The bag came off at last, and Emma drew in a few gasps of fresher, colder air. But that was the only reward for her hard work and pain. It was still pitch dark; she couldn’t see a thing. And she was still helpless. She began to cry softly from weariness and fear.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Superintendent Moss said, putting down the phone. “The caterers say one of their vans is missing from the depot. Now if your man at the gate is reliable—”
“He is,” Gavin said.
“I’ll take your word for it. He says nothing came out but catering vans, and all the other vans are accounted for, so it’s got to be the one.”
“And where does that get us?” Gavin asked. Continuous anxiety was making him weary, slowing his thought processes.
“Well, sir, we’ve got the van’s number now, you see. We can put that out over the radio, so every patrol car will be on the look-out; and thanks to your prompt action we’ve got the road blocks in place. They won’t have got far.”
Gavin nodded, but found no comfort in the words. He tried to keep his mind on what had to be done, and what could be done, like fending off enquiries from friends and guests and trying to get hold of his father; but it would keep straying to horrible contemplation of what the villains might do to Poppy and to Emma.
Emma heard the sound of a car engine approaching. For a wild and wonderful instant she thought perhaps it was the police. But it slowed and stopped, and then went whiningly into reverse, then forward again; her imagination supplied the picture of it performing a three-point turn in the track. Then a car door opened and slammed; and then the van doors were abruptly and noisily flung open. There was a breath of fresh, cold air, and light – not much of it, only starlight, but enough, after the pitch blackness, to see by.
A middle-aged man stood there, with a battered-looking face, gold-rimmed glasses, close-cropped grey hair, a dark overcoat.
“All right, let’s get ’em out. You take the woman, I’ll take the kid.”
Behind him the younger man appeared: tall, heavily-built, wearing jeans and an old, padded anorak. He bent towards Emma, and stopped, peering into her face. “She’s awake,” he said.
“She’s got the hood off,” the older man said in a tone of menace. “You are a total—” He added an obscenity, which sounded odd in his cultured accent.
“I put it on all right, Boss,” the other protested whiningly.
“Yeah, yeah! Well, it’s too late now. You’d better gag her, though.”
The younger man dragged a handkerchief out of his pocket. Emma eyed it with horror and despair.
“Please,” she croaked. “Please don’t.” The younger man paused, looking at the Boss questioningly. “Please,” Emma said again. “Let me breathe. I promise I won’t shout.”
The Boss looked at her for a moment consideringly, and then he nodded. “All right,” he said. Emma saw no compassion in his face; she thought he probably judged she couldn’t have shouted if she wanted to.
The younger man climbed up into the van and disappeared behind Emma’s line of sight, to reappear a moment later carrying Poppy. She was hooded with what looked like a sugar sack and her arms and legs were tied. The younger man handed her down into the Boss’s arms; she made no sound, and was ominously limp.
“What have you done to her?” Emma cried, her voice cracking weakly. The younger man looked down at her with what might have been a faint thread of pity.
“Doped,” he said briefly. “She’s OK.”
“Andy, shut your mouth,” the Boss snapped, and walked off with his burden.
“All right, babe, your turn,” Andy said. He bent over Emma, pushed his hand under her body, and used the rope around her wrists to jerk her up into a sitting position. She moaned as the rope cut into her already damaged flesh. Still holding her up, Andy climbed out of the van and dragged her towards him until she was on the edge. Then he pulled her round to face him, put his shoulder to her midriff and swung her up. He was very strong, and seemed to make nothing of her weight.
Dangling there, face down over his shoulder, helpless, all Emma could see was the grass over which he was walking. She could smell his sweat, and the tobacco smoke which impregnated his clothes. She tried to turn her head a little, saw thin, scrubby pine trees and gorse bushes. Then she saw the car, a blue saloon, a Rover, she thought. It came closer. The back door was opened. Poppy was lying curled on the back seat, unmoving. Then Andy swung her down, sickeningly, and bundled her in onto the floor. She groaned again as he pushed her legs in, and he muttered, “Shut it! It won’t be long.” Another little thread of sympathy? But then he threw a blanket over her, and she was alone in the stifling dark again.
