Over Your Shoulder

by C J Carver

  ‘Please don’t hurt her,’ I begged. ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to do as I say.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s here, with me.’

  ‘Let me speak to her.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that.’ His voice was chiding. ‘She’s perfectly safe here.’

  ‘Let. Me. Speak. To. Her.’

  ‘No, I’ve already said, she’s–’

  I hung up.

  My hands were shaking, my whole body quaking. Part of me couldn’t believe I’d done that, but the other part of my mind had split away, knowing I had to show I wasn’t going to be a pussy. I had to demonstrate a show of strength.

  I suddenly realised the store manager was staring at me. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  I didn’t answer. I stalked outside, clutching my phone in a hand that was pouring sweat. When it rang, I looked at the caller ID. Unknown. I let it ring seven times before I answered.

  ‘Put her on,’ I said and at the same time I heard her scream. It was a scream of real fear, of pain and terror.

  ‘Stop!’ I shouted. ‘Stop it! I’ll do what you–’

  ‘Oh, good,’ the Saint said, his voice oily. ‘You get my drift.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I said.

  Susie’s scream had stopped. I felt my legs shudder, almost ready to collapse. What had I been thinking? I was an idiot. A stupid, incompetent, brainless idiot. How could I stand up to someone like the Saint? It was simple. I couldn’t.

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  ‘You know what I want.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bring him to Dennis’s Boat Yard. By the northernmost shed. We’ll pick him up there. In one hour. Don’t be late.’

  ‘Susie,’ I said. ‘You’ll bring her. We’ll do a–’

  I was going to say “swap” but he cut over me.

  ‘Don’t call anyone, artist. Don’t breathe a word, or your little wife will disappear. She will vanish, and there will be no body, no trace of her to be found, ever. Just like your brother’s girlfriend. Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And Susie will be there, won’t–’

  My word “she” fell into dead air.

  Chapter 58

  Susie could smell oil and salt, wood and plastic resin. The air had a dead cold about it, making her think she was in a warehouse or shed of some sort. The men had gone, and all was silent. She couldn’t hear anything, no lapping of water or the crying of a seagull, let alone any sound of cars or traffic. Where had they brought her?

  She could taste blood in her mouth from where she’d bitten the inside trying not to scream. She hadn’t wanted to panic Nick but when she’d felt the cold blade of steel drawn lazily across her forearm, opening the skin as easily as slicing a ripe tomato, she hadn’t been able to help it. The scream had come involuntarily, a mix of shock and pain and horror. She hadn’t thought the Saint would do it.

  More fool her.

  She sucked air in and out of her mouth and nose, trying not to draw the cloth too close to her face and restrict the oxygen. She’d never been hooded before and when they’d jumped her near the supermarket – two men grabbing her arms from behind while a third pulled the hood over her head and drew the cord tight around her neck – she’d freaked out, gone berserk, lashing and kicking like a crazy woman until one of them had punched her in the side of the head.

  Ears ringing, she’d been flung in the back of a car. Wedged between two thugs. Heart rocketing, pulse roaring, she’d spent the journey concentrating on her breath. On each inhale, she said the word calm in her mind, and on each exhale, iron. It didn’t take long before her gasping slowed, her breathing returning to normal. She’d reined in her fear and held it wrapped in hands of steel. She wasn’t going to let go, lose control again, howling like a deranged wolf, desperate for her mate, for Nick.

  Nick. He was the reason she had to get out of here, to fight for him, defend him, to stop the bastards from destroying what she had. What they had.

  How could she survive this? On the downside, she was at the mercy of her captors, but on the upside the Saint hadn’t recognised her, thanks to the hood. Talk about small mercies. She had to hope luck would stay on her side and that he’d continue to see her as Nick Ashdown’s wife, and not as the woman who’d been in the Saint’s son’s offices the night his son died.

