by Ed James
No signs his captor has been back in.
‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and he makes everything okay!’
The sound is deafening. Howard puts his head down on the bare mattress, but he hears it even when it’s not playing now. He’s no idea how long he’s been here.
But it must’ve stopped playing because he falls asleep. And he is dreaming of surfing, flying across the waves, faster than ever, outrunning another surfer, but as he closes on the shore, big arms drag him and pull him under.
‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and he’s here for you!’
He’s groggy, his eyes struggling to stay open and he—
‘—lie! Isn’t life a dream?’
He jolts awake again. The music’s louder, like it’s been turned up, and he just wants to sleep. Just wants death now. But sleep will do.
‘Charlie! Oh, Charlie! Isn’t this your sea?’
He lies flat on his back and keeps his eyes shut, then counts the in breaths and out breaths.
The music loops back round to the start again, the plinky-plonk piano sounding the size of a football stadium. ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and there’s nothing he can’t do!’
Over the noise of the music, he hears movement at the door.
Howard doesn’t dare look. He wants to stare at him, but he wants him to come over too. So he can take him down.
‘—the Seahorse and he makes everything okay!’
Something grips his ankles like a vice and pulls Howard off the bed, dragging him across the flagstone floor, out of the room into a cellar. Wide and long, with a low ceiling. A wheelchair sits in the middle, straps resting on the arms.
‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and he’s here for you!’ The music is a muted din from behind him, still loud and rasping at his ears. Then the door shuts and the wood sucks all the treble from the childish singing, leaving a chilling lower version that sounds like a choir of devils, accompanied by a thudding drumbeat. ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and it’s time to play!’
Strong fingers grip his armpits and lift him up to a sitting position, facing back to his cell. The door on the left is lit up, the naked bulb catching the white sign printed with ‘HOWARD’. Two crosshead screws at either side, the metal twinkling in the pale glow.
‘Charlie! Oh, Charlie! Isn’t this—’
The music dies but the white noise still lingers in Howard’s ears. He still hears the piano and drums and satanic kids’ choir.
But there’s another sound. Dulled groans come from the door on the right, sitting in shadow. A lightbulb hangs down, giving an occasional flicker, but he doesn’t know if he can read the sign. Four letters, beginning with M, but it’s just too dark.
Something grips his hair and jerks his head forward. He lets out a confused scream, his arms shooting out, and he tries to stand but he’s trapped. Those strong fingers under his armpits, pulling him up to sitting now, like he’s on a chair. He tries to twist his neck, but he can’t get round far enough to see properly. Just a black leather biker jacket. And a smell of smoke, not cigarettes but a burnt tyre or burnt plastic.
He tries wriggling but he can’t move. All that planning, all that waiting, and he can’t move when he needs to!
Then he is moving, propelled from behind. Over in the corner, a spiral staircase leads up, the concrete flat and smooth. He looks down and sees the wheels spinning round.
The last thing he sees of his prison is the middle door, the nameplate marked ‘Sarah’.
Day two
Eleven
[Corcoran, 05:55]
The sun still wasn’t up as Corcoran pulled off the main road, his headlights tracing across the dark tarmac, picking out potholes and fallen branches from last night’s wind. His dashboard blasted out that ringtone, the one he really should change. DI Thompson calling . . .
He sighed as he hit the green button. ‘Alana, I’m almost there.’
‘Taking your time, aren’t you?’
He checked the dashboard clock. ‘It’s not even six. I wouldn’t normally be up yet and I was—’
‘Be thankful for the sleep you have had.’
He swallowed another sigh. ‘Let me check this out and get back to you. Okay?’
‘Fine.’ And she was gone.
A glow up ahead, three squad cars pointing away from the road, their beams lighting up the trees.
Corcoran pulled up, taking a final hit from his Thermos mug as the engine rattled off.
One of the uniforms clocked him and raced over. ‘Sir, this is a private—’
‘DS Corcoran.’ He got out with a flourish of his warrant card. ‘DI Thompson sent me. You based in Amersham nick?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’ The local cop stood his ground. Tall and bulky, thick arms folded across his chest. ‘Got a call two hours ago. Local farmer spotted a fire, thought it was someone ruining his crops. Turns out it was a motor. Get the occasional joyrider out this way, but . . .’
