‘It’s gone too far, George.’
‘So you keep telling me. That’s all you keep saying. But that’s your opinion . . . that’s your idea. You might be right, but the mistake you have always made is that you assume something is right just because you think it is. From someone who has made a lot of mistakes, you need to trust me when I tell you that you might be making one right now.’
‘I knew you’d be like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Obstructive. Stopping me getting on with my life.’
‘Sarah, you ran away for a year. I have not physically been able to obstruct a damned thing you’ve done. Do you think that is what was best for Charley? Keeping us apart for a whole year while you worked out what you wanted? And then you get shacked up with some other bloke and you want me to come in and smooth it out so our daughter moves on too. What do you think my answer is going to be to that? I mean, really?’
The doors had long since clunked open. George had moved to stand between them so they didn’t shut. The corridor was empty. He was aware that he had raised his voice. He looked around; there was still no movement. He moved into the corridor and the doors moved shut behind him.
‘This is a bad idea. All of it. We need to talk to each other. We both need to be clear where we are before you can spend any time with Charley.’
‘What do you mean? I’m seeing her this afternoon, Sarah.’
‘And where are you now? You told me you had taken the whole day off. I call you on the morning to sort out the arrangements and you’re at work.’
‘We’ve got two separate murders over here, Sarah. I’m new in post as the inspector of the area where those jobs sit. I’m just in to tie up a few loose ends this morning. You know what it’s like.’
‘I do, George — only too well! That’s a big part of what I was running away from. I don’t know about this afternoon. I wanted you to be a positive influence on Charley, but from the way you’re talking you’re going to be just the opposite. I’ll talk to Ronnie about it. I’ll let you know.’
‘Talk to Ronnie? About—’ George realised suddenly that he was talking to a dead line. He swore — and did nothing to keep his voice low this time. He lifted the phone to smash it back down on the floor — then changed his mind and stuffed it roughly back into his pocket instead. He bunched his fists and concentrated on breathing. He knew where she was: his wife and his child. He would get this done and then he would stand down. Then maybe he could focus on fixing his own life.
* * *
Jenny’s hair was dry. She’d pulled it together in a ponytail at the back, two clips in the sides. The man’s impatience was growing. She could sense it.
‘We need to move.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘We need to move.’
‘Are you not even going to tell me where we are going? Or why?’
‘No.’
‘Why didn’t you kill me?’
‘We have another use for you.’
‘Are you going to kill me? I’ve seen films where people get kidnapped. The kidnappers always wear face coverings like you had on when I first came in here. You only have to worry when they don’t. Then you know that they don’t plan on letting you go. Do you plan on letting me go?’
The man shrugged. He pushed off the wall unit and walked to the door. ‘It’s not my plan, Jenny. Like I said, I’m here to pick you up. I do what I’m paid to do. And now we are moving.’
The gun still hung from his right hand. He had his back to her and his eye pushed up against the peephole. He was checking that there was nobody about. Jenny’s mind was rushing with panic. He didn’t want anybody to see her leaving with him — for when they found her body.
‘Please don’t kill me. Please!’
The man turned back to her. He sighed. ‘We’ll keep this nice and easy. I don’t know what these people want with you, but the one thing I do know is that if you mess me about this will not end well for you. Do you understand?’
Jenny jerked a nod. She tried to concentrate on her breathing; she was in danger of losing control.
There was a tap at the door.
Jenny froze. She stared at the man and he stared right back. He looked questioning — and furious, too. He raised a finger abruptly to his lips. The gun was lifted again, pointing directly at her. She shrugged her shoulders — she had no idea who it was. She put her hand over her mouth to stop any sound from coming out. The door tapped again. The man stepped off to one side and he pushed his finger over the peephole. Jenny was pretty sure it was one-way anyway but it showed his nervousness. He stood side-on to her and held his weapon low, but his finger rested loosely on the trigger as he rested his ear against the door. The handle rattled. Someone was trying it from outside. Whoever it was, they didn’t have a key. Jenny’s captor stayed still for a long time after the noises stopped. Then he put his eye to the peephole. Another minute passed.
‘We’re leaving,’ he said, suddenly. He pulled the door open — slowly, quietly. He peered through the inch-wide gap, another few seconds passed. He looked back over at Jenny. She hadn’t moved; she couldn’t. She felt as if her feet were rooted. She knew the man wasn’t here to kill her in that room; he’d had every opportunity, and all he’d talked about was leaving. What she couldn’t know was what he had planned for her once she left. But it wasn’t going to be good.
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘We leave now,’ he growled, his rage barely concealed.
‘You’re taking me somewhere to kill me.’ Jenny tried to get her legs to move, but backwards, away from the man. She couldn’t even manage that. He closed the door again carefully, quietly, and then moved over to her, stepping right in so his face was almost against hers. She felt a tight grip on her right bicep and the barrel of the pistol was pushed up painfully under her chin.
‘We are leaving now. You will keep quiet and you will do as you are told all the way until I deliver you. I do not fail. Whatever happens to you is someone else’s plan, but I will make you a promise now, Jenny . . . if you make this difficult for me, if you cause me a problem then Isobel will be my plan. Do you understand?’ His rage was barely controlled, his words were accompanied by phlegm and his grip was tightening with every word.
