Pinpoint

by Sheila Mary Taylor

  Quickly she took it from the bag and tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans, pulling her loose sweater over the pocket. She looked at herself in the mirror from every angle till she was certain the weapon was not visible.

  In Simon’s bookcase, still neatly filed with all his maps and flying charts, she found an ordnance survey map of the Peak District. Desperately trying to remember the exact details of Smith’s directions, she marked the route with a red felt-tipped pen. She would put this on the seat next to her for easy reference.

  Wendy ran with her to the car, tears still streaming down her cheeks. ‘Please. Let me come with you.’

  ‘No, Wendy. I need to be alone. You go home now.’

  ‘I’m not leaving here till you arrive back safely with Nicky.’

  ‘Okay, but make yourself something to eat. If anyone phones tell them I’m working. If Paul phones, tell him . . . oh, anything you like.’

  ‘If I’d stayed with her this couldn’t have happened.’

  Julia revved the engine. ‘It wasn’t your fault. We’re dealing with a madman. On second thoughts, if Paul rings . . .’

  She couldn’t think straight. Could Paul get there before I do? BT will have told him about the phone call and where it was from. He could be on his way to the area already, although he won’t know anything more. Just as well because if he knew exactly where to go and got there first and Smith panicked, he might hurt Nicky . . .

  For a moment she wavered. Paul should be told. But ─ no, it was too risky.

  ‘No, Wendy,’ she said. ‘If Paul rings, don’t tell him anything. Just say I’m out.’

  - 105 -

  Julia took the winding sylvan road to Prestbury, cutting corners as she sped towards the old market town of Macclesfield on the edge of the Pennine hills and the Peak District National Park.

  She went over everything in her mind, as logically as she could. Yes. Paul will have heard from the Malicious Calls people, guessed it was Smith, been told he was in the vicinity of the Cat and Fiddle. But that’s all he’ll know. I could phone him now. In less than an hour he could be at the exact rendezvous point, even less by helicopter. He’d never do anything to jeopardise Nicky’s safety. So what do I have to lose?

  But I know Paul. He’ll have called out firearms and they’re an independent unit who plan their own tactics and make their own decisions. If necessary, they’ll be shooting to kill. If that happened they would find that letter on him with all those lies which the police would believe and I wouldn’t be able to deny because I can’t bloody well remember what happened . . .

  There was very little traffic. She was making good time, but she had to decide quickly or it would be too late.

  Okay. Imagine you are one of the firearms team. You wouldn’t shoot if there were any danger to Nicky. No. But Smith is clearly desperate. Maybe in pain. If he gets the slightest whiff of the police he’ll go berserk and might hurt Nicky.

  So how can I possibly tell Paul exactly where to go?

  Yes. But Smith told me once he loved children.

  And for the umpteenth time Julia asked herself why he had let her believe that if she didn’t give him the money he would hurt Nicky. This was really bugging her. And when he phoned he had said she was perfectly safe and why would he harm her.

  How can I be sure, she asked herself. How can I be sure of anything? If the hatpin had badly injured him, it would be impossible to have successfully posed as Nicky’s uncle and persuaded her to go with him. So maybe he was fine after all. Taken anti-biotics . . .

  Just after Macclesfield the road began to climb. The lush green countryside disappeared and Julia was out on the moorlands.

  Then something made her glance at the passenger seat. She saw the bag with the Readers Digests but there was no sign of the ordnance survey map with the route marked in red.

  She pulled over into a handy lay-by and slammed on the brakes. She searched on the floor and on the back seat, in the glove box and down the sides of the seats. It was nowhere. Unbelievably it must still be on her desk.

  She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Damn. There wasn’t time to go back. Don’t panic, Julia. You’ll have to remember exactly what he said.

  - 106 -

  ‘Why the Cat and Fiddle, boss?’

  ‘I’m damned if I know, Kev. But he’s not there now. Buxton have been up there already and found nothing.’

  Paul leapt from his chair and started pacing up and down the office. ‘Christ. He could be holed up just around the corner from the pub, or bloody miles away.’

