16
Donnie Driscoll was going to die soon. He had no idea how long he’d been locked in the lorry – it could have been days, or even weeks. All he knew for certain was that he was going to die soon. He had four empty water bottles, but the wait between each visit seemed so vast, he had no way of reckoning how often his captors had dropped them in. He didn’t count his sleeps; he slept so badly and so frequently that the twenty-four-hour cycle no longer meant anything. There was no sense of day or night; just the dark, his own reek, the dull pain in his face, his filthy mattress and nothing to look forward to except another bottle of water and more custard bloody creams. For a while, he had fantasised about blowing up the factory where they made custard creams, but he no longer had the energy to fantasise about anything. He felt diminished, weak; ready for the end. During the last supply drop, he had lain quiet and still, thinking he might fool his captor into checking on him. But whoever it was had merely thrown the water and biscuits through the hole as usual then departed again, utterly indifferent. For a few hours afterwards, flicking his lighter on and off, he had felt over every inch of his prison to see if he could find a hidden camera or microphone – anything to indicate that his torturers might be watching to see how far they could push him. When he found nothing, it struck him that whoever was doing this didn’t care, that the biscuits and water were just a cruel joke to prolong his agony – he was facing death by custard cream.
He had pretty much lain down for good, but after a while his back, neck and sides went so stiff that he decided to stand up one more time, for a farewell circuit of his filthy box. As he did, he banged his head off something. He yelped, scrabbled for his lighter – it was nearly done – and flicked it. A small but solid object floated magically in the darkness above him; it was so unexpected, so alien, that it took him a moment to realise it was suspended from a string. The string led up to the metal grille. He stood unsteadily and studied the device. It was a digital voice-recorder of the kind journalists used; it had a yellow Post-it note stuck to it. ‘PLAY ME,’ the note ordered, like something from Alice in Wonderland. Suspiciously, Driscoll held the device at arm’s length and pressed Play. He thought it might explode – a final, sick joke. When it didn’t, he thought that at least now he would learn why he was condemned to die.
The recorded voice had been altered with a synthesiser; he knew enough about recording studios to hear that immediately. It was robotic, accentless, artificially deep and almost painfully slow. The voice said:
Driscoll: listen carefully, because your life depends on what you are about to hear. If you ever say another word about Annalise Palatine again, in private or in public, we will come and get you and put you back in your box. You do not, repeat do not, have anything to say about Annalise Palatine; not to the media, not to the police, not to anyone. We’ve opened your box for now, but we are watching you. We know where you live, and the next time we come for you, we won’t let you out again. And one last thing – stay away from children, you piece of shit.
He dropped the machine and flung himself at the lorry door. At first he thought they were lying and sobbed, because he couldn’t lift it. Then it gave a little; with a shout, he raised it enough to lie down and squeeze through the gap. He wriggled and fell out onto a cold concrete floor. Still sobbing, he rolled over and gulped the air – it smelled of oil but was meadow-fresh compared to his prison. He couldn’t see at first but eventually detected a strip of dark blue light off to his left, so he forced himself onto his hands and knees and crawled towards it. Overcome with a sudden fear that his captors were watching him, he tried to stand but fell down again. So he crawled onward, onward towards the light, which came from a man-sized gap in a heavy warehouse door. He pulled himself upright; the air outside was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. Some distance away, he could make out an orange blur. He rubbed his eyes. The blur became a road: a motorway, with sodium lights and car headlamps. He was on a shallow hill, looking down on a motorway. There was a litter-strewn tarmac apron around the warehouse, then after that scrub grass. By the colour of the sky, it was early morning. A bird twittered. As his ears adjusted, he heard the background rumble of the traffic. He clung to the door until he felt able to walk and, as the light improved, he saw that a track led through the scrub grass towards the motorway. Still stumbling, he reeled off down the track. He did not look back.
Even if he had, he would not have noticed the saloon car parked farther up the hill, as it was hidden just inside the tree line. Three men sat inside it. The driver held binoculars and watched Driscoll as he lurched along the track. He snorted and lowered the binoculars; his eyebrows were heavy and he had a golden earring in one ear. He pulled a beanie hat off his head, revealing a closely shaved scalp.
‘Thought he’d never bleedin’ get his act together.’ The man had a pronounced Dublin accent.
Timmins sipped the cold remains of a takeaway coffee. ‘Our instructions were to neutralise him, Cedric, not to finish him.’
‘Pity, the dirty bastard.’
‘Rupert?’
Rupert opened his eyes in the back seat. ‘Yeah?’
‘Has the principal landed yet?’
Rupert yawned and fingered his laptop. ‘Lemme see… where are we now… Gulfstream G550, registration N379P, left Heathrow 02:55 our time and touched down Bergerac airport 04:37 local time. Yup, that was over an hour ago; they’re safely on foreign soil.’
‘Job’s done, then.’
Cedric jerked a thumb. ‘What about the other fella?’
‘Oh, here’s as good a place as any.’
Cedric got out of the car and opened the boot. Grunting, he hauled Proctor from it and dumped him on the ground. He climbed into his seat again and grabbed the rear-view mirror.
