Connected (30 page)

Doug’s phone was ringing. He sat up with a jolt.
It was still dark except for the mobile’s flashing display on the floor beside
the bed. The clock read 5:40am. Bullock’s voice, “Mr. Richards, sorry to wake
you, but I thought you’d want to know that we’ve found the mobile phone …”
“And Nadia?” said Doug, switching on the light.
“No, just the phone – it was picked up on the hard shoulder of the M11 not far
from Stansted Airport. I have men searching the area, but it seems likely the
device was tossed from the window of a passing vehicle sometime last night.”
“So she could still be anywhere.”
“We’re doing everything we can, I’ll let you know as soon as we have more.”

So Markov had been smart enough to send his ransom
message from a different location, and then ditch the phone. But how far would
he have bothered to go? Far enough not to give away Nadia’s position, but
perhaps not much farther. Maybe the choice of motorway hard shoulder was a
decoy designed to lead any search to areas up and down the M11. Doug restarted
the laptop and ran a search on sewage treatment plants in the vicinity. There
were two within a ten mile radius of the airport. Switching from map to
satellite view, he started to examine the surrounding areas. One of the plants
appeared to be in a fairly heavily built up district which, while odd in
itself, did not fit Peter’s purported sense of countryside. The other was set
in a small triangle of land, bordered by woods on one side and open fields on
the other two. About a mile across the open land to the west was a large farm
set just off the main road. There were several structures behind the main
building which looked like sheds or barns, but it seemed too exposed and
established to be used as a hide-out. He scanned the area again and spotted
something in the woods. About the same distance to the south west of the sewage
plant was a rectangular clearing, in which stood a small cottage, and a solitary
out-building. Access appeared to be via a long narrow track running through the
trees and joining the road some mile and half to the south. He sketched a rough
map showing its location relative to the main roads and called a taxi.

According to Google maps, the distance, at a
little over thirty miles, should have taken just under an hour, but the young
Asian driver, in spite of Doug’s repeated attempts to convey a sense of
urgency, seemed in no particular hurry. Chatting away to various friends or family
members in some unintelligible language, he rolled happily along behind lorries
and tractors, never once risking an overtake on any but the very straightest of
roads. To be making such slow progress towards a destination that was at best,
a guess based on nothing but the inexplicable premonitions of a man whose
sanity he had started to question, was extremely frustrating. But it was all he
had to go on. Wherever Nadia was, he reckoned it had to be somewhere within a
ten mile radius of the airport, so even if the cottage in the woods turned up
nothing, he would at least be in the right approximate area. He could then
start searching every building within smelling range of the sewage plant.

As the taxi finally arrived at the entrance to the
unmarked dirt track, Doug felt a surge of hope. Paying the fare, he set off
into the woods.

It had been the longest
night in Nadia’s memory. She had eventually teased enough straw from the bale
at the end of the shed to insulate her aching body from the cold damp earth
beneath, but sleep had been a restless and sporadic visitor. Shadowy shapes in
the gloomy blackness, given substance and animated by a stress-wired
imagination, had preyed on her mind like soul-sucking spectres of the night.
The gusting wind seemed to carry malevolent whispers punctuated only by the
occasional scratching and scurrying of unseen things on the ground around her.
The dreams that came, laden with fear and frustration, brought little relief
from the general foreboding that gripped her lucid being as tightly as the
nylon straps around her limbs. As light finally began to creep through the gaps
around the door and under the eaves, a curious sequence of semi-wakeful images
fought for her rising consciousness. She dreamed that a huge plastic cable tie
encircled her waist while her attention seemed drawn to the exaggerated ratchet
mechanism holding it in place. As if bidden by some invisible presence, she
pushed her finger between the rack and ratchet of the fastening, and felt the
strap loosen around her body.