‘You leave my daughter out of this. She’s four months old for Christ sake!’
‘And she won’t know what hit her.’
‘You’re pure evil!’
‘We’re leaving now.’ He pushed off her arm and the gun jerked out from under her chin. He turned to the door and tucked the weapon in his waistband, against his buttocks. He pulled the door the same way he had before, quietly and carefully. He stepped out, his back towards Jenny. She was moving towards him, but slowly. It was like a dream, as if somebody else was operating her legs. She stepped out and the door fell shut behind her. She followed her captor to the right where the corridor curved around to where the lifts were.
There was another man ahead. He had dark hair and day-old stubble. He was pushing the button for the lift. The man leading Jenny slowed. Jenny thought he might stop altogether, maybe go back to the stairwell that was in the opposite direction. The dark haired man looked up. He seemed to look at them both. Certainly he glanced at her, but it was only a split second before he shifted his attention. The man looked agitated, distracted by something on his phone. They kept walking towards him. The lift arrived, the man who had called it stepped hurriedly in. Jenny’s captor lifted his shirt to reveal his weapon for a few moments. He turned to her and made eye contact that lingered. His message was clear. She followed him into the lift.
The man’s attention was still on his phone. His head was dipped, his whole focus on the lit screen. It looked to Jenny like he was typing. The ground floor button was ringed in a green light. The lift moved off. The man with the gun digging into his back stood against the back wall and stared over at her. She stood against the left side wall, almost opposite the man still consumed by his phone.
She concentrated on trying to get her breathing under control. She became aware that her heart was racing, that her chest was rising and falling quickly. If the man looked up from his phone, he would surely notice. She focussed on him. He was scrolling through something. He was dressed in a shirt and tie but he managed to make it look scruffy. He had a blue lanyard round his neck, a white card attached to its centre. It was an ID card of some sort. She could see it had an image of the man’s face on it. Next to it was some writing. She edged closer — as much as she dared. She couldn’t quite read the writing. Another tiny movement. She was close enough now.
Detective Sergeant George ELMS along the top line. THIS IS NOT A WARRANT CARD on the line below, the crest of a police force in the corner.
A police officer! Her breathing increased again. She could sense the gunman staring at her. She met his eyes. His whole posture carried a warning. His right hand, now hidden behind his back, no doubt clasped the handle of the gun. He must have seen the ID tag too. She stepped back against the wall; she was clumsy and her foot thumped against the metal. She glanced at the policeman, who shifted, his head lifted a little but not enough to look at her. They had called her Jenny on the news; they had to be looking for her. Why wasn’t he paying attention? She felt like she might combust. He was just a metre away. The lift pinged as it passed the first floor; it would be just another few seconds before it reached ground.
* * *
Stan stood out in the middle of the barn. The sun had burned through the mist entirely now. Its light penetrated the gaps and holes in the ancient walls, and the dust swirled and fell in the rays of sunlight like tiny snowflakes. Stan was tired and needed a minute to rest. He sat on the big wooden lock box he had dragged across the floor into the centre of the barn. It had once held larger items of horse tack. It had been the perfect size. He had used it to reach the exposed wooden beam along which he’d strung the chicken wire. The barn contained no shortage of tools, and the nail gun had proven especially useful — although his shoulders now ached after working with his arms raised above his head.
Once rested, Stan climbed tentatively back up onto the box and tested the wire loop. It felt strong. He tugged on it with both hands then lifted the whole of his frail body from the floor. It took his weight. It didn’t budge. The wire finished two thirds of the way along the wooden beam, right at the point where he reckoned Janice had dragged him on that night when they had first met. He’d been sitting on a bale of hay against the left wall. The musicians had been at the back and kegs of lukewarm cider and ale were against the wall where the kitchen now stood. She had walked him out onto the dance floor in the middle of the barn. When he’d hesitated, she’d taken hold of his right hand and placed it on her hip. That moment when they touched was still as fresh in his mind as when it happened. Over sixty years later. The sun was on his face now. He closed his eyes to it, his face creased in a smile.
He turned away from the wire so that he was facing out towards the front where the huge wooden door was ajar and he felt the loop rock against his back. He reached behind him and slipped the loop over his head. The wire felt cold against his neck and shoulders. He knew chicken wire; he’d fenced his whole estate with it more than once and he’d cut plenty of trapped livestock from its clutches. He knew it to be unforgiving. Stanley didn’t want forgiveness; he was past caring about that. He just wanted the darkness. He stepped to the edge of the box with just his heels balancing on the rim. He took a last breath in through his nose, inhaling the scent of his farm, of his whole life. He shut his eyes to the memory of everything. Then he stepped forward.
* * *
The lift reached the bottom floor. Jenny felt the sensation of movement as it slowed and finally settled. The doors jerked apart. The police officer, George Elms, was already moving away from her, his head still down. She found herself making a noise from her throat that was entirely unintentional. She also stepped towards him but he gave no reaction, showed no sign he had even registered her existence. Then he stepped out of the lift and turned hard right. She felt an arm across her chest, holding her back as the lift doors slipped shut again.
