He then set off again, having first made sure that Charisa was restrained in the back seat of the car. He drove to a small house outside London that he had rented for a couple of days. Charisa was led into the house and placed in a comfy chair. Negril Bob, a man who had killed in the past, inflicted torture, even occasionally raped a woman when he had been fighting for his country, felt no remorse.
Billy, Charisa’s brother, had not followed orders. He had known the penalty for disobedience, and now he would pay. Charisa focussed on her surroundings. ‘Where am I?’ she said.
‘You’re in the country with me.’
‘But why? What have I done to you?’
‘Nothing yet. You knew the penalty, yet you and your brother chose to ignore me.’
‘I will not let you touch me,’ Charisa said.
‘Do you think I care? If your brother does not pay me, then I’ll take my payment another way.’
‘It is wrong what you’re doing.’
‘So is murder, but I have done that. Taking you by force will not worry me.’
Charisa made a move towards the door; Negril Bob grabbed her roughly and threw her into the corner. Too frightened to move, she sat still. Her phone was in her handbag; it was not more than ten feet from her. She leant over and grabbed it with her tied hands. Inside she found her phone. Her captor had gone into the other room. Even though it was difficult, she managed to dial Troy. ‘I’m being held captive by Negril Bob,’ she said. At that moment, the man returned. He took the phone from her and smashed it on the floor, breaking it into several pieces.
‘I will not take you by force,’ he said. ‘But tonight we will make love.’
‘Never.’
‘You’re a beautiful woman, and I’m a good-looking man. What is the harm? One night and the debt with Billy is free. Isn’t he worth that?’
Charisa faced a dilemma, she knew that. Could she trust this man, a man known for violence, but not for deceit.
***
Troy, Charisa’s boyfriend, phoned Isaac; his speech was garbled. ‘What is it?’ Isaac said.
‘It’s Charisa. Negril Bob’s taken her.’
‘When? How do you know?’
‘She phoned.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing more, only that Negril Bob had her.’
Isaac called over to Bridget. ‘Charisa Devon, instigate a search on her phone, a call in the last five minutes. See if you can give us a location.’
Billy Devon was notified; a police car would pick him up and bring him to Challis Street. Troy Hall would find his own way. Larry was on his phone checking with his contacts, and Wendy was preparing to get out and do the legwork once Bridget had pinpointed the general search area.
Superintendent Caddick had been notified; Isaac had phoned him. The man said little in response. Isaac was worried. Charisa Devon was eighteen and bright and in the clutches of a known killer. If she did not play her cards right, the man could act irrationally, maybe kill her, but not before he had satisfied his lust. Isaac felt sorry for the Devon family. They had come to England looking for a better life, and now the mother was dead, the younger son also, and the daughter had been kidnapped. Within that one family, more than several lifetimes of sadness.
Bridget came into the office. ‘A village in Kent. I can only be precise to within one hundred feet.’
‘That’ll do,’ Isaac said.
Wendy was standing at the door. ‘I’ve got a team of ten already. We’ll leave within the next six minutes.’
‘Okay, keep us updated, and remember, Negril Bob is dangerous, possibly armed. Make sure you don’t approach without armed response.’
‘We won’t.’
Larry was out of the office and meeting up with his contacts. With Negril Bob no longer exerting the same level of fear, they were more willing to talk. His first contact, they met in a café, not the one where he usually enjoyed an English breakfast, although this one would have made him one as well, even though it was late afternoon. For once, he did not feel the need; maybe it was after his wife continually being at his side in the hospital, fussing over him, but perhaps it was because he was feeling much better because of his reduced weight. ‘What can you tell me?’ he said. Across from him sat Jimmy, one of Rasta Joe’s men.
‘He’s not around here.’
‘We know that. It’s somewhere out of London.’
‘Nobody has a clue. Kidnapping Charisa Devon is not a good move.’
‘It’ll only bring focus onto all the gangs.’
‘That’s why we’re looking for him as well.’
For once, Larry could see, the police and the gangs were united. Charisa was an innocent, so was Billy, and Rasta Joe had been a friend of the family. His gang would assist, but how? If Negril Bob was not in London, there was not a lot they could do.
‘Samuel Devon?’ Larry asked.
‘It was Negril Bob.’
‘Proof?’
‘There is none.’
***
Quentin Waverley left his wife and child at the hospital and drove over to his bank. He assembled all the staff and made an announcement that mother and child were doing well, although the founder of the bank, the man who had guided it from its humble beginnings to where it was now, was dead. Everyone had
