‘Behave!’ he hissed. She didn’t reply.
It was clear what he meant and his whole demeanour had changed. He was focussed and urgent. He pushed through the double doors at the end of the corridor and stopped at the landing where the stairs went down to the ground and up to the rest of the hotel. He stayed dead still; it was clear that he was listening intently and Jenny stayed silent too. She didn’t want to antagonise him. She didn’t know what he might do if the police officer suddenly came after them — not that she considered that might happen, not for one second. He was gone. He hadn’t even looked up in that lift. How could that be? They had used her name! She could accept they didn’t know where she was staying; they hadn’t booked into the hotel using their real names. Joseph never did. He always questioned why they needed to know who he was. He always insisted on paying by cash up front and would refuse to leave a card behind the desk. None of the hotels had stood their ground and refused to let them stay.
Jenny’s captor seemed happy that the stairwell was empty. He moved suddenly downwards, catching Jenny off balance, and she stumbled after him. He led her out of the same side door through which she had fled just forty-eight hours before with her four-month-old child clutched close to her chest. Her exit this time was much more gradual. The man was being careful; he gestured for her to stay still, then he stepped out onto the pavement. He stood still for almost a minute, took notice of passing cars, checked both directions. Then they were moving again. They turned left. The way was steep and Jenny had to lean into the gradient. The angle aggravated her sore hip and she had to slow down. The man was pulling her.
‘We need to keep going,’ he grunted.
‘My legs hurt.’
‘You can rest soon. Not now.’
A few more paces and they turned left again and started on a road that ran parallel to the back of the hotel. The hotel itself was now concealed behind a row of tight terraced houses that were directly mirrored on the other side. At least this road was level. She started to recover: the pain in her leg had eased and she wasn’t so out of breath. She took in her surroundings, this time with a view to spotting any opportunities to run. Hell, she’d done it before. She considered for a second that she might be able to do it again. The man still had a hold of her arm and now he seemed to grip it even tighter, as though he could read her mind. There was an occasional gap in the houses on her right and she could see green trees and fields beyond, where the side of the valley continued. She saw flashes of steep scrubland, thick brambles and exposed chalk. Even if she did manage to get away from him and get into her stride, she didn’t think she would get far.
Any opportunity was quickly diminishing. The man stopped at the rear of a small box van. It had double doors on the back that pulled outwards.
‘Get in!’
Jenny peered around again. The street was quiet. The van was parked in front of a pub whose windows and door were boarded up and profanities sprayed across them. The rear compartment of the van looked completely empty.
‘Where do I sit?’
‘Sit on the floor. There’s a bag in there. When we stop, put it over your head.’
She had to crawl onto her knees to get in. Then the doors slammed behind her and she was enclosed in darkness. She felt for the side. The engine started and the van moved swiftly off. Jenny stumbled and sprawled onto her side. Her hand fell on something that felt like Hessian and she guessed it was the bag. She managed to pull herself to a sitting position with her back to the van’s side. The van lurched, and the back of her head bounced off the firm metal. She immediately leant forward and raised her hand to the back of her head; it stung with pain. Another sudden change of direction and she slid across the floor again. The engine revved hard and she felt them picking up speed. She could hear the roar of the road under the wheels. She curled up on her side in the darkness, made herself into a protective ball and sobbed into her hands.
* * *
They had signs of life. Enough for excited chatter between the medics and a quick transfer into the back of the ambulance. Stan’s daughter and Paul followed the stretcher. George could see in; he could see them both trying to stay out of the way as the crew still worked on Stanley. His daughter had appeared to George to be in a constant state of shock. He could understand it, of course, he wouldn’t wish her last twenty-four hours on anyone. He moved towards his own car and prayed for the umpteenth time that Stan was going to be okay. He just needed a few minutes with him lucid.