She opened her eyes, shifting uncomfortably and
trying to invite some circulation back to the feet and hands, still painfully
restrained by the smaller, tighter versions of her dream. It then hit her that
a finer, sharper point inserted into the ties’ ratchets might serve the same
role as the imagined finger of a few seconds earlier. She sat up and looked
down around her. No belt buckle - no pins. She scanned the floor for tacks or
staples – nothing. Rolling back down in defeat, a blade of straw pricked the
skin of her back. Perplexed at how it had penetrated her blouse, she pulled her
wrists up behind her until her thumb came across a small jagged hole in the
fabric. Remembering, she struggled excitedly to her feet and shuffled over to
the wall, where the cause of the rip still jutted from the wood, glinting in a
narrow shaft of morning light. Grasping the nail between thumb and forefinger,
she pulled and twisted at the burred metal until her fingertips were raw. It
remained fast. Only about an inch of steel protruded from the wood and she
guessed at least another two were embedded beneath the surface. There was a
rustle from outside. Something was moving around the back of the shed. She
quickly hooked the tie over the head of the nail and leant forward bringing her
whole weight to bear on the obstinate fixture. Feeling it start to give, she
braced herself for a painful landing. Arching backwards, her knees hit the
ground first, followed by pelvis, ribs and then chin. She heard a chink and saw
a flash of steel in the dirt beside her. Dragging herself sideways, she located
it with her fingers, slid it into her back pocket and lay still, listening. For
a moment there was nothing but silence, then more soft footsteps outside. A
shadow fell over the crack in the door.
“Nadia!” came a familiar whisper.
“Doug! Is that really you?” she whispered back, shuffling towards the door and
peering through the gap.
“The one and only!”
“How did you find me?”
“Long story. Let’s get you out of here first. Just a sec - I need to call the
police and let them know I’ve found you.”
Nadia heard his footsteps receding. “Doug, where are you going?”
After a minute or so, he was back. “Change of plan I’m afraid - can’t seem to
get a signal here, so I’m going to see if I can find a crowbar or something to
break this chain apart.”
“Be careful! There’s at least one other guy besides Markov, and he’s armed.”
“Just sit tight – I’ll be right back!” he said with a handsome grin.
“Doug!”
“What?”
“I do love you!”

These words had an almost greater effect on Doug
than the initial realisation that he had actually found her. They filled him
with strength, hope and a sense of invincibility. The tables had seemingly
turned; not only had he outwitted the ruthless Russian, he had won the heart of
the girl so coveted by him. And although he didn’t yet know it, those same
words had led to a potentially fatal lapse of judgement.

The cottage, standing about fifty yards from the
shed, was partially hidden by a white van. To the rear were three commercial
sized greenhouses, the sight of which had initially led him to question whether
this was indeed the same clearing he had spotted on the satellite view, in
which the barn and cottage had stood alone. He then remembered that such images
were usually out of date by at least months if not years. From the approaching
track, these large glass buildings had been entirely hidden from sight -
obscured by the cottage and a tight line of conifers running behind. Now,
viewed from the back of the shed, he could see not only the greenhouses, but
rows upon rows of bushy narrow-leafed plants within. Bullock’s little lecture
on home-grown cannabis echoed in his mind.

