Baldur heard a shout that was not the moan of the man at his feet, turning to see his brother drop to a knee and sit unsteady, an arc of light rolling across the sand. His attention moved to a man that now ran at him. Baldur knew who he was at once. It was the girl’s father, the soldier. He knew a lot about this man. He shifted his stance sideways, taking all in, moving his weight lightly from foot to foot. He waited.
At the last moment Brian broke his stride and slid into the sand, a short fast sweep with his leg aimed at the back of Baldur’s knee. He only caught a trailing foot as Baldur skipped away and Brian’s momentum took him down, immediately turning to rise but not quickly enough. The wrong decision. Baldur immediately came at him with quick kicks, jabbing at his head and then down at his ribs. Dancing in and around, not letting him stand. Brian did the only thing he could, he opened himself up and took a kick to his ribs, rolling with the impact and coming up with a hard punch to the inside of Baldur’s thigh. Baldur hopped backwards as Adam crashed into him from behind, flattening him face first into the sand.
Baldur felt the weight of a knee in his back, then the weight lifted and a voice shouted
Run
. He rolled and wiped the sand from his face as he watched the two shapes running along the base of the high sea wall. He looked over his shoulder as he rubbed his thigh and watched his brother slowly climb to his feet.
‘Did I not warn everyone about the soldier, little brother?’ he said in his smooth American accent.
FIFTY-FOUR
They ran for several minutes before Adam pulled up, collapsing against the seawall, gasping for air. Brian stopped and looked back along the beach, nobody was following.
Adam had taken a beating. There were bruises already appearing beneath each eye, his bottom lip fat and bloody. He was favouring his left side and gulping in air, which at least meant cracked ribs were the worst of his internal problems. His clothes were soaked through, covered in sand and clinging wetly to him. Brian looked down and realised his had not fared any better.
Adam wheezed, ‘The house?’
Brian shrugged. ‘Simon’s not there. It’s leased, through an agency in Essex so it’s probably corporate.’ He looked along the beach and up at the wall before returning his gaze to Adam. ‘So you decided to take a late night stroll?’
Adam did not answer until he had caught his breath. ‘The house is Simon’s last registered address, although that was six years ago. The pub back there was his childhood home. He works on boats from what I can see. I managed to dig up a lot of detail but it meant little, so I checked out the pub. It was closing but I talked to the landlady. Simon’s well known locally and from what I could tell, well thought of, although he’s not been seen much the last five years. The landlady knew his mother; it was his mother that ran the pub while Simon was a kid.’
‘Where’s the mother now?’
‘Dead, cancer years ago.’
‘The landlady have any idea where he lives now?’
‘She wasn’t that forthcoming. He travels a lot, apparently.’
Brian kicked at the sand and walked away, distracted, looking down the beach and out to the ocean. He walked back. ‘Travels a lot, that’s not good news. What about Bill and Ben our two blond buddies, what happened there?’
‘They appeared out of nowhere when I got back to the car, literally picked me up and dropped me over the wall. Scared the shit out of me. They were American.’
‘They didn’t look very American. Did they take your wallet?’
He checked his back pocket. It was still there. ‘There’s more, your daughter’s picture is all over the web and they found Sarah’s car burnt out.’
‘Empty burnt out?’
Adam nodded.
Brian started along the beach, gesturing for Adam to follow. ‘We need to call Boer and give him what we have, spread the knowledge. But first we need to get off this beach and away from the promenade, find somewhere to lie up, dry out and re-appraise.’ He waited for Adam to catch up. ‘Preferably a hotel with an all-night bar. Can you sort that?’
‘Sure,’ Adam replied, deciding to come clean. ‘I already gave Boer the address.’
Brian contemplated this for a second then nodded. ‘We need to get him on to the letting agents as well.’
Something else occurred to Adam. ‘I need my computer from the car if we’re going to find a hotel.’
Brian laughed and stopped. ‘What do you think our friends are doing right now?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Taking the car apart for a start. You’ll have to do without the computer. Ring directory enquiries or something.’
They walked on, eventually climbing a set of concrete steps that zigzagged up to the road and a section of the promenade they had not seen before, the rising bank of grass tapering as the roads levelled and joined.
