Jenny Parker Investigates

by D J Harrison

  ‘There’s my handbag,’ I point. ‘My purse is in there, take it and go.’

  He looks at the bag, picks out my phone, puts it in his pocket.

  ‘So where have you hidden it?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s there, there…’ I point to my bag again. Maybe they are very stupid after all, I think briefly, then I realise what he’s saying and that it’s me being stupid. The energy drains from my body. I’m almost rigid with fear now. They have come for the money, not some money, the money. Lafferty’s money. They must know it’s here. A paralysing dread seeps through me, robbing me of energy. This is not going to end well. I’m in deadly danger and so is Toby. The idea that I’ve brought him into my world of danger and pain makes me feel nauseous, my throat is filling up with bile and I’m choking. The money. I should have realised just how serious that amount of money is. How people like these will go to any lengths to get their hands on it. When they do get their hands on it they’re bound to kill me and Toby as well. Even if they have little fear of the police they must realise the consequences of me helping Lafferty track them down are much more serious.

  I think of Monty, pray that he’s forgotten something, that he’ll suddenly come back and save me. That’s not going to happen. He’s half way to Greenfield by now, and even if I do somehow manage to call him it’s going to be too late by the time he gets back here.

  ‘That’s all I’ve got, in there in my bag,’ I say. ‘I’ll give you my bank PIN number, you can get more cash with my card. Just leave us alone, take it and go.’

  I reach out towards my bag and am punched very hard in my lower back. A terrible pain buckles my legs. I try to cling on to Toby but he’s torn from my grasp. As I kneel and gasp, paralysed by the effects of the blow, the old man swings his foot and smashes it into my stomach. I feel my face pressing into the floor, there’s a smell of cleaning fluids. I can’t breathe properly. All I can do is lie here and wait for some faculties to return. Even the anger-fuelled adrenalin can’t rouse my broken body, however much my mind wants to leap up and tear into these horrible men.

  Toby is still wailing, I can hear his distress, even though the red-headed man has dragged him into the lounge and turned the TV on loud. I curl up, try to protect myself, stare at the table leg inches from my face, wonder why I’ve never noticed the hairy gunge that clings to its base. When I feel a little strength return I push up with my hands, try to stand. My legs are swept away and I crash back down, hitting my forehead on the edge of a chair. Blood trickles warmly down my face, mixing with my tears. The old man stands over me, legs apart, hands on hips.

  ‘Let’s stop messing about, lady,’ he says. ‘We know you’ve got cash stashed away in here, that’s all we’re after. All you need do is point us to it and we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’ve only got what’s in my purse,’ I say.

  ‘If that’s true then your little boy hasn’t got long to live. I’ll hurt him first, you can be sure of that. One last chance before you lose him. I suggest you take it.’

  Toby’s cries have stopped, I don’t know why. This obnoxious arrogant bastard has me convinced. I don’t know what he’ll do if I give him the cash. He may kill us both anyway, but I can’t bear to think of what he’ll do to hurt Toby. I’ll do anything to avoid that.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘leave him alone, I’ll show you the cash. First promise me you won’t harm my son.’

  ‘On my mother’s life,’ he says, a sideways grin on his face.

  I stagger to my feet and they follow me into the tiny downstairs toilet. I point to the panel. ‘Behind there,’ I say. ‘You need a screwdriver, there’s one in the kitchen drawer.’

  There’s a stale smell of body odour in here. I am pressed from behind by the old guy as we watch the clumsy un-coordinated efforts of his accomplice. I tense every muscle waiting for the one chance to break free. There’s one flicker of hope left. When they see the cash I’ll make my move. Wait until they’re preoccupied with the money. Then I’ll go. Grab Toby, flee. Get away from here. Until then there’s nothing I can do wedged in this tiny room.

  The panelling succumbs to the pulling and prising. It comes off the wall in one big piece, revealing the cavity behind where I hid Lafferty’s million in cash.

  Empty.

  62

  I expect the hitting, shouting and threatening to resume, but maybe my genuine shock is convincing evidence that I’m as disappointed as they are.

  ‘It’s gone, it was here, this is where I keep it, someone’s taken it.’ My back is still hurting from the punch. I can hardly hold myself upright. I’m close to collapse. There’s a dull ache of resignation permeating my whole body. I am spent, finished, incapable of anything more than open-mouthed surprise.

