by M. A. Hunter
With that, Cavendish stomps away and climbs into the back of the lead vehicle which tears out of the walled area a moment later, its blue lights flashing silently.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Then
Hayling Island, Hampshire
Joanna dropped her spoon into the bowl and used the last lump of bread to soak up the final dregs of the tomato soup from the edge, before depositing it in her mouth with a satisfied smile. Tucking a lock of her thick brown hair behind her ear, she looked up at the kindly Reverend Peter Saltzing, who was smiling warmly at her as he watched her chewing the bread.
‘How long did the police say they would be?’ she asked, surprised that she’d managed to finish the soup without them arriving.
‘Shouldn’t be much longer,’ he said, glancing at his wrist watch nervously before collecting her bowl and plate. ‘Would you like anything else to eat? Or perhaps a cup of tea to calm your shock?’
‘Tea would be great, thanks,’ she said, so relieved that the first house she’d called upon belonged to a man of the cloth, and not some kind of pervert.
‘Well, why don’t you go and wait in the living room next door while I fix us both a drink? I’ve got the fire on in there. There’s no television, I’m afraid, but the wireless is playing.’
Her brow ruffled.
‘Sorry, I meant the radio is on,’ he said, chuckling at himself for the outdated terminology.
Joanna wiped her lips with the scrap of kitchen roll he’d left on the side for her, and headed back into the corridor, following it until she could feel the air warming as she approached the main room. Twice the size of the kitchen, it had a two-seat sofa with an old-fashioned pattern of oranges, yellows, and browns, like the sort of furniture she’d seen in old pictures her mum would show her of what life was like back in the 70s. There was an unpleasant smell too – like rotting fruit – so she focused on breathing through her mouth, rather than her nose.
She could hear actors reading lines on the radio but it wasn’t of much interest to her, and so she sat down on the sofa and curled her legs up.
‘It’s okay to have a nap if you’re feeling tired,’ the vicar said, draping a small blanket over her legs, nodding towards the mug of tea he’d placed on the small table to the left of the sofa. ‘It sounds as though you’ve been through quite the ordeal.’
‘I just want to go home,’ she said, and he nodded his understanding.
‘I’m sure you do, my dear. One cannot underestimate the support of family and loved ones in these scary times.’
She smiled at him; it was nice that he wasn’t talking down to her like a child, as some of her teachers occasionally did, and her parents did all the time.
‘Do you have any family?’ she asked.
He moved across to a framed photograph on the wall and carried it back to her. ‘This is my younger sister, and her three children. It’s a few years old now, so the children are all probably teenagers by now.’ He paused, lifting his glasses and moving the image closer to his eyes, studying it intensely. ‘The oldest one here is Billy, then there’s his brother Kieran – he’s two years younger than Billy – and then last but by no means least, our precious Vanessa.’ He lowered the frame and a deep sadness overcame him. ‘I do so miss them; they moved to Australia a number of years ago, and I haven’t seen them since.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she offered, meaning every word. ‘Do you speak to them on the phone ever?’
He returned the frame to the wall. ‘Alas, not as much as I would like. Their mum and I… we had something of a falling out before she left, and… now it’s just me rattling around in the old vicarage.’
‘I know how that feels,’ she admitted, thinking back to the reason she’d gone to the newsagent’s shop in the first place.
Watching him fiddling with the frame, she realised now that the entire wall was covered in framed photographs – some were cuttings from newspapers, including pictures of a younger-looking Reverend Peter.
‘What were you in the newspaper for?’ she asked as he stepped back from the wall.
It took him a moment to realise where she was looking, but then he moved over and studied the framed article. ‘Ah, yes, this was a local piece written about the work we do here to support orphanages in the county. You see, I was fortunate enough to have something of a privileged upbringing, and I feel it is my duty to do what I can to support efforts to improve the lives of less fortunate children. On this particular occasion, we held a church fête with all proceeds being shared between a number of orphanages and charities supporting the less fortunate. That day we raised over ten thousand pounds through a variety of raffles and donations from local businesses. I didn’t particularly want my picture in the newspaper, but they insisted as it was a celebration of community spirit. I don’t suppose you know what I mean by that?’
She considered the question. ‘Yeah, I kind of do, I think.’
The sound of knocking at the front door had him back on his feet and heading out of the room. ‘I imagine this will be for you,’ he called out over his shoulder, though she wasn’t convinced as she hadn’t seen any flashing lights pass the window behind the sofa.
Standing, she tiptoed towards the newspaper article, and read the story about the monies raised from the fête. Her eyes then wandered to the next framed article, this one without a picture of Reverend Peter, but equally admiring of his contribution to fundraising in the local area.
