by Jack Fiske
“Hello?” Stephen answered at the fifth ring.
“Is that Mr Reid?” an Irish voice asked from the other end.
“That’s right,” Stephen replied, in a faltering voice.
“Listen carefully,” said the voice. “We have your daughter and grand-daughter.”
“You lousy scum!” Stephen exclaimed.
At the other end the voice stopped and the line went dead.
“Oh God!” Stephen turned to Marion with a horrified look on his face.
“Don’t worry,” Jim reassured him. “They need to speak to us. They’ll phone back.”
“But what if they don’t?”
“Well if they didn’t want to speak to us, why phone us in the first place? Trust me. They’ll definitely phone back.”
The two men returned to the scrambled eggs on toast that had been abandoned on the dining table and both picked at the food in silence, each with their own thoughts. Marion sat on the settee watching the telephone as if willing it to ring, but the minutes dragged by and still it stayed silent. Twenty minutes passed and they were all beginning to think there wouldn’t be another call, when the phone suddenly rang again, sounding unnaturally load in the silence. This time Jim answered with Stephen’s agreement.
“Who’s that?” Jim asked, having started the tape recorder again.
“Is that Mr Reid?” the Irish voice demanded.
“No, Jim Turner.”
“Let me speak to Reid,” the caller said.
“I’m sorry. Mr Reid is unwell and can’t come to the phone.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s had a bit of a shock,” Jim lied. “Stephen has a heart condition. He’s gone to lie down.”
Stephen looked at Jim and raised an eyebrow enquiringly. Jim put up a hand. A visible signal that said don’t worry; I know what I’m doing.
“Tough!” came the reply from the other end. “Never mind – you’ll do.”
“What do you want?” Jim asked more calmly than he felt, noticing as he said it that his knuckles were white where his hand gripped the side of the table.
“I’ve got a message for you,” the Irish voice said. “Just listen. No interruptions or I put the phone down.”
“O.k.” Jim agreed.
“At the other end of the phone, the receiver was put down onto a hard surface. Jim heard buttons being pressed and then the sound of Susan’s voice. “Jim, it’s me. We’re o.k. – neither of us has been hurt. I don’t know where we are but . . . .”
Susan’s voice was cut off and Jim heard the receiver being picked up again.
“We’ve got your wife and kid Turner! Don’t under ANY circumstances phone the police or they’ll suffer.”
Jim was silent.
“Are you still there?” the voice asked roughly.
“Sorry! You said no interruptions.”
There was a grunt from the other end of the phone. “Good. You’re learning fast. Remember now – no police! We’ll be in touch again tomorrow.”
“Wait!” Jim demanded – but it was too late. All he heard was a click and then silence at the other end.
Jim put the receiver down and took a deep breath. His whole body was tense. He had to consciously take a deep breath and relax. If the Irishman was in the room with him now, he would quite happily have beaten him senseless.
Stephen and Marion looked at him enquiringly. “Well?” said Stephen.
“I’ll play you the tape. They haven’t said anything other than Susan and Millie are fine and that they’ll phone us tomorrow.”
“Why the story about me being unwell?” Stephen asked.
“I was just trying to take away some of the initiative,” Jim explained. “I don’t think we should let them dictate everything from the start – not that we know what they want yet.”
In a strange way, the phone call had come as a relief to all of them. At least they knew now what had happened to Susan and Millie and more importantly, that neither of them was hurt. Susan’s message had obviously been on tape, but by the sound of her voice, she was bearing up well. The thing that worried Jim most was how Millie would cope, but he tried to put that thought from his mind. At present he couldn’t do anything about the situation, but he promised himself that as soon as he could, whoever was behind this would pay dearly.
Jim played the tape over three or four times for Stephen and Marion’s benefit as much as his own, before Stephen suggested that they go to bed and try to get some sleep. The fact that Susan and Millie were not hurt had put their worst fears to rest. If the kidnappers were to be believed, they would phone again in the morning and things would start to happen.
Marion had made up a bed for Jim in the spare room and had put out fresh towels, with the suggestion that he have a soak in the bath and try to unwind. Stephen and Marion’s bedroom had a large en-suite bathroom and they had retired to do the same, so Jim was now stretched out in a hot bath, while Wolf lay on the bathroom floor watching him, his head resting on two front paws. Jim ran over the events of the day, hoping to make some sense of them but without really getting anywhere. Why would anyone kidnap Susan? What did the kidnappers want? The most worrying aspect by far was the Irish accent. Why was an Irishman involved? Was there a link with his past and if so, who did the Irishman represent? Had there been a note of sarcasm when the Irishman called him ‘Turner’ on the phone, or was that just his imagination?
Wolf stirred from his position beneath the sink and came over to lick Jim’s knee over the side of the bath in a gesture of support. He knew there was something wrong. Jim stroked his head absently as he tried unsuccessfully to come up with a plan of action.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright in the bath, looking at the hand that lay on Wolf’s head. On the back of it there was still a string of letters and numbers written in faint blue biro – the registration number of the black Volvo that had followed him earlier in the day. Jim cursed himself for forgetting the obvious and checked his watch, which lay on the bathroom floor. Too late to do anything about it now, but first thing in the morning a couple of phone calls might give him something to go on. Resigning himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do this evening, he decided he should try to get some sleep. As a result, no more than ten minutes later he had dried himself, made a proper note of the Volvo’s registration number on a piece of paper and had climbed into one of the single beds in the spare room. He reached over to switch off the bedside light, turned over to get comfortable and felt a breath of warm air on his face.
