“Do you think she’s going to be okay?” Elizabeth asked Howard.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” He said, wiping away his wife’s tears whilst his own traced rivers down his face. “She’s a strong girl.”
The two embraced. Howard forced back the tears, feeling ashamed for succumbing to weakness when his daughter needed him to be strong.
“Did you get a trace?” Howard asked the detective.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Now what?” He wanted to know as he continued to hug his wife.
“We suggest you get in touch with your bank, Mr Price. Withdraw the money, and then phone them back and arrange a drop off point.”
“I don’t want fucking sharpshooters and trigger happy coppers anywhere near my daughter or me,” He warned. “I’ll pay them the money and get my daughter back, after that you can do what you like. I’m not taking any risks with this.”
“We understand. We won’t put the lives of you or your daughter at risk but we need to monitor the situation so we can catch them after the switch is made.”
62
Michael Richards twirled the stolen wedding band around his finger, the thick ring spun effortlessly around the skinny digit.
“We should do that more often,” Phillips said as he approached Richards with a pint of lager in one hand and a glass of
Coke
in the other.
“Do what?” Richards asked, as if awakening from a trance.
“Pocket shopping,” Phillips reiterated.
“It’s theft.”
“And?”
“We’re conmen.”
“Shut your shit Mickey,” Phillips blurted, taking a seat on the chair next to him. “There’s not much difference and we’re good at both.”
“We can make more from pulling cons,” Richards argued.
Phillips sighed and took a long drink from his cold lager, delighting in its soothing taste.
The small pub was virtually empty. A short barmaid sat on a stool behind the bar, reading a glossy magazine with unflinching concentration. She had served Phillips with a look of strained distaste on her face, taking his money without a word or a smile.
A man in his late seventies sat in the corner with his head buried in a copy of
The Racing Times
, He had a pint on the small oval table in front of him and a radio offering insights and commentary of the day’s racing.
“I keep telling you Mickey, the tricks don’t come along every day.”
“But when they do we make a fucking fortune.”
“Maybe, but we could make the same from pulling the sort off shit we did today. Why are you so against it?”
“I don’t want to end up in jail. We’re close to getting what we want; we have a lot to lose.”
“We won’t get caught,” Phillips assured. “And anyway, you fucking loved it today, we used to pull off shit like that all the time when we were kids, you revelled in it. You had the same glint in your eyes today.”
Richards smiled, “Okay, I admit, I fucking loved every second of it.”
“It’s an easy ride.”
“Maybe,” Richards said with a touch of belief.
“You sure you don’t want a pint?” Phillips asked, noting the glass of
Coke
in front of Richards.
“I’ve got to drive us back don’t I?”
“You can have
one
.”
“No, I’ll have a couple tonight when we get back.”
Phillips nodded, “Ever been to this place before?” he asked as his eyes swept over the insides of the pub which had been less than a five minute drive from the market.
“No,” Richards said bluntly. “Doesn’t look up to much does it?”
“It’s quiet and there’s a pool table in the back.”
“Is there?”
“Yeah, through the glass door next to the bar,” Phillips said. “I spotted it when that miserable bitch was serving me. It’s empty in there too.”
Richards nodded, “How much do you think Shoddy Simon will give us for the watch and the ring?”
“Not much,” Phillips said placidly. “Probably two hundred for the pair. The bastard will no doubt shift them for next to a five hundred.”
“That would make a total of two and a half grand,” Richards said with a sly smile curling his lips. “Not bad for a day’s work.”
“Shame we can’t get much use out of all the credit cards,” Phillips noted. “With the overdraft limits the fuckers have nowadays we could get about a hundred grand off all of them. Simon will pay peanuts.”
“Don’t go getting any ideas.”
Phillips merely smiled. He stood up and picked up his pint glass, “Come on then Mickey. I’ll give you a few games of pool.”
