by Penny Grubb
‘Take your time,’ Annie said, glancing out through the window where the parked vehicles sat in an eerie silence.
Jean took a gulp of coffee, flinched at the heat of it, and went on, ‘I was shouting over for one of the girls to get an ambulance. Shouting at Catherine to tell me what they’d done to Lee. Next thing, she’s gabbling about sweets and crisps. I realized it was about a theft from the shop back at the stables. Two years ago. She was confessing to it … sobbing … tears streaming. Lee might have been dying right beside us … and she was hysterical over something that happened two years ago. I … I almost went to slap her, but … But then she starting shrieking and babbling, and she was on the ground jerking around just like Lee.’
Annie watched Jean’s hand shake as she relived the events. Jean described her rising panic, trying to call for help for Lee and Catherine; seeing a pony bolt down the road, its reins swinging down by its front legs; and realizing that all she could see were loose ponies and children writhing in the dust. ‘I didn’t have my mobile with me.’ Jean looked up at Annie, the panic she’d felt visible in her eyes. ‘It was in my jacket. Only about twenty yards away. For a terrible moment I thought there was only me. But I still had that young instructor with me. She was shocked but still standing. I remember shouting to her to look after them while I went for help. Then … I don’t know … I heard her say, “He’s stopped breathing” … I saw the blue light … the first ambulance. I don’t know who called it.’
Annie questioned her carefully, and it became clear that it must have been a good hour after the initial wave of panic that Jean had called her. Exhausted, pushed to the periphery, Jean still wasn’t thinking straight. This was her event, her responsibility. Annie understood the turmoil she must be going through, but wished now they’d stayed outside with the other group. She might have learnt more from them. ‘How are the children?’ Annie felt she had to ask, but tensed in anticipation of an answer she didn’t want to hear.
Jean shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
‘You said one of them had stopped breathing.’
‘We gave him mouth to mouth. It was awful. All the time wondering what was happening to the rest of them.’ Gentle questioning got out of Jean how she and the young instructor had kept the two children alive until medics arrived. Annie imagined Jean surfacing from her focus on just two of the children to a sea of chaos; probably trying to get back to the centre of it to direct operations, but not being able to. In the midst of the turmoil, she’d called Annie in a panic, but someone had restored some order by the time Annie arrived.
‘Have you any idea what it was or how it was administered?’
‘Not what, but we know how. Everyone had a drink before getting the ponies out. The kids had cola, warm cola. It’s a thing they’ve got going. Ordinary cola with boiling water, only it wasn’t boiling water this time. They’d boiled something in it. Whatever it was it had them gabbling out their secrets like it was some kind of truth drug. Then they keeled over.’
Annie nodded. ‘And those who weren’t affected?’
‘Three of the kids who don’t like cola. And the instructors. We had tea.’
The door clicked open and the blond man walked in, holding out a phone, which Jean grabbed. ‘That policeman rang back,’ he said. ‘He’s not on now. I took a message. The kids are OK.’
Jean let out a sigh as she cradled the phone in her hand. ‘Wouldn’t you think I’d keep it with me after this morning? I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’
‘You’re in shock,’ Annie said. ‘And what policeman?’
‘I rang him after I rang you. The one who was rude to me. He was OK. He said he’d keep an eye on things and let me know.’ She turned to the blond man. ‘What else did he say?’
‘He said a couple of the kids’ll be kept in overnight but they’re going to pull through. They’re treating it like a childish prank gone wrong. Not drugs, something herbal, but they haven’t isolated it yet.’
‘Herbs couldn’t have that effect.’
‘Oh, they could,’ Annie put in. ‘Foxgloves, crocus, deadly nightshade … Well, no, none of those,’ she amended. ‘They probably wouldn’t have pulled through. Bay, maybe. Harmless in small quantities but pretty deadly when it’s concentrated, say in a strong brew.’
