Abby’s face was even closer to the steering wheel than usual as she flicked her attention between the road ahead and the looming image in her rear-view mirror.
“Speed up!” insisted Sam again, which likely only served to increase her anxiety levels.
“Sam!” she shouted. “It’s a bloody Ford Focus, not a Porsche!”
Sam gripped onto the side of his seat as Abby threw the car into a sharp left-hand bend. “It’s a Ford Fiesta, not a Focus,” he said, correcting her through gritted teeth.
“I don’t care what it is!” replied Abby. “Unless this car has a set of wings and a jet engine stuck to the roof, we’re not going to outrun them. My phone is in my handbag on the parcel shelf. You’ll need to reach over and…”
Sam opened one eye and immediately felt a searing pain running down the left side of his face. “Ahhh,” he groaned. He spluttered as the blood which ran down his cheek ran freely into his mouth. His vision was blurry, and it took a minute or two for things to sharpen back into focus.
It took a further moment before he could work out where he was and what had happened. “Abby, are you okay?” he asked, once he’d recovered his senses. “Abby,” he repeated. “Are you okay?” He looked to the driver’s seat, but it was empty. “Abby!” he said once again, only louder.
She was gone, but the engine was still running. The car had spun 180 degrees on the narrow country lane, with Sam’s door now pressed firmly up against a grass bank. The driver’s door was partly ajar, so he took off his seatbelt and shimmied over, taking the opportunity to examine his injury in the rear-view mirror as he did so. Aside from a discoloured egg-shaped lump on the side of his head and a small gash — under his eye, where the blood had originated — he was in fairly good shape, it seemed, although more pain was sure to present itself later on.
He got out of the car to see if Abby was nearby, injured. But there was no sign of her. He put his hand to his head once again. “I wonder how long I was out,” he said to himself. He scanned the narrow road, both ways, but she simply wasn’t there. “Abby!” he screamed. “Where are you??”
He sat on the bonnet of the car, head in his hands. “Bollocks!” he said aloud. “Abby!”
He examined the car for damage, but, like his head, it appeared mainly superficial. The two left wheels had come to rest in a narrow ditch, but the car looked to be relatively intact. He climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Come on,” he pleaded as the wheel struggled to gain traction. He fought with the steering wheel as he applied the accelerator liberally. “Come on, you little bastard,” he said, as the car eventually eased itself free.
With no clue as to Abby’s whereabouts, Sam sped back on the route they’d just travelled. He knew that those who’d forced them off the road must have known where Emma was holed up.
Sam had started the day tasked with finding one woman — Emma’s sister — and it was now looking likely that he was now looking for three women. “Shit, shit, shit,” he said, as he sped back toward Laxey, hoping beyond hope that Emma was still safe.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, concerned that the pain near his tailbone may be as a result of the car crash. With one hand left on the wheel, he used his free hand to reach down and search for any obvious injury. He was relieved to find that there was, in fact, no apparent injury — just the mother of all wedgies. The impact of the crash, it would appear, had caused his shorts — already too tight — to ride up his back, causing the gusset area to seek shelter halfway up his arsehole.
“You’re going in the soddin’ fire, as soon as I get home,” he admonished his shorts, whilst wrestling the fabric free from his bum (though, to be fair, if the shorts had a mind, incineration would very likely have been a decidedly more desirable destination than their current location).
Sam continued to shout expletives, and the horrible realisation sunk in that he might be in the shit much too deep — just like the fabric of his shorts.
“Abby, please be alright,” he implored, as he sped — at considerable velocity — passing the sign welcoming ‘safer drivers’ to Laxey.
Chapter Ten
The Pillow Case
I went to college, Mikey, did you know that?” the man said, in a deep, rasping voice with a thick New York accent. When he didn’t get a response, he continued. “I wanted to be a vet. Or something with animals. I like animals,” he said, stroking the back of his plate-like hand like it were a sick dog. “I used to volunteer at the zoo when I was a kid, back home. I should do that again,” He stared out the window with a sense of melancholy. “Mikey, what about you?”
