Fragile Lives

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘He’d left, she said. She’d put him on the train, waved him off, then gone back home to help her mam get ready.’

  Fitch took up the story. ‘Two days later we got a letter. It was a picture of Pat and a note attached, saying they’d be in touch. Best start collecting our cash together. They didn’t say what or how much.’

  ‘This letter …?’ Mac began.

  Fitch went through to the hall and fetched his coat. From the inside pocket he produced a plastic bag. He handed it to Mac. Rina left her seat and pulled up a chair beside him. The ziplock bag contained a photograph and a single sheet of card carrying a printed message. A single smudge of what Mac realized was fingerprint powder despoiled the corner of the otherwise pristine surface. ‘You had it examined.’

  ‘Paid. Yes. Like I say, we have contacts. But there was nothing, a smudge of grease, but no prints.’

  ‘And you never thought to go to the police?’

  Duggan shook his head.

  ‘Were you warned not to?’

  Fitch looked at his boss. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you’re right, it wasn’t just Patrick. And there’d been stories about when parents and friends had gone to the police, what was done to … to the ones missing.’

  Mac stared at him. ‘What are you telling me here? How big is this?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Fitch said. He looked uneasily at the Peters sisters who were listening with rapt attention. ‘Look, I’m not being funny, but it don’t seem right discussing this in front of the ladies.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind us.’

  ‘We’re unshockable.’

  ‘And it won’t go any further than this room.’ Bethany turned to look at Rina. ‘Oh, I know, Rina darling, you think we need to be protected from the world, but really, we all spent so much time in it already and we’re all still here.’ She beamed at the assembled company and Mac could almost feel Rina’s shoulders sag. Rescue came from an unexpected quarter.

  ‘Bethany,’ Matthew said, ‘why don’t you and Eliza go and sort out your music. I’m sure, if our guests have the time later, they’d love to hear you play.’

  ‘Oh, what a good idea.’ Bethany clasped her hands and got to her feet, gesturing to her sister to follow. ‘We’ll be in the back parlour.’

  Fitch watched them go and visibly relaxed.

  ‘Are they, you know, all right?’ Jimmy Duggan asked.

  ‘No less all right than they ever were,’ Matthew told him. ‘Now, Mr Duggan, would you rather we left as well. I understand just how difficult this all must be.’

  Duggan sighed. He was, Mac thought, as confused by the surreal atmosphere of the Martin household as Mac had been the first time he had encountered it. ‘Frankly,’ he said at last, ‘I don’t know what I want. My son is dead, nothing’s going to make that less of a fact.’

  ‘And are other sons and daughters dead?’ Rina asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘Not so far as we know. There have been at least five so far, we think, though the parents won’t talk. They all have good reason not to go to the police, all thought they could handle things themselves. Or should. All got their kids back, but not always unharmed.’

  ‘I need names, Mr Duggan,’ Mac told him.

  ‘I’m not sure about that. They were warned, all of them. Say anything and your kids are gone, this time for good. They believe that and so do I. I pushed too hard and now my Patrick’s dead and if his mother gets to know what I’ve done, I’ll lose her and my other kids as well. She’ll never live with knowing, not knowing what I’ve done.’

  ‘You got him back once?’ Mac was incredulous.

  Duggan nodded. ‘The first time it happened was just … unbelievable, but five days after he was taken, I got a call telling me where to take the money. Patrick was returned that night, left at the train station where they’d taken him from. He was dopey, like he’d been drugged, but he was OK. I thought it was all over and I was mad as hell. Bridie, the wife, she told me to leave off, wanted to put it all behind us and get on. So, we’d lost some money. So what, we’d got our son back and that was all she could see. Me, well, I let it play on my mind. Let it rile me that they’d done this. Taken me for a fool and put one of mine in harm’s way and it got to me too that there’d been others. Of course, I didn’t know then. Didn’t know all of the facts, but I wanted to know and I kept on digging, kept on pushing, kept on following the rumours and cutting through the lies people were telling to protect themselves. And then Patrick was gone again and now he’s dead.

