“You can call me Arry if you like,” Poppy said. “Now can we get down to business?”
“Whatever you say,” he said, seeming to be enjoying the exchange. “What d’you want?”
“First, some hot water and disinfectant and clean cloths to clean my friend’s head wound. I think it might need stitching.”
“It can go on wanting,” he said harshly. “Whajjer think this is, a game?”
“You don’t want her to die, do you?”
“I couldn’t give a stuff. It’s not her that’s worth a fortune.” But he looked sidelong at Emma as she lay, white-faced and unconscious on the bed. “That’s a lotta blood,” he muttered.
“If she dies, you’ll be in worse trouble when they catch you,” Poppy urged.
“Stuff all that ‘when they catch me’ business.” He looked uneasy suddenly. “What are you up to? D’you know something?” He looked round the room as though he might find some clue. And then he seemed to reassure himself, and laughed. “Listen, if you think someone’s going to come and rescue you, you can forget it. They’ll never find us here – and even if they found us, they’d never find you.”
He sounded so sure that Poppy’s small courage sank. He saw it, and his grin widened.
“All right, Arry, mate, I’ll bring you some grub. And I’ll see what I can do about water and rags and stuff. I don’t promise, but I’ll see what I can do. Now sit down on the bed and don’t move.”
When he had gone, she jumped up and went to examine the door more closely. She found that one of the knotholes was in fact a spy hole. She put her eye to it but could see nothing – she supposed it only worked one way. But it meant there was no chance of rushing him when he came with the food. She went back to the bed and looked down at Emma, worried. Emma opened her eyes.
“You were brilliant,” she murmured. “I don’t know how you could be so brave.”
“Oh, he wasn’t so tough,” Poppy said airily. “I’m not scared of him.”
“Well, be careful,” Emma said, closing her eyes again. Poppy was one of the television generation, for whom, Emma feared, reality was always one pace distant, a pale shadow of the silver screen. “That’s a real gun, you know.”
“He won’t shoot me,” Poppy said confidently. “Not if he wants the money.”
Emma felt that, on the whole, it was better for Poppy to keep her spirits up, so she didn’t say any more. There were other things that could be done short of shooting, some of which might make shooting seem almost preferable.
“We’ve found the van,” Superintendent Moss said with quiet pride. “Abandoned in some scrub woodland on the edge of Thetford Forest. The locals call it Pratchett’s Wood-d’you know it?”
He addressed his remark to Gavin and Mrs Henderson: Lady Susan was keeping to her room in a state of collapse, and Zara was keeping out of everyone’s way, though Gavin could not be sure what her feelings about the affair were.
“Yes, I know it,” he replied.
“I told you they wouldn’t get far,” Moss went on. “One of our mobiles went past it shortly before the general alert went out. They remembered it, and went back to check.”
“But you said it had been abandoned?” Mrs Henderson queried. “You mean you haven’t found Poppy and Emma?”
“No, the van was empty” Moss admitted. “Forensic are going over it now for anything that might help us. But there are tyre tracks of a car there as well, so we’re assuming they transferred them into another vehicle at that spot.”
“So you’ve lost them.” Gavin’s voice was blank with defeat.
“It’s not as bad as that. You see, a neighbouring smallholder has reported his car stolen—”
“But—” Gavin began the obvious objection.
The Superintendent put up his hand. “Bear with me. The tracks of the second car showed that the tyres didn’t match – it had three of one design and one of a different pattern. We checked with the smallholder, and his car had three Dunlops and a Michelin. We’re checking the tyre patterns, now, but we’re pretty sure it was the same car, which means we’ve got a description and a number.”
“When was the car stolen?”
“Ah, that’s the interesting bit! The smallholder came in late from the pub, about half past twelve; and owing to the amount of beer he’d sunk, he had a restless night. Got up to go to the bathroom around three o’clock, and glancing out of the window, saw the car had gone. So it gives us a time period during which the car must have been nicked. Also, it proves—”
“That changing to the second car wasn’t the original plan,” Gavin supplied.