  Would she get away with it? She hadn’t told Nick the whole story because she didn’t want to lose him. But if she was forced, she might have to, and risk having him turn away from her. She knew he loved her, deeply and irrevocably, but when the truth came out, would his love remain firm? For better, for worse? She’d seen the distance in his eyes when she’d come home and found him with Seb, looking at the bug. She didn’t want to see it again. She’d rather pack her bags and take the next flight to Australia than face the disappointment in his eyes.

  She wriggled, trying to prevent her limbs from stiffening. She sat upright, arms behind her back, wrists in steel cuffs and manacled to something behind her. At the moment she had her legs crossed, but from time to time she’d release the pose to tuck them to the side, then the other side, shifting regularly, trying to keep the blood flowing so when something happened she was ready to use her legs and feet.

  Her arm throbbed mercilessly from the knife wound. When she’d been cut, she’d felt the blood running in rivulets down her arm and over her wrist, dripping from her fingers. She’d been surprised when the Saint had ordered one of his goons to find something to stop the flow of blood. The goon had said, ‘What?’, sounding baffled, and Abbott had replied, ‘For Chrissakes, find a handkerchief, a piece of cloth, anything. Bind it.’

  She’d heard footsteps walking around the shed and then they approached. She couldn’t help her flinch when the goon touched her, but she was glad he bound her wound tightly because it was deep and would eventually need stitches. No point in worrying about it. She had to concentrate on working this situation to her advantage. Make sure things went her way and that Nick didn’t get hurt. She was smart, she just had to find the key to lead them through the door of safety.

  Time trickled past.

  Would Nick call the Office, she wondered. Mark Felton was out of the country, so it wouldn’t matter if Nick pressed the great big Panic Button. She hoped he would. Otherwise it wouldn’t be until Monday when she was missed. It was Thursday. Would the Saint keep her over the weekend? She doubted it. He may want Rob badly, but he wouldn’t want to keep a hostage that long. Too risky. Please, Nick, she prayed. Call the Office. Speak to my boss. Set the dogs on this bastard. Have him for GBH and kidnapping, and lock him up, throw away the sodding key.

  Time continued to dribble away. Wanting to see even a crack of light, she tried to shift the hood but it was tied too well. She guessed it was late morning. The Saint had wanted the changeover to be within the hour, but it hadn’t happened. How had Nick managed to delay things so successfully? She’d been surprised at his tenacity in trying to find Rob. His bravery too. After twelve years of marriage, she honestly thought she knew him better than he knew himself, but he’d surprised the pants off her. He wasn’t the conciliatory pacifist she’d once thought. He was a bit of a lion and she was, she realised, very proud of him.

  The base of her spine tingled and she moved sideways, bracing her thighs together and raising her hips off the floor, holding herself firm before relaxing, trying to keep the blood moving. They wouldn’t keep her here overnight, would they? Please God, no. She was already hungry and thirsty and didn’t want to spend the night wriggling on the floor getting colder and colder. Hadn’t the weather report predicted a cold snap? Frost overnight? She’d freeze in here.

  She felt tears begin to form. Tears of self-pity. Tears borne from fear.

  She opened her mouth, and focused on her breathing. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to appear weak. She was as strong as iron, as steel. She would come out of this unscathed and return to her life as if nothing
had happened.

  Suddenly, the door opened with an aggressive crash. She turned her head to the sound, wishing she could get rid of the hood so she could fucking see.

  ‘Fucking shit. Bastard.’

  It was the Saint.

  ‘Your fucking husband can’t find your fucking brother-in-law.’ She heard a clatter of metal and then the sound of things falling to the ground, as though he’d swept a table clear of objects. ‘Jesus H Christ.’

  The Saint was stoking himself into a fury. She had to hope it wouldn’t be redirected at her but she couldn’t help the flinch when she heard footsteps begin to approach. She could feel the sweat prickling over her body but she tried to hold herself strong and not cringe. Not to look like prey. It would only encourage him into violence.

  ‘So, wifey. We’re going to move you. Somewhere your husband won’t know. Where I’m at home and he will be like a fish out of fucking water. What do you say to that?’

  She was silent.

