by Stuart Keane
“I just need a bit more time.”
“You’ve had all the time you needed. Sorry, Vincent, but I have to take another finger —”
“No wait, wait.”
His raised voice attracted the attention of the managers.
There was no response from the end of the phone. “You get thirty minutes. If you don’t sort my issue by then, she is a dead woman.”
“Okay … thanks.”
Vincent reckoned he needed more time than that, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He signalled Ian over.
Ian walked across with a confident stride, acquired by a combination of many business lunches, bullshit meetings and general manager activity. He stood next to Vincent. The look on his face was almost condescending.
Vincent typed into the email box:
HE HAS GIVEN US 30 MINS. WHAT ARE THE ODDS WE CAN DO THIS? REGARDLESS OF PROTOCOL?
Ian spun the keyboard towards himself. He typed:
NONE. NO PROTOCOLS WERE EVER DESIGNED FOR THIS.
Vincent dropped his head. After a second, he typed:
SO THE WOMAN WILL DIE?
Ian nodded. No typing needed.
“You sound busy, Vincent,” came the voice of the man who’d threatened murder. “Managers being managers, I suppose?”
“Yes, they are.” Vincent closed his eyes. This was hopeless.
Then he remembered the email.
He closed his text box and brought it up onscreen.
He read it, just to be sure.
After a second, he brought up Mr. Pierce’s policy and checked the policy notes.
C’mon, he hummed to himself, where the fuck are you? There.
He scrolled through the notes. As he’d known, the policy had been cancelled. However, there was something familiar about the notes.
Suddenly everything fell into place.
Vincent almost vomited right there and then. What he had in mind was a long shot, but a realistic one. It was so obvious.
“Mr. Pierce … if I may, can I put you on hold for one moment?”
“Pushing your luck now, aren’t you?”
“Please …it’s out of respect for you, I don’t want to talk over you…”
“You have two minutes.”
Vincent pushed hold.
“Ian,” he said to his boss. “Sarah isn’t sick. Look.”
Vincent showed him the email. It was a performance review scheduled for 13:00. A meeting about Vincent’s performance during the last twelve months. “She wouldn’t have called in sick. She never does when it comes to our performance. Sarah’s the most dedicated team leader I know. She wouldn’t bail on us, even if she was sick. I knew something was odd about it.”
“So?”
Vincent flicked to the policy notes. “And this, his policy, Mr. Pierce, the guy on the phone. His policy was cancelled by Sarah, too. Prematurely…”
Ian hadn’t been able to connect the dots. Vincent sighed. He pushed the hold button on his phone. “Mr. Pierce…?”
“Hello, Vincent.”
“Can I ask you one thing?”
“Yes. I am tiring of your questions though, so keep it brief. I mean it, your questions aren’t helping at the moment.”
“What was your company’s business, you know, before you went bust?”
“Not that it is any of your business, but I was a private investigator. A very successful one. Until our government funding was cut. Apparently the government would rather pay idle police officers to investigate the crimes that don’t matter, than pay people who want to really solve crime. No room for those who actually do the legwork. Disgusting, if you ask me.”
The reluctant negotiator fell silent. For too long.
Then Pierce laughed.
“What’s the matter, Vincent? Your team leader not turn up for work today?”
Vincent’s heart sank.
“Would you like to speak to her?”
NINE
SUNDAY
4:08PM
Sarah didn’t normally go out on Sunday, but on this occasion she didn’t have a choice. Her mother’s birthday was in three days and she’d realised that remembering to buy a card had skipped her mind.
Due to three long work shifts and performance reviews with her colleagues, the next three days guaranteed that she wouldn’t have a chance to buy one during that period. She was just too busy.
It was Sunday or nothing.
Great, she thought. At least I can pop into Starbucks.
Two hours later she was walking back to her car, her hands full with three carrier bags containing a card, wrapping paper, bows, ribbons and a CD, plus a Starbucks cappuccino. As she neared her car, she pushed the keyfob and unlocked the boot then opened it. In one movement, she swung the bags inside, closed it and stepped back beside her car. The phone in her pocket vibrated. She pulled it out to check who was calling, and placed the Starbucks cup on the roof of the car.
It was a text, ironically from her mother asking her to dinner. Sarah smiled and replied with a few quick finger strokes. She wasn’t to know that this timing, on this particular Sunday, would be the start of a nightmare.
“Excuse me, do you have the time?” said someone behind her.
Sarah turned around, unsure what she had heard.
A blond man was standing there, looking a little out of place. He stepped towards her gingerly, holding a hand against his leg, as if it was injured.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Sarah’s eyes narrowed. The guy took one more step closer. His hair was ragged and dirty. His clothes were creased and unkempt. There was an essence of uncleanliness about him, coupled with an aroma of sweat and fried food, possibly alcohol. His smile was lazy, as if he didn’t smile anymore and the sheer effort was weakening him.
He looks a mess, she thought.
“Do you have the time?” The man tapped his wrist.
Sarah smiled and glanced down to look at her watch.
She didn’t see the fist shoot out, or realise what was happening until it connected with her jaw. Sarah fell down like a sack of potatoes. Her head bounced off the side of her car, making a clunking noise.
