by Dan Clark
“Payments… what are you going on about?”
“B101 sound familiar?”
Carolyn watches as he paces back and forth across the room, as though thinking hard about his next move.
“What do you mean?” Carolyn asks, but again, she already knows the answer. Of course she does. “Patrick Sawhill?”
“That’s right. The pervert used to buy a lot of content from me, and now he’s dead, because of you,” Mark Buckles says, his forehead gleaming with sweat. “Yeah, I know exactly what you’ve been doing. It was me, if you haven’t figured that out by now. It was me who hired that private investigator to follow you around and report back.”
“You… you’re the supplier?” Carolyn says, fear warming her belly again.
“Yeah, I’m the one that sold him the stuff. It doesn’t do it for me, but sick creeps like that will pay a hefty fee for one of those videos, and I’m a businessman.” Mark laughs and wipes the dust from his trouser leg. “Did you honestly think a little candle shop in the middle of fucking nowhere bought that Mercedes, or my house?”
Carolyn goes to speak, but struggles to find the words.
“Supply and demand.” Mark holds out his palms. “I have a friend who works in that type of business, and he would drop me a flash drive now and then. I wouldn’t want to watch what was on it, but once I knew what I was dealing with, I’d sell the content on to that fat pervert.”
Carolyn doesn’t answer. She just stares at him with a face of disgust.
“You see, they’re going to trace those payments back to me. I know what they can do these days with computers. I’ve seen forensic detectives on the Discovery Channel. You couldn’t give it up about those boys, could you?”
“Those boys? One was your son!” Carolyn shouts.
A couple of pigeons coo above.
Mark smiles. “Yes, Dylan is my son. But that has nothing to do with you. You even brought a man of God to breaking point,” Mark says, pointing to Father Joseph’s corpse. “Just because you couldn’t let it go. And now me. You’ve ruined everything for me!”
“What, like your sick child porn business?” Carolyn asks, a confident smirk on her lips. The last thirty minutes has sent her past the point of caring. She now understands: it wasn’t fear she’d felt in her gut earlier. It was guilt and grief and anger.
“No, not just my business. You’ve ruined other things you wouldn’t understand. You bitch!” Mark hisses and heads for her, he picks up a piece of concrete about the size of a rugby ball. Standing in front of her with the heavy concrete held above his head, he stares down at her.
Carolyn looks up.
“Do it then, you sick bastard. Do it!” she barks, holding his gaze.
Mark stands still, thinking. Finally he lowers the concrete and allows it to drop to the ground. It thuds on the floorboards.
“You want me to kill you, don’t you?” he says, chuckling. “No… No, I have a better idea for you.”
Chapter Forty
5th November, 19:30
“I’m not filing a missing person for two grown adults, Mr Cookson,” Inspector Williams tells Barry abruptly, chewing as he speaks. Williams is clearly finding it difficult to hide his irritation. Barry can tell he’s annoyed and doesn’t want to speak about Carolyn, but he doesn’t care. Something bad has happened; he can feel it.
“I’m not asking you to file a missing persons, Inspector. But have a look… please. Carolyn went missing this morning and now I… I can’t get through to Jeanette. Something seems wrong.”
“I said—”
“You know about the fire last night, at Jeanette’s bungalow?” Barry interrupts.
“Yeah, of course I know about it,” Williams snaps. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Maybe it isn’t connected, but what if it was started deliberately, and now they’re both missing? Come on, Richard!”
“We still don’t know how the fire was started,” Williams says. “All right, listen. I’ll go the church on my way home and see what’s going on.”
Barry thanks him, though the tone in Williams’ voice implies he would have said anything in order to get him off the phone and back to his supper.
It’s 7:30 pm, and Barry has been trying Jeanette’s phone for the last three hours. He’s ringing her to check if Carolyn has been in touch.
Maybe they’re talking, Barry tells himself, and waits. After a little while, and no reply, he tries again and again.
Now he’s worried.
