The Blow Out

by Bill Rogers

  Ged was waving her phone at Jo. ‘It’s Mr Stone,’ she mouthed.

  Jo went over and took the handset. ‘Harry?’

  ‘Jo. I went straight to the Director. She spoke with the Chief Constable. It’s been agreed. GMP have officially asked for the AKEU to provide them with expertise and advice. They’ll also be able to call on our rapid response team if it turns out there’s a siege situation.’

  ‘DCI Fox is going to hate this,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t blame me, Jo. It’s what you wanted. Senior Investigator Arran Bailey will head up the AKEU team, and Max will join them so he can make sure you’re kept in the loop.’

  ‘Thank you, Boss,’ she said. ‘That’s a great weight off my mind. It means I can concentrate on Alecto without having to worry about Melissa Walsh.’

  ‘Knowing you, you’ll still worry,’ said Harry. ‘But my advice is to try and put it out of your mind. For all we know, it may have nothing whatsoever to do with your investigation.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, ‘and I will.’

  Jo didn’t believe that for a minute. It wasn’t just that the timing was such a coincidence, it was also the lack of any contact between the kidnappers and the Walsh family. No instructions, no warnings not to tell the police, no ransom demands. Nothing. Just a big, fat, empty silence. She handed the phone back to Ged and rejoined Nick Carter.

  ‘Where are we up to?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re up to our necks in CCTV, and witness statements from witnesses who saw san fairy Ann,’ he said gloomily.

  ‘San fairy Ann? Do you even know what that means?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a Franglais play on words,’ said DC Hulme, arriving to hand Carter a sheaf of statements. ‘A corruption of “ça ne fait rien”, which means “it doesn’t matter”.’

  Nick grunted. ‘Like most of the pointless facts stuffed inside your head.’ He waited for the DC to drift back to his desk. ‘Have you eaten today, Boss?’ he said. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m starving.’

  Jo realised that she hadn’t had so much as a cup of tea since the coffee and sandwiches in the car that morning.

  ‘Now you mention it,’ she told him, ‘I’m starving too.’

  ‘What’s it to be? Canteen or the McDonald’s on Snipe Way?’ He grinned. ‘Silly question. I’ll nip down to the canteen and see if they’ve got any salads left.’

  He returned twenty minutes later carrying five small carrier bags. Jo opened the office door for him and stepped back as he dropped everything on her desk.

  ‘Canteen was out of salads,’ he told her. ‘So I nipped down to McDonald’s specially for you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with your own dietary requirements then?’

  ‘You’re turning into a cynic.’ He started unloading the contents. ‘You’re lucky. Christmas has come early. There’s a grilled chicken salad for you, a double chicken burger for me, an apple-and-grape fruit bag to share for dessert, a latte for you, a double espresso for me – and a special treat to welcome you back!’ He produced it with a magician’s flourish and lobbed it in her direction.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘A bag of reindeer treats.’

  She turned it round. A pouch full of carrot sticks.

  He grinned. ‘You can keep it in your pocket and have a nibble whenever you need a boost.’

  Jo was updating the policy book when her phone rang.

  It was Max Nailor. ‘I thought you might appreciate an update on Melissa,’ he said.

  Her heart skipped a beat. It was impossible to tell from the tone of his voice if it was good or bad news. Then she realised. If it had been either this wouldn’t be an update.

  ‘You haven’t found her yet?’ she guessed.

  ‘Not yet, Jo. We’re making some progress though. Her phone has been recovered from the putting green on Northenden golf course. It was right beside the road, so our assumption is that as soon as they discovered it they threw it out of the window.’

  ‘That’ll have been when her father rang,’ she said.

  ‘We also retrieved footage from cameras on Wilbraham Road that enabled us to identify five potential suspect vehicles.’

  ‘Why suspect?’

  ‘Because of the nature of them – four are vans, one’s an SUV with tinted windows – and because of the timing. We’re trying to locate both the vehicles and their owners.’

