Sympathy for Daniel was sympathy wasted, as far Charlie was concerned. And what’s more, it was dangerous, Steve letting sentiment get in the way of what they were doing here. Currently, and crucially, making sure the stubborn sod did exactly as he was told, without question.
‘Not quite,’ he answered finally, crushing out his joint and striding angrily to the berth. ‘Shift,’ he said, catching hold of Steve’s shoulder to shove the pathetic, mother-clucking hen away from Daniel. Be tucking him up under the quilt in a minute.
He stilled Steve with a warning glance as the arrogant numskull actually dared to look as if he was about to interfere, then caught hold of Daniel’s shirt collar and hauled him towards him.
‘This …’ Charlie snarled, his face close to Daniel’s ‘ … comes off, Danny Boy.’ He yanked the shirt over his shoulders and down over his biceps.
‘You bloody lunatic,’ Steve muttered, his tone utter disgust. ‘The bloke’s covered in bruises. No need. Not for any of it.’ He took a step towards Charlie, but stopped as Daniel laughed. Then laughed again—out loud; and right in Charlie’s face.
‘Freak.’ Daniel smirked, unfocussed eyes swimming around in his head. ‘Pathetic little freak.’
****
DI Short slowed his frantic pedalling to halt just past Shortwood Tunnel, climbed off his bike, and waited for PC Stokes to catch up.
Not bad, detective—he congratulated himself on his reasonable progress along the towpath. Considering he was old enough to be the officer’s father, almost, he’d kept up a fair old pace. He might just be in danger of imminent heart attack, though, he decided, as Stokes alighted next to him.
DI Short clasped his hands over wobbly thighs, bent his head, and took several deep breaths.
‘You all right, sir?’ PC Stokes asked worriedly, and annoyingly fresh-faced.
‘Yes,’ DI Short snapped, straightened up and tried to ignore the blood rushing headlong into his ears. ‘Nothing on the air surveillance yet, I suppose?’ He raised a half-hopeful eyebrow.
‘On its way, sir,’ PC Stokes answered dutifully.
‘Good.’ DI Short smiled, bent again, to make sure his trouser leg was well tucked in his sock—didn’t want it to get caught in the chain at the crucial moment—and came up straight-faced. ‘Make sure to give the ground troops our location at each bridge,’ he instructed.
They could hardly drive up the towpath. They’d have to regroup at the nearest bridge—assuming they found the missing boat and, God willing, Roberts and the Conner family still on it, then despatch uniforms to approach the boat on foot.
Hopefully, it would be moored not too far from a bridge, of which there were a fair few, DI Short had noticed. And, crucially, at a point where the undergrowth siding the canal was dense enough to provide cover. Charlie Roberts wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but he was sure to suspect something if he spotted uniforms crawling all over the bank.
DI Short turned to squint up the towpath whilst PC Stokes liaised re the backup. The lad had been right. The day was fast descending into a dark, moon-free night. And what they didn’t have on the canal system were streetlights.
‘They’re in pursuit, sir,’ PC Stokes informed him.
‘Good.’ DI Short nodded. ‘Onward then.’ He smiled and purloined the PC’s bike, his at least having a lamp.
To be hopes he wasn’t on a wild goose chase, he thought, grimly pedalling on. Waste of time and police resources didn’t concern him. The passing of time for those people though did. Idle hands Charlie Roberts would not have. In between feeding his filthy habit, he’d be making their lives a misery.
****
‘That is it!’ Charlie struggled to pull himself off Daniel, where he’d landed, humiliatingly, when Daniel fell backwards, after laughing in his face.
Finally managing to free himself of Daniel’s arm, which seemed to be gripping him like a vice, he got to his feet, and his temper snapped. ‘Bastard!’ he growled, his fist clenching before he’d even had time to consider the damage to his knuckles. Who did he think he was calling him a freak?’
The punch landed heavily, causing Daniel to double up.
Subdued, Charlie wiped his hand across his mouth. He was sorely tempted to beat Danny Boy to a pulp, embarrassing him like that, but Charlie wanted him conscious while he tripped through his sad little memories.
Steve had at least found enough brain cells to escort the wife to the other end of the boat. Screaming her bloody head off, she’d been, and doing Charlie’s head right in.
