by Jo Bannister
The Shore Road began to veer inland. She passed the signs for Bognor, Selsey and Chichester. She checked the mirror repeatedly, but if anyone was following her they were doing it well. The phone stayed resolutely silent.
When it finally rang, somewhere between Chichester and Hayling Island, Brodie jumped so hard she hit the seatbelt.
She let it ring while she pulled over. It was in no one’s interests that she wreck the car at this point. “Yes?”
“Who are you?” It was a woman’s voice. No particular accent, certainly not a French one.
“Brodie Farrell. I’m acting for David Ibbotsen.”
“About time, too,” said the woman shortly. “You know who I am?”
“No. But I know what you want.”
“Have you got it?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes. I checked.”
“Good,” said the woman. “Finally we’re getting somewhere.”
“Tell me where to go.”
She did as she was told - exactly as she was told, including not phoning Chandlers to pass on the directions. Not that anyone had asked her to. At long last all those involved were agreed that the time had come to get Sophie home.
The route she was given took Brodie inland. Every few miles another call redirected her. In the darkness she drove up country lanes overhung with trees and through fly-speck villages clinging to the edge of the South Downs. She knew where she was to within three or four miles, but after the third phonecall knew she’d never be able to retrace the route exactly. When she had Sophie - if she got Sophie - she’d have to keep driving until she picked up a sign.
People whose knowledge of the South Coast is limited to Brighton, Portsmouth and Southampton always think it’s more densely populated than in fact it is. A lot of the towns are quite small, and five miles inland are stretches of not very much at all. It wasn’t necessary to send Brodie off into the West Country in order to get her lost. An hour’s reconnaissance had given the kidnappers everything they needed, including somewhere for the exchange to take place.
The phone rang again. “There’s a crossroads up ahead. Wait there.”
There wasn’t even a signpost, and no other vehicle in sight. Brodie pulled over, switched down to sidelights and waited.
After five minutes someone tapped on her window and she hit the seatbelt again.
It was the nearside window. She lowered it enough for voices but not hands to pass through. She could see the figure outside but not a face or any other distinguishing feature. A man’s voice said, “Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
Brodie hesitated. If they chose to break the car window, take it from her and vanish without leaving the child in its place, she couldn’t stop them. All she could do was make it awkward. She lifted the suitcase onto her knee and opened it.
“I can’t see.”
She switched on the car’s interior light. The bulb was brilliant against the night, diminishing further her chances of seeing clearly the man she was talking to. She let her hand hover over the bundles. “Which one?”
“That one.”
She picked it up and opened it, fanning it like playing cards. Then she put it back and closed the case. “The child.”
He had no instructions to wrestle the money from her. “Turn left. Drive a quarter of a mile till you see a forest park sign. There’s a track on the left: drive up there. Wait at the footbridge and someone’ll meet you.”
Brodie took a deep, unsteady breath. She didn’t want them to think she was making difficulties but she had to be careful. They’d expect that. “I’m going to lock the money in the boot now. I won’t get it out again until I’ve seen Sophie.”
“All right. Drive to the footbridge and wait.”
She drove on a hundred metres before stopping the car to do as she’d said. They could force the boot and get the money without her co-operation if they had to, but it would take longer than smashing the window.
The sign loomed out of the darkness and Brodie followed it. Through the crack of the window came the sound of water; a moment later her headlights caught the rustic filigree of a footbridge springing across a deep ravine. She stopped the car beside it. At intervals she had to remember to breathe.
A minute passed. Then the wooden bridge creaked, and by degrees a solid form coalesced out of the darkness at the limit of Brodie’s vision. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, only that it wasn’t a child. It advanced to the apex of the bridge’s curve and stopped there.
Brodie waited, breath abated, heart hammering in the cage of her ribs.
A woman’s voice was raised over the clamour of the sunken river. “Get out of the car and come up here.”
Slowly Brodie did as she was bid. She didn’t think they meant to hurt her: as long as she did as they said it wasn’t in their interests. But she wasn’t taking any unnecessary risks. She stepped onto the bridge but stopped well short of the waiting figure.
“Closer,” said the woman. “You won’t be able to see from there.”
“See what?”
“Come closer.”
But Brodie wouldn’t step within snatching range. The keys to the car were in her pocket: if they grabbed her now they could have both the money and the child. The bridge could be a trap: they only had to block each end to make her captive.
But no one grabbed for her and no one emerged from the darkness to block her retreat. The woman spread her arms in a not wholly convincing gesture of goodwill and stepped back.
Brodie took her place at the highest point of the bridge. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“The rope.”
It was thick and strong, and tied loosely around the handrail. Confused, Brodie followed it with her torch. Down at her feet it was tied, much more firmly, in a complex knot around one of the heavy trestles. Taut then, it went down another two metres. Brodie started to say, “I don’t see …” and then she did.
The rope held a cage suspended above the stony torrent. It might have been a travelling crate for a big dog. Through the slats as she moved the torch around she could see something curled on the floor, wrapped in shiny red fabric. It wasn’t a dog. It might have been a child bundled up in a sleeping-bag.