There was a welcome party for the ambulance when they arrived: a white coat and two navy blue uniforms. They swept through automatic doors on a wheeled stretcher, each holding a corner. George followed them until they pushed through to the intensive care unit. Someone was waiting to direct Stan’s daughter and Paul into a side room. It was all well-choreographed. George moved to the door and raised his palm to push it open and follow them in so that he could talk to the daughter and find out what she might know. He hesitated. He stopped at the door, his palm flat on the slim panel of frosted glass. He stepped back, back out into the corridor and turned away. He heard the door open from behind him.
‘Are you not coming in, George? The daughter said she wants to talk to you. She might be able to fill in the gaps in case Stan can’t.’
‘Paul, can you talk to her? We just need a good list of associates, anyone he might have a grievance with, anyone who might know about any money he had at the farm, whether she knows about any money. That sort of thing.’
‘You okay, George?’ Paul looked immediately unsure. ‘I told her who you were. I said you’re running the investigation. I think she’s expecting you to go in and talk to her. At least introduce yourself.’
‘I can’t, Paul.’
‘You’re not okay. Like I said, George, you can’t go beating yourself up—’
‘It’s not that. I just can’t, Paul. You’ve got it covered. You’re a good detective.’
‘And you’re running the investigation. And a better one.’
George took a second. ‘Maybe he wasn’t telling me everything, Paul. I’ve played it back in my mind, when he was talking to me back at the house, when I was taking his statement. Maybe he was holding back. Maybe I even knew it at the time but I didn’t pull him up on it.’
‘He’d just had a terrible thing happen to him. You have to let these people go a bit. He was still shook up, confused—’
George was shaking his head aggressively. ‘What if he knew he was going to do this? Do what he did, right from the start? Maybe he was hiding that. I see through people, Paul, I always do. When people have more to tell me, I know, I’m good at it. Jesus, I’ve made a career out of it. I didn’t push him on it because I knew he was struggling and I didn’t think I could do anything about it. I ignored it, Paul. I let him down because I didn’t have the energy to sit and listen.’ George rubbed at his face. He felt he was battling a breakdown. He wanted to give in — to his frustration, to his helplessness, to everything. ‘He phoned me. This morning. I ignored it, Paul. What if he wanted to be talked out of it? What if he just needed to know someone was there for him?’ George lifted his head and shut his eyes. Suddenly he felt a shove in his chest. He stumbled backwards and opened his eyes as he was pushed through a toilet door. Paul Bearn was forceful in his ear.
‘Listen, George, we can’t be doing this here. These people have expectations. They don’t see past the badge. We don’t get to have feelings in front of these people. We don’t get to have family troubles. We don’t get to be weak or upset and we don’t ever let people down. Pull yourself together, sir. This is what we’re here for.’
George’s head shook slowly from side to side. He took a deep breath. He brushed past Paul and tugged the door so hard it smacked off the wall behind him. He took a moment. The door to the family room was almost directly over the corridor. He walked in to be met by a pair of watery eyes. Louise stood ringing her hands. It looked like she had been pacing the room.
‘You must be Georg
e Elms,’ she said. She managed a weak smile.
‘I am, yes.’
‘And you’re going to need to talk to me?’
George exchanged glances with Paul. ‘I am, yes. Do you think you’re up to it?’
‘I don’t know if I can help much. I have no idea what’s been going on. I speak to my mum a lot. I mean . . . I did. Once a week on the weekend when I could get the time zones right. I feel like I have a lot of questions for you.’
George did his best to look reassuring. He sat down on one of the high backed chairs and Louise took her cue to do the same, perching on the edge of one. George had seen her date of birth; he knew she was fifty-three. She looked a lot younger. She had black hair that was long and straightened. She wore a trouser suit and flat shoes. She pushed slim hands together over an expensive-looking bag. A diamond wedding ring dazzled in the strip lighting. Her expression was expectant. George had met a lot of people under the sort of pressures she was under and in similar circumstances. She was carrying herself well.
‘You can start then. What do you need to know?’
