It was the big question. Bolt knew only too well that the problem with kidnap cases, what made them so different from other equally serious crimes, was the fact that the investigators had far less control over events. It was the kidnapper who set the tempo, and since the circumstances of kidnappings varied so much, the police procedures for dealing with them had to be far more flexible than they would be in, say, a murder case where a set of very specific rules applied.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
'I think the girl's still alive,' Bolt said at last. 'And I think they'll keep her alive while they need her as a bargaining chip. They've already said that Andrea can speak to her again before the next ransom drop, and there's no reason at the moment to believe that they'll renege on that.'
'But?'
'But, as we both know, they're ruthless. They've killed once. They may well have killed Phelan too for all we know. So if we spook them by trying to negotiate when they next make contact, my guess is they'll disappear back into the woodwork and that'll be the last we see of them. And there's no guarantee they'll let Emma go either. Especially if they think there's the remotest chance she can identify them. To them, she's just a loose end. We go the negotiation path, I think there's a good chance they'll kill her.'
Barry didn't look convinced. 'But there are a lot of things that can go wrong if we try to trap them, and if we mess it up it could be disastrous for SOCA. We're in need of some high-profile successes at the moment, so the public can see where all their tax money's going. A high-profile failure's going to set us back years.'
'You asked my opinion, sir. I think negotiation's the wrong move. If we can put trackers with the ransom money and play things right, we should be able to get our kidnappers to lead us right to Emma. It's risky, and there's a chance it might not work, but there's also a chance she's dead already. If we want to catch these guys, and we can't ID them before they make contact, then this is the best way.'
Barry massaged his head with pudgy hands, and tipped his chair back. 'Well, I'm going to send it upstairs. See what the head honchos have to say. I'll let you know their decision as soon as I've got it.'
As Bolt got to his feet, sensing that the meeting was over, there was a knock on the door and Tina Boyd entered the room, carrying several sheaves of paper in one hand.
Tina was a relatively new member of the team, whom Bolt had brought on board after he'd met her during a case a few years earlier. At the time she'd just resigned from the force, and it had taken a lot of persuading to get her to join the team. An attractive woman just short of thirty, with dark hair cut into a jaunty bob and smooth, delicate features that shaved five years off her easily, she had that look that was unmistakably educated and middle-class, and she could have passed as a primary school teacher just as much as a cop. But the look belied the tough time she'd had down the years. Bolt knew that Tina had seen and done it all. Shot during a hostage-taking drama four years earlier, she'd also lost two colleagues, both murdered. One of them had been her lover, earning her the unwelcome nickname of the Black Widow in some quarters.
When she'd finally joined the team a year or so back, Bolt had harboured the odd romantic aspiration where Tina was concerned, but any attempt at warmth or even flattery had come up against a brick wall, and he'd quickly realized that he was on a hiding to nothing. Tina was polite and she was pleasant, but it seemed you didn't get close to her. Even when she socialized with the team, she was always one of the first to leave, making her excuses before heading home alone.
'I've got some interesting news,' she said, approaching the giant glass desk.
'Tell us more, Tina,' said Barry with something approaching a leer.
She looked at them both in turn. 'Andrea Devern might be a high-flying businesswoman but her company's not doing that well. Turnover in the last financial year was £4.81 million but the overall operating profit was only forty-eight thousand pounds, which for a company that size is piss poor. It's also a seventy per cent drop on the year before on a higher turnover, and they've got serious debt to service with the banks. Andrea owns sixty per cent of the company. Her main business partner, and fellow director, is a woman called Isobel Wheeler.' Tina consulted one of the sheets of A4. 'She's a forty-two-year-old lawyer, divorced with no children, who bought into the company ten years ago and now owns the remaining forty per cent. Both women pay themselves generously. They draw salaries of one hundred and sixty grand each.'
'Nice work if you can get it,' grunted Barry.
'Very nice, but it's not going to last. With profits that feeble, the banks are going to be having serious words. And Andrea and her husband are big spenders. Their joint credit card bills mount up to a hundred and twenty K a year.'
'So, what's the interesting part, Tina?' asked Barry, cutting to the chase. 'They're big spenders.
So are most other people in this country. It's why the economy keeps doing so well.'
Tina gave him a mildly dismissive look, but when she spoke her tone was even. 'Well, I Googled Andrea's name and her company, and it seems that there've been a couple of articles about her in trade publications, but nothing of any significance. She certainly hasn't got a public profile. She earns good money but nothing special, so the question is, why on earth target her?'
Bolt nodded. 'It's what I've been thinking. This isn't random. It's personal.'
'You need to talk to Andrea herself, old mate,' Barry told him, manoeuvring himself slowly to his feet, 'and find out who the hell knew she was sitting on that half million in cash.'
'I will, but I reckon we can count in Pat Phelan straight away, and I reckon her business partner's a strong possibility too. Which means we need to turn up everything we can on the two of them.'
'We're on it already,' said Tina.
