Peter James - Dead Man's Grip

She deleted it, then found her seat. Or at least the part of it which wasn’t already occupied by the damp, overflowing girth of a perspiring bald man who looked like he weighed uncomfortably north of 500 pounds.

If her day wasn’t already bad enough, the journey from hell had now got even worse. She sat, squashed, her elbows tucked uncomfortably in against her chest, her whole body trembling with fear.

Fear that she might never see her son alive again.

In the total darkness, Tyler’s head hurt. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t move his arms or legs. He was frightened and confused and knew this was not a game, that something bad was happening.

They were travelling, he could sense that. Motion. There were strong smells of carpet and plastic, new-car smells. He’d been in a friend’s mother’s brand-new Hyundai recently and it had smelled like this. He thought he could detect rubber, too. Could hear a hum. He must be in the boot of a car, he reckoned. The taxi? Braking and accelerating. All he could move were his knees – he could bend and flex them just a little. He tried to wedge them against something solid, to get a grip, but moments later he was thrown away backwards and felt himself rolling over, until he hit something hard.

He tried to shout to the driver, to ask him who he was, where they were going, but he could not move his mouth and his voice sounded all muffled.

After the two police officers had come to their house and his friends had left, his mum had sat down in his bedroom and told him there were bad things happening. Bad people. They had to be careful. They needed to keep a watch for strangers near the house. He must call the police if he saw anyone.

Was this one of the bad people driving him now?

At least he had his iPhone in his jacket and it was switched on. Friend Mapper would be logging him and his mum would know that. She’d know exactly where he was and she would tell the police. He didn’t really need to be afraid. They would find him.

He just hoped they would find him soon, because he had an IT class this afternoon that he really did not want to miss. And because he did not like this darkness, and not being able to move, and his arms were hurting, too.

But it was going to be all right.

Grace dashed around to the rear of the taxi, just as Glenn Branson leaned into the boot.

The man inside looked terrified and there was a sour reek of urine. His fleshy face was pale and clammy. Duct tape was wound around his arms, legs and mouth, the same kind of tape that Evie Preece had been bound with, Grace clocked, as he fished out his warrant card and held it up to give the man reassurance.

‘Police,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, you’re safe. We’ll get you out of there.’

He turned to Branson and to Inspector Sue Carpenter, who had joined them.

‘Let’s get the tape off his mouth first. Sue, call for a paramedic and POLSA and a search team, and get someone to bring some water, or tea if you can. And I want this level of the car park closed, as well as all the stairwells, in case they left by foot.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Then he leaned in and, as gently as he could, got his fingertips in the join in the tape. It would have been easier without his gloves, he knew, but he kept them on and finally managed to start peeling it off, mindful that although it would be extremely painful for the man, at the same time he needed to preserve it as best he could for forensic analysis.

As he peeled it away from his mouth, the man shouted out in pain.

‘Sorry,’ Grace murmured.

The tape went all the way around the back of the man’s head and he didn’t want to hurt him any more.

‘Mike Howard?’ he asked.

‘Yes! Jesus, that hurt,’ the man said, then smiled.

Grace folded the tape back on itself. ‘I’m sorry. We’re going to lift you out. Are you injured? In pain?’

He shook his head. ‘Just get me out.’

Mike Howard was a big, heavy man. With considerable difficulty, between himself and Glenn Branson they managed to manoeuvre him forward to the edge of the boot. They freed his arms and legs, and tried as best they could to remove the rest of the tape around his head. Then they stood him up and walked him around a little, supporting him until the circulation was back in his legs and he was steadier. But he was wheezing, close to hyperventilating, so they sat him down on the Skoda’s rear bumper.

‘Can you tell us what happened?’ Grace asked him gently.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I pissed. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t keep it in any more.’

‘It’s OK, don’t worry. Are you able to tell me what happened?’

‘What time is it?’

‘Half past one,’ Glenn Branson said.

‘What day?’

‘Friday.’

The man frowned. ‘Friday? Friday morning?’

‘It’s afternoon, lunchtime.’

‘Holy shit.’

‘How long have you been there?’ Grace asked.

Mike Howard took several deep breaths. ‘I was working nights. I was just heading home – about 1 a.m. – and this man hailed me along the seafront.’

‘Where exactly?’

‘Just near the Peace Statue. He got in the back and told me to take him to Shoreham Airport – said he was working a night shift there. I remember turning into the perimeter road – and that’s the last thing.’

Grace knew that road. It had no street lighting.

‘The last thing you remember?’

‘I woke up being shaken about. I could smell diesel and fumes. I figured out I was in the boot of my cab. I was terrified. I didn’t know what was going to happen.’

‘Can you remember what this guy looked like?’ Grace asked.

‘He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low. I tried to get a look at his face – you always do in this game when you pick someone up late at night off the street. But I couldn’t see it.’

Grace was relieved that the taxi driver seemed to be cheering up a little.

‘What about his accent?’

‘He didn’t say much. Sounded English to me. Do you have any water?’

‘There’s some on its way. Do you need anything to eat?’

‘Sugar. I’m diabetic.’

‘An ambulance will be here any minute – they’ll have something for you. Will you be all right for a few minutes?’

Mike Howard nodded.

Grace continued his questioning. ‘We think the man who did this to you has kidnapped a child and we need to find him urgently. I know you’ve had a horrendous ordeal, but anything you can tell us, anything at all that you can remember, would be valuable.’

Mike Howard eased himself forward and stood up. ‘Agggghhh,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the most terrible cramp.’ He stamped his foot, then stamped it again. ‘I’m trying to think. He was short. A short, thin little fellow, like a weasel. Promise me something?’

‘What?’ Grace asked.

‘If you find him, can I get him to pay me what he owes me, then thump him one, really hard, where it hurts?’

For the first time in what felt a long while, Grace smiled. ‘You’ll have to beat me to it,’ he said.

‘I will, mate, don’t you worry.’

Glenn Branson then said to the driver, ‘Is there someone you’d like us to contact and tell that you’re safe?’

Grace looked at his watch pensively. Almost two and a half hours since Tyler Chase had been picked up. Why was he brought here? His assumption was that the abductor had a car parked here, with luck the rental Toyota Yaris, choosing this as a good location to attack and disable the boy, then switch vehicles. Even more ideal with its CCTV cameras out of action. Inspector Carpenter might think it was scummy Brighton vandals, but he didn’t. He had a feeling he was starting to recognize the killer’s handwriting.