Altered Egos (8 page)

When Mironova and Pearce returned they were anxious to learn what had happened the previous night. Nash explained. ‘About an hour after I took over from you, Clara, a car with two security men in it left the laboratory. I followed them to a house on the other side of town. After they’d been inside, two more emerged, got into the same car and drove off. It looked like a shift change. After that it got really weird. A car arrived with one man in it. I took a note of the plate. He went inside, came out again about ten minutes later. I couldn’t see his face, but he was carrying a bundle. He put that in the boot and drove off. A couple of hours later, just about nightfall, the same car came back. This time there was a man and a woman in it. They’d been inside about a quarter of an hour when a load more cars turned up. There were security guards and other types, about a dozen of them. And get this, judging from the haircuts I’d say they were all military. A couple of the blokes started fiddling with something across the road from the house; more of them disappeared round the back. When they’d all gone inside I took a look at what they’d been messing about with. Guess what? There was a surveillance
camera pointing towards the house, and another one round the back. What the hell’s going on, I’ve no idea. But I got Jack Binns to check that registration number. The owner is Dr Caroline Dunning, Chief Scientific Officer at Helm Pharm Laboratory.’

Nash’s phone rang. ‘Yes, Professor,’ he listened. As he was waiting, Nash drew a sombrero on his pad. Clara grinned. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Nash told Ramirez. ‘Easy to miss, I guess, with all the other damage.’

He put the phone down. ‘Mexican Pete revisited his toxicology findings on the two Gorton victims. There are minute traces of a sedative in their bloodstream. You could mistake them for a prescription drug, but for one of the ingredients. The fact that it’s there means it had to be injected, not ingested. The choices are a suicide pact, or murder. There were no traces of a syringe or phials in or around the house. Together with the Fire Service evidence, I reckon that definitely makes it murder.’

Waking up was slow. It was gradual. And it was painful. Her first conscious impression was of sound, muted, as of traffic in the far distance. Next, she became aware that she wasn’t comfortable; far from it. She was lying on her back on something soft. A bed? The discomfort was in her wrists and ankles. It was dark. Where was she? This wasn’t her room at school or the room at the house they’d taken her to. So, what had happened? She struggled to quell the growing feeling of panic. She failed.

Gradually, her vision adjusted. She could just make out that she was in a bedroom, that there was light behind the curtains, that there were articles of furniture. Her next sensation was the smell. The aroma wasn’t unpleasant. On the contrary, it was light, fragrant but not overpowering. Comforting, reassuring in the way a pleasant memory is. It was a clean scent, such as she’d used when she was younger. That was it. She was in a girl’s room. Or a room that had recently had a young girl in it.

Her mouth felt dry, her tongue wooden, unable to introduce any moisture, to work the saliva glands. She tried to move; to roll onto her side. She couldn’t. Her hands were in front of her, close together. And with a shock that brought her totally awake, she realized why she couldn’t move. She was tied up – wrists and ankles bound tightly. Alarm increased tenfold. Worse still were the implications. What had been done to her whilst she was unconscious? What was going to be done to her, now she was awake? Who was holding her prisoner? And why? She
shied away from the last question. One reason came to mind, and try as she might she couldn’t dismiss it.

Memory. Concentrate on that instead. She’d been taken from school. That was the first part. The men from her father’s work had come for her. Security, that was how they described themselves. Said they were acting on her father’s orders. They’d driven her to a house in Helmsdale. She remembered that. One of them had carried her belongings to the room she’d be using. They’d called the house something. What was it? A safe house; that was it. Like they refer to in films, or on the telly. She’d asked why. Not once, but over and over. All they’d said was, she’d find out why when her father arrived.

But he hadn’t arrived. A boring week had passed, with her as a virtual prisoner. Safe perhaps, but still a prisoner. She’d been at screaming point when one of her guards finally announced her father would be coming the next day.

So, if she wasn’t there now, where was she? The last thing she remembered had been as she waited for her father to arrive. A man had come to the house. She’d only caught a brief glimpse, but there’d been something weird about him. Something about his appearance? Now she remembered. He’d been wearing a mask. Not a frightener, like the junior school wore on Halloween, or a clown, or an ape or anything like that. It had been a mask of someone famous. She couldn’t remember who, and it didn’t matter.

He’d spoken to her, said something about her father. ‘I’m going to keep you for your father.’ Such a strange thing to say. Even stranger; during all this no one had mentioned her mother. Not that Jessica minded that much. She’d more or less cut ties with her mother after the way she’d treated Dad.

She heard a voice, startling her to fresh levels of panic. Had he been there all along? In the darkness? Watching her?

‘Jessica. Would you like a drink? Or something else? What do you need?’

