by Lena Jones
He catches my eye. ‘Do you fancy a run?’ There’s a definite challenge in his tone.
‘Always,’ I say.
He takes two head torches from his bag and hands one to me. I fit it and switch it on; the beam is white and very bright.
‘Ready?’ he asks me, as we line up, and I nod.
‘And … go!’ We take off. I pace myself to start with, getting into a comfortable rhythm. Arthur shoots ahead, but I wonder how long he can keep up that pace. He’s out of sight, but I can hear his feet pounding against the hard earth.
‘I’m coming for you!’ I shout.
I round the next bend but there’s no sign of him. I stop, listening hard. There’s loud breathing a little way ahead. ‘I can hear you!’ I call. He doesn’t answer, and I start to feel unnerved. It’s so dark, outside the beam of my torch, and I shiver, feeling suddenly isolated and vulnerable. ‘Stop it, Arthur – it’s not funny!’
Then I hear a scream – Arthur’s voice. I start to run towards him, but there’s someone else here and I’m jerked backwards as my arms are caught and twisted behind my back.
I shout out, but a cloth bag is pulled over my head, muffling my voice.
‘Arthur!’ I shout. But I’m shoved through a door (I hadn’t even noticed a door in the dark tunnel), then dragged up a flight of stairs. ‘Arthur!’
I hear him scream again. What are they doing to him?
There’s not enough air inside the bag. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe …
And then Poirot appears, a friend in the darkness.
‘Eh bien, ma petite, this is a sticky situation, n’est-ce pas?’
I slow my breathing as I’m yanked along. Focus, Agatha, focus.
Who’s taken me?
It occurs to me that it’s only a short while since we accused Lord Rathbone of being a master criminal. Now he’s getting his revenge. This must be what happened to Mum. I hate the thought that her final moments may have been so awful. But I can’t let my emotions take over right now.
I will escape, I promise myself. I’ll get away – and free Arthur too – and then we’ll rescue Sheila together. Rathbone will be arrested, and sent to jail, and we’ll make sure he knows it was us who reported him. Maybe I can finally get justice for Mum.
I hear a vehicle door being opened, then a rough hand pushes my head down and I’m forced inside. I land on a seat, but I’m lying down and can’t get upright with my hands tied behind my back. The rope’s tight and my arms feel as if they’re being pulled from their sockets. I try to breathe into the pain, rather than fight it. This helps a bit, but not enough. The engine starts up. I can hear two voices – a man and a woman talking in low, urgent tones.
‘Arthur?’ I whisper, checking he’s here.
‘Agatha – are you all right?’
I’m torn between relief that he’s alive and (selfishly) that I’m not alone – and regret that he’s been captured too.
‘Yes. Are you?’
‘They banged my head when they put me in the car and it’s throbbing. I’m OK apart from that, though. Where do you think they’re taking us?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe if we’re quiet we can follow the route.’
‘OK …’
We stay silent. At first, I keep track and have some idea of our whereabouts. But the journey is longer than I expect, and the road becomes bumpy – we’ve turned off the official roads and on to an unmade road – possibly a country track.
I whisper to Arthur, ‘Have we left London, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. My internal compass doesn’t seem to work in the dark.’
‘Mine’s malfunctioning big-time.’
‘Maybe we can get some idea when they take off our hoods,’ he says.
‘Maybe … Do you think we could fight our way out of this?’
‘I know I couldn’t.’
‘Hey! You back there! Stop talking!’ It’s the female captor.
We fall silent again. The car starts to slow down, then it comes to halt. A moment later, the door is opened and I’m yanked back out. My arms are throbbing with pain and I’m worried I might pass out. Focus, Agatha, I tell myself again.
I stumble as I’m pushed along a path. The man and woman are murmuring to each other as they march us. I catch the woman’s name, ‘Sals’, and something about a ‘waste of time …’
Then I feel the surface change from packed earth to concrete beneath my feet. We’re inside a building. My hood’s removed and I stand, blinking in fluorescent light. Behind me our captors leave, and a key turns in a chained padlock.
