Consequence (21 page)

“The only difference to the life you have now is the sun,” Roach said with a smile.

Morris laughed, “That’s true. How about you?” he asked.

“Not too sure to be honest. I sorted out a place to secure the cash but never thought about what I’d spend it on. I could do with a new car I guess.”

“Think big. Fine hundred grand and all you want is a car?”

“Well, I’d like a huge mansion but with today’s house prices even half a million won’t cover that.”

“You can pick up a nice big house somewhere away from the inner cities.”

“I always liked the idea of living in the states,” Roach mused dreamily. “I could do with a nice big villa in Florida, but I’ll need a fucking green card if I want to live there…I guess I’ve got time to mull it over anyway.”

Morris nodded, “You have plenty of time to think about it,” he said. “Plenty of time to lose that wife of yours too. Think of all the pussy you’ll be able to pull over there,” he added with a wink.

69

Howard Price glared at the titanium suitcase in resentment. It’s practically indestructible exterior shone diamond-like as the glints of sunshine screamed through the cuts in the living room blinds and glazed its surface.

Beneath the thick exterior and the two steel combination locks, housed in darkness inside the thick suitcase, was one million pounds in fifty pound notes; all neatly stacked in bundles of fifty-thousand.

He despised every sheet of paper that bore the Queens head. This was the wealth that endangered his daughter, these stacks of painted, rectangle paper were the reason he wasn’t sure if his daughter was alive or dead. His wealth, his status, his money, the things he had worked so hard to achieve in his lifetime, had let him down and robbed him of his daughter’s safety.

“Anxious?” Detective Inspector Brown chewed slowly on a wad of gum and eyed up Howard Price.

“Not really sure.”

“You have every right to be anxious Mr Price--”

“Really? Oh well thank you, now that I know that I can really let my fucking hair down eh?”

“If you would let me finish Mr Price,” the detective asserted. “You have every right to be anxious,
but
, you should know that we will strive to make sure you and your daughter are safe. We are behind you all the way.”

“A long fucking way behind me,” Howard mumbled. “I don’t want you lot fucking this up.”

“I can assure--”

“You can’t assure me anything; you can just lie and tell me what I want to hear, but I’ll tell you one thing...” he snarled and took a step closer to the officer. “If you or any of your officers start shooting, I’ll hold
you
fully responsible.”

The two men held each other’s stares.

“Was that a threat?”

“Just keep your distance.”

“Guaranteed,” the detective smiled and walked away, leaving Howard alone with the suitcase.

The living room of the Price house was brimming with police officers. A selection of technicians dabbled with phone equipment at the back of the room, in front of them five plain clothes officers buzzed; one took notes, one studied photographs, another read over some letters, the other two stood drinking a cup of steaming tea as they admired the photos and drawings that decorated the walls.

“Want one dear?” Elizabeth asked, holding a plate of sandwiches invitingly in front of her husband.

“I’m not really that hungry.”

“Go on, there’s plenty.”

“I’m sure there is but I’m still getting over breakfast.”

“You hardly ate breakfast. There was loads left over.”

“That’s because you cooked enough for five hundred.”

“Nonsense.”

Howard looked at his wife’s face. Despite the depression and anxiety of the moment she had attached a look of ignorant calm to her features, standing by the notion that if she didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t hurt her. It seemed to be working, although the ten milligrams of Diazepam she had swallowed with breakfast also played its part.

“What’s in them anyway?” Howard asked, merely for amusement.

“Ham and mustard--”

“I don’t like ha--”

“And these ones have cheese and jam,” she continued. “
These
ones are egg. And there’s tuna and mayonnaise in the kitchen.”

“I’m not really that hungry.”

“Do you want a cup of tea then?”

Howard paused. The sandwich plate was still in his face and he could smell the wall of English mustard pushing at him. All the police officers, except the detective, had taken advantage of Elizabeth’s generosity -- some still munched on sandwiches and collected more from the manic sedated woman who danced around the living room like a Stepford wife with a short circuit.