  ‘Then you better find it.’ The old guy’s foul breath is in my face.

  ‘I’ve no idea where it might be.’

  ‘I believe you,’ he says, ‘so I’ll give you a chance. Find the money and bring it to us, but make it quick. I’m a man of little patience.’

  ‘I will,’ I say. I’m puzzled by this turn of events. Are they really going to leave? I breathe out in relief, don’t anticipate the blow to my stomach, hard and vicious. Doubling me up, dropping me to my knees. My arm is against the white porcelain, my head against the radiator. My nostrils are filled with the smell of bleach spilled from the toilet brush holder. I can feel my limp arm being held, then my wrist is attached to the radiator pipe with thick plastic cable tie. I hear the front door crash behind them as they leave, and the whole house feels lighter at their absence.

  My aching body begins to respond. My mind starts working again.

  ‘Toby,’ I call. No answer. The men have gone, but where’s Toby? I call again and again, still no response. I imagine him hurt, unconscious maybe. Or might he be gone? The thought generates cold panic throughout my abdomen. My wrist is bloody and painful from trying to tug free. The plastic looks so flimsy but it holds me fast. I try to bite it, gnaw through it like some trapped animal but my teeth are unable to disturb its slick surface. I need something harder and stronger than tooth and nail.

  I try licking my wrist, lubricating it, hoping the mixture of spit and blood will help me to slip the tie over my hand, but it’s much too tight. There’s no slack at all to work with. I need a knife, something sharp, something metal.

  ‘Toby,’ I shout louder and louder. I imagine his small body slumped in the lounge in urgent need of care and attention, hearing his mother’s voice but unable to respond. Then I visualise his tiny body thrown into a car, carried off. Now I’m giving way to panic again, yanking my wrist, trying to break the plastic or the metal pipe, or my flesh and bone. The searing pain brings me back to my senses. I manage to calm my frantic thrashing about, breathe again.

  The plasterboard panel lies half across the toilet. I hook it with my foot, pull it towards me. A screw head protrudes from one of the holes. I twist it out with my fingers. I use it as a saw, dragging it across the edge of the tie, scraping at the smooth plastic. I work away until my fingers are too tired to hold on to the screw. Through my tears I can see I’ve made little impression on my bonds. A tiny bit of scuffing, that’s all. My hopes of a quick escape recede.

  It’s hopeless, the screw’s no use at all. I look around, see the screwdriver discarded near the door. I reach out, strain, pull hard on my wrist, but it’s inches outside my reach. With a succession of sharp tugs I try to dislodge the pipe, pull it away from the wall, break it. All I do is hurt my wrist.

  I pick up the screw again. This time I poke at the plastic strip that holds me to the pipe. Pushing and twisting I make a tiny hole. When I turn it I feel some bite, some purchase. I hold the screw in the fold of my skirt to stop my sweaty fingers slipping. Gradually I get the hole to enlarge. The end of the screw is starting to poke through the plastic. By working the screw sideways I make a tiny tear. The hole gets bigger, spreads to the edge. The next hole feels easier now that I’ve enjoyed some success. I
make it close to the opposite side of the bond; again it rips slightly. Almost half the width of the cable tie is torn now. Twisting and pulling and prodding with the screw and using it as a lever seems to have little effect until suddenly it snaps completely and I’m free.

  I scramble to my feet and run in search of Toby. Sponge Bob Square Pants and Patrick are standing with a look of inane surprise as I dash into the lounge. Toby’s gone. I can feel his absence, they have taken him. My bag and my phone are on the kitchen table. That bastard had it in his pocket and now it’s back in the bag. I call Monty, hear the rings, pray for him to answer. He does.

  ‘They’ve got Toby,’ is all I can say before I’m overwhelmed. I can hear my own incoherent sobbing but can’t control it.

  Monty replies, ‘On my way.’ I feel a tiny burst of strength. I search every inch of the house and garden, calling out Toby’s name, hoping for a miracle, praying he’s hiding, playing a game. Hoping that he’s here and unharmed. My agitation increases with every minute of not finding him. I stand with my phone, finger poised over the 9 button, desperate to call, to summon help, to explain, to tell someone about the horror. I imagine the police arriving, the inept questions, the pedestrian slowness. They’ll be more of a hindrance than a help, I conclude. The only way I’ll get Toby back is if I deliver the cash, do exactly what they want. That’s not possible if I involve the police.