Annie watched as the two of them swapped theories on who had been the ringleader, where the idea might have come from, and it occurred to her that all the talk of drugs, all the precautions that had been taken might have planted the seed of the idea in the children’s heads. Mass poisoning with some sort of herbal concoction was a blunt instrument and a dangerously unpredictable one. She’d said to Pat that it couldn’t be coincidence, but maybe it was just that. The door swung open and the couple who’d been in the drive came in looking dishevelled. ‘All ponies caught and stabled,’ the man said to Jean.
The woman looked at Annie. ‘You’re Annie, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You’ve had a call on the main phone. Your mate Pat Thompson. She couldn’t get through on your mobile.’
‘Orange Pippin gave us a real run around,’ the man interrupted.
‘Huh, he would.’
Annie pulled out her phone. No missed calls. The woman leant on a chair back, exhausted, diverted by the talk of the runaway ponies. Annie clicked in Pat’s number. The call went straight to voice mail. ‘Signal’s dodgy at the best of times round here,’ the man said, eyeing Annie’s phone. ‘Here, let me have a go.’ Annie passed the phone across and watched as he moved to the far corner and held it up high. ‘Up here, you can sometimes get away from—’
‘Oh my God!’
Everyone turned to stare at Jean, whose face had drained of all colour.
‘What?’ The woman and Annie spoke together.
‘His tendon wasn’t right. If he’s damaged it again, it’s the end. How will I tell them? They’ll never forgive me.’ Jean slumped over the table, a picture of despair.
‘No!’ The woman rushed to Jean and grasped both her wrists, giving her a shake. ‘This is not your fault.’
‘He’ll be OK,’ the man said. ‘He seemed sound when we brought him in.’
Annie cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, but what was the message from Pat Thompson?’
‘What?’ The woman turned to Annie, her face blank. ‘Oh yes, the message … What did she say? Um … bigger reception than she’d bargained on at North Point and … uh … could you go … no, could you get back there pron to.’ For the second time in half an hour, Annie felt the hairs rise at the back of her neck. The woman tossed out the words as though of minor importance compared to the real agenda here at the pony camp. But for Pat to have gone to the trouble of chasing up the landline meant something bad had happened. A bigger reception than she’d bargained on. The words too held menace. What had Pat walked into? Had someone laid a trap for them both that Annie had shimmied away from by chance?
‘There’s nothing I can do here, Jean,’ she said, aware that no one listened. ‘I must go.’ She ran across the lorry park and up the grassy bank, scrambling over the ridge to her car. This was a more frequently used route than she’d realized. Already, there were fresh bike tracks. She fired up the engine, and eased the car forward, resisting the urge to rush that might get her stuck in the soft earth. As the car bumped on to the dirt track she reached round to pull on her seatbelt, making herself concentrate on the ruts ahead, forcing herself to take it slowly. The last thing she needed just now was a cracked axle. As she made it to the lane and approached the main road, she clicked on her right hand indicator, relieved to see an empty carriageway ahead.
‘No you don’t,’ said a voice in her ear. ‘Turn left.’
Annie gasped as cold metal pressed into her neck.
‘Drive!’ the voice barked out.
Annie spun the wheel to take the car out on to the main road. Something hard and sharp jabbed into her flesh. A blade or a firearm … she couldn’t tell.
‘Get a move
on.’
As she pushed down on the accelerator, the car surged forward, heading the wrong way, taking her further from Hull. Her glance shot to the mirror, but it had been twisted out of line.
‘Stupid cow,’ the voice went on. ‘What d’you go and break into my house for? You’ve really messed up now.’
CHAPTER 11
Shock rushed through Annie. She felt both fear of the cold metal pressed hard to her neck and impotent anger that she’d dived so willingly into the trap. The wheel felt clammy under her hands. She eased her foot back, knowing she was in no state to drive this fast.
‘Put your foot down!’ Carl Sleeman’s voice barked in her ear, too close, making her jump all over again.
She wanted to say, don’t make me, I can’t concentrate. Again and again her gaze flicked to the mirror, her hand itching to reach up and straighten it. Her wing mirrors showed one small car, receding as she sped away from it. Her eyes returned their focus to the road ahead and at once she gasped and stamped on the brake as a traffic island loomed in her face. An angry cry signalled that Carl Sleeman had been knocked off balance, and with it came the jolt of something solid and metallic rammed painfully into the side of her head. ‘D’you want to do the rest of the journey asleep in the boot?’
