by Bill Kitson
The intruder scooped the guard up, seemingly without effort, before carrying him indoors. There was a long pause, whilst the screen showed nothing more action-packed than an image of the house door. Eventually it opened, and the intruder emerged, carrying a large bundle, wrapped in a blanket. ‘Now we’ll get something,’ they heard the security chief mutter.
The kidnapper walked to the rear of the car. He shifted the bundle effortlessly over his shoulder into a fireman’s lift, then opened the car boot. He placed his burden gently inside, before closing the boot lid. ‘That must be Jessica,’ North said in a low tone.
They watched the man walk to the driver’s door and open it. Before getting into the car he turned, directly facing the camera. He made no effort to avoid recognition. They watched as the man raised two fingers in an unmistakeable gesture of contempt and defiance. ‘Cheeky bastard. Zoom in. Let’s see who he is.’
All four viewers stared at the close-up image in astonishment. ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ the security man said. North continued to gaze at the screen. If the camera was to be believed, his daughter had been abducted by the late American President, Ronald Reagan.
‘Now, will you involve the police?’ North demanded.
‘We can’t. Believe me, I know. We’ll just have to sit tight. See what this guy’s demands are.’
‘My wife’s dead. My son’s been murdered. My daughter’s been kidnapped. And you’re asking me to sit around and wait. Wait for what? Wait until Jessica’s body’s found? Wait, while in the meantime that lunatic could be doing God knows what to her?’
‘What makes you think the police will have any more success than we’ll have?’
‘They couldn’t have any less. Could it be that you’ve an ulterior motive for not involving them?’
‘If I have a motive, apart from your daughter’s safety, you know what it is, Dr North. The work you’re involved with makes you a prize target for potential enemies of this country. If they’re behind this, how powerful a bargaining tool do you think your daughter is? Apart from that, as you should know, my course of action is limited by the need for secrecy. I simply cannot allow the police to become involved.’
The car drove into a disused quarry. The driver pulled up close to a van. He sat for a few minutes, deep in thought. He got out, walked to the rear of the car and opened the boot. The blanket had slipped, revealing the unconscious girl’s face. He looked at her closely for the first time, struck by her good looks. Better not to go there. Better to concentrate on the job. He lifted her gently clear and carried her easily across to the van. He put her inside and drove the van to a safe distance before he stopped and removed three petrol cans. After dousing the car liberally, both inside and out with petrol, he tossed the empty cans in through the open car window; then pulled the mask off. He threw that into the car, lit a match and flicked it through the window, turning immediately to shield his face from the blast.
There was a soft whoosh of sound and he felt the heat on the back of his neck. He turned and watched the burning vehicle for a few minutes before he was satisfied destruction would be total. Then returned to the van and drove away.
‘One thing you must be prepared for is the unexpected. Be prepared for it, because you can’t plan for it. When it happens, and believe me, soldier, it will happen, you’ve two possible courses of action. Either you continue your mission as you set out in the first place, which will be highly risky, or you find a safe place, go to ground and think out a new plan to cope with the changed circumstances. That’s the wise choice. That’s the choice that marks out a good soldier, places him above the average, understand? You have to be better than good; you have to be brilliant. And that means showing the ability to react to sudden changes in battle conditions. Got it, soldier?’
As he drove, he pondered events. What was that saying he’d heard once? Something about hearts and minds? That was it. ‘When you’ve got them by the balls, the hearts and minds automatically follow.’ Well, he’d got the girl; all that was left of North’s family. North might not regret his wife’s death too much, as she was obviously sleeping with somebody else. He spared a fleeting thought to wonder who the man killed in the fire was; then shrugged it off. A casualty of war, that was all. And North wouldn’t spend too long grieving over his son. A dropout, petty criminal and junkie. No one would miss him. The girl though, that was a different matter. But what should he do with her? That question wasn’t as easy to answer.
