Presumably Danny was now alone, unless there’d been someone else in the house waiting for them to arrive. Dare he risk shouting? The desire to get out of that stark, filthy room was, at that point, greater than his fear of a third person being around, so he shouted as loudly as he could, banging on the door until his fists were sore. There was no response, which probably meant that he was alone.
Danny looked around, searching for a possible way to escape. The door was old, but solid and he knew there were bolts on the outside. The window wouldn’t open, he’d seen the nails and if he smashed the glass he would still have the problem of the mesh outside, which was probably nailed down like the window frame.
With such a bare room and both ways of exit ruled out, he felt the tears begin to sting his eyes once more. He sniffed, wiping his nose on his parka sleeve and swallowed hard to stop himself from crying. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling and when he flipped the switch, it was a relief to find it worked. It was bad enough being there, but the dark would only add to his misery and fear.
By seven-thirty pm it was completely dark outside and Danny had been alone for over two hours. After failing to come up with a plan to escape, he sat on the mattress and watched a spider spinning a web in the corner of the window. He’d needed to use the bucket in the corner as a toilet, assuming that was why it was there, and he was beginning to feel hungry as well as cold.
Suddenly, headlights danced across the wall and the sound of an engine in the drive obviously meant that his captors were coming back. Should he be relieved? No, he was still afraid, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Being alone was surely better than having those men in the house. Would they hurt him?
Danny sniffed back the tears and listened as the van doors opened, then slammed closed. The voices were just a noise, the words indistinguishable, but he was sure one of the voices sounded like that of a woman. He listened as they came into the house, wondering if they would come upstairs to check on him, afraid that they would, but somehow needing to know more about his captors, to be able to look at their faces and assess what his fate might be.
Danny anxiously listened for over an hour, but no one came upstairs. There was the sound of a television and movement in the room directly below him, but nothing more.
Eventually the van started up again, two doors slammed and it drove away from the house. The television still blared downstairs, so presumably someone had stayed behind. Within minutes he heard the noise of footsteps on the stairs, then the bolt was released and the door slowly opened.
Danny braced himself for seeing one of the men, afraid, yet determined not to show it, but standing in the open doorway was a skinny boy of about his own age. The boy smiled and said, ‘So you’re the fat rich kid, then?’
The skinny boy was grinning, showing a mouthful of chipped and crooked teeth. He wore old, dirty jeans and a jumper at least two sizes too small for him, which was unravelling at the sleeves.
Danny was taken completely by surprise. Having expected to see one of his captors, this boy was a shock and it wasn’t until the boy had stepped inside and closed the door that Danny realised he’d missed an opportunity to attempt an escape.
‘Don’t even think about making a run for it — they’ve got guns!’ It was almost as if the boy could read his mind, but was he telling the truth?
‘Cor, it bloody stinks in here!’ the boy continued, peering at the bucket in the corner which Danny had reluctantly used earlier.
‘Well, there isn’t a bathroom.’ Danny’s voice was croaky and weak.
‘There is, but you’re not to be let out of the room.’ The boy lifted his chin as if he was the one making the rules.
‘Who are you and why am I here?’
‘Just call me Lewis.’
‘Is that your first name or last?’
‘It doesn’t matter, just Lewis will do.’
Danny wanted to ask more but was unsure about this boy. They eyed each other up then Danny asked again, ‘Why am I here?’
‘What do you think, idiot? You’ve been kidnapped and your rich parents are going to have to pay up if they want to get you back.’
‘But they’re not rich.’
‘Of course they’re rich — you go to that posh school, don’t you, and live in a big house?’
Danny didn’t know how to answer that; ‘being rich’ was relative, he supposed.
‘So, are you with the kidnappers then?’ he asked.
The question made Lewis laugh.
‘Yeah, suppose I am. Me and my mum are going to watch you, for a cut of the money of course. If you don’t try to escape it’ll be much easier on you and we might even let you use the bathroom.’ Lewis nodded towards the bucket and wrinkled his nose. ‘You might get some food too,’ he added, temptingly.
Danny was hungry — he’d only had a sandwich at lunchtime, but he also felt sick, probably from fear. Suddenly an angry voice called from downstairs and Lewis turned sharply and quickly left the room, sliding the two bolts back into place.
Danny saw no one else that evening. He was aware of voices and movement downstairs, but the door to his bedroom remained firmly closed. No food or drink came and he decided that not knowing who his captors were, or seeing their faces, was far worse than if he had seen them.
Eventually he fell asleep, wrapped up as best as he could in his clothes and the two dirty blankets, which smelled of damp. His sleep was fitful, filled with fearful dreams as he tossed and turned in the cold darkness of his prison.
DAY 2
Chapter 2
Martha Stone leaned on the kitchen table with her elbows on the wooden surface and her head resting despondently in her hands. The house was quiet with the only noise coming from the bathroom above, where her husband, Richard, was in the shower.
