by Jane Isaac
I froze, frantically working through my options, listening to the regularity of his breaths, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. The lump expanded.
Summoning every ounce of might, I pushed forward, instantly releasing myself from his grip. His breaths halted. I watched him smack his lips together a couple of times, turn and rest once more.
Relief sunk into me as I sidled out from beneath the blanket, sat forward and scratched the back of my neck. Day five in this hellhole.
Chapter Forty-Five
A sharp glint of light warmed Jackman’s forehead. His cheek was pressed into the groove between the cold tiles, arms and legs splayed across the hard floor. A million clocks chimed in unison inside his head as he raised it.
He recognised the toilet in the background, the sink, the bath. The smell of vomit filled the air, although he no longer felt sick. Right now he was thirsty. Desperately thirsty. He hauled himself up, blinked one eye to shut out some of the pain, then turned on the tap and wedged his head underneath, glugging down the water as if he’d just discovered an oasis in the midst of a desert.
He stood, wiped his mouth down his sleeve and glanced towards the window. Luminous strips of sunlight pushed through the gaps down either side of the blind. What time was it?
Just at that moment he heard the sound of hefty paws moving around on the laminate flooring below. He ran the tap again, splashed the cold water over his face and made for the stairs.
Erik greeted him in the hallway like a long-lost relative.
“Hey, boy.” Jackman caressed his ears affectionately, entered the lounge and glanced at the clock. Almost seven. He’d slept right through.
Jackman crossed to the French doors, flung them open and took a moment to inhale the air while Erik plodded around the garden. It had rained overnight and tiny drops of water glistened across the lawn in the morning sunlight. The freshness cleared the smog in his mind. And sharpened the pain. He moved into the kitchen, switched on the kettle. What he needed now was strong coffee and strong medicine.
By the time Erik wandered in Jackman had popped two paracetamol and was seated at the breakfast bar sipping black coffee. Erik nudged the side of his thigh and looked up expectantly.
Jackman stared into his eyes. “Want to go out?”
The tone of his words whipped the dog up and he wagged his tail enthusiastically.
Jackman placed his mug back down on the bar and raised a wry smile. “Come on then, mate,” he said. “Let’s go for a run while this cools down.”
The park opposite Jackman’s home was quiet that Saturday morning. In a couple of hours it would be filled with local lads, fashioning their jumpers into makeshift goalposts as they played football, and young children crawling over the climbing frame in the play area, swirling on the roundabout. Yet, right now, the only other person in the park was a man pushing a toddler in a pushchair. It felt peaceful and inviting.
Jackman let Erik off the lead and stretched his calf muscles. His head was thick, a burgeoning ache filled his skull. His right leg was stiff and sore from sleeping at a strange angle the night before and he gave it a quick massage. But nothing was going to stop him running.
It wasn’t that he enjoyed it. Not like he used to. The competition of it, the sense of achievement, those wonderful endorphins that sizzled through his veins afterwards and the satisfying fatigue of worked muscles. He felt none of that anymore. It was more of a routine, the last bastion of his previous life that he couldn’t bear to leave behind.
The first lap of the park was more laboured than usual. He had to stop a few times to rehydrate, the after-effects of the alcohol from the night before still draining the juices from his body. Erik raced around happily, stopping momentarily to sniff and cock his leg, before returning to his owner’s side.
The second lap felt slightly easier as his body loosened, but the third was tortuous as every tendon cried out. Weakness was to be expected today, especially after half a bottle of whisky. By the time he’d completed the fourth he was almost spent. His hair was wet and his t-shirt clung to him. But instead of stopping, he stepped it up a gear, sprinting between two of the aged willows beside the canal, almost fifteen metres apart. Back and forth he went, time and time again. Erik, quite accustomed to the habit, laid down just out of the way and watched as Jackman continued to run at full pelt until sweat coursed down his back and his lungs were raw.
Finally he halted, rested his back on a tree trunk and slid down, paying no heed to the abrasive bark as it scraped at his skin through the thin t-shirt. For some time he sat there, glugging from his water bottle, staring into space. As his breaths started to even the words from the counsellor the night before crept into his mind: ‘We need to find a strategy to deal with that guilt’.
He looked across the park. The man had let the toddler out of the pushchair and was chasing her across the park. She turned her head and squealed with delight as he scooped her up in his arms. The simple gesture triggered a moment of sadness. A year ago, he was happily married. He lived for his girls, his sport and the job. Right now he’d all but lost his wife and best friend, his job was hanging like a loose thread and his daughter was away at university. Sport was the only thing he had left and even that wasn’t much fun anymore.
He thought about Janus’ comment the day before, the suggestion that he’d made the wrong judgement call in Min’s case. He recalled his meeting with Richard, when it was suggested that he was consumed in guilt. Was it true? Had he plunged himself into a life of guilt, a mood that coloured his decisions at work and tainted his judgement? He couldn’t deny that he felt guilty over Alice’s condition. But no, he wasn’t wrong about the press coverage with Min. In the event that she was still alive, he’d made that decision to protect her safety. There was no way that decision caused a second kidnapping.