  ‘At least it narrows down the area, boss. What about Mrs Grant?’

  ‘I rang the house after we’d heard from BT. Missed her by seconds. God knows where she’s gone. Her mobile’s switched off as bloody usual.’ He swung round to face Kevin. ‘And there’s something not right. Wendy sounded petrified, and when I asked her to put Nicky on she didn’t answer me at first. Then she said Nicky was out too. So you tell me why Wendy was still there.’ He stuck both fists in the air. ‘Why?’

  ‘One could make a calculated guess, Chief.’

  Paul felt a shudder start at the base of his neck and slowly vibrate all the way down his back. ‘Don’t worry,’ he muttered. ‘I already have. Goddamit, I should have guessed that once the city got too hot for him he’d make for the moors. Yeah, okay, I know you said he would. But imagine the audacity, to walk into the Cat and Fiddle and use their phone.’

  ‘It’s probably the only public phone for miles, boss.’

  ‘Damn. I should have applied straight away to the Home Secretary to have her phones tapped.’ Paul balled his right hand into a fist and slammed it into the palm of his left hand. ‘My instincts at the time were spot on.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d contemplated it.’

  Paul nodded. ‘But I thought it was too much of an invasion of her privacy. She made a big enough fuss about having the malicious call set up. She’d have hit the ceiling if she found out I was tapping too.’

  Paul flicked his eyes upwards as he recalled the ACC’s words. The moment you feel your judgement is being impaired because of your relationship with Mrs Grant . . .

  ‘What now, boss?’

  Paul sat down and yanked the phone towards him. ‘I’ve got an emergency firearms team standing by,’ he said quietly.

  Kevin raised his eyebrows. He walked to the door. ‘And what if the call turns out to have been perfectly harmless? Surely she’d have phoned you by now if she was in danger?’

  Paul picked up the receiver. ‘I’ll keep trying her mobile till she answers. And there’s one other thing I can try. A long shot but I’ll give it a go. Meanwhile keep in touch with Buxton and Cheshire, and give Ken Riding a buzz. And Kev, don’t move out of the building. If there’s action I’ll want you with me.’

  As soon as Kevin had left, Paul dialled Hillside House, but quickly changed his mind and jammed his finger on the cradle. He would try Julia once more, and then Wendy.

  - 107 -

  Still in an agony of indecision Julia switched on her mobile phone. Tell him where to go, as long as he promises not to intervene too soon, just be there in case she needed him . . .

  But before she could dial, it started ringing.

  Mist swirled around the car like smoke forced into a room by a blocked chimney. It was like winter up here in the hills. The ringing went on and on, louder with each ring until the bleak black moors began gliding towards her. Gliding, then receding. Gliding towards her . . .

  She pressed the button. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Julia, where are you and what the hell’s going on?’

  ‘I can’t talk now, Paul.’

  ‘Yes you will talk now. You’ll tell me exactly what’s happening.’

  ‘Please don’t interfere. Everything’s under control.’ She knew she was obstructing an officer in the execution of his duty but she was sure if Paul knew why he would understand.

  ‘You’re meeting Smith, aren’t you. He’s got Nicky, hasn
’t he?’

  ‘Paul, I know how to handle him. I think he’s my . . . ’

  She stopped herself only just in time.

  ‘I want to know where you are and where you’re meeting him. And anything else I need to know in order to make sure Nicky and you aren’t hurt. Tell me, Julia.’

  ‘Paul, Smith does not hurt children. He only wants money.’ She wished she could be certain.

  ‘Christ, there isn’t time to argue about this now. He’s got her, hasn’t he? He’s unstable. He can do anything. You can’t take a chance.’

  Julia agonised over what would be best. Alone, she could persuade Smith to negotiate, persuade him to give up Nicky and in return promise to give him the money tomorrow. She tugged at her hair. But Smith had said he was going on a journey tonight at midnight so he wouldn’t be open to negotiation.

  ‘There are things you couldn’t possibly understand, Paul.’