Brodie battened down all the rage that might have clouded her judgement and turned towards the other woman. “Sophie?”
“Sophie.” The woman had a knitted hat pulled down over her head while a scarf inside the upturned collar of her coat masked the lower part of her face. Brodie knew she could meet her in broad daylight tomorrow and never know.
“She’s dead.”
“Of course she isn’t dead.” She put out her hand. “Give me the keys.”
“Not till I know she’s alive.”
“I could take them.”
Brodie had them in her hand, held out over the ravine. “Not as quickly as I can drop them. It would take you all night finding them, and you haven’t that much time. If they don’t hear from me soon the Ibbotsens will call the police.”
She could almost hear the woman thinking. How soon? She wouldn’t risk compromising the exchange with success so close. But every minute increased the danger. She had to get the money and leave the area before any search could begin.
“All right,” said the woman tersely. “You can talk to her, in a minute. First I want you to understand the situation. The rope’s tied in a slip-knot: it won’t free itself, but one good yank and she drops like a stone. I doubt she’d survive the fall; even if she did, she’d drown before you could get to her. All right? You understand that?”
Brodie nodded fractionally. “I understand.”
“Good. Now, while I’m standing by this rope I have her life in my hands. When I walk away, you have. If you can’t pull her up she’ll be perfectly safe until you can get help.
“In a minute, when you’re satisfied she’s alive, you’re going to fetch the briefcase from the car.
You’re going to open it and show me the money, then put it down beside you. Then I’m going to leave the rope, walk past you, pick up the money and leave. You’ll stay on the bridge for five minutes. Then you can go for help, phone for help, anything you like. It’s over.”
“All right,” said Brodie.
The woman regarded her keenly. “Don’t think you can grab the child and come after the money. It’ll take you minutes to pull her up even if you can do it alone, and by then we’ll be gone. But if you leave the bridge before then, the last thing you’ll hear will be the first barrel of a double-barrelled shotgun. The last thing Sophie’ll hear will be the second barrel.”
“I’ve no intentions of doing anything heroic,” gritted Brodie. “I’m not here to make this harder, I’m here to get it done. How do I talk to Sophie?”
“Loudly,” said the woman. “She’s sedated - nothing heavy, just so she’s too sleepy to be scared. Call her name, she should hear you.”
Directing the torch once more through the bars of the crate, Brodie leaned over the handrail and raised her voice. “Sophie? Sophie! Your daddy sent me to fetch you. Are you all right? Sophie, tell me you’re all right.”
For the longest time there was no response of any kind. From thinking the drama was as good as over, Brodie was beginning to fear that the situation had taken the worst possible turn.
Then the faintest movement of the red nylon maggot on the floor of the crate indicated the presence of life. With a surge of hope Brodie redoubled her efforts, shouting the child’s name as if she were on the far side of a football pitch. Finally she was rewarded by the emergence of a blonde head from the sleeping-bag. The new haircut and bleary expression made her unrecognisable from the little girl in the video, but she was about the right age and Brodie needed only a little reassurance to believe it was the right child.
“Are you all right?” she asked, dropping her voice a little now she had the girl’s attention. “Has anybody hurt you?”
“’M cold,” the child mumbled plaintively. “Wanna go home.”
“What’s your name?”
Learned by rote, it came out parrot-fashion. “Sophie Ibbotsen, Chandlers, Firestone Cliff, Dimmock,” David’s daughter chanted sleepily. “Can we go home now?”
“Yes, we can.” Brodie no longer had any doubts. It was exactly how Paddy would have responded, drummed into her at the same time as not talking to strangers and asking to go to the bathroom before it was too late.
She turned to the woman and nodded. “I’ll fetch the money.”
From there it proceeded as planned, the transaction completed within a couple of minutes. The woman took the suitcase, crossed the bridge and disappeared into the trees. The sound of a car engine, a wash of headlights through the branches and they were gone, leaving her alone with the ransomed child.
Who was still dangling above a river on the end of a rope.
The first thing Brodie did was to take the loose end and tie it very tightly to a sturdy piece of the bridge. Then she took a moment to think.
Unsure where she was, she could call for help but not direct it here - it could be some time before anyone would find her. And now the child was awake, and she was cold and she was going to get frightened.
She was a year older than Paddy, heavier but perhaps not that much heavier. The crate was designed for transporting animals, for which it needed to be strong but lightweight. Brodie was no fitness freak, found her everyday life energetic enough that she didn’t feel the need to pump iron as well; but she’d always thought of herself as strong enough for most eventualities. If it had been Paddy on the end of that rope she’d have got her up somehow. Somehow, she would do as much for David’s daughter. She gripped the rope and began to haul.
It was harder than she expected, and took longer, and because of that she had to dig deeper into her reserves of strength and fortitude and sheer determination than she would have believed they stretched. But she kept hauling and resting, hauling and resting, and ignored the broken fingernails and the bloody palms where the rope got away from her for a moment and went through like sandpaper, and after a little while she could see the child’s face, white between the bars, watching in fear. Lacking the breath to call encouragement Brodie nodded a greeting and kept hauling until the crate jammed against the handrail and would come no further. Brodie tied the rope to hold it there.