  ‘I can’t name names, not knowing what they did to my boy. I can’t put others at risk. One little kiddie was just five years old. The parents didn’t have the cash, they said they needed more time so the bastards cut off a finger and sent it to them. A five-year-old kid.’

  ‘Did they get the money?’ Matthew was horrified.

  Duggan nodded. ‘That was how I found out about them. They needed cash and they needed to borrow and they went to some associates of mine.’

  ‘So, the kidnappers,’ Rina said. ‘What would have made them think these people were suitable targets?’

  ‘Because six months ago, raising the cash would have been a no-brainer. Then, well, like they say, investments can go down as well as up so …’

  ‘Are we talking legal or illegal investments here?’ Mac asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It might. Had their losses been in the public domain they might not have been targeted.’

  Duggan shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ He sounded unconvinced.

  ‘And the fact that the kidnappers didn’t know may give us an idea of what circles they move in.’

  ‘Academic though, isn’t it, seeing as how I’m not giving names. And don’t start with the threats about interfering with a police investigation, withholding evidence or whatever the jargon is. This is a private conversation at a private dinner party and I didn’t say any of it. Anything you happen to find out off your own bat, well, it didn’t come from me.’

  Mac thought about challenging him on that but decided against. It would gain nothing.

  ‘What timescale are we looking at?’

  ‘Near as we can make out, eighteen months, give or take.’

  ‘And, you say, at least five incidents?’

  ‘That we know about.’

  ‘And what sort of money are we talking about? You said you were told where to take the cash.’

  Duggan and Fitch exchanged a look. ‘A lot of money,’ he said. ‘But when you say “cash”,’ Fitch elaborated, ‘it wasn’t like your holdall stuffed with banknotes.’

  ‘Bank transfer,’ Tim guessed. ‘Wireless?’

  Fitch nodded. ‘We were told to go and sit behind this fast food place. They’ve got Wi-Fi for their customers. We made the transfer, had it confirmed, drove home. Patrick was returned that night. We’re told it’s nigh on impossible to trace, we didn’t even log on to the system, just piggybacked on someone else’s signal. A month later, Patrick was gone again.’

  Eleven

  Midmorning on Saturday saw Mac on his way to view the flat Rina had found for him. It was only a fifteen-minute walk from where he was currently renting, but it was a walk that left behind Victorian promenade and holiday shops and took him back in time a couple of hundred years. The old town clambered up the cliff either side of a tumbling river. The lifeboat station, a new build, jutted out on a concrete raft just beyond the river and plunged its ramp down into an especially deepened bay in what had once been a little harbour but had long since been silted up by the outflow of the river. Beyond that was a new marina and tiny, somewhat pretentious ‘yacht club’ which Mac had seen but not yet visited.

  On the Frantham New Town side of the river, narrow streets wound back up the steep hill. Mac was getting to know the old town because in his off-duty hours he had enjoyed exploring the narrow streets and tiny, quirky shops but he’d rarely been called there on official business. Eden had told him that it had somehow escaped the worst of the second-homes b
oom, largely because access by car was just so difficult. A footpath – the one Mac had taken that morning – led from one end of the promenade around the headland. Otherwise there was one narrow road in and out, almost impassable for anything bigger than a moderate family car. The locals had tended to cling tenaciously to what they’d got once they had it, which was why houses passing on through three or four generations seemed to be the norm. Mac figured that the narrow lane’s days were probably numbered even so.

  The boathouse fronted on to what had been a jetty where the fishing boats landed before fishing had largely died out in Frantham and the new pleasure boat marina been constructed.

  As usual, Mac was early.

  He had meandered slowly down the winding alleyway between two terraced rows that called itself Milly’s Lane. There was a bookshop halfway down that on previous visits had produced some interesting finds. He was thinking about the dinner at Rina’s the evening before.

