by Martina Cole
Michael lit a cigarette and, after drawing on it a few times, he said helplessly, ‘You’re not going to fucking believe this, Declan. That was John Freed of all people. It seems there is another CCTV on its way here. This time Golding was spied in a Tesco Express in Kent. He bought the same things – forty Lambert and Butler and a bottle of cheap vodka. He was recognised by the woman working the till. She rang John, and he’s looked at the CCTV for himself. He reckons it is definitely Golding.’
Declan was silent; this was getting a bit too creepy now. It was as if the man was goading them, deliberately sending them on different trails. It was a good tactic, but it was guaranteed to make Michael Flynn angry and vicious.
‘He’s fucking laughing at us, Declan! This mentally retarded fucking headcase is laughing at us, for fuck’s sake! He is telling me that he has the upper hand. I get that – it’s standard procedure to keep the enemy guessing. But what is happening to my Jessie while this is going on? Is he hurting her? Has he already fucking murdered her?’
Declan waved his hands in despair. ‘You mustn’t think like that, Michael. For fuck’s sake, if he hurt Jessie, he wouldn’t have a bargaining chip any more, would he? Think about it. Plus, from what we know about him, he isn’t a violent person. He’s a fucking nutbag granted, but there’s no history of violent behaviour.’
Michael jumped up out of his chair. He was feeling so angry and so impotent. How was it possible this fucking Golding could operate under his radar? It was a nightmare. This man couldn’t be underestimated, he knew that much – he was far more intelligent than anyone was giving him credit for.
‘Declan, have a fucking day off, will you! Read the papers! Every other day some fucking head banger kills somebody for no fucking reason. They stab them or attack them in a shopping centre in full view of everyone around them. And, the worst thing of all is, these people – these nutters – are only roaming the streets because some fucking shrink decides that they are not a danger to anyone. But they are. This cunt is a fucking Grade A looney. I don’t care what the doctors in the nut house might have said about him – he had the nous to fucking take my baby. He has a very high IQ, remember? And he reads a lot. Well, when I finally get my hands on him – Mr Fucking Intellectual – I will personally remove his brain from his skull and I will then cheerfully force feed it to the useless cunt who decided he was fit enough to rejoin society. I can’t believe this ponce is actually getting the better of me. That is the hardest part of all, Declan – this fucking no-mark, this mentally challenged fucker, is actually getting one over on me.’
Declan agreed with Michael wholeheartedly; this ponce was either very clever or very lucky; Declan had a feeling it was a combination of the two. But that wasn’t what Michael needed to hear at this precise moment in time.
‘That is fucking mental, Michael. Listen to yourself! He is a nut – granted – but that is his weakness, not his strength. He doesn’t even want a ransom, for fuck’s sake. That alone should tell you something.’
‘It does, Declan. It tells me this isn’t about money, this is fucking personal, and we both know why that is, don’t we?’
Declan didn’t answer.
‘Patrick knew what he was asking of me. He knew the house wasn’t empty. He was using me to vent his fucking spleen. It was one of his biggest failings – his narrow-mindedness. He could hold a grudge for the tiniest of reasons, an imagined slight, or a small loan that was overdue – something he should have been big enough to overlook. But he couldn’t. When he got that bee in his fucking bonnet . . .’ He trailed off. His anger was threatening to take over, and he knew he had to calm himself down, think logically, not let his heart rule his head. ‘You know what I am saying as well as I do, Declan.’
Michael Flynn looked out of his window. Today he wasn’t enjoying the view he’d always loved. Today he was wondering how a man like Steven Golding could get the better of him. That was something Michael Flynn couldn’t live with, something he would never be able to overcome. The man was on a fucking death wish, and Michael was going to make sure he got exactly what he was asking for.
Chapter One Hundred
and Twenty-Six
Jessie woke up to see the man taking photos of her. She didn’t even try to hide herself from him, she was too tired, too sore to move. Her ankles were so painful, the shackles had rubbed most of her skin away, and she could actually see her ankle bones poking through now. It was so disgusting to look at. The metal rings that held her in place were covered with dried blood and hardened lumps of her skin, a constant reminder of her predicament.
