Chapter 20
Slade Park Sixth Form College, Kingsbourne, Wealdshire. Wednesday 20 May 1998
Without a word a thanks, Jaine-Marie Starling snatched her bag from the caretaker and stormed out of the school hall.
It wasn't her day.
It had got off to a bad start as soon as she arrived that morning.
Mr Rickman — the trendy art teacher with shoulder-length hair, an earring, and a fondness for garlic (judging by the smell of his breath) — had 'accidentally' bumped into her in the corridor, snatched up the exercise book she dropped before she had a chance to get it herself, and then 'just happened' to notice that the name on the front was Jaine-Marie Starling. He'd then proceeded to say something like, 'Ho ho! Better not visit the art room this week. My lot are doing anti-road posters. They might not be too happy if a Starling flew in. Tee hee.' And then walked off tittering and chortling to himself.
Prat! she thought, replaying the incident in her mind. But then — most of the teachers were prats in her opinion. So were the kids. Morons, the lot of them. Why couldn't my parents send me to a decent fee-paying school instead of Slade Park Sixth Form College? 'More like Third Rate Rathole', she snorted. Why do I have to put up with riffraff? She knew her mother would have liked her to have gone to a decent school but it was Dad who had put a stop to that. Tight-fisted old git. Any decent father would go out of his way to ensure his daughter's happiness.
Jaine-Marie Starling reached the exit door and barged it open with her shoulder. As she did so, there was a startled cry from outside. A cleaner, who had been reaching out to pull the door open, stepped back quickly, tripped as she trod on the end of the mop which she was carrying, and collided with the bucket of soapy water which she had just put down. As water slopped out of the bucket onto the cleaner's foot, Jaine-Marie gave her such a withering glare that the woman decided not to suggest that the girl should be a little more careful when going through doors. But it didn't stop her thinking that all teenagers should be kept at home until they'd grown into civilised human beings. Not her own kids, of course. They should be kept at school until they'd learned how to behave.
'Stupid old cow!' Jaine-Marie muttered under her breath as she stomped along the path to the gate.
She'd missed the school bus and would have to walk to Kingsbourne bus station to catch the regular service to Upper Crompton. She didn't know whose fault it was that she was late, but she had a good idea. Probably that dimwit Angie Crawford and her stupid friends. Whoever it was, they'd thrown her shoulder bag into one of the basketball nets in the hall. It had taken her ages to find it — and even longer to find the caretaker. Then he'd spent ten minutes looking for his stepladder. It was just as well she'd climbed the steps herself to retrieve her bag. He'd probably still be trying to heave his foot up onto the first step if I'd left it to him, she thought. Decrepit old fool. Why don't they give him the sack?
Jaine-Marie turned left outside the gate and trudged towards the city centre. No use ringing home and asking for a lift, she decided. He'll be at work and she's probably at one of her committee meetings — or out buying clothes. She looked at her watch. Half past four already. It would be nearly six before she arrived home as the next bus to Upper Crompton was at 5.10, and it took a very tortuous route in order to go through several other villages.
Maybe I'll get a burger at the bus station. Or some fries. Or burger and fries. Maybe burger and double fries. I need something to make up for my crappy day. He mouth began to water.
Jaine-Marie suddenly stopped thinking about food when a car screeched to a halt beside her. Before she'd had a chance to take in what was happening, a bag was thrown over her head and she found herself being roughly dragged across the pavement. He head was pushed down violently and, with no chance to scream or shout for help, she was forced to climb into the car. A hand grabbed her hair and pulled her down onto the lap of someone sitting on the back seat. The door slammed shut and the car shot forwards, forcing her backwards against the chest of the person sitting there. The hand still clutching her hair jerked her forwards while another hand struck her back so that she was rolled off the lap and onto the floor between the front and back seats. With her arms trapped underneath her, and with someone now holding her down with what felt like a huge pair of feet in heavy boots, she was unable to move an inch.
Her first thought was that Angie Crawford was behind all this.
Her second thought was that not even Angie Crawford would do something that stupid.
Her third thought — and this was the one that stayed with her for the next half hour — was that she had been kidnapped.
The Jaine-Marie Starling who was dragged kicking and screaming out of the car was quite different from the Jaine-Marie Starling who, not so long ago, had been breathing fire as she maligned everyone she knew. This one was petrified with fear and wondering what horrors lay in store for her. In her imagination, she saw . . .