First the attack, then the fire, and now neither of them are answering my calls or texts.
He Googles the number for the church and gets Father Joseph’s answering machine. He decides not to leave a message, and hangs up before the beep.
An anxious feeling rushes over him and he knows he has to do something other than sit here feeling sorry for himself. Against the doctor’s orders, he stands, groaning with pain as he heads over to the window, and moves the blinds aside. The rain is coming down fast and heavy, and he can hear it bouncing off the tin roof of the café. But Barry isn’t checking the weather, he’s checking for any strange cars he doesn’t recognise that could be watching his flat. Nothing, of course.
The main road outside is dead. The Sleepy Nights mattress factory across the way closed half an hour ago, and the workers are long gone. He really doesn’t fancy going out in this weather, but when he has gut feelings, they’re usually right.
Last night, after Carolyn had left him and headed home, he couldn’t settle. It wasn’t because he had to stick to sleeping and resting on one side for most of the night. No, it was the flashbacks leading up to what had happened right before the actual attack. He was having vivid thoughts and thinking whoever had attacked him would come back to finish the job. At one point he convinced himself that his ex-wife, Lisa, might have sent the attacker. Lisa might be a drug addict, but surely, she isn’t a psychopath.
Barry had even opened his phone a couple of times during the night to message Carolyn, but decided not to. He wouldn’t want her to worry about him any more than she was doing already. Now he wishes he had messaged her, to act as a shoulder to cry on and even offer his own home to her and Jeanette.
“Come on, Carolyn,” Barry says into the phone as he tries calling her again. It rings before taking him to voicemail. “Shit.”
He heads over to the sofa. The pain comes shooting up his side and all he wants to do is to fall onto the puffy cushions and not move. Instead, he slips his feet into a battered pair of trainers – they’re easier to put on than tying the laces on his boots – and pulls on his coat.
Outside, he holds on to the metal railing and takes each step one at a time, searching all around for anyone who might be hiding in the shadows, waiting for him. There is nobody.
The rain soaks him in seconds. It takes Barry seven minutes of grunting and catching his breath before he reaches the bottom step. He climbs into the cold van, starts the ignition, and heads for the church in search of his friend.
***
Carolyn didn’t feel any movement after Mark Buckles stood behind her and held her in a headlock, cutting off her air supply. With no way of fighting him off, it was rather easy for him, and she passed out quickly.
Now awake with a harrowing migraine and a sickly feeling in her gut, she can feel the hard ground underneath her. But this place is different. This place isn’t the nearly-demolished B&B. The smell from the pig farm is no longer in the air. It’s also colder – much colder – and the ground is wet and harder than before. Carolyn can feel the breeze nipping at her cheeks, bringing her to shiver and hug herself.
Yes, her arms are now free, her legs too. She can hear the wind howl and the rain pelt against a roof. She opens her eyes, but it’s too dark to see anything other than a small gap. The gap is a little wider than a front door letterbox. She gets to her feet and wobbles, almost losing her balance. No food has passed her lips since the soup she had last night. The soup made by that murdering bas
tard Father Joseph.
As she gets close enough to feel around, it becomes clear she’s touching a steel door. She puts her face to it, and looks through the small letterbox. The night sky is black. Trees and bushes blow side to side in the strong wind. There’s no artificial light outside, only the glow from the moon. There’s no form of life, and she begins to imagine that she’s miles away from civilisation.
How long was I out? she asks herself. The internal voice doesn’t reply.
So this was Mark Buckles’ plan, to leave her here alone in this steel prison cell.
Carolyn tries the door, bashing her shoulder into it and kicking furiously. It doesn’t budge. She shouts out through the letterbox, but her words are swept away by the howling wind. She pushes and bashes against the metal door with all her energy, but the door is securely locked and her efforts only cause her pain.
Behind her, she hears the sound of metal chains scraping along the steel floor.
