The Plantagenet Mystery

by Victoria Prescott

  ‘You give me what I want and we’ll have no problems,’ he said.

  ‘What – what do you want?’

  ‘I give you a vehicle registration, you tell me the name and address of the owner. And you keep quiet about it.’

  Terry looked relieved, as if he had feared being asked to do much worse.

  ‘You’ll have to wait till tomorrow, when I go in and can get at the computers.’

  ‘No. You make a phone call and get it now. I bet you’ve got a mate there who’ll look it up for you. I bet you coppers are always doing private favours for each other.’

  Terry caved without too much more argument. Chris wrote down the registration number on a notepad on the table. Terry made the call, and after a few minutes’ conversation, and a minute or two waiting, he wrote a name and address under the registration number. He ended the call and looked at Chris.

  ‘I don’t want to know what you want that for. And I don’t want to see you here again.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to tell you what I want it for. And you will see me here again. I work here. Just forget this little chat we’ve had this evening, and we’ll have no problems.’

  Chris tore the page off the notepad, folded it and tucked it into his pocket, and left the hut. It wasn’t much to go on, and he might be on completely the wrong track, but it was all he had. He returned to his van and set off to find Rob.

  An hour later, he was sitting in a car, watching the house at the address Terry Kemp had given him. He had borrowed the car from a mate in the pub, thinking the van would be too easily noticed and remembered. But in this neighbourhood, on the outskirts of the city, the elderly Escort was just as out of place. If he was there too long, some Neighbourhood Watch type would be taking the number and passing it on to the police. The house was smart. Detached, set back from the road. Although there was a garage at the side of the house, the 4x4 Chris had chased from Ashleigh Manor – a silver Range Rover, he now saw – was parked outside the front door. Chris took that as a sign the owner was planning to go out again. He took another bite of his cold burger, and settled back to wait some more.

  The light was beginning to fade when a man came out of the house. All Chris could see was that he was slim, and, he thought, fair haired. He was carrying a folder or envelope and smoking a cigarette; Chris saw him take a final pull before dropping it and stepping on it. He got into the Range Rover, pulled out of the drive and set off, heading towards open country. Chris followed at what he hoped was a discreet distance, trusting that the driver of the Range Rover would not look too often in his rear view mirror.

  After fifteen minutes or so the Range Rover turned off the road onto a lane that looked little more than a farm track. It was now dark enough to need lights for driving and Chris knew he could not follow without being seen or heard. He drove slowly past, looking for somewhere he could pull off the road. He would have to continue the chase on foot, hoping the man did not drive too far and he did not lose him in the darkness. He found a lay-by a couple of hundred yards further on, parked, and headed back on foot.

  The track was uneven, winding through sparse trees and undergrowth. Chris stumbled more than once, wishing they could have come across some villains who had their hideouts in civilised places. He wished he had thought to bring a torch, then realised he would not have been able to use it in case it was seen. He could no longer hear the Range Rover; he hoped that was because it had stopped not too far ahead, not because it was already miles away.

  Ahead, the trees ended, and as he moved cautiously forward, not wanting to risk stepping into the open, Chris could see the dark silhouette of the Range Rover. Keeping low, he approached cautiously, using the Range Rover as cover. Yards in front of the vehicle, the ground fell away. Chris realised he was looking down into a small chalk pit, probably long disused, judging by the state of the road leading to it. A track wound around the side of the pit to the bottom, but the driver of the Range Rover had evidently not wanted to risk his vehicle in the darkness.

  Another driver had not been so cautious. A van was parked at the bottom of the pit. Light from the headlights showed the driver Chris had followed talking to two men whom Chris decided were hired muscle. They stood outside a wooden building, probably used as an office or store when the quarry was working, Chris thought. Chris could hear their voices, but could not make out what was being said. He needed to get nearer, to find out if Rob was in that shed.