Moss nodded. “You’re quick! Yes, otherwise they’d have had one ready.”
“But where does it get us?” Mrs Henderson said unhappily. “They’ve still got away. They could have gone clear to the other end of the country by now.”
Moss almost grinned. “I don’t think so. The smallholder tells us that the petrol tank was almost empty – he’d meant to fill her up today. He reckons there was only enough to do about ten miles at most. We’re checking now to see if they filled up anywhere, but with the two victims in the car I think it’s unlikely. And if they didn’t, we’ve got them inside a pretty small radius. We’ll throw a net round them and gradually draw it closed. They won’t get away, I can promise you that.”
“God, I hope not,” Gavin said. He felt miserably responsible. With his father away, it had been up to him to keep everyone safe. They had never particularly worried about security. They had guarded against burglary, but kidnapping had never entered anyone’s head. He saw now that they should have thought of it, especially on a night like that of Zara’s party, when dozens of people, many of them strangers, were coming and going about the house. What would his father say when he got back?
As if picking up on Gavin’s thought, Superintendent Moss said, “Have you had any luck in contacting your father yet?”
“We know where he is now, and we’ve sent a message. We’re waiting to get confirmation that it’s reached him,” Gavin said. “I expect he’ll start back as soon as he gets it, but it will take time, a day at least, probably longer. Until then—”
“Yes sir,” Moss said soothingly. “I’m quite happy to deal with you.”
Gavin met his eyes. “But will the kidnappers be?”
In the afternoon, when Emma had slept a little, Andy returned, but this time with his boss. His demeanour was subdued, and the interview was much less friendly, and Poppy kept close to Emma all through it, evidently beginning to feel something of the danger they were in.
There was nothing humane or approachable in the Boss’s face. It was lined with experience, but the experiences were evidently not happy ones. His nose had been broken and set badly at some point, and there was an old scar running up the side of his forehead and into his hair; but the lines from his nose to his mouth corners were harsher than scars, and his eyes behind the glasses were as cold as a snake’s.
“Right, girls,” he said, swinging the chair one-handed under him and sitting on it backwards, with his arms folded along the back. Andy leaned against the closed door, covering Emma and Poppy with his gun. In the small room Emma could smell Andy’s anxious sweat and the Boss’s overdone aftershave; but more than that she could feel the menacing presence of the two men so acutely it was like a third and more overpowering smell. It made her shiver. And there was nothing pleasant about the way he called them ‘girls’. It was hard and contemptuous: as if he were emphasising the fact that in his position he could call them whatever he damn well liked.
“Right, girls, let’s have some straight talking. You know the score, I imagine. We’ve borrowed the kid for a bit, and we expect her old man to pay a nice little fortune to get her back in one piece. We know who you are,” he went on, nodding at Emma. “You’re the governess and you’re a bloody nuisance, but since you’ve stumbled into this you can make yourself useful by looking after the kid. Right?”
Poppy, pressed against Emma’s
side, was trembling, but she spoke up now in a mixture of fear and anger. “You won’t get away with this! They’ll find us soon, and then you’ll go to prison!”
“Shut your face!” the Boss snapped. His eyes chilled Emma. “You, you’d better keep her quiet if you know what’s good for her. I don’t have much patience with lippy kids.”
Emma found Poppy’s hand and squeezed it warningly. Andy was just stupid and would do what he was told, but this one, she thought, was the real criminal. He would probably enjoy hurting people.
“Better,” the Boss said, scanning them stonily. “Now listen. If you give us no trouble, you won’t get hurt, understand me? You’ll get food, water, whatever you need. And you won’t be touched. I want your old man to get you back in the condition we found you. But if either of you try anything, or make trouble, or if you—” Poppy shrank from the cold gaze that rested on her, “give me any lip, you’ll be sorry you were born. So take your choice.”
He seemed to be waiting for an answer, so Emma, pressing Poppy’s hand, said quietly, “We won’t give you any trouble.”
