by Rebecca Heap
An hour or so later, Sean came powering back down to the gate on his motorbike. The guard purposely made him wait but, having achieved what he had hoped for from his interview with Williamson, Sean was unconcerned. He could do nothing more. Only time would tell whether the seed he had planted would bear fruit. This time he waited for the gates to fully open before setting off, cheekily saluting the surly gatekeeper as he went past.
Tears dripped unremittingly down Dominic Williamson's cheeks, mingling with the snot oozing from his nostrils. He swiped at his face half-heartedly, his whole body shuddering with self-pity and defeat. He looked at the glass in his left hand, the irony not lost on him that the liquid it contained was his best single malt Scotch, which he had been saving for a special occasion. A freakish smile distorted his pudgy lips. Well, if this wasn't a "special occasion", he didn't know what was. He downed the alcohol in one, closing his eyes and savouring the burn as it ran down his throat. It seemed to inject him with fortitude as an idea flashed across his brain. He stood up and ran towards his bedroom, his fingers shaking but a hopeful desperation gleaming in his glazed eyes.
That Irish bastard had warned him that he was about to reveal everything to the police about Bespoke’s clandestine operation and Williamson's dealings with them. Murphy had known about his "purchase" and what he'd done to that red-haired slut of a sister of his. But surely he had no proof that he had been responsible for her death? There couldn't possibly be any forensic evidence after all this time and when he had done such a thorough job of cleaning up. As long as he got rid of the additionally incriminating browser history on his personal computer, couldn't he blag his way out of this? He was a highly respected high court judge after all. Couldn't he pass it off as a set up?
He logged on to the desktop in his bedroom. A strange message, like some sort of advert flashed up but he didn't bother to read it and just clicked impatiently on the icon marked "Close". His jaw sagged open as a maniacal laugh boomed out from the speakers. The screen went blank and then an ugly-looking cartoon leprechaun appeared on the screen, admonishing him, with an insolent shake of its finger. He watched helplessly as temporary files he didn't even know were retained on the system were added to a zip file at dizzying speed. He knew what they were: photos, videos, website addresses that had all allowed him to indulge some of his more perverted fantasies. An email was opened and the file was attached to it. He banged frantically on the keyboard but to no avail. He finally had the presence of mind to wrench the plug out at the wall. But he knew it was too late. He screamed shrilly and attacked the computer like an enraged bull.
After Williamson had expended all his fury and outrage, the processing unit and flat screen monitor lay devastated on the floor and he lay on his knees next to it, equally broken. He wailed and wept. Not once did he think of the girl he had abused and fatally injured. Nor did he think of the women and children in the countless images of abuse he had ogled. His anguish was all for himself. His hand hesitatingly reached out for a sharp piece of glass that lay near to him. Should he end it all, as he had been instructed? Should he just slit his wrists, or his throat, and let himself slowly bleed out? Wouldn't it be a relief now to welcome the numbing blackness of death? His fingers touched the sliver. But he jerked back as if bitten. He was too much of a coward. What if he was just exchanging one hell for another? What if his death didn't bring eternal sleep but the eternal agony of damnation instead?
He climbed unsteadily to his feet. He reached for his mobile phone on the bed and began stabbing out a number with palsied fingers. He would book a flight, withdraw as much money as he could and get out of here. He could run. He could hide. Surely it wasn't impossible? After increasingly frantic calls, it was clear he wasn't going to get anywhere. All his credit and debit cards had been cancelled. His bank manager claimed that all his funds had been withdrawn. Not in one lump sum, but slowly and relentlessly over a short period of time. He had recently had difficulty logging on to his internet account but he had assumed it was some temporary glitch. He hadn't suspected anything. Why should he? And his cards had still been functioning at the time, so he hadn't been worried. He thought about looking for his passport but knew it was pointless. Of course, that too would be gone. The phone fell from his lifeless fingers on to the floor. All his anger had now drained from him and he was just left in a state of stupefied catatonia.