‘But?’
‘I saw that message last night. DI Thompson’s communication to the entire Thames Valley police?’
Corcoran’s turn to sigh. Be nice to be told about these things before they happened for once. ‘Come on, show me the car.’ He followed the uniform into the woods, stepping across decaying branches towards a huddle of cops. Quite why it needed six of them was anyone’s guess. They broke apart at Corcoran’s approach, four of them heading back to their cars and getting back to where the hell they were supposed to be.
The frame of a car smouldered in a pile of ash. Slightly taller than a normal car, so it fit their request for an SUV.
Corcoran snapped on a nitrile glove and stepped closer. Still warm at a distance, meaning the metal was way too hot to touch. He kicked at the ash round the front. A VW badge lay there, charred, buckled and now completely unsuitable for hanging on a chain round your neck. He rounded the car, the pile of ash spreading in a wide circle, and crouched at the back. And there we go. TIGUAN in silver letters on the left, 0 TDI on the right, all scored with the heat but still attached to the boot. He stepped back and spotted the 2 and decimal point missing from the boot. ‘Have the fire service been out?’
His local minder was crouched low, using a stick to sift through the ash. ‘They’ve been made aware, but a factory fire in the Fairview industrial estate and a couple of houses down in Chalfont St Giles mean they’re—’
‘Okay, well make sure I get both interim and full reports from them.’
‘Will do.’ The uniform was still sifting away. ‘Er, this might help.’ He reached down and snatched his hand away. ‘Bugger me hard and fast, that’s hot that is.’
Corcoran snatched his stick and flipped what he was going for. The licence plate, a 65 too. He got out his phone and snapped it, then texted it to Thompson: ‘Run this for me?’ He stood there, taking in the scene.
Four miles from Amersham, two from Chalfont St Giles. If you looked up ‘the middle of nowhere’ in the dictionary, it would show a map of this wood. Perfect place to dump a car. Siphon the petrol and set it—
But it was a TDI. Diesel didn’t ignite with a naked flame. Meaning a jerrycan of petrol in the boot. Meaning someone really wanted rid of this car.
Christopher Langton or Klaus Werner? Too soon to tell, and nothing pointing at either of them.
Corcoran got out his phone and opened the map app. Yesterday’s route from Minster Lovell to Cambridge was still there. This place was about twenty miles too far south.
He searched over to his current location. Looked like an hour’s walk to Amersham, so whoever it was could’ve taken a cab from there. But that was a hell of a risk to take.
Hang on. He tapped on the other route, the one that took the M40 south, then the M1 north up towards Cambridge. An extra half an hour, but motorways, so more anonymous roads. But roads with automated number plate tracking.
His phone danced in his hands. DI Thompson calling . . .
Again.
He put it to his ear. ‘Alana.’
‘Still sounds weird to me.’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, my little cherub, we’ve run that plate. Graphite Tiguan. Two-litre turbo diesel. Graphite is dark grey, right?’
‘Yep. Have you got anything on it?’
‘Reported stolen from High Wycombe last week.’
Corcoran let out a sigh. ‘So, not belonging to—’
‘Nope. Doesn’t mean Klaus or Christopher didn’t steal it, or buy it off someone who did.’
‘Or it’s unconnected to this.’
‘Indeed.’ Thompson clicked her tongue. ‘When he found Sarah, Bob Rutherford said he saw a car hurtling down the lane, right? A Volkswagen or a Vauxhall. This could be it. This could be our perp covering his tracks. Whoever it was, they knew we were onto them. They’ve panicked and burnt the car.’
‘But we’re not onto them, are we?’
Thompson paused. ‘I saw a 65 Tiguan at the hospital last night.’
‘The same one?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll check.’ She clicked her tongue again. ‘Okay, I’ll get a local cop to speak to the owner. You’re running late for my briefing.’
