The sense of darkness moved in on her, the same darkness that had come at her from all sides when she’d lain on the bed in her auntie and uncle’s spare room with the realisation that her parents were gone. They’d turned out the lights and the night had become a solid maze with her at the centre. The room had felt and smelt so strange and she’d known that nothing would be familiar to her again.
It was Carla’s unique claustrophobia. She hated enclosed spaces, but this was a sensation that could crush her wherever uncertainty allowed it to. She stood shakily and paced, needing to hear Will’s voice again and desperate to call Anwar.
Anwar Imam was Ingram International’s cross-cultural management consultant and had been a family friend since before Libby was born. Will had given him the responsibility of briefing company executives and in turn establishing diplomatic foundations for their worldwide pipe ops. Anwar hadn’t allowed Will to coax him into the lucrative, full-time position he created for him and preferred to maintain his global consultancy a stone’s throw from Ingram HQ.
Today was Sunday. He’d think it unusual to receive a call from her on the weekend let alone so early in the morning. She couldn’t let him suspect anything was wrong. Picking his brain would be an invitation, however. Anwar always answered questions with twice as many of his own. Carla knew she’d have to tread carefully. She’d grown accustomed to handling him though and had been deft with his over-familiarity in the past.
She waited as long as she could, but failed to reach him at any of the three numbers she had. She left messages and hoped he hadn’t gone away.
Will nudged his cursor over the next house in the row as he had done every minute since he’d entered the hotel room. Still no red outline. The cut-out was of a white and powder blue wood-panelled home. Circular windows punctuated three gables and a triple garage at the front telegraphed the obvious wealth of its owners.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, his spine aching, the skewer of abdominal pain reinvigorated with the sudden movement. No new developments about the Amberson family. CNN were running the same footage and summary.
He walked to the bathroom and flicked the light switch. Sprawled around the furniture were the two sightless families, the gaping caverns of their faces unwavering.
The sound of buzzing flies vibrated in his head and he felt their tiny legs on the backs of his wrists again.
A naked and blue figure stood over the sink, shivering and panting. He knew before she turned that it was Libby, could see the lotus tattoo at the base of her spine and her hands taped to her face. She pivoted, breasts grubby and bruised, wrists pumping either side of her head to try and free herself. Behind him he felt a presence, somebody breathing there and waiting for him to look over his shoulder. But he couldn’t, he had to see Libby’s eyes even though they wouldn’t be there. Her palms came away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It was Sunday, which meant Tam had only household chores before he was allowed to play on his own in the central courtyard of the complex. Daylight had chased away the uneasy headache that had kept him awake for the remainder of the night and, although he was tired, he felt an increasing sense of exhilaration about surviving the adventure at the chicken factory.
When he’d brushed his teeth that morning the prospect of ever returning to the place he’d fled filled him with horror. But with the normality of a humid and cloying day slowing to boredom he’d already calculated how much time it would take to get there and back again.
His father would remain in bed until they ate dinner. His mother always prepared plenty of salads of pomelo and papaya on a Sunday and while she worked at the chopping board he shelled the crabs she’d bought from the wet market. After helping her tie knots around banana leaf parcels of fermented fish she released him. He had several hours before he had to be back at the table.
He took the steps to the courtyard where some other children were playing and told them he had to run an errand for his mother. Once he’d turned the corner out of their sight he was through the gates and into the bustle of the street. He dispersed a small group of orange-breasted pigeons on the road that normally would have stopped him in his tracks and headed for the narrow passageway on the other side of the block.
The island was experiencing another day of thick haze. The dust particles from nearby forest fires hung in the air so the tops of the taller buildings were almost invisible. But daylight made everything familiar to him now and he felt no trepidation as he entered the slim gap and the echoes of his pelting sandals bounced back at him from its walls. He felt emboldened by the prospect of where he knew he was going and how many hours he had left before it got dark again.
Once out the other side he weaved his way though the tuk-tuks, mopeds and taxis, taking short cuts behind shops he’d avoided the night before. Shutters were up and back alleys were populated now. Children played amongst the dumpsters, and rats stayed out of sight during their noisy activity.
Tam didn’t intend to squeeze himself through the corrugated panel at the side of the factory this time. If the sliding door was still open, as he’d left it, he knew he’d be able to access the building from the rear.
For the first time since her capture Libby felt in solid possession of her body. After so many indeterminate hours of tranquillized immobility she started to sense every sinew again. The pain quickly followed. The circulation in her hands had been severed by whatever was binding her wrists behind her aching spine. Her weight on the plastic edge of the commode was numbing the backs of her legs. But the worst sensation was the stinging of the teeth marks. They fizzed and twinged cold, but worse than this was contemplating how she’d sustained the wound that deadened her left shoulder.