She remembered little of the rest of the journey. Cramped, in pain, and starved of oxygen, she was unconscious for much of the time; and when she was conscious, she was hardly aware of where she was or what was happening. At last the car stopped, the engine was cut, and into the stillness there came the sound of birdsong, the massed trilling of the dawn chorus. The door of the car opened, the blanket was drawn away, and light flooded in. Someone was whistling cheerfully. The sound cut through her headache like an ice pick. It was Andy. He reached in and lifted Poppy out, and presumably handed her to his companion; then he stooped over Emma and cut the rope round her ankles and said, “All right, babe, you can walk the rest.”
He manhandled her out and tried to put her on her feet, but her legs would not hold her and buckled under her. The world swung dizzily about her; the pressure in her head was agonising and she felt sick. Now the blood was beginning to return to her feet, and the pins-and-needles and the burning pain in her ankles made her moan again, feebly.
“Here, Boss,” Andy said, gripping Emma under the armpits, “this one looks a bit rough. And there’s blood on her face.”
“Hit her head on something, I expect,” the Boss said, his voice suddenly close, but without pity.
“Shouldn’t we call a doctor or something?”
“Jesus! I wonder how you manage for brains,” the Boss sighed in exasperation. “Call a doctor! What did I do to get lumbered with a dickhead like you? Will you hurry up and get her indoors, before the neighbours come round?”
Andy heaved her up roughly, taking it out on her, perhaps, for his telling-off. “Walk, you cow,” he snapped, shaking her. She stumbled forward, most of her weight taken by him, her feet flopping and dragging stupidly as she tried to control them. Through a daze of pain and dizziness she caught a glimpse of the house, grey stone and creeper, coming towards her. She felt dimly that she ought to be trying to notice things in case it might help, but the darkness was swaying back towards her like a big, soft, welcome cloud.
Only half-conscious, she was dragged into the house, up the stairs, and into a room, where there was a bed pushed up against the wall. Poppy was lying on the bed, unhooded but still tied. Andy threw Emma down on the bed beside her, rolled her onto her side, cut the rope round her wrists, and said, “There you are, babe. You can untie the kid. She’s all yours.”
Emma was aware of him leaving the room, heard the door close and the click of the lock, but for the life of her she couldn’t move, not an inch, not a muscle. She ought to get up and untie Poppy, she knew, but the blackness was swirling back, and she had no strength to resist it.
Chapter Ten
Someone was kicking her, and calling her. It seemed unkind. She didn’t want to wake up: she knew that, though she didn’t know why. She tried to tell them to leave her alone and go away, but all that came out was a gutteral noise.
“Wake up! Wake up!”
She tried to roll over, away from the nuisance, and pain shifted inside her head like a rock sliding down a slope. “Oh no,” she muttered. “No, don’t.”
“Emma, please! Please wake up! Oh, please speak to me!”
It was Poppy’s voice. Understanding slowly seeped in. Poppy was nudging her and calling her. But why? Was she late for breakfast? She tried to open her eyes but the light stab
bed the inside of her skull and made her cry out. And then she remembered why she so deeply, definitely didn’t want to wake up. They had been kidnapped. And, oh my God, Poppy was still tied up! How long had she been sleeping while poor Poppy cried and called to her? She must wake up, she must help her.
She rolled onto her side, tried to get her elbow under her and push herself up. The pain smashed around inside her head as if someone was playing squash with it, and as she opened her eyes a slit, nausea came rushing up like an eager crowd on the first day of the sales.
“It’s all right,” she muttered thickly. “All right, Poppy. Just wait a minute.”