‘Bloody things,’ he muttered.
‘Actually,’ Rupert remarked from the back seat, ‘they quite suit you; definitely an improvement.’
‘Shut your hole, you gobshite.’
Using his reflection to guide his fingers, the man tore off his eyebrows, rubbing scraps of latex away with his nails. He reached up to his ear and removed the golden earring – his lobe was unpierced; the ring was a clip-on. He stuffed the shredded eyebrows and the earring into a pocket, started the car engine and drove off, leaving Proctor’s inert form where it lay.
She didn’t dream at first but woke with a dry mouth and a blinding headache. Emerson touched her face. She was lying on the bed in his private jet – she recognised the décor and the oval window. But that was stupid, so perhaps she was dreaming. She groaned and rolled over. After a while, someone carried her: Levine. It was like being really drunk, but it was nice to be carried. So she put her arms around Levine’s neck and dreamed proper dreams. She dreamed she was back in Whin Abbey; Darling Sweetheart was carrying her to bed, carrying her up those big stone steps, singing softly in her ear…
‘Call me darling, call me sweetheart, call me dear…’
When she woke up properly, she was alone. She was on a large bed, in a large bedroom with modern furniture, honey-stone walls and tall windows that framed a yellow-white sky. She badly needed the toilet; fortunately the room, wherever it was, had an ensuite. When she tried to walk, she almost fell over. In the bathroom mirror, she saw that she still wore the same clothes – white tights and a blouse, topped by Roselaine’s shabby dress. But her cloak was gone and so was… her belt, and so was Froggy! She reeled from the bathroom and checked around the bed. He wasn’t there. She tried the bedroom door – it was locked, no key. Still staggering, she opened the wardrobe. The clothes inside it all belonged to her – she recognised them as the contents of her Beynac apartment – but no Froggy. She tore out drawers and let them clatter to the floor. She tossed a chair and then a lamp-standard, a gush of incoherent fury welling up inside. She ran to the window – it overlooked an elevated garden with a swimming pool and potted orange trees… Emerson’s château! She was in Emerson’s castle in Saint-Christophe. Then, she remembered – Ben!
Where was Ben? What had they done to him? She looked at her arms – one was bruised, where the needle had gone in. Indeed, there were two bruises, as if she’d been injected twice. She lifted another chair and hurled it against the door. Moments later, it flew open. It was Emerson himself, wearing a white shirt and jeans, his face and hair polished to supermodel standards. Behind him, a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform peered over his shoulder; behind her, the black hulk of Levine.
‘Wait!’ Emerson held up a hand. ‘Wait, people – she’s just woken up, she’s gonna be confused.’ His eyes took in the wrecked furniture. ‘Honey, how do you feel?’
‘Where,’ she snarled, ‘is Froggy? What have you done with him? And where’s Ben? If you’ve hurt them, I swear I’ll never speak to you again!’
He held up both hands now. ‘Levine,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘it’s okay. Madame Romand, follow me.’ Cautiously, they entered. The nurse closed the door. Then, as if overcome with emotion, he stepped forward and embraced her. ‘Baby, I’ve been so worried about you!’
She wrestled him off. ‘Harry! What are you, the fucking CIA? You had me drugged and forcibly abducted and Ben beaten up and now you act like a concerned husband?’
‘But honey-pie! You haven’t been well! Madame Romand – if you please…’ The nurse opened her bag. Emerson gestured at the bed. ‘Annalise – sit down. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’
She grabbed his shirt. ‘I’m going to hurt you, if you don’t tell me where Froggy is!’
‘Sorry…?’ He put on a look of injured puzzlement.
‘I had a soft toy, when your goons stuck a needle in me! They stuck one in Ben too!’
‘You mean Proctor? He stayed in England. But your teddy is here… Would you like me to get it for you?’
‘Yes! Right now!’
He took her hands and loosened her grasp on his shirt. ‘Okay. So let go of me, sit down and do what Madame Romand says.’
‘I’m not doing what anyone says!’
‘You’ve been unwell, Annalise. My only concern here is your health.’
‘If you value your own health, you’ll bring me Froggy right now!’
His warmth was nakedly artificial – singsong, almost.
‘You’ve been under sedation and Madame Romand is a highly qualified nurse, the best that money can buy. If you do as she asks, I promise, I’ll have the toy here in seconds.’
Sulkily, Annalise sat on the edge of the bed and glared at the nurse.
‘Harry, if this woman tries to stick another needle in me, it’s going straight through your fucking eyeball – I just want you to know that.’
‘It really hurts me when you talk that way – as if any of this was my fault. I saved you from that guy.’
‘You bloody well kidnapped me!’
‘It was for your own good.’
She snorted and the nurse stepped forward, holding out three white pills and a drink of water.
‘What is that?’ she demanded.
‘To make you feel better,’ the nurse answered.
She folded her arms. ‘I’m not taking those. You want me to sleep again.’
‘Not for to sleep. To help relax.’
‘I don’t want to relax!’
The nurse looked at Emerson.
