“You sly little bastard,” Phillips smiled. “What about the wedding ring?”
“From the stupid drunk I helped after he fell over in the middle of the street.”
“And there’s me thinking you were just being helpful.”
“What did you manage to snatch?” Richards asked.
Phillips pulled out two wallets.
“That’s it?”
“I’m not as tricky as you. I’m the brains of this operation remember,” Phillips stated.
“But
I
snatched those two,” Richards said. “I only passed them to you because my pockets were filling up.”
“Pick pocketing isn’t my game,” Phillips persisted.
“It was
your
idea.”
“And it worked didn’t it? You’re good enough for both of us.”
Richards sighed and shook his head. A smile creased his lips.
“What about the woman in the fake fur you followed around
Currys
for ten minutes?” Richards wondered.
“I tried,” Phillips pleaded. “She stopped and bent down to look at some games and I managed to slip my hand inside her bag. I even made sure I was in a dead-spot for the cameras and that my eyes and attention were fixed on a PC as not to arouse suspicion.”
“And?”
“That was the problem,” Phillips laughed. “Because I wasn’t looking at what I was doing I ended up stealing this,” he removed a small make-up bag from his jacket.
Richards erupted into laughter.
“I thought I’d stolen her purse at first,” Phillips continued. “I was pleased with myself.”
Richards stifled his laughter, “You’re right,” he said. “Let’s leave the pick pocketing to me.”
58
“Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong with my daddy?” Lisa Price pleaded from the backseat.
Darren Morris shot a blank stare to the passenger side; James Roach shrugged a reply.
“You’ll find out for yourself won’t you?” Morris said softly.
“Is it his stress? Mummy says he’s under a lot of stress.”
“I don’t know.”
“He has a hard job you know.”
“Does he really?”
“He works in a big company,” Lisa explained with pride. “He’s the boss, he controls a lot of other people like you and makes a lot of money. So, was it his stress?”
“I don’t know, maybe he gave himself a fucking hernia carrying his wallet around,” Morris snapped.
The back seat of the BMW fell momentarily silent.
“You swore.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You said the F word,” Lisa persisted.
“I’m a grown up, I’m allowed to swear.”
“You shouldn’t swear in front of children.”
“Who told you that?” Morris wondered as he steered the car through the long roads and into the dismal estate.
“My parents and my teachers.”
“You shouldn’t listen to your teachers.”
“Why not?
They
never swear at me.”
“You’ve never heard a grown up swear?”
“Only on TV.”
“I’ve
been
on TV” Morris said lightly, keen to change the subject.
James Roach looked at his colleague in bemusement.
“Really?” Lisa asked, a smile crossing her face.
“Sure.”
“Which show?”
James Roach smiled; his whisper of: “
Crimewatch,”
was hushed by Morris. “I used to be on
Blue Peter
.”
“No, you didn’t,” Lisa affirmed.
“How do you know?” Morris questioned.
“You don’t look like a
Blue Peter
presenter. You’re old.”
Morris laughed, “I was young once you know.”
“You don’t have the look,” Lisa announced.
“The look?”
“All the presenters look friendly and nice. You look like a criminal.”
Morris laughed again and rolled the car into the car park just outside the dilapidated flats.
“Funny you should say that,” he said calmly.
Roach quickly jumped out of the car and rushed to the back door. A look of concern creased the young girl’s features.
Morris turned towards her, his body arched over the front seat. “Because that’s exactly what I am.”
Before Lisa could scream James Roach had pounced. He yanked open the back door and clasped a strong hand around her fragile mouth. In one movement he yanked her from the car.
Darren Morris calmly climbed out from behind the wheel, locked the BMW, checked around for witnesses and then followed Roach, who roughly dragged the young girl -- her shoes and ankles scraping the pavement -- into the building.
59
Jennifer Rose was conscious and flustered. Her heart drummed heavily inside her chest, her blood buzzed rapidly around her body. She pushed cool air onto her face by wafting a personal hygiene pamphlet back and forth, relishing the icy backdraft.