Adam pulled out his phone and used his cuff to wipe the screen clear of sand and water. When the phone finally flashed to life it took five calls and eight minutes before they had a hotel and directions. He shivered as he walked, taking comfort from the fact Brian was shivering beside him.
FIFTY-FIVE
Simon’s hand glided across her skin, a slow ceaseless movement almost soothing in its rhythm, like a collector of fine art caressing his treasure. He did this for so long she hoped it might be all. But with time the momentum increased, his need building. And then he asked her.
‘Can…I?’ He shifted awkwardly.
She nodded slowly and he moved onto her, easing open her legs with his thighs, gradually and very gently easing himself into her. The weight of him and the feel of him moving inside her jumped her mind back to Saturday morning, an age distant and a world apart. Adam was tall and lean and eager. Simon was so much bigger and more awkward, his arms either side of her like knotted tree trunks. She smiled up at him and grimaced inwardly, immediately desperate to escape from under him. Her focus alternated in the dim light from his shoulder to the ceiling that refused to stay still.
The friction of his body quickly wore at her constructs of sanity, handing control of her body to the processes of automation. Outwardly her hands caressed him and urged him into her, thick and invading, her legs pinned wide beneath him. Mentally she fought to keep away the gnashing teeth and jutting flesh, now hidden in all the shadows around her. She concealed her fear beneath a veneer of willingness, in the hope he would come quickly and her ordeal would be over. She had no idea for the depth of Simon’s need.
His thrusting built momentum and the muscles of his back tensed beneath her hands, a final hard thrust and another and he groaned and pumped fatly inside her. The automated processes directed her hands to soothe him as he came to rest, out of breath, gasping and almost jubilant. After a short pause he rolled aside and for a time idled the back of his hand across her breasts and neck. And then he swept his legs off the bed and the key from the wardrobe and led her to the shower.
It became a routine, the soapy journeys back to the room, four, maybe five times now. Waiting as he turned or changed the sheets and climbed back onto the bed. Sated, he lay beside her, pressing a hand on her chest, feeling the beat of her heart, continuing his ceaseless exploration of her body. She could sense the tiredness inside him, longed for him to sleep, to calm her drifting sense of reality. Always hoping for an opportunity. Then the momentum of his hand would increase and she stilled her frayed mind. Her jail was these sheets and his schoolboy thrusting.
She managed to direct him onto his back, which gave her more control and freed her from beneath his body, feeding his need with the wonder of hers riding astride. A macabre rodeo she dressed with wet lips and damp hair that fell about her face, rising and falling on his flesh that stretched and now wore her sore inside, constantly trying to block out the gnashing teeth and jutting flesh now crowded around her, the gnarled fingers all reaching out, waiting their turn. She kept the terror trapped like a bubble between her chest and throat, the fear from her eyes. Each second and minute was a reprieve for Andrea.
She smelt the fresh, fragrant air, which was always the first sign. She looked to the door and window before she realised, briefly resisting before embracing that whip of cool air. It lovingly wrapped itself around her, shielding her in a vast vista of rolling green; of high trees and craggy mountains, snow-capped peaks amid clusters of cloud and blue skies, the distant sound of a galloping horse.
She sat down on the grass cross-legged, pulled her summer dress over dirty knees and plucked at daisies. A timeless place. It had been four years since her last visit and fourteen before that. She was only vaguely aware of that other world now, where her body continued to endure. At some point she heard the heavy rumble of thunder in a blue sky and a distant child voice, although she never saw other children here. So she stayed where she was, humming to herself and threading daises as she waited for the horseman.
FIFTY-SIX
Helen Ferreira stood on the pavement outside MadHatters, stationary amid the rush of commuters. She had a blue cup of tea clasped in her left hand and her phone pressed against her right ear. She was there because she was looking for the club’s owner, but like his house it was locked and silent. She had even clanged up the metal steps of the fire escape, to no gain. Now she needed direction, impatiently disconnecting when she was diverted to Boer’s voicemail once more.
