She wanted to tell her husband that she loved him, but Brayden had snatched the mobile from her hand and had disconnected the call.
“Thank you, Harry… That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
“Screw you…”
“That’s not nice. Do you kiss your children with that mouth?”
“I’ve done what you want. Just leave me alone. Please...” She spoke quietly… almost at a whisper.
Brayden nodded slightly, turned and left the room.
Mitch and Dominic were still in the small surveillance booth when Brayden returned, having listened to the entire telephone call and analysed the voices using Voice Stress Analysis software, recording the psychophysilogical stress responses present in the two-way conversation. Though the software could not highlight any lies or deceptions told, it could determine whether either person being monitored had suffered any physiological stress during the exchange. Unsurprisingly, there were spikes of psychophysilogical distress for Harriet – under the circumstances, it was quite understandable. However, through close scrutiny and judgement, it was in Mitch’s opinion that Harriet and George Jennings had been sincere in their questioning and answering, and no signals or mixed messages could be deciphered.
“Do you think George will play nicely?” Dominic, not an expert in using the VSA technology, genuinely wanted to know. He was swinging from side to side on the office chair.
“There’s nothing to suggest otherwise. We will just have to wait and see if he shows up tomorrow.” Mitch absently rubbed at his bandaged head, the swelling had heightened and felt tender to the touch.
“What if he tries to rescue his damsel in distress?” Dominic, always thinking, always looking at the alternatives pressed the American agents.
“Well, that IS a possibility,” Brayden drawled. “Especially as his damsel does have a GPS tracker strapped to her ankle,” he added.
“Oh… why on earth did you not take it off her?!” Dominic was annoyed and stood up fast, making for the exit, his mind set on disarming the GPS signal.
“Wait! Dominic, it’s not a problem. Really, I mean, I know something that you don’t.”
“What’s that, Brayden? Do you believe you can trust them? Well, I’ve been chasing after them for two years, and I can tell you something, Yank… they are very clever. More clever than you could ever think.”
“I don’t doubt their intelligence, Dom. But, that’s not the point. The point is I know for a fact that George will be at the Trocadero tomorrow.”
“And there you go again, such certainty and assurance. What is it you’re not telling me?”
“Okay, Dom. Let’s just say we know George a lot better than you think YOU do.”
Locked in the white room, Harriet was pacing awkwardly again, her swollen leg sending pain up and downwards with each clumsy footfall. She was relieved that Charlie was safe, but she didn’t know the half of it. Unaware that her home had been attacked and that her husband had almost taken a bullet in the arm whilst rescuing their children, she just hoped that her captors kept to their word and released her once George had done what they demanded.
But she couldn’t help thinking that maybe things weren’t going to be that simple. Sure, they intended indirectly to use Sophie through George, to gain an item of value using her unique abilities, but what’s to say that it would stop there? What if this was all just a ruse to get access to Sophie? George had kept her location hidden even from her, so what better way of finding the girl than by luring her out using subterfuge, a tact often employed by spies and covert government agencies. Agencies such as… the CIA. She was certain that was who her captors were. How Dominic fitted into it, she couldn’t second guess.
Oh God, what have I done? It’s a trap! Wracked with guilt and anxiety, she stopped pacing and tried to think. What to do? I told George not to come for me. How stupid!
Sitting back down, her hand strayed absently to her ankle, as if to scratch an itch. A hard protuberance bulged beneath her loose and light summery trousers just above her ankle bone. She stroked it as she remembered. The GPS tracking device was small and strapped discreetly to her leg. She’d worn it for so long now that she’d completely forgotten about it. A small LED flashed subtly every forty seconds indicating its functioning. She felt the small button to the side of it, which she knew when pressed, signalled a panic warning.
Maybe I can give George a warning… she thought.
Trying to look inconspicuous, she gently pressed the panic button. The LED continued to flash, just slightly faster – every twenty seconds it pulsated, indicating a change in Harriet’s state of mind and wellbeing.
Okay George, you were right – you insisted on these gadgets and toys. Don’t let me down. Harriet sat back down in the room’s solitary chair, closed her eyes and willed her predicament to go away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
George
The three kids were cramped in the back of the Peugeot, elbow to elbow, Meredith on the right behind the driver’s seat, Charlie on the left side (in pain and looking utterly miserable) and Stanley in the middle, whilst Sophie (unseen by any passersby, but very much present), sat in the passenger seat in front. George had loaded the black suitcase and a large sports holdall that Amanda had managed to prepare before being shot, into the boot and was back in the driver’s seat. Sophie had retrieved the backpack and her own, slightly smaller sports holdall and had collected a bag of personal possessions belonging to the kids, and had placed them alongside George’s. The boot was now as tightly packed as the back seat was, like they were about to embark on a summer vacation rather than making a getaway to preserve their freedom and lives.
