Seizing the microphone which Delmara had been using, he spoke firmly into it, giving his orders harshly.
“Lie down right where you are, see? Get on with it! See these guns? They’ll be giving the orders if you don’t listen now, right?”
He wanted everyone together, where they could be controlled, and he wanted them lying down to make it hard for them to attempt anything.
Some of the more self-controlled of the audience responded at once.
The lead given, others followed suit. The atmosphere was strained and tense. It seemed unreal.
Sheila, standing frozen in her ice-blue chiffon and feathers, jumped as she became aware of a hand seizing her by the shoulder.
“You! Come this way.” The second gunman, the one who had gestured to her with his gun just before the screaming broke out, pushed her roughly forward.
She seemed unable to feel anything.
Numbly her body followed her mind’s instructions and moved in the direction which the voice in her ear and the hand on her arm made unavoidable.
She found herself standing near the entrance doors still clutched in a tight unyielding grip.
Beside her, she realised, was a red-haired woman who was a stranger to her, and someone else who she thought she recognised as the millionaire sponsor Delmara had been so pleased to get, Montgomery Speers.
A harsh voice spoke in Sheila’s ear.
“What the fuck? Why’re there two of them?”
“Dunno,” said another voice. “What does it matter? Grab them and
let’s get the hell outa here!”
Pat Fitzwilliam and Gareth Phillips, spurred into action by identical motives, sprang forward.
Neither of them could bear to see Sheila dragged away, helpless, by men with guns and not try in some way to prevent it. Hopeless it might be but if they made no attempt neither man felt that he could ever live with himself again.
Sheila felt her arm released as Pat landed with a thud on the gunman who had her in his grasp.
At the same moment, Gareth Phillips, coming from the other side, butted the third gunman in the face. With a howl of pain, he lowered his gun and bent over double as Gareth kicked the gun aside and then extended his kick to catch the man hard in the crotch.
Meanwhile Pat and his chosen victim were rolling about on the floor at Sheila’s feet, exchanging punches.
Two of the intruders were out of action. But the tall man had kept his nerve. Sheila heard a rattle of machine gun fire mostly in warning over the heads of the audience who lay spread out over the floor where he had directed them to lie.
Then a moan of pain from Pat Fitzwilliam.
Pat’s grasp slackened on the man beneath him and, as it did, his victim managed to wriggle free. A moment later, a sideways swipe with his gun took Pat on the side of the head, and he collapsed, his face white, drained of colour.
A round of bullets from the first man’s gun thudded into Gavin Phillips.
Sheila, tears pouring down her face, heard herself screaming.
“No! No!”
“Shut up, you!” snapped the first man. “Danny, do something with
this bitch!”
Sheila felt something smooth and slimy thrust over her head and
all at once she was enveloped in darkness.
A moment later she was being bundled out into the cold, dark January night.
Chapter Fifty-Three
John Branagh reached the Magnifico Hotel and drew up in the car park as near to the exit as possible.
He strolled slowly over to the building.
He hesitated briefly, wondering which was the best way to go, then made for the nearest door.
As he went through it, he heard screams, bustle, then saw the door of the ballroom opening. Three men were coming through, the first one turned half way round, his sub-machine gun at the ready, his eyes behind their stocking mask keen and sharp, looking in all directions. Behind him, backing out slowly, came two more men, also armed, pulling three people between them.
John couldn’t see who the victims were. Black bin bags, perforated all round for air, had been fastened over their heads and round their upper bodies and arms.
John knew he couldn’t achieve anything worth doing against three sub-machine guns.
He backed carefully away, hidden behind the door he had just come through, holding it against him by the handle to prevent it swinging open and revealing his presence.
Where were the security men who should be on duty at the entrances? Why hadn’t they stopped this happening?
Then, as he backed further out of sight, his foot stumbled against something.
Looking down, he saw that it was a man, blood running freely from the back of his head.
For one moment, frozen, John thought that he was dead. Then, common sense returning, he realised that dead people don’t bleed.
The man had been knocked out. No doubt his partner was somewhere nearby, also out of action.
What was going on?
The gunmen weren’t coming in John’s direction. They were making quickly for another door to one side which they seemed to have left ready, jammed open with some sort of wedge. John couldn’t see much.
“Come on, move it!” one of the men snarled, pushing the people in the bin bags roughly forward.
One of them, a woman from her voice, cried out in pain and then John heard what to him was the most terrifying sound in the world, just at that moment – Sheila’s voice, muffled by the bin bag but still unmistakable.
“Leave her alone, can’t you? It’s not going to speed things up if we all end up tripping over ourselves!”
So the worst had happened. Sheila was one of these three hostages.
John forced himself to stay calm.
He allowed the party, three armed men and three victims, to get through the door.
Then moving swiftly but as silently as he could, he went after them.
Outside in the car park two cars were waiting.
As the gunmen approached, the doors were swung open by the waiting drivers.
The prisoners were bustled into the back seats, two to the first car and the remaining one to the second. The men dived quickly in after them.
The engines started.
The cars rolled swiftly forward.