Bolt felt a rush of excitement. It was the knowledge that the clock was ticking; the realization that this case was going to be concluded in hours rather than months; and that he was in the centre of things.
It was a good feeling.
And one that wasn't going to last.
Thirteen
She had to be brave.
Emma Devern had said this to herself countless times since they'd brought her here. But as the hours dragged into days and still there remained no prospect of her being released back to her mum, it became harder and harder for her to manage it.
They were keeping her in a dank, carpetless cellar with one narrow window coated in grime, high up on one wall and well out of reach, which let in thin shafts of daylight. She had to wear a pair of handcuffs, and was chained to the wall by one ankle. The chain was long enough so she could move around, but she couldn't reach the steps at the end of the room or the far wall, and she knew in her heart that there was no way she was going to be able to escape.
She thought this was the third day she'd been here, which meant it was Friday. It was difficult to know for sure because the days simply flowed into one another, but she was trying hard to keep track. At nights it was cold. She slept on a horrible little bed with filthy sheets and she was forced to wrap herself up in them to keep warm, even though they smelled awful.
On the first night she'd been too shocked about what had happened even to cry. She remembered very little about how it had all started. She was going back to the car after the dentist appointment. Her dentist was called Mr Vermont, after the American state. He always said what good teeth she had, and she did too, because she looked after them well and didn't stuff her face with sweets like a lot of her friends. It had just been a standard check-up. She liked Mr Vermont. He was good-looking with a nice tan, even though he was a bit old and his hair was beginning to go a bit thin on top. The check-up had gone well. For the third visit running nothing needed doing – which was just as well because she hated having her teeth messed about with – and she'd been in a good mood as she crossed the car park at the front of the building.
Pat had been in the driver's seat with the paper in front of him, checking the sports p
ages, like he always did, but as she opened the door and got inside, something immediately felt wrong. He didn't greet her like he usually did, with a big grin and an 'All right, baby, how'd everything go?' in his rough London accent. Instead, he turned and stared at her, and she saw that he looked really frightened. His eyes were wide and there was sweat running down his forehead.
Then she heard a noise behind her, a kind of shuffling, and before she could even take in what was happening she was grabbed round the neck and pulled back into the seat. The next second, a wet cloth that smelled of chemicals was pushed against her face, and suddenly she couldn't breathe any more and she was struggling and kicking, trying to attract attention, help, anything . . .
It was all over so quickly, even now it didn't feel quite real. Her last image was Pat turning away from her and starting the car's engine with a low rumble. Then everything went black, and she couldn't remember another thing until she'd woken up in this cold, featureless room with a terrible headache and feeling really sick.
She wondered what had happened to Pat. She'd always liked him. He was good fun. They liked to joke together, and he seemed to make her mum happy. At first she hadn't been sure about him. She was used to it being just her and her mum. That was the way it had always been, the way she'd always preferred it. She didn't know her real dad. She'd never met him and she didn't even know who he was. Whenever she asked her mum about him, she'd always said that it was just a man from a long time ago, that he'd gone away, and that it would be best just to forget about him. She wanted to find her dad, but she didn't push it with her mum, and anyway, Pat made quite a good dad. And her friends were jealous because he was nice-looking, and not too old either.
She hoped they hadn't done anything bad to him.
'They' were the two men who were keeping her prisoner. She was not allowed to see them, and had to put on a black hood like something an executioner in a medieval history book might wear whenever the cellar door opened. One of them wheezed when he walked, making a horrible sound like something out of a horror film. She might not have been able to see him, but she could always hear his approach. And she could smell him too. He absolutely stank, a really horrible combination of BO, old socks and toilets that was so bad she thought she might gag whenever he got too close to her. He was the one who usually came down twice a day to check up on her. He'd bring food – Marmite or jam sandwiches, and fruit – and change the bucket they made her use as a toilet.
When he'd come down on that first night, telling her to put on the hood, she'd been absolutely terrified. But he'd told her not to worry, that no one would hurt her, and that she'd be going home soon, and even though he'd talked in a strange rasping voice as if he was trying to disguise it, and had stroked her arm with cold, gloved hands, his touch lingering that little bit too long, something told her that he meant what he said.
As time wore on she'd begun to lose hope of going home and being reunited with her mum and her friends, and everyone she cared about. But she had to be brave. She just had to be. It was just that she really didn't want to die. She was happy. She'd never done anything wrong, and she couldn't see why anyone would do this to her. It wasn't fair. And when she thought about what might happen to her, she got really scared. Although she trusted the smelly one, she definitely didn't trust the one he was working with.
He'd only been down once, on the second night. When he'd called out to her from the top of the stairs, telling her to put on the hood, his voice was harsh and cruel, with no kindness in it at all. She'd done what she was told to do and had then sat there waiting, but she hadn't heard his approach. He was that silent on his feet it was like he was a phantom. All that told her he was in the room was the faint smell of cigarettes, and a feeling that someone was watching her.
After a while she'd asked uncertainly whether there was anyone there.
'Yeah,' came the reply, like he was mocking her. 'I'm here.'
