Kidnap

by Philip McCutchan

  But things were due for a change. Mr Blundy was about to join the nobs — and wouldn’t he love that!

  Him on a horse.

  Ag on a horse.

  Mr Blundy laughed aloud. Stone the crows — Ag on a horse!

  She’d look right daft, would Ag.

  Have to be a shire horse.

  A real old-fashioned brewer’s dray puller … and she’d look like Queen Elizabeth the First riding down to Tilbury to yack at the dockers about her having a woman’s body but a man’s heart, or whatever it was she said. Whatever it was, it didn’t really tie in with Ag. Horse’s body perhaps … Mr Blundy had read some history but not much.

  On a golden dream of the future, firmly thrusting down his fears since worry didn’t help, Mr Blundy moved towards the Kensington Gardens end of the park.

  The Round Pond.

  Kids — young kids, not yet snobs.

  Little boats with sails or engines, out-thrust by eager young hands. Shouts of delight, or dismay when the boat stopped in mid-pond. Sunshine and laughter, and a handful of nannies with plush, custom-built prams. White kids and not-white kids … this was Embassy territory and there was tax-free money around. Or Customs-free. Or something. Never mind. Mr Blundy felt bitter about it though, thinking of what he had to pay on his fags and beer.

  But kids were kids.

  Not their fault that Dad fiddled.

  Mr Blundy sat on a bench, warmed himself in the sun and looked at kids. Bloody Ag. He wouldn’t have minded a kid. Nice to have a son to follow on, a daughter to spoil and fuss over. He was going to feel right sorry for Harold Barnwell’s dad — but of course the bugger had only himself to blame, getting so stinking rich, you asked for it really, condemned the kid to kidnap from the cradle onwards. Mr Blundy ruminated on young Harold. Of course you couldn’t expect a kid to get fond of his kidnappers, stood to reason, but Mr Blundy would do his best to come to an understanding during the time the boy was in his charge. He sounded like he had the right ideas — playing truant from that posh, smarmy school. Maybe he rebelled against all the snobbery — after all, his old man had come up from the gutter. The kid may have seen through the shams of society.

  Motor-racing fan, too.

  Probably supported Nigel Mansell.

  Treat him right and he could be great to have around. After all, the money wouldn’t be any skin off of his nose. It would all be a bit of a lark to him once he knew he wasn’t going to be duffed up, hurt in any way at all. Just a question, really, of getting his confidence …

  A ball, coming with some velocity, struck Mr Blundy on the nose. “Bugger,” he said. “Little bastard.”

  He clasped his nose, then looked at his hand. By some miracle, no blood. But it had hurt. A small boy stood off at a distance, warily.

  “This your ball, son?”

  “Yes.” The boy giggled suddenly and Mr Blundy frowned. Perishing little nob. Very expensive-looking T-shirt and shorts and shoes. Posh. Dad in the Diplomatic most likely. Mr Blundy, not feeling diplomatic, spoke again.

  “Hit me on the sodding nose it did.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m awf’lly sorry.”

  God. How did these foreign kids do it? The boy looked like he might be an Arab, or a Turk or something. It was the schools, of course, the private schools. Mr Blundy wiped his face with a rather dirty handkerchief. Here was he, Ernest Montgomery bloody Blundy, more than forty years English, and he could never produce that perfect, precise, classy English accent, never in a thousand years.

  “Here,” he said. He threw the ball.

  The small boy caught it expertly. “Thanks very much. I’m awf’lly sorry to be such a nuisance.”

  Mr Blundy waved a gracious hand. “’S’all right, son.”

  “Is your nose all right?”

  “It’ll live.”

  “I’ll go, then. Goodbye.”

  “Bye-bye, son.”

  The boy turned and ran away daintily, bouncing his ball. Mr Blundy gave a moody grunt. All right for some. Mr Blundy watched the olive-skinned figure run round the pond towards Kensington Palace and vanish. He got up from his bench and went towards the water, reaching it just as tragedy struck a miniature power boat about six or seven feet from the edge.

