‘To the care home,’ Ashley went on, her step faltering as she glanced up at him. ‘We can’t go now. You have something else you need to—’
Matthew marched her on. ‘We’re going now, Ashley. No arguments.’ Reaching the car, he opened the passenger side door first and all but bundled her inside.
‘But we can’t!’ Ashley insisted, as he headed around to his own door.
‘It’s not open for negotiation, Ashley.’ Matthew climbed in, started the engine and pulled fast out of the car park. ‘We’re going straight there. I’ll catch up with you as soon as—’
‘No!’ Ashley screamed it. ‘We can’t!’
‘Shit! What the … ?’ Matthew’s arm went out instinctively, stopping Ashley lurching forwards as the car simultaneously screeched to an abrupt halt.
‘You need to go to Rebecca!’ Scraping her hair from her face, Ashley turned to him. ‘You have to go!’ she repeated, her expression desperate, her voice frantic.
Matthew swallowed back his own desperation, looking astounded from Ashley, who was clearly disturbed, to the dead lights on the dashboard.
‘She has my phone,’ Ashley continued nonsensically, as Matthew tried to comprehend what the hell had just happened. ‘Becky, she has my old phone!’ Ashley pulled the hand nearest to her from the steering wheel, demanding his attention, as Matthew turned the key in the ignition and got no response.
Not even a flicker, Goddammit! He tried the ignition again, and then delved frantically under the dash for the release to the bonnet.
‘You’re not listening to me.’ Ashley refused to let go of his other arm, as he reached for the door, trying to figure out where to start assessing what had gone wrong mechanically, wondering where his breakdown card was. Christ, he didn’t need this. Not now.
‘Ashley, for God’s sake!’ he yelled, as she tugged.
‘It has a ‘Find my Phone’ app on it!’ Ashley yelled back, tears springing from her eyes.
Matthew stopped dead. ‘What?’ He stared at her thunderstruck.
‘Becky has it in her bag and I think I’ve located it.’ Ashley blinked at him over the sleeve she was dragging under her nose.
Chapter Thirteen
Matthew watched Ashley carefully as he waited for Steve to come back on the phone, noting the curtain of hair over her face, her retreat from anything she might find threatening. What the hell had just happened with the car, he couldn’t fathom; his gaze strayed from Ashley to the now illuminated dash, which had pinged into life as mysteriously as it had died the second she had his full-on attention. That was nuts. He was losing it, going out of his mind, must be. Condemning his imagination, which was running all sorts of riots, Matthew turned his attention back to Ashley. ‘Okay?’ he asked her.
Ashley nodded fervently.
‘Sure?’ Matthew pressed her, remorse that he’d snapped at her, adding to his already overwhelming guilt.
Ashley glanced up at him at last. ‘Yeah, I’m good.’ She shrugged awkwardly. ‘Sorry I yelled.’
‘Me too.’ Matthew offered her a smile and then sat to attention, as Steve came back on, finally.
‘It’s a rental property,’ he gave Matthew the information he’d asked him for, ‘on application to PL Property Consultants, Mayfair. Penthouse suite, apparently. Nice pad, if you’ve got the odd few million lying around. Currently unoccupied from the looks.’
‘Do we know who owns it?’ Matthew asked.
‘Not listed. I can find out, but I’ll need to do a bit more digging; client confidentiality and all that crap.’
‘Great, thanks. Can you send me the spec?’ Matthew asked. He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle it yet, but knowing what the layout of the apartment was would be a definite plus.
‘Blimey, I didn’t realise a DI’s salary was that good,’ Steve replied wittily. ‘Maybe I’ll stay on the force after all.’
‘I wish.’ Matthew sighed, playing along in order not to alert Steve to what was going on unless he had to.
‘Spec’s on its way.’
‘Cheers, Steve. One more thing, can you log onto a mobile account for me?’
‘Can do. Whose?’
‘Hold on, I’ve got the number here.’ Matthew reeled off the number Ashley had given him. ‘I might need you to help me pinpoint the location of the phone.’
‘Right, I’m on it.’ Steve paused. ‘So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?’
