Scare Me (14 page)

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

Will pumped the soap dispenser in the Bowling alley's bathroom and kept the laptop clamped tightly between his legs while he scrubbed his face. It was 11.24am and he'd been surprised to find the place open. A few groups of adults had staked out lanes and had turned in his direction when he'd stolen in. He could hear the thud and trickle of balls impacting pins as he dried with a paper towel. Three men wearing the same blue, bowling shirts entered and stood at the stall with their backs to him.

He wasn't sure how far he'd driven from the house. Not far enough, but he had to clean off every trace of blood. This would be remembered though, stranger washing himself in public bathroom. He wondered how long it would be before they found the bodies in Pepperwood Springs. How many of these people would be able to describe him? He kept his head bowed as the men peeled away from the urinals and left without washing their hands.

Holt Amberson, St Louis business entrepreneur, Richard Strick, Lieutenant Governor of Maryland. This was high profile homicide that seemed anything but random.

At first he'd believed the retrieval of Libby's belongings had been a perverse amusement for whoever was holding her. Now he suspected there was a larger significance to what he was being forced to do.

He'd had no dealings with either man, business or otherwise, and while he tried to figure out which extended contacts the three of them might have shared he couldn't dislodge the faces of the new victims from his mind. What had happened to their child?

He rubbed vigorously at his cheek with another towel.

He felt revulsion for himself because Luke hadn't entered his thoughts. He had to be just as terrified. But his mind could barely handle the concept of losing the two people closest to him. Carla would never survive if Libby weren't returned.

His cheek tingled, the dead woman's last breath still on him. That felt like it had happened to someone else, not to the familiar face squinting in the mirror under the strip lights. He was being forced to look while the victims appeared to be punished for refusing to see. Covering their eyes, heads buried in the sand, looking the other way.

His past seemed to stretch back into darkness; as if nothing existed before the task he'd been set. But he was profoundly aware that Libby had been taken long before his first glimpse of the Ambersons. He visualised her, gagged and bound, waiting all the time since he'd left the UK.

He looked away from his reflection to a chunk of emulsion chipped off the wall beside it. He grappled for who he was before Libby's abduction. Recalled a time when paint flakes and all they had come to signify had been his only source of dread.

In his parents house the walls had been constantly stripped. A new colour scarcely had chance to get dirty before a blowtorch bubbled it off the woodwork and a new shade was applied. His mother and father had been pathological about decorating the property. It was how he'd spent many a weekend, holding the ladder for his father or halfway up it putting another coat on the ledges. The family's façade always had to be pristine for the neighbours.

Pipe smoke would constantly drift over him and he'd splutter, his father casting him weary glances before returning to daub whichever wall or guttering needed attention. It baffled Will. They painted everything in rotation, covering each side of the house until they were back where they started. Will found bristles he'd left in his previous handiwork barely set. He could have measured his childhood with a colour chart.

It was the only activity they shared but, far from it connecting them in any way, it merely served to emphasise the gulf between them. His father used the radio as a barrier during those afternoons. Will would try to tune out whichever turgid play was being broadcast and his father would frown intently in an attempt to repel any conversation. He listened to the radio at no other time. Even at such a young age, Will recognised the ramparts his father constructed against showing him any approval or affection.

It seemed like such a dusty and suffocating corner of his past. The breadth of the life he'd made with Carla jarred so severely with it that it seemed like a different age rather than three decades ago. But despite how far he'd come he knew it was the trappings of his new life that had made Libby a target.

He looked at himself again and tried to locate a vestige of courage in the face that stared back. As he'd got older, the resemblance to his father had deepened. They shared the same look of earnest conviction, but he drew his from a different reservoir to his father. He wondered what the depth of his emotions would have been if Will had been taken.

He felt a harsh pinch in his gut. Whatever he'd jolted wanted him to know it needed immediate attention.

 

“That's quite all right, Mrs Frost. I've got more than enough to catch up on while Will's away. Somebody's got to keep an eye on things.”

Although Nissa finished the statement with a tight-lipped smile Carla couldn't work out if she was hiding something behind it. “It's a lovely afternoon outside. Surely you've better things to be doing with Keiron and the children.” Carla had unlocked the door as casually as she could to speak to her, but knew that her small concessions to normality wouldn't compensate for the rest of her erratic behaviour.

“He's taken them to his parents in Deal today so they won't be back until this evening. I'd only be at a loose end.”

“It's a perfect day to work from home.”

“I've got to cover the phones.”

“I'll be here.”

Nissa opened her mouth to object again.

“I'd rather work here alone.” Carla said it more firmly than she intended.

Nissa decided against any further protest. “OK,” she articulated as if it categorically wasn't. She removed her specs and fixed Carla. “I'll be finished up here in an hour then.”

“I'd like you to leave now…please.” Carla didn't move from her position at the door.

“Have you spoken to Will?” Nissa's Northern Irish accent was suddenly heavy and sceptical and she didn't rise from her seat.

“Yes. Just earlier.” Why the hell was she justifying herself to this woman? “He's on holiday. Everything will have to wait until he gets back.”

