Unspoken Truths

by Liz Mistry

  ‘Homes in the Dales cut off, leaving communities isolated and vulnerable as fresh blizzards sweep the region. Severe weather warnings. Motorists advised not to travel unless absolutely necessary.’

  Bollocks!

  Mickey flung the remote down and headed into the kitchen. Peering into the fridge, her fears were confirmed. Apart from a random slice of dry rye bread and a bottle of prosecco, the fridge was empty. Feeling less than hopeful, she tugged at the freezer door and was pleased to see a loaf of frozen bread. Well, she could have toast at least. Perhaps there’d even be some jam in the cupboard.

  The faint ring of her mobile in the living room had her padding back through. Gus! ‘Hello?’

  ‘You at The Fort?’

  Mickey snorted, ‘No, bloody trapped here in Oxenhope. No hope of getting in till the bastards deign to grit The Tops. Us leafy suburbs residents are, according to that twat Piers Morgan, meant to take to t’slopes on our damn snowboards wearing nowt but shorts cos we’re tough in t’North.’ This was said in an exaggerated Yorkshire accent, ‘Bloody tosser, taking the piss out of Northerners, wish one of them serial killers he interviews would boil him up and eat him with some Chianti and fava beans.’

  Gus’ laugh drifted down the line, his voice became serious. ‘Someone tried to knacker my knackers last night, Mickey.’

  Mickey’s eyebrows rose. She sank onto the couch, pulling the fleece around her shoulders and made a mental note to check the central heating before tuning back in to Gus’ description of the intruders at Daniel Farrier and Izzie Dimou’s rented house – the one that Alice had only recently bought.

  ‘So, what were they after?’ she asked when he’d finished. She’d been going to ask why he’d been there in the middle of the night but something in his voice told her that his motivation had been more Alice than Izzie.

  ‘That’s just it – I think I found what they were looking for. As I was sitting in Alice’s office waiting for the CSIs I used this door stop thing to hold the door open so I could hear if the bastard came back.’

  Again, Mickey stopped herself from asking the obvious question which was ‘why had he gone upstairs rather than wait in comfort in the living room?’ Instead, she patiently waited for him to continue. As he spoke, she imagined him shrugging, his blue eyes dark, murderous, like they’d been on the moors when he thought Alice was going to be hurt. His dreads would be awry where he would have raked his fingers through them and his shoulders stooped with the burden he always seemed to carry. He cared too much and that was why he was an excellent officer. Mickey’s only worry was that one of these days it would all be too much for the lad.

  ‘When I heard the CSIs I yanked the stop out from under the door, but I’d wedged it too tight. I pulled again and it came out, but the casing broke and inside was a USB stick.’

  ‘Christ, Gus – I wish I was there. I’m cursing myself for coming home last night. Should’ve stayed in The Fort really, but I didn’t want Dale to worry.’ As she uttered the lie, her cheeks flushed. For God’s sake, she’d have to tell everybody soon. Last thing she needed was them finding out she’d been lying about Dale ditching her. That would make her pathetic and that was the last thing she wanted to be. She didn’t need their pity. She was not that person. Later. She’d spill the beans later.

  ‘I’ve just handed it over to Compo, so we’ll know more in a short while. I think that’s what they were looking for. I only saw one of them, but there was someone waiting for him. The car sped off too quickly for there not to have been someone inside just ready to go. I’m going to look at mug shots – and maybe we’ll get some CCTV of the car on some of the main roads. That’s one benefit of this fucking snow, traffic is light.’

  Mickey snorted, ‘Yes but visibility is crap.’ She thought for a minute. ‘Look, I’m not there and I know your team is diminished but – don’t know how you feel about this – what about Lewis Gore?’

  ‘Eh… Lewis Gore? What about him?’

  ‘He’s back at work now. His psych evaluation after The Tattoo Killer came back and he’s signed fit for work. Clearly, with the new baby and his physical limitations, he’s not going undercover just yet, but he’s been assigned to my team and – well he’s good. In my forced absence he could be my deputy.’

