by Sibel Hodge
‘Shit.’ I leaned back, lifted the Baikal away from him but kept it rested on my thigh. I beckoned him to slide down further into the OP. ‘What are you doing here? You need to start talking quickly. I don’t have time to mess about. A girl’s life is in danger.’
He sat half crumpled up, still trying to regain proper control of his breathing, forehead one creased line. ‘Tracy Stevens? You’re looking for her, too?’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t know her? Who are you looking for, then?’
‘You first. Talk quickly.’
He took a big gulp of breath. ‘I’m investigating a double murder. The Jamesons – an elderly couple who lived behind here. Tracy Stevens was a suspect, but I think she was abducted by Parker and held at his farm. I think she managed to escape and went to the Jamesons for help, but he chased her and killed them because they were witnesses. I take it you’re not working for Connor Parker, then, if you’re asking who’s in there? So who are you?’
‘Let’s just say I’m a keeper of justice, too. The people in that house kidnapped my goddaughter.’ I lifted my head out of the dip. There was no sign of Jimmy Delaney and I couldn’t hear him talking on the phone. ‘Fuck!’ I hit the ground with a flat palm. ‘They’re going to torture and kill her, like they’ve done to many other people. And they’ll film it and stream it live to other barbaric fuckers who want to watch.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’ve got ten minutes left before they start.’
‘What? That’s what this is all about?’
‘Look, I don’t have to time to explain anything else. She’s in there somewhere. There are at least three guys involved but I have no idea who else is there with them.’
DS Carter adjusted his position, peering over the rim of the dip, looking through the barbed wire fencing towards the house. ‘Tracy Stevens could also be in there. After they shot the Jamesons, they must’ve taken her back here.’
I thought of the last video streamed on the red-room website. ‘Did she have long dark hair, a leopard tattoo on her shoulder?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hate to tell you this, but she’s already dead.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Like I said, they film it. I saw it. They beat her to death over an hour of footage.’
‘Jesus.’ He gasped and shook his head with disgust.
‘What did they use in the shooting?’
‘A handgun. Nine-millimetre rounds.’
I clamped my jaw tight and carried on watching the farm. ‘I’m bringing my goddaughter out of there alive. Whatever it takes. I can’t have you hindering me. Can’t have you on the phone to your firearms unit and storming the place before I get her out. She might be dead by the time they arrive.’ I didn’t mention that I wasn’t intending to leave Brett, Connor, Delaney, and whoever else was in there alive, either, and I didn’t need a witness. A copper in the mix was a nightmare, but I had few choices now. I wouldn’t shoot him, and I couldn’t think that far ahead. I’d deal with that problem later. ‘I need to restrain you and take your phone while I get in and out.’
I pointed the Baikal at him again as I slid some plasticuffs from the belt loops on my trousers.
THE MISSING
Chapter 45
I listen hard, straining my ears to work out what the knocking noise is that’s started up again. It’s faint, coming from behind one of the walls.
I step closer. Press my ear against the cold concrete, the hair grip still clutched in my hand. I wonder if the walls have some kind of soundproofing because it’s a muffled sound.
And then it stops.
I take deep breaths to counteract the rising panic filling my chest, expanding with pressure, up, up, to my throat, to my head.
Then someone bangs on the door, and I jump so hard my shoulder knocks into the wall and the grip falls from my hand on to the ground.
‘Just a few last-minute adjustments for the themed live stream!’ the blonde one shouts from behind the door to me. Then he cackles with laughter again – a deep, ugly, blood-curdling sound that rakes through me.
The door unlocks.
I crouch down on the ground, facing the blonde one whose eyes are crazy. My trembling fingers slide over the floor behind me, desperately searching out the grip, trying to connect with the tiny bit of wire that’s my only hope.
He steps towards me, a crooked smile on his face.
My hand scrabbles over the gritty, dusty surface, my chest about to explode with fear.