  It was risky to go down that track, when it ended so close to where the men were standing. But it would take too long to work his way round the top of the quarry looking for another way down, and too risky to try climbing down in the dark. Chris told himself that the men would not be able to see anything beyond the light cast by the headlights, and set off down the track, keeping low, trying not to show up as a silhouette against the white chalk wall of the quarry. He could not avoid making noise; at one point a small stone skittered away over the edge of the track and bounced to the bottom of the pit. Chris froze in place for a moment, but the men below did not break off their conversation or turn their heads.

  At the bottom of the track, the bulk of the van shielded Chris from the sight of the men. He crouched down by the rear wheel, trying to breathe soundlessly, waiting for the blood pounding in his ears to quieten enough for him to hear the conversation taking place a few feet away.

  ‘He’s a mouthy little sod,’ one of the men was saying. ‘Spouting a lot of stuff.’

  ‘He wants this and he wants that,’ said the other. ‘And all in his poncy voice.’

  Chris grinned. That had to be Rob they were talking about, and by the sound of it he was OK, so far at least.

  ‘For Heaven’s sake, it’s not supposed to be negotiable,’ said the Range Rover driver. ‘You’re the ones making the demands.’

  ‘S’what I said,’ said the man with the beer gut. ‘I tell you, he’s a fairy boy. Just let me smack him around a bit. He’ll soon start crying for his mummy.’

  ‘You mustn't hurt him too much. I need him to be able to read and write.’

  ‘Look, mister, you hired us to do a job for you. Are you going to let us do it, or what?’

  ‘Use some intelligence. If you have any,’ said the man Chris had followed. ‘You can frighten him, if you like. But the best way to make him cooperate...’

  The man turned away slightly as he spoke, and Chris could not hear what he said. He dared not move any nearer and risk being seen. One of the hired muscle must have asked if he was sure it would work, because he said, loudly enough for Chris to hear,

  ‘It will work. If it doesn’t, you can use whatever methods you see fit. But remember, he has to be able to read and write at the end of it.’ He walked away into the darkness, as if he did not want to see or hear.

  The two muscle men – who were more fat than muscle, Chris thought – fumbled for a moment at the door of the shed. Unfastening a padlock, Chris thought. Then the door was open and the shorter man went inside. The second one, the one with the beer gut, stood in the doorway, his back to Chris, legs apart, arms folded, as if he was settling down to watch. Chris knew he had to act quickly. He did not know what condition Rob was in after nearly twenty four hours of captivity, but even if he was fully fit, he doubted if the two of them could take on these two heavies and win. They might not be very fast or very fit, but they made up for it in weight and viciousness. And while he did not think they were the type to carry guns or knives, he could not take the chance. A direct attack would not work; he needed a diversion. Chris looked around. Fire was always good, and the van was right there, but he had no matches or lighter on him, and the van was between the shed and the track; he risked cutting off their escape route. A metallic gleam caught his eye; the Range Rover parked above, near the edge of the quarry. Chris legged it back up the track, this time not worrying about being seen.

  He reached for the door of the Range Rover on the driver’s side, then drew back, digging in his pockets and pulling out his work gloves. I
f this bloke wanted to claim on his insurance he’d have to report it to the police; Chris did not want to risk leaving any prints. Gloves on, he tried the door. It was unlocked.

  ‘Cocky git,’ Chris said aloud. As he had hoped, there was a cigarette lighter with a packet of cigarettes in the tray between the front seats. There was a large brown envelope on the passenger seat. Chris picked it up and tucked it inside his jacket; if it was the one the bloke had been carrying when he got into the car, it might have something to do with this affair. Rob would know. On the back seat was a newspaper. Chris grabbed it and slid out of the car, releasing the handbrake on the way.