Matthew took a breath. ‘Just a proverbial hunch. I’ll let you know if it comes to anything.’
‘Right.’ Steve paused again. ‘And would this hunch have anything to do with Sullivan?’ he asked warily. ‘Cos, if you’re flying solo, mate, I just thought I’d remind you you’re already in it, up to your neck.’
Matthew hesitated. Giving Sullivan even a hint of police involvement might make the difference between getting Becky back safely and not getting her back at all. He forced his mind not to dwell on that thought. Steve’s help, though, he might just need. Even so, to have him sniffing around before he’d even established any dialogue with Sullivan …
‘No,’ he erred on the side of caution. ‘I’m just doing someone a favour. Missing person, not much police action, you know.’
‘So you were just being paranoid about the man then, like the DC said? And now Becky’s at her parents your mind’s at rest, yes?’
Matthew heard the incredulity in Steve’s voice. ‘For now,’ he answered guardedly.
‘Right,’ Steve didn’t sound convinced. ‘Well, I’m here if you need me. Just so you know.’
****
‘Remember, you stay in the car,’ Matthew instructed Ashley, his tone, he hoped, brooking no argument. ‘Drop the locks, keep your phone at the ready, and don’t do anything that might attract attention. Okay?’
Ashley nodded determinedly. ‘I will,’ she promised. ‘Matthew,’ she caught his arm again as he reached for his door, ‘be careful, yes?’
Matthew nodded, guessing she was imagining all sorts of scenarios. ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he assured her and climbed out, and then bent to peer back in at her. ‘Meanwhile, you … ?’
‘Drop the locks, I know.’ There was no demonstrative roll of the eyes this time, just another adamant nod.
‘Good girl.’ Matthew closed the door and headed towards the main road, glancing back as he walked to make sure his car wasn’t conspicuous.
Locating the place hadn’t been too much of a problem: right slap bang in the middle of Mayfair, making it high profile, which Matthew couldn’t fathom. Getting past the twenty-four hour a day concierge might prove more problematical, he realised. Showing his ID wasn’t viable, not without a warrant to back it up. The guy wouldn’t let him up without notifying the tenant anyway, presumably. Dammit. Matthew toyed with the idea of tripping the fire alarm. There’d be one in the underground car park, he guessed, but that would be accessible to tenants only. In any case, it would alert everyone in the building, including Sullivan, which he definitely didn’t want.
So what then? Frustrated, Matthew loitered on the pavement outside the building, guessing he wasn’t about to get a break: that the security guard might decide on a conveniently timed call of nature anytime soon, and then pulled out his mobile.
‘One more favour,’ he said, when Steve picked up.
‘Good job I love you, isn’t it?’ Steve quipped. ‘Go on then.’
‘I need a name of someone currently living in the building. Anyone will do.’
‘OK, give me a minute.’
Matthew waited while Steve pulled up the details. ‘Abrahams,’ he came back on. ‘Sixth floor, apartment number …’
‘Excellent. Cheers, Steve.’ Matthew ended the call, leaving Steve mid-sentence and googled four local pizza parlours. Calling each of them, he ordered a good selection, gave Ashley a quick call to reassure her, then waited and prayed.
Thank you, Lord. Matthew blew out a sigh of relief
as two pizza delivery guys arrived in close succession, followed two minutes later by a third. It was now or never, he guessed, offering up another prayer as he sailed through the doors, the security guard being somewhat distracted.
‘I’ve told you, there’s no one here by any of those names.’ The guy splayed his arms in despair, as he addressed the disgruntled deliverymen. ‘You must have the wrong building.’
Shaking his head as one of the men insisted he hadn’t, the guy sighed, picked up his phone, then, ‘Oh, for …’ banged it down again, as the fourth pizza bearer appeared.
‘Abrahams, sixth floor.’ Matthew grabbed his chance, pointing his thumb towards the lift as he passed hurriedly by behind them.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ The guy waved Matthew on, now looking considerably frustrated, as he plucked up his phone again.
