Ransomed, p.10
Ransomed, page 10
‘Richard, that detective is here,’ she called across the court. ‘He wishes to speak to both of us.’ She made no acknowledgement of Teddy dressed in a brilliant white polo shirt and the tightest of shorts that left little to the imagination.
Richard immediately stopped what he was doing. He dropped the racket to the painted floor, grabbed a small towel hanging from the corner of the net and wrapped it around his shoulders before joining her beyond the fence. ‘What does he want?’
‘He hasn’t said…’ She moved away before pulling up and leaning towards him so he would hear her whisper. ‘Must you flaunt your floozy in front of me? Show some discretion, Richard. The world is watching us.’
She didn’t wait for him to respond, marching purposefully back to the kitchen, grateful for the warmth emanating from the oven which filled the entire room. Rosa was just extracting the freshly baked loaf from the sandwich tin, and it was all Elizabeth could do not to cave in to her ravenous hunger. Holding her head high, she continued back into the hallway and entered the drawing room, surprised to find the detective seated in her father’s upright armchair.
DCS Rawani stood as they both entered, remembering his public-school upbringing. ‘Thank you both for seeing me at such an early hour,’ he began.
Elizabeth had no idea what time it was, but the morning sky was certainly bright enough to suggest it had to be after nine o’clock at least.
‘The reason for my call is to update you on our progress overnight. Ordinarily in situations such as this, we would engage a Family Liaison Officer – a trained member of the team – to be the conduit between us and you, but given your reticence to that offer last night, I thought you would prefer to hear any news from me directly.’
Richard used the towel to wipe the perspiration from his forehead as Elizabeth desperately tried to protect her nostrils from inhaling the stench that had followed him into the room.
‘You have news then?’ Richard said eagerly.
‘Some,’ the detective replied cautiously. ‘Firstly, I want you to know that we have thrown everything at tracking down Cassie. Every available resource has been working non-stop since the incident yesterday afternoon and we are bearing fruit as a result of that hard labour. After an extensive search of traffic and security camera feeds, the team has managed to identify what we believe to be the van used to transport Cassie from the scene. We tracked the van to an area surrounded by farmland and, unfortunately, a distinct lack of cameras. However, we narrowed the search down to two particular farms with large barn areas where a van could be hidden from the view of the helicopters we’ve had in the sky searching. Raids were carried out on those two barns in the early hours of this morning by specialist tactical teams, and the van was located.’
Elizabeth gasped and reached for Richard’s hand to keep her legs from failing her. ‘You found her?’
‘There were no persons discovered in the vicinity of the van or barn, unfortunately, and due to the lack of camera feeds in the area, we have no immediate way of knowing how or where they went from there.’
Elizabeth’s heart sank.
‘We now have a team of CSIs combing the area for forensic evidence that will tell us where they went next. We are checking for tyre prints, as it is unlikely they left the premises on foot. The important thing is that we discovered supplies in that barn: food, water, camping equipment, and clothes. I believe that we would have apprehended them there today had something not spooked them. That tells me that we are closing the net on these guys, and whilst I don’t wish to give you false optimism, I believe we are getting closer to apprehending them.’
Elizabeth’s hand shot up to her mouth as tears threatened to escape. Turning to Richard, she searched his face for confirmation that he too could see the light at the end of the tunnel but he remained stony-faced.
‘How can you be certain they took Cassie with them?’ he said, narrowing his eyes.
The question seemed to throw even the experienced detective. ‘I… um… it’s like I said, we are processing the evidence from the scene, and so far there is no reason for us to suspect they haven’t taken Cassie along with them.’
‘But you aren’t certain?’ Richard challenged again.
‘With respect, Mr Hilliard, these things take time, and—’
‘How do you know they haven’t killed her and buried her somewhere on that farm?’
Elizabeth’s legs gave way and she crashed to the floor, Richard making no effort to help her up.