Libby’s whole frame throbbed with the discomfort of retaining the same posture for so long. Her stomach was folded up and she wondered if her cramped position would have an adverse effect on her baby. She’d considered telling them of her pregnancy the last time they’d removed the gag to give her water and food. They’d been silent to every other question she’d asked, however. Plus she figured anyone who could subject her to the sort of brutality they already had would only get a sick thrill out of her revelation. She also didn’t want to make herself seem any more valuable if they were demanding a ransom.
Were they waiting to hear from her parents all this time or was she being held until she was sold on and imprisoned elsewhere? She had to convince herself that her mother and father had been contacted and that arrangements were already being made for her release. If that weren’t the case, though, what did she have to lose by trying to escape?
Again she pushed her head back and felt the resistance of the wire mesh above her. Her legs felt more solid where they were tied about the commode now and her ankles ached where they were bound to the plastic base. She curled her toes against the compacted carpet of droppings and slid herself forward with the seat. She felt the draught from the chickens beating their wings in agitation. Had she been locked in with them so they would act as an alarm?
There was no way of knowing if somebody was already watching her. But now she had some sensation in her limbs she had to act before they used the hypodermic again. Her knees tensed as she re-engaged them and pulled herself further forward until her face was against the front of the cage. She pressed it harder until the wire cut into her nose. But even putting her weight behind it didn’t buckle the door above the lock.
The wire above her seemed more flexible so she heaved herself upwards, bracing her body between the commode and the resistance against the top of her skull. She pushed hard, the metal biting through the hood. She hardened her shoulders and the muscles in her stomach as she strained to stand up. She dropped harshly to the seat when the effort sapped her. Libby breathed heavily inside the hood, wanted to stay put, let the pain flow out of her. But she knew this might be her only chance.
“Stop!”
The cab jerked to a halt at the end of Hebron Street and the driver squinted a warning
over his shoulder at Pope.
“Sorry, this is as far as we need to go.” It was the early hours of the morning, but there was a light show outside a house halfway down the block. “We’ll get out here.”
Pope paid him and the car reversed quickly away as soon as they closed the doors. They both studied the glimmering panoply of police and media vehicles clogging the end of the street.
“Looks like we’re late to the party.” Weaver carefully lowered his camera to the sidewalk. He’d tried to take it on the flight as hand luggage, but it had to be stowed. They’d had a long delay as they’d waited for it to appear on the carousel. “Maybe Frost called the cops.”
“Unlikely.” Pope figured police involvement was the last thing the girl’s father would want if he wanted to see his daughter alive again. “Maybe someone found the bodies.”
“I can count eight networks here at least.”
“Anything new on the site?”
Weaver took the iPad out of his kitbag and checked the row of houses. “No new address…” He clicked inside the residence they were now only yards from. “And no images of dead people.”
Pope’s strategy wasn’t working. The site hadn’t given them the edge they needed. A one man crew was ill-equipped to cover this sort of story. Should he take it to a major network? They’d immediately attempt to wrest it from his hands and he didn’t want to waste time negotiating. Frost was ahead of them by seven hours.
“He could be anywhere by now.” Weaver was having similar thoughts. He looked up and down the neighbourhood as if they might catch sight of him.
“But if the next location hasn’t been released to him yet it means he’s as much in the dark as we are.”
“Perhaps he has another channel of communication with the kidnappers.”
“Then why bother with the website at all? We just have to wait for the next address and be ready to move as quickly as he does.”
Weaver nodded and picked up his camera. “We’ve still got to get the coverage here though, right?”
Pope was reluctant to join the throng at the end of the street, particularly as they were more plugged into the story than anybody there, including the police.
Weaver seemed to pick up on this. “It’s our jobs otherwise, right?”
“Yeah, come on. Keep the iPad handy… and concealed.” His instincts told him to hang fire. The searches he’d done on the plane had revealed nothing that connected Frost to Amberson, but there were still the other houses in the row left to cover. And they could move the same time as Frost to the next one.
“It did say the next instructions wouldn’t come until morning.” Weaver hoisted the camera onto his shoulder.
“This is the morning.”
Libby tensed her calf muscles and rammed herself against the overhead wire again. A head-sized dome had been left by her repeated efforts. She slipped her head inside it again, shoved her weight into it and bit down on her gag. Her whole skeleton shook with the exertion and the wire sliced into her. She was about to collapse again when something popped. She wasn’t sure if she’d dislocated her shoulder, but when she tested the resistance of the cage again it bulged loosely. One of the edges had come loose and, as she slid her head across it, she found the mesh above the door flapping upwards.
There was no way she could climb out still attached to the commode, but there was no time for hesitation. Libby slammed herself against the door, the cage toppling forward and the chickens noisily complaining, as the entrance became the floor. She felt the cold contents of the bowl pouring around her and the animals scampering panicked over her body. Although she was still secured to it by her feet the commode was only lightweight plastic. She dragged it round her body with her ankles and used it to bash the weakened wire out.
Libby wriggled herself sideways through the hole, the other prisoners scratching at her as they fled. She straightened her legs and used her arms to lever herself up and then stood precariously with her feet still attached to the front of the commode.
