Chapter 22
Slomans Cottage, Chalkpit Lane, Wealdshire. Thursday 21 May 1998
Jaine-Marie Starling awoke with a start. The room was dark and she couldn't find the bedside lamp. Not only that, but she couldn't find the bedside cabinet either. Her exploring hand became still when she realised why its search was futile. She remembered that she wasn't at home — but where she was she had no idea. All she did know was that she had been bundled into a car in Kingsbourne and then locked in a grimy room somewhere after bashing her head. She wished she could remember how long the car journey had taken. She thought only ten minutes or so but, when you're scared out of your wits, every minute seems like an hour.
She probably wouldn't have been any better off if she had known where she was, for the tumbledown Slomans Cottage was in an isolated location close to Chalkpit Lane south of Stumblefrith Forest.
Jaine-Marie considered getting out of bed and hunting for the light switch which she remembered was near the door, but there didn't seem to be a lot of point. There wasn't much more to see in the light than in the dark. She enjoyed spending all morning in bed at home, so why not enjoy spending this morning in bed. The blankets were a bit scratchy and a sheet would have been nice, but at least she was warm. A morning in bed when I should be at school, she mused. Sounds good to me. I bet no-one's missing me at school. I wonder if Mum and Dad are worried? Bound to be. But are they doing anything to rescue me? They must have called the police by now. I expect a helicopter will fly overhead soon. With a bit of luck they'll send in a squad of armed police who will shoot the morons to pieces. Hope they're well-trained. I don't fancy getting shot up by mistake — although it would be great to have a small bullet wound to show off to people. Not a wound exactly. Just a graze on my arm. It's a pity I can't hang a sign out of the window saying, 'Please shoot with care. Gorgeous girl inside.'
She looked over towards where the window was and wished she'd looked earlier. There was a chink of light coming in through the boards. She climbed off the bed and walked across to the window. Standing on tiptoe she was just about able to get her eye up to the level of the gap between the boards. With nose squashed against the glass, she was able to peep at a narrow strip of the outside world. The view was disappointing. Apart from a large and empty field with some trees in the distance, there was little to see. There was certainly no sign of life. No helicopters. No armed police racing in her direction. No parents crying with relief that their precious daughter was safe. She tried to reach up higher so that she could look down at the area immediately behind the house. There seemed to be a small, unkempt garden separated from the field by an overgrown hedge. But, like the field, the garden contained nothing to give her any hope of either escape or rescue.
Jaine-Marie Starling made her way cautiously back to the bed and climbed in under the blankets. She needed to use the pot under the bed but that could wait. She closed her eyes and fantasized about how she would be rescued. She thought about home. She wondered what her mother was doing.
Millstones, Upper Crompton
Penelope Starling, still in her dressing gown and feeling like death warmed up, was sitting by the telephone waiting for it to ring. At the same time, she prayed fervently that it wouldn't. She asked herself why the ringing of a telephone is sometimes the most delightful sound in the world and, on other occasions, as intrusive and unwelcome as a thunderbolt striking the roof.
Calling the school had been bad enough. She usually had no compunction about telling only part of the story, making up the odd fib, distorting the truth, or even outright lying through her teeth. But telling the school secretary that her daughter was ill when she knew that the poor child might be buried in a shallow grave, her body mutilated — that really made her feel as if she was committing an unforgivable sin.
Now she was staring at the phone. Please don't ring, please don't ring, she willed it. Yes, she wanted someone to tell her that Jaine-Marie was all right. But she didn't want Andrew to call and say, 'Bad news, I'm afraid.' Neither did she want to hear the cold and callous voice of a kidnapper telling her what unspeakable acts would be committed if certain demands weren't met.
At least she hadn't had to tell her son about what had happened. Andrew had undertaken that task when Gerard had eventually arrived home from a party last night.
She ought to let the Mayor's wife know that she would be unable to go to the coffee morning — but she couldn't face it. Besides, someone might be trying her number.