The detective looked down at her sympathetically, but didn’t budge under Richard’s unyielding glare. ‘We’re not ruling anything out, but so far there are no signs of a struggle so we feel confident that they still have her, and that she is still alive—’
‘But you don’t know for sure. That’s what you’re saying, right?’
‘Richard, just stop it!’ Elizabeth cried.
DCS Rawani was about to speak again when the door to the drawing room opened and a much older man with a full head of the whitest hair entered, and immediately went to Elizabeth’s aid, his cane echoing dully on the thick pile of the carpet.
‘Darling, darling,’ the old man declared, as he joined her on the floor. ‘I came as quickly as I could.’
The detective saw Richard Hilliard roll his eyes and then stomp from the room without excusing himself.
‘Daddy, they took her. They took our Cassie,’ Elizabeth said to the older man, burying her tear-stained face in the shoulder of his thick sheepskin overcoat.
He kissed the top of her head before resting his cheek against it. ‘I know, my sweet child, I know, but I’m here now and I promise you we will not stop until we get her back.’
DCS Rawani had never met Templeton, Lord Fitzhume, but the Commissioner had been quick to remind him of the man’s reputation and connection to the royal family. The man before him didn’t look like the formidable, all-powerful peer of the realm who had been described. Instead, he was like any other parent, consoling a child in the most desperate of times. This room and this house, probably once full of love and a child’s laughter, now bore the grief and heartache of a funeral parlour.
Chapter Fourteen
Now
Ealing, London
Boarding the first train from Weymouth to London was not as easy as I’d first thought when I booked the ticket on Friday afternoon. At the time, 5:37am had seemed reasonable. Achievable. Yet when the alarm beckoned me at 4:45am, I instantly regretted having booked it at all.
I’ll admit that I am not a morning person. I used to be. I can remember being up at the crack of dawn most days when I was a teenager, desperate to squeeze in a few extra minutes of the latest book I was reading before Mum would drive me to school. Somewhere in my fledgling twenties – and I’m blaming university life here – that all changed, my body self-adjusted, and suddenly, being awake before seven on any given day became a challenge.
The train carriage was empty when I boarded, a second warning that my decision to cave in to Maddie’s demands might not have been the smartest choice. I say choice like I really had one, but I can’t run the risk of being sued by the publisher for breach of contract. I’ve seen plenty of horror stories in the online writers’ community, where a successful author made too many demands and was promptly dropped. That can often be the worst thing for a published writer. Being axed during a contract is almost like being marked out as unclean in medieval times; it doesn’t matter how good your next manuscript is, your grave is already dug.
The empty carriage was definitely a silver lining this morning though. I was able to find my seat without having to ask some dangerous stranger to move, and with my headphones in and laptop open, I was soon deep in writing notes – questions that I’ll pose to Fitzhume and Cassie’s parents – ahead of the next few days of research. Unless you’ve been a writer, it’s difficult to share what the process is like and I’m aware it can be different for everybody, but when I write, it’s like the real world just melts away. Suddenly, nothing in my periphery exists, like an opaque bubble forms around me, shutting out all colour, noise and distractions, leaving just me and the voices in my head. Sounds mental, I know, yet it’s the single most enjoyable experience in my otherwise arid life.
Before I know it, we’re pulling in to Southampton Central, and that’s when the train fills rapidly, to the point where I can no longer see the exit doors from my seat and I’m pressed up against the window because the giant beside me seems unable to keep within the confines of his own seat. I stopped writing at that point. For a carriage clearly sign-posted as a ‘Quiet Coach’, there is nothing serene about the atmosphere. Adults and children are standing in the aisle as the train bustles and bumps its way to the next station, where I disembark, and wait twenty minutes for my second train to Reading, where I change again and wait ten minutes for the final train to Ealing Broadway. Four hours of my life that would have been totally wasted had I driven. At least I managed to get my thoughts down, and over the next few hours my subconscious will continue to work through the angles of how to tackle a story I know nothing about.