  ‘I do bloody understand,’ Paul said. ‘I understand that you’re at the end of your tether. I’ve been so blind. You’ve been persecuted by this bastard since the day he escaped, haven’t you? And there’s more to it, isn’t there? Not just the two-fifty grand. There’s something else you’re not telling me. Am I right? You’ve not been behaving logically. What is that something, Julia? What else is he demanding?’

  She gripped the phone until she felt it would snap in her hand.

  ‘Answer me, for Chrissake. I thought we had something special between us. And unless you can show that you trust me, I’m afraid it proves I was very mistaken.’

  She longed to be able to tell him. Longed to be able to say he’s my twin brother, Paul. He stuck his neck out for me. He was only a little boy but he saved me from - oh, how could I ever say it? I love you, Paul, but please keep out of it. You don’t understand. He’s had a raw deal. His thinking is twisted and warped because of what he’s been through. Because of what he did for me. Hitting Mr Spencer on the head with the brass lamp. Getting me away from that house. But now he only wants what he thinks is his due. He only wants the money and he’ll vanish out of our lives forever . . .

  No. Paul would never buy that. Something in her reasoning was grossly wrong and she wished she knew what it was. It was a weird feeling, fearing and despising someone as much as she did. Despising him for his unthinkable crimes, despising him for his systematic persecution of her, for what he was doing to her now, for what he had made her do to him, for what he was doing to Nicky, and for what he was doing to Paul and her . . .

  Yet still loving him . . . heaven help her.

  Loving? Yes, and he had loved her too. So where was that love now? It will have died, along with all the goodness that he had, because it could not thrive without the nourishment of a reciprocal love. How let down he must have felt. How bitter. How alone.

  She spread her fingers out then clenched her fists. Is he Nicholas King, she asked herself. He must be, although I still have no positive proof. It could have been the power of suggestion when I’d seen his date of birth, yet how can I deny the gut feeling I had when we first met? And the feeling he clearly had too.

  And if he is Nicholas King, then I do love him, because I love Nicholas King. I have always loved him. Nothing can ever change that ─

  ‘Julia? Speak to me.’ Then more softly. ‘Speak to me, dammit. Tell me where you’re meeting him.’

  ‘I have to go now, Paul. This is my show. He warned me not to talk to the police and he means it. He must not see you. If he does, he just might hurt Nicky.’ And blurt out that nonsense about me killing Mr Spencer, she thought with a shudder, which she now knew was a complete fabrication but that wouldn’t stop the police acting on the information and dragging her name through the inevitable dirt. And if they shoot him they’ll find that letter on him anyway, so at all costs I have to keep them away from him. ‘Nothing you say is going to stop me going. Until I have Nicky I want you out of the way. Do I make myself clear? I told you, there are things you don’t understand.’ And neither do I, she thought, squeezing her eyes closed.

  ‘Oh Christ, Julia,’ he whispered. Then he added: ‘Be careful. He’s armed.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But so am I.’

  ‘Julia . . . ’

  She pressed the off button, started the car and pulled onto the road. Dark purple clouds swept across the sky. She shivered. If it rained Nicky would be cold, dressed only in the clothes she’d worn for dancing. She watched the road ribboning across the valley, a harmony of bold flowing lines that only nature could have fashioned from such an impoverished terrain. As always the simple grandeur took her breath away.

  But now it was scary too.

  As it started raining a black crow darted from a ditch, swooped across the windscreen and climbed into the thickening mist. She pressed on with an increasing sense of urgency. Tunnel vision had set in. At the crest of the plateau the wind strengthened. It was even bleaker now, with hairpin bends and fewer stone walls.

  She kept her eyes skinned for the Goyt Valley turn-off, but today it was a road with no comforting familiarity. Was that the Cat and Fiddle looming in the mist? If it was, she’d come too far. But no, thank goodness, it was another ghostly farmhouse.

  A clump of trees, a derelict stone barn, and then the sign: Salterford, three miles, Goyt Valley, four.

  She turned off the main highway down the steep, narrow one-way road to Goyt Valley, a gradient about one in five with high grassy banks on either side, a stone wall on top with wire fencing. And on the left, way down in the valley, the Lamaload Reservoir where bodies vanish . . .