The next headline caught her attention. She couldn’t see mention of Reverend Peter’s name, but it spoke about the closure of a boys’ home somewhere further north, despite the fundraising efforts of a local vicar and a number of former residents at the home. The story was cut short by a fold in the page, and with Reverend Peter yet to return, she took down the frame and removed the fastening holding the glass in place. Lifting the back plate from the frame, she could see the story continued on the folded page, and learned that the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys had been closed pending an enquiry into the treatment of some of its former residents. The article was adjacent to a picture of a much younger-looking Reverend Peter standing stern-faced beside a taller young man in a dark suit, whose face looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
And then she realised exactly who she was staring at, and her blood ran cold. At the same moment Reverend Peter returned to the living room, but it wasn’t a uniformed police officer he was leading into the overly warm room.
The picture frame slipped from Joanna’s fingers and her mouth dried instantly as she saw the man in the grey suit hovering over her. She looked to the vicar, who was only half in the room, but no longer able to bring his gaze to meet hers.
Joanna shuffled backwards, until the curtained window stopped her escape.
Grey reached into his pocket and removed a pair of leather gloves, sliding his hands inside and interlocking his fingers to ensure a proper fit. ‘
‘You’ve caused us a great deal of trouble, young lady,’ Grey said. ‘I warned you what would happen if you tried to run away.’
Joanna couldn’t stop the wee trickling down her leg as she stood frozen with terror. She was tempted to beg for her life, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how terrified she was.
Reaching into the pocket of her dress, she whipped out the small cheese knife, and held it out with as straight an arm as she could muster.
Grey erupted into a deep and sickening laugh. ‘You got a lot of heart, kid, you know that? You think you can kill me? You think you have what it takes?’
The vicar mumbled something behind them, but Joanna could no longer see him as Grey towered over her.
‘I tell you what I’m gonna do,’ Grey mocked, sliding the grey blazer from his shoulders and draping it over the old-fashioned sofa. ‘I’m going to give you one shot. Okay? One chance to see whether you have what it takes to kill me.’
Joanna could barely hear the words, the boom-boom-boom of her heart echoing in her ears.
Grey knelt down and smoothed the creases from his white shirt with his gloved hands, thrusting his chest out towards her. ‘Here it is, kid: this is your one chance to kill me and make your escape. Are you ready for it? Are you ready to do what is necessary?’
The tiny blade looked so insignificant against his huge chest, and as the edge skirted across the edge of his shirt, she knew she wouldn’t have the strength. Not that it mattered, as his arm swung out and cracked into her wrist, the small knife flying across the room and disappearing somewhere behind the sofa as it crashed into the wall. Without missing a beat, he wrapped his single gloved hand around both her wrists and dragged her towards him, as he stood.
‘You won’t get another chance like that, kid,’ he whispered loudly, again running his rough tongue the length of her cheek, savouring the taste of her tears.
Scooping up his jacket with his free hand, he pulled her across the room, past the cowering vicar who still refused to look at them, and back out into the dark night to his waiting car. Pulling open the door, he flung her into the back in a single motion, making no effort to buckle her in, slamming the door and turning his attention back to the vicar.
‘Go inside, and wipe the place clean,’ Grey glowered, handing him a small wad of folded notes. ‘And consider this a donation to the church for services rendered.’
‘What will happen to her?’ the vicar asked quietly.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.’
‘You never should have allowed her to get away in the first place!’
Grey stepped forwards, forcing the vicar to move backwards. ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. Isn’t that how the saying goes?’
Reverend Peter scowled. ‘Mr Brown will hear of this. You mark my words.’
‘You’ll keep your mouth shut, old man. You’re not the influence on me you once were, and you’ll keep your gob shut for once if you know what’s good for you.’
The vicar took a further step back, lifting his arms in surrender and protection of his upper body. ‘Okay, okay… I just need assurances that this will be taken care of. She knows who I am… She can identify me.’
Grey turned back and looked at the car. ‘You really have nothing to worry about. I’ll do what’s necessary.’
Sliding the jacket back over his shoulders, Grey made his way around the front of the car and looked both ways before climbing in and starting the engine. Joanna was stretched out on the rear seat quietly sobbing, regretting that she hadn’t continued into the town centre in search of a police station.
The car bounced and buffeted along for at least ten minutes, with Grey chain-smoking until the thin light through the windows disappeared and Joanna could no longer see where they were going. She finally sat up when the car came to a sudden halt, but she wished she hadn’t when she saw they were surrounded by dark and foreboding trees on either side.
Grey exited the car, pulled open the rear door, and dragged her from the seat by the ankles. Joanna bashed her head on the cushion and frame of the car, before hitting the rough leaves and twigs that scattered the ground. She kicked out and screamed as he dragged her from the car, further into the wood where she could no longer see the sky above the entwining branches.
They eventually stopped when she could hear the sound of water trickling nearby, but by the time he released her foot, she was too cold and sore to make any effort to get back to her feet and run.
Grey took a deep breath before lighting a fresh cigarette and inhaling it deeply into his lungs.
‘It didn’t have to be this way,’ he said quietly. ‘You could have learned to follow the rules… You could have seen that things really aren’t as bad as you feared.’
He turned until he was facing her. The only light she could see was the orange tip of the cigarette as he sucked on the end.