63
Evening drifted in. The block of flats stood motionless on the bleak horizon, noises from inside the building petered out through the mould infestered walls. The outside of the building was empty; a collection of youths loitered near the shops further down the hill, and smaller group of youths dawdled around in the park in between the two locations, drinking and smoking.
Inside the second flat on the first floor James Roach jabbed away with amateur intent at the buttons on the DS. A game of football ensued on the small screen of the handheld console; a player lit by a blue ring ran wildly about in distorted directions, before scoring an own goal and trying to tackle the referee.
“I can’t get to grips with this thing,” he muttered.
Darren Morris -- putting aside a mystery novel he was struggling to enjoy -- looked across at his colleague. “Have you ever played a computer game before?” he asked.
“Does
Pong
count?”
Morris laughed, “Just keep playing, you’ll get the hang of it,” he said with little belief.
“How’s the book?” Roach asked, putting the miniature console to one side.
“Fucking shite,” Morris snarled. “Not really in the mood for reading anyway,” he admitted.
“Television still fucked?”
“Yes.”
“You should have bought a new one. They’re not that expensive.”
“This one works,” Morris insisted. “I had it on the other week, it must be this area,” Morris looked around him as if to concur with his statement. “It’s fucking dead.”
As he finished speaking a muffled scream floated from the bedroom into the living room -- both men exchanged glances as a sombre note washed over them.
“Do you think Price will have the money?” Roach asked.
“He’s loaded, he has it.” Morris was sure.
“You think he will get it for us by tomorrow?”
“Why not?”
“It’s a lot of money to get in twenty-four hours.”
“We’re not asking him to
make
a million in twenty-four hours James; we just want him to withdraw it.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Morris smiled, “When have I ever let you down?” he replied with a grin.
Roach shook his head with a smile spreading across his face. Picking up the handheld console he continued with his hopeless task. “Why didn’t we ask for more?” he said.
“More?”
“More money. You said he’s rich and he won’t have any problems withdrawing the money. So why not ask for more?”
“We agreed upon a million James,” Morris reminded his colleague.
“I know, and that’s enough money. That’s
a lot
of money don’t get me wrong. I was just wondering.”
“Because we need to be sure of a quick turnover. If we asked for five million we couldn’t be sure he would have access to that amount of money and we’d need to give him more time to get it. People with that much money don’t keep it all to hand; they put it in offshore accounts and what not. The same goes with two, three, four million. One million is an accessible amount for him; it’s big enough for us to retire on and small enough to hide.”
“Good point,” Roach conceded.
Darren Morris looked at his watch. “He has twenty-six hours exactly.”
64
Howard Price watched a slideshow of various programs exchange places on the plasma screen in front of him.
Without realising it he had managed to flick through the whole range of satellite stations and none had registered in his mind; he was staring hard but his mind was on other things.
Pressing the back button on the remote control he recycled through the channels, his mind still oblivious to what they offered.
Elizabeth Price sat next to him, her arm in his, her head resting lightly on his shoulder.
A detective had followed Howard and Elizabeth home. He had stayed with them for two hours whilst a number of plain clothes officers checked over Lisa’s things. They scanned her computer, her diary, and her school books and checked all the phone calls she had made.
Nothing appeared to be out of place.
The detective had received a call from the forensics team whilst he was in the house, the call was to confirm the fingerprints found on the letter. None were from the kidnappers.
The detective had moved on after ordering a car to watch the house and another to patrol the perimeter at regular intervals. Before leaving he had also informed them that young Sarah Connolly had given them a photo fit of one of the kidnappers, but her description had been too vague.
“What did the bank say?” Elizabeth asked.
“I’ll have the money by tomorrow morning,” Price answered. His voice seemed empty, almost hollow.
Elizabeth nodded and kissed him on the cheek, “She’s going to be okay isn’t she?”
“Of course she is,” Howard guaranteed. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll give them the money and we’ll get our baby back.”
“What if something goes wrong?” Elizabeth wanted to know. “The police are involved, what if the kidnappers find out?”
