by Neil Watson
She felt as though, in slow motion, she was watching a one-arm bandit machine in a casino. The more fruits that aligned the more worried for Oliver she became.
Had Oliver been referring to the photo of Yushi’s note that she’d texted him earlier? What should she do? Realising the potential severity of the situation, and that this was indeed no joke, she knew she had to call the Police. Her hands trembled as she tapped the numbers on the dial screen, and initially got no response whatsoever. “Come on!” Siobhan shouted at her phone. Damn! She’d pressed ‘811’ instead of ‘911’. She tried again, and waited for what seemed like an eternity.
Eventually, she heard a click, and then a woman’s voice. “911. What emergency service do you require?”
“Police. Please hurry,” said Siobhan, realising that she’d never in her life called Police, Ambulance or Fire. More clicks, and then another woman asked her a series of questions about her identification, address and location. It was all taking far too long, thought Siobhan, as she noticed the battery indicator on her phone turn red, informing her that she only had 5% charge left. At this rate, it would go dead before she’d even had a chance to tell them about Oliver’s situation.
She began to shout, while at the same time doing her best not to panic. “Look, my phone’s going to cut out at any moment. Please, just listen. My friend’s been kidnapped. He may be in danger. He . . .”
The woman interrupted in a firm manner. “Ma’am, please do your best to keep calm. I know it may be difficult for you, but we must get all your particulars before we proceed. And what is the name of your friend?”
Exasperated, Siobhan gave her Oliver’s full name, and then began trying to explain, without getting too tongue-tied, about the potential danger he might be in. But infuriatingly, the woman kept stopping her. “Ma’am, it’s very important you speak clearly and concisely. Where and when did you last see Mr. Markland?”
Siobhan could feel herself about to explode. “Yesterday afternoon. But that’s irrelevant. It’s today that he was due to be meeting someone in Paris . . .” The woman, who could have been operating out of anywhere in the country, and obviously not familiar with the towns of Illinois, cut in yet again: “What, Paris, France? In that case Madam, you need to . . .”
At that moment, Siobhan could hear nothing more, and she found herself staring at a blank screen as her smartphone finally ran out of power. “Oh God!” she cried out. “Now what do I do?” she asked herself. She thought for a moment, remembering that she’d noticed some phone accessories in the shop next to the Starbucks franchise inside the highway services. She ran back to the building and began searching for the correct charger for her Samsung Galaxy among all the various gizmos displayed. There! She found one for her particular model and grabbed it off the hook before darting across to the pay booth, searching through her bag trying to quickly find her purse and Visa card.
She looked around in case there was a payphone, but unfortunately there was only one, and it was occupied. That’s a sign of our times, Siobhan thought, remembering that only a few short years ago it would be normal to see a whole row of them. For once, as she rushed back to her car, she resented the modern age of fast-developing technology.
Back inside the car, after undoing the overcomplicated plastic wrapping, she then plugged the charger into the cigar lighter and connected her phone to it. Impatiently, she had to wait a few excruciatingly long minutes before her phone finally burst back to life. While leaving it on charge, she tapped 911 once more.
Incensed, poor Siobhan had to go through the whole calling process yet again, wasting precious moments when all she wanted was to alert the powers-that-be about Oliver’s plight. At long last, once she’d been able to explain everything sufficiently enough for the authorities to take proper notice, and not before time, she was asked for the exact message that Oliver had sent her. Fortunately, her brain was sharp enough to be able to recite it precisely.
At the point when Siobhan said, “SAME TRUCK AS MRS T SAW”, she suddenly remembered that she had the pictures from Mrs. Toporofski on her own phone. When she told the woman at the 911 call-centre this fact, Siobhan also tried explaining who ‘Mrs. T’ was, but ended up confusing things more. “Madam, I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” the woman said curtly. “Please just wait with your vehicle at your location and we will send a patrol car to you.”
