by Mark Ayre
Now was not the time for pleasantries. Abbie laid out her position without hyperbole. She told Ben she had come upon Detective Ndidi attacking a man named Gary and had interceded on the hapless Gary's behalf, leading to her arrest for assaulting a police officer. Told him about Hammond and how the station was supposedly driven to see Abbie convicted as a kind of surrogate justice (Abbie did not attribute this phrase to Ndidi; perhaps she would feel guilty about that later), as Hammond's killer was in the wind. She told him about the falsified statements and brought him up to date by describing how she had mentioned concern for Isabella moments before Ndidi learned of the kidnapping.
"I dreamed about the child," Abbie said at the end.
There were no cameras in the room. Abbie was supposedly on a call with her legal representation the police were not allowed to listen in. Regardless, she feared her friend on the other side of the door might break the rules by pressing his ear to the wood. Ben would know what Abbie meant about the dream. It was safer not to go into detail. For this same reason, she had mentioned walking past the dealership on her way to the park where she had found Ndidi assaulting Gary. This point added nothing to the story, so Ben would know something had transpired at the car lot and act accordingly.
Abbie finished her story and waited for Ben to tell her what would happen next. What he was going to do to extricate her from this situation. While she waited, she twirled the phone's cable around her fingers and wondered when she had last seen a cabled phone. Landlines were rare enough but an actual cable, tethering you to one spot...
Budget cuts.
At last, Ben said, "Well, maybe spot of bother doesn't quite cover it.”
"You think?"
Ben was the only member of the organisation that employed Abbie she had met. Other than for the briefest windows for a weapon's drop or similar. When he found her, she was falling apart. Worse, the prophetic dreams, and the consequences of not averting the disasters they portended, were tearing her apart. Taking her under his wing, Ben had helped train her. Everything Abbie was, everything she had, she owed to her benefactor. To Ben.
Which did nothing to change the fact she didn't much like him. He had never been friendly or easy to get on with, and over the years, their relationship had soured rather than improved. His rigid set of rules didn't help. On the few occasions Abbie had gone out of her way to help someone that didn't directly relate to one of her dreams, he had chastised her. He liked her in her box, doing what he said and nothing more.
Somehow, in his tone, she sensed there was more of this attitude coming down the line. He was about to ask of her something she would not like.
"You'll need a top lawyer," Ben said. "Luckily, we have plenty on the payroll."
Abbie didn't respond. His tone was gnawing at her, causing anxiety which worsened by the moment.
"I need out," said Abbie. "Ndidi's on the warpath, and there's plenty I don't understand. I need to win him round."
Abbie didn't think her words would have any bearing on Ben's decision. Once she had finished her story, he would have calculated all the options. He would know how he wanted to proceed. Abbie had no say in the matter and no power to change his mind.
"You don't need to persuade me," said Ben. "You're our employee. Although there's no physical or digital document outlining your responsibilities or ours when it comes to your real job, we both know there is a mental contract. One with clear terms we both understand. If we were to refuse you legal representation, we would be in breach of that contract, and for either party to breach the contract, even though it was never signed, would be unacceptable."
Abbie closed her eyes. Clutched the phone a little tighter. He was right: no real contract existed. As far as the government was concerned, Abbie was a freelance consultant. She had several clients, but each was a shell corporation owned by her real employer. Ben had explained all this when Abbie agreed to work for them. There had indeed been terms, though nothing was signed.
And Abbie knew where this is going.
"You know how seriously I take my job," she said. "Nothing will compromise the work I do. Saving lives is my number one priority. Always has been, and always will be."
There was silence. Abbie realised she had said more than she should have, given her location, and glanced towards the closed door. Too late now. She would have to hope her friend on the other side hadn't heard.
"You're in breach of contract," said Ben. The statement was matter of fact, spoken without inflexion or emotion. "Give me your word you’ll rectify the situation, and I'll have a lawyer there within the hour. You'll be free within two."
"Can't you listen to me a minute?" said Abbie. "My performance will not suffer. I will not fail. Please, work with me here."
Ben didn't hesitate. "You're in breach of contract. I need your word you will rectify the situation."
Abbie closed her eyes. She was taking long, deep breaths, trying to control her anger. As she did, she contemplated lying.
"I know you're trying to decide whether to lie," said Ben. "It's natural, but I pray you don't try it. You know the power we have. You know you have no hope of concealing a relationship. Lying would waste everybody's time and drive a wedge between us. Abbie, you don't want to drive a wedge between us, do you?"
Her eyes still closed, Abbie was thinking of Bobby. That beautiful smile. The way it lit up when she entered the room. The way he made her feel. The way he had changed her life. Given it worth.
Could she give all that up?
"Would it help demonstrate my position if I told you how many times he's shared your bed in the last month?" said Ben. "Or how many pubs you've visited? What if I told you what he'd ordered the last time you went for dinner and what you both drank? It was good of you to pay."
Anger bubbled up from her stomach, into her throat and onwards. It flooded her brain. Sensing an oncoming burst of rage, Abbie pulled the phone from her ear and grabbed the table. Fought to regain control of her temper.
After thirty seconds, she returned the phone to her ear.
