
Where There's a Will

Inspector Stone Mysteries, Volume 1

Alex R Carver

Published by ARC Books, 2017.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

WHERE THERE'S A WILL

**First edition. April 3, 2017.**

Copyright (C) 2017 Alex R Carver.

ISBN: 978-1386370734

Written by Alex R Carver.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

# Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

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Further Reading: An Eye For An Eye

Also By Alex R Carver

About the Author

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# 1

Side by side, as though joined at the hip, Ben and Jerry stepped through the flaps and into the pavilion. They blinked in unison as they went from the darkness of outside to the brightness of the pavilion's interior, which was lit by portable lights that hung overhead.

They knew what to do without talking - they had been working together for so long that they would have been as close as brothers even without the bond of blood - and while Ben made for the young man busily gathering up the plastic glasses that littered the tables, Jerry threaded his way through the tables to the bar.

"On your knees." Ben's voice was no louder than a whisper, but he didn't need volume to make it clear that his order should be obeyed, the sawn-off shotgun in his hand did that for him. He was pleased, but unsurprised, to see the young man drop the glasses he had gathered and almost hit his head on the table he was cleaning in his haste to do as he had been told.

"What d'you want?" The cleaner's voice trembled with fear as he addressed his question, not to the man standing over him but to the gun being pointed at him - he couldn't force his eyes any higher than the twin dark holes that stared at him from the end of the barrels.

"The money," Ben admitted candidly before slamming the butt of his gun down on the man's head. He bent briefly to check that the cleaner was out cold and then stepped over the immobile form, so he could join Jerry, who was waiting for him by the partition that led into the rear section of the pavilion.

Like his brother, Jerry was holding a sawn-off shotgun, which he clutched tightly while his finger twitched on the trigger, ready to squeeze it at the slightest provocation. "Three," he told Ben quietly, having risked a look through the partition to see how many people they had to worry about. His eyes shone greedily at the thought of the money he had seen, and his body quivered like a coiled spring; it could not have been more obvious how excited he was, or how desperate he was to get on with things.

"Let's do this," Ben whispered. He stepped past his brother and through the partition. "On the ground, all of you," he ordered loudly, swinging his shotgun from side to side so that the muzzle was pointed in turn at the two men and one woman; all three of them froze in the act of counting the piles of money - made by the beer tents that had been quenching the thirst of the revellers at the Rock Radio Music Festival - on the table when they saw the guns, and the balaclava-wearing men wielding them.

"Do as he says," Jerry snarled, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother. "On the ground, hands behind yer backs." The moment the three of them had done as they were told Jerry lowered his shotgun and slid the bag he was carrying from his shoulder. He took several lengths of rope and strips of cloth from the bag, which he used to bind their hands and blindfolded them; finally, just to be sure they weren't going to cause any trouble, he knocked them out, using the butt of his shotgun as a club. "Let's get this done," he said eagerly once he was finished.

As quickly as they could, the pair grabbed up the bundles of cash that covered the table like the cloth of a cartoon rich person and stuffed them into the bag. It took longer than they had anticipated to empty the table, and there was only just enough space in the bag for all of it - there was more money than they had expected, though neither of them thought that a bad thing, there could never be such a thing as too much money as far as they were concerned. By the time they were finished, the bag was full to bursting, leaving them both to wonder how much it was they had stolen, and how much fun they could have with it - a lot, that was certain.

A little over five minutes after entering the temporary drinking hall, Ben and Jerry left it, with Jerry practically skipping on his way through the pavilion, so excited was he. If they were not now rich men, they were certainly far better off than before, and they were both feeling full of themselves; they couldn't think of another way they could make so much money so quickly or so easily.

"Didn' I tell you it'd be easy?" Jerry exulted, pulling off his balaclava to reveal shaggy brown hair that was in need of a good brush, and several days' worth of stubble. "We're loaded, fuckin' loaded." He let out a short, sharp whoop of glee, heedless of the fact that there were still people around, clearing up after the festival. "How much you think we got?"

"More'n you said we'd get," Ben said as he slid into the passenger seat of the car they had parked as close to the pavilion as they could. While he did that, his partner tossed the bag into the back seat before taking the driver's seat. "Forty grand, at least, mebbe more. We'll find out when we get 'ome."