  Sensing Gus’ hesitation, Mickey added, ‘And he can keep his mouth shut too.’

  As if he’d made up his mind, Gus said ‘Yeah. You’re right. I could work with Lewis. He’s a good copper and I’d welcome his help. I need someone more senior than Taffy by my side. Let him know I’ll expect him at The Fort ASAP. And… thanks.’

  28

  07:55 Blundering Lane, Stalybridge

  Jordan Beaumont paced the floor, appreciative of the underfloor heating that soothed his feet as he moved. He’d cracked the curtain open a little and didn’t know whether to be reassured or panicked by the storm’s continued ferocity. He was sweating. Marcia kept the house too damn warm and at the first hint of snow she’d cranked the heating up an extra few notches. He’d known even when he married her that she was a frigid bitch and this just served to confirm her reptilian status.

  He was well in the doghouse; his wife hadn’t spoken to him since he got back from the office. Her ‘I’m sure if you’d made the effort, Jordan, you could have got home earlier,’ grated on him. Like to see her driving through Manchester to Stalybridge in the midst of The Beast from the East. Dozy cow. She was always so distrustful these days. Since she’d discovered his little dalliance with his previous secretary, she’d acted like she had something on him. She’d been the one to insist he change PA. Little did she know just how much he welcomed the change. Mark was truly delicious. Aw well, what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

  It wasn’t Marcia and her damn huffiness that bothered him now though. It was this damn storm. If he’d been able to get through Snake Pass, he would have gone to the farmhouse before he came home. Or would he? Perhaps not. His gut felt raw at the very notion of what might be awaiting him there. But worse was the fear that, somehow or other, Daniel Farrier had escaped. If that happened there was no doubt at all that he’d link Izzie Dimou’s murder to his abduction and fuck knows how much that bitch had told him. Things were not looking good right now. Flashing pound signs were fading by the second and if he didn’t sort things out, it wouldn’t be long before they disappeared altogether.

  Checking that the door was shut, he flung himself onto the couch and extracted the phone from his dressing gown pocket. Things were getting out of control and he’d had no contact from the Romanians. It was like the snow was closing things down, suffocating him, freezing his assets. Why the hell hadn’t they been in touch? He dialled the only number the phone contained. He was taking a risk phoning from the house, but he was desperate – besides, he hadn’t used this phone before and it was doubtful that anybody would triangulate this call. He needed to know if they’d found it. If they had, they could get up to the moors and finish what they’d started. If not – well, Daniel Farrier was dispensable. As long as there are no leads back to me – no worries. But first he needed the USB and the bitch hadn’t given that up.

  The phone rang and clicked straight to voicemail. Jordan wanted to tear his hair out by the roots. Idiots were being paid to be on the end of the phone. He imagined them, greasy little men, with their nicotine stained fingers and brown teeth, laughing when they saw this number flash up. He wouldn’t put it past them to yank his chain. He dialled again and was gratified to hear the sound of the call being answered, followed by the rattley sound of whichever one of them had answered clearing their tobacco ridden lungs. The sound had his stomach churning. ‘Well?’

  Another rattling cough was followed by the unmistakeable sound of someone spitting. ‘Yes?’

  Jordan didn’t recognise the voice and his heart sank a little. He couldn’t have dialled the wrong number. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘You thought you had trouble, Mr Beaumont – but believe me you have no idea. None at all.’<
br />
  The accent was strong, but not Romanian. This man seemed more educated, had a better command of English. The Turks? – Who else could it be? Well, if they thought they could get the once over on Jordan Beaumont they were sadly mistaken. ‘What do you want? How do you have this phone?’

  The laugh was hard. ‘Well, let’s just say your little Romanian thugs have been dealt with. Hope they’ve left nothing on them to incriminate you.’

  A prickle ran up Jordan’s spine. Who the hell was this man and what had he done to the Romanians? He wasn’t actually bothered about their welfare and by the sounds of it that was just as well as – whatever their fate – it didn’t seem to be good. No, Jordan was more concerned about what they may have left behind. What could be traced to him. All the more reason to get rid of the damn phone. The thug on the line was still speaking.