The school nurse had already seen to her and after checking for wounds --there were none -- the experienced nurse had ordered her to sit down and remain calm.
In front of Jennifer, Howard Price and his wife spoke with a group of plain clothes police officers, to their left, near the door of the school’s conference room, stood the school’s principle.
Lauren Longstaff was a nervous looking woman. Her age torn, wrinkled features reeked of timidity. Her big grey eyes were always alert and observational; she seemed to survey her surroundings with something touching on awe.
Jennifer Rose knew from experience that the anxious exterior exposed nothing true to the real nature of the fifty-five year old. She wasn’t forward but she was stern, not one to start an argument but always one to finish; she never lit up a room with her presence but was always the person everyone turned to when they needed help.
She had lived a hard, draining life. She had been beaten by a husband of ten years, only to watch him die of cancer three years ago; she had never remarried and seemed oblivious to the male sex. She had no children of her own but was devoted to the children in her school. As a young child herself she had been sexually abused by a drunken father, beaten by a mentally ill mother and forced into care at the tender age of thirteen.
Despite this she had strolled through college and university, scoring high paid jobs all the way. She had been to hell and had come back smelling of roses, now hell had returned for another slice.
Her grey eyes scoured the police officers in the room. She looked worried, behind her shy exterior and hardened soul lay a woman who feared deeply for one of her pupils.
Jennifer caught the attention of her superior and walked over to console her.
In the centre of the room Howard Price mulled over the contents of the ransom note. Running and rerunning it through his mind.
“Why were you even called?” he asked the officer in charge.
Detective Inspector Brown glanced at the headmistress who stood close to Jennifer Rose. “Mrs Longstaff called us when she found the letter,” he said with a broad, heavy tone. “She feared for your daughter.”
Howard nodded, “I understand.”
“It’s for the best that we’re here.”
“For the best? They say they’re going to cut her into fucking pieces if we phone the police.”
“It’s just an empty threat Mr Price.”
“What if they’re monitoring the school?”
“We have taken the correct precautions just in case. They shouldn’t suspect a thing either way.”
Howard Price glared at the detective, “You better be fucking right,” he threatened.
“There is nothing to worry about.”
“They have my fucking daughter,” Howard snarled. “Of course there’s something to worry about.”
“I understand that,” the detective replied bluntly. “But you need to keep calm; we’ll do our best to get her back safely.”
Howard snarled and turned his hatred inwards. He paced up and down, glanced at each of the occupants of the room in turn -- all of them shooting him glances of pity -- and then ran a sweaty hand through his thinning hair. He stopped, sighed heavily.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
“You have to phone them, just like the letter states,” the detective looked towards the back of the room where a group of officers were setting up surveillance equipment. “But not just yet, first we need to set up a trace on the phone. If you keep them on the line long enough we might be able to find out their location.”
Howard shook his head in disbelief. The whole situation shocked and scared him; he was petrified, he wanted to retreat and cry, but his mind forced away the pain and replaced it with anger.
He read the letter again.
The ransom note had already been checked for prints by a forensics officer who had since left the scene, only three sets had been found and the detective had quickly assumed the three matches to be: Jennifer Rose, Sarah Connolly and Lauren Longstaff. The prints would be tested anyway.
The whole note had been hand copied onto a sheet of paper torn from a school book -- the original made its way back to the police station for testing. At the bottom of the note was the mobile number Howard had been instructed to phone.
“Sir!” the call came from the back of the room, one of the officers who had been meddling with the surveillance equipment was hooking a set of headphones over his head. “We’re set,” he said.
Howard took in a deep breath and looked towards the phone. Wires and devices streamed out of its rear and led to the equipment used by the officers.
“Mr Price,” the detective said softly. “You can make the call now.”
60
James Roach looked across at Darren Morris who was jabbing the portable television with distaste, trying to find a signal. “Do you think they would have phoned the police?” Roach asked.
