The Sister (73 page)

"What date was that?"

April the third, a Tuesday night, why?"

He looked at Miller, gauging his sincerity. "No one has seen him since; he never showed for work in the morning, isn't taking my telephone calls . . ." Tanner hesitated, "Miller, I paid a visit to his house when he didn't answer my calls . . ."

Miller stared.

Tanner had something on his mind. "I don't know whether I should tell you this, but I'm going to anyway . . ." When Tanner had finished, he looked for Miller's reaction.

"You know you said no one has seen Kennedy since he didn't show for work?" he said, examining the detectives face.

"You've seen him, haven't you, Miller?" he said, steadily returning his gaze. "Okay, let's hear it."

"Yes, you're right, I have seen him."

"Where did you see him?"

"At a roadside cafe, just before you get on the A130. I was waiting in my car for the rain to stop, and he just got into my car."

"You arranged to meet him there?"

"No, he just turned up, as I said."

Tanner scrutinised Miller with a look that bordered on disbelief.

"Did he tell you anything?"

"He's been following up some interesting leads since going AWOL."
Tanner eyed Miller suspiciously, "But why is he talking to you?"

"Oh, come on, Tanner, surely you can see. He doesn't want to risk getting arrested!"

"That's not what I meant. I meant, why choose you?"

"I don't know, perhaps it's because I have a friendly face, but you know what, I believe him . . ."

Tanner nodded; his lips pressed tightly together. "It's out of my hands, Miller. Now, if you know where he is?"

"That's the thing; I have seen him, but I don't know where he is, or when he'll appear next. He didn't say," he paused for a moment. "Oh, and that's the other thing. He asked me to give you this." He produced an envelope from his pocket.

Tanner opened it and read the note inside. "He wants you to take over the search for Eilise Staples in his absence. Under the circumstances, I don't think I can follow his instructions."

"John, that's fine, but I have to tell you I've already started looking for her. He asked me to do that
before
I got the letter. All of what you've told me . . . if he
was
set-up, then this character has done a good job of it. Kennedy needs help to clear his name, but in the meantime, he's still thinking about the job. I'm a specialist in my field; he trusts me. There's a lot of intuition involved in the work we all do, mine works differently to yours. Not better or worse, just different . . . and it's telling me there's a connection here. It could be the key."

Tanner softened, "I'll give you such information on the case as is available in the public domain. I know a journalist who can brief you. Do you have a card?" Miller fished a business card from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over. Tanner retrieved his own number from his mobile and wrote it down. No name, just a number. Miller looked at it and raised an eyebrow. It looked familiar to him.

"Who does the number belong to; you didn't put a name."

"I know," said Tanner. "I'll call her tonight and tell her to expect your call. Her name is Carla, by the way."

"All this is great, John, but there's something else. I had to know I could trust you . . . the guy who was blackmailing Kennedy; he's now kidnapped Stella Bird."

"The sister of Kathy Bird? Stone me. I don't believe this!"

"Kennedy warned me that he'd been forced to give his blackmailer her details. And now the kidnapper has contacted me. Clearly, I'd have reported it, but he's threatened to kill her if anyone goes after him."

Chapter 141

Unable to feel anything at all that might give him a clue to her whereabouts, Miller was at a complete loss. The faculties that he'd previously possessed, including those he'd most
recently become aware of had deserted him. He emptied his mind of all conscious thought, a technique his grandfather had called 'pusty umysł':
In Polish, Bruce, means no mind or 'mu shin' in Japanese. Now you know in three languages. No mind.
When he had first succeeded in achieving this state, he was able to tune in and receive snatches of lower frequencies in much the same way a short-wave radio receiver might.
How can it let me down when I need it most?
Of all the possibilities that nagged at him, there was one he refused to believe.
If she was dead, I'd know it, wouldn't I?

Exhausted from his efforts, he tried again without success and then it suddenly dawned on him; The Sister had something to do with his connectivity problem.
You must learn to respect the space and barriers that other people put up…
Had she taken something away from him . . . to teach him that?

He dialled a number into his telephone. A sleepy sounding female voice answered.

"Carla, can I count on your discretion?"

"Why, what's happened?"

Miller related everything he could think of to her. She listened patiently to the whole story without interrupting.

"Needless to say, if he gets wind I'm looking for him, or he finds out the police are involved; he'll kill her."

"Who else knows about this letter from Kennedy?"

"No one, apart from one of his colleagues, John Tanner."

"I know him," she said. "You say Kennedy told you he thought the man blackmailing him was the kidnapper of at least two women, and could have links to the Gasman, and the Midnight man? You know something, Bruce; I've been looking for a story to break on this guy ever since that tape turned up when I was at the News of the World."

"Carla, that's great, but we haven't got a thing to go on, and I really need to find him."

"I have a name." The simple statement dropped it on him like a bomb.

"You have a name? Why didn't you say so before? Who is it?"

"Until you finished I couldn't be sure - it's William Shaw, also known as Martin Boyle. We had a hell of a time tracing him . . ."

"Wait a minute - who's
we.
"

"A contact I have in the job."

"In the police?"

"Yes . . ." She knew he'd ask anyway, so she told him. "It's Tanner."

Since Tanner had given him Carla's number, he was only mildly surprised. "Carla, have we got an address?"

