by Lena Jones
Lying on the back seat of what I’ve decided is an old four-by-four designed for off-roading, I’m bumped up and down as we head back along the farm track. I can hear Arthur groaning.
‘Where hurts?’ I ask him.
‘Mainly my head. But my arms are pretty bad.’
‘Mine too. I wish they hadn’t tied us up again.’
‘What was going on back there?’ he asks. ‘You were really pushing her buttons. I thought she was going to lose the plot.’
‘Two things: I wanted to unsettle her – to make her think we knew who they were, so she’d be more likely to believe us if we said there was a rescue party coming to get us. And I wanted to see if I could get her riled, so she’d lose concentration and do something careless.’
‘She nearly did – she’d have punched you, I reckon, if I hadn’t intervened.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that. I was getting somewhere.’
‘You were setting yourself up for a bruising.’
I sigh and we fall silent. The journey back seems even longer than it did going. Every bump aches and I feel bad for Arthur, as he whimpers close by.
‘What if they aren’t taking us back?’ he says at last. ‘What if they’re going to kill us?’
‘If they wanted us dead, they’d have tried it by now. They just want us scared. As far as they’re concerned, we’re a pair of kids who’ll be easy to scare off.’
‘And I’d have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for those meddling kids,’ says Arthur, in a cartoony American voice. I’m glad he hasn’t lost his sense of humour.
After what feels like an hour, though I don’t suppose it’s really that long, the car pulls over and I’m lifted out and dumped on the ground. I land on my knees and shout, ‘Ow!’ as I feel small stones bite into my skin. We’re outside, at least. That’s got to be better than being locked up in another building.
Arthur cries out – so he’s obviously had the same rough treatment. But we’re about to be free.
When my head covering is removed, I can see he’s close by. We’re lying in a lay-by. Sals is holding my backpack in her gloved hands – so it wasn’t lost in the tunnel! She makes sure she has my full attention and then she unzips my bag and tips the contents out into a muddy puddle, before dumping the backpack on top. Then she climbs back into the car and we watch as the vehicle pulls out.
‘Memorise the registration number,’ I say, committing it to my own memory.
‘Done,’ says Arthur. Then he whimpers again. ‘I’m freezing.’
White flecks are falling from a slate-grey sky. I shiver. ‘That’s because we’re outside and it’s sleeting,’ I say. My shoulder wrenches painfully as I use an elbow to push myself into a sitting position. Right: time to cut us both free. I can’t face unfastening any more knots, even if these are simpler.
I glance around the filthy lay-by, which is filled with plastic bags, takeaway boxes, toilet paper, an abandoned trolley and an old mattress. I’m going to have to extract my penknife from the puddle. I stumble over and crouch with my back to the muddy pool. After a lot of fishing, I manage to extract the knife and, with my hands black with dirt, I make it back to Arthur’s side. It isn’t easy to cut ropes when your fingers are frozen, but I keep sawing away until Arthur’s trappings fall away. Then he does mine.
We both groan as we rub our arms and shoulders and stamp our feet to keep warm.
‘Freedom!’ I say. Exhaustion washes over me as the adrenaline rushes out.
‘I just realised – you saved my life!’ he says.
I frown. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘When that woman – Sals – had my head under her arm, I thought she was going to squeeze all the air out of me.’
‘You’re forgetting she only put you in that headlock because I wound her up by seeming like I knew too much.’
He shakes his head. ‘Even so …’
‘Even so, what?’
‘You put yourself in danger, to help me. Not many people would have done that.’
‘Sure they would. You’d do it for me, wouldn’t you?’
‘I guess … I mean, I hope so …’
‘So do I!’
We both laugh.
‘Anyway, I’m freezing,’ he says. ‘Can we get away from here, please, and into the warm and dry?’
‘Good idea.’ I fish in my backpack and turn on my mobile. ‘There’s no signal here,’ I say.
He checks his phone. ‘Same here. It must be all the trees.’ The road we’re on is thickly wooded.
‘Let’s walk,’ he says.
I check my watch. It’s four forty and I have no idea where we are. ‘Shall we just go in the opposite direction from the car?’ I suggest.
He nods and we begin to walk.
‘I can’t believe it’s only a couple of hours since we were racing through the tunnels,’ I say.
‘I know. It feels like everything’s changed, doesn’t it?’
The occasional car passes us, but we keep in among the trees, not wanting to be spotted.
At last, we see the lights of a building ahead. ‘I think it’s a pub,’ says Arthur.
As we get closer, we see it’s a restaurant, with a sign that says THE FOREST FOX. Inside, the owner lets us use her phone and sit near the door until our taxi arrives. She’s very concerned about us and wants to know if we’re all right, but we just tell her we got split up from a Duke of Edinburgh hiking trip. She’s very kind and insists on giving us hot chocolate to drink while we wait. We have a phone signal at last, so we each text our parents, to let them know we’re OK.
At last, the cab arrives and we clamber in, weary, cold and damp.
‘Where to?’ asks the driver.
‘We should get you home,’ says Arthur.
‘It’s fine if you want to be dropped off first,’ I say.
