by Simon Hall
“They say they’ll kill me unless… you get the money. They want it tomorrow. They’ll call then to arrange delivery.”
There was a stifled sob and the harsh electronic whine of the disconnection tone.
Adam turned away and swore. Claire stared at the speaker, her usual equanimity ruffled as sure as treetops shifted by an irresistible wind. Zac hesitated, then tapped at the keyboard. The recording played once more.
“Enough,” Adam ordered, when it ended. “Why couldn’t we
trace it?”
“They didn’t call us,” Zac replied. “They rang the AA.”
“Alcoholics Anonymous?” Dan queried.
“Don’t be bloody ridiculous,” Adam snapped. “This is no time for stupidity. The motoring lot.”
“They record all calls,” said Zac. “They rang us as soon as it came in and sent the file over. But there’s nothing we can do to trace it.”
“Smart bastards,” Adam muttered.
“They know what they’re doing,” Claire observed. “Not getting involved in negotiations. Not giving us a chance to drag things out and find them.”
“We’ll analyse the call to see if there’s anything in the background that could help,” Zac said. “But I’m not hopeful.”
Dan reached for the speaker and turned the volume up to maximum. “Can you play it again?”
“Why?” Adam grunted.
“Just… something.”
Annette’s frightened voice once more filled the room. One by one, the operators looked over. An older woman began dabbing at her eyes.
“There,” Dan said.
Adam leaned further forwards. “What?”
“The last few seconds of the call.”
In the background, faint but audible, a bird had begun singing out a tune. It was a rapid, oddly metallic sound.
Sre, sre, sre.
Sre, sre, sre.
“Well?” Adam urged. “What? Have you got something? Come on!”
“Birdsong,” Dan said slowly.
“Birdsong? Is that it? In spring? Thanks for the fantastic insight. Now stop wasting my bloody time. I don’t have enough as it is.”
But Dan was still staring at the speaker and didn’t register the tirade. “Birdsong,” he repeated to himself, thoughts reaching out their invisible fingers for an elusive understanding.
The door opened and an elegant figure slipped into the control room, moving as easily as a summer breeze. Her steps made barely a sound.
“Katrina,” Adam said, warmly. “That’s good timing. We need your help, and fast.”
The detective shook hands and introduced Claire, Zac and then Dan.
Still drifting, still seeking the something that he knew was somewhere, Dan managed to pull his gaze from the speaker and hold out a distracted hand. It was only then he registered the most mesmeric pair of eyes he had ever seen.
***
Adam gruffly announced he required some air, so instead of returning to the MIR they walked outside. The firearms teams were still waiting by the gate of the compound, a couple puffing away at cigarettes, the red tips lighting and fading in the gloom. The occasional hint of smoke scented the night air.
Zac stayed in the control room to work through the recording. He also wanted to be on hand in case more messages came through.
“There won’t be any,” Katrina said, with such certainty that no one thought to dissent. “They’ve said what they needed. The pressure’s on us now.”
The night was still clear, but growing chillier. The brighter stars faced down the challenge of the city lights and patterned the sky. Claire slipped a jacket over her shoulders. Dan jogged to his car and did likewise, taking the opportunity to give Rutherford a quick break.
“I’m sorry this is taking longer than I thought, old friend,” he said. “But it is important, I promise you. We’ve got to save a young girl and she sounds terrified.”
From the overnight kit Dan kept in the boot, he took out a towel and laid it on the back seat to make Rutherford more comfortable.
Adam hadn’t bothered to don a jacket. He paced back and forth, never quite still, the agitation allowing him no peace. Every crime the traditionalist detective investigated was forever carried upon his back.
A keen student of his friend, Dan knew that these burdens lay behind a quirk of Adam’s character – his use of those felt boards, such an anachronism in an age of computers. He insisted upon a picture of the victim being at the centre of an inquiry, for all to see. It was a continual reminder to his fellow officers of the importance of their work.
For a family man in thought, word and deed, this kidnapping must feel personal. Adam would be thinking about his teenage son Tom, imagining him in Annette’s place.
As for Katrina, she was an antidote to Adam’s unrest. She stood straight, unmoving in her focus, and with the elegance of a classical statue. Her arms were folded, her fine figure silhouetted by the lights of the police station, one foot angled on the heel of a shoe.
“Would you mind clarifying your role here?” she asked Dan, as he returned.
“Well, I’m—”
“He’s a journalist,” Adam interrupted. “He’s been seconded to the investigation, in particular to help with the media coverage.”
“A journalist?”
The words were evenly weighed, but honed with an unmistakable edge.
“Dan’s worked with us many times before,” Adam replied. “He’s trustworthy.”
Katrina was studying Dan’s shoes, trousers, and now the buttons on his jacket, one by one, her gaze moving slowly upwards. It was as if she were assessing the entirety of his existence in just one look.
And Claire was watching her do it.
Dan found himself shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.
Finally, Katrina said, “In my experience these cases are better addressed quietly, with journalists kept at a distance. They tend to… complicate matters.”