  ‘The odds are they’ll have used a stolen vehicle and changed the licence plates,’ she said.

  ‘I know. But we have to try.’

  ‘Have the kidnappers made contact with the father yet?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘So the decision’s been taken to hold a press conference that includes an appeal from the parents. It’s timed to go out as part of the ten o’clock newsfeeds, with repeats in the morning.’

  ‘That’s going to be tricky,’ said Jo. ‘From what I’ve seen, the mother is likely to crack up and the father’s hardly the kind of person people will empathise with.’

  ‘We don’t have an option,’ he said. ‘It’s not just about getting the public onside. It’s more about the kidnappers realising she needs that inhaler or they’ll be facing a murder charge. We’ve already made that clear on all the local radio channels.’

  Jo didn’t respond. The silence mushroomed.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said at last. ‘But while there’s life there’s hope.’

  ‘We don’t know that she’s alive,’ Jo said.

  ‘AKEU believe she is, and they’re the experts. Experience tells them that there has to be a major payback from taking a risk like this. Revenge doesn’t cut it. Nor does killing a child fit the organised crime profile. That falls way outside their twisted code of honour.’

  ‘Tell that to the Mafia,’ said Jo, ‘and the relatives of all the children they killed, albeit as collateral damage.’

  ‘How did you get on with – what was his name – your victim’s son?’ said Max, deliberately changing the subject.

  ‘O’Neill. Jason O’Neill. I think it came as much of a surprise to him as it did to us.’

  ‘In which case, it’s unlikely whoever’s taken her will do anything stupid without his agreement. Especially if it’s this Yates person, his enforcer.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘Where are you up to with your investigation, Jo?’

  ‘Treading water. Waiting for a lifeboat to come along.’

  ‘Or a bottle with a message in it?’

  ‘Yeah. Like, “I did it, and my name is . . .” ’

  Their laughter was the kind that only people with the darkest shared experiences would understand. Firemen, paramedics, social workers.

  And members of a murder squad.

  Chapter 29

  Melissa turned onto her back. Her wrists and ankles chafed from the ties that bound them. Her mouth was dry because of the gag. Her nose was partially blocked and, with the hood pressing against it too, she was worried that if it got any worse she’d not be able to breathe at all. Even more terrifying was the possibility that she might have an attack. Just thinking about it brought the gradual feeling that an elephant was slowly lowering itself onto her chest. The tortuous sensation of drowning followed. Gasping, gasping for air. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands, drawing blood in an effort to stay calm. And forget that she no longer had her inhaler close to hand.

  She had desperately tried to tell them when they threw her bag out of the van, and again when the tall thin one brought her food and water, but he just told her to shut up. She’d tried to tell the short dark one who stood in the doorway and watched, but he didn’t seem to understand. And he never spoke either. He reminded her of those men in the hand car wash where Skanky Morris sometimes took the Hummer on the way home from school.

  Because of the hood they’d put back over her head she had no idea what time of day it was. Or how long she’d been here. But she had discovered that when she moved her head aga
inst the pillow in a certain way she could dislodge the hood just enough for a chink of light, or the absence of one, to tell her whether it was night or day.

  She tried to remember the sounds she’d heard since arriving here. The howling wind. The drone of planes passing overhead. Vehicles arriving and leaving. Doors being slammed shut. The murmur of voices, all male and indistinct. Every now and then there was a noise like the microwave at home when it had finished cooking.

  Earlier that evening she’d heard raised voices and what sounded like an argument, cut short when someone with a deeper, older voice told them to be quiet. Twice she’d heard a dog barking. She thought it must be late in the evening. Perhaps they put the dog outside to do its business and it was barking to be let in again. That’s what her own dog, Freddy, did. The thought of him brought tears to her eyes. They pooled beneath the hood and slowly seeped out, leaving tracks down both cheeks.

