Molly was staring at her phone, in shock.
‘What is it?’ asked Joyce.
‘It-it’s Fred,’ stumbled Molly. ‘I have a message from Fred.’
‘What?’
Her mother almost forgot to steer and the car lurched across the road. Joyce recovered just in time to avoid a head-on collision with an oncoming vehicle.
Molly was so preoccupied by the message on her phone that she seemed not even to notice.
Spotting a lay-by ahead, Joyce pulled over. When she turned to her daughter, Molly was still staring at the screen of her smart phone, frozen in a kind of limbo of disbelief.
‘What?’ Joyce enquired again, hardly believing her ears.
‘It’s Fred, it has to be Fred,’ Molly repeated. ‘This message can only be from Fred.’
Joyce immediately snatched the phone from her daughter and looked at the screen, her heart racing.
The message was brief and to the point.
I need to see you and mum alone. Get mum to take you to where we saw the big buck. Don’t tell her where you are heading until you’re on your way. And don’t tell anyone else anything. I’m all right. But I need you both. Fred.
‘Do you recognize the number?’ Joyce asked, studying the screen carefully.
‘No, no, I don’t,’ replied Molly. ‘It’s not Fred’s number. But we know that. It couldn’t be, could it? Fred left his phone behind.’
‘If it is Fred, then he must be using somebody else’s phone,’ said Joyce.
‘Or he could have got hold of a pay-as-you-go,’ Molly suggested.
‘But he didn’t have enough money with him,’ said Joyce. ‘And he couldn’t be doing this on his own. He’s only eleven.’
Joyce gulped as she thought about the vulnerability of her young son.
‘What makes you so sure the text is from Fred? It could be a hoax. A cruel one, I know, but I’ve heard that this sort of thing does happen when somebody disapp—’
‘It’s him, I know it is,’ Molly interrupted.
‘How?’
‘He wants to meet us where we saw the big buck. Only Fred would know to say that. Remember when you and Gran went shopping in London, and Dad took us to Exmoor, where Granny and Gramps Mildmay used to take him when he was a boy? We saw this huge stag at this place we’d walked to from the car park by Landacre Bridge. Dad made a big thing about it and said we must protect it by not ever telling anyone about it. Fred loved the idea that it would be our secret for ever. It was he who called it the big buck.’
‘And you can remember the place?’
‘Oh yes, I’ll never forget it.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Fred said not to tell you until we were on our way,’ she said. ‘But I already have.’
‘And we’re already on our way. More or less. In any case he just didn’t want anyone else to know where we were going. Not that I could imagine anyone would be able to find where you saw the big buck without your help.’
Molly smiled wanly.
‘Look, before we do anything or go anywhere, let’s call that number, see if we can speak to Fred. You do it, Molly. It’s you he’s tried to contact.’
Molly did so. The phone rang for a minute and then cut out. No reply, and no message service.
‘Try again,’ urged Joyce.
Molly did so, with the same result.
‘All right, text him,’ instructed her mother. ‘Tell him you understand the message. Ask him when he wants to meet.’
Molly began tapping her phone. Joyce leaned across the car, watching her daughter’s screen as she composed her text:
Fred, we have all been so worried. It is you, isn’t it? I understand your message. I know where you mean. When do you want to meet us there?
The reply came straight away.
It’s me, all right, Muggins. I want to meet soon as you can. When can you be there?
Molly looked at her mother. Joyce thought for a second.
‘It’ll take us the best part of two and a half hours from here,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘Tell him we’ll be there between two and two thirty.’
Molly did so. Again the reply came straight away.
See you then. Remember, don’t tell anyone, and don’t answer your phones, or you could put us all in danger.
Molly looked at her mother, aghast. ‘What does he mean by that?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Joyce. ‘But tell me something, do these messages sound like your brother to you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Molly said hesitantly. ‘It’s kind of like Fred. But it’s a bit grown-up, isn’t it? Like someone’s telling him what to say.’