She needed to be able to see. She needed to be untied. She needed to be able to move. She needed her father. She needed to know what was happening. She needed to know why she was
being held prisoner. She needed to be free. She needed answers to a whole string of questions. Weakly, she said, ‘Yes please. My mouth’s dry. I would like a drink.’ Her voice was barely audible, a croak at best.

‘That’ll be the effect of the injections. I’m sorry, but I had to keep you sedated. Now, let me lift you up, so you can take a drink without choking yourself. Be careful though, just sip the water; roll it round your mouth like a gargle before you swallow it. Whatever you do, don’t try to gulp it. That’ll make you sick. When you’ve had a drink I’ll untie you.’

Not an unpleasant voice. Not threatening, or sinister, or creepy. Neither young nor old. She felt herself being lifted, her shoulders supported. In the gloom she could just about discern his outline, dark against the faint light from behind the curtains. Next, she felt the rim of a bottle placed against her lips. She sipped at the ice-cold water as he’d instructed.

The change in position brought another discomfort. ‘I’m sorry,’ her voice was a little less of a croak, more her normal speaking voice, but still husky. ‘I need the toilet.’

There was, not laughter, but certainly amusement in his voice as he replied. ‘That’s all right. We’ll attend to that as soon as I’ve untied you.’

Her arms were raised slightly. Then something cold touched the back of her hand. ‘Stay still. Absolutely still. Whatever you do, don’t move your hands.’

There was a slight tug at her restraints, and the pressure on her wrists eased immediately. ‘Hang on, this might sting a bit.’ She felt her captor’s hand touch hers, feeling for her wrist; followed by a sharp tugging sensation. The tape binding her hands together was removed. The pain from the adhesive being removed was nothing compared to the sensation of release, of relief. She felt his hand touch her again, this time on her leg as he groped for the bonds around her ankles. He sliced through the tape, pulled it away and she was free.

‘Steady now. Don’t try to get up. You’ll feel dizzy to start with. That’s only to be expected. It’ll soon wear off, but in the meantime I’m going to carry you.’

Before she realized what was happening he lifted her clear of the bed. He walked across the room, three quick strides, without seeming to notice the burden he was carrying. Then he opened the door and she blinked against the light. She looked at the man who was holding her prisoner. She guessed him to be about thirty years old. Tall, well built. Obviously strong, the way he was carrying her so effortlessly. She concentrated on his face. She needed to know what sort of a man her captor was. It wasn’t a bad face. Not evil, or sinister. In fact, although she searched for signs of wickedness, she could only see sadness. Or was that her imagination? Or wishful thinking?

He carried her a few more steps before opening another door to a bathroom. He set her down next to the toilet and retreated to the far side of the room. ‘I’m afraid I can’t leave you alone.’

She felt her face go hot with embarrassment. At school she’d been used to performing private functions in the semi-public of a communal bathroom, but that had been different. Those around her had been girls. Not a man, and not in plain sight, no more than eight or ten feet away.

Eventually the need overcame her reserve. When she’d finished, she zipped up her jeans and reached for the handle. As she flushed the toilet, she looked round the room. There was an old lady sitting on top of the cistern tank, knitting. A disguise for the spare toilet roll. Over the wash basin she saw a collection of bottles, shampoos and toiletries, together with a ladies depilatory cream that was advertised nightly on TV. All unmistakeable signs of a woman’s presence. The idea that a woman lived here comforted her. She felt the fear subside.

On the side of the bath were plastic ducks. Not only a woman; a family. This was his home. Or was it? If that was so, where was his wife? Where were his children? Could it be that this wasn’t his house at all? Or, Jessica shivered involuntarily at the thought, was there a more sinister reason for their absence? Question after question crowded her mind; unasked, unanswered.

‘Ready now?’

He was looking at her. Not staring. Not like, well, Jessica was used to the way some men stared at her, aware of what their
thoughts were. This wasn’t like that at all.

‘I must wash my hands.’

She turned away from the basin and immediately the room began to see-saw as he’d predicted. As she swayed, he was alongside her immediately, his arm about her waist. Supporting, not gripping her. In other circumstances she’d have been comforted, might even have enjoyed the experience. Here, she was confused. What she found strangest was that the panic, the fear had retreated. They were still there, but in abeyance. ‘Come on; let’s get you to somewhere you can sit down. Then, I’ll make you something to eat. It’s no wonder you’re dizzy, you haven’t eaten for two days.’

Had she been out of it for two days? That meant he must have drugged her a second time. Why? Once he’d captured her, what was the need to keep her sedated? An obvious reason came to mind, but she was able to discount that immediately. She hadn’t been assaulted. She’d have known. Even if it had happened whilst she was drugged, she’d have been aware of it. Other questions followed, questions she couldn’t ask. Dare not ask; not yet. And probably not at all. As she watched him the fear that had temporarily left her returned. Not unabated, but amplified. A strap over his shoulder was attached to a squat, black, ugly chunk of metal: a gun. A big, efficient looking gun. She didn’t know what make or calibre or anything like that. All she knew was the terror it inspired.

