by OMJ Ryan
‘A special advisor? That’s all we bloody need,’ moaned Bovalino.
‘I know, Bov. I know,’ said Phillips.
‘What does he look like, Guv, this special advisor?’ asked Entwistle.
Phillips brow furrowed. ‘Tall, thin, official looking. Why do you ask?’
‘Sounds like the guy who was in here yesterday, asking where he could find Fox,’ said Entwistle.
‘And what did you tell him?’ asked Phillips.
‘Well, er…I took him up to her office. I was going that way anyway, and—’
‘Jesus, Entwistle!’ Bovalino moaned. ‘Talk about letting the cat amongst the pigeons.’
Entwistle glared at Bovalino. ‘I didn’t know who he was, did I? And what was I supposed to do? Ignore him?’
Phillips raised her hands. ‘Look, it’s no use blaming anybody and fighting amongst ourselves. This is not of our making. This is down to Hawkins and his cronies in Whitehall. I called Fox last night, and she confirmed we’re stuck with Harry Saxby for the foreseeable future.’
‘So she admitted she knew about it, then?’ asked Jones.
‘Not quite,’ Phillips scoffed. ‘Let’s just say she made it clear resistance was futile.’
Bovalino swallowed his last mouthful of the bacon roll. ‘So what’s he like, this Saxby fella?’
Jones sneered. ‘Typical Met Police – a patronising prick. Thinks we’re all farmers and yokels this far north,’
Phillips chuckled. ‘That about sums him up. So I think you’re gonna love him, Bov.’
‘Well, he can’t be as bad as Brown was,’ said Bovalino.
‘I wouldn’t bank on it, Bov.’ Phillips nodded in the direction of the main office. ‘Anyway, you’ll find out soon enough. He’s just walked in.’
All three men turned as the door to Phillips’s office opened.
‘DCI Saxby,’ she said, forcing herself to be polite. ‘Let me introduce you to the team,’
Saxby ignored the faces staring at him. ‘No time for that. Sir Richard Hawkins has just received a ransom demand from the kidnappers. Fox wants us over there immediately.’
Phillips’s mouth fell open. Why was Fox talking to Saxby before her own DCI?
‘Come on, Phillips. There’s no time to waste,’ added Saxby, before turning and walking out of the office.
‘Jones, you’re coming with me,’ Phillips snarled in a low voice.
Jones nodded and began gathering his things.
‘Entwistle, get me everything there is to know on Robbins and Cartwright.’
‘No problem, Guv.’
‘And Bovalino…’
‘Yes boss?’ said the big Italian.
‘Find out exactly who Harry-fucking-Saxby is. I want to know just how well-connected this guy is – or isn’t, for that matter.’
‘Bovalino smiled. ‘It’ll be my pleasure, Guv.’
Saxby insisted on taking his own car, so followed Phillips and Jones to the Hawkins’s Altrincham home – which was just fine by Phillips. She had no desire to spend any more time than was necessary with the man.
When they arrived, Phillips pressed the buzzer at the gate and presented her ID to the small security camera.
‘Come up to the house,’ was the reply from the console, and the gates began to open.
The sweeping gravel drive up to the house snaked alongside manicured lawns through rows of mature trees and hedges, leading to a large circular fountain outside the front door, where Hawkins’s top-of-the-range silver Range Rover was parked.
As Phillips brought the squad car to a halt, the large oak front door opened and Richard Hawkins came into view. Hands on hips, he looked agitated, which was not surprising given the circumstances.
‘Whatever he says in there, Guv, don’t let him get to you,’ said Jones.
Phillips nodded. Jones did indeed know her better than anyone else on the force. Having worked together for over ten years on many challenging cases, he knew only too well the types of people who pushed Phillips’s buttons. Hawkins was one such person. Saxby was another. Rude and arrogant didn’t sit well with Phillips’s down-to-earth values. ‘Trust me, Jonesy, since I started therapy, I’m a new woman.’ She flashed a wry smile.
‘Yeah? I’ll believe it when I see it,’ chuckled Jones.
By the time Phillips and Jones stepped out of their car, Saxby had left his vehicle and was en route to the front door, arm outstretched.