She ought not to have another drink — but she poured a generous measure of gin into her glass. It was still before ten, but she needed the anaesthetic to dull her imagination and allow her to cope when the phone eventually rang — if it did.
When it did, she felt as if she had clutched a live power cable. The sound filled her ears, drilled into her brain, and punched hard into her stomach. She wanted to take another gulp of gin before she picked up the receiver, but her hands were shaking so much that she knew the drink would be spilled before she could get the glass to her mouth. She reached out a trembling hand — knew that she had to pick up the phone before the caller rang off — and, having won the battle in her head, finally forced herself to snatch it up before she changed her mind.
She closed her eyes and clutched the instrument in front of her as if it was a deadly snake waiting to strike her. She could hear a faint voice. It took both hands to drag the phone to her ear.
'Yes?' she whispered, hoarsely
'Mrs Starling?'
'Yes.' Why don't you sound like a thug?
'When would it be convenient to call on you?'
'Uh . . . uh . . . any . . . time . . . I suppose.' You're going to come here! My God, you're heartless!
'Would this afternoon be all right? Say 2.15?'
'I . . . um . . . yes.' Kidnappers don't make appointments! What are you playing at?
'Just one thing — how many windows do you have?'
'Wh . . . what?' What sort of idiot question is that, you stupid sh—
'How many windows do you have altogether? Roughly.'
Have I just made a complete fool of myself? 'Who . . . who did you say you were?'
'Adrian Sharp of Arctic Zone Windows.'
Penelope Starling threw the phone down as if it was scorching her skin. She clutched the table with both hands, closed her eyes, and brought her head down hard onto the polished wood.
Slomans Cottage, Chalkpit Lane
Footsteps outside the room. Jaine-Marie sat bolt upright on the bed and fixed her eyes on the heavily- scuffed door. She strained her ears and thought she heard a key turn in a padlock. There was a brief sound of something metallic being removed. The door was kicked open, not viciously, but enough to ensure it cleared the doorway. A figure, dressed from head to toe in black, stood there. Even his gloves were black. Only the eyes moved. They flicked from left to right and back again a few times as if to check that everything was as it should be in the room.
Thoughts raced through Jaine-Marie's head. He's wearing a ski mask. Looks gruesome. But so would I if I was dressed like that. Probably harmless. Bound to be if he's a scruffbag protester. Better pretend to be scared, though. Keep the thicko happy. Open my mouth. Make my eyes big. Shake a bit. No, not shake — tremble. Wring my hands together. Twitch my feet nervously. I think I've fooled him — he's coming in as bold as brass. No gun that I can see. Didn't really expect an eco-arsehole to have one. He's stopped. What's he doing now? Why's he leaving?
The man was stepping backwards, holding out his hands so that he could find the door frame. When he was outside the room, he stretched a foot out to the side and dragged something towards him. It was a tray. Still using his foot, he slid the tray into the room and pushed it to one side. He slowly raised a gloved hand and then brought it down to point at Jaine-Marie.
Pretty good act, she thought. You must have been taking lessons on how to pretend you're a professional hostage taker. Yes, very good. Not bad for a twit. You're almost intimidating.
The pointing finger gestured upwards. Looks as if he wants me to get up. Shall I pretend I don't understand thicko sign language? Better not. His course of lessons might've included one on roughing up hostages. Now what does he want? Is that a 'come here' signal? Okay, let's play his game. How close does he want me to —
The hand suddenly changed to a stop-right-there sign. He ought to be out directing traffic, she thought. He's really quite good at it. Now what does he want? Why's he pointing to the floor? Does he want me to get down? No. He didn't like me doing that. He's shaking his head like crazy. This is like a TV game show. Or a sheepdog trial. He's pointing under the bed now. Does he want me to get under the bed? What the hell's he doing that for! Oh my God oh my God. How embarrassing. He wants to get the pisspot out.
Jaine-Marie reached under the bed. She took her time removing the chamber pot in the hope that he would think her bright red face was caused by the exertion of reaching under the bed. Slowly, she stood up. She wanted the earth to swallow her up. She wanted to look down at her feet — but she couldn't do that because the pot would have blocked her view, and because she wouldn't be able to see the next instruction. Why's he taking so long to tell me what to do next? Is he enjoying my humiliation?
