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  She struggled to a sitting position, struggled for breath as the exertion exhausted her. A muffled groan escaped her taped lips, bounced off hard walls and instantly stilled her attempt. She sat frozen, half-sitting, half-reclining, listening for a movement in the farther recesses of the room, waiting for a gunshot or a curse, expecting the tattoo of hurried footsteps and the banging open of the door and the sharp slap as an unseen hand struck her face. But as her breathing slowed and the cry faded, no one announced his presence. She tightened her stomach muscles and slowly pulled upright.

  Though what good it did, she couldn’t say. Unless it was that she felt more in control of her destiny. Sitting upright, like a human being, instead of lying trussed on the floor and waiting to die.

  Dena looked around, trying to discern her location. The darkness painted everything uniformly, giving no depth or detail to the area. Rocking back and forth and scooting her legs by inches to the right, Dena maneuvered in a tight circle, viewing the entire space. Nothing stood out; nothing suggested the identity of the place. Other than the faint dots of white light when she returned to what she assumed was her original position. She could be anywhere.

  And yet, that wasn’t true. She was sitting on carpet. She felt it through her shoes as her feet had pushed against it to sit her up; she felt it through the seat of her trousers as she wriggled around in a circle; and with her fingers if she bent slightly backwards. A fitted carpet, not the hard, cold ceramic tile of her previous captivity. A room-sized carpet, otherwise it would have bunched beneath her as she fought to sit up. Therefore, a room frequently peopled. The realization that she hadn’t been dumped in a garage or basement, that she was in an office or residence, comforted her. But it did nothing to reveal where she was—or why she had been kidnapped.

  And it did nothing to diminish her fear.

  She tried to think as McLaren would, putting the pieces together to form a picture of her kidnapping and her dungeon. Ignoring the ‘what,’ she asked herself the five remaining questions that formed the basis of any inquiry.

  How was she taken? Easy, she thought, aware of her aching scalp. Clobbered on the head. But how was she physically brought here? In a car. Well, some vehicle. She had been blindfolded but awake, aware of what was going on. She didn’t know the length of the ride before she’d regained consciousness, so she couldn’t estimate the distance traveled, but she did recall sounds and road surfaces. Smooth tarmac, a great number of bends to it. Which suggested an A or B road, not a motorway. Which also suggested she was in a village or town. Longer episodes of straight travel would hint at a city, or at least suburbs. And there had been a constant, though sporadic, sound and brief hesitation in the car… What was that? What did that signify? Gear changes.

  What else had she heard? No lorries lumbering by, no horns honking, no sheep bleating, no bell towers chiming. Nothing to say ‘I’m near a church or the waterfront.’ And no car radio announcing the time, call letters or music. No conversation from the driver to her or anyone else.

  But surely there had been a second person. Wouldn’t it be easier and faster if two people transported her from her car to the kidnapper’s car? They’d want to do it as quickly as possible, to avoid being seen.

  Her car… That answers the next question.

  Where did it happen? Yes, as she sat parked in the lay-by. But there was another ‘where’ to answer. Where was she now? Besides indoors, in a carpeted room. Was it another room in the same building, or a different building? She’d been in a residential area that harbored a school or office. She knew that much because she’d seen the car park and the group of houses along its farthest end. It was a well-attended school or office because the car park seemed to be filled; plus, those pots of plants and flowers were alive and healthy. They wouldn’t be so well tended if the place bordered on dereliction.

  Right. She’d figured out the “where” and “how it happened.” What else?

  When did it happen? Must’ve been Monday afternoon, just after speaking to Gwen on her mobile.