‘Sir Richard. Detective Chief Inspector Saxby.’
Hawkins shook his hand.
Saxby continued, ‘I’ve been seconded to the GMP from the Metropolitan Police. I’m the kidnapping and negotiation expert you requested.’
Hawkins stared at Saxby for a moment in silence, then nodded as Phillips and Jones made their way up the steps. ‘Detectives,’ he said without feeling, ‘you’d better come inside. The ransom video is on my laptop.’
Phillips, Jones and Saxby followed Hawkins through the large reception area of the house and into the kitchen at the rear of the property. Reminiscent of those often featured in celebrity magazines, it was an enormous white and grey space with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides and overlooking an outdoor swimming pool with its winter covers in place.
Sandra Hawkins sat on one of the tall stools, leaning against the gargantuan kitchen island in the middle of the room. Her eyes and nose were red and swollen, and a handkerchief was locked in her right hand. Richard Hawkins grabbed the open laptop on the bench in front of her, and turned it towards him.
‘This was sent to my email at 3 a.m. Sandra, maybe you don’t need to see this again?’
Sandra shook her head. ‘No, Richard. I want to hear what the officers have to say.’
‘Very well.’ He punched the keyboard with a finger. A video began to play on the screen.
The footage was dark, and initially the front page of the previous day’s edition of the Manchester Evening News filled the screen.
‘The kidnappers are providing proof of life,’ said Saxby, as if he was the only person in the room who understood why the newspaper had been featured.
About fifteen seconds passed, then the newspaper was removed and Hollie Hawkins could be seen in the centre of the shot. Her head was tilted forwards and to the right. Her eyes were barely open, and her matted hair fell over much of her face. After a long moment she spoke, as if reading from a script.
‘My name is Hollie Hawkins. So far, I have not been harmed. That will change if my kidnappers’ demands are not met.’ She paused as if trying to maintain control of her emotions, her breathing laboured. ‘In order to secure my safe return, my father, Sir Richard Hawkins, must pay four million pounds in unmarked notes. In exactly seven days, you will receive the location of where to deliver the money. There are to be no excuses…’ A tear streaked down her grubby cheek as she took a sharp intake of breath. ‘If you fail to pay the four million pounds, I will be killed, my body will be dismembered…’ Hollie stopped and broke down, her shoulders shaking as she began to sob.
From the right of the screen, a handgun clasped in a gloved hand appeared and was placed against Hollie’s temple before the hammer was cocked.
‘Read the rest,’ said a distorted voice in an evil, ghoulish tone.
With what appeared to be a considerable effort, Hollie stopped crying and attempted to read the remainder of the script. ‘…and you will never see me again. There will be no body to bury, and you will never know the pain of my final hours.’ She began to sob again, then looked up and screamed into the camera, ‘Please, Dad, give them what they want!’
The footage ended, but Hollie’s image remained frozen on the screen in front of them.
Phillips was not surprised to see Sandra Hawkins begin to sob, reminiscent of her daughter on the video.
Hawkins patted his wife on the shoulder in the same awkward manner Phillips had noted at the leisure club on the night Hollie had disappeared.
The poor woman, Phillips thought. Her heart went out to he
r.
Hawkins turned to face them now. ‘So, what do we do?’
‘We pay them, Richard!’ Sandra shouted through her tears as snot and saliva fell from her nose and mouth.
Hawkins ignored his wife and stared at Saxby. ‘You’re the expert. What do you think we should do?’
Saxby’s chest puffed out like a peacock’s. ‘I don’t mean to be forward, but do you have access to four million pounds, Mr Hawkins?’
‘Yes, but it will take time to raise that kind of cash.’
‘In that case, I think you should make arrangements to access the funds. Just for the time being,’ Saxby said.
Hawkins’s face twisted. ‘But what if I pay the ransom and they kill her anyway?’
‘Don’t talk like that, Richard!’ screamed Sandra. ‘She has to live. She has to!’
