The Shadows of Justice

by Simon Hall

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes,” said Dan, in a voice that sounded thin, even to him.

  “We are going to have to talk sometime.”

  The voice dieted further. “Yes.”

  “Have a think, if that’s not beyond your emotional intelligence,” she replied, patiently. “I’ll see you in the briefing.”

  On the subject of which, it was time to make for Charles Cross. Dan got up from the bench, stretched, and took one more look at the blackmail note.

  We wAnt CasH A million USed notes 4 AnnET WE

  call Soon 2 arrange DeLivery

  The letters had been cut from a series of newspapers. The fonts familiar; the tactic a traditional one. It all looked straightforward enough, a standard kidnapping for money. A mundane crime of which the world saw far too many examples each and every year.

  It was just the curiosity of the final line of the note. The letters PP which had been placed there, and in such a pointed manner that it could never have happened by anything other than very deliberate design.

  Chapter Five

  The back gate to Charles Cross Police Station is an imposing one, heavy with steel bars and topped by razor wire. The barrier grinds open notoriously slowly, and with a persistent groaning and shuddering which harks of a great beast begrudgingly awoken.

  The locking mechanism emits the dull clunking required to ensure a visitor is well aware any attempt to hurry it would be the most pointless of follies. Spotlights illuminate the approach and CCTV cameras scrutinise those who come and go with unblinking, electronic eyes.

  It’s a point sometimes debated amongst the more philosophical of the policing community, whether this is really necessary or more down to psychology. The gate makes an unmistakable statement that the might of the law lies beyond. For anyone brought here as a suspect, the intimidating entrance could be said to mark the first softening up of the interrogation process.

  Be all that as it may, the gate is habitually closed. So it was a surprise for Dan to find it wide open as he drove along the back road leading to the police station. He edged the car in and looked for a space to park. For this time of night, the compound was unusually busy. He taxied to the very back and manoeuvred into a narrow slot beside a couple of motorbikes.

  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, shapes began to assume forms, detaching themselves from the darkness. Standing quietly by the four police cars nearest the entrance was a circle of officers. Each was checking a submachine gun. Black and snub nosed, the weights of deadly metal clicked smoothly under careful fingers. Heavy crescents of magazines were loaded with gleaming bronze cylinders. Stocks were extended and folded again, sights lifted to eyes. The flitting red flies of laser dots darted over the blackness of the walls.

  Each of the four cars was angled towards the gate. A radio buzzed with a tinny voice, the words lost in the background traffic of the city. One of the officers, a burly sergeant, replied in a gruff voice.

  “Firearms teams standing by. We’re good to go the second you get a trace.”

  ***

  On the top floor of the five that make up the block that is Charles Cross lies the Major Incident Room, or MIR. There’s the option of the lift to reach it, but it’s small, cramped, and takes considerably longer than walking up the stairs. The station gossip has it that it’s a deliberate ploy, to ensure the sedentary, desk-bound cops get at least some exercise in a day.

  Large and long, the MIR looks out on the city and over Charles Church – the bombed out memorial to the Blitz of Plymouth. Dan slipped to the back of the room, a little detached from the bear pit these briefings could become, and perched on the windowsill.

  The congregation reacted to him in its usual way: a mix of hostility and acceptance, roughly divided in equal proportions. Adam’s patronage was an effective shield, but many still felt a journalist had no place within another highly sensitive case.

  The detective standing just a metre away was a devoted member of the antis. He recoiled at the arrival of the interloper and adopted a glower akin to a gathering storm. The young man had a militarily short haircut and was squat and powerful, with an anvil-like head. He radiated hostility as hot as an electric fire.

  Dan busied himself with winding his ever-erratic watch. The tired old Rolex said the time was twenty to ten, so it was probably around five to. Rutherford had been left in the car. It was stretching the limited strain of Adam’s patience to bring the dog into the briefing.

