by J. S. Spicer
“Gem?”
“Hi baby.” She leaned in, one shoulder against the doorframe. Freddie’s body odour was palpable, upstaged only by his sour breath. Judging by the stubble and the stains on his t-shirt it looked like he hadn’t left his lair in a while.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” She kept her smile in place. Freddie looked at her with uncertainty. He was a simple beast when it came to carnal pleasure; he was always up for it. Even so there was doubt clouding his desire.
Gemma slid her jacket off, over her shoulders, down past her elbows. She held it there, dangling behind her, ready to fall to the floor.
“Well?”
Freddie finally found his smile. There it was now, the leer she’d been banking on. He pulled the door wide and Gemma stepped inside.
It was as filthy as ever. The room was poorly lit by a standard lamp he’d found in a skip and the light from the TV. Daylight was shut out by thick, dusty curtains.
On Freddie’s old TV set the screen was paused in a game; overly muscled grim-faced soldiers touted weapons. On the floor nearby was the consol, his old one. She felt a thrill of hope. Everything was the same. If Freddie had got his hands on hard cash he’d have splurged without hesitation, but there was no knew technology on show in his flat.
“Got anything to drink?” she asked and finally let the jacket fall. She found a relatively clean portion of the sofa to sink into, crossing her legs so her skirt rode up.
Freddie threw the game controller aside and grinned at her.
It took a while. She needed time to search. Despite his idiocy Freddie could be violent so it was important not to underestimate what he was capable of. He’d wanted to get straight down to the sex, but that wouldn’t work. She knew him well enough to know afterwards he’d pick up the game controller again and she’d be forgotten. She needed to get him drinking then get him to the bedroom. He wasn’t really going for it though so instead she asked if he had any weed.
“Just need to unwind a bit,” she told him.
Freddie was already tugging at her clothes, his tongue in her ear. If she was going to have sex with the slob it was going to have to be beneficial; he really did stink.
“They found Aubrey.”
Freddie froze then slowly backed off.
“The police have him?”
“He’s in the hospital. Involved in a hit and run.”
“Have you seen him?”
The sudden change in Freddie was quite something to see. What was he worried about? Gemma felt a degree of satisfaction at the concern etched into his face. It helped confirm what she’d suspected.
“Yeah, they let me in for a while.”
“Gemma.” Freddie took hold of her again, this time gripping her arm, all seriousness and no lust. “Did he say what he did with the gun?”
“What?”
“You know, the gun he took from me the other night. If the police get their hands on that I’m in deep shit.”
“Why would they connect it to you?”
“It’s probably covered in my fingerprints for one thing.” He was squeezing her arm now. His eyes glowed eerily in the TV light. “You know the police can tell if a particular gun’s been used in a crime don’t you?”
The pieces were falling into place; the recent armed robberies, one guy still in hospital after being shot. Freddie was behind it all. No wonder he’d been so annoyed when Aubrey took the gun off him. It wasn’t just hurt pride, it was self-preservation. The gun was evidence. That was why he’d followed Aubrey that night, to get it back. He couldn’t risk it falling into the wrong hands. Freddie had failed to get the gun back, but he’d found Aubrey’s stash and taken that instead.
“Relax,” she somehow managed to force out a casual little laugh. “That gun is long gone.”
“You’re sure?” His grip hadn’t eased.
She leaned forward, kissed him hungrily. “Trust me on this, Freddie, OK? Aubrey hates guns, you know that. He told me himself, he ditched it, somewhere nobody will find it.”
“He didn’t say where?”
“Well, no, not exactly, but it’s definitely gone. The police won’t find it. No-one will find it.”
She stroked his cheek. “How about that smoke?”
A couple of hours later she lay next to him, listening to him snore. Freddie was tangled in his dirty bed sheets. A few shots of whisky, a couple of joints, and a rather unspectacular roll in the sack had finally made him drowsy.
Gemma let him snore for a while before she risked moving.
She knew of three hiding places in his flat, little nooks where he liked to stash things in case the police raided.
It was in the first place she looked; a loose kick-board beneath one of the kitchen cupboards. Gemma recognised Aubrey’s backpack even as she teased it from its hiding place. It was dusty and kept catching on the edge of the opening as she pulled at it. She paused every now and then, listening. Then, satisfied that Freddie was still snoring in blissful ignorance, she carried on. The bag was heavy and bulky; a very good sign!
Gemma snuck barefoot from the flat, boots in one hand and the backpack in the other. She hurried down three flights of steps before she risked pulling on her boots.
With the weight of the backpack bouncing against her shoulder blades Gemma felt more exhilarated than she had in years.
They all thought they were so clever. Aubrey and Carol Bishop with their plotting behind her back. Then Freddie, stealing the jewellery right from under Aubrey’s nose. Where were they all now; one dead, one hospitalised, and one crashed out drunk in his own stinking dump of a flat.
Gemma made it down the stairway in record time, past all the litter and graffiti and the stench of piss.
She burst from the block exit.
Then she ran.