‘Were my parents targeted? I picked up on something Paul said in the car, that this gang are suspected of making a living out of people like my parents.’
‘We have a number of theories, Louise. One of those is that they were targeted by a gang who prey on vulnerable people in isolated locations.’
‘Vulnerable? My parents don’t strike me as vulnerable—’
‘Sorry, that doesn’t sound right. It’s a police term, we tend to categorise the elderly as vulnerable, not because it is true in every case, but because a criminal would. If they saw your parent’s home, the Range Rover on the drive, the nice frontage and they saw your mum or dad coming or going they might assume it to be easy pickings. They were wrong, clearly. Your dad refused to lie down.’
Louise pursed her lips and then said, ‘If only he had.’
George shrugged. ‘Maybe this wouldn’t have happened, but maybe it would. Certainly your dad is beating himself up about it and that isn’t helping the situation at all.’
‘I understand what you’re saying, Inspector. I’m not here to point fingers or to criticise. Who knows what he was going through up there. It must have hit him hard. There’s no way my dad does . . . well . . . does that. He would be the last man, I would say—’
‘Grief. It does strange things to the best of us. We just need to be sure we are there for him.’
‘If we get the chance.’
‘When hope is all you have, hope is all you can do. Forgive me, but I get the impression that your dad is a tough old bastard. I told him that myself. He didn’t disagree!’
‘I’m sure he didn’t. And, yes, I think that’s a very good summary.’
The door behind was pushed open. George turned.
‘Inspector Elms?’ A tall, well-spoken man in his mid-fifties approached. He wore a checked shirt tucked into chinos and glasses. George had met enough doctors to spot one immediately.
‘Yes, doctor.’
‘Do you have a moment?’
‘Of course.’ George turned back to Louise. ‘Forgive me, I’ll just be a moment.’
George stepped out of the room and followed the doctor who walked a few feet up the corridor and leant against the wall.
‘Is there news?’ George said.
‘Yes. Good news. Our patient, Mr Wingmore, is awake.’
George couldn’t stop the smile — it was relief mainly. ‘That is good news. How is he?’
‘It’s all rather early, Inspector, as you can appreciate. We did very little, to be honest, on his arrival here. The swift actions of whoever found him and worked him initially have given him a fighting chance. We continued with his oxygen treatment and he woke up of his own accord. We have carried out some initial scans on his brain but I will want to do some more detailed tests, especially as he is now back in the land of the living. And, if I’m honest, Inspector, he’s very lucky to be here.’
‘I guess I should just be thankful for that.’
‘We all should. I would normally speak to the next of kin first, but I understand the circumstances around this matter are a little different. If Mr Wingmore is a suspect in a murder case then I know the police get a little upset with relatives speaking to them without the police present. It’s up to you how you handle that. I obviously have to go in and talk to his daughter straight away. This was just a little pre-warning.’
‘I do appreciate that, doctor, but Mr Wingmore is not a suspect. He was a witness, he’s taken it rather hard as you can imagine. I have recently established that he might be a far more important witness than any of us realised. Do you think I might be able to speak with him soon?’
‘You might. But I should warn you, Inspector, he is suffering the effects of his ordeal. He is coping with confusion and memory loss — short term at least. He is also sight deficient in at least one of his eyes. That’s a preliminary check. It’s highly likely that more symptoms will be discovered when he gets up and moving.’
‘Permanent?’
‘It can be. More likely short term. I have been studying and working on the human brain for over twenty years and I still find much of my time is spent shrugging at relatives, saying the words we just don’t know. More than once I’ve considered what my life might have been like if I had specialised in teeth.’
‘I guess you know where you are with teeth, doctor.’
‘You do. They are rotten, they are broken or they are not. The brain, by contrast, is a baffling and complex ball of utter pig-headedness. The one thing you can be sure of, however, is that if you treat it badly, deny it something it needs, like oxygen — even for a minute — it will have its revenge. Every case will be different.’
‘So, the memory loss . . . does he know why he is here?’