As Jackman gathered his stuff and started moving back towards home, Richard’s words continued to grate away at the back of his mind. His life may have been turned upside down this past year, but he was a good detective.
Problem was he’d only ever be able to sidestep the Reillys of this world if he ran his own investigation. He needed this job, not just in a financial capacity to supplement his wife’s care, his daughter’s studies; but also for himself. It was all he’d ever known since leaving the forces and it fitted like a second skin. Perhaps it was time to transfer, move to another station, another area, where his background and memories didn’t follow him around and haunt his every move. Somewhere he’d be judged on his merit, gain promotion and lead his own cases. Maybe now it was finally time to make that move.
Chapter Forty-Six
“Is that all we have left?” Lonny said.
I followed his eye line to the bottle in the corner, only a third full with water. A couple of breakfast bars spilled out of the box next to it, a single apple sat on the top. I nodded and as I did so a pain shot through my head.
“When does he normally come?”
I glanced across at Lonny and shrugged. My limbs felt weary, every muscle in my body ached.
My stomach cramps had returned too. I should have been worried, thought of the baby’s safety, considered my options. But I didn’t have the energy. I suppose it was inevitable really. Being stuck down here with a poor diet of biscuits, dry bread, apples and water. Thrust into a pit with little natural light, a pile of faeces in the corner, rats lurking in the shadows. Maybe that was the plan all along, to leave us to starve to death.
I tried to conjure the images of my parents, those dear pictures that I clung to in my mind, but even they were growing hazy. I cleared my throat. “The first time was at night.” The words were an effort to speak. I closed my eyes. “The second when he brought you here.”
“He hasn’t been for days.”
I shook my head, felt him stand beside me.
“We need to find a way to get out of here.”
I rubbed my hands up and down my face.
“No, I’m serious. When he returns
, we’ll rush at him. Two to one. If he’s armed I’ll go for the weapon, while you try to climb out and get help.” He spoke like an excited child and his plan sounded like a bungled escape from a war film. “Well?”
I thought back to my own earlier plan of escape. When it came to it, when I finally had my chance, my limbs had let me down, paralysed in fear. It was hopeless. Now I no longer had the energy nor the enthusiasm to fight or argue.
“You’re giving up?”
The desperation in his voice pulled my gaze to him. “I’m tired.”
“We can’t give up. We have to find a way.”
I took a deep breath. The plan made one huge assumption. “Maybe he’s not coming back.”
“What?”
“Maybe he’s been caught.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Jackman had just stepped out of the shower when he heard the knock at the door. He groaned, ignored it and pulled the towel across his torso. The sound of a fist on glass followed.
His robe flapped around his calves as he navigated the stairs and pulled the door open.
Davies stared at him, head angled. “Not answering your calls then?”
“Morning to you too.”
He stepped aside to let her through and followed her into the front room just in time to catch her eyes flit down to the bottle leaning up against the side of the sofa.
“Don’t worry. Most of it’s down the toilet.”
She lifted her head in acknowledgement, said nothing.
Jackman glanced about awkwardly. “Coffee?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Back in the kitchen, he checked his mobile. Three missed calls from Davies, two yesterday and one this morning. He could hear the thud of her feet pacing the room as he popped some more painkillers, ibuprofen this time, and made the coffee. She’d be no good undercover, he thought. Like a baby elephant.
By the time Jackman returned the front curtains were drawn back. The French doors at the rear were once again flung open and she was standing beside the aquarium in the corner, staring into the glass. Steam rose from the mugs in his hands and swirled into the air as he approached.
“Don’t you ever wonder what they’re thinking?” she said, not taking her eyes from the tank.
He handed her a mug. “Where their next meal’s coming from probably,” Jackman said. “They’re very simple creatures.”
He stood next to her a moment and watched the fish glide gracefully around the tank.
Davies drew the mug to her lips and flinched. “No milk?”
“Ran out.”
She lowered the mug, said nothing.
He turned to face her. “What are you doing here?”
“You left your car at work yesterday.”
Jackman had completely forgotten about his car that still sat in the car park at Rother Street station, although he wasn’t about to admit it right now. “Fancied a walk.”
She ignored his comment and instead looked across to the French doors. “It stinks in here.”
After a brief silence, Davies finally made eye contact. “You okay?”
He gave a short nod. “Any news on the students? Sightings, contact from the kidnappers?”
“Nothing. The van’s left the radar too by the looks of things.”
“You brought me any good news?”
She rolled her eyes.
“You’d better bring me up to date on the new kidnapping.”
He tipped his head towards the sofas. They moved across and sat, one on each, as Davies continued. “Lonny Cheung was last seen by his English tutor walking past the college around nine yesterday morning. His phone was switched off in the vicinity of the college around the same time.”
“What about his car?”
“Still parked outside his flat. You obviously heard about the ransom note and the drop, this time on another industrial estate.” Jackman nodded as she continued, “Well, I pulled a few strings and spoke to our friend DS Gray in Birmingham who agreed to get their forensics to lift the bin. I also sent some of our detectives across to scour the estate and organised a separate team over to search the surrounding area.”
“Any luck?”
