The Silent Room (14 page)

27

Jack Fenwick knew how police officers’ minds worked. Even mates he’d served with for years might think he’d gone dark. He couldn’t bear the thought of being remembered as the arsehole who’d escaped out the back of a prison van helped by thugs carrying sawn-off shotguns. It had been stupid not to share his concerns with anyone, not to have told Ryan where he’d hidden his notebooks. He’d find them eventually –
a week, maybe two
– but it would take him even longer to decipher and make sense of them, a thought that hit Jack hard.

By then it would be too late . . .

For him, anyway.

Unless he could manage to escape, chances were he’d end his life in this tomb. It was probably so well hidden, no detective in the world would be able to find him. The sad truth was, the Swede would kill him eventually. He and his cohort were facing a long stretch for abduction, possession of firearms, false imprisonment and wounding with intent – and that was just for starters. Manslaughter would be added to the list if Jack could get the word out.

If was a very big word.

As hope died, the sound of heavy boots made his heart race. For a moment, Jack wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly, or if fear had triggered a hallucination. He strained to listen. The footsteps were real, echoing as they connected with a hard surface. Definitely moving towards him. Only one pair, he was sure of it.

Adrenalin pumped through his body as a key turned in the lock.

Could this be his lucky day?

An arc of dim light flooded his cell as the door swung open. Jack was thankful for that. Any more and it would’ve blinded him after spending so long in pitch darkness. Like Bruce Lee on speed, he took a deep breath, raised his leg, snapping it forward rapidly, releasing a breath as he struck the door with such ferocity, the force of his weight behind it sent the hijacker sideways, smashing his head against the brick wall, his gun flying from his hand.

The kick was executed perfectly.

Jack was in luck . . .

It was the Swede’s sidekick this time, not the man himself.

Down but not out, the hijacker scrambled for his gun. Jack got there first. Using the butt end of the firearm, he smashed the guy full in the face, breaking teeth. Whether in defiance or raw fear of retribution from the Swede, he came back at Jack, his neck muscles bulging with the amount of effort he was using to propel himself forward. Jack managed to duck, hit him again, felt a spray of blood as the weapon connected with his nose, knocking him out cold.

Staggering out, Jack locked the door behind him.

Barefoot, he inched his way along a narrow passageway and up a deep flight of stairs, bouncing off moss-covered walls on either side, expecting the Swede to appear at any moment.

No one came . . .

No sound either . . .

It was eerily quiet.

At the top of the stairs, Jack waited, allowing his eyes time to readjust. Bats were ducking and diving all around him, annoyed at the disturbance. He imagined his opponent regaining consciousness in the chamber below ground. Now he’d seen the terrain, the thought didn’t worry him. No one would hear him scream from there. The jailer had become the prisoner. Until the Swede came looking, Jack was fairly sure he was safe.

He peered out from the entrance, the moon through tall trees casting long shadows on the ground. Good camouflage. In the distance, a walled garden, overgrown. Beyond it, a ruin of some sort, a romantic mansion Hilary would fall in love with and beg him to buy.

Which way?

Jack hesitated.

Closing his eyes, he listened, heart racing. An owl hooted nearby and Jack could hear the distant hum of traffic, a mile, maybe a mile and a half away. He didn’t think he’d make it, but he had to try.

Panic set in when he heard the sound of a car approaching –
the Swede.
Jack had to get out of there, fast. Sharp stones beneath his feet made progress difficult as he set off, taking cover in hedges where the landscape allowed, then running for his life, arms like pistons, sweat leaking from every pore. He was weak, his breathing deteriorating with every step, slowing him down. He had to find a road . . .

A phone . . .

Ryan . . .

He had to.

The fall to the ground knocked the wind out of him. Jack looked up at the inky sky, forced to rest. He wanted to sleep but couldn’t risk shutting his eyes, certain that he’d never wake again. His breathing was getting worse, what air he managed to inhale coming in shallow gasps. He knew he was in trouble when a sudden pain began in his shoulder and spread across his chest, like an elephant’s foot pressing down on him, crushing him.

A heart attack?