  There was a sound like a brass band out of tune as a small boy, white this time, burst into tears. As this happened, a tall, skinny woman with no boobs rose from another bench and hastened to the scene.

  “Oh, dear. What’s happened, Master Timmy? Poor Master Timmy.” Master Timmy, eh.

  “It’s stopped. It’s not going to — to come back, Nanny.” The wails increased.

  “Oh, poor Master Timmy,” the tall woman said again. She dithered, caught Mr Blundy’s eye. Mr Blundy looked away. None of his business, was it, and the woman was no bird. “I daresay it’ll come back soon, Master Timmy dear.” She had a brainwave. “Throw a stone in behind it and the ripples will send it back, like little waves, Master Timmy.”

  “You throw it.”

  “All right, Master Timmy.” She did. It was spot on; the boat sank, plop, gurgle.

  The small figure danced with rage. “Bugger you.”

  “Master Timmy!”

  The din was now appalling. The small red face was like a squashed plum, spurting in all directions. “Can’t the man help?” the plum demanded, pointing a finger at Mr Blundy.

  Mr Blundy wondered why the flaming hell he hadn’t buggered off fast.

  “Oh. Well.” The skinny woman looked helplessly towards Mr Blundy. “I wonder if — I wonder if you’d be so terribly kind …?”

  Silently, Mr Blundy cursed. Wet feet were wet feet and drenched trousers were uncomfortable. But he was going to have to get accustomed to kids. Call it practice in the interest of the job. The Loop would like that, showing keenness and dedication. He glared round wildly, seeing trees. “I’ll get a stick or such,” he said. “Branch, like.”

  “Oh, would you? That’s terribly kind, thank you so much.”

  Mr Blundy went into action, stared at with hope. The yells stopped: the man was going to make it all right. By sheer luck Mr Blundy found a branch, half dead, hanging off a tree and within his reach. Seizing this he wrenched and twisted and pulled. Not that dead … but it came away suddenly, almost sending him flat on his back. He carried it to the scene of the sinking and grubbed about with it in the spot indicated by the small boy. After about a quarter of an hour he brought in a gumboot and when the thing emptied itself it disgorged a contraceptive device. The tall woman bent to examine it but was beaten to it by the small boy.

  “Balloon, Nanny.”

  “No it isn’t, Master Timmy.”

  “Can I have it?”

  “No. How disgusting.”

  Mr Blundy kicked his haul back in and started again.

  Success: after another ten minutes the boat was beached.

  “Oh, thank you so much. You’ve no idea … Master Timmy treasures that boat. It’s terribly good of you to spare the time.” She turned to the child. “Say thank you to the — the gentleman, Master Timmy.”

  “Thank you. Here.” A dirty paper packet was brought out from a pocket and a sweet was extracted by grubby, pond-watery fingers that had touched the supposed balloon. “Have this. It’s my last but one.”

  The tone had been a little grudging. Mr Blundy said, “That’s all right, son.”

  “Don’t you want it?”

  “No — yes, I mean. But I don’t want to take your sweets, sonny —”

  “All right, then.” The sweet was popped into the mouth. Big blue eyes stared at Mr Blundy. “Thanks awf’lly all the same. It was jolly decent of you. I’ll tell my father how kind you were. So’ll Nanny, I expect.”

  “Well, thanks,” Mr Blundy said, marvelling at juvenile upper-class assurance: the words had come oddly in such a piping little voice. “What’s your dad, then — one of the ambassadors, like?”

  There was almost a sniff. “Good gracious, no. My father’s a duke. I’m a marquess reall
y, only Father won’t let the servants use my title in case I get big-headed. Goodbye.”

  The noble back was turned. Nanny smiled dismissingly. Mr Blundy walked away, back towards the Bayswater Road and Bass Street, Paddington.

  Cor.