“Sensible girl,” the Boss said with a smile that did not warm Emma in the least. “Wise of you to realise that you’re expendable. And you’d better get it into the kid’s head that, OK, we want to keep her in mint condition, but if she does anything to annoy us, we can still shoot you. Not to kill, necessarily. We can just shoot you where it’ll hurt. You get me? She messes up, you get it. Savvy?”
Poppy was trembling like a leaf now, and Emma put her arm round her and held her close. “All right,” she said with a spurt of anger, “I said we wouldn’t give you trouble. Can’t you see you’re frightening her?”
“Quite the mother lioness protecting her cub, aren’t we?” the Boss sneered. Andy grinned, knowing there was a joke without necessarily understanding it. “All right, you can write the note, since you’re the woman of action. We want the kid’s old man to know we’ve got you safe and sound.”
A writing pad and biro were produced, and under dictation, Emma wrote:
The kidnappers have Arabella and me securely hidden. We have not been harmed, and no harm will come to us if you follow instructions. They are demanding a ransom of a million pounds—
At that point, Emma looked up in surprise. The Boss met her eyes with quick understanding.
“Didn’t know he was that rich, eh? Well, when you go back, you can ask him for a raise – if you get out of here in one piece, that is.”
The rest of the dictation covered the details of how the money was to be paid. It was, as far as she could tell, a straightforward deal: they seemed only to want the money, and to have no interest in hurting either of them. She hoped it was true, and drew what comfort she could from it; and hoped, also, that the Boss had his facts right about Mr Akroyd’s fortune. She signed the note, and then Poppy signed underneath ‘Arabella Akroyd’. By unspoken agreement, neither of them had revealed that she was always called Poppy. They didn’t quite know why, but it seemed something they should keep to themselves.
When he had examined the note carefully, the Boss tucked it away, gestured to Andy, and they both left. Alone, Emma and Poppy sat in silence for a long time, their arms round each other. Poppy had discovered that things in real life had a particular hardness and reek that television did not portray. Emma was trying to rack her aching brains for something they could do that would help.
They seemed to her particularly helpless because they weren’t even dressed. Poppy was in her Rupert Bear pyjamas, Emma in her nightdress and dressing-gown. Fortunately it was warm in the little room, even a little stuffy. They had no possessions of any sort, she thought – until, putting her hand in her dressing-gown pocket for her handkerchief, she found the curved, hard shape of her nail-scissors. She’d forgotten about them. On the morning of the party she’d had her bath, and then put her dressing-gown on and sat by the window while she cut her finger- and toenails. She must have put the scissors into the pocket without thinking, and there they were still.
For no very good reason, the discovery cheered her a little. It was hardly conceivable they could be used as a weapon: the short, curved blades would not put anyone out of action, even if she could get near enough to use them. But somehow, some time, in some way, they might be useful. Emma felt strangely better for this small secret as she returned the scissors to her pocket, and hoped that the men would not think of searching her.
Chapter Eleven
Andy brought them a meal of bread and butter and tea in the evening, and left them without a word, having hardly looked at them. Perhaps the Boss had told him to keep his distance. Certainly they were being careful: the bread and butter was brought in Andy’s hand and simply put down on the bed – no plates or knives – and the tea was ready-poured in two big plastic mugs. Nothing that might possible serve for a weapon.
Neither felt hungry, but both were very thirsty, and drank the tea gratefully. Guessing there would be nothing more that night, Emma warned Poppy to sip the tea rather than gulp it – it would be more thirst-quenching that way. When they had drunk, they felt their hunger, and ate the bread; and then, since there didn’t seem to be anything else to do, they lay down on the bed. At first Emma tried to keep up a conversation, thinking it might do them good to talk, but she couldn’t think of anything but their predicament, and without any input from Poppy the attempt soon failed, and they lay side by side in silence, staring at the ceiling.
