James Nally - Games with the Dead - A PC Donal Lynch Thriller

Continue on B273 for 75 yards.

Take Underhill Lane to right.

After 100 yards bear left (signposted public bridleway).

150 yards down is a small outbuilding on left.

Pick up black bag by red / white cone.

Further message in bag.

On reading the message, transfer money parcel from your holdall into this bag.

Take money and bag with you.

I repeat the instructions twice, then endure the longest five minutes of my life, at least since Matt’s last car-based meltdown. God how he’d hate this; twenty minutes is the most he can take, almost to the second, before he kicks off against his car seat’s straitjacket straps and sweat-sucking foam. I’ve found only one remedy to pacify us both; belting out nursery rhymes at full pelt.

Fuck it, I think, and launch into an impassioned version of Wheels on the Bus. Somehow, it works, banishing all terror so that by the time I take the right turn into Underhill Lane, I’m wondering what a bobbin is and lamenting the existential plight of Incy Wincy spider.

Hedges join hands above me, so it’s a virtual tunnel. Potholes swallow individual wheels whole, rattling my teeth with such ferocity that I have to sing Postman Pat in scat.

I fork left onto the bridle path. My headlights pick out the unmistakeable metallic shape of a car buried deep in bushes. My heart throbs in my ears and behind my right eye.

‘Donal?’ crackles the two-way radio.

‘Jesus,’ I yelp; Crossley’s urgent whisper just snapped my last functioning nerve.

Sounding like a snooker commentator, he husks: ‘The bridle track is through open fields. He’ll be able to see and hear surveillance vehicles.’

‘Which means?’

‘They can’t risk following you.’

‘Shit.’

‘That’s not all,’ oozes Crossley. ‘He’s taking us so far out of range that our radio signals are getting weaker.’

‘Spit it out for fuck’s sake.’

‘Listen carefully, Donal. Just because you can’t hear us doesn’t mean we can’t hear you. Carry on as before. Repeat his instructions twice aloud and wait five minutes before proceeding. Just make sure we know his plans. Understood?’

‘Great, so any second now, I’ll be completely alone with this madman?’

Silence. Then a faint thwack dices the air; the reverberation of distant rotor blades.

‘If I can hear a chopper then so can he. Call it off, for the love of God.’

‘That may be our sole means of trailing you,’ snaps Crossley, sounding posher now, under pressure.

‘Then don’t.’

The chopper’s blades melt away to deathly silence, save for my juddering trundle.

‘Have you at least got visuals on me sir?’ I beg the silence.

The radio’s dead. I’m on my own. My palpitating heart thrums against the seat belt, creating an unnerving sash of terror.

Four little ducks went swimming one day … I scat, sounding like Tom Waits strapped to a bucking bronco.

Sneering gargoyle vegetation melts away to something scarier; vast and empty night-sky nothingness.

I’m out in the wide open now, alone and exposed, completely at the mercy of this maniac. Of course, he knows that police radio signals don’t work out here. He’s been one step ahead of us all along.

The rutted track slows me to a bumpy walking pace. For all I know, he could be strolling alongside, gun trained at my temple. Maybe he’s just waiting for me to pull up and get out, so he can soundlessly throttle me in the warm night breeze before spiriting away with the cash.

And no little duck came back quack, quack …

‘I’m so sorry Matt, and Zoe,’ I blurt, like some deathbed confessor. How I wish I was home with them right now, where I should be.

‘We’re picking you up again, Donal,’ crackles Crossley’s strangled whisper, jolting me back into cop mode.

‘Thank Christ,’ I mouth.

My feeble headlights suddenly pick out neat vertical lines. I squint, pulling into focus a wet corrugated tin roof weighing down a squat and long-forgotten outhouse. In this ocean of wet black, my eyes seize suddenly upon a luminous mini-lighthouse; a red and white traffic cone.

‘Holy shit,’ I whisper. ‘It’s the endgame. I’m approaching the traffic cone and, I presume, the bag. Sir?’

‘Awaiting instructions.’

I pull up and look around. All black. I figure if he’s here, my best hope of survival is to offer up the cash, the car and no resistance. I get out, headlights on, driver’s door open, key in the ignition, cash on the back seat.

‘Go ahead, Kipper, stitch me right up,’ I cry.

I take a swift 360. Nothing. All I feel is night’s balmy breath. All I hear is water slapping tin. I take another 360, my heart thrashing like a trapped bird.

‘The money’s in the car,’ I shout.

Wind gasps, water splats.

I make out the black canvas ransom bag at the foot of the cone, empty, deflated, expectant. I palm it open, rummage until I feel a single sheet of paper in the base. I take both to the car. Sliding into the back seat next to the cash, I lock the doors, switch on my torch and, as instructed, transfer the daintily-wrapped parcel of cash into his bag. Somehow, he must have guessed that we’d plant some sort of a tracking device in ours. ‘Ah well,’ I soothe my pogoing heart. ‘I should be dumping it soon and getting the hell out of here.’ The note, stencilled in black capital letters, has other ideas. I read it aloud:

Go back to Underhill Lane.

Turn left towards Ditchling village.

Phone box 1.5 miles on left.

Message B taped under shelf.

My tired brain grapples with these latest commandments. To collect his money, the kidnapper needs to be at the end of this ransom trail. That means he can’t be here. Adrenaline zaps off like a light. All life leaves me, clenched muscles melting to jelly.

‘This is good news,’ declares Crossley, sounding like a local radio DJ relinquishing his star prize. ‘We should have no problems with radio signals at that end of Underhill Lane, so we can resume full surveillance. I’ve got an officer on standby briefed and ready to take over from you before then, Donal. You’ve had more than enough excitement for one night.’

‘I’d like to see it through to the end, sir,’ I say, solely because I expect that’s what any decent cop should say.

‘I admire your pluck. Give me ten minutes to get the lead surveillance team into position at the next phone box. Then I’ll be en route with your replacement. Your night is nearly over, Lynch. Good work.’

‘Thanks be to God,’ I mouth, and set about turning the car on the narrow track.

I crawl back towards the overgrowth of Underhill Lane. As I slip into the hedgerow tunnel and radio silence, I help myself to a ‘Thank fuck that’s over.’

Out of nowhere, a red Stop sign appears, blocking the route.

‘What the fuck?’ I protest to no one.

I ease the car closer, spot a square of white card beneath the circular sign. I squint and recognise more stencilled instructions

‘Sir. Sir can you hear me?’

I know he can’t.

My heart revs hard, a pang of sickening realisation sending bile north. I swallow the burn and fight to breathe against that re-clamped chest. The kidnapper sent the cavalry east almost ten minutes ago, and stayed right here. For me. This is his sting-in-the-tail twist. He’s got me precisely where he wants me now, all alone, no back-up, no comms, no hope of rescue, flush with 175 grand.

Shit.

My only way out of this is to do what he wants. I get out, read the instructions.

On wall by painted cross find wood tray.