“Sorry.”
She squeezed my hand. “It all worked out for the best in the end. If you had answered…or if Jess had passed on my message a little more promptly…you’d have persuaded me to stay in the hotel. And where would your father be then?”
Six feet under, I thought. There’s a limit to how much punishment anyone can take, and MacKenzie’s frustration would have killed him eventually. He’s a good old boy, my Dad—a tough old boy—but he’s lucky one of his ribs didn’t snap completely and puncture a lung. I asked my mother why she hadn’t called the police, instead of going to the rescue herself, and she said it would have required too much explanation.
“Did you get the vigilante lecture?” I asked her.
She shook her head with a twinkle in her eyes. “I burst into tears and said how foolish I’d been…but then I’m not as bullheaded as you and your father.”
In fact, despite a gut-feeling that Dad was in trouble, she was more inclined to think there was a rational explanation for the phones not being answered. As I had done, she wondered if he’d gone out for food or was refusing to answer because he’d instructed her not to contact him.
“I expected to have my head bitten off for meddling,” she admitted, “but I couldn’t let the nonsense go on. You must have known he’d do something silly when you refused to talk to him. There isn’t a cut-off point when a man like your father stops trying to prove himself, Connie…any more than there is for you. I wish you’d learn that caring what others think is a form of slavery.”
Her safety net in the event of trouble—a little simplistic as things turned out—was to ask the taxi driver to wait while she went inside for his money. As he wouldn’t leave until she paid him, she must either return with her wallet or force him to come knocking on the door. “I was as naïve as your father,” she said. “I should have realized the driver wouldn’t care who handed over the money as long as he got it.”
MacKenzie must have been watching from the window because he was waiting behind the front door when Mum opened it. As soon as she was over the threshhold with her suitcase, he slammed it shut and had her mouth and hands bound with duct tape before she even reached the sitting-room. When the knocking began and an angry voice demanded payment, he calmly bundled her out of sight, took her wallet from her bag and paid up. “He’s not stupid,” she said reluctantly. “Most people would have panicked.”
“Did you?” I asked her.
“I did when I saw your father. He looked terrible—face all bruised and misshapen—body curled into a ball to protect himself. He started crying when MacKenzie threw me on the carpet beside him.” She shook her head. “That’s the only time I felt I shouldn’t have gone back. Poor love. He was devastated. He’d tried so hard to protect me…and there I was.”
She had no qualms about bargaining my address against their lives. “It would have been madness to do anything else,” she said. “While there’s life there’s hope, and I knew you’d worry if you couldn’t get me at the hotel. I prayed you’d phone that policeman friend of yours in Manchester. Your father was unhappy about it…but”—she squeezed my hand again—“I was sure you’d understand.”
I did. I do. Whatever nightmares I still have would be a thousand times worse if I were carrying my parents’ deaths on my conscience. My mother believes my father’s “unhappiness” related entirely to his fears for me, but his concerns were rather more practical. He was appalled at her naïve assumption that a man like MacKenzie would honour a promise to leave them alive if she gave him the information he wanted.
He tried to dissuade her, but his dislocated jaw had seized the muscles in his face, making speaking difficult. To stop any further attempts, MacKenzie muzzled him completely by winding several turns of duct tape round his head. The ironic upside was that, with his jaw supported, my father’s pain lessened, and he survived the next twelve hours in considerably more comfort than he would otherwise have done. The downside was that it increased my mother’s concern for him, thereby encouraging compliance.
“Weren’t you worried that MacKenzie would kill you anyway?” I asked her.
“Of course…but what could I do? He threatened to strangle your father in front of me if I refused. At least there were slivers of hope if I betrayed you…none at all if I betrayed Brian.” A small crease of doubt furrowed her brow. “You do see that, don’t you, darling? It was a card game…and you were my only trump. I had to use you.”
I didn’t know how to answer. Absolutely…? Don’t worry about it…? I’d have done the same…? They were all just anodyne forms of words that meant nothing if she didn’t believe them. “Thank God you had enough faith in me,” I said bluntly. “Dad wouldn’t have done. He still thinks of me as a little girl in pigtails who screams every time she finds a spider in the shower.”
“Only because he loves you.”
“I know.” We exchanged smiles. “He was very brave, Mum. Is his tail wagging now? It damn well ought to be.”
Her smile played around her eyes. “You’re so alike, you two. You both assume the only way to win is to show no weakness. You should have played bridge with Geraldine Summers. I’ve never known anyone conjure so many triumphs out of hands that contained nothing.”
“By bluffing? Is that what you did with MacKenzie?”
“I couldn’t do anything until he removed my gag because he wanted the password to your father’s laptop. Before that, he went through my suitcase. I told him he wouldn’t find your address in the computer, but I suggested he read the email you sent to Alan Collins. I hoped he’d realize how pointless it would be to kill any of us.”
“What did he say?”
