Take it one step at a time, she told herself.
Upstairs the voices stopped, and she broke off what she was doing too, replacing the nail under her pillow and pushing the bed back against the wall so that the metal plate wasn't showing.
For a few minutes she sat there in silence, the butterflies racing around her stomach as she wondered if they'd come to a decision about what to do with her. Maybe they had; maybe they'd agreed it was best simply to kill her. 'Calm down,' she whispered out loud. 'Calm down. Remember what Mum always says. It's the tough ones who rise to the top.'
But when the cellar door opened she had to stop herself from crying out as she pushed herself back against the wall, praying that this wasn't the end, reaching for the hood she had to wear and thrusting it over her head, not wanting to give them any more of an excuse for getting rid of her.
It was the smelly one. She could hear his heavier footfalls as he came down the steps, that wheezing of his. She felt a surge of relief, even enjoyed the familiar odour of his BO, which was stronger than usual today. She heard him stop at the bed, put some food down on the floor, and change the waste bucket.
'Hello,' she said uncertainly.
'All right, love?' he answered, in his gruff voice. 'Did you sleep all right?'
She nodded. 'OK, I guess.'
She could smell his breath as he crouched down in front of her.
'I just need you to do another little message for your mum. I want you to let her know what day it is, so she knows you're OK.'
'OK.'
'So, I'm going to lift your hood up, all right? Just a little bit so you can see the date on the paper.'
She nodded again, waiting patiently while he lifted up the hood and placed the newspaper in front of her face, obscuring her view of anything else. He held it there, giving her plenty of time to see it, and she stared straight ahead obediently, confirmed that it was indeed Saturday, and the hood was replaced. He then recorded a very short message from her before switching off the tape player.
'Well done, love,' he said, trying to sound all cheery, but not quite making it. 'Not long now and you'll be home in front of the telly.'
'What are you arguing about up there?'
'Can you hear us?' He seemed surprised.
'I can't hear what you're saying, but I know you're arguing, because your voices are very loud. Is it about me?'
'Course not.'
She didn't believe him. 'He wants to kill me, doesn't he?'
'No, no, it's not like that,' he said quickly, but he sounded flustered, like one of her friends who'd been caught out telling a lie.
'Please don't let your friend kill me. Please. I never saw his face, I promise, whatever he says.'
'I won't, love, it's all right.'
'Because I know how cruel he is. When he came down here yesterday, he really scared me.'
Beneath the hood, she pretended to cry (she'd vowed not to cry for real any more), hoping this would make him feel sorry for her. And it seemed to work. He put an arm around her and pulled her into his shoulder. The smell of BO coming from his armpit made her want to gag but she forced herself to ignore it. She had to keep him on her side.
'I promise you, darling, no one's going to hurt you while I'm here. I wouldn't let anyone hurt defenceless kids.' His hand stroked her head. 'Tonight it's all going to be over and you'll be going home. I'm sorry my friend had to come down yesterday. I didn't want him to, but it was important your mum took things seriously, you know.'
'He put a knife to my face.'
His arm tensed, almost crushing her. She realized then how strong he was.
'Bastard,' he hissed angrily. 'Did he?'
'Yes.'
'Don't worry, he won't be coming down here again. And he won't touch you, I promise. No one hurts kids on my watch.'
His hand continued to stroke her hair, his gloved fingers slowly massaging her head. It was a horrible, creepy sensation, like spiders running across it, and she really wanted to move away, but she couldn't. He had her pinned.
'Who's in charge?' she whispered, trying to ignore what he was doing. 'You or him?'
'Neither,' he answered, but she heard him hesitate. And that told her everything.
It was the cruel one.
She desperately wanted to feel better, had hoped that his words might soothe her, but as he got up and left, telling her to enjoy her meal, the waste bucket sloshing and slapping against the banister as he mounted the steps, she felt instead a growing sense that something dark and terrible was about to happen.
And it was going to happen soon.