Disembarking from the train with my laptop bag over one shoulder and the small holdall I crammed with jeans, shirts, and jumpers (even though temperatures are not due to dip below eighteen degrees in the next week), I’m almost sent tumbling by a man in a cheap-looking suit who pushes past me as if there is a race to be the first to the security barrier. He mutters an apology without turning back to see if I’m okay, and in that moment I’m reminded of why I could never live in London permanently. Everyone is always in such a rush, there is no courtesy, and as I climb the stairs at the station exit, the grey sky overhead is dull and threatening. It’s only four hours since I left Weymouth and I’m already craving that fresh sea air and brilliantly blue sky. I miss the sound of seagulls squawking as they tell each other stories of chips and ice creams they’ve managed to pinch off unsuspecting visitors to our wonderful little seaside town.
It takes me a moment to get my bearings, and in that time, as I’m loading directions to Rachel’s flat into my phone, I’m barged into three times by strangers who don’t even have the decency to mutter an apology. The map app on my phone tells me to head left towards the main parade of shops that make up the thoroughfare of Ealing Broadway before turning left again and heading towards the signs indicating Acton. The buildings here, although not as tall as the skyscrapers in Central London, tower above me and are all so packed together that it feels as though they are slowly closing in, trapping me in their vice-like grip.
The few shop fronts either side of me represent bespoke cafés, fast-food restaurants, and temping agencies. Does one town really need three agencies offering temporary assignments within a fifty-metre radius of one another? Are there really that many employers looking for temporary staff in West London? What does that say about the state of our economy?
Traffic is heavy in both directions as I continue along the way; tall red buses edge slowly forwards, kamikaze cyclists dart in and out of lanes wherever they spot a gap, and traffic lights change sequence every ninety seconds. You would think that it was rush hour on a busy weekday morning, rather than half past nine on a Saturday. Again, everyone here seems to be in such a hurry to get to wherever they’re heading, nobody stopping to take in their surroundings. That’s probably why there are stray crisp packets, cigarette butts and chewing gum on virtually every paving slab; everyone is just too busy to look at the damage they’re causing. Am I the only one looking?
It takes me fifteen minutes to reach Rachel’s flat, one of three in a former townhouse, all sharing a communal entrance. Rachel once told me that her landlord owns the dozen townhouses on this part of the road, and had them all converted to flats, meaning he’s raking in at least thirty-six thousand pounds per month just for this block. That’s more than I earned in freelance articles and royalties last year (though Maddie has promised this year will be much more fruitful, even after her commission).
Rachel’s flat is on the ground floor and the large window directly in front of me is her open-plan kitchen-lounge-diner. The blind is still drawn, which strikes me as odd, as she definitely knew I was due to come and drop my things this morning. I don’t want to wake her if she’s having a lie-in, but I also don’t want to drag my holdall to the midday meeting with Lord Fitzhume and Maddie.
Climbing the run of three steps up to the front door, I search for Rachel’s name on the panel of door buzzers and tentatively press it. We haven’t spoken since my revelation about Anna on the Millennium Bridge and I won’t deny it’s been playing on my mind all morning. What if she’s changed her mind about me staying here now? I’d have to find a hotel somewhere and I’m not sure where to begin.
Two minutes pass and so I press again, now worried that either she’s had to rush out or this is her way of saying that our relationship is over. I’m about to phone her when I hear a door inside open and then she is at the main door, her usually perfectly straight hair in a tangle of curls, the oversized T-shirt hanging down over one shoulder, and only knickers covering her lower half. My cheeks are burning before I can even say hello.
Rachel looks equally shocked by my appearance at her door. ‘Emma, hi,’ she says awkwardly, glancing back towards the door to her flat. ‘I thought you weren’t going to be here until ten. Wasn’t that what we agreed?’
‘Sorry,’ I say quickly, regretting not sending her a message to say I’d arrived in London. ‘I’m a few minutes early. I can go and come back at ten, if that’s—’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she cuts me off, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the most awkward embrace I think we’ve ever had. She glances at the watch on my wrist. ‘Goodness, I hadn’t realised how late it was. Sorry, come in, come in.’