  Up the hill again, sheep grazing on the banks, past a crumbling building, a lay-by on the left, a Peak National Park notice saying, No Parking Overnight, everything so far exactly as he’d said.

  Then at last the grassy triangle.

  As she turned right the road plunged down into another valley. Splashing through puddles, up a steep hill, twisting, turning, over a stone bridge with green railings, a cottage on the right, power lines, a derelict farm house.

  And there it was. The chapel.

  His voice in her ears: chapel, churchyard, turn right, up the hill, footpath sign, broken wall, the stile, the hills, the field and then another stile.

  The wind plastered her hair across her face as she struggled to close the car door. Clinging to the stone wall she found her way to the first stile. Apart from the roar of the wind and the crackle of dead gorse beneath her feet, there was a creepy silence. She looked across the field and through the gap of the second stile, as though lining up the sights of a rifle. Dark heather, the pale cream grass, and beyond the valley a black hill. And then she saw it.

  The barn.

  But there was no sign of Smith. Or of Nicky. Or of the car he must have stolen to get up here.

  She had a distinct feeling of being watched and looked over her shoulder. The sudden strong wind had cleared the mist and clouds but there was nothing, though she thought she had heard a noise a bit like a helicopter that came and went like a wave tossed on the seashore, clattering the pebbles.

  In this dim light the barn was little more than a shadow, and like everything else today, hardly real. Yet inside that shadow is my daughter, she reminded herself. And a man called Sam Smith.

  Or is he Nicholas King?

  She stopped. Inside her head she heard her silent scream. How can I be so filled with horror at what might happen to Nicky and to me and my future life if something goes wrong and he carries out his threat, and yet at the same time be bursting with . . . what?

  Trepidation? Excitement? Oh God yes, because this will be my last opportunity to ask him those two vital questions.

  Checking the catch, she slung the bag around her neck. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds in tenners and fifties, please. Yes, Mrs Grant, not a problem. The tellers carry that amount around all the time, just in a briefcase.

  But what if my bluff fails and he sees the Readers Digests before I can reason with him?

  Pushing against the
wind, she clambered over the first stile. Her feet sank into tufts of light-coloured grass. Out of nowhere another wispy curtain of cloud dropped down across the sky, shrouding the hills in a greenish underwater light. She hurried towards the second stile. With one leg over the stile, she froze.

  Almost hidden by the dry stone wall, standing looking at her, motionless in the eerie light, eyes blazing, was Sam Smith.

  Closing her fingers on the catch of the bag she climbed down and faced him.

  ‘Where’s Nicky?’ she said.

  - 108 -

  Leaving the helicopter close to the chapel, and using the stone walls as cover, Paul crept round the field ahead of the twelve armed men, his feet sinking silently into the spongy grass. It gave him a strange feeling to be carrying a rifle again, especially one as potent as this. He still didn’t know what had possessed him to ask the team leader just before they boarded the helicopter if he too could be armed in view of his close association with the Smith case and the very real danger to himself if Smith should spot his presence. He’d been amazed that Jake had agreed to his request. ‘Strictly off the record, Sir,’ Jake had said, handing him the Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine gun. ‘And you know the rules better than I do, Sir.’ ‘Don’t worry,’ he’d told his ex star pupil, running his fingers over the black lacquer paint and remembering only too well the unique features of the MP5, a 9mm magazine-fed rifle with a red-dot sight, extremely accurate and a superb weapon to handle. ‘I won’t use it unless the circumstances are exceptional.’

  When he could see Julia and Smith clearly silhouetted against the western sky, he stopped.

  ‘Are you sure he’s armed, Sir?’ Jake asked, barely whispering to make sure Smith heard nothing.

  Paul nodded to the inspector. ‘I’m sure. And so is she,’ he whispered back grimly, remembering with a shudder that Avril had also been armed. He took a deep breath. There were times when he wished he was still head of the firearms unit, and this sure was one of them. But Jake was in charge and he was not going to let Paul forget it, even though he had once served under Paul. The strategy they would use was entirely up to him and Paul had no authority to intervene. And no authority to shoot.