Deadline (19 page)

Upstairs they were arguing again. It was the
second time she'd heard them today. Emma
couldn't hear what they were saying – the voices
were too muffled for that – but she knew it was
about her, and was pretty sure what the subject
would be: whether she lived or died. She
wondered which of the two of them was in
charge. She prayed it was the smelly one, but
something told her he wouldn't be.

Neither man had been down to see her today.
This was unusual. It had been light for hours now,
and the bucket she was going to the toilet in
needed changing. She was also hungry, and
though she'd vowed not to eat anything until she
could slip off her handcuffs, she thought she
might have to relent on that one. She was using up
plenty of energy, scraping away at the wall – a
task that had become something of a full-time
activity. The chain was definitely getting looser,
but it still wasn't budging, and she knew she
was beginning to run out of time. The nail had
worn down by about a third, and her fingers
were stiff and aching. If she stopped eating
altogether, she ran the risk of being too weak to
escape if an opportunity did somehow arise,
although she was still unsure exactly how she'd
get out anyway, even if she got the chain free from
the wall.

Take it one step at a time
, she told herself.

Upstairs the voices stopped, and she broke
off what she was doing too, replacing the nail
under her pillow and pushing the bed back
against the wall so that the metal plate wasn't
showing.

For a few minutes she sat there in silence, the
butterflies racing around her stomach as she
wondered if they'd come to a decision about what
to do with her. Maybe they had; maybe they'd
agreed it was best simply to kill her. 'Calm down,'
she whispered out loud. 'Calm down. Remember
what Mum always says. It's the tough ones who
rise to the top.'

But when the cellar door opened she had to
stop herself from crying out as she pushed herself
back against the wall, praying that this wasn't
the end, reaching for the hood she had to wear
and thrusting it over her head, not wanting to
give them any more of an excuse for getting rid
of her.

It was the smelly one. She could hear his
heavier footfalls as he came down the steps, that
wheezing of his. She felt a surge of relief, even
enjoyed the familiar odour of his BO, which was
stronger than usual today. She heard him stop at
the bed, put some food down on the floor, and
change the waste bucket.

'Hello,' she said uncertainly.

'All right, love?' he answered, in his gruff voice.
'Did you sleep all right?'

She nodded. 'OK, I guess.'

She could smell his breath as he crouched down
in front of her.

'I just need you to do another little message for
your mum. I want you to let her know what day it
is, so she knows you're OK.'

'OK.'

'So, I'm going to lift your hood up, all right?
Just a little bit so you can see the date on the
paper.'

She nodded again, waiting patiently while he
lifted up the hood and placed the newspaper in
front of her face, obscuring her view of anything
else. He held it there, giving her plenty of time to
see it, and she stared straight ahead obediently,
confirmed that it was indeed Saturday, and the
hood was replaced. He then recorded a very short
message from her before switching off the tape
player.

'Well done, love,' he said, trying to sound all
cheery, but not quite making it. 'Not long now and
you'll be home in front of the telly.'

'What are you arguing about up there?'

'Can you hear us?' He seemed surprised.

'I can't hear what you're saying, but I know
you're arguing, because your voices are very loud.
Is it about me?'

'Course not.'

She didn't believe him. 'He wants to kill me,
doesn't he?'

'No, no, it's not like that,' he said quickly, but he
sounded flustered, like one of her friends who'd
been caught out telling a lie.

'Please don't let your friend kill me. Please. I
never saw his face, I promise, whatever he says.'

'I won't, love, it's all right.'

'Because I know how cruel he is. When he came
down here yesterday, he really scared me.'

Beneath the hood, she pretended to cry (she'd
vowed not to cry for real any more), hoping this
would make him feel sorry for her. And it seemed
to work. He put an arm around her and pulled her
into his shoulder. The smell of BO coming from
his armpit made her want to gag but she forced
herself to ignore it. She had to keep him on
her side.

'I promise you, darling, no one's going to hurt
you while I'm here. I wouldn't let anyone hurt
defenceless kids.' His hand stroked her head.
'Tonight it's all going to be over and you'll be
going home. I'm sorry my friend had to come
down yesterday. I didn't want him to, but it was
important your mum took things seriously, you
know.'

'He put a knife to my face.'

His arm tensed, almost crushing her. She realized
then how strong he was.

'Bastard,' he hissed angrily. 'Did he?'

'Yes.'