Shortly before lunchtime, Mironova’s mobile rang. She and Pearce had almost completed their search of the area surrounding the burnt-out cottage. She glanced at the screen, ‘Hello, Mike.’
‘How’s the treasure hunt going?’
‘Absolutely zilch.’
‘Pack it in when you’ve finished the outside. I doubt if the house itself will yield anything the fire service couldn’t find. I’m on my way to the office. I just switched my mobile on. I’ve got nine missed calls, all from the same number. No idea who it is. Has anyone called you?’
‘Ruth Edwards rang. Apparently that solicitor from Leeds has been bending her ear. She referred him to Helmsdale. She said he wasn’t happy.’
‘The day I start worrying about a solicitor’s peace of mind is when I know it’s time to retire. Particularly if it’s one that’s been messing us about. I’m going to pick up a sandwich. See you later.’
When Nash walked into the reception area at Helmsdale station, Binns was talking to a fresh-faced young man. Or rather, listening to the visitor, who appeared to be delivering a speech. Nash waved to the sergeant as he headed for the door to the CID suite. The young man swung round. ‘Detective Inspector Nash?’
Nash turned. ‘Richardson, Grace and Parsons,’ the visitor announced.
Nash blinked. ‘What, all three?’
The joke appeared to throw the man. ‘Er … no, actually, my name is Drew. Theodore Drew. Richardson, Grace and Parsons is the name of our practice.’
‘And what can I do for Richardson, Grace, Parsons and Theodore Drew?’
‘I represent two men you arrested yesterday evening. Two men employed as security guards by Helm Pharm Laboratories. I’m here to secure their release.’
‘You are, are you? Well, when I’ve interviewed them, I’ll make a decision as to whether to release them or not.’ With that the young solicitor was left watching the door close behind the detective.
After Nash had checked his mail and spent a short while reviewing the sparse facts he had regarding the Adam North murder, he relented. He owed as much to Jack Binns, who he guessed by now must he heartily sick of the solicitor’s voice. He rang through and asked the sergeant to escort Drew to his office.
‘I’ve decided not to press charges,’ he told the young man. ‘Your clients are free to go. Before you leave, however, I must warn you I’m far from happy about your firm’s conduct. I appreciate you are bound by client confidentiality, but you must appreciate that I have responsibilities also.
‘Two members of Dr North’s family are dead. His son was definitely murdered and we are now treating Mrs North’s death as murder. For some time my colleagues believed that Dr North also perished in the house fire at Gorton, but we now believe that was not the case. Can you confirm whether Dr North is alive or dead?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t, Inspector.’ He saw Nash’s expression change. ‘I’m not being obstructive, but Dr North isn’t one of my clients. I was only asked to represent the two men you’re holding in your cells.’
‘In that case, can I ask you to talk to the partner who looks after Dr North’s interests? Tell him I have serious concerns, not only over Dr North’s safety and whereabouts, but those of his daughter. Now, I’ll sign the release forms for the two guards from Helm Pharm, but I expect contact from someone with news of where Dr North and his daughter are, together with some way of contacting them. Apart from my concerns about their well-being, either one or both of them may have information that would give some clue as to who killed
Adam North and his mother.’
When Mironova and Pearce returned they were anxious to learn what had happened the previous night. Nash explained. ‘About an hour after I took over from you, Clara, a car with two security men in it left the laboratory. I followed them to a house on the other side of town. After they’d been inside, two more emerged, got into the same car and drove off. It looked like a shift change. After that it got really weird. A car arrived with one man in it. I took a note of the plate. He went inside, came out again about ten minutes later. I couldn’t see his face, but he was carrying a bundle. He put that in the boot and drove off. A couple of hours later, just about nightfall, the same car came back. This time there was a man and a woman in it. They’d been inside about a quarter of an hour when a load more cars turned up. There were security guards and other types, about a dozen of them. And get this, judging from the haircuts I’d say they were all military. A couple of the blokes started fiddling with something across the road from the house; more of them disappeared round the back. When they’d all gone inside I took a look at what they’d been messing about with. Guess what? There was a surveillance camera pointing towards the house, and another one round the back. What the hell’s going on, I’ve no idea. But I got Jack Binns to check that registration number. The owner is Dr Caroline Dunning, Chief Scientific Officer at Helm Pharm Laboratory.’