  After Duggan had left Mac had stayed on to help with the clean-up and then to chat to Tim and Rina. Was Edward Parker involved in the abductions? Tim had wondered. The fact that he had kidnapped his own son counted. Didn’t it?

  Mac was not so sure.

  ‘The only real lead we have on Parker’s employer,’ he had confided, ‘was the flat Edward Parker had bought which, by all rights, should have been well out of his price range.’

  Parker had paid cash. Bank transfer. Unusual but by no means unknown. So, where had he got the money from? The paper trail had led to an offshore conglomerate that traded in everything from coffee beans to hemp fibre and the experts were still probing but, so far as Mac knew, nothing out and out illegal had been found. But why had they bought Edward Parker a flat?

  ‘Penny for them.’ Mac almost jumped. He turned, recognizing the voice.

  ‘Hello. What brings you here?’

  Miriam Hastings smiled and her blue eyes sparkled. ‘I could ask you the same, Mr Inspector Mac. Do you live in the old town?’

  Mac fell into step beside her, fighting the odd frisson of excitement he felt when her hand brushed his. ‘Actually, I might be,’ he said. ‘I’m going to view a flat. In fact …’ He took a deep breath. ‘Um, would you like to come along, give me an opinion? I’ve not had much practice at this sort of thing.’

  She laughed, glanced at her watch. ‘Why not. I’m only mooching. There are some lovely little shops down by the harbour and I’ve got to get something nice for my sister. She’s got a birthday coming up. Maybe I could give an opinion on your flat and you could help me shop.’

  Mac’s heart rate accelerated. He told himself not to be so silly. This was a chance meeting, not a date. ‘It’s a deal,’ he said. ‘What sort of thing does she like?’

  An hour later Mac had a new home. Rina had been right, the little conversion over the boathouse was perfect for him. An odd, little porthole gave a view on to the ocean. A newly installed row of windows looked down on the river mouth and the tiny seafront café.

  The flat was tiny, open-plan but for a cubbyhole of a bedroom and a small shower room but Mac loved the exposed beams, the wood burning stove, the scrubbed timber of the new floor. It smelt new and clean, of fresh paint and sea water and just the faintest overtone of boat – tar and seaweed – remaining from the previous use.

  ‘It’s very you,’ Miriam told him.

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Oh, I’m a very good judge. Pay the man his deposit and let’s get you moved in.’

  After that it had seemed only natural that they go for lunch in a little pub she knew just away up the hill. Mac had not felt so light in many, many months.

  George and Ursula had escaped from Hill House at mid-morning, taking a picnic that Cheryl had concocted for them and George’s newly acquired binoculars.

  George had tried to ignore the soppy look on Cheryl’s face as she watched them set off together, clearly now seeing them as an item.

  He found it hard to believe that he’d been at Hill House for almost a week. Found it equally hard to believe that he had only been there for a week. Already it was becoming hard to focus on his previous life; there were moments when it felt as though it had all happened to some other George. Some faraway George. He felt so oddly dissociated from it all.

  They had taken the cliff path from the house, turning away from Frantham and walking in silence for the most part. Ursula was good at silence; it was a quality George admired. So few kids his age knew when to shut up and he really was not in the mood for chat. From time to time they paused so that George or Ursula could scan the horizon with the binoculars or study the birds. George found it awkward at first until Ursula told him the trick was to look at the thing you were trying to see and then bring the field glasses up to your eyes.

  The binoculars were heavy, gunmetal barrels designed for long wear, not for lightness, but George found something oddly comforting in the cool, smooth feel of the steel beneath his fingers and the almost sharp knurling on the focus wheel. He liked the sense of history and the fact that they had belonged to someone Rina loved. It was nice, he thought, that she had kept them all this time. George had so little in terms of possessions. His memories were tied up in a handful of photographs and his mother’s rings and watch.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Ursula asked. George looked to where she was pointing. Further along the cliff path stood a man in a red jacket. He seemed very close to the edge and was looking down at the crashing ocean with an intensity that filled George with dread. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and focused on the man’s face. He looked, George thought, in his late twenties. He had dark hair, a bit too long, it blew across his face and, now he could see him properly, his expression seemed to confirm to George that he was …

  ‘Stop! Hey stop. Don’t.’

