The Shadows of Justice (4 page)

She could smell his excitement. Could feel the pressure hard against her. Just as it had been with James, that summer night on the beach.

But no moonlit fondness here. No lovers-to-be promise to wait for the moment. No delicious anticipation.

Just fear. Fire and ice. Pulse and throb, pulse and throb.

Knowing the faceless man in the endless darkness would take that which she had so carefully kept. In a second, a moment or an hour. At his leisure, when he was ready.

That sour breath on her face again. The curdled air in her nose.

And a new sensation. A slippery pressure upon her cheek.

At first so soft she couldn’t be sure it was there.

And even as it grew more insistent, still she didn’t understand.

Or perhaps didn’t want to. And feared to imagine.

Until it flicked back and forth.

And stopped.

And she could feel the spittle and saliva. Prickling on her skin.

On her cheek, her ear, her neck.

As his probing tongue tasted her body.

She tried to shout, scream, shift her weight. Turn away, crawl off, shrink back. But the binds were too tight, too strong for the slightest release.

Her flank throbbed from the unyielding pressure of the cold metal. The knot of the blindfold was boring through the back of her skull. The wiry cloth cutting into her temples. Her ankles were raw and weeping where they locked together.

The van slowed, bumped and slewed.

Her hair. A strand was moving, now a lock.

A bunch of hair, gathered and stroked.

Just like Dad did, when she was a girl. When she had hurt her knees in the playground. Or suffered one of the colds of childhood.

As she lay on the bed in her room. Curtains drawn, duvet tucked around.

The comfort of caring. Of being loved.

The way James did now.

But not with this touch. The filthy fingers. The abhorrent, alien claws.

Pulling at her hair. Harder, sharper.

But now flinching and stopping.

Something had changed.

She tried to see through the entombing darkness, hear above the incessant rumbling.

The sound of a siren. Growing.

The sound of hope.

Annette tried to move, cry out, but the merciless ropes refused to relent.

The police knew about the kidnapping. Someone had seen her being hauled into the van.

They’d got its description. They knew the number plate.

Dad had offered a huge reward. A TV appeal for help. People were walking the countryside, watching the streets. All for this van.

And someone had seen it. Reported it.

The siren was growing louder.

The sound of salvation.

She would soon be free. The future she hadn’t dared to think about would be returned.

The carefree university years, to live life. To study medicine and become a doctor. Maybe a surgeon.

Or perhaps she would be a teacher.

Whatever, whichever. She would be something. Not a corpse, a headstone, a memory.

It was hers once more. The restoration of life.

The siren was almost upon them. She could sense the man stiffen. Fill with panic.

His turn to know fear.

There would be no violation. No mutilation. No death.

Freedom was only seconds away.

Annette felt tears growing in her eyes.

But the siren was passing.

Moving fast. Fading away.

She wanted to spring up, wave, yell, call and beckon.

But all she could do was lie still and feel the precious hope drain away.

Another noise. Movement, sliding across the van.

Faster than before. More confident.

More eager.

The man was back beside her. Studying her again. Relishing her body.

The touch of his fingertip. In the small of her back. Tracing the leather line of her belt.

And now shifting downwards.

The nausea struck again. And this time it was too strong. An irresistible flood of vomit, purging from her body.

The sickness boiled into her mouth, surged through her nose, sprayed around the gag, spattered across cheeks and chin. Grains of food trapped in her teeth and the sticky, stinking smell filled the tiny space of her incarceration.

But the hands came for her once more.

The kidnappers called at 10.38pm. What they had to communicate lasted just 23 seconds.

Adam led the charge to the control room, a tumbling stampede down the stairs to a basement that could have been a telesales centre. Orderly rows of desks and terminals, operators wearing headsets, calm lighting, even a line of pot plants flourishing on the windowsill.

But in one corner was sprawled an old-fashioned jumble of modern technology. Servers and keyboards, waveforms dancing on a display and a tangle of coloured wiring. It was here they gathered while the young man began fiddling with some leads, his jeans sagging to reveal red and white checked pants.

“Zac Phillips,” Claire whispered to Dan. “Head of our Techno Crime department, or ‘the Eggheads’. But don’t say that to his face. Or backside.”

“No rush,” Adam hissed, managing to make just two words scathingly sarcastic.

The rear wriggled back towards them. Zac hopped up, hit his head on the desk, cursed, switched on a speaker and tapped at a keyboard.

A phone line buzzed. There was a shallow gasp, then a young woman’s wavering voice.