He walked haltingly, like a zombie, to his bathroom. He opened his medicine cupboard and pulled out numerous packets of pills, caring not that he upset various bottles and jars in the process, which scattered to the floor. Still in a daze, he crushed the pills methodically and poured the resulting grains into a glass. He returned to his living room and picked up the bottle of whiskey. Adding alcohol to the glass containing the powdered pills, he gulped it down. He sat down in his favourite armchair, bottle still in hand and proceeded to drink it dry. His hand moved the bottle to his mouth and his throat convulsed at regular intervals but his actions were like those of an automaton. His face was leeched of all colour and his eyes stared blankly ahead. He already looked like the dead man he was soon to become.
*
Sean Murphy,” Harry raged. According to his source in the police, Chief Inspector Peter Bradbury, this was who had visited Dominic just before his unexpected suicide. This was the very same name used by Kate’s kidnapper and matched the description Sebastian had given of the man. It could not be a coincidence. Sebastian was currently abroad or he'd have had him report to him immediately.
The police were satisfied that Dominic's death was self-inflicted but Harry knew there was more to it. They still wanted Murphy for questioning, as he was the last person to have seen Dominic alive, but so far, their efforts at locating him had been unsuccessful. They knew from the security guard he had claimed to be a freelance journalist, but little else. They’d been unable to find anyone who knew of him and there were no publications or references to the guy. This was of no surprise to Harry. The bastard had used the name before and it was clearly a front. His own previous attempts to trace the man had come to nought and he had much greater resources than the police at his disposal.
Harry watched the footage from the entryway CCTV cameras again. Bradbury had, obligingly, provided him with a copy of the recording. Four years had passed since his daughter’s kidnapping. Why come back on the scene now and bring attention to himself? And why had his focus been Dominic? The lowlife had shown himself on purpose and was thumbing his finger at him, of that he was convinced. His fist met the desk, with an angry crack, by way of riposte. What bothered him most was the idea that had slid into his mind, like a burrowing worm, that he was the real target and the coward was planning a final, and decisive, move against him. Well not if he got to him first!
He was loath to trouble Kate, but it was going to plague him if he didn't get some solid verification. Maybe, if Kate saw the video, something would click and her recollections would help to track him down. He knew she didn't recall much, due to the memory loss she'd suffered. Post-traumatic retrograde amnesia, they'd called it, or some such fancy medical term. What it amounted to was a dead-end. The bastard who'd taken her had had more than his fair share of luck. They were surely due some.
Kate seemed past that old trauma now, especially since the advent of Michael Hunter. Her memory might have improved. He was about to buzz his secretary to get his daughter on the line, when she buzzed him.
“Mr Hunter to see you, Sir.”
Harry had forgotten Mick was due back and was keen to discover what new business he’d managed to requisition in the States. He told her to send him through but, when Mick entered, he remained seated, still pondering over the video footage.
Michael interrupted his thoughts with a cough, alerting him to his presence. Harry half-rose from his seat saying “Sit, sit Mick,” waving to the seat in front of him and quickly reclaiming his own.
Michael was rather perturbed by this distant reception after his long absence. He sat but queried, “Everything OK, Harry?”<
br />
Harry looked up. Realising he’d been rather preoccupied he said, “Yes, sure. Sorry Mick. It’s good to see you. You’ve just got back?”
Michael nodded.
“Successful trip, I hope?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like a drink?” He stretched his hand towards his intercom but Michael declined. “I’m good.”
Harry sat back in his chair. “Well, then.” He paused, considering Michael and attempting to bring his attention back to business. “What have the Yanks got to say about what we can offer them?”
Michael entered into a summary of the interest he had secured and the plans he had to bring a number of eligible potential clients over to view the Ottoman complex. Harry nodded with approval but, once he’d gathered things were moving along nicely, he started to ruminate again on Dominic’s visitor. Michael stopped midway through a sentence, having picked up on the fact that Harry's mind was still engaged elsewhere. Harry failed to notice. Michael leaned forwards.