“Go to bed,” he said, putting out a hand to feel for Wolf in the dark. Wolf grunted and a large weight landed on the bed beside him, turned around twice and settled against his back. Jim thought of sending him back to his own bed, but then decided that he could probably do with the company as much as Wolf, so he turned over and put an arm around the dog as the two of them went to sleep.
It was 6.30 in the morning and Jim was wide awake, staring up at the ceiling as the sun shone through the curtains that he hadn’t properly drawn the night before. Wolf was awake and had at some point in the night gone back to his own bed in the corner of the room. Finally, hearing the sounds of movement and running taps, Jim decided it was safe to get up without waking his in-laws and climbed out of bed.
Stephen and Marion were early risers and before long, all three were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating toast.
Jim decided he wouldn’t mention the registration number unless something came of it. He still had contacts in MI5 and was sure that one of them would help – unofficially. If necessary, he could go through the proper channels, but he would prefer not to.
“You’re very quiet,” Marion said, putting a hand on his.
“Just thinking,” Jim replied. “I’m going to take the dogs for a walk if that’s o.k. There’s no point in sitting brooding. I don’t think they’ll call this early, but if the phone rings switch the tape recorder on before you answer it.”
Fifteen mi
nutes in the Land Rover took Jim and the two dogs to a quiet spot in the woods, where he managed to switch off for a while as the dogs ran through the undergrowth and he plodded along behind . A circular route brought them back to the car just after 9.00 a.m. and Jim let the dogs wander about as he sat down and took out his mobile phone.
Archie Long was a good friend as well as an old colleague. The two of them had worked on a number of intelligence operations together and when Jim had left to be “relocated”, Archie had moved onwards and upwards in the service. With an enforced change of identity, Jim had lost most of his old friends, with the exception of Archie and one or two like him. It was of course difficult to meet up, but Jim and Archie did still speak by phone and still sent each other a card at Christmas.
Jim decided to be honest. He knew Archie well enough to be sure that he could rely on him. After the predictable delay at the switchboard, he was eventually put through and when he picked up the phone Archie sounded genuinely pleased to hear him. Halfway through the usual pleasantries, Archie interrupted to ask if he could phone him back in five minutes – the usual way to let Jim know that calls on that line were recorded. Jim’s phone rang again almost immediately and the next fifteen minutes were spent giving Archie a full account of the situation and asking whether he would help.
Archie sucked in his breath. “Of course I’ll help,” he said in an aggrieved tone. “You should take that for granted. But why keep it unofficial? The department could do a lot more than just me on my own you know.”
“I know,” Jim said, “but it’s not your wife and daughter is it. If the roles were reversed, I’d say the same to you, but you wouldn’t want the risk of involving the department any more than I do.”
“Well it’s your call,” Archie conceded. “Give me an hour and I’ll phone you back with anything that I can get on the car for you.”
Jim put his mobile away, satisfied that Archie would get back to him as soon as he could and called the two dogs to get them back in the car.
As he approached Ringwood, Jim phoned the office and told them he wouldn’t be in for the rest of the day. One advantage of being the M.D.’s son-in-law meant he wasn’t really accountable to anyone. To all intents and purposes, he would be working from home, leaving him free to follow up on any information that Archie could come up with.
Half a mile from Stephen and Marion’s, Jim turned into the local petrol station. He’d promised to bring a pint of milk back with him and the Land Rover could also do with some diesel.
After filling up, he pulled over to the far side of the forecourt to leave the pump free and walked over to the shop which, like most petrol stations nowadays, seemed to stock just about everything. As he passed the last pump, a surge of adrenalin ran through his veins and his heart missed a beat at the sight of a middle aged man in dark sweatshirt and black trousers taking the filler cap off a blue Fiat. Jim forced himself to look ahead and keep walking whilst he tried to think. He’d seen the same face twenty four hours earlier in the woods at the back of his garden and he couldn’t believe it was pure coincidence that the man was now filling up at the same petrol station as he was. He continued calmly into the shop and circled the shelves of sweets, bread rolls and tinned food, giving a good impression that he was looking for something, but in reality trying to get a better view of the man outside. Having managed a good look, Jim stopped in front of the chilled food cabinet running alternatives through his mind. His instinct was to corner the stranger and demand answers, but experience had taught him that following your instinct was usually a bad move. Jim was certainly bigger and possibly fitter than the stranger and if it came to it, he was sure that he could overpower him. But what would that achieve? There was nothing to suggest the man was involved in Susan and Millie’s kidnapping, or that he was up to no good in the woods. If Jim were to jump him outside the shop it would achieve nothing. In fact worse than nothing. The stranger had no reason to believe that Jim had ever seen him before and that gave Jim the edge. If the stranger was following him, or watching the house, then maybe he could turn that fact to his advantage.
