by A B Morgan
‘We need all the strength we can grab hold of until your Daddy comes to the rescue. He’ll know something’s up by now. I should’ve called him ages ago.’
With sinking certainty, she accepted that, apart from Gianni and Logan, no one else knew exactly where she and Kat had gone for the day. Nobody knew to worry about them if they were late home.
She lifted her head. There were noises coming from below, a dull scraping overlaid by a muffled choking sound.
‘Kat? Is that you? Are you okay?’ Grappling with the possibility that Kat may have fallen down onto a lower floor level, Zoe called out again. ‘Kat. Can you hear me?’ There was a groan. ‘Hang on.’
The key was a straightforward one but in the oppressive darkness and the uncertainty of what was to happen next, Zoe repeated the instructions of the code over and over to aid her flagging levels of concentration.
‘Beg RS Row 1. CO 12sts.’ She sat back on her heels. ‘Knickers! Does RS mean right side as in the usual way round for reading, or does it mean to start from the right-hand side of the page and work left?’ She heaved a tearful sigh. ‘Is a stitch a letter or a word?’
She sniffed and blinked away the wateriness in her eyes. ‘Come on. Try one way then if it doesn’t make sense try the other.’ She fought back the tears.
With a great deal of determination, the words revealed themselves as the key began to make sense, in turn making each set of knitting instructions easier to translate into actions.
‘Good. So far we have, “pipe number three is the next key, pipe number four will show the door.” Nice little rhyme.’ She checked her watch. Time ebbed away with frightening speed.
Recalling the row of tobacco pipes she had seen, bowls upwards, mouthpieces dangling from the bespoke wooden rack, she moved towards them. There must’ve been a dozen or more similar in style, all facing the same way. It struck her as peculiar at the time. Her ancient uncle had smoked a pipe and yet he only owned one or two at the most. Were Gendarmes renowned for having a hefty smoking habit? Probably not.
Hearing a creaking noise, she swept the blue light across the otherwise unlit room and startled herself. The graffiti phrases that glowed from the rear wall of the cell were carelessly crafted, but what they said was so familiar and so damning. “You don’t deserve him, deceitful, unfaithful, interloper”.
The evidence was plain to see scrawled in ten-inch high letters. “He lives to die with me. You die alone”.
The spaces between longer phrases were decorated with the word “bitch” and, despite the cramping fear inside her, Zoe couldn’t disagree with the condemning assessment of Kat’s character.
The row of pipes was revealed casting a welcome shadow which danced onto the filing cabinets to one side of the room. The beam of the torch did not waver from their position once she located it.
As she approached gingerly, Zoe tried to clear her mind of thoughts about what Abi was capable of. Abi, the strange impersonal woman whose trap they had willingly walked right into. She was the spider and they were the flies. Kat was the juicy fat fly the spider wanted to eat, and she, Zoe, was incidental. She may perish in the process, but the spider couldn’t be bothered one way or another. Perhaps a meal for later when the main course had been eaten.
Zoe stopped. An alternative thought occurred. Kat was not the main course. Kat was the bait. Logan was the target of Abi’s obsession. He was the main meal. The spider had written it on the wall. She was going to kill Logan and herself so nobody else could ever lay claim to him.
It was to be a sick and twisted crime of passion.
So where was Kat?
Zoe reached the row of pipes. ‘Pipe number three, is that from the left or the right?’ The same old dilemma haunted her, but she kept her cool. She counted from the left and touched the pipe, pulled it upward. With the need for two hands evident, she put the blue light into her mouth and having found no helpful arrow markings she began to twist the bowl of the pipe and with satisfaction it clicked, releasing itself. She turned it ninety degrees and out shone a light.
A proper flashlight.
White light.
Bright light.
She held it tightly in one hand and removed the smaller torch from her mouth, switching it off before sliding it back into a pocket of her jeans.
Pipe number three pulled apart easily enough and there, as expected, was the blade of a key firmly fixed to where the mouthpiece attached to the bowl of the pipe. It was much smaller than Zoe imagined, and she wondered what lock it fitted. It wasn’t the cell door which seemed to require a huge cast iron variety of key. No, this one was for something much neater, more modern.