Annie fought back a wave of nausea as she negotiated the island. He’d no idea what his threat meant. It was less than a year since she’d been discharged from the Glasgow Royal Infirmary. Too soon to take another knock to her head. And now she’d inadvertently alerted him to the one weapon in her armoury. She was in control of the car and might have faked a skid or a crash; had him off balance long enough to disarm him. He was on his guard now.
It was not being able to see him that freaked her. Go back to basics, she told herself. Don’t antagonize him. Get a dialogue going.
‘How did you know I’d been in your house?’
‘Stupid cow,’ he muttered. ‘Pissing about with Vince Sleeman’s cash. Shut the fuck up and drive.’ Another traffic island appeared ahead. ‘Left here.’
Annie slotted the turn into her mental log of the route and completed the manoeuvre before she spoke again. ‘If you want me—’
‘I said drive!’ Carl snarled in her ear. ‘Try anything and you know what you’ll get.’
Cold metal pushed against her neck. Annie sensed no outrage that she’d violated his space by breaking into his house, but anger that she’d wasted Vince’s money on pursuing the wrong target. If he were siphoning off a pot of money Vince knew nothing about, he’d want her on the job he’d brought her here to do. But couldn’t he see he’d left her with few options for finding out what that was, since he wouldn’t come clean with her? Perhaps he thought Barbara had told her. That was worth a punt. ‘I was on my way to talk to Barbara when—’
It wasn’t his voice that cut her off this time, but the deliberate twisting of the object at her neck. Up to this point, it might have been the flat edge of a blade, but now she felt a gun barrel push into her flesh for a fraction of a second before he whipped it round so that the grip brushed her ear. ‘Last chance,’ he said, voice low, breath hot on her neck.
Annie’s mouth dried as she felt the butt of the gun tap against her head. This wasn’t the dozy kid she remembered from years ago. This was Vince Sleeman’s crazy nephew. She fell silent. All she could do now was memorize every twist and turn of the route.
Twenty minutes later, Annie had almost relaxed into the rhythm of obeying the curt orders that were barked into her ear every time they approached a junction. She didn’t know where they were but had impressed the detail of his instructions on her mind so she could reproduce the route on Google maps. She deliberately pushed away all thoughts of the chasm that lay between her and her next opportunity to sit at a PC.
The sound of a phone jangled discordantly. Not hers. Wrong tone. An awful thought struck her. She’d handed her phone to the guy at the racecourse, but had no recollection of taking it back. Her phone was her lifeline. Surely, it was in her pocket and the shock of events had chased away the memory of putting it there? She sensed Crazy Carl’s irritation as the pressure of the gun on her neck eased and she heard him answer the call. ‘Yeah? Uh … Of course. No problem.’ Annie listened intently to the abrupt change in his tone. Something had snapped him to attention. ‘Yes, I’m in Hull, just by the station.’ Annie couldn’t make out any words, but she heard an angry outburst at his lie. ‘OK, OK, only joking,’ he said, with forced joviality.
Annie weighed in her mind whether or not to shout out. But it could be anyone. It could be Vince. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m on my way. I was all set to surprise you, that’s why. Nah, you can stop worrying. Disposed of her myself not half an hour ago. Annie Raymond ain’t gonna be back unless she’s a ghost doing a bit of haunting.’ His voice was relaxed. His tone confident. Annie felt a chill run through her. Then he clicked off the phone and swore. ‘Shit!’
‘Right at these lights. Here,’ he snapped suddenly. With a squeal of tyres, Annie pulled the car round into a narrow street, slowing instinctively as she saw it was a dead end, and squinting as the sun bounced back from the shiny road surface ahead.
‘Keep going.’ The road ended in the wasteland of a recently cleared site with a rough track snaking across the dirt. Annie bumped the car up on to it, making herself resent every jolt that tore rubber from the tyres and threatened the suspension; telling herself he wouldn’t go this fast if it were his car. Forced resentment kept a lid on her fear. The terrain dipped between a number of industrial-sized skips. She gulped, her mouth dry. Was this where he intended to dump her? The car slewed down a steep slope. Annie saw the depth of the potholes ahead and instinctively pressed her foot to the brake just as Carl said, ‘Stop here.’