John looked round desperately for help.
There was no time to lose.
He fished frantically in his pocket for his mobile, then changed his mind. No time for that yet. Instead, he tugged out his key ring and ran silently and unobtrusively to his own car, thanking heaven that it was parked so near the exit. Dodging behind other vehicles, ducking low, he reached it.
The gunmen and their cars were still roaring towards the exit. There was only the one way out John remembered thankfully.
His car was a new Mini. The engine, he hoped, would be capable of enough speed.
He found that although his mind seemed to have gone strangely blank, his hands remembered their automatic skill.
It was a matter of moments to open the car door, to swing himself into the driver’s seat, to turn the key and to find himself moving out of the car park after Sheila and her captors.
He mustn’t get too close. He wanted to track them down, not to panic them into doing something foolish, like shooting their prisoners and dumping them.
John shuddered and forced himself not to think of the possibilities.
He followed the tail light of the second car, trying to keep far enough back not to appear in its mirror.
They were out on the Westlink by now, he could stay several cars back and in the inside lane, where he hoped he wasn’t too obvious.
Driving with one hand, John took his mobile phone out of his pocket.
It wasn’t easy to use it one handed, but he managed.
“Police?”
He had got the number okay.
“This is John Branagh. I’m following the cars used to abduct three people from the Magnifico Hotel ten
minutes ago.” He craned forward to make out the number plate of the rear car, the only one he could see, and read the figures out carefully.
“Moving down the Westlink in the direction of Lisburn. I’ll ring again when I’ve a better idea where they’re heading.”
He rang off quickly.
Mobiles in cars. Against the law. He was breaking rules. Okay, this was an emergency, but he didn’t want to be seen and be pulled over by some too zealous cop.
Anyway, he needed all his wits to concentrate on following the car in front without being noticed.
Abruptly the car he was watching pulled into a slip lane without indicating.
John, taken by surprise, almost lost them but, by dint of some inspired manoeuvring, and by earning himself a string of curses from the car behind him, he managed to get into lane in time to follow his targets as they exited on the outskirts of the city, following the motorway at first, and soon began to wind their way down country roads and byways.
It was much harder now to keep out of sight.
John realised that unless they reached their destination soon, he would inevitably be spotted.
He hung further and further back, the fear of being seen tugging against the fear of losing them – of losing sight of Sheila, of losing any hope of somehow or other rescuing her.
He managed a further brief message to the police on his mobile, indicating the direction but couldn’t risk talking for long.
Crawling cautiously round a bend, he saw, to his immense relief, that the two cars he was following had turned off into an even narrower winding lane. It led, as far as he could tell, to the lights of what seemed to be a farmhouse in the near distance.
It was probably time to leave the car and make the nearer approach on foot. Yes, the cars had stopped.
John pulled up. Moving quietly, he slipped out of the car door, closed it gently behind him and headed towards the lighted windows.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Sheila, flung helpless and gasping for breath into a small unidentifiable space, took some minutes to orientate herself.
She was hauled roughly upright and propped against what felt like the back of a chair. Someone, she couldn’t tell who, was pushed against her, and a third person squeezing in alongside slammed a door forcibly shut.
It was only when the car engine began and she could feel the forward motion of the machine that she realised she was in a car.
The person next to her – she could tell from the perfume that it was a woman – was moaning and crying in a distressing way, so that Sheila was almost glad when a harsh voice said, “Shut up, you, if you know what’s good for you!” and the unhappy noises were immediately cut off. Then anger came boiling up in her instead.
It was no good trying to do anything yet.
Sheila acknowledged this to herself.
Later, if only they would take off these awful bin bags, she might have a chance, she hoped, of changing things.
How, she had no idea.
For what seemed an eternity she listened to the car engine as they raced along, then the car must have left the smooth city roads for they were bumping and jerking over uneven surfaces. Country lanes, Sheila guessed.
Then, she didn’t know whether to be glad or frightened, it seemed that they had arrived at wherever they were going.
The car stopped, she heard the door opening and a moment later she was being bundled hurriedly out into the open air – she could feel the freshness of the night breeze around her legs, and the ground cold and slippery beneath her feet, and then they were pushing her in through another door.
A final push sent her reeling against something hard – a wooden chair, she guessed – and as it toppled over backwards, hard legs sticking out in all directions, Sheila fell with it. Her head banged painfully against the floor and Sheila lost consciousness.
She had no way of knowing how long it was before she came to.
Opening her eyes, she saw with relief that she was no longer trapped and blinded inside the hateful bin bag.
At some point while she was still dead to the world, someone had taken it off, in the process untying the ropes round her upper body and arms.
Blinking at the unaccustomed light, she gazed round.
She was in a dimly lit room with an old-fashioned flagged floor, the sort found in farmhouse kitchens or in very modern luxury homes. The ceiling was lower than would be usual in a modern house, and there were dark, soot stained rafters. Between the rafters could be seen spaces of dirty white ceiling.