Mikey gripped the steering wheel — his hands enveloped in black leather gloves — and gave his colleague no attention to speak of.
“Mikey?” his partner insisted on asking again.
“What?” said Mikey eventually, with little interest but finally seeing no choice but to acknowledge the question.
“About you. What did you want to do?”
Mikey laughed, in not a laugh-out-loud laugh but rather a resigned I’ve-accepted-my-lot kind of laugh. “Joey,” he said. “I’m not the animal sort. Sure, I like to shoot them. You know. In a field. That sort of thing.”
Joey was wounded by his colleague’s reply, but he refrained from responding to it. He glanced at the cattle prod protruding from the waistband of his partner’s trousers, and he stifled an expression of disdain by momentarily looking out the window. Joey’s broad shoulders easily filled the sumptuous leather seat. His neck gathered in folds above the constricting collar of his formal white shirt. He was a hulk of a man, but he was not without feeling.
“What do you tell your wife when you come away on trips like this?” Joey asked, facing his partner again. There was a vulnerability to be found there, on Joey’s face, if his partner had known where to look. For a man with a face as weathered and intimidating as Joey had, however, that vulnerability was well hidden.
Mikey threw him a glance. “What?” he said curtly, impatient at this line of questioning. “What the hell are you talking about now?”
“Your wife. What do you tell her?”
“I’m not married,” Mikey replied.
“Okay, girlfriend, brother, uncle, what-have-you,” Joey offered. “There must be someone you say goodbye to when you go on a trip. What do you say to them?”
“What?” repeated Mikey, with no attempt to hide his displeasure. “I tell them I’m going away. On business.”
“Ah,” said Joey. “That’s my point. What do you tell them? You can’t exactly say, I’m a henchman, and I’m going away to kidnap people and attack people with a cattle prod.”
Mikey shrugged his shoulders. “I tell them I’m going on business.”
“I tried that,” said Joey. “But it didn’t work. That just prompted more questions. I need some sort of cover story that doesn’t promote more questions and that seems plausible.”
“Plausible?” said Mikey. “What the hell kind of word is that for a hitman? Christ, you’re just like the people on this stupid island — you speak English, but you don’t speak English.”
“I’m sorry,” Joey began. “I didn’t realise—”
“The problem with you is, you think too much,” Mikey interrupted.
“I… what?” Joey wasn’t sure how to even respond.
“That’s right. I’m tellin’ you, thinking about things too much is the cause of most problems. It only leads to trouble. Believe me, I’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“You’ve… given this a lot of thought, have you?” asked Joey, somewhat incredulous. “Not too much thought, though, I hope?”
“I can think smart things too!” Mikey insisted, oblivious to the jab. “Just because I never finished school, and just because I don’t read books and stuff and know big words like you do, doesn’t mean I can’t think smart things sometimes!”
“Okay,” Joey replied, trying to placate his partner, particularly because it was Mikey who was behind the wheel. “No offence me
ant.”
The drive was very quiet for the next ten minutes or so until, eventually, Joey spoke again.
“So what did you tell them?” he said.
“What?” asked Joey, confused.
“Your wife, girlfriend… whatever,” Mikey replied. “So what did you tell them about what you were doing?” Mikey had clearly been giving this a lot of thought during the interim.
Joey smiled. “Girlfriend,” he said. “She likes animals, too.”
“Going out with you, that doesn’t surprise me,” chuckled Mikey.
Joey let the comment pass and responded to Mikey’s question. “I told her that I’m doing missionary work with the poor,” he explained. “But I need to come up with something better.”
“No shit,” replied Mikey. But then he thought for a moment. “So she actually believed that bullshit missionary line?”
“Sure,” said Joey. “She’s—”
“Stupid?” Mikey suggested.
“Trusting,” Joey said, correcting him. “She’s lovely, and she has no reason to believe I’m lying to her.”