‘Tie him up,’ he instructed over his shoulder when Steve returned, having presumably given wifey and whatsername a little talking to. Quiet, they were, for two minutes, thank God. Charlie kneaded the knot in the back of his neck and waited, to make sure Steve could actually tie the rope unaided.
‘Fine.’ Steve nodded. ‘But you get out.’
‘Excuse me?’ Charlie shook his head, disbelieving.
‘Out, Charlie,’ Steve said calmly. ‘I’ll tie him. You get out.’ I’m not letting you touch him again.’ He planted himself firmly between Charlie and Daniel, his arms folded, his eyes challenging.
Charlie stared, incredulous for a second, then looked Steve over curiously. Getting a bit over-confident, all of sudden, wasn’t he? Ought to put him in his place, as well. Point out that it was Danny Boy putting this whole thing at risk with his persistent refusal to obey simple commands. No, couldn’t risk a confrontation, Charlie realised, curtailing his temper. Didn’t want one either, if he could avoid it. Steve might be a wuss, but he was a big bloody wuss. Not that Charlie thought Steve wouldn’t back down, if he did confront him.
‘Hands behind him.’ Charlie dropped his gaze to examine his own bruised hand, rather than continue to meet Steve’s intimidating stare. Not that he was intimated. ‘Nice and tight,’ he added, turning away.
Charlie had other fish to fry while he waited for Danny Boy to come down, come to his senses and stop deliberately provoking him.
Blimey, his knuckles hurt.
Chapter Twenty
‘She’s not, you know.’ Kayla wiped her hand under her nose and seized her chance to talk to Steve when Charlie went to the bathroom, for once closing the door behind him.
Steve glanced at her, then back to the TV. ‘Who’s not?’
‘Hannah,’ Kayla pressed on, despite Steve’s obvious disinterest.
She’d kept quiet for fear of provoking further vicious attacks on her father. They were going to kill him, cold fear clutched at her tummy. They’d hurt her, to hurt him, to break him and humiliate him. Kayla knew that. Charlie had left his weak spot alone all right, but only because he’d found another more vulnerable one.
She had to be brave, to not give in, just like her dad was trying so hard not to give in, so she’d kept quiet, like they’d told her to. But she’d listened and heard, biting down hard on the back of her hand when her dad had screamed out loud, or moaned softly, or worse, made no sound at all.
She’d heard Steve’s and Charlie’s debate when they’d drugged him, and Charlie’s subsequent vile taunts. If anyone was fubar, that flat-eyed freak was—Kayla had christened him thus on the back of the last word she’d heard her dad say. And Steve knew it.
They needed Steve, Kayla decided. If not on their side, at least not on the freak’s.
‘Hannah, she’s not a tart.’ She willed him to stop chewing his nails and take up the bait.
Steve studied her face for a second, and then reached for a cigarette. ‘Not interested.’ He shrugged and lit up.
‘She isn’t, Steve,’ Kayla went on, using his name and keeping her tone civil, though she’d rather spit in his eye. ‘She’s never even been near anyone, except you.’
‘Bullshit.’ Steve puffed hard on his cigarette.
‘It’s not, I swear,’ Kayla insisted urgently, as a tap ran in the bathroom. ‘She thought the world of you. Thought you were dead cool. Said she respected you for … You know, not pushing her to do anything she
didn’t want to.’
Steve stubbed his cigarette out moodily, then glanced at Kayla, his cheeks flushed, she noticed, and his eyes uncertain. ‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not lying.’ Kayla held his gaze. ‘He is.’ She nodded toward the bathroom door as it clicked open.
****
Charlie sauntered from the bathroom, whistling, and feeling pretty pleased with himself. He’d had a quick wash and brush up, and another line of coke. He was looking good. Feeling good.
He was good. Well, okay, he wasn’t. But he’d been generous enough to allow wifey to keep an eye on Danny Boy in case he choked. Deserved a few points for that, Charlie reckoned. Deserved a bloody cup of tea, at least. His throat felt like sandpaper. He’d kill for a lager, but a cup of tea would have to suffice.
He wandered toward the bedroom and poked his head around the door. ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’ He smiled at Jo. ‘He’ll be fine,’ he assured her.
Jo blinked stupidly, caught completely off guard by his pleasant tone.
What was he up to?