Jerry gunned the engine and raced away from the pavilion, narrowly missing one of the festival staff who was nearby. He paid no attention to the man, who was forced to dive out of the way of the racing car to avoid being hit, as he sped across the field towards the makeshift exit from the festival grounds.

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# 2

Detective Inspector Nathan Stone - Nate to his friends - yawned hugely as his partner drove them into the field that had been used for the Rock Radio music festival. It was just gone four in the morning and he was not happy to be there; an hour before he had been in bed, warm, comfortable and, most importantly, asleep. Why he had been called out for a robbery, when Detective Sergeant Mason was the officer on duty until eight a.m., he didn't know, and he hoped to find out soon.

The moment his partner brought the car to a stop, Stone got out, rising to his full height of just under six feet. He stretched to ease his stiff muscles and yawned again, his mouth gaping wide for a moment before shutting quickly. Running his fingers through his sandy hair he attempted to transform it into something more suited to a senior detective, without success - his hair had never been all that tameable, and fresh from bed it put up more resistance than usual.

As awake as he felt he was likely to be, given the time and the circumstances, he looked around, his hazel eyes taking in all there was to see. Though it was the early hours of the morning, and dawn was still an hour or so away, the festival grounds were ablaze with light - some of it came from the quarter moon that shone in the night sky, but most of the light came from the spotlights that dotted the field, and which only a couple of hours before had illuminated the bands playing the festival and entertaining the thousands of people who had attended.

"They sure made a mess of this place," DS Stephen Burke remarked as he walked around the car to join his partner. There was little difference in their heights, not even an inch, but he had better posture, so he seemed taller; his slimmer build, close cropped black hair and green, almost emerald, eyes further separated them in the eyes of any who saw them.

Stone nodded his agreement. "I'm no environmentalist, but I've always thought it a shame when I see the mess left behind after a festival like this. I've never understood why people are so prepared to leave their rubbish all over the place just because they're at a festival; most of them would never do it at home." He let out a heavy sigh as he rubbed his eyes to remove the last of the sleep from them before running his fingers through his hair once more; it was a habit, and one he often wasn't aware of doing. "Okay, let's get on with this. Standing around isn't going to get us anywhere."

With Burke at his side, Stone strode briskly over to the pavilion, whose entrance was being guarded by a uniformed officer. He looked around quickly once inside and noted the presence of the two white clad forensics officers who were working over a small area to one side of the pavilion - in addition to them there were three men and a woman seated at a table near the 'bar', untouched cups of something that still steamed gently in front of them, while a short distance from the table was Detective Constable Chris Grey.

"Christian," Stone greeted the younger man, whom he liked to call by his full, Christian, name because of the lead male character in the Fifty Shades series of books; it wasn't something Grey liked, but since he was only a junior officer, and one newly promoted to detective, he was not in a position to do or say much about it. "What's the situation?" He had been told little of what had happened when he was woken by the duty sergeant. "Armed robbery I believe."

Grey nodded. "That's right, sir. Two men with sawn-off shotguns tied up the staff, that's them over there," he indicated the foursome at the table, "knocked them out and took all the money the beer tents took today," he told his superior succinctly.

"Is there something special about this case?" Stone asked curiously of the young detective, whose face took on a quizzical look. "Why was I called out for this? I'm off-duty till morning - Mason's the duty detective tonight, he should have been the one to get this call." He stifled yet another yawn and silently wished for a very large mug of strong, black, well-sweetened coffee to wake him up.

As if he had read his superior's mind, Burke chose that moment to appear at Stone's side holding a pair of Styrofoam cups that steamed, more forcefully than did those on the table, in the cold night air. "I'm afraid it's nothing special, just instant, but it's better than nothing." Burke took a sip of his coffee and grimaced, revealing what he thought of the coffee he had secured for them.

Stone gratefully accepted the cup that was held out to him and immediately lifted it to his lips. He let out a sigh of relief as the hot liquid slid down his throat and that first jolt of caffeine and sugar hit him - unlike his partner he wasn't a coffee snob who paid more attention than necessary to what he drank, he was satisfied if his drink had plenty of caffeine and sugar. "Well, Christian?" He turned his attention back to the detective. "Is there a reason I got this call?"