She waited another minute till her heart stopped thundering and her lungs slowed, then she swung a long leg over the rail and leaned down until she could reach the door of the crate. She just had time to think, If it’s padlocked we’re stymied, before her fingers found a plastic clip. She opened the door carefully and reached inside.
Then Sophie Ibbotsen was in her hands, and a moment later she’d swung her up and over the rail and was kneeling on the damp timber, hugging her - sleeping-bag and all - to the warmth of her body, sobbing into the sharp new haircut with exhaustion and relief and happiness.
When she had her breath back she carried Sophie to the car. The child was asleep again before she got the door closed.
There was one thing more she had to do - well, two, but one more important than the other. She took out her mobile phone and dialled Marie Soubriet’s number. Only when she’d finished reassuring Sophie’s mother, laughing and crying with her often at the same time, did she call Chandlers.
Chapter 20
She had to keep saying it again, to all three of them. Obviously they were passing the phone between them, and every new voice began, “Is she really all right?”
“Yes,” said Brodie, again and again, “she’s fine. She’s a little sleepy. They gave her something so she’d doze through the scary bits. Talk to her. Just don’t be alarmed if she nods off mid-sentence.”
She gave Sophie the phone. The child said, “Hi, Daddy,” as if she hadn’t seen him since lunchtime, and yawned, and fell asleep curled round it, ignoring the increasingly agitated questioning.
Brodie sighed and extricated the mobile from the little girl’s grasp. “She’s gone back to sleep. It’s the best thing. With any luck I’ll have her home before she wakes up again.”
“But she is all right?” It was Lance Ibbotsen. “She doesn’t need a doctor?”
“I’m as sure as I can be that she’s fine. But if you want your medical adviser to give her the once-over, I’ll be with you in about an hour.”
David this time: “We’ll come and meet you.”
“Don’t do that. I’m not sure where I am, we’d end up missing one another on the road. David, she’s fine, and she’s coming home. We’ll be there in an hour.”
The sitting room at Chandlers was a tip. Every surface was covered with cups half-full of cold coffee. As if waking from a trance the three men looked around them, seeming almost puzzled to find themselves there. David made a vague effort to tidy up, but didn’t keep at it long enough to achieve anything.
“I suppose - Mrs Handcock - in the morning?” He lifted one shoulder in half a shrug and sat down again, unable to organise a coherent sentence let alone an archaeological excavation.
Lance Ibbotsen rumbled, “She didn’t say anything about the money.”
David just looked at him. “It’s gone, Dad. That’s why Sophie’s on her way home. That’s what it bought. I’m sorry. I will pay you back. It may take a little time.”
The old man dismissed that with an irritable gesture. “That’s not necessary. It’s not about the money; it never was. It’s about stopping people seeing us as an easy mark.” He stood up stiffly, easing painful limbs. “I’ll call the police.”
David stared at him. “You can’t.”
Ibbotsen frowned. “Why not? Sophie’s safe.”
“Yes. But we’re not.”
Daniel moistened dry lips. “He means, if you report this, Detective Inspector Deacon’s going to charge you with attempted murder.”
There was a long silence. Then: “Only if you tell him to. Which is, of course, your right. No one would blame
you for wanting your pound of flesh now.”
Daniel lurched to his feet, padding unhappily round the room. He ended up at the window. The curtains were open but the view was limited to a couple of metres of garden; beyond that was blackness. The night was easier on his soul than this room.
He rested his brow against the cool glass. “Damn you, Mr Ibbotsen,” he said, his voice low. “This is not my fault. None of this was my doing. How dare you blame me for the consequences?”
“He’s right,” growled David. “He isn’t responsible for what happened to us. We are responsible for what happened to him.”
Ibbotsen’s look set hooks in Daniel’s back. “It could end here. All he has to do is keep his mouth shut.”
Goaded by his tone, Daniel spun to face him. His eyes burned. “Why don’t you offer me some money, Mr Ibbotsen?”
The old man thought about it. But he’d learned that lesson at least. “Because you’d spit in my face.”
Daniel gave a wild little laugh. “Well, at least we’ve got that straight. Now let’s see if we can make the next great leap of understanding.
“Nothing I say or don’t say will make any difference. If you tell the police about the kidnapping, no power on earth will stop Jack Deacon from realising that your granddaughter is the same Sophie I was questioned about. That I was tortured and shot because of. Ten minutes after you make that call he’ll be on your doorstep, and he won’t be one bit interested in getting your money back for you.”
Ibbotsen’s eyes were glacial with comprehension. “You could lie.”
Daniel could have said, “Deacon would know better.” He could have said, “Why should I lie for you?” He could even have said, “I want to see you pay.” Instead he said, “I don’t lie.” Just that, a bare statement of fact that left Ibbotsen staring at him more in bewilderment than anger.
David stepped quietly between them. He turned his back on his father. “What if we don’t call the police? Will you?”
Daniel felt the weight of their hopes as a physical burden, crushingly heavy. “I don’t know.”