'Don't worry, he won't be coming down here
again. And he won't touch you, I promise. No one
hurts kids on my watch.'

His hand continued to stroke her hair, his
gloved fingers slowly massaging her head. It was
a horrible, creepy sensation, like spiders running
across it, and she really wanted to move away, but
she couldn't. He had her pinned.

'Who's in charge?' she whispered, trying to
ignore what he was doing. 'You or him?'

'Neither,' he answered, but she heard him hesitate.
And that told her everything.

It was the cruel one.

She desperately wanted to feel better, had
hoped that his words might soothe her, but as he
got up and left, telling her to enjoy her meal, the
waste bucket sloshing and slapping against the
banister as he mounted the steps, she felt instead
a growing sense that something dark and terrible
was about to happen.

And it was going to happen soon.

Scott Ridgers' place was no palace either. He lived
in the basement flat of a dilapidated post-war
townhouse situated on a back street near Finsbury
Park, the paintwork so faded that the people
who'd last given it a lick probably owned ration
books. The stone steps that led down to Ridgers'
front door were caked in an unpleasant combination
of dried and fresh pigeon shit, and Bolt had to
tread carefully to avoid taking away any
unwanted souvenirs from his visit.

The curtains were pulled, and when Bolt knocked
on the door, it quickly became clear that Ridgers
wasn't in either, although unlike Richardson, he
was far less blasé about personal security. The
single window, not much bigger than a porthole,
was barred, and there were no fewer than three
locks on the front door, including two five-levers.
They were all in use as well. Bolt wasn't put off.
He could get past almost any locks. The problem
was he'd had his fingers burned once already today.
Richardson had had no idea who he was, but if he
made a fuss and reported what had happened to
the local cops, there might be ramifications.

Bolt was in no mood for a further confrontation.
His head still hurt from the last one, as did his
ribs, where Richardson had dug his cosh into
them. But he also knew that having driven over
here, he needed to do something. It was ten to two
now. He'd turned his mobile off but knew he
couldn't keep it off for much longer, and when he
did switch it back on he knew he was going to
have to come up with a decent reason why he'd
gone AWOL on arguably the most important day
for his team since it had first been formed
eighteen months earlier. It was now or never.

But as he took out the picks, he heard a noise
above him.

'He's been gone for days,' said a female voice.
'Your lot probably frightened him off.'

Bolt looked up and saw a short, grey-haired
woman in her late sixties dressed in a black
trouser suit more suited to a Khmer Rouge guerrilla
than a London senior citizen.

'What do you mean, your lot?' he asked with a
puzzled smile, wondering how on earth she'd
recognized him as a copper. He was dressed
casually in jeans and trainers, and that, coupled
with the flecks of blood on his shirt, made him
sure he didn't look like one at all.

'Are you working for him?' she continued, her
tone suspicious. 'The dad?'

'I don't know who you're talking about, I'm
afraid.'

'Who are you, then?'

Bolt saw no point in denying his official role.
'I'm a police officer.'

Her expression didn't lighten. It seemed even
the nation's senior citizens were against the police
these days.

'Haven't you got anything better to do than
harass a poor man who's just trying to get on with
his life? Scott's a lovely lad. Who sent you? The
dad? Can't he let it go?'

'I think you've got me wrong, madam. I'm here
to let Scott know that a friend of his has been
badly hurt in an accident.'

'Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize. Who's that, then?
Scott doesn't have many friends.'

'It's someone from the past,' he answered with
suitable vagueness, coming back up the steps so
he no longer had to crane his neck to talk to her,
stepping in pigeon shit on the way. 'You don't
happen to know where he is, do you?'

She shook her head. 'I haven't seen him for a
few days now. He's probably run off somewhere
to escape her dad.'

'Whose dad?'

'Lisa's. That's Scott's girlfriend. I haven't seen
her yet, but Scott thinks the world of her. He says
she's beautiful.'

Bolt looked puzzled. 'So why's her dad after
him?'

'Because he says she's too young,' she answered
in a tone that suggested he was being entirely
unreasonable. It was clear this lady had a lot of
time for Scott.

'And how old is she?'

'It's hard to tell these days, but Scott says
she's quite old enough to make her own
decisions.'

'I know what you mean,' Bolt agreed. 'Can you
remember the last time you saw Scott?'

She thought about it for a moment. 'It was at the
beginning of the week, I think. Monday or
Tuesday. To be honest, I've been a bit worried. It's
not like him not to be around. I usually see him
most days when I'm passing. He likes to sit out
the front here on his deckchair, watching the
world go by. Do you think he's all right?'