Holding the pipe-torch in one hand and the pipe-key in the other Zoe noticed how much her hands were trembling. Too much adrenalin was hampering her ability to reason her way through the endless puzzles set to impede her escape and she was tiring. She gripped the back of the nearest wooden chair.
‘Come on, Zoe, don’t let yourself down now. A modern key for a modern … what?’
And there it was, the dim green radiating light from the touchpad. Zoe allowed herself a thin smile as she fitted the key into the lock at the base of the touchpad. ‘Fancy not noticing that.’ Before having chance to turn the key, the screen lit up flashing an announcement in bold white letters.
“Out of time. You are locked in”.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Grab what you can
‘What is up with you?’
Logan didn’t really need to ask why his friend was fidgety, other than it was beginning to impact on enjoyment of his birthday treat. Gianni was fretting and made a number of enquiries via text to members of his extended family to check if they’d heard from Zoe. He tried to sooth himself by repeating that she’d probably forgotten to charge up her mobile phone or was somewhere with poor signal and couldn’t call.
The loud and tiresome American family made a big show of collecting their belongings and leaving the grandstand as soon as the race was under way. One lap and they were gone, all apart from the grandfather who, relieved of the burdensome relatives, settled in and smiled across at Logan.
With the race on the go, still Gianni couldn’t settle. ‘Is there a contact number for the escape room place they’ve gone to?’ he shouted to Logan over the noise of the engines screaming past as the cars slowed into the Esses and then accelerated away towards Mulsanne.
‘You’re more worried than a worried thing on international worry day. What’s going on?’
‘Something’s not right. Zoe should’ve been in touch by now. I told her to phone me at lunchtime and it’s gone two o’clock in the UK. Still not a peep.’
‘There must be a contact number where we can reach her if her mobile is out of action; anything to put your mind at rest. You’re getting on my nerves right now. Checked on Google?’
‘I haven’t. What’s the name of the place again?’
Logan looked at his friend blankly. ‘I should know, Kat wittered on and on about all the meetings with Guy to decide on the marketing strategies for the pissing thing.’ He held a hand to his chin and rubbed slowly. ‘Dah di dah, da di dah,’ he said slowly.
‘What the fuck?’
‘It has a rhythm like that, Escapism Escapes, something along those lines. To do with spies. Shall I phone Guy’s office?’
Gianni shook his head as he was tapping away putting in a search. He waited, jiggling his legs. ‘Got it. Espionage Escapades. Opening soon. The info says it’s “a hidden part of history near the M40 between Bosworth Bishops and Lensham”. There’s an online booking form, an address and a phone number. I’ll give it a try.’
‘That makes sense. They live somewhere near there in a sodding great mansion. Went there not long ago, remember? Never saw inside the house itself but the whole place was amazing. Old.’
Gianni stabbed at the phone with a forefinger. ‘No reply. Phone the office then.’
Logan looked across at Gianni. He’d never seen him so worked up
over Zoe. ‘Gee?’
‘What?’
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
Gianni rubbed his hair with one hand, flicking the dark fringe upwards and away from his angst-ridden face. ‘If I tell you and you let on, I’ll have to shoot you.’
‘Serious then.’
‘Very. But as you are the most likely person to be Godfather …’ Gianni gave a sheepish grin and Logan didn’t speak. Instead, he reached out with both gorilla arms and gave his friend a meaningful hug, one an anaconda would’ve been proud of.
‘Give me air, man. I beg you, let me breathe.’ Gasping, Gianni squared his shoulders and lunged for Logan’s forearms as he withdrew them. ‘Promise me to keep that to yourself. Zoe is adamant no one should know until she’s well over three months gone. She’s going to fucking lynch me if she knows I told you.’
‘I promise. I swear on my best pair of lucky underpants.’ Logan held his right hand in the air like a boy scout. ‘Not a soul will hear about this from my lips.’