  Between the calm thoughts I’m in a turmoil of frustrated inaction. I have to do something, make some move, I can’t just stand here looking out of the front window, waiting for Monty. It’s almost a shock when his car pulls up on the drive. I meet him at the door.

  ‘They came for the money,’ I say, ‘but it’s gone as well.’

  ‘It’s okay, I know where it is,’ Monty says.

  ‘You’ve got it?’

  ‘It’s hidden, somewhere safe.’

  ‘Where? I have to get it and give it to them.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’ Monty manoeuvres me into the kitchen, sits me down, fetches the first aid box and begins to clean my wounds.

  ‘Three men,’ I say, ‘two about twenty, one older, maybe fifties or sixties. They hit me, took Toby. They knew I had the cash. I tried to give it to them but it’s gone. They left me tied up in the toilet, it took me ages to get free.’

  ‘How are you supposed to contact them?’ Monty is making a cup of tea as if that might help. It won’t, it can’t.

  ‘I don’t know. He left me my phone,’ I say.

  ‘Then they’ll be in touch soon enough.’

  ‘What if they don’t call?’

  ‘They will.’

  ‘But how will we find Toby if they don’t?’

  ‘Look, Jenny, these men want your money. They’re going to give you an opportunity to give it to them and when they do we may get Toby back.’

  ‘May?’

  ‘Yes. May. There’s no guarantees.’ Monty puts a mug in front of me. ‘Drink your tea then I suggest you get cleaned up, have a shower, try to rest. Until they call there’s nothing to do.’

  ‘The money,’ I say, ‘we have to get the money, where is it?’

  ‘I’ve got it, don’t worry.’

  ‘Where? Get it. Bring it here now. We have to be ready.’

  ‘Okay, if it’ll make you feel better I’ll fetch it now.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ I say, standing up.

  Monty says nothing, but lets me follow him out of the front door and across the road. He knocks on the door of number 31. The old lady answers almost instantly, beams a smile in Monty’s face. Looks at me with less enthusiasm.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Martha,’ Monty says, ‘I’m picking up a few things I left in the shed, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Of course,’ she says to Monty. ‘Are you all right?’ She looks at me. I suddenly become aware of how I must look to her.

  ‘We’ve had burglars,’ Monty explains, ‘it’s all been a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Martha. ‘When was this?’

  ‘This afternoon,’ I say. ‘They ransacked the house and tied me up, Monty just got home.’

  ‘Come in.’ Her eyes are bright with excitement. We are led into her front room where a large red armchair faces the window. She picks up a notepad from the tiny table next to the chair. ‘Here,’ she says, ‘this will be your burglars. Three men arrived at six minutes past two, left at twenty-five to three, blue Jaguar XF. I think that’s the right model, I’m not too sure about that. I do have the registration, here, look.’ She holds out the paper for Monty who tears it off the pad and puts it in his pocket.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, ‘you’ve done very well.’

  Once we’re outside, my phone rings. I look at the display – ‘blocked’ it reads. I answer. The chilling voice of the old man who attacked me.

  ‘Have you got the money?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got it. Bring Toby back. You can have it. Is he all right? Can I speak to him?’

  ‘He’s fine for the moment. Do what I say and he’ll stay that way. Bring the money to me, I’ll give you directions, write them down.’

  I rummage in my bag for a pen and something to write on, putting the call on speaker phone, motioning Monty into silence. ‘Yes, I’ve got a pen now,’ I say.

  ‘M65, junction 9, take the A679 towards Accrington. Take the first turning on the left, it’s a track leading behind an Indian restaurant, you can’t miss it. Keep going straight. The track leads up to the big wind turbines, I’ll be waiting by the middle one. It’s easy to find, you can see it for miles. You’ve got half an hour.’

  ‘What about Toby?’ I say. The line goes dead.

