Know Me Now

by CJ Carver

  She hadn’t seen anything about the man that might help identify him in future. Dark eyes glittering behind a black balaclava wasn’t much to go on, nor was the man’s strength and obvious experience in handling a struggling victim.

  She looked up at her patch of sky to see a handful of stars. It would be a clear, cold night. How cold would it get in the well? It was sheltered from any wind, but she wasn’t sure about surviving for long here. She was all too aware of the rule of threes.

  Three minutes without air.

  Three days without water.

  Three weeks without food.

  It was the water that worried her. She was already thirsty and wished she’d had water instead of beer earlier. Beer was dehydrating.

  Was anyone looking for her yet? And what about Mac? She hadn’t rung him in ages. He would have called her by now and when she didn’t ring him back she was fairly sure he’d try to find out where she was. His interminable nagging about keeping in touch, to keep you safe was how he put it, was a good thing, she finally realised.

  She tried not to let fear get the upper hand. She tried to keep the ropes of self-pity from strangling her. Stop the words you are going to die here from forming in her mind, or she’d collapse into a gibbering heap.

  So she concentrated on Mac.

  Pictured him when she’d last seen him in his office, frowning at his computer screen, expression intent.

  Come on, Mac. I haven’t rung you in ages. You know something’s up. Come and find me, goddammit.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Dan tried Lucy’s phone again. Nothing. He didn’t leave another message. He’d left two already. He wanted to know how her meeting with Firecat had gone but he’d have to wait. She’d call him back when she could.

  After seeing Jenny, he’d called Philip Denton and told him about Sirius. ‘He threatened my family. I want him called off. How can I do that?’

  ‘You can’t. Once he’s undertaken a job he sees it through until the end. It would be my suggestion that you do as he tells you.’

  ‘Does Bernard know how to get in touch with him?’ If the Director General of MI5 couldn’t track Sirius down, then the world may as well go to pot.

  ‘He wouldn’t go near Sirius with a barge-pole. And I wouldn’t ask him, Dan. I don’t think he’d be particularly impressed.’

  Dan rubbed his forehead. ‘He may not be particularly impressed that he’s got a dirty pair of fingers in the firm’s pie that’s using Sirius.’

  ‘You find who it is,’ Philip said smoothly, ‘or find a direct trail, then I’ll contact Bernard and we’ll do something about it.’

  Dan hung up. He had to admit he hadn’t expected anything more but he hadn’t been able to resist trying. If Sirius couldn’t be turned or stopped, then Dan had to drop his investigation into his father’s murder to protect Jenny and the baby. Who was paying Sirius? He guessed it was the same person who’d got Joanna Loxton to follow him. Loxton was scared of him, Dan knew, but whoever had pulled her strings was scared too. Scared he might lean on Joanna Loxton and get her to confess who was behind all this.

  Once home, he showered and went to bed. He lay in the dark, mulling over his trip to Germany. His father’s visit to Isterberg Cemetery. The Mercedes following him and Didrika. Anneke’s fight in the brauhaus with his father. He wanted to visit Rafe’s old workplace in the morning, TSJ, and see if they knew anything about Project Snowbank, but he knew he shouldn’t. With Jenny refusing to hide with the children until this was over, he really ought to go to work and come home at the end of each day.

  Sirius was a critical problem. Until he was neutralised, his hands were tied. But even with Sirius out of the picture, wouldn’t someone else replace him?

  He slept fitfully without Jenny at his side. He missed her steady breathing, her scent, the way she always ended up on his side of the bed, arm over his waist, knees in the back of his, her head against his shoulder blades.

  He was awake before dawn, trying to make a plan. He’d visit Rafe, he decided. Surely Sirius wouldn’t see his visiting an old family friend on his deathbed like a threat?

  After he’d finished his first cup of coffee he texted Jenny, told her he’d be there at eleven, when visiting hours started. She responded with three large emojis. One was of a baby, one a smiley face, the last a single red rose.