“That you’d chosen a good parallel in the story of the death-ray and the Chinaman. The only point of killing was to gain from it. He wasn’t very talkative—I doubt he spoke more than twenty sentences from the moment I arrived—and he became extremely agitated when I asked what he gained from killing. That’s when he said he’d strangle your father if I didn’t tell him what he wanted…and the gain would be the look on both our faces when it happened.” She shook her head. “And I’m sure he was telling the truth…I’m sure that’s why he does it.”
I felt a shiver of goosebumps on my arms. “Then why didn’t he go ahead with it?”
“Because your address was my trump card, darling. Supposing I was lying? He had no way of checking unless he phoned you—which would have alerted you—so I persuaded him to take me along as security. It was the only bargaining chip I had…and it meant your father and I stayed alive for a few more hours. I felt I’d won the trick when he produced the car keys and demanded to know where the car was parked.” She laughed suddenly. “Poor Brian! I don’t know which offended him more…my pandering to the brute or the brute driving his precious BMW.”
“You know damn well,” I said severely. “He was worried sick for you.”
Again, my father never speaks about the hours he lay on the sitting-room floor, except to say that his lowest moment was when I left my message and he couldn’t answer. I know he imagined the worst—we all do when situations are outside our control—but it wasn’t until the police broke into the flat in the early hours that the search began for my mother. She doesn’t dwell on those hours either, several of which were spent in the BMW’s boot, but her cramps were so severe by the time she was found that she had to be given morphine before her back and legs could be straightened out.
“It’s only when the bidding starts that you realize how many cards you have,” she went on. “The wretched man had to free me to walk to the car, and my price for not attempting to escape or draw attention to myself was that we left your father alive. If he could have put me in the boot immediately, I’m sure he’d have gone back to finish Dad off, but”—another laugh—“I’ve never been so glad of street parking before. You can’t mistreat women with half of Kentish Town watching.”
There wasn’t much else she could tell. She recalled MacKenzie tucking my father’s mo
bile and binoculars, together with their two wallets, into a canvas knapsack, which he tossed on to the back seat of the BMW. Then he taped her hands and feet again and told her he was going to move her to the boot as soon as they were clear of built-up areas. He warned her to keep her mouth shut until he did or he’d tie her up so tight she wouldn’t be able to breathe, but it wasn’t until they’d passed the Fleet service station on the M3 that he left the motorway and made the transfer on a quiet country road.
He must have rejoined the motorway because my mother remembered constant traffic noise but, as happened to me in the cellar, she quickly lost track of time. She remembered one other stop of about ten minutes, which was probably when he sent me the text, and her last contact with him was five minutes after the engine died for good. She’d been in darkness for so long that, when the boot suddenly opened, she had to close her eyes against the daylight.
“He apologized,” she said. “It was very strange.”
“For shutting you in?”
“No. For the fact that, if I’d given him the right address, he was going to come back and burn the car with me in it.” She gave a muted laugh. “I presume he wanted me to panic but, you know, I was so tired by then I fell asleep…and the next thing I knew, the alarm was going like the clappers, and a rather jolly policeman was wrenching the boot open with a crowbar.”
It was all lies. She couldn’t possibly have slept with the level of cramp she had when she was found, any more than my father could have passed “a halfway reasonable night.”
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
Sun 22/08/04 17:18
To:
[email protected]
Subject:
MacKenzie
Of course I’m upset that you didn’t tell me at the time. I’m not made of stone, Connie.
* * *
What did you think I was going to do? Invoke your contract and force you to write the story with all the salacious details? Write it myself? Sell you to the highest bidder? I thought we trusted each other, C. I thought we loved each other…but maybe that was all on my side. Jesus! I’m not some fly-by-night. When have I ever not been there for you?
OK, I’ve calmed down a bit. I wrote that first paragraph three hours ago after reading your email. Now I’ve had some time to think. I realize I’m being unfair. I’ve decided not to delete the para because I want you to know that I am hurt. I wouldn’t have done anything differently if you’d told me the truth…except perhaps protect you a little harder. Reading between the lines, I wonder if that’s what you were afraid of? I’m sure it’s no accident that the only person you felt you could trust in the last few months was a woman.
The newswires are short on detail. They’re all naming MacKenzie and describing him as extremely dangerous and wanted for questioning re abduction and murder in the UK, Sierra Leone and Baghdad. But there appears to be a blackout where you’re concerned. Is this at your request? Or is it something the police have imposed because you’re still being questioned?
An answer ASAP would be helpful, as I’m already fielding questions re my piece on the Baycombe Group which named MacKenzie/O’Connell re passport fraud. How little/much should I say? Do you want it known that MacKenzie held you in the cellar? Or have you asked for anonymity under UK rape legislation?
AAGH! I can’t believe what a tosser I was. I keep remembering that I told you to play-act some tears and milk the sympathy vote. I am SO sorry, C. Will you see me if I come to England? Or have I burnt my boats? I’m due some time off.
Love, Dan.
PS. Sorry to be the journalist but do you have any updates on MacKenzie? Have there been any sightings, or do they think he’s fled the country?
