by China, Max
"You arranged to meet him there?"
"No, he just turned up, as I said."
Tanner scrutinised Miller with a look that bordered on disbelief.
"Did he tell you anything?"
"He's been following up some interesting leads since going AWOL."
Tanner eyed Miller suspiciously, "But why is he talking to you?"
"Oh, come on, Tanner, surely you can see. He doesn't want to risk getting arrested!"
"That's not what I meant. I meant, why choose you?"
"I don't know, perhaps it's because I have a friendly face, but you know what, I believe him . . ."
Tanner nodded; his lips pressed tightly together. "It's out of my hands, Miller. Now, if you know where he is?"
"That's the thing; I have seen him, but I don't know where he is, or when he'll appear next. He didn't say," he paused for a moment. "Oh, and that's the other thing. He asked me to give you this." He produced an envelope from his pocket.
Tanner opened it and read the note inside. "He wants you to take over the search for Eilise Staples in his absence. Under the circumstances, I don't think I can follow his instructions."
"John, that's fine, but I have to tell you I've already started looking for her. He asked me to do that before I got the letter. All of what you've told me . . . if he was set-up, then this character has done a good job of it. Kennedy needs help to clear his name, but in the meantime, he's still thinking about the job. I'm a specialist in my field; he trusts me. There's a lot of intuition involved in the work we all do, mine works differently to yours. Not better or worse, just different . . . and it's telling me there's a connection here. It could be the key."
Tanner softened, "I'll give you such information on the case as is available in the public domain. I know a journalist who can brief you. Do you have a card?" Miller fished a business card from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over. Tanner retrieved his own number from his mobile and wrote it down. No name, just a number. Miller looked at it and raised an eyebrow. It looked familiar to him.
"Who does the number belong to; you didn't put a name."
"I know," said Tanner. "I'll call her tonight and tell her to expect your call. Her name is Carla, by the way."
"All this is great, John, but there's something else. I had to know I could trust you . . . the guy who was blackmailing Kennedy; he's now kidnapped Stella Bird."
"The sister of Kathy Bird? Stone me. I don't believe this!"
"Kennedy warned me that he'd been forced to give his blackmailer her details. And now the kidnapper has contacted me. Clearly, I'd have reported it, but he's threatened to kill her if anyone goes after him."
Chapter 141
Unable to feel anything at all that might give him a clue to her whereabouts, Miller was at a complete loss. The faculties that he'd previously possessed, including those he'd most recently become aware of had deserted him. He emptied his mind of all conscious thought, a technique his grandfather had called 'pusty umysł': In Polish, Bruce, means no mind or 'mu shin' in Japanese. Now you know in three languages. No mind. When he had first succeeded in achieving this state, he was able to tune in and receive snatches of lower frequencies in much the same way a short-wave radio receiver might. How can it let me down when I need it most? Of all the possibilities that nagged at him, there was one he refused to believe. If she was dead, I'd know it, wouldn't I?
Exhausted from his efforts, he tried again without success and then it suddenly dawned on him; The Sister had something to do with his connectivity problem. You must learn to respect the space and barriers that other people put up… Had she taken something away from him . . . to teach him that?
He dialled a number into his telephone. A sleepy sounding female voice answered.
"Carla, can I count on your discretion?"
"Why, what's happened?"
Miller related everything he could think of to her. She listened patiently to the whole story without interrupting.
"Needless to say, if he gets wind I'm looking for him, or he finds out the police are involved; he'll kill her."
"Who else knows about this letter from Kennedy?"
"No one, apart from one of his colleagues, John Tanner."
"I know him," she said. "You say Kennedy told you he thought the man blackmailing him was the kidnapper of at least two women, and could have links to the Gasman, and the Midnight man? You know something, Bruce; I've been looking for a story to break on this guy ever since that tape turned up when I was at the News of the World."
"Carla, that's great, but we haven't got a thing to go on, and I really need to find him."
"I have a name." The simple statement dropped it on him like a bomb.
"You have a name? Why didn't you say so before? Who is it?"
"Until you finished I couldn't be sure - it's William Shaw, also known as Martin Boyle. We had a hell of a time tracing him . . ."
"Wait a minute - who's we."
"A contact I have in the job."
"In the police?"
"Yes . . ." She knew he'd ask anyway, so she told him. "It's Tanner."
Since Tanner had given him Carla's number, he was only mildly surprised. "Carla, have we got an address?"
"No, we found out who he is, but he's always on the move, even his own people never know where he is. He's a bare-knuckle fighter, at least he was. Something of a legend, by all accounts. It's rumoured he owns several properties, but we haven't been able to trace any so far. Not under that name."
"I'm sure you have already, but I have to ask; have you checked under his mother's maiden name?"
"No, but what makes you ask that?"
"It's just a hunch, that's all."
"I'll see what I can find out."
"Carla . . . you and Tanner?" He let the question hang.
"Oh Bruce," she laughed. "I didn't know you cared." Although she didn't deny it, she did not confirm it either.
No nearer to finding Stella, an odd mix of emotion washed over him. Desperation and despondency combined with relief and elation, as he finished the call.