‘Lean forward.’ The gun barrel grazed her ear to match the order. She leant forward.
‘Hands behind your back.’ She felt the solid grip of a pair of handcuffs followed by Carl’s hands reaching round her, delving into her pockets. ‘Where’s your frigging phone?’
She cursed the catch in her voice as she told him she’d left it at the racecourse. Why should he believe her? What would he do? Her glance strayed sideways trying to see outside. They’d driven past houses. There must be people about somewhere. His phone clicked again and she heard him talking, his tone subtly muted. ‘Yeah, Annie asked me to call you.’
Jean! He was ringing Jean to check her story. She drew in a breath. How much could she shout before he silenced her? Call Pat Thompson. She could scream those three words loud and clear before he could do anything. But what if Pat, too, had walked into a trap? And what would Carl do to shut her up? It would be a swift blow to the head with the butt of the gun. It might crack down on the site of the barely healed injury. Sweat oozed down her neck at the image of the fracture re-opening, her skull caving in beneath the blow. There was nothing she could shout that was worth the risk. It wouldn’t take much to stop her, kill her probably. And it would leave Carl with all the time in the world to explain away the interruption. She listened to him tell Jean to turn off her phone and leave it in a drawer, not to let anyone know it was there. ‘She’ll come back for it when she can.’ The call was over; the chance gone if it was ever there. His hands were at her head. A cloth engulfed her face cutting out the light. She felt it tied tight and flinched as her hair caught in the knot. ‘Get out.’
With her hands immobile behind her back and her vision gone, it was almost impossible to stay upright on the bumpy terrain. Without Carl’s hand clasped round her upper arm, she would have fallen. He dragged her a metre or so. She wasn’t sure where until she heard the click of the car boot and he ordered her to climb in. Sensing his agitation, she clambered awkwardly into the small space, feeling his hands pushing her so that her face was pressed up against her holdall. She kept tools in here. There must to be something she could use to get out of these restraints, to force open the boot lid. The blindfold was insecure, but the handcuffs were proper ones, and with her arms behind her, a
nd his hands shoving her further in, it was all she could do to keep her face clear enough to breathe. Then his hands were gone; there was a moment of quiet, then the slam of the boot lid cut out all light.
The car jolted suddenly. Her ears filled with the whine of it reversing up the slope, turning on the bumpy terrain. The stench of unburnt fuel pressed into her face. Helpless, she was thrown about the small space as the car bounced back over the waste ground. Struggling against the battering, the rising nausea and the fight to keep her face clear of the spongy side of her case, Annie tried to concentrate. Back on to tarmac, they were heading out of the cul-de-sac, back towards the traffic lights. She expected him to continue the route he’d interrupted when he took that call, and was taken unawares when the car swung abruptly the other way, tyres screaming, the blare of a car horn orchestrating his manoeuvre.
Thoughts of finding a useful weapon or tool were swept away. Desperately she tried to find a hand hold, somewhere to brace her feet. Nothing in the boot was anchored down. The toolbox banged painfully into her legs. It was as though the car fishtailed down a long road at speed. There was nothing she could do. She gave up any attempt to memorize the turns. When the momentum slowed, she felt only relief that the battering had diminished. The car turned sharply, but smoothly, then she was pressed back as it accelerated. If she’d thought the fishtailing was bad, this was a hundred times worse. The car banged and leapt over whatever surface Crazy Carl was racing it down. Annie heard herself cry out as she fought to keep her head from banging down on the hard edges.
The torture ended with a scream of tyres that pushed her face hard up against the holdall as the car jolted to a stop. Before she could react, she heard the boot lid wrenched open and light flooded through her blindfold. She could hear Carl Sleeman panting as though he’d been running. She sensed his panic. She fought against the pictures in her head. His gun pointing at her. His finger squeezing the trigger. No! Push the image away.