‘Such a pity that you had to keep fighting. Hope will kill you, you know that, right? It isn’t your fault; they drill it into kids in school. They brainwash you into believing that the world is a good place and that if you love thy neighbour, you’ll wind up in paradise. What you realise when you get older is just how much of a crock all of that is. In reality it’s every man for himself, and no amount of good deeds will see you end up anywhere but in a furnace or as worm food. There is no better place after all of this, as you’re about to find out.’
She couldn’t move. Frozen to the ground, her bladder having emptied twice since he’d shown up, she accepted that she would never see her family again. She prayed her end would be quick and painless.
‘I remember being your age – maybe a little older – and feeling like I wanted to die. But then I was given a second chance. And so I’m going to do you that same kindness, kid. I’m going to give you the choice about how the rest of this night goes.’ He bent over so she could just about see his lips as he spoke. ‘Beg for your life and I’ll let you live.’
She squirmed as some of the ash dropped from the tip of his cigarette and floated down to her face like a snowflake.
‘P-p-please,’ her lips stammered, her breath escaping as a cloud in the cold night air.
He straightened. ‘You’ve got to do better than that, kid. I said beg.’
He took a step back, allowing her to shift the weight onto her side so she could then move onto her knees, biting down as the sharp twigs scratched at her skin and bone.
‘P-p-please d-d-don’t kill me.’
She heard him laughing, even though she could no longer see him as he flicked the cigarette away in a shower of sparks. And then suddenly he was down on the ground beside her, whispering into her ear.
‘That’s better, kid. Now, you’ll do what I say going forwards, won’t you? And you won’t be any more trouble, will you?’
‘N-n-no,’ she stammered breathlessly.
‘Good,’ he sneered, his breath hot and smelly against her neck. ‘Just remember, kid, I’ve helped you tonight. From now on, you owe me.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Now
Weymouth, Dorset
The journey from Weymouth to Bridport along the A35 takes forty minutes, and there hasn’t even been a murmur from Robin in the back. Tina, on the other hand, hasn’t stopped talking, asking my opinion on matters but not leaving any space to respond. I shouldn’t be surprised; I’m sure if the shoe was on the other foot I’d be full of nervous energy too.
When we finally pull up at the campsite on the outskirts of Bridport, it feels like we’ve arrived on the set of some elaborate crime drama series. The entire road leading from the site is packed with marked and unmarked police cars, and my eyes widen when I spot an armed response unit receiving instructions from their commander.
Cavendish is already out of her car engaging with the senior-looking official at the perimeter, and a small crowd has gathered near the entrance to the site. It’s the first time Tina has been silent since we got in the car, and as I now look at her, I can see she is as pale as a sheet.
Rick parks as close as he can but it is still a short walk back to the throng of people. Cavendish rolls her eyes when she spots the four of us, but comes over to instruct Robin to keep us back and out of the way.
The whole scene feels so over the top. In my limited experience, this amount of manpower wouldn’t be necessary for a couple of small-time hoods. There has to be a reason Cavendish has brought the cavalry with her, and second-guessing her motives has my head in a spin. The only conclusion I can draw is that there is far more going on here than any of us anticipated.
What if there really is some connection between what happened to Anna and the men responsible for abducting Jo-Jo?
I was adamant that no such connection could exist because of the twenty-one-year gap between the cases, but have I blinded myself to the truth? What if the ring of traffickers Jack and I have been searching for are holed up inside this campsite, and Cavendish is about to blow the investigation sky-high? Shouldn’t I phone Jack and warn him?
T
he armed response unit, dressed head-to-toe in black and donning night-vision goggles, prime their weapons and head into the campsite, dispersing into the shadowy darkness, before Cavendish leads the rest of her large team in through the security barrier. Anyone from the outside would be forgiven for thinking the police are taking control of some kind of terrorist incident, such is the level of activity unfolding before our eyes. The first high-vis officers arrive at the nearest bank of caravans, knock at the doors, immediately ask the residents to follow them out, and congregate them at the fire evacuation point behind the reception building and pool.
Tina has started pacing behind us, and Robin now goes to her to check she’s okay. I can just about make out Rick helping an elderly couple to the muster point, but the scene is bringing back unwanted memories. It was at a site not dissimilar to this one that Jack and I discovered Cassie Hilliard being held. We were fortunate that Hank Amos bore her no ill-will, but what if the predators who took Jo-Jo aren’t so forgiving?
‘Teens?’ a male voice calls from the distance. ‘Teens? Where are you?’
A moment later Trey Neville emerges from the darkness and immediately hugs his wife.
‘I came as soon as I heard. Is this the place? Is this where they think little Jo-Jo is?’
Tina doesn’t respond, breaking free of his embrace and continuing her pacing. Trey spots me and comes over.
‘Do you think she’s in there?’ he asks quietly.
I’m not sure how to respond. Of course I want to say she is and that they’ll all be reunited any moment, but if this level of armed response is required to subdue her abductors, then I desperately pray she is a million miles away.
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ I tell him, offering my most reassuring smile.
