Chapter 6

*****

 

Richard

My mobile rings. I snatch it up. “Yes, Ross?”

“I've lost contact with James. They've made him leave the phone behind when they sent him on the
next leg…”

Fuck…

How do we help him now?

“… And the earpiece. And…” Ross’ voice is shaky… “Richard... They… the kidnappers I mean… they
spoke to me via the connection. I recorded it all. I'm playing it back to you.”

Klempner. You know who this is.

Just like you to let this tired old bastard run the gauntlet. But that's just you all over isn't it. Letting
someone else take the heat.

We'll have the money very shortly. And believe me, it had better be all the money in that bag. But the
deal’s not sealed until we have you too. Until then, that darling daughter of yours is going nowhere.

The voice snaps off. There’s a moment’s hiss then Ross speaks again. “Richard, what do you want me
to do? Should I call the police?”

“No… don’t do that. If they think the police are involved, they’ll almost certainly murder Charlotte… and
her baby… before Michael and Klempner can get to her.”



“What then?”

What indeed?

Should I go?

Leave Mitch to look after Elizabeth?

*****

How do I tell her this?

Wearily, I climb the stairs to find my sleeping wife.

But she’s not sleeping. “Elizabeth… There’s been a development. Ross has…” I stop, mid-sentence.
“Elizabeth?”

From the pillow, she stares up at me, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry, Master…”

“Sorry? Elizabeth, what’s wrong?”

She groans, her breathing shaky… Then, “They’re still about fifteen minutes apart. I didn’t want to
disturb you until I was sure, but… I am sure now.”

Oh, God…

“Elizabeth, are you going into labour?”

She nods. “I think so, Master. It’s too early I know, but I think so…”

“Too early? It’s way too early.”

“I know, Master. But, I’m pretty sure…”



“Elizabeth, stay calm. I’m just going to talk to Mitch.”

Calm…

Stay calm…

*****

I find Mitch in the kitchen, screwing the top onto a flask. “Hot coffee,” she says. “And I’ve packed
sandwiches for you and…” Her voice trails off as she sees my face. “What?”

“I think Elizabeth is going into labour.”

She raises a hand to her mouth. “She’s not due for another… what, ten weeks?”

“Twelve weeks. Mitch, there’s no way I can leave her.”

“Of course, you can’t. Call your clinic. Tell them you’re on your way with her. I’ll bring your car to the
front, get the engine turning over, then it’s warm when you set off.”

*****

 

Michael

Finchby and Baxter exit, and after a cautious moment, Klempner and I enter the office.

The air is stale, musty with cigarette smoke, the walls and ceiling perhaps once white but now yellowed
and draped with dusty cobwebs.



I take the chair recently occupied by Finchby, trying hard not to actually touch anything. “You'd think he
could afford a cleaner.”

“Finchby’s staff are employed differently,” mutters Klempner. But he regards the hovel of a room, lip
curling.

I pull the laptop closer. “Okay, so he runs the women as prostitutes, but he must be worth plenty.
What's the point in being wealthy if you live like this?”

Klempner nods but says nothing, simply pulling up the other seat by me, watching the screen with half
an eye, the door with the other.

The quartered screen flicks between shots of what looks like an entrance lobby, then a dance floor,
various corridors... Each quarter displays a small insert: L2 lobby, L3 Bar,

I try tapping the return, but the feed is unresponsive, moving at its own pace. “He’s got plenty of
cameras around the place.”

Klempner nods slowly, chewing on his lower lip. “Nothing from the basement so far though.”

The views shift to one room after another of couples, triples and more; rooms where girls ‘entertain’
their clients. L4a, L4b, L4c…

“Wonder if the clients know they're on camera?” I mutter.

Klempner taps a fingernail at the screen. “Some of the City High and Mighty there. Good blackmail
material if he ever has any problems with the authorities.”

The view flickers again: a corridor lined by a series of barred and padlocked doors. Each door has a
small viewing window. L2C1



“Those doors say ‘cells’ to me,” I mutter

Klempner grunts agreement. “Yes… Finchby tends to keep them either working or locked up until he’s
sure he has them under control.”

You used to supply him…

I’m lost for words, finding myself simply staring at him, leaning in, intent on the screen.

After a moment Klempner realises I’m watching him. He doesn’t turn from the screen. “Michael, you
know my past. I’m not going to spend every waking moment apologising for it. Now… shall we get on
with the task in hand?”

And of course, he’s right.

The image shifts once more… L1k

And there, in a corner of the screen, it’s Charlotte.

My gorge rises. “Oh, Christ…”

Filthy, half-naked in her blood-stained hospital gown, she’s on what’s left of the cardboard we saw on
the ransom video. It’s all but disintegrated and she's more or less kneeling on the bare concrete.

The display, still grainy, in black and white, is wider on this version. Perhaps they cropped the image as
we saw it before. But now, more of the detail to either side is visible.

She’s in some sort of storeroom, a stack of cardboard boxes to one side and some distance from her.
Charlotte once more is on all fours, coughing and straining.



To the other side of her, a stone basin drips from a leaking faucet into a plastic jug, half-filled now.
Several bottles, labelled for whiskey, gin and rum, are also part-filled with water. As we watch, Charlotte
stretches out, straining to reach against her manacled ankle. She just snags the handle of the jug with
outstretched fingers, pulling it closer, then carefully decants the contents into one of the bottles before
replacing the jug under the drip.

Tearing off a dryish corner of the cardboard, she pours a little water over it, then uses it as a washrag
over her soiled loins and thighs.

As we watch, she swills a little more of the water over the floor behind herself. A thin stream of blood
and filth trickles to the drain.

Then she creases up, crying out as another contraction racks her body. Shuddering with the pain, she
coughs, spitting out towards the drain.

Beside me, Klempner snarls quietly.

“I'll second that.”

His eyes flick to mine. “Let's get going.”

“Give me a second.” I mouse into the ‘Apps and Programs’ section of the laptop settings.

“What are you doing?”

“Deleting the camera app. It'll blind them and if we're lucky, maybe they won't realise at first.”

As I watch the whirling Uninstall cursor, Klempner goes through cupboards and drawers, moving
quickly.

“What are you looking for?”



“Keyring. Keypress. Something with a lot of padlock keys.”

“For…?”

He’s rummaging through a desk drawer. His eyes rise to mine. “There’s a dozen cells at least, each
presumably containing one or more women. A dozen or more escaping panicking women should give
us a good distraction while we’re getting out, wouldn’t you say?” His gaze is bland, eyes daring me to
comment.

I keep my face straight. “You know, you don’t have to apologise for doing the right thing now either.”

He says nothing, moving to the next drawer down. “Hah!” He snatches out a hefty key bunch which
jingles in his hand as he holds it up, displaying it to me. Then, nodding down to the laptop, “You done
there?”

“Yes, done.”

“Come on then. Let’s move.” He heads for the door, then stops in mid-stride. “Well, lookee here.”

From the top of a filing cabinet, he picks up a carton of phials, displaying them to me. “The kidnapper’s
favourite friend.” Then, another box next to it, this one containing syringes and hypodermic needles in
sealed packets. “Now we know what they pumped her with.”

“Give me one of those. I’ll show it to the doctors when we get her back.”

He nods, passing me a phial which I slip into a pocket.

*****


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