‘Or your phone.’ Gianni was shouting into cupped hands to be heard over the deafening cacophony of engine sounds careering past the grandstand.
‘Or my phone.’ Logan slipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved his mobile. ‘Which reminds me,’ he bellowed, ‘I should call Guy and see if there is another landline number at Espania Escapades or whatever it’s called. Or maybe he can get hold of Abi direct. Check how things are going.’ A puzzled expression crept across his face. ‘Hang on. This might be him replying to my last text. No, it’s Kat again.’
‘What?’ Gianni cupped one ear, then stared at the reaction being played out beside him.
Logan caved in on himself. The phone in his hand shook to such a degree that he had to use both to keep it from slipping to the unforgiving metal floor and through the gaps to the dry earth more than twenty feet below. Gianni grabbed it and gasped before looking about for help.
‘What’s the quickest way back to the campsite? We have to get our passports and grab our things. Right now.’
‘What does it mean Kat’s had a serious accident? I get why Abi is using Kat’s phone, but why isn’t Zoe calling to tell us this?’
‘That’s my point exactly. I know something is badly wrong. Get hold of Guy and get the address for the escape room place. I’ll send cousin Franco. He drives like a madman. He’ll be there in no time.’ Gianni was already moving, striding over the empty seat in the next row down, aiming for the gangway to the exit.
American Grandfather got to his feet and made his way to where Logan was stuffing Gianni’s daysack with the remnants of their snacks. ‘Problem, young man? Unwelcome news? Am I right?’
‘Yes,’ Logan answered breathlessly. ‘My girlfriend’s had an accident. We’ve got to get back to the UK right away. Nice to meet you, sir. Sorry about earlier.’
‘You Brits and your manners. Think nothing of it. Can I offer you use of my private jet?’
‘London buses,’ Logan said with a lopsided grin. Any other time he would’ve added a laugh to the statement but not at that particular juncture. ‘Us Brits and our quaint sayings...’ He took the business card offered by the American and scanned it. ‘Hank Fulmar?’ he queried. ‘The Hank Fulmar?’
‘I’m the only one I know of,’ came the quiet reply. ‘I suppose I’m more fortunate than you. Nobody in France has a clue who I am.’
Some eager French faces were trained on the exchange between the pair, most of them because they were intrigued to see Le Pep, and some took surreptitious photographs, keen to have a memento for social media. However, it was plain none of them were remotely aware of the billionaire businessman Hank Fulmar being in their midst.
Logan hesitated.
‘Thanks all the same, Mr Fulmar, but we couldn’t possibly. Besides, my boss may be able to fly us back to the UK in one of his planes. Guy Nithercott. I work for him. He’s just sent a message offering us use of a private jet. We’re heading to the airport.’
Wafting his mobile phone around in the vague direction of Le Mans airport, shouting to be heard, Logan was attempting to gather his thoughts. He was rabbiting on and he knew it – a nervous reaction to the news of Kat’s accident, to the realisation that events in England could be taking a fateful turn and to not being in control of any of it.
Hank, the kindly grandfather figure, took Logan’s right hand, which was still clutching his phone, and shook it warmly - capturing it in both his bear-like paws. Rheumy eyes sought to read Logan’s expression and left him uncertain at the level of scrutiny.
‘What?’
Hank leaned in, placing his mouth next to one of Logan’s ears. ‘Not my place to say, young man. Not really. That is to say … I like you, so forgive me for speaking my mind. Guy Nithercott is not the generous man you think he is. Be wary, son. Keep my card. You may well need it.’
Logan thanked the man profusely as they patted each other in a comradely fashion before Logan departed, taking the stairs three at a time in his great loping strides in an effort to catch up with Gianni who’d long since disappeared.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Confronting fears
What did the police say? Are they on their way?’ Ella asked. She’d heard the sound of another car approaching up the pot-holed track and was desperate for it to be someone with legal powers.
Mal disappointed her. ‘Unless there is a serious crime being committed at this very moment, the Old Bill say the matter will wait for available manpower.’ He shrugged. ‘What can you expect?’