  She’d tried to recall everything that had happened because she knew it would help the police to catch the people who were holding her. She remembered the moment when she was grabbed, lifted off her feet, and thrown into the van. Apart from the skinny foreigner who she’d christened Gollum, the one she’d seen most clearly was of medium height, well built, wore a black hood, and a scarf over the lower part of his face. He was The Boxer. She could still see those eyes, hard and mean. They reminded her of Skanky Morris, when the slimeball wasn’t off his head.

  How can Dad do that, she wondered? Put my safety in the hands of a druggie? What kind of a father does that? And why does Mum let him? Because she’s scared of him, that’s why. Terrified, more like. He even frightens me sometimes. But at least he’ll be looking for me. And he’s always saying he knows people who know people. What if he finds me and catches these kidnappers before the police do? She shivered at the thought of what might happen.

  She remembered them forcing the gag into her mouth and pulling the hood over her head. She knew she’d bitten one of them because she heard him squeal and curse her, and there was that metallic taste of blood in her mouth that you get when you bite your cheek. Her hands had been tied and her bag was ripped from her back. Then the van had slowed down. She’d heard the door slide open and close again. Then it sped up and braked again, so suddenly that her head banged against something hard and metal. It hurt like mad.

  She could still feel it a bit, and she’d had a headache ever since. Her phone had rung in her pocket and one of them had sworn and scrabbled to find it. Then she’d heard the door slide open again and then close. She knew he must have thrown it out into the road. Her heart had sunk, because it would be harder for her dad to find her now. He’d put a tracker app on her phone. He thought she didn’t know, but she did. Sometimes, when she wanted to go somewhere he wouldn’t approve of, she’d leave the phone at the house of one of her friends and pick it up afterwards. If only she’d switched it off when she put it in her pocket. Too late now.

  At one point, she thought, the van must have come off the road, shortly before it arrived where she was now. She knew that because it went over a bumpy surface like a cobbled street, making it bounce from side to side and up and down, like her dad’s Hummer when she went to the riding school to ride her pony. Maybe it’s a farm, she thought. But she hadn’t heard any farm noises. No animals, no tractors, nothing like that.

  She remembered the damp musty smell in the hallway. A mixture of wet dog, cigarette smoke, and fried food. Them carrying her up the stairs, tying her feet together, and dumping her on the bed. The thin duvet, the rank smell of sweat on the pillow that made her want to heave.

  She was pleased with herself. When her captors released her, the police would be really impressed when she told them everything she’d remembered.

  She shivered again because it was cold in here. Wherever here was. And because she needed to wee. God, how she needed to wee. She’d been holding on ever since they’d brought her some kind of metal bucket and forced her to squat on that. And they wouldn’t let her up until she’d been. She couldn’t see the bucket, but she’d felt it, hard and thin against her thighs and bum. And all the time she’d known they must be watching her. Making faces at each other. Silently laughing. She blushed at the memory.

  She’d give anything for that bucket now, but it was on the floor somewhere. Out of reach. Not that she could have managed it, tied up like this. Thinking about it had been a mistake. Her body decided for her. It was almost a relief as her muscles relaxed and a gush of wet warm pee spread in a circle and seeped into the mattress beneath her.

  Melissa turned onto her side to escape the damp patch, buried her head in the pillow, and began to cry.

  Chapter 30

  A cruel wind swirled around the shopping precinct, scooping up discarded burger trays and plastic cups. Tiny tornadoes deposited detritus in neat piles at the base of planters and in the angles where buildings met.

  The centre ground was held by half a dozen youths on mountain bikes, their faces lit by the glow from smartphone screens, the silence punctuated by their laughter. A car approached. Blue-tinted headlights swept the area. The youths turned to see who the intruder might be, their faces ghoulish, half-lit beneath their hoods. When the passenger door opened they mounted their bikes in unison and rode away. One of them raised a finger in the air as he performed a wheelie in futile protest at this disturbance.

  Sean Roche, huddled in the doorway of Poundland, watched as the headlights of the BMW were extinguished. Slamming the door behind him, a large man in a dark bomber jacket and black jeans walked purposefully towards him. Sean shivered. It was the not knowing that got to you. Never knowing the why or wherefore. Or where it was going to lead.

