But there was worse. All his fingers were missing, on both hands. They'd been crudely hacked off, leaving nothing more than uneven, bloodied stumps.
She couldn't believe what she was seeing. Jimmy had been such a powerful presence, and to see him butchered like this was almost too much to bear.
'Oh Jimmy,' she whispered. 'What have they done to you?'
His right arm twitched. She was sure of it. She stared hard into the darkness, asking herself if she'd imagined it.
But then it twitched again.
Oh God, he was still alive.
She rushed forward, half-slipping in the pool of blood that was forming on the floor, and leant down in front of him.
'Jimmy, it's me,' she said urgently, putting one arm round his shoulders and using her free hand to lift up his chin. 'We're going to get you . . .'
She never finished the sentence, the shock of Jimmy's sightless, dead eyes staring back at her stopping her dead in her tracks. He was gone. The man she'd been relying on was gone. She let go of him and staggered backwards, wondering how this nightmare could get any worse, unable to believe what she'd just witnessed because to believe it was to admit to herself that the animals she was dealing with were capable of the worst kind of atrocity.
And as she leaned against the opposite wall, unable to move, she barely noticed the mobile phone in her pocket as it started to vibrate.
Eight
Andrea ran outside into the darkness, desperate to put some distance between her and Jimmy as the mobile continued to vibrate. This wasn't a message. It was a call.
She pulled it from her pocket and said 'Hello?' breathlessly into the mouthpiece.
'Hello, Andrea.' It was the artificial voice of the kidnapper, his tone neutral.
'You've got the money. Now where's my daughter?'
'She's safe.'
'But where is she? I've given you the money, every penny of it. I've kept my side of the bargain—'
'But you haven't though, Andrea, have you? I told you to come alone, didn't I?' He paused, taking his time. 'And you didn't. You decided it would be better to bring someone along to spy on us. That was very stupid. I told you we were watching your every move.'
Andrea felt her heart lurch. 'Please, I'm so sorry. I just wasn't sure what to do. You've got your money. Please let my daughter go.'
'It's going to cost you.'
'For Christ's sake, I've got no more money. You've had everything.'
'There's always more.'
'Listen, please—'
'No, you listen, and you listen very carefully. You fucked up. You didn't follow the simple instructions you were given. So now it's going to cost you another half a million if you want to see your daughter alive again.'
'But I told you, I haven't got that sort of money.'
'You've got another forty-eight hours to find it. That's the deadline. Use the time wisely. And remember, do not tell anyone this time. No one at all. Or Emma dies.'
'Let me speak to my daughter. You've got to let me speak to her.'
'You'll speak to her again, but when we're ready. Not now.'
The line went dead while Andrea was still talking desperately into the mouthpiece, the knowledge that she had indeed totally screwed up ringing round her head. It was all Jimmy's fault. Even after all these years he still had the capacity to cause her pain. But this was pain like she'd never felt before.
Hold together, Andrea. You owe it to Emma. Hold together.
But God it was hard. It was so damn hard. Tears stung her eyes and she wiped them away angrily as she ran over to the car and jumped inside, switching on the engine. She lit a cigarette and took urgent drags, then drove down to the end of the track and turned round.
As she got back on the main road and drove back in the direction of London, she stared wide-eyed out of the windscreen, silently repeating the mantra over again: Stay strong, stay strong, stay strong. She knew she couldn't collapse under the pressure, because if she did she would never get up again, and right now she couldn't afford that, not while Emma remained in the clutches of those animals.
She thought about them now, the people she was up against. Jimmy Galante was no pushover. He was a hard man, a street fighter with the kind of low cunning that only the truest criminals possess, and yet he'd been discovered by the man or men he was supposed to be watching, and butchered like a dog. These people were ruthless. And worse, they knew exactly what they were doing. She couldn't fight them alone, she knew that. Yet involving others had already backfired. Which left what?
There was, of course, only one alternative. The police. At least they might know what to do. It was a huge risk, given how brutally efficient Emma's kidnappers were. If they found out that the police were involved, they might panic and kill her, but then they might well kill her anyway, especially if Andrea couldn't raise the new money fast enough. Once again she was being forced into a corner, knowing that the wrong move would have terrifying ramifications.
So intensely was she concentrating that she didn't notice that her car was veering into the centre of the road until she saw headlights rushing towards her and heard the sound of the other car's horn. She swung the wheel hard left and slammed on the brakes, going into a wild skid that whirled the car round a hundred and eighty degrees in a screech of tyres before she finally came to a halt, facing the wrong way down the empty road.
Except it wasn't empty. The car that had been coming towards her had now stopped about thirty yards ahead. As she watched, her hands gripping the steering wheel as if it was the edge of a cliff she was hanging from, it did a three-point turn and started driving back towards her, the lights on its roof flashing a bright blue against the night sky.
Andrea cursed. Of all the bad luck, she had to run into probably the only police patrol car in a ten-mile radius.
Act natural. For Christ's sake, act natural.
She glanced briefly in the rear-view mirror and was shocked by the face that stared back at her.
Her expression was tight and haunted, making her look a good five years older than she was, her hair a tangled mess.
Stay calm. Act natural.
The police car came to a halt five feet in front of her bumper, and its two occupants slowly clambered out of each side, donning their caps.
She wound down her window as the driver stopped beside it and leaned down. He was middle-aged, heavy-set but running to fat, with a thick moustache and a gruff expression that suggested whatever she said wasn't going to be enough to stop her getting booked for careless driving. But she had to try.
'I'm sorry, officer,' she announced before he had a chance to speak. 'I think I must just have lost concentration. I've had a very busy day at work.'
'I'm afraid that's not an excuse, madam,' he told her sternly. 'You really shouldn't be driving if you're tired.'