Holy Island Trilogy 02 - Nowhere Man (12 page)

He looked at the workmen moving in and out of the house. Satisfied that they were working hard enough, he said, ‘It will do, I suppose. And the back of the property, how big are the grounds? Are they landscaped, do they have the sheds ready?’

‘Pretty much the same as the monastery, my Leader,’ the Chinese guard replied.

‘Hmm.’ He strutted back and forth, his mouth set in an arrogant line. ‘Not bad, not bad at all.’

‘And yes,’ the English guard added quickly, ‘a couple of more sheds than the monastery had, as you ordered, My Leader. More sheds, more productivity.’

‘Good.’

Both guards breathed a silent sigh of relief as they followed him up the broad steps into the house. Inside, it was pretty much a carbon copy of the monastery near Holy Island, just as the leader had demanded.

With a smile, he turned to the guards. ‘I think we can move in today, don’t you?’

‘But your rooms aren’t quite ready, my Leader.’

‘Then have them ready by tonight. I am not spending another night in that shambles of a hotel. Got it?’ Without waiting for an answer, he strode out to the car.

The English guard looked at his partner. ‘You stay here and sort it, I’ll try to keep him away from here as long as I can.’

‘OK. Be careful.’

The English guard nodded before hurrying after the Leader.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Cox knocked on Mr Brodzinski’s door. He knew it would take a while for the old man to shuffle along the passageway. He stood here waiting for a good five minutes every Thursday night, when he picked him up for their chess club. He’d been taking the old man for best part of a year now, and actually enjoyed his company. A teller of interesting tales, Mr Brodzinski was, with a storyteller's gift.

The old man peered through the tiny glass spy hole in the door. His stooped body was deceiving-he was still a very strong man. Cox had felt that strength, it was in the shake of his hand among other things. No one knew his first name. He was simply known at the chess club as Brod.

Opening the door, he said, ‘Ah, Jason, come in, come in. You have news of my granddaughter?’

Cox’s heart sank at the look of hope in Mr Brodzinski’s eyes. How the hell am I going to tell him?, he wondered.

‘Why don’t you go and put the kettle on, Brod? A cup of coffee, please.’ He stepped into the house.

Mr Brodzinski nodded. ‘And chocolate biscuits?’

‘Yes, please.’ Cox smiled.

Turning, Mr Brodzinski moved slowly back along the hallway into the kitchen. Urging Cox to sit down at the table, he put the kettle on the gas cooker before switching the small television off. ‘Don’t know why I listen to the news, it’s all bad.’ He looked out of the corner of his eye at Cox who, trying to get right in his head what he was going to tell him, was staring at the mix of brightly coloured pansies on the windowsill.

Mr Brodzinski poured boiling water into the teapot for himself, then stirred Cox's coffee. Sitting down opposite him, Mr Brodzinski said, ‘So, Jason. I can tell by your face and your silence that there is no news.’

For a moment, Cox breathed in the aroma of his coffee, then said quietly, ‘Sorry, Brod. There is some news. Just not the sort of news you want to hear.’

‘Please, don’t dress it up. If she’s dead, just tell me.’ He looked at Cox. ‘Because if you tell me a lie, it would be so unkind.’ With trembling hands, he poured his tea, putting in two sugars and pushing the bowl over to Cox.

Cox stirred his coffee, dropped the spoon on the saucer and looked at Mr Brodzinski. ‘OK. I’m sorry for being so blunt, but we can't say for sure if she’s alive or dead. From what we’ve found out, she was definitely in the monastery -apparently a couple of the kids do remember your Annya-but most of their memories of their time in the monastery are a bit fuddled, to say the least.’

Mr Brodzinski frowned. ‘Fuddled? What do you mean, "fuddled"? Is it a word? What sort of word?’

‘Mixed up, Brod. It means mixed up.’

‘Then say "mixed up"! Honestly, Cox, I’m sure you make words up as you go along.’

Cox sighed. ‘They... I’m sorry to tell you this, but they---- well. they were all of them controlled by drugs.’

Mr Brodzinski gasped. ‘You mean, my Annya…my sweet, beautiful granddaughter...is a drug addict?’ His jaw hung open for a moment as he shook his head in disbelief. ‘No…no. You have it wrong. It’s the wrong girl. It must be… My Annya… No.’

