The Sound Of Crying

by Nigel Cooper

  ‘Look, it’s my money, I simply choose to keep it here rather than stuffed under my mattress. I’m not six years old and you’re not my mother agreeing to give me my pocket money with conditions attached. So please, I’m here to withdraw £200,000 cash, which I ordered yesterday in £50 denominations. I’ve brought a bag,’ he said, holding up a small tan canvas bag, ‘so, can we proceed?’ he said, with a look that suggested that the conversation was over.

  ‘Of course, Mr Kramer. I think it’s best if we do this here in my office, in privacy. But, I’ll need you to come back out into the bank with your card so you can enter your pin number in the machine, then I’ll count the money out back here for you. Did you bring identification?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, taking out his wallet containing his driver’s licence.

  He did as the manager asked and a few minutes later they were back in her office where she proceeded to count out rather a lot of £50 notes. John then put them all into his bag, not an ordinary bag; he’d decided to bring his small Billingham camera bag. He’d removed the internal compartments so all the money would fit. He’d figured that it was a good strong bag with a zip up top as well as a fold over buckle down top cover and, as well as a regular handle, it also had a strong shoulder strap that was well stitched into the bag so if anybody tried to yank it off his body the strap would hold strong. Of course, he was being a little paranoid, but who wouldn’t be, walking out of a high street bank with £200,000 cash in it. He’d checked the bank on his way in, it was quiet, none of the few customers in there had heard him mention a large cash withdrawal and the money was in his camera bag, out of sight. So, when he walked out of the office and out of the bank, any customers would simply see a guy walking out with his camera bag, the same camera bag he waked in with. By the time he left the bank there were new customers there anyway. Still, he checked over his shoulder and was very cautious as he walked out of the bank and got into his car, which he’d illegally parked in the disabled parking space, right outside. He wasn’t bothered about a potential parking ticket in this instance, he just didn’t fancy walking up the High Street to Market Square car park, or around the back to the Waitrose car park. As luck would have it, there was no ticket on his windshield, even though it had taken an age for the bank manager to count out all the money in front of him. He jumped in, hit the central locking button and put the bag on the floor in the passenger foot well and headed off along Cambridge Street back home to Abbotsley.

  ‘Did you get it?’ said Helen, as John entered the house.

  ‘Yes, I got it,’ he said, taking the bag through to the kitchen.

  ‘So now what?’ she said.

  ‘I guess we wait, they said they’d call at noon,’ he said, checking the clock on the kitchen wall, which read 11:30.

  They both paced up and down the kitchen, every now and then glancing at the cordless phone on the worktop. Helen had practically bitten her nails down to the quick when the phone eventually rang. Her hand dropped from her mouth, her face a picture of mixed emotions: excitement at the thought of getting her boys back, and fear of it all going wrong. She was starting to have second thoughts, perhaps they should have phoned the police. But then she rationalised the situation and figured she could have her boys back home within a few hours.

  ‘Answer it,’ she said.

  ‘Hello?’ said John. At that exact moment the front doorbell rang. Helen whipped her head around and looked towards the hallway beyond the kitchen door while John listened intently on the phone. She stepped out of the kitchen at the back of the house and looked down the hallway towards the front door, where she could make out a lone figure through the two heavily frosted glass panels in the top half of the door. She slowly stepped into the hallway and into the living room where she took a tentative peak around the edge of the curtain. Standing at her front door was one of the Family Liaison Officers, her car parked in the drive next to theirs. Shit, thought Helen, knowing, from previous conversations with her, that she was a full time detective constable, and was only the appointed FLO for this case, which meant, being a full blown detective, that she’d be pretty clued up and on the ball.

  Helen stepped away from the window and made her way back to the kitchen, taking care to move slowly through the small section of hallway in fear of alerting the FLO to her presence. John was still listening on the phone, and then he spoke.

  ‘It’s 07820 158...’ he proceeded to give his personal mobile number to the man on the other end of the line. Helen stood there, looking frantic, then the doorbell chimed again. John could see that his wife was flustered, but he was still listening to whatever it was the man was saying on the phone, instructions perhaps? Helen looked towards the front door again; the figure was still there. Helen was practically wetting her nickers now, looking at John, urgently.