She was sure she wouldn’t be able to eat. But as he started to grill sausages and bacon, she realized how hungry she was. She watched him prepare the food, the evil looking gun still in the shoulder holster. She broke the silence at last. ‘Do you ever take that off?’

He swung round, saw where she was looking. A smile that might have had traces of humour in it passed across his face, fleetingly. He lifted it, watching her face as he did so, noticing the alarm. ‘Not often,’ was his sole reply.

‘Not even to sleep?’ She was aghast. At the situation, at the gun, at her daring to ask such a question.

‘Sometimes, not always. Depends.’

What did that mean? ‘Aren’t you afraid it’ll go off accidentally?’

He hefted the weapon in his hand, looked at it; almost lovingly. ‘This only goes off when I want it to.’ As he was speaking he swung the barrel towards her; watched the terror multiply. He held it pointing directly at her before lowering it. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to shoot you. Not yet, and possibly not at all. Do as you’re told and you’ll not come to any harm.’

The food was simple, but good. He watched her eat, picking at it at first; then, as her appetite returned, she wolfed it down. He poured her a second mug of tea. She pushed the plate away and cradled the mug in her hands. ‘What happens now?’

‘Now, we have to move. That means I have to tape and gag you.’

‘Please don’t do that.’

He looked at her for a long time in silence. ‘I need your word that you won’t try to escape, or call for help.’

‘I promise.’

She was looking at him as she spoke. He couldn’t see any sign she was lying, but still. ‘I can’t take that chance. It’ll only be for a few minutes. Just till we get to where we’re going.’

Meekly, reassured by his tone as much as his words, Jessica held out her hands. He strapped them with the duct tape, then her ankles, before tying a handkerchief over her mouth. Then he scooped her up and carried her effortlessly outside. The night air was cold, but before they’d gone more than a few yards he stopped. Jessica couldn’t see clearly, the handkerchief was flapping over her eyes. She heard him open another door, before carrying her up a step and sliding through. He put her down, on a couch she guessed. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Got to lock up.’

He was no longer than he’d said. ‘Promise to behave? Not try anything stupid?’

She nodded furiously.

He released the gag, and she looked round. They were in some sort of caravan.

‘I promised before, but you took no notice.’ Her tone was
cutting. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he smiled.

He sliced through the tape and pulled it off. ‘OK, up front,’ he ordered.

‘Up front where?’

He pointed towards a curtain. He pulled it back and Jessica realized she’d only been half right. It was in fact a motorhome. He helped her to her feet then guided her into the passenger seat, which had been swivelled towards the living quarters. When she was sitting down he turned the seat to face forwards. When he heard it click into place he got into the driver’s seat. ‘Where are we going? Where are you taking me?’

‘We’re going on a little journey. When we get to the place I have in mind, I’ll tell you why you’re here. Don’t worry. You’re not going to come to any harm. Not as long as you’re with me. That’s the reason I took you away from that house. To keep you safe.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll explain later. Just sit back, put your seat belt on and relax. There’s a bottle of water in the glove compartment in front of you. We’ve about an hour’s journey ahead of us.’

For the most part, the journey was completed in silence. ‘What did you mean?’ she said at last. ‘About keeping me safe?’

‘You were in danger. At that house. Leave it at that. I’ll explain when we get there. It won’t be long now.’

Paul Farley was a mild-mannered young man, who worked in the Helmsdale branch of Three Shires Building Society. As such, he was a normal, law-abiding citizen. In his alter ego however, he had several convictions all for minor public order offences. Whether his employers disapproved of the actions that led to his various arrests or not, Paul had never been reprimanded by them.

He returned from work, went to his room and switched on his computer. He glanced round as he waited for it to boot up. The walls were plastered with posters and photographs relating to Paul’s two abiding passions, the environment and welfare of animals.

He clicked open one of his e-mail folders where his username was ‘Eco Sounder’. Paul, as leader of the local branch of an environmental action group, was also heavily involved with animal rights activists – a group who favoured a direct, not to say confrontational approach with those who, as they saw it, exploited animals. Paul, or Eco Sounder, was one of the leading lights. The one exploiters least wanted on their doorstep.

He was so engrossed in the contents of a new e-mail that his mother had to call him three times to tell him his tea was ready before he responded. If the information he’d received was correct, there was a company right on his doorstep that was conducting experiments on animals. How come he’d missed that? His failure to pick up on the exploitation added to his sense of outrage. Something would have to be done. What’s more, it would have to be done soon. And it would have to be strong, direct action. Nothing less would serve to put a halt to this cruelty and bring the perpetrators to the notice of the public.