Deadline (9 page)

'I will, but I reckon we can count in Pat Phelan
straight away, and I reckon her business partner's
a strong possibility too. Which means we need to
turn up everything we can on the two of them.'

'We're on it already,' said Tina.

Bolt felt a rush of excitement. It was the knowledge
that the clock was ticking; the realization
that this case was going to be concluded in hours
rather than months; and that he was in the centre
of things.

It was a good feeling.

And one that wasn't going to last.

She had to be brave.

Emma Devern had said this to herself countless
times since they'd brought her here. But as the
hours dragged into days and still there remained
no prospect of her being released back to her
mum, it became harder and harder for her to
manage it.

They were keeping her in a dank, carpetless
cellar with one narrow window coated in grime,
high up on one wall and well out of reach, which
let in thin shafts of daylight. She had to wear a
pair of handcuffs, and was chained to the wall by
one ankle. The chain was long enough so she
could move around, but she couldn't reach the
steps at the end of the room or the far wall, and
she knew in her heart that there was no way she
was going to be able to escape.

She thought this was the third day she'd been
here, which meant it was Friday. It was difficult to
know for sure because the days simply flowed
into one another, but she was trying hard to keep
track. At nights it was cold. She slept on a horrible
little bed with filthy sheets and she was forced to
wrap herself up in them to keep warm, even
though they smelled awful.

On the first night she'd been too shocked about
what had happened even to cry. She remembered
very little about how it had all started. She was
going back to the car after the dentist appointment.
Her dentist was called Mr Vermont, after
the American state. He always said what good
teeth she had, and she did too, because she looked
after them well and didn't stuff her face with
sweets like a lot of her friends. It had just been a
standard check-up. She liked Mr Vermont. He was
good-looking with a nice tan, even though he was
a bit old and his hair was beginning to go a bit
thin on top. The check-up had gone well. For the
third visit running nothing needed doing – which
was just as well because she hated having her
teeth messed about with – and she'd been in a
good mood as she crossed the car park at the front
of the building.

Pat had been in the driver's seat with the paper
in front of him, checking the sports pages, like he
always did, but as she opened the door and got
inside, something immediately felt wrong. He
didn't greet her like he usually did, with a big grin
and an 'All right, baby, how'd everything go?' in
his rough London accent. Instead, he turned and
stared at her, and she saw that he looked really
frightened. His eyes were wide and there was
sweat running down his forehead.

Then she heard a noise behind her, a kind of
shuffling, and before she could even take in what
was happening she was grabbed round the neck
and pulled back into the seat. The next second, a
wet cloth that smelled of chemicals was pushed
against her face, and suddenly she couldn't
breathe any more and she was struggling and
kicking, trying to attract attention, help,
anything . . .

It was all over so quickly, even now it didn't feel
quite real. Her last image was Pat turning away
from her and starting the car's engine with a low
rumble. Then everything went black, and she
couldn't remember another thing until she'd
woken up in this cold, featureless room with a
terrible headache and feeling really sick.

She wondered what had happened to Pat. She'd
always liked him. He was good fun. They liked to
joke together, and he seemed to make her mum
happy. At first she hadn't been sure about him.
She was used to it being just her and her mum.
That was the way it had always been, the way
she'd always preferred it. She didn't know her
real dad. She'd never met him and she didn't even
know who he was. Whenever she asked her mum
about him, she'd always said that it was just a
man from a long time ago, that he'd gone away,
and that it would be best just to forget about him.
She wanted to find her dad, but she didn't push it
with her mum, and anyway, Pat made quite a
good dad. And her friends were jealous because
he was nice-looking, and not too old either.

She hoped they hadn't done anything bad to
him.

'They' were the two men who were keeping her
prisoner. She was not allowed to see them, and
had to put on a black hood like something an
executioner in a medieval history book might
wear whenever the cellar door opened. One of
them wheezed when he walked, making a
horrible sound like something out of a horror film.
She might not have been able to see him, but she
could always hear his approach. And she could
smell him too. He absolutely stank, a really
horrible combination of BO, old socks and toilets
that was so bad she thought she might gag whenever
he got too close to her. He was the one who
usually came down twice a day to check up on
her. He'd bring food – Marmite or jam sandwiches,
and fruit – and change the bucket they
made her use as a toilet.

When he'd come down on that first night,
telling her to put on the hood, she'd been
absolutely terrified. But he'd told her not to worry,
that no one would hurt her, and that she'd be
going home soon, and even though he'd talked in
a strange rasping voice as if he was trying to
disguise it, and had stroked her arm with cold,
gloved hands, his touch lingering that little bit too
long, something told her that he meant what he
said.