“Hello – hello. Please get this to the police. This is Annette. They’ve got me. They say they’ll…”

The words faded into a gulp. A clunk echoed in the background, followed by what sounded like a grunt. “No, please, please,” the voice begged. “Don’t…”

Another hum of the line and Annette spoke again, her words so quiet they had to strain to hear. All leaned instinctively forwards, clustered around the speaker. It was obvious she was reading from a script, the words faltering with each line.

“They say they’ll kill me unless… you get the money. They want it tomorrow. They’ll call then to arrange delivery.”

There was a stifled sob and the harsh electronic whine of the disconnection tone.

Adam turned away and swore. Claire stared at the speaker, her usual equanimity ruffled as sure as treetops shifted by an irresistible wind. Zac hesitated, then tapped at the keyboard. The recording played once more.

“Enough,” Adam ordered, when it ended. “Why couldn’t we
trace it?”

“They didn’t call us,” Zac replied. “They rang the AA.”

“Alcoholics Anonymous?” Dan queried.

“Don’t be bloody ridiculous,” Adam snapped. “This is no time for stupidity. The motoring lot.”

“They record all calls,” said Zac. “They rang us as soon as it came in and sent the file over. But there’s nothing we can do to trace it.”

“Smart bastards,” Adam muttered.

“They know what they’re doing,” Claire observed. “Not getting involved in negotiations. Not giving us a chance to drag things out and find them.”

“We’ll analyse the call to see if there’s anything in the background that could help,” Zac said. “But I’m not hopeful.”

Dan reached for the speaker and turned the volume up to maximum. “Can you play it again?”

“Why?” Adam grunted.

“Just… something.”

Annette’s frightened voice once more filled the room. One by one, the operators looked over. An older woman began dabbing at her eyes.

“There,” Dan said.

Adam leaned further forwards. “What?”

“The last few seconds of the call.”

In the background, faint but audible, a bird had begun singing out a tune. It was a rapid, oddly metallic sound.

Sre
,
sre
,
sre
.

Sre
,
sre
,
sre
.

“Well?” Adam urged. “What? Have you got something? Come on!”

“Birdsong,” Dan said slowly.

“Birdsong? Is that it? In spring? Thanks for the fantastic insight. Now stop wasting my bloody time. I don’t have enough as it is.”

But Dan was still staring at the speaker and didn’t register the tirade. “Birdsong,” he repeated to himself, thoughts reaching out their invisible fingers for an elusive understanding.

The door opened and an elegant figure slipped into the control room, moving as easily as a summer breeze. Her steps made barely a sound.

“Katrina,” Adam said, warmly. “That’s good timing. We need your help, and fast.”

The detective shook hands and introduced Claire, Zac and then Dan.

Still drifting, still seeking the something that he knew was somewhere, Dan managed to pull his gaze from the speaker and hold out a distracted hand. It was only then he registered the most mesmeric pair of eyes he had ever seen.

***

Adam gruffly announced he required some air, so instead of returning to the MIR they walked outside. The firearms teams were still waiting by the gate of the compound, a couple puffing away at cigarettes, the red tips lighting and fading in the gloom. The occasional hint of smoke scented the night air.

Zac stayed in the control room to work through the recording. He also wanted to be on hand in case more messages came through.

“There won’t be any,” Katrina said, with such certainty that no one thought to dissent. “They’ve said what they needed. The pressure’s on us now.”

The night was still clear, but growing chillier. The brighter stars faced down the challenge of the city lights and patterned the sky. Claire slipped a jacket over her shoulders. Dan jogged to his car and did likewise, taking the opportunity to give Rutherford a quick break.

“I’m sorry this is taking longer than I thought, old friend,” he said. “But it is important, I promise you. We’ve got to save a young girl and she sounds terrified.”

From the overnight kit Dan kept in the boot, he took out a towel and laid it on the back seat to make Rutherford more comfortable.

Adam hadn’t bothered to don a jacket. He paced back and forth, never quite still, the agitation allowing him no peace. Every crime the traditionalist detective investigated was forever carried upon his back.

A keen student of his friend, Dan knew that these burdens lay behind a quirk of Adam’s character – his use of those felt boards, such an anachronism in an age of computers. He insisted upon a picture of the victim being at the centre of an inquiry, for all to see. It was a continual reminder to his fellow officers of the importance of their work.

For a family man in thought, word and deed, this kidnapping must feel personal. Adam would be thinking about his teenage son Tom, imagining him in Annette’s place.

As for Katrina, she was an antidote to Adam’s unrest. She stood straight, unmoving in her focus, and with the elegance of a classical statue. Her arms were folded, her fine figure silhouetted by the lights of the police station, one foot angled on the heel of a shoe.

“Would you mind clarifying your role here?” she asked Dan, as he returned.

