

  35

  I have been lying in the dark for most of the night, trying hard to stay awake, scared that the men might come back - for what reason I daren’t think about. Every time I fear I'm drifting off, I jerk awake in panic. Most of the time, I'm trying not to think about the situation I'm in and what will happen next. Thinking about what lays ahead of me this morning leads to places I'd rather not visit. I once read that forty per cent of people sleep in the foetal position, which is on one side with arms and legs pulled toward the torso, which apparently makes us feel safe. This position is usually adopted by emotional and sensitive people and more often by women than men. Researchers even claim that this submissive position affects the way we think and feel: our bodies influence our minds, our minds influence our behaviour, and our behaviours influence our outcomes. However, lying in a prone position with arms and legs stretched out gives us more confidence. It makes us feel bigger and more powerful, and feeling powerful will make us more assertive, and self-confident. Still, knowing this doesn’t make it easier to adapt the position in preparation for when the two men come back.

  I check the plastic bag. It holds three bananas and three bottles of still water. Enough water to prevent me from dehydrating. Enough bananas to cause constipation.

  The wind is cold, the draught feels unhealthy. It is quiet. It must have been an animal rustling beside me, because I haven’t heard or sensed it after I kicked wildly in the air with my free leg. The sea can’t be far away. I taste salt on my lips.

  I bow my head down towards my stomach and finally manage to grab the rim of the pillow case with my teeth, wriggling it until I can pull it over my head.

  It is with a mixture of relief and disappointment that I'm able to see my surroundings. I am in an old barn or outhouse, with grey brick walls and open spaces where there have once been windows, or perhaps the builders never got round to putting them in. I am sitting against the wall and my legs are stretched out in an opening between two low walls that surround two square areas. There is a faint smell of cattle and I guess I must be in a building that is occasionally used to shelter animals. Perhaps sheep are sheared here, or ewes are brought in when the farmer suspects a difficult birth. At the end of a passage on my left is a doorway without a door, to my right an opening for a window, without a frame or glass. It is cold and draughty and I shiver. Suddenly, I am overwhelmed by self-pity and despair.

  I eat one of the bananas, not knowing when more food supplies will arrive. I drink one of the bottles of water. It is only when I wake up feeling dizzy and giddy, that I realise something I should have noticed before: the bottles had been opened and the water tasted slightly bitter. I hadn’t paid attention to it but now it dawns on me that I must have been drugged.

  Early morning and the sun is rising, casting long shadows on the floor from the open doorway. Now able to see in the early daylight, the small animal droppings on the ground confirms my suspicions that my nightly visitors had been mice. It was a less alarming and frightening thought than the possibility it was rats.

  Along with the darkness going, my lack of action and unwillingness to be a hero have gone. I need to get out of here before they come back. I’ve spent hours weighing up all the options for the reason for my kidnapping and I am none the wiser. Victor Carter is the most likely suspect, only I can’t see why he’s made the effort. Besides, he isn’t the type. If he wanted to cause me any harm, he would have had me killed, most likely in a road accident or a staged suicide. Who else? I’m hardly working on a case. I have no enemies, at least, none that I know of. The disappearance of Leanne and Siobhan is over. I’m only working on the case of the body parts from the sidelines; it would have been a better idea to kidnap Guthrie or Maloney if that was the reason. What else? Who else? Why?

  There is a piece of rusty metal on the floor beside the low wall. In films the hero can reach it just, using conveniently placed equipment that is essential for success. I have no equipment and I can’t reach far enough to get my hands on the rust
y metal and use it as a saw to cut the plastic ties from my hands.

  My belt. The cable tie is tucked through the buckle, but my fingers can reach it and I can undo the buckle. It feels like it takes me another half an hour to pull my undone belt of the loops of my trousers. I have no way of checking the time, other than that my sense of unease tells me to hurry. If the two men are coming back, they won’t wait until the evening. More likely they will appear in the morning, early enough not to be disturbed by curious passers-by.

  Which brings hope. Passers-by. Someone must come past this building today. I only need one person to help me. All I need to do is attract attention and someone will come and set me free.

  Cable ties can be tricky. We use them in the police force and we are always aware that they can easily fail. You have to squeeze one end into a little eye box at the other end and pull it tight. When adjusted in the proper way, they are strong enough to hold heavy weights, surely too strong to break with bare hands. When you put the end in the wrong way up, it won’t hold at all and it can be pulled out as easily as it was pushed in.

  For some reason, the men haven’t tested the one they used on me. Nor have I. I haven’t even thought about the possibility that the men could have been so careless. Still, one pull of my foot and the black plastic strip lands on the dusty floor. No such luck with the ties round my wrists, though.

  I kneel, crawl, and stumble to my feet. After all my inner cursing about the missing windows and door which have made me cold to the bone, I am now thankful that I am not faced with a locked door or barred windows.