The man suddenly stepped sideways and made a quarter turn. He pointed to the door and then stepped back a little. Cheeky git, thought Jaine-Marie. The contents of this pot aren't that bad. She walked slowly towards the doorway — and stepped through. Better wait and see what he wants me to do now. Where is he? What's he doing? Ah-ha. I know. The big dimmo has got himself in a bit of a mess now. He's inside the room while I'm outside the room. He's trying to work out how to tell me which way to go without saying anything. What a hoot! He really is a thicko. There'll never believe me at school when I tell them about this. Oh well, I can wait. I wasn't planning on doing much today. Good job this pot isn't too heavy. Good job no big jobs. Mustn't snigger. He might think I'm laughing at him. God. What is the fool doing? I'm not standing here all day waiting for the moron to work out how to direct me.
Jaine-Marie began to turn her head slowly. Nothing happened. No-one kicked her so she guessed she was doing the right thing. When she had turned sufficiently to see the man, she noted that he was gesturing wildly with his head for her to turn left. She managed to keep the smirk off her face as she turned and walked along the landing. Ahead of her there were only two options: she could either descend the stairs or go through the open door on her right. When she reached the doorway she peeped inside and saw that it was a bathroom. She looked back and, having received a nod, stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. She wasn't surprised when the door was kicked open. Sod this, she thought. In a frightened-little-girl voice she asked, 'Can I stay for a minute to have a wash?'
The eyes blinked a few times and then, finally, the head nodded. Jaine-Marie closed the door but left a small gap. The door was pushed open again. She was about to think of a polite way of telling him to go and stuff himself when she saw that he was jabbing at the watch which was just visible above his glove. 'Okay,' she said. 'I'll be quick. Can I close the door a bit?'
The head nodded so she closed the door once more, emptied the contents of her pot down the loo, and pressed the flush. She wasn't surprised to find that there was no hot water but she was amazed to see that there was some soap and a towel. Not wanting to push her luck, she had a very quick rinse and then dried her hands and face. No toothbrush or toothpaste, she realised. Never mind. When she had finished she picked up the pot, opened the door, said 'Thank you,' and went back to her room. She heard the padlock being replaced and the key turn. Well, she thought, that killed ten minutes. Now what? Oh yes — breakfast. She picked up the tray and carried it to the bed.
She'd never before eaten cornflakes that were quite so soggy, or munched toast that was quite so burned. But, she was amazed to discover, it tasted good. Even the cheap coffee tasted palatable — almost.
Clifford 'Lollipop' Lucas stormed into the kitchen, ripped off his ski mask, and pounded the rickety old table with his fists.
'Wa'sup Loll? Did she give yer an 'ard time?' asked Harry Tooth, the scar-faced individual sitting at the table. He wondered if he should have kept his mouth shut when he saw the hostile glare that Lollipop gave him.
'Me — Lollipop Lucas — having to baby sit. It just ain't right, 'arry. I'm tellin ya — you can sort 'er out next time. I'm no poxy baby sitter.'
'Bit different from yer usual job, eh? Yer right. You shouldn't be doing it. Not much fun when ya can't break a few ribs, cut a finger orf, or put a bullet in the brain. That's what us is good at.'
'Yeah. I dunno what Mr Zicchi is up to. Lost 'is marbles, I reckons.'
Lollipop Lucas, born in the East End of London some forty years ago, acquired his name when he discovered that putting the barrel of a loaded gun into someone's mouth not only gave him a great deal of pleasure, but also achieved the desired aim of making them spill the beans. 'This ere's a lollipop,' he'd say. 'Why don't you wrap your tongue round it and see if you can suck the bullet out before I pulls the trigger?'