‘That’s what I think too,’ replied Joyce, her voice shaking. At last she had been given hope that Fred was safe and well, yet she was full of fear. ‘The language doesn’t sound right to me. God, bloody texts – we’ve no way of telling whether it’s genuine or not.’
‘Only Fred would know about the big buck,’ repeated Molly.
‘Maybe.’ Joyce wasn’t convinced. ‘How about you text him a question, something else only he would know about. C’mon, Molly, you’re good at this sort of thing. What can we ask?’
Molly thought for a moment, then began tapping out a new message. Joyce continued to read over her daughter’s shoulder.
What did you discover last week that I made you swear on your iPhone not to tell Mum?
The reply came quick as a flash.
That you and Janie Mitchell had both had butterfly tattoos done, like Harry Styles.
Despite the strain she was under, Joyce couldn’t help her initial response.
‘Oh, you haven’t, Molly? Where?’
‘On my left shoulder. Why do you think I’ve been keeping myself covered up in front of you?’ She looked back at the screen, grinning triumphantly. ‘That’s it, Mum. It’s Fred. It has to be!’
Joyce found herself smiling too. Molly was right: it had to be Fred. She remained anxious and fearful, but at least he was alive.
‘Tell him we’re on our way,’ she instructed her daughter, at the same time restarting the Range Rover and swinging it around in a reckless pavement-mounting U-turn. Then she turned back on to the main drag, heading towards the M5 west and a hidden glen in the Exmoor Hills where, and she could still hardly dare to believe it, her younger son would hopefully be waiting for her and his big sister.
Still smiling, Joyce glanced sideways at her daughter.
‘We’ll discuss that tattoo later,’ she said.
Molly didn’t look like she gave a damn. And neither, in fact, did Joyce.
They stopped for petrol before turning off the M5 at the Tiverton junction to join the A38 heading for North Devon and Exmoor. Joyce didn’t want to. She was fired up with impatience. But she had no choice, not if she wanted to reach their destination in the heart of the moors.
Both her and Molly’s phones had been ringing repeatedly. Felicity was the persistent caller. Mother and daughter both ignored the calls. They agreed that they would continue to abide by Fred’s wishes. What choice did they have? In any case what could they say to Felicity?
The sky was ominously grey as they began to climb to the higher altitudes of moorland, but no rain fell. Not at first. It was two thirty by the time they arrived at Landacre, where a medieval bridge spans the River Barle. Joyce parked the Range Rover and locked it.
It was cold and the air felt damp, but to Joyce’s surprise the rain held off. A strong easterly wind was beginning to blow, though.
Molly led the way along a series of paths, some little more than sheep tracks, which ran through thick undergrowth. Joyce was wearing unsuitably light leather-soled shoes. At least Molly was wearing trainers. After twenty minutes they came to a clearing where the river formed a deep and still pond.
‘This is it, Mum,’ said Molly, gesturing with one hand. ‘Dad spotted the stag over there, by the blackthorn bush at the water’s edge. He signalled for us to be quiet and we crouched here in the bracken and watched. He had huge antlers. He wa
s having a drink, so it took him a while to notice us. Then he suddenly raised his head, looked all around him sniffing the air, waded off through the river and trotted up the hill over there.’
She waved a hand again.
‘We saw him silhouetted against the sky up at the top. It was wonderful.’
‘And you didn’t even tell me. Did you not tell anyone?’
Molly shook her head. ‘It was our secret.’
Secrets again, thought Joyce. This may have been a magical secret, but it was somehow typical of her family that even special moments were cloaked in secrecy.
Joyce told herself off for being small-minded. She led the way out into the clearing. Molly followed. There was nobody else about, no one visible. Certainly no Fred.
‘He’s not here, Mum,’ said Molly, stating the obvious. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
Her mother took her hand. ‘Perhaps he’s making sure we are alone, that we haven’t brought the police or anyone else with us.
‘Or somebody is,’ she muttered, adding the remark under her breath.