“Of course,” Morris said without doubt. “It doesn’t matter, the police won’t be able to help them. They can’t trace us and they can’t stop us at the drop off point for fear that we’ll kill the kid.”
Roach nodded, “I suppose so.”
A muffled scream echoed into the front room, Morris looked towards the bedroom door. Roach immediately rose and walked towards the closed door.
“Leave her!” Morris bellowed.
“She might need something,” Roach said solemnly.
“This isn’t a fucking hotel.”
“We have to take care of her; if we lose her we don’t get paid.”
“She’s only been in there for half an hour and you’ve already checked on her twice.”
Roach walked away from the door.
Lisa Price screamed as loud as she could, she forced all of her body into the action, but the gag around her mouth drowned out most of the noise.
She was finding it hard to breathe past the thick cloth. The room in which they had put her was dark and musty, thick dust clouds hung in the air, billowing from time to time as her breaths escaped the rag and sunk into the dust walls.
Her throat was sore from the shouting but she forced herself into another scream.
No one came. She could hear muffled voices from the room beyond but the raging blood rushing through her head stopped her from deciphering the words of her kidnappers -- it felt like she had pressed an ear to a waterfall.
Her wrist and shins stung, when they had tied her to the mattress they hadn’t taken much care. The string had been tied tight and it not only restricted her movements, but also her blood flow.
Tears dripped down her face and soaked into her hair as she released another scream.
Darren Morris continued to fumble with the portable television set, shouting obscenities at the inanimate object as he poked at the controls. He was oblivious to the young girl’s muffled screams.
James Roach looked towards the door again, then at Darren Morris, then at the CD player lying on the floor. He pondered over what to do but the sound of ringing decided for him.
The mobile phone, left on one of the chairs, burst into life and both men turned their attentions towards it.
Roach looked at Morris, Morris looked at the phone.
Gently putting down the useless portable television, Morris wondered over to the phone and picked it up.
“Howard Price?” he asked.
“This is Howard Price,” the voice at the other end confirmed.
“Excellent,” Morris said without enthusiasm.
“What do you want?” Price asked bluntly, his voice devoid of emotion and drained of life.
“Money, you fucking rich bastard, what do you think?”
“Listen to me--”
“No, you listen to me,” Morris said, cutting in. “This is my fucking time to shine. I want one million in cash, unmarked notes.”
“I can pay, just please don’t--”
“I know you can pay Mr Price and that’s exactly what you’ll do. You have until tomorrow night to cough up the cash, any later and I’ll slit your daughter’s throat, understood?”
“Understood.”
“Phone me on this number when you have the money. Any later than eight tomorrow night and I’ll be sending your little Lisa back to you in bits,” Morris warned in a composed voice.
“Please don’t hurt her,” Howard pleaded, his anger turning to worry.
“You know the score Mr Price, pay up and she’ll be fine. You have my word.”
“Can I hear her?” Howard asked.
“
Excuse me?
”
“Let me hear her, I need to know she’s okay.”
“We’re on a limited time budget here,” Morris replied placidly. “No can do I’m afraid.”
“I need to know she’s all right,” Price said in a demanding tone.
“How about I slit her fucking throat and you can listen to her scream?” Morris snapped with venom.
“No, please...” Howard prayed. “Don’t hurt her.”
“Get the money Mr Price and you have my word,” Morris killed the conversation.
61
Howard Price had managed to restrain himself throughout the phone call, but afterwards he cried. He hurt inside and he felt the need to let it all out. Elizabeth, still in tears herself, walked up to him and wrapped her arms around him.
Detective Inspector Brown, who had been listening in to the conversation, removed his headphones. “Do you have access to that amount of money?” he asked.
“Of course,” Howard said with tears pouring down his cheeks.
“Do you think you will be able to withdraw so much before tomorrow?”
He nodded.
The detective turned to the other police officers and began dishing out orders.