Neither had slept at all the previous night. Danny was missing; their son, their only child was out there somewhere, afraid, possibly alone, maybe hurt. During the long hours of night, Martha tortured herself with every possible scenario playing on a loop through her mind, over and over again. But now, outside, the blanket of darkness was lifting and the wet streets would soon be filled with early morning commuters. For once she would not be one of them. Please God, let this not be happening, let me wake up and find my safe, comfortable world is back on its axis!
The indignity of the previous evening still burned in her mind, even though Martha understood that the police must follow certain procedures. Within half an hour of reporting their son missing, the house was swarming with police officers who searched every inch of their home.
It was a large house for just three people and the police were thorough, checking every cupboard, wardrobe and any space big enough to hold a child; or, Martha thought, the body of a child. It seemed to her such a waste of valuable time and Richard positively bristled, so offended was he that the police could suspect them of harming their own child.
They held their silence, knowing that the search must be completed before they could really begin looking for Danny. Martha couldn’t bear to watch as strangers’ hands explored every space in her home, even beneath the beds. She was consumed with a desire to follow the police officers around and clean every door and cupboard they touched, but of course, she didn’t. The whole process left her with a strong, uncomfortable feeling of having been violated; they may as well have searched her body too.
Every square foot of the garden was explored as well — the garage, the shed and the greenhouse — and as Martha watched from the window, she saw uniformed officers poking around with sticks, looking in the flower beds for newly turned earth. An eager police dog sniffed everywhere, its tail wagging as it worked with its handler.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she longed for them to finish searching their home and move on to finding her son. More embarrassment was to come when the police asked both Richard and Martha where they were from four pm until they reported their son missing nearly two hours later, and they had to admit
they had been at work and had allowed Danny to make his own way home.
If nothing else, Martha Stone was pragmatic. A busy working mother, with her own successful recruitment agency, she filled every minute of every day productively. She was forty-three years old with ash blonde hair, usually tied neatly with a clasp at the base of her neck and grey green eyes, the same colouring as her son. She was five feet six inches tall and of slim build, more to do with genetics than any regular exercise — she had no time for such things. Richard worked more hours than was healthy, as a barrister, and their eleven-year-old son, Danny, had his own schedule, which he dutifully adhered to. The Stones loved their only child, but there’d never been the time, nor the inclination to ‘baby’ him.
The family moved to their present address in Bristol four years previously, in anticipation of getting Danny a place at St Bede’s, a popular, private school which consistently produced excellent academic results. Their son was a sensible boy and, at eleven years old, was allowed an increasing amount of freedom. He walked to and from St Bede’s alone. His parents never feared for his safety as they resided in a respectable, leafy area on the outskirts of the city. Surely a boy could walk safely to and from school in such a place?
Martha thought the saying ‘wrapping your child in cotton wool’ to be a silly phrase, but that was before Danny went missing. Now, if she could only have him back, she would take so much better care of him and cherish him as he deserved. All night long, she’d constantly asked herself, Am I a bad mother? Do I somehow deserve this nightmare? Could mistakes from the past be catching up with me ... and is this the price I have to pay?
But the answers were irrelevant in the circumstances and Martha knew that whatever the outcome of their present ordeal, she would always berate herself for her failings as a parent. Logic told her she was not to blame, that she was only human, flesh and blood, like everyone else. But she couldn’t help wondering if she’d somehow brought this on herself. So many questions swam around inside her head, with not a single positive answer to soothe the rising panic within her.
Six am marked fourteen hours since her precious son was last seen. Fourteen hours during which Martha had neither slept nor eaten. Fourteen hours during which she’d cried bitterly, shouted at her husband and the police and against all advice and common sense, run out into the night in a futile search of the streets. It was obvious to her now that none of those actions, even in the smallest measure, actually helped. In fact, they’d only served to exhaust her and bring unnecessary concern to those who were trying to help.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Richard entered the kitchen. Martha looked up silently, noticing how terrible he looked. His brown eyes, which usually lit up his face, were now sunken into his head and the dark circles beneath them made him look ill. His short, sandy hair was sticking up in spikes, where he’d towelled it dry and run his fingers through it in exasperation. Richard appeared to have aged ten years in as many hours.
They sat together in silence, exhausted, impotent and scared; totally, utterly scared.
The police had stayed with them until the early hours of the morning, asking question after question and directing the search for Danny from their living room. Martha desperately craved even the slightest grain of hope to grasp hold of, asking questions which the police couldn’t possibly answer. If only there was a set format for such cases, stage one, two and three... But of course there isn’t. There are no rules and regulations for those involved in a child’s disappearance to observe.
The police didn’t even know if Danny’s disappearance was an abduction, or a case of their child running away, or simply being lost. The latter two, Martha thought were unlikely. She knew her son and he wouldn’t go wandering off alone. If he was lost anywhere, which also seemed highly unlikely, Danny would use his mobile phone, or at least have the sense to seek help from someone.
