Sacrifice. Paul FinchЧитать онлайн книгу.
it?’
‘Worked for a major financial house in the City and at least two government departments.’
‘When does she start?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘That soon?’
‘She might as well get her feet under the table while things seem to be fairly quiet.’
Heck pondered that, wondering if they were challenging fate. He wasn’t superstitious, but one thing he’d learned during his seventeen years as a police officer was that you didn’t make any decisions based on an assumption that nothing tumultuously crap was about to happen. Because, almost invariably, it was.
‘Look … whatever happened to you in your past, whatever it is that’s making you do this, I beg you to reconsider.’
Kate wasn’t sure how much her abductor could hear. He hadn’t actually gagged her, so, although she was swathed in this dirty old blanket which stank of sweat and stale urine, there was nothing to prevent her trying to project words. No doubt they’d be muffled, while the ongoing rumble of the engine and the vibration of the tyres on the road might blot them out altogether. But given that she was still bound and that no matter how much she wriggled, she remained tightly trussed, she had no option but to keep trying.
‘Please listen to me,’ she begged. It had been two hours at least, and at no stage had she received a single reply. ‘I understand that someone was once cruel to you. Maybe they tortured you – over months, perhaps years. But what you’re doing now is in no way going to make up for that. You won’t be getting even with them, you won’t be punishing them. You’ll just be hurting an ordinary person who bears you no ill will, doing exactly the same thing as was done to you …’
She was more terrified than she’d ever been in her life. The revolting stench inside the blanket would only get worse as her own sweat of fear mingled with it; it was highly possible she’d add her own urine to it, maybe her own vomit, and the temperature didn’t help. The heater in the car had activated some time ago and now was at its stultifying worst, but she couldn’t afford to let it fog her reason – not yet. The only weapon available to her was her intellect – so she had to continue with this, trying to appeal to his better nature, if he had one.
It was appalling to think that anyone could be reduced to such a state that they’d do this sort of thing. She’d heard stories of course: about street people who’d had petrol poured on them and been set alight while they were sleeping rough, about stabbings and clubbings, about their being made to fight each other with chains and bottles while someone filmed it. Yet none of these abhorrent things had seemed real – not even to Kate, who worked with the victims – until now, when it was apparently happening to her.
‘Listen … please!’ It took an immense effort of will to reduce the quake in her voice, to make her sound less like a frightened little girl. ‘Please … this hatred you’re demonstrating. It’s not a natural state for a human being to exist in. Don’t you see that? Animals don’t live that way, not even animals that have been scarred by illness or injury. They just accept it and get on with life. Don’t let the person who abused you win by watching you become a mirror-image of him. Remember what it was like when …’
She’d wanted to talk about the days when he himself was a young child, but no … that could be a horrendous mistake. Some of these poor creatures’ earliest memories comprised nothing but pain.
‘Remember your humanity. Try to think how you like to be treated. I know that’s something that was denied to you. But try to picture yourself on a normal morning, setting out with no intention of doing harm to anyone, just hoping to get through the day in a simple, dignified manner. Isn’t that how you feel most of the time? There’s no pleasure to be found in what you’re doing now. You understand that, I know you do.’
She halted, not just to get her breath – which was increasingly difficult in the sweltering confines of the blanket, but to listen in case there was any response from whoever was driving. There wasn’t. But if nothing else he had to be listening. He hadn’t put the radio on to drown her out.
‘I’m making one last appeal to you,’ Kate said. ‘Whatever you think you’ll gain from this, you’re wrong. I know that sounds arrogant and presumptuous of me. But I honestly know about this. I work every day with people who have suffered the most dreadful misfortune. Most of them are deeply miserable and deeply angry. But in almost all cases – when you sit down and counsel them, try to get through to the person who was there before – they are ordinary men and women, and they realise that giving in to their baser instincts will achieve nothing …’
Her words petered out as she realised the vehicle was jolting and bouncing, as if traversing rough ground. The terror of this took her breath away. She imagined wasteland somewhere, far from prying eyes.
There was a change of tone from the engine. The Fiesta was slowing down.
With a clunk, the gearstick shifted, then the handbrake was applied. When the engine was switched off, the silence was ear-pummelling. Despite the kiln-like heat, the sweat coating Kate’s body was ice-cold. A seatbelt was unfastened; a car door was flung open. Horrifyingly, there was no sound of night-traffic from beyond. Wherever he’d brought her to, it was far, far from civilisation.
Kate’s whimpers became helpless wails as a door was opened next to her head, and brute hands yanked the straps aside, grabbed her and threw her over a brawny shoulder. The effect of this was to nauseate her, a sensation that grew worse as she was carried through the darkness. Heavy feet crunched what sounded like soil and leaf debris, and then clumped on hollow wood, the impacts of which began to echo – she was inside a building. Different smells assailed her: sawdust, fresh paint. When she was dumped onto the floor, she felt rugged planking, nail-heads. Old hinges squealed and a foul smell arose. Kate felt a new sense of paralysing horror.
A trapdoor had been opened alongside her.
Those hands gripped her again and lifted her. Before they dropped her down into the void, a hoarse voice whispered in her ear: ‘You have a good heart and an eloquent tongue. That makes you more than worthy.’
‘Morning!’ came a bright, cheery voice.
Heck, who wasn’t suffering from a hangover, but who was slightly muzzy-headed, glanced up from his desk. Claire Moody was standing in the doorway to the Detectives’ Office, or DO, as they called it. ‘Oh, erm … hello,’ he said awkwardly.
She stripped off her overcoat as she glanced at the empty desks and unmanned computers. It was just past seven in the morning. Heck was the only one in, but perhaps Claire hadn’t expected to find anyone. ‘You’re bright and early,’ she said.
‘Well … so are you.’
‘I didn’t have anything to celebrate last night.’
‘None of us did, if only we’d realised it. Des is a good guy. Look, don’t stand out there on ceremony, come in.’
Claire entered, coat folded over her arm. ‘Des obviously has a lot of friends.’
‘Yeah, got a bit crazy in there, didn’t it? Your office up and running now?’
‘Hardly … I don’t know where anything is yet.’
As far as Heck was aware, a room had been set aside for the new Media Management suite just along the main corridor, and though a carpentry team and then the techie guys had been in it during the last few days, he hadn’t got the impression it was anywhere near ready for use. But he remembered what Gemma had said about easing Claire in as quickly as possible.
He