“Nothing from the industrial estate; whoever planned this has chosen their drop locations very carefully. The search team didn’t find anything, although we didn’t really expect them to. But we did establish that the money was never collected. It still sat in the bottom of the bin.”
“Really? You’d have thought Lonny’s father’s contacts would have checked.”
“You heard Keane, it was an open area.”
“And they didn’t change the location at the last minute.”
“I know. It’s a strange one. As if something went wrong. I did get to the internet cafe though. They used a different one this time, must be getting sloppy because they have cameras. We’ve trawled through. There were only three people in there around the time the email was sent.”
“Can we get an ID?”
“Not sure. But I had another word with Gray and emailed the footage over. He said he’d take a look and see if it rings any bells.”
“Good.” Jackman felt a smile stretch across his face for the first time in what felt like days.
Davies beamed back at him. “You’re welcome.” She took a sip of her coffee. “That’s disgusting,” she said, pulled a face and placed the mug on the coffee table beside her. “Reilly’s driving us mad. All he does is stride around talking budgets and press releases.”
Jackman rubbed his forehead. The extra painkillers he’d taken earlier had dulled the drum that was pounding the insides of his skull. “Okay, give me ten minutes.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
A low-bellied roar filled the incident room as Jackman entered that morning. He smiled and held up his hand. “Okay everyone. Settle down.”
Russell spoke up from the back of the room. “The DCI can’t be with us for briefing. He’s at a meeting with the assistant chief constable in Leamington.”
“Then we’ll bat on without him,” Jackman said and perched himself on the edge of a desk.
Davies moved to the front of the room, switched on her laptop and pointed to the stills of three men that appeared on the white screen in front of them. They all looked similar: dark hair, Caucasian, no distinguishing features that he could see. Two wore jeans and t-shirts, the other a navy polo shirt and beige trousers.
Davies pointed to each of the men in turn. “One of these men sent that email,” she said. “Who are they? What are their backgrounds? Why were they in the cafe?”
Jackman turned to the rest of the room. “Any news from the industrial estate?”
Keane moved in and provided a brief update.
“No witnesses, no cameras… ” Jackman summarised. “Same old story. What we need to establish is why the money wasn’t collected. Did something go wrong?”
“Maybe they were interrupted?” Keane said.
“If so, there should be a witness. What do we know about Lo Cheung?”
“Twenty-year-old student from Hong Kong,” Keane said. “Known to most as Lonny. Studying the same course as Min. Nothing so far to suggest they were friends. Son of Hong Kong-born father and British mother, although she died when he was nine. Suicide.”
Jackman tilted his head. “Does he still have family over here on his mother’s side?”
Keane shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it. She was an only child. Parents moved to Geneva years ago. We managed to trace them but they lost contact with Lonny after his mother died. Apparently his father wasn’t very helpful when it came to access.”
“Interesting. Keep on it. Check for extended family too. What about friends?”
“Not much there either,” Keane said. “Apparently he only turns up for the minimum lectures to pass.”
“What did he do in his spare time?”
“No idea. We’ve been through his flat. Once you get past the piles of takeaway boxes and dirty washing
, there’s not much left. Nothing to indicate where he might be.”
Jackman drummed his fingers on the desk. “What about bank statements, phone records?”
“Bank statements have just come through. There’s a substantial amount deposited each month from an account in Hong Kong. We think it’s from his father but we’re getting that checked. Just working our way through his transactions. He withdrew a lot, seemed to like to work in cash, but no pattern immediately comes to light. Phone has been off since Thursday morning. He didn’t make a lot of calls.”
“Any luck with International Liaison?”
Keane shook his head. “It’s almost seventeen years since China took Hong Kong back. There’s nothing there to speak of, and all the contacts have either moved on or retired.”
Jackman thought for a moment and turned to Russell, “Anything from the college?”
She shook her head. “We’ve re-interviewed the tutors. They shared a couple of classes. That’s all.”
Jackman stared up at their board. A photo of Lonny was now positioned next to Min. He exhaled loudly. “Why those two students? There has to be a link with the college somewhere. Go through the statements again and re-check with witnesses. Look again at the two victims’ families and speak to both parents to see if you can establish a connection.”
He moved back into his office, opened his laptop and trawled through his emails. A message from Sam Chapman caught his eye. He’d been true to his word and sent across the camera footage from the casino the weekend before. Hours of film to be checked. He’d also given DS Gray a hard copy to be logged. Jackman looked up through the open blinds. The incident room was a hive of activity as the team followed up the earlier leads. Phones were ringing in harmony. He glanced back at the email. Right now he simply couldn’t spare the resources to wade through the tapes, especially as the new kidnapping had taken them in a different direction.
Jackman let his mind wander. The thought of waiting several days to get the Embassy file on Lonny’s background incensed him. And the weekend was bound to delay matters further. A thought struck him – he’d attended a retirement party for an old colleague, DS Dave Benton, a couple of years ago. He remembered something in his speech about him being seconded to the Hong Kong police just before the switch-over in 1997, long before they’d been acquainted. He grabbed his phone, scrolled through the contacts and pressed dial, more in hope than expectation, and was surprised when it was answered on the fourth ring. And even more surprised when he recognised his old pal’s voice at the end of the line.