Due Process

by Jane Finch

  Sarah gasped and scrolled down the page.

  Mr. Purcell’s family home was burned down in a mysterious fire that occurred on the day of his disappearance. In a further development, one of Mr. Purcell’s clients, Paul Justin, was yesterday found dead in his home having apparently committed suicide. Police refuse to say whether there is any connection. Anyone with information is asked to call police on freephone 4781 or on the direct line 0300 555555.

  Sarah sat back in her chair and felt numb. Whatever was going on? Tony was missing, his house had burned down, Paul Justin was dead.

  She hurried over to the pay booth.

  “I’d like to make a call to England please.”

  * * *

  This was why D.C. Blake enjoyed his job so much. Three more officers had now been assigned to the investigation and the room was humming. Telephones were ringing, computers were buzzing, and there were now four minds working on the case rather than one.

  He was bringing the others up to date, giving the background of the disappearances, the fire, and then the Paul Justin case.

  “Autopsy report on Justin confirms death by cocaine overdose and drowning.” He consulted his pile of papers.

  “Lungs were filled with water so he was alive when he went under. Conclusion seems to be he either fell asleep or unconscious and slipped under the bath water. It’s possible he was forced or pushed, but that is purely speculative as there is no evidence to indicate other than accident or possibly suicide. It’s more than likely the Coroner will find death by misadventure.”

  One of the officers looked up from his computer screen.

  “So what links Justin to Tony Purcell’s disappearance?”

  D.C. Blake shrugged his shoulders.

  “Actually, nothing. The only link is that of solicitor and client, and maybe a pending hearing.”

  “So where is the wife – Amanda Purcell – now?” asked the officer.

  D.C. Blake scanned through his papers.

  “Right. Mrs. Purcell and daughter, Jennifer, were staying on the family boat after the fire. It’s a small cruiser moored at their private boat dock about two miles from town. Two nights ago when mother and daughter returned to the boat there was a note inside the cabin.”

  He waved the note in the air. It was encased in a plastic sheath.

  “It says “The kid is next”. Forensics has found nothing other than Amanda and Jennifer’s fingerprints. Paper is common and ink just a blue ballpoint. No sign of forced entry – not a problem on a boat where a flap is the front door.”

  One of the other officers sat back in his seat and indicated he had a question.

  “Where is the family now?”

  “I was coming to that. After she found the note Mrs. Purcell took the boat out on to the river to moor further down the river that wasn’t accessible by road. Another boat tried to intercept them, and in fact actually rammed them from the rear. There’s a large gash in the back of the boat, so no cause for doubt about the story. Blue paint in the dent so river police are keeping a look out. She managed to get back to her car and came here. Daughter has now gone to Tony’s Purcell’s sister in Scotland. Amanda is in a safe house for the time being.”

  “Daughter’s in Scotland?”

  “Yes, she was taken up yesterday. Mrs. Purcell doesn’t seem to have any family members living so we went with the sister-in-law.”

  Just then the telephone rang and D.C.Blake picked up the handset.and listened intently.

  “What? Put her through. Hello? Yes, this is D.C.Blake, I’m in charge of the investigation.” He paused. “You’re kidding?”

  He looked at the others and pointed to the phone and raised his eyebrows heavenward.

  “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but how do I know you are who you say you are?”

  Silence as he listened. He grabbed a pen and notebook and began to write.

  “Can I have your number there? We’re going to have to talk further with you, but thank you for getting in touch.”

  He put the phone down and saw the other officers looking at him quizzically.

  “Well, that’s one mystery solved,” he said, “that was Sarah Greenwood. The secretary. She says she received an unexpected inheritance and just took off. She’s in the Cayman Islands. Says she tried to contact Tony Purcell. Sent him an email but never got a response so thought he didn’t care, and just went. She’s just read about his disappearance online.”

  “You’re joking?”

  D.C.Blake shook his head.

  “No, really. We’ll need to check out her story, of course, but it looks like her disappearance is totally innocent.”

  No-one spoke for a few minutes as they digested this new information.

  “So that means…” began one of the officers “that if the secretary’s story holds up, and Justin’s death was not suspicious…all we’ve got is the house fire.”

  D.C.Blake nodded.

  “And a missing solicitor and an attempted child abduction. Nothing out of the ordinary for us,” he said sarcastically.

  * * *

  “Hello, Detective,” said Sarah Greenwood as she showed him to a table at the Hyatt café. He looked a little awestruck. The Caymans had that effect on people, especially those who were not used to travelling. She suspected that to be the case with D.C. Blake judging by his pallor and the way he kept gazing at everything around him. The turquoise sea always took the breath away, and the azure sky and the happy people. Sunshine made people happy. That was why she had been so desperate to leave rainy old England.

  “Miss Greenwood,” he said, “thanks for meeting me.”

  “I’m amazed you came all this way just to see me,” she replied.

  His eyes wandered as two stunning women passed by the table, their perfect figures embraced by bikinis that might have been painted on. She waited for his attention to come back to her.