Very thankful that she was now being taken seriously, Siobhan said goodbye and then, while waiting for the Police to arrive, called her aunt at the newspaper.
Ursula answered straight away, but only managed to hear half the story before her niece told her that she had to go because, what seemed like after no time at all, she could see a police car pulling into the busy highway services area. Ursula was left bemused, while Siobhan assumed the car was the one that had been dispatched to meet her, got out of her own car and waved her arms in the air to attract attention.
Two officers approached her. “Siobhan O’Mahoney?” asked one of them, an overweight black male. His colleague, a white female as thin as her colleague was fat, didn’t say anything to begin with and let her colleague do the talking. “So, there’s been a kidnapping? A Mr. Oliver Markland? And you’ve got pictures of the kidnapper’s vehicle, you say? Can we see, please?”
“Sure,” replied Siobhan. “But you’ll need to sit in my car. The images are on my phone, and that’s charging right now. It’s got zero power at the moment, so if I unplug it, it will die again.” As if it were a scene from a Keystone Cops movie, the man squeezed with great difficulty into the passenger seat of Siobhan’s tiny Honda. While the policewoman got in back and leant her head forward, they both looked on as Siobhan found the images on her screen of a rusty old pickup truck.
“You don’t see many like that anymore,” the policeman said, admiring the distinct lines of the old model Dodge V8 that, as a car enthusiast, he recognised easily.
“Now, wait a minute,” said the woman, screwing up her eyes so she could see the screen better. “If we’re not mistaken, we followed this vehicle back to the trailer park in Marshall for speeding recently—it may even have been only yesterday. The guy had no insurance and no current licence plate, and should have attended a drink-drug course. We gave him a warning as we got called away pronto. Rough looking son of a . . . What’s your man’s name? Ozborn? Hang on, let’s check this out.”
She went back to the patrol car and began punching some details into the on-dash computer. Her male colleague stayed and talked with Siobhan in order to get a clearer understanding of the whole story, since the incomprehensible message from the call-centre had been far from clear. “Man! I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed. “Young Sherlock? You don’t say! I seen him on the TV.” He struggled to get his large frame out from Siobhan’s small car seat, and called across to the patrol car. “We’re only dealing with that doggone English detective here! The one that’s been on the TV recently. You betcha! Well, I’ll be damned.”
Lorraine Mills, being the more senior of the pair, spoke firmly to her colleague. “Thank you, Officer,” she said, while continuing to check things on the police’s database. This was the first day the patrolman had gone out on duty with her, and she was so far not overly amused by him. Maybe they’d just got things off on the wrong foot. “That may as well be, but we sure would appreciate you not cussing like that,” she called back. Feeling embarrassed about having his language reprimanded while in the presence of Miss O’Mahoney, if it hadn’t been for his dark skin, the poor man would have gone red.
It didn’t take Sergeant Mills too long to receive a more comprehensive picture of Marc Ozborn, the owner of the pickup, based on his previous behavioural records. She liked to put two and two together and make four. She was better at doing this in real life than when she watched the latest whodunit mystery on TV. Despite her love of detective books, Lorraine could never quite manage to work out who the killer was, much to the amusement of her husband Lee. “You’d think with all your reading, and being
a policewoman an’ all, you’d be better at playing TV detective,” he’d say. She’d laugh.
But today Mills was firmly in the real world, and knew exactly how to conduct herself in the pursuit of her professional duty. Added to that, due to Ozborn’s more recent misdemeanours and scuffles with the law, she was able to establish that he needed apprehending at the earliest opportunity. She returned to Siobhan’s car. “If it’s correct that he’s heading away from Paris along Highway 150, we shouldn’t find it too difficult to spot him. We’ve already checked with The Old Parlor, and the waitress remembers serving a young man with an English accent—and she later saw him leave with an older, rough looking man, probably in his late sixties, early seventies, at just around midday. So, we guess that was them.”