'It might be worth checking. Do you have keys
to his flat?'

She shook her head. 'Sorry, no.'

The timing of Ridgers' absence was certainly
interesting. However, it didn't bring Bolt any
closer to finding him now.

'Do you know where Scott's girlfriend lives?' he
asked.

She shrugged. 'Over in Paddington somewhere.'

'That's a long way from here.'

'They met on the internet,' she said with a
conspiratorial whisper, as if this was some kind of
magic.

'That doesn't really help me much.'

'I know her last name, though. Scott told me
because it's so pretty.' She pronounced it Boo-sha-ra,
with something of a flourish, but then had the
good sense to spell it for him. 'Lisa B-o-u-c-h-e-r-a.
It's French, apparently,' she explained as Bolt
memorized it.

He felt a glimmer of hope. London was a big
city, but there weren't going to be many people of
that name floating around Paddington. It wasn't
much, but he was beginning to grow used to
getting by on slim pickings. He thanked the old
lady and walked back to his car, without looking
back.

When he was inside, he switched on his mobile,
dialled 118 118 and asked for the number of a
Bouchera in the W2 postcode area. He could have
got the information faster by phoning the
Glasshouse, but he wanted to avoid speaking to
anyone there for the moment.

There was one number listed under that name,
and he called it straight away. A man answered
after three rings.

'Hello, is that Mr Bouchera?' asked Bolt.

'Who's asking?' came the gruff reply.

Bolt identified himself, and asked if he was the
same man whose daughter Lisa was seeing a Mr
Scott Ridgers.

'That bloody pervert. Yes, my daughter has
been seeing him. I'm glad you lot are finally
taking it seriously now. I want him arrested.'

'I'm sorry, sir, but we can't arrest him if your
daughter's over the legal age of consent.'

'What do you mean, the legal age of consent?
She's fifteen, for God's sake!'

Bolt's mouth went dry. 'What?'

'She's fifteen years old, mate,' he snapped,
disgust in his voice. 'Only just turned as well.
Why on earth do you think I called the police
about it? They've been getting up to all sorts as
well. She even filmed some of it on her mobile
phone. He should be locked up.'

Bolt thought of Emma at the mercy of a
murdering thug with a predilection for young
girls.

'Didn't you know any of this? What the hell are
you phoning for?'

'Listen to me,' Bolt snapped. 'Is your daughter
still seeing him?'

'Course not. What do you take me for? I
grounded her as soon as I found out about it. And
confiscated her mobile. But she's been sneaking
out to see him. I got the police round here to talk
to her but she wouldn't tell them anything. Denies
everything. He even gave her this software that
wiped all their conversations off her computer.
I've been at my wits' end trying to sort it out. I've
threatened her, locked her in her room, even
found out where he lived and went round. But the
bastard wasn't there.'

'Is Lisa at home now?'

'Yeah. She hasn't been out for the last few days,
except for school. She's just moping about, not
speaking. I'm hoping she's over him.'

'Have you still got her mobile phone?'

'I gave it back to her yesterday if she promised
not to call him. So far, I don't think she has. She's
a good girl, you know. That bastard corrupted her.
If I could get my hands on him . . .'

'I know exactly how you feel,' Bolt told him,
'but in the meantime you can help us locate him,
because we're very interested in talking to him
about a number of matters.'

'What kind of matters?'

'The kind that'll put him away for a very long
time.'

Bouchera grunted. 'Good.'

'But I need to know straight away if Lisa hears
from him, or if you hear him speaking to her.
Understand? And if you can get the number he's
speaking to her from, even better.' Bolt gave
Bouchera his mobile number, then wrote down
the daughter's number and the name of her
service provider. 'It doesn't matter what time of
day or night it is, call immediately. It's extremely
urgent.'

'Course I will,' replied Bouchera. 'I want to see
that bastard suffer.'

Bolt thanked him and ended the call. There was
still no proof Ridgers was involved, but Bolt's gut
instinct was telling him he was definitely on to
something here.

Ordinarily, the excitement at getting a lead like
this would have been surging through him, but
instead he felt a growing sense of dread. Time was
running out and Scott Ridgers could be anywhere.
If he didn't find him, and the ransom op failed,
then he was convinced now that Emma was as
good as dead. But he wasn't going to give up. Not
while there was still an ounce of fight in him.