“Oh, Emma, I thought you were dead!” Poppy cried, a lifting voice of relief with a sob in it. Emma, hanging her head, feeling like death, was able to imagine how frightened the child had been, with her only protector lying like a log beside her. Emma managed to get her eyes open a little further, managed some species of smile, though the throbbing, blinding pain in her head was something that had to be felt to be believed. Poppy’s tearstained face was a few inches from hers, her cheek to the pillow, her hands still tied behind her back. “You were so white and still, and I called you and called you, but you wouldn’t wake up. I was so frightened!”
The memory of her fear set her sobbing again, though perhaps it was partly relief. Emma managed to reach out a hand and pat the nearest bit of Poppy to her.
“It’s all right,” she said again. “It’s all right now. Just give me a minute, and I’ll untie you.”
It took a good five minutes before Emma was able to move herself. Then she inched herself round so that she could lean against the wall, and Poppy wriggled round to present her back to her. The knots had pulled tight, of course, and Emma’s fingers felt like uncooked sausages – thick and limp, useless for the task. While she worked away at them, slowly and doggedly, Poppy asked her what had happened.
“We’ve been kidnapped,” Emma told her. There seemed no point in sugar-coating it. “Two men came and took us away.”
“Where are we?”
“I don’t know. They took us in a closed van. I couldn’t see anything. And you were drugged.”
“I remember now,” Poppy said with a dry sob of fright. “I was waiting for you to come up, and I must have fallen asleep, and then suddenly there was somebody there, standing by the bed, and I tried to scream but they put something over my mouth and there was this awful smell—”
“Yes, I know. Chloroform, I think. But that wouldn’t keep you unconscious all that time. They must have injected you with something, I suppose, once you’d stopped struggling.”
“It’s horrible,” Poppy whispered. “Why would anyone want to kidnap us?”
“Well, you for money, I should think. They’ll ask your father for a lot of money to get you back.”
“Daddy’s very rich,” she said.
“And they took me because I disturbed them. I came up with your goodies from the buffet and they grabbed me from behind and chloroformed me, too. I woke up in the van, tied up and with a bag over my head.”
“Poor Emma,” Poppy said.
“Poor Poppy,” she replied. “Ah, at last, it’s coming. Yes – there. Done!”
Poppy pulled her arms forward, and then at once began to writhe in agony. “Oh, they’ve gone dead! Oh Emma – oh—!”
Emma did her best for her, rubbing her arms as vigorously as she had strength for. She knew the agony of returning blood, and the horrible feeling of a dead limb flopping about like a landed fish at the end of one’s body. “Keep flexing your fingers,” she advised. She needed to rest. “Can you rub for yourself now?”
When Poppy was sufficiently recovered to sit up, still rubbing her forearms with her hands, she looked at Emma with wide, grave eyes and said in a small voice, “What’s happened to your head?”
“I bumped it in the van,” Emma said vaguely. “Why?”
“You’ve got blood all in your hair.”
Emma reached a careful hand towards the centre of pain and found her hair partly sticky, partly wet. She felt queasy, but tried to make light of it for Poppy’s sake.
“It probably looks worse than it is,” she said, but she swayed dizzily. Poppy’s hands came up to her shoulders.
“You lie down. I’ll do the other rope myself. I expect I’m better at knots than you anyway. My fingers are smaller.”
Emma didn’t argue. The exertion had made her sweat. She lowered herself gingerly to the horizontal and closed her eyes. After a bit Poppy said, “Don’t worry, I bet someone will rescue us soon. I bet Gavin will come after us. As soon as he knows what’s happened, he’ll come.”
Emma didn’t speak. Poppy’s faith in her brother was touching, but what likelihood was there that anyone would discover they were missing until morning? And by then the trail would be cold. It would be a matter of waiting until they were ransomed. But Mr Akroyd was in China. Could Gavin authorise the payment? It would depend how much was demanded, she supposed. Otherwise, they would have to wait until Mr Akroyd came back. Did the kidnappers know he was away from home?