Where is it? Where is it?
He takes a step closer, and I let out a silent scream, my mouth open but my vocal chords frozen.
My hands work frantically but it’s not there.
It’s not there!
Then he towers over me and yanks me to my feet and pulls both arms roughly behind me.
I twist and stagger in his grip.
He pulls tighter, so my arms are at an unnatural angle, high up behind my shoulder blades, tugging at my muscles and soft tissue.
He laughs and says, ‘Go on, struggle. I like it when they struggle. Better when they scream, though. And you’ll be screaming your head off soon.’ The weight of him pushes me forwards, towards the open door.
I try to dig in my heels, but I have no shoes and there’s no traction to keep me holding on to firm ground. The rough concrete scrapes across my soles, and then I’m being pushed through the doorway along a narrow, dimly lit corridor. My gaze darts around manically, looking for escape.
A little further along is another wooden door, which must be the red room. At the end of the corridor are some steps leading upwards – they seem miles away. If I can run towards them . . . if I can get out of his clutches, they will lead me out of here towards freedom.
I grunt hard with effort as I twist my body towards the steps, trying with everything I have to wriggle from his grasp.
But there will be no freedom, no escape, because suddenly my arms drop down behind me and his heavy forearm circles around the top of my chest, pressing me backwards into him tightly. Squeezing, squeezing. And he has a knife in his other hand now.
‘You ain’t going nowhere.’ He presses the blade to my throat and whispers in my ear, ‘Do you know what this film will be called? Death by a thousand cuts.’
I freeze again, not wanting to risk the blade sliding in, cutting through skin and muscle and tendons. One nick to my carotid artery and it’s all over. I don’t want to bleed to death. I don’t want to die!
But then suddenly I do want to die. Because having my throat slit will be a quick death. Not slow, agonising torture like I witnessed on that video.
So I press my throat harder against the blade. Feel the top of it digging into my skin. Feel a twinge of burning pain.
‘Do it . . . now . . . then,’ I manage to rasp out. ‘Go on, just . . . kill me. Right . . . here.’
‘Nah. Too quick. No audience. You’re worth a fucking fortune.’ He pushes at the back of my head, driving me forwards, towards the other wooden door. ‘Besides, the big boss is coming up specially to do you.’ He cackles.
My feet stumble. I try again to twist out of his grip, to struggle, but it’s no use.
He pushes me through the doorway into the red room. Then he picks me up by my waist as if I’m not seven stone of living, breathing skin and bone. As if I’m nothing. I kick out, but my bare feet barely connect and do no damage.
He body-slams me on to the long wooden table in the centre of the room and leans his torso over my chest, his weight crushing me as he reaches for the restraints. They’re thick leather, connected to the table with some kind of metal bracket. I try to move my arm. His grip on my wrist is too tight and he snaps the leather around my right wrist, tightens the buckle.
He reaches for the next restraint to tether my other wrist.
I bring my knees towards my chest. My kneecaps connect with his ribs as he leans over me, but it’s not hard enough to hurt. So I try to buck my hips up to throw him off, but again, he’s too heav
y, too strong, and the weight of him is making it hard to breathe. The edges of my vision swim in and out of focus.
The cuff snaps around my left wrist. I tug against them but my arms barely move. They’re locked in tight.
He eases off a little to twist around so he can restrain my feet in identical cuffs. I pull up my knees again and catch him with a kneecap to his cheek.
An eruption of pain flashes in my knee but the blow barely registers on him.
He laughs. Grips my right ankle and cuffs it to the table.
I try to kick at his head with my left heel, the only unrestrained body part I have left to use, but I have to bend my knee at a twisted, awkward angle and it only glances off his forearm.
My eyes bulge. My muscles strain as I push and pull and try to move.
Then the final cuff is snapped around my ankle and he stands back, stares down at me, his forehead sweaty, his eyes demented, a twisted smile on his face.
