A Chance Encounter Rae Shaw (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📖

the bag to Julianna, keeping his grasp on the lengthy strap. Julianna plunged her hands into the compartments; the heavy cuffs masked her actions. With one hand, she fished out a tampon and with the other she activated the silicone button secreted inside the plastic fob. No bleep or flash of light – the tracker was perfectly covert. She hoped the beacon was doing its job.

She held up the tampon, and joyfully witnessed their discomfort; both of them glanced away at the display of femininity, the very thing they espoused as her frailty, and that was their failing: a belief in the weaker vessel. Now, her anger returned, but this time she wouldn’t direct the rage at Alex’s betrayal. Her resentment belonged entirely to these men and their kind.

‘We will leave you for little while, then we come back to get you. Try to eat.’ Zustaller pointed at the food. ‘It will rot if you don't and there is nothing else for you. My buyer isn't fussed about weight either.’

The men retreated out of the door with her handbag. She fumbled in the darkness and found the apple. Now it was worth eating; she needed the strength.

Another sliding bolt echoed somewhere in the cellar. There were shuffles of feet, a muted cry and a hard slap, then more cries and blows. She spat out the apple and covered her ears for the duration. It never crossed her mind there were others down in the cellar with her. One woman at least. The walls were thick enough to mask voices, but not cries. Her feeble protests eventually stopped. The bolt clanged again, signalling the end of the ordeal. A few minutes later a car engine roared outside, and wheels crunched on the gravel track.

There was nothing else to do but corral her fear and anger into the energy of resistance; the one thing she possessed that couldn’t be broken. The opportunity to loosen it would come. She prayed it was when, and not if. In the empty silence, she waited.

  40

Mark

FRIDAY NIGHT

Mark joined Jackson in his office a little after midnight.

‘If you can’t sleep at least have a shower and a change of clothes,’ Jackson said.

The small en-suite bathroom was sufficient for refreshing aching joints. The sweatpants and matching t-shirt had arrived from somewhere, probably a nearby store and purchased by a member of the security team. Mark and Julianna's house was out of bounds in case it was being watched.

Mark and Jackson sat in silence around the conference table, fingering the handles of their mugs – the coffee had long since gone cold. A packet of digestive biscuits had been opened. The crumbs came from a broken biscuit at the top of the packet, the rest were untouched. Waiting was torture for Mark and Jackson was similarly afflicted with agitated impatience. Occasionally Jackson glanced at the clock on the wall, but mostly he alternated between tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair or pacing the length of the room. He had engaged every organisation or authority with whom he had influence. Mark was powerless and impotent. He pressed his palms together and raised his eyes to the ceiling in pseudo-prayer. He didn’t believe in God, but this one day he wished he had some faith in divine intervention. Ellen was safe; if only it was true for Julianna.

The call that came through not long after four o’clock generated a burst of feverish optimism – Jackson ordered fresh coffee and tastier biscuits. Chris had informed Jackson that the tracker was sending out a signal and he was on his way to meet the police. Mark paced the floor for a while before collapsing in a chair. Nothing was happening fast enough for him. Jackson preferred to stare out of the window, arms folded, and watch the sunrise. The lack of further information blunted the initial excitement. The call merely signalled another period of waiting. Silence suited the temperament of both men.

At half past five in the morning the telephone in Jackson’s office rang. Jackson leaned over and pressed a button. Chris’s voice boomed out of the speaker.

‘Sir. We don’t have her.’

‘We’ meant the police. Chris Moran had relayed the location of the tracker's beacon to the local police in Kent, who had arrived ahead of him. Mark’s head slumped and he clenched his fists in angst. Julianna had disposed of the punchbag; he wanted it right in front of him.

‘What happened, Chris? You’re on speaker and Mark is here,’ Jackson said.

‘The place was deserted. A derelict farmhouse with minimal furnishings. There are signs that the bedrooms were occupied by gang members. The place is basic; no plumbing or electricity. Totally off the grid. No evidence of women being held there. The police think it’s a hideout and they left in a hurry. Personal items were abandoned.’

‘And they’re sure Julianna wasn’t there?’

‘Her handbag was found in the kitchen. The money had been pilfered, mobile gone but the tracker was still in place and transmitting. She could have been held there. The police have searched the place from top to bottom.’

‘So, they’ve moved her and left the handbag?’

‘That appears to be the case. There’s something else, sir. It's not good. Pretty horrendous.’ Chris spoke in smatterings, his words punctuated by rasps of breath.

Mark lifted his head. Across the room, his grey reflection bounced off the windowpane: beneath his sleepless eyes, shadows drew his cheeks into a stony pallor.

‘Go on.’ Jackson’s body, like Mark's, was rigid and braced for bad news.

‘There's the body of a man. Not a pleasant sight. He's laid out on the kitchen table and has numerous injuries. Dead and very recently, as in less than an hour or so. Probably done in a hurry as they departed. He's been recognised, sir, by the police. It's the undercover officer.’

Jackson