  The man stopped just short of the doorway, looked left, then right, and stepped closer. He loomed over Sean.

  ‘You got the message then?’ he said.

  Sean nodded, like a spaniel eager to please. ‘Yeah.’

  The man held out his hand. ‘Go on then.’

  Sean began to take his hand out of his pocket, then stopped halfway. ‘What if I need it?’

  ‘You can get another one,’ the man growled. ‘Say you lost it. Now give!’

  Sean placed the inhaler into the man’s outstretched hand. ‘Where am I going to get one at this time of night?’ he asked.

  ‘Asda’s started doing them. We checked.’ The man grinned. ‘Your welfare is important to us, Sean. There’s a pharmacy in their all-night superstore on the retail park.’ He took his other hand from his pocket and held out a small roll of notes. ‘There’s fifty quid for your trouble.’

  Sean reached out and took the money. As he did so, a massive hand closed over his, squeezing it like a vice.

  ‘You’d better be right about there being plenty of doses left in this.’

  ‘There are, honest,’ said Sean. ‘I’ve only used it a couple of times since I got it.’

  The vice tightened. ‘Careless of you to have lost it so soon then?’

  ‘Yeah . . . it was.’

  ‘Where did you lose it, Sean?’

  ‘I think I must’ve left it on the bus.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Number 18. I was going from Wythenshawe to the Trafford Centre.’

  ‘Did you report it missing to the bus company?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t sure that’s where I’d left it. And it’s easy enough to get another one with me prescription.’

  ‘Nice one,’ said the man. He relinquished his grip and patted Sean on the side of his face. His hand rested on Sean’s cheek. His thumb curled beneath Sean’s jawline and tightened around his neck. ‘You know what happens if you breathe a word of this to anyone?’

  Sean attempted to nod. ‘Yeah,’ he croaked.

  ‘Good man,’ said the man, releasing his grip. He placed the inhaler in his pocket and zipped it up, then pushed back his sleeve to check his watch.

  ‘That pharmacy,’ he said. ‘It closes at eleven. So you’d
better get a move on, but don’t run.’ He chuckled. ‘We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you before you get there.’

  Chapter 31

  DAY THREE – WEDNESDAY, 18TH OCTOBER

  There were footsteps on the wooden staircase. The door opened. A hand found the switch. Light seeped beneath Melissa’s hood.

  ‘Christ!’ A voice exclaimed. It was Gollum. ‘She’s only pissed herself !’

  ‘Get on with it!’ said The Boxer, pushing him into the room.

  Embarrassed beyond words, Melissa pretended to be asleep.

  Gollum grasped the duvet and pulled it back, revealing Melissa curled up in a foetal position, her back towards him. He prodded her with a bony finger. ‘Wake up!’ he demanded.

  She slowly rolled over. He reached down and yanked the hood up onto her forehead.

  ‘See what I’ve brought you,’ he said.

  Melissa’s eyes slowly adjusted to the light. Her heart skipped a beat. In his hand he held a Ventolin inhaler.

  ‘We’ll have to take the gag off or she won’t be able to use it,’ Gollum observed.

  ‘You don’t say,’ said The Boxer. ‘Well, I never!’

  He entered the room and approached the bed. He leaned down so close that Melissa could smell stale tobacco and beer through the balaclava.

  ‘We’re going to have to take that gag off,’ he said. ‘But the same rules apply as when we bring you food and drink. You don’t speak and you don’t call out. Do you understand?’

  Melissa stared into those cruel eyes and nodded.

  ‘Good girl.’ He lifted her head with one large hand and untied the gag with the other. ‘Nobody will hear you even if you do,’ he said, ‘so you’d be wasting your breath. And if you do call out, my friend here has a way of making sure you’ll never call out again. Nod if you understand.’

  Melissa nodded.

  The Boxer stood up, took the inhaler from Gollum, and placed it between Melissa’s bound hands, and pulled the duvet back over her.