The man was laughing to himself, as if he was party to some private joke. Jessie had lost most of her fight – it was pointless trying to convince him of anything. He had already told her the worst – that he was going to let her die. She believed him. He was too fucking unbalanced to lie to her. He was on a mission, that much was evident; he lived on another planet, on another wavelength.
Now she was starving and in such agony she might welcome death at some point in the near future; anything had to be better than living like this. He had even taken the bucket from her, so she couldn’t even open her bowels or have a pee with ease. She had been reduced to using the concrete floor. But what else could she do? She was limited by the shackles and, as her dad used to say, even a dog doesn’t shit in its own basket. The less food her body got, the more she seemed to need to evacuate her bowels. It was like water, just diarrhoea, but it was very painful for her. And humiliating.
She wasn’t sure how long it would be before it would be too difficult for her to move. Then she would have no choice but to lay in her own filth.
She wanted to cry again, but she didn’t think she had any tears left. She opened the bottle of water – he still made sure she had that at least – and she drank it straight down, welcoming the oblivion of the drugged liquid. The sores on her ankles were infected, and she could smell her own rotting flesh. It was so disgusting, it even overshadowed her body odour, though the smell of faeces was overpowering.
The man himself didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss; he didn’t wrinkle his nose, or register the stench surrounding her. Jessie decided that he just wasn’t interested enough to care. Like he kept telling her, this wasn’t about her. It was as if he didn’t even see her most of the time.
The man stepped closer to her, smiling inanely.
‘Do you remember that quiz show that was on years ago? When people had to guess the price of things? It was a really good show.’
Jessie shook her head. ‘No, I don’t remember it. Probably before my time.’
The man grinned. ‘Oh, you would have liked it. I did, I loved it. The man who asked the questions was very clever. I remember now, it was called Sale of the Century. I like quiz shows. I like questions. I always liked questions.’
Jessie forced herself to smile at him. ‘Really? Can I ask you a question, then?’
He smiled at her, positively beaming with pleasure. ‘Of course you can, silly! Ask me anything you like, anything at all. I bet I can answer it.’
Jessie pulled herself up on to her elbows and, looking the man straight in the eyes, she asked quietly, ‘Why are you doing this to me? What have I ever done to you?’
He turned away from her, but when he turned back to face her, he was laughing again. ‘I told you before, Jessie, this isn’t about you! You are the weapon I need, Jessie, to bring your father to his knees. When I finally deliver you to him, starved, shackled and, of course, dead, he will finally understand the meaning of despair. Complete and utter despair. It’s a pain that is unique. You see, one thing I have learnt, Jessie, is the worst pain of all is not your own suffering, but knowing about the suffering of the people you really care about. That’s a far worse pain, worse than any physical harm you might have to endure yourself.’
He was smiling at her again, as if he had just given her the secret of eternal happiness. Then he said matter-of-factly, ‘Think about your little boy Jake. Imag
ine if I starved him to death. That would be a far worse pain to you, than what you’re experiencing now, wouldn’t it? Do you see what I mean? Understand what I’m getting at?’
Jessie didn’t answer him; she felt sick at what he had said to her. This was surreal, unbelievable, and yet it was really happening.
Chapter One Hundred
and Twenty-Seven
‘There are people searching Kent as well as Essex, Michael. He can’t fucking evade us for ever. I have mobilised everyone that we work with throughout the British Isles, and they are all on the hunt as well. The fifty grand is a big incentive but, also, I think this cunt has really put a lot of backs up.’
Michael didn’t reply. He was so tired, but he just couldn’t sleep. He was still holed up in the offices at Canary Wharf with Declan. It was where everyone knew to contact them.
