Gregory's Game (11 page)

‘Looks like we're about there.'

Tess nodded. They turned off the road and on to a track that narrowed as it approached the old farmhouse where Annie and her husband lived. Tess turned again through an open farm gate and into a driveway at the front of an ageing, whitewashed house. It stood squat and square in the middle of a large plot, with small windows and what looked like thick walls. It was not a pretty house, but it had a settled look, Tess thought, as though content with its history and location.

Something nagged at the back of Tess's mind. She'd seen something in the news about Annie Raven; she'd seen a picture of this house, she was sure, but for the life of her Tess could not bring to mind what it was and she didn't think it would have been in an art supplement or anything of that sort. Beyond family snapshots, Tess didn't really have much interest in photography.

The man who opened the door to them looked a little nervous, Tess thought. ‘Mr Taylor?' she guessed, remembering that was the name of Annie's artist partner. She showed him her ID and Vinod did the same. ‘I wonder if Ms Raven happens to be here. We'd appreciate a word.'

Bob Taylor studied her thoughtfully for rather a long time. She got the feeling he was interested in something other than her identity. Finally, he nodded. ‘You'd better come in. We're in the studio. Come on through.'

They followed him into the house and down a short passage beside the kitchen.

‘Wow,' Tess said. ‘This is lovely.' The studio was a conservatory that ran the full length of one side of the house. Beyond it she could see a high bank, tree covered and fast turning to autumn gold. Tess suddenly understood why an artist would want this unprepossessing little house.

‘Bob?'

Tess looked towards the sound of the voice and wondered how on earth she had missed noting the speaker before. The woman was standing beside the window, a red mug clasped in both hands. She was tall and slender with long dark hair and vivid blue eyes. Gorgeous, Tess thought. Beside her, she noted Vinod was suddenly standing very straight; he obviously thought so too.

‘This is Annie,' Bob said. ‘Annie, these are police officers. They want to talk with you about …'

‘About your friend Nathan Crow,' Tess said.

Kat didn't know what time it was or how long ago everything had turned into a nightmare. She and Desi had been snatched from their car and thrown into the boot of another. Desiree had screamed and howled, in terror and then in pain as she'd landed hard on the floor of the boot. Kat remembered kicking and biting, clawing at the man who held her, but there'd been nothing she could do; he was far too strong and even if she'd managed to break free of his grasp, there were two others she'd have to deal with. All wore ski masks, but she couldn't recall much else about them, except that they all seemed like giants, with grips like steel, and none of them spoke a single word.

The car had taken off at speed and Kat, not knowing what else to do, had wedged herself as best she could against the bulkhead and gripped her daughter tight.

Desiree had continued to howl, her cries destroying any attempt Kat made to try and listen for clues as to where they might be or how long the journey was.

She fretted that they might run out of air, then fretted more that they wouldn't. That they would have to face what was to come. What were they going to do, these men in masks? Why?

After what seemed like a very long time, the car stopped. The boot opened. Kat was grabbed again and this time thrown into the back of a van, Desi tossed in after her like they were just so much rubbish. Then another man came and grabbed Kat's hand. She felt a pin prick and a sudden pain in the back of her hand. If a pain could taste bitter, this one did. Then nothing until – well, she had no way of knowing how long. She came to in the back of the van, Desi beside her so still she thought the child had died until, holding her close once more, she realized that the little body was still warm and though her breathing was shallow, she was actually still drawing breath.

Kat had wept then. Sobbed until she was exhausted. Her mouth was dry and her head throbbed like she was hung over, and she had wet herself at some point; her jeans were wet and she stank – or imagined she did. Humiliated and so, so scared, she gathered her child close and retreated to the corner of the van, fighting sudden nausea and attempting to shield her child from the worst of the bumps as the van twisted and turned on what felt like a rough road, throwing them first against the bulkhead and then on to the floor.