  What of the kidnapper? Who could it be? Dena hadn’t seen him…or her…or them…before being knocked unconscious. So she had no description like Michael always joked about: narrow-set eyes, weak chin, scruffy beard. She hadn’t see anyone when she was moved from the vehiclethe blindfold took care of that. She had no idea if her captor had an identifying mark or if she’d injured him. There hadn’t been a chance to fight him off at the beginning, and when he moved her from his car two people had been involved. Her hands, arms and legs were tied, so no joy there. No sounds of a doorbell ringing, or whispered commands between two people. Though she had sensed being carried down a short flight of stairs, and around a corner. Their footsteps echoed, as though they were walking on a hard surface, like linoleum or terrazzo, which would go with the school or office. But who could it be? Obviously he wanted to remain unidentifiablethe dark clothing could conceal a male or female frame; the gloves disguise size, skin color, work history, and gender; the mask removed any positive identification; the mute gestures eliminated recognitionof someone she might know, of gender.

  Could a woman have done this? Would she have the strength to shift me, twice now, from vehicle to vehicle, from vehicle to prison? But that doesn’t preclude two people involved in this, as it seems to necessitate since I was carried originally from the car to the office. Nor does it preclude that it’s someone I know, whether acquaintance, family, or friend.

  An acquaintance I could accept, though why abduct me? A family member or friend tinges the act of kidnapping with the taste of jealousy. Or revenge. But revenge for what?

  Dena sat upright, afraid of the answer that already barked at her.

  Revenge? WHY? The question consumed more than her mind; it enveloped her with an unstoppable shaking that suddenly gripped her body. If it’s revenge, what did I do?

  She needed to know who’d carried out her abduction, and where she was being held. The answers might allay some of the questions—or destroy her emotionally.

  She considered getting to her knees and inching around the area, feeling along a wall—if she came to one—with her shoulder or the top of her head. But she quickly abandoned the idea. The unknown room, wrapped in darkness, could hold anything, things she might not want to bump into or confront. The childhood terror of stretching out her hand during a game of Blindman’s Bluff and feeling a dried blowfish rushed back at her from this new darkness, shrieking with a thousand taunts that bounced off the walls. She would stay where she was, content with the progress she had made in identifying her kidnapping, yet hoping that morning would bring light and a greater revelation.

  ****

  The man pushed back his dinner plate and stared at the unfinished steak, bits of salad, and chunks of the cheddar scone. He’d been hungry during the meal preparation, ravenous when he sat down. But the remnants stated otherwise. Well, he’d give it to the trash bin. Or to the birds.

  But he made no move to get up. Something bothered him other than the peculiarity of his diminished appetite.

  The phone rang, disturbing his internal questioning, and his hand slapped down on it. He glanced at the caller display before answering. “Yes?”

  “Can you talk?”

  “I’m alone. What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing. I fed her and she’s peaceful enough for tonight.”

  The man sighed, clearly exasperated. The call underlined his growing sense of anxiety. “Then why ring me up? The police aren’t breathing down your neck, are they?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What does that mean? Are you expecting to be questioned formally?”

  “I guess anything’s possible.”

  “Look. We agreed when we grabbed her that we’d see this through. Now you sound like you’re rethinking this. If you do a runner and leave me with her, I’ll hunt for you. No matter if it takes my entire bank account or the rest of my life, I’ll find you. Got it?” He laid his free hand on his thigh to stop
its quivering.

  “I’m not having second thoughts. You know I’m in this as deep as you are. I just want to know how long we’re going to have her. Feeding her a few meals is one thing, but keeping her hidden, seeing to her…physical needs is another. We didn’t consider everything when we decided to snatch her. I didn’t, at least. Now it seems like it’ll go on eternally.”

  “Need I remind you why we did this?” the man snapped. He tried not to betray the inklings of fear and regret that grabbed his soul. Without knowing it, his partner echoed the man’s feelings. And it bothered him to have his emotions exposed.

  “I’m well aware of our reason, thank you.”

  “Then quit complaining. We won’t have her around much longer.”

  “You’re not going to…get rid of her. I didn’t bargain for that.”

  The man leaned back and stared through the dining room window. Moonlight glinted off his car. He felt he was in the showroom, drawn to it, mesmerized by the sleek finish and the gloss black accents, seeing it for the first time. It’d been a prize he’d wanted forever, a psychological boost during his depression. Maybe it could help him again… He sat up and his voice rose slightly in pitch. “Yes, we’re going to get rid of her but not in the way you think. Stop mimicking a crime show on the telly and think for once. We’ll drop her off somewhere. We’ll be shed of her and she’ll be scared off her investigation. She’ll not be hurt and we’ll still escape any suspicion in any of this.”