Michael didn’t want to go home; he talked to little Jake on the phone, but there was no way he wanted to go back there and face Josephine. She was the last person he wanted to see. Every time he thought about her keeping that letter to herself, putting her own needs before her daughter’s, he felt angry enough to strangle her with his bare hands. If she had told him, this might have been resolved by now. If this bloke was as big a nut as they all reckoned, maybe not phoning had sent him over the edge; after all, no one had heard a fucking word from him since.
‘How the fuck can this ponce evade not just the police, but every fucking Face in the country? It’s fucking impossible, surely?’
Declan shrugged casually. ‘Well, look at that Bin Laden bloke. He’d been on the trot for years when they caught him.’
Michael ran his hands through his hair; sometimes Declan didn’t have a clue. He just opened his mouth before he put his brain in gear.
‘Oh, by the way, Michael, I spoke to Jack earlier on, while you were in the shower. He has tracked down Golding’s medical records. It cost him an arm and a leg, but he has all the addresses where he’s ever lived – everything about him. Who knows – he might have a place he goes to regularly. It’s worth a chance.’
Michael snorted with derision. ‘I suppose so. It’s amazing what you can fucking buy, isn’t it?’
Declan laughed at Michael’s sarcasm. Money could get literally anything usually.
Michael went on: ‘If I could only know for certain that she was alive, Declan, I would feel so much better. I can’t bear to think that she might be frightened, you know? Scared and alone somewhere, and wondering why I haven’t rescued her.’
Declan was very blasé as he said honestly, ‘I’m sorry, Michael, but it would take a lot to scare your Jessie. She isn’t what anyone would call a shrinking violet, is she? Jessie Flynn is a woman who lives her own life. Fuck me – if you can’t control her, how the fuck could anyone else?’
Michael didn’t laugh with Declan this time; he appreciated his friend was just trying to allay his fears, but no one could do that now.
‘I’m not so sure about that, Declan. She isn’t as hard-faced as she acts. There is a softness there that few people ever see. She would ring her mum almost every day, because she knew that she worries about her. She also asks about Jake, of course. She loves that little boy, I know that for a fact.’
Declan wasn’t so sure Jessie was this sweet young thing her father was describing, but if that was what Michael wanted to believe, he was happy to go along with it. In his opinion, Jessie Flynn was a selfish little fucker, who never had the sense to see how fucking lucky she was, and who had never appreciated just how loved and adored she was. She was a user, and she had used everyone around her. But Declan was shrewd enough to keep his own counsel; there were some things you couldn’t tell people – they just didn’t want to hear them.
‘Well, Michael, you know her better than anyone, mate.’
Michael’s phone vibrated and he picked it up, opening the text message. He was shocked to see a picture of his Jessie. She was shackled to a bed, looking ill and very frightened.
‘Oh, my God.’
He passed the phone to Declan, who looked at the picture with abject horror. Jessie looked terrified, and she also looked like she was starving. He could see her ribcage in startling detail. He zoomed in so he could see the picture better, and he could see that her ankles were rubbed raw from the iron shackles. It looked as if the bones were exposed, and there were faeces on the floor around the bed. It was a wicked, vicious picture sent to cause the maximum of hurt.
It was her eyes, though, that really bothered him. They were looking right into the camera, and there was no life in them. They were already dead. He was so shocked, he couldn’t speak for a few minutes.
Michael had crossed his arms over his chest and he was hugging himself. As he rocked himself to and fro, Declan was shocked to realise that the man was openly crying. Michael Flynn was sobbing like a baby; it was terrible to see him brought so low.
Declan forced himself into action. He picked up his phone and he rang a man called Arthur Hellmann. He was a technological wizard, and he had worked for everyone who was anyone. He also had a serious gambling habit, and he had owed money all over the Smoke. It had been Michael’s idea to pay his debts off and get him into the firm. Now Declan hoped the man could use his expertise to track down the mobile phone Golding was using. It was clutching at straws, but it was all they had. Michael Flynn needed to feel like he was doing something, now more than ever. That image of young Jessie had achieved its goal; it was further proof that they didn’t have any control over this situation whatsoever.