But Molly heard her.
‘What do you mean by that, Mum?’
Joyce squeezed the hand she was holding.
‘Darling, Fred can’t be on his own,’ she told her daughter. ‘There’s no way he could have got hold of a phone, let alone come all the way out here by himself. And we still don’t know where he’s been since Wednesday night.’
‘So who’s been helping him? And why?’
‘I don’t know, darling.’
Joyce looked up at the sky for the umpteenth time. The cloud formations overhead had become blacker and lower. Denser too, she thought. She shivered. The weather had turned even colder, but it wasn’t only the chill in the air that made her shiver; it was a sudden sense of dread. Throughout the long drive she’d been wondering whether she was doing the right thing, bringing her daughter to this remote place, putting her in danger. But then, what choice did she have? She could never have found the place on her own.
She pulled Molly close. ‘Look, I’m not sure it was a good idea for us to come out here like this, without telling anyone,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should go back to the car.’
‘We’ve only just got here,’ said Molly. ‘We have to wait. At least for a bit.’
‘Look, Molly, there’s a possibility that someone has been keeping Fred against his will. So it is also possible that this is some kind of trap.’
‘But why? Why would anyone want to do that to us?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Joyce.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she suspected Molly’s grandfather might have a pretty good idea, but she stopped herself. She didn’t want to cause her daughter further distress.
‘Please, Molly, let’s go. I was as excited as you to think we had a message from Fred, but it doesn’t make sense that he would ask us to come all the way out here alone. I think we should go back to the car, sweetheart.’
Molly shook her head determinedly.
‘The message has to be from Fred – no one else knows about this place. And no one else knows about the tattoo. Only Janie Mitchell, and those messages definitely weren’t from her. We can’t go yet, Mum.’
Joyce sighed. ‘All right. Why don’t you try to call that number again, or at least send another text.’
Molly attempted to do both, with equal lack of success.
‘I can’t get a signal,’ she said.
‘Then perhaps we should go somewhere where we can.’
‘If Fred’s anywhere around here, he won’t be able to get a signal either,’ said Molly stubbornly. ‘We have to wait.’
Joyce marvelled that her daughter was so strong-willed. More like a Tanner man than a Tanner woman. Before this awful string of events had engulfed the family, Joyce had sometimes amused herself by wondering how much control anyone, even her powerful grandfather, would have over a grown-up Molly.
Mother and daughter waited, half sitting, half leaning against a sandstone boulder on the riverbank. Joyce kept checking her watch. Molly barely moved a muscle, just stared into the middle distance, perhaps watching for movement in the undergrowth, or anything that might indicate the presence of her brother.
The rain that had threatened ever since they arrived finally began to fall. Neither mother nor daughter were dressed for a wet day on the moors.
‘We’ve been here nearly an hour,’ said Joyce.
Molly remained silent.
‘C’mon, darling,’ urged Joyce. ‘We can’t stay out here. We’re both getting wet through and there’s no one in sight. Let’s go back to the car, drive somewhere where we can get a signal and try the phone again.’
‘No,’ said Molly. ‘No. We have to wait. We must. I know Fred’s here somewhere.’
Joyce put an arm around her daughter’s damp shoulders.
‘Sweetheart, you have to accept that this whole thing might be a cruel hoax. We both have to.’
Molly shook her head vehemently. ‘Only Fred knew about the stag. Only Fred knew about the tattoo.’
‘You can’t be sure,’ said her mother gently. ‘Not absolutely sure, anyway. Fred could have told a friend at school, more than one. They could have told their parents—’
‘No,’ Molly interrupted. ‘Fred wouldn’t have.’
Joyce conceded defeat and they waited another half hour. With no protection against the wind and rain, both mother and daughter were wet through and chilled to the bone. Molly’s teeth were chattering; neither her face nor lips had any colour left in them, except around her eyes, which were rimmed with red.
‘That’s it,’ said Joyce. ‘We’re leaving. We’re going back to the car park even if I have to carry you there.’
