by Rae Shaw
The screwed-up piece of paper flew over the desk, missed the waste bin and joined the collection on the floor. Mark was unusually bored. His last project was resolved and, sadly, lacked any improprieties. Some people were simply bad at paperwork and incompetence didn’t justify prosecutions.
He glanced at his watch. The afternoon was drawing to a conclusion. What the hell, he decided, he would clock off early. As he powered off his laptop, there was a rap on his office door and before he could open his mouth to reply, it flew open. On the threshold of his office stood Gary Maybank and another member of the security team.
‘Is this one of your flyby security checks?’ Mark asked, without pausing in his paper gathering. The clear desk policy was religiously enforced.
‘You need to come with us, Mark. Now,’ Gary said brusquely. ‘Mr Haynes's orders.’
Mark dropped the papers into a drawer. Gary, usually a waxwork of impartiality, looked flustered; the immaculate military appearance was slightly frayed in its execution. Mark had an equally unpleasant feeling in his belly; embryonic, but familiar: a pulse of anxiety.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Jessop is here is to take you to Fasleigh.’ Gary jerked his head impatiently towards the door. Black-clad Jessop was funereal.
‘I asked why,’ Mark repeated sharply. ‘Fasleigh?’ Jackson wanted him behind iron gates and a high wall.
‘There’s been an incident and your personal safety is at risk.’ Gary held open the door.
‘Oh no, you tell me more.’ Mark planted his hands firmly on his hips and shot a fiery glare at Gary. Pleasingly, Jessop flinched. ‘I’m not budging until you’ve said more.’
Gary nodded to Jessop and his colleague left the room to wait outside. Gary cleared his throat. ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this. Julianna was abducted at mid-day while she was out walking with Sophia Crawford. Miss Crawford managed to escape but Julianna is still missing, presumably held captive.’
Mark staggered against the desk. The embryo was now a rampaging monster about to be born. ‘Abducted. By whom?’
‘According to Miss Crawford, who was injured falling from a moving vehicle, the two men sounded Slavic. One had a black ponytail.’
Mark slumped into his chair. Burying his face in his hands, he groaned. Immediately, a fierce headache loomed behind his eyes. The shock blunted his mind and, for a few seconds, he was lost for words. Gary waited.
‘Oh God no. Sophia, is she hurt?’ Mark finally asked.
‘Concussion and a broken arm. Julianna probably did her a favour by booting her out of the car. According to Miss Crawford, Julianna seemed to recognise who had taken her and decided letting Sophia fly out of a moving car was the better option. She was unable, I assume, to follow Sophia's flight.’
‘Oh God!’ The anguish spread to the pit of his stomach. He hugged it there, doubled over, attempting to crush it before it breached every part of his body.
‘Mark,’ Gary said gently. ‘You have to go to Fasleigh. The security team are expecting you there. The men in the car mentioned your name. They want you, too.’
Mark was rooted to his chair. The thought of Julianna in pain was unbearable. Only he could touch her, breathe with her. Nobody else.
‘Mark, come.’ Gary grasped the door handle.
‘No,’ he answered softly.
‘Please, you can’t go home. Her house is compromised.’ Gary spoke like a copper; Julianna was supposed to be his colleague and friend. Mark envied his detachment.
‘I’m not going home. You must be working hard to find her, so I’m staying here. I’ll help if I can, I’m not hiding at Fasleigh, waiting for news. I want to know what’s happening.’ He rose to his feet, finding his legs firmer than he anticipated. Julianna often reminded him that adrenaline had its advantages.
‘Mr Haynes insists you go to Fasleigh—’
‘I insist I stay here. You can’t force me. Now, I’m heading to the security office, and given I will be surrounded by protection officers, I can assume I’ll be safe there. Yes?’
Gary sighed in defeat.
The security office was teeming with staff, the bulk of whom were on phones, checking computer databases, maps and other sources. The room was normally staffed by a couple of duty officers, now it buzzed with extras brought into help.
Mark turned to Gary. ‘Her tracker app?’
Gary shook his head. ‘The phone goes to voicemail and the tracker hadn't been activated.’
‘She kept it in her handbag. If she was separated from it—’
‘She was handcuffed.’ Gary pointed an empty chair. ‘Just sit, before you fall down.’