CHAPTER SIXTY ONE
She started again before it was light. Deep shadows still hung around the room. Her fingers were now so stiff and sore she had to protect them in the folds of the bathrobe. This made it difficult to work with the spoon; it kept slipping from her grasp, falling to the floor with a mocking clatter. The floorboards refused to be cooperative too. Age and damp, perhaps caused by a leak from the radiator above, had left them warped and soft in places. Jennifer had hoped to find the right leverage point so she could prise up a whole plank and slide it from its home. This was not to be. When the first piece of wood yielded it was just a gouge a couple of inches across, not a promising start. She realised she was going to have to dig into the aged wooden boards until she could make a large enough gap to get her hands into the hole and pull. This raised another problem. The damage would be immediately evident if and when her captor returned. A whole board removed could have been slotted back into place as the need arose, but chipping and digging at the mouldy floor was leaving debris scattered around, not to mention the pitiful hole that was beginning to form.
Jennifer would just have to work fast.
Even if she could get free of being chained to the floorboards she still had a locked door to get through. If he came back and saw what she was doing she didn’t like to think of what that would mean. Her heart thumped with the fear of how he’d react to another escape attempt.
So this couldn’t be an attempt. This had to be a success.
Jennifer needed to be long gone before he came back.
She didn’t know how long it had taken to make a hole big enough to reach into, but by the time she had the sun was high and blood speckled her robe where her ragged fingers had begun to bleed again. Beneath the boards was a void where old pipes gathered dust. She reached in and took a firm hold of the wood, ignoring the pain shooting down her fingers and the fatigue dragging at her body. With her feet planted firmly she braced herself. Then Jennifer pulled, focusing all of her strength on moving that slab of wood which held her to this place. At first she feared it wouldn’t budge, but she wasn’t stopping. She wouldn’t be beaten. With an aching back she tugged and wrenched. Her teeth were gritted so hard her
jaw hurt, and her face was soon damp with sweat.
Finally she felt the board give a little. The hope this instilled gave her extra strength; just a little, but it was enough.
Shards of rotten wood flew into the air. Jennifer fell backwards, landing hard as the board sprang upwards, suddenly free of its neighbours.
Jennifer sat there for a few moments. Tears streaked down her face as she laughed.
It was a small victory, there was still a long way to go. Her laughter died on her lips as her eyes moved to the locked door.
She sat for a while, clutching the piece of broken floorboard to her chest, still with the chain nailed to it, gazing at her next challenge, weighing up the possibilities.
She thought back to her first attempt to free herself of the chain. It had failed. Trying to go directly for the nails was foolish, time-consuming, and unsuccessful.
Perhaps she should try thinking outside of the box with the door too. She didn’t know how good a lock it was, but since she didn’t know how to pick a lock anyway it didn’t matter.
Perhaps, like the floor, a weakness lay elsewhere. She stood and walked over, examining it as though she’d never laid eyes on a door before. She looked at the frame. She reached out and felt it. As her eyes and hand followed the contours of the doorframe they came to rest on the hinges. There were two of them; one at the top and one at the bottom. They were partially rusted and painted over, but Jennifer flashed to a memory from her childhood when her father had replaced the doors in their house. Inside the solid looking hinge before her there should be a slender pin. Removing the pins from the top and bottom hinges would bring freedom, but with only a teaspoon to work with it wouldn’t be easy.
When the floorboard had sprung free one of the nails had finally decided to come loose. So Jennifer put that to work; she would make use of any tool that she could, however small and pitiful.
First, using the sharp end of the nail, she scraped at the old flaking paintwork and gouged out any muck and dust that clung to the hinges.
When she’d cleared as much as she could she positioned the nail at the base of one of the hinges and pushed it upwards.
Nothing. It didn’t budge.
Jennifer persisted, switching between cleaning the hinges and trying the nail in the bottom. She decided to use the spoon too after all, placing it in the palm of her hand she pushed at the nail with the bowl of the spoon instead of just her bare flesh. After several more attempts the first pin began to move upwards.
“Yes!”
CHAPTER SIXTY TWO
He couldn’t go home.
They were there.
He spotted the police cars the moment he turned the corner, on his way back from the shops, arms full of groceries. He’d bought extra; some fruit and biscuits for Jennifer. He’d begun to feel guilty about chaining her up, even though she’d brought it on herself.
Now he had a problem. The police were at his house. He stopped in his tracks. Even as he hovered close to a neighbour’s garden wall he spotted more movement. It was an unmarked car and the man wasn’t in uniform, but he guessed he was also with the police. He watched long enough to see his mother let the guy in without a second’s hesitation. She probably already had the kettle on!
When the front door closed Joseph turned his back on home and swiftly walked away.
This was bad. On TV the police always needed a warrant to search a property, but that wouldn’t matter in this case. His mother would go out of her way to accommodate them. She loved visitors; any visitors. He’d tried to instil in her the need to be cautious but all his warnings had fallen on deaf ears. She would delight in telling them anything and everything they wanted to know. His mother’s favourite topic of conversation was Joseph. If they wanted to look around she’d let them. He just had to hope they wouldn’t go so far as to search the attic.
