I introduced us briefly, fixing my face in a neutrally friendly expression that I usually used when talking to the general public.
“Is there a manager or owner here we could talk to?” I asked. She grimaced in a way that told me there wasn’t, even before she said so.
“It’s just me and Al, the bartender, right now. The manager will be in around opening, probably, if you want to wait?”
The prospect of more delays made me want to sigh, but I held it in.
“We’re looking for someone, actually. Do you recognise this guy?” I asked, showing her the picture of Pete. She took the phone from me for a better look but shook her head all the same.
“I’m sorry. But I’ve only been here a month or so. Al might know him. He remembers everyone’s names and drinks orders. Honestly, it’s amazing.” She picked up confidence as she warmed to her theme, and since she was leading us over the bar as she talked, I didn’t mind. “One time, an old guy visited us, and he’d not been here for ten years. Al still remembered his order, though, and that he liked a packet of peanuts to drink it with.” She grinned at us, clearly proud of her colleague, and I smiled back.
“That’s pretty impressive,” I concurred.
“Right? Anyway, I think he’s in the kitchen. I’ll go get him for you.”
She moved away, behind the bar, and left us in the quiet of the main pub. It wasn’t a large place, but it felt cosy rather than cramped.
“A memory like that would be useful in the police,” Stephen said quietly from beside me.
“Damn right. Wish I had an encyclopedic memory. It’s the best I can do to keep copious notes and make sure I’ll actually understand them later.”
Stephen snorted. “Your handwriting is almost criminal.”
“Hey-” I protested just as the waitress came back with Al, the bartender.
He looked faintly uncertain about seeing us there but not afraid exactly. He was dressed smartly, too, and his black hair was neatly gelled back.
“I, um, better get back to work, unless you need me still?” the waitress asked hesitantly.
“No, you’re good. Thanks for the help,” I told her before turning back to Al, who was considering us with calm eyes.
“What can I do for you gents?” he asked, drying his hands on a towel as he spoke. “I don’t suppose you’re here for a beer?” He gave us a warm smile.
“I wish,” Stephen said with a huffed laugh.
“No, we’re looking for someone, actually,” I told him, bringing out my phone. “Do you recognise him?”
Al looked surprised for a moment at the request before he smoothly took my phone and looked at the photo. His expression was well-controlled, and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, nor whether he knew Pete. No doubt a good bartender needed to be able to keep a cool face when things were getting heated, and this bloke certainly did a good job of it.
He’d shown such little reaction that I was expecting him to say that he didn’t know Pete at all, but that wasn’t what he ended up saying.
“I’ve seen him here. I wouldn’t say he’s a regular, but he’s visited often enough.”
“Aye?” I said, hopeful. “Have you spoken to him much?”
Al returned to stacking glasses and cleaning the already-polished bar top as he spoke. “Nothing beyond his drinks order. A dark lager, usually.”
I bit my lip against the impulse to say that I didn’t give a damn what Pete drank. Al was telling us what he knew, and we needed that.
“Did he have a strong accent? Or any distinguishing features, tattoos, scars?” I pressed.
“Not that I noticed, I’m afraid. He sounded Northern from what I remember, but that’s all.”
“And these visits, when were they?”
“Oh, I don’t know if I could remember the exact date-” he started.
“Rough dates will be fine,” I said shortly before fixing him with a stern look. “Your colleague told us that you had a remarkable memory.”
Al flushed. “For faces and drink orders,” he said stiffly. “I don’t remember numbers for shit.”
“I see,” I said, my words holding a tinge of apology. I didn’t mean to accuse him. I’d just wanted to be sure that he wasn’t holding back on us for any reason.
“You can trawl through the cameras and records for the precise dates if you wanted,” he said, his voice flatter and less friendly now. “All I can tell you is that he’s been by a couple of times last week and always near when we open.”
“Five o’clock?” I checked.
