A tiny flash of white in the gloom as the wee boy took one last look... then he was gone.
‘And please don’t get caught.’
45
Number One leads Ellie Morton from the cattle court, holding her hand again, like a perfect gentleman.
‘Wasn’t she adorable?’ The Auctioneer sighs, then performs a booming drumroll on the walkway’s handrail with his gloved hands. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to our most anticipated item of the evening...’ Letting the silence hang. Building the tension. ‘LOT NUMBER SIX!’
He throws his arms in the air and everyone turns to towards the door.
Only nothing happens.
Sally’s throat tightens, like someone’s strangling her. Aiden. Lovely, beautiful, wonderful Aiden. She’s going to see her baby again.
The Auctioneer’s still got his arms up. ‘Lot number six!’
Still nothing.
She places a hand against her chest, blood thumping in her ears, mouth dry, skin tingling. And still Aiden doesn’t appear.
The Auctioneer turns to one of his men, voice tight and clipped. ‘Number Four, will you please go see what’s taking Number Five so long?’
‘Nae probs.’ Number Four limps out through the door, flexing his shoulders as if he’s about to do someone an injury.
‘Sorry about this.’ The Auctioneer runs his fingers along the rail. Clears his throat. ‘Well, while we’re waiting, why don’t we go over the catalogue listing for lot number six?’
Everyone turns to face him, their masked faces expressionless, but their bodies trembling with expectation.
Sally tries very hard not to tremble. Where is he? He’s meant to be here. She went through all that horror just for this moment. She abducted a child for Christ sake. HE HAS TO BE HERE!
‘Our final lot of the evening is the one, the only, Aiden MacAuley!’ The Auctioneer leans closer. ‘Abducted at the age of three, Aiden’s father was brutally murdered, leading to an international manhunt, extensive worldwide press coverage, a bestselling book, and now there’s even talk of a film being made.’ The pause that follows is like a razorblade, slicing its way through Sally’s throat as the Auctioneer raises his arms again. ‘Imagine owning that child.’
Logan limped over to the Clio’s boot, retrieved his peaked cap and jammed it onto his head. At least that would keep some of the rain off. He dug out the packet of cable ties and wipped one around the guy’s wrists, then did the same with his ankles. Slapped a big strip of duct tape across his mouth. Then grabbed him by the armpits and dragged him away across to the agricultural building on the other side. The one the wee boy hadn’t looked at when Logan asked him where the other kids were. The one with no lights on inside.
Every step was like being kicked in the stomach.
Which is what Number Five was going to get as soon as they were out of the rain. Possibly more than one. Heavy, ugly, stabby scumbag that he was.
The door wasn’t locked.
Logan shifted his grip and hauled him over the threshold and into a big metal space — every panting breath echoing around him.
It was some sort of machine shed: two tractors, a JCB digger, and a huge yellow combine harvester loomed in the darkness. The air scented with diesel and rust.
He dumped Number Five behind the combine and gave him another free boot in the ribs. Then hissed his way down and rummaged through the stabby sod’s pockets.
‘Come on, you have to have a phone here somewhere.’
But he didn’t. Nothing but lint, change, and a bunch of used tissues. Not even a wallet with ID.
‘Arrrgh! Bloody, bastarding...’
Deep breaths.
Logan slumped there, breathing, then forced himself to his feet. Wobbled a bit. Put a hand on the combine harvester to steady himself.
The cottage — they’d have a phone. All he had to do was sneak in, call 999 and hope they could trace his location, because he didn’t have a sodding clue where in the hell he was right now. Get the cavalry to descend on the place like a million angry bricks.
He lurched away, leaving a bloody handprint behind.
All the breath rushes out of her body as the door opens and Number Four leads Aiden into the room.
Her Aiden.
Oh God, he’s beautiful. Her beautiful baby boy.
The world blurs. She blinks and blinks, but more tears come.
Aiden.
Six and a half now, but still small, with blond ringlets hanging around his beautiful face in delicate curls.
Oh Aiden.
They’ve dressed him up in shorts, white socks, sandals, and a Paddington Bear T-shirt. He doesn’t smile. Or cry. In fact, there’s no expression on his face at all — like he’s been unplugged.
Oh, Aiden, what have they done to you?
Pig groans, both hands clenching and unclenching in front of his groin. Tiger stands up a bit straighter. Rat makes a nervous giggling sound. But everyone stares.
The Auctioneer turns his palms upward and stares at Number Four, who shrugs in reply.
Aiden’s so close now. It doesn’t matter what they’ve done: she can fix it. It doesn’t matter what she’s done: it was worth it. Everything was worth it, to be here and see him again. To save him. To bring him home.
She would’ve killed a thousand Beckys, to hold him in her arms.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, before we begin, please remember that Aiden MacAuley has only had one careful loving owner since he was abducted three and a half years ago. And that this is a very reluctant sale, due to ill health.’ The Auctioneer claps his hands together. ‘Now, shall we start the bidding at twenty-five thousand pounds?’
Logan hurpled around the side of the cottage, keeping to the shadows. Not that there was a lot of light about anyway. Rain thrummed against his peaked cap, thumped into his shoulders, dripped off his hands, stole warmth from his bare arms.
What idiot decided it was a good idea to make police uniform a T-shirt? What happened to nice thick sleeves?
He staggered to a halt at the gable end, where a big grey BT box was mounted beneath the guttering. A cable dangled from it, the end cut clean across.
Great.
He turned. A telegraph pole sat a hundred or so yards away, the other end of the cable drooping to the ground.
Because it couldn’t be that easy, could it? No, of course it couldn’t. Nothing ever was.
He lurched around the corner again.
Well, if the cavalry wasn’t coming, he’d have to do it himself, wouldn’t he?
Assuming he didn’t bleed to death first.
Logan limped his way across the grass to the concrete slab between the two buildings. Then snuck over to the open door and peered inside.
It was a space about the size of a really large double garage, walled off from the rest of the shed. An ancient tractor rusted in the corner with a couple of chunks of agricultural equipment stacked up beside it. Racks of tools around the walls, most of which looked as if they’d last seen service digging for victory. But the really interesting things sat in the middle of the straw-strewn floor: six wooden crates, each one with ‘LOT’ and a number spray-painted on the top.
LOT 4 and LOT 6 lay open, but the other four were still bolted shut. Little eyes peered out at him from between the slats.
And they weren’t the only ones in here, either. What looked very much like a body was bundled up in bloodstained plastic sheeting, beneath a rack of antique shovels.