Again, she had no concept of time, only that it passed. She tried to listen, but could hear nothing apart from the throb of the engine and a radio playing in the cab, tuned, she thought, to a classical station. No conversation, and no outside noise of traffic or changing landscape. A rough road, then a smoother track, then something that might have been a cattle grid. Kat saved those little indicators, tucked them away in the hope they might be useful. Breadcrumbs for when she escaped.

‘We will get away,' she promised Desi. ‘We will. We will.'

Then the van stopped. Hands reaching for them again. A blindfold tied too tight over her eyes. She screamed and kicked and bit, but it was hard to do any of those things with the dead weight of her little daughter in her arms. They half dragged, half carried her into a building. She could hear the change in sound as they crossed the threshold and gained the sense that this was somewhere large. Up stairs that sounded wooden, along a corridor that she sensed was narrow – they turned sideways as though it wasn't a wide enough space for herself and the men on either side. Then a door opening and she was thrown down again. She just managed to twist before she hit the floor, so that Desi landed on her and she didn't fall down on to the child.

The door closed and Kat ripped at the too-tight blindfold, tearing at it with fingers that felt numb and swollen and not her own.

She looked around and found that there was little to see. She and Desi were in a small square room. The walls were black, the floor was black, even the ceiling must have been painted black but she could only guess at that. There was a tiny amount of light shed by what she recognized as a battery-operated camping lantern.

The lantern was set on the floor beside a mattress. On the mattress were blankets and a white nightgown, long sleeved and oddly old fashioned, with a high neck.

‘Change your clothes,' a voice said. ‘Put on the gown.'

Kat got to her feet. The voice was coming from somewhere above her head ‘Who the hell are you? Why have you brought us here?'

‘Just do as I say.'

‘Why the hell should I?'

She tried to analyse where the voice was coming from. It was soft, she thought, but male, female, she couldn't tell. It sounded faintly distorted as though drifting in and out of focus.

‘Your daughter will wake up soon. She'll be hungry. You want her to have food? She'll be wet, uncomfortable. You don't want that, do you, Katherine?'

No, she didn't want that.

Still holding Desiree close, she circled the room, one hand on the walls, trying to guess how big a space it was. She had reached the back wall when the door opened and someone came through. Kat turned, instinctively. A camera flash blinded her and then the door was closed again.

‘Now get changed,' the voice told her again. ‘And we'll trade. Your obedience for food. I don't want to be unreasonable and I don't really want to be unpleasant. It will be so much better if you just do as you're told.'

Kat stood, undecided. She was sore and cold, her wet jeans clinging unpleasantly.

She laid Desiree on the mattress and slid them off, realizing suddenly that her jacket was gone and she now wore only a t-shirt and a light cardigan. She took off the cardigan, slipped the nightgown on over her t-shirt and then kicked the jeans and sodden underwear across the room. She kept her socks. She had no shoes. Then she pulled one of the blankets around her shoulders and gathered the child close.

Looking up, she tried once more to see where the voice might be coming from. It was silent now, but it had seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere.

Kat had never experienced real, unfettered terror, but she did now. The black walls closing in on her, the tiny light – what if it went out? The thin mattress and the coarse blankets and the silence.

She found herself straining to hear. Longing for the voice to speak to her once more. If it spoke, it was at least evidence of someone else there. Someone she might be able to negotiate with. Something she might be able to fight.

Kat didn't want to cry, but found she did anyway. Tears flowing fast and hot down bruised cheeks, finding the cuts and sores from being thrown around in the car and then the van.

She mustn't give in, she told herself. We'll get away. We'll get out of here. Alive.

T
hey sat around the table in the studio and drank tea. Bob was watchful; Annie thoughtful and cautious; Tess increasingly puzzled. Vinod focused on taking notes and she couldn't guess what he was thinking.

‘What about Nathan?' Annie had said. There'd been no surprise, no sense of shock that they were asking – which, in Tess's experience, were the usual reactions. There was no ‘what happened to him' question – which was the other, normal response. What is it with these people, Tess wondered. I'm in La La Land here.