"You've known for weeks," she said. "Which means you could have demanded I break it off ages ago. But you wanted to wait until I was in no position to refuse, didn't you? You know I won't play chicken because if it comes to it, you'll let Isabella die to get your way, but I never will."
Ben didn't comment.
"You're a coward," said Abbie.
"You wound me, and it's not what you think. We care about you, and what you do is important. More important than one man could ever be, no matter how he makes you feel. You say we'll let Isabella die before we bend, and you're right because we know, in the long run, it'll be for the best. In fact, you've laid the situation out perfectly, so why don't we skip all this nastiness and do the right thing? Why don't we get on with saving lives?"
Abbie took the phone from her ear again. This time she took three long breaths in, held them, released them. She opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on the blank wall ahead. She returned the phone to her ear.
"You know what your problem is, Ben?" Abbie asked.
"Which one?" said Ben. "After all, I'm only human. I imagine I'm riddled with faults."
Abbie ignored this.
"You think you know me. Worse, you think you control me. Well, allow me to show you how wrong you are."
"Abbie, come now—"
"Stick your contract," she said. "I quit."
And she slammed the phone back into its cradle.
Ten
Abbie's hands were shaking. She was practising deep, slow breathing, but it was doing little to help. Without closing her eyes, all she could see was the tormented face of the dying Isabella.
Isabella.
Damn, she wished Ndidi hadn't told her the name.
Fifty-eight seconds after Abbie had slammed the phone into the cradle, cutting short her conversation with that arsehole, Ben, she collected it again. Her fingers went to the dial-pad. The tip of her index finger rested against the rubber button, emblazo
ned with the first number she would need to press to get Ben back.
She didn't want to say she hated Ben and the organisation he represented. Hate didn't go far enough. At that moment, Loathing didn't seem to come close, so maybe the right word didn't exist.
Abbie took her finger away. There was a tear in her eye. The picture of Isabella was blurring together with one of Bobby.
Two worlds colliding.
Abbie slammed down the phone.
Picked it up again, three seconds later. Her index finger rested once more on button one.
This was unfair. A churning in Abbie's stomach made her worry she might throw up on the phone before she found the strength to either put it down for good or admitted defeated and called back that bastard.
He had played it well. In Abbie's idle moments, when Bobby wasn't around, when she couldn't prevent her mind twisting in the direction of her employer, she had always known this was coming. She had known Ben wouldn't reveal his hand until he had Abbie backed into a corner or bent over a barrel.
He had been awaiting her call, even before he knew she was on another mission. Every time Abbie went to save a life, she ended several. Ben's team were used to swooping in and making the evidence disappear, ensuring Abbie was never cornered by the police and asked any tricky questions.
Ben was waiting for Abbie to kill someone. He would expect her to ring while still free. Before the police had any idea there was a murder victim to be found and, therefore, a murderer to be hunted. Ben could have made that situation work, but it wasn't ideal because Abbie could continue trying to save Isabella without him, risking arrest to get the job done.
When Abbie rang from a police station and told Ben her story, it must have felt like Christmas come early. With Abbie unable to continue her mission without Ben's help, he had more leverage than he would ever have imagined. Abbie needed Ben to bail her out. Possibly literally. Presumably grinning from ear to ear, he had happily spilt his ultimatum.
There was nothing to be done. When it came to it, the choice was simple.
Cut Bobby from her life, or allow Isabella to die.
When put like that, it was a no brainer. Nothing could come before the child. Abbie's happiness could not be elevated above a little girl's right to live.
There was no choice.
Abbie started typing the number.
She couldn't lie about her relationship. Ben would know. Abbie dreaded to think of what might happen if she tried to pull the wool over his eyes.
The phone began to ring.
Abbie didn't have anyone else. No one besides Ben could...
Once again, Abbie slammed the phone into the cradle.
This time, she kept her hand fixed to the handset. Her heart was pounding. A face flashed into her mind.
It wasn't Bobby's face, nor Isabella's.
The selfless move would be to pick up the phone and call Ben. Someone who had a track record in helping her. Someone with the infrastructure to ensure she saved Isabella's life.
Collecting the phone, Abbie typed in a number. The phone began to ring.
After fifteen seconds, someone answered.
"Hello?"
It was a woman. Abbie was only human, and humans were selfish. It was one of humanity's most prominent traits.
She was taking a significant risk, but she thought of Bobby's smile and couldn't stop herself.
"Hey, it's Abbie King," she said. "I'm probably way out of line, but... I really need your help."
The bored uniform led Abbie back to her cell. Closed her in. Abbie sat on the bed and tried to count the minutes as they slipped by.
By the time there was another knock on her cell door, and it began to open, Midday was only minutes away. The only bright side of the idle hours was that her ankle had recovered. Walking no longer caused her to wince.
Abbie had been obsessing over the Isabella situation, which had the positive side-effect of driving out thoughts of Ben and Bobby. But was otherwise a pain in the arse.