It’s impossible to make anything out at first, but as my eyes focus, I see my partner lying on the ground close by.
‘Arthur! Are you OK?’
He groans and I stagger over to his side. Crouching down, I inspect him. He looks pale.
‘I’m all right,’ he says.
‘You don’t look it.’
‘It’s only my head – it’s still hurting.’
‘Let me get you untied …’ I take a recce of our surroundings:
It’s obviously an old barn or outbuilding.
‘No,’ says Arthur.
‘No, what?’
‘No, I don’t want you to untie me.’
I stare at him. ‘Why not?’
‘Because we need to look passive – let them think they’re in control. If we break out, they’re much more likely to hurt us.’
I consider this. ‘You’re probably right, but I don’t plan on still being here to get caught after we’re free.’
‘Agatha – you don’t even know where we are. We could be in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Can you drive?’
He shrugs. ‘I’ve done some off-roading.’
‘So, if we can get their car started, we can escape.’
‘Right – so now we’re hot-wiring a car …’
‘How hard can it be? I’ve studied basic mechanics …’ I look at him. ‘What’s your idea then?’
‘I was thinking we’d act as if we’re going along with everything. Then, when their guard’s down, we’ll attack.’
‘Attack with what? Last time I checked, you didn’t have any fighting skills.’
‘No, but I’m a whizz at building traps.’
‘Seriously?’
He nods. ‘You wouldn’t believe what I can do with some broken-down machinery and a bit of imagination.’
‘It sounds like a children’s programme: “Come on, kids – let’s build a human trap!”’
He laughs. ‘I’d definitely like to present that show.’ He falls quiet. Then he says, ‘We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?’ It’s not really a question.
‘Hey, with your brain and my brawn? We’ll be just fine. How about I untie our ropes, just to make us more comfortable? Then we can always make it look like we’re still tied up afterwards. It’s got to be better to have our hands free, after all.’
He sighs. ‘All right. But I’m hiding behind you if it gets physical.’ He squints at my joined wrists. ‘Are you sure you can undo these? They look pretty complicated.’
‘Ahh – but I’m a master knot-unpicker.’ I examine the knot in his rope, which I identify as a constrictor. I can picture how to tie it, but it’s designed to be a difficult one to unfasten.
‘Do you have a knife on you?’ I ask him.
‘Nope. They took that and my phone before they shoved me in the car.’
‘My penknife’s in my backpack – and I lost that when they attacked us in the tunnel.’
‘You could gnaw through the rope with your teeth?’
It turns out to be very difficult to untie a constrictor knot while your own wrists are fastened behind your back. For a few minutes, I’m like a dog chasing its own tail – there’s a lot of movement on my part but no real progress. Eventually, I find a position that allows me to work on Arthur’s ropes. It’s still a slow process, involving me passing rope-ends backwards, around and forwards.
&nb
sp; ‘Give up yet?’ asks Arthur.
‘Never.’
A moment longer and the knot slackens. ‘You did it!’ he says, shaking the cords from his wrists.
‘Now can you do me?’
Arthur’s vast knowledge turns out not to extend to knots. I have to use the rope he’s shed to direct him on how to tie – and, crucially, untie – a constrictor.
A key turns in the lock again, and we both freeze. My own cords are still half-tied, but Arthur’s are lying on the ground next to me.
‘Arms behind your back!’ I say quickly. It seems even more painful to have to hold my arms in place, now they’ve been loosened. I glance at Arthur and see he’s thrown himself back down on the floor, in the semi-foetal position they left him in, with his hands behind him. His rope is out in the open, and it’s glaringly obvious.
Our kidnappers reappear. They’re both wearing masks, which are a bit unnerving as they hide not just their real faces but also their expressions. The woman stands guard by the door while the man comes towards us. As he approaches, I quickly shuffle on my bottom towards the heap of cord. I use tiny movements and hold my breath, hoping they won’t notice. By the time the man reaches me, I’m perched uncomfortably on top of the rope. He looks me over, then examines Arthur before walking back to join his colleague.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’ the woman asks us. Her voice is muffled by the mask.