  A brush with the aristocracy, just wait till he told Ag! They were still there, all right, if you looked hard, even today. Not a bad little cuss, but Mr Blundy was glad he hadn’t wet his feet. Just for that bloody boat. The ducal castle was probably stuffed full of them, boats and other toys bursting out all over, tidied each night by the footman. Not that Mr Blundy hadn’t felt a little glow at being thanked, and so nicely too, by a nob. Twice in one short morning — ball and boat. It was not often anyone thanked Mr Blundy. It was nice, that little glow of virtue. Kids were nice, too. Genuine. Saw things clear, like. No nonsense. To kids, Mr Blundy was a man, not a worm. He would do his best to make real mates with Harold Barnwell, give him as good a time as possible. He would owe him that much in any case, seeing as he was going to be the means to the lolly.

  Besides, if anything went wrong, it might count with the Bill. Kind of insurance, really.

  *

  Action, a day or two later, came nearer.

  Mr Blundy and the Loop were walking along the Edgware Road, heading north. The work-out, the Loop said, was going well.

  “Going to give me the details, like?”

  “Such as concerns your part, Ern — sure. Mine so far as it crosses yours. You and me, we do the actual snatch together. And Mrs Blundy.”

  “Ag?”

  “Yes. Kid’ll be set at ease by a woman.”

  “By Ag?” Mr Blundy sounded doubtful about that. “You’d best explain,” he said, looking bewildered.

  “Right, I will. Me, I’ll be dressed the part. Be in genuine race-meeting gear … T-shirt with the insignia of a whatsit, pit marshal —”

  “Genuine? You can’t buy —”

  “Not buy, no. Got it from a pal, didn’t I? Just listen, Ern. Right from an early hour, I’ll be near the paddock entrance, see? The kid, he never misses out on a visit to the paddock and I —”

  “How d’you know he’ll be at Brands? Haven’t thought of that, have we?” Mr Blundy was alarmed: fall at the first fence?

  The Loop was far from worried. “Didn’t need to. Not special thought, like. Kid always goes to Brands when anything’s on, I told you that before. This time, well, it’s only Formula 3000, but it’s a Championship race — plus there’s a special thing for anyone who likes motor racing.” The Loop paused. “Blimey, you should know. I’m fixing it for when the old champs have promised to be in the paddock: Jackie Stewart —”

  “Emerson Fittipaldi —”

  “Jackie Ickx —”

  “Mario Andretti —”

  “Chris Amon, Scheckter —”

  “Stirling Moss. ’Course I knew that,” Mr Blundy said. He gave a whistle. “So that’s the day, is it?”

  “Yes, and mind you keep your mind on the job. The kid. Don’t go all moon-eyed about them champs, right?”

  Mr Blundy gave a slow nod, his thoughts at Brands Hatch. All those names … of course anybody who loved the smell of motor racing, the tang of excitement, wouldn’t fail to be there on that special day. All the same, there could be a snag and Mr Blundy voiced it. “That kid. Okay, so he’ll go for the names, sure he will. But what if his teachers stop him? Eh? If he’s like played truant before —”

  “No worries. This is the permissive society, Ern. Teachers has changed, see. Probably take a back-hander.”

  “Teachers, take a —”

  “Teachers is the same as anybody else, and they’re paid peanuts or so they moan. Don’t worry about it, Ern. Harold wants to go to Brands, they don’t let him, he shoots off just the same. Now they do let him. Saves trouble all round. Right?”

  Mr Blundy nodded.

  “I told you, didn’t I, I’ve taken a lot of trouble to get all this right.” The Loop looked around. “Come on, let’s cross over here, by the lights. Go back the other way.”

  They crossed. The Loop continued, as they walked south again, “Spent time and money on it, researching.”

  “’Course.”

  “He’ll be there, all right. We tail him from the paddock. Kid don’t go for the stands. Watches from the enclosures, so he moves around, sees the races from different angles. And there’s all those wooded parts, right?”

  Again Mr Blundy nodded. He and the Loop had discussed those wooded parts in detail. They were thick, they were secluded, they were largely barred to the public but they were easy of access just the same, and they were strategically sited for the Loop’s purpose. As the pair went on walking, seeming so innocent, the Loop expounded and Mr Blundy listened in a certain awe to his effrontery; and in growing alarm also. There seemed to have been a lot of organisation going on without his being party to it, though obviously his advice, judicially given, had been properly heeded. An ambulance and its crew, all in the Loop’s pay — not Red Cross or St John’s, those incorruptibles, but got up to look like St John’s — were part of the set-up. Mr Blundy’s own car was to be parked good and early, not in any of the Brands’ car parks but in Farningham, a couple or so miles from the circuit.

