by James Raven
Pain gnawed at my bones. I must have looked like a wino who had been rolled over for his last cigarette. A huge swelling had come up on my forehead. Blood trickled down my left cheek. My ribs hurt and my muscles throbbed.
How in God’s name had it come to this? In a matter of hours the life I’d known and loved had been shattered like a beach-hut in a tsunami.
The sheer gravity of the situation was overwhelming. As I hobbled along the empty streets, wincing with pain, the drumming of despair inside my head grew into a deafening crescendo.
The reporter inside me yearned to know what was going on. The events of the past few hours made for a cracking story. But my journalistic curiosity was tempered by the fear that curdled in my stomach. I just didn’t know what to do or where to go.
Alongside the fear there was guilt. I felt that I’d let Maggie and Laura down, just as I had done too often in the past. They would be counting on me to hold it together. But I’d failed, and now it was likely they’d pay a terrible price.
I turned down a side street leading towards the docks. There were warehouses along one side, derelict shops and offices along the other. It seemed colder here and even less friendly. Weeds reared up through gaping cracks in the pavements. I heard creatures scurrying in the shadows. The air smelled of motor oil and rotting fish.
I came to a junction and looked to the left before stepping into the road. And that was when I saw the police car. It was about fifty yards away and parked at the kerb under a streetlight.
Maggie’s words rang in my ears. She’d pleaded with me not to involve the cops. The kidnapper had warned me that if I did then he would kill my family. But what choice did I have? I needed help now and I needed to act quickly. So I broke into a run. And as I ran my head started to clear and I forgot about the aches and pains that racked my body.
I was about to share my terrible burden and that at least would surely bring me some relief.
Maggie was listening for any sounds. But all she could hear was the wind whistling through the eaves above her.
The kidnapper had disappeared downstairs straight after he called Danny. Minutes later she heard a car start up outside and since then there had been silence.
Thankfully Laura had fallen asleep whilst gibbering away to Max. The man had given them four smelly blankets and Laura was curled up beneath two of them. She had whispered to her invisible friend for almost half an hour before eventually dropping off. She told Max she was scared but that her father would soon be here to save them and sort out the nasty man in the funny mask.
Maggie wasn’t able to sleep. Her mind was a maelstrom of ugly thoughts and images. The fear was like a living thing inside her. Every time she was distracted by something it moved, wrenching her back to the horrible reality of the situation.
A while ago she had urinated and the warm liquid had filled her knickers and stained the front of her jeans. She actually welcomed the sensation because briefly a small part of her didn’t feel so cold.
She sat with her knees pulled up in front of her, covered by the other two blankets, her head against the wall. She kept telling herself that Danny would be with them soon and the man would go and get the lottery money. Then they’d be set free to resume their lives.
The trouble was she didn’t believe it. She knew that once the man submitted Vince’s lottery ticket he’d have to decide what to do with them, if he hadn’t already made up his mind. And that was where it got scary.
It was likely that she, Danny and the kidnapper were the only people who knew about the ticket. Once Danny was safely ensconced in the loft the kidnapper could claim the winnings and nobody else would know the truth.
But of course he might not get to spend any of the money if he let them go. So it followed that he would almost certainly murder them all, just like he’d murdered Vince.
Danny, then, was their only hope, but this thought served only to increase her sense of despair. Her husband was no Bruce Willis. He was fit and intelligent, but he wasn’t a man of action. He wouldn’t, therefore, come bounding to their rescue like a movie-star hero. In fact he would probably mess things up. Just as he’d messed up their lives by losing his job. And then by sinking their savings into a stupid freelance news agency that was going nowhere and would eventually disappear without trace.
So how would he disappoint this time? she wondered. Despite what he’d said on the phone she was pretty sure that he’d panic and alert the police. And that would be disastrous. Maggie tried but failed to hold back a flood of tears. The tide of emotion she experienced was overwhelming. A mixture of fear, despair, frustration, anger and grief for Vince. But there was also a great deal of guilt. And it struck her suddenly that she was trying to assuage that guilt by blaming Danny.
But he wasn’t responsible for what was happening. She realized that now. If anyone was to blame it was she. She was the one who had stepped over the line five months ago. What she had done was unforgivable and she should have known that it would end in disaster.
This was payback time. Divine retribution. The terrible consequence of her own selfish actions.
Vince was dead and the lives of her husband and daughter were now at risk.
And Maggie was convinced that she was to blame.
Please God, she whispered through a deluge of hot tears. Please forgive me for what I’ve done and don’t make my family suffer because of it.
I was about twenty yards from the police car when I came to a sudden stop. I stared in amazement.
In the sodium glow from a nearby street lamp I could see the two feral youths who had mugged me. The bastards who had my phone. They were being questioned by a couple of policemen in luminous jackets.
My heart pumped and my mouth dried up.
I moved to the left behind a pillar box, from where I watched and listened. It was a typical late-night scene, as depicted in scores of reality cop shows; part of the fight against street crime where suspicious youths are stopped and searched, and often arrested.