‘You’re working for Rathbone?’ I say.
‘Is that what you’ve heard?’ she says.
‘It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘So we need you out of the way for a while,’ she says. ‘Then we’ll decide what to do with you.’ She and the man leave, turning the key to lock us in again. Despite the cold in here, I’m sweating. I glance down and see that one end of the rope was sticking out from under me.
‘That was too close,’ I tell Arthur.
‘I was sure they were going to spot that the rope was undone!’
‘Can you finish untying me?’
‘I can try.’
I don’t know how much time passes with Arthur attempting to undo the constrictor knot while it seems to only get tighter round my wrists.
‘Give up,’ I say at last. ‘I think you’re making it worse.’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Knots really aren’t my thing.’
‘It’s fine.’ While I start to work on the knot myself, Arthur stretches and eases his muscles. With one last wriggle on my part, the cord comes loose. I groan in relief as I can finally stretch out my arms and shoulders again. I stuff the rope into my pocket.
‘You really are a master knot-unpicker,’ he says with a grin.
‘Yep. Just one of my many talents.’ I smile back, to show I’m not really that conceited.
Arthur says quietly, ‘What do you think they’re planning on doing with us?’
I don’t answer straight away. He needs reassuring, and I don’t want to relive memories of my previous experiences. Despite my new martial arts skills, I’m still uncomfortable remembering the tycoon Maxwell’s desire to kill me and my friends for the sake of his business enterprises – or Wallace Jones’s attempt to drown me in the underground harbour.
At last, I say, ‘I don’t know, but I think they’d have killed us by now if that was the plan.’
‘What do you think we should do?’
‘First, we’re going to look for signs that Sheila was held here.’
‘Sheila?’
‘I’m sure these are the same people who took her – and it makes sense that this is their usual holding area, before they move hostages on.’
‘Hostages …’ repeats Arthur, and shudders.
‘Actually, I’m feeling pretty lucky right now,’ I say, pushing myself on to my feet despite my complaining upper body.
He stares at me. ‘What about this makes you feel lucky?’
I shrug and I’m shocked by the painful objection from my arms and shoulders. ‘We’re actually in the right place. Also, whenever I get abducted, it means things are starting to move in the right direction with the investigation.’
He laughs. ‘Only you could talk about being kidnapped like it’s a hobby, Agatha!’
I start to comb the floor for signs of a previous prisoner. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I say. ‘It’s never enjoyable. But it’s good to know we’ve rattled someone’s cage enough to make them come after us. With any luck, we’ve unnerved Rathbone enough to make him do something careless.’ I search in the general area where we were deposited, then move in small circles, careful not to miss any section. It’s dim in the barn, thanks to the boarded-up windows, and I wish I still had Arthur’s head torch.
As it turns out, I don’t need a light, though. A white rectangle is clearly visible on the rough concrete floor just a metre or two away. As I get closer, I see that it’s attached to a black lanyard with the words NATIONAL GALLERY clearly printed on it in white. I don’t have my latex gloves or an evidence bag, so I crouch down and use the bottom of my dress as a protective layer between my skin and the ID badge.
Arthur moves to my side and says, ‘What have you got?’
I hold up the badge, which has Sheila’s photo with the title SENIOR CURATOR beneath it.
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘You were right. She was here.’
‘She was here,’ I say.
At that moment, the key turns again in the lock, and I stuff the lanyard and badge inside my coat pocket and place my poor, aching arms behind me. I glance at Arthur and see he’s made it back to his position on the floor. This time, he’s taken his rope with him and it’s fully hidden beneath his body.
Our assailants come in, closing the door behind them. I can’t see any way I could beat the two of them without Arthur’s help. This time, it’s the female who walks over. She stops where she can see both of us and says,
‘This has been a warning. If you continue to investigate, you will be putting yourselves and your families at risk.’
