Snatched

by Stephen Edger

  Alan Jenson was worried about how Sarah would react, when she discovered that there was a new woman in his life. He missed his wife every day, but he needed companionship, and that is exactly what Veronica gave him. He desperately hoped that Sarah would understand, and not be too put out. It was for this reason he had attempted to call her, earlier that afternoon. He had spent an hour working out what he would say, before looking her number up on the mobile phone and pressing the green phone symbol. He had been disappointed when the phone had gone unanswered, and had transferred to the answer-phone. He had hung up, without leaving a message, as what he had to say, needed to be said person to person, and not via recorded message.

  Later on in the afternoon he had been talking to James Dale at the club and James had asked whether Ryan Moss had made contact with Sarah yet. Alan had panicked at the question, because he was unable to answer it. A feeling of dread had enveloped him and he began to fear for his daughter’s safety. He excused himself from the table and tried to phone her again. It was a little after four o’clock, and he had been surprised that the phone had gone to the answer-phone again. This time he did leave a message, just explaining that he hadn’t heard from her and just wanted to check she was okay. When he returned to the table, the look on his face said it all and James tried to reassure him that Sarah was probably just out. But the thought stayed with him, and he made the snap decision to pay his daughter a visit. It had been several years since he had last caught a train to Southampton, so James gave him a lift to the train station in Weymouth and helped him buy a ticket.

  The train was packed full of people and he was lucky to find a seat. Earlier that day, a man had jumped in front of the Weymouth-bound train from Southampton, which had caused massive delays to the service. Thankfully the line had been cleared and services had resumed, but it meant that all those passengers who had been booked on trains that had not run, were crammed in wherever they could get. It angered him that some people could be so selfish, as to commit suicide in that manner. It caused untold disruption to so many others!

  Alan had tried to phone his daughter twice before the train arrived at Southampton Central, but this time it told him the line was disconnected. This only served to fuel his fears more. As he exited the train station, he hailed a waiting taxi and gave his daughter’s address. Ten minutes later, the taxi pulled up outside her Ocean Village apartment block. He gave the taxi driver ten pounds and didn’t wait for his change. He ploughed up the steps to the front door of the building, and was grateful that another resident was leaving the building as he arrived. He ran, almost breathlessly up the two flights of stairs to her floor and then banged on the door. He could hear groaning on the other side of the door, and, imagining Ryan Moss throttling his little girl, he shoulder barged the door open.

  The door swung inwards and crashed into the wall behind it. What he saw shocked him to the core. There was a trail of fresh blood leading from the door mat, along the hallway. It came to an abrupt stop where he saw his daughter bent over, head down against the floor, passed out. Behind her and clearly enjoying himself was an athletic-looking man, having rough sex with her.

  43

  The front door crashing open, had been so unexpected. Boller had been unsure of what he would see in the doorway, but the sweaty, old man struggling for breath had not been it.

  Boller had been close to climax, when the old man had appeared and it had been enough to stop the urge. As he knelt there, astride Sarah, he was torn with what to do next. On the one hand, he was suitably aroused to continue, but he didn’t really like the thought of the old man as an audience. There was also the fact that he didn’t, as yet, know how the old man was going to react or who he even was. It was like a Mexican stand-off, neither knowing quite what the other would do.

  Sarah wasn’t struggling like she had been. In fact, as Boller moved his hands around her waist, she wasn’t moving at all. Her back was arching up and down, ever so slightly, to indicate that she was still breathing, leading Boller to the conclusion that she must have passed out again from the drugs in her system.

  The old man didn’t seem to know what to say either, and he remained there in the doorway framed, like a still photograph. Boller knew one of them would have to react sooner or later, and was about to say something when the old man let out a horrendous bellow and charged towards him, rucksack still in hand.

  ‘Get off her!’ screamed the old man, as he hurtled down the corridor.

  Boller was worried and withdrew himself from Sarah, pushing her towards the oncoming maniac, desperate to obstruct the path between them. The old man had his hands out in front of him, ready to wrap the dry, bony fingers around Boller’s neck, when the opportunity presented itself. Boller was naked and vulnerable, and needed distance. He launched himself back and to the side, so that he was flying through the air and into Sarah’s blood-stained bedroom. He landed on his back, but was agile enough to raise his legs above his head, and bring them crashing back down into the bedroom door, causing it to slam shut, preventing the old man from getting to him. A bang on the other side confirmed that old man had crashed into the door, but this time, he had not been strong enough to open it.

  Boller’s eyes darted around the bedroom, as he looked for something he could use to barricade the bedroom door, while he gathered his thoughts and tried to figure a way out of this ever-worsening predicament. In the end, he sat up and pushed his back against the door, to keep it from being opened.

  He had originally planned to have sex with Sarah and then if she seemed to recall what had happened, once the drugs had worn off, he would have disposed of her body, as he had Natalie’s. Whilst the police undoubtedly would have linked the two murders, there was no reason they would have tied it back to him. But now, the old man’s arrival had scuppered that plan. Something inside would not allow him to kill the old man and dump two bodies; where would the bloodshed end?

