No Way Out: an edge of your seat crime thriller

by DC Brockwell

  “Come along, boys, we need your muscle,” she ordered.

  Once upstairs and out of the barn, Beattie saw the problem: the van’s rear tyres had sunk into the grass, which had become mud and slush. It was freezing out – below freezing, in fact – and she wished she’d brought her jacket with her…

  “Now, Kimiko, please!” pleaded Danny, in a whisper. “They’ve all gone upstairs.”

  Kimiko froze.

  Was now the right time to phone the police? She knew she had to do it, although she hadn’t expected to be able to do it quite so soon. She was frightened; if she got caught talking on the phone, Mrs Harrison would kill her. She’d end up burning in the furnace, just like all the others. “I cannot, Danny, I scared.”

  “I know you’re scared, sweetheart. I’m scared too. You have to, please. It’s the only way for all of us to get out of here… I know it’s shitty. You’re the only one who can do it. I would, but look at me: I can’t even walk.”

  “Please don’t make me.”

  She knew – deep down – however, it had to be done right now, or it never would.

  Kimiko walked out of Danny’s room.

  “Thank you,” she heard him say.

  She didn’t reply.

  In the hallway, she checked left and saw that the bar was empty.

  She checked right and couldn’t see anyone there either.

  All the doors to the bees’ rooms were closed.

  Every step she took towards the office felt heavy, and time felt like it was slowing.

  The office door was open, and after stepping inside she did another check to make sure no one was coming down the stairs. The coast was clear, but she knew she had to hurry; she had no idea how long it would take for them to push a van out of the snow.

  The phone was right there on Mrs Harrison’s desk. All Kimiko had to do was pick up the receiver and dial those three magic numbers. That was it.

  She was still listening out for any movement outside when she finally picked up the receiver.

  Nine. That was one done. Her hand was shaking.

  Nine. That was two.

  Nine. She felt nauseous.

  The ringing tone sounded, and she listened to it while also trying to listen outside for any voices. She really needed to pee, badly. She’d never been this scared before – ever.

  “Emergency services,” came the female voice, “what service do you require?”

  “Police, please,” came Kimiko’s tiny voice. She didn’t know how the person on the other end of the phone had heard her; she could barely hear herself.

  Somehow, however, she did. “One moment, please.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then another voice – male this time – asked her what the situation was.

  “I need help,” she said, her voice still small and scared.

  “We’re here to help. Can you tell me what the problem is?”

  “There are… about twenty-five of us… being… held… prisoner…” Kimiko gasped, unable to believe she was actually doing this.

  “I’m sorry… did you just say there are twenty-five of you being held prisoner? I can’t hear your voice very well.”

  “Yes, twenty-five here, prisoner… please help!”

  “What’s your name, please?” asked the voice, sounding remarkably calm.

  “I Kimiko, please send police,” she pleaded.

  She wanted this phone call to end. She wanted to be anywhere but here.

  “Okay, Kimiko, we’re going to help you. Just tell me where you are.”

  Kimiko cringed. She’d been held prisoner for sixteen years and didn’t have a clue where she was. She never got to see any of the mail, she never got to see anything that would give her what she needed. “I… don’t… know, I sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Kimiko. Have you seen any landmarks, anything nearby that we can use to locate you?”

  “Can’t you use phone number?” she asked, desperate to hang up.

  Just then she heard voices in the distance, and panicking, she dropped the phone back on its cradle, looking for a way out. She had to get out of the office before anyone saw her.

  Without thinking of the consequences, she walked up to the office door and peeked out towards the bar. She could see two of the guards – their backs to her as they leaned against the bar – and seizing her opportunity, she snuck out while they weren’t looking, tiptoeing back to Danny’s room.

  She’d done it – the police would be on their way soon…

  47

  Nasreen looked at the clock on her dashboard: 20:46. She’d been waiting in her car, across the road from Lina Klugheim’s two-bedroom terraced house, for over two hours. Nasreen was wearing her dark blue jeans, her black cashmere turtleneck sweater, her black leather jacket, and her dark brown ankle boots, yet she was still cold. Walter Gebhardt’s wife hadn’t returned home from wherever she was. The lights weren’t on.