“Look, I’ve—” Dan began, but Adam interrupted again.
“He’s fine. He’s here on my say so and I’ll take responsibility.”
Katrina paused, held Adam’s gaze. Contained within was an interrogation. Can I trust you? Is your judgement shrewd? Do you have the drive to see this through?
And all this in a single, calm stare. After a few seconds, Katrina nodded and began a discussion about the investigation.
Every few seconds, try as he might, Dan couldn’t help himself from finding her eyes. They were like two leaves of the autumn; one an evergreen, the other tawny with the turning of the season.
***
Across the city, a distant clock struck eleven. The faint sounds of a Friday night crept into the compound. Taxis zipping back and forth, laden with weekend revellers. The odd shout or scream of laughter, and the ubiquitous accompaniment to any night out in every English town or city: the speeding sirens en route to yet another flare of drunken thuggery.
At the back of Charles Cross Police Station, amidst this little group of four, such everyday images had no chance of intruding. Lying on the tarmac between them, the focus of every thought and exchange, was a 17-year-old girl. Tied up, gagged and helpless. Perhaps in the cold surrounds of a cellar or garage, flinching at every sound, however slight.
Standing over her were two, or maybe more, faceless people. Dark outlines staring down at their prize. Weighing up the value of a young woman before they made a final decision on her fate.
“There’s just one real oddity to the case,” Adam said, and went through the issue of the PP at the end of the ransom note.
“That’s something I’ve never seen before,” Katrina replied. “If you’re suggesting it might be the signature of a gang, I think that’s unlikely. It feels… meaningful, but more subtle.”
“That’s just what I said,” Dan contributed eagerly, but to no effect.
“Any thoughts?” Adam continued.
“At this stage, I’m afraid none.”
The radio in an Ar
med Response Vehicle squawked. As one, they stopped talking and listened in. It was a call for available units to deal with a minor crash on the edge of the city.
“You’ve got the standard enquiries in train?” Katrina asked.
“Everything’s covered,” Claire replied.
“Then hard though it may be, on that front all we can do is wait.”
Adam stopped his pacing. “Wait?”
“Kidnappings are all about patience. We have to wait for their next move before we can make ours. This is the submerged phase. The moment they break the surface, it’ll create ripples. Then we can start to circle in. But if we try to do anything now, we’re just thrashing around and likely to make the picture more confused.”
Her eloquence and easiness with words saw Dan nodding to himself. He slipped out his notebook.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Katrina said, without looking at him.
Dan found himself putting away the pad. The voice was soft, but the command clear and incontestable, even if irksome. It was time to progress from being a pet, only talked about but never contributing.
“You said ‘on that front’. Is there anything else we can do, aside from the investigation?”
Now Katrina turned, and perhaps with a new interest. “You were listening.”
“It’s my job – or part of it.”
“Yes.”
There was a silence. Again, Dan thought he sensed Claire looking from Katrina to him, but in the semi-darkness he couldn’t be sure.
“What?” Adam prompted.
“It’s just a little… groundwork. A detail of manipulation.”
A police car pulled up and a pair of cops climbed out, pulling a young man from the back. Drying sick stained his shirt and blood was trickling from a gash in his forehead. He was so drunk that each limb appeared to be functioning without any central control.
“Regular customer,” one of the officers said, as they walked past. “We should start a loyalty card scheme.”
Katrina waited until the men disappeared through the doors.
“At the moment the kidnappers see Annette as nothing more than a cashpoint. Which makes it easy to harm her – far too easy. We need to change that.”
“How?” Adam asked. “We’ve got no way of getting in touch with them.”
“Not quite.”
“Meaning?”
“Her father’s the only close family, you said?”
“Yes.”
“How is he?”
It was Claire who replied, and with an unusual sharpness. “How do you think he is?”
“Apologies, it was a clumsy question,” Katrina countered, smoothly. “What I meant was – might he be composed enough to help us?”
“Like how?” Adam asked.
The charismatic silhouette didn’t reply, but instead slowly pointed an elegant forefinger at Dan.
Chapter Eight
It is the way of the law to begin work early, however inconsiderate.
Dan would commonly suffer a dawn start to follow that staple of a reporter’s life: the police raid. It was a standard attempt by any given constabulary to grab a few easy headlines at a time when the news may have been less favourable. Bashing in doors and dragging felons from king-size beds funded by their ill-gotten gains is always good sport.
This morning’s early rousing, however, was for a task requiring far more sensitivity. It was Katrina’s view – and without the risk of melodrama, she insisted – that a young girl’s life may depend upon it.
The hour was approaching six o’clock, the new day inheriting the crispness of the night. Dan jogged around Hartley Park, Rutherford mostly alongside but occasionally sprinting off to investigate the call of an intriguing sound or the lure of a distant scent.
Across the rooftops and through the trees, the rising sun cast her fiery weaves. Hidden birds rustled in the leaves and sang out their welcome for the promise of another fine day.