As time wore on she'd begun to lose hope of
going home and being reunited with her mum
and her friends, and everyone she cared about.
But she had to be brave. She just had to be. It
was just that she really didn't want to die. She was
happy. She'd never done anything wrong, and
she couldn't see why anyone would do this to
her. It wasn't fair. And when she thought
about what might happen to her, she got really
scared. Although she trusted the smelly one, she
definitely didn't trust the one he was working
with.

He'd only been down once, on the second night.
When he'd called out to her from the top of the
stairs, telling her to put on the hood, his voice was
harsh and cruel, with no kindness in it at all. She'd
done what she was told to do and had then sat
there waiting, but she hadn't heard his approach.
He was that silent on his feet it was like he was a
phantom. All that told her he was in the room was
the faint smell of cigarettes, and a feeling that
someone was watching her.

After a while she'd asked uncertainly whether
there was anyone there.

'Yeah,' came the reply, like he was mocking her.
'I'm here.'

'What do you want?'

'You're going to talk to your mum. You're going
to tell her that if she pays the money, then you'll
be going home tomorrow.'

She felt a rush of excitement. 'And will I?'

'If she does what she's told, yeah,' he answered,
but it didn't sound like he meant it. 'Now turn
round on the bed so you're facing the wall.'

She did what she was told.

'Bet you're not used to being told what to do,
are you? Little rich girl like you. Bet you usually
tell the servants what to do, don't you?'

'I don't have servants,' she said quietly. 'I'm just
normal.'

'You don't know what normal is, you little
bitch.'

'Why are you doing this to me?' she asked,
because she really didn't understand why he was
being so cruel to her.

'You don't ask the questions,' he said, ripping
the hood from her head in one movement. 'You
obey orders. Keep staring at the wall, and
remember what you've got to tell your mum. If
she does what we say, you go home tomorrow.'

He'd pushed a phone roughly against her ear
and a couple of seconds later her mum had come
on the line. Emma felt a huge burst of emotion.
She wanted to cry so much but she knew she had
to hold it together for her mum's sake, so she'd
said she was fine and that if the money was paid
she'd be back tomorrow. She'd wanted to say
more but the phone had been snatched away with
a hissed 'Don't turn round', and then a few
seconds later she'd heard the key turn in the lock
of the cellar door.

After he'd gone, she'd sat there shaking for
several minutes, part of her feeling hope now that
she'd heard her mum's voice, but a much bigger
part feeling fear. She'd never come across anyone
truly evil before, and now that she had, it made
her wonder whether she was ever going to get out
of here alive. Because they hadn't let her go, like
he'd said they would. She was still here, hoping
that the smelly one would keep the cruel one from
doing anything to her, which was why she'd been
as nice as possible to him whenever he came
down.

They were talking upstairs now, their voices
muffled, and she wondered what time it was.
They'd taken her watch, or at least she thought
they had. When she'd woken up in this place for
the first time, it was gone, as was her handbag,
which had had her mobile phone in it. All she'd
been left with were the clothes she was wearing
when she'd been taken – a black T-shirt, denim
skirt and her favourite wedge-heeled sandals –
and she was still in them now.

The smelly one had already been in that
morning to give her sandwiches – Marmite this
time – and to change the bucket. That was a while
back now. He'd seemed in a strange mood.
Normally he was quite friendly, but today he'd
been quiet, and it had worried her. She'd asked
him if everything was all right, and when they
were going to let her go like they'd said they
would, and he'd come over, sat down and put his
arm round her, telling her it was going to be fine
and that she'd be home very soon. Even though
she'd felt like throwing up with him so close to
her, she'd told him once again that she just
wanted to be back with her mum and her friends,
because she thought that if she said it enough
times he'd feel sorry for her and would help to
make it happen. He'd told her not to worry, everything
would be all right, like he always did, but
this time it seemed as if he was making an effort
to say it, and that maybe it wasn't true.

The voices were getting louder. They were
arguing. She got up from the bed and walked as
far as the chain would allow until she was almost
at the bottom of the steps, then stopped and
listened, straining hard to hear what they were
saying.

The voices stopped before she could make out
any words, and then suddenly the key turned in
the lock and the door flew open, slamming hard
against the wall.

Emma darted back, rushing for the bed, but not
before she'd seen the man at the top of the stairs,
partly silhouetted by the bright light behind him.
She'd only got the barest of glimpses, just enough
time to note that he was of normal height and
build and had dark hair. For just half a second
their eyes had met, but she knew straight away
that she'd made a terrible mistake.

'Get your hood on. Now,' the cruel one called
out from the top of the steps.