“AHHHH,” she screams and backs herself against the cold door. She has no idea how big the cell is, or what the hell she is locked in here with. A dog on a leash that has been set in place to eat her when it’s starving to death? A sick and evil plan, but it wouldn’t surprise her. She remembers the hatred in Mark Buckles’ eyes.
“WHO’S THERE?” Carolyn demands. The taste of vodka is still strong on her tongue. She holds out her arms into the blackness, in a bid to fight off anyone or anything that comes towards her.
“It’s ok,” a soft voice says from the back, it sounds as if the person is cowering in the corner.
“Who are you?” she asks, her voice echoing around the metal hut and sounding loud in her ears.
The wind outside is thunderous, and it’s doing a great job of overpowering the low voice, but Carolyn hears it clearly enough.
“My name is Dylan Lloyd.”
Chapter Forty-One
5th November, 19:40
DS Hughes walks into Williams’ office with a pleased smile on her broad face and holding a piece of paper. Williams stands and is ready to finish for the day. He plans to check out the firework display at Harrow Park, then head home with a case of beer.
The office smells of vinegar from Williams’ recently-finished fish & chip dinner.
“Sir, the results from Sawhill’s computer,” DS Hughes says.
“Ah, okay,” Williams replies, sitting back down and gesturing for her to take a seat. He rests his hands across his bloated stomach.
“The computer forensics went back years. We have the names of most the people who are signed up to Patrick Sawhill’s two sites. We’re trying to track them using their banking information. But there’s one here you need to see.”
“Go on,” Williams urges, unfolding his hands and resting his elbows on his desk.
“The supplier, he’s logged on a couple of times and I’ve cross referenced it to the same IP address as the emails that were sent to Thomas Zaman, the private investigator that was hired to follow Carolyn Hill. It’s registered to the candle shop owner in town. Mark Buckles’ shop, sir.”
“Really?” Williams says, more to himself than to DS Hughes. She nods anyway.
Williams stands back up and grabs his coat. He leaves the office in a hurry, pushing past Riley on Reception.
“Dixon, get your coat,” Williams orders. “Get the nearest patrol car over to Mark Buckles’ home immediately.”
In the car, Williams’ phone rings. It’s Riley at the station. He tells him he has a Barry Cookson on the line asking to speak with him, and that he says it’s important. Williams agrees for him to connect the call.
“Barry, I can’t speak right now. So unless you’ve heard from Mrs Hill, I don’t want to know!” Williams barks.
“I’m at the church across from the ruins of Jeanette’s home. Father Joseph’s car is gone, but Jeanette’s red Polo is still here. The place is in darkness, and nobody is home. I think something’s happened,” Barry says over the sound of rain bouncing off the roof of his van.
“I’ll give you a call back soon,” Williams promises and hangs up.
PC Martin’s and PC Young’s patrol car is already at Mark Buckles’ property as Williams’ car pulls into the driveway, followed by Hughes and Dixon. The two uniformed officers head over to Williams’ car.
“We’ve knocked and surveyed the property, sir,” PC Young says. “It looks like Mark Buckles isn’t home. His car is missing.”
Williams curses and tells the officers to stay put and arrest Buckles immediately if he returns home. Williams, Hughes and Dixon head back into town, in case Mark is still at the candle shop.
The shop shutters are down, so they head around the back, but the back door is locked. Williams peers through the barred windows and can see into the office where the desk lamp has been left on. The desk drawers have been pulled out and the contents are spilling across the floor. Bella the cat is sleeping peacefully in the corner on a comfortable-looking armchair. The safe is empty with the door left open. A trail of muddy shoeprints, thick with chunks of earth, can be seen on the floor in various spots around the office.
“That’s strange,” Williams says.
“What’s that, sir?” Hughes asks.
“I know Mark Buckles as a man who prides himself on looking smart. He’s always in a nice suit. There are mud trails right through, not to mention it looks like he’s left in a hurry.”
DS Hughes steps closer and takes a look. “What are you thinking, sir?”