  Already the MIR had filled with around forty officers, a mix of detectives and uniformed police. It was a testament to one of their detective chief inspector’s idiosyncrasies, an insistence on punctuality. The felt boards he habitually used to set out the patterns of a case had also been retrieved from dusty storage and set up at the front of the room. Chatter rumbled, snatches of discussions about the case, theories being aired.

  Adam walked in at just before ten, followed by Claire, and the room immediately quietened. “Let’s get moving,” he said. “We haven’t got much to go on at the mo’. We need to start finding something – and fast.”

  Claire began handing out briefing papers. Detective Anvil Head hesitated and pointedly caught Adam’s eye with a question, before reluctantly passing them on.

  “We’re dealing with at least two people,” Adam continued.

  “A witness saw someone inside the van. He reckons they opened the back doors and helped drag Annette in.”

  The young detective was taking notes. Tempting though it was, Dan managed to refrain from commenting on how siezed would traditionally be spelt.

  “Secondly, our ‘crims’ are calculating. The ransom demand was brought to us by the barman of The Stars, the place along the street from where Annette was taken. It was given to him by a vagrant. The tramp says he was approached by a man and given twenty quid to take the note to the bar.”

  “Bit of a risk, wasn’t it?” a woman at the front asked. “He might just not have bothered.”

  “The kidnapper thought of that. He told the tramp the barman would give him another twenty when he’d handed over the note.” Adam waited, let the moment run. “The tramp also got a bottle of cheap whisky. It’s put him well away in drinkland. All he’s been able to tell us is that the guy was wearing shades and a baseball cap.”

  Adam’s mobile rang. He held up an apologetic hand, paced over to the corner of the MIR and answered.

  Dan used the interlude to flick through the briefing. On the second page was a black and white photograph of Annette, a classical passport shot. Dark hair trailed down her back and her features were shaped in the sort of mystical look the Mona Lisa might have accepted as a decent impersonation.

  There was something else about the picture. It was nothing that could be distilled into a thought or description. No attempt to articulate the shape of her face, colour of complexion, or the warmth of the young woman’s eyes. Frail words didn’t suffice.

  Dan tapped a pen on his notepad. It took several seconds before he realised.

  It was the joy of embarking on an adventure. The anticipation of striding out into the world, to absorb the understandings it would whisper, and to parade all that she was going to offer to the waiting audience.

  As esoteric as it may be, it was that which filled Annette’s features: the simple relishing of life.

  ***

  Adam ended his call and turned back to the MIR. “Deputy Chief Constable,” he said. “To helpfully point out the case is going to be all over the press and a fast result would be appreciated. Those weren’t his actual words, by the way.”

  Laughter tickled the room. Brian ‘The Tank’ Flood was a former military man, renowned for being as diplomatic as a bare knuckle boxer with a score to settle.

  Claire held up a copy of the ransom demand. “Does anyone have any thoughts about the bizarre PP part?”

  Anvil Head said, “It’s often used to mean PayPal.” Some of the older officers looked bemused, so he added, “It’s a way of transferring money
online.”

  “You reckon that could link in with the ransom demand, Steve?” Claire asked.

  “It’s a possibility.”

  Dan was finding it hard to shift his look from the picture of Annette. But he must have been half-listening, because he realised he’d snorted.

  “You disagree?” Claire prompted, amusement in her voice.

  “No… well, yes, I do. Whoever heard of a ransom demand via PayPal?”

  “It’s the modern world, mate,” Steve replied, with more wit than might have been expected from his appearance. “It’s called the in-ter-net.”

  “And our kidnappers are called cle-ver. Unlike some people,” Dan added, pointedly. “How long would it take to trace them if they used PayPal? There’s something more to those initials.”

  The Anvil was beginning to glow. “It’s a simple kidnapping case, mate. You make it sound like some film. And who are you again, by the way?”

  A couple of sniggers rose in the room. And the reporter and amateur investigator, who had told himself time after time not to rise to the baits of his complicated life, gleefully clamped his teeth on another.