“What’s up, Harry?” he asked. “You seem distracted?”
Harry returned his concentration to Michael. He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing. Sorry, do go on.”
When, having proffered a question that necessitated a response, Harry did not immediately reply, Michael was curious as to the cause of his distraction rather than offended. “I can see there’s something bugging you, Harry. It must be important, as business is normally your top priority. Perhaps it’s something I can help you with?”
Harry blinked, apologised for being so rude and said “No, it’s nothing you can help….” he began. Then he seemed to have second thoughts. He pursued his lips, debating. “Actually,” he said, “I’d value your opinion.”
“Yes?” Michael prompted.
Then he shook his head, as if reconsidering. “Kate hasn’t told you what happened to her yet, has she?” he asked.
Michael was taken aback by this sudden change of topic. The abrupt and direct reference to Kate had his heart accelerating and his interest piqued. “She did open up to me,” he said, “but she’s not yet had chance to tell me the full story.” He wondered where this was leading.
Harry rubbed his chin, still apparently reluctant to divulge more. He assessed Michael carefully. Then he seemed to make up his mind and abruptly stated. “Four years ago, Katherine was kidnapped.”
Michael inhaled a shocked breath. “What?” he managed to stutter.
“I know, I know” Harry said, shaking his head. “Inconceivable isn’t it? I’m her father, I should have protected her. It’s eaten away at me that it ever happened. It’s killed me that the misbegotten son of a bitch who did it was never found. I should have given her retribution.”
He grimaced and gathered himself, as if trying to contain a physical pain.
“Presumably the motive was money, was it?”
“Well, whatever he was after, he never got the chance to demand a ransom or blackmail me, did he?” Harry boasted, pleased to be able to salvage a measure of pride from at least one aspect of the affair.
“She’d have only been nineteen,” commented Michael, almost to himself. “She must have been terrified. Was she hurt?”
This question elicited strong emotion in Harry and his mood slumped again. He turned his head away, but not before Michael perceived a wetness developing in his eyes. “I should have protected her,” he repeated in a whisper. He managed to compose himself and when he turned back to face Michael, the wetness was still there but it glimmered with anger. “She was left in a coma.”
“My God!” exclaimed Michael. “What happened?”
“Kate doesn’t remember much. When she came out of the coma, she was confused. She’s never fully recalled the events beforehand, whether through brain injury or unconscious suppression, we’ve never been truly sure. Nevertheless, it’s still a story I should allow her to tell you. That’s if you still want to know?” Harry eyed him, checking for any sign he was now repulsed by the idea of a relationship with his damaged daughter.
“Of course,” Michael said without hesitation. “ It doesn’t change my feelings towards her, but why are you telling me this now Harry?”
“There’s been a development. I need you to look at something. Give me your thoughts.” He then gestured for Michael to join him at the other side of the desk. “Bring your chair,” he suggested. As Michael obliged, Harry made sure they would not be interrupted by instructing his secretary accordingly.
Michael was silent whilst Harry showed him the footage. As it came to a close, Michael looked perplexed.
Harry saw his puzzlement and quickly elucidated, “I’m positive the chap on this recording is the son of a bitch responsible.”
Michael sat back, stunned. “Is this a recent recording?”
Harry explained all that he knew about it, including Williamson’s unexpected demise. “I don’t understand,” said Michael. “Why would this man risk exposure like this now, after four years? Aren’t you placing too much store in his name?”
“No, I’m right about him. I feel it in my gut.” Harry asserted, immediately putting paid to any debate on the issue. “I’m not prepared to let this bastard slip out of my grasp again. I was thinking of asking Kate to look at the video.”
“What? No!”
Harry was visibly surprised by such a strong reaction, retreating into his seat, perturbation knotting his face.