  The petrol tank had a lockable cap, but that did not delay Chris long. He rolled up the newspaper, stuffed one end into the opening, then set light to the other end. Then he set his shoulder to the back of the vehicle and pushed. It took some effort to set it rolling over the uneven ground, and he was uncomfortably aware of the newspaper burning merrily close by, but after a moment it began to move. Chris straightened up and stood back, staggering slightly as he regained his balance. The front wheels reached the edge, halted, tipped over. In slow motion, it seemed, the whole vehicle went over, pulled by the weight of the engine.

  The Range Rover plunged downwards, landing with a tremendous grinding and crunching. At the moment of impact it burst into flames. The ground and the air shook. Chris felt the blast, the heat rolling up to where he stood on the edge of the quarry.

  ‘Yes!’ He leapt up, punching the air and yelling with excitement, as he and the other kids used to do. Torching cars was something he and his mates had done for fun. But he he had never done anything as spectacular as this. No-one on the Greenway had a car as big and flashy as this – or if they did, they were people you didn't want to mess with. They had mostly nicked old heaps and driven them, no licence or insurance, to the waste ground at the back of the estate. His moment of exultation over, he waited until he heard shouts, and saw figures running towards the pile of twisted, burning metal, then set off, running and leaping back down the track.

  One of the thugs had not run. The one with the leather jacket had come out of the hut to see what the noise was, but he was still standing on guard by the door. Had a few more brains than the other one, Chris thought. He shouted.

  ‘Oi, you! Is that your van? Want to see that go up, too?’ Then, as the man swung round, he dodged back into the shadow of the shed. Between Chris’s threat and the chance of a stray spark from the burning car, the man evidently decided the danger was too great. He began to jog towards the van. Chris stood back, waiting for him to pass, then he heard,

  ‘Stop him!’

  Rob was in the doorway of the hut, stumbling forward. There was no time for questions. Chris stepped into the man’s path and stopped him with his shoulder, an elbow below the ribs and a fist in the groin. The man doubled over, wheezing. Rob came up, limping.

  ‘He’s got the document,’ he said. ‘Inside his jacket. Get it.’ He sounded hoarse, and broke off to cough. Chris drew breath to point out that the other two would be back at any moment and they should be legging it, not wasting time on old bits of paper – parchment, he reminded himself – but decided it was quicker to do what Rob wanted. He kicked the man at the back of the knee so that he dropped to the ground, then, as he lay there, still groaning, rolled him over onto his back. The man flailed at him with one arm; Chris grabbed it and knelt on it. Rob dropped on one knee and reached into the man’s jacket.

  ‘Hurry up,’ Chris said. He could feel the heat from the burning car. Sparks were shooting into the air, and he thought the van might go up at any minute.

  ‘Got it.’ Rob scrambled to his feet, holding the document.

  ‘Come on, then.’ Chris led the way back up the path. Half way up he heard shouts, and stopped to look back. Silhouetted against the light from the burning car, he could see men behind them on the path; they had been discovered.

  ‘Come on.’ He urged Rob to greater speed. He was pretty sure he could outrun the second thug, but he did not know about the man in the Range Rover, and Rob was not moving very fast at all. They reached the top of the chalk pit. Chris glanced back to check on their pursuers, in time to see the van explode in a ball of flame. The two of them instinctively ducked, covering their heads, as heat washed over them. Chris was the first to straighten up. He grabbed Rob’s arm.

  ‘Come on,’ he said again. Rob hung back.

  ‘Do you think anyone’s hurt?’

  ‘I don’t know. And I don’t plan to hang around to find out. Will you friggin’ move!’ He tugged on Rob’s arm, and after a moment Rob moved.

  As they made their way along the track back to the road Chris listened for any sound of pursuit, but the two of them were making so much noise that someone could have been right behind them without them knowing. Rob seemed incapable of walking quietly; every few steps he stumbled, hopped and swore.

  ‘Will you keep it down?’ Chris hissed. ‘I’m trying to hear if they’re following.’

  ‘You want to try walking along here with no shoes on?’ Rob retorted. ‘Just let me have your boots, if you think you can be any quieter.’

