Dead of Winter (15 page)

Mariner woke up starving hungry, stiff and bitterly cold. The stove was out of fuel so he had to go out to the car for more oil. He was shocked at how much snow had fallen. When he returned he realised that it was bitterly cold inside. If he hadn’t woken up he would have died! The realisation scared him. He relit the stove and huddled close but couldn’t stop shaking despite the sleeping bag and layers of clothes he had pulled on. The girl lay on the mattress, unmoving. The previous night he had remembered to cover her in a mound of blankets and old newspapers before he went to sleep. She was a constant reminder of a reality his mind had been working hard to deny.

He tried but failed to go back to sleep. At five-thirty he lit a hurricane lamp and the camping gaz to heat water for a brew. All trace of the previous day’s euphoria had vanished to be replaced by an unshakeable sense of doom. He looked back at recent events in astonishment, as if they had happened to someone else, unable still to believe that Dan was actually dead; that he was the proud possessor of a teenage girl, tied up against her will; and that Monday night’s quest for casual sex had slipped into kidnap and then murder.

NO! Not murder. Dan had died in a stupid accident, which was why he needed the money; to get away.

The idea of Lord Saxby waiting at the end of the phone for a call to summon him to a secret location – one he reminded himself that he had as little idea of as Saxby – made him shake with fear. What had he been thinking of? He dozed as he waited for the water to boil and dreamt briefly of being chased by giant white huskies through a forest of venomous plants. His bladder forced him awake.

He stepped outside to relieve himself. His breath and urine steamed in the freezing air as he tried to write his name, watching the stain on the snow. He gave himself a vigorous shake, zipped up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The fingers of his right hand brushed her mobile phone and he pulled it out, holding it tight in his palm like a talisman. He knew it was dangerous, which is why it was switched off so it couldn’t be traced.

‘Never should have used it,’ he said to the empty space around him, fringed by the fingers of skeletal trees black against a dark yellow-grey sky but he held onto it, indecisive, hating to throw away a good phone that might come in handy.

A waking rook cawed loudly from the top of a nearby tree making him jump. It was time to get ready. He had things to do, money to collect and places to run to.

It took him five minutes to pack what he needed, a further five to smoke a second morning cigarette but he couldn’t pluck up the courage to leave the pump house. He kept staring at the immovable bundle under the newspapers, edging towards it, hand outstretched as if she were a wild creature, before backing away again.

‘There’s plenty of food here,’ he called out, his words bouncing off the brickwork. ‘And I’ve heated up some soup for your breakfast; it’s a lentil one.’

He hated lentils but they were meant to be good for you and it made him feel better to think he was leaving her something nourishing.

The bundle didn’t stir. Maybe he should check to see if she was
all right. Was she even still alive? He had no idea but it would be untrue to say that he didn’t care. It was important for him to believe that she was OK. Last night, when he’d forced some of his soup into her, through chattering lips that showed blue in the light of the storm lantern, he had held her tight. She was so little, slumped against him, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. He had chafed her bound arms and legs before bundling her into one of his old tracksuits he had brought with him. At the last minute he had put more blankets and his parka around her on top of the anorak, reasoning that he could easily buy another with the money he was going to collect.

Now she was lying just as he had left her, her face hidden except for a band of forehead that looked white in the gaslight. Maybe he should untie her; he was going to lock the door with one of his padlocks anyway so she wouldn’t be able to escape.

He walked over to the wall barely making a sound and pulled the knot apart.

‘There, you can move around now.’

There was no answer.

‘Do you want to go, er, you know, outside, before I lock up?’

Nothing. He bent down and shook her shoulder.

‘I said—’

THWACK! Suddenly he was sprawled on his side, his chin numb from the blow from her fists as they connected with skin and bone. He lay there stunned, blinking to clear his eyes while she hobbled towards the open door!

‘You little …’ He lunged after her, still on his knees.

His hand caught the end of the cord that was dangling from her wrists and he yanked on it, pulling her down onto her back yards from the doorway.

‘No!’ The girl struggled to rise to her feet.

He scrabbled towards her, keeping tension on the rope until she was within reach.

‘Bad girl,’ he said, and rapped the back of her head with his knuckles in admonishment, too relieved to have caught her to be really angry.

‘Let me go!’ She struggled within his grip, lively as a wildcat with nails sharp as claws. Fingers scratched the side of his face and his good humour vanished.