“Get another patrol car over here,” Williams says, and takes out his mobile. He gets the number from Riley and calls Barry Cookson back.
Barry answers on the first ring.
“Barry?”
“Yeah, go on, Rich.”
“Do you know a Mark Buckles? He owns the candle shop in town. He speaks with a London accent.”
“I know of him, yeah. Carolyn spoke to him once. Apparently he’s Dylan Lloyd’s real father. Why?”
“We think Mark Buckles might be connected in some way. I’m telling you because we can’t find him. If you see him—”
“I remember the night I was attacked from behind,” Barry interrupts. “When we were at the Myers Steel place. When I was on the ground, I heard a voice whisper into my ear.”
Williams looks at Hughes and Dixon, both holding up the hoods of their coats.
“Well? What did the voice say, Barry?” Williams asks.
“He told me to tell Carolyn to stop digging. I thought he had a Birmingham accent, but it could have been London.”
“Are you sure, Barry?”
“Yes, yes I am. It came to me the other day, I thought maybe it was a dream, that I was in shock… I don’t know… I was trying to piece something together, I guess. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before. I just wanted to be certain.”
“It’s okay, Barry. As long as you’re certain now.”
“I am. So you think this Mark Buckles has Carolyn?” Barry asks.
“We don’t know. It’s too early to assume Carolyn is even missing. But Buckles’ office has been emptied out and there are mud stains throughout. So just keep your eyes peeled,” Williams says and hangs up.
***
Barry has an idea. He puts his foot down to get to Llanbedr Convenience before it closes, praying the girl he needs to speak to is still on shift.
Chapter Forty-Two
5th November 20:00
“Are you alone, Dylan?” Carolyn asks.
“Yes, I’m alone,” he replies, his voice is soft. “I’ve been alone for years.”
“My name is Carolyn Hill. I guess you could say I’ve been looking for you.”
“You have?” Dylan’s voice becomes excited. “People haven’t forgotten about me?”
“No, no of course not, love,” Carolyn replies, walking closer to Dylan. She bumps into him and takes a seat next to him, on the cold ground. She can feel his bare arms next to hers, his muscles shivering as the wind blows in from the small opening in the door, circling around
the steel hut and pinching at their flesh.
She pulls her knees into her chest and wraps her arms around them. Her hand falls to the toe of her boots and her fingers touch something sticky. She quickly moves her hand away, realising it’s her mother’s blood. She desperately wants to cry, to break out in hysterical tears, and to scream at the top of her lungs in anger, frustration and sorrow. But Dylan is next to her, no older than seventeen, so she tries to keep in mind that if it was her son in this situation, held captive by a lunatic, she’d expect the adult to be calm and reassuring. She takes in a large breath, counts to three and wipes her tears before exhaling slowly. She’ll mourn later when this is over.
If there is a later, the internal voice sneers, but she ignores it.
“Do you know how long you’ve been missing?” she asks the boy next to her.
“I think it’s about two years. He’s told me it’s my birthday twice. I’m not always here, in this old bunker place. I’m usually at his house… I think it’s his house, anyway. It’s a house and I’m locked in a bedroom. He brought me to this bunker when he first took me. I didn’t know who he was at first.”
“Did he tell you why he’s taken you?” Carolyn asks.
“He told me he’s got to keep me here until the police stop searching for me.” He coughs. Carolyn can hear that it sounds dry and painful. “Then he came back a couple of days later with food and water and I saw his face.”
“Do you know him?” Carolyn asks.
“I recognised him from around town, yeah. He keeps saying we’ll be a family again. Him, me and Mum. I think he’s crazy.”
Carolyn wonders what Dylan looks like now. His arms and legs feel skeletal next to hers.
“I think he’s crazy too. How did he take you?” Carolyn asks.
“I was out on my bike. I was arguing with my brother, Owen. I just wanted to get away,” Dylan says. He coughs again. “I didn’t hear him behind me. His car hit my back tyre and I came off my bike. He pulled something over my head and tied my hands behind my back.”