A Woman's Place (57 page)

‘Well, Mr Betts, now you know how it feels. That should put you out of action for a bit.'

She did not flinch when he lifted himself on one elbow and yelled throatily after her.

‘Bitch!'

Graham Dunn had hovered for over an hour. It had taken twenty minutes to find somewhere to park but at last he had struck lucky, when a big Mercedes a few yards from the entrance of her block had moved away. Heart in mouth he had run for the van and backed it into the vacant slot. Couldn't be better. Perhaps the gods wanted him to succeed.

A light shone through the curtains of her flat. He was reasonably sure she was there. Her presence so close made his pulse race. Whatever indignities she had put up with in recent days, now she was about to be happy and loved. He, Graham Dunn, would love her.

Only he grasped how she felt, how desperate, how alone. Even the pressmen had abandoned her. He had seen them day after day, a dwindling band, until yesterday there had been no one. Perhaps a stringer had been ordered to keep an eye out for her at the House of Commons, but other than that they had lost interest already. But he would be faithful. Her car was parked under a street light. It would not be long before she would come down the stairs and go towards it. Then he would approach her.

George Horrocks strolled along Victoria Street. Opposite Westminster Cathedral he waited for traffic to clear before he could cross the road. At his side a young girl touched his arm.

‘George?'

He turned. The face was immediately recognisable, but was flushed; the eyes were unnaturally bright.

‘Karen! Good evening. What are you doing round here at this time of night?'

‘Heading for my mother's. I haven't seen her for a while, though we've talked on the phone. I thought I'd go and see her.'

George chuckled. ‘Then we're on the same errand.' As they reached safety on the other side he looked more closely at her. ‘Are you all right? You look a bit … odd.'

Karen sagged suddenly. ‘Can I take your arm, George?'

He offered it wordlessly. As she slipped hers through he noticed she was trembling. ‘What is it?' he asked gently.

‘I seem to have got involved in a fight, down St James's,' she said sombrely. ‘I wasn't hurt, don't worry.'

He stopped dead. ‘What was it – a mugger? Shouldn't we call the police? The station's round the comer, in Rochester Row…'

She shook her head. ‘No, George. It was somebody I know. I don't want the police involved.' She took a deep breath. ‘I thumped him one: he won't forget it in a hurry. But I feel a bit wobbly, and terribly ashamed of myself too. I shouldn't have done that.'

‘Perhaps it will help to talk to your mother.' George was grave. He let the girl lean on him and saw she was glad of his support. Together they walked slowly past the shops. ‘How is she, anyway?'

The two talked quietly as they headed towards the entrance to Morpeth Terrace. The side road was full of parked cars but was otherwise empty. Elaine's flat was still over a hundred yards away. As they glanced up simultaneously the light in her window was switched off: that meant she would be coming down the stairs. Best, perhaps, not to confront her suddenly on the doorstep, which might scare her. They slowed their pace. Her car was at this end so she must walk towards them. In a moment they observed Elaine's door open and her figure, a headscarf covering her hair, emerge.

The details, the silly irrelevancies, for ever after stuck in Karen's brain, as if time had stood still. From one window, high up, came the sound of the Rolling Stones, while the smells of a curry floated out of an open ground-floor ventilator. The window-boxes were a riot of blue and yellow pansies. Her mother's coat was dowdy and the scarf was dull and brown, not in character.

It was at that precise moment that a stranger stepped forward. Karen barely took him in: he had been lurking behind a vehicle and not been immediately visible. A man in the street, that was all. A tubby, middle-aged figure, nondescript, like thousands of others in central London. Nobody of the remotest significance.

‘Mrs Stalker?'

Elaine shrank, fearful. ‘I have nothing to say to the press, sorry.'

‘I'm not press. I'm a … an admirer. I wanted to say how sorry I am at what happened to you.'

She hardly glanced at him. ‘Thank you,' she said, and looked vaguely in the direction of her car. But he blocked her way.

‘Would you give me your autograph?' He thrust a grubby book and pen towards her. ‘Please.' She sighed and took the items listlessly.

As she scribbled, her head bowed to hide her face, he raised a hand to touch the golden hair on her forehead but stopped himself just in time.

‘I love you,' he said.

‘What?' Her voice was faint.

‘I love you, Elaine. I've always loved you. ‘And', he continued eagerly, for she had not moved, ‘I know you love me. I've seen you looking at me when you're on television. I saw you at St Kitts when they threw things at you – that was terrible. I tried to protect you.'