But he shakes his head. ‘No. You deserve to be safely back with your dad.’
‘OK …’ I look at him, trying to gauge his mood – unsure why I deserve this more than he does.
I consider asking the driver where we are, but I don’t want to get into a discussion with him about how we got here. I turn on my phone and open Maps.
‘We’re in Barnet,’ I say. ‘So it probably does make sense to go to my house first.’
Arthur nods and addresses the driver: ‘Greenwich via Hyde Park, please,’ and the man pulls out. Arthur closes the communication window to give us privacy. It occurs to me that, if this were a thriller, we’d shortly find out our driver was really an evil henchman. I examine him. He’s definitely over sixty – possibly over seventy – and small and wrinkled like a garden gnome. My experience with both the professor and Mr Zhang has taught me not to underestimate older people, but I’m pretty sure I could win against this man if it came to it. Reassured, I settle back in my seat.
My phone pings with an email notification. It’s from Sam Cohen.
‘What is it?’ says Arthur.
‘An email from the art conservator,’ I say, clicking on it. ‘Listen to this: “Dear Ms Oddlow …”’
I was extremely interested in your follow-up query, as I’ve been conducting my own investigations, ever since your mother stopped being in contact. The Sunflowers painting appears, to me, to have lightened considerably since its move to the Van Gogh show.
The Georgia O’Keeffe piece you mention is, I believe, Lake George Reflection, which recently sold at auction for almost $13,000,000.
I began making enquiries about this artwork, but was interrupted by an unexpected visit from a stranger. I’d better say no more here, but he has certainly left me feeling uncertain of my way forward.
I look at Arthur. ‘What do you make of that?’
My companion’s sitting with his head back and his eyes closed. He opens them a fraction. ‘Of what?’
‘The conservator starts looking into the pictures, and suddenly he’s receiving warning visits.’
‘He doesn’t say this visitor threatened him.�
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‘No, but “left me feeling uncertain of my way forward” sounds pretty worrying, doesn’t it?’ I pause. ‘I feel bad, because it’s me who put him on to this.’
‘Actually, it sounds like that was your mum, seven years or so ago.’
‘But he didn’t receive any threats or warnings or whatever till now, did he?’
‘Agatha, you can’t be responsible for everybody’s safety. He’s a grown man – I’m sure he’ll work something out.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘What I don’t understand is, why he didn’t go to the police over this – if he’d uncovered forged artworks.’
‘Mum asked him not to.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, she was on a case of her own, wasn’t she? Maybe she’d discovered the people involved were dangerous, and she didn’t want to expose him. Or she needed more proof about their dealings. What if it wasn’t just about forged art? Maybe there were other things going on, and the fakes were just part of the investigation.’
‘So you think Rathbone’s on to him as well?’
‘It sounds like it, doesn’t it?’
‘Or maybe his visitor hasn’t threatened him at all – maybe this person just caused him to doubt his findings.’
I smile at him. ‘I like the sound of that.’
‘Well, until you speak to him, why don’t you assume that’s the case?’
‘I’ll try. Thanks.’
‘No worries. Are we square now? You saved my life and I made you feel better.’
I pull a face. ‘I’m not sure that’s a fair exchange. Blood for blood, don’t you think?’
‘Hey! Who raised the stakes? No one said anything about blood!’
We’re still laughing as the cab pulls up in front of the park gates.
I check my watch. It’s nearly six o’clock – what a day! I run through the events. We now know that Sheila was taken by the same people who kidnapped us – presumably working for Rathbone. We also know the kidnappers have a military background. And we have that vehicle registration number …
I rummage for money, but Arthur stops me. ‘It’s fine – I’ll claim it on expenses.’
I hesitate. ‘I keep wondering where they took Sheila, after that holding place, I mean. I don’t think they dropped her off in a lay-by too, do you? Because if they had, she’d be back home by now.’
He nods. ‘They must have taken her somewhere else.’
‘Or what if they’ve hurt her?’ I say, voicing the elephant in the room.
Arthur winces, then turns to me. ‘I don’t think that’s their style, for what it’s worth. They’ve warned us off the investigation, when they could have really hurt us – or worse.’ He gives a tired smile. ‘Look, we’ve done all we can for today, don’t you think?’
‘You’re right. Let’s rest, and put our heads together in the morning. We need to be in a good state for our last day on the case. We’ve got to find Sheila tomorrow! I can’t bear to think of Dr MacDonald going to the police because we’ve failed.’
‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘Shall we text first thing, to agree where to meet?’
‘Sounds good.’
I drag my weary body out of the taxi, thank the driver and wave to Arthur until he’s just a blur through the back window. Then I walk slowly along the paths to my home, where I hope my dad will be waiting with a roaring fire.
But there’s no sign of him when I get inside the house. Oliver’s also strangely AWOL and, apart from a light in the hall, everywhere’s dark. Where’s Dad?
I can’t think straight as I run through the hall, throwing open the doors to the kitchen and living room.
What if the kidnapping was a distraction – what if they were after Dad all along?
‘Dad!’ I almost scream his name up the stairs.
