Fragile Lives (18 page)

‘You got a light, love?' he asked.

‘Sorry, don't smoke.'

‘Oh, OK.' She was aware too late of the second man behind her, shoving something over her face, his arm trapping hers against her body.

Then the world went black.

Just after noon Randall received the call he had been waiting for. The abductors had finally made contact with the Goldmans. Eagerly, he listened to the intercepted call. The voice heavily disguised as always. The abductor used an off-the-shelf electronic voice changer, little more, Randall thought, than a kid's toy. Randall's electronic gizmos had long ago stripped away the disguise and he knew that Travis Haines always made these calls in person.

Obviously, he enjoyed the reaction.

The messages themselves were also very similar, designed to tug any parental heart strings not already at full tension.

‘Deborah and Sarah miss their mummy and daddy,' Haines said. ‘They're quite sure you'll do anything to get them back.'

No figures, no information on how to make the exchange. Again, that was typical of Haines. Randall remembered the call that had come into his own home and the hours of hysteria that followed as his wife wept and begged him to just do whatever the man wanted.

He recalled what his response had been too. ‘I told you to bugger off,' Randall said out loud to himself. ‘But I don't expect Mummy and Daddy Goldman will have that kind of nerve.'

Did he regret his decision?

Randall didn't believe in regret.

One thing bothered him about this latest abduction and that was the length of time that had elapsed between the taking of the children and the first contact with the parents. Haines had always taken his time over the issuing of his demands, three or four days was normal, though there was usually an initial contact within an hour or so, just so the parents didn't get any silly idea about calling the police and reporting their treasures missing. But this was different. More than a week had elapsed and that didn't make sense. Most parents would have folded, called the police. In fact, most parents would have reported the kids missing within the same hour that they noticed them gone, as soon as they'd checked any possible hiding places, asked neighbours, called family and friends. Randall had assumed that Haines had made initial contact with the parents before he, Randall, had got wind of anything happening but the words used in this phone call cast a whole load of doubt on that. It was the kind of message Haines always began with, before saying when, where and how much.

Was this the first contact? If so, how had the Goldmans known not to call the police? It was an interesting question.

Another thing that bothered him was that the Goldmans were not rich, not poor by any means, but compared to Haines's usual targets they were supremely average.

Whatever way you looked at it, there was a change in the pattern here. So did that mean Haines was changing the rules or changing the game or was there something going on that Randall was missing?

The phone rang again but this time it was Duggan and it took time before Randall could make any sense of what he was saying. The man was ranting, practically screaming down the phone.

‘I got a call saying they were sorry about Patrick but it was my fault. They said I hadn't learned, had I, said I had two other kids, didn't I. So I called home to check on everyone. I was going frantic. I tried to get a hold of Joy but her phone kept ringing out and there was no reply and you know what she's like, always got the damn thing stuck to her ear. And then I got another call. They've taken her, Randall. Taken my girl.'

‘Listen to me. Listen. Joy will be all right. We'll sort it.'

‘Like you did with Patrick?'

‘No, Jimmy, not like Patrick. Your Pat was an accident, collateral damage in a war we're going to win. We agreed, man, we're going to wipe the bastards out, take what they've—'

‘You think I care abut the money now?'

‘I think you might if I remind you how much.'

‘I want out. I'm going to find my kid. I don't give a flying fuck for you, your plans or Haines's blood money. I'm getting out. Now. I'm going to the police.'

‘No, James, I don't think you are. That would be very foolish. Very weak.'

‘I'm already a fool,' Duggan said bitterly. ‘I can't be much more of one. Most stupid thing I ever did was to listen to you. I've lost one kid, I'm not going to lose another.'

The phone went dead and Randall studied it for a moment as though it were an artefact of great interest. He crossed to one of the computers, struck a few keys, verified where Duggan was and which of his own people were close enough to intercept. Gave orders to remove him from the game.

‘Weakness,' he said. He despised weakness. It brought failure and that was something Randall could not abide.