She raised her eyes and looked at him, puzzled.

‘Protect me?'

‘Yes. The woman who threw that tomato. I sorted her out.'

The boastful pride in his voice brought her to her senses. With a little cry she dropped the autograph book and pen and backed away. But she was too late.

Dunn had darted forward even as she realised the danger. Something hard was dug into her and she could feel its steely edge between her ribs. He grabbed her wrist and shook her.

‘You do love me. I know it. I've seen the way you look at me. And I will make you happy, Elaine, I promise.'

‘No –' She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. He was pushing her furiously. She half walked, was half carried towards the kerb until her shoulders were up against a big white Transit van. He reached across, his body pressed over hers, turned the handles and swung the doors open. She smelled his sweat, his breath, and recoiled in horror.

‘Inside!'

She shook her head dumbly. He raised his hand and she could see what had been pressed into her side: its cold steel winked in the light from a window. With the knife's point he touched her throat, a nick, so that it stung. A smear of blood followed the blade and he dipped his finger in it to show her.

‘
Inside
. And not a sound.'

From the far end of the street came a distant shout and the noise of running feet. With a loud curse and sudden superhuman strength the man picked her up and propelled her bodily into the interior. She overbalanced and fell back into the void. There was a sudden strong smell of onions. He bent down, caught her dangling feet and manhandled her legs inside the van. One of her shoes came off, bounced on the van's fender and fell into the gutter. He slammed the door shut, raced to the driver's seat, switched on the ignition and with a screech of clashing metal shoved the vehicle into gear.

It was parked too tight. With a curse he revved hard and drove into the green BMW in front, shunting the car forward the necessary couple of feet. Then he swung the wheel, careered away from the kerb, sped off the wrong way up the road and disappeared around the comer, just as George and Karen arrived at the empty spot.

The white van clattered around Pimlico with its engine roaring and headlights full on. In the back its dazed passenger was flung from side to side each time the vehicle lurched around a comer. Soon, however, the vehicle proceeded more sedately. Though the driver's body, visible through the communicating grille, still sat rigid, his white-knuckled hands on the wheel appeared to relax a little.

For several moments Elaine, afraid and confused, wondered if she was in the middle of a strange dream. She could recall fumbling with her door keys in her flat and feeling helpless because they had almost slipped from her fingers, as if the fates were conspiring against her. Then she had started down the stairs. She had stepped into the street, relieved that there was no sign of any journalist, and been struck by cold air which had made her want to turn back inside. There had been a man…

Her head hurt where she had banged it on the floor of the van. The cut on her neck stung. She rubbed it and recoiled at the streak of dark blood on her fingers: it was deeper than she had realised. One of her shoes had vanished and her left ankle throbbed. Slowly and painfully she sat up.

The rear of the van had no windows. Some light came through from the driver's section. As street lamps flashed by, the garish neon intermittently lit up her surroundings. She found she had to concentrate to make anything out, and she wondered groggily in which direction they were travelling.

Light bulbs strung out overhead in graceful curves: that was Albert Bridge, surely. So the van was heading south of the river. The speed was steady as if there were yet some distance to cover. Such a route could take them anywhere – down to the coast, or to a ferry across the Channel. What was happening?

There was not much room. The vehicle had the look of a standard Ford Transit. The load area was half filled with sacks, nets and boxes from which came pungent but not over-fresh odours of potatoes, leeks, onions, cabbage and the earthy smell of root vegetables sold the old-fashioned way, still covered in soil. The floor had been partially covered with an old rug: on each side her exploring fingers touched cold metal and tattered greenery. An attempt had been made to create a space between some of the boxes, but it was apparent that a large object such as her own body could quickly be concealed from cursory examination and covered very effectively with the produce.

Elaine's teeth chattered. She reached out to the nearest potato sacks for comfort and pulled what she could reach around her legs. Despite her coat she was terribly cold.

The traffic noises receded. The light filtering into the back changed: now it was mainly the van's own headlights reflected from blackened narrow walls. It was bumping slowly on an uneven surface. Then it stopped.

She heard the driver descend from his seat and close his door quietly. The crunch of footsteps came alongside.

Instinct told Elaine to stay still. Her mouth went dry and her heart thumped so loudly she feared she could hear it reverberate from the ceiling. She tucked her feet under her and sat up as tidily as she could, her shoe in her hand. It was low-heeled and not much use as a weapon, even had she summoned the courage to try against that knife. Bare-footed she could offer little resistance.