  The voice on the other end hesitated, as though the caller gave the proposed solution careful contemplation. “Drop her where? No place where she could get hurt.”

  “What the hell do you take me for? Of course she won’t get hurt. I don’t relish the thought of killing anyone. We’ll keep her blindfolded and drive her north, maybe a hundred miles or so, and leave her in a park or forest. We’ll tie her hands but make sure she can get free. I’ll put some money in her pocket and she’ll be able to get to a pub or house and phone for help.”

  “Won’t she be scared alone outside in a park or forest? Will she be safe?”

  “We’ll drop her off just before sunrise. She won’t be there long. She’ll be fine and she’ll be so thrilled at having escaped the enemy camp that a few insect bites won’t bother her. Now, quit crying.”

  “I guess it sounds all right.”

  The man relaxed now that the immediate future seemed resolved. He got up and took the dinner plate into the kitchen. “Sure, it does. It’s best for her and it’s good for us, too. Let me figure out a spot to leave her and I’ll ring you up in a day or two. I won’t be long. Don’t worry.”

  “You better not be long. Every time I go there to feed her I’m afraid the cops are going to nab me. I’m not cut out for this.”

  “You think I am?”

  “No. It’s just getting to me. She’s a nice lady. I like her.” The voice whined in concern, irritating the man.

  “I like her, too, but what the hell has that to do with anything?”

  “I hate for her to go through this, that’s all.”

  “She won’t much longer. I’ll bring her breakfast as usual tomorrow and I’ll let you know when we can release her. Okay?”

  “Sure. Ta.”

  The man closed his mobile, laid it on the table, and walked outside with the plate.

  Chapter Fifteen

  McLaren thought the familiar urge he had that morning would bring light and a revelation. He silently acknowledged that he was at a dead end. Perhaps this was the reason the case had gone cold, he thought as he drove to The Split Oak. Perhaps he just needed a pint in his favorite pub and a chat with his mate, Jamie Kydd. Police detective or not, Jamie might point out something in McLaren’s haze.

  It wasn’t particularly late—just coming on to four o’clock—but McLaren felt as though he had no brain left. He stopped at Rawlton Hall, hoping to speak to Ellen Fairfield, the curator, but was told she was in Beresford Dale. “Taking a bit of time for herself. She’s been working that hard,” was how the assistant conveyed it.

  McLaren thanked her and drove the fifteen miles back north.

  He took the small road north of Alsop-en-le-Dale and hit the B5054 near Hartington. The Dale, a serene glen of high cliffs and trout-laden pools, carved a place for itself on the River Dove. McLaren turned onto a lane and soon came to the river. He parked in a wide area alongside the road. A black Land Rover Defender sat under a tree.

  McLaren got out and glanced at the immediate area before sauntering down to the Dove. A wooden bridge, one-person wide and sporting a waist-high railing, spanned the stream. The opposite bank opened onto a pasture; cliffs curtained the far end.

  He crossed the bridge, thinking Ellen would be strolling in the sun, but after several minutes’ walk through the high grass and getting no response to his calls, he re-crossed the river and took the path bordering the bank.

  Early twilight hovered in the Dale, the steep cliffs holding the sunlight at bay. Shadows wallowed at the cliff bases and in the thickets on the western side, while the eastern face held onto the light dawdling halfway up its heights. The land was cooler along the water; dampness hung in the air, and he wondered what it would feel like in winter. Ferns poked from crevices in the rock wall, their leaves glistening from the mist. Moss coated tree bark and rocks, and threw its musty odor into the air.