I strained to hear what was being said, but I was too far away and I didn’t dare move closer for fear of being seen.
The youths were probably being asked to account for their movements. Where were they going? Where had they been? Were they carrying knives or drugs?
I was debating whether to approach the group when the two officers got back in the car.
Decision time. Should I break cover and catch the cops before they drove away? Or should I go for it alone and try to retrieve the situation? What course of action offered the best odds of saving my family?
The police car’s engine turned over. I started to move forward – and then held back. Decision made.
The patrol car drove off, leaving the youths on the pavement. One of them lit up a cigarette before they both started walking along the street away from me.
My mind whirred and my pulse raced. Needless to say I didn’t have a plan. I just had an objective which was to get my phone back. And right now that seemed like an impossible task.
I knew I had to act pretty quickly. If I followed them for any length of time I’d be spotted. The streets were more or less deserted and in this part of town they were fairly well lit.
These were two hulking lads who could handle themselves. I knew that from personal experience. So how was I meant to prise the phone away from them? Diplomacy was out of the question. Approaching them would invite another beating. No, there was only one thing for it. I was going to have to jump them and hope that the element of surprise would give me an advantage.
I’m not a violent person. In fact I had not been involved in fisticuffs since leaving school. But right now I had no choice. Not if I wanted to see my wife and daughter again.
I watched from the shadows as the two youths turned a corner. I broke into a trot to catch up. I needed a weapon of some kind because without one I wouldn’t stand a chance. These guys were serious hardcases. They knew how to fight. I didn’t.
I reached the corner and stoppe
d to check their whereabouts. They were still walking at a casual pace, chatting to one another like two innocents out enjoying a late evening stroll. The anger welled up inside me.
I knew the area they were heading into: St Mary’s. The most insalubrious district of Southampton. Here buildings were run down and shops boarded up. Pavements were busted. Everything was ugly and tainted with neglect. Even the graffiti was poor quality. Crude rather than artistic. An air of desperation hung over the area like a toxic cloud.
The pair crossed a road towards an estate of high-rise council flats. I came up behind a builder’s skip that was jutting out on to the pavement from between two empty buildings. A pile of rubble inside the skip contained bricks, chunks of wood and slabs of plasterboard. I peered more closely, looking for something to use as a weapon.
And it didn’t take me long to spot it. An iron bar poking out of the debris.
I reached up, stretched out, managed to get a purchase on the exposed end, jerking it free. The bar was about four feet long, three inches in diameter. It was hard and heavy and more than capable of cracking open a skull. Or two.
Having a weapon bolstered my confidence. Gripping it tightly in my right hand I shuffled across the road and started to close the gap. The youths hadn’t yet bothered to look behind them. I prayed that they wouldn’t choose this moment to do so. They stepped on to a path that would take them across a patch of dead grass to one of the blocks of flats. There was no one else around. I quickened my pace, then bolted towards them. They heard me when I was about six yards away and they both turned, as though sensing a threat. I was psyched up by this time, the fury in me having gathered power and momentum.
‘Who the fuck…?’
That was all one of them managed to say before I was on top of them, yelling like a maniac and flailing the bar wildly at their heads.
A crack of bone. A pitiful cry as the first blow struck one of them full in the face. The other youth ducked but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid the downward thrust of my arm. The bar made contact with the back of his skull. He let out a yelp as he fell to the ground.
I turned my attention back to the other one. He was on his feet still, but disoriented. He was holding his face in his hands and moaning. So this time I took aim at his knees and gave them an almighty wallop. The moaning turned into a full throttle scream and he keeled over.
Back to yob number two, and by now I was in my stride and eager to vent my anger and frustration on these two scumbags. A kind of madness, bred of desperation, had come over me. I whacked him across the head and neck and then shoved one end of the bar into his face.
And I didn’t let up for at least half a minute, giving neither youth time to retaliate.
Blood spattered all over the pathway. Some of it sprayed across my face and clothes.
When it became obvious that they were no longer a threat, I dropped the bar on to the ground and started going through their pockets.
It was strange, because I felt totally calm. Sure, I was hot, sweaty and gasping for breath, but at the same time I didn’t feel like I had done anything wrong. In fact I was feeling what I can only describe as a deep sense of elation.
And this feeling reached a new level when I found my phone in one of the pockets. I checked it quickly. No missed calls, thank God. I didn’t find my wallet but that had probably been dumped soon after they swiped it.
I stood up and took one last look at the youths, who were both struggling to haul up their battered bodies. I felt the urge to inflict more pain but decided there was no time. Instead, I turned and ran towards the road.
14
Ten minutes after the attack on the youths I was seized by a bad case of the shakes. I was crossing a road near the old city walls when it happened. I managed to reach the pavement and lower myself unsteadily to the kerb, where I sat hunched over with my face in my hands.
My head spun and cold sweat sprang from every pore on my face. This was a delayed reaction to what I’d done. I should have expected it, but it took me completely by surprise. It was a weird and unpleasant feeling and it was at least two full minutes before my body stilled and the sensation passed.