Her photograph in the papers beneath the headline, 'No News of Missing Girl'.
Her grieving parents, illuminated by constant flashes from cameras, crying into a forest of microphones and pleading for their daughter to come home. 'We won't be angry, Jaine-Marie. We just want you home with us again.'
Her teachers, interviewed on television, lying through their teeth and saying what a popular girl she was and how everyone was concerned about her safety.
Her grisly, mutilated remains being discovered by someone out walking their dogs in Stumblefrith Forest.
Stumblefrith Forest! Of course! It's those dirty protesters who've grabbed me.
She stopped screaming — but carried on kicking. She wasn't quite so frightened now — more angry than anything. How dare those dole scroungers treat her like this. Unwashed layabouts. Scumbags.
She was about to think of some more colourful names for her abductors when she struck her head against something hard — and lost consciousness.
Millstones, Upper Crompton
All the colour had drained from Andrew Starling's face. The phone fell from his hand as he slumped in the chair, and was left dangling and twirling over the edge of the eighteenth century mahogany table. Starling sat as if hypnotised.
He had been about to climb back in his Scorpio Estate to go and look for his daughter when the phone had rung. The message had been short.
'Your daughter is safe — for the moment. Don't even think about calling the police.'
He'd been too stunned to say anything. Now he was wondering why he hadn't done what all good fathers do in television dramas.
Who are you? What do you want? What have you done to her? Let me speak to her to know she's all right.
He hadn't said a single word.
There had been times in the past when he'd found himself wishing that someone would take her away. And his son. And his wife. But now that it had happened —
Kidnapped.
This can't be happening. She'll come through the door in a minute.
Where is she now? What are they doing to her?
Is it Zicchi?
Who else could it be? Has to be him.
What can I do?
Nothing nothing nothing. Just have to wait.
If she talks to them the way she talks to me they'll probably send her home.
Don't be stupid. Get real. Your daughter's been kidnapped.
Do something.
Do what?
Do nothing.
Wait.
A secret location
Jaine-Marie Starling opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Where was she? Why did her head hurt? Am I in hospital? she wondered. She turned her head to the side and saw wallpaper peeling away from a damp wall. She turned the other way — and brought up her hand to touch the swelling on her forehead. Ooh. That hurts. More peeling wallpaper on the opposite wall. Layer upon layer of peeling wallpaper.
Kidnapped! I was kidnapped! Someone abducted me. She quickly looked down at her body. She still had all her clothes on — even her shoes. No sign that anyone had tried to molest her. That was good. But where am I? And why has someone grabbed me?
She remembered. Protesters. I'd just realised that the eco-twits had grabbed me when I banged my head. Or did someone hit me? God, it hurts. Still feeling muzzy, she leaned on one elbow and pushed herself up. She was on a bed — a bed with a stained mattress. Other than that, the room was just about bare. An unshaded bulb hanging from the ceiling gave out just enough light for her to inspect the room. There were no carpets — just bare floorboards. More boards outside the window. Someone has covered it with planks of wood, she realised. Did they do that to stop me escaping, or did they put me in this room because the window is already boarded up? There was a table against one of the walls. On the table was a plate and a bottle.
She swung her legs off the bed and put her feet onto the floor as gently as possible. Would the floorboards creak if she walked across to the table? Very gingerly, a step at a time, she stole across the floor. Not a sound. At least they — whoever 'they' were — wouldn't know that she was awake. There were some cheap biscuits on the plate. They weren't quite the sort of biscuits that she liked to munch when she got home from school but, as she'd missed out on burger and fries, they'd have to do. Actually, they didn't taste too bad. What was in the bottle? She picked it up, unscrewed the cap and cautiously took a sniff. No smell. She raised the bottle to her lips and tried a drop. It was water.
She crept quietly across to the window and tried to peer through the gaps between the boards. She could see nothing. It's probably dark, she thought.
Now what do I do? No television, no radio, no books, no magazines, no phone. This is going to be boring. I'll go out of my mind with nothing to do. Before long she found herself wondering just how horrible it would be if someone did come into the room and start molesting her.
Millstones, Upper Crompton
When Penelope Starling arrived home from her Children in Distress committee meeting, she was surprised to find that, although her husband's car was parked outside, there were no lights on downstairs. She locked the BMW and hurried across the gravel to the door. She slipped her key into the lock, gave it a turn, and pushed the door open.