“We’ve just put out an APB,” Mills continued. “So, for now, we gotta just wait and see. And maybe Mr. Markland will try to contact you again too. Ma’am—try not to worry unduly. Nine times outta ten, this kinda thing gets resolved real quick, and usually there’s nothing sinister involved.” The policewoman handed Siobhan a card, and then continued: “But keep your phone close to you at all times, and call this number immediately if you get any news from your friend. Your call will come through direct to me, see?”
“I see. I will,” agreed Siobhan. “I guess it’s okay for me to head off now? I just want to get back and go to see my aunt in Terre Haute.”
Sergeant Mills nodded. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” she asked with compassion. “We can follow you if you wish, Ma’am.”
After Siobhan reassured the police sergeant that she’d be fine, she re-joined the highway and drove off in the direction of Interstate 41, Terre Haute and the offices of the Terre Haute Daily Times. As worried as she was for Oliver, this was indeed a news story that her aunt should be told about first hand, and Yushi’s confession note added an incredible possible postscript to the whole sorry affair of Sandy Beach’s last night in Paris.
CHAPTER 39
(MONDAY, 22ND JANUARY, 2018)
Oliver Leaves
His Tracks
O liver felt so tense, he tried to do some breathing exercises that he’d once read about. Apparently, he understood, if you breathe in slowly through the nose and out through the mouth while visualising you are in a peaceful place, like a running stream or a field of bluebells, you could slow down your own heart rate. So that’s what he tried—and after a while, thankfully, it seemed to work. Instead of the panic he’d felt a few minutes previously, now he was able to at least think clearly about what he could do to help himself.
Although it was hard to check, he felt pretty sure his text would have successfully reached Siobhan. Could he risk another, without his captor noticing, he thought? He made a decision to glance at his phone screen again and was rewarded. He had a text message. He prayed it was from Siohban.
In order to pacify the man next to him, whose name he had presumed to be ‘Mark Ozborn’, he asked, again, a perfectly innocent question: “Where are we going?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” was all Ozborn would say, as he stayed fixated on getting to wherever their destination was. Oliver tried keeping his head casually towards his side window, while secretly looking downwards at his phone. The possessed man next to him continued to drive in a straight line along Route 150, listening to country music that was now blaring out of the radio at full volume.
And then Oliver had a brainwave. GPS-tracking! If only he’d downloaded that app for locating the whereabouts of your phone if it’s lost or stolen. Berating himself for not having done it before, he pondered whether he’d be able to manage downloading it now, but without being noticed. And, of course, there was also the content of Siobhan’s text document that he hadn’t yet read. What if it were significant? He really ought to try to read at least some of it, he decided.
“Okay, eyes down, here goes,” he thought, as he did his best to view Siobhan’s message that accompanied an image of a hand-written note.
Her message read: “Oliver—there were two of them there! Yushi and another guy called Mark. But Yushi finished Sandy off after the other guy had passed out! It’s all here in the note that Yushi wrote and gave to Emanuele.”
What the . . .? Oliver was totally confused, and frantically tried to work out what Siobhan had meant. Did that mean that the man next to him in the truck could in fact have been present at Sandy Beach’s killing? If indeed he was the same guy. He did say that his name was Mark. And the license document in front of him says ‘M. Ozborn’. Now, Oliver was even more scared. There was only one thing for it—he’d have to open the image and read as much content as he could—hopefully it would explain everything. Trying his very best not to obviously look down at his phone, he managed to open the attached picture of Yushi’s note.
Damn! It was impossible to read. The image was far too dark, it was written in scrawly handwriting, and the road was too bumpy for Oliver’s eyes to focus. He would have to read it later as soon as he got the chance. Meanwhile, he’d do his utmost to set up the tracking app.
Click! Click! And another gentle click. Then, just a few more seconds to go before the app loaded. Done! Open! Now it should be possible for Siobhan to track him, inform the police, and that would be the end of this whole terrifying ordeal.