When he came off the phone, he looked at Michael sadly. ‘I’m going to up the security at your house, Michael. I think this proves we can’t take any chances.’
Michael nodded. ‘Put them inside the house. I’ll ring Dana, make sure that she doesn’t even take Jake to school. Until this is over, we daren’t chance anything.’ Michael looked at the photo of his daughter again. ‘She’s fucking terrified, you can see it in her eyes. How in fuck’s name has this happened? How the fuck has this mad cunt managed to get this far?’
Declan shrugged; he was genuinely disturbed himself now. This was well outside their usual remit. Until now, he would have bet his last penny that a situation like this would have been an impossibility. They were too big, too well known. But Declan knew, from bitter experience, that the greatest of threats nearly always came from the people you least expected.
Chapter One Hundred
and Twenty-Eight
Hannah Flynn couldn’t understand why Michael had not been around to see her for days. It wasn’t like him – he always made a point of dropping in to see her. She was particularly worried after what Josephine had told her. If her Michael had lost his temper with his wife then there was something serious going on. Josephine had never been able to do any wrong in Michael’s eyes. Now, it seemed, he had finally lost his patience, and she had found herself actually feeling sorry for Josephine. That alone had been a shock. The woman had been completely devastated by her husband’s attack on her. But Christ Himself knew – she blessed herself automatically at the use of the Lord’s name in vain – Josephine Flynn was one of the most selfish fuckers that had ever been put on this earth. Hannah sat down at her kitchen table. She was a bundle of nerves lately, she couldn’t seem to settle. What had happened to Jessie was playing on her mind. The girl always kept in touch with her nana Hannah.
She poured herself out a glass of good Irish whisky, and took a large gulp to steady herself. Then she poured herself another. She heard her doorbell, and sighed with annoyance. Few people sought her company, and that suited her. She had never suffered fools gladly. But, as she walked to her front door, she hoped against hope that it was someone with news about her Jessie.
She opened the front door, expecting to see someone she knew. Instead she saw a skinny, grey-haired man, with sallow skin and a twisted smile. She detected a sour odour coming off him. She went to ask him what the hell he wanted, but before she could say a word, he lunged at her. As she tried to st
ep back from him, she felt a sharp pain in her chest. Looking down, she saw the handle of a knife sticking out of her breast. It occurred to her that its blade was obviously buried deep inside her chest. It had all happened so quickly. The man was still smiling at her and, as she sank to her knees, he stepped away from her casually, and began taking photos of her on his phone. All she could do was watch him. She was trying to call out, get help, but there was nothing she could do. Her mouth was slowly filling up with blood, and it made her want to vomit. It tasted disgusting, it was so thick and it was suddenly dribbling out of her mouth. She could feel its warmth as it ran down her chin. She was lying on her back now, and she knew she would eventually choke on her own blood. She could feel her heartbeat getting slower by the second, and she could hear herself wheezing as she tried to breathe. She could feel the light-headedness as she gradually started to lose consciousness, and she welcomed the oblivion. Anything was better than this battle to take a single breath.
Chapter One Hundred
and Twenty-Nine
Arthur Hellmann was a strange-looking man. He was tall, very thin, and he had deep brown eyes and white-blond hair. It was a startling combination. Whereas on some people, it would have given them striking good looks, on Arthur it just seemed to add to his general air of strangeness. He was a man who found it very difficult to socialise with other people, and who much preferred the anonymity of cyberspace.
As he walked into the office, Michael and Declan didn’t even bother to greet him, and that suited him. He liked that Michael Flynn didn’t feel the need to engage him in conversation unless it was of some relevance. Too many people talked for the sake of it, and they rarely had anything of interest to say.
He sat at the desk, and set up his laptop, before saying to no one in particular, ‘I can access most phones. As long as this one’s turned on, I can get a location on it. I can also work out where any calls were made – the area, that is.’
