Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

The man near the arches watched for a minute or two, then lost interest. After another impatient look along the street, he turned and went back inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

The minutes trickled by as silence descended again, the cold seeping even further into their bodies now they were back to staring at the dark. A siren sounded somewhere towards the river, followed by an answering hoot further off. Both Riley and Palmer were desperate to see what lay behind the wooden doors, but getting caught wouldn’t do the missing Angelina any good. And if there were others arriving soon, their chances of getting in and out unscathed would be zero.

A white van turned the corner and moved slowly towards them, the headlights washing the walls with light. It had darkened windows. The tramp at the rubbish bin ignored the new arrival, absorbed in his task. Over at the arch, the door opened again and the man they had seen before stepped outside. He was holding a mobile phone to his ear and talking. When he saw the van he waved before moving back to stand in the doorway.

Palmer stirred carefully, steadying his feet beneath him and flexing his arms. Riley did the same, moving awkwardly as pins and needles invaded her legs with the renewed blood flow. The moment the van stopped in front of the arches, Palmer was up and dragging Riley by the sleeve to follow him across the street and into the doorway of a disused launderette, giving them a better view across the street.

Two men climbed out of the van and approached the man with the mobile. There was a brief exchange before they shook hands and followed him inside. Even though the light was faint, it was enough to make out long, dark coats and the sheen of short-cropped hair on bony skulls. One man in particular was easily recognisable.

Quine.

Palmer inhaled deeply, and Riley felt the tension radiating off him like a hunter about to go after big game.

‘If they take the girl, we’re too late,’ he said softly, as if to himself.

‘But we know where they’ll be going.’ It would be to the Church’s headquarters or home to her parents. Unless they were playing games and had somewhere else in mind. She preferred not to think about that. If they lost sight of the girl it could end in tragedy. She thought about calling up a taxi. Moving around this area on foot at night with a traumatised girl would substantially increase the risks of getting caught once they made their move. On the other hand, what could she say to a cab firm’s controller? ‘Hang around while we snatch a kidnap victim — we’ll only be a few minutes’?

Palmer settled back down into a squatting position, ready for action.

Suddenly the door opened again and one of the new arrivals walked out, shaking his head. It was Quine. Raised voices came from inside before the other man followed, shoving the door further open with an angry thrust of his arm. Behind him, the man who had emerged earlier held up a hand and flashed his open fingers twice, before closing the door again. Quine and his companion climbed back into the van and drove away with a squeal of tyres.

‘Interesting,’ murmured Palmer. ‘Thieves falling out, do you reckon?’

‘Ten minutes,’ said Riley. ‘Is that what he meant? Come back in ten minutes… or he would follow in ten?’

‘Could be the price they’re asking. Ten grand gets her back with all her fingers and toes.’

‘They might ask it of the parents, but I can’t see the Church paying that.’

He nodded. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Either way, they’re negotiating for her. Let’s get in there. You ready?’ When she nodded, he stood up and walked across the street, Riley following close behind. She was glad to be on the move again, but her legs still felt unsteady after having been confined to one position for so long. As they reached the outside of the metal barrier around the arches, Riley heard a click and looked down. In the dim glow from a street light, she saw that Palmer was holding a retractable police baton by his side.

Riley bent down and scooped up a length of wooden fence post lying in the gutter. She wasn’t sure how effective she could be, but given her anger at what these men were doing, and the cold and filth she had been sitting in, she wasn’t about to stand and watch Palmer have all the fun.

She followed as he eased carefully up to the doors and listened. A rumble of voices came from inside but without more surveillance time, it was impossible to tell how many were standing the other side of the thin wooden structure. And time was something Angelina, if she was still inside, simply didn’t have.

Riley could now see that the door nearest to her was sagging weakly on its hinges. It was one half of a double set, big enough to allow a car to drive in and no doubt once used as a garage or lock-up. There was an unpleasant smell of mould and damp in the air, and she reached out and ran her hand across the rough and peeling surface. It trembled slightly, betraying the decay in the wood, and she guessed it wouldn’t take much to bring the whole structure down.

Palmer was evidently thinking the same thing. With a sweep of his hand, he signalled for Riley to step back.

The condition of the door was worse than it looked. Palmer’s kick demolished one half, which fell away, dragging the rest like old cardboard, showering him with fragments of damp and rotted wood.

Two men were standing in the centre of what had once been a workshop, their backs to the entrance. The walls were rough brick, covered in a thin screed of plaster that did little to hide the dilapidated structure. A single neon tube hung from the ceiling by two thin chains, throwing a sickly yellow light over the squalid interior.

Some attempts had been made to add a degree of comfort by the addition of a couple of greasy armchairs, two camp beds and a small, battered table covered with tea and coffee-making paraphernalia. A gas heater hissed nearby, casting a ghostly light up to the curved brick ceiling and adding to the depressing atmosphere soured by the smell of damp, dust and petroleum waste.

The two men were solidly built, with dark hair curling out from under woollen caps. Both were dressed in nondescript ski jackets, jeans and boots. Outside, nobody would have given them a second look. Towards the rear of the workshop, stretched out on one of the camp beds, lay the slim figure of a young girl, her head thrown back on a stained pillow. She looked fragile and wan in the yellow light, but still seemed to be breathing. Angelina .

The two men spun round, their faces registering shock at the noise and suddenness of the intrusion. Neither man looked unduly alarmed when they saw Riley and Palmer, but the one on the left instantly reached inside his jacket and produced a large hunting knife.

Palmer moved towards him without hesitation. The directness of his approach caught the other by surprise. He slashed wildly with the knife, displaying more aggression than skill, his breathing harsh and animal-like in the enclosed space. Palmer stayed carefully out of reach, but moved forward relentlessly, crowding the other man back. When he reversed into one of the workbenches with a grunt of surprise, Palmer flicked the baton across his face. The man’s head went back with a grunt, the knife falling from his hand and clattering to the concrete floor. Palmer gave him no time to recover. Taking a long step past his opponent, he swept the baton across and down, aiming at the side of the man’s knee. His opponent crashed to the floor with a cry of agony, his leg useless.

The second man was even less technical. Ignoring Riley as any kind of threat, he grabbed the kettle from the table and made to throw it at Palmer. The move left him wide open and gave Riley all the opportunity she needed. Grasping the post like a short lance, she lunged forward and jabbed him hard in the centre of his body. He gave an agonised squeal as the point sank into the soft part of his stomach, and dropped the kettle. Turning the post in her hands like a windmill, Riley followed up with a side-swipe which sat him back in one of the armchairs, his eyes wide open as he gasped for air, no longer able to put up any fight.