[07:00]
Corcoran stopped outside the Incident Room and let out a yawn. One of those ones that just kept on going. He swallowed a glug of coffee and opened the door.
The room was crowded, a mix of thirty or so plainclothes and uniformed officers, standing and sitting. He hovered near the back, getting a nod from a couple of colleagues as he tried to keep a low profile.
Butcher was by the swanky new TV at the front, frowning at the laptop he cradled in his arms, the three cables stretched tight. ‘Should be playing. I don’t—’
Thompson snatched the remote from him and hit a button. The screen filled with a CCTV still. ‘There you go.’
Butcher stood back with a smile. ‘Thanks.’
Onscreen and in full colour, Sarah Langton stood by a bike shelter in the Lens Lock courtyard, stretching out her hamstrings. White earbuds dangled to the phone case strapped around her bicep. Looked like she was talking to someone on the phone, though she wasn’t laughing. She pressed a button on her watch and set off, powering away at a fast pace.
The screen flipped to a greyscale view of the long road in Cambridge they’d visited the previous night, with the Lens Lock front entrance and its aggressive security guard. Sarah shot through, her pace more a sprint than a light jog, a woman burning some demons.
Butcher hit a key on the laptop and the image froze. He pointed at the screen, indicating a silver Audi parked by the side of the road. ‘This is an Audi S4. Sports trim.’ He looked around the room, like that was his own knowledge. ‘This car belongs to Klaus Werner, a colleague of Sarah’s who she was having an affair with.’ He hit a key again.
After Sarah shot past, the car set off, following her.
Corcoran didn’t know what to make of it. Klaus said he’d set off after Sarah. Now it looked like he’d stalked her route home.
‘That’s the last footage we’ve found until she turned up in her street, just before she went missing.’
‘Thank you, Constable.’ Thompson stepped over to Butcher and rested the remote on the laptop. ‘I need you back in Cambridge confirming the movements of Messrs Werner and Langton, okay?’
Butcher’s shoulders slumped like a stroppy teenager. ‘But I’ve just driven here?’
‘And I thank you for that.’ Thompson fiddled with the laptop and the screen switched to the Thames Valley logo. ‘Now, this case is live on HOLMES, thanks to DS Sortwell, and you should all have actions allocated with corresponding notifications in your inboxes. If you don’t, then please please please please speak to DS Sortwell. Do not speak to me. I cannot help you and can barely remember my own password. Pete can and will help you.’
A ripple of laughter ran around the room.
‘Now, the initial forensics analysis has found only the discoverer’s DNA on Sarah. Nobody else’s.’ Thompson scanned around the room, her gaze settling on Corcoran. She gave a welcoming wink, then continued her sweep. ‘No shoe prints or anything that’d help us, except . . . Well, we found some tyre tracks just off the road past where Sarah was dropped. Forensics are going to try to match that with the burnt-out Tiguan that DS Corcoran has just visited. Could be entirely innocent, or it could be precisely what we need to crack the case wide open.’ She looked back at him. ‘Anything to add, Sergeant?’
‘You mean, did Sarah’s husband or Klaus Werner drive that car?’
‘Either.’
‘Then, no. But we should try to pin either one to burning that SUV. Both are credible suspects, so if we can map their movements to those of the vehicle, then—’
‘Agreed.’ Thompson picked up the TV remote and pointed it at DS Sortwell, like she could control the big lump with it. ‘Pete, can you add it to the actions log for DC Butcher?’
He gave a huffed nod.
Thompson looked around, a wry smile on her lips. ‘Now, any other questions?’
Butcher raised a hand like he was still at school. ‘Just wondering if there’s any update on the pharma angle?’
‘You mean, was Sarah targeted because she worked for a known vivisectionist?’
Butcher cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, that.’
‘We’ve found nothing to indicate that’s a motive. Usually if some group or other abducts someone, they try to spread their message via the media or, these days, social media. They usually take the credit for it before we even know about it. Remember that case in Scotland a couple of—’
‘Maybe they’ve starved her to show what happens to animals in a lab?’