He gave a nod, turning his back to stack the glasses he’d been drying behind him. “I’ll need to get on with getting ready for opening,” he told us.
“Do you think he’ll come by today?” I asked, unwilling to let him go just yet.
“It’s Monday, so most likely,” he said, which made me raise my eyebrows.
“Why would he usually drink on a Monday?”
“I’m only telling you what I’ve noticed,” he told me.
“Aye, of course. I appreciate it.” I glanced down at my watch. “Well, if he usually comes by around opening time, we’ll stick around and see if he turns up.” I sent Stephen a look to check that he was okay with that, and whilst he didn’t look overjoyed, he gave a nod of agreement.
“Okay then,” the bartender shrugged. “Do you want a drink?”
“I wouldn’t mind a cold coke,” I admitted. Despite the pub’s air-con, I was still warm from outside, and I’d sweated enough today to make me thirsty.
“Sprite for me, if you’ve got it,” Stephen said.
We paid for our drinks, and then Al waved us towards a booth near the back that would be hard to spot from the door. We didn’t want Pete getting spooked by seeing strangers in suits looking for him and running off.
“This one’s not reserved for an hour, so you’re set here for the moment. Can I get you anything else?”
I gave him a smile. “No, we’re good, I think. Thanks for the help.”
He left us to wait, and Stephen took a sip of his Sprite.
“Most expensive lemonade I’ve had in a while,” he grumbled.
“Aye, this place is definitely aiming for the more well-heeled of York. What did you think of the bartender?” I asked, lowering my voice.
“Seemed fairly solid,” Stephen said with a shrug.
“You think Pete will show?”
“I’m not holding my breath considering how our luck’s been, but we can hope, ay?”
“Sure can.” I smiled faintly.
I went through another coke and two packets of peanuts before six o’clock, when we called it a day. The pub had quickly picked up once they reached opening time, with more staff arriving to help serve the influx of people. It was a well-ordered buzz, though, with most people being seated at tables they’d reserved and the bar area only minimally busy with a short queue. It made it easier for us to keep an eye on the door, and I was sure that Pete had not so much as peered in through the window.
“I’m going to nip to the loo, then we’ll head out,” I told Stephen.
“Thank god for that.”
I left him at our booth, returning a couple of minutes later to find the bartender standing next to him. We’d talked to the manager briefly when he’d turned up, but he’d not recognised Pete at all and hadn’t been any help, though he’d repeatedly encouraged us to let him know if he could do anything. I’d got the strong sense that he didn’t like the image it gave his pub to have two police officers watching all the customers, and he wanted us gone as soon as possible. Still, we’d been stubborn and stayed.
“Any news?” I asked as I slid back into my seat. Al hadn’t seen me approach and stopped speaking when I sat down. He picked up again after a second.
“I was just apologising that you’ve had a wasted hour,” he said, sounding genuine. “I swear, he usually comes in on Mondays, has done for the last few weeks at least.”
Stephen assured him that it wasn’t his
fault while I frowned, considering what Al had said. If the bloke was telling the truth, and I couldn’t think of a reason for why he wouldn’t, then Pete had broken his routine today. Why would he do that? Was he injured or sick, like Victor had been when he’d found him on the floor? We had no address for Pete, so we couldn’t check up on him even if we wanted to.
“Let us know if he shows up later, will you?” I asked, handing Al my card and thanking him for his help so far. The people who’d reserved the booth we were sitting at had arrived, and it was clearly time for us to head out.
“I will,” Al promised.
“That was a bust,” Stephen complained as we crossed the car park.
“At least you can go home for your tea now,” I said a little tightly. I was disappointed too, I had to admit, even though I’d tried not to get my hopes up. But more than that, I wanted to know why Al had been so sure that Pete would show and why he hadn’t.
“True. The wife is making her special lasagna tonight,” he said, giving me a grin. I knew that the ‘special’ part meant that she’d be using the full-fat cheese and wouldn’t skimp on the pasta either.