No. Broken ribs. Like sharp, serrated knives inside his body, they were cutting and injuring him each time he took in oxygen, causing an incredible amount of pain. Convinced that his lung was punctured and might collapse at any second, Jack feared he might die within yards of the highway he was trying to reach as lorries thundered by in convoy, drivers listening to music or chatting with each other to kill the boredom of a long journey, oblivious to his plight.

Looking back the way he’d come, he saw a flashlight moving from side to side. At least one of the hijackers was hunting him. He urged himself on . . . he must get up . . . make one last effort to escape. If he didn’t tell his story, more people would die.

Rolling over on to his left side, a silent scream leaving him, he hauled himself to his feet, swaying like a Bigg Market drunk on a Saturday night, unable to stand still, walk a straight line or see the way ahead. Incapable. Insensible. Except drunks were numb from the effects of alcohol. He had no such anaesthetic to dull the pain. He could feel every inch travelled. Every last breath.

Another few yards and he’d be there . . .

Ten . . .

Five . . .

He wasn’t going to make the road.

Hugging himself, trying to stem the agony and maintain consciousness, he stumbled around in the dark, painfully aware that he was running out of energy. Running out of time. If he didn’t get help soon, he was a goner. He’d never again make love to Hilary or cuddle his kids, never tell Ryan what a great friend he’d been – the best a guy could hope for. Those thoughts drove him on, gave him a reason to live, an extra incentive to survive.

It took superhuman effort to propel his body forward, but he wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Not ever. Just a few feet more and he’d be there. He was almost at the point of collapse by the time he reached the road, each step a little closer, but increasingly tortuous. He wept as he felt the smooth tarmac beneath bare and bloodied feet. Time stood still. There was a lull in the traffic. Then nothing. The road was empty. No noise whatsoever. No lights.

No!

Unsure whether or not he was hallucinating, Jack peered into the darkness. He listened. Silence. Then out of the gloom, a blob of light emerged on the horizon, faint and far away, but definitely travelling towards him. It multiplied before his eyes. Yes! Cars were coming . . . both ways now . . .

He had to flag one down . . .

He had to.

The first vehicle flew by although Jack was sure he’d been caught in the headlights. The second also failed to stop. Who could blame the drivers? In so rural an area, in their shoes, he might also think twice. Women would feel especially vulnerable, suspecting robbery or rape on such a lonely stretch.

The flashlight was getting closer and then it found him.

Staggering into the middle of the road, he raised his hands and prayed that he’d be seen.

The next car wasn’t slowing . . .

Wasn’t stopping . . .

Oh God!

Jack knew what he had to do.

Now!

As he’d been trained to do, he tried launching himself high in the air to lessen the impact on his legs, but he was so feeble after his terrifying run that he failed to get off the ground. The car was going at such speed he hardly felt the impact. He just flew over the bonnet and roof so fast it was like being sucked at high speed through a wind tunnel. He landed with a solid thump, skin ripping from his body as his weight carried him forward. He ended up facing the rear of the car that struck him.

Barely conscious, Jack turned his head as a vehicle on the other carriageway slowed and then took off without stopping. Fifty yards away the flashlight went out. Now all he could see, up ahead, were two fuzzy blobs of red.

Brake lights . . .

Stationary. . .

Forty metres ahead.

The driver of the four-by-four that hit him got out and moved quickly towards him, an indistinct silhouette in the moonlight. A tear left Jacks eye. At last, help was on its way. It seemed to take forever for a pair of work boots to arrive.

‘Hello, Jack.’

The foreign voice chilled him to the core.

The Swede crouched down, leaned in closer. ‘Now do you have anything to tell me?’

Jack’s stomach heaved. If he gave in now, he was finished.

As you wish.’ The Swede took off.

As he got back in his vehicle, white reverse lights came on.

28

The tracker led Ryan straight to the Regional Organized Crime Unit office. It angered him to think that they were involved in Jacks situation somewhere along the line, a situation that ate away at him as he drove to Fenham to share the information with Grace.

Newman had beaten him in.

Grace convened a meeting at the kitchen table, clearing away notes she’d been working on while they were out, replacing them with a hastily prepared supper consisting of sandwiches, crisps and pickled onions. Newman’s underwhelmed expression angered her so much she gave him what for.