Shaking with fear, trying hard not to cry, Emma
sat on the bed and pulled the hood over her head.
She heard the door shutting, followed by a pause
that lasted long enough that she began to hope he
wasn't coming down at all, and then she heard the
footfalls moving fast, louder than last time. She
tensed as she heard him stop in front of her.

'Did you see me?' he hissed, venom in his voice.

'No,' she answered, shaking her head vigorously.

'Did you see me, bitch? Tell me the truth.'

'No, I promise.' She pushed herself back against
the cold stone wall, her heart pounding.

He tore the hood off and she turned her head
away from him, shutting her eyes, not wanting to
see him, knowing only too well what seeing him
would mean. He grabbed her roughly by the chin,
squeezing the flesh, and pulled her towards him.

'Look me in the eye, bitch. Did you fucking see
me?'

She opened her eyes and saw that he'd put on a
black balaclava. His face was only inches away
from hers.

'No, honestly, I didn't,' she said, finding it hard
to get the words out. 'Please, you're hurting me.'

'This ain't hurt, bitch. You don't know the
fucking meaning of the word. But you will if
you're lying. I'll hurt you good. I'll hurt you until
you're screaming with the pain. Do you understand?'

She nodded rapidly, feeling the tears well up,
but determined not to cry in front of him. 'Yes,
yes. I'm not lying, I promise.'

He released his grip on her chin. Behind the
slits his eyes were dark and cold. 'Good.' He
pushed the hood back over her head. 'Now, we're
going to send your mummy a little message. So
you can let her know how much fun you're
having.'

His tone had changed again. He was mocking
her, pleased that she seemed so terrified. He was
enjoying this. It was difficult, almost impossible to
believe, but he was actually enjoying this.
Underneath the hood, away from his terrible gaze,
the tears flowed freely down Emma's face.

And then she felt something touch the bare skin
of her arm. Something cold and sharp.

Oh God, no. He's got a knife.

There were serious logistical issues to be
addressed in order to get Andrea back home, and
Bolt spent most of the remainder of Friday
morning organizing them. He had to operate on
the assumption that the kidnappers were
watching the place, even though he thought it
highly unlikely. It didn't take long to confirm that
no properties with views on to Andrea's house
had been rented out for more than eighteen
months, so any observation point being used by
the kidnappers would have to be on the street
itself. With Big Barry's authorization, he managed
to get a twelve-person surveillance team from
another area of SOCA pulled off their current job,
and they were sent to Andrea's neighbourhood.
Having discreetly confirmed that there was
no one suspicious hanging about, either on foot
or in a car, they'd set up at various points and
now had the street under continuous observation.

With the area secure, Bolt had given Andrea's
card key, house keys and the burglar alarm code
to one of his team, SG5 Matt Turner, who'd gone
to check out the property. Although Jimmy
Galante had searched the place for bugs, he'd
bought a cheap device from a spy shop, so it was
likely he'd only have been using a radio frequency
detector, and not a very good one either, which
would have been inadequate for the task at hand.
Bolt knew that RF detectors were designed to pick
up signals from active transmitters and radio telephone
taps, but couldn't detect switched-off or
remote control devices, nor could they find hardwired
microphones and telephone taps, or
recorders. In other words, the place could have
been bugged to the hilt and neither Jimmy nor
Andrea would have known about it. Turner was
armed with the latest cutting-edge counter-surveillance
equipment, including a Time Domain
Reflectometer used to detect breaks and splices in
cables; a Harmonic Radar to find cables and mikes
buried in walls, cavities and furniture; and a
Multi-Meter to measure line voltages within the
telephone line.

However, when he called Bolt just after midday,
Turner hadn't found anything either. 'The place is
clear, sir. I've given it a complete once-over, and
there's nothing here.'

Bolt trusted Turner's judgement on this kind of
thing.

'Any sign of a struggle in there, Matt?
Something that might suggest Emma Devern was
snatched at the house?'

'Nothing like that. The place is spotless. Also, I
reckon it'd be too risky trying to abduct someone
here. There's a security gate running round the
property, with only one entrance from the front,
and it's pedestrian access only. No room to get a
car through it. So the kidnappers would have had
to take her out on to the street, and I think that
would have been too risky in broad daylight.
That's my take on it, anyway.'

Bolt sighed. The kidnappers had managed to
track Emma's movements on Tuesday, and find
out about Jimmy Galante's involvement in the
ransom drop, but for the moment, how they'd
done so remained a mystery.

