Humphrey realized that he was dealing with a real eccentric. “You want to go outside, in the grounds? That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing it’s uncultivated. Thick woods.”
“We know. We walked around the fence. Let’s get on with it, Mr. Humphrey. We’ve got a deadline.”
“Nobody goes there,” Humphrey tried to reason with him. “There’s nothing out there.”
“There will be presently,” Diamond told him. “There’ll be Inspector Hargreaves and me with our flashlight and anyone willing to join us. You’ll need a torch if you’re coming. In fact, two torches would be even better.”
At a loss to understand why these people had come to torment him, Humphrey capitulated. He led them back to the security control room near the entrance to pick up the torches. “What exactly are you hoping to find?”
“The Lost City of the Incas,” Diamond muttered.
“Out there? There’s nothing there, I promise you.”
“How do you know, if nobody goes there?”
“Well…”
“Anything hidden six years ago is going to be well covered by now.” He led them around the building waving the flashlight until they reached the place where the bushes came within a few yards of the car park. Distances can be deceptive in the dark, but he estimated that the studio was sited in an area the size of half a football pitch, and most of the spare ground lay behind the buildings.
The undergrowth was a prickly, formidable barrier. Diamond picked up a stick and beat a space between two bushes. He plunged in, swore a little, and returned with two stout sticks that he handed to Julie and Humphrey. But before the expedition started, more people came from inside the studios wanting to know what was going on. The pop performers had decided that this was a “good laugh” and opted to join the fun. So did some technicians. Resourcefully Diamoned requisitioned three cars and positioned them with their headlamps lighting up the wood. It took on the character of a police search, with Diamond marshaling a line of helpers to make a sweep of the grounds.
The rustle of feet through scrub took over, punctuated by hacking and the occasional shout as someone discovered some piece of rubbish. It was cold, uncomfortable but good-humored work; the novelty of the exercise kept everyone going until there was a shout from one of the pop group on the far left side: “What do I do now?”
“What’s the problem?” Diamond called across.
“I’m stuck. Can’t go no further.”
“Why not?”
“There’s some kind of shed here.”
“I’ll come over.”
By the time he got there, others had converged on the place. It was indeed a brick-built shed with a corrugated iron roof, abundantly overgrown, quite impossible to have been seen from the recording studio or the perimeter fence. They had to rip away masses of ivy and convolvulus to get at the door. A heavily corroded padlock came away more easily than some of the creepers and the door split into two pieces as they tugged it open.
The torches probed the dark interior. Someone asked, “Is this what we’re looking for?”
The light was picking out a curved surface that enclosed the dented chrome rim of a car headlamp. The glass had been removed except for a few shards. Diamond stooped to wipe the center of the bonnet. The color was red and the octagonal MG badge was mounted over a black polyurethane bumper. His pulse beat faster. He bent lower and cleared a layer of muck and moss off the registration plate. The number was the one he’d banked on finding: VPL 294S. This was Britt Strand’s car, off the road since 1988.
“Give me more light, someone,” he demanded, squeezing between the wall and the side of the car, brushing away leaf mold and dust that must have been falling through holes in the garage roof for years. Julie’s flashlight gave him a better view.
“There’s damage to the nearside wing, you see?” he said. “It’s badly dented here. Is the other side okay?”
Someone shone a torch over it and said, “There’s nothing wrong with this side.”
“Well, this headlamp is smashed and the bumper is out of alignment,” Diamond went on. “The car definitely hit something.” He looked up at Julie. “That’s it, then. How long have we got?”
She glanced at her watch. “To midnight? Just under four hours.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Emerging from sleep, Samantha felt warm air against her face. It was a pleasant sensation considering how cold the rest of her body had become-pleasant until she began to suspect that the warmth she could feel was human breath. She could actually hear the sharp intake of air and the slow exhaling. Horrified, she opened her eyes and saw nothing. The place was steeped in darkness. Impossible to see who the breather was, or how close. But she wasn’t mistaken. The quiet, rhythmical rasp of air continued.
She tried turning away and found that she couldn’t. She was tied, hand and foot. She remembered why, and where she was. After she had tried to attract attention on the hotel balcony and Mountjoy had wrestled her to the floor, he had dragged her inside and trussed her even more tightly. Enraged, he had turned savage, grunting with the effort of tightening each knot in the flex. This time he’d used a strip of adhesive to gag her. Then he’d left her on the floor, and she’d lain there expecting to be kicked or beaten. She was still naked from the waist up.
But having restrained her, he’d gone away. Some time afterward, he must have slung a blanket over her.
Now, this silent approach. This was the first time he had crept up on her like this. Up to now he had respected her- if being kept a prisoner could be termed respect. He’d made no sexual advance, never deliberately laid hands on the no-go parts of her body.
The breathing quickened.
She tensed.
She felt his hand on her shoulder.
He spoke: “You awake?”
She couldn’t answer through the gag and wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.
“Nod your head.”
She obeyed. Could he have come as close as this just to check that she was still breathing?
He started to peel the adhesive from her mouth, one hand against her cheek to hold her face steady. He warned her, “You scream and you get no food.”
Her face stung. She took a huge gulp of air. The taste in her mouth was foul.
He untied her hands and she felt something being put into them: a banana. She unpeeled it. She was ravenous.
He said, “I’ve been watching them down there. Yes, they know we’re here, thanks to your antics. They’ve stopped the traffic from coming through and they’ve got people on the roofs of all the buildings.”
Secretly she rejoiced. Someone must have seen her waving the T-shirt. She gulped the banana in three pieces. Her lips were numb where the gag had been. Dabbing at them gently with the tips of her fingers, she said as inoffensively as she was able, “What’s going to happen, then?”
He said, “How would I know?”
“What do you expect?”
“I’ll tell you what I expect,” he said with bitterness. “I expect that fatso detective to get me the justice he owes me. Where is he? I don’t see him down in the street.”
The frenzied note in his voice alarmed her. All she could do was try and humor him, praying that nothing the police did would tip him over the edge into panic. Somewhere he still had a gun.
She thought of her father and sent up a prayer that he would not be directing the police operation. Daddy wasn’t capable of being calm and dispassionate. He wouldn’t know how to bring a siege to a peaceful end.
Mountjoy said, “We’re going to have to move.”
“Again?”
He must have heard the despair in her voice because he told her, “Not to another place. Just inside the building. Keep them guessing.”
“Where can we go, then?”
“Somewhere more secure, where they can’t surprise us. While you were sleeping I was looking around. Want a drink?”
She murmured a positive response. She would have done so even if she had not been thirsty. Any offer of food or drink had to be encouraged.