‘Through no fault of her own, Brod,’ Cox added hastily. ‘They were force-fed them.’

‘My Annya is a good girl. Just like her mother. She would never take drugs. You have the wrong girl.’

‘I’m really sorry, but it was definitely Annya. Her name was also on the list.’

‘What list?’

Cox sighed. Already he had said more than he should. He looked his friend in the eye for a moment. What the hell, Brod deserves to know. I know he’ll keep his mouth shut.

‘What list?’ Mr Brodzinski urged him on.

‘A list was posted to the station this morning. We don’t know who the sender was-no DNA to be found, on the list or the envelope. All we know is that it was posted in London. Although,’ he shrugged, 'that could mean anything. It could have been posted there, or anywhere, to throw us off the scent----’

‘What sort of list, Jason?’ Mr Brodzinski interrupted impatiently. ‘You are making it all sound so weird. Why would my Annya’s name be on a list?’

‘Now
that
we don’t know.’ He didn’t add that it looked more like a stock list than anything else, as if someone was keeping control of the movements of sheep or cattle. ‘The list goes back for more years than you need to know, a list of the names of abducted people, most of them teenagers. So far we’ve traced people back to the 50s, and we still have a lot more to do. Annya’s name is on that list.’

Mr Brodzinski took a moment to digest what Cox had said, then asked, ‘So, where is she now?’

Cox sighed. ’I really don’t know, Brod. I wish I did.’

‘So what is the point of the list? Tell me, why would someone want to send you a pointless list?’

I’m sorry, we don’t know that either. The list is only of names, not where they are, or where they were taken from.’ He hurried on, hoping Brod hadn’t spotted another lie. The list did say where the people had been taken from-but not where they were now.

‘What is the point of the list?’ Mr Brodzinski grumbled, more to himself than to Cox, as he took a sip of his tea. His shrewd eyes never left Cox’s face.

Cox hesitated. They had already gone through that at the station, and the current theory was that somewhere there must be a second,  current list, and whoever had sent the first was either playing with them, or seeking revenge.

He quickly went on, ‘But the few who remember your granddaughter say she was taken away from the monastery five or six weeks ago, along with four or five other kids.’

‘I don’t understand. Taken away? Taken to where? And why, why do this to young people?’

‘If I knew---- Trust me, if I knew where they were, I would have her home now, along with the rest of them.’

‘But who has taken her? Surely you have names of these bad men, if it's been going on that long?’

Perplexed, the old man sat back in his seat. After a moment, he took another drink of his tea. Putting the cup down, he went on, ‘Evil men have my granddaughter, don’t they?’

‘I’m sorry, Brod, but it looks that way. We are doing everything we can, and trust me, we were shocked when we got the list. It was the last thing we expected. For one thing, all of this is on a far bigger scale than we ever thought. But all we have are questions, and no answers.’

Cox was not prepared for the old man banging his walking stick on the table, and actually jumped when all the crockery began to dance. Cups rattled in their saucers, and Cox grabbed for them just before they tipped over.

‘I am not stupid! I know the ways of the world. There is more than drugs involved here. They have sold my Annya to even more evil men, and I will never see her again.’ A tear ran down his old wrinkled face and dropped on the table.

Cox hadn’t wanted to say what they suspected at the station had happened to Annya, and, from what they could gather, many more young people. He reached out and put his hand on Mr Brodzinski's arm. ‘Trust me, we won't let it go… I shouldn’t tell you this, but a very brave friend of mine is on their tail. I know he won't give up until he finds the ones responsible. And the missing kids. Trust me, he’ll bring them home even if he has to walk each and everyone of them the full length and breadth of England!’

He didn’t say what he was thinking, that Mike had a better chance working on his own of finding the kids and whoever was behind the scenes than the police had. His suspicions had been aroused by the little that Mike had told him and, doing some discreet digging on his own, he’d been shocked to see how much information had been blocked from above. Katrina was also working on it, and had passed a couple of files over that he had to go through today, before they met up tonight to talk things over.

‘Perhaps your man may be able to do this. But can you tell me this, will he find my Annya? And if he does, will she still be the same happy girl she used to be? I think not, Jason. Her life is now ruined. Her life as she knew it, as I knew it…is over.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Lovilla Tarasov rested her right hand on a velvet cushion and watched as a young peasant girl painted her nails the same vibrant red as the cushion.

