The Blue Ring
Authors: A. J. Quinnell
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Thriller, #Thrillers
by
A. J. Quinnell
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Hanne Andersen opened her eyes not knowing where she was. Very quickly she became
aware of things: the dull ache in the centre of her head, the dry sour taste in
her mouth, the fact that she could not move her arms or legs, the cracked,
dirty ceiling above her.
Painfully she turned her head, first to one side, then to the other. She was in a small
box-like room with no windows, just a grey heavy metal door. Her wrists and
ankles were tied to the four corners of the bed. She was clad in the same
flame-red dress that she had put on the night before. Cold terror paralysed her
as she tried to remember what had happened.
She recalled Philippe picking her up from her hotel, the noisy restaurant and the
myriad drinks, starting with wine and moving on to tequila-slams. It became
vague after that, a couple of bars and then a very sleazy nightclub in the Rue
Saint Sans. She remembered laughing a lot and Philippe also laughing as they
watched the sex-show which both nauseated her and aroused her. After that
everything was a blank.
An hour passed before she heard the turning of the lock in the metal door. Philippe
came in and stood by the bed, looking down at her. He was dressed in the same
dark blue suit, white silk shirt and maroon tie that he had worn the night
before, but the suit was rumpled and the knot of the tie pulled down. His
sharply handsome face was covered in black stubble.
Her voice came out as a croak. "Where am I, Philippe? What happened?"
His eyes no longer held the spark of laughter, his smile no longer lit his face; it was
a sneer. His gaze travelled down her body and he reached down and pulled up the
red dress. She wore the wispiest of white lace knickers. He looked at them,
muttered something in French and although she had only been learning the
language for two months she understood the words.
"A pity...a great pity...but orders are orders." He sneered again. "But
a little something will not hurt."
He reached down and slid a hand under the waistband of her knickers and onto her
crotch. She tried to close her legs but they were bound tightly apart. She screamed.
He said, "Make all the noise you want. No one can hear you."
As he tried to push a finger inside her she gave an involuntary spasm and her bladder
gave out. With an expression of disgust he pulled his hand away, straightened
up and left the room. He returned in five minutes carrying a small metal tray.
On it was a syringe, some cotton wool and a bottle containing a colourless
liquid. He put the tray down beside her head and sat down next to her. Quickly
he pulled up the sleeve of her dress, opened the bottle and put some of the
liquid onto the cotton wool. He rubbed the cotton wool vigorously against the
inside of her arm, then he held up the syringe.
"Look at this," he said in a coarse whisper. "This is your friend. It will
make you feel good...very good. It will take away your fear and your headache.
Your friend will visit you many times in the coming days."
Her body jerked as the needle entered her vein. She screamed again. He sneered
again. Within minutes her body and mind began to glow. Her headache and her
fear disappeared. She heard his voice as if it was floating near the ceiling.
"Soon a woman will come and clean you up. She will bring you some hot soup. Later I
will come again...with your friend."
Jens Jensen's office was also very small, without windows, and in need of a coat of
paint. As a young detective in the Missing Persons Bureau of the Copenhagen police
force he did not merit anything grander. Short, florid of face and somewhat
plump, he looked more like a banker than a policeman. He was dressed in a
conservative grey suit, a cream shirt and blue tie and black alligator-skin shoes.
He sighed in exasperation as he finished reading the report which had arrived that
morning from the Marseille police. Then a wave of anger swept over him. He
closed the folder, stood up, went out of his office and marched down the corridor.
Chief Superintendent Lars Pedersen's office was spacious, carpeted, and had wonderful
views over the Tivoli Gardens. He was thin with grey hair, sharp-faced and
looked very much like a policeman. He looked up as Jens Jensen swept into the
room and noted the expression on his subordinate's face.
"What now?" he asked.
Without a word, Jensen laid the folder in front of him and then walked away and gazed
out over the view.
Pedersen had recently taken a course in speed-reading and it only took him four minutes
to get the guts of the detailed report. "So?" he asked.
