Revenge (37 page)

Chapter One Hundred
and Fourteen

Michael had rung the number from the letter over and over again. Nothing. It was a waste of his time, but he couldn’t stop himself. The phone didn’t even fucking ring; it was probably a cheap throwaway. He couldn’t understand why the person involved didn’t seem bothered about making contact with him. If this had been a shake-down, a call for cash, then he would have heard something long before now. Michael felt sick with apprehension. There wasn’t anyone he could think of with the guts to do something like this to him; he was too big, too respected for anyone to think they could dare get away with something like this. But he couldn’t find out a fucking thing – even the police were stumped. He just sat in his home, waiting for a call, for another letter to be delivered, anything at all that might lead him to his daughter.

Jake bowled into the room, all smiley-faced. He smelt clean, and his sturdy little body looked bigger than ever. Michael ruffled his hair, pleased to see him, proud of the boy.

‘Hello, Granddad! I’ve been learning my seven times table.’

Michael laughed at his grandson’s complete enjoyment of his little life.

‘Have you now! Very important, you know, learning your times tables.’

Jake nodded in absolute agreement. ‘I know that, Granddad! Dana reckons it’s what sorts the men from the boys!’

Dana laughed at his words. She was already making Jake’s breakfast, and Michael laughed with her.

‘Well, Dana knows about these things, Jake, so listen to her.’

Jake was pleased to hear his granddad sound happy. Jake hated the tension in the house. His nana was very sad, she didn’t seem like her usual self. His nana had fallen out with his granddad, he had heard them shouting at each other. It was very worrying – other than Dana they were all he had in the world. He hadn’t seen his mum for a long time and he was feeling very anxious about her too.

Dana placed his porridge on the table before him, and he started to eat it slowly. He liked it with honey and sugar, and Dana always made it perfectly for him.

Dana was leaning against the fridge, drinking a cup of coffee. She looked at Michael and, raising her eyebrows, she asked carefully, ‘Any news?’

Michael shook his head sadly. ‘No. Nothing. Not a dicky-bird.’

Jake listened to the talk between them, and he knew that they were talking about his mummy. He had heard enough to work out that she was in some kind of trouble. But then his mummy was always having some kind of problem. It wasn’t anything unusual for her. Her whole life was one problem after another. His nana always seemed to think that was the case anyway. She always said to Dana, that her Jessie attracted trouble like other people contracted a rash. It was there before you knew it and it itched until it was scratched raw.

‘You get yourself off to school, Jake. Have a good day, son.’

Jake liked it when his granddad called him ‘son’. He finished his porridge quickly.

‘I’ve got to take my drawing in, Granddad. It’s a picture of me, you, Dana and Nana. We had to draw our family. It’s going on the wall for our Communion. I drew us all in the garden. Even Nana!’ He laughed, and Michael laughed with him, even though he was sad to think that the child knew, as young as he was, that his nana didn’t use the garden, and also sad to think he had left his mother out of the equation.

‘That sounds lovely. Nana would be pleased to know you’ve drawn a picture of her.’

Jake shrugged, a childish shrug that was as honest as it was natural. ‘I suppose so, Granddad. But she won’t see me, you know. Even though I’ve been a good boy.’

Michael was sorry to the heart for his grandson’s predicament. Josephine forgot that her lifestyle affected everyone around her, little Jake especially. Her living in a fucking bubble when her daughter was missing just proved to him how selfish she really was.

‘Your nana is not very well, Jake.’

Jake got off his chair slowly, and smiling at his Granddad, he said with false gaiety, ‘Dana told me already. I know that she’s not well. Nana’s never well.’

Chapter One Hundred
and Fifteen

Jessie could feel the eyes of her captor on her. He watched her sometimes while she slept, and she hated knowing that he did that. It was creepy. She was feeling so sore, her ankles were bleeding as the cuffs were rubbing away her skin every time she moved. It was agony.

She sat up on the bed and shouted, ‘I’m hungry, you know! Fucking starving! I need a real meal. I need a bath. I need to use a proper toilet.
Please
let me use a proper toilet!’ She hated the whine in her voice, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘I’m bleeding, for fuck’s sake. My ankles are rubbed raw. At least give me something to ease the pain.’

She was crying now, even as she was determined not to show him any weakness. She didn’t want him to know that he had beaten her. But he had. No matter how much she tried to act tough, he had her shackled to a bed in a filthy basement. He had won from the moment she had woken up tied and bound and unable to free herself.

She was crying noisily now. She was hurting, bleeding and so frightened. Her resolve was breaking down by the second. Strong or weak, it made no difference to him. He just sat and watched as she screamed at him. Her fears and her worries had finally overwhelmed her; she was broken. Gut-wrenching sobs broke from her uncontrollably.

Her captor continued to watch her, only now she saw through her tears that he was smiling.