  He stepped over a fallen log and entered the Dale proper. Clumps of burdock and other river plants crowded the river’s edge, some leaning precariously close to the rushing water. On his left, vines and branches dangled from the cliff face. This section wallowed in shade, for sunlight seldom hit it,. He glanced at the cliff tops, alive with birds and trees and bright light before pushing a few of the more emphatic branches out of his way. The earth and sand were wet where boulders threw water onto the path and he stepped over the areas, careful not to lose his footing on the dampness. His back-slid along the rock face, and he called again.

  A woodpecker drummed on a tree before taking flight.

  McLaren stopped opposite a rectangular boulder stuck upright in the center of the river. He gazed at the cliff top, trying to discern from where the rock had fallen. It must’ve happened years ago, for the vegetation and trees blanketed the peak in dense green.

  The river bent to the left but the path stopped. He walked a few feet into the bushes, thinking the river bailiff was overdue in keeping the pathway clear. But the plants packed the meter-wide slide of land. There’d probably never been a path here, he reasoned, and walked back to the bend.

  The river gurgled louder and tumbled faster here as it slid over a reef of rocks. From this point to the opposite shore, a line of stepping stones led across the river to the path. He hesitated, judging the river’s depth and swiftness, then rolled up his trousers and waded in. The water was only inches deep.

  Reclaiming the path, he walked slowly, looking for evidence that someone had recently come this way. He called Ellen’s name again, but his words broke against the rock faces or dissipated into the air. He was on a fool’s mission, he told himself when he stopped minutes later. The path had meandered slightly east, out of the river’s sight, leaving several dozen meters of flower-carpeted land between him and the water. He looked around, wondering if Ellen was at the fishing temple. But unless she was an invited guest, she couldn’t get into Charles Cotton’s cottage. It was kept locked to discourage unwanted visitors.

  McLaren swore at the waste of time and turned back. His steps were faster, betraying his eagerness to redeem the remainder of the day.

  His pace didn’t slow when he came to the crossing. Annoyed with Ellen and with himself, he stepped off the bank. His leg slammed into something, his foot slipped on a rock, and he lost his balance. He crashed into the river, unconscious.

  ****

  The Dale had grown darker by the time he came to. Sunlight hovered on the eastern cliff edge, painting the tops of the trees in a splash of ochre. In the gorge, along the river, dusk had settled, and the wild th
ings that belonged to the night started to stir.

  McLaren sat up, unsure where he was or what had happened. He stared at river, bewildered as to why he lay in it. He moved his hand, disbelieving the silt and bits of plants he stirred up. Water ran down his back and from his hands as he pushed to his feet. He bent forward slightly, feeling the water’s resistance on his lower legs. He trudged toward the bank from which he’d fallen, the riverbed uneven beneath his shoes.

  He curled his fingers around a rock half embedded on the edge of the path, grabbed the trunk of a sapling, and clamored back onto the land. He turned toward the river, partially bent over and breathing heavily, and stared at the area where he’d lain. The river stretch was a confusion of rushing water, large rocks and half-submerged logs. How bloody lucky he’d been. If he’d landed a half meter either way, he’d either have drowned or split open his skull. He shuddered at the narrow escape and took several deep breaths before he looked at his leg. A thin line, angry and red, marked his encounter with some foreign object. But what had it been?

  He searched the bank, rooting among the rocks and vegetation, and found a length of wire. One end held firm to a tree trunk, the other to a metal rod. The wire sagged from its encounter with his leg.

  McLaren pulled up the rod, slipped off the wire, then yanked the wire from the tree, anger overriding his judgment. The wire obviously hadn’t been there when he crossed over. Someone had hidden here and deliberately rigged the trap.

  He stood on the bank and surveyed the area. The dusk was too heavy to see properly; the air held numerous midges and mosquitoes, their wings a blur in the heavy light. He swung his arm, breaking up their cloud, tucked the rod into his belt, and waded to the original bank. Once again gaining ground, he picked up a stick and held it in front of him, sweeping it like a sightless person with a cane. His shoes plopped against the soft soil and squished with each step. As he stopped to dislodge a pebble from his shoe, he cursed Ellen, his unknown assailant, and the pain in his head.