  ‘Ok,’ he said, and hung up.

  ‘It’s the Family Liaison Officer,’ she said, looking to John for suggestions.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Erm, Dubois … does it matter? What should we do?’

  ‘Answer it, she’s a police detective remember, she’ll know we’re in, our cars are in the drive.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I’ll explain when she’s gone, we have time, go and let her in,’ he said, putting the bag in a kitchen cupboard out of sight.

  ‘Hi,’ said Helen, opening the door.

  ‘Hello, is everything ok, Mrs Kramer?’ said DC Dubois, noticing how flustered Helen looked and wondering why it had taken her so long to answer the door.

  ‘No, everything’s not ok, our children are still missing,’ she said, thinking fast on her feet.

  ‘Can I come in for a minute?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Helen, stepping back into the hallway and closing the door behind her.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Kramer,’ she said, entering the kitchen behind Helen.

  ‘Is there any news?’ said John, keeping up the pretence that he hadn’t heard anything himself.

  ‘No, not yet, I just wanted to stop by to bring you up to date with where we are.’ The FLO proceeded to explain to John and Helen that they’d had the results back from the balloons but there was no DNA or fingerprints on them, whoever blew them up must have used a balloon pump and worn gloves too. This in itself was very suspicious. Even if a genuine person had used a pump and did happen to have gloves on, it was hard to believe that somebody would wear gloves to open the packet and take the balloons out. The same went for the drawing pin, no partial print, nothing. It would appear that whoever pinned those balloons up on the tree wanted to remain anonymous. The Scene Of Crime Officers had found nothing in and around the area near the balloons, no cigarette buts, drinks cans or anything else that could help them. There were no CCTV cameras on or around Rowley Road, Priory Hill Road or Huntingdon Road. The closest were on the High Street and Market Square, about a mile away and even though the police were well under way in checking the footage from them, nothing out of the ordinary had shown up so far. The FLO felt that she could now mention the local registered sex offenders, as they had checked most of them out and they all checked out, had cast iron alibies and, from what the police could ascertain, had nothing to do with the missing Kramer boys. The FLO saw this as good news and presented this new information in a positive way.

  John and Helen listened as DC Dubois spoke and pretended to be encouraged as she said they still had a lot more enquires to make and the search was still going full steam ahead. She’d also asked John and Helen if anybody had called or if there had been any news, to which they’d said no.

  ‘I’ll keep you up to date every inch of the way, if anything new comes to light you’ll be the first to know. In the meantime, it’s important that there’s somebody here at all times,’ she said. And that was it; fifteen minutes later the FLO was heading out the door to her car.

  Helen and John looked at each other and let out a huge sigh.

  ‘Ok, what happened? What did he say?’


  ‘He said I’m to drive over to Cambridge, alone, and wait on the corner of Rose Crescent, facing the market. He said I’m to be there at two o’clock exactly, with my mobile, and wait for further instructions.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yeah, he said he’d call me on my mobile at two and tell me what to do. He said if I phoned the police or if he suspected that anybody was with me, or if I was followed, they’d go through on their promise, he’d cut off their—.’ He cut himself off.

  ‘How many of them do you think there are?’ said Helen.

  ‘I don’t know, he did say “we” a couple of times, could be two, three, I really don’t know.’

  ‘I want to come with you.’

  ‘No, that’s a bad idea; he said me and me alone. I think if we just do as he says it’ll all be ok.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I can’t, but, even though he was whispering, there was something about the way he spoke; I believe he was telling the truth. I think we’ll get Edward and Jamie back once they have the money,’ he said, checking the clock on the kitchen wall. He got down on his haunches and pulled the bag out of the cupboard. ‘Look, I have my mobile with me, I’ll call you and let you know everything that happens,’ he said, stepping forward and kissing her forehead.

  ‘Ok,’ she said, not entirely comfortable with the situation, but this was a situation that was new to her and she didn’t really know the rules or how these things worked. She stood at the living room window and watched John’s white Audi pull off the drive, left onto the High Street and away towards Cambridge.