Thirty-five
Scott Ridgers' place was no palace either. He lived in the basement flat of a dilapidated post-war townhouse situated on a back street near Finsbury Park, the paintwork so faded that the people who'd last given it a lick probably owned ration books. The stone steps that led down to Ridgers' front door were caked in an unpleasant combination of dried and fresh pigeon shit, and Bolt had to tread carefully to avoid taking away any unwanted souvenirs from his visit.
The curtains were pulled, and when Bolt knocked on the door, it quickly became clear that Ridgers wasn't in either, although unlike Richardson, he was far less blasé about personal security. The single window, not much bigger than a porthole, was barred, and there were no fewer than three locks on the front door, including two five-levers. They were all in use as well. Bolt wasn't put off. He could get past almost any locks. The problem was he'd had his fingers burned once already today. Richardson had had no idea who he was, but if he made a fuss and reported what had happened to the local cops, there might be ramifications.
Bolt was in no mood for a further confrontation. His head still hurt from the last one, as did his ribs, where Richardson had dug his cosh into them. But he also knew that having driven over here, he needed to do something. It was ten to two now. He'd turned his mobile off but knew he couldn't keep it off for much longer, and when he did switch it back on he knew he was going to have to come up with a decent reason why he'd gone AWOL on arguably the most important day for his team since it had first been formed eighteen months earlier. It was now or never.
But as he took out the picks, he heard a noise above him.
'He's been gone for days,' said a female voice. 'Your lot probably frightened him off.'
Bolt looked up and saw a short, grey-haired woman in her late sixties dressed in a black trouser suit more suited to a Khmer Rouge guerrilla than a London senior citizen.
'What do you mean, your lot?' he asked with a puzzled smile, wondering how on earth she'd recognized him as a copper. He was dressed casually in jeans and trainers, and that, coupled with the flecks of blood on his shirt, made him sure he didn't look like one at all.
'Are you working for him?' she continued, her tone suspicious. 'The dad?'
'I don't know who you're talking about, I'm afraid.'
'Who are you, then?'
Bolt saw no point in denying his official role. 'I'm a police officer.'
Her expression didn't lighten. It seemed even the nation's senior citizens were against the police these days.
'Haven't you got anything better to do than harass a poor man who's just trying to get on with his life? Scott's a lovely lad. Who sent you? The dad? Can't he let it go?'
'I think you've got me wrong, madam. I'm here to let Scott know that a friend of his has been badly hurt in an accident.'
'Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize. Who's that, then? Scott doesn't have many friends.'
'It's someone from the past,' he answered with suitable vagueness, coming back up the steps so he no longer had to crane his neck to talk to her, stepping in pigeon shit on the way. 'You don't happen to know where he is, do you?'
She shook her head. 'I haven't seen him for a few days now. He's probably run off somewhere to escape her dad.'
'Whose dad?'
'Lisa's. That's Scott's girlfriend. I haven't seen her yet, but Scott thinks the world of her. He says she's beautiful.'
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Bolt looked puzzled. 'So why's her dad after him?'
'Because he says she's too young,' she answered in a tone that suggested he was being entirely unreasonable. It was clear this lady had a lot of time for Scott.
'And how old is she?'
'It's hard to tell these days, but Scott says she's quite old enough to make her own decisions.'
'I know what you mean,' Bolt agreed. 'Can you remember the last time you saw Scott?'
She thought about it for a moment. 'It was at the beginning of the week, I think. Monday or Tuesday. To be honest, I've been a bit worried. It's not like him not to be around. I usually see him most days when I'm passing. He likes to sit out the front here on his deckchair, watching the world go by. Do you think he's all right?'
'It might be worth checking. Do you have keys to his flat?'
She shook her head. 'Sorry, no.'
The timing of Ridgers' absence was certainly interesting. However, it didn't bring Bolt any closer to finding him now.
'Do you know where Scott's girlfriend lives?' he asked.