Mikey pressed the indicator lever on the steering column and pulled the car off the main road, through an imposing stone entrance gate, and then up a winding tree-lined driveway. The house was impressive, even from the distance of their current vantage point. They were near to the Island’s airport, and a jet had commenced its final approach noisily above them. The quaint village of Castletown was visible in the distance through a break in the trees where the ancient castle filled the panoramic view.
“I don’t understand this,” said Joey. “I know Mr Esposito has got a bottomless pit of cash. But how does he just show up virtually unannounced on an island, and yet still manage to get access to a property like this? It’s freaking amazing.”
“He knows people, I guess?” offered Mikey.
Joey remained unconvinced. “The boss didn’t even know the name of the island when we arrived. I just don’t get it.”
“You don’t need to get it, Joey. You just need to do what the boss says, see? This is exactly what I was talking about before.”
“I wonder if they go on Airbnb?” Joey mused, more thinking out loud now than talking to his partner.
“What?” responded Mikey, annoyed. He tended to get annoyed when he didn’t understand things. Consequently, he was often annoyed.
“Airbnb,” Joey repeated, turning to face his associate now. “Do you think they have a specialised section for mob bosses and multinational criminals? I mean, how else do they get property like this, and at such short notice?”
Mikey laughed derisively. It was easier than trying to work out what his partner was on about.
“Regardless of how he does it, Joey, our job was to bring Emma Hopkins to him. So, that means I go home with a big fat bonus check. Which makes me very happy. And I could care less how he got this place.”
“Couldn’t care less,” Joey mumbled under his breath, not loud enough to be audible.
“Come on,” said Mikey, confident the conversation had been settled. “Get her out of the back. And if she gives you any shit, I’ll introduce her to my cattle prod.” He patted his device affectionately.
Joey was a hulk of a man, but he was a gentleman. Well, as gentlemanly as you can possibly be with a woman you’ve currently got bound, gagged, kidnapped, and with a pillowcase thrown over her head. He opened the rear door and extended a firm but gentle hand. “Out you come,” he said gently. “Don’t do anything foolish and you’ll be just fine.”
He helped her out of the car and escorted her towards the impressive white mansion house, pillowcase still in place over her head. “Mikey,” he said. “Do you think the boss just sits there on a big throne waiting for us to return? You know, like a Bond villain?” He had to. He just couldn’t help himself. The only way to amuse himself on these outings was to get his partner riled up.
Mikey shook his head dismissively. “Hurry up,” he simply said in response. “And keep a firm grip on her.”
With Emma in tow, Joey bowed his head in acknowledgement to another brutish man stood guard in the vast entrance hall at the front of the house.
“Where’s the boss?” asked Mikey, who in return received a grunt and a glance in the direction of a room further up the marble-tiled corridor.
“That’s another thing,” said Joey, once past the entry guard. “Who’s that guy at the door? He didn’t come with us on the plane.”
“How the hell should I know?” Mikey replied.
“This goes back to my earlier point,” Joey reflected. “Mr E has this house on standby, and all of a sudden there’s staff all over the place and a thug standing menacingly at the front door. Where do you recruit henchmen?”
“You should know,” said Mikey. “He must have hired you just like he hired everybody else.”
“Well, yes,” Joey replied, using his formidable hand to guide Emma into a quicker pace. “But I used to be a driver. And my position just… sort of evolved.”
Mikey stopped and turned. “Joey, you seriously need to stop thinking so much. It will get you killed.”
Mikey used the gold sovereign ring on his finger, and rapped on the imposing oak door before entering without invitation.
Mr Esposito sat with his arms resting on an expansive mahogany desk, with his face engrossed in a stack of uneven paperwork. He held an antique silver teaspoon and gently stirred a cup of coffee in a delicate china cup, and the scent of Italian dark roast filled the room.
Mr Esposito didn’t avert his gaze, but acknowledged those stood in front of him by slowly raising his index finger. It wasn’t at first apparent, but aside from the paperwork, Mr Esposito was also hosting a call on speakerphone. He strummed his fingers before saying, “Well, if we cannot buy him. You know what to do.” He said this placidly, and yet in a voice that nevertheless sounded menacing.