Mac was still in the meeting when Duggan called. His phone was on silent but when he saw the name he signalled that he'd have to take it. He moved to the door, then stopped in the doorway as he listened to a hysterical Duggan.

‘Tell me when and where? Right, I'll be twenty minutes, half an hour at most.'

He rang off, turned back to face the room.

‘Developments?' Kendal asked.

‘That was James Duggan. His daughter's been snatched and he wants to bring us on board. But that's not all; he reckons he and Randall had some scam going, something about taking Haines for all he'd got. He wasn't making sense. I've arranged a meet.'

Kendal rose to his feet. ‘I'll go with you. I'll have back-up standing by, just in case.'

Mac nodded, the hairs on his neck prickled; this was getting more complex by the hour and he didn't trust Duggan as far as he could spit. Randall even less distance.

‘The DeBarr Hotel,' he said. ‘Duggan wants to meet us there.' One day, he reflected, he might actually get to go there for a meal and a drink, something a little less dramatic than his encounters with the place had been so far.

J
ames Duggan was scared. Scared for his family and scared for himself. Randall was not a man who liked to be crossed and Duggan knew he should never have let himself be persuaded into his schemes. It had already cost him a son; Duggan had a premonition it was going to cost him much, much more.

He'd go to Mac, get taken into protective custody or whatever it was the police did. He'd already called home again and told his wife and son to pack a bag and get out. Just drive. Get far away where no one knew who they were. He'd wanted to get security from one of his clubs to look after them but after Edward Parker he didn't know who he could trust. Not anymore. Could he trust Mac? He had looked closely at the man, his past, his record, his problems after that child had been killed and there was nothing to make him think that he could not. But what did that mean?

‘Too late now. No options left. What a bloody mess. Oh god, Joy, Patrick, I'm so sorry, so sorry.'

Tears threatened to blind him and he wiped them away, trying to focus on the traffic on the busy Honiton road, a stretch of dual carriageway he had driven many times in the past few days.

There was a long downhill stretch with a brace of odd and unexpected little junctions without proper slip roads and he'd been nearly caught out a couple of times when cars had appeared from nowhere and pulled on to the main drag with a confidence and lack of observation born of familiarity.

His attention to the side roads meant that he saw the car and his knowledge of Randall's methods meant that he knew who the men were even before they pulled on to the main road and slipped into place close behind him, bare inches from his rear bumper.

‘How did he find me? How did he pick me up so bloody fast?'

Angrily he thumped the steering wheel, sheer frustration gripping him. At the back of his mind, he had acknowledged that Randall would be furious; be determined that Duggan not carry out his threat, but he'd thought he'd have a bit more time before Randall's men caught up with him. His turn-off was soon, a right turn at the bottom of the hill towards Lyme Regis and then on to Frantham but that road was narrow, twisting. Abruptly, he veered off, pulling into the other lane. A car horn warning him at the last minute of a vehicle speeding down the inside. He glanced in his rear view. The driver was swearing, waving a hand, demanding he pull over and calling him all kinds of idiot. Duggan put his foot down, raced ahead, his pursuers tucked in behind, cutting up the other car for a second time. Duggan could hear the blasts on the horn, but he didn't think his pursuers would care. Closer now, they touched his bumper and he felt the back end bump and then kick out as they drew back. Then again, harder this time, nudging, bumping, clipping him so he swerved dangerously close to the central barrier.

It crossed his mind to wonder what the driver of the other car now thought. If he would call the police and report two lunatic drivers. The thought delivered momentary hope but his turn was coming up and Duggan knew that he would take it. That beyond all reason he would hope to outrun them, reach Frantham, meet Mac at the hotel. Be safe.

Ahead, he could see his turn, the gap seeming too small and coming up too quickly. No time to brake. He could see the lorry on the other carriageway, picking up speed on the flat, preparing for the hill. Praying that his car was fast enough, he swerved, dived through the gap.