'What do you want?'
'You're going to talk to your mum. You're going to tell her that if she pays the money, then you'll be going home tomorrow.'
She felt a rush of excitement. 'And will I?'
'If she does what she's told, yeah,' he answered, but it didn't sound like he meant it. 'Now turn round on the bed so you're facing the wall.'
She did what she was told.
'Bet you're not used to being told what to do, are you? Little rich girl like you. Bet you usually tell the servants what to do, don't you?'
'I don't have servants,' she said quietly. 'I'm just normal.'
'You don't know what normal is, you little bitch.'
'Why are you doing this to me?' she asked, because she really didn't understand why he was being so cruel to her.
'You don't ask the questions,' he said, ripping the hood from her head in one movement. 'You obey orders. Keep staring at the wall, and remember what you've got to tell your mum. If she does what we say, you go home tomorrow.'
He'd pushed a phone roughly against her ear and a couple of seconds later her mum had come on the line. Emma felt a huge burst of emotion. She wanted to cry so much but she knew she had to hold it together for her mum's sake, so she'd said she was fine and that if the money was paid she'd be back tomorrow. She'd wanted to say more but the phone had been snatched away with a hissed 'Don't turn round', and then a few seconds later she'd heard the key turn in the lock of the cellar door.
After he'd gone, she'd sat there shaking for several minutes, part of her feeling hope now that she'd heard her mum's voice, but a much bigger part feeling fear. She'd never come across anyone truly evil before, and now that she had, it made her wonder whether she was ever going to get out of here alive. Because they hadn't let her go, like he'd said they would. She was still here, hoping that the smelly one would keep the cruel one from doing anything to her, which was why she'd been as nice as possible to him whenever he came down.
They were talking upstairs now, their voices muffled, and she wondered what time it was. They'd taken her watch, or at least she thought they had. When she'd woken up in this place for the first time, it was gone, as was her handbag, which had had her mobile phone in it. All she'd been left with were the clothes she was wearing when she'd been taken – a black T-shirt, denim skirt and her favourite wedge-heeled sandals – and she was still in them now.
The smelly one had already been in that morning to give her sandwiches – Marmite this time – and to change the bucket. That was a while back now. He'd seemed in a strange mood. Normally he was quite friendly, but today he'd been quiet, and it had worried her. She'd asked him if everything was all right, and when they were going to let her go like they'd said they would, and he'd come over, sat down and put his arm round her, telling her it was going to be fine and that she'd be home very soon. Even though she'd felt like throwing up with him so close to her, she'd told him once again that she just wanted to be back with her mum and her friends, because she thought that if she said it enough times he'd feel sorry for her and would help to make it happen. He'd told her not to worry, everything would be all right, like he always did, but this time it seemed as if he was making an effort to say it, and that maybe it wasn't true.
The voices were getting louder. They were arguing. She got up from the bed and walked as far as the chain would allow until she was almost at the bottom of the steps, then stopped and listened, straining hard to hear what they were saying.
The voices stopped before she could make out any words, and then suddenly the key turned in the lock and the door flew open, slamming hard against the wall.
Emma darted back, rushing for the bed, but not before she'd seen the man at the top of the stairs, partly silhouetted by the bright light behind him. She'd only got the barest of glimpses, just enough time to note that he was of normal height and build and had dark hair. For just half a second their eyes had met, but she knew straight away that she'd made a terrible mistake.
'Get your hood on. Now,' the cruel one called out from the top of the steps.
'Did you see me?' he hissed, venom in his voice.
'No,' she answered, shaking her head vigorously.
'Did you see me, bitch? Tell me the truth.'
'No, I promise.' She pushed herself back against the cold stone wall, her heart pounding.
He tore the hood off and she turned her head away from him, shutting her eyes, not wanting to see him, knowing only too well what seeing him would mean. He grabbed her roughly by the chin, squeezing the flesh, and pulled her towards him.
'Look me in the eye, bitch. Did you fucking see me?'
She opened her eyes and saw that he'd put on a black balaclava. His face was only inches away from hers.
'No, honestly, I didn't,' she said, finding it hard to get the words out. 'Please, you're hurting me.'
'This ain't hurt, bitch. You don't know the fucking meaning of the word. But you will if you're lying. I'll hurt you good. I'll hurt you until you're screaming with the pain. Do you understand?'
She nodded rapidly, feeling the tears well up, but determined not to cry in front of him. 'Yes, yes. I'm not lying, I promise.'
He released his grip on her chin. Behind the slits his eyes were dark and cold. 'Good.' He pushed the hood back over her head. 'Now, we're going to send your mummy a little message. So you can let her know how much fun you're having.'
His tone had changed again. He was mocking her, pleased that she seemed so terrified. He was enjoying this. It was difficult, almost impossible to believe, but he was actually enjoying this. Underneath the hood, away from his terrible gaze, the tears flowed freely down Emma's face.
And then she felt something touch the bare skin of her arm. Something cold and sharp.
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