“I’ll have a cup of coffee,” Howard said.

Elizabeth smiled, nodded, and then retired to the kitchen.

When she left his side Detective Brown ghosted in front of him. In his right hand Howard spotted a cordless phone, taken from his own living room. Behind the detective the technicians had stopped fiddling with the phone base; their attentions were firmly fixed on Howard.

A deathly silence fell over the room, interrupted by the silent whirring of a kettle in the kitchen.

The detective held the phone in his outstretched palm, “It’s time to make the call,” he instructed.

70

The sound of the ringing phone silenced both occupants in the room; one watched whilst the other answered.

“Hello...what...no-….no-…look! You fucking twat, I don’t want another mobile phone. I don’t care how many fucking free minutes you’re going to give me…stop swearing? You phoned me, you invaded
my
fucking privacy. Give me your home phone number…why? So I can phone you when you’re at home and annoy the fuck out of
you
that’s why. Who the fuck do you think you are--”

Johnny Phillips paused, his mouth open in mid-argument. He grumbled, dropped the phone onto the arm of the sofa and threw his body onto the plush leather. “The fucker hung up on me,” he blurted.

Richards grinned from the comfort of the armchair, “Are you surprised? You swore at him, poor sod is just doing his job.”

“Telesales isn’t a fucking job; a job requires skill, talent, or at least the ability to do something that most can’t. Anyone can dial a list of numbers and repeat the same bullshit patter.”

“Not
anyone
.”

Phillips raised his eyebrows

“A deaf-mute for instance,” Richards said. “You can’t make a telephone call if you can’t speak, and you can’t clinch the sale if you can’t hear.”

“The majority of them can’t speak English,
they
manage all right.”

Richards shrugged. He rose from the armchair, grabbed a game controller and sat back down. He used the wireless controller to bring the console into life. The documentary vanished and was replaced by a screen displaying various trademarks and designs.

Phillips took another controller from the back of the sofa, wedged behind a cushion.

“People with no hands,” Richards said randomly.

“What?”

“Telesales. If you have no hands you can’t dial a phone can you?”

“Can’t say I’ve tried.”

“Goes without saying.”

“You could use a stick.”

“How would you hold it?”

Phillips pondered this briefly, “An attachment maybe, like a hook, but, well... a stick.”

“You would get a stick implanted into your
stub
, just so you could use a phone?”

“You could use it for other things,” Phillips bargained.

“Like?”

“Pointing.”

“Pointing?”

“You know, like a school teacher or one of them dicks who stands in front of the orchestra and waves a stick around.”

“Still limited career choices though,” Richards reasoned.

“It beats a hook. Imagine trying to wank with one of them things.”

“I have the image of a handless mute operating as a teacher and a composer in my head. The last thing I need is someone masturbating with a hook.”

“Makes you wonder though doesn’t it?” Phillips said almost sombrely.

“Wonder what? How they wank? How they pick their nose? How they wipe their arses, how they finger their girlfriends, hold their children, play the drums?”

“No…but,” Phillips’s face creased with thoughtful amusement as he mulled over what had just been said. “Although that’s some thought provoking information right there. I mean, why don’t they get a giant Swiss army knife attached instead? They could have the works on there: a knife, corkscrew, scissors, tweezers, mini torch, nail file. They’d be like
Inspector Gadget
, the idea of it makes losing a hand seem appealing.”

“Why would someone with no hands want a nail file?”

“I meant people with just one hand missing.”

“Hmm.”

The game loaded up on the television screen and the console exploded into life, both men leant forward, their controllers grasped, poised for the off.

“Enough of the intellectual conversation,” Richards said. “It’s time to kick your arse.”

71

Morris waited for the mobile phone to ring twice before he acted. Roach, sitting opposite, looked on anxiously.

“Good Afternoon,” Morris picked up the phone and spoke in a pleasant voice, devoid of tension.

“I have the money,” Howard Price said immediately, his voice dry and almost whimpered. “Now I want my daughter back.”

“All in good time Mr Price. I want you to pack the money into a black duffel bag or rucksack,” Morris instructed.