Nash’s phone rang. ‘Yes, Professor,’ he listened. As he was waiting, Nash drew a sombrero on his pad. Clara grinned. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Nash told Ramirez. ‘Easy to miss, I guess, with all the other damage.’
He put the phone down. ‘Mexican Pete revisited his toxicology findings on the two Gorton victims. There are minute traces of a sedative in their bloodstream. You could mistake them for a prescription drug, but for one of the ingredients. The fact that it’s there means it had to be injected, not ingested. The choices are a suicide pact, or murder. There were no traces of a syringe or phials in or around the house. Together with the Fire Service evidence, I reckon that definitely makes it murder.’
Chapter Eight
Waking up was slow. It was gradual. And it was painful. Her first conscious impression was of sound, muted, as of traffic in the far distance. Next, she became aware that she wasn’t comfortable; far from it. She was lying on her back on something soft. A bed? The discomfort was in her wrists and ankles. It was dark. Where was she? This wasn’t her room at school or the room at the house they’d taken her to. So, what had happened? She struggled to quell the growing feeling of panic. She failed.
Gradually, her vision adjusted. She could just make out that she was in a bedroom, that there was light behind the curtains, that there were articles of furniture. Her next sensation was the smell. The aroma wasn’t unpleasant. On the contrary, it was light, fragrant but not overpowering. Comforting, reassuring in the way a pleasant memory is. It was a clean scent, such as she’d used when she was younger. That was it. She was in a girl’s room. Or a room that had recently had a young girl in it.
Her mouth felt dry, her tongue wooden, unable to introduce any moisture, to work the saliva glands. She tried to move; to roll onto her side. She couldn’t. Her hands were in front of her, close together. And with a shock that brought her totally awake, she realized why she couldn’t move. She was tied up – wrists and ankles bound tightly. Alarm increased tenfold. Worse still were the implications. What had been done to her whilst she was unconscious? What was going to be done to her, now she was awake? Who was holding her prisoner? And why? She shied away from the last question. One reason came to mind, and try as she might she couldn’t dismiss it.
Memory. Concentrate on that instead. She’d been taken from school. That was the first part. The men from her father’s work had come for her. Security, that was how they described themselves. Said they were acting on her father’s orders. They’d driven her to a house in Helmsdale. She remembered that. One of them had carried her belongings to the room she’d be using. They’d called the house something. What was it? A safe house; that was it. Like they refer to in films, or on the telly. She’d asked why. Not once, but over and over. All they’d said was, she’d find out why when her father arrived.
But he hadn’t arrived. A boring week had passed, with her as a virtual prisoner. Safe perhaps, but still a prisoner. She’d been at screaming point when one of her guards finally announced her father would be coming the next day.
So, if she wasn’t there now, where was she? The last thing she remembered had been as she waited for her father to arrive. A man had come to the house. She’d only caught a brief glimpse, but there’d been something weird about him. Something about his appearance? Now she remembered. He’d been wearing a mask. Not a frightener, like the junior school wore on Halloween, or a clown, or an ape or anything like that. It had been a mask of someone famous. She couldn’t remember who, and it didn’t matter.
He’d spoken to her, said something about her father. ‘I’m going to keep you for your father.’ Such a strange thing to say. Even stranger; during all this no one had mentioned her mother. Not that Jessica minded that much. She’d more or less cut ties with her mother after the way she’d treated Dad.
She heard a voice, startling her to fresh levels of panic. Had he been there all along? In the darkness? Watching her?
‘Jessica. Would you like a drink? Or something else? What do you need?’