Alan Pierce abducted Sarah in broad daylight, and drove her away in her own vehicle. He shoved her in the boot, on top of the birthday gifts. No one saw it happen. The car park didn’t have CCTV.
Things that Mr. Pierce knew about in advance.
The car pulled away. The Starbucks’ coffee fell to the ground and splashed on the cracked concrete.
He drove for thirty minutes.
When he stopped, darkness was starting to fall.
Sarah couldn’t see when she woke up. At first, she thought she may have become blind. That thought soon thankfully disappeared when she noticed the dim light bulb in the ceiling. She was lying on a bed that felt unfamiliar and damp. The mattress was hard and thin.
Sarah sat up and her head ached. She lay back down again. Within seconds, she dozed off once more.
The second time Sarah woke up, a tray of food was on the floor. For the first time, she noticed a door. The food was set down just behind a small hatch.
There was a bowl of red soup, two slices of unbuttered bread and a plastic bottle of water. Nothing else. Sarah stood up and looked at the food. Was she looking at a trap?
“Hello?” she called out.
Silence.
“Is anyone here? Hello?”
Silence.
Sarah’s head felt as if it was pounding with pain and she suddenly felt ragged. She retched and rubbed her temple with her thumbs.
She walked towards the food, but she didn’t touch it.
“Don’t worry, it’s not drugged.”
The voice came from the door that Sarah hadn’t realised had opened. A man stood there, silhouetted by the light behind him. Sarah stared at him. The throbbing in her skull suddenly became unbearable.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“That’s none of your concern. Eat.”
Sarah licked her l
ips. “No.”
The man’s shadow moved slightly. Sarah realised he had lowered his head. “I won’t ask you again. Eat.”
She backed away. “No … not until you tell me where I am.”
Her abductor stepped forward and kicked her food against the wall. The bowl shattered into pieces, and red soup sprayed the concrete like warm paint. The tray skidded to a halt while the bread stuck to the wall and slid down. The man then turned and left. Sarah returned to the bed. She sat on its edge, thinking.
Three minutes later, the man returned. His reactions were quick. Before Sarah could react, he had smothered her face with a rag.
For the third time, she lapsed into sleep.
Sarah coughed herself awake after this third instance of forced unconsciousness. When she calmed herself, the man was standing, watching.
Observing.
She covered her chest with her arms, feeling violated. She began to back away from him, but the wall stopped her. Sarah wished the wall would open up and swallow her.
The man stepped forward. “I’m a tolerant man but ignoring me, and being rude in my home, will reap punishment,” he told her. “Do you understand?”
Sarah, not wanting another chemical-soaked rag in her face, nodded slowly. She kept her arms clasped around her. The man stepped from the shadows. The chink of light from beyond the door illuminated his features. She realised that it was the man from the parking lot. He looked a lot rougher in the darkness, which Sarah thought was weird.
“Good,” he snapped. “Now, you need to make a phone call. On your mobile phone. You need to, how do the kids put it? Pull a sickie at work.”
Sarah’s eyebrows flicked up, and then confusion took over. “Why? I don’t want to be rude, but I want to know why.”
“Let’s put it this way, Sarah Woods. You’re twenty-five, drive a black Ford Fiesta and you’re allergic to peanuts. You live alone, but have a boyfriend. Seven weeks so far, a good run. You like him, but don’t think you’re ready to take the next step. You’ve a cat called Sooty. You like drinking chocolate milkshake. You own three credit cards, two of which are clean and just last week, you applied for your first mortgage. Oh, and I know about that tattoo.”
Sarah said nothing. Her mouth was open, from shock and awe, not to mention embarrassment. Her hand moved to her left butt cheek, remembering where the tattoo was. Again, she felt violated. “How? What? How’d you know?”
“I know a lot of things, Sarah. You can’t outsmart me, you can’t escape me. No one knows you’re here. Which is why the call is of such importance.” The man stepped forward with a mobile phone, holding it out to her in his hand.
Sarah’s mobile phone.
She took it gently. He stepped back. “Dial work. Call in sick for tomorrow. Do it now.”
Sarah paused. A second later, she dialled a number from memory and put the phone to her ear. The man gripped her arm, his hand feeling like ice against her skin. “If you alert anyone, I’ll kill you right here,” he warned.
Sarah didn’t alert anyone.
Four minutes later, the call was finished. The man smiled and handed her a white bag. She witnessed him smash her phone before her eyes, then collect the pieces and leave the room.
Sarah opened the bag. Inside was a bottle of milkshake and a sandwich that held too much lettuce. Chicken and tomato accompanied the green leaves. Sarah ate and drank. The food was bland, but the drink felt heavenly on her tongue.
Within an hour the drugs kicked in and Sarah slept until morning. She didn’t even notice the sleep creep up and take her.
The next time Sarah awoke, the man had dragged her from bed. He had punched and kicked her. She was taken into another room, a bright room with a sofa and a computer. The light hurt her eyes. A phone sat next to the computer. A black box was attached to its receiver. Several empty Coke cans were scattered around the console.
The slap woke her up.