The young blonde girl had been taken from Northumbria. She was Polish by nationality, and had once answered to the name of Annya. Now she was addressed only as 'Hey, you', or 'Peasant' -if she was lucky. She was clearly terrified in case she did something wrong-or, worse, in case the dreaded Lovilla took a fancy to her, as she had to some of the others.

Lovilla had other things on her mind. There was her coming trip to London, where she would be initiated into full Family membership. But what thrilled her more than this was her secret meeting with Count Rene the day after. It was far from their first meeting, and unknown to her father. He would have a fit if he even dreamed of it.

He expects my support? What a shock he’s in for, she thought, smiling to herself and putting Annya even more on edge.

As Lovilla held her hands out and examined her nails, Annya stood next to her, her heart beating so loud she thought the world could hear it.

‘Hmm. Quite good,’ Lovilla said.

Annya relaxed her fists, only to tighten them again a minute later when Lovilla said,  ‘You have five minutes to pack, peasant. I will need a slave in London. Move it!’

Annya ran to the room she shared with half a dozen other girls, all used for various jobs around the large house, from cleaning to being a foot warmer on the coldest nights. All the girls were busy elsewhere as Annya threw the few items of clothing she possessed-a thick green jumper that looked like it had once belonged to someone's great grandmother, a pair of wide bottomed jeans that had probably seen the light of day in the sixties, and some underwear-into the holdall they shared for such trips out.

She heard the door open behind her, and fear burning in her heart in case Lovilla had followed her, she spun round. Breathing a sigh of relief, she saw Jaz standing there holding two coat hangers full of assorted clothes.

‘You’re to try these on and take what fits you, enough for a week. Lucky bitch. It looks like you’re going somewhere warm.’ Jaz, her auburn bob swishing about her face as she threw the clothes onto Annya’s bunk, pulled a face, sighed and went on, ‘Please tell me you’re gonna try to do a runner?’

Annya nodded, slowly but positively. She was heading home whichever way, and no one was going to stop her. She would die trying. Death was preferable to this living hell.

Annya had been here four or five weeks. She wasn’t quite sure which, as the days blurred into one. She knew a couple of them had been spent in a small cell going cold turkey. As Jaz had told her, no one was controlled by drugs here. There was no need to waste them on peasants, there was nowhere to run but out into the snow. Annya had worn only a thin blue shift, the same attire as the others, of which there was a never-ending supply. The house was kept at an even temperature night and day.

Every now and then an arctic blast would skip through the house. Everyone knew that meant someone had been stripped naked and tossed out into the freezing cold. On nights like that, they huddled together praying for their lost friend, and wondering who would be next. In her darkest moments, the only thing that had kept Annya going was that one day, hopefully soon while she was still strong enough, her chance for freedom would come. And when it did, she would be ready.

This was her dream. It was what kept her strong when the sound of the helicopter landing sent waves of fear through them all, when, night after horrendous night, there were guests in the house, and life was even worse than before.

She stared at Jaz. She’d never dreamed her chance would come this soon. She gave a determined nod, and Jaz smiled, her first real smile for a long time. Now the rest of them could dream-dream that Annya would make it.

Jaz had lost three years of her life in this hellhole. She knew that Annya was not the first to attempt an escape. At least two others had done so, but they had never come back, and there had been no rescue. She could only assume they were dead. Tracey had been taken out six months ago and had returned safely, but admitted as she’d cried that she’d been too frightened to try to run. Now all their hopes were pinned on Annya, who she knew was made of much sterner stuff than Tracey.

‘Don’t let us down, girl,’ she whispered as she helped Annya to pack. ‘We're all depending on you.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

After a restless night, tossing and turning between anxiety attacks, Shelly was very surprised to enjoy her breakfast. Though food had been the last thing on her mind as she’d dressed, the rising smell of bacon cooking had lured her downstairs.

She ignored the strange looks from the old man, as she asked for more toast, might as well set myself up for the day she thought , she could see he was dying to ask her if, yesterday, her hair had been long and black and feeling no inclination to put him out of his misery, she smiled as she buttered her toast.