Having requested to do something useful, Mark became the redundant object in the maelstrom, unable to do anything productive. Without a task, he would go crazy.
Gary’s phone rang. ‘Sir?’ He shushed the others in the room. Gary listened, then covered the speaker. ‘According to Professor's Dewer's brother, Ellen is safe in Edinburgh. Chris is arranging somebody to guard her.’ He removed his hand. ‘No, sir, Mark hasn't gone to Fasleigh. He’s still here, sir.’ Johnson grimaced and held out the phone to Mark. ‘He wants to speak to you.’
Mark took a deep breath. ‘Jackson.’
‘Why aren’t you at Fasleigh?’
‘I’m not sitting on my arse—’
‘I’m not having you hindering the search for Julianna—’
Mark ignored the people around him, not caring who listened in. ‘I’m not going to sit here and do fuck all.’ He lowered his irate voice to a whisper. ‘Could you if it was Hettie out there?’ His question was greeted with a lengthy pause.
Jackson's usual confident tone was strained, stretched thin. ‘Alright. Chris thinks Julianna is likely to be in Kent somewhere.’
He gasped. ‘The Channel tunnel?’
‘Possibly. It’s as easy to smuggle people out as to bring them in. There's an all ports alert out for her. The Kent Constabulary are being very cooperative. Plus I’m being made aware of covert operations ongoing.’
‘Covert?’
‘I’m awaiting more details. Chris is liaising with the police. Europol have been alerted too. Lots of things are happening. Mark, don’t do anything stupid. Stay put.’
‘How is Sophia?’ he asked.
‘Not as bad as first thought considering she fell out of a moving vehicle into oncoming traffic. She’s in shock. Given her account, this man who took them is in all likelihood part of Zustaller’s gang.’
‘Retribution for Dublin?’ He remembered the bloodied body on the floor and the unconscionable rage in Julianna’s face as she pummelled the man with her fists. To date, Julianna hadn't explained why she had reacted so violently.
‘Julianna beat him up badly. It seems personal. Very personal. Sophia doesn’t recall Ellen’s name being mentioned. Yours was. However, she's concussed and somewhat confused. If they’re still trying to find you, Mark, it means they might not have shifted Julianna out of our reach. Don’t go anywhere without an escort. Understood?’
He faced the nearest wall. ‘I’m very grateful, for all this. I can’t bear to think—’
‘Then don’t. You’re right. Find something to do. We’ll get her back, Mark.’
Mark put the phone down. One question above all others puzzled him. Who knew the two women went for a walk on a Friday and the route they took? If he was Jackson, he would be looking for somebody in his own circle to blame.
The afternoon became evening and still no progress. Mark bore the frustration badly: pacing, peering over shoulders, hankering for the cigarettes he had never smoked but had inhaled for years as a child. He provided a list of people who might know Julianna’s habits. A short list; Julianna liked her privacy. Everything was taking too long. Julianna’s colleagues were determined, but the array of futile activities wasn’t achieving much.
Food appeared from takeaways but Mark only managed to sip on water. Chris Moran arrived to work out a rota for the night, ensuring the team
had adequate rest periods. Mark wasn't included.
Chris perched on the edge of a desk, his beefy arms folded over his chest and brought Gary up to speed in his gruff business-like voice. ‘There’s an undercover operation ongoing in South London involving Kent and Sussex forces. A gang of traffickers are operating out of a farmhouse. Attempts are being made to contact the undercover officer working with the gang. It’s dangerous and could expose him.’
Gary chewed on a piece of pizza. ‘This police operation has been ongoing for some time though. Julianna mentioned it in one of those intelligence reports Jackson had her write. Maybe she uncovered too much sensitive information and it led back to her?’
‘It may be how they found her. I doubt it, as she’s too crafty to put her name to anything. She uses aliases and indirect contacts.’ Chris glanced at Mark. ‘I’m pretty sure this is personal.’
‘Her tracker?’ Mark asked again.
‘Sorry, nothing. And we believe her mobile has been disabled too.’
Mark rubbed his tired eyes. It was close to midnight. His optimism had never been strong, now it was in a rapid downward spiral.