‘He never looked, never even tried to stop,' the lorry driver would tell the police and the eyewitnesses would support his story.

The car Randall had sent, mission accomplished, drove on.

T
he rest of the school day had been tough for George. They had asked him if he wanted to go home, reassuring him that someone from Hill House would drive over and get him but the thought of going back alone, facing questions from Cheryl and then from the rest of the kids when they arrived back on the minibus, it was all too much.

‘I'd rather go to class,' he said. Hearing himself with disbelief. He was refusing the rest of the day off?

He could not now recall a thing he had done that day. He'd asked Miss Crick at afternoon registration what had happened and she said that Paul's parents had arrived and taken him away. She said she thought they had gone to the hospital. George hoped so. He knew Paul's parents wouldn't be able to cope alone. He marvelled at the fact that he and Karen had coped as well as they had, a few pills from the doctor and the occasional sessions with a therapist the only help their mother had received over the years. They had rarely stayed long enough anywhere for her to get more consistent care.

‘What happened?' Ursula asked as they walked back to meet the minibus. ‘It's all over the school.'

‘He just lost it. It was scary, Ursula. It was really bad. I didn't know what to do.' She listened as he explained, making no comment, just nodding from time to time and he was again grateful for someone who knew not to ask questions when he needed them to be quiet.

Back at Hill House a surprise was waiting in the shape of a letter from Rina inviting both George and Ursula to come over that Sunday.

‘I think that should be fine,' Cheryl said beaming at them both.

‘How does she know about me?' Ursula asked.

‘I expect Mac told her. Tim has a job at that new hotel. He's the magician?'

Ursula nodded, she remembered. ‘What else was in the envelope?' she asked with a teasing smile. ‘I saw you tuck it back in.'

George chewed his lip. ‘A postcard,' he confessed finally. ‘It's from my sister, Karen. Look, I just want to go to my room for a bit. OK?'

She nodded her understanding, picked up both their bags and went through to the conservatory. George shot upstairs, dived into his room and shut the door. His heartbeat fast, pounding in his throat. At the end of a lousy day at least there was a bit of a prize. He flopped down on his bed and withdrew the card, laughing out loud as he saw the view of Frantham, read the message from Karen. It was all simple, almost predictable stuff but he could feel her smiling as she wrote the words and he thought how lucky he really was. He had lost so much but he still had people who cared about him. He picked up the photo that had pride of place on his bedside cabinet. Himself and Karen and their mother, all smiling, all happy in what had then been their new home.

He wondered where she was now. The postmark was smudged but he could just make out a few of the letters. C A R. Carlisle? New places, she'd said. George couldn't remember them ever heading that far north.

‘Don't stop until you're safe,' George whispered. ‘Just don't stop.'

Kendal listened and Mac waited for him to finish the call, sensing that this was important.

Finally, he hung up and pocketed the phone. ‘I know why our man was a no show,' he said. ‘He died, couple of miles up the road. RTA, car versus lorry, didn't stand a chance.'

‘What?'

‘Come on, we'll head back to the scene. Eyewitnesses say he didn't stop, didn't even look or slow down. He pulled across the dual carriageway, heading for the exit for Lyme. Lorry coming the other way, didn't have a chance to stop. End of story. But there's another thing. A witness says she's sure he was being followed. Tailgated by a black saloon. Her passenger took down the registration number but I doubt it's genuine. They reckon both Duggan and this car were going well over ninety when he tried to make the turn. If the lorry hadn't got him he's likely to have flipped the car.'

‘And the tailgater?'

‘Drove on by.'

‘Randall.' Mac said.

‘Next stop after the crash scene I reckon,' Kendal said.

U
rsula knocked tentatively on George's door.

‘Cheryl says there's a phone call for you,' she said. ‘I think it's Paul's mum.' She sounded apprehensive and George's heart sank. Rina's letter and Karen's card had given him a bit of a lift, now it looked like he'd have to come back down to earth.