The lift shivered and then there was movement upward. Her last chance was gone.
Chapter 20
George was in a hurry to leave. He stopped to give his number to the woman behind the front counter. She assured him that she would make contact if she noticed either of the families come back. George’s phone buzzed in his pocket as he strode away from the hotel. It had been going off almost non-stop. His wife was pulling out of the afternoon’s arrangements, it would mean he’d miss out on seeing his daughter for the first time in nearly a year — on her birthday. It buzzed again, longer this time. He ignored the call. He couldn’t speak, not while he was in a public space. He needed the privacy of the car. He got back to his vehicle and pulled the door firmly shut. He took a moment; calling her back was the last thing he wanted to do. He just didn’t have the energy. He knew it would descend into an argument; there was no way for it to do anything else. He was so angry.
He checked the phone, expecting another angry message or an ultimatum to buzz through. Instead it showed a message from Emily. He had an earlier missed call from her too. He’d ignored her for the same reason he hadn’t answered his wife: it would surely end in an argument. The message from Emily didn’t appear to be angry at least. It said simply: I just need to know how it went. Did you get anything you can use? Or, more important, did you manage to protect our handler?
George typed out the only reply for which he could muster the energy: It went fine.
He started the engine. He needed to go and see Stanley. They would need to go through his life in some detail: friends, family, friends of friends, tradesmen. Somebody Stan knew had come back in the dead of night and had killed his wife. Stanley Wingmore was the key to this, even if he didn’t know it yet. George stared out over the top of the steering wheel. Exhaustion seemed to have wrapped him like a dark mist. He wondered if he could find the energy to speak to Stan. He considered calling Paul Bearn and tasking him. The buzzing phone interrupted his musing.
‘Ryker.’ He answered, without thinking.
Emily went straight on the offensive. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘What does what mean?’
‘It went fine? That tells me nothing.’
‘I guess I don’t have the time for full updates right now.’ George was grouchy.
‘What the hell is going on with you, George? Why are you treating me like shit all of a sudden?’
‘I’m sorry, okay? I’ve got a lot going on at the moment. I’m trying to get my head around it all.’
‘You think that makes it okay? We’re all busy people, George. I take it you mean this shit with your wife? She’s still torturing you by dangling your kid out like some carrot in front of a donkey?’
‘You don’t get to talk about my family, okay? You have no idea what’s going on. You have no idea what we’ve been through. She’s not dangling anything. We’re just trying to work it out.’
‘Like hell! You might be trying to work it out but she’s toying with you, George, and she has been for years. You need to call her bluff, tell her Charley’s your kid, too, and she has to accept that. There are laws, George. She can’t stop you seeing your kid.’
‘I tell you what, Ryker . . . when you get your own family you can have an opinion, okay? Until then you can keep your fucking nose out, you understand?’ George pushed the touch screen on the car’s display so hard it bent inwards and made a cracking sound. The call ended. George threw his head backwards into the headrest. Still not satisfied, he did it again but this time harder. He kept throwing his head back in a frenzy of movement, his eyes filled with tears of frustration. As he became still, they ran down his face.
‘Fuck!’ He said out loud. He stared at the screen. The call information was still on there. He pressed to call back. The call was picked up. There was silence at the other end. George knew there wa
s someone there; he could hear a breath. He peered out of the side window. His eyes had lost their focus.
‘I’m sorry, Ryker. I am an arsehole. I’ve treated you like shit today, yesterday and before. A few times now. I take you for granted and I shouldn’t. I’m sorry. I fucked up, Ryker — this morning. I know the rules. I know that people can get hurt if you don’t follow them and I just carried on regardless. It’s not that I don’t care about other people — I just don’t care about myself enough to even think about them. About you. I kicked that man’s door in — Yarney. I was through it before I even stopped to think because I was angry with my wife. He gave me some information about where a suspect might be staying and I just bowled over there and started knocking on doors, talking to the receptionist, telling her I’m a copper. I know better, Ryker. I know that I should have called it in. We could have considered other options. But I didn’t. I didn’t because I was angry about my wife. I’ve missed a call this morning, Ryker, from Stanley. I convinced myself that I was so angry with what happened to him that nothing else mattered, that I could do what I wanted to find these people — and then he calls me up and I didn’t even answer his call. Now I don’t even have the guts to call him back or to go see him because I’m scared that he’ll know. He’ll know that I didn’t care enough. And I might be all he has at the moment. I’ve let him down, I’ve let you down, I let Andy McGuiness down. And I’m not much closer. Not to finding the people that shot that woman and not to seeing my own daughter. I’m sorry, Ryker. You deserve better.’ George stared out of the window. Thirty seconds passed. The timer still ticked up on the screen.
‘Where are you, George?’
‘Dover. I should go and see Stan. One of the gang definitely knew him. That means that Stan knows him. Maybe I should task Paul — everything’s just out of control with me right now.’
THEN SHE RAN an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist Page 17