With a snort, Chris jabbed his finger at Mark. ‘You should eat.’ He scooped up a cardboard pizza box under his arm and headed to the top floor where Jackson sought to maximise his influence with the relevant authorities.
The room fell quiet. Calls dried up and leads failed to materialise. The electronic tracker was still not active. The telephone next to Mark sang loudly and he jerked. It was Jackson’s number. Tentatively, he picked up the handset. ‘Yes?’
‘Come up here and join me.’ Jackson hung up before Mark could ask why.
39
Julianna
Pay attention to the details. Note each and every one because they save lives. The advice was old, probably from her days as a police cadet, and invaluable. The movement of the car – the constant accelerations and occasional hard braking – transmitted itself through her body. The crippling state of semi-consciousness kept her on the edge of oblivion. Her eyelids seemed glued shut – a blindfold. Searing pain shot across her forehead, its roots were where he had struck her.
The rumble of the wheels on the tarmac intensified, as did the cornering; they had left the city and were out in the countryside. She slid across the leather upholstery and with her fingertips, she clawed and hung on. How many miles and in what direction?
The car halted and the engine cut out. Doors opened. A rush of muggy humidity collided with acrid smoke in the cabin; the men had smoked incessantly the whole time. They dragged her out by her ankles, and she hit the hard ground, jarring her elbow and shoulder. The warmth of the sun beat down on her head; it wasn’t the evening yet. She filed away the detail. An hour, maybe two on the road?
Without warning the tape covering her eyes was torn away. She screamed noiselessly into her gag, and, protesting at the harshness, she kicked out with her bound legs, hitting something. The small rebellion cost her another bruising blow and her head throbbed in a new location.
Breathe. She inhaled clean air through her nose and sneezed. Slowly, she blinked and opened her eyes. The sunlight blinded and she sneezed again, painfully, as she couldn't open her mouth to expel the air. Somebody, possibly the baseball hat man, hooked his hands under her armpits and yanked her up onto her feet. The man with the ponytail, Stazki, sliced the tape away from her ankles. She staggered to one side, nearly toppling over. Both men frog-marched her towards a bleary building.
Details. The devil is in the details. She forced her eyes to focus, horribly aware how her breathlessness mimicked her snapshot thoughts, both were rapid and short lived. The view, coming together from fragments, wasn’t encouraging: lots of crumbling red bricks; rotten window frames boarded up with plywood; grey slatted roof tiles with several missing in places; untamed ivy clung to the walls while nettles, hollyhocks and other weeds strangled any other life. There was no garden, no fencing or footpath leading up to the doorway. On the horizon was a counterpane of fields and a small wooded area. The landscape beyond rose and fell gently; a typical English rural scene and hopelessly unpopulated. Surrounded by equally ruined out-houses, the derelict farmhouse was an angry blot in an otherwise tranquil location.
They pushed her towards the unlocked door with its peeling blue paintwork; one of them kicked it open and the hinges squealed in painful protest. The interior was gloomy except for the streamlined shards of light that penetrated from outside through the thin gaps in the shutters, forming a ghostly pattern on the wall.
Once, years ago, the room had been a cosy kitchen. Now, there were no cupboards or worktops, only a square ceramic sink with no taps. A stained table was littered with crushed beer cans, take-away cartons and a couple of plastic carriers. Cigarette stubs ringed the two wooden chairs and boot prints trampled the dropped ash. There were more than two sets; a rota of guards? Against the back wall was a stack of bottled water and a black bin liner overflowing with rubbish. There was no light bulb attached to the wire hanging from the ceiling.
Details: an abandoned house with no electricity or running water. Which meant there would be no bills or records associated with the property. The place was utterly forgotten.
The dim light was easier to tolerate, and it calmed the rampaging pain behind her eyes. The two assailants who had grabbed her off the street remained her sole captors. Stazki, the man she had beaten in Dublin, was older than she realised and the pockmarked complexion, which was deeply tanned, implied time spent in warm climates. The scar on his neck was a jagged white line. He had carried it for many years, suggesting a long violent past. His companion was younger and impatient; he shifted on his feet and squeezed her arm in his pincer hold.
Stazki dropped something onto the table: her handbag! He had picked it up off the pavement. She allowed herself a tiny amount of optimism.