'Andrew! Are you there?'
Silence.
Keeping her coat on she went to the kitchen and turned on the fluorescent striplight. He wasn't there. Neither was he in the dining room. He's probably fallen asleep in the lounge, she decided. She walked along the hall to the lounge and quietly opened the door. There was enough light from the hall to see that her husband was sitting by the telephone table staring into space. She flipped the light switch and called his name.
Is he drunk? she wondered, as he sluggishly turned his head in her direction and seemed to have some difficulty in focussing his eyes. My God! He looks awful!
'Andrew! What's happened? What's wrong?'
Half an hour and several glasses of gin later, Penelope Starling was sitting on the leather settee, still wearing her coat, and looking as if she'd been given only a fortnight to live. When she walked into the house, all she'd had to worry about was whether she ought to tell Andrew about the new suit she had bought at Harvey Nichols, and how she was going to persuade the committee to make her the chairperson of Children in Distress instead of that arrogant bitch Loretta Hargreaves-Grant. Now she had a million worries.
Where was Jaine-Marie? Was she safe? Who had taken her? What would they do to her? What would the neighbours make of it all? Did the kidnappers want money? How would she pay for the new suit if they did? Why did Andrew think the protesters had nothing to do with it? What was the maximum price she'd be willing to pay for the safe return of her daughter? Why was Andrew just sitting there instead of doing something? Would she have to sit by the phone all day tomorrow and miss the coffee morning hosted by the Mayor's wife?
Penelope Starling put her head in her hands and wept.
Andrew Starling put his hands on his head and roared, 'SHUT UP WOMAN!'
He had never shouted at his wife before. He'd often felt like it. He'd frequently wanted to do it. But the time had never seemed quite right to actually do it. Now he'd done it. And he wished he'd done it before. Not only did it feel good — but it had worked.
With sagging jaw and wide-open eye, Penelope Starling was looking at her husband and — saying nothing. What's more, she gave the impression that she had no intention of saying anything. Andrew liked that.
'I wonder why you're crying,' he said in a soft voice. 'Are you crying for your daughter? Or are you crying for yourself? As you've never shown the slightest interest in anyone other than yourself before — I would imagine that it's Mrs Penny Starling who's getting all your sympathy.' (I just called her Penny, he realised. She hates that name.) 'You're wondering how your daughter's disappearance will affect you. What the neighbours will make of it all. Whether it'll affect your membership of all those committees of dried-up old busybodies.'
She was thunderstruck. He'd never dared to speak to her like that before. What was more annoying, though, was that he was right. Did this mean that he'd always known what she was like? Had he always been able to see through her? She decided she would gain nothing by retaliating. Her best bet was to agree to anything that her husband — this stranger — was proposing.
A secret location
Just as she was about to start counting all the cobwebs on the ceiling for what seemed like the hundredth time, Jaine-Marie Starling suddenly realised that she needed to use the bathroom. And there wasn't one. Or, if there was one, she couldn't get to it — the knob could be turned but the door refused to budge.
With nothing to distract her (apart from cobweb counting) the need rapidly became a necessity. She could think of two options — she could either wet her pants or call out. Neither held much appeal. If she called out that she needed to use the loo, they might decide that someone would have to take her to the bathroom and keep an eye on her to make sure she didn't try to escape or call for help. That would be gross! she thought.
Surely they didn't expect her to go all night without a pee. She looked all round the room. No — no hidden bathroom doors. Pee in pants or shout? She was about to decide that shouting might be the slightly-less- distasteful option when she thought of something. Bending down, she peered under the bed. There was a pile of blankets and — a pisspot. She wasn't sure whether this third option would be any less humiliating than the other two.
She decided to think about it.
Millstones, Upper Crompton
Penelope Starling listened to everything that Andrew said. Apart from nodding her head, she said nothing.
She didn't argue.
She didn't question.
She didn't scream when he said that getting Jaine-Marie back might cost them money.
Andrew seemed to know what was best — and she decided that she had no choice but to fall in with his plans.
First thing in the morning she would ring the school and say that her daughter was ill in bed and may be indisposed for some time. She would not ring the police. She would forego the coffee morning and sit by the telephone in case the kidnappers called.