His mouth dry, sweat tickling his forehead, Matthew willed the lift to arrive. Sighing with relief when it did, he stepped in and tried to look inconspicuous until the doors slid closed. So far so good, he thought, hitting the button for penthouse level, and wondering what the hell he was going to do next. Ringing the doorbell was hardly an option. He couldn’t loiter too long outside either, drawing attention, eventually drawing Sullivan’s attention. Assuming he was here. Assuming Becky was.
Steeling himself, as the lift doors swished open, Matthew immediately scanned the small lobby leading directly to the apartment. Something wasn’t right. His every instinct was screaming at him that something wasn’t right, but he had no idea what.
Damn. Sullivan would know he was here now. Matthew noted the wall-mounted CCTV camera, as he approached the front door, only to stop in his tracks when he realised the door was open a fraction. Matthew’s stomach tightened. It was an invitation to go in, obviously. Some kind of trap, he assumed, waiting for him to walk right into, and he had no choice but to. His heart-rate kicking up, a pulse pounding in the base of his neck, he extended a hand, pushed the door wide, and walked inside.
He should have come armed. His jaw tightened, as he noted the opulent décor, red leather in abundance, black walls, gilt-edged mirrors. Shot the bastard the first chance he got, preferably in the gut, and then enjoyed watching him squirm. Quickly establishing all exits to the room, every hair seeming to prickle over the surface of his skin, Matthew turned for the kitchen. More black, marble and steel, a tea cup on the working surface, he registered, contents half-drunk, the kettle: cold. No sign of life. Mathew listened, hearing only the ominous tick of the wall clock, loud against the silence.
Bedroom, he instructed himself, foreboding at what he might find there ratcheting his fear to a whole new level. His limbs heavy, his heartbeat now sluggish, Matthew located the main bedroom. Faltering for a split-second, his hand visibly shaking, he pressed down the handle and took a tentative step inside. Wall-to-wall mirrors, he noted. Triple bed. Upholstery: black and grey silk. In the middle of the bed; placed strategically centre-duvet …
Matthew’s heart stopped dead.
One single shoe, red leather, suede panels, zip front, Lolita ankle boots: bought for Becky’s birthday. His stomach lurched, Matthew turned instinctively for the en-suite, where he was violently sick.
Where was she? Dear God … Please don’t do this. Glancing at the ceiling, sweat saturating his shirt, Matthew swallowed back the acrid taste burning the back of his throat, rammed on the taps, and threw cold water over his face. Please don’t, he prayed harder, to a god he didn’t much believe in, clutched the sink for support, and squeezed his eyes closed. Still they came, staccato images, seared into his mind: Lily, life extinct, eyes vacant. Becky …
No! Emitting a guttural moan, which ricocheted distortedly off the tiled walls around him, Matthew panted out short, heavy breaths, tried to still the walls which seemed to be closing in on him, to stave off the imminent asthma attack, and then froze, as his mobile rang in his pocket. Sullivan? Matthew groped for it and pressed it shakily to his ear. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ Sullivan enquired, causing the walls to shift in another inch. ‘Or do you need a minute, Adams, is that it? Take your time.’ His tone grew sickeningly more gloating by the second. ‘Slow breaths, Matthew, just like you did when you were a shit-scared, snivelling little kid.’
‘Where is she?’ Matthew’s voice was hoarse. Silently, he cursed his pathetic weakness.
‘Do they know about your asthma, your friends down at the station?’ Sullivan ignored the question. ‘I don’t suppose they do, do they? I’m thinking you’d be relegated to a desk job, if they did. Stress-induced, isn’t it, Adams? You feeling a bit anxious, hey?’
‘Where the fuck is she?’ Matthew yelled, slamming his fist against the over-sink mirror.
‘Tut, tut, temper, DI Adams,’ Sullivan continued to goad, as Matthew struggled to pull air past the audible wheeze in his chest. ‘Aren’t you coppers supposed to remain detached at all times, even on the grisliest of cases? I must say, I do wonder how you—’
‘You bastard!’
‘We’ve established that, Matthew. We also established the fact that I’m not overly fond of you calling me one,’ Sullivan’s voice took on a menacing tone. ‘Don’t do it.’
Matthew turned to press his forehead against the cool of the wall tiles. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, turned again, leaned his back against the wall, trying to do the simplest thing of all, and just breathe.