He leans over me, and I press my back against the table but there’s nowhere to go from here.
His tongue licks along the side of my jaw, right up to my temple.
I clench my teeth tight, squeeze my eyes shut, and tremble as if hundreds of spiders are crawling around under my skin.
Then I feel a cold wetness on my face as he moves backwards and the air hits his saliva on my cheek.
I open my eyes and turn my head towards the door that leads to freedom and Mum and my house and memories of Dad. I want to tell Mum I’m sorry. I should’ve told her what was going on. It could’ve saved my life. I finally allow myself to cry, the tears pooling at the edges of my eyes before they snake down my cheeks.
He pauses for a moment, glancing up at another countdown timer high up on the wall.
Then he steps towards me.
THE DETECTIVE
Chapter 46
I didn’t know the full story yet, but I’d been a copper for more than a quarter of a century, and like the sex worker I’d spoken to on the street had said, you learned to rely on your instincts. It had helped me solve a multitude of crimes, even if it had pissed off my bosses.
This guy could’ve been telling a pack of lies, but my gut was shouting loudly at me that he was telling the truth. I didn’t know which one of those bastards had killed the Jamesons in cold blood – Connor or one of his accomplices – but the trail led here, and I was certain one of them had abducted Tracy and held her here. According to Balaclava Man, Tracy was already dead, and the death toll was a lot higher. Torture and murder on a live stream for people to pay to watch? I thought I’d seen and heard the worst of what people could do to each other in my long career but this was unthinkable. If this guy’s goddaughter was in there, she was also in grave danger.
Although he didn’t say it out loud, Whatever it takes spoke volumes to me. He had a gun and he looked like he knew what he was doing – ex-military, without a doubt. One of the Parker gang had already used their weapon on the Jamesons and it wasn’t rocket science to figure out there could be a potential firefight or hostage situation if Balaclava Man went in there.
I had to call it in. Somehow. But even if I could get my phone out of my pocket without him seeing, it was likely there was no mobile signal.
What would happen to me in the meantime? I was a witness to a vigilante with a gun. A vigilante who obviously wouldn’t hesitate to kill the offenders to get his goddaughter out of there. Would he kill me, too?
As he looked back through the barbed wire fence at the house, I eased my left hand into my pocket. My fingertips touched my phone.
I slid it out on to the soil next to me, my body hiding it from his view. I glanced down at it without moving my head, without giving myself away.
I could press 999 but even if there was a signal, the operator wouldn’t know it was me calling. I could tap out a text to Becky but the light from the screen would show up as soon as I hit a key. I could press redial to call her, but again the screen would illuminate in the darkness, giving me away.
But then he pointed the gun at me again and the quandary was out of my hands.
THE VIGILANTE
Chapter 47
‘Give me your phone,’ I said.
‘You don’t need to do that,’ Carter said, watching the gun carefully. ‘My phone has no signal here anyway.’
‘Pass it over.’ I held out my free hand.
Reluctantly, he gave me his mobile. I put it in my pocket.
‘Lie on your stomach with your hands behind you,’ I said. Ideally, I would’ve restrained him against a tree, but I couldn’t risk one of those bastards seeing him.
‘Look, really. You don’t have to do—’
‘It’s non-negotiable. On your stomach.’
He glanced nervously at my gun again and did what he was told, shuffling on to his stomach awkwardly.
I’d just plasticuffed his wrists together behind him when a noise jerked my head in the direction of the farmhouse.
The kitchen door swung open and Brett appeared, dressed in black overalls. The same kind of overalls I’d seen on the videos. He strode towards the concrete outbuilding with a smirk on his face, a balaclava in his hand.
Fuck. I’d wanted to plasticuff Carter’s ankles and duct tape his mouth, too, but there was no time now. They were about to start streaming soon. But by the time he managed to get to his feet and get away and call his colleagues I’d be in and out and gone.
Hopefully.