The door opened and before she could protest or move the man climbed in beside her. The gleam of the knife, held threateningly but steadily, was a potent reminder. She gasped and touched her throat.

‘Sorry 'bout that. I didn't mean to hurt you. You won't get hurt. Just do as I tell you.'

The voice was gruff, flat, as if the words had been rehearsed so many times that any vestige of emotion had been lost. In the dark she could not make out her captor's features but could dimly recall a nondescript face and grubby hands holding an autograph book. She winced as her body weight pressed on the twisted ankle.

The man was fidgeting and muttering to himself. The right hand still held the knife; she could not see what was in his other hand. Then without warning he grabbed both her arms and hauled her towards him. With terror she wondered if he was about to hit her, but in one swift movement he hauled her hands in front of her, wrapped a length of electrical cord around her wrists, pulled tight and tied it, all the while holding the knife. The knot was worked underneath her fists where it would be difficult to reach with her teeth. At once her fingertips began to tingle from loss of circulation. In bewilderment she stared at him but his head was bent.

‘Your legs, please, Elaine.'

‘I've hurt my ankle.' It was almost a plea.

‘I won't tie it too tight, I promise.'

It was as if she were a child hurt after a fall and he a solicitous parent. As he wrapped the flex around her calves the incongruity of his tone struck her and she choked back a laugh. The sound emerged as a whimper and he paused, a flicker of distress on his face.

‘I've got to do this. But if you behave I'll take them off when we get home.'

‘Home?'

‘Yes, it's not far. You'll like it. It's our home, Elaine. Yours and mine.'

Suddenly he lunged at her. His arm was raised and the knife was pointed directly at her face. His voice became harsh. ‘No silly business, see? No screams or anything. I don't want no trouble.' She recoiled and shook her head, her eyes wide and terrified. That evidently did not reassure him. After rummaging in his pocket he brought out a roll of brown parcel tape. Clumsily he tore off a long piece and slapped it over her mouth, pressing the ends down firmly across her cheeks and into her hair. The effect, she realised, was that even if she tried she could remove it only with considerable pain. A cry was stifled in her throat.

He leaned over her: she shrank away and fell awkwardly on to her side.

‘That's better,' he grunted. ‘Won't be long. You sit tight.'

As if I could just clear off
Elaine reflected miserably as the man shut the main doors and climbed back into the driver's seat. The next moment the van backed out of the alley and recommenced its lurching. He was not used to driving it, that was obvious. There seemed to be a problem changing into fourth gear: immediately it seemed important to remember details like that.

Elaine's mind was still sluggish after a week with little to eat and barely any sleep in the twilight hours after her resignation. But she needed her wits about her now. She took a deep breath, nostrils distended. Her heart was still pumping hard and the adrenaline did its work in reviving her. At least she was not going to suffocate even if she was trussed up like a chicken and bouncing to God knew where among the cabbages. And she was alive.

How should she react? The practicality of the thought made her want to laugh. It was quickly suppressed. How weird that her first reaction was one of hilarity – was that hysteria? Yet part of her was becoming detached, observing her own behaviour, commenting on it. Perhaps this too was a defence mechanism.

Better to feel angry than afraid. That would be a powerful form of self-protection. Anger would keep her sane. It would be essential to hide the anger, naturally. But if she could conduct a running dialogue with herself, debate rapidly what to do and say; and if inwardly she retained a sense of fury at the violation of being carted off in this horrible van against her will, that was also probably healthy. She must retain her willpower, her sense of self. She would not give in.

That was a decision made. But give in to what? What exactly did this harsh-voiced knifeman intend?

She had missed the vote. That made her smile under the tape but reminded her of its presence. She would have to be careful or the tight stickiness would tear the delicate skin of her lips. With an effort she settled her mouth against the bond and breathed hard through her nose to get a grip on
herself.

One arm was twisted under her side and was going numb. She wriggled and rolled over on to her back, but there was barely room to bend her knees. The van bounced over a pot-hole and she heard a muffled oath. She was lying too close to the doors and could not save herself should they fly open. With an effort she pushed herself backwards with her elbows, her bound hands held over her stomach, raised her head and rested it on a large pungent brown bag which she guessed contained shallots. The small round objects rustled close to her ears but made a reasonable pillow.

Who was this man? What did he want? He had talked about ‘going home', of ‘our home'. He had declared that he loved her; and more peculiarly that he believed she loved him. What on earth could that mean? Was he some kind of nutter? Was this a genuine kidnap? To what purpose?