He thanked Turner and rang off, then went to
tell Andrea that he would drive her home. She'd
been kept in the only office in the building with a
sofa all morning and, according to the female
liaison officer assigned to her, had spent most of
the time asleep on it. She was awake when he
went in there, though, and seemed pleased by the
news that she was going back to her house, even
if it was without her daughter.

It felt strange for Bolt being so close to Andrea
again, and their conversation for much of the
journey was stilted. He wanted to bring up the
past, to talk about the old days, but Marie Cohen,
the very short, very earnest liaison officer, was in
the back seat of his car, which made any such
conversation impossible. Eventually Andrea fell
asleep again, leaning against the passenger side
window. Occasionally Bolt glanced across at her,
trying to look natural in front of Marie Cohen.
Andrea was still a very attractive woman, but the
lively spark in her eyes that had drawn him in all
those years ago had long since gone.

Poor, rich Andrea. She'd never really had much
luck with men, and Bolt wondered whether in
Phelan she'd made the worst choice of all.

She woke up when they were stuck in traffic on
Hampstead high street.

'How long have I been out for?' she asked,
rubbing her eyes.

Bolt checked the clock on the dashboard: 12.49.
'A while. The traffic's been murder.' In his rearview
mirror, he saw that Marie had also gone to
sleep in the back. Clearly his effect on women
wasn't quite as electric as he would have liked.

Andrea yawned. 'Do you mind if I smoke?'

He smiled. 'Well, technically it's illegal as this is
a work car, but I guess under the circumstances
we can make an exception. I'd ask Marie, but she
looks flat out.'

Andrea looked round, checked that she was,
and opened her window halfway before lighting up.

'Thank God for that,' she whispered, looking at
Bolt. 'She means well, but I wish she'd just leave
me alone.'

'She's just trying to help.'

'Yeah, but sometimes you can try too hard.'

Bolt watched as she put the cigarette to her lips.
Her hands were trembling and the drags she took
were short and urgent. The tension was coming
off her in waves.

'You know, Andrea,' he said, turning off the
high street, 'we've checked out your house, and
the area round it, and we can't work out how the
kidnapper could have known Emma's movements
so thoroughly.'

'So you still think it might be an inside job?'

'It's a strong possibility.'

Andrea sighed, taking another drag on the cigarette.
'I just can't see it being Pat, that's all. He's
got faults – big ones, like the fact that he's a waster
– and if I'd known about them when I first met
him I'd never have married him, but he wouldn't
have done something like this to Emma. He's not
cold enough. And I've met some cold people in
my time.'

Bolt thought of Jimmy Galante. She was right
on that score.

They were almost there now, and Bolt used a
dual-band radio to call the surveillance team. He
needed confirmation that the area round Andrea's
house was still secure. When this had been given
by the team leader, he slowed the car down and
turned into Andrea's road.

It was a leafy avenue of grand semi-detached
houses, lined with mature oak trees planted
fifteen yards apart, with expensive-looking sports
cars and 4_4s parked on both sides. Instinctively,
Bolt checked for occupants, but they were all
empty, although he spotted a white van with
blacked-out windows and the name of a
plumbing firm down the side, which he recognized
as a SOCA surveillance vehicle. A pretty
young woman with oversized sunglasses who
was busy putting a toddler in the car seat of a
brand-new Range Rover seemed to be the only
person around.

Andrea's place, one half of an impressive-looking
three-storey Edwardian redbrick
building, was about halfway down on the right hand
side. It was fronted by a brick wall
approximately head height, mounted with freshly
painted black railings, which enclosed the entire
property but wouldn't have put off a determined
intruder. Bolt found a parking spot about thirty
yards further down between a Mercedes and a
BMW people carrier. In the back, Marie woke up
with a start.

As Bolt got out of the car he saw a shadow
move across one of the upstairs windows of the
house opposite. It had been turned into an observation
post by the surveillance team, giving them
a perfect view of the portion of the street to the
front of Andrea's house.

Bolt let Andrea lead the way, with Marie
bringing up the rear. He thought about how much
Andrea had moved on since the old days when
he'd first known her. It was all down to her own
efforts as well. He admired her for that, but then
she'd never been short of spirit and drive. It was
spirit she was going to need now.

'We've got something called a trace/intercept
set up on your landline,' he told her as she pressed
the buzzer on the security gate and waited for
Turner to let them in. 'It means that if they make a
call to your home, we'll be able to pinpoint the
location of the caller very quickly.'

'I don't want you to do anything that risks
hurting Emma, Mike.'

'We won't,' said Bolt, but it was a lie, and he
knew it. Whatever they did, they risked hurting
Emma.