In one hand George held a Nexus tablet computer, replacing the one smashed out on the Seabrook Road, GPS tracking app already installed and activated; in the other hand were a couple of ordinary looking sunglasses. Deactivating all but Harriet’s signal, George placed the Nexus onto the dashboard, secured in place by Velcro fastening tape attached to both the back of the computer and the dash, and positioned the screen so that he could watch it without taking his eyes off the road. A faint signal flashed to the north of the screen.
“Put these on,” George handed Stanley and Meredith the glasses, both donning the innocuous looking fashion accessory; once again, aided by their unique spectacles, they were pleased to see their newfound companion seated in front of them. Charlie looked at his brother and sister with a puzzled look.
“They help us see,” said Stanley, seeing the question about to spring from the youngest child’s lips.
“See what?” asked Charlie. Seeing the passenger door open and swiftly close of its own accord had barely registered with him.
“You wouldn’t understand...” replied Stanley, dismissively.
“What’s going on dad?” asked Meredith tersely. She’d not spoken since her father had closed Slocum’s eyes. Instead her mind kept playing the nightmare that had invaded her bedroom over and over. She’d watched her father, her gentle parent, the man whom had sat her on his lap, read her bedtime stories, played ‘row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream’, who’d sung her lullabies to sleep, shoot a man without thought or contrition. Who IS my father?
George started the engine. The sound of sirens wailing mournfully, complaining in the distance, a protest against the urgency and the speed in which they intended to travel, hurriedly approaching.
“Let’s get away from here, shall we. I will tell you as much as I can along the way... once we are safe.”
George drove the small vehicle out of the close, Willoughby Rising shrinking behind them, the small, ruffled heap that was Amanda Slocum, lying dead outside the front door, almost out of sight, her blouse undulating beneath a slight sea breeze grazing her lifeless body.
I’m so sorry Amanda, he thought. How many more people were willing to die to keep Sophie
and his research from getting into the corporation’s hands?
Intuitively, he guessed a lot more.
Turning right at the junction, George took the vehicle in the opposite direction to that from which he had come. Their pursuers no doubt would be coming from London; fortunately the destination most in his thoughts was more north-easterly rather than southwest. Using the Nexus like a Sat-Navigation system, George followed a course that would place him somewhere not too distant from where his wife was being held captive.
Keeping to single carriage roads with speed limits alternating between sixty mph, fifty mph, forty mph and thirty mph, passing through villages varying in size, constantly checking the rear-view mirror for signs of being followed, George drove in silence. The kids in the back travelled for the best part in silence, subdued by the events of that afternoon and anxious owing to their mother’s abduction.
“Dad, I assume you have a plan?”
The voice surprised Charlie, who, until then, had been oblivious to Sophie’s presence (and existence) in the front passenger seat; Sophie’s sudden speaking also startled George, jolting the car into a slight swerve. Not wearing the special glasses, George had forgotten Sophie was seated to his left. Like him, she had been quiet, either deep in thought or through ponderous worry.
George was gripping the steering wheel so tight the skin over his knuckles were stretched white. “It was planning, Sophie that landed me in this mess,” he said. “I’ve found improvising has been serving me better just lately.”
“Don’t forget, there are three kids back there.”
“Damn it Sophie, don’t you think I know that?!” George shouted, the vehemence in his voice taking, not only his children by surprise, but shocking him. Where had that come from? He took a deep breath, calmed himself. It’s the stress, he told himself. It was getting to him, penetrating his skin as though it were made from porous sandstone. “I’m sorry, it’s just…” he trailed off.
“I know,” Sophie said, laying an invisible hand on his left arm (his fist was currently closed around the gearstick), offering comfort.
“My wife – your mother – has been taken, and they could be doing all manner of untold things to her.” He couldn’t mask the pain or hide the anguish in his voice.
“What’s this all about dad?” Stanley broke the silence at the back of the car. “Who has taken mum?”
“The bad men took her,” exclaimed Charlie matter-of-factly, the first words his traumatised brain permitted since being reunited with his siblings.
“I don’t know who has your mother; it’s not the same people who have been… you know, chasing after us... not all of them.”
“And who are they?” chipped in Meredith.
“People I once worked for. You see, I have something that they want, something very dangerous if put in the wrong hands.” Another furtive glance to the mirror showed the road behind was clear of any vehicles for at least a mile back. So far, no one was following behind.
“Why don’t you just give it to them?” Stanley asked the same question Harriet had asked many, many times. George almost heard her voice reverberating in his mind.
“Because Stan, it’s Sophie they want. She’s as much a part of our family as you are. If faced with another choice, would you want us to consider handing you over to them?”
Stanley went quiet.
Sophie sat in silence, embarrassed that she was the reason their mother was missing. She was to blame for her brothers and sister now squashed in the back seat of a small car, driving away from the sanctuary of home to an unknown and potentially dangerous future.
“What about the others, who are they, what do they want?” Meredith was desperately missing her mother. If anything happened to her, she feared she could never forgive herself. She wished she could time travel and go back to that morning and never have encouraged Stanley to climb into the crab-apple tree. Everything was all her fault.