"I couldn't say, sir," Grey said. "I was expecting DS Mason to take the lead here. I did hear just before you arrived that he's been sent to a hit-and-run a few miles away though."

"Any connection to this?" Burke asked. He saw from the look on his partner's face that he had surprised Stone, whose mental faculties, just then, were not on the same level as his, and who had not been so quick to consider the possibility that there might be a connection between the two incidents.

"Not so far as I'm aware, Sergeant, but I know nothing about the hit-and-run, so it could be," Grey said apologetically.

Burke shrugged. "If there is a connection, I'm sure we'll find out about it soon enough."

"Has Mason got anyone with him?" Stone asked of Grey, knowing that he had been assigned to partner the detective sergeant.

"No, sir." Grey shook his head. "I was out of the station when this call came in, and was sent straight here; DS Mason said he would join me, but you turned up instead."

"You'd better get off and join him then," Stone told him. "We'll take care of things here." He sipped heartily at his coffee as he made his way between the tables to where the quartet of witnesses/victims were seated.

"Hello, I'm Detective Inspector Stone, and this is Detective Sergeant Burke," he introduced himself and his partner. "I realise you've been through a traumatic experience tonight, and I'm sure that you'd rather not relive it, so I'll try not to keep you any longer than necessary."

"Thanks," the eldest of the three men, who was holding the woman's hand comfortingly, said. "I'm David Leigh, I own The Stag Inn, and it's my money been stolen," he declared angrily. "This is my wife, Rose, son, Tim, and Eric Green, one of our barmen." He made the introductions.

Stone nodded to each of them in turn and then returned his attention to David Leigh, who was clearly the one most in control; his wife was white-faced and trembling, his son was attempting to seem unaffected by what had happened but still couldn't speak, though he appeared to want to, while Green showed every sign of still being stunned by the blow that had knocked him out. Stone wondered briefly if he shouldn't be in hospital, being checked over, rather than there, and was about to say something to that effect when he remembered that he and Burke had passed an ambulance on their way up to the field - he assumed that everyone had been given the once over by the paramedics.

"First off," he said, "can you tell me how much money was stolen?" He knew there was a lot of money to be made from the beer tents at a festival like the one that had finished earlier that night, but not how much.

Leigh grimaced and said regretfully, "I wish I could. We'd only just started counting it all when those bastards came in. Based on what we took yesterday and Friday, though, I'd say they got away with a little over fifty grand." His voice was bitter. "It was the best day's takings. Sunday's always the best - bastards."

Fifty thousand pounds, Stone thought; it was clear that the beer tents made more money than he had imagined. He made a note of the amount in the pad he took from a pocket. "Is the money insured?" he asked.

"It should be," David Leigh said, though his voice was uncertain. "I'm sure the insurance company'll try and find some way out of paying, but we should be covered for it."

"That's good. If you don't mind then, I'd like to start at the beginning - if you could tell me what happened." His eyes remained on David Leigh for a moment, but when the pub owner's eyes moved to his barman, Stone's followed.

There was silence for a short while before Eric Green finally spoke. "I was clearing up, collecting the glasses and wiping the tables down when they came in. I only saw one of them, and I didn't realise he was there 'til he told me to get on my knees. He had a shotgun in my face, so I did as he said."

"You did the right thing," Burke assured him. "If you'd tried anything you might have been hurt - better for you to do what he wanted and avoid that."

Stone nodded his agreement. "What happened next?" he asked.

"I asked him what he wanted, and the guy said, 'the money' then he hit me. I don't know about anything else that happened 'til I woke up later." Absently he rubbed his forehead, where a large bump, visible to everyone at the table, was forming. "I didn't even see his face; I saw the shotgun and just sort of froze - it's like I didn't want to see his face, I was too scared."

"That's understandable." Stone suspected he would have reacted the same if he were in that position.

David Leigh took up the account then, "After they knocked Eric out they came through to the back." He gestured behind him to where two flaps had been tied back, and several forensics officers in their white coveralls could be seen. "And did the same to us; they made us get on the ground, tied and blindfolded us, then they knocked us out. I don't think we were out for more than about five minutes, ten at the most, before one of the