  George began to run, binoculars on their neck strap bouncing against his chest. Ursula thundering behind him.

  ‘Stop. Please. Don’t!’ George couldn’t bear the thought of it. The intent and concentration on this man’s face reminded him of the desperation on his mother’s before she’d committed suicide.

  ‘No!’

  The man looked up and watched them as they ran towards him. As they drew closer, George could see that he looked puzzled rather than suicidal. That he was, in fact, standing firm footed on an outcrop George had been unable to see from his position further down the path. Sure, he was close to the edge. Too close for comfort, George would have thought, but he didn’t look like a man ready to jump, merely like a curious observer of something below that George still could not see.

  ‘I don’t think …’ Ursula began. ‘George, maybe we should go.’

  He wanted to agree. He wanted to disappear, to not be there but those options weren’t available on the top of a very exposed cliff path.

  He could feel his face glowing red and the words sticking in his throat. ‘Um, hello, I mean …’ The words dried and the man continued to look at him as though he didn’t quite understand.

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t speak English,’ Ursula whispered and George seized on that hope but it was short-lived.

  ‘I’m Simeon,’ the young man said. ‘Is something wrong with you? Do you need helping?’

  George was glad that Ursula stood beside him. They exchanged a look. The man’s tone and inflection was wrong. Odd.

  He pointed at the binoculars hanging round George’s neck. ‘Are you bird watching? I like to watch the gulls and the cormorants. They’re my favourites. They look like dinosaurs. I live in that house over there. My brother’s home, do you want to see?’

  ‘Er, thanks, but no. Better not,’ George said. It was clear that this man wasn’t ‘all there’ as his mother would have said. ‘I think we’d better go, actually.’

  The man called Simeon shrugged and turned back to his observation of whatever it was that commanded his attention. In spite of everything, and reassured by the fact that this man was utterly oblivious to his discomfort, George was curious.

  ‘What
are you looking at?’ he asked. ‘Are you watching the birds?’

  Simeon shook his head. ‘I watch things,’ he said. ‘I watch all kinds of things, but not the birds today. Today I’m watching a boat in a silly place. A place it shouldn’t be.’

  George and Ursula exchanged a look, then both stepped forward on to the outcrop. ‘Where?’ Ursula asked. ‘Ooh, it’s a long way down.’ She gripped George’s arm painfully and leaned forward dangerously far.

  ‘A long way down,’ Simeon repeated.

  Cautiously, George joined their observation. ‘I don’t see anything,’ he said, oddly disappointed.

  Simeon shook his head. ‘It isn’t there today. I’m looking for it but it doesn’t always come. I look for things and then I write them down and then Rina Martin reads my lists and writes things back to me.’

  ‘You know Rina?’

  ‘Of course. If I didn’t know her I wouldn’t send her my lists, would I?’ Simeon laughed and George had to accept the logic of that.

  ‘She asked me to look for a boat that was in a silly place so I’ve been looking for it. I’ve seen it two times now, but not today. Maybe it will be there tonight.’

  ‘What kind of boat?’ Ursula asked.

  ‘A little boat, of course. A little boat that comes out of a big boat. The big boat has to stay out there. A big boat would crash on to the rocks and break. A little boat with lights and an engine that buzzes.’ Simeon buzzed to demonstrate.

  ‘An outboard,’ George said, reminded instantly of the sound he had heard the day his father died. A small boat with an outboard motor and then the vibration of a much larger engine, though he had been too far back from the cliff edge by that time to see anything.

  ‘What was the big boat like?’ George was excited now and Ursula stared at him, confused by his sudden change of tone.

  Simeon shook his head, shrugged. ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘It was just big. Can I try your binoculars?’