He knew he’d made a mistake leaving the van guy in the road like that. He should have made sure he was dead. He must be the reason the police were now onto Joseph.
Thinking about the van Joseph realised he still had the keys on him, tucked into his jacket pocket.
If Joseph’s mother was as chatty and helpful as he feared she might even mention the farmhouse. The best thing he could do was get back there as fast as possible and move Jennifer before all was lost.
Joseph picked up his pace and headed for the garage block where he’d left the blue van.
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
The plan was simple; get as far away as possible. The best look she got at the place where she’d been held prisoner was as she was leaving. It looked like an old farmhouse, tired and rundown. There was an old brick barn which no longer had a roof, just a few naked beams exposed to sky. She hurried through the yard, her bare feet scraping against cracked concrete and snagging on weeds. Her eyes darted everywhere, fearful as she passed a shadowy lean-to, an old wooden shed, just in case he suddenly appeared. Her ears strained for any sounds, but all she heard was distant bird song and her own heart pounding.
Even as she ran out onto the road she tried to calm her frantic brain. He wasn’t here. If he’d been here she’d have seen the car, Hugh Bishop’s Volvo. He’d brought her to this place in it, and she’d seen it again when she’d got out before. If the car wasn’t here then neither was he. She had to try and stay calm, put some distance between herself and the farmhouse, then find help.
She kept to the verges, grateful for the feel of the sharp, springy grass beneath her feet. The lane was narrow. On one side fields stretched away beyond a low hedge-line. On the other the ground rose slightly and was covered in pockets of slender trees. This was the side she kept to, ready to hide amongst those trees if a black car should suddenly come into view.
It felt like she’d been walking for miles before she heard the sound of an approaching engine. It didn’t sound like the Volvo but caution sent her scurrying for cover a few yards back from the road.
On hands and knees Jennifer peered through tangled twigs and long grass, her breathing shallow with anticipation. The road swung lazily through the landscape, dipping here and there and folding around the hills and woods. It made it hard to get a clear line of vision.
Her first glimpse was just a flash, a glint of sun off metal. She stayed low, hidden, and kept watching. The sound was getting nearer; throaty and rough.
Finally the vehicle turned a corner and came into view. As she’d thought, hoped, it wasn’t the Volvo, it wasn’t even a car; it was a van.
With a cry of joy she rose from her hiding place and hurried out into the centre of the road. She put herself in the path of the approaching van, waving one arm wildly, the other still gripping the section of floorboard. Tears of exhaustion and relief filled her eyes, blurring her vision.
The van slowed, and then stopped. Jennifer ran forward, smiling, as the driver stepped out.
She was already within arm’s reach when she realised her mistake.
CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR
Mrs Myers had fallen over herself to be helpful. She’d opened her home to them without question and couldn’t say enough about her wonderful son. She even pushed a photo album into Max’s lap as he listened patiently. Yes, she was waxing lyrical about Joseph; right up until they showed her the attic.
Then she’d clammed up tight.
Travers had pressed her for a while, but her mouth stayed closed and the shutters had come down in her eyes; no longer sparkling with pride they were dull with something deeper than disappointment. Shock perhaps.
He didn’t worry too much though. Max had seen something in the photographs she’d been so keen to thrust at him. Many of the pictures of young Joseph Myers had been taken on a farm; posing amongst the bales of hay or next to a tractor. There were enough of these to convince Max these weren’t merely visits. This was a place where the Myers family used to live.
He left the other officers to deal with the freak show in the loft and went to call Carrie from his car. He told her what he needed then hung up and wait
ed.
The street was a quiet one; families, elderly people, a few young couples. He could tell from a quick glance at the houses. Some windowsills were crammed with ornaments with thick, frilly nets hovering just above them. Other homes had footballs or bikes left out front. Yet others were slick with modern blinds and shiny cars parked out front. The Myers house didn’t stand out as any different, homely if a bit stuffy. Nothing to indicate that one of its inhabitants had stalked and then abducted a young woman. Travers felt a shiver run through him as he considered what else had been done to Jennifer.
He closed his eyes. He felt so close to finding her and it seemed wrong to be sitting in his car doing nothing, going nowhere. But he had to wait for Carrie’s information. She would work as fast as she could, he knew that. Patience wasn’t his strong suit, but there was nothing to do now but wait.
Though expecting the call when the phone buzzed it startled him and he almost dropped it as he fumbled to answer.
“Well?”
“You were right,” Carrie’s voice came through the speaker. In the background he could hear the rumble of the station at work. “They had a farm. When Myers Senior died a few years ago they had a lot of debts. Sold off livestock and a good chunk of land.”
“Do you have an address?”
“I do, and Max, I think it’s still vacant.”
Travers tore up the miles, siren blaring and foot to the floor. He finally had a destination. They’d caught, or rather found, Davis the day before. Now perhaps the remaining players could be scooped up and the picture would become complete.
He sliced through the afternoon traffic smoothly and swiftly. Other road users melted out of his way. It wasn’t long before the town was left far behind.