‘Enough.’ This time the slap was hard enough to shut her up.

He threw her back to the floor, his trust in her docile dependence irreparably damaged.

‘There’s food over there; I’m going to watch you eat before I retie and gag you.’

He expected her to refuse but to his surprise she sat and ate the soup, then drank hot tea to which she added a ridiculous amount of sugar. She kept asking whether he was going to let her go. He told her yes, of course, later that day, but he could tell from her expression that she didn’t believe him and he didn’t blame her.

With his suitcase and passport, he could drive the eighty miles to Portsmouth and try and use his credit card to buy a ticket for a ferry. If he left now maybe he could be at sea within five hours. He could have lunch in France, hire a car and be off. Except that he was out of money and his credit limit for the month had already run out.

‘Why don’t you have a cash card in your bag like a normal person?’

‘They have to stay in the safe at school.’

‘Someone like you could have more than one.’

Something in the way she looked away made him wonder. He picked up her bag and shook it. It was just a small pack that slipped over her shoulders. She was trying really hard not to look at him but he could tell she was holding her breath.

‘Where is it?’

She took a slurp of tea and ignored him so he rapped his knuckles hard on her head. He knew it had to hurt because his mum had done it to him innumerable times; the bruises never showed, you see, so child protection never got to know. She didn’t make a sound.

‘Next time, I’ll break your nose and when I put in the gag you won’t be able to breathe. Don’t be stupid.’

He watched as she calculated; just like his bloody wife, never
straightforward, always weighing up the pros and cons before giving a simple answer.

‘Reach inside the zip pocket. There’s a hole in the lining. I’ve got a spare one in there.’

‘Smart girl.’ He passed her a bourbon biscuit.

He made her tell him the pin number, which she did surprisingly easily.

‘If this is false …’

‘It’s not, I promise. And I never break a promise.’

‘What’s your daily limit?’

‘One hundred.’

Not enough to fund an escape, even if the card worked. He had no choice but to go through with the ransom demand.

She asked to be let outside to relieve herself and he let her go behind some bushes, holding on tight to the rope around her wrists, his back turned to give her some privacy. Afterwards he retied her to the ring, inserted the gag and settled her down on the mattress. He left the oil stove on beyond her reach. The remaining fuel wouldn’t last more than a few hours but he didn’t plan on leaving her that long.

‘The door’s going to be locked. No point trying to escape,’ he called out as he left.

He didn’t have an ice scraper so used his useless credit card to clear the windscreen as the heaters blasted on full power.

Where should he tell Saxby to drop off the money? The question fell into the chaos of his thoughts as he sat in the car with the engine running. Although he hadn’t planned the day he assumed that he would be returning at some point to do something with the girl; he couldn’t just leave her there, could he?

Instead of answering his own question his mind slipped back to the bigger problem: how to collect the money Saxby had promised him the day before. Without realising he had done so he put the car into gear and drove away. As he reached the outskirts of Guildford he noticed that he was almost out of diesel so he pulled up at the next petrol station and put in a tank’s worth. He offered the
cashier his credit card, holding his breath as it was swiped. A frown crossed the youth’s spotty face and he tried the card again, waited, then shook his head.

‘Not going through, mate. Got another?’

He offered her card, hoping the lad was too stupid to check the name. He was in luck.

‘Pin number?’

It was written down on a piece of paper in his wallet but he hadn’t memorised it and to pull it out might look suspicious.

‘Bloody forgotten haven’t I.’ He forced himself to chuckle sheepishly. ‘Always do.’

He smiled at the boy, man to man; treating him as equal.

‘No worries; I can override it. Just sign here.’

Sign. He had no idea what the signature on the back of her card would look like but he guessed it would be neat so he bent and wrote carefully:
I. Mattias.

The slip was taken without comment and filed away in the cash register with dozens of others. There was an impatient cough from somewhere behind him.

‘I said here you go, mate.’ The card was being waved under his nose. ‘You all right?’

He blinked and shook his head, aware that he had been staring at the boy’s hands, watching the evidence against his fraud instead of taking her card and leaving the shop as quickly as possible.

‘Yeah, miles away. Cheers.’

He was still shaking when he pulled into a café two miles down the road and ordered coffee and a bacon sandwich. The waitress gave him a funny look so he smiled at her. All he got was a raised eyebrow. There was a battered map of the area on the wall by the door. While he waited for his food he took his coffee and studied it. He had instructed Saxby not to tell the police and he thought the man would follow his orders – he had sounded scared on the phone. Even so, he wanted somewhere he could escape from easily.