She halted, breathing inside darkness, listening for other sounds. But she couldn’t hear anything above the screech of the birds and the pulse in her eardrums.
She felt the blood pouring back into her legs. Her hands were still secure behind her back and she could only slide each foot about an inch in front of the other at a time. But she started shuffling forward, her feet sluggishly repelling pecking beaks, and soon ran into a dank wall about eight feet from the cage.
She pushed herself along it, her face and arm scraping off fragments until she could feel cool metal on her skin. She swallowed her nerves and pushed her weight against the solid surface, slithering and squeaking her body and using her shoulder to test it.
Suddenly she was lying on her side, a blow to her temple filling the black hood with orange bubbles. She heard her own hopeless sob and squeezed her eyes against what would happen outside them. She’d been caught and subdued.
But the anticipated restraint didn’t come and she realised her skin was bathed in heat. As well as feeling the sun from above and radiating from the ground she was sprawled on, she could also hear loud traffic. She was near a road. Libby had dropped through a doorway to outside, striking her head in the process. She pulled herself upright again and, scuffing forward, followed the sound of engines and horns.
The tarmac felt soft and hot against the soles of her feet. As she edged closer to the noise she could feel the vibrations of the street in her chest. Momentarily she thought she had a concussion and was off balance, but realised she was walking up an incline. Was it a ramp that led straight out onto a main road?
When Libby reached the top of it she hung back. She didn’t want to be run over before she was released, but she did want to put as much distance between herself and her prison as possible. She shuffled onwards, hoping somebody might brake for her if she was wandering too near the edge of the road. Then her face collided with hot, corrugated metal. She rolled along its uneven surface.
It was a tall gate that obscured her from the people passing by. She dragged herself to the sides of the space, juddering from brick wall to brick wall. She was in a secure yard that was about six paces square. The only way out was through the gates. She returned to them, jerking and grazing her shoulder along the ribs of metal to find a handle. Nothing. Even if it was just a case of shooting a catch her hands were tied behind her back and unable to lift much higher than her waist. She buffeted them, but they didn’t give. They were locked solid, probably by bolts in the ground.
All the time she scrabbled about there Libby attempted to push the bung out of her mouth. But the tight hood wouldn’t allow her to expel it and shout for help. She battered herself harder against the gate, but on the fourth attempt her arms were arrested as she tried to move forward. What had she snagged her cuffs on?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
At 2.14pm, Anwar Imam walked into Will’s office.
“Working on your own?” The question was as genial as his expression, but his dark eyes audited hers.
She looked past him to where Nissa was seated. “I told you I couldn’t see anybody.”
“Don’t blame Nessa.” He always got her name wrong. “I barged my way in.”
She watched Nissa bite her lip. She’d seemed even more concerned when she’d arrived to find Carla wearing the same clothes as yesterday. They’d both obviously guessed something was wrong.
Anwar closed the door on Nissa’s expression with the weight of his tall frame. He was wearing a casual, yellow paisley shirt that perfectly accentuated the dark pigment of his skin.
“Anwar, I didn’t expect you to call in.”
Anwar nodded his shoulder length black hair and cupped his fingers over his nose as he considered the office and her obvious discomfort at his presence. Egyptian by birth, he was an unrepentant anglophile. He followed Will’s lead when it came to property. His own Georgian investment lay only six miles from Easton Grey.
“Where’s Will?” He zoned in on the
abstract sculpture on Will’s desk and frowned at it as if doing so would allow him to continue his casual interrogation.
“Weekend off. I’m still chasing my tail trying to get firm commitments to the trans-African feasibility study.” She tried to sound overworked, but realised justifying her presence was suspicious.
“So why do you desperately need to tap my limited knowledge of the late Holt Amberson?” He moved to the desk, picked up the sculpture and pretended to weigh it. His bergamot aftershave wafted over her.
“Will’s had some overtures from someone at UG,” she lied. “The story piqued his curiosity.”
“So much so you tried to reach me at three different numbers on a Sunday morning.” He put down the sculpture, a plea for honesty in his gaze.
“Anwar. We’ve been friends a long time...”
He nodded, blinking his long, dark eyelashes. His expression didn’t alter.
Carla knew Anwar wanted to become much more than that. He was as hopeless with alcohol as Will and his customarily diplomatic mouth had got loose from its moorings on more than a few occasions.
She’d told Will about his overtures, but he’d laughed it off, saying it was a huge compliment that an eligible bachelor of Anwar’s status was pursuing his wife. She’d never told him everything that Anwar had said, however. Why ruin a friendship when Anwar’s designs would remain just that? “We’re in the middle of something here.” She held his gaze. “If we need help, you know you’ll be the first person we come to…”
“You already have.” But the harsh line of his eyebrows softened. “You didn’t sound your usual self on the telephone. Sorry to intrude, but I had to drive into the office this afternoon anyway and we – I – was concerned.”
Carla assumed he’d meant Nissa. Had she told him something was going on?
Scare Me Page 12