by Jen Cole
Walking from room to room, Jo inspected and rejected various nooks and wardrobes, becoming increasingly anxious. Nothing was suitable. Then she opened the door of the linen cupboard in the hall. Instantly the memory of her childhood hidey-hole flashed to mind and looking up she spied its entrance – a manhole into the roof space. Who knew why the builders had placed it in this cupboard, but her delight as a child had known no bounds when she’d realized she could climb up the open shelving, push the cover aside and scramble into the scary but secret recess under the tiles. It had turned out to be nowhere near as dark as she’d imagined, mainly because of the skylight above the bathroom, and she’d created a retreat near that light source, laying short planks and flat pieces of wood across the ceiling beams to make moving about easier.
She’d also discovered that sounds from the house rose clearly up to her, but the initial thrill of finding she could listen in on the conversations of those below, had been dampened when it turned out that sound carried just as easily in the other direction. Her parents had heard her moving above them and once her hidey-hole had ceased being a secret, she’d lost interest in the place. Now it again presented possibilities.
Jo climbed the shelves and pushed the manhole cover up and across the beams. Cautiously she raised herself into the cavity and waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom from the minimal light bleeding between the tiles. A small distance away, more light escaped from around the skylight over the bathroom, revealing the resting platform Jo had created as a child.
This hidey-hole would work as long as she remembered to keep perfectly still. Jo left the hole open and climbed down, closing the cupboard door. Her retreat was ready if she needed it.
It was nearly 2.30 p.m. With two and a half hours until the next broadcast, her own house was the safest place she could be. Invisible to electronic alarms and surveillance, thanks to Fitani, and hidden from outside view with all the blinds down, she was in the perfect hideout. Jo made for the kitchen. She had time to refuel before checking Dad’s papers.
Thirstily she gulped down two tumblers of water and then washed, dried and replaced the glass. From the fridge she grabbed a block of cheese and a soft tomato. Taking two slices of bread from the freezer, Jo zapped them in the microwave and made a quick sandwich. Again she cleared away all traces of her activity before carrying the sandwich on a plate through to the office.
The ‘office’ was a little study where she did the books, and where paperwork relating to the farm was filed. Taking a bite of her sandwich, Jo turned the key in the filing cabinet. She pulled open the top drawer and cast her eye over the tabs. ‘Correspondence’ was the most likely one and she lifted out the file and flipped it open on the desk.
The first few papers were copies of her own correspondence with a funeral director and Dad’s solicitor. She blinked as her eyes blurred. Oh, Dad, she thought. I’m going to find the people who did this to you and they’re going to pay. She turned the papers over and reached for the next. This was a copy of the minutes of the meeting in which her father and the other apple growers had voted unanimously to refuse to go below a set price when selling their next lot of apples held in cold storage, to the supermarket chains. This too she turned over.
As Jo picked up the next letter, she squinted. The room had grown much darker and she walked across to the window to use what light was seeping through the side of the blind. Not enough. She pushed the blind slightly to let in more. A crash of hailstones made her jump. The storm had arrived in fury.
As hail gave way to pounding rain, Jo shivered, glad not to have been caught in it, but frustrated by the lack of light. She pulled a penlight from a drawer and crawled under the desk to mask its glow. Clicking it on, she directed its narrow beam over the letter in her hand. This appeared to be an unsympathetic reply from the supermarket chain they dealt with, to a letter her father had written describing the apple growers’ need for a greater margin than the supermarket was offering. As her light beam reached the end of the letter, Jo gasped. The signatory was Simon Brooks! Before she had time to check his title, a voice said speculatively, “Just what might you be doing, I wonder?”
Jo lifted the penlight. A pair of damp jeans ending in sneakers boxed her in. Reflexively she hurled the torch away, seeing the legs twist slightly to follow its path. Jo grabbed both ankles and pulled with all her might. The agent went crashing to the floor and she squirmed out and ran for the door. But now her ankle was grabbed, and she in turn hit the floor, cursing in her mind the storm that had masked his entry. Before she could rise he was on her, twisting an arm behind her back and pulling her painfully to her feet.
“Let me go. This is my house!” cried Jo, hoping to convince the agent she was not Kylie Marshall, drug addict and kidnapper.
“Jo?” One hand released its grip to turn on the light.
Jo’s black wig had come askew in the struggle and she now felt it being lifted off her head.
“Yes, I’m Jo Warrington!”
She staggered at her sudden release and turned to face her attacker.
“Richard?” Surely he hadn’t come by in the rain to sell farming equipment? “What are you doing here?”
“Jo, I’m so sorry.” His hazel eyes looked contrite. “I thought you were an intruder.”
“You thought I was an intruder!”
“Er, yes.” He looked uncomfortable. “I was told you were away, and something strange seemed to be happening around this house, so I thought I’d check it out. When I saw you under the desk with a penlight…” he faded off.
“Oh, my God,” cried Jo, remembering. “You’ll have tripped the alarms. Agents could be here any second!”
“Well I trust you’ll vouch for me. I didn’t mean any harm.”