  “This is an amazing place…” he began, and then seemed to pull himself together.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m still a bit jet-lagged.”

  “How long are you staying?” she asked.

  “Heading back tomorrow, unfortunately. I could certainly do with staying a few days, but the budget won’t allow it. I’ve been heading up this investigation from the start which is why I was chosen to come and speak to you.”

  He carried a briefcase from which he took a notebook and pen. She noticed he was sweating. He was wearing dark trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt. He must be burning up.

  “You should have brought some shorts to wear,” she remarked. He looked down at his wool encased legs and smiled.

  “You’re right. I left quickly, didn’t have much time to think about suitable clothing.”

  She smiled. “We could go inside if you’d like, The air conditioning will be on.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  He picked up his briefcase and she grabbed her beach bag and they went inside the café. The cool air felt like someone had opened a giant refrigerator door. They settled at a corner table, ordered some drinks, and he finally seemed more relaxed.

  “Miss Greenwood…”

  “Please call me Sarah.”

  “Sarah…I’m not sure how much you know. I’ll start from the beginning, and then perhaps you can answer some questions.”

  She sat in silence as he told her what had happened since Tony Purcell disappeared. Her eyes grew horrified as she heard about the fire, the ramming of the boat, the threat to little Jenny. She gasped when he told her of Paul Justin’s death. Neither of them touched their drinks as he related the series of events.

  Then it was her turn. She told him about the inheritance again, how she had struggled at work doing a job she did not enjoy. She related the email she had sent to Tony

  Tony, we need to talk.

  How she just decided to leave, telling no-one. She had no-one to tell.

  “The Justin case,” he asked, “ was there anything unusual about it? Did Tony feel unhappy a
bout it?”

  “Not that I remember,” she replied. “He was a strange character, that’s for sure. He had more hair on his face than on his head, and his clothes would be turned down by Oxfam.”

  “Did he ever bring anyone with him when he saw Mr. Purcell?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “No. He always came alone. Tony never made any comment about him, other than to give him one star.” She explained the star system.

  “He wasn’t a very nice person, Paul Justin, but I’m sorry he’s dead. Was his death suspicious?”

  D.C. Blake shook his head.

  “Nothing conclusive…nothing that can be proved. As the papers have already reported, death was by an overdose of a controlled substance and/or drowning.”

  They paused for a while and sipped their drinks. The café was buzzing with the sound of the people around them, chatting and laughing. She didn’t feel like laughing at the moment.

  They went on to discuss her view on Tony’s home life – his marriage, his wife, his work. Sarah could offer nothing that might give a clue as to his disappearance.

  They ordered more drinks, both lost in their own thoughts.

  “Now that I think about it…” Sarah began, “there were a lot of mysterious telephone calls.”

  “When, can you remember?”

  “Let me think for a moment. Yes, it would have been just before I left. Someone kept asking for Tony but wouldn’t leave his name. When I told Tony about the calls he told me to give them his mobile number.”

  “So you’ve no idea who it was?” he asked hopefully.

  She shook her head.

  “No, but after that he started getting quite a few text messages. He didn’t say who they were from but he did seem a little troubled by them.”

  D.C. Blake wrote it all down, anxious not to miss anything of importance. He checked through what he had written, and then folded the notebook and put it in his briefcase.

  “Thank you, Sarah. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.” He handed her a card.

  “Do you think Tony is alright?” she asked.

  He shrugged.

  “It’s hard to say. These could be a series of coincidences, but the threats are very real.” He handed her a card. “Please ring me if you think of anything that might help.”

  Sarah Greenwood rubbed her temples. She wasn’t sure just how much she should tell the nice detective. If he got any hint of the information she had passed on she might have to give the money back. She might even go to prison or something.

  She wasn’t really sure whether she had done anything illegal, but there was an element of doubt, and of course there was always the issue of breach of client confidentiality that she had probably broken. But she was sure her actions had nothing to do with Paul Justin’s death or Tony’s disappearance, and her confessing would not help the situation at all.

  Besides, she certainly did not want to give the money back and return to England broke and probably jobless too. So she decided to keep what she knew to herself.

  “I feel so awful that I’ve caused so much confusion,” she said apologetically.

  As D.C. Blake left a man sitting at the bar picked up his phone and dialed a number.

  “I think it’s time to move in on this one,” he said.

  * * *

  The rain was so torrential it looked like someone was aiming a hosepipe at the window. Amanda sat in the well-worn armchair and felt mesmerized by the cascades of water streaming down the glass. She looked around her in dismay. Just a short while ago she had been so happy in their little cottage with its funny nooks and crannies, her handsome husband and bubbly daughter completing her vision. Now she looked around and took in the shabby room, the tired-looking carpet, the pink walls, and the drab curtains.

  She couldn’t stay here any longer. Had it really only been two days? It seemed like a lifetime.