  * * *

  ‘Ok, I’m going; you stay here and keep an eye on them. This shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours,’ said Dean, as he headed out the door leaving Snowy to babysit the Kramer twins. Dean crept unnoticed out of the bungalow and cycled off towards the city centre.

  When he got there he walked, with his bike, through to the market square. He stood at the back end of the market where he had a clear view of Rose Crescent – West Cornwall Pastry Co on one side, French Connection on the other. After about five minutes he appeared, John Kramer, a tan canvas bag over his shoulder. Dean, suspecting that there were CCTV cameras in this busy built up part of the city, wore a hoody and a blue and white baseball cap and sunglasses to hide his identity. From his position, hidden between the market stalls, he took out his mobile and dialled John Kramer’s number.

  ‘You have the money?’ he said, still whispering, but having to whisper somewhat louder with all the ambient noise in the market.

  ‘Yes,’ it’s right here with me.’

  ‘Good, now this is how it’s gonna play out, I’m gonna bounce you around the city to make sure you aren’t being followed or that you don’t do anything stupid, like call the police. Once I’m convinced you’re alone I’ll tell you where to leave the money. We won’t be watching you all the time, but you won’t know where or when we will or won’t be. If I see you talking to anyone, anyone at all, well, let’s just say your precious twins will have a little difficulty picking things up in future – I think you understand me, yes?’

  ‘Yes, look, I just want my boys back, I’m—’

  ‘No, you look. Now listen very carefully, there are two black trash cans right in front of you, first I want you to hang up your mobile phone and toss it into one of those trash cans, then you’re going to turn to your left and walk along Market Street until you get to the end, then turn left and walk up Sidney Street until you get to Jesus lane. On the corner of Jesus lane and Sidney Street there’s a payphone. In exactly five minutes that payphone’s going to start ringing and if you don’t answer it one of your boys is going to lose a thumb. Now, toss your phone and get moving,’ he said, then hung up.

  John wasn’t stupid, he knew, going by what he’d just heard that he was being watched at that exact moment, but the market area was so busy and crowded, tying to spot somebody watching him would be next door to impossible. Besides, he didn’t know how many people were involved in the kidnapping of his boys. So, knowing that time was of the essence, he hit the End Call button, tossed his phone into the trash and jogged off towards Jesus Lane. As soon as John Kramer moved, Dean jumped on his bike and sped off up St Johns Street to get ahead of him, not that he could watch him all the way, but he figured if he was there for the beginning, to make sure he’d tossed his mobile, and there at the end, the in-between stuff would be insignificant.

  John arrived at the call box and stepped inside, he’d only been there a moment when it started to ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ok, that was easy, not let’s see if we can get some blood pumping.’ said Dean, who’d stopped cycling outside the St John’s College Chapel on the corner of St Johns Street and Bridge Street to make the call, about a hundred meters ahead of where John Kramer was. Dean had thought this through and worked the route out in advance, as well as getting the numbers for the various public phone boxes.

  ‘From where you are make your way up Bridge Street, just before you get to the river there’s a restaurant on the right, Prezzo, you know it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, right outside it there’s a public phone box, you’ve got 90 seconds so you better run fast, if you don’t answer by the fifth ring I’m hanging up and I think you know what happens after that – this little piggy went to market,’ he said, and hung up the phone. Dean shot off up Bridge Street, peddling as fast as he could, a good hundred meters ahead of John Kramer. Dean was confident– after doing a dress rehearsal a few days earlier – that he’d end up at the final destination well in advance of John Kramer. Also, being Cambridge, the bicycle capital of England, he was hardly going to stand out among hundreds of other cyclists.

  John hung up the phone and hauled arse up Bridge Street. Twenty meters from the phone box he heard it ring; he ran faster, yanked the door open and grabbed the receiver on the fourth ring.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said.

  ‘Good, I’m not even gonna give you a chance to catch your breath. Keep going across the bridge and up to the lights, turn left at the Museum of Cambridge into Northampton Street. Fifty meters up on the right, just before the green, there’s another phone box. Same as before, you’ve got 90 seconds to get there and I’m only gonna let the phone ring five times so you better get moving,’ he said, and hung up. Dean was already hiding – him and his bike, at the back of the green at Kettle’s Yard, overlooking Northampton Street – when he made the call. Although Dean could not see the phone box from where he was hiding, he could see the black public rubbish bin and the bus stop just along from it. He’d taken up a fairly decent hiding position – also previously recced – behind some dense foliage at the entrance to an alleyway, from where he could view the proceedings.