Matt Turner buzzed them in, and as they
stepped inside the gate Bolt was immediately
struck by the strong scent of flowers. The garden
was a riot of colour, well kept with neat
flowerbeds bordering the house's exterior wall. It
was also very well stocked, with thick walls of
greenery rising all round the terraced lawn. His
wife Mikaela would have loved this place. She'd
always wanted to live in a big, rambling house
with a couple of kids and a couple of dogs and
plenty of space, somewhere that with his copper's
salary and hers as a primary school teacher they
were never going to be able to afford.

Turner met them both at the door, greeting
Andrea with a formal 'Mrs Devern' and moving
out of the way to let her pass.

The front door led into a rather grand tiled
hallway with a flight of stairs disappearing up
to the next floor. The decor was all very neutral,
with off-white colours dominating, which in
Bolt's opinion gave it a rather soulless feel –
not that he was any kind of expert in interior
design. Straight ahead of him, above a vase
containing partially wilted orchids, was a large
professional portrait photograph of Andrea and
Emma. It was a good shot of both mother
and daughter, who were smiling widely at the
camera, their faces side by side and touching,
and the twinkle was firmly in Andrea's eye.
Emma was a pretty kid with dark blonde hair
down to her shoulders and a cute button nose. She
looked young in the picture, probably no more
than ten.

Bolt looked away quickly, not wanting to draw
attention to the photo. Marie asked whether
anyone would like a cup of tea.

Bolt smiled at her. 'I'll take coffee, thanks, if it's
going.'

Turner said he'd have the same.

Andrea didn't appear to have heard her. She
was staring at the picture.

'What do you think of her, Mike? Isn't she beautiful?'

'Yes,' he said, keen to keep Andrea's spirits up.
'She's beautiful. And we're going to bring her
back.'

'You've got to.'

The hallway fell silent and Marie and Turner
went into the kitchen, leaving Bolt and Andrea
alone. She ran a hand through her hair, turning
away from the photo.

'I don't know what to do, Mike. It's the waiting.

It's killing me.'

'Why don't you lie down for a bit?' He felt
uneasy standing so close to her. 'We'll let you
know of any developments.'

She nodded, and started up the staircase.

Bolt watched her go, then went to get his coffee.

The kitchen was large and modern with a
breakfast island in the middle, and gleaming pots
and pans hanging from hooks all around. Again,
he thought about how much Mikaela would have
loved a place like this. She'd been a great cook, but
had had to do all her cooking in a place about a
quarter of this size.

Marie and Turner were at the far end of the
room, talking while she poured boiling water into
the cups. Turner was approaching thirty and still
resolutely single, a situation he seemed increasingly
desperate to remedy. He tended to get first
dates – he was a proud member of at least a dozen
internet agencies, so was always getting introductions
– but second ones proved a lot more elusive,
which Bolt thought was a pity. Prematurely
balding with a long hangdog face designed for
frowning, and an obsession with the technical, the
guy was definitely the kind of acquired taste a lot
of people never get round to acquiring, but Bolt
liked him. Turner might have had a geeky exterior,
but he also had a bone-dry sense of humour,
he never moaned, and there was a certain vulnerability
about him that Bolt found endearing.
Lately, he'd been smiling a lot more, as if he'd
been taking charm lessons.

When Bolt walked in, Marie was laughing at
something Turner had said, and he almost felt as
if he was interrupting something. They both
stopped speaking and turned his way, and Marie
looked a bit sheepish.

'Andrea's gone to lie down,' he told them with
a smile to show he hadn't seen or heard anything
untoward.

He took the coffee cup from Marie and added a
couple of sugars to it. There was another photo of
Emma attached to the cupboard above the kettle,
this time just a snapshot. In it she was flanked by
her mother on one side and a lean, good-looking
guy with unkempt brown hair on the other. They
looked like a typical family. It made Bolt feel
slightly jealous, although he wasn't a hundred per
cent sure why.

'Do you think the husband's involved, sir?'
asked Turner, seeing Bolt looking at the photo.

'Part of me says definitely,' he answered quietly,
aware that he had to be careful what he said in
front of Marie, who wasn't officially part of this
inquiry, 'because it would explain how the kidnappers
knew Emma's movements. But the other
part says that if he is, why on earth did he then
disappear? Surely he'd have known it would only
arouse suspicion. It'd be far better to let the kidnappers
know when and where to make the snatch,
then act completely innocent. Even if we suspected
him, there'd be nothing we could do about it.'

'That's what I was thinking,' said Turner. 'It's
all wrong somehow, isn't it?'

Bolt was about to tell him not to speculate too
much out loud when he heard a rapid set of footfalls
on the stairs, and Andrea came rushing into
the room dressed in a full-length dressing gown,
her mobile phone in her right hand.