This time Molly didn’t protest. Joyce wasn’t surprised. If her daughter felt anything like the way she looked then she would not have the strength to protest.
The rain was even heavier now, driven horizontal by the wind.
Mother and daughter clung to each other, half holding each other up as they hurried to the car.
Joyce unlocked it with her bleeper and helped Molly into the passenger seat before scurrying around the vehicle to climb in behind the wheel.
She switched on the engine and simultaneously turned the heater on full.
‘I think there’s a rug on the back seat. Why don’t you reach over and get it,’ Joyce suggested as she switched on the engine.
‘Don’t turn round,’ commanded a muffled male voice from the back.
Molly did so at once, of course, but could see only a huddled grey form crouched down behind the driver’s seat.
‘Keep facing the front,’ said the voice again. ‘Someone could be watching.’
‘Do as he says, Molly,’ said Joyce.
Her heart had sunk to the soles of her inadequate shoes.
For once, and to her mother’s relief, Molly did as she was told.
‘Pass me your phones,’ instructed the man.
Both mother and daughter did so immediately. Even Molly knew better than to argue.
There were some small scraping noises from the back seat, metal rubbing against metal. Then the sound of one of the rear windows being opened.
‘Right, let’s go,’ said the voice. ‘Turn left when you get on the road, over the bridge. I’m taking you to Fred.’
Joyce, too, did as she was told. Although she had no idea whether or not this man was really taking her to her son. What choice did she have? She was not only frightened by what was happening, she was also bewildered. She had left the car locked, hadn’t she? She always locked her car. It was like a reflex action. She’d unlocked it with the remote before getting in, and there hadn’t been any sign that the Range Rover had been tampered with, yet there was someone crouched in the back.
She could only think of one explanation. But it couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible. She felt a knot form in her stomach. It felt as if she might be sick. But from the moment the man in the back of her car had first spoken
, she’d known.
She glanced at her daughter. Molly was staring at her, jaw slack. Joyce felt sure that Molly was thinking the same thing. Even so, Joyce was not yet ready to put it into words. She reached out with her left hand to enclose her daughter’s freezing cold right hand. Molly just looked at her, eyes wide with amazement. Joyce shook her head, almost imperceptibly.
She couldn’t be sure who was in the back of the car. Not entirely, could she?
As she steered the big four-wheel drive over Landacre Bridge, through the corner of her eye she spotted two tiny objects flying through the air towards the river below: the SIM cards from her and Molly’s phones. Mobile phones could be tracked nowadays, even when you weren’t using them – except when the SIM cards were removed.
The voice began to give her directions, speaking only in monosyllables. It sounded familiar, even though muffled and distorted, as if their unwanted passenger was speaking through a wad of material, maybe a scarf. Joyce continued on the main road towards Exford until she was told to turn off and then directed along a succession of tracks, which the heavy rain had already made impassable for anything other than a powerful four-wheel drive.
Finally they came to a derelict stone-built barn in a patch of dense woodland. It looked like there might once have been a crofter’s cottage next to it, but the foundations were all that remained of it now.
Joyce was told to drive around to the far side of the barn and pull up in front of a set of double doors. She registered that these looked to be in comparatively good order.
The grey-clad figure climbed swiftly out of the Range Rover, hooded head down, keeping his back to the vehicle.
He removed an iron bar, which formed a kind of improvised bolting device across the barn doors, then beckoned Joyce to drive in.
She hesitated, uncertain what was waiting inside. Wondering whether she should swing the car around and take off at speed with her daughter. At least that way she could convey one of her children to safety.
She glanced at Molly again. Her daughter was still shivering.
‘Drive in, Mum. Do it,’ ordered Molly, her voice shaky and high-pitched.
Joyce opened her mouth to explain her fears. But Fred might be in that barn. He might still be in danger. Considerable danger. She couldn’t drive away, abandon him there.
Death Comes First Page 21