‘Three little pills, honey, then you can have your precious toy.’ Annalise scowled but put the pills in her mouth. ‘Let me hear you crunch,’ he ordered, as if to a recalcitrant child. Treating him to her filthiest glare, she chewed the pills, pulled a face and washed them down. ‘Good.’ He seemed satisfied. ‘Leave us now,’ he told the nurse. Quietly, she departed. He sat down beside Annalise on the bed and put an arm around her. She jerked away.
‘Froggy; you promised.’
He gave her a full-on Hollywood smile. ‘I lied. In this business, I promise a lotta people a lotta stuff.’
‘You… you scumbag! That’s like holding a child to ransom!’
‘But it’s not a child, is it? It’s a child’s toy.’
‘Who do you think you are?’
His face hardened. ‘Who do I think I am? I think I’m a movie producer with an eighty-million-dollar picture to finish! I think I’m the guy with a thousand extras outside, costin’ me a fortune every day!’ His voice rose and he stabbed his finger at her. ‘I think I’m the guy who covered your ass, while you were in breach of contract! I think I’m the guy you’re gonna marry – or maybe I’m the guy who’s gonna finish your career! That’s who the FUCK I think I am!’
‘Jesus… and they say I’m crazy.’
He took a deep breath and stared at the wall. When he spoke again, he was back to his false, glassy warmth.
‘You’ve had an episode, honey, but now it’s over. So let me tell you how it’s gonna be: you’re gonna relax for a few days, just like Nurse Fat-Ass says. Me, I gotta go to work.’ He laughed sardonically. ‘Daddy’s got bills to pay, and he don’t have the luxury of personal fuckin’ freakouts. When you’re good and relaxed, it’s gonna be like none of this ever happened. We gotta new director, less trouble than that asshole Tress. Bit by bit, you gonna get back in the groove and, when you do, you’ll see that everythin’ I’m Sayin’ here makes perfect sense. Then, I’ll give you back your toy.’
‘You better not have harmed him!’
‘It’s in a safe place, waitin’ for ya.’ He stood and walked to the doorway, out of her reach. ‘But if you don’t play ball, I’ll rip your goddamn frog into a thousand tiny pieces. So get those stinkin’ fuckin’ clothes off and take a bath, you look like a bum for Chrissakes. Start behavin’ like the leadin’ lady I hired you to be!’ He gave her a little wave. ‘Bye, honey – I promise I won’t stay too late at the office.’ He stalked off, without bothering to close the door.
She rubbed her face. The open door meant two things: if she tried to run, his people would stop her, and also that Froggy was too well-hidden for her to find – if he was even in the castle at all. She was tired, stiff and fuddled from her enforced sleep. Plus, whatever was in those white tablets, it wasn’t paracetamol – unless they’d invented paracetamol that came on in waves. Her clothes felt sweaty and dirty. She floated into the ensuite and turned the bath taps on full. She opened the mirrored cabinet – it was packed with every grooming product a woman could ever want, including razors. She smiled at the thought of Frost being ordered to stock it. So Emerson wanted a leading lady, did he?
In her wardrobe, she found an ivory-coloured Versace bikini that she loved but had never dared to actually use, because it was so skimpy. When she descended the château stairs wearing just that, a pair of sunglasses and her highest heels, with her wet hair in a ponytail, Emerson’s bodyguards nearly fell over. Her midriff was whiter than paper but she considered her legs, tummy and bum some compensation, as these were toned from all the extra walking. One of the guards on the staircase was Bernstein. When he managed to scrape his jaw off his chest, he mumbled into his walkie-talkie. The other guard, who was younger, simply stared. She prayed she wouldn’t trip – the stone steps were uneven and the pills had lifted her as high as a kite. But she made it safely to the ground floor and used her best toe-first model step to parade along the hallway and out through the colonnade. Two more blazered bodyguards, one of them Levine, watched her from the far side of the garden. She sashayed to the lounger nearest the pool, kicked off her heels and lay back, stretching in the sun. Talbot materialised within seconds.
‘Miss?’
‘I need a towel, please, and a bottle of sun cream. And something to drink.’
‘Fruit-juice, Miss? Water? A beer, perhaps?’
‘Make it something long, cold and very strong; no umbrellas, no cherries.’
He fetched the towel and sun cream immediately. The Long Island iced tea took more time but was well worth the wait. While she waited, she rubbed the cream on her arms, tummy and legs. The guards pretended to chit-chat, but she knew they were watching her. It must have been the pills, but everything about her b
ody – apart from her pale tummy – felt oddly perfect.
‘Levine!’ she called. He jerked to attention as if he’d only just noticed her, then approached, solicitously.
‘Yes, Miss?’
‘I’ve told you before, don’t call me “Miss”.’
‘Sorry, Miss.’
‘Would you do my back?’ She handed him the cream and rolled over. He paused, before going down on one knee. His hands were huge and nice. She spoke quietly, as he rubbed.
‘Is Ben okay?’
‘Ben?’ he murmured.
‘The man who was with me – the one who hit you in the studio. Is he okay?’
Darling Sweetheart Page 34