Chapter 142
Stella woke up on a filthy mattress on the floor. At first she didn't move. She checked her body over, mentally feeling for anything untoward. I'd know if he'd raped me, wouldn't I? She couldn't be sure… Her head pounded in a strange way. She felt disconnected and numb.
Looking around, she realised she was effectively in a cage; the front wall of her enclosure consisted of floor to ceiling round steel bars; the heavy drape curtain the other side, kept them hidden. She tried to call out, but her dry throat managed only a hoarse whisper.
She noticed a bucket next to the toilet on the back wall. There's water in it! The film of scum on top revealed it wasn't fresh.
She tried to produce enough saliva to lubricate her throat without success. She took a deep breath and put a hand into the bucket, wetting it and cautiously sniffing it before scooping a handful to her mouth and sipping. It tasted like goldfish water; she resisted the urge to spew it back out and swallowed.
She realised she couldn't seem to focus for more than a few seconds at a time. How did I get here? When she was at school pinching the bridge of her nose used to help her concentrate; she squeezed hard. That's it! A large white van had pulled up next to her as she came out of her garden gate onto the street; she thought it was a delivery for someone else. She heard the rumble of the side door sliding back. Somebody had grabbed her, hauled her inside … something put over her mouth … couldn't breathe . . . and now she was here.
She tried to shake the fuzziness from her head - so damn tired! She sank back to the floor, dragged down into sleep again.
A metallic clunk followed by the dry scraping of a heavy bolt roused her. He pulled the curtain open only enough to allow him in, he was holding something; she backed away into a corner as he grabbed her by the back of her neck. He pushed her face down into the filthy mattress; she gagged dryly as he penetrated her forearm with a sharp needle.
/> She bucked against him. He pinned her with his weight. The vacuum from the syringe drew out a swirl of her blood into the mixture, filling its chamber before he plunged it back into her.
"What's that you've just put in me?" she demanded, outraged.
"That? Don't you worry about that!" he cupped his groin. "When I recover from this dog bite, you'll get a better injection than that, if you know what I mean. You'll be begging me for it soon enough." His eyes were cold; his fleshy lips pulled tight against his teeth, baring them. "It hurts too much, but it's nothing a Viagra couldn't sort out."
She shrank into the corner of the cage, terrified.
He taunted her in a camp voice, "Frankie says 'Relax' . . . Enjoy the ride."
Frankie? Who the hell is Frankie? A wave of nausea washed over her. She only just made it to the toilet before the contents of her stomach expelled themselves.
With no windows, her sleep patterns disrupted, Stella lost track of how long she'd been there; it could have been days, or even a week. He would bring small portions of food and water three times a day as far as she could tell and stay to watch while she ate. After, he'd inject her before leaving. She realised it was pointless to resist. The combined food, drink, injection routine had a strange effect on her. She began to look forward to it and the warm escape to oblivion that followed.
At first, she told herself Miller would find her quickly. He'd miss her, realise she'd gone and start on her trail, after all that was what he did - find missing people. Where are you Miller?
Had he even realised she was missing. Her mind strayed into other areas of possibility, opening up new thoughts, but never for long. The drug he’d given her made it impossible to think about anything for any length of time. She concluded it must be heroin. Is he trying to make me an addict?
It was the last thought she had before drifting out of consciousness. She dreamt she was a little girl again, eight-years-old and on holiday with her parents; she ran over the shale on the beach, eager to reach them, so happy to see them again . . . she slipped on the gravel and grazed her knee. Her father scooped her up, and she wrapped her arms around him, weeping softly into his neck. "Daddy, it hurts so much!"
"I know sweetheart, I know, but when something hurts you," the thickening in his throat caught his voice, "think about happy days and shake it off . . . It works for me."
She opened her eyes, wiped them, and rolled closer to the bars. Her dad had marched through hell to get to the other side. He just kept going. Her thoughts touched on the mystery of their suicide pact. She still couldn't bring herself to believe he'd just given up. He'd have never done that. No matter how bad things were, he'd have steered them out, carrying her mother with him on his back and holding Stella's hand. Why did you have to persuade him to do it, Mum? She steeled herself. I have to get out of here!
She crawled to the bars that imprisoned her. From what she was able to see under the curtains, she was in a box within a box behind a caged wall, beyond that was a locked door.
While waiting for him to come with food, drink and next fix, she positioned herself so she could see beyond the curtains from different angles when he drew back the curtain. A gleaming polished pole ran between floor and ceiling in one corner. Too substantial for a pole dancer's; it was more like a fire fighter's pole. It had thick rubber crash mats at the foot of it. So far, she'd not seen what was at the top of it, there was obviously a doorway onto it from upstairs.
Why would you have one of those in your house?
She soon became aware she wasn't the only woman held captive. There were others, but they never spoke until he was out. When the mouse-squeak of a step on the stairs was followed by the sound of the front door closing shortly after, the voice of the 'Urger' would start.
Stella couldn't make out exactly what she was saying, but she seemed to be encouraging the other woman to talk to her, and she would ignore her. The Urger would persist until eventually, warned to be quiet. There was no conversational flow. One would urge, the other would warn. The voices came from above her.