  63

  Monty leads me round the back of the house, having sworn Martha into silence and left her all of a quiver and back on sentry duty. He takes out a bunch of keys and uses one to open the large shiny padlock on the shed. Inside he quickly pulls up a section of the floor, revealing a steel chest, also secured with hefty locks. Inside are the holdalls Lafferty gave me, together with a few more items that I’ve not seen before. Monty pulls out one bag of cash and a long rectangular case.

  ‘Here, give them this.’ He thrusts the bag into my arms. ‘You’d better get going.’

  ‘But they want it all.’

  ‘Give them this. Tell them it’s half of it, they can have the rest if Toby’s returned unharmed. If you give them everything at once they may kill you both.’

  ‘Oh.’ I realise he’s making sense.

  ‘They may kill you both anyway,’ Monty says. ‘This is a very dangerous situation, it may not end well.’

  ‘Are you coming with me?’

  ‘No. If they see me with you the kidnappers are going to get upset. I’ll go on ahead and see what I can do, if anything. The main thing is to get Toby back, anything else can wait.’

  The M65 is a two-lane motorway. I presume they either couldn’t afford the third lane or decided nobody would want to go to Burnley. There are two lorries blocking my way, one is overtaking the other so slowly the drivers could well be engaged in long conversation through their cab windows. Maybe they’re playing chess. Whatever they’re doing it’s keeping me from my appointment with Toby’s captors, making me late, putting him at risk. I flash my headlights and sound my horn but progress remains slow. If anything, the lorry being overtaken is speeding up, gaining back some lost ground from its rival.

  This vehicle has a familiar look; it’s a big, blue artic, daubed with mud and grime. When the road clears I floor the accelerator. My car lurches forwards and reaches a hundred miles an hour before I have to lift off to avoid a red Corsa crammed with youths that pulls out in front of me. I’m so busy being enraged at the succession of slow-moving obstacles that I almost miss the junction and have to sweep across two lanes, braking hard.

  Now it’s my time to elicit loud disapproval from a black Honda that I fail to see and narrowly miss. Squealing a right turn at the roundabout, I head towards Accrington as directed. In my haste I flash past t
he turning up to the windmills. I see the Indian restaurant too late, overshoot, slam on my brakes, reverse, and have to wait for traffic to pass before I can access the pot-holed track. I bump my way through a collection of dilapidated farm buildings and then see the whole length of the track in front of me, stretching up the hillside, leading to the three wind turbines at the top.

  There’s a battered pick-up truck parked off the track facing downhill. As I approach I recognise the single occupant and my heart jumps at the sight of the old man who brutally attacked me. The sickening feeling returns to my stomach where he kicked me. I stop the car, get out, wave the bag of cash.

  ‘Where’s my son?’ I shout. He walks towards me, arm outstretched. I drop the bag and step back to leave a safe distance, let him examine my offering. He unzips the holdall, rummages inside, and then looks up at me. His expression isn’t what I expect. My fear is that he’ll be angry I’ve only brought him a fraction of the amount he’s expecting. His face tells me I’ve given him more.

  ‘What’s this?’ His face is screwed up as if he’s struggling to understand something.

  ‘The money, it’s what you came for. Now give my son back to me.’

  ‘How much is in here?’ he asks.

  ‘Two hundred thousand.’

  ‘Phew.’ He makes a brow-wiping motion with his right hand. I can see he’s genuinely taken aback. The amount I’ve brought him far exceeds his expectations. This isn’t what Monty and I anticipated and it worries me.

  ‘Where’s Toby?’ I say. I get no answer. The man seems deep in thought, looks alternately at me and then the money, as if unsure what to do. Eventually he seems to reach a resolution, zips up the bag and carries it over to his vehicle.

  ‘Wait,’ I say, running across, ‘Toby, where’s Toby? You promised to let him go if I brought the money.’

  ‘Did I?’ The nasty sideways smile returns. I stand powerless to prevent him driving away back down the track. All I can do is follow in my Range Rover; he’s going quite slowly and not trying to get away. His driving reflects the hesitancy he showed when I gave him the money. It’s obvious he was expecting less than I gave him. There’s a half-formed theory in my mind that has this man working for Lafferty, brutally extracting this cash either to safeguard it from police confiscation or to teach me a lesson. This doesn’t wash any longer and I’m relieved that it can’t be true. If Lafferty turns against me I’ve nowhere to go, I’m completely finished.