Of course it's a kidnap, silly,
her inner voice whispered.
He'll be after a ransom of some kind. And you know the rules adopted by British governments and police forces whenever hostages are taken: no ransom, no deals. Not even if death is the likely outcome. You're on your own.

The justification was obvious. If ransoms were paid, as the French had a habit of doing, then more ransoms would be sought. That meant more hostages: it put other innocent citizens at risk. To all such demands British authorities would say no, on the grounds that a country which resolutely refused to bow to pressure was of no use to criminals. Its nationals, therefore, were less likely to be any value as targets. At least, that was the official line.

So was this man a terrorist? Elaine's brow furrowed as she tried to remember everything about him. The accent was not foreign or Irish but Midlands, Leicestershire perhaps. He seemed to be acting alone. His weapon, which had already been used to good effect, was a broad-bladed knife, not a Kalashnikov. His talk of loving her did not fit with any terrorist vocabulary. He had not barked orders in a military fashion, nor shouted slogans. He had not mentioned politics.

Her pulse quickened in fear. Then if he was working to his own agenda, who the hell was he and what was in his mind? An individual criminal was far more difficult to detect, far more dangerous than a group acting in concert. His name might not be on any list of suspects, his address and whereabouts unknown. An extraordinary terrorist action which hit the headlines throughout the world was one thing; but a lone crackpot…?

She would be missed, she was sure of that, but perhaps not right away. The whips would assume she could not face everyone at the vote and had not done the courtesy of alerting them. Her pair might be annoyed that she had made no arrangement with him – if she were planning to slope off he could have gone home too! The majority was thin but should be sufficient. It was unlikely that the government would fall simply because she had not attended. If there were to be a second division, an urgent phone call might be made to her flat but all the caller would get would be the answerphone. No joy there.

Yet she could not just disappear without trace. That simply didn't happen. She had heard a distant shout as the van doors slammed on her – a familiar voice. Somebody running. Not one but two people, racing down the terrace. She had seen no one but had sensed other presences, too far away to help. Surely they would call the police? The hunt might yet be on.

But if this were a kidnap then there was no way of knowing it other than from the criminal himself. She cudgelled her mind for details of other cases. A news blackout was often requested. The result, if it were achieved, could only add to her anguish. The Birmingham estate agent Stephanie Slater who had been kidnapped in 1992 had listened to the radio news on the hour every day for over a week and not heard a whisper about police involvement, despite the fact (which she discovered later) that no fewer than a thousand officers had roamed in the fog to try to catch the culprit. And failed; so that the battered young woman had been returned to her home at dead of night not by the police but in the same red car in which she had been abducted, and by the same driver.

Elaine had read Stephanie's description of her ordeal. The memory of it made her shiver
uncontrollably. Yet the girl had endured when others had perished. However paralysed with fear she had stayed cool, her brain working overtime. Early on she had grasped that co-operation with her captor would be the sole means of saving her life – and of bringing him ultimately to justice.

Co-operation. No resistance.
You'll never manage that
, the inner voice said.
When have you ever succumbed easily to anything or anybody? Giving in is not in your nature. Your spirit will not allow it. You will try to escape. You will try to hurt him. You will want to destroy him – and if you don't you will be destroyed. In your own esteem if nothing else.

No
, she inwardly replied. To give in would mean
not
giving in. She would not let her spirit fail her, as perhaps it had when bullied by Bampton. She dragged her knees up to her chin and tried to hug herself but the cords on her numbed arms were too tight.
I'll do whatever he wants. At least, I will try
.

Her independent second mind was getting into its stride. Its reflections, she mused wryly, were going to be both a comfort and a profound irritation. The newest thought was that it seemed oddly appropriate that her withdrawal from public life, with that gnawing desolation and despair which had accompanied her exit and coloured her every moment since, should be underlined by this abrupt and bizarre physical removal. The fact that she no longer mattered might influence the way everyone behaved. It was at least possible that nobody would notice for ages, not even Karen or George. Till it was too late.

She buried her face in the shallots. Whether it was their pungent smell or tiredness or the pain from her ankle and aching body or the deprivation of sleep or a sudden realisation of the dreadful peril she was in she could not tell; but she lay crying silently for some time, eyes open but sightless.

I'll do whatever I have to. I don't have much choice.

The van was slowing down. Alert again, she listened hard for tell-tale sounds: lorries lumbered in the distance, a cat yowled; it seemed a quiet place. The driver waited as a car passed a few yards away and sat for several moments more until its lights disappeared. Then he switched off the engine and climbed out.