‘Did you tell them we suspect Abigail Nithercott of being the stalker?’
Mal sat in one of the deckchairs and clasped his hands together. ‘I did. I was told to present the evidence at the nearest police station. I suppose Lorna could do that after she’s found out where Guy is now and whether he did fly back in one of his planes or not. Konrad’s on his way home, so she’ll pick him up from Lensham station. He’s had enough of London and can’t concentrate with drama going on without him, so he’s bailed out. I bet he’s right twitchy, poor sod.’
He perked up. The car Ella heard was heading to the farmhouse, rolling and creaking as it hit each unavoidable dried up puddle.
‘Oh, arseholes and double arseholes,’ whispered Ella loudly. ‘That’s Clare Gray, the therapist. My therapist. I hoped she wouldn’t come. Why is she doing this?’
Ella knew the answer. The same reason Konrad wanted to follow Abigail, why she and Mal were following Abigail. Something bad was either happening, had happened or was about to happen and Clare would be next to find out.
‘Mal, I must go in with her. She shouldn’t be alone with Abigail; besides we have to know what on earth is taking the others so long. Why haven’t they come out yet?’ Mal’s response was inevitable.
‘I don’t want you to.’
‘I know that,’ Ella replied softly, ‘but there are other people at risk. You have the pen with you? The microphone pen? I’ll wedge it into my bra, you listen in and any hint of trouble you phone 999 police emergency. They arrest Guy and Abigail, take their DNA on suspicion of the murder of Isla Renfrew or MacDonald and the case is blown wide open when they are exposed as blood relatives. Lots of scandal, nobody dies … Good?’
Mal stood, kissed her forehead and looked across to where Clare Gray was now exiting her car. He capitulated to Ella’s wild idea by opening up his holdall to locate the pen she’d returned to him the day before.
‘Let her go in a few minutes before you miraculously appear from nowhere,’ he said, ‘otherwise they’ll get suspicious. Act surprised to see Clare and describe as much as you can see to give me a picture of what’s going on.’
Mal turned on the pen by twisting the middle and forced his hand inside Ella blouse. She didn’t flinch as he sited the head of the pen, with microphone uppermost, near her bra strap. He placed the small foam earpiece into his left ear.
‘I’m going to get as close to the farmhouse as I can. Otherwise I’ll be out of rang
e. Don’t go too far in, avoid thick walls and take your phone. I’ll call Barney, we may need some muscle if the police don’t take me seriously.’
Ella was desperate to get into the farmhouse, not least because she couldn’t afford to lose sight of Clare. She didn’t want to be left alone with Abigail either.
Stepping into the cool of the entrance Ella could hear voices coming from behind a door at the back of a reception desk. She called out.
‘Hello. Sorry I’m late, my bicycle broke down, … I mean the chain snapped.’ She couldn’t see Clare anywhere in the reception area but spied signs for the toilets and decided to make a quick dash there to see if Clare could be found making use of the facilities.
‘I’m just going to the Ladies’ to freshen up. Back in a second,’ she said to anyone listening out for her, including Mal. The moment of cool tranquillity was swiftly shattered when the door flung open. There stood Abigail Nithercott with a look of bitter recognition on her usually unexpressive face.
‘So glad you could make it, Ella, I was concerned. You are rather later than expected. Good to see you again. Where is your guest?’
The words lacked any intonation and were as flat and prosaic as ever. Ella leant her back against the cool ceramic of the sink and regarded Abigail with astonishment. She may have sounded as she usually did, but the same could not be said for her appearance. Her hair was askew; the finely coiffured wig was so far out of place as to appear comical. The sleeves of her cardigan were pushed up to the elbows and Ella caught sight of a red smear on the underside of Abigail’s wrist. Blood.
‘Your guest?’ Abigail repeated with added menace.
There it was. The most important thing for Ella to bring with her and she hadn’t done so. No guest meant no connection to Konrad Neale, and no guest also meant Ella was now expendable.
‘Isn’t she here already?’