Stazki rummaged inside it and extracted her mobile. The back cover was off. Why hadn’t he smashed it? He reassembled components, fiddling with the SIM card and battery, then tapped on the screen several times. She held her breath and waited.
Stazki held up her mobile, thrusting it at her face. ‘Open.’
The lock screen was engaged. She shook her head.
The blow to her stomach brought her down onto her knees. Baseball man hoisted her up. Her insides would rupture with more blows like that. Gasping for breath, she unlocked the screen with a trembling finger. He quickly pulled up her contacts list and shoved Jackson Haynes’s name – his business card complete with work address and corporate telephone number – under her nose. She nodded, acknowledging what he had found. However, Jackson’s personal number was listed under a bogus name, as was Hettie’s and a few other key people she chose to keep protected. A contacts list was a valuable commodity in the wrong hands. Her family’s details she had memorised, including Mark and Ellen's.
Yes, details were important. Too important. Keep them safe.
Time to speak, so she cleared her throat a few times. Stazki ripped part of the tape off and she muffled a wince. Her raw lips cracked with thirst. ‘My boss,’ she croaked. ‘I drive his air-head wife to the shops. I work for his security team. Nothing special.’
‘Why send you to Dublin?’
‘Mark Clewer is a sort of friend of his. Mr Haynes has a tendency to take pity on people. I was ordered to go with him to help.’
‘You got the better of me,’ Stazki said. ‘I don’t forget.’
‘Sorry, I was obviously lucky with you. I wanted to get home.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought I might get a promotion out of it. Didn’t get it though.’ She added more distance between her and Jackson, weakening the connection as much as possible.
‘Now he’s your boyfriend, this Clewer,’ Stazki said.
‘He’s good in bed.’ Stay away from him; she bit her tongue. ‘Haynes asked me to keep him out of trouble.’
‘You better be no trouble.’ Stazki smashed the phone on the stone tiles and ground his heel into the screen. He place
d the handbag on the table just out of her reach, then stuck the tape back over her mouth, smoothing it across her cheek. She jerked her head away.
She tried not to obsess about the handbag. She shouldn’t draw attention to its contents. Her abductors hadn’t mentioned the little device, and if they had seen it, they hadn’t appreciated what it was. No bigger than her thumb, it resembled a key-fob and was stuffed in a side pocket. The handbag remained her only hope.
The younger man picked up a bottle of water and a carrier bag, the other pushed her towards a door in the corner of the room. Julianna teetered on the brink of a staircase leading down into a murky cellar. She nearly slipped on the uneven steps. The cellar wasn’t cavernous and was partitioned off into rooms with a corridor down one side. A small amount of light seeped in through a ventilation shaft in the end wall. The floor was strewn with rubbish – bits of carpet, mouse droppings and leaves that had blown in through the vent.
They passed the first closed door and stopped next to the second. Stazki drew the bolt back and thrust her inside the room. Perhaps describing it as a room was being generous. It was a squalid space with bare brick walls, a filthy concrete floor and a low ceiling. The only source of light arrived through another small shaft barricaded with metal bars. Rainwater had one time pooled on the floor beneath the opening, leaving behind a dried-out green stain of algae and fungus.
In one corner, the furthest from the door, was a thin mattress, the kind that would typically be rolled up and taken on a camping trip. It was unlikely to offer any comfort or protection from the cold floor. Heaped on it was a tattered blanket and attached to the wall above, an iron ring with two metres of chain and a pair of manacles attached. There was also a bucket.
Baseball cap man trapped her arms to her sides while Stazki undid her handcuffs. He slammed her back against the wall, setting off dazzling fireworks in her head. By the time the flashing lights had retreated her wrists were shackled by the metal cuffs. Stazki stood over her, his foul tobacco breath mushrooming across her face. She stifled a retch. Using a bulbous fingertip, he touched her bruised right cheek and pressed harder. She winced, and her reaction triggered a grin that mirrored the shape of the crescent scar on his throat. The palm of his other hand rubbed up her belly until it touched one of her breasts. Julianna looked away and instinctively pressed her thighs together. He thrust his pelvis against her hip in a clear gesture of sexual predation.