“No, it’s me they’re after. You can’t tell them I was here.”
“What?”
“No time to explain.” Jo flipped off the light. “Get out of here while you can!”
She ran into the hall and slipped into the linen cupboard, closing herself in just as the front and back doors crashed open. Amid sounds of yelling and commotion, Jo climbed into the roof cavity and replaced the cover, stretching out along one of the planks and trying to control her breathing. Eventually both it and the uproar below calmed, and Jo was able to make out two voices.
“How the hell did he get past you?”
“Thought I’d dropped the bastard, but he slithered between my legs and kicked me in the calf muscle. Man that hurts!”
“Should we go after him?”
“No, he’ll be away by now and he’s not the one we’re after.”
“It was the bloke from this morning, wasn’t it?”
“Think so. What’s his interest I wonder?”
“He’s no casual thief or he wouldn’t risk returning to a place he knew was patrolled. Marshall’s boyfriend?”
“If so he must have arranged to meet her here. It seems our client may have been right about Marshall coming to this house.”
“Shit, if she’s not here already. Lock the doors and search the place!”
Jo froze as footsteps moved around below and thuds and bangs accompanied the search. The cupboard door beneath her creaked open and she held her breath.
“I found something!”
The door closed and footsteps moved down the hallway.
“What?”
“A half eaten sandwich and an open file of papers. Seems the boyfriend was going through some correspondence when we disturbed him.”
“Why would he be doing tha… what’s this?”
“Looks like a wig.”
“Definitely a wig. He could have brought it along for his girlfriend. That would confirm they’re in the kidnapping together. We need to make a report.”
“Should one of us stay here?”
“No, the client’s instructions were not to stay in the house. We’ll reset the alarms and lock the doors. If anyone comes in we’ll know about it.”
“What I’d like to know
is how our client guessed that Kylie Marshall might come here. What’s her connection with the Warrington woman who owns the place?”
“Maybe they were school chums. Maybe she knew the owner was abroad and the house would be empty.”
“A lot of maybes. I think maybe our client is not giving us the full picture.”
“Well he’s the one paying the money. If it takes longer to catch her because he’s not telling us everything, he’s the one who loses.”
A grumble. “The longer we’re on this case, the less I like it. I don’t care how rich the client is. The boss shouldn’t be letting him dictate our moves like this. One minute he’s got all our agents, plus the opposition swarming around Shepparton, the next he’s sending them south. Now apparently they’re all coming back again.”
“Well he needs more than the two of us to round up Marshall. She’s a slippery bitch. Do you think she really was on that road we were sent to just now?”
“I don’t know, but if we hadn’t been away searching for her when the alarms went off, we’d have got back here sooner and maybe caught her with the boyfriend.”
“No, I don’t think she’s made it here yet. I think the boyfriend was waiting for her. He still had the wig remember.”
Footsteps retreated and a door was slammed, leaving the house in silence. Jo noticed the storm had also passed, and apart from an occasional drip, all was still. She found she was shaking and it wasn’t just from the cold. If the agent who’d opened her cupboard door hadn’t been distracted by his colleague, he could have looked up and seen the outline of the manhole.
It had been too close for comfort. She’d planned to stay here until almost five, but confirmation that a swarm of agents was on the way, including no doubt the Hunter himself, now made her refuge feel like a trap. The longer she waited, the harder it would be to get out of here.
Jo felt for the handles of the cover and lifted it off. Then she eased herself through the hole and climbed stiffly to the floor. With the passing of the storm, the house had lightened a little and Jo tiptoed back to the office. Under the desk where she’d dropped it, was the Supermarket chain’s letter with Simon Brookes’ signature, and seeing his title, her eyes widened. He was Director of Operations for the Northern Victorian Region. This couldn’t be. Such a person would be a pillar of society, not someone who employed hit men! What could possess him to do such a thing – surely not the dispute with apple growers over buying prices? That would be insane, for in the end, regardless of the amount both parties agreed upon, it wouldn’t affect his own pocket.
Numbly Jo folded the letter and slipped it into her jacket. She needed time to think about this but not here. Her watch now read 3.09 p.m. She crept to the junk room, uncovered the bicycle and wheeled it to the front door, where she hesitated. It would be wise to grab a few provisions. Leaving the bike in the hall, she headed for the kitchen.
There was not a great deal in the fridge – she’d cleared out most of the fresh food before leaving for Melbourne on Sunday. Some apples, bread and cheese would have to do. Jo cut a chunk off the cheese block and as she washed the knife, realized the thought of arming herself hadn’t occurred until now. Would a knife help or hinder? She had no fighting skills and in close combat a knife might easily be wrenched away and used against her. Furthermore a large one would be awkward to carry and conceal.
In the end Jo took a sharp paring knife from the drawer and a cork from the cork jar. She pushed the knife tip into the cork and reaching behind her, worked the weapon into the back pocket of her money belt. Not too uncomfortable, and it was close to hand if she needed it.