“They won’t find out. The police will work on the side-lines. They promised not to make a move until Lisa was safe.”
“What if they hurt her anyway?”
“Why would they do that?” Howard asked, his wife’s red eyes were brimming with tears again. “They’re in this for the money. To them, Lisa
is
the money, if they lose her they won’t get anything.”
“I’m scared,” Elizabeth admitted.
Howard held her close, “Me too darling,” he said in a comforting voice. “Me too.”
65
Lisa Price was lost.
It had been dark for so long that she had completely lost track of time. She was still in the same dusty room, on the same heavy mattress that she had been tied to since her arrival.
She had been visited a few times by one of the men. The quiet one who hadn’t spoken to her outside the school or in the car, but the same one who had dragged her from the back seat and tied her to the mattress.
At the beginning his visits had been numerous. He had been to see her twice at the start of her ordeal, just to quench her thirst and tell her that she was going to be okay.
After that his visits had been less frequent.
The other man had been to see her once. He wasn’t as pleasant and didn’t seem to care much about her; he walked in to tell her to shut up, before turning down her demands for a glass of water.
The nicer man walked through the door to pay her another visit.
Roach shut the bedroom door behind him and flicked on a small lamp inside the room, illuminating the young girl on the bed but keeping his features greyed.
He sat on the edge of the bed, took off Lisa’s gag and offered her water through a sports bottle. She opened her mouth to gladly accept the fluid and he slowly squirted the warm liquid into the dry orifice. He made sure the water dripped from the bottle at a steady pace, to stop her from choking.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly as he pulled the bottle away.
“I’m going to untie you for a bit,” he told her. “Remain calm, okay?”
Lisa nodded and Roach released the ties. Her wrists bore deep red marks where the string had been tightly tied. She rubbed at the marks, wincing as her fingers trailed the fresh flesh wounds.
James Roach noticed her concern and squirted some of the water onto the wounds. Lisa looked at him wearily and then dabbed at the water with her sleeve, allowing it to soothe into the wounds.
Sitting upright Lisa took the bottle of water from her captor and gratefully drained half of its contents before taking a small breath and swallowing another two mouthfuls.
“Here,” Roach handed her a bar of chocolate. “You need to eat.”
Lisa studied him unsurely and then traced her eyes over the unwrapped bar of chocolate. She snatched it out of his hands and chomped into the sugary treat.
“When will you let me go home?” she asked.
“You’ll be home soon,” Roach said in a pleasant, calming voice.
“Is my daddy okay?”
“Your daddy is fine.”
“You said he was in hospital,” Lisa’s concerned gaze eyed Roach over the top of the chocolate bar.
“We lied.”
Lisa stared at her captor, acknowledged this information with a subtle nod and then continued: “Why am I here?”
“Business matters.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your daddy owes us some money,” Roach attempted to explain.
“Why don’t you just ask him to pay you back? He has a lot of money, he would pay,” Lisa explained, hoping she could resolve this situation with some advice of her own.
“Perhaps, but we need to be sure.”
She nodded again and swilled some of the water around her mouth before swallowing it. “Do I have to sleep here?”
“I’m afraid so,” Roach said. “But we’ll try to look after you.”
“You’re evil men,” Lisa blurted.
Roach nodded. He couldn’t argue with that.
“I miss my mummy and daddy.”
“I know you do.”
Lisa finished the chocolate and drained the remains of the water before handing the empty bottle back to Roach.
“Are you going to tie me up again?” she asked in a defeated tone.
“I’m afraid so.”
66
Johnny Phillips and Michael Richards remained in the same pub all evening, most of its tables remained unoccupied. The old man and his copy of
The Racing Times
had left three hours ago, only to be replaced by a drunken duplicate.
The new old man also carried a radio and a newspaper, he seemed to be wearing the same clothes and his face was as equally wrinkled, only he was a lot more inebriated. Within five minutes of the sober clone walking purposefully out of the pub, the alcoholic one stumbled inside.