Chapter One Hundred
and Sixteen

Detective Inspector Timothy Branch was nervous. He had never been to Michael Flynn’s scrapyard before, but he knew that many people
had
gone there and never been seen again. That was the power of a crushing machine – an errant body placed in the boot of a car didn’t really stand much chance of being located. Once the car was put into the crusher, it was reduced to a two-foot-by-two-foot cube of metal.

He drove into the yard slowly. The gates were already open for him, and he saw the men who had waved him inside so cheerfully closing the gates behind him.

He regretted taking Flynn’s money for so many years. Now he was asking him for a favour and he couldn’t deliver, and that wasn’t sitting well with him. He had a feeling it wasn’t sitting well with Michael Flynn either.

He pulled up outside the Portakabins and, as he stepped out of his car, he noticed that there were a few men scattered around. They were all watching him as he walked up the rickety stairs that led into the offices.

He looked at Michael and, nodding politely towards him, he said quietly and respectfully, ‘I’m sorry, Michael. Still nothing. I’ve had my blokes out there again. They’ve pulled in everyone who knows Jessie, and they all say the same thing. They haven’t seen her, she hadn’t fallen out with anyone, and she isn’t holed up anywhere. It’s a fucking mystery. No one can just disappear overnight.’

Michael Flynn could see that Branch was genuinely disappointed.

‘I even pulled the CCTV from the general area around Jessie’s flats. Fuck-all again. The cameras that should show the outside of her flats had been disabled. According to the company who should be monitoring them, they only noticed the next morning. Well, I put a fucking rocket up their arses, but there’s nothing we can do about it now, is there?’

Declan Costello got up from his chair reluctantly; he was comfortable. He pulled out a typist’s chair from behind the desk, and offered it to Timothy Branch.

‘Sit there. I’ll get us all a drink. Same again, Michael?’

Michael gave him his empty glass. Declan busied himself pouring out the whiskies.

Timothy Branch took his drink gratefully, and he gulped at it, enjoying the taste.

Michael sipped his drink slowly.

‘I wish I could tell you different, Michael, I really do. But I hear your blokes are getting the same reaction as mine.’

Michael nodded. ‘You’re right. No one seems to know sweet fuck-all. But I want to ask you something, Timothy, and I want you to tell me the truth. If this was a real police matter, if a girl went missing like my Jessie, how long before you would assume she was dead?’

Declan Costello had never thought he would feel sorry for DI Timothy Branch; the man was a fucking arsehole. But he did now. The man didn’t know what to say for the best.

‘The thing is, Michael, every case is different. I mean, there’s no way I can answer that.’

Sighing with annoyance, Michael said quietly, ‘Don’t fucking mug me off, I’m not an idiot. I am asking you: if a girl was abducted, like my Jessie, how long would you give her before you assumed she was fucking
dead
?’ He bellowed out the last word.

Timothy Branch shrugged, saying honestly, ‘A couple of days. The fact that no one can explain her disappearance is not a good sign, to be honest. But, saying that, you know she is being held by someone. Your wife had that letter, it was hand delivered. So that’s a good thing, Michael.’

Michael Flynn shook his handsome head in a gesture of denial. ‘But that’s just it, though. Anyone could have her, couldn’t they?’

Chapter One Hundred
and Seventeen

Jessie woke to see the man standing over her. Up close he looked decidedly odd; there was no emotion on his face, nothing to say he even registered her presence. It was unnerving. He had pale grey eyes, and his skin was a dirty yellow. His mouth was partly open, and she could see his teeth – which were rotten – and smell his awful breath. She felt her stomach heaving; he actually made her feel physically sick. The stench was overpowering, a sickly sweetness of old food and long-neglected cavities. It was putrid.

He had not given her any food for over thirty-six hours, all he had given her was a bottle of water, which she still suspected was drugged. She hadn’t seen him this close to her before and she was frightened of him. He looked crazy, like people you saw on the streets and knew at a glance were dangerous so you avoided eye contact and passed as fast as possible.

She just wanted to go home, get away from him, from here. She wanted to see her mum, her little boy – for the first time in years, she wanted her family around her.

The man licked his lips slowly, deliberately. Jessie knew he was taking some kind of chemical, because he looked stoned. His eyes didn’t focus properly and over the course of the last few days he had seemed to be unravelling more and more. He smiled at her suddenly and as he laughed he started to cough, and the stench from his breath hit her directly in her face, spraying her skin with droplets of his saliva. It took all her willpower not to vomit everywhere.

He looked at her for long moments, before saying flatly, ‘You must be starving. Are you starving?’

She nodded, wondering what this was leading to. She didn’t shout at him or demand anything from him – she was too weak, too scared of him. He knew that – she had felt the change in him the last few days. It seemed the weaker she became, the stronger he felt. She had expected her father to have rescued her by now, but he hadn’t. She was so worried that he wasn’t bothered about her, had left her to her own devices. Or, worse still, that her parents had heard nothing from this man, and just assumed she was on the missing list. It wouldn’t be the first time she had disappeared without telling anyone her whereabouts.