Having decided what to do, Jim picked up two cartons of milk and walked to the tills, noticing as he did so that the stranger had finished at the pump and was coming into the shop. Glancing at the girl behind the till, Jim patted his pockets as if searching for something then, placing the milk on the counter, he apologised to her for the fact that he’d left his wallet in the car. On his way out, Jim passed the stranger coming in and tried not to make eye contact or do anything out of the ordinary. What he did though was to make a mental note of the man’s description – about five foot eight or nine, say twelve stone, dark hair receding very slightly at the front, brown eyes, perhaps forty years old – then he was back at the car. He pulled a pen and paper from the glove box and resting on the passenger seat, where no one could see him, he quickly made a note of the make, model and registration number of the stranger’s car, before hurrying back to the shop. As he’d hoped, he arrived behind the stranger at the till as the girl passed a credit card slip across for signature. It was too much to hope that he might read the name on the card from this distance, but he mentally added a note that the man was married, or at least he wore a wedding ring, before he had an unexpected bonus as the girl at the till said, “Thank you very much Mr O’Hara,” as she handed him his card and receipt.
That’s the last time I’ll moan about that. Jim thought. The practice of large organisations training their staff to pick up a customer’s name from their credit card or cheque and then to use it had always mildly annoyed him, but he was grateful for it today.
O’Hara pocketed his card and left without a glance at Jim, who stepped forward to pay for his milk and tank of diesel. By the time he made his way back to the car, there was no trace of O’Hara at all. Jim slid behind the wheel of the Landrover, let the engine idle for a moment as he fastened his seat belt and then pulled away and out onto the main road. Although tempted to stop and write down his mental notes before he forgot them, Jim forced himself to wait until he got back to Stephen and Marion’s in case he was being observed. Parked in the driveway, he recovered his piece of paper from beneath the passenger seat where he had hurriedly placed it and added a description of O’Hara to the car details that he already had. Then, pulling out his mobile phone, Jim dialled Archie Long although this time on the mobile number that Archie had given him earlier.
“Archie!” Jim said, when he answered. “Are you free to speak?”
“I am Jim, but good grief man, give me a chance. I haven’t managed to get anything yet.”
“No, I know you haven’t,” Jim apologised. “I’ve got something else though and I need you to check on it.”
“What?”
“I need another car traced Archie. The guy who was casing the back of the house. I’ve just seen him in a petrol station about ten minutes ago. I’m sure it’s not just coincidence.”
Jim relayed what information he had and Archie promised to get onto it straight away.
“Probably just as well that I hadn’t got anything on the first number,” Archie said. “Less questions at my end if I do it all at once.”
“Thanks Archie, I really appreciate it.” Jim knew that Archie was breaking the rules to get information that wasn’t subject to an official enquiry and that he would have major trouble if anyone found out.
“No problem,” Archie assured him. “I’ll phone you back as soon as I can.”
Jim disconnected the call and retrieved the milk from the back of the car, where he’d wedged it behind the driver’s seat, then went to ring the front doorbell. Stephen had offered him a key, but he’d refused. He never felt comfortable letting himself in to someone else’s house, even if it was his parents-in-law. Marion came to let him in and took the milk gratefully as he took his boots off.
“Any phone calls?” Jim asked.
“No, nothing.”
He checked his watch. “Not to worry. It’s still only n
ine thirty-five we shouldn’t get worried yet. That’s probably what the kidnappers want – wind us up a bit, so we’re more likely to agree to what they want when they do phone”.
It was over an hour later before the phone rang and then it was Jim’s mobile. He glanced at the display and saw that it was Archie.
“Hi Archie, what have you got?”
“Nothing on one, but bad news on the other I’m afraid.”
“Go on.”
“Well the black Volvo is a dead end. It was reported stolen in Southampton four days ago. The guy who owns it is a supermarket manager and he checks out. I wouldn’t think he’s involved in any way. The police report says it was stolen from the supermarket where he works last Thursday and there has been no trace of it since.”
“What about the other?” Jim asked.
“Well, that’s the bad news. The Fiat is a hire car and was rented in Liverpool at the start of last week. The i.d. that was provided when it was rented was in the name of Michael O’Hara and we’re pretty sure that’s his real name. The department has a file on him, but it’s fairly thin. The man’s with the IRA, although nothing has ever been pinned on him. We’re pretty sure he’s still active. Back in the mid 80’s there was an officer killed at a checkpoint near Newry by someone with a sniper rifle from half a mile away. An incredible shot by all accounts. O’Hara was picked up in the area an hour later, but there was no evidence to pin it on him and the army had to let him go. There are also a couple of reports in his file that intelligence has linked him more recently to senior figures in Sinn Fein, but nothing more than that.”
“What do you think they’re after?” Jim asked.
“Jim, you need to be careful,” Archie replied. “I know you want to keep this under wraps, but I’ve had a word with Scott and we think they’re setting up a hit.”
Jim frowned. He would have preferred that no one else knew about the situation, but then he knew Scott Brown pretty well and he couldn’t really fault Archie’s choice of someone to confide in.
“Have you heard anything else from them?” Archie asked.