It didn't take long for his fame to spread throughout the underworld. Mr Zicchi, impressed with all he had heard, snapped him up as soon as he had satisfied himself that Lollipop was able to live up to his name. He needed to know if one of the rival firms was planning to extend its operations into the drugs market. Lollipop turned up trumps and was able to convince an employee of that firm that it would be a good idea to start talking as soon as the gun was removed from his mouth. Mr Zicchi was very impressed. He had never before known anyone with quite the same ability to get someone to squeal. When they squealed for Lollipop, they squealed all they knew — and sometimes more.
This job that he was doing for Mr Zicchi now, however, was not quite up Loll's street. He had the perfect voice for persuading people to do what he wanted. It never mattered if they saw his face or heard him speak, as they wouldn't make good witnesses when it was virtually certain that those would be the last things they ever saw or heard.
He'd never had to communicate only with his hands before. It just ain't natural, he thought. I felt a right prat up there. She was outside the door an' I was inside an' I couldn't fink how to make her go to the bog. An' I weren't gonna go near 'er while she was 'oldin that piss pot. Not wiv my delicate nose. Good job she turned round or I'd still be there now, tryin to figure out 'ow to make 'er do what I wanted. I ain't tellin 'arry, though. Gawd! He'd open his trap and tell everyone. They'd be laughin at me in every boozer from from East 'am to 'ackney.
If Lollipop Lucas had any virtues, one of them was that he lacked a quick temper. In fact, his temper was so slow that you could insult him, buy him a drink, finish the drink that he bought you in return, and only then find his nose-flattening fist flying towards your face. Right now he was beginning to simmer. He'd thumped the table and glared at Harry when he came into the kitchen, but that was more from frustration than anger.
Harry Tooth, not quite in the same league as Lollipop when it came to inflicting terror and torment, had seen Loll blow up on numerous occasions. 'Like a bleedin volcano, 'e is,' he'd often said. 'You knows he's gonner explode but ya never knows when.' Recognising the signs, Harry decided that now was the right time to organise an evacuation of the area surrounding the volcanic activity. 'I'm just poppin outside for a breath of fresh air, Loll.'
Harry had been wandering around the overgrown garden for a good ten minutes before the explosion occurred. There was a loud roar followed by an equally-loud crash. Knowing that volcanoes are tricky devils which sometimes blow up again, Harry decided to wait another ten minutes before strolling back into the house as if nothing had happened. 'All right, Loll?' he asked as he saw the table lying in pieces on the floor. 'Fancy a game of cards?'
'Table got broke,' said Lollipop, his face expressing complete bewilderment. 'Dunno 'ow we's gonna play cards wivout a table.'
Having finished her breakfast, Jaine-Marie was lying on the bed fantasizing about blue-eyed, black- haired, muscle-rippling hunks bringing her a selection of glamorous dresses to choose from. She was just about to remove her school uniform and slip into a slinky little black item when she heard the racket. The roar and the crash were so loud that it was almost as if there were no floor and ceiling separating the upstairs from the downstairs. Far from frightening her, the incident gave her an idea.
Jaine-Marie got down on her hands and knees and started to explore the floor. She crawled all round the room looking for a gap in the floorboards or a hole through which she could peer. She didn't find anything that she could see through but she did find a hole to which she could put her ear. Unfortunately, the hole was beneath the head of the bed, but there was just enough room for her to wriggle under the metal frame. She swept the dust away from the area surrounding the hole, pulled her hair back, and pressed her ear to the floor.
'Table got broke,' she heard. 'Dunno 'ow we's gonna play cards wivout a table.'
Millstones, Upper Crompton
When Andrew Starling returned from work, he hardly recognised his wife. Her hair was unbrushed, she was still in her dressing gown and she actually smiled when she saw him. 'Hello hanshum. I've mished you today.'
Shame you didn't miss the bottle as well, he thought. It didn't take him long to put her to bed and get back downstairs. He hadn't asked if she had received a phone call as he was almost certain that he would be the one who was contacted. He'd not heard anything from the kidnappers today and he wasn't really surprised. He was quite sure that Zicchi would want to leave him to sweat for a few days. If that was his plan — it was working.