"No, we found out who he is, but he's always on the move, even his own people never know where he is. He's a bare-knuckle fighter, at least he was. Something of a legend, by all accounts. It's rumoured he owns several properties, but we haven't been able to trace any so far. Not under that name."

"I'm sure you have already, but I have to ask; have you checked under his mother's maiden name?"

"No, but what makes you ask that?"

"It's just a hunch, that's all."

"I'll see what I can find out."

"Carla . . . you and Tanner?" He let the question hang.

"Oh Bruce," she laughed. "I didn't know you cared." Although she didn't deny it, she did not confirm it either.

No nearer to finding Stella, an odd mix of emotion washed over him. Desperation and despondency combined with relief and elation, as he finished the call.

Chapter 142

Stella woke up on a filthy mattress on the floor. At first she didn't move. She checked her body over, mentally feeling for anything untoward.
I'd know if he'd raped me, wouldn't I?
She couldn't be sure… Her head pounded in a strange way. She felt disconnected and numb.

Looking around, she realised she was effectively in a cage; the front wall of her enclosure consisted of floor to ceiling round steel bars; the heavy drape curtain the other side, kept them hidden. She tried to call out, but her dry throat managed only a hoarse whisper.

She noticed a bucket next to the toilet on the back wall.
There's water in it!
The film of scum on top revealed it wasn't fresh.

She tried to produce enough saliva to lubricate her throat without success. She took a deep breath and put a hand into the bucket, wetting it and cautiously sniffing it before scooping a handful to her mouth and sipping. It tasted like goldfish water; she resisted the urge to spew it back out and swallowed.

She realised she couldn't seem to focus for more than a few seconds at a time.
How did I get here
? When she was at school pinching the bridge of her nose used to help her concentrate; she squeezed hard.
That's it!
A large white van had pulled up next to her as she came out of her garden gate onto the street; she thought it was a delivery for someone else. She heard the rumble of the side door sliding back. Somebody had grabbed her, hauled her inside … something put over her mouth … couldn't breathe . . . and now she was here.

She tried to shake the fuzziness from her head - so damn tired! She sank back to the floor, dragged down into sleep again.

A metallic clunk followed by the dry scraping of a heavy bolt roused her. He pulled the curtain open only enough to allow him in, he was holding something; she backed away into a corner as he grabbed her by the back of her neck. He pushed her face down into the filthy mattress; she gagged dryly as he penetrated her forearm with a sharp needle.

She bucked against him. He pinned her with his weight. The vacuum from the syringe drew out a swirl of her blood into the mixture, filling its chamber before he plunged it back into her.

"What's that you've just put in me?" she demanded, outraged.

"That? Don't you worry about that!" he cupped his groin. "When I recover from this dog bite, you'll get a better injection than that, if you know what I mean. You'll be begging me for it soon enough." His eyes were cold; his fleshy lips pulled tight against his teeth, baring them. "It hurts too much, but it's nothing a Viagra couldn't sort out."

She shrank into the corner of the cage, terrified.

He taunted her in a camp voice, "Frankie says
'Relax' . . . E
njoy the ride."

Frankie? Who the hell is Frankie?
A wave of nausea washed over her. She only just made it to the toilet before the contents of her stomach expelled themselves.

With no windows, her sleep patterns disrupted, Stella lost track of how long she'd been there; it could have been days, or even a week. He would bring small portions of food and water three times a day as far as she could tell and stay to watch while she ate. After, he'd inject her before leaving. She realised it was pointless to resist. The combined food, drink, injection routine had a strange effect on her. She began to look forward to it and the warm escape to oblivion that followed.

At first, she told herself Miller would find her quickly. He'd miss her, realise she'd gone and start on her trail, after all that was what he did - find missing people.
Where are you Miller?

Had he even
realised
she was missing. Her mind strayed into other areas of possibility, opening up new thoughts, but never for long. The drug he’d given her made it impossible to think about
anything
for any length of time. She concluded it must be heroin.
Is he trying to make me an addict?

It was the last thought she had before drifting out of consciousness. She dreamt she was a little girl again, eight-years-old and on holiday with her parents; she ran over the shale on the beach, eager to reach them, so happy to see them again . . . she slipped on the gravel and grazed her knee. Her father scooped her up, and she wrapped her arms around him, weeping softly into his neck. "Daddy, it hurts so much!"

"I know sweetheart, I know, but when something hurts you," the thickening in his throat caught his voice, "think about happy days and shake it off . . . It works for me."

She opened her eyes, wiped them, and rolled closer to the bars. Her dad had marched through hell to get to the other side. He just kept going. Her thoughts touched on the mystery of their suicide pact. She still couldn't bring herself to believe he'd just given up. He'd have never done that. No matter how bad things were, he'd have steered them out, carrying her mother with him on his back and holding Stella's hand.
Why did you have to persuade him to do it, Mum?
She steeled herself.
I have to get out of here!

She crawled to the bars that imprisoned her. From what she was able to see under the curtains, she was in a box within a box behind a caged wall, beyond that was a locked door.

While waiting for him to come with food, drink and next fix, she positioned herself so she could see beyond the curtains from different angles when he drew back the curtain. A gleaming polished pole ran between floor and ceiling in one corner. Too substantial for a pole dancer's; it was more like a fire fighter's pole. It had thick rubber crash mats at the foot of it. So far, she'd not seen what was at the top of it, there was obviously a doorway onto it from upstairs.