His eyes roamed the grubby plastic, his finger tracing in wider and wider circles. Nowhere seemed right. If he went for the town
centre there was a danger he would be seen as he returned to his car. On the outskirts of town there were plenty of places to drop off a bag but none he could see that offered an easy escape.

‘… I said your food’s going cold.’

‘What? Oh thanks, love,’ he said smiling again.

‘I’m not your love and I want you out of my place as soon as you’ve finished. I have my standards and I don’t care how long you’ve been on the road – you need a good wash and a shave.’

Embarrassed and angry he slouched back to his table, wrapped the bacon roll in the paper napkin and threw a small note from his precious bundle onto the laminated table cloth.

Stuck up cow. She reminded him of his wife, not a pleasant thought, but her suggestion had given him an idea for what to say to Saxby when he called him.

‘The public swimming baths; in twenty minutes,’ Saxby repeated steadily. ‘It will take me longer than that to drive there, let alone park.’

Fenwick nodded encouragingly. ‘
Keep him talking; buy us time to stake out the location,
’ had been the simple instruction.

‘Twenty minutes is all you’ve got.’ The voice was muffled as before but Fenwick, listening on headphones, thought it sounded more aggressive.

‘Please, I want to do what you say but twenty minutes really is impossible.’

Saxby had found just the tone of firm supplication that Fenwick could have wished for.

They had had a conference call with a criminal psychologist an hour before to try and assess the mental condition of the supposed kidnapper. Fenwick insisted that Saxby participate, convinced he was strong enough to cope with whatever would be discussed and he had been right. Even when there was frank debate about whether the caller really had Issie, and if he did what the chances were of her still being alive, Saxby had reacted remarkably well. Fenwick’s confidence in him was being rewarded as he played his part to perfection.

‘Why? You’ve got a bloody big BMW, shouldn’t be a problem for you,’ the kidnapper was arguing.

‘I don’t want to risk a speeding ticket or being pulled over for careless driving in this weather. The last thing we need is for me to draw attention to myself.’

‘Hmm.’

‘And you know what parking in Guildford’s like on a Friday this close to Christmas,’ this said man to man as if they were mates sharing a moan about their wives’ shopping.

To Fenwick’s surprise there was a low chuckle from the caller.

‘Too right; took me fifteen minutes to find a place.’

‘Is it that bad already?’

‘Terrible.’

‘I suppose I could always get the bus; never done it before, but if I need to, of course I will. I don’t suppose you know the times do you?’

‘Look, don’t rely on the bus. Tell you what; I’ll give you an hour until nine-thirty. OK?’

‘Thank you. Where do you want me to leave the bag?’

‘In the litter bin in front of the main entrance; the one on the right with green and white stripes. Put the money in a black bin liner and dump it there.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘Sounds so simple.’ It was said with a hint of admiration.

‘Best plans always are.’

‘You’d have made a good businessman.’

There was silence at the end of the phone and Saxby hurried on.

‘Is Issie all right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I talk to her?’

‘I’m hardly likely to have her with me now, am I?’

‘So how do I know that you’ll hand her over after you’ve got the money?’

‘You’ll just have to trust me.’

‘Please, we’re out of our minds with worry. Is she safe,
somewhere warm? We just want to know that our daughter’s going to be OK.’ Saxby’s voice cracked as the weight of fear threatened to break his self-control.

Fenwick reached out a hand and squeezed the man’s shoulder in support. Saxby took a deep breath. In the seconds it took to happen there was no word from the caller.

‘Hello? Are you still there?’

‘I’m here.’

‘If you won’t say anything about Issie can you … can you at least tell her that we love her? Please?’ His voice broke and Saxby closed his eyes.

From the sofa Jane Saxby rose to go over to him. Tony held her back gently.

‘One hour. Just turn up with the money and everything will be all right.’

‘And after that, we’ll have Issie back?’

‘I’ll call you when I’m safe away and tell you how to find your daughter.’

‘Thank you.’ The words were forced out through clenched teeth but he managed them, following the psychologist’s instructions to the letter. ‘One more thing—’

But the line went dead. They all looked expectantly at the lead technician crouched over his computer.

‘We’ve got him,’ he said triumphantly. ‘A public call box at the swimming pool. He’s already there.’