Michael saw this and, not wishing to offend Harry, quickly followed up with. “Even if it does prompt her to remember something, it might be too much of a shock. It could trigger a mental breakdown instead. Why cause her unnecessary distress?”
Harry opened his mouth, inclined to argue it was worth the risk, but then closed it again debating. “You think I’m wrong don’t you? That I’d be upsetting her for nothing?”
“Even if you’re right Harry, how’s it going to help? She’s unlikely to recognise him after so long. ”
Harry sighed. “I suspect you’re right. The potential harm to Kate doesn’t justify it. It’s just so frustrating!” His fists clenched but then relaxed.
“He was careful to leave little forensic evidence behind at Williamson’s, but now at least I have a record of his face. I have a lead. I had very little before. Sebastian may as well have been brain damaged as well. He was worse than useless, as were the police, although admittedly they weren’t in possession of all the facts. This time, the worm won’t stay missing for long, believe me. I have a long and pervasive reach.”
“Sebastian?” queried Michael, picking up on the reference to his rival.
“I’d mentioned we owed him a debt? We do. He rescued Kate and then saved her life, but he managed to balls up the easy part by allowing her kidnapper to escape.”
Michael grunted in sympathetic disgust. “Were there no other witnesses?”
“None that could identify him. He wasn’t stupid. He made sure of it. He murdered his girlfriend, to guarantee her silence. Robert, Kate’s fiancé at the time, was knocked out and didn’t see his attacker.”
“Hmh….That’s a little convenient, isn’t it?”
Harry looked up at him, in surprise. “Excuse me?”
Michael remained quiet for a moment, mulling over a possibility. “This Robert. You sure he’s trustworthy? Where were they when Kate was abducted? Somewhere isolated, I take it?”
Harry’s expression distorted into something resembling a beached fish, as he grappled with the revelation that these words inspired. “I screwed up,” he muttered, indignant with himself. “It was Robert who insisted they return to an empty office,” he revealed. “His actions weren’t something I ever thought to question. Not when he’d ended up in hospital.”
“I believe you have yourself another lead.”
Harry’s discombobulated face unravelled, and he smiled. “I knew I was right to share this with you, Mick. You’ve picked up on something we’d missed.
“Glad to be of service,” Mic
hael replied. “In return, all I ask is that, when you find him, you allow me to give him a piece of my mind, so to speak.”
“I doubt there’ll be much left of him, once I’ve finished with him, but you’ll be welcome to make your contribution. Now,” said Harry, “what was it you were saying about the Americans?”
Michael finished the rundown of his exploits in the States and Harry congratulated him on the progress he had made. Once they’d ironed out some of the finer, commercial, details of setting up the sister establishment in America, Michael rose to leave. He was about to open the door, when Harry forestalled him with an “Oh, and Mick?”
Michael turned back. “There’s someone else who’s looking forward to seeing you, now that you’re back.” His heart sank. He had hoped Harry would not make any allusion to him contacting his daughter. He was weary from the long-haul flight and had made up his mind that their relationship should go no further. It had been a relief to be away from her and the worrying influence she had gained over his heart.
“I’ll call her,” he promised, in order to humour Harry.
“You’d better. She knew when you were due back and has kept a keen note of it.”
He supressed a groan. “I’d have thought she’d have much better things to do with her time,” he commented.
“Aren’t you the lucky one? Here,” Harry passed him a still of the face, caught on Williamson’s cameras. “When you judge the time is right, I’d appreciate if you’d see if this face means anything to her. I know you’ll handle it sensitively.”
He nodded, tried on what he hoped would pass for a smile and, scooping up the photograph, he left.
Harry remained ruminating on their discussion.. He murmured to himself, “Her ex. Could he really be involved? Maybe. After all, wouldn’t any burglar worth his salt break-in during the early hours of the morning, not at 9 o’clock at night, now he thought about it? What if the kidnap had been arranged?” He needed to take a closer look at Mr Robert Spencer. He lifted up the phone and directed, “Get me Sebastian on the line, and fast.”