  Klugheim’s home was the second of four in the terrace, and it had a bay window next to the white PVC front door. There was a small garden outside the front, which she – or he – tended to regularly, by the looks of it. The white fence was newly erected and painted; they obviously looked after their home.

  This was Gebhardt’s last known address, and Nasreen hoped he still lived here; she wanted to catch him unawares. She could have continued searching for Danny at her own house, waiting for him to return to her home, but that would have been on his terms. She wanted to find Gebhardt on her terms. By hunting him, it put her in control – he certainly wouldn’t be expecting her to turn up on his doorstep with a Remington RM380 in her hand.

  A tall woman with long brown hair walked along the road toward Klugheim’s house, Nasreen watching as the woman – who had a cigarette hanging out of her mouth – stopped and reached into her handbag. She pulled out a set of keys, opened the gate to Klugheim’s garden, walked up to the front door, and then opened it, flicking her cigarette butt into her next-door neighbour’s driveway before stepping inside.

  Nasreen waited for Klugheim to close the curtains and turn on the lights, giving Nasreen ten minutes to settle down before she reached into her bag and felt for the pistol, making sure she had backup – if needed. She got out of the car, hooking the straps over her shoulder.

  Nasreen stood at the side of the road, waiting for the traffic to clear before she crossed. She wasn’t leaving here without either Walter himself, or an address where she could look next.

  She knocked on the door, her hand around the butt of the Remington inside her bag, and waited. After a few seconds, she could hear movement inside.

  The brown-haired woman opened the door enough for her face to peer out.

  Nasreen immediately noticed that she had a black eye and a cracked lip.

  “Who are you? What you want?” asked Klugheim, with a heavy European accent.

  “Lina Klugheim? I’m looking for your husband, Walter Gebhardt.”

  “I not know him no more. Go away and leave me alone.”

  Klugheim went to close the door, but Nasreen put her boot between the frame and the door. “I’m afraid I insist on seeing him,” she said firmly, pushing hard.

  When Klugheim staggered backwards, Nasreen took the opportunity to step inside, closing the door behind her. She still had her hand on the butt of the gun; while she didn’t want to produce it, she would if she had to. “Now, tell me where your husband is, and I’ll leave. But I’m not going anywhere until I get what I came for.”

  “He not my husband no more. It why I Klugheim, not Gebhardt.”

  Nasreen looked around the house, which was as orderly, clean, and tidy as her front garden; Klugheim was clearly house-proud, making her stock go up in Nasreen’s estimation. There were two lovely soft burgundy sofas and an armchair in the lounge, set around a mahogany and glass coffee table. There was a huge fifty-inch flat-screen television mounted on the wall above the fireplace, and several pictures adorned the walls. “And how long have you been divorced for?
”

  “Not divorced, separated. Bastard won’t give me divorce. Separated fifteen years. Now get out my house before I call the cops…”

  “I am the cops,” Nasreen said, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

  “Show me badge, prove it,” said Klugheim, holding her hand out.

  “I should’ve said I was a cop,” she muttered, letting go of the pistol and rummaging around in her bag until she pulled out a business card. “I don’t have my badge with me, but this is my card, okay?”

  Klugheim took the card and read it. “You far away from here. I call real cops.”

  As Klugheim went to walk towards the telephone next to the sofa, Nasreen said, “Please, wait. Your ex-husband has kidnapped my ex-boyfriend. I’m just trying to find Walter so I can get him to take me to Danny. Please, Lina, I’m not here to cause trouble.”

  Klugheim turned back to Nasreen. “Kidnapped? That sounds like Walter, bastard.”

  Nasreen put her hand out placatingly. “Yeah, over a month ago. And I think he’s abducted many more, not just Danny… Please, I really need your help. I need to know where I can find him, that’s all.”