It was a fruitless area for conjecture. She turned her mind from it and contemplated her injuries instead. How bad were they? A cut scalp and concussion from the blow on the head. Deep bruises and ragged abrasions on her wrists and ankles from the ropes. Bruises on hips, ribs and elbows from being tossed about in the van. A sore, chapped area around her mouth, like sunburn, from the choloroform. And oh, she was thirsty!
“Wish I had a drink of water,” she muttered. Poppy had finished untying her legs and was rubbing the life back into her feet. She looked at Emma, and was frightened. She looked very bad. Suppose she died? No, she mustn’t die! But Emma was helpless: it was up to Poppy. She mustn’t panic, she must think logically, just as if it was Misty who was hurt, and depending on Poppy to help him. She tried to remember what she knew about first aid. All that blood in Emma’s hair looked very bad, but hadn’t she read somewhere that head injuries always bleed a lot? And that it was better if it did bleed, rather than blood collect inside? She was sure she’d read that somewhere. She leaned over Emma and gently touched her head. Emma made a small noise, like a grunt.
“It’s only me, don’t worry. Just let me feel your head,” Poppy said. She probed and peered through the matted hair, and found the gash, which looked rather sickening, but seemed more or less to have stopped bleeding. Well, that was a relief, anyway. But perhaps it ought to be bathed. And Emma had wanted a drink of water. “I’m going to make them come and bring us some water,” she said aloud. “You just lie still and don’t worry.” It made her feel much better, much less frightened, to be taking charge like this, taking care of Emma. Emma needed her, so she must be brave.
Emma didn’t answer – she seemed to have gone to sleep again. Poppy got off the bed and examined the room. It was quite bare, except for a wooden kitchen chair, and the bed, which was made up with blankets but no sheets, and just the one pillow, covered in striped ticking, but no pillow case. The walls were plain plaster, painted white. The floor was bare boards. There was one window, small, dust-caked, and with bars over it, and in the wall opposite the window was a plain door of unpainted wood with a brown plastic knob. The room was roughly eight feet by six, but an odd shape – the walls weren’t parallel.
Poppy went and tried the door without any hope, and it didn’t budge at all – in fact the door knob didn’t even turn. She knelt and put her eye to the keyhole but could see nothing but blackness. She crossed to the window and pulled the chair under it so she could stand on it, the better to see out. The window was only about twelve by eighteen inches, and was set on the outside of the wall, while the bars were fitted to the inside, so the whole thickness of the wall – about a foot, Poppy thought – was between the bars and the glass. Through the dusty panes she could see the branches of a tree waving gently in the breeze, and the blue sky beyond. They were not on the ground floor, then.
So much for that. There was obviously no way out exc
ept by the door. Poppy went to the door and began to bang on it with her fist. After a while her fist started to get sore, so she changed to kicking it and yelling.
It was a long time before she got any response, and she was growing both tired and discouraged. But at last there was a loud thump on the outside of the door, which startled her, and a voice, curiously muffled, said, “Stop that bloody row! Whaddya want?”
“Lots of things,” Poppy shouted back boldly. “Food and water and bandages. My friend is sick. Open the door and let me talk to you.”
There was a pause, and then the voice said, “Stay back from the door. Go and sit on the bed.”
Poppy retired as ordered, and after a moment the door opened a crack, and a tall, heavy young man sidled through, closing it behind him. Poppy saw with a thrill which was not all fear that he was holding a gun, pointed towards her.
“Is that a real gun?” she couldn’t help asking. “I bet it’s not a real gun.”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t get bloody smart with me,” he said. “You got a lot of mouth for a kid in big trouble.”
“It’s not me that’s in trouble,” Poppy retorted. “It’s you that’ll get it when they catch you.”
“Forget that – they ain’t gonna catch us.”
“They always do,” Poppy said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “What’s your name?”
“Andy.” He leaned against the door, and jiggled his gun up and down. “I know yours, Miss Arabella Akroyd. What kind of a name is that?”
“It’s as good a name as yours.”
“It’s a bloody mouthful. Whadda they call you for short? Arry?” He grinned at his own joke.
The Hostage Heart Page 12
