Stone Cold

by Dean Crawford

  ‘Mrs McKenzie worked hard to build her gallery,’ she said. ‘But business has become tough since the economic crisis, and jealous rivals have a habit of playing tough. Her competitors, like Talbot, undercut her to complete sales, approached private collectors and offered them favourable deals in return for…, well, you can guess I’m sure.’

  ‘Sex for sales,’ Griffin said. ‘This Talbot woman wouldn’t be the first person to do that.’

  ‘No,’ Saira conceded. ‘But Talbot would later spread rumours that Sheila was doing the bed–hopping, trying to drag her name through the mud. She did such things all the time, caused at least two divorces after revealing her activities to scorned wives, hoping to financially cripple business rivals as their galleries were broken up to pay alimony. It caused Sheila terrible heartache. It wasn’t that Talbot was outright cruel to people, just that she was absolutely focused on success and that friendships didn’t matter in the slightest. Do or die, she often used to say as she walked around here, before Sheila took over.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Mrs McKenzie?’ Maietta asked.

  ‘Last night. She locked up here for me as I had to leave early.’

  ‘Can you account for your whereabouts after you left here?’ Griffin asked.

  ‘I was at the dentist,’ Saira replied, unconcerned. ‘Then I went home. I share an apartment with a friend, so she can confirm I was there. It was a horrible night, raining all the time so we didn’t go out.’

  ‘Did you and Mrs McKenzie have a good relationship, Saira?’ Griffin asked.

  Saira sighed, glanced at her shoes before replying. ‘She’s been good to me. I didn’t have much of a life before I got this job, and even though things have been tough financially Sheila hasn’t laid me off.’

  Griffin nodded. ‘What about her husband, Dale McKenzie? You know him?’

  Saira’s expression brightened a little. ‘Oh yes. He’s a pilot, flies for a local airline, Ventura I think it is.’

  ‘He come in here often?’ Maietta asked.

  ‘Not really. Maybe once a month or so, he’s often working unsociable hours so we don’t see much of him during the day unless he’s on leave.’ Saira’s expression darkened. ‘Is he okay?’

  Griffin nodded.

  ‘Mr McKenzie is fine, but he returned home recently to find a ransom note demanding money in return for his wife.’

  Saira’s hand flew to her lips again and her eyes widened as what was left of her act vanished. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what he probably said,’ Maietta replied. ‘How many people do you think might have wanted to do this to her?’

  Saira, her features still pinched with shock, shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know. And I don’t understand why they would do that anyway, given the way the business is going.’

  ‘Things taking a down turn?’ Griffin asked.

  ‘Badly, like I said, the economy and all that,’ Saira replied. ‘I do the books for Mrs McKenzie, the daily sales. I haven’t had anything to record except expenses for over six months. Alexis Talbot’s lies have severely affected our trade.’

  ‘How so?’ Maietta asked.

  ‘Dealers cutting Sheila out,’ Saira said, ‘or conspiring together to prevent her from hearing about new auctions because of the lies and the rumours. Alexis Talbot has a lot to answer for, and I’m a big believer in karma. Being a bitch comes back to bite everybody in the ass eventually.’

  Griffin fought the urge to smile at Saira’s gradual transformation.

  ‘And Sheila still treats you well, Saira?’ Maietta asked, ‘despite her financial troubles.’

  ‘Well enough for me not to want to kidnap her for ransom, if that’s what you mean?’ Saira said. ‘Besides, knowing her finances like I do, ransom would be the last thing on my mind. It would be pointless.’

  ‘But what about all of these expensive originals, all these Verdants?’ Griffin asked. ‘There must be capital in the business?’

  ‘Mrs McKenzie has been reduced to the role of a sub–agent,’ Saira explained. ‘These works are owned by collectors, not the gallery. We sell them in return for a commission. Mrs McKenzie has not purchased an original work for several months.’

  Griffin glanced across at Maietta, who folded her notebook and slipped it into her pocket.