The furniture, which was sparse, was made of thick, dark wood and, apart from the table and chairs where Sheila had fallen, there was nothing much except for an elderly dresser with some cracked plates and cups exhibited on its shelves. Sheila thought it might be good to memorise as much about the room as possible in case she needed to identify it, supposing at some time in the future she was released.
When she was released, she corrected herself. Or managed to escape. She wasn’t going to accept any other possibility even for a moment. She continued, though still fairly dazed, to look all round.
Lying on the floor not far away was her fellow prisoner, the red- haired woman she had noticed earlier. She looked miserable, frightened and dishevelled, her hair a mess, her mascara running in black streaks down her cheeks where the tears had carried it.
Sheila, feeling sudden pity for the poor woman, tried to smile encouragingly.
“Hi!” she said. “This is another fine mess they’ve gotten us into, right?”
The woman, instead of smiling back, showed every sign of being about to burst into tears again.
“Don’t let them get you down!” Sheila urged her. “Listen, we’ll get out of here somehow or other. I can’t think why they’ve taken us but they must have some reason, and people will be trying to sort it out, okay? It can’t go on for all that long.”
The woman sniffed but at least she nodded and made a weak attempt at a smile.
“My name’s Sheila,” Sheila said. She looked enquiringly at her companion.
“Oh, I know who you are!” said the woman unexpectedly. “Sheila Doherty. I’ve bought some of your clothes. You model the most gorgeous things!” She sighed, enviously even in the middle of her misery.
Sheila grinned, half pleased, half surprised.
“Right! Then we’ll definitely have to get out, so’s you can wear them! And you?”
“Sorry?”
“I mean, I’ve told you my name, but you haven’t told me yours yet?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m Rosemary Frazer Knight. My husband,” she added listlessly, as though it hardly mattered, “is Hugh Frazer Knight. He owns the supermarkets.”
“What, ‘Night after Knight’s’?” Sheila exclaimed, quoting the famous slogan. “You must be Sally’s mother, then? Wow! Your husband’s a multi-millionaire, isn’t he?”
Rosemary Frazer Knight nodded. “Yes. For what it’s worth now.” They were suddenly interrupted. The door flew open, banging against the wall, and the third prisoner was pushed roughly in, followed by two of the men, the leader and the small one who had grabbed Sheila. She vaguely remembered that he had been addressed as Danny. They still wore their masks, she was glad to see. That made it more likely that they intended to release their captives at some point. No point in continuing to hide their identity if they were going to kill the prisoners anyway.
“Get in there!” said the leader gruffly.
A final push sent the man flying across the room, off balance, until he ended up on the floor beside the two women.
The leader seemed to be unbelievably angry.
“I’ve had enough of your lies and crap!” he screamed at the man who was trying to sit up, shaking his head to regain some sort of clarity in his brain.
“Trying to tell me you aren’t Frazer Knight! Bullshit!”
“But I’m not!” muttered the man weakly. “I –” Inspiration suddenly struck him. “Look, I’ll show you my driving license! That’ll pro
ve it, right? Here, it’s in my inside jacket pocket.” He fumbled frantically in his pocket, panic increasing as his hands found nothing but emptiness.
“I know it’s here!” he almost wept. “I always keep it here!”
The leader glared at him for a moment searchingly.
Then he turned to shout at his henchman. “Danny! Go and fetch that stuff we took outa this fella’s pockets! Move it!”
Danny scampered off. Sheila could almost see his tail twitching with eagerness to obey.
“If you’re lying –” said the big man threateningly.
“No! No, I’m telling you the truth! My name’s Speers. Montgomery Speers. You’ll see, my license’ll prove it!”
Sheila couldn’t help feeling some pity for Montgomery Speers as he sat crouching, a quivering mass of fear, on the floor next to her. At the same time she wondered how anyone could show such cowardice, no matter what the danger.
“He’s right, you know,” she said helpfully. “I recognise him now I hear his name. I’ve seen him before. It’s definitely Montgomery Speers. Why should you think he was Frazer Knight?”
The leader stared at her.
He turned his head as Danny came bounding back into the room, his hands clutching the contents of Speers’ pockets, and snatched the license which Danny eagerly held out.
“Montgomery Cecil Speers,” he read out in a voice whose coldness was even more terrifying than his previous anger. Furiously he turned upon the wretched Danny. “This is your fault, you useless piece of junk! Why couldn’t you get the right man?”
“It wasn’t me!” whined Danny. “It was Charlie! He got the man, my job was getting the woman, Mr. O’Brien!”
“Keep your mouth shut! Didn’t I warn you not to broadcast my name, you imbecile!” the leader cut in. “And you couldn’t even get the right woman, you had to grab two of them! If I find out that neither of them’s the right one, you’ll know all about it, you twerp!”
He walked over nearer to Sheila and Rosemary and thrust his face forward so close that Sheila could smell the tobacco and whiskey on his breath.
“Which of you bitches is Mrs. Frazer Knight?”
Rosemary Frazer Knight gave a pitiful little sigh, and fainted, collapsing onto Sheila’s lap. Sheila patted her head and glared at the man whose brutality had frightened the woman so much.
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