“Well, save some for me,” I started to say, only to be interrupted by my phone buzzing as a text arrived.
“God, please let that be Sam calling you home. Or something totally unimportant,” Stephen said as I was getting my phone out and opening it.
I swore when I saw who’d texted me and silently showed Stephen. The text message itself was worse, and I swallowed thickly. It took my phone a moment to load to download the picture, but when it did, I felt sick. It was a photo of Lucy’s sister, Eva, taken from someone looking down on her. She was dressed in her school uniform, and whilst she didn’t look frightened, she didn’t look happy either.
Go to Max’s house. Tell anyone, and the girl gets it, the text said, blunt as ever.
“Do we radio it in?” Stephen in, sounding unsure. I chewed my lip. I wanted to trust that the radio and phone lines to Hewford were secure, but I wasn’t certain. Did I want to risk the life of a little girl on it? I couldn’t be sure that there wasn’t anyone watching our car either, though I couldn’t see anyone.
“I don’t know,” I said tightly, but even as I was saying it, an idea formed. “Send Keira an email. She encrypts her communications specially, doesn’t she? She didn’t trust that the whole of the station was up to scratch, but she couldn’t get the clearance or the funding to update the whole thing. She’s our safest bet to get the word to Rashford and the DCs.”
“Got it,” Stephen said, already tapping out an email to Keira.
He’d gone into private mode on his internet browser, which I didn’t think would help much, but it didn’t hurt either. Besides, I had other things to focus on, like driving over to Max’s place without getting into an accident and trying to work out what we were going to do when we got there.
I switched on the car’s sirens as I sped us towards our destination. My fingers tapped out an agitated beat on the steering wheel when the busy city roads didn’t allow cars to get out of our way fast enough. Time was of the essence, and I knew how fast a situation could change when it came to hostage-takings. I didn’t want to waste a single second on the road when I could instead be at Max’s house, assessing the situation and figuring out how to get Eva back safe and sound.
“C’mon, c’mon,” I muttered. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I turned the air-con up before putting the accelerator down when the road ahead opened up.
As we closed in, I switched off the sirens and drove in quietly. I didn’t want whoever was holding Eva hostage to think that there was a fleet of police cars outside when they’d demanded we come alone. Eva’s life could rest on the decisions Stephen and I made in the next few minutes, and I took a steadying breath, determined to make the right ones.
“I think this has to be Pete or one of his lackeys,” I said tightly as we pulled up. “Agreed?”
“Agreed. He’s the most likely choice. We’ve been digging into his business, and he’s the link between Jackson, Victor, Lucy… all of them.”
“Exactly,” I grunted. I took my seatbelt off and prepared myself for what we were about to do. “Any news from Keira?”
“Yeah, she just said, ‘Understood.’”
“That’s enough. She’ll do what we need her to. You told the backup to stay out of sight?”
“Of course.”
I gave a tight nod, and we shared a look. We were both as ready as we were going to get. I wished I had a protective vest and a taser, at the least, but we didn’t have them to hand on the spur of the moment, and getting to Eva before the kidnapper did something rash was more important. I could only hope that both of us would be walking out of the house in one piece afterwards.
We got out of the car together, and I looked up at Max’s house. There was a flash of movement in an upper window, and I stilled briefly, watching, but it didn’t reappear. Someone keeping a lookout?
We were about to knock on the door when my phone rang in my pocket, making both of us jump. I sent Stephen a shaky grin, and he returned it, the look meaning, Look at the state of us. I dug my phone out, and my slight amusement fell away when I saw that it was the kidnapper’s number.
“We’re outside,” I told them flatly.
“I said to come alone,” a gravelly male voice said. I didn’t recognise it. “Send him away, or the girl starts losing fingers.”
“Okay,” I said hurriedly. “I will. He’ll go.”
I sent Stephen an urgent look and shooed him away. He looked torn, clearly unhappy with leaving me to go it alone. I glared at him.