‘You're telling me you have no means of contacting your friend,' Tess said, increasingly exasperated.

‘I'm telling you I can send him a message. I can't tell you when he'll pick it up. Nathan travels a lot. I just send the messages to a drop box and he responds when he's ready. Nathan is a friend; I'm not his keeper or his carer.'

‘A drop box?'

‘It's like a post office box,' Bob said. ‘Only it's online. It's a kind of email.'

‘Why not just use ordinary email?'

Annie smiled. ‘Because a drop box is encrypted, secure. All ID is stripped from my email and from his response. It uses a combination of public and private keys. Most journalists use something of the sort. We're all cautious about leaks these days.'

‘And is Nathan a journalist?'

Annie laughed. ‘No. I am, albeit one that works with pictures rather than words. Work has to be sent securely and quickly and from anywhere in the world. Sometimes I have to be careful. The habit is mine, rather than Nathan's, I suppose.'

‘And if you contacted him now, told him we want to speak to him, how soon before he got in touch?'

Annie shrugged and Bob laughed.

‘It's not funny,' Tess said tetchily. ‘A child and her mother are missing and we've got every reason to believe that those holding them are dangerous. Violent.'

‘I imagine Nathan already knows that,' Bob said. ‘Given the murder, the trashing of Ian Marsh's house and the photograph.'

Tess sighed. She'd told them far too much, desperation and a feeling that she couldn't get a proper handle on events pushing her into revealing more than she normally would. That and, she now realized, Annie's gentle but persistent questions.

‘Look,' she said, ‘I hope I don't need to stress the confidentiality of all this?'

‘I can assure you,' Annie said softly. ‘When the full story escapes into the media, it won't be because of us.'

Vinod looked up from his notes. ‘And what makes you think—'

‘It's too good a story,' Annie said. ‘A brutal murder, a university professor, a pretty child. Either your superiors will hold a press conference and release most of what you've told us, or they'll let it slide out into the world, detail by detail. You'll decide that Nathan is the key to all of this and that the more eyes you have looking for him, suspicious of him, the better. So you'll release a photograph of him; emphasize that, for the moment, he's just wanted as a witness. Even suggest that he too might be in danger – which is probably true. Not that there's anything you can do to change that.'

Annie sat back, her gaze fixed on Tess's face. Disturbingly steady.

‘And where might we obtain a photograph of this mysterious Mr Crow?' Vinod asked.

It won't be from here, Tess thought.

To her surprise, Annie glanced at her husband. ‘The best one will probably be in the wedding album,' she said. ‘Would you look?'

‘Sure.' Bob left, taking his mug of tea with him.

Tess knew her expression betrayed her surprise.

‘How do you know Nathan Crow?' Vinod asked.

Annie tilted her head on one side, surveying the sergeant with that same thoughtfulness. ‘We were teenagers,' she said. ‘Young teens. I'd just lost my parents and Nathan's were dead too. It was something in common. We became friends. For a while we had the same guardian. He'd been friend to both our fathers so when we were orphaned he took legal charge of the pair of us. You could say we did most of our growing up together.'

‘And this guardian. Might he know where Nathan's got to?'

Annie sipped her tea. ‘I doubt it. He's dead. But I'll tell you why Nathan left in such a hurry. He wanted to be free to act; once you'd started with your questions, he'd have been at least delayed, probably have lost what little time advantage he had. I don't have to tell you that their chances of survival diminish hour by hour.'

Tess almost laughed. This was just too much. ‘And what the hell makes you think that Nathan can do what we can't?' she said angrily.

Annie Raven leaned forward and, much to Tess's surprise, she took her hand. ‘Because that's what he's been trained to do,' she said. ‘Because
you
have to keep it clean, play by rules. Nathan doesn't have to do any of those things. Neither do those men who have Ian Marsh's wife and child. You can't win against people like that unless you make the right play. Unless you are prepared to be as dirty as they are.'