“Do we know when that will be? And I thought you said it was family business?”

It didn't matter that lack of sleep had loosened her grip on which lies she'd told. She wasn't about to be grilled by Nissa on top of everything else. “I don't have time for this. Take the rest of the day off and tomorrow I'd like you to report to the Remada ops room. You can take Will's calls there.” She turned and strode back into the office slamming the door behind her again. She seated herself at Will's desk and although she didn't look up from the monitor could see Nissa's movement in her peripheral vision. A minute later she was gone.

Carla didn't allow herself any relief. Nissa's presence underlined just how alone she was and her departure only meant she would have to interact with anyone else who came into the office.

As if to emphasise this, the phone started ringing in reception. It looked like Nissa had forgotten to switch it to voicemail. Carla ignored the phone, but it kept ringing until she began to wonder who would wait so long for a response. She marched back out of the office and seized it.

“Hi, it's Lucile in reception.”

“This is Mrs Frost. I don't want any more calls to my husband's office.”

“Sorry, Mrs Frost, it's just there's a gentleman who's very insistent. I think he's a crank. He's been trying to contact you. Says it's an emergency. I've told him we don't give out private numbers, but he keeps calling back.”

“My husband is unobtainable.”

“Actually, it's you he wants to speak to. Keeps asking me to pass on the same message and says only you'll understand it.”

Apprehension slithered across her back. “Me? What was the message?”

“He keeps saying he wants to help you with your house-to-house calls.”

Carla felt her face drain cold. She hadn't expected them to speak to her direct. Having repeatedly dialled the number she'd been convinced they only wanted contact with Will. How could she converse with the person who'd taken Libby? How was she supposed to talk with whoever had drugged and stripped and photographed her and murdered the families Will had found?

“Mrs Frost?”

“Put him on.”

“You're sure?”

“Put him on.” Her lips barely repeated the words. She waited, trying to swallow a bolus of apprehension as Lucile patched him through.

“Mrs Frost?” He had an American accent.

“Speaking.”

“Please don't be alarmed. My name is Teddy Pope. I'm a TV reporter with Channel 55.”

She didn't register what he'd said.

“I know this is a time of great stress for you, but I believe I can help.”

Carla felt her body shrink around the phone. “Who is this?”

“Please don't hang up. I know your daughter has been taken.”

Carla shook her head. “No…my daughter has not been taken.”

“She has. We both know it. Please spare us both the time neither of us have.” His voice was even, reasonable. “She's been abducted and your husband is following the instructions of the kidnappers via a website.”

How did she know she wasn't actually talking to one of the kidnappers? Was this a test? How should she react? “If this is a practical joke...” She tried to put some starch in her voice even though she felt instantly debilitated by the notion of someone in the media being privy to what was happening.

“Mrs Frost, at this moment only I'm aware of what your situation is and I know you'll want to do everything in your power to keep it that way. I can help you, but if you refuse to open a dialogue with me now my next call will be to a major network.” He waited for her reaction. “At this stage, I know that's something neither of you want. Am I hanging up?”

“Wait.” Carla closed her eyes and inhaled. “If what you're saying about my daughter is true…”

He breathed hard his end.

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because you don't have a choice.” His impatience softened. “I can't begin to imagine what you're going through at this moment, Mrs Frost. The implications of a human story like this aside, I'm already neglecting my civic duty to report the details I have of multiple homicides to the cops. How I came by the story is immaterial. I just thought I'd contact you first to see if we could come to an arrangement.”

“You know who my husband is.”

“I do now.”

“Then you'll understand that he can better any money you stand to make from this.”

“That's not why I made the call.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 

He'd had myriad similar conversations before, but the mother's obvious distress and desperation to silence him threatened to filter through the barrier Pope erected to keep himself detached. He shifted in his car seat. “This is about exclusivity, Mrs Frost.” He tried to remain assertive. “I appreciate I'm an unwanted presence, but that's now academic. The public at large have a right to know about this threat, but I realise that will endanger your daughter's life. As it's a time-sensitive situation we can iron everything else out later.” He cleared his throat quickly. “Firstly, believe me, I'd like to see a positive resolution to this as much as you.”

“Spare me the bullshit.” Her response was solid contempt.

Pope observed Weaver moving to the front of the line in the gas station. He'd given him his credit card and he was liberally hoovering up snacks from the display while he waited his turn. “I'll hold back on informing the cops or anyone else as long as I can.”

“That's no guarantee.”

“What I mean is that I'll do my utmost to maintain confidentiality, but I obviously can't compromise myself.”

“God forbid.” She seemed to check herself and reined in her antipathy. “Mr Pope, this is my child's life you're bartering with.”

“Mrs Frost, I have a professional duty, but I do want to help.”

“You still haven't told me what you want.”

“I'd like to cover the story as it develops… at a discreet distance.”

“You're going to follow my husband with a TV crew?” Starkly and caustically stated, the proposition sounded ludicrous. “And that will be your guarantee of confidentiality?”