  Relief flooded him. Thank God for that. He’d thought she might not speak to him for days, but it seemed she’d forgiven him. A bunch of muscles in his neck and shoulders that he hadn’t realised were tense eased downwards.

  Dan was on his second cup of coffee when Didrika Weber rang.

  ‘I can’t be long.’ Her words came fast. ‘I’m using a phone box. I shouldn’t be talking to you.’

  He didn’t waste time asking questions, simply said, ‘OK.’

  ‘The Mercedes that you say has been following you . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It belongs to Gustav Kraus.’

  Gustav? It wasn’t often he felt flummoxed but this was one of those times.

  ‘Why shouldn’t you be talking to me?’

  ‘I’ve been warned off the case.’

  His stomach turned over. ‘Me too,’ he said.

  Silence while they considered things.

  ‘Who?’ he asked her.

  ‘An officer from the Bundesnachrichtendienst.’

  His stomach flipped again, a lurch of cold fright.

  The BND for short, Germany’s top-secret spy service, the Federal Intelligence Agency. Was it the BND who’d picked up the fact he was using Michael Wilson’s passport? Or had they simply been tipped off by whoever was pulling the strings inside Britain’s security services?

  ‘Be careful,’ Dan told her.

  ‘I hate it.’ Her voice was angry.

  ‘I do too.’

  Another pause.

  ‘You know Gustav Kraus from your childhood,’ Didrika said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When I asked him why he was following you, he denied it.’

  ‘Could someone have borrowed his car?’ Dan suggested.

  ‘He says not.’

  Sophie could have driven it, Dan supposed, along with Anneke or Arne.

  ‘I think Gustav lied to me,’ she said. ‘But, of course, I can’t be sure. I’m sorry I have nothing more.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

  Unsettled, anxious, Dan called Rafe’s hospice, asking if it was OK to visit him later in the day.

  ‘I’ll just check,’ said the receptionist. ‘I’m sorry to say he’s been particularly poorly lately . . .’

  Dan thought of Sophie’s sorrow at her father’s interminable death. I find myself wishing he’d just die. Does that make me a terrible person?

  A nurse called John Adams came on the phone. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘You just missed him.’

  For a moment, Dan wondered what he was talking about – had Rafe gone somewhere? – but then he realised the nurse meant he’d missed him because he’d died.

  ‘When?’ Dan asked, more for something to say than wanting to actually know the time of his death.

  ‘Quarter past seven this morning. His daughter was with him. She flew in last night.’

  ‘I’ll call her in a moment.’

  ‘My condolences.’

  He rang Sophie but wasn’t surprised when she didn’t answer. He left a message saying how sorry he was and that he’d call her later, and please could she let him know when and where the funeral was to be because he’d like to be there.

  He was itching to go to TarnStanleyJones, where Rafe used to work in their life science wing. He wanted to know what Project Snowbank was. He wanted to know what Firecat had had to say. He tried Lucy again. Left another message.

  Dan spent the rest of the morning trying not to tear his hair out in frustration.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Lucy had managed to doze in fits and starts during the night and by the time she saw the light br
eaking across her little patch of sky, she felt physically and emotionally exhausted. She’d been in danger before, terrified for her life, but not at the same time as being damp, cold, and in pain.

  She knew she had to keep her spirits up, but all she had to do was look at where she was for her mind to drift. She’d been unable to stop herself from screaming occasionally. Panic taking over and releasing itself the only way it knew how. She’d done a lot of thinking too. Who was the man who’d snatched her? He hadn’t said a word. He’d waited for her in the car park. He’d let Murray go, but not her. Why?

  She looked up at the sky belching with slate-coloured clouds. Would it rain later? Her mouth was horribly dry. She could kill for a glass, a litre, two litres of water. Somehow, she had to get out of here. Mentally, she squared her shoulders and gave herself a pep talk even though part of her felt it was hopeless. She spent the morning desperately trying to climb out. Every movement she made sent jagged flashes of pain through her head but she didn’t stop.