  But what was the alternative? The old man had seen him with Sarah, and even the best defence barrister in the world would not have been able to defend his actions as consensual. So, should he hand himself in? Accept a plea of sexual assault but deny the murder charges? It was possible that Sarah wouldn’t remember him confessing to Natalie’s, Rêmet’s and the policewoman’s murders and if she didn’t, then he would be in the clear. Of course, if she did remember any of it, there was no guarantee the police would buy her story. Ultimately, it would come down to his word against hers, but then given that he would have just admitted to raping her, his word would not be worth a lot. At the very least, any claims she made about his involvement in the deaths of the three, would lead to the police sniffing about his place, and in his life, more than he desired.

  Boller remained with his back to the door while he contemplated his options. All the time, he was listening out for the old man’s voice, to understand who he was and what he was doing here.

  44

  Alan Jenson cradled his daughter’s head in his hands. After the cowardly man had shut himself inside the room, he had scooped Sarah’s exhausted body, into his arms and rested her back and head on his legs. From the amount of red smeared into the carpet, she had clearly lost a lot of blood, and it wasn’t clear how long she had left before she would be in a critical condition. There were bruises forming on her front and side, suggesting that whatever that brute had done to her, it had been going on a while. Whilst every urge in his body was telling him to get up and kill the monster on the other side of the door, he knew his priority had to be taking care of Sarah and getting her some help. He reached into his pocket and fished out the mobile phone. Never had he been so grateful to have bought the device. On the floor, near the living room, he could see Sarah’s home telephone. It was smashed into several pieces and the cable from the wall had been ripped out. At least that explained why he had been unable to get hold of her.

  But who was the man behind the door? He certainly wasn’t Ryan Moss. Just how many sexual predators did his daughter know? He had to a
dmit, the rapist’s face did look familiar, but he couldn’t place where he had seen it before and wondered whether he was another of Sarah’s former school mates. Whoever he was, he deserved to be behind bars and Alan Jenson vowed he would see that day.

  He dialled ‘999’ and advised the voice he required an ambulance urgently but would also need the police. The voice told him he could either be connected with the medical team or the police but not both. Alan looked down at his daughter’s dwindling body and asked for the ambulance team. When he was connected, Alan quickly gave the address and told the woman on the phone that he had come to his daughter’s house to find she was being sexually assaulted. When he told the woman the predator was still in the house, the woman obliged and said she would contact the local police to arrange for a patrol car to come to the property. The woman also suggested that Alan carry Sarah away from the property, and out of harm’s way.

  Sarah groggily began to come round, though she could not open her eyes. She was subconsciously aware that she had recently suffered a trauma, but her subconscious would not tell her what it was until she was ready.

  ‘It’s okay, sweetie,’ Alan whispered to her. ‘Daddy’s here. Everything is going to be okay.’

  45

  So, the old man was Sarah’s father, Boller thought to himself. It might make sense. Until he had heard the old man say that everything would be okay, he had assumed the old man was an elderly neighbour, sticking his nose in, where it was not wanted. That he was Sarah’s father made things more complicated.

  Whilst he had been in the bedroom, listening to the old man phoning for an ambulance, he had come up with two further options available to him. The first had been to offer Sarah and the old man a significant amount of money to keep their mouths shut about what had happened. That was what he had done in Baden, all those years ago with the two team mates who had watched him kill Nichole. He had managed to threaten the third into keeping quiet, but he didn’t think his threats would work on Sarah and the old man. Now that he knew the old man was in fact Sarah’s father, he knew no man in his right mind would idly sit by and accept hush money from the man who had raped his daughter. Not even a million pounds would buy his silence. Had he been a neighbour, maybe things would have been different.

  Having ruled that option out, Boller knew he had only one other choice, assuming he didn’t kill his witnesses: to run away.

  He had made plenty of money in his time as a footballer, and, under his father’s astute advice, had been siphoning off a large portion of his salary into a private bank account in his homeland. It was a special account that had been set up in his name, with no obvious trace to either of his British bank accounts, and as such, no way that the money could be traced by the Revenue and Customs officials of the country. This also, meant, by chance, that the police would be unable to trace the account. It seemed drastic, but Boller was genuinely considering re-starting his life, in another country, with a new name, and living off the proceeds of his Swiss account. It would mean turning his back on his football career, as there was no way he would ever be able to step back into the limelight again. A life without football or a life behind bars: There was no contest!

  His mind made up, he needed to move fast. His Ferrari was parked outside the flat, on the street below. He would need to drive home to collect his passport and some cash. He had ten thousand pounds hidden in his safe, for emergencies and this seemed as good a time as any to use it. It would take about twenty minutes to get home, as traffic would be minimal at this time. He had a friend who owned a small, two-person Microlight aircraft. For the right sum, his friend would be able to fly him to France, and from there he would have to call in favours to get himself out of Europe. He was confident he knew enough people in France to obtain a false passport, allowing him to escape to a South American country without an extradition treaty. From there he would just disappear and adopt his new persona.