  His steps stopped next to her.

  ‘Hmm?’ he pressed in a mocking tone. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  Since whatever she said was likely to fan the flames of his anger, she remained silent.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘Is wifey-wifey feeling fwightened?’

  Fuck you, she thought.

  ‘Poor little wifey,’ he sang. ‘Poor fwightened–’

  ‘Not frightened,’ she interrupted. Then, she added, ‘Arsehole.’

  It was as though someone had sucked the room of air. She’d expected him to kick her or slap her, but instead he went for her neck and she knew she’d made a monumental mistake. His fingers were on the hood cords and she was fighting him, regretting having baited him, wishing she’d kept her trap shut, and then the hood was whipped from her head.

  Blissful cold air on her face, cooling her sweat-slicked skin. Clear oxygen in her lungs.

  She saw she’d been right. She was in a shed. Opposite stood a workbench. There were saws and pliers, grinders and drills. Screw guns and hammers. She hurriedly averted her gaze. She didn’t want to let her grip on the reins of her panic loosen.

  ‘What did you say?’ The Saint’s voice was like ice.

  She remained silent.

  He stepped into view. Ducked down to look into her face. She didn’t meet his eye but kept her gaze on his shoes. Wingtip Brogue Oxfords. Not something you’d expect an East End gangster to wear, but that was the Saint for you. He liked pretending he came from money instead of having to steal it.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said.

  He leaned forward and gripped her chin in his hand. Tilted her head up. She could feel the muscles clench in her stomach as he leaned closer, close enough for her to see the enlarged pores in his pasty skin. His eyes crawled over her face and down her neck, over her breasts, to her feet and back.

  He dropped her chin and leaned back, hands dangling between his knees.

  ‘Bugger me,’ he said.

  And with those two words, she knew her world had come crashing down around her.

  Chapter 59

  How I managed to get the Saint to extend the deadline by two hours I’ll never know. It was probably the raw panic in my voice that convinced him I wasn’t lying and that I couldn’t get hold of Rob. Since I couldn’t stand still – waiting for DI Gilder to arrive was making me crazy – I went to Dennis’s Boat Yard across the water from Bosham and south of Chidham. I wanted to do a recce, and maybe find a clue to lead me to Susie. I didn’t think she’d be there. I expected the Saint to have stashed her safely elsewhere, but I had to go there, check the place out.

  I drove past the sailing and activities centres, all quiet on a wet midweek school morning, and eventually pulled up on the roadside just beyond the dinghy storage site. Dennis’s Boat Yard used to build boats as well as repair them, but thanks to its owner retiring, it was up for sale. I’d actually looked at it with half an eye when I’d first heard it was on offer – it was an attractive business proposition for a new owner with a ninety year lease and a peppercorn rent of under a thousand pounds a year – but the fact was that although I would have enjoyed the repair work, I wasn’t a boat builder by any stretch of the imagination.

  I approached the sheds cautiously. There were three, two of which faced the water. The third, the northernmost one, faced the road. This was the one where the Saint wanted me to bring Rob. I looked around but could see nobody, and no cars. Nerves hopping, I scouted the area. Empty. Totally and utterly, one hundred per cent empty.

  I looked at the harbour on one side, the damp fields the other, the dead-end road ahead, and thought: why can’t we lay a trap here? Why don’t I ring MI5 and get them to ring the SAS, SBS and every specialist fighting force in the country and have them hide in the grass, on the boats in the harbour, before telling the Saint that Rob and I were here, and overwhelm him and his goons when they turn up?

  I tried to think what Susie would be thinking, and all I could hear was her voice, yelling in my mind:

  Ring the fucking Office, you idiot.

  Sorry, Rob, I thought, and before I could change my mind, I rang the number Susie had punched into my phone all those years earlier, which went to the department receptionist-cum-secretary, who apparently knew where everyone was, at any given time.

  It rang once, before a woman answered. She simply said, ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s Nick Ashdown here.’