Thoughts of Isabella weren't new. Ropes of worry had coiled within Abbie's stomach since she'd woken from her dream at midnight, almost twelve hours previously. Her concern had ramped up when she'd learned the girl's name, seen a picture of her in normal circumstances, rather than pain and terror. The coils had become tangled. When Abbie had learned someone had kidnapped the child, the tangle had developed a knot, and the knot had been tightening ever since.
Every time Abbie closed her eyes, she saw snapshots from her dream: the girl's pained, terrified expression. Abbie's reaction was visceral. Some dark aspect of her subconscious whispered.
You've already failed. You let that girl die.
It wasn't true. Rising from the bed, Abbie had paced the small cell, circle after circle after circle. Like a madwoman or a genius, she had whispered to herself. The same words on repeat. A mantra.
"Isabella isn't dead."
Abbie wasn't one for false hope. She was a realist. Her assertion that Ndidi's daughter had yet to meet a grim end was not an empty one, invoked only to reduce Abbie's guilt in the short term. It was based on experience.
On over fifty occasions, Abbie had woken from a nightmare at midnight on the dot, the face of a stranger who would soon be dead lodged in her mind. Over time, she had learned the midnight wake-up signalled the setting of a ticking clock, counting down to the stranger's demise.
None of the fifty-plus people of Abbie's dreams had reached their final moment of life or death within thirty hours of Abbie waking from her prophetic dream. Had she failed to act in any of the fifty-plus cases, two people would have died before noon on day two. The vast majority would have lost their lives after sundown on that same day.
This wasn't hope but experience. Abbie had time. Isabella was not dead.
But she was in perilous danger.
Someone had come to Ndidi's house, murdered the au pair, and kidnapped the child. Kidnapping was seldom random, speculative. The kidnappers had specific reasons for taking that particular victim. Usually, their motives were simple, straight forward. More often than not, the kidnappers sought either to punish or to gain.
Abbie had never met Isabella but felt confident in her assumption that no one wanted to punish the child. This was not the work of eight-year-old Callum or whoever. A classmate who had proposed a playground marriage to Isabella and who had suffered a callous rejection.
Or what he considered to be callous, anyway.
Nor would Isabella have anything the kidnapper would want other than herself.
Abbie recalled her conversation with Ndidi. Talk of a wife, Isabella's mother. Clearly, his wife's departure had affected Ndidi, but that didn't mean he had been honest with Abbie about the situation. He had displayed shock that she would leave, abandoning her child, but Abbie couldn't verify this was the truth of the matter. Perhaps Ndidi had caught Isabella's mother cheating, or stealing, or something equally or more sinister. In such a scenario, might Ndidi have scared his wife off, warning her to stay away from her husband and child?
It was possible, and perhaps the wife would send someone to reclaim her daughter in such a scenario.
Possible, but unlikely.
The au pair was dead, for a start. Would Isabella's mother have been so violent? Would she even have been able to get hold of a gun or find the funds to hire someone to do all this for her? Would she risk it?
Abbie didn't know. She kept the theory on the table but close to the edge, ready to sweep onto the carpet.
The theory in the centre of this non-existent table was hazy but involved Ndidi as the reason for Isabella's kidnap.
If this was the case, it was unlikely to be to do with money. Detectives didn't earn enough. Punishment then?
Abbie had caught Ndidi beating Gary. Because of the Isabella news, he had never had a chance to explain why he was harming the lanky, younger man, whether with an honest explanation or a false one.
Was Ndidi entangled in something naughty? Had he displeased a bad man, and was
he now reaping the rewards of this betrayal?
As the clock ticked towards midday and the cell door opened, Abbie was thinking about Davesh. Davesh, who had been preparing to do business with a dangerous man named Orion. Davesh, who someone had killed before he could complete whatever this business was.
Was Ndidi wrapped up with this also? Perhaps he had been working with Orion but had turned against him.
Abbie thought of Orion Becker, the only Orion she knew. Abbie had first crossed the Becker family's path as they were demonstrating how they dealt with co-conspirators who turned against them. Suppose this was that same Orion, and he felt Ndidi had betrayed him. In that case, Abbie could easily believe Orion had retaliated by taking Isabella.
He would see it as the perfect punishment.
Speculation. Hours and hours of speculation, and none of it leading anywhere until Abbie could get free, could learn more from first-hand experience, from asking questions.
More than anything, Abbie needed to speak with Ndidi. To hear his side of the story.
Not something she could orchestrate while behind bars, but she didn't expect that to be an issue. Ndidi wouldn't find Isabella. Before long, Abbie would be the only lead. He would come to her.
The door opened. Abbie rose. Was this him now?
Abbie hoped it would be, but her hopes were in vain. The door opened, and a man stepped in, but this guy was tall and at least a decade older than Ndidi. Also, he was white. He had thinning dark hair and a crooked smile. He looked a little friendly and a little like a shark.
"Miss King, I presume?"
Abbie rolled her eyes. "And I told the receptionist not to give my room number to anyone. What a wily fox you must be."
The tall man laughed, and the laugh seemed both genuine and fake simultaneously, which was odd.
"You've kept your spirits up, I see. Commendable, with so much hanging over you. Assaulting a police officer, kidnapping a child, and murder to boot. Not looking promising, is it?"
Abbie shook her head. "You're so wrong."