She scrutinises me in silence, which gives me a chance to examine her in detail – something I hadn’t attempted while I was trying to conceal Arthur’s rope.
I glance over at her associate. He’s also got military bearing.
‘Why did the two of you leave the armed forces?’ I ask.
Despite her training, she has a ‘tell’ – her shoulders twitch slightly. It’s only a tiny movement, but it’s enough to assure me my instincts are right. She not only was in the forces, but she’s unsettled by her prisoner having this (or any) information on her.
She speaks again. ‘As I was saying, your families will be in danger, if you continue your investigations.’ There’s no mistaking the menace in her voice. ‘In your case, Agatha Oddlow, that would be …’ she takes a notebook from her breast pocket and reads, ‘Rufus Oddlow, head gardener in Hyde Park.’
‘OK –’ I hang my head as if intimidated, but I can’t resist getting in one last, hopefully unnerving dig, remembering the name I heard earlier – ‘Sals.’
‘Agatha …’ hisses Arthur. He’s still lying on the floor.
I’m treading a narrow line. If I go too far, she’s liable to get angry with me.
She takes a step towards me, and her colleague says, ‘Don’t!’ in an urgent tone.
‘She knows my name,’ says the woman. ‘She knows too much about us …’
‘She’s bluffing,’ says the man.
‘He’s right – she is bluffing,’ says Arthur. I shoot him an angry look.
Sals swivels and, in an astonishingly smooth move, she has Arthur in a headlock. His face looks startled and terrified.
‘Is that true?’ Sals asks me. ‘Are you bluffing?’
‘Don’t hurt him,’ I say.
‘Why not?’ she asks, tightening her hold. He whimpers.
There’s nothing for it – I have to act. But I realise with a shock that I’m scared. I’ve been so busy thinking about Sheila, I’ve forgotten to pay attention to my own physical and emotional st
ate. Now I notice that my breaths are shallow, my palms are sweaty and my heart is beating too fast and too loudly.
I Change Channel, focusing on my breathing and balance, and calming the rapid beating of my heart. (I picture it like a metronome that’s swinging too quickly and needs slowing.) What would Mr Zhang have me do? It needs to be a form of what he’d term ‘non-violent resistance’.
‘Why’s she got her eyes closed?’ asks the man.
‘I don’t know …’ says his colleague.
I have it! My eyes flick open and, in a movement at least as smooth as hers, I leap towards Sals, landing on both feet. We’re so close that my forehead is almost touching her chin.
Caught off guard, she steps back, loosening her grip on my friend. It’s then a simple task for me to unwind her arm from the headlock and pivot away, escorting Arthur until we’re out of arm’s reach. This part’s a bit like a waltz. I’ve always done appallingly in ballroom dancing at school, but perhaps I’m not as bad as I thought.
‘There’s no need for that,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll answer your questions. Yes, I was bluffing. The way you two stand, anyone could tell you’re ex-military. And I heard your colleague say your name earlier.’
‘How did you two get loose? Those were good knots!’ says the man.
But Sals and I ignore him. I hold my breath. Will there be another attack, or have I defused the situation?
‘I understand the message from today,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll stop investigating.’ I hold out the name badge as a peace offering. If I’m going to show them I’m serious, and stand any chance of getting home, we need to sacrifice this piece of evidence.
‘Where did you find this?’
‘It was here,’ I say. ‘Proof that Sheila Smith was also held hostage by you. But if you take it, we’ve got nothing to take to the police.’
‘Good girl,’ she says. She glances at the man, who nods.
They throw the hoods back over our heads and tie us up again. This time, the knots aren’t as ambitious – they’ll be far easier to release.
I cry out as I’m dragged to the car. My shoulders and arms are throbbing so hard, it feels like I’ve gone several rounds in a boxing ring and come off badly. I wish I could see Arthur and check he’s OK, but I can’t make out anything through the stuffy head covering.