She moved closer to Daniel, determined that if Charlie came anywhere near him, she’d kill the animal somehow.
‘He’ll be on his way down.’ Charlie glanced to where Daniel was sitting on the berth, his hands between his knees, his head hung, and still shaking. ‘Not pleasant,’ Charlie went on, ‘but he ain’t going to croak it.’
Jo dragged her eyes away from Charlie’s absurd smile to Daniel. He had no idea. None whatsoever, she thought astonished. Daniel was struggling to breathe. Couldn’t he see? The drugs had exacerbated it, not caused it. It wasn’t going to bloody wear off.
‘Tea,’ Charlie repeated patiently. ‘Two sugars.’
Jo nodded and slipped off the berth. How long, she wondered, before three in a bed suited his mood better. She hesitated as she approached the door, not sure whether to say, excuse me, look down.
‘Squeeze past, sweetheart.’ Charlie apparently noted her dilemma and turned to one side to allow her to pass. ‘I don’t bite.’
No, but I will, Jo thought angrily, the hairs on the nape of her neck rising as she passed the loathsome creature. God help her, if she had hold of that knife, she’d plunge it straight in his vile heart and twist it.
‘Could I, er …’ She hesitated, once outside. ‘Do you mind if I leave the door open?’ she asked, as politely as she could. Surely he wouldn’t deny her that, would he? To watch from a distance and make sure her husband didn’t die while she was making tea. Even the animal would have brains enough to see it was in his interest to keep Daniel alive … for now.
Jo shuddered involuntarily.
Charlie looked her over. ‘Don’t see why not,’ he said, eventually. ‘Not that I particularly want to see Danny Boy coughing his guts up, but we don’t want him to gag on them, do we, sweetheart?’
Charlie smiled magnanimously, and headed for the saloon area and the TV.
He winked at Kayla and plonked himself down next to Steve.
‘All right, mate.’ He nodded when Steve glanced at him, and then reached over to the TV to flick through the channels.
‘Think they’d have a bloody remote, wouldn’t you?’ he moaned, after a minute. ‘Charge hundreds to hire out these heaps of metal, and they don’t even have a remote for the …’
Charlie stopped as Steve stared at him coldly. ‘What’s your problem?’ he asked, surprised.
Steve looked away. ‘You are, mate,’ he muttered.
‘Oh, man.’ Charlie laughed. ‘You’re not still pissed with me, are you? I swear I won’t touch him again.’ He crossed his heart. ‘Honest.’
Shouldn’t need much more than the odd slap to keep Danny Boy in order now, anyway, Charlie thought, content with a good day’s work. And a promise is a promise, so he’d leave him alone, for now.
Didn’t say anything about not touching the wife though, did he? Charlie gave her a sideways glance, and then himself a mental redressing. She was behaving herself, so he’d leave her be, too, for a while. He smiled and awaited his tea. Some chocolate digestives would be nice, he mused.
His chocolate-covered fantasy was rudely interrupted by the wife clanging the tea caddy to the working surface and clutching her hand to her mouth. Oh, man. Charlie rolled his eyes. Not another one gonna puke all over the place.
‘Oh, God,’ she mumbled, trying to suppress a sob.
‘What the …?!’ Charlie was on his feet. If there was anything worse than people throwing up all over the place it was birds’ blarting. Couldn’t abide it. If she cried anymore, she’d sink the bloody boat.
She turned eyes wide with fear on Charlie as he approached, stopping him in his tracks. She was all right five minutes ago, he thought perplexed, and he hadn’t been near her since. Hadn’t touched her. Didn’t even feel the inclination to, yet. Unnerving it was, those bloody green eyes staring at him.
‘There aren’t any tea-bags,’ she whispered, glancing toward the bedroom, then back to Charlie.
‘Blimey, is that all?’ Charlie shook his head. Bless her bemused little face, he thought, touched by her concern. ‘I thought your old man had gone and snuffed it.’
He glanced past her to where Daniel sat, still in the same position, more or less—and still breathing, just.
Charlie sighed, relieved. He really had thought the stubborn sod had croaked on him. ‘I’m not an unreasonable person. I’ll have coffee,’ he said, good-naturedly.
****
DI Short cursed silently as the boat alongside them pulled tightly on its mooring rope. He held his breath and waited, relieved when it floated gently back into the bank.