The man was chatting to someone on the phone. She wanted to scream, to call for help, but she couldn’t open her lips. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. She was slowly coming to her senses.
The finger removal had knocked her out once more. The pain was unbearable. Due to lack of food and drink, shock had immediately attacked her nervous system. The sight of blood had caused her to faint.
Much later, how long she had no idea, Sarah awoke groggy, sick and in pain. She couldn’t move her hand.
When she did, she felt her body freeze and sweat at the same time.
She didn’t remember much after that.
Nothing much at all.
The man didn’t return.
Not until much later.
TEN
MONDAY
10:01AM
The floor seemed to disappear from beneath Vincent. At that moment, nothing else seemed real. The people around him, the managers who were following company policy way too strictly, Mr. Pierce and his evil laugh, everything seemed redundant. He felt the blood drain from his cheeks. He shivered. After a moment, sound resumed, his vision returned to normal and he was back in the office.
At work.
Ian was standing there, staring at him. For a moment, everything had gone blank.
“Vincent?”
Reality washed over him. He remembered where he was.
Mr. Pierce was on the other end of the phone line.
Vincent sighed. “Yes?”
“Do you want to speak to her?”
Sarah.
Then it hit him. “You have Sarah. Is she there with you?”
Ian’s hands flew up to his face, covering his mouth. The move looked more dramatic than it should have done, the reaction of a manager realising that this issue had suddenly become a lot more personal: one of their employees was in terrible danger. Before now it had just been an angry customer complaining. Now, it was much more than that.
The senior man walked over to the other managers. Within seconds, they were updated. William nearly fainted once again. Julia had to prop herself up on a nearby desk. Vincent stopped looking at them. He sat in his seat, defeated. He closed his eyes and focused.
“Mr. Pierce. Why do you have —”
“Sarah? You know damn well why. Surely a competent consultant like you has figured this out by now?”
Vincent said nothing. He brought up the policy details onscreen again and looked at them. Sarah’s four-digit ID number was prominent on the screen. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? He should have put the pieces together sooner, but he’d only noticed mere moments ago. Sarah had lost a finger because of him. Or maybe a finger was just the beginning.
“Is she okay?”
“Apart from the fact that she might have difficulty steering a car two-handed now, yes, she’s fine.”
Vincent wanted to be sick. Adrenaline was rushing through his veins. It was the only thing keeping him going right now. “Can I speak to her?”
“A figure of speech, I’m afraid. No. You don’t make decisions around here, I do. You can blame William for that. Besides, she’s in no state to respond.”
Vincent didn’t push his luck. He knew the man was becoming more maniacal by the second.
He tried a different approach.
“I know why you took her. A bit drastic, don’t you think? She didn’t do anything —”
Mr. Pierce cut him off. “That’s bullshit and you know it. She cancelled my policy. Prematurely, you said it yourself. She had no right to do it and, because of that, your Monday morning is now getting a lot worse than it should have been. Your colleague here didn’t have to cancel it, she could’ve left well alone. But no, she stuck her fucking oar in and now, look where it’s got us…”
Vincent said nothing. It seemed that Mr. Pierce was pausing to think.
“She killed my little girl.”
And there it was.
Vincent had been waiting for this. He’d been dreading this moment. Anything he said now had the potential to push Alan Pierce over the edge. He looked up. The managers
were absorbed in a heavy discussion in the corner. To his surprise, a police officer had appeared on the floor. He was listening to the managers’ talk.
Vincent felt a rage building up inside him. He’d specifically said no police. He tried to keep a lid on his fury. The last thing he needed was for the anger he felt to come across on the phone. He looked towards his coffee cup. The dregs of the coffee remained. He held the cup, moved it around in his hand and placed it back down on the desk. Leanne stepped over to him, took the cup and walked away.
A sliver of hope. The small things always mattered.
“Mr. Pierce?”
“Yes, Vincent.”
“No one killed your little girl apart from the driver of the car that hit you. Right now, apart from you and your family, there is no one in the world who wishes that guy had survived more than me. Maybe it could have given you closure to see him punished, I don’t know. I have nothing I can say that will solve this issue for you. I won’t disrespect you by pretending I have some fancy speech lined up … I just don’t have any words that can do this justice. All I can say is this: it sounds like you were a great father.”
Silence.
Vincent listened.
He remembered CSI and similar shows, where a background noise could help identify a location. He always found it fascinating that such technology existed, but this wasn’t Vegas, this was England. And Vincent couldn’t hear anything.
“Fuck you, Vincent.”
Leanne returned with a full coffee cup. She placed it on Vincent’s desk. He nodded a silent ‘thank you’ to her. As he did, he noticed that the anger had returned to Mr. Pierce’s voice.
“I’m sorry?”
“Fuck you. You don’t know me. You don’t know what sort of father I was. How dare you say such things to me? You think because I’m on the phone for an hour, a wasted hour, I might add, that you can speak to me like that? Don’t you forget where you are, or who is in charge here. Don’t forget I have Sarah here. Your managers should be kissing my arse over the fact that I haven’t killed this bitch yet. And to be honest, I'm running out of fucking patience! Your thirty minutes are nearly over.”