  ‘So whoever abducted her for ransom…’

  ‘Isn’t going to get very much, at least not from her business,’ Saira confirmed. ‘And for what it’s worth on my part, I actually like my job. The last thing I’d want is for Mrs McKenzie to go out of business. Working here is much better than flipping burgers down the street, if you see what I mean?’

  Griffin unfolded a photograph from his pocket and showed it to Saira. ‘This is a picture taken of Sheila before she was abducted, and sent to her husband. You got any idea when your boss was wearing this suit?’

  Saira glanced at the picture for a moment. ‘Three or four days ago as best I recall, late last week.’

  Griffin nodded. ‘Thanks for your time, we’ll be in touch.’

  Griffin strode out of the gallery and leaned against the car as Maietta joined him, a leaden sky spitting bitter squalls of sleet around them.

  ‘If she was wearing that suit last week then the footage is no good for an abduction timeline,’ Maietta said to him. ‘She’s in the wind. And from what Saira says, this whole thing doesn’t jive.’

  ‘Nope,’ Griffin agreed. ‘Either her abductors are idiots or they don’t know anything about their target, which doesn’t make sense if you’re grabbing somebody for money.’

  ‘For all they know she could be worth nothing by now,’ Maietta said. ‘Just like you and me.’

  ‘Thanks sweetheart,’ Griffin muttered.

  ‘Hey, c’mon, how much do you think I’d get for ransom?’

  ‘I’d give up all my cash for you, Jane,’ Griffin replied.

  ‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.’

  ‘Both,’ Griffin said. ‘We got nothing here. Saira’s got no motive for this unless she’s maybe sleeping with the husband.’

  ‘Doubt it if she likes her job and Sheila as much as she says,’ Maietta said, ‘and anyway if she knocked Mrs McKenzie off and then moved in with Dale it would send alarm bells ringing all over town.’

  ‘We could try Sheila McKenzie’s competitors across the country,’ Griffin said, ‘maybe sound a few of them out? And Alexis Talbot sounds like she might be good for this.’

  Maietta chewed on her lip and shook her head. ‘This feels like a small–town thing to me. Besides, if Talbot is acting against her she must already know she’s put her in a financial hole. She’d be enjoying watching McKenzie go down slowly and painfully, not wrecking the party and implicating herself in an abduction.’

  Griffin nodded. ‘If Talbot plays out then that leaves us with no suspects right now, except the husband.’

  ‘Dale McKenzie wasn’t within five hundred miles of here when his wife disappeared,’ Maietta reminded him. ‘And there’s no motive.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Griffin mused. ‘Look into Sheila McKenzie’s financials, see if she has any interesting life insurances, or maybe owns the gallery premises or something. If our abductors are seeking money then we’ve got to assume they know something that we don’t.’

  ***

  8

  Sheila McKenzie sat in silence and wondered how long she had left to live.

  The reclining chair in which she was strapped was comfortable enough, one of those heavily padded types that was half–way between a rocking chair and a bed. There was no undue pressure on her body, but nonetheless she was aching all over from a lack of movement, not to mention thirsty, hungry and afraid. Her wrists and ankles were firmly bound and under her jaw was a strap that ran around the back of the recliner to pin her head back.

  She could not see. The blindfold obscuring her vision was sufficient to block all light. She could not hear, the bungs placed in her ears blocking
all sound. Her sense of smell was unaffected, but the only odours she could detect were those of stale grease and dust. Finally, a gag bound her mouth and prevented her from screaming for her life, which was something she would certainly have done by now because the lunatic who had done this to her had forgotten one other very important sensory input.

  Touch.

  From time to time Sheila detected tiny vibrations through the metal frame of the chair, as though people were banging things about nearby. The vibrations were incredibly subtle but over time she had sensed regularity to them, the shift between day and night. The horrendously long hours of silence were broken by the clatter of morning, of people at work.