  ‘We know who you are. We know where you live and who you live with. Your daughter is rather cute – your wife, meh… not so much.’

  The prickle became sharp, like claws tearing at his back. They knew his wife? His daughter, Missy? He had an almost uncontrollable urge to run up the stairs to her room, check she was okay, cuddled up to her My Little Pony. Sanity prevailed. If they’d dealt with the Romanians, then they must be in Bradford. He exhaled, using the breath to calm himself. ‘What do you want?’

  Again, the laugh. ‘Make no mistake, we are more than able to make sure the police officer who was waiting for your friends at the Dimou girl’s house knows all about you. We need to know where Daniel Farrier is.’

  So that was it. These men wanted Farrier for the same reason he did. ‘I can’t help you. Why do you think the Romanians were there? I want to find Farrier too.’

  ‘I don’t like to be messed about.’

  Jordan’s breath caught in his throat. ‘I’m not messing you about. I don’t know where Farrier is any more than you do. The Romanian’s couldn’t find him.’ He glanced round the overly warm living room as if expecting his tormentor to appear. It was time to placate them. If he could convince them he had no idea where Farrier was, then perhaps he still had a shot at the big bucks. Farrier must know what his fiancée had done with the formula she’d stolen. All Jordan needed to do was bide his time till the storm passed over, convince the archaeologist to share the info with him and he’d be quids in. How hard would it be to convince a weedy archaeologist to share his information? Especially if he told him it was the only way to save Izzie. ‘Look, I don’t know where he is. I’m not messing you about. But I’m out now. All I care about is my family. I’m not going to look for Farrier anymore. You can have him.’

  The Turk gave a low barking laugh.

  Jordan paused and removed the phone from his ear, head tilted to one side he listened. Was that Marcia? Or Missy?

  The living room door was flung open and a giant of a man with stubble, long hair and a three-inch pink scar down his cheek, walked in, ‘Just what we were thinking.’

  He pushed Missy into the room in front of him. One massive hand was slapped over her mouth, tears streamed down her cheeks. Her eyes flitted from her dad and around the room. The bigger man held the phone away from his ear and grinned as he shoved it into his pocket. The emptiness of his eyes sent a chill over Jordan as he stepped forward, desperate to reach his child.

  ‘Stay put.’ The Turk lifted Missy’s hair with his other hand and yanked her head back, exposing her throat. The pulse in her neck fluttered like a fledgling bird’s chest. He moved the hand from her mouth, thrust his jacket back and, eyes trained on Jordan, removed a machete from his waistband.

  Jordan stopped, swallowing hard, his eyes moved from the machete to his daughter. He willed her not to struggle, not to move, not to do anything. She was trembling, her eyes frantic, her arms rigid by her side. He saw her pyjama bottoms darken – a puddle of urine formed on the carpet by her bare feet and his heart broke.

  The man laughed and yanked her hair again, making her lip tremble, ‘Scared little girl?’

  Jordan dropped his phone to the carpet. Where the hell was Marcia? Maybe she’d heard them and managed to escape or phone for help. He wanted to go to his daughter, but the machete pricking into her neck, stopped him. Instead, he stretched out his hands, ‘It’s okay, Missy. It’s okay. Daddy’s here.’

  The thug pressed the tip of the knife further into her throat causing a droplet of blood to form at the tip. He mimicked Jordan’s voice, ‘Daddy’s here… Daddy’s here.’ He laughed again, ‘Lot of fucking good he is to you, Missy.’

  Jordan stumbled forward, but was again stopped.

  ‘Stay where you are.’ The thug dragged Missy further into the room and flung her onto the couch. ‘Don’t move. No noise.’ When he turned to Jordan, his smile was lazy. ‘You got a nice family, but…’ he shrugged, ‘not for much longer.’

  It was then that Jordan became aware of a keening sound from behind the closed door. It opened and another man, shorter and slighter, with more hair and less stubble, entered. He dragged Marcia behind him. His wife struggled and despite having something stuffed in her mouth was managing to make a racket. Jordan wanted to hit her himself. Couldn’t she be quiet for once? The last thing they needed to do was to antagonise these two. He reckoned they’d killed Izzie Dimou and, if they were to be believed, the two Romanians too. Marcia needed to shut up damn quick if they were going to get out of this in one piece.