  John exited the phone box and started to run, almost knocking over a young student selling punt tours, he continued past him without apology and ran across the bridge up Magdalene Street. At the lights he turned left, still running, his chest felt like it was about to explode. Across the road he saw the phone box so he zigzagged between the moving cars, one of which sounded the horn, and yanked open the phone box door and lifted the handset, not quite sure how many times it had rang by the time he got there as the blood was pounding in his ears now.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said, huffing and puffing.

  ‘Good,’ said Dean. ‘Ok, fifty meters along from where you are there’s a bus stop right by the green, you see it?’

  ‘Yeah, I see it.’ Said John, as he turned and looked out the phone box window.

  ‘A few meters before the bus stop there’s a trash can, you see it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Ok, here’s what you do,’ said Dean, checking the time on his watch, having previously studied the bus timetable, ‘I want you to dump the money in that trashcan, discretely, don’t let anybody see you. Then I want you to wait at the bus stop and get on the first bus that comes along, which should be in about three minutes. Do you understand
?’

  ‘Yes, I understand, but what about my boys, where are they?’

  ‘They’re safe and they’ll be back with you just as soon as you’ve completed this task.’

  ‘No, I can’t do this, I want to see them, how do I know I can trust you, how do I know you’re a man of your wo—’

  ‘Enough, you do what I say and when you get on that bus you stay on it for two stops, at the second stop, get off outside the Job Centre on Chesterton Road. On the other side of the road by the river there’s a bus shelter, on the back of that bus shelter there’s a note in an envelope telling you where our boys are. And don’t get any ideas of getting on that bus with the money otherwise I’ll make a quick call to my associate and you’ll find that by the time you get there there’ll be no note and a few hours from now your boys will be found stumbling around the streets crying with bleeding hands. Then, in a couple of days you’ll receive a package in the post with four bloody thumbs in it, by which time it’ll be too late to reattach them,’ he said. His throat was starting to get a little sore due to trying to shout whispers down the line. ‘Don’t fuck with me, Kramer, this is the final hurdle, this is your chance to do the right thing and get your boys back, unharmed and intact. If the money’s not in that trash can and you’re not on that bus in two minutes you’ll find out if I’m a man of my word and you’ll find out just how handy my associate is with a Stanley Knife. Remember, you’re being watched,’ he said, then hung up. Dean let out a deep sigh and watched though the branches of dense foliage from his position barely fifty meters away, his heart pounding hard against his chest. Then, John Kramer came into view and walked right up to the bin, trying to be discreet about looking around while he walked. He quickly checked around to make sure nobody was watching, then he removed the lid from the waste bin and dropped the tan canvas bag into it and put the lid back. He then walked another twenty paces to the bus stop and waited. Dean could see him looking towards the bin every ten seconds. It was agony, Dean could barely stand it, but, right on time, three minutes later, the bus arrived at the stop. It seemed more like half an hour. The doors opened and John Kramer stepped onto the bus, the doors closing behind him. The bus pulled away and as soon as it was out of sight alongside the high wall of the museum, Dean hopped out of his hiding place – still in hoody, baseball cap and sunglasses – got on his bike and cycled down the little narrow concrete path to the main road. He looked left just in time to see the bus going through the green lights, no sign of John Kramer so, assuming he was on the bus and heading away, he made for the trashcan. He stopped right next to it, had a quick check around just in case Kramer had decided to get off the bus and run back, then he whipped the lid off and grabbed up the tan bag, threw it over his shoulder and cycled away up a side alleyway. At the top of the alley he stopped for a moment and stuffed the tan bag into his own larger Slazenger sports rucksack, then put that over his shoulders. Still paranoid about CCTV he didn’t want anybody spotting somebody cycling along with the exact same tan bag that John Kramer had used to transport the cash. He then headed towards Histon Road, to the bungalow where Snowy and the Kramer twins were waiting.