  When Klugheim gestured towards the sofa, Nasreen sat down and waited for her host to talk.

  Klugheim looked tired; she had droopy eyes, like she was about to fall asleep, but most of that was because her left eye was badly bruised. She was attractive in a wrinkly “had a hard life” way, and her teeth were yellow, probably from smoking for decades.

  “I not seen Walter for five years.” Klugheim lit another cigarette. “Last time I see him, he gave me worst black eye. I in hospital for two weeks. He a bastard! He left me pregnant, then, when I eight months, he beat me up, I lost baby.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Nasreen replied genuinely.

  Klugheim shrugged then stared at the floor. “It not matter, I always meet bad man. I got this yesterday from man I throw out. This his leaving present.”

  “It’s hard these days, meeting the right man.”

  “You meet bad man too?”

  “What this?” She pointed at her bruised cheek. “No, Walter gave me this. He came to my house and threatened to hurt my little girl if I don’t stop looking for Danny.”

  “I sorry, like I say, he bastard.”

  After a long silence, Klugheim said, “I not know where he is now, but I have address of girlfriend he left me for, if you want.”

  “Yes, please, if you don’t mind.” Nasreen nodded, hopeful.

  Standing up, Klugheim walked over to a bureau in the corner of the lounge, next to the fireplace, and after opening it, she took out an address book. “I not know if she live there now.”

  “If I have her name, I can find her.”

  “But be careful, she a nasty bitch. If you think me hard, she worst.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “I not doubt it. But if you find Walter, take care; he a dangerous man.”

  Nasreen took the piece of paper from Klugheim, shook her hand, and thanked her for her help. She looked down at the paper – the woman’s name was Petra Farkas.

  As she walked to her car, Nasreen pulled out her disposable mobile and called Terrence.

  “Hey, Nas, what do you need?”

  “Anything you can give me on a Petra Farkas…”

  48

  Day 36

  Thursday, 15th February

  Kimiko couldn’t understand why the police hadn’t arrived yet. It had been three days since she’d phoned them and explained what was going on, so where were they?

  She pulled off her duvet and got out of bed. The floor was cold, so she slipped on her plimsolls and wrapped herself in her bathrobe.

  When she stepped into the shower and turned on the taps, the hot water instantly warmed her. Showering was one of the highlights of her day.

  It was also a time for her to think. Why had they not found them? She couldn’t phone them again; the only reason she’d managed to before was sheer luck. Mrs Harrison or the guards were always there. In fact, it was strange that she’d had two occasions recently where she’d had the opportunity to use the phone without anyone being around. Maybe Mrs Harrison was getting complacent with security; maybe she had other things on her mind?

  Kimiko washed her hair with shampoo before rinsing it out thoroughly.

  If the police weren’t coming, what else could she do? She could try running away. If she got caught, Mrs Harrison would kill her, and then she’d kill Danny. Kimiko had to think of a way out of here, and soon. Danny was in a bad way, and Mrs Harrison was already talking about giving him clients to service despite the fact that he was still in a lot of pain. She was a cruel woman, Mrs Harrison.

  Kimiko stayed under the shower for fifteen minutes, letting her body soak up the heat. Whatever happened, she was looking forward to the nicer weather coming; this winter had hit her hard.

  So, what else could she do? How could she possibly get her and Danny out of here? She couldn’t carry him out, and he couldn’t walk, which didn’t leave much in the way of options. She had to think things through. She also had to be quick about it. After all, Mrs Harrison would end up killing Danny in the end – of that she was sure – so she had to get him out sooner rather than later.

  Kimiko stepped out of the shower, dried herself, wrapped herself up in her robe, and then walked back to her bedroom. As it was seven thirty in the morning she’d be the first person in the kitchen, which was good as she was hungry.

  Dressed in a kimono, as always, she went downstairs.

  In the kitchen, Kimiko set two eggs to poaching before placing two slices of bread in the toaster and taking a plate out of the cupboard. Poached eggs on toast was her favourite breakfast meal; it was very English. Over the years she had found that she liked a lot of English food, such as shepherd’s pie and roast dinners.

  The toast popped up. Kimiko placed both slices on her plate before walking over to the counter and taking a knife out from the block. It was seven inches long and serrated.

  She looked at the stainless-steel blade, the ceiling light glinting in the metal.

  The water was boiling over by the time her attention returned, and after cutting the toast with the knife and placing the eggs on top of it, she took her breakfast over to the table.

  She had to eat and wash up quickly, before Mr and Mrs Harrison and the guards came down for their breakfasts. Looking up at the clock while she ate, Kimiko saw it was already approaching eight o’clock.

  Kimiko washed up as she listened to the stirrings of the guards and the Harrisons, getting more and more nervous as the seconds ticked by. She washed and rinsed her plate and cooking utensils, leaving the cutlery until last and placing them in a mug to drain.

  She looked behind her, then picked up the knife and slipped it inside her sleeve.

  “Morning, Kimiko,” came Mrs Harrison’s voice.

  How much had she seen?

  Kimiko waited for a couple of seconds before replying, “Morning, Bea.”

  As Mrs Harrison didn’t say anything else, Kimiko dropped her arms down beside her and turned to face her boss, the blade of the knife just touching her arm underneath her kimono.

  “Are you all done in here?”

  “Yes, I wash up and leave to dry,” Kimiko replied.

  “Okay, then,” said Mrs Harrison with a smile.

  Kimiko walked through the kitchen toward the stairs.

  “Oh, Kimiko…”

  All she wanted was get away from her captor.

  Slowly, she turned to face Mrs Harrison. “Yes, Bea?”

  “Can you focus on rooms one, three, four, and five today please?” asked Mrs Harrison. “Leave room two; it doesn’t need doing while Danny’s convalescing. Thank you.”

  Kimiko nodded before turning and walking slowly up the stairs, passing two of the guards on the way. She smiled politely at them and then walked along the landing to her bedroom. She felt like she hadn’t breathed for the entire length of her walk.

 
; Once inside she closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a long breath. She’d done it now; she had crossed the point of no return. She didn’t even know why she’d taken the knife, or what she was going to do with it. It had been an impulsive act, and a dangerous one.

  She took the knife out of her sleeve and stared at it. It was the only weapon she had…

  Nasreen had finally tracked down her target, Petra Farkas, and was sitting outside her house in her car. The clock read 08:15.

  Nasreen could see movement in the kitchen, could see Petra moving about through the curtain-free window. It looked like there were a couple of kids in the house too; she’d seen the tops of their heads in the kitchen.

  Since being given Farkas’ name by Walter Gebhardt’s ex-wife, Nasreen had travelled over a hundred miles to two different addresses looking for her, only to be given yet more forwarding addresses. This was the third address she’d driven to. She’d checked into three different Premier Inns, and she was tired.

  Terrence had provided Nasreen with some information about Farkas: she was a Hungarian-born immigrant of eight years, she’d never married, and she had two children, daughters. Petra Farkas worked from home as a freelance accountant, and she moved around, a lot. Nasreen didn’t know what to expect from Farkas, but she was going to proceed with caution; after all, Lina Klugheim had warned her of how tough she was.

  As it was a weekday – and as the kids would, therefore, be leaving for school soon – Nasreen decided to stay put until Farkas was alone.

  Farkas lived in a three-bedroom semi-detached house, one that had an identical design to every other house on the street. None of these houses were especially expensive; there weren’t many expensive homes in the area. The whole suburb looked run-down and tatty, with graffiti everywhere.

  The front door opened and a tall lean man with a beard came out, dressed in a grey suit and carrying a briefcase. He had greying hair, and he looked to be in his late forties; it clearly wasn’t Walter Gebhardt. It must be Farkas’ new man, or not so new – Nasreen didn’t know how long Farkas had been with Gebhardt. The mystery man got into his grey Honda Civic, reversed, turned, and accelerated past her.