I’m halfway up when I hear him shout, ‘Is that you, love?’ from the direction of his bedroom.
He’s here. He’s fine, I tell myself.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted. I make my way slowly to the top, then knock on his door and go in. He’s lying on the bed, with Oliver sitting hunched like a snail on his stomach. From the look on the cat’s face, he’s having a wonderful time. (This is confirmed by his purring, which is nearly as loud as a motorcycle engine.)
‘Are you OK?’ I ask Dad.
He sits up. ‘I’m fine – just having a rest. I’ve been doing lots of digging today – we dug out some of that area that floods after rain, to form a better run-off, so with any luck that’ll be the last of the flooding. You’re back late, though.’
‘Yes, sorry – things came up.’
‘But you’re all right?’
For a moment, I’m tempted to blurt out: No, I’ve had a terrifying day, in which I was captured and tied up and blindfolded and locked up and threatened. And then I thought something had happened to you … But I take a deep breath and say, ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Indeed you are. You fancy a takeaway?’
‘Pizza?’
He laughs. ‘Sure. You order and I’ll pay. Does that sound all right?’
‘That sounds perfect.’
I walk over and give him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.
‘What was that for?’
‘Nothing. I missed you, that’s all.’
‘Well, I’m honoured.’ He catches my eye. ‘I’m also a bit worried about you.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘I was glad to get your text. Next time, please can you get in touch sooner, though? I was already starting to worry.’
‘Of course – sorry. I was out with Arthur and we lost track of time.’
In the kitchen, while I’m ordering (a ‘Heaps of Meat’ for Dad and a margherita with pineapple for me), I access the Guild’s vehicle registration database. All agents have access to this system. I key in the number plate from our kidnappers’ vehicle, 60N3 1R3, and wait …
‘Do you want any sides with that?’ asks the woman taking my order.
‘Yes: please can we have garlic bread, wedges and chocolate-chip cookies, with cheese on everything?’
‘You want cheese on the cookies?’ She sounds horrified, but I’m busy staring at my phone. The database has finished its search for the number plate and has come up No match.
That isn’t possible. I key the digits in again, but the same thing happens.
‘If in doubt, add cheese,’ I tell the woman at the pizzeria, distractedly. She names the amount to pay, and I recite the digits from Dad’s card – I know the number off by heart.
As soon as I hang up the phone, I pull out my notebook and write down the registration number. There’s something about it that’s bothering me …
60N3 1R3 …
Poirot’s voice whispers in my ear: ‘It is not much use being a detective, ma petite, unless …’
‘Unless you are good at guessing,’ I whisper to myself.
If the plate isn’t registered on our system, someone must want to keep it that way. What secret is hiding in this number plate?
I stare at it until the numbers and letters reform as:
boNe iRe.
Bone ire? Why does that seem so familiar?
Another word for ire is anger or … wrath. So now I have bone wrath – or Rathbone!
I’m so excited, I don’t even notice Dad’s come into the kitchen until he speaks.
‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself. Did you just work something out for your case?’
I nod. ‘I have to message someone.’
‘Go on then. I’ll sort the plates and drinks while you do that.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
I turn to go up to my room, but he calls after me, ‘By the way, Aggie …’
I stop and look back. ‘Yes?’
‘I know you love your red coat, but you don’t have to wear it in the house, you know.’
I glance down and take in that I’ve also not removed my boots.
‘How did you get so filthy,
anyway?’ he asks.
I laugh. ‘It’s taken you a while to notice!’
‘Hey! I pay attention!’
But he’s blushing a little too. We both know he’s not observant about appearance. (Unless you’re a plant, in which case he can spot a greenfly on one of your leaves at ten paces.)
‘Give it here – I’ll brush it down for you,’ he says.
I remove the dirty garment and hand it over. ‘Thank you, Dad – I appreciate it.’
On the way upstairs, I start to shake. At first, I put it down to being a bit cold, but as the trembling gets more intense, I realise I’m in a minor state of shock. Pull yourself together, I tell myself sternly, gripping hold of the handrail alongside the stairs to my room. Do you think Poirot allowed himself to fall apart at the slightest threat?
Inside my attic haven, I sit on the bed and wrap my duvet round my shoulders before texting Arthur:
60N3 1R3 = Rathbone!!
His response comes almost immediately.
Of course! Well done, Agatha. Proof at last!!
I frown and type back:
But if this is his car, wouldn’t his number plate appear on the registration database?
Not if it’s a forged plate that he switches with the real one, for his dodgy dealings
I guess. But who uses a personalised number plate that can easily be traced back to them for criminal activities? You’d have to be an idiot
Maybe he is. We’ll have to ask him tomorrow. Unless you think we should go over there now?
To ask if he’s an idiot?
Among other things
I don’t feel good about this
I know it’s hard for you, because you’re at school with his daughter, so you feel responsible. (Even if she is a nightmare, from what you’ve told me.) But it’s looking pretty open and shut, don’t you think?
I still can’t help thinking about how she’ll react once all this comes out. And what if we’ve made a mistake and it isn’t Rathbone?
I refer you to the facts: