Due Process

by Jane Finch

  He briefly went through his list of clients. True, not all were of savoury character, but to his knowledge there was no-one who was in so much trouble or flying so close to the wind that they needed to abduct their lawyer.

  Then he thought of Jenny. She would be alright, Amanda would have been there. Did Amanda see what happened, he wondered? What must she be thinking?

  He thought of his lovely wife and the years they had spent together. He remembered the first time they had met. He had been sailing his little boat along the back inlets of the broads, and she had been sitting at the river’s edge on a little stool, fishing rod resting on her knee, and a look of contentment on her face. Fishing. What woman went fishing? Didn’t they go shopping and have coffee with friends and go to parties? Not this woman. She was clearly enjoying the peace and tranquillity of the river, and he knew as soon as he saw her that he had found his kindred spirit.

  He had steered the boat past her a couple of times, and each time she had to reel in her line so he didn’t snag it in his motor. The first time she barely acknowledged him. The second time she looked more annoyed. As he turned the boat around on the third occasion she placed her rod on the grass, stood up, and confronted him.

  “Do you have a problem?” she had asked.

  He cut the motor and drifted in to the river bank beside her. She threw up her hands in exasperation.

  “Well, I might as well give up now,” she shouted.

  He said nothing, just smiled at her.

  “What?, she asked. “What are you smiling at? Don’t you realise you have scared all the fish away?”

  He just waited, and kept smiling. She glared at him, picked up her rod and began reeling in the line, glancing at him every so often. He watched silently as she meticulously gathered together her fishing paraphernalia, lifted up her net to reveal two reasonable sized roach, tipped them into the water, and folded the net away. He watched her for about ten minutes, and then just as she was preparing to leave he spoke.

  “Would you like to come for a ride up river?”

  She glared at him but said nothing.

  “I know a great fishing spot.”

  He saw the flicker of interest in her eyes, and knew she was hooked.

  He smiled as he remembered, but then reality dawned. Amanda and Jenny were alone, and he wanted to be with them. At that moment he heard a noise and the sound of a key turning, and the door opened.

  Boxer stood at the door scowling.

  “He’s awake,” he growled, and motioned for Tony to follow him. They walked into another room that had a sofa, a chair, and a fire burning in the grate. Tony’s eyes immediately went to the window where he saw more bars. There was another door to the left leading, he presumed and desperately hoped, to a bathroom. Buzzcut lounged on the sofa.

  “I need to visit the bathroom,” croaked Tony, his voice hoarse and his throat sore. Buzzcut tilted his head to the door and Tony hurried inside. The bathroom was old and bare, a seatless toilet and a stained sink the only items there. He quickly relieved himself and ran the tap and washed his hands and face. The icy water seemed to revive his senses. He took a deep breath and went back through the door to face his abductors.

  Boxer stood by the fire warming the backs of his legs, and Buzzcut still loafed on the sofa. Tony recalled the way they had taken him from the park, and he felt anger and confusion stirring in his stomach.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked, glaring from one to the other. Buzzcut casually crossed his legs and glared back.

  “Now, that’s for us to know and you to wonder.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Tony said, spreading out his hands. “What am I supposed to have done?”

  Buzzcut grinned.

  “Let’s just say we may as well get along, because we’re going to be together for a while.”

  Tony took a step towards Buzzcut and Boxer was in front of him immediately.

  “Sit” he barked.

  Tony remained standing, his eyes moving from one man to the other. He decided to try a conciliatory approach. He had found in the past this often worked with irate clients and the counselling training he had received a few years ago should help.

  “Look guys, why don’t you tell me what this is all about. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. Is this something to do with one of my clients?”

  “You’ll find out in due course,” said Buzzcut, shifting on the sofa. “Now sit down and we can have a nice friendly discussion.”

  Tony kept his eyes on Boxer as he moved towards the sofa and lowered himself gingerly down.

  “Feeling a bit tender?” asked Buzzcut. Tony nodded, keeping his eyes firmly on Boxer who was back in front of the fire.

  “Whoever you think I am, you’ve got the wrong person.”

  Boxer smirked. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “I’m Tony Purcell, a lawyer from Walsham. I deal in criminal law. I live in a cottage near the town with my wife and daughter.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Buzzcut, linking his fingers and cracking his knuckles loudly. “Yes, we know all that. In fact, we probably know more than you do.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Tony, perplexed.

  Buzzcut looked at Boxer. “Shall we tell him?”

  Boxer began to rub his chin as if he was thinking about it.

  “Tell me what?” Tony was becoming more and more concerned by the way the men were toying with him. This was no game. This didn’t appear to be a case of mistaken identity. Something was going on here, although he had no idea what.

  “For a start,” began Buzzcut, “you did live in a cottage, but you no longer do, because it doesn’t exist any more. It disappeared in a puff of smoke.”

  This seemed to amuse the men and they both laughed loudly.

  “Literally,” declared Boxer.

  “Pooff…” said Buzzcut.

  Tony could feel the bile rising from his bruised stomach.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, turning towards the man sitting beside him.

  “Oh, go on, tell him,” said Boxer, sticking his hands in his pockets and shuffling closer to the fire.

  “The little cottage sort of – burned. To ashes. Finito.”

  “Oh my God,” said Tony, putting his face in his hands. He rubbed his eyes and swept his hair back with his fingers.

  “My family?” he asked, hardly bearing to hear the answer. “What about my family?”

  Buzzcut sat forward.

  “Funny you should ask that. Now me and Jake here we would really like to discuss your family.”

  Jake grew red in the face.

  “You idiot. Now he knows my name.” He turned to Tony, pointing at the man beside him.

  “And he’s Clive. So now you know.”

  Tony had seen enough thrillers to know if was not good for him to know his captors names. His palms became greasy and he felt the sweat rolling between his shoulder blades. He decided to keep quiet.

  “You’re the idiot,” said the man named Clive, getting up abruptly and barging his shoulder into Jake. The two squared up to each other, sticking their chests out and pushing like a pair of rutting stags. Tony tried to move his head slightly to look at the door behind him, the door that probably led outside. He winced as a pain shot through his temple, the residue from the chloroform, he thought.

  The altercation was over as quickly as it started and the two men were hammering each other on the back and high fiving, and then Clive was back on the sofa.

  “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, your family. Well, a friend of ours is getting to know your little girl.”

  Tony almost choked. “What?” he yelled, jumping to his feet and pushing at Jake who had grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back. Tony gasped with pain.

  “Jenny, isn’t it? Sweet little girl. Keeps calling for her daddy, I understand.”

  “Why you…” Tony heaved and pushed and twisted, but Jake held him firmly. “Why have you got Jenny? Where is she? What have
we ever done to you?”

  “Well now,” began Clive, “here we have the million dollar question. What have you done? Now that’s something you are going to have to ask your wife?”

  Tony stopped struggling. “My wife?”

  “Ahh, now it’s all becoming clear, isn’t it, Mr. Purcell? Little wifey isn’t all she seems, is she?”

  Tony shook his head. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  Tony felt Jake’s breath in his ear. “Oh, I think you do,” he hissed, “and if dear Mrs. Amanda Purcell doesn’t do what we want, she’s going to be a widow.”

  “And childless,” smirked Clive.

  + + +

  Tony lay on the mattress and went over in his mind everything that had happened. Amanda had told him her secrets, and he had never told a soul. The problem was, if they had Jenny, he would have to tell them everything he knew.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Amanda thought she would never have to relive her past again and that it was buried with her memories. This would be a new life, they said. A new start and a new beginning. But it wasn't the new life that was the problem, it was the old life come back to haunt her.

  The hotel was busy and it didn't seem a very good place to meet. But then they always did the unexpected. She would give them their due, at least they had moved quickly. They must have found a local agent to make contact to establish the urgency of the situation. It had only been two hours since she had made that first call and now here she was sitting in a cafe waiting to meet with someone who she hoped would help her find her husband.

  The hotel cafe was bustling. Children were screaming, people were laughing, waiters were hurrying, and cups were rattling. But then as the man sat down at her table she knew that in fact it was perfect place. She knew they'd sent him as soon as he entered the front door. She watched his eyes and saw the way they scanned the room noting the exit doors, checking the layout of the room, looking at the faces. Classic.

  As he sat down their eyes locked. If she had hoped for reassurance and comfort she was to be disappointed. There was only a question.

  “What's going on?”

  He certainly didn't look like an agent. He was young, too young. His hair fell into his eyes like a teenage rock star. His skin was tanned and smooth, not weathered like the usual older agents. His features were small and unremarkable but his overall demeanor was confident and excitable. His fingers kept tapping on the table and she immediately found it annoying. He was dressed in a white shirt and buff-coloured corduroy trousers. Who wore corduroy trousers these days? His eyes would hold hers for a moment and then dart around the room always searching. He sat on the edge of his chair, casual yet alert. Who on earth had they sent? Some budding James Bond character?

  Finally his eyes stopped scanning the room and came to rest on hers.

  “So let's talk about what's been happening,” he said quietly, picking up his coffee and taking a sip.

  Amanda tried not to gulp hers but it was sticking to the roof of her mouth. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then began.

  "I couldn't say too much on the telephone for obvious reasons. But you must know my background, you must know who I am, you must know what's gone on in the past, so I don't need to go into all that do I?"

  He shook his head briefly.

  "I'm up to speed. Just tell me why you called us."

  "It was a last resort," she said, feeling the moisture begin to form on her forehead. "You know it's been ten years and I haven't contacted you once. There's never been any problem in the past, they have never made contact with me and there has been no reason for me to be concerned. Now that's changed."

  Amanda began to tell the man what had happened, leaving nothing out. She explained the trip to the park, the attempted abduction of Jenny, Tony being taken, the house burning down, and the boat chase. All the while he listened intently, not interrupting her or attempting to make a comment.

  "Did you see anyone you recognized?"

  Amanda shook her head. She was becoming agitated now. Every moment she wasted talking, with every hour that passed, Tony was in more danger.

  "I need you to help me, and I need you to help me now."

  The man held up his hand to stop her talking, he felt into his trouser pocket and pulled out a mobile phone. His fingers flew across the keys as he, she presumed, sought confirmation of the next move.

  He sent the text and they waited impatiently, he clutching the phone in his hand. Amanda found she could not take our eyes off it. While they waited sounds of the cafe echoed around them. The man began drumming his fingers on the table again. Amanda began to watch his fingers. One, two, drum drum. One, two, drum drum. Finally she could stand it no longer and she took his coffee cup placed in his hand.

  "Please. I can't stand that noise."

  Amanda tried not to listen to the sounds around her. As they waited she allowed her mind to drift back through the years when she was a different woman known by a different name.

  PART 2

  CHAPTER NINE

  As Miranda Bell she was one of the elite. Her days were spent travelling first class on airplanes, on ferries, whizzing through towns and cities in fast cars, and generally leading the exciting life as an undercover agent. Well that was how it had been for the first two years. She had aced the training, physical and academic, much to the annoyance of her male counterparts. It was only after she scored a first-class pass on the shooting range that their annoyance began to turn to admiration. Because she was young and attractive she got the more prestigious assignments; infiltrating the vice gangs, passing back the information on the location of the headquarters, the names of the prominent members, and eventually working her way into the bed of the head man. Jose Martinez and his illustrious crew of perverts were now safely behind bars in a Texas jail and three little girls who had been abducted from their loving parents were now home and in therapy.

  That was the first two years, and another story. It was drugs that had been her downfall. She had always worked with the vice squad and so when she was asked to help out with a drugs bust she took it as promotion.

  “They’re a good bunch of lads,” her boss Gerry Walker told her, “ some of the best. They’ve been working on this bust for a long time. They need someone on the inside. A woman.”

  Gerry had a habit of tweaking his toupee when he was anxious. Everyone knew it was a falsie, but they never let on. Miranda found if she squinted slightly she couldn’t really tell. The little grey flecks over his ears helped it to blend. Apart from his hair issue, Miranda liked her boss. He was smart both in dress sense and in his mind. He always wore a slick grey suit, whatever the weather. Usually a blue tie held firmly against a crisp white shirt by a tie-pin in the shape of a fish. She wondered if it was intentionally an ichthus, the sign of the fish, an indication that the wearer was a Christian. Gerry didn’t smoke, she had never heard him swear, and seemed a gentle guy by nature, although he had the ability when reprimanding someone to virtually bring them to their knees in mortification if needed.

  “There’s no pressure on you to accept,” he assured her.

  But she was ready for a change. She had had enough of vice.

  + + +

  She had been fully briefed. The drugs were coming from Jamaica, taken to Grand Cayman by a variety of methods including boat, plane, and courier – whatever worked. They went on the basis that for every shipment that was discovered, three went undetected. There was a sophisticated arrangement for collection and distribution. A group of men had set up a selection of businesses and opened various bank accounts on the island. The team had been following these men for some time, knew their names, where they lived, the bogus businesses. But they wanted the suppliers.

  Because of the various methods used to get the drugs to Grand Cayman it had been impossible to keep track. So her assignment was to get ‘friendly’ with one of the businessmen and find out what she could. If possible they wanted names, times and dates of pick-ups, a
nything that would result in a full bust.

  Miami airport was buzzing. Miranda waited at gate 52, watching and listening. Boarding had just been announced, the sign declaring the Grand Cayman flight was on time for the scheduled departure. Weary travelers began gathering their belongings and lining up at the desk clutching their documentation. There was still no sign of him. Simon Buller, his name, and she knew he was on the passenger list. He had arrived at the airport thirty minutes ago, one of her colleagues had whispered in her earpiece.

  She knew the routine. Arrive late for the flight, dash on board at the last minute, avoid drawing attention. She put her mobile to her ear and pretended to be having a conversation, an excuse why she could not yet board. She stood and began pacing, muttering into the phone and raising her hands in frustration. The gate was empty and the airline staff were consulting their manifest and looking at her quizzically. She raised her shoulders helplessly and pointed at the phone.

  She heard him before she saw him. The muffled footfalls behind her. She turned casually and identified him at once. Short dark hair, tanned complexion, five foot ten, wearing a crisp light grey suit and carrying a briefcase and a holdall. He hurried to the desk, handed over his travel documents, and disappeared down the tunnel to board the plane. Miranda hastily ended the pretend call and did likewise. The airline crew were waiting, and guided her to her seat. She was always amazed at the accomplishments of the team, and before she knew it she was doing up the safety belt and her arm was touching his shoulder. The team had got her seated next to him. No time like the present.

  “That was a rush,” she sighed, looking at him, and he smiled. She held up her mobile and explained, “the office. Determined to make me miss my connection.”

  “Business or pleasure?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Oh, pleasure. At least I hope so,” she replied coyly. He shifted slightly in his seat so that he was facing towards her and away from the window. Body language, she thought. Looking good.