“I don’t know who they are Mer, probably some government agency with a similar agenda to my ex-employers; I don’t know what they want for sure, but I’d hedge bets on it having to do with Sophie. They want to meet me in London tomorrow.”
“What about Sophie?” demanded Meredith, protective of her friend – her only friend, whom until that afternoon she’d thought was left behind at the old house, trapped within that old antique mirror, a ghost or a figment of her imagination.
“I think it’s time I told you everything,” sighed George. “Let’s take a break. You must be hungry. There’s a place just ahead.”
As the car pulled into an almost deserted pub car park, George noted that the afternoon had made way for the evening. The sun was still in the sky, though now making a hasty retreat towards the western horizon.
How long had they been driving? One or two hours?
As George stopped the car he checked his watch; a quarter-past seven. They’d been travelling for nearly two hours, the realisation bringing forth an achiness to his legs and numbness to his backside.
Doesn’t time fly when you are having fun?
Glancing at the tablet on the dash, he observed that his wife’s GPS signal continued to pulsate, though with an additional symbol, a flashing (!) within the red GPS beacon. The panic button on her GPS tracker had been activated. Harriet had set off the alarm indicating she was in danger.
George was confused. She’d told him not to do anything stupid, so why the change of tact? Despite the panic symbol, George’s mind was set. He intended on doing what his wife had been coerced into instructing. He would meet with her captors in London the following day. It was all part of an elaborate plan. Sometimes you had to consider the bigger picture before acting out.
The Pig and Whistle was a village pub, and was housed in a modern brick building belonging to a popular brewery chain. According to the board screwed to the wall to the left of the main entrance, the proprietor promised cooked meals from ‘11am to 11pm – families welcome!’
George and the children relished the opportunity to leave the car, to walk off and stretch dead, tired legs, and return some life to their aching limbs. So as not to elicit curiosity, George opened the passenger door to let Sophie out making it appear as though he was retrieving something (he took the Nexus from the dash board, carefully reaching over Sophie so not to knock her). Once Sophie was out of the car, he closed the door and centrally locked the vehicle.
“How quaint,” she said, eyeing up the structure. It was a relief to get out of the car, and almost a novelty to be joined with her family. Had the events of earlier not weighed on her mind, she might have convinced herself that this was just a family outing, the rarest of rare treats. She’d often dreamt of such an occasion, frequently wished that she could live a normal life and be treated and cared for like any other child… or teenager. Within the space of a month her body had aged closer to adulthood. Some days it was like waking after a long period of being trapped within a coma, so utterly different and surprising her appearance would be from the night before. And her clothes! There had been several times she had awoken only to find that she’d moved up a dress size, her pyjamas having stretched ridiculously to the point that they needed to be cut free from her body to enable their removal. Just another mere by-product of Daddy’s little experiment...
Meredith had thrown a protective arm around Charlie’s shoulder, careful of his fractured bones. He winced from the slightest hint of a touch, uttering “Ow!” every-so-often just as a reminder to elicit sympathy from any and everyone in hearing distance.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to her brother.
Charlie shrugged with one shoulder. “That’s al’right,” he said in a small voice, looking down at his feet.
“Okay folks,” started George. He turned off the Nexus and led his kids towards the pub’s entrance. “We need to be careful here. No one will be a
ble to see Sophie – and we don’t want to draw attention to that fact under any circumstances. It goes without saying kids, but I need you to be on your best behaviour.” Ahead of the family, arriving at the entrance door, George turned and reemphasised in a low voice: “No shenanigans of any sort... from any of you.”
For many village pubs, trade was often slow or decisively nonexistent. The Pig and Whistle was no exception, having become a victim of a change in culture where cheap supermarket booze, sky-high taxation and a deep recession, had driven its regular customer base to stay at home, all but forsaking the place. The only saving grace was its restaurant, the nearest premises serving food for nearly twelve miles in any direction.
The bar/restaurant had tables laid out for as many as 150 patrons, but on this weekday just four people took up places within the colloquial setting; a young professional couple, man in collar and tie, woman in a light, summery dress – empty plates pushed aside as they enjoyed the last dregs of a pint of John Smiths and a wine spritzer; two lonely men sat at either end of the bar nursing glasses of beer or spirits, a newspaper in front of one, a mobile phone in the hand of the other.
Behind the bar stood a giant of a man, six-feet-eight-inches in height and built like a Chieftain tank. Smartly dressed in black shirt and tie, a white apron was tied about his waist. His hair was jet-black and tied neatly in a tail. He had a mole on his right cheek which did little or nothing to diminish his looks. He was a handsome man with the look of someone of Spanish descent. On first glance, George was intimidated and felt that the man would still tower over him even were he to sit down on the floor.
“Ah, welcome,” the barman greeted in a deep, resonant tone, heavily Norfolk accented. “And what can we be doin’ for ya todi?” Meredith imagined him to be a pirate, further encouraged by the large hooped earring that hung from his left ear like a perch for a budgerigar.
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