She shrugged. 'Over in Paddington somewhere.'
'That's a long way from here.'
'They met on the internet,' she said with a conspiratorial whisper, as if this was some kind of magic.
'That doesn't really help me much.'
'I know her last name, though. Scott told me because it's so pretty.' She pronounced it Boo-sha-ra, with something of a flourish, but then had the good sense to spell it for him. 'Lisa B-o-u-c-h-e-r-a. It's French, apparently,' she explained as Bolt memorized it.
He felt a glimmer of hope. London was a big city, but there weren't going to be many people of that name floating around Paddington. It wasn't much, but he was beginning to grow used to getting by on slim pickings. He thanked the old lady and walked back to his car, without looking back.
When he was inside, he switched on his mobile, dialled 118 118 and asked for the number of a Bouchera in the W2 postcode area. He could have got the information faster by phoning the Glasshouse, but he wanted to avoid speaking to anyone there for the moment.
There was one number listed under that name, and he called it straight away. A man answered after three rings.
'Hello, is that Mr Bouchera?' asked Bolt.
'Who's asking?' came the gruff reply.
Bolt identified himself, and asked if he was the same man whose daughter Lisa was seeing a Mr Scott Ridgers.
'That bloody pervert. Yes, my daughter has been seeing him. I'm glad you lot are finally taking it seriously now. I want him arrested.'
'I'm sorry, sir, but we can't arrest him if your daughter's over the legal age of consent.'
'What do you mean, the legal age of consent? She's fifteen, for God's sake!'
Bolt's mouth went dry. 'What?'
'She's fifteen years old, mate,' he snapped, disgust in his voice. 'Only just turned as well. Why on earth do you think I called the police about it? They've been getting up to all sorts as well. She even filmed some of it on her mobile phone. He should be locked up.'
Bolt thought of Emma at the mercy of a murdering thug with a predilection for young girls.
'Didn't you know any of this? What the hell are you phoning for?'
'Listen to me,' Bolt snapped. 'Is your daughter still seeing him?'
'Course not. What do you take me for? I grounded her as soon as I found out about it. And confiscated her mobile. But she's been sneaking out to see him. I got the police round here to talk to her but she wouldn't tell them anything. Denies everything. He even gave her this software that wiped all their conversations off her computer. I've been at my wits' end trying to sort it out. I've threatened her, locked her in her room, even found out where he lived and went round. But the bastard wasn't there.'
'Is Lisa at home now?'
'Yeah. She hasn't been out for the last few days, except for school. She's just moping about, not speaking. I'm hoping she's over him.'
'Have you still got her mobile phone?'
'I gave it back to her yesterday if she promised not to call him. So far, I don't think she has. She's a good girl, you know. That bastard corrupted her. If I could get my hands on him . . .'
'I know exactly how you feel,' Bolt told him, 'but in the meantime you can help us locate him, because we're very interested in talking to him about a number of matters.'
'What kind of matters?'
'The kind that'll put him away for a very long time.'
Bouchera grunted. 'Good.'
'But I need to know straight away if Lisa hears from him, or if you hear him speaking to her. Understand? And if you can get the number he's speaking to her from, even better.' Bolt gave Bouchera his mobile number, then wrote down the daughter's number and the name of her service provider. 'It doesn't matter what time of day or night it is, call immediately. It's extremely urgent.'
'Course I will,' replied Bouchera. 'I want to see that bastard suffer.'
Bolt thanked him and ended the call. There was still no proof Ridgers was involved, but Bolt's gut instinct was telling him he was definitely on to something here.
Ordinarily, the excitement at getting a lead like this would have been surging through him, but instead he felt a growing sense of dread. Time was running out and Scott Ridgers could be anywhere. If he didn't find him, and the ransom op failed, then he was convinced now that Emma was as good as dead. But he wasn't going to give up. Not while there was still an ounce of fight in him.