The man told her nothing. He rarely even spoke to her. He just watched her.

He stepped away from her and, taking out a packet of cigarettes, he lit one for himself. Then, almost as an afterthought, he offered the packet to her.

She took the pack of Lambert & Butler from him, pleased to have a distraction. Taking one out, she pulled herself upright on the mattress, and then he lit her cigarette with his lighter. His actions were very old-fashioned; he even cupped the lighter in his hand to ensure it didn’t go out.

She pulled on the cigarette deeply and felt light-headed – it was the first cigarette she’d had in ages.

‘Thank you. I appreciate this.’

He bowed, and she knew he was mocking her. She took another few puffs on the cigarette, feeling the nicotine as it hit her brain, enjoying it because it seemed to wake her up, break through the malaise that she was feeling constantly.

‘My father, does he know you’ve got me? He will pay you a lot of money if you ask him to. Have you asked him for anything? What does he know?’

The man didn’t answer; he just stared at her, as if he couldn’t hear her. It was a very nerve-racking experience.

He dropped his cigarette on to the floor and put it out, slowly grinding it under his foot into the concrete floor. Then he shook his head, smiling at her as if it was a great joke. ‘No, of course I haven’t contacted him. Why on earth would I do that?’

His voice was almost conversational as though he expected her to have an answer for him. He was even looking at her quizzically. She felt the cold hand of fear clutching at her heart. None of this made any sense. Why had this man taken her?

‘But surely money is what this is about? My father will pay for me, my mum will see to that. I mean, why else would you even bring me here in the first place? It doesn’t make any fucking sense.’

He lit another cigarette, drawing on it noisily, but he didn’t bother to answer her. Jessie threw her cigarette butt on to the floor at his feet, getting more worked up.

‘Do you even know
who
my father is? Don’t you
realise
exactly
who
you are dealing with? My father is not a man to try and have over in any way. He is very dangerous if he’s crossed. He will be searching everywhere for me. You better understand that, and stop this before it goes too far.’ She sounded petulant even to her own ears, but she was still reeling from his words. If he hadn’t been in touch with anyone, how was she ever to escape? How could anyone find her? If this wasn’t about money, about shaking down her old man, then what the hell did this fucking nutbag want with her?

The man settled himself on the end of the bed and, shrugging gently, he looked at her frightened face, and he said seriously, ‘This isn’t about
you
, Jessie. It never was. This is about your father. Michael Flynn. This is about payback. This is about reminding him that the past is always there, no matter how much he might have tried to forget about it. I certainly haven’t. When I finally decide to deliver you to your parents, young lady, you will be as dead as a fucking doornail. That was always the plan.’

‘But why? What have I ever done to you?’ Jessie was sobbing now.

He laughed again, as if she was amusing him. ‘You? You’ve never done anything to me, you silly girl. Like I said, this is not about you.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘By the way, I’m not going to be bringing you food any more. I think it’s only fair to tell you that. You deserve that much from me, Jessie. You deserve to be treated decently. It’s all in the Bible. John chapter eight, verse thirty-two: then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. Never forget that, Jessie Flynn – it’s a statement of fact. The truth is important, the
truth
is worth dying for.’

Jessie shouted angrily, ‘But I don’t want to fucking die! I have a little boy. He needs me.’

The man smiled once again. ‘You see? You’re lying again. It’s the truth you need to hang on to, Jessie. You’re just a fucking trollop. Your little boy is being brought up by your mum and dad.
Everyone
knows what a fucking piece of shit you are. I’ve done my homework, Jessie Flynn.’

Jessie was unable to answer the man; he was without reason. There was nothing she could do to make him listen to her.

The man looked at her sadly. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I think you need to know the truth, Jessie. I sent your mother a number to ring me on – that was last week. I was going to torture her, to be honest. I had no intention of ever letting you leave here. But do you know something? She didn’t even call me. Three thirty that day, there I was, ready and waiting, and nothing – not a fucking peep. That is a truth you need to acknowledge. I gave her that one chance, a chance to contact
you
. Your mother didn’t even bother herself. Now your dad, on the other hand, from what I can gather, has been looking for you all over. There’s even a fifty grand reward for information about your whereabouts. See what I’m saying? The truth will set you free, Jessie.’

She watched him as he walked away from her, and she knew that she was without hope. She was bloodied and bleeding and this man didn’t care. She was nothing to him, her suffering meant nothing to him. She heard the door slam, and the scraping noise as he pulled the bolts into place, and she wondered if this was it for her. Was this how she was going to die, alone and frightened, starved to death, and without ever having the chance to tell her little son how much she had really loved him?