“It’s in a titanium case,” Howard said sharply. “Practically indestructible.”

“A titanium case? You expect me to lug one million quid around in a titanium case? Did you bring the sign along as well?”

“Sign?”

“The one that says, ‘
look at me I’m up to no good and I’m carrying something incredibly valuable’
. The money needs to be stuffed into a bag.”

“Okay.”

“Tell the coppers not to come within one hundred feet of the drop-off or I’ll cut your little bitch up and flush her down the toilet along with the other crap.”

“The police are not involved,” Howard lied.

“Don’t fucking bullshit me Mr Price, you’re not dealing with an amateur, you are dealing with someone who has your daughter and doesn’t give a fuck whether she lives or dies; choose your lies carefully.”

Howard paused, “The police won’t come anywhere near the scene,” he assured.

“You better fucking make sure they don’t,” Morris warned. “At four this afternoon you are to come alone to Roucester Park.”

Howard nodded to himself. He knew the place well, he used to take Lisa there as a child. It was dotted with trees and vast amounts of foliage, some days they would climb a small tree and sit amongst the bed of leaves and watch the day drift away.

“Okay,” he confirmed.

“We will have people watching the roads leading into the park and the park itself, so don’t try anything cocky. This isn’t your day to be a hero, okay?”

“I just want my daughter back.”

“Slowly walk twice around the basketball courts and sit down by the net closest to the road. Wait there for five minutes and then leave -- leaving the bag by the net. I want to see you in your car, driving away from the scene within three minutes okay?”

“Understood.”

“Have a nice day,” Morris hung up the phone, tossed it onto the couch and shot Roach a row of pearly whites, “We’re sorted.”

72

Despite Howard’s timid composure on the phone, when the line went dead his eyes fired red and he shot an evil glance at the detective, “He fucking knows you’re here,” he bellowed.

The detective -- who had been listening into the call via a set of headphones -- looked at Howard with an apologetic smile. “It was an educated guess.”

“How the fuck do you know?” Howard demanded.

“There was no one watching the school and there is no one watching the house. Both were checked before we arrived and after we left. He called your bluff Mr Price. He knows we’d get involved despite his warnings.”

“How?”

“My guess is that this is not their first time. We don’t have much to go on, and I’m sorry that I can’t offer more than a simple educated guess myself, but I would put my mortgage on them having previous, maybe for assault or fraud.”

“Can you check?” Howard asked.

“I’m afraid not. We have no fingerprints or DNA or conclusive photo fit.”

“How many people do you think are in on this operation?” Howard asked.

“At least two -- your daughter was taken by one man whilst another handed her friend a letter -- but there could be more.”

“How many more?” Howard was pacing up and down.

“It’s hard to say. Not many, I don’t think we’re dealing with a gang here. If we were, they’d have asked for more than a million. One million split twenty, ten or even five ways isn’t much. I would guess two, maybe three men; experienced, highly trained professionals.”

“What makes you think that?” Elizabeth -- who hadn’t been listening to the phone conversation -- appeared from behind the kitchen door.

“Amateurs would ask for more, they’d want enough to set themselves up for life, something along the lines of twenty million.”

“I haven’t got that much; I can’t get that kind of cash,” Howard said in shock.

“Exactly,” the detective said. “But if you read what all the magazines and papers print about you it’s easy to believe you can afford to wipe your arse with fifty pound notes. Pardon my French. They see your successful business and your assets, not your bank account. But these men--” he paused. “They’re smart enough to know you don’t have that much money and cocky enough to risk a high scale kidnapping for a share of two, three or five hundred thousand each.”

Howard fell back in disbelief. The armchair behind him cushioned his fall and he sank into its soft fabric.

“I cannot believe this is happening,” he said, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I take a short holiday to relieve some stress and--” he stopped himself and merely shook his head. Elizabeth left the kitchen and walked to his side, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Still no trace?” Detective Inspector Brown asked the small group of technicians at the back of the room. All three of them shook their heads.