Jensen turned to face him. Harshly he said, "So she's the fourth this year. Two
in Spain, one on the French Riviera and one in Rome. And it's still only
mid-May. The Swedes have lost three and the Norwegians two...all in southern
Mediterranean holiday countries...not one found." His voice was tight with anger.
"It follows the same pattern: single Scandinavian girls, either on
holiday or studying in those countries." He pointed at the folder.
"Hanne Andersen, nineteen years old, very attractive, studying French at a
private institute in Marseille. Last seen leaving her small hotel at ten p.m.
on the fourth of September and getting into a black Renault driven by a young
man who looked French, whatever that means. That's all we know."
Pedersen mused. "And all the others were attractive or beautiful, including the
Swedes and Norwegians?"
"They were," Jensen affirmed. "You've seen my report and the
photographs...and you've also read my recommendations."
Pedersen sighed and pushed the folder away from him as if to dismiss it. "Yes, yes.
You want to set up a special unit. You have this theory of an organised ring
engaged in a modern white slave trade."
Jens Jensen was thirty-five years old. Were it not for the short fuse of his temper
and his inability to show unbridled respect to his seniors he might well have
progressed further in the force. He consoled himself with the love of exotic
beers and a fascination for sea ferries. But now his anger erupted.
"Theory!" he snarled. "I've spent four years in Missing Persons. I've liaised with
Stockholm and Oslo. I've travelled to Paris, Rome and Madrid on a lousy fucking
expense account." He moved around in front of the Chief Superintendent's
desk as his anger mounted. "I'm the poor bastard who has to tell the
parents of these girls that there's fuck all we can do." He slammed the
side of his hand onto the folder.
"This afternoon Mr and Mrs Andersen are coming to my lousy little office to sit in
front of my lousy, fifty-year-old desk and listen to me tell them that their
daughter has disappeared and by now is probably a forced junkie and selling her
body for the benefit of some spic pimps."
Pedersen sighed again, and in a patient voice said, "Jens, you know the problem. It
comes right down to money. We have over four hundred missing persons reports a
year in Copenhagen alone. Our budget is limited and gets more limited year by
year. The special unit that you want to set up has been costed out as something
over ten million kroner a year. The finance committee will not approve. It's
just not cost-effective. Not just for a dozen girls a year...forget it."
Jens Jensen turned and headed for the door, saying over his shoulder, "So I'll
send Mr and Mrs Andersen to see the finance committee."
At the door he turned and looked at his boss. "Perhaps they can explain to them
about budgets...and about 'The Blue Ring'."
It was
a hot late September evening on the small Mediterranean island of Gozo when
Father Manuel Zerafa drove his old battered Ford to the house on the ridge. It
was a very old, converted farmhouse which commanded superb views over the
island and across the sea to the tiny island of Comino and the big island of
Malta. He was sweating slightly as he pulled the old metal bell-handle set into
a vast stone wall. After a minute the door opened. A big man stood there.
He had
close-cropped grey hair above a well-travelled square face; a long scar down
one cheek, another on the chin, another on the right side of his forehead. The
man was dressed only in a swimsuit. His body was large and tight and deeply
tanned. It also bore scars; one from the right knee almost to the groin,
another from the right shoulder to the waist. Father Zerafa knew the man well;
knew that on his back were other scars. The little finger of his left hand was
missing. Father Zerafa knew how the man had come by some of those scars.
Mentally, Father Zerafa crossed himself.
He said, "Hello, Creasy. It's bloody hot and I need a cold beer."
The man stood back and gestured a welcome.
They sat under a bamboo canopy covered by vines and mimosa, the swimming pool was in
front of them, looking blue, cool and inviting. Beyond it was the panoramic
view. Father Zerafa decided that if he sat there for a hundred years he would
never tire of that view.
The big man brought two ice-cold beers and then looked a question at the priest. They
were very old friends and, although the priest often dropped by for a cold beer
on a hot day, the man knew that this visit was not just a courtesy call.