Jack Slater - No Place to Hide

He felt rubber-clad fingers place something around the base of his genitals. It felt like wire. He gasped, his eyes widened in horror. ‘No. Fuck!’ Panic surged through him, almost overwhelming the pain in his chest and stomach.

The guy shook his head. ‘No, no, Jerry. Not wise. What you can feel is cheese wire. One tug from Josh, and bye-bye bits. Do you understand?’

Jerry nodded, unable to speak.

‘Good.’ The guy’s voice was almost friendly now. He pushed himself up. The pain went from Jerry’s torso, but he was horrifically aware of the tension around his groin. ‘Up you get. But no sudden moves, eh? We wouldn’t want any accidents. Awfully messy on this nice, beige carpet.’

Jerry felt horribly exposed and vulnerable. He sat up carefully and got to his feet.

‘Up you go,’ the first one said. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’ He took the wooden handle on the end of the wire from the bigger guy in the blue surgical gloves and stepped in close, grabbing a handful of Jerry’s shirt with his free hand.

Jerry turned, feeling the wire across the top of his thigh as he took a tentative step up. He led the way cautiously up the stairs and along to the front bedroom, which he had converted into an office.

Keep them calm, do what they want , he thought. It was the only way he could see of getting out of this intact. Any wrong move and that little wooden handle would be snatched back and . . . He didn’t even want to think that far, but an image came unbidden into his mind – blood spurting, a lump of flesh lying at his feet as he collapsed, ruined forever. He would bleed out, here, on the floor.

‘Right. Stand aside, Jerry. Let the dog see the rabbit.’

The big one – Josh – stepped past them and took the seat in front of the computer. He powered it up as if he owned it and a flash of annoyance pierced Jerry’s fear. A hand clamped heavily on his shoulder, almost as if the guy standing beside him knew what he was thinking. Jerry felt suddenly crowded, claustrophobic in his own private space.

The computer screen lit up with a pleasant coastal scene, dotted with icons. Josh clicked on the Documents icon and searched until he found what he was looking for. Jerry felt himself go pale.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ he murmured.

‘He won’t help you now, Jerry,’ the other one said from his side. ‘Or where you’re going, if the preachers are right. Up you get, Josh.’

‘What? What are you going to do?’ Fear formed a lump in his throat that was the only thing stopping him from retching. His legs didn’t work properly as he was pushed forward and into the seat. He sat down hard, the wire digging into the sensitive skin at the top of his thighs. ‘Please. Don’t hurt me. I’m not that guy any more. I don’t use that stuff. I’d forgotten it was even on there.’ Jerry felt the guy’s free hand grab his collar and tug it down, then a sharp prick in the muscle between his neck and shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Just something to help you relax, Jerry.’ He patted him on the shoulder, where the injection had been.

A weird feeling swooped through Jerry’s body. He tried to shift his feet under the chair, but couldn’t. They wouldn’t respond. My God, what was this stuff they’d given him? Jesus! He could clearly hear the TV from downstairs. He recognised the voice of the BBC News anchor. Fiona. Not his favourite. He liked Julie. What the hell was he thinking?

He stared at the screen in front of him. Went to lift his hand to the mouse, to close the image, but his arm wouldn’t work either. ‘What . . . ?’ His voice was slurred and he couldn’t turn his head to face the men behind him. What was happening? Had they overdosed him? God! He’d never done drugs before, not of any kind – he didn’t even smoke – and he never would again. This lack of control was frightening. ‘Wha—?’

He felt the guy’s presence, close beside him. Felt his breath in his ear when he spoke.

‘Of course, in the dose we’ve given you, it goes a bit further than that. Becomes a paralytic. Stops your muscles from working. You can see, hear, smell, feel, but you can’t move. And soon, you won’t be able to breathe.’ He stood back. ‘Best get on, before we lose him. Wouldn’t want him to miss the fun, eh?’ He laughed and the other one joined in.

Panic filled Jerry’s mind as he felt his hand being placed around the wooden handle of the cheese wire. They were killing him. Slowly, so that he would feel every terrifying, agonising moment of it.

The bigger one placed a couple of big, fat candles on the ends of the wall-to-wall desk and lit them.

‘There,’ the one in charge said. ‘A bit of romance. Appropriate, or what?’

A lighter sounded. The candles were lit. Then a third one.

‘Josh, check the sitting room, would you? And turn the TV off while you’re there. You know what we need.’

Josh left the room.

Jerry tried to look away from the image on the screen in front of him, but even his eye muscles no longer worked. He heard a creak on the landing. ‘Ah, perfect.’

Josh came back into the room and dumped a pile of newspapers and magazines on the back of the desk, under the curtain. The top quarter or so of the stack was slid across a few inches and the third candle placed under it.

Jerry gasped. They were going to burn him alive! ‘Pwu . . . Nu . . . Hu . . .’

A hand clapped him hard on the back. He coughed, tried to get his breath and found it difficult. ‘We’ll be off, then, Jerry. Don’t worry. You probably won’t feel the flames. I dare say the Sux will have stopped your breathing by then.’

Frozen in place, Jerry stared at the stack of papers and magazines as his attackers walked calmly along the landing and down the stairs. The bottom one of the overhanging magazines and papers was already beginning to brown. Desperately, he tried to shift his body in the chair, but nothing happened. He drew a breath to try to shout, but his chest felt tight and restricted. ‘Hel—’ he croaked, then struggled to breathe in again. ‘He—’

CHAPTER TWO

‘Concealing evidence is a serious offence, Sergeant.’

DCI Adam Silverstone’s slim hands were flat on his desk as he stared at the man standing stiffly before him.

‘I haven’t concealed anything . . . sir . Tommy’s connection to Rosie Whitlock wasn’t relevant to the case. How could it have been? He’s been missing for six months, he hadn’t exchanged any messages with her since April and he’s thirteen years old. He wouldn’t have been driving the van. So I made a judgment call. As you know, every minute counts in cases like that. It was a question of either/or. Either I followed protocol or I gave Rosie Whitlock every chance of being recovered alive and well. I chose the latter. Was I wrong, sir?’ With difficulty, Detective Sergeant Pete Gayle kept his eyes on the wall above the station chief’s head.

‘Don’t push me, Sergeant. You’re on thin ice already. In fact, you’re a very small step away from being back on the beat. You’ve deliberately and blatantly flouted the most basic of rules. You cannot work a case involving a direct member of your family. But, knowing that, you hid your son’s connection to the victim and carried on regardless. Did you imagine there’d be no consequences to that?’

‘No, sir. I imagined there would be fatal consequences if I didn’t – for a thirteen-year-old girl whose case was all over the press at the time. And the girl’s own testimony suggests I was correct.’

‘It doesn’t matter whether he was a victim or a suspect, Sergeant. The fact that he was involved at all, and you knew it, is enough that you should have handed the case over instead of carrying on regardless. You are not the only competent officer in this nick.’