From the light outside, Emma guessed it to be about eight o’clock. There was no light in the room, so presumably after sunset they would be left in darkness. She thought that would be unpleasant; then she wondered if any use could be made of the fact. But it all boiled down to the impossibility of jumping the man with a gun. Her eyes roved aimlessly over the ceiling. It was odd for a room to be built without a light; there was no scar in the plaster where a fitment had been taken out, so it must always have been like that. It was an odd room altogether – too small for a bedroom, too big for a cupboard, and such a strange shape, like a bit of a room snipped off at random.
A bit of a room. The idea meandered round her brain. Could it be that the wall with the door in it was a false wall, built across an existing room to cut this part off? But for what purpose? No light, not even an electric wall socket; even in a box-room you would want a light, wouldn’t you? OK, it had daylight, but you couldn’t guarantee you’d always come looking for your old football boots or photograph albums in daylight.
She got off the bed and went across to examine the wall, tapped it here and there with her knuckles, scratched at it with a fingernail, applied her eye uselessly to the peephole and keyhole. She tried the other walls, examined the window closely, and then stood, staring in thought.
“What is it? What are you doing?” Poppy asked lethargically from the bed.
“Oh, I was wondering about this room. I think perhaps it was purpose-built for us, by putting up this wall across the corner of a bigger room. The plaster’s different from the other three walls, and the paint looks new. And that window’s obviously very old. Say they had a room with a barred window already in it, and they just made this – this cell by partitioning it off?”
“Why would they do that?”
“Well, to make it secure for one thing. There’s nothing in this room, nothing at all, that we could use.” Not even a light flex to hang themselves with, she thought, but she didn’t say that to Poppy. “And for another – we don’t know what it looks like from the outside – out in the other room, I mean.”
Poppy sat up, looking interested. “A secret room!”
Emma nodded. “Maybe.”
“It must be!” Poppy said. “Andy said even if the police found them, they’d never find us. That must be what he meant – that we’re hidden in a secret room.”
“Poppy, listen,” Emma said, turning to her suddenly. “This wall doesn’t sound solid to me. I think it’s only lath and plaster. I think I could make a hole in it with my nail scissors.”
<
br /> “Big enough for us to get through?” Poppy’s voice was an excited whisper.
“No, that would take days with only the nail scissors, and they’d notice it before it got anywhere near big enough, to say nothing of the mess. No, I just meant a small hole, just big enough to see through.”
“What good would that do?” Poppy said, disappointed.
Emma looked helpless. “I don’t know. At least we’d know what was on the other side. Whether they live in there or in another part of the house. Whether anyone else comes in.”
Poppy’s expression said she didn’t think much of that for a plan, but she said kindly, “Well, if you think it’ll help …”
“It’s a choice between doing that or doing nothing,” Emma said. Baldly, that was it.
“Anyway, Gavin’s sure to find us soon,” Poppy said comfortingly. “Are you going to start now?”
“Yes. I’ll do it in the corner and down near the floor, where it won’t be so obvious. You put your ear to the door and tell me if you hear anyone coming.”
It was harder than she had expected to make any impression with her inadequate tool; and bending down made her head ache again. When it grew dark she gave up the attempt. They got into bed and slept almost at once, for they were more tired than they knew.
Emma slept heavily and dreamlessly, and woke at first light with Gavin’s name on her lips. She didn’t know at first where she was. She thought she was back in Muswell Hill, and listened for a half-awake moment for the traffic noises. Then she came slowly to the realisation of the truth, and it rolled heavily onto her heart. The flat seemed so far in the past – two lifetimes away, since Long Hempdon was one lifetime. What was happening out there? What were the police doing? Were they on the trail, or were she and Poppy entirely lost? What was Gavin thinking, feeling, doing? Would she ever see him again? She thought back over the time she had known him, and in particular of that last night, when they had danced together. Looking back with the clarity her present situation had brought to her, she knew that he cared for her, and that she had long been falling in love with him. She had wasted the opportunity of Zara’s party, thrown Gavin away with both hands because of her – what? Pride? Touchiness, more like: a ridiculous, monumental chip on her shoulder, legacy of being dumped by Chris. If she had danced again with him as he had asked her, and relaxed, and gone with the moment, who knows what might have happened?
The Hostage Heart Page 13