He clearly kept them separated from each other. She imagined from the muffled level of sound that there were at least two doors between her and them. She decided to take a chance and called out into the void beyond the curtain. "Hello . . . Can anybody hear me?"
She waited for an answer; the silence hung for what seemed an eternity. She called out again, louder this time. "Can anybody hear me?"
The Urger's voice whispered cautiously. Although barely audible, her words were unmistakable. "Who's there?"
"Shush!" The Warner's voice insisted.
The front door slammed, cutting the tentative exchange short.
He was back!
Chapter 143
Without a word, Martin stripped off and went straight into the shower. A few minutes later, he emerged with a towel around his waist and a devilish glint in his eye. "Here, Cath, look at this."
She stared at the protrusion; her expression remained impassive, but the apprehension she felt filled with her with dread. She said nothing.
"Jesus, this is the first time since…" he said, removing the towel. "Look at that!"
She'd known it was only a matter of time. He brushed past her and returned to the bathroom where he removed a key from the pocket of his discarded jeans. Her eyes followed him. He stopped at Eilise's door and unlocked it.
She knew she had to do something. "Martin, it's been such a long time . . ." She took him in her hand, stroking.
He shoved her to one side. "Get out of my way; I've kept her waiting for long enough!"
She leapt onto his back wrapping her arms and legs around him. He stumbled one, two, three steps, and then regained his balance. He twisted around and launched backwards, crashing her against the wall. The collision knocked the wind out of her, but she hung on. He reached back over his head and grabbed her hair. Her nails dug deep into his hand as she tried to release his grip. With his free hand, he opened the door and pitched forwards at the waist, almost taking her scalp off as he threw her over his shoulder into the void. As she fell, she grasped in vain at the pole.
He thought he heard a sound behind him, hesitating; he listened intently at Eilise's door and then relocked it. He stooped to where his jeans lay, replaced the key in the pocket, and then drew the belt out from the waistband. In three strides, he crossed the room, wrapped himself around the polished steel pole and slid down after Cathy.
The sudden unlatching sound of a door opening reached Stella's ears. Low grunts of exertion, followed by the cry of a woman in pain, the rustling of clothes and the scrape of feet dragging across the floor above.
"No Martin!" The intensity of the voice startled Stella. She held her breath, afraid of what might happen next.
Something thudded onto the crash mats. Stella gasped at the sight.
A woman laid there, crumpled, her back towards Stella. She whimpered pitifully.
Stella pressed flatter on the floor and lifted the edge of the curtain. A grating sound, metal on metal rasped down the pole. A pair of booted feet dropped into view and landed square on the crash mat.
Stella withdrew, terrified he would see her.
"You know what you're going to get now, don't you!"
She whimpered louder.
"Martin, please," she implored, "I was jealous. I'm sorry. Oh, Martin my leg. It really hurts…" Her vowels sounded as if her tongue were a large pebble. Maybe he'd hit her there.
He grabbed the back of her top and ripped it from her.
"No - please don't!" Her voice cracked, and no longer restrained, she cried openly.
Stella peered under the curtain and bit her lip. Long angry scars criss-crossed the woman's back. A belt buckle dangled into view. Suspended, it turned slowly until it revealed the grotesque effigy emblazoned on the other side of it. A screaming skull wreathed by laurels that created an air of menace almost as unbearable as the pain about to be inflicted. He paused, and seeming to consider which end to strike with.
She stood slowly, terrified he might hear. With one hand over her mouth, she stifled the sound of her ragged breathing. The silence, impossibly stretched, broke. The belt cut through the air. Swoosh – crack. The woman cried out.
Stella backed away; eyes squeezed shut. She knew that she should do something. At least say something, but the fear that she'd be next sapped her courage.
Swoosh - crack! Swoosh - crack! With every vicious strike against her bare flesh, the woman cried out and wailed in dread expectation of the next.
Stella had retreated, slid to her haunches against the wall. Knees drawn up, hands over ears, she prayed for the nightmare to end. A vision of her father came to mind. What he would have done, faced with such a situation?
Her eyes opened. She rose, approached the curtain and spoke loud, her voice filled with authority. "For God's sake - leave her alone!"
For the second time in as many minutes, menacing silence reigned. Her bladder puckered with fear, threatening her resolve.
The curtain swished back, and Martin's dead black eyes bored into hers, his face flushed and contorted with hatred. Defiant, she stared back. A droplet of urine moistened her pants. About to fall apart, she wrestled with the voices in her head and finding one strong enough, spat at him through the bars. "Well what are you going to do - Kill me?"
He moved with deliberate slowness to the cabinet that housed the key to her cell. Inserting it into the lock, he turned it.
"Yes - but first I'm going to give you something to remember me by."
He swung open the gate.
Stella had backed herself into a corner, if she could feint left and quickly go right, duck under his reach … she might just have a chance to escape. She prayed the lower door wasn't locked.
He was almost on her. Time to make that choice, Stella. Look at his eyes, look the way you want him to think you'll go and then go in the opposite direction…
With both avenues cut off by his direct approach, her only remaining chance was to dive beneath the spread of his arms. She took a deep breath.