  She attempted to build a ramp with the debris at the bottom of the well, but it was soft and only raised her up a couple of feet. Her fingernails became scratched and torn from scrabbling at the stone walls.

  She wondered if she’d been reported missing yet. She imagined Mac putting out an appeal for witnesses. Has anyone seen the owner of this Corsa, a woman in her mid-twenties, last seen . . .

  The fear in her heart and lungs chilled to ice at her next thought. Who knew she was going to the Fiddichside Inn last night?

  Dan, that was all. She’d never mentioned it to Grace, or to Jenny. And where was Dan? When they’d spoken he’d been in sodding custody in Germany.

  She wasn’t one to cry but right then she couldn’t help it. She bawled like a panic-stricken baby abandoned by its parents. She knew that she’d been left to die here. That if and when her bones were eventually found, people would say she’d stumbled into the well by accident and that it should have been blocked off. The floor was littered with bones. Thankfully even she could see they were remains of animals. How long would it take her to die? If they did an autopsy on her, she wondered what they’d make of her broken nose.

  After a while her sobs lessened. She leaned against the wall, breathing noisily through her mouth. Her face felt swollen to twice its normal size and her nose felt as though someone had poured acid into her sinuses.

  Fuck it, she suddenly thought. She would not die here. She refused to give the bastard who put her here the satisfaction.

  She double-checked the floor in case she could dig her way out. Solid rock. Every inch.

  She studied the hole for what felt like the thousandth time, trying to work out how to get up there. Impossible.

  ‘FUCK!’ she screamed. Her hands were clenched by her sides. Tears streamed down her face. ‘I DON’T WANT TO DIE!’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  After he’d seen Jenny and Mischa, Dan tried Lucy for the umpteenth time. Still nothing, so he called Grace.

  ‘Where’s Lucy?’ he asked. ‘She’s not answering her phone.’

  ‘She’s not with Jenny?’

  ‘What?’ He was startled. ‘Why should she be with Jenny?’

  ‘She said she was driving down last night . . . Oh God, Dan, please don’t tell me she’s not there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh God, oh God, no, no no . . .’ Her tone dissolved into panic.

  ‘Hey, Grace, take a deep breath.’

  He heard her gulp loudly. ‘Sorry. It’s been awful . . . Lucy told me Sirius visited your wife . . . and now you’re telling me Lucy’s not in Bath?’

  ‘Not that I know.’

  ‘Oh, God. Where is she? She’s not here . . . do you think she’s been in an accident? Sirius hasn’t got anything to do with it, has he?’

  Making sure he spoke calmly against the nervous pinching in his belly, he said, ‘Start from the beginning, OK?’

  In fact, Grace started from the wrong end of things, which was when she last spoke to Lucy, and it took a good five minutes of him asking questions to iron out the whole story.

  ‘So the last time you spoke to her she was still “on the hill” yesterday.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Around three o’clock.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she said she was going to see a “contact” of mine before she headed down south to Jenny to protect her from Sirius.’

  ‘Correct.’

  Dan stared at a battered sedan exiting the hospital car park.

  ‘Something’s happened to her, hasn’t it?’ Grace’s voice was scared.

  ‘Let me call DI MacDonald,’ he told her. ‘See what’s going on.’

  ‘He rang last night. He hadn’t heard from her either.’

  His nerves were now shrieking in alarm.

  ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I suggest you call the police up there and report Lucy missing. Right away.’ He looked at his watch. ‘The first thing they’ll do is check the hospital and road accident records. I have something to do this afternoon then I’ll fly up. I’ll text you when I’ve landed.’

  ‘I can’t believe he’s back.’ Her voice trembled.

  ‘You may find this odd,’ Dan said, ‘but Sirius told me he’d treated me more kindly than usual because I was a friend of yours. He, well . . . he sent his best wishes to you.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ She sounded shell-shocked. ‘He nearly broke my wrist and now he’s sending me his best wishes? Fucking hell. That is more than odd, it’s seriously messed up.’