Phillips had seen enough of Hawkins’s and Saxby’s insensitivity, and stepped in. She placed an arm around Sandra’s shoulders. ‘Please don’t upset yourself, Mrs Hawkins,’ she said in a gentle voice. ‘We’re going to do everything we can to get Hollie back, I promise.’
Sandra continued to sob, holding the handkerchief against her mouth as tears streaked down her cheeks.
Hawkins shrugged. ‘Look, all I’m asking is, is paying the ransom the only option? Don’t you have special forces for this kind of investigation? You know, teams that can track and rescue her?’
Saxby’s mouth opened, but he remained silent a moment, as if trying to find the right words. ‘Erm, well, Mr Hawkins, it doesn’t quite work like that, I’m afraid. Not in a civilian investigation such as this. Those kinds of teams are reserved for military extractions.’
‘Well, that’s even more reason to use one, then. My business provides weapons for most of the British military! Let’s not forget who my friends in Whitehall are.’
Phillips still had no idea who Hawkins’s friends were, but was keen to find out. At least then she would know who she was up against. In the meantime, she watched on as Saxby tried to regain control of the situation.
‘Let me make some calls to London, Mr Hawkins, see what I can do.’ Saxby raised his arms in placation. ‘In the meantime, it would seem prudent for you to source the funds in readiness for the next stage of the negotiations. I can assure you, we have no intention of letting your daughter’s kidnappers walk away with your money. Our goal is to get Hollie back and send these evil men to prison for the rest of their lives.’
Hawkins nodded. ‘Very well. In that case, I’ll pull the money together. But if anything happens to Hollie or my four million pounds—’ He pointed to Saxby and Phillips in turn. ‘—I’ll hold you both personally responsible.’
‘We understand completely,’ said Saxby.
We? thought Phillips. Whatever story Saxby was peddling, she was in no doubt that if this investigation went sideways, the so-called ‘kidnapping and negotiation expert’ would disappear down the rabbit hole he had come from, leaving her to carry the can.
Phillips and the team had to find Hollie quickly. The consequences of not doing so didn’t bear thinking about.
7
The sound of the lock on the heavy metal door being released woke Hollie. She sat upright on the small bed, still under the blanket in her windowless cell. The small space, which smelled of damp, was lit by a free-standing lamp in the corner, alongside a portable gas heater that did very little to warm the room. The door opened and she braced herself, pulling her knees up to her chin under the blanket, and wrapping her arms around them.
The first thing she saw of her captor was the mask. Each of the gang members wore one. The only difference was that each had a different coloured one-inch horizontal strip where the wearer’s nose would be. This gang member’s stripe was white, which matched his codename – White. Hollie had heard them refer to each other as White, Red, Blue and Black, but never by their real names. The gang member who had referred to herself as Blackie at the Halloween party had called it an Army of Two mask, claiming it was from some kind of computer game. Hollie had never seen the game, but stared intently at the mask that covered her captor’s face. She noted it was matte black, reminiscent of a smooth, featureless skull, with large eyeholes covered in a black mesh.
White closed the door behind him before he moved across the room to place a tray of food on the small metal table in the middle of the room. He wore black combat fatigues with matching black gloves and boots. ‘Here’s your breakfast,’ he said, his voice muffled by the mask.
Hollie peered at the plate of bacon and eggs in front of her. ‘I can’t eat dead animal carcasses. I’m a vegan!’
The cold, soulless mask stared back at her in silence. ‘Suit yourself.’ White shrugged, turned his back on her and walked towards the door.
‘You kidnapped the wrong girl, you know,’ Hollie snapped, hoping to get his attention – though quite why, she wasn’t entirely sure.
White turned back to face her again. ‘What did you say?’
Hollie panicked that he might punish her for her outburst. ‘Well, er, I just said…I think you might have kidnapped the wrong girl.’
‘And why would you think that?’
‘He’s not my real dad.’
‘Who isn’t?’ said White.
Hollie had his full attention now, so continued, her confidence growing. ‘Richard Hawkins. He’s not my real dad. My real dad’s dead.’
‘How sad,’ said White, with no emotion at all.
Hollie nodded. ‘Richard is my stepdad. He married my mum when I was five, and adopted me when I was ten.’