Bagging the cheese, bread and two apples, she took a small plastic bottle of mineral water from the fridge and returned to the bike. Jo inserted the bottle into the cage the salesman had fitted to the frame, and thrust the food bag into the closest pannier. The only thing left to decide was which way to go.
In an hour or less, agents would be cordoning off Shepparton, so riding into town felt like a bad idea but what were the alternatives? Heading out into the countryside was little better. There’d be fewer places to hide and when darkness hit she’d be vulnerable. A well-populated area was her best bet and given that she also wanted to follow up on Simon Brooks, she should try getting back to Melbourne, although that was easier said than done. The distance was too far to cycle, and now the Hunter knew she was in Shepparton, catching a bus was out of the question. There was always hitchhiking, and the more she thought about it the more appealing the idea became. At three-fifteen in the afternoon most drivers should be safe. Maybe even a woman would stop.
Her best chance of getting a lift would be on the main highway. The two Shepparton agents would be writing up their report and watching the house alarms from wherever they were holed up, so they were out of the way, and the other agents were yet to arrive, which made it safe to take her chances on the highway for a while.
The decision made, Jo ran a hand over her cropped hair and fitted the helmet. In a way it was liberating to be wig-free, but thoughts of the Hunter discovering her short cut, made her stomach churn.
Easing open the front door, she peered out. No sign of any agents. Jo pushed the bike through and shut the door gently behind her. At the bottom of the steps she tried to mount but the ground was waterlogged. Wheeling her bicycle, she headed for the orchard through the wet grass.
~~~~
CHAPTER 29
The guards failed to follow when Richard hit the porch running, which surprised him until he remembered Jo had said she was their target. Before disappearing down the corridor, she’d ordered him out so decisively that he’d responded to the authority in her tone and fought his way free. Now, as he crouched behind an apple tree in the adjacent field, his conscience was screaming. He should have stayed to help her.
All three were now in the house and who knew what was happening. Had Jo hidden herself in time, or were those thugs standing over her dead body? How the hell had this mess happened? He’d never known the H Group to act so recklessly. Perhaps they could get away with a farmer’s ‘accidental’ death, but a vicious attack on his daughter just three weeks later? It didn’t make sense.
And what had Jo been reading under that desk with her flashlight? Had Bill done some investigating on his own and come up with something so damning the H Group felt the need for these drastic steps? It all seemed too improbable. Bill was highly concerned about his daughter’s safety and wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize that.
The two gorillas appeared on the porch. They scanned the surrounding area and conferred together before walking off towards the packing and cold storage shed. At the shed they again stopped to look around and then moved out of sight.
Richard ached to sneak back to the house, but doing so would trip the alarms, causing more harm than good if Jo was just emerging from her hiding place. Better to wait. If Jo was okay she’d come out eventually and then he’d be able to help her. At least he was still in a position to do so.
He gingerly massaged his throbbing jaw, thanking his lucky stars he’d turned his head in time to receive only a glancing blow instead of the intended king hit. The goon who’d thrown the punch believed he’d knocked him out cold and had been unprepared for the slam of Richard’s heel into his calf muscle, which had enabled him to escape.
Fifteen minutes passed and Richard grunted and changed position to ease a cramp. Still no sign of movement. He was starting to reassess his options when he saw her on the porch. She wheeled a bike down the steps and began crossing the paddock, heading towards a point in the fence about thirty meters from where he was.
Quietly Richard stood and worked his way through the trees in that direction. Jo, struggling through the wet grass, arrived only seconds before him. As she wiggled her bike under the fence, he whispered, “Jo, it’s me, Richard.”
The helmeted head jerked up at his voice and she froze, white-faced.
“It’s okay,” he said, stepping out from behind a tree, “I
waited for you.”
“Richard, I…”
“Let’s get you under cover,” he interrupted, moving to stand on the bottom wire of the fence and lifting the one above it.
Jo scrambled through and Richard took her hand.
“My car’s nearby. We’re going straight to the police.”
“No!” She withdrew her hand sharply. He must have presented a gob-smacked expression, because she hurried into a garbled explanation.
“There’s been a mix-up with the police. They think I’m someone else and they’ll hold me for too long before I can get it sorted out. I’ll be trapped in a cell where he can get to me!”
She seemed on the verge of hysteria and he adopted a soothing tone.
“All right, no police. Come back to my motel. We’ll sit down with a hot drink and you can tell me about it.”
Jo hesitated and then nodded. “Okay.”
As they walked between the rows of trees together, neither spoke. Jo seemed exhausted, staggering occasionally, but Richard had the bike and was unable to give her a hand. He suspected she would not have welcomed it anyway.
He led her to where he’d parked the Commodore on a track on the other side of the fence.
“Here we are, though I’m not sure whether your bicycle will fit into the boot,” he said.
“It will, I’ll show you.”
Jo pulled at some Velcro straps and lifted the pannier bags off the bike rack. With quick movements she folded the bike and when she pulled a plastic cover from one of the panniers, Richard helped her to zip the bicycle inside. He lifted the package over the fence and then created a gap for Jo to crawl through. On the other side, she did the same for him.