  “Make sure the Granada’s fit for the job, eh?” the Loop said. “Proper garridge overhaul. None of your DIY. No expenses spared, right?”

  “Talking of expense,” Mr Blundy said, “this ambulance. Reckon you won’t have fixed that cheap. Whose share does it come out of?”

  “Both.”

  “Oh.”

  “When I said fifty per cent, I meant fifty per cent of the net. Not the gross.”

  “Oh.”

  “Out of a million nicker, Ern, the expenses’ll be chicken feed.”

  “Well — yes. What’s the ambulance for?”

  “Put the kid in.”

  “How? I mean, how do we get him in? I mean, he’s not sick.” Mr Blundy ticked over, or thought he did. “Has an accident, like, does he?”

  The Loop chuckled. “No. He’ll be dealt with hypodermically, see.”

  At this point Mr Blundy felt like passing out himself; but was positively assured by the Loop that the injected fluid would be harmless in a long-term sense, being intended only to render the recipient quiescent and compliant for some hours — or long enough, in fact, for the Granada to reach Yorkshire.

  “Granada, eh.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not the ambulance?”

  “Not the ambulance, no. Ambulance is only to get him past the gate at Brands. In Farningham he transfers to your car. By that time he’ll be what I said, quiescent. No trouble in the back and later on, when you find a quiet spot, you can transfer him to the boot. Kid’s small for his age — fit nicely. Bring blankets and a nice soft eiderdown, and pillows. And rope. Just in case like. Precaution — that’s all.”

  “Who’s going to use this hypodermic, Bernie?”

  “You are, mate.”

  “Oh, Christ, no!” Mr Blundy felt the onset of panic. “Not me! I can’t use them things!”

  “Easy — can’t miss.” The Loop had such boundless confidence. “Me, I can’t be spared just then. I’ll be bringing up the ambulance, see.” He added, “Ever been in hospital — had an anaesthetic?”

  “No.”

  “Oh well. Before the actual anaesthetic,” the Loop explained, “they give you what they call a pre-med. Makes you all dopey like so you stop worrying about the sawbones. Everything’s fine, know what I mean. Needle in the bum, the fleshy part. Can’t miss that, now can you, eh?”

  “Miss what?”

  “The bum.”

  “No, I s’pose not, Bernie. But I don’t like this, I don’t mind telling you —”

  “You’ll have to like it, mate, you’re committed now.” The Loop’s voice had hardened. “Remember? You don’t want no trouble from the boys. And the kid’ll be absolutely okay, just sleepy, that’s all. But get yourself a gag along with the rope, all right? J
ust in case, like I said.”

  The Loop reached into a pocket and brought out a package which he thrust into Mr Blundy’s hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “The needle, and two phials of the dope. Full printed instructions within.”

  “Oh my God.” Mr Blundy hastily concealed the package. He didn’t like it but he certainly didn’t want trouble from the boys. But there was a point that had been nagging at him. He said, “That ambulance. Said it would look like St John’s, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right, Ern.”

  “What about the real crew? I mean, the one that’ll be in attendance, like? Won’t they think it funny, having another crew there?”

  “No,” the Loop said. “By that time they won’t be thinking anything.”

  “You mean —”

  “Forget it, Ern. Not your business.” The Loop wouldn’t say any more. But Mr Blundy felt cold all over: kidnap was one thing and was dangerous enough. But murder — if that was what the Loop was suggesting — was another. But there were the boys … and perhaps it wasn’t murder. Perhaps the St John’s crew would just be waylaid and kept somewhere until the thing was over. Kept by the boys probably, very secure.

  *

  Below Mr Blundy’s accommodation lived a Mrs Whale; Mrs Whale was on the phone and was willing to take messages. She had taken one when Mr Blundy got home. The message was reported to him by Ag, who was looking worried. “Snag,” she said. “Fly in the ointment.”