“Well, I’m—”

“He’s a journalist,” Adam interrupted. “He’s been seconded to the investigation, in particular to help with the media coverage.”

“A journalist?”

The words were evenly weighed, but honed with an unmistakable edge.

“Dan’s worked with us many times before,” Adam replied. “He’s trustworthy.”

Katrina was studying Dan’s shoes, trousers, and now the buttons on his jacket, one by one, her gaze moving slowly upwards. It was as if she were assessing the entirety of his existence in just one look.

And Claire was watching her do it.

Dan found himself shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Finally, Katrina said, “In my experience these cases are better addressed quietly, with journalists kept at a distance. They tend to… complicate matters.”

“Look, I’ve—” Dan began, but Adam interrupted again.

“He’s fine. He’s here on my say so and I’ll take responsibility.”

Katrina paused, held Adam’s gaze. Contained within was an interrogation.
Can I trust you? Is your judgement shrewd? Do you have the drive to see this through?

And all this in a single, calm stare. After a few seconds, Katrina nodded and began a discussion about the investigation.

Every few seconds, try as he might, Dan couldn’t help himself from finding her eyes. They were like two leaves of the autumn; one an evergreen, the other tawny with the turning of the season.

***

Across the city, a distant clock struck eleven. The faint sounds of a Friday night crept into the compound. Taxis zipping back and forth, laden with weekend revellers. The odd shout or scream of laughter, and the ubiquitous accompaniment to any night out in every English town or city: the speeding sirens en route to yet another flare of drunken thuggery.

At the back of Charles Cross Police Station, amidst this little group of four, such everyday images had no chance of intruding. Lying on the tarmac between them, the focus of every thought and exchange, was a 17-year-old girl. Tied up, gagged and helpless. Perhaps in the cold surrounds of a cellar or garage, flinching at every sound, however slight.

Standing over her were two, or maybe more, faceless people. Dark outlines staring down at their prize. Weighing up the value of a young woman before they made a final decision on her fate.

“There’s just one real oddity to the case,” Adam said, and went through the issue of the
PP
at the end of the ransom note.

“That’s something I’ve never seen before,” Katrina replied. “If you’re suggesting it might be the signature of a gang, I think that’s unlikely. It feels… meaningful, but more subtle.”

“That’s just what I said,” Dan contributed eagerly, but to no effect.

“Any thoughts?” Adam continued.

“At this stage, I’m afraid none.”

The radio in an Armed Response Vehicle squawked. As one, they stopped talking and listened in. It was a call for available units to deal with a minor crash on the edge of the city.

“You’ve got the standard enquiries in train?” Katrina asked.

“Everything’s covered,” Claire replied.

“Then hard though it may be, on that front all we can do is wait.”

Adam stopped his pacing. “Wait?”

“Kidnappings are all about patience. We have to wait for their next move before we can make ours. This is the submerged phase. The moment they break the surface, it’ll create ripples. Then we can start to circle in. But if we try to do anything now, we’re just thrashing around and likely to make the picture more confused.”

Her eloquence and easiness with words saw Dan nodding to himself. He slipped out his notebook.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Katrina said, without looking at him.

Dan found himself putting away the pad. The voice was soft, but the command clear and incontestable, even if irksome. It was time to progress from being a pet, only talked about but never contributing.

“You said ‘on that front’.
Is there anything else we can do, aside from the investigation?”

Now Katrina turned, and perhaps with a new interest. “You were listening.”

“It’s my job – or part of it.”

“Yes.”

There was a silence. Again, Dan thought he sensed Claire looking from Katrina to him, but in the semi-darkness he couldn’t be sure.

“What?” Adam prompted.

“It’s just a little… groundwork. A detail of manipulation.”

A police car pulled up and a pair of cops climbed out, pulling a young man from the back. Drying sick stained his shirt and blood was trickling from a gash in his forehead. He was so drunk that each limb appeared to be functioning without any central control.

“Regular customer,” one of the officers said, as they walked past. “We should start a loyalty card scheme.”

Katrina waited until the men disappeared through the doors.

“At the moment the kidnappers see Annette as nothing more than a cashpoint. Which makes it easy to harm her – far too easy. We need to change that.”

“How?” Adam asked. “We’ve got no way of getting in touch with them.”

“Not quite.”

“Meaning?”

“Her father’s the only close family, you said?”

“Yes.”

“How is he?”

It was Claire who replied, and with an unusual sharpness. “How do you think he is?”

“Apologies, it was a clumsy question,” Katrina countered, smoothly. “What I meant was – might he be composed enough to help us?”

“Like how?” Adam asked.

The charismatic silhouette didn’t reply, but instead slowly pointed an elegant forefinger at Dan.