Then the savage beam shone straight in his face; it felt like it was burning the backs of his retinas and he squeezed his eyes shut.
In a Louisiana drawl, and sounding sincere, as if it were a genuine question to which he was expecting an answer, the man said, ‘So you think you’re a bit of a hero, do you, Mr Bryce?’
Unsure how to respond and in any case unable to speak Tom kept silent.
He felt the beam move away and opened his eyes. The man squatted down in front of him, put out his hands until they were touching Tom’s face, and then jerked them back, hard. Tom screamed. The pain was unreal. For several seconds he was convinced that half his face had been ripped clean off.
A length of gaffer tape dangled in front of his eyes. He could move his jaw again, open his mouth, speak. ‘Where’s my wife?’ Tom said. ‘Where is Kellie? Please tell me where she is.’
The man swung the beam across the room. And Tom’s heart nearly broke as he saw, a short distance away, what at first he thought was a rolled-up carpet, then realized was Kellie. She was lying on the floor, trussed up, a manacle on her ankle, with a chain running from it up to a hoop on the wall, gaffer tape across her mouth, pleading at him with her eyes.
Tom’s first instinct was to scream at the fat creep in fury, but somehow he managed to hold himself in check, trying to think clearly, to work out what had happened, just what the hell this nightmare really was. ‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘You ask too many questions,’ the man responded dismissively. ‘You want water?’
‘I want to know why I’m here. Why my wife is here.’
For an answer the man turned and walked away, back into the shadows.
‘Kellie!’ Tom called. ‘Kellie, are you OK?’
He couldn’t see her any more. Or hear her. ‘Kellie, my darling!’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ the fat man said.
No, I won’t shut up! Tom nearly shouted out. One second his insides were squirming with fear, the next blind anger seized him. How dare this bastard keep Kellie tied up? Or himself.
Got the most important presentation of my career in the morning. It could save my business. And I’m missing it because of you, you fat-
In the morning?
Was it morning?
It was coming back to him, unevenly, like trying to put sheets of paper strewn across a room by a gust of wind back into their proper order.
Kellie had gone. Her car had been burned out. Then he had responded to the email. And now she was lying across the room, all trussed-
He thought of the young woman on his computer screen, in her evening dress, the hooded man, the stiletto blade.
Pain welled in his bladder. ‘Please,’ he called out, ‘I need to pee.’
‘No one’s stopping you,’ the American said from the shadows.
Tom wriggled round. The man was stooped over Kellie. He ripped the tape away from her mouth. Tom winced at the sound.
Instantly she screamed at the man, ‘Fuck you! Fuck you, you bastard!’
‘Just be a little more ladylike; people will want to see you looking ladylike. Would you like a little more vodka?’
‘Fuck you!’
Oh, God, Kellie! It was so good to hear her voice, to know she was alive, that she was OK, that she had fight in her. Yet this wasn’t the way to deal with this situation.
He clenched his thighs together, and his abdomen, fighting the surge of pain from his bladder. Surely the man didn’t mean him to relieve himself where he lay?
‘Kellie, my darling!’ Tom called out.
‘Get this fucking bastard to get us out of here. I want Jessica and Max. I want my children. LET ME FUCKING GO!’
‘Do you want the tape back over your face, Mrs Bryce?’
She rolled over onto her stomach and lay still, sobbing hysterically, deep, gulping sobs. And Tom felt wretched, useless, so utterly, utterly useless. There had to be something he could do. Something. Oh God, something.
The pain in his bladder was stopping him thinking and his head felt like it had been split open. The torch beam was moving. As it did, Tom saw hundreds of dark-coloured drums, stacked floor to ceiling, huge bloody things, many bearing hazard labels. It was cold in here. There was a slightly sour smell in the chilly air.
Where the hell are we?
‘Oh Tom, please do something!’ she shrieked.
‘Do you want money?’ Tom called out to the man. ‘Is that what you want? I’ll rustle together whatever I can.’
‘You mean you’d like to subscribe?’
‘Subscribe?’ Tom said, pleased at last to get some sort of response to his questions. Engage the man in conversation, reason with him, try to find a-
‘You’d like to subscribe so you could watch yourself and your wife.’ The American laughed. ‘That’s rich!’
Tom’s spirits lifted a fraction. ‘Yes, whatever, however much you want!’
The beam shone straight into his eyes again. ‘You don’t get it, fuckwit, do you? How are you going to be able to see yourselves?’
‘I – I don’t – know.’
‘You’re even more stupid than I thought. You want to pay money so you and your vain little drunk of a wife can watch yourselves looking good dead?’
75
Roy Grace was on the phone non-stop as he drove in his Alfa, making one call after another: checking on Emma-Jane, then the progress of each of his team members in turn, driving them as hard as they could be pushed.
He headed east along the coast road, leaving behind the elegant Regency facades of Kemp Town for the open country, high above the cliffs, passing the vast neo-Gothic pile of Roedean girls’ school and then the art deco building of the St Dunstan’s home for the blind.
Nine fifteen tomorrow night.
The time was lasered into his consciousness; it formed part of every thought that he had. It was now 10.15 a.m., Monday. Just thirty-five hours to the broadcast – and how long before then would the Bryces be killed?
Janie Stretton had been late at the vet with her cat for a 6.30 p.m. appointment, and she hadn’t left until at least 7.40. In between then and approximately 9.15 p.m., when Tom Bryce claimed to have seen her on his computer, she had been murdered and the video of it broadcast. If the same pattern was followed now maybe they had until around 7.30 p.m. tomorrow. Just over thirty-three hours.
And still no live leads.
Thirty-three hours was no damn time at all.
Then he allowed himself just the briefest smile at the thought of Cassian Pewe in hospital. The irony of it. The incredible coincidence. And the fact that Alison Vosper had seen the funny side – showing him a rare side of herself, the human side. And the thing was – not a good thing, he knew, but he could not help it – he didn’t feel even the tiniest bit bad about it, or sorry for the man.
He was sorry for the innocent taxi driver, but not for that little shit, Cassian Pewe, who had arrived in Brighton newly promoted and with every intention of stealing his lunch. The problem hadn’t gone away, but with the man’s injuries it was at least deferred for a while.
He drove through the smart, historic, cliff-top village of Rottingdean, along a sweeping rise then dip, followed
