Lavender Fisher couldn’t remember the last time her father had been so angry, yet he was a man who had built his reputation by being angry. When she had arrived back in the UK, her dad’s head of security was waiting in the Arrivals hall to take her back to the family home in Isleworth. Declan was pleasant enough for a bodyguard. He warned her that she was in for a roasting when she got home, and he was right.
If she had been younger she would have been grounded. The worst thing about all of this was that she genuinely couldn’t remember the photos being taken, although her father was apoplectic with rage about them. She remembered the nice German boy, Conrad; she remembered going back to his flat and meeting his flatmate. She even remembered the drink and the drugs, but everything else after that was a blur. What she remembered vividly was waking up shortly before noon the next day in a scruffy flat, in a double bed where the bed linens had not been washed for weeks. The place smelled awful. She couldn’t believe that she hadn’t noticed the night before. There was no-one else in the flat and so she picked up her clothes - a pair of panties and a short black dress - and put them on before heading back to her five star hotel.
The things her father described as being on the photos sounded sordid and dirty even to Lavender. No self-respecting girl could indulge in a threesome with people she had only just met and retain a scintilla of pride. But she had, and there was photographic evidence. What was worse, the police had the photos which showed her with the remnants of cocaine between her nose and top lip. She had an appointment to go and see the police with her father next week.
At this particular moment Lavender was in the back of the Chrysler 300C and Declan was driving. They were on Lambeth Road, heading towards Elephant and Castle and the Ministry of Sound.
Lavender wouldn’t have been able to attend the reception, or the party afterwards, had she not been repatriated so urgently by the TV Company. This was a bonus for her. The fashion brand that was launching their autumn range also produced luxury goods and so the ‘Goody Bags’ would be stuffed with branded watches, bracelets, neck scarves and belts. It was not unknown for the value of such a gift bag to be worth over two thousand pounds. These freebies allowed Lavender to be extra generous to her friends on their birthdays and at Christmas.
Lavender was wearing a relatively modest mini dress with matching bondage shoes, and not a lot else. She noticed blue lights flashing behind her and turned to see a black SUV with flashing blue lights behind the radiator grille.
Declan saw the blue lights and instinctively looked at his speedometer. He had crept over the speed limit by ten miles per hour. He waited until there was a place to pull in off the busy road and then parked up in a recessed parking area. The SUV pulled in behind.
A man in jeans a tee shirt and a leather jacket approached the driver’s door. He held a warrant card against the glass; the name read ‘Detective Constable Gary Presswell’.
Declan wound down the window. “So when did detectives start pulling people over for traffic offences?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to write you a ticket. We’ve been following you since you left the house because the young lady in the back is the target of a kidnapping threat we received this afternoon. Could you just show me your driving licence, please?”
Declan went into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. As he looked up, something was sprayed into his face. A second later the rear passenger side door flew open, and another man reached in and took Lavender by the arm.
“Come with me or you die where you sit,” he snarled.
As the SUV drove away at speed, Declan rubbed his eyes. He was still blinded and in real pain. He tried to get out of the car by touch only, and when he was standing upright he leaned on the car horn until someone came to his aid.
Chapter 6 3
High Road, Tottenham, North London. 8pm.
Lavender had stopped crying. Dave the safecracker was sitting next to her. He felt rather sorry for the girl and rather wished he hadn’t been so aggressive when he’d taken her. “Come with me or die where you sit” had sounded dramatic when he practiced it in head, but he knew that he would never harm anyone. She, however, didn’t.
Johnny was driving the SUV.
“Those flashing blue lights worked a treat, bro; you’re a bit of a genius on the side, aren’t you?”
Dave enjoyed the praise, especially coming from Johnny who was a full timer in the organisation, whereas Dave had a real job and was only called on from time to time. If Dave’s employers at the engine assembly plant knew he was so adept with explosives, they might be nervous. Dave had promised himself he would never use explosives to hurt anyone. That would make him no better than a terrorist, and he’d seen enough of those in Afghanistan.
Lavender was wearing a blindfold, the kind commonly handed out by airlines to those who want to sleep during a flight. It wasn’t entirely lightproof, but her kidnappers just wanted her disoriented.
“Look at that. The floodlights are all blazing away and they didn’t even play at home today,” Johnny commented as they passed White Hart Lane.
“They only managed a draw. They’ll have to do better than that on Wednesday night or Harry’ll have their guts for garters.”
They decided to change the subject before Lavender could work out where they were. Johnny’s mobile phone rang. He answered at once.
“Yes, we have the package, and no, there were no problems. Why? What happened?” Johnny listened to the reply and a smile crossed his face. “OK, we’ll be there in two minutes.” He hung up.
“Dave, this’ll make you laugh. Three of them went off to Greenwich and only managed to find the girlfriend.”
“Are they bringing her, then?”
“Yes, but the funny part is that she beat two of them up. One had a broken nose and the other thinks he has concussion. England one, Netherlands nil, I think.”
They both laughed as Johnny turned in to Commercial Road and manoeuvred to turn right again into the Tottenham Press car park.
Chapter 6 4
Ashburnham Mews, Greenwich, London. 8.00pm.
I struggled with my key as the hot take away food burned my arm. As soon as I had the front door open I ran up the stairs. I had some unzipping to do.
At first I thought that Dee had left the door open for me, but then I noticed the big black boot print on the door, and the broken lock. It didn’t cross my mind in that moment that I might be in danger if I went inside, and to be honest, even if it had I would still have gone to Dee’s aid. But Dee wasn’t there, and the furniture in front of the TV was out of place.
I remembered that I was holding the take away food and so I went into the kitchen and set it down. I was in a daze. What I was seeing could not be real. I wasn’t thinking clearly and so I shook my head. It made no difference. I splashed cold water on my face and walked around the flat.
Only the lounge was not as I had left it. On TV the detectives could always tell that there had been a struggle; there would be broken lamps, pictures askew, furniture on its side. But here there was nothing of note. The footstool was out of place and the rug had a corner turned over, but nothing seemed wrong otherwise. Yet there was clearly something wrong. Dee wasn’t here, and there seemed to be an atmosphere of danger hanging in the air. The door had obviously been forced open, I had seen that much. My heart started to race as the likelihood of what had taken place began to distil on my senses like dew. I let the thought hang there a moment, still not entirely ready to believe it, and then I pulled myself together and called a number from my speed dial.