Thompson’s mouth hung open. Corcoran couldn’t tell if it was shock at being interrupted mid-sentence or at the daftness of Butcher’s question. ‘Like I said, Constable, it’s a possibility. We’re monitoring matters in conjunction with the media offices of four forces. Okay?’
It seemed to placate Butcher.
Thompson tossed the remote onto the table with a clatter. ‘I’ve got the dubious honour of hosting a press conference at eight-thirty. We’re hoping to be live on Radio 4 for all of those commuters who can still bring themselves to listen to the Today show. We’ll also catch the nine o’clock TV and radio news.’ She looked around the room again, nodding slowly. ‘Now, I trust each and every one of you. You’re all top officers and we’re a good team. You’ve all seen what’s happened to Sarah. Yesterday, we treated it like she could’ve done this to herself, but it’s looking increasingly likely that she was abducted. I can’t let that lie and won’t. We will catch this individual and bring them to justice for Sarah and her family. Okay?’ Another sweep, then she gave a thumbs up. ‘Dismissed.’
Corcoran let the scrum settle, with most of the squad heading for the canteen or the vending machine, before walking over.
Thompson was in Butcher’s face. ‘—rupt me during a briefing, okay?’
‘Sorry, ma’am.’
‘Now, I need you to head back to Cambridge and do your job. Can you do that for me?’
Butcher stood there, head bowed, jaw clenched in silent fury. ‘Will do, ma’am.’
Thompson gave Corcoran a bitter look, then stomped towards DS Sortwell and the queue of cops who hadn’t been allocated actions.
‘You okay, Will?’
Butcher looked up at Corcoran, nostrils flaring. ‘I’ve driven from Cambridge to bloody Kidlington and now I’ve got to head back?’ He snarled. ‘And that’s . . .’ A sigh. ‘The thing that gets me is I failed. I was supposed to find Sarah and I didn’t.’
Corcoran gave him a smile. ‘Listen, I have experience of things going wrong in a case. The law of unintended consequences is a complete bastard. It’ll twist your melon until you can only see blame in yourself for not saving everyone. But this isn’t on you, okay? You did everything you were told to. Nothing less. Then you were hauled off by your boss, shoved onto something shiny and new. Us guys at the bottom, that’s all we’re here for. Doing. Not leading. It’s not our responsibility. Thi
s isn’t your fault.’
‘Still stings.’ Butcher shook his head. ‘The skeleton in that hospital bed.’ He swallowed. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night. Just kept seeing her like that, thinking I could’ve done more. Knowing I could.’
‘You can do more now. You can help us catch this guy. Get back to Cambridge, go through the CCTV and log their movements. Sarah’s, Christopher’s, Klaus’s. Times leaving, arriving at work, when they ran, who with. Whoever did this probably knew Sarah’s movements over a week, so either they’re really close to her or they’ve been watching her. If it’s Christopher or Klaus, then catching them at it would be a good feeling. If it’s someone else, you might spot them watching her. And if you log every licence plate and speak to the owners, maybe we’ll find who’s been following her.’
Butcher sucked in a deep breath. ‘You’re right.’ He gave a tight nod. ‘Thanks, mate.’
‘And on your way home, go to Wycombe and speak to the owner of the Tiguan.’
‘Bloody hell . . .’ Butcher sloped off towards the door.
Corcoran found a desk and sat down. Wanted someone above to save him from fragile egos . . .
‘Aidan!’ Thompson was by the window, mobile to her head, beckoning him over with her hand. She covered the phone. ‘Sarah’s awake. There’s a criminal psychologist heading to the hospital to speak to her. Go there. And play nice.’
Twelve
[Harry, 07:20]
Harry scrunched down in his beanbag and almost went flying. So he got up and scrunched down again and this time he did, rolling backwards onto the floor in a heap of giggles. He got up onto his elbows and lay on the floorboards, his head bobbing in time to the theme tune.
‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and there’s nothing he can’t do!’ The television glowed in the dark family room and Charlie the Seahorse jumped onto the screen, grinning wide. He sang along to his tune, dancing in the waves. ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and he makes everything okay!’