  Her hands were tied behind her back with her dressing gown cord. Despite the terror in her eyes, her botoxed face remained tight and expressionless. The smaller man thrust her toward Jordan. She stumbled and landed against him, knocking him backwards as he tried to stabilise her. He was relieved that she was gagged, the venom in her eyes was enough to bring tears to his.

  On closer inspection Jordan was sure the two men were related – brothers probably. The younger one kept glancing at the giant one, his eyes darting round. It was clear that the bigger man was the boss. Marching forward, machete dangling loosely from one hand, the larger man kicked at Jordan’s legs and indicated with the knife that Marcia should sit next to their daughter. Jordan saw the look she darted at Missy when she stood on the wet carpet and he could have struck her himself. What the hell! This was their daughter and she was turning her nose up at her. What sort of mother was she?

  ‘We thought Izzie Dimou would roll over and give us the information we wanted. However, she was more resistant than we anticipated.’ He flicked the machete tip under Marcia’s chin, forcing it upward. ‘That though, is neither here nor there. What is relevant is the fact that we need Daniel Farrier.’ He moved the machete from Marcia to Missy, ‘So, how can we convince you to give him up?’

  Jordan, hands splayed before him, blinked rapidly. The fear in his daughter’s eyes sent his pulse shuddering and sweat dappled his forehead. He tried an experimental smile, seeing the tip of the machete press into her neck again, he swallowed. What could he do? Daniel Farrier was his only bargaining chip. If he gave him up, they’d kill all three of them.

  Missy, seemingly finding her tongue uttered a hoarse, ‘Daddy.’

  Jordan’s breathing became shallower. What the hell was he supposed to do? He had a gun, but it was hidden in a cupboard in his own office. No damn good to him there, was it? Missy’s face was red, her small body trembling. If anything happened to her, how could he live with himself? Words tumbling out in an incoherent babble, he said ‘Look, you can have money. No problem. I can go to the bank. Do a transfer first thing. Just don’t hurt my baby. I can give you some now. I have some. Then more tomorrow.

  The older brother grinned and shook his head, ‘Oh no. You misunderstand. We don’t want payment from you – we have our heart set on greater things. We want Daniel Farrier and the formula.’

  Jordan’s heart hammered, his palms sweated as he thought frantically for a solution to this situation. What could he do to convince them? ‘No wait, I have money in an offshore bank account.’ He ignored Marcia’s glare. He’d kept that hidden from her. He’d made su
re to have an exit plan that she knew nothing about. One that would allow him to settle in Thailand or a country where things were less rigid. ‘You can have it… you can have it all.’

  Giant man’s grin widened, his nicotine stained teeth, bared in a grimace of joy. ‘Oh, I think you’ll tell us all about that account anyway. But first…’

  The tip of the knife dug deeper under Missy’s chin. The girl was sobbing, her skinny arms like matchsticks against his beefy ones. Her breath hitched in her throat. Marcia, eyes wide and glazed, watched on – her struggles stilled.

  Everything rested on his shoulders now. What could he do to stop this nightmare?

  Without thinking, he dived across the floor and flung himself at the larger man. The younger brother, as if galvanised by Jordan’s activity moved to grab him, but he was too late. The larger man tipped Jordan onto the floor as if he was shrugging off an unwelcome comment. He laughed, ‘You will suffer for this.’

  29

  08:20 The Fort

  One more cup of coffee would make him even more jittery than he already was, but Gus didn’t care. Despite his walk through the snow to Saltaire and the subsequent fight followed by the equally arduous walk back, he was tense. The snow played havoc with his jogging routine and even though his balls still ached, he wanted the release that only jogging could bring. The rhythm of his feet pounding concrete allowed him to exorcise his demons – think through whatever case he was on at the minute. Instead, he contented himself with pacing the incident room, circling the tables, coffee cup in hand.