‘I take it you found my little memento?’ Sullivan asked casually.
Matthew closed his eyes, desperate not to hear what might come next, desperate to know.
‘If it helps, she did take it off willingly.’
Matthew’s chest heaved. His stomach turned over.
Sullivan went quiet for a second, and then, ‘She’s in one piece, Adams,’ he announced, causing Matthew to slide to his haunches. ‘And if you don’t want the next memento to be, shall we say, more personal, you’d better be ready to do exactly what I say and make sure it happens, comprendre?’
‘Not hearing you, Adams,’ Sullivan prompted him when Matthew didn’t answer.
Matthew shook his head. The man was completely insane. ‘Just …’ he faltered, fighting to forestall the inevitable cough that always accompanied the attacks ‘… tell me what you want.’
‘Well, now let me see?’ Sullivan said leisurely. ‘Several things,’ he went on, at length. ‘Your money, for one.’
The rest of his father’s insurance pay-out, Matthew wasn’t surprised.
‘I think you owe me that much, don’t you?’ Sullivan continued, as if he actually expected an answer. ‘Your little charade at customs cost me, Adams. Cost me dear. And, let’s face it, it’s not like you’ll be needing it for your daughter’s school fees or anything, is it?’
‘You fucking animal.’ Bile rose in Matthew’s throat.
Sullivan went quiet for a second, and then, ‘Next, you call off your over-keen partner.’
‘What?’ Matthew tried to keep up with him.
‘Ingram, he’s digging around, trying to come up with something that he can make add up to more than fuck all. Tell him to drop it.’
Alarm bells rang in Matthew’s head. How the hell … ?’
‘He also has something that belongs to me. Stole it, to be precise, not very cleverly, if you don’t mind me pointing out. I want it back. I want it back pronto, Detective Inspector Adams, otherwise you’ll go to bed every night hearing your wife scream. And, trust me, she will be. I’ll call you back. Two hours. Your progress report better be good.’
‘Wait!’ Matthew scrambled to his feet. ‘I need proof.’ He stopped again, feeling the infuriating cough tickling its way up his windpipe. ‘I need to know she’s safe.’
‘She is. For now.’
‘Not good enough.’ Matthew’s voice was gruff, his breathing laboured. ‘I need to speak to her.’
‘Not possible,’ Sullivan said bluntly.
Matthew’s jaw clenched. ‘Then n
o dice,’ he said, his heart squeezing inside him.
‘Oh, very droll,’ Sullivan sneered. ‘You just going to pop off back home and leave her to her fate, are you? I don’t think so, Adams.’
Matthew didn’t answer, knowing that Sullivan knew full well he would do nothing that might endanger her.
‘She’s not here, is she,’ Sullivan stated matter-of-factly. ‘She’s all tucked up somewhere nice and cosy. There’s no reception there, otherwise I’d be happy to oblige, obviously. Not.’
‘No reception? Why?’ Matthew asked, terror gripping him as he imagined what kind of place would have no mobile reception.
‘Because it’s got thick walls,’ Sullivan informed him dryly. ‘Don’t worry, Adams. She’s not entombed in a coffin … yet. I’ll ask her something. Something personal only she will know,’ he went on, as Matthew felt the walls shift another inch. ‘And hurry it up. I have other things I need to be doing.’
Sweat tickling his eyelashes, Matthew frantically tried to think, groping for anything that bastard might not guess at or already know, somehow.
‘She has nice legs, your wife,’ Patrick commented idly. ‘Shame about the scar on her left thigh, but still, they’re not bad. Nice and toned …’
Matthew gulped back another wave of nausea. ‘Our baby,’ he said quickly. ‘Ask her …’ he stopped, trying and failing to ward off a cough ‘… the name of our second child.’
‘How very touching. Makes me want to weep, it really does,’ Sullivan drawled mockingly. ‘I’ll call back. Makes sure you pick up pronto. Mess me about, Adams, and she’s dead, end of. Got it? Oh, and do something about that cough, yeah? It’s seriously pissing me off.’
Death Sentence Page 14