Her frustration simmered. Getting out of bed before dawn had seemed like a good idea, especially with the press conference laying waste to much of the afternoon. Except Monday morning was starting just as Sunday had ended, chasing people who had no desire to be found. And now even Boer was not answering her calls. She sipped the tea and flicked through her address book, dialling his home number. It was the only number she had not tried because he was never there. It rang through. She silently cursed but hung on through the message.
‘Francis, you’re not in the office or answering your mobile. So you’re either at home or dead, maybe both. If you don’t ring in the next ten minutes I’m coming round with an ambulance.’ She disconnected and started towards the town centre and back to the café. She was going to need something stronger than tea.
Boer used one hand to support his weight on the sink and the other to wash water across his face. Blowing to dislodge the residual drops from his moustache and swilling mouthwash. He flushed the toilet and very carefully made his way across the landing.
His study was set up in his daughter’s old bedroom. Once so full of colour and life, now bookcases flanked two walls with a wide wooden desk beneath the window. The desk was home to a phone and an ancient fax machine, the case file open with a large notepad full of scrawl on top. He reached across and played Ferreira’s message, lowering himself into the chair with a smile.
He dialled her mobile from memory and she answered after four rings. ‘Thank God Fran, you’re at home.’
‘I’m feeling a little queasy today. I should have called.’ He heard the sweep of tyres outside as she pulled onto his drive.
‘Damn right you should have. I’ll let myself in. You upstairs?’
‘I am,’ he answered and Ferreira disconnected.
He listened to her keys in the door and then a distant thump as her bag hit the floor, the sound of footsteps up the stairs. The landing gave its signature groan and she appeared in the doorway, her dark hair tied back in a thick ponytail. She was wearing a trademark dark blouse and a pale blue suit that stretched a little tight across her thighs. She looked at him hopefully as she leaned across and handed him the blue cup of tea.
‘What’s new?’ she asked, leaving him to ponder the answer while she fetched the wicker chair from his bedroom. She set it down and eased into it.
‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Not since last night. The fire crew handed the house in Peterborough to forensics. Thanks to Brian and Adam we already have the address in Cleethorpes, we’re just waiting on Anne for authorisation to go after the letting agency. Trouble is she won’t act until Cleethorpes is corroborated by forensics.’
Ferreira sat up. ‘You’re kidding me. Not even with a guy chargrilled and tied to a chair?’
He shook his head. ‘She said a body in Peterborough was not evidence of a kidnapping syndicate in Cleethorpes. Said she would warn Lincolnshire the case may swing their way, but she clearly categorised the data as having no context right now. Nothing links us to Cleethorpes until forensics says it does.’
Which made an abstract kind of sense to Ferreira. Except when senior detectives like Boer trusted data, the data was usually worth paying attention to. She worked the logic to its conclusion and realised. ‘Christ, she’s scared they’ll shift the case before she gets her face on TV.’
Boer’s moustache rose wearily. ‘Welcome to the fragile world of human self-interest and police politics.’
‘So what’re we going to do?’
‘Nothing,’ Boer answered. He took a sip of the tea, the now cool liquid welcome in his stomach. ‘At least in regard to Anne. She quizzed how I got the data and blew a fuse when she got my answer. More, it seemed, from not having Dunstan to parade as the distraught father.’
‘She’s outing him live on TV?’
Boer’s gaze settled on Ferreira. ‘Not sure, she’s got more of a thing for Sarah Sawacki. CCTV shows her sat at a table with two cups and then shaking hands with Simon. Anne added two and two and got twenty-two.’
Ferreira scowled. ‘More like five. The CCTV really shows that?’
Boer nodded. ‘That’s how Anne interpreted it. I talked with Barry at Reading and he confirmed the two cups, said he couldn’t explain that from the footage. Said his take on the handshake was that it looked accidental. Someone snatched her bag and Simon stopped them. Hopefully Anne will shift up a gear once she’s had her moment on TV, then maybe she’ll place the CCTV in its correct context. Tell me about your morning, Helen.’
Ferreira took a deep breath and let it out. ‘Akinsanya ‘Ali’ Odebefemi. The number on the scrap of paper is his club, MadHatters. Of course talking to Ali to find out why his number was hidden in a child’s photo frame has been problematic. The guy has completely vanished.’