Martha and Richard were quizzed relentlessly about their relationship with Danny and his recent state of mind. The detective inspector, who was the senior investigating officer, tried to reassure them that most cases of a missing child turned out to be an attempt to run away. So they listened to his questions about family arguments, recent disagreements and any excessive discipline which Danny might be rebelling against. But they could think of nothing in recent weeks that would make him leave, which left only the possibility of abduction.
So far, there’d been no demand for ransom, so a targeted kidnapping seemed to be unlikely. The thought of it being a random abduction frightened Martha. She didn’t need to ask why children were abducted. She read the papers and watched the news on the television. Thoughts of child trafficking, sexual abuse and all kinds of violence swam unchecked through Martha’s mind and, she was in no doubt, through Richard’s too. Her husband was a barrister and all too aware of some of the most appalling crimes imaginable. Trying to push such horrors out of her head and concentrate on something constructive was futile.
Where was Danny? Had he slept at all? It was difficult to imagine that he would be anything but afraid. There was no scenario which either parent could think of, which would be anything other than traumatic for their son. Even if he was found now, unharmed, surely some psychological damage would already have been suffered? Danny was an eleven-year-old boy, intelligent and sensible, but not in the least equipped to handle this cruel, and possibly violent, separation from his family. Whatever horrors he was experiencing would almost certainly cause irrevocable damage and when they got him back, Martha thought, she would never let him out of her sight again.
The sound of the letter box startled Martha, but it was only the paperboy on his rounds, unaware of the nightmare being lived out behind the front door he visited each day. Richard went into the hall to pick up their paper and then moved to look out of the window at the sound of a car stopping. He dropped the newspaper on the kitchen table without a glance. Martha rose to join him and he slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders, trying to be strong for them both.
Two cars pulled up and five officers stepped out to make their way to the Stones’ front door. The gruesome circus was beginning again; a huge sob rose in Martha’s chest and she covered her mouth with her hand to prevent it from escaping.
Suni Heywood, a young female constable, was the first to enter the house. She looked no more than a child, fresh-faced and eager to help. Martha wondered if this was the first case she’d worked on. Suni was designated as the Family Liaison Officer (FLO) and would be spending most of her time with the Stones. After saying hello, she went to the kitchen to make coffee, a task she’d repeated almost hourly the previous evening. She carried a large carton of milk with her, a thoughtful gesture as Martha was unable to concentrate on anything of a practical nature.
Following Suni was DI Don Radford, the lead officer on the case, then DS Graham Best and two unfamiliar faces. The latter two were introduced, but their names almost immediately forgotten by both Martha and Richard. It was obvious from the expressions of all the visitors that there was no news, good or bad. DI Radford looked rather crumpled. A tall man, perhaps the same age as Richard, or a little older, he had a long face with dark, deep set eyes and an expressionless face. His first question of the day was to ask if they’d been approached by anyone with regard to a ransom.
‘But you’ve put a trace on the phones, you should know we haven’t.’ Martha wasn’t thinking straight.
‘Yes, but there’s a slim possibility that you may have been contacted personally, or by letter?’ Radford added.
‘Of course. Sorry.’ Martha felt foolish. Richard informed the DI that they’d heard nothing, even though neither of them had slept at all.
‘Well, it’s only six-thirty so there’s still a fair chance we might hear something today.’
They were assembled in the lounge by then, where Radford sat down and opened a rather battered old briefcase. Removing a handful of leaflets, he passed one to Richard for him to see. Danny’s face smiled up at hi
s father from the paper; it was their most recent photograph, taken on a rare visit to his grandparents’ home. Bold type posed the question, ‘Have you seen this child?’ and underneath, police contact numbers were clearly printed.
‘These have been circulated to all forces throughout the country and posted widely in the locality. Our officers will shortly resume house-to-house enquiries, showing this picture and the community officer will be at Danny’s school this morning to address their assembly and interview his classmates.’
Suni appeared with a tray of steaming mugs which they all accepted, whether they wanted coffee or not. She carried the morning paper under her arm and placed it on the coffee table.
‘Will the press know about this?’ Richard asked, unsure if that would be a good thing, or not.
‘It’s bound to get out, these flyers and the house-to-house will see to that. What I’d like to do is to hold a press conference, that way we can retain some control over what the papers print and hopefully the publicity will help us find Danny,’ Radford explained. He picked up the newspaper and a white envelope dropped onto the table. Everyone’s eyes focussed on it, but no one made a move to pick it up.
‘Has this come this morning?’ Radford asked, waving the paper.
‘Yes, the paperboy delivered it just before you arrived,’ Richard told him.
Pulling a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, Radford carefully lifted the letter, pulled open the flap and slid out the paper inside. Everyone in the room knew what it must be. Would it be put together with letters cut from magazines? Martha wondered, or was that just in old films? Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest and she felt sure the others in the room would be able to hear it. The detective seemed to take an age to read the letter and his face gave nothing away.
‘It’s a ransom demand.’ He looked grave. ‘They want three hundred thousand pounds.’
Chapter 3
Snatched Page 2