  She sniffed and wrinkled her nose in disgust. The room was stuffy and had a strange odour. Probably mould. With a sigh she reached for her handbag and took out her phone. Her finger hovered over the keys. She closed down the phone as she felt the room spinning like a crazy fairground ride. She wiped away the tears as they ran down her cheeks but then gave up trying to stop the flow. It was like trying to catch rain in a sieve. She was crying for Jenny, but she was crying for Tony, too. She missed him so much her whole body hurt. Fear was liquidizing her insides.

  As she looked around the sparse room she knew without a doubt what she had to do. Although D.C.Blake had insisted she should not leave the house, she didn’t intend to stay there a minute longer. She looked out the window and saw it was still pouring with rain. She had no coat.

  Always use a public telephone.

  That was what she had been told.

  Never, ever call. Unless they find you.

  Had they?

  If you call us, it will be over.

  She picked up her phone, thought for a moment as she tried to remember the number that had been ingrained in her memory. Then she dialed.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. Miranda Bell. I think they’ve found me.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When Tony awoke the pounding in his head was so bad it felt like he was inside a compressor. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth, and he winced with pain from his stomach every time he tried to move. It took a while for him to remember what had happened, but slowly the memory returned.

  He had been watching Jenny whizz down the slide. He had thought how good it was for them all to spend some time together. He knew he had been working too much. He recalled thinking it was time for a family holiday. Somewhere warm and sunny, where Jenny could play on the beach and Amanda could show off her amazing body in a skimpy bikini.

  He had watched his wife as she went to get ice-creams, calling to Jenny as she went. She had a great wiggle when she walked. He turned back to check on Jenny his view was obscured by two burly men. They seemed to tower over him. He had leaned sideways to try to get out of their way.

  “Excuse me,” he had murmured, but his frown became deeper as the men moved in front of him. He tried again the other way and the same thing happened.

  “Are you trying to be funny?” he had asked them.

  One of the men had a buzz haircut and looked like a forces guy, maybe marines from the size of his shoulders. His clothes were smart and sturdy, black trousers, white shirt, laced boots. The other guy looked more like an ex-fighter, with a bent nose and a bullish forehead. In contrast his clothes consisted of torn jeans and a well-worn sweatshirt. The buzz-cut grabbed Tony’s arm and dragged him off the bench.

  Tony had yelled out.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

  He started to struggle, trying to pull his arm away from the iron grip. Then the boxer had him by the other arm.

  “Just keep it quiet,” hissed Buzz cut.

  Tony had no intention of keeping anything quiet, and kicked out at the boxer’s knee, making him yell in pain. But the iron grip remained. They were big men, and Tony was not, and they easily lifted him off his feet. Boxer punched him in the stomach for good measure. He tried to call out, but the boxer was holding something over his face. Then he had passed out.

  Now he lay in the dark on what felt like a mattress. There was an odd smell that he couldn’t quite place, and a dim light glowed along the bottom of a door near his feet. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, or where he might be. Most importantly, he had no idea why.

  He heard low voices and assumed the two men were in the adjacent room. He strained to hear what they were saying, but could not understand anything. The pounding in his head was louder than their muffled voices. He tried tentatively to sit up but quickly laid his head back down on the mattress. Even in the darkness the room was spinning.

  Tony struggled to clear his head and try to make some sense of what had happened.
Why on earth had he been taken against his will and who were the two men who had chloroformed him and brought him here? And where exactly was this place?

  None of it made any sense. The pain in his head became unbearable and he passed into unconsciousness.

  When he opened his eyes again he felt like he had slept for days. The sharp pains in his head had subsided and were now a dull ache. His stomach still hurt when he moved, but otherwise he thought he could risk sitting up. He slid his feet over the side of the mattress and sat upright. The mattress was on the floor, no bedstead, so his knees nearly touched his chin. Slowly he pushed himself up and stood shakily and waited for the room to stay still.

  He thought it seemed a little lighter, so perhaps it was daylight outside. Now he could see a window behind the mattress with dull, damp curtains hanging limply. He screwed up his nose. The curtains smelled musty. That must have been what he smelled earlier. He moved them aside and saw bars at the window. Outside was a square of grass and a wooden fence. He couldn’t see anything else from where he stood. But at least he knew it was during the day, and he was somewhere quiet. Maybe the countryside. He strained to see further and noticed the branches of a few trees.

  There was no sound from the room beyond. Perhaps his captors had left. He walked steadily to the door, gripped the handle, and turned. It was locked, which was no surprise. He rattled the door and put his shoulder against it and pushed, but it would not give a centimetre. He returned to the window and pulled the curtains right back, and then turned and looked around the room. It was small, about six feet square. The mattress lay on the floor along one wall, and along the opposite wall stood a wooden table and one plastic chair. A bottle of water and a few slices of bread and an apple lay on the table. There was nothing else in the room.

  He sat at the chair and took a long swig of the water and began to nibble at the bread. He wondered how long he had been out of it. Judging by his hunger, he guessed it to be some time. He ate two slices of the bread and took a bite from the apple, and tried to gather his thoughts and make some sense of what had happened. It had to be a case of mistaken identity. Why on earth would anyone want to kidnap him?