Following her in through the door to her flat, my embarrassment deepens as I see the tell-tale signs of exactly why Rachel has lost track of time: a cerise-coloured bra draped over the back of the sofa; two pairs of shoes kicked off in the kitchen; and as I study Rachel’s face, I now notice that both her lipstick and eyeliner are slightly smudged.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I whisper, conscious of whomever else is lurking just inside the bedroom door. ‘Listen, I’ll go and get us a couple of takeaway coffees from the café up the road and come back. I didn’t mean to disturb you in…’ I don’t know how to finish the sentence, as I’m instantly transported back to that first time Rachel brought a boy back to our student house and I inadvertently walked in on them in the throes of passion.
She is trying desperately not to laugh but then it escapes and she grins at me. ‘I suppose you were going to find out eventually. Yes, there is someone here, who you should probably meet. It’s still early days, which is why I haven’t said anything sooner.’
Another thought hits me. ‘Hey, listen, if it’s not convenient for me to stay with you this week, I can have Maddie find me a hotel instead, it really isn’t a prob—’
‘It would be for me,’ she almost shouts in feigned offence. ‘We’re not living together, they just happened to stay over last night. You’re absolutely fine to crash here for as long as you need. I’ve got the blanket and spare pillows out of the closet and so long as you’re happy with the sofa bed, then I want you here.’
‘So long as you’re sure.’
She takes my hands in hers and squeezes. ‘I’m positive. Now, would you like to meet the person who has left me in this state?’
Obviously I can’t say no so I nod with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, restraining my natural introvert.
Rachel releases my hand and moves to the bedroom door, pushing it open with her foot and looking in. ‘Emma Hunter, I’d like you to meet Daniella Vitruvia.’
Chapter Fifteen
Now
Ealing, London
The shock is a double-whammy. First the mention of a woman’s name, and then the striking beauty kneeling on the edge of Rachel’s bed. Her hair is as long and dark a mane as I’ve ever seen, her cheekbones high but not overpowering. She is gently nibbling on a fingertip, mirroring my own bashfulness. As Rachel reaches for her hand she accepts it and perfectly pivots to enable her long legs to extend until she is standing, several inches taller than us both. Before Rachel even tells me, I know she must be a model.
‘I had meant to have her out of here before you arrived,’ Rachel admits, but there is no shame or embarrassment in her face any longer. ‘I guess we must have lost track of time. I know there’s a lot we need to talk about, but for now it might be best if Daniella and I both get dressed and cleaned up.’
Exasperated, I nod, not knowing where to look or how to react. Eventually, I head into the small kitchen area, and begin to fill the kettle from the sink. I can hear Rachel and Daniella whispering behind me and in my periphery, Rachel fetches up the scattered clothes from the floor and then the two of them hurry into the bedroom, closing the door. I exhale for the first time since the door opened.
How did I not know that my best friend – someone I’ve shared my most intimate of secrets with for the last eight years – was into girls? As the water inside the kettle slowly starts to froth and bubble, I rack my brains for any clues or signs that I missed along the way. When we first met at our halls of residence we were sitting in a group, all sharing brief details about our backgrounds and where we’d come from before arriving at Bournemouth University. The conversation inevitably descended into talk of previous relationships and at no point did Rachel mention that she’d had girlfriends. In fact, I distinctly remember being slightly jealous of the number of boys she’d had chasing after her in her teenage years. I’d only dated two boys by that point and neither had been all that serious. It didn’t bother me that I was still a virgin when I first joined university as I had always – maybe I was somewhat repressed, I think in hindsight – believed I would give my virginity to someone I loved and cared about. Alas, that all went out the window on a drunken night out three months into my university career. That said, I never saw Rachel showing any particular interest in girls. Even when we moved into a house together for two years while continuing our studies, she never once brought a girl back, nor showed any particular interest in the Bournemouth LGBTQ+ scene.