She needed to be able to see. She needed to be untied. She needed to be able to move. She needed her father. She needed to know what was happening. She needed to know why she was being held prisoner. She needed to be free. She needed answers to a whole string of questions. Weakly, she said, ‘Yes please. My mouth’s dry. I would like a drink.’ Her voice was barely audible, a croak at best.
‘That’ll be the effect of the injections. I’m sorry, but I had to keep you sedated. Now, let me lift you up, so you can take a drink without choking yourself. Be careful though, just sip the water; roll it round your mouth like a gargle before you swallow it. Whatever you do, don’t try to gulp it. That’ll make you sick. When you’ve had a drink I’ll untie you.’
Not an unpleasant voice. Not threatening, or sinister, or creepy. Neither young nor old. She felt herself being lifted, her shoulders supported. In the gloom she could just about discern his outline, dark against the faint light from behind the curtains. Next, she felt the rim of a bottle placed against her lips. She sipped at the ice-cold water as he’d instructed.
The change in position brought another discomfort. ‘I’m sorry,’ her voice was a little less of a croak, more her normal speaking voice, but still husky. ‘I need the toilet.’
There was, not laughter, but certainly amusement in his voice as he replied. ‘That’s all right. We’ll attend to that as soon as I’ve untied you.’
Her arms were raised slightly. Then something cold touched the back of her hand. ‘Stay still. Absolutely still. Whatever you do, don’t move your hands.’
There was a slight tug at her restraints, and the pressure on her wrists eased immediately. ‘Hang on, this might sting a bit.’ She felt her captor’s hand touch hers, feeling for her wrist; followed by a sharp tugging sensation. The tape binding her hands together was removed. The pain from the adhesive being removed was nothing compared to the sensation of release, of relief. She felt his hand touch her again, this time on her leg as he groped for the bonds around her ankles. He sliced through the tape, pulled it away and she was free.
‘Steady now. Don’t try to get up. You’ll feel dizzy to start with. That’s only to be expected. It’ll soon wear off, but in the meantime I’m going to carry you.’
Before she realized what was happening he lifted her clear of the bed. He walked across the room, three quick strides, without seeming to notice the burden he was carrying. Then he opened the door and she blinked against the light. She looked at the man who was holding her prisoner. She guessed him to be about thirty years old. Tall, well built. Obviously strong, the way he was carrying her so effortlessly. S
he concentrated on his face. She needed to know what sort of a man her captor was. It wasn’t a bad face. Not evil, or sinister. In fact, although she searched for signs of wickedness, she could only see sadness. Or was that her imagination? Or wishful thinking?
He carried her a few more steps before opening another door to a bathroom. He set her down next to the toilet and retreated to the far side of the room. ‘I’m afraid I can’t leave you alone.’
She felt her face go hot with embarrassment. At school she’d been used to performing private functions in the semi-public of a communal bathroom, but that had been different. Those around her had been girls. Not a man, and not in plain sight, no more than eight or ten feet away.
Eventually the need overcame her reserve. When she’d finished, she zipped up her jeans and reached for the handle. As she flushed the toilet, she looked round the room. There was an old lady sitting on top of the cistern tank, knitting. A disguise for the spare toilet roll. Over the wash basin she saw a collection of bottles, shampoos and toiletries, together with a ladies depilatory cream that was advertised nightly on TV. All unmistakeable signs of a woman’s presence. The idea that a woman lived here comforted her. She felt the fear subside.
On the side of the bath were plastic ducks. Not only a woman; a family. This was his home. Or was it? If that was so, where was his wife? Where were his children? Could it be that this wasn’t his house at all? Or, Jessica shivered involuntarily at the thought, was there a more sinister reason for their absence? Question after question crowded her mind; unasked, unanswered.
‘Ready now?’
He was looking at her. Not staring. Not like, well, Jessica was used to the way some men stared at her, aware of what their thoughts were. This wasn’t like that at all.