20
“WHAT’S THE SECOND REASON?” Inspector Bagley asked, after reminding me that I’d said a man wouldn’t understand why I was so calm. “You said, ‘In the first place, my parents aren’t dead.’ What comes next?”
“Jess and Peter?” I suggested. “I wouldn’t be remotely calm if anything had happened to them.”
“No one would. Why should a man have trouble understanding that?”
“He wouldn’t. It’s what I thought of MacKenzie that he might have problems with. For a kick-off, I couldn’t get over how small he was. He’d been in my head for so long as something monstrous that to find he was just a dirty little runt was…strange. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t frightening…but I had him in perspective for the first time, and it felt good.”
“Was?” he echoed. “Had? Felt? Is he dead, Ms. Burns?”
We’d been this route several times already. “I don’t see how he can be,” I said. “I might wish it…I might earnestly pray for it…but he was alive the last time I saw him. It depends on whether broken fingers can kill you…but I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“If that’s all that was wrong with him.”
I shrugged. “Peter said it was.”
“You and Ms. Derbyshire were alone with MacKenzie for thirty minutes. A man can suffer a lot of damage in that time.”
“Then where is he? Why haven’t you found him?”
“I don’t know, Ms. Burns. That’s what I’m trying to discover.”
I showed my irritation. “How about I turn the questions on you? What sort of police force allows a man to escape as easily as MacKenzie seems to have done? He can’t have left the house much before you arrived…but it was two hours before you started searching the valley. He could have been anywhere by then…on a ferry out of Weymouth…on the train to Southampton airport. Have you checked those places?”
He gave an impatient nod as if the question didn’t warrant an answer. “We’re more interested in your father’s BMW, Ms. Burns. That was his obvious choice of transport. It was parked less than half a mile down the valley—he could have been out of the area before anyone knew it was missing—yet he didn’t return to it. I find that strange.”
“Me, too.”
Bagley hated it when I agreed with him. He seemed to think it was a form of mockery. “Perhaps you have an explanation,” he murmured sarcastically. “You seem to have explanations for everything else.”
“I expect he got lost,” I said. “It happens to me all the time…and I only go walking in the daylight. It’s a big valley. If you lose your bearings and take the wrong footpath, you end up at the Ridgeway instead of in the village. I suppose you’ve checked the empty houses in Winterbourne Barton? Perhaps he’s holed up in a weekender’s cottage, eating their food and watching their telly. Or maybe he went the other way and fell off a cliff?”
There’s no question Jess and I sparked an intense suspicion in Bagley. He knew we couldn’t have magicked MacKenzie out of existence in half an hour, but our attitudes offended him. I was too glib, and Jess was too mute. According to Peter, who heard it from a friend on the force, she was no more forthcoming with the police than she was with anyone else.
What happened when you left the kitchen, Ms. Derbyshire? I was jumped. Can you be more explicit? No. Did you know who your assailant was? I guessed. Who removed your clothes? He did. Did you think he was going to rape you? Yes. Even with Dr. Coleman and Ms. Burns in the house? Yes. Did MacKenzie speak to you? No. Then why did you think he wanted to rape you? He took my clothes off. Can you be more explicit? No. Were you upset by your dog’s death? Yes. Did you want revenge for Bertie? Yes. Did you want revenge for yourself? Yes. Did you take it? No. Why not? There wasn’t time. But you would have done if the police hadn’t arrived? Yes.
Our worst fault seemed to be that we weren’t frightened enough. With MacKenzie on the loose, we should have demanded round-the-clock police protection or seclusion in a safe house, but neither of us did. Jess refused to leave the farm because she couldn’t rely on Harry and the girls to run it alone, and with search teams scouring the valley, I effectively had police protection anyway.
IT WAS an odd few days. Although Jess and I were never arrested or charged with anything, we wer
e both treated like suspects in a murder investigation. I was asked several times if I wanted a solicitor present, but I always refused on the basis that I had nothing to hide. I believe Jess did the same. The silver lining was that the press was held at bay while every nook and cranny of Winterbourne Valley was painstakingly examined, and the police withheld our names—including Peter’s and my parents’—after Jess and I invoked our right to anonymity because of the nature of the crimes against us.
I was allowed to see my mother briefly in Dorset County Hospital before she was transferred back to London to be near my father, and I was able to speak to Dad on the phone. Because of his jaw, I did most of the talking, but he gave a couple of grunting laughs and seemed pleased when I suggested he and Mum come to stay as soon as the brouhaha died down. He managed a few sentences that I understood. “Did we win? Are the demons dead?”
“Dead and buried,” I said.
“Good.”
Perhaps it was a mercy no one overheard that little exchange, because it would certainly have been misinterpreted. As would my conversation with Jess when the police finally ackowledged we’d had no hand in MacKenzie’s disappearance. We were warned to expect further questioning if and when MacKenzie was taken into custody, but in reality it was a green light to pursue our lives as normal.
The Devil`s Feather Page 27