  Sleep had come in broken patterns, interspersed by periods during which she experienced horrifically vivid hallucinations as her brain struggled to adapt to the extreme sensory deprivation. Like waking dreams, her fear manifested itself within the tortured confines of her mind until she wept bitter tears against her blindfold.

  She had long ago relinquished control of her bladder, unable to bear the pain any longer. Her skin was raw from the prolonged contact with her own bodily fluids and the taint of ammonia stained the air around her.

  Sheila spent hours fantasising about rescue, images of police officers bursting into her prison and liberating her. Then, every now and again, she would sense a change in the air pressure around her, just like she had in her home before she had been attacked. It had happened once before, the creeping sensation that there was somebody else in the room with her.

  It was happening now. A waft of cold air suddenly drifted across her body and she sensed new, stronger vibrations through the frame of the recliner. Sheila sat absolutely still as she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise up, a cold tingling sensation rippling across the backs of her arms as though insects were scuttling across her skin. She shivered, her hands gripping the arms of the chair.

  The air about her moved almost imperceptibly, a gentle waft on the exposed skin of her legs where her skirt had ridden up. Sheila struggled to contain her mounting fear, but she felt her body trembling and felt rather than heard a whimper escape from her throat and breathe past her dry, cracked lips.

  A hand rested on her thigh.

  Sheila’s tears spilled from her eyes and a muffled shriek of fear leaped from her mouth. This was it, then. Another hand touched her knee. The hands yanked her skirt up to the tops of her thighs, exposing her soiled underwear. Then her panties were dragged down her legs and the bonds around her ankles loosened slightly.

  Sheila tried to kick free, but her legs were numb and cold and the hands were too strong. She was about to scream in terror when a soft cloth wiped away the mess from her legs. Sheila froze as her underwear was slid down her legs and removed. The cloth reappeared and cleaned her, and then she felt her ankles being refastened and a warm blanket tucked around her legs.

  Moments later, the bungs in her ears were also removed.

  Sheila dare not move a muscle. Compared to the silence that she had endured for countless hours, the sudden influx of noise was deafening. The rustle of fabric against skin. The sound of a person breathing, of their shoes against the floor and the distant but unmistakeable sound of machinery.

  The voice, when it came, sounded like something out of a horror movie.

  ‘Do not move.’

  It was heavily distorted by one of those devices that could be bought in any joke store. It sounded like a cross between Darth Vader and Satan himself, deep and melodious but filled with menace as it went on.

  ‘You will be allowed to eat and drink. If you attempt to call for help, I will leave and you will die of either starvation or thirst, understood?’

  Sheila managed a tiny nod against the strap beneath her jaw. Moments later, she felt the gag in her mouth being loosened and lifted away. The touch of a plastic bottle against her parched lips, and suddenly she was gulping down water as though her life depended upon it. It splashed down her blouse, only to be mopped up by her captor.

  Sheila gasped for breath as the bottle was taken away. ‘Who are you?’

  The words tumbled from her lips before she could stop them. Human nature, she guessed. Even though her voice sounded rough and weak, and even though she was quite probably in danger of losing her life, she could not help herself.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  There was no response but for the sound of deep, heavy breathing and what sounded like plastic being crumpled nearby. Sheila waited, and smelled a sudden waft of what might have been chicken and bread.

  ‘Eat.’

  The deep voice brooked no argument and Sheila sensed the food hovering near her mouth. She tore off a chunk of sandwich, chewing gratefully despite her predicament. She swallowed the first mouthful and turned her head toward where she guessed her captor must be standing, even though she could not see them.

  ‘I have money, if that’s what you want.’

  The food was shoved against her lips once more and she took another bite. It crossed her mind that her captor could leave at any moment, abandoning her to the silence and darkness. Sheila slowed her chewing, starting to drag each mouthful out.

  ‘I’ll be missed,’ she said between chunks of sandwich. ‘People will be looking for me.’