‘Fascinating,’ said White, his tone sarcastic.
‘He probably won’t pay the ransom, you know. He loves his money more than me and my mum. More than anything, in fact. I’d be surprised if he’d pay four thousand pounds for me, never mind four million.’
White stared at her for a long moment without saying a word.
Then Hollie’s new-found confidence began to evaporate as White crept towards her, stopping just a few inches from her bed. She reeled backwards against the wall as he leaned forwards. His eyes were partially visible through the mesh-covered eyeholes just inches away from her own. ‘Well, Princess, you’d better hope “stepdaddy” has a change of heart, then, because if not…you’re gonna be pig-feed.’ White squealed like a pig, then chuckled.
Hollie swallowed hard but remained stoic, trying her best not to cry.
White stood upright, then turned and walked towards the door. When he reached it, he banged on it three times, waited a few seconds, then opened it a fraction before turning back to face Hollie. ‘Now eat your breakfast, you little brat!’ he said, before he stepped outside and closed the door behind him with a bang.
‘You’re the bloody pig!’ shouted Hollie to the empty room. Her words echoed around her, then faded away into silence.
She stared at the plate of meat and eggs on the table in front of her, then took long, deep breaths as she tried to control her emotions – just as her therapist had taught her to do in times of stress. She was angry, frustrated and very frightened. A moment later, the tears began to flow, and she fell back down onto the mattress to bury her face in the pillow to drown out her sobs.
All she wanted was her mum.
8
After completing their visit to the Hawkins’s home, Saxby made his excuses and set off for an undisclosed appointment. With Jones driving them back to Ashton House, Phillips was impatient to find out who Harry Saxby really was. She called Bovalino’s mobile on the hands-free unit.
‘Guv. How did it go?’
‘As well as it could, given the circumstances. They’ve given Hawkins a week to find the money, or they said Hollie dies,’ said Phillips.
‘A week? Why a week? I’d have thought they’d want their money sooner.’
‘Yeah, but four million quid? That’s a lot of money to raise. Maybe they’re giving him time to get it together,’ said Phillips.
‘Yeah, maybe. And what about that prick, Saxby? How was h
e?’
‘As expected, I’m afraid. He acts as if we work for him, and that he knows more about the case than anyone else.’ Phillips looked across at Jonesy and winked. ‘What you might call, a typical “London-wanker”, Bov.’
‘Hey! Not everyone from Laaarndon is a wanker, you know,’ Jones protested, exaggerating his own South London accent.
Phillips grinned. ‘Anyway, Bov, that’s why I’m calling. Did you manage to get any background on Saxby?’
‘Indeed I did, Guv. Let me just go somewhere quiet.’
‘Use my office,’ said Phillips.
Phillips and Jones waited in silence, listening as Bovalino made his way across the incident room to Phillips’s office. The door was closed, then Bovalino returned to the call. ‘Right, Guv. His full name is Henry Bartholomew Saxby. He’s fifty-two and currently a DCI in the Met Police, specialising in kidnapping and negotiation – which he’s been doing for the last five years. He joined the Met ten years ago after serving in the Coldstream Guards for twenty-seven years, rising to the rank of Major.’
‘Major arsehole, more like,’ joked Jones, drawing a chuckle from Phillips.
‘Sounds about right,’ continued Bovalino. ‘He did multiple tours of Iraq and Afghanistan, but only in a diplomatic role. He never actually saw combat. He retired in 2010 and headed straight into the police, where he rose through the ranks like a rocket. He made DCI in just five years.’
‘Amazing what you can achieve if your face fits,’ said Phillips.
‘Yeah, well, funny you should say that. I checked his background prior to joining the military, and it appears he studied Classics at Durham University with Sir Malcolm Lewis – the current Deputy Commissioner of the Met’.’
‘Jobs for the boys,’ said Jones.
Phillips nodded. ‘Anything else, Bov?’
‘Just that he’s divorced with two grown-up sons. One lives in Melbourne, Australia. Works as a teacher. The other is a web-developer in California.’
‘Running away from Daddy, perhaps?’ asked Jones.