‘Don’t screw up your face, Frank.’

‘It’s hardly nutritious—’

‘It’s food. Get it eaten. While you’ve been out playing dodgem cars, I’ve been doing all the mundane stuff, otherwise known as hard graft.’

Newman picked up a sandwich.

Ryan stifled a grin – they sounded like an old married couple.

‘So,’ Grace said. ‘Which one of you is going to tell me where we go from here?’

‘The Serious Crime Unit don’t know we’re on to them . . . yet,’ Ryan replied. ‘I want to keep it that way for the time being. Whatever Jack was working on, you can safely assume those bastards knew about it. I want answers. Like why they didn’t come clean before he was locked up and thrown in a cell to rot. If they had, the abduction would never have happened.’

‘You think O’Neil knew?’ Grace asked.

‘I can hardly ring her up and ask,’ Ryan said, ‘Can I?’

Grace let it go. She could see he was pissed off and didn’t want to rile him further. They finished their supper in silence, no one bothering to clear away afterwards. Ryan was deeply troubled. The weekend had flown by and he was no further forward in discovering his DI’s whereabouts or what had brought about his spectacular fall from grace. What’s more, he had the distinct impression that time was running out for Jack.

‘There can only be one explanation for the Organized Crime Unit’s involvement,’ Newman said. ‘They think Jack was into something heavy.’ He lifted his hands in surrender before the others could shoot him down. ‘I didn’t say I agreed with them. It’s a logical conclusion, based on what we know.’ His gaze shifted from Grace to Ryan. ‘If they’re following you, chances are they were trailing Jack long before his arrest.’

‘And they think Ryan will lead them to him?’ Grace asked.

‘That’s certainly what it looks like.’ Newman was playing devil’s advocate. ‘Which means they are looking in the wrong place, wasting precious resources that could be utilized to find our man. I don’t know how, or who, but someone has their wires crossed. The whole thing sucks.’

Ryan stood up, began pacing.

Newman was right – when was he anything else? – but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Neither did it make sense, to him or to Grace. Defeated, she pushed her chair away from the table, dropped her elbows to her knees and put her head in her hands, devoid of ideas. Ryan was similarly stumped. Nothing added up. When Grace raised her head, a question in her eyes, his heart leapt. He’d seen that look before. A flash of inspiration as tangible as any he’d witnessed lately. So why did she look so worried?

Somehow, he knew he wasn’t going to like it.

‘Did Maguire confiscate your warrant card?’ She knew the two men didn’t get on.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘Shame. I was hoping—’

‘I have another.’ Ryan produced his old ID from his breast pocket, a smug expression on his face. ‘Got a new one when I was promoted. Forgot to hand this one in. Nothing’s monitored nowadays. No one asked for it, so I didn’t offer. I had a feeling it might come in handy one day – and it did.’ He explained about using it on the train.

‘Smart move,’ Grace said mischievously. ‘What would you say if I told you that my home was once a police house and that the wires to run a major incident room are still under the floorboards, ready to be resurrected?’

Neither man spoke.

Unperturbed by their silence, Grace picked up the conversation, suggesting that they appropriate the wires for their own use. She seemed oblivious to Ryan, who had come to a standstill, his mouth dropping open . . .

‘The house was set up as a satellite incident room,’ she said. ‘This was years ago, when the Murder Investigation Team were under pressure with five similar incidents happening simultaneously, some of them linked, all of which the Assistant Chief Constable at the time was keen to resolve. Nothing whatsoever to do with his application to become Deputy to the Metropolitan Police Commander,’ she told them. ‘I was drafted in to lend a hand.’

‘Go on,’ Newman was on the edge of his seat.

‘When the room was wound up, the wires were simply dropped beneath the floorboards for future use. Obviously they were forgotten about. Years later, when the house went up for sale, I bought it. The wires were still there when I tried to find the earth for a new boiler installation recently.’ She looked at Ryan. ‘Like you, I forgot to mention it. No, I did!’ She pointed at the floor. ‘Take a look for yourself.’