‘As soon as I do the extraction I’ll come back and let you go,’ I whispered. ‘That’s a promise. I have no fight with you. Stay down and stay quiet and you’ll be fine.’
I watched Brett disappear into the outbuilding before picking up my Glock from the ground and tucking it into my pancake holster. With the Baikal still in hand, I leaped out of the dip and moved along the edge of the woods so I would emerge directly behind the concrete structure and be shielded from view of Connor and Jimmy and whoever else was inside the house, controlling the video stream.
I made my way up to the fence and quickly used my wire-cutters to open up the barbed wire fencing and climbed through the gap. Once on the other side I pushed forward to some cover at the back of the outbuilding. I edged along against the wall hidden from view, and when I came to the corner, I poked my head around, looking at the farmhouse.
No one was at the windows watching.
So far so good.
There were two large wooden doors at the front of the outbuilding but they weren’t locked. One second later, I’d pulled one open, slipped inside, and closed it behind me.
THE DETECTIVE
Chapter 48
Shit! Fuck! Shit!
I rocked from side to side on my stomach, my shoulders groaning in protest at being hoicked up behind my back. I tried to pull my arms outwards, attempting to rip the cuffs, but it was no use. Of course not. The police used the same kind of plasticuffs, and I knew how strong they were. Unless I wanted to gnaw off a hand, there was no way I could get out of them.
I tried to think calmly, rationally. Tried to slow my breathing down. Panicking would most likely get me killed.
Think!
There was no point trying to struggle, I was just wasting energy and would probably have a heart attack in the process. If I managed to stand up, I could still run. Get away. Call it in.
I rolled on to my left side and tried to sit up, but my centre of gravity was all off and I flopped around like a beached whale.
I stopped. Took a deep breath.
Come on, Carter.
I pulled my knees in towards my stomach and pressed my left arm against the ground, attempting to sit up and failing.
Once. Twice. Three times. I was too old and inflexible for this shit.
Just do it!
I dug my elbow into the ground and pressed upwards. Then I was in a twisted seated position with my feet tucked behind and to my side. All I had to do now was stand up. Easier said than done.
I rocked my hips. My core muscles were sadly lacking. I
f I ever got out of this, I’d take up Pilates.
I rocked a few more times, not lifting up more than a few inches. Something clicked in my shoulder and an almighty burning sensation stopped me cold.
I panted in and out, waiting for the pain to subside. My palms were slick with sweat. It trickled from my forehead into my eyes and I blinked rapidly, the salt stinging.
I pressed my knees into the ground, ignoring the pain in my shoulder as I pushed down with my hands at the same time, giving me some leverage. The movement wrenched my shoulder again and a loud gasp escaped.
I braced my stomach muscles and gave one almighty push.
Then I was on my knees, pushing upwards with my feet and, finally, I hobbled to standing, my limbs trembling with effort.
As I climbed out of the dip, I leaned my torso forwards, head down, like a charging bull, to counterbalance the lack of arm movement. My shoes slipped on the soil a few times, the unnatural angle throwing me out of whack, but then I was out and hurrying awkwardly to the post-and-rail fence of the Simms’s house, suddenly with no fear of the horses that had now retreated back to the other side.
I hoisted myself on to the fence backwards, using my hands to lift me up before swinging one leg over and sitting astride it. I flipped my second leg around, felt a crunch in my hip bone as I did so, and jumped down. Actually, more like tumbled down, landing on my knees so hard my teeth smashed together, gasping through the pain behind my kneecaps. The only good bit of news was that it was easier for me to get to my feet again from that position, and after another round of huffing and puffing I was up again, running in the direction of my car, wobbling all over the place. Bizarrely, the catchphrase for the seventies kids’ toy called Weebles came into my head . . . Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.
Adrenaline was making me lose the plot. But you won’t fall down, Carter. Keep going.
I pumped my legs wildly, my pulse hammering in my ears.