  ‘Hi, Nick.’ She sounded friendly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I, er… wondered if Mark Felton was around.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure. He’s been away, I’ll check for you… Ah, you’re in luck. He flew in this morning. Wait a moment.’

  Two tiny clicks, then a man’s voice. It sounded deeper and stronger than I remembered.

  ‘Nick,’ he said. ‘How can I help?’

  I stared at a seagull settling on a small sloop in the harbour. I suddenly felt ambushed and unable to put my thoughts into a coherent sentence.

  ‘Nick?’ he repeated. He sounded cautious, puzzled.

  ‘Yes,’ I managed. ‘Sorry.’

  A few seconds passed.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  No, I thought. ‘Yes,’ I said. My voice was hoarse.

  The seagull sent a stream of guano across the sloop’s hatch and flew off. Kew kew.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  My head was buzzing. If I told MI5 what was going on, I was risking Rob being hunted not as Superman, defending a restaurant filled with innocent people against a terrorist, but as a double murderer.

  ‘Nick?’

  Shit. I wished I hadn’t rung him.

  ‘Susie took some time off,’ he said carefully. ‘Personal time.’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  Another pause.

  ‘She’s all right?’

  I gulped. Began to sweat. What the fuck was I doing?

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have rung. I’m also sorry about last week. I hope you didn’t think badly of Susie because of it.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He sounded startled.

  ‘I’ve wasted your time. Sorry.’

  I hung up.

  Shit, shit, shit. I grabbed my hair, kicking a grass tussock in frustration at my stupidity. What had I expected? For Mark Felton to confess he already knew the situation and was sending in the troops to fix everything? My naivety wasn’t just derisible, it was downright embarrassing. I gazed out at the harbour, sludge grey beneath a leaden sky and felt like screaming. I was trapped between two people I loved and I didn’t know how to save them both.

  Chapter 60

  I was still kicking at tussocks, furious with myself when my phone rang. I checked the display.

  Susie.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘You’re early,’ said the Saint.

  I spun round, eyes frantically sweeping the area.

  ‘You really think we’d stick to the original rendezvous?’ He made a
tsking sound. ‘You must think we’re amateurs.’

  ‘Susie,’ I said desperately. ‘Let me speak to–’

  ‘Stop pissing about, artist.’ His voice switched, turning vicious. ‘And go and find your fucking brother.’

  He hung up.

  I didn’t bother hanging around any longer and drove into Chichester. I tried to see if I was being followed, but I was no expert and couldn’t be sure. Had I seen the blue Nissan 4x4 before? And what about the Ford Focus, the Vauxhall and those transit vans? Nerves shredded, I parked opposite the Chichester PO box office service and checked out box number 2113 as Rob had instructed. I opened it without much expectation of finding anything, and just about fell over in shock when I saw what he’d left me.

  A pistol.

  Some ammunition.

  And a note.

  It’s fully automatic. It’s armed. Fifteen rounds. Just point and shoot.

  I hastily closed the door. Put my hand against it as though to magic the contents inside away. My heart was thudding. I felt dizzy.

  Where the hell had he got a gun? What did he expect me to do with it? I’d never handled a gun before. I was more likely to shoot my own foot than a barn door. Carefully, I locked the box door on it. Pocketed the key. Walked to my car. Sat inside sweating and trying to think.

  Did Rob know Susie had been kidnapped? Was that why I couldn’t get hold of him? But how would he know? Why did he want me to be armed? To shoot the Saint, probably. My pulse hopped. I didn’t think I could kill a man, no matter how frightening. Or could I? I guessed I wouldn’t know for sure until the time came. On the other hand, if I gave the gun to Susie or DI Gilder, or even Rob, they’d know how to use it.

  My thoughts gradually levelled out. I returned to the post office box, and after a furtive look around, shoved the weapon into the waistband of my jeans and pulled my jacket down over it. Hell, it was uncomfortable. I walked back to my car feeling horribly conspicuous. It was with immense relief that I brought the gun out and shoved it in the glovebox.