A copy of the conversation was sent to the psychologist. While she analysed it Fenwick called Norman and briefed him.

‘If he’s already in position you’ll need to be very careful,’ Norman emphasised. ‘Perkins will lead the surveillance operation as Silver.’

‘Understood, sir. I’ve been thinking, maybe we should have air surveillance …’

‘Hotel 900 is already on standby but I won’t send her up until the last minute in case the sound of a helicopter spooks him. Good luck, Fenwick; we’ll speak later.’

Fenwick watched Saxby being wired in preparation for the unlikely chance that he would meet the kidnapper. The money was transferred to a bin liner, the transmitter hidden deep inside one of the bundles of notes. Barely a millimetre in thickness it would be unnoticeable to anybody but an expert.

‘I’m uncomfortable with the bug,’ Lady Saxby paced the room. ‘If this man’s professional he’ll look for something like that and if he finds it …’

‘He’s not a professional, isn’t that right, Superintendent?’ Saxby looked at Fenwick.

‘Correct, and although I’m not the expert, my interpretation of the last call is that he’s as keen for this to be over as we are. As soon as he leaves the swimming baths he’ll head for Issie,’ Fenwick paused, hating what he had to say next, ‘if he has her.’

‘So you still think this might be a hoax?’ Despite her drug-induced sleep the previous night Jane Saxby looked on the point of collapse.

‘We have to consider every possibility.’

‘Including that she’s already dead?’ Her eyes begged him to disagree.

‘All possibilities,’ he said gently, ‘but there’s no reason to give up hope.’

She took a shuddering breath and weaved slightly before regaining her balance.

‘I’d better go and get my coat,’ she said simply, to the horror of the men in the room.

‘You have to stay here, darling.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘He hasn’t asked for you to be there. If he sees another person with me he might think it’s the police. We can’t risk that.’

‘I will not be protected!’

‘This isn’t about you,’ Saxby said with remarkable calm, ‘it’s about Issie. Her safety is our only priority. Everything we do must be driven by one thought: we want her back safe and sound.’

‘Issie might be with him. What if she is? I have to be there!’ But there was defeat in her voice and tears filled her eyes.

Instead of answering, Bill Saxby took a long step towards his wife and enveloped her in a hug. The sound of her crying fell against his chest.

‘I want my baby back,’ she sobbed. ‘When she’s here again we’ll cancel the stupid party and then we’ll go away, just the three of us. We’ll show her just how much we really, really love her.’

‘That’s right,’ he said, stroking the back of her head, though only an hour before he had listened to the combined opinion of the police and psychologist that, if Issie wasn’t dead already, she could be within hours.

‘It’s time to go,’ Fenwick said quietly.

‘You’ll have to excuse my moment of stupidity,’ she said and wiped her eyes.

‘It’s understandable.’

‘Maybe, but it doesn’t help Issie, does it?’

On his way to the swimming baths Fenwick was called by Bazza Holland from the incident room at the school.

‘Issie’s bank has contacted us. We’ve had a watch put on her account and they told us her second cash card—’

‘Second card? Why didn’t we know?’

‘God knows, anyway it was used at seven thirty-eight this morning at a service station on the A31 just outside Guildford. I’ve sent someone over to collect the security tape and interview the cashier who accepted payment.’

‘Thanks, keep me posted. How did Rod Saxby take his night in the cells?’

‘Loudly. He’s threatening to sue.’

‘Did you and Bernstein learn anything from the interview?’

‘Only that he hates his new niece and her mother and doesn’t mind admitting the fact; said they were after his brother’s money.’

‘He’s a fine one to talk.’

‘Exactly, but one thing is relevant: the chain he wears has a medallion identical to the one Issie painted. Even if he’s in the clear for the abduction we might get him for abuse once we find Issie. He’s a deluded little shit, s’cuse my French. In his version of reality
he’s key to the company’s success. He claims all the best contracts were down to his deal-making skills.’

‘Doesn’t ring true to me. Watching Saxby on the phone this morning handling the kidnapper it’s obvious he’s a born negotiator.’ Fenwick sighed. ‘So what have you done with him?’

‘We’ve had to let him go as he admitted nothing and we had no basis to charge him. As I left he was yelling at his solicitor to draft a formal complaint.’

‘Great. Anything more from the school?’

‘It’s still early but Bernstein has teams dedicated to following up on the maintenance man and the music teacher. Are we missing anything, d’you think?’