He’d managed to trip over the flipping mooring peg, which was invisible in the pitch-black dark of the night. He’d only just noticed the silhouette of the boat, before he’d all but cycled into it, which would definitely have given the game away. DI Short shook his head. Talk about clumsy copper. That was nothing short of incompetent.
Even now he was on top of it, he couldn’t be sure it was one of Daniel Conner’s hire boats, in particular Water Lily, the boat that was out, according to Hannah.
He signalled PC Stokes to hang back, it being so quiet you could hear a bird breathe, let alone a twig snap, and crept quietly closer, until he could glimpse the name painted on the side, and there it was, Water Lily, tied up and isolated in the middle of nowhere, which would suit Charlie Roberts’ purpose.
He signalled again, telling Stokes to call in their location, and then having come that far, DI Short decided to risk a step closer. See if he couldn’t catch sight of anything through one of the windows. His Superintendent’s instruction to wait until back-up was in situ, where they’d wait again for first light might be a practical one, but DI Short had a nasty feeling that Charlie Roberts might not have it in mind to bed down for the night.
Knowing the lie of the land inside there, and whether Roberts was working alone, was paramount if they had any hope of pulling this off successfully.
DI Short just hoped he wasn’t about to hand the scumbag another hostage. A copper would be a reasonable bargaining chip when Charlie realised his game was up.
Pausing to pray for the lives of the hostages Charlie already had, adding a fervent request, if God was in his heaven, that he didn’t put those lives at risk, DI Short inched closer. Assuming they were on board, that was. He’d noticed a slight lilt to the boat, which must mean someone was, but nothing dramatic.
Fingers mentally crossed, he crept silently on, past the windows, the curtains at which all seemed to be closed, bar one at the end, which was open a fraction, if he wasn’t mistaken.
DI Short debated for less than a second, then ducked onto all fours to crawl the length of the boat, where he offered up another prayer, then snatched the briefest of glimpses through the window. Time enough—to see Daniel Conner trying to get to his feet. More than enough time to see that there was something very wrong.
DI Short’s heart plummeted. He closed his eyes briefly, then, anger and nau
sea churning inside him, he continued to watch, Daniel reeling and stumbling, his torso covered in bruises.
Half naked, his hands trussed behind him, Daniel Conner dropped to his knees and looked to the heavens.
Then let go a cry that chilled DI Short to the bone.
And here he was—DI Short sucked in a breath—good old Charlie Roberts, banging through the door to help Daniel to his feet. Drag Daniel to his feet. Slam him against the wall and tell him to shut the fuck up. And stay. Stay, face to the wall and shaking.
The absolute bastard.
Daniel was staying all right—DI Short clenched his teeth so hard they hurt. Staying right where he was. Banging his head slowly, repeatedly against that wall.
DI Short crouched below window level, every ounce of his willpower holding him down. Wait until first light? Yes, of course. He made his way back along the length of the boat, and then got himself well out of sight. Seemed like a sensible idea, to wait while Charlie Roberts took sadistic pleasure in psychologically and physically destroying a person. Three people.
****
‘He stays until he learns to be quiet.’ Charlie pulled the veneer door closed behind him.
He’d got Daniel where he wanted him, stripped of this obstinate pride, subdued somewhat. But quietly subdued was what Charlie was looking for. Danny Boy was making enough noise to wake the freakin’ dead. And that was plain disobedient.
He’d have to stay where he was, Charlie decided, until he learned a little self-control. He could wait. Bags of time, he’d got, and plenty to amuse himself with while he killed it. ‘So,’ he asked, swaggering the length of the boat. ‘Which one of you lucky ladies would like to go first?’
Steve gawked. ‘What you playing at now?’ he asked, furiously. ‘What you done to him, Charlie? Has the coke softened your bloody head, or what?’
‘I helped him up,’ Charlie said, with a casual shrug. ‘Can I help it if he’s coming down hard? Now watch your lip, mate.’
He came to a standstill in front of wifey seated on the sofa, the daughter sat next to her. Tough call, he debated, eyeing the wife, whose cat’s eyes told him she’d be an interesting challenge. Whatsername could use a little warming up though, shaking she was, poor cow.
The Edge of Sanity Page 24