He crept over to the van and tried the door. It
was locked. Peering through the two side windows of the driver’s cabin, he
surveyed the cottage. The single story building was old and dilapidated, with
ivy covering most of the walls. He scanned the dark, dusty windows for signs of
movement. Perhaps Markov and his henchman were still asleep. He moved slowly
across the gravel, placing each foot carefully to minimise sound. On reaching
the wall, he put his ear to the brickwork and listened. Nothing. Keeping his
head low, he peered through the first window. The room was empty except for a
stack of cardboard boxes at one end, two empty beer cans and some burger
wrappers. The next window was smaller and frosted. He started to make his way
round to the back, when the sound of a lavatory flush stopped him in his
tracks. Someone was awake. He waited a few seconds, then continued to the end
of the wall, poking his head around the corner tentatively. Two large windows
and a partially glazed panel door looked out across twenty feet of moss-mottled
concrete terrace to the conifers. At the far side was an open coal shed,
against which stood a pile of aluminium struts and some gardening tools. From
within the house he could now hear the low murmur of men’s voices. Crawling
stealthily on his hands and knees, he made his way towards the coal shed,
taking care to keep well below the two window sills. The struts (leftover
pieces from the greenhouses, Doug surmised) looked too weak to force the chain.
Instead, he opted for a shiny new garden fork and a small sledge hammer, and
started back along the foot of the wall. He had just reached the panelled door,
when his mobile start to vibrate, and in that split second, he was struck by
the sickening realisation that this would be followed by a full volume
rendition of his ringtone. Dropping the sledgehammer, he managed to silence the
phone before the second ring, but raised voices, and the sound of chairs
sliding on tiled floor, told him it was already too late. Leaving the
sledgehammer where it lay, but keeping hold of the fork, he sped back across
the terrace, ducking his head as best he could, and rounded the corner. He
stood there for a moment his heart flip-flopping like a manic frog, while he
listened for the sound of the backdoor opening. How could he have been so
stupid? He quickly set his phone to silent mode while the words stable, door,
horse, and bolted sprang to mind. The call had been from Becky, and he now saw
that it followed a text she must have sent earlier, while he was in the taxi -
a single word: Kaileena! As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he heard
the front door open followed by approaching footsteps. Shit! It was too late to
make it back across the gravel to the shed. He peered back around the corner
and straight into the twin barrels of a shotgun.
“Drop it!” said Markov, gesturing to the garden fork still in his right hand.
Doug glanced back over his shoulder and saw another man moving towards him, a
pistol swinging nonchalantly at the end of his arm. He dropped the fork and
raised his hands.
“Give me the phone!” barked Markov, walking slowly past him and snatching brief
glances around while keeping the barrel aimed squarely at his chest. He looked
across at the other man and pointed towards the shed. “Check on her,” he
shouted.
Doug withdrew the mobile and passed it to him, switching it off as he did so.
“The police are on their way,” he lied, now wishing he gone for help rather
than trying to act the hero.
Markov stared at him for a few seconds. “How you find us?” he asked.
“We traced Nadia’s mobile. You may have dumped it by the motorway, but when you
switched it on to take that photo…”
“You lie! If that’s true, they would be here now! Instead, you come alone.
Why?”
Doug could think of no good response to this. “Believe what you want,” he said,
“but I just called them, they’ll be here soon. If you hurry, you might just
manage to get away before they arrive.”
Markov looked at the phone as if to verify this and then frowned, seeing it was
switched off. “Either way – I have no more use for you.” Markov raised the
shotgun to Doug’s head. “Turn round Mr. Richards!”
“Wait!” shouted Doug. “Don’t you want the key?”
“If you had the key, you would not be here.”
“I have the key!”
Markov’s eyes narrowed as he lowered the end of the shotgun to the level of
Doug’s groin. “Give it to me then.”
“How do I know you won’t just kill me.”
Markov smiled nastily. “You don’t!”
“So why should I give it to you?”
“Because if you don’t, I kill you slowly. In fact,” he said, his smile growing
wider and nastier, “I kill you both together so you can watch each other die
slow painful death.”
Doug’s mind was racing desperately to find a solution, but none came. Is this
what it had come to – a choice between dying quickly or slowly? He needed time
to think. “I want to see Nadia!”
“The key?” shouted Markov.
“First Nadia!” Doug shouted back defiantly. There was a sound of footsteps in
the gravel and the other man appeared from around the shed giving the thumbs
up.
“Bring her to office!” shouted Markov. “You – inside!” he said, jabbing the
shotgun into Doug’s ribs and gesturing towards the back door. Doug started
walking back across the terrace.
“Slowly,” said Markov. “Through the door and right. Any jerking around - I blow
your head off.”
Doug made his way cautiously into the cottage. To the left, from the kitchen,
the aroma of coffee, stale tobacco and dope hit his nostrils. The room to the
right had a large grey metal table at one end surrounded by four folding
chairs. Another row of cardboard boxes lined one wall. On the desk was a
laptop, some papers, a roll of duct tape and a Stanley knife. Markov walked
coolly behind the desk, keeping the shotgun trained steadily on Doug’s chest,
and opened up the laptop. “Now we wait for your precious Nadia,” he said with a
sneer.