Thirty-six
The phone rang as he pulled out into the road. It was a message from Mo, wondering where he was. There was obvious concern in his colleague's voice. The time of the message was 1.27 – just over half an hour ago.
But Bolt didn't call him back. Instead he called Tina. 'I need you to check on whether there are any mobile numbers registered to a Mr Scott Ridgers of Hanbury Gardens, N19,' he told her. It was a long shot that someone like Ridgers would have registered anything in his name, particularly a mobile phone. Criminals don't like giving the authorities a means of tracing them. And even if he'd done so, Bolt doubted whether he would have taken it with him on a job as important and risky as a kidnap. But it was still worth a try.
Tina asked who Scott Ridgers was.
'I'll explain later, I promise.'
'You sound excited. Where are you? People have been asking. I mean, it's a big day, and you've been gone a long time.'
There was a trace of criticism in her voice, something Bolt hadn't heard from Tina before, and he wondered if his team were beginning to lose respect for him. If so, it was something he was going to have to counter. Just not now.
'I've been following something up, and I'm on the way back. I won't be long.'
He hung up and called Mo, telling him a briefer version of the same story – that he'd been following up on a lead – deliberately keeping details scarce. He didn't want to tell his friend too much about Ridgers, still less ask him a favour, because Bolt had the distinct feeling he would refuse.
Mo told him to hold on while he went somewhere private.
'Why are you working on a lead that no one knows anything about?' he asked. 'On a day as important as this one.'
'It's just something that's come up, OK? From the past.'
'Do you want to share it?'
'I'll tell you about it later.'
There was a pause.
'I think this is getting too personal for you, boss,' he said eventually.
It was the first time Bolt could remember Mo questioning his abilities, and it galled him. He felt like telling his old friend to butt out.
'I'm not going to mess this up, Mo.'
'Don't, please. I respect you, boss. Don't make me lose that respect.'
There was a genuine pain in his voice that cut into Bolt, and neither man spoke for a few seconds, both unsure what to say. It was Bolt who finally broke the silence.
'This time, Mo, I'm going to have to ask you to be the one to have faith. I promise you I know what I'm doing.'
'OK. That's good enough for me. But don't try to do everything on your own. It won't work.'
Bolt said he wouldn't, and it was with an element of genuine relief that he ended the call.
There was a traffic snarl-up around Millbank and it wasn't until twenty to three that he finally reached the office, having already found out from Tina that there was no mobile anywhere in the UK registered in the name of a Scott Ridgers of Hanbury Gardens, N19. He hadn't even made the incident room before Barry collared him. He didn't look very happy at all.
'Where the hell have you been?' he demanded.
Bolt knew immediately that he was going to have to tell him, but as soon as he started talking, Barry's expression darkened.
'Let's get to my office,' he snapped, looking round to make sure that no one was witnessing his wrath.
'What's going on, Mike?' he asked, his voice laden with exasperation, when they were behind closed doors. 'I thought I told you not to go running off on a wild goose chase.'
'With all due respect, sir, I don't think it is a wild goose chase.'
Bolt explained about Scott Ridgers' absence over the past few days, though he didn't mention his taste for underage girls, since he wasn't sure what relevance this had.
'So, what the hell does that prove? Maybe he's gone on holiday.'
'He's been gone since Monday. You've got to admit, it's coincidental.'
Barry nodded furiously. 'Yes, it is coincidental, isn't it? But that's all it is. A coincidence. It doesn't help us one fucking iota.'
Bolt couldn't remember the last time his boss had sworn. It was a measure of his anger and the pressure he and they were all under.
'I thought it was better than just waiting around. I'm convinced I'm on to something.'
'Did Tina say there was a mobile registered in his name?'
Bolt admitted there wasn't.
'So you're not on to something, are you? Listen, Mike, you're going to have to pull yourself together. I don't know what the hell's got into you over this, but whatever it is, it's got to stop. And what's happened to your face? You've got a bloody great bruise coming up.'
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