“Either we do or a whole media bandwagon will. Like I say, my involvement is inevitable. But I'd much rather do this exclusively and with your blessing–”

“Blessing? This is pure blackmail. Just give me the figure that'll keep you a hundred miles away from anything to do with this. I can promise you any verbal agreement we have now will be honoured.”

“We've already been over that.” His eyes followed Weaver's progress as he jogged back from the cashier. “I want to stay in contact with you. We'll be watching the site, but I'd like to be informed of any other developments. I know that your only concern is your daughter's wellbeing at this point, but I'll have questions that could help us both – all pertinent to her safe return, of course. Are the kidnappers talking to you on the phone?”

She exhaled heavily and eventually said: “No.”

“Where did they snatch your daughter?”

“She was taken in Penang. We assume she's still in Thailand.”

“Do you know the residents of any of the homes on the route Mr Frost is being directed along?”

“Not apart from our own.”

“And which is yours?”

“The very last one.”

“So why is it part of a virtual street?”

“I genuinely don't know and don't have time to speculate.”

“Understood. We can cover everything in later interviews.”

He heard a sound, her end, as if she were absently tapping the table while she considered her options.

“I don't want you to have any contact with my husband,” she said, emotion suddenly absent.

Pope knew about her background. It was obvious she'd use all the skills at her disposal to protect her daughter. “Agreed.” Pope didn't have to concede to anything, but he knew he should give her the impression he was capitulating. It would ease the way for the negotiations to come.

“I'm to be your only point of contact. Who else but you knows about this?”

“Just me.”

Weaver climbed back into the driver's seat and dumped several packs of beef jerky onto the dash. He tore into a fresh stash of nicotine gum.

“Keep it that way and you can have anything you want, exclusive interviews, whatever. If your coverage puts my daughter's life at further risk, Ingram will bury you alive.”

He ignored the threat. “Thank you, Mrs Frost, I'll need a direct line to you, of course.”

She gave him a number, reluctantly releasing each digit as if it were an intimate secret. Then she jotted down the number he gave her. “I strongly advise you to think about a figure in the meantime. Your credibility here's not going to last very long.”

“Please believe me, my prayers are with your daughter.”

She rang off.

“She on board?” Weaver clicked his seatbelt into place.

“Of course she is,” Pope said dispassionately. Their exchange had brought everything he'd wanted, but he didn't feel satisfied by the outcome. She was a mother terrified for her daughter's safety. Why wouldn't she be?

Weaver gunned the engine and pulled out of the gas station.

Why not just call back and give her the figure? It would be exactly what she wanted to hear. His silence to her was probably worth much more than any network would offer for the story. Plus, if someone else found the website he'd have nothing.

He considered what he could do with the sort of money she'd pay. The time he had to make good on it was severely limited. But that would mean he'd be one step away from being a kidnapper himself.

 

Carla stood stock-still in the office, her hand still planted on the replaced receiver. How was it possible to wish for the situation she'd had a couple of minutes ago instead of the one she had now? Libby and her baby's life were now in the hands of the media as well as the kidnappers.

If a TV news reporter on the other side of the Atlantic knew exactly what was going on, how many others did? Her one hope was that his venality would make him call straight back. If she agreed to pay him he'd have to do everything in his power to keep Libby's kidnapping a secret. As the situation was it was inevitable his presence would attract even more unwanted attention and she couldn't allow that to happen.

She wasn't about to tell Will. Not with everything he had to endure already. She would handle Pope. This was something she could take care of. Carla suddenly needed to open a window, but all of the panes in the office were sealed. She turned the air con right up and even though the draught tasted stale the cold blast partially revived her.

While she waited for Will to call she opened up a search and did a quick background check on Teddy Pope.

 

It was like his blackened finger. Although he knew it would be painful Tam couldn't resist squeezing the nail.

His grandmother had retired early and was sleeping in his room. Tomorrow was a working day so his parents weren't far behind. His bed was the pull out couch that evening. He fed his hamster and waited until he was sure he could identify three different snores. Then Tam climbed onto the fire escape through the window in front of the dining table. It was still dusk when he dropped down onto the street, but he knew he'd have to retrace most of his familiar route in the dark.

He couldn't stop thinking of the girl and Skinny Man who'd observed her from his chair. Did she need to be guarded? Was she really that dangerous? Listening to his father, Tam guessed there was much she needed to be punished for. But when he'd knelt in front of the cage and watched her breathing he hadn't felt scared at all. How much longer would she be there? Maybe if he delayed his next visit she'd be gone.

He'd taken handfuls of what remained of dinner from the refrigerator – the stuffed leaves, cold noodles and salad – and put them in his lunchboxes. The stack of metal canisters secured by a clip and swinging from the handle in his sweaty palm scraped the wall as he thudded through the passage.

He expected it to be easier this time. As he told himself that this would be the last time he'd visit the girl in the cage a sensation sitting heavily on the food in his gut seemed to know it for sure.

He got waves of the same bloated feeling when he saw the mushroom exterior of the factory again and then when he dangled his legs over the corrugated gates. Was he pushing his luck?