  “I’m the man who was solving crimes when you were still fantasising about starting to shave,” Dan explained.

  “Ok,” Adam intervened. “That’ll do.”

  “A quick bit of research throws up lots of other possibilities,” Claire said. “A couple of bits of musical, mathematical and computing shorthand, signing a letter on someone’s behalf, and a few linguistic and scientific phrases. We’re looking at them now.”

  Adam stepped forward once more and listed the other branches of the inquiry. Roger Newman was being interviewed, to see if he had made any enemies who might want to harm him or Annette.

  No forensic evidence, fingerprints or DNA had been recovered from the ransom note. The scene of the kidnapping yielded various strands of hair and plenty of fibres, but they could have come from a thousand passers-by.

  A kidnapping expert from Scotland Yard, Katrina Harper, would be here within the hour. She was a veteran of such cases.

  The reaction to that was intriguing. Everyone knew the name and greeted it with admiration. A couple of men along from Dan nudged each other and exchanged looks of approval, both professional and personal.

  “Who’s she?” Dan whispered to one.

  “She does all the big kidnaps. Damn good at them, too.”

  “I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Quite,” the man replied.

  “Ah.” Dan jotted a thoughtful note to his pad and asked, “What does she look like?”

  “You’ll know her, don’t worry about that.”

  To round off the briefing, there was a rapid discussion on where the kidnappers may have taken Annette. They would have prepared a hideout, the consensus had it. Probably somewhere remote, but close enough to reach before police patrols were on the roads. Working on a maximum of a mile a minute, it meant within 30 miles of Plymouth. A sizeable section of the open tracts of Dartmoor was within reach. As was much of the classical Devon countryside of the South Hams – all fields, woods and secluded coastline – and large parts of south and east Cornwall.

  “Too big an area to think about searching,” was Claire’s summary. “We’ve got to narrow it down.”

  “So,” Adam rallied, “we need to build up some momentum. Don’t wait, keep working. Don’t hesitate, keep moving. Don’t be deterred, keep trying. Work your patch, your informants and your instincts. Be restless and relentless. Follow that trail, trace that lead and sniff out that scent.”

  He gestured to the felt boards. A large picture of Annette had been placed in the centre.

  “She’s a young girl. She’ll be frightened witless. She’s in danger and it’s down to us to save her. Her fate’s in our hands. Go to it, team.”

  The energy of the words infused the detectives. The invisible allies of purpose and belief, zeal and determination were riding alongside.

  Some officers made for the phones or computers in the corner, others the door. But it burst open before anyone could leave.

  A flushed young man, wearing a T-shirt and with flying wavy hair, stumbled in and panted, “We’ve got the ransom call.”

  Chapter Six

  She could smell his excitement. Could feel the pressure hard against her. Just as it had been with James, that summer night on the beach.

  But no moonlit fondness here. No lovers-to-be promise to wait for the moment. No delicious anticipation.

  Just fear. Fire and ice. Pulse and throb, pulse and throb.

  Knowing the faceless man in the endless darkness would take that which she had so carefully kept. In a second, a moment or an hour. At his leisure, when he was ready.

  That sour breath on her face again. The curdled air in her nose.

  And a new sensation. A slippery pressure upon her cheek.

  At first so soft she couldn’t be sure it was there.

  And even as it grew more insistent, still she didn’t understand.

  Or perhaps didn’t want to. And feared to imagine.

  Until it flicked back and forth.

  And stopped.

  And she could feel the spittle and saliva. Prickling on her skin.

  On her cheek, her ear, her neck.

  As his probing tongue tasted her body.

  She tried to shout, scream, shift her weight. Turn away, crawl off, shrink back. But the binds were too tight, too strong for the slightest release.

  Her flank throbbed from the unyielding pressure of the cold metal. The knot of the blindfold was boring through the back of her skull. The wiry cloth cutting into her temples. Her ankles were raw and weeping where they locked together.