  The voice, when it replied, was devoid of emotion. ‘Nobody is looking for you. You are an orphan.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  More water sloshed against her lips and she drank, more slowly this time. The sandwich returned, and Sheila managed to drag out eating it for several minutes before the last chunk was placed in her mouth.

  She considered lunging forward and biting the hand, but something told her that to do so would be useless. She could smell the leather gloves worn by her captor, which would be tough enough to resist any damage she could reasonably inflict.

  The last of the water was drained from the plastic bottle, and for a few moments Sheila feared that her captor would leave. The irony of that fear was not lost to her even in her current state, and she realised not for the first time how much she craved companionship, just as she always had.

  ‘Don’t leave.’

  The voice did not reply.

  Sheila heard the unmistakeable sound of a nearby chair creaking as it was sat upon. Sheila looked blindly about her and then the voice spoke again.

  ‘Your money, where is it?’

  Sheila swallowed thickly. Think, woman. Keep them talking. ‘It’s in the business, and in separate accounts too, shared with my husband.’

  A long silence before the voice responded again. ‘Does your husband care for you?’

  Sheila’s heart froze in her chest. ‘What?’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘He does.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Sheila’s rage fought its way past her fear and burst from within her. ‘What do you want with me?!’

  The voice said nothing for a long time, but Sheila could hear the soft hiss of breathing. Her addled mind struggled to focus, to draw some kind of information about her abductor from the meagre clues offered her.

  ‘Your life,’ the voice said suddenly, ‘depends on your husband following my instructions to the letter. Do you think that he will do that?’

  Sheila writhed in frustration within her bonds, but she could not free herself. ‘How the hell should I know? I don’t know what you’ve asked him to do.’

  ‘You’re a successful woman,’ the voice replied. ‘You know what we want of him.’

  ‘Money,’ Sheila spat. ‘That’s all you people want, isn’t it? Cash, but you don’t want to work for it. No, you take it from others, like the blood–sucking leeches that you are. Weak, cowardly and lazy!’

  Sheila spat in the general direction of where the voice was coming from.

  The world beyond the darkness fell silent. Sheila awaited a response, but the longer she waited the more her rage withered and the stronger her fear became. It built up l
ike a poison inside her, cold and clammy until she called out.

  Silence reigned, but she could still hear the breathing. When the voice spoke again it was laden with terminal certainty.

  ‘If your husband does not undertake to pay the ransom on your life, I will be forced to execute you.’

  Sheila swallowed thickly as her legs began to tremble, but even through her fear some small part of her rational mind recognised the use of I. One person. One abductor. One killer. Maybe working for somebody else? Her business rivals?

  ‘Why?’ Sheila uttered. ‘I haven’t harmed you? I don’t know who you are. I can’t do anything to expose you so why would you kill me?’

  The figure moved, standing again. Sheila flinched but her abductor merely reached up and yanked her bonds tight against her jaw again.

  ‘No,’ Sheila gasped. ‘Don’t leave me here! Please don’t leave me to die…’

  The gag was pulled tightly into her mouth again, cutting her words off into a stream of strangled cries that degenerated into sobs.

  The voice spoke one last time into her ear.

  ‘It’s not me who wants you dead.’

  Then the plugs were shoved back into place, and Sheila McKenzie was left alone in her lonely universe once again.

  ***

  9

  Since she had uncovered his lies, Kathryn had found it extremely trying whenever Stephen had returned home from his business trips. Truth was, she now despised the very moment that he walked back into the apartment, struggling as she had for months now to maintain a facade of delight at his homecoming.

  Now, it was even harder to sustain the charade. The desire to burst through the door and beat a confession from him in a screaming frenzy was almost overwhelming, but her new job working for the police precluded any such violent confrontation. Getting arrested for battery wasn’t going to do her career any good, despite the no doubt cathartic effect of imprinting Stephen’s duplicitous face onto the back of a frying pan.