Then I was hit by a wave of nausea that had me retching wildly. I started sucking in great chunks of the chilled night air. It was laced with petrol fumes and salt water from the nearby docks.
Gradually I got control of my breathing and my stomach settled. I’d suffered a massive shock to the system. I’m a reporter, not a thug. I can’t smash someone’s head in with an iron bar and not experience an extreme charge of adrenaline.
But I’d got the phone back. That was the main thing and it justified my actions. At least that was the way I chose to look at it.
I zipped up the windbreaker and stood up from the kerb. My muscles were tired and sore. The swelling on my forehead had grown bigger and more painful. I felt wretched.
I walked for a bit, avoiding the main streets and fighting the burn of gastric acid in my stomach. Eventually I found myself down by the waterfront, close to the old stone walls that once protected the city of Southampton in medieval times. Now they’re proud ruins that cast huge dark shadows.
So I moved quickly from one shadow to the next, then up on to the crumbling ramparts, where I had a bird’s-eye view of the dockside roads. Ships’ horns blasted plaintively out in the docks. Someone let off a firework. Shrieking sirens continued to shatter the early hours of this cold Sunday morning.
I watched and listened and wondered how long the kidnapper would prolong the agony. What was he doing? Why couldn’t he just come and get me? After all, that was his objective – to seize me so that I was no longer a threat to his plan.
I thought about Maggie, longed for her warm body, the comfort of her voice. Would I ever again feel the soft brush of her lips against mine or the tender touch of her fingers across my brow?
Already it seemed as though an eternity had passed since I last saw her. At least we were on speaking terms when our lives were brutally disrupted. It would have been even harder to bear if we hadn’t made up when we did.
It was bad enough knowing that we had wasted a lot of time over the past few months. Things had not been right. The tension. The awkward moments. The stilted conversations. How I wished now that I had made more of an effort to get to the bottom of the problem and sort it out. Regrets. They were already piling up and stabbing at my conscience. Adding to my burden.
And what about Laura? My little angel. I would have given anything to hold her in my arms and read her a bedtime story. I’d even be happy to lay a place at the dinner table for Max.
I felt sick now with worry and dread, not knowing if I would ever see my family again. My head ached and my mind was in chaos.
I thought about Vince. My only true friend. I had lots of acquaintances. Guys I would pass the time of day with and call from time to time to see how they were doing. Former colleagues. Old school friends. But over the years I’d lost touch with all of those whose friendships I’d valued. But that’s what happens when you get married and devote yourself to family life.
Vince, though, had been ever present. Friend, business partner and confidante. It was a pity I couldn’t mourn him. He deserved that. But grief was an emotion I couldn’t indulge right now. I had to focus all my energy and all my thoughts on saving my family.
The cold had reached every part of my body and I was starting to shake again. The sea air that came in over the docks had a hard bite to it. I could feel it burning my lungs with every intake of breath. And I was still in pain. Bruises and swellings pulsed annoyingly across my head, chest and arms.
Time dragged on. The roads below me became virtually deserted. I sat huddled against a wall to try to keep warm, but the longer I waited there the colder I became.
I considered finding somewhere else to hide, somewhere warmer, but decided not to because up here on the ramparts I felt safe. No one could see me. I was invisible.
The minutes turned into an hour and I was ac
tually on the verge of falling asleep when the phone rang at last.
And this time, thankfully, Maggie’s name flashed at me when I flipped back the cover.
15
‘Joe Dessler is relatively new on the scene,’ DC Dave Brayshaw told Temple when he got back to the station. ‘He hails from Manchester and runs an escort agency that operates between Southampton and Portsmouth. He’s also a loan shark with a nasty streak. We hauled him in seven months ago after a guy claimed that Dessler beat him up because he couldn’t pay a debt. But then the victim withdrew the complaint, so nothing came of it.’
Brayshaw was sitting on the edge of Temple’s desk. Catalogue Man they called him in the nick. He was tall, lean and ruggedly good-looking, just like the male models in fashion catalogues. The ones who wear the smart suits, tight shirts and revealing Y-fronts.
‘Dessler keeps a low profile, but he’s well known to Vice,’ Brayshaw said. ‘He makes every effort to stay out of trouble. But he does have one conviction for ABH. Clobbered someone outside a club in London and did twelve months. That was back in 2000.’
‘How long has he been pimping?’
Brayshaw consulted his notes. ‘The Blue Tequila escort agency was set up about eighteen months ago. That’s when he took out his first ad in the local evening paper. He runs it as a legit business, keeps accounts and files tax returns.’
Southampton, in common with other major cities, has a thriving prostitution business, despite government attempts to curb the trade. There’s no law against so-called escort agencies so long as they don’t overtly offer sex to the punters. But once a punter hires an escort through the agency, the girl is at liberty to do whatever she wants.
‘I’ll go back to Vice,’ Brayshaw said. ‘See what else I can dig up on Dessler.’
‘You do that. And I’d like you to get the team together for a briefing as soon as I get back.’