  He paused, as he re-considered what he was about to do. He was going to turn his back on his life, his fans, his friends, his family and his dream of representing his country on the international stage. Was he really making the right decision?

  On the other side of the door, he could hear Sarah slowly coming round. She wasn’t coherent yet, but from the sound of her groggy voice, he knew it wouldn’t be long until she regained control of her mind. She would have a killer of a headache, but that would pass after a while.

  Boller was naked, propped up against the door. As he looked down, he could see Sarah’s blood drying on him; he looked a mess. That wouldn’t matter though, he thought. Once he was safely out of the country and on his way to a new life, he could wash this old life behind then. Boller stood up as quietly as he could, keen not to alert the old man that he was moving around, and therefore, no longer blocking the door. He found his trousers in a heap, in the corner of the room, where he had left them. He quickly pulled them over his legs, and fastened the button and belt. He found his shirt down near the bedroom door, and noticed that it had started to soak up some of the blood from the pool on the floor. It felt wet and sticky as he placed it around his shoulders. It would have to do. He could always put a fresh shirt on, when he arrived home.

  Boller figured that the ambulance would be along in the next ten minutes, but the police were unlikely to arrive before twenty minutes. By the time they had taken witness statements from the half-comatose Sarah and her father, he would be home collecting his passport and money. The officers would need to obtain agreement from someone senior before they would head to his house, so he probably had about an hour to be on his way. That would be plenty of time to phone his friend with the Microlight, and get them both to the private air strip, from where they would depart from. The police would undoubtedly watch the airports in Southampton and London for trace of him, as well as the ports in Southampton and Portsmouth. Leaving in the Microlight would avoid possible detention. If his friend landed the plane in a field in France, the French authorities would not even be aware he was there.

  Boller looked for his shoes, but they didn’t seem to be anywhere in the room. He must have left them in the hallway somewhere, and he grimaced at the thought that he would have to drive with his bare feet.

  Boller heard movement outside the door, and sensed that Sarah was trying to sit up, while her father tried to keep her down, resting. Boller looked over at the main bedroom window. It was large enough to fit his body through but as he moved over to it, he was disappointed to find there was no balcony. He had thought there would be one that he could climb over and then drop the shorter distance to the floor below. He looked back at the door and wondered whether he could move quick enough to open the door, jump over the other two and head out of the main door. It was too dangerous to attempt. There was every chance that the old man would get a grip on him, or scream for help, and then he would be trapped. No, he resolved, the window was the only option. He just hoped the drop to the floor would not be too vast.

  46

  Sarah opened her eyes, and this time managed to keep them open. She felt nauseous, and a pain was starting to form behind her eyes. Her legs ached, in particular her thighs, and she wondered whether she was suffering the effects of a heavy gym session, such was the ache. She was lying on a hard surface; a floor, not her bed. She could now sense that somebody was cradling her head. Was it Erin?

  She looked up and was surprised to see the wise, old eyes of her father staring back at her. He appeared to be crying and she wondered why.

  Where was she? Why was she in such pain?

  Sarah suddenly became aware a cold, sticky liquid between her legs. She moved her hand up so that she could see what the substance was and the deep, crimson stain on her fingers told her it was blood. Oh God, she was bleeding.

  Was that why her father was crying?

  Sarah’s mind continued to try and process the various details of her situation when she heard her father speak.

  ‘It’s okay, sweetie. I’m here. Everything will be okay.�
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  Sarah didn’t like being kept in the dark. She had always been the sort of person who needed to know exactly what was going on. She sat upright, and, nearly as quickly, fell back down. The pain behind her eyes was spreading to her temple.

  ‘Easy, there, sweetie,’ her father cooed, lovingly.

  Sarah attempted to sit up again, this time taking it slower so that she could better manage the pain in her head. Her father adjusted his position, so that he could support her back.

  ‘What are you doing here, dad?’ she asked when she realised she was actually in her own flat and not in her father’s house. ‘What is going on?’

  ‘It’s okay, sweetie,’ he soothed again. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. You had an accident, but an ambulance is on its way.’

  ‘An ambulance? What happened?’ she asked, unable to hide the alarm in her voice, as her eyes saw the blood trail leading from the front door.

  ‘Don’t worry about that for now,’ he said eager to keep her calm.

  ‘Dad, tell me what happened,’ she said more firmly.

  Her father was about to try and pacify her again when they both heard the distinct sound of the window opening in the bedroom.

  ‘Who is in my bedroom, dad? Why are they opening the window?’

  47

  Boller cursed under his breath, as the hinge of the bedroom window creaked loudly. They were bound to have heard it. As he poked his head out into the night air, he looked down and gulped at the distance between the window and the ground. It must have been a good thirty foot drop. Even if he dangled from the edge of the window sill, he would still drop nearly twenty five feet, and, without anything to protect his feet, the pain would be excruciating. He would be lucky not to break a bone.