“We don’t want Eva hurt. We’ll do what you say,” I said pointedly, and Stephen got the message.
His mouth pressed into a thin, grim line, then he turned stiffly away and walked back to the car, his hands in the air in case anyone was watching from the windows still.
“He’s gone,” I told the man on the phone in case he couldn’t see.
I listened to his breathing for a few seconds before he hung up without answering. I scrubbed a hand through my hair and glanced back at Stephen. He watched, his arms folded, from where he was standing beside the police car.
I could see how reluctant he was to stand back, but part of me was relieved that he wouldn’t be getting tangled up in this. It was good to have an officer outside, to communicate what we knew to the backup when they arrived, and so that if something happened to me, we had a spare officer. If we were both in the house and the kidnapper had a gun, he could wipe the both of us out and escape before backup ever arrived.
I swallowed thickly around my dry mouth and told myself to stand firm. I knocked again on the door, which remained securely locked against me, and as I was lowering my fist, it opened.
I blinked in surprise when I saw Max’s dad, Nigel. He looked the same as I remembered, except that his skin was pallid and he was clearly terrified. His hand shook as he opened the front door and stepped back to let me inside. Everything about his movements was tentative and wary, and I watched him carefully, concerned that he might have had a weapon of some kind attached to him. It was unlikely, but I was trained to think of the worst-case scenarios.
“Open your jacket,” I told him quietly, not stepping inside the house just yet.
He looked at me, wide-eyed and dazed with shock, for a long second. I was about to prompt him again when he did as I asked, peeling back his jacket to show his t-shirt. There was nothing strapped to him, and I released a breath of relief.
“What’s going on?” I whispered to him as I stepped into the house and closed the door gently behind me.
“H-he’s got my boy and- and a little girl,” Nigel choked out. He was still shaking.
“Who has?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know who he is-”
“Get up here!” a male voice yelled from upstairs. Nigel startled like a guilty schoolboy, and I tensed, feeling slightly ill.
“If I told you to go outside
and leave this to me, would you?” I asked Nigel as I headed towards the stairs.
“With Max inside? No,” he said. Challenging him seemed to help steady him as his fear solidified into parental protectiveness, and I gave him a nod.
“Stay behind me, then.”
I climbed up the stairs slowly, watching for any traps and wary of being ambushed. I was no good to these people if I ended up as a hostage myself, and I kept myself focused and alert, even as my jittery mind wanted to run off in every direction.
“In here,” the voice barked from a room off the hall. “No weapons, hands up. Come slowly.”
I sent Nigel a glance and a reassuring nod before I proceeded ahead, following the instructions. My hands were steady as I held them aloft and walked into the master bedroom. It was a light, airy space, tastefully decorated in white and pale green, but it felt small and grim right now. Max was sitting in a chair by the window, his arms held behind him in a way that told me he was tied there. Unlike his father, his expression was pure anger, and if he was shaking, it was from pent-up fury rather than fear.
The kidnapper stood in front of the double bed, Eva held against his front with a gun to her head. Her lip trembled, and she wasn’t crying, but her puffy eyes and wet cheeks said that she had been for some time before we arrived.
Finally, I looked the kidnapper in the eye. He was around my height but thicker at the chest and stomach and losing his hair. The look in his eyes was both wild and laser-focused, dangerous in its cold intensity.
Pete.
From the beginning, he’d interfered with our investigation. He’d sent me death threats, blackmailed Lucy into nearly murdering Victor and done his best to cover his tracks when it came to Jackson’s death and Max’s near-fatal overdose. Now I was finally face-to-face with the bloke, and I wanted nothing more than to cuff him tight and drag him into custody where he belonged. But he was currently holding Eva’s life in his hands, and I had to figure out how to get her away from him.
One way or another, I was determined that we were all going to walk out of here alive.
Country Lines (A DI Mitchell Yorkshire Crime Thriller Book 8) Page 19