  The van slowed, bumped and slewed.

  Her hair. A strand was moving, now a lock.

  A bunch of hair, gathered and stroked.

  Just like Dad did, when she was a girl. When she had hurt her knees in the playground. Or suffered one of the colds of childhood.

  As she lay on the bed in her room. Curtains drawn, duvet tucked around.

  The comfort of caring. Of being loved.

  The way James did now.

  But not with this touch. The filthy fingers. The abhorrent, alien claws.

  Pulling at her hair. Harder, sharper.

  But now flinching and stopping.

  Something had changed.

  She tried to see through the entombing darkness, hear above the incessant rumbling.

  The sound of a siren. Growing.

  The sound of hope.

  Annette tried to move, cry out, but the merciless ropes refused to relent.

  The police knew about the kidnapping. Someone had seen her being hauled into the van.

  They’d got its description. They knew the number plate.

  Dad had offered a huge reward. A TV appeal for help. People were walking the countryside, watching the streets. All for this van.

  And someone had seen it. Reported it.

  The siren was growing louder.

  The sound of salvation.

  She would soon be free. The future she hadn’t dared to think about would be returned.

  The carefree university years, to live life. To study medicine and become a doctor. Maybe a surgeon.

  Or perhaps she would be a teacher.

  Whatever, whichever. She would be something. Not a corpse, a headstone, a memory.

  It was hers once more. The restoration of life.

  The siren was almost upon them. She could sense the man stiffen. Fill with panic.

  His turn to know fear.

  There would be no violation. No mutilation. No death.

  Freedom was only seconds away.

  Annette felt tears growing in her eyes.

  But the siren was passing.

  Moving fast. Fading away.

  She wanted to spring up, wave, yell, call and beckon.

  But all she could do was lie still and feel the precious hope drain away.

  Another noise. M
ovement, sliding across the van.

  Faster than before. More confident.

  More eager.

  The man was back beside her. Studying her again. Relishing her body.

  The touch of his fingertip. In the small of her back. Tracing the leather line of her belt.

  And now shifting downwards.

  The nausea struck again. And this time it was too strong. An irresistible flood of vomit, purging from her body.

  The sickness boiled into her mouth, surged through her nose, sprayed around the gag, spattered across cheeks and chin. Grains of food trapped in her teeth and the sticky, stinking smell filled the tiny space of her incarceration.

  But the hands came for her once more.

  Chapter Seven

  The kidnappers called at 10.38pm. What they had to communicate lasted just 23 seconds.

  Adam led the charge to the control room, a tumbling stampede down the stairs to a basement that could have been a telesales centre. Orderly rows of desks and terminals, operators wearing headsets, calm lighting, even a line of pot plants flourishing on the windowsill.

  But in one corner was sprawled an old-fashioned jumble of modern technology. Servers and keyboards, waveforms dancing on a display and a tangle of coloured wiring. It was here they gathered while the young man began fiddling with some leads, his jeans sagging to reveal red and white checked pants.

  “Zac Phillips,” Claire whispered to Dan. “Head of our Techno Crime department, or ‘the Eggheads’. But don’t say that to his face. Or backside.”

  “No rush,” Adam hissed, managing to make just two words scathingly sarcastic.

  The rear wriggled back towards them. Zac hopped up, hit his head on the desk, cursed, switched on a speaker and tapped at a keyboard.

  A phone line buzzed. There was a shallow gasp, then a young woman’s wavering voice.

  “Hello – hello. Please get this to the police. This is Annette. They’ve got me. They say they’ll…”

  The words faded into a gulp. A clunk echoed in the background, followed by what sounded like a grunt. “No, please, please,” the voice begged. “Don’t…”

  Another hum of the line and Annette spoke again, her words so quiet they had to strain to hear. All leaned instinctively forwards, clustered around the speaker. It was obvious she was reading from a script, the words faltering with each line.