  ‘Why haven’t you got any shoes on?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t wearing any when they grabbed me. If I’d known I was going to be abducted, of course I’d have dressed for the occasion!’

  They made it to the road, and Chris led the way to where he had left the Escort. He did not attempt to turn and drive back past the track they had just walked along, but drove on until they emerged on a major road leading back to Wynderbury. Twenty minutes later, Chris pulled up outside Rob’s house.

  ‘I haven’t got my keys,’ Rob suddenly realised.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Chris. ‘I’ve already broke in through your back door once today, won’t take a minute to do it again.’

  He got out of the car and let himself into his own house. A few minutes later lights went on in Rob’s house and Chris opened his front door from the inside. Rob limped indoors. It was strange to see everything looking so quietly normal. He felt he had been away for days, not a little under twenty four hours.

  Or maybe things were not quite so normal, he thought, as he saw the papers strewn over the floor. He began to pick them up, one by one, as he moved towards his work table. He stood there, smoothing the creased pages, sorting and stacking in piles.

  ‘You’re weird, you are,’ Chris said, watching.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You been kidnapped, kept locked up in that shed, knocked about – ’

  ‘Not too much. They couldn’t risk damaging me too much, or I wouldn’t have been able to do what they wanted.’

  ‘Yeah, all right. Point is, normal people don’t start fussing over bits of paper after having something like that happen to them.’

  Normal people probably did not get themselves kidnapped in the first place, Rob thought. Tiredness suddenly overwhelmed him. The papers no longer made sense; he dropped them back on the table.

  ‘You got anything to eat here, or shall I go out and get us something?’ Chris was continuing. Rob was past being hungry.

  ‘I think there’s some stuff in the freezer. Help yourself,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have a bath.’ His clothes felt stale and wrinkled, and now the excitement of the escape had worn off, he was beginning to shiver again.

  Rob came downstairs half an hour later to find a chair had been pushed against the front door. He could hear Chris moving around in the kitchen and the ‘ping’ of the microwave. Another chair had been placed against the back door. Chris saw Rob looking at it.

  ‘In case they come back for another go.’

  Rob had not thought of that. It seemed a bit melodramatic, but then so did the idea of being snatched from his own home.

  ‘We can get a couple of decent locks tomorrow and I’ll fit them,’ Chris went on ‘One good kick’ll still have either of these doors off their hinges, but at least no-one’ll be able to get in without you knowing.’

&
nbsp; Rob rediscovered his appetite when they were sitting down to the microwaved meals Chris had found in the freezer. He filled up with bread and cheese and finished with coffee and biscuits.

  While they were eating, there had been no need to talk. Now, hunger satisfied, Rob found the silence becoming increasingly awkward, but he did not know how to break it. The last time they had met, he and Chris had argued, yet Chris had troubled to come and look for him. He needed to say something, but could think of nothing that would not embarrass them both.

  Finally, Chris stopped fiddling with his mug and stood up.

  ‘Yeah, well, I better –’

  ‘No, wait, you could use the spare room again. If you want to.’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose they might come after you again. Be good if you had someone here.’

  ‘Like a bodyguard? Makes me feel like Victoria Beckham, or someone.’

  ‘You haven't got her tits.’

  ‘I haven’t got her money, either.’

  It was enough to break the tension; they both laughed, and Chris sat down again. The mood now eased, Rob found himself yawning uncontrollably.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rob slept well, the document under his pillow. He had no nightmares, and there were no attempts to break into the house. In the morning, he and Chris were silent until they had consumed bacon sandwiches, toast and marmalade, and coffee. His appetite finally satisfied, Rob leaned back in his chair and said,

  ‘How did you find me? Come to that, how did you know I needed rescuing? I thought it’d be days before anyone even knew I was missing. Where was I, anyway?’

  Chris explained how he had found Rob. Rob sat up.

  ‘You mean you know who’s behind all this? Who is he? What’s his name?’