Joey and Mikey stood, waiting their turn, flanking Emma — who remained gagged and with a cover over her head. She moaned incoherently, stopping only to kick out at the nearest shins she could find. Joey gripped her arm with more force than he had previously and pressed her forward after Mr Esposito ended his call, presenting her to him.
“Very fine,” said Mr Esposito softly, looking off the rim of his glasses. “Mr Swan,” he added, to no one within view. In an instant, however, Mr Swan appeared from behind a door at the rear corner of the room.
“Would you mind bringing Madeline to me?” Mr Esposito said, addressing Mr Swan, before returning his attention to those stood in front of him once more. “I do enjoy a family reunion, and I am sure Madeline will be delighted to see her sister once again.”
Mr Esposito ushered the trio closer with a wiggle of his index finger. “So. Emma Hopkins. We really should not leave you waiting, especially when we have your sister here, who I am certain is quite eager to see you.” And, then, “Is that not correct?” he said to Madeline, who had now appeared beside him.
“Was the pillowcase necessary?” asked Mr Esposito to no one in particular.
Joey stepped forward a pace. “Sir. We didn’t want her to know where you were staying, sir,” he said, his large hands held one over the other in front of him, politely.
“Very fine,” said Mr Esposito. “When you are ready,” he added, continuing to look at Joey.
Joey did not immediately respond. He was lost in thought, wondering how long Mr Swan had been waiting behind that door before being called upon. He was curious to know how these things worked.
Mikey seized the opportunity, removing the pillowcase, and unfastening the gag from Emma’s mouth. Mikey stepped forward now as well, ready to receive the plaudits. He had a dumb smile on his face, and he’d never been properly introduced to manners. “There ya go, Mr E,” he said, with unwarranted unfamiliarity.
Mr Esposito took his left hand and flattened his receding white hairline, very slowly, while taking a deep breath. With his right hand, he gently stirred his coffee. The tinkling of the spoon agains
t the china cup made a sound not unlike a ship’s bell, marking the time. He then raised his head slightly up, turning it from left to right in a graceful arc, like a silent lion’s roar, while he loosened his silk cravat to make himself more comfortable. “Who is this?” Mr Esposito asked evenly, though a vein on his forehead was throbbing noticeably.
With Mikey realising there was no adulation to be had, he immediately stepped back to his former position.
Joey looked at Mikey and Mikey at Joey. If they weren’t currently in such a precarious situation, one could be forgiven for assuming they were bashful lovers, unsure who was going to make the first move.
“Boss?” asked Mikey tentatively.
“Sir?” asked Joey.
“Who is this?” Mr Esposito repeated.
Joey quickly understood that Mr Esposito would not have asked this previous question if all were well. He took the opportunity to also moisten his lips before speaking again. “Sir? This is Emma Hopkins… sir?” he said, not at all confident in what he was saying as he would have been only a moment before.
Mikey took a further pace back.
“Do I look like a stupid man?” asked Mr Esposito, eerily calm, but the pulsing vein betraying his fury. “Mr Swan,” he said, turning to Mr Swan. “Tell me, do I look like a stupid man?”
Mr Swan stepped forward like he was on military parade. “No sir, Mr Esposito, you are many things, but stupid is not one of them.”
“Thank you, Mr Swan. Very fine,” replied Mr Esposito, before rising from his desk and advancing towards Joey — who now had a shimmering patch of moisture forming on his forehead.
Madeline started to laugh. “Who’s that?” she asked.
“Exactly,” said Mr Esposito, indulging the impertinent interruption. “Who is this?”
Despite his massive frame, Joey’s knees were starting to feel wobbly. “Sir,” he said, ever the gentleman. “We followed the car, sir, as instructed. We were told the registration number of the car, where Emma Hopkins was likely to be, and procured this woman from it once an opportunity presented itself.”
The Seaside Detective Agency Page 10