‘If you have time you could talk to Issie’s teachers again in case they’ve remembered something; and ask the bursar to tell you what he knows about the non-teaching staff. The kidnapper doesn’t sound educated. Don’t reveal the ransom demand to anyone but probe to see who at the school might have a money motive. Has the lab found anything more interesting on the bedding from Issie’s room?’

‘There’s no news. I’ll chase them.’

‘If necessary threaten them with the Home Office; that should sort their priorities out.’ With Issie missing since Monday night he was willing to use any tactic.

Fenwick arrived at the rendezvous point a safe distance from the swimming pool to be briefed on the surveillance arrangements by Jim Perkins. They agreed that he would go to the swimming baths and stay in the control van they had there. The car park was full when he arrived and he had to leave his car on the street outside. There were double yellow lines and he couldn’t afford to put his official permit in the window in case the kidnapper saw it so he took the risk of being clamped.

Two white vans with commercial lettering on their sides were parked by the car park exits. One proclaimed plumbing services, the other twenty-four-hour van hire. Concealed inside the first were six men in bulletproof vests, with the officer up front wearing dirty white overalls specially trained in high-speed driving. Fenwick
entered the other van. The familiar sight of the interior of a mobile surveillance unit greeted him.

Around the car park and by the building itself, six unmarked cars were positioned within a fifteen-yard radius of the rubbish bin. In two of them the drivers were behind the wheel; one, a woman, was drinking coffee and supposedly talking on a mobile phone, the other looked asleep. The rest of the occupants were spread inside and outside the building, posing as maintenance men or mothers waiting for their children to finish their swimming lesson. More were concealed out of sight in the security office behind the reception area. In total Norman had twenty-five officers at the swimming pool in addition to manned unmarked cars waiting outside every exit and on each road that led away in case the surveillance teams couldn’t follow immediately because of traffic congestion.

It was twenty-eight minutes past nine. Saxby had arrived five minutes before and was now locking his car under the lens of CCTV security cameras. Images from the cameras had been looped in to the screens in the vans in addition to those from their own surveillance. Fenwick watched the foreshortened grainy black and white pictures; Perkins’ voice was a whisper over the radio that linked him to the officers on the team.

‘Bear one has arrived and is locking car. Making his way now to porridge.’ It was a stupid code system but the random name generated by the computer for the operation was Goldilocks – somehow appropriate for the season.

Saxby didn’t hurry; he was a little early and keen to follow the kidnapper’s instructions precisely. He kept his eyes straight ahead, ignoring the temptation to look around for the police. At
nine-thirty
he dropped the bag in the bin, looked at it for a second before walking back to his car. As instructed, he then drove away.

Seconds passed, then minutes. There was an ebb and flow of people entering and leaving the building, mainly toddlers with parents bundled up against the freezing cold but no one wandered over to the bin and lifted the bag. By ten o’clock various crisp packets, empty drinks cans and other rubbish had been discarded
on top and someone asked over the radio how much longer they were going to wait. Perkins told them to be patient.

At five minutes past ten, one of the surveillance team radioed in.

‘Potential mummy bear has just walked past point bravo. Solitary man, early thirties, approximately five eight, wearing Puma trainers, a grey tracksuit with hood up and brown jacket over the top.’

‘We have him on camera; stand by, this could be our man.’

There was silence as the subject walked briskly towards the swimming pool entrance, his shoulders hunched against the cold. When he was almost there he was intercepted by a pool maintenance worker who appeared to have stepped out for a cigarette. The man in the tracksuit stopped abruptly and they punched hands, talking for a couple of minutes while the maintenance man smoked before they headed off in different directions. Neither went near the bag.

‘False alarm.’

It started to snow. The drivers waiting in the cars asked if they could turn on the engines. Perkins relented and said yes. The watchers outside started to take it in turns to go into the reception area to keep warm.

Perkins ignored the growing moans from the team and waited. Fenwick supported his decision. A halt was called to the operation at one o’clock and the money retrieved.

‘He’s not coming,’ Fenwick muttered to himself, ‘no one would be able to leave half a million pounds sitting in that bin being covered by snow for this long. Bugger!’ He hit the wall beside him. ‘Bugger, BUGGER, BUGGER!’

It was the only sign of emotion he had shown throughout the operation and it released a torrent of frustration in the team around him. Fenwick sat in the middle of their storm of blasphemy with eyes closed until it died down.