incident room.’
‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about. My boy’s answered all your questions and he knows nowt about that girl’s whereabouts.’
As Brook had hoped, Roland’s eyes had alighted on the portraits of the missing girls and his Adam’s apple took a dive.
‘You can’t be in here, sir,’ repeated Noble. ‘We have confidential information on show.’
Davison Senior followed his son’s eyes to the display, and he too paused to stare for a few seconds. ‘Aye, well. Maybe you’re right. Being on the PLC, I don’t want to ride roughshod over procedure.’ He touched his son on the arm and, prompted by a flick of his father’s head, Roland headed for the corridor.
Eleven
Caitlin woke in darkness, her head aching and her neck sore. She blinked her eyes open but in the blackness it felt like she hadn’t opened them at all. Lifting her head, she realised it was held, her neck almost immovable in some kind of restraint. She couldn’t sit up, and when she attempted to lift her feet, she found her legs were also bound. Worst of all, a piece of cloth filled her mouth and, try as she might, she was incapable of spitting it out. Powerless to touch or even see her face in the dark, she was aware of the sticking plaster covering her mouth keeping the gag in place.
Panic began to rise in her and she could feel herself starting to choke. She tried to thrash and kick but her hands and feet wouldn’t budge, and no matter how urgently she struggled, she couldn’t free herself. Trussed like a chicken, she slumped back on to cold, hard concrete.
It took several large pulls of oxygen before her nerves steadied and her heart rate began to slow. She tried to think and get her bearings. Making a supreme effort, she was able to prop herself on to her right elbow and lift her head. With more deliberate movements, she found she had limited play side to side in her hands, though not nearly enough to reach any of her bonds or the large plaster over her mouth.
She could hear at least. There was a definite hum of working machinery, and above that what sounded like animal noises. A pig squealing? Am I on a farm? Come to think of it, when she sniffed at the cold air, she realised there was a definite odour of excrement reaching her nostrils. Not the pungent, repulsive ordure of human waste but the manure-rich aroma of a well-grazed field.
I’m on a farm or smallholding . She listened again. The squealing was high-pitched and didn’t sound like the contented grunting of a feeding animal, so perhaps the poor beast was being slaughtered. To add weight to this, the machinery stopped humming shortly after the pig ceased squealing.
Her elbow began to hurt so she sank back down to the rough concrete to think. Who is doing this to me, and why? She closed her eyes to piece together what she could remember. The Flowerpot, the walk home through the snow and the angry mocking voice calling her name she could recall with crystal clarity. She even had a sense of being thrown on to the floor of a van, where she’d lost consciousness. She’d come round once or twice while the van was still moving. It must have been a long journey, because whenever she woke, her arm and leg under her body were completely numb on the metal floor.
She heard a door open and close somewhere behind her. Then footsteps, and a few seconds later daylight illuminated her space. Caitlin struggled to lift her head and darted her eyes hungrily around for information. She immediately saw that she was in a large hangar or barn with a high ceiling. Off to the side there were small pens, some empty, some containing bales of straw, but all devoid of livestock. On one wall was a large stainless-steel door from where the footsteps had emanated before crossing the barn to open the outer door.
In the light she could run an eye over her bonds to register the criss-crossing network of leather straps, not unlike the bondage gear Rollo had had
‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about. My boy’s answered all your questions and he knows nowt about that girl’s whereabouts.’
As Brook had hoped, Roland’s eyes had alighted on the portraits of the missing girls and his Adam’s apple took a dive.
‘You can’t be in here, sir,’ repeated Noble. ‘We have confidential information on show.’
Davison Senior followed his son’s eyes to the display, and he too paused to stare for a few seconds. ‘Aye, well. Maybe you’re right. Being on the PLC, I don’t want to ride roughshod over procedure.’ He touched his son on the arm and, prompted by a flick of his father’s head, Roland headed for the corridor.
Eleven
Caitlin woke in darkness, her head aching and her neck sore. She blinked her eyes open but in the blackness it felt like she hadn’t opened them at all. Lifting her head, she realised it was held, her neck almost immovable in some kind of restraint. She couldn’t sit up, and when she attempted to lift her feet, she found her legs were also bound. Worst of all, a piece of cloth filled her mouth and, try as she might, she was incapable of spitting it out. Powerless to touch or even see her face in the dark, she was aware of the sticking plaster covering her mouth keeping the gag in place.
Panic began to rise in her and she could feel herself starting to choke. She tried to thrash and kick but her hands and feet wouldn’t budge, and no matter how urgently she struggled, she couldn’t free herself. Trussed like a chicken, she slumped back on to cold, hard concrete.
It took several large pulls of oxygen before her nerves steadied and her heart rate began to slow. She tried to think and get her bearings. Making a supreme effort, she was able to prop herself on to her right elbow and lift her head. With more deliberate movements, she found she had limited play side to side in her hands, though not nearly enough to reach any of her bonds or the large plaster over her mouth.
She could hear at least. There was a definite hum of working machinery, and above that what sounded like animal noises. A pig squealing? Am I on a farm? Come to think of it, when she sniffed at the cold air, she realised there was a definite odour of excrement reaching her nostrils. Not the pungent, repulsive ordure of human waste but the manure-rich aroma of a well-grazed field.
I’m on a farm or smallholding . She listened again. The squealing was high-pitched and didn’t sound like the contented grunting of a feeding animal, so perhaps the poor beast was being slaughtered. To add weight to this, the machinery stopped humming shortly after the pig ceased squealing.
Her elbow began to hurt so she sank back down to the rough concrete to think. Who is doing this to me, and why? She closed her eyes to piece together what she could remember. The Flowerpot, the walk home through the snow and the angry mocking voice calling her name she could recall with crystal clarity. She even had a sense of being thrown on to the floor of a van, where she’d lost consciousness. She’d come round once or twice while the van was still moving. It must have been a long journey, because whenever she woke, her arm and leg under her body were completely numb on the metal floor.
She heard a door open and close somewhere behind her. Then footsteps, and a few seconds later daylight illuminated her space. Caitlin struggled to lift her head and darted her eyes hungrily around for information. She immediately saw that she was in a large hangar or barn with a high ceiling. Off to the side there were small pens, some empty, some containing bales of straw, but all devoid of livestock. On one wall was a large stainless-steel door from where the footsteps had emanated before crossing the barn to open the outer door.
In the light she could run an eye over her bonds to register the criss-crossing network of leather straps, not unlike the bondage gear Rollo had had
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