Sre, sre, sre, Dan trilled to Rutherford. “Why won’t that sound get out of my head, dog?”
Another potential clue had been uncovered last night. The analysis of the ransom call had picked up a faraway noise, hidden within the hum of the line. It was thought to be a lawnmower.
Dan was due to meet Nigel and Loud at Charles Cross at a quarter to seven. He hadn’t got to sleep until well after one last night.
Initially, in a familiar attempt to claim as much of the sweet, carefree release of bed as possible he’d set the alarm for six. But Rutherford produced one of his specialist never-been-loved looks. Had the dog been able to speak, he would doubtless have raised the issue of the hours of confinement in the car last night. So they’d got up half an hour earlier to share a run.
A couple more laps, then back to the flat to shower and he would set off for the city centre. Dan wanted to be there in plenty of time. An important day lay ahead.
Rutherford returned from a futile mission to catch a pigeon and together they increased the pace, following the ring of a track worn in the morning’s dew. Past the line of oak and lime trees, past the children’s play area, past the hill of the underground reservoir, heading for the entrance to the park.
In the time remaining, Dan thought through the briefing he’d studied last night: the details of the life of Roger Newman and all his impressive array of achievements. His daughter, her upbringing and their very public difficulties.
But most importantly, the questions Dan would ask in the interview with Roger, and how to shape the ten minutes of television which would be broadcast around the world.
***
Loud and Nigel were both waiting in the car park of Charles Cross, as was Adam. He was pacing again and continually glancing over at the gate.
The latest of his best suits was the attire of choice: navy blue and purchased only a month ago. It was the result of a shopping expedition to Bristol. Plymouth had been adjudged as unable to offer the calibre of menswear outfitters suitable for the Chief Inspector’s style.
Not to mention vanity Dan thought, but managed not to say. The hint of a television appearance was sufficient to send Adam into a whirl of agonising about the day’s couture.
It had been no surprise to anyone who knew the detective that he also returned with three new ties and two new shirts. All boasted the kind of price tags that Dan, a budget shopper at the best of times, would have assumed as an error had he not known otherwise.
Nigel was checking the camera, microphones and lights. Interviews could be knocked off in a few seconds when they were hard up against a deadline, but lighting added tone, depth and class to an image.
“We want this to look good,” the kindly cameraman muttered to himself. “The poor, poor man.”
He was also wearing a tie, although of a more antiquated variety. It was an appendage Nigel carried in the car, but donned only for the most serious of stories.
“I can’t stop thinking how I’d feel if one of my boys was kidnapped,” he said. “The guy must be going through torment.”
“The thought had occurred to me,” Dan replied levelly, trying to ignore Adam who was nodding in agreement.
He hadn’t stopped looking at his watch and glancing at the gate. “Newman will be here in a minute,” the detective chided, as he hovered. “This is really important.”
“Yes, I am aware of that,” Dan said, marshalling the remaining forces of his thinning patience. “Would you like to heap on any more pressure, or will that do for now?”
***
Katrina was sitting in the MIR, waiting. The brightness of the morning sun collected in the contrasting colours of her eyes.
The Greater Wessex Police boards had been set up at the back of the room; a smart and authoritative blue, embossed with a pattern of the force’s badge. Two chairs were placed in front, facing each other.
“That should do nicely for the interview,” Adam said.
The clock on the wall made the time ten to seven. Nigel started setting up the camera, but Dan reached out
a restraining hand.
“Come on, we don’t have time to muck about,” Adam whined. “Everyone’s waiting for this interview.”
“Not like this.”
“What?”
“Not with those boards.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
Dan picked up a glass of water and took a swig. “It’s no time to bother you with the theory of my job, but… by far the biggest message people take from an interview comes from what they see.”
“Yeah, ok, but—”
“If we use those police boards, what does it say to the kidnappers?”
“For God’s sake,” Adam spluttered. “We’re about to interview a man whose daughter’s been abducted, who could be killed at any moment, and you’re worrying about—”
“Adam!” Dan heard himself shout. “I know all that. Hell, I know it! I’m trying to help.”
“And I’m telling you—”
“I think he’s right.”
The voice was quiet and calm, but it halted the fractious toddlers in a second. Katrina stood up and glided over to the boards.
“This interview – it needs to be all about Annette. Not a hint of the police. We should be silent and shadows.”
Dan took advantage of Adam’s prevailing state of chagrin to begin shifting the boards; Nigel helping. For a backdrop, they decided on the unnoticeable neutrality of a pot plant and a window.
The time had crept on to five to seven. Dan sipped some more water, sat down and checked through his briefing on the lives of Roger and Annette Newman for one final time.
***
Roger grew up on the Eddystone Estate on the northern edge of Plymouth; a place with very distinctive connotations.
At the sight of those words, employers would consign job applications to the simplest of filing destinations. Pizza, Chinese and Indian takeaway drivers generally refused to deliver. The fire and ambulance services would call for a police escort if they had to visit, as often they did. And the unfortunate officers themselves would sigh, curse their fortune and don protective clothing.