‘No. Not a clue. I’d better go update the daughter. Oh — and another thing you should be aware of Inspector . . . he is asking for his wife.’
Chapter 22
The van stopped moving and the engine was cut. Jenny sat up and pushed herself against the back of the van. She stared at the double doors in front, at the slit of light that was visible around the handle. There was nothing but silence. She waited for what seemed like an hour but was probably only half that. The doors didn’t open and all was quiet. Finally she moved. She felt the back door then pushed her eye up to where the sunlight was leaking through. All she could see was another panel of metal that blocked out her view of anything else. She could hear gulls; they were loud and raucous and she was sure one had landed on the van. She could hear its flat feet slapping against the metal as it walked the length of the roof above her. She tried the door handle. It didn’t budge.
More time passed. Jenny couldn’t be sure how long, but the harsh white slash of sunlight seemed to have dimmed, suggesting that the sun had moved significantly in the sky. She started calling out. Not loudly at first, just enough for someone close by to be able to hear her. She grew quickly in confidence and her voice got louder until she was shouting at the top of her voice and banging with all her might on the metal sides.
Nobody came.
The slash of light was all but gone completely when she accepted finally that no one was coming to help. She collapsed back onto the floor and waited. Eventually, she drifted into an uncomfortable sleep. Suddenly she heard a voice.
‘You need to put the bag on. Like I told you.’ The voice was muffled through the door, but Jenny recognised it as the man at the hotel room, the man who had brought her this far. She sat up and rubbed at her arms and legs. They felt cold and numb.
‘What for?’ she called out, her voice hoarse, her throat raw from shouting.
‘You don’t need to be asking me any questions. Just do it — or you can stay in there and rot.’
‘I’ll stay in here then.’
‘Put the hood on, Jenny. That’s the last time I ask nicely.’
Jenny scrabbled around on the floor. She felt the bundle of cl
oth and pulled it over her head. ‘Done.’
The doors opened almost instantly and she was aware of a bright light shining directly at her, reaching through the weave of the bag. The light seemed directed and artificial — a torch maybe? She felt rough arms grab her and pull her out. She reckoned there was more than one man — at least two. She tried to stand on her own feet but she was unsteady; her legs were riddled with pins and needles. She couldn’t walk properly. Something was wrapped around her neck, the bag suddenly pulled tight. Her hands were pulled behind her back and held so that she couldn’t move them. There was no time for her legs to recover; she was simply dragged away from the van. She didn’t even bother to complain. The bag wasn’t quite tight enough and Jenny could see an inch or two if she looked straight down. She could see her feet shuffling over dark stone that was buffed so it reflected the artificial light. She could be sure it was dark. She could no longer hear the call of the gulls but she could hear the movement of a body of water. The breeze that lightly pushed her clothing against her chest also wafted up her nose and it was tinged with salt and the scents of the sea.
‘Where are you taking me?’ She got no reply, just a shove to quicken her pace. She’d walked a good distance when the terrain underfoot changed. She could see a steel mesh beneath her and, below that, dark waves lapped against thick concrete legs. This was a pier or a harbour breakwater. Instinctively she pulled back against the men who held her arm. They pushed harder in reply.
‘Don’t be stupid now, love. You don’t want to piss me off.’ A different voice: harsher and deeper than the man she had been conversing with since the hotel. A few more seconds and she was brought to a stop. She felt pressure on her shoulders, pushing her down. She fell to a sitting position. The bag was still tight round her head. Jenny’s body was suddenly so tense that she couldn’t move. Her legs were straight out in front of her. Someone reached down and grabbed them roughly. She was spun where she sat. She could just see out of the bottom of her hood still, only just — enough to see she that she was right on the edge of the pier, side-on to the water. She thought for just a second that this was it: they were going to push her in sideways. They didn’t. Instead she was held firmly by the ankles. She felt something wrap around them that was pulled sharply tight — too tight. Her ankles were shot through with pain and she screamed out.
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