All he had to do was text Siobhan without Ozborn noticing, to let her know what he’d done. With a few movements of his thumb his message was completed, and now all he could do as they sped along the road, was to wait.
***
Siobhan was just pulling up in the street outside her aunt’s office when she heard the phone go ‘ting’. She looked at the text message that Oliver had just sent. Oh my God! He’s so clever, she marvelled. She ran into the building, past the receptionist and up the stairs to the door marked ‘Ursula O’Mahoney–Editor’. Without knocking, she stormed in while what looked like a board meeting was taking place.
Ursula, at the head of the table, and the other six people seated, all looked up and stared at the sudden intrusion. “Siobhan!” she exclaimed, alarmed by her niece’s grave expression. “Whatever’s going on?”
“I’m sorry Aunty. It’s Oliver!” she began. “He’s in grave danger. He’s been kidnapped! But I can track his phone now! I’ve got to call the police!”
Ursula turned to her colleagues. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I think we’d better adjourn this meeting. But by the sounds of it, we are in the middle of an unfolding news story. You know all about our new investigative reporter, Young Sherlock, don’t you? I think we’d better get our news teams on to this straight away. Stick around so we can get a briefing from Siobhan after she’s called the Police. Siobhan darling, do what you have to do, and then tell us all what’s happening.”
Searching for her purse in which she’d put the policewoman’s card, Siobhan nodded. She found it at the bottom of her handbag and began calling the number—this time more controlled than before. In seconds, the call was answered. “Oliver’s set up a tracking device on his phone!” Siobhan blurted out to Sergeant Mills.
“Brilliant! Where is he?” asked the Sergeant. “No, wait. Where are you?”
“I’m at the offices of the Terre Haute Daily Times,” Siobhan answered.
“Stay there!” instructed Mills firmly. “Someone will be right over.” The phone went dead, and just as Siobhan began explaining everything to the board members, they all heard the sound of a siren in the distance that became louder and louder. Siobhan, standing near the window, was able to see clearly down to the street below. She saw an unmarked car stop outside, and what she imagined must be a plainclothes officer come running up the steps and through the front door.
“Siobhan O’Mahoney, please,” the man shouted, showing his police ID to the receptionist on the ground floor. She pointed upstairs, and the man bounded up them, two at a time. Siobhan was now standing outside her aunt’s office, in the corridor waiting for him to appear as he came up on to the landing.
“In her
e!” she called out, just as a news reporter was also walking quickly along to the Editor’s office from the other direction.
Before Siobhan could speak to establish whether the officer had good or bad news for her, he introduced himself. The policeman spoke with authority, as he shook hands with her and entered the room. “I’m Detective George Hardy. Luckily, I was in the vicinity when Sergeant Mills radioed me, and she briefed me about Oliver Markland and his kidnapper. According to his truck licence plates, the owner of the pickup is one Marc Ozborn. I understand your friend had managed to activate a tracking app on his phone. Let’s take a look now, can we?”
Detective Hardy exuded an air of capable confidence, and Siobhan was glad to have him on side. She assumed that once he took control, Oliver would soon be rescued and everything would get back to normal.
Thank goodness, she thought. Feeling momentarily relieved, she even began imagining what a great scoop this story would make for her aunt’s newspaper, as well as Oliver’s blog and his magazine in England. But her feelings were short lived when she then checked herself and remembered that first, Oliver had to be rescued from the bad guy by the good guys. What if he were already in deep trouble?
CHAPTER 40
(MONDAY, 22ND JANUARY, 2018)
Hardy Races
to the Rescue
W ithin the confines of Ozborn’s truck’s cab, Oliver had perhaps become a little over-confident with the use of his phone at his side, as he glanced down at it once more. Unfortunately, on this occasion, he was less discreet, and it was more blatantly obvious what he was doing. Ozborn clocked him. “You little shit! Give me that!” Ozborn shouted. Oliver retracted further and pushed himself right up against his side of the cab, too far for Ozborn’s right arm to reach.