  He’d never heard Grace swear before and fell quiet for a moment. ‘I’d better call Lucy’s DI,’ he eventually said.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She was distracted, unfocussed. ‘Keep in touch, Dan, OK?’

  He hung up and dialled Mac. He didn’t always get on with policemen – some could be thuggish and closed-minded – but Faris MacDonald was sharper than most and had a direct, professional attitude that Dan appreciated. He also gave Lucy more slack than most DI’s would, which showed he was confident in his own abilities and trusted others to do their jobs, both characteristics which Dan respected.

  ‘Dan Forrester,’ DI MacDonald greeted him. His tone was frosty.

  ‘I’m trying to reach Lucy,’ Dan said without preamble. ‘Have you heard from her today?’

  ‘No, why?’

  Dan filled him in as best he could. ‘She was supposed to meet a contact of mine last night, at the Fiddichside Inn at eighteen hundred hours. I don’t know if she made it or not.’

  As Dan considered Firecat, he wondered if his father’s and Connor’s deaths were connected in some bizarre way. The one thing they had in common was that they’d both died within two days of each other. Could they be linked?

  ‘I have something to do first,’ Dan said, ‘and then I’ll head straight to Duncaid.’

  ‘I’ll see you there.’

  Dan was about to hang up when DI MacDonald said, ‘Wait. There’s something I want to say.’ The police officer’s voice was as hard and formal as if he was cautioning Dan.

  ‘Whatever happens, if a single hair on my DC’s head is harmed I will hold you personally responsible.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Lucy had given up trying to fight her way out of the well and was huddled on one side, arms around her knees, trying to take her mind off the pain of her broken nose and swollen ankle by dreaming of Mac and when they’d first made love, on a beach with the sun blazing down.

  She’d been going out with Nate back then, and although she thought she was pretty moral (very moral, almost obsessively moral actually), she hadn’t been able to resist Mac. They’d been introduced in a car park – not the most romantic of places – but the surroundings had faded into nothing against her crazy desire to feel his mouth on hers, his hands on her bare skin.

  Before she’d met Mac she’d always snorted when couples spoke about being struck by a coup de foudre – a bolt of lightning, love at first sight – and
even now she found it hard to believe she’d experienced the same thing. He’d been seeing Chloe back then, which had made them both unfaithful, but she supposed the fact none of them had been married helped, but not much. She’d felt awful about it, and when she’d got home and Nate had wanted to make love, she’d locked herself in the loo and cried because she didn’t want Nate. She wanted Mac. She still did.

  Suddenly she saw how stubborn she’d been. How spineless. If she got out of here, she’d go to him, take his hand and lead him to her bed. And she wouldn’t let him get out of it until she’d explained why she’d put him off for so long.

  Because I’m a coward. I’m scared if you see the real me, you won’t like me anymore. And you’re now my boss.

  If it didn’t work out, then she’d have a broken heart. She wouldn’t die from it. Or would she? She’d read an article about broken heart syndrome, where people suffered heart attacks due to the emotional stress caused by a loved one leaving or dying. But she’d rather die of a broken heart than sit in this fucking hole.

  She shuffled across the well’s floor, trying to avoid the area she’d been forced to use as a loo. She shuffled back. Her hands were tucked beneath her armpits but they were like ice bricks.

  She tried to concentrate her mind on Connor’s investigation. She made a mental list of who she’d spoken to, from Lucas Finch, Connor’s art and design teacher, to Jasmine and Tim, Christopher Baird’s lab researchers, and the staff at Duncaid School. Then she switched to think about Dan’s father’s murder, because it was the shit-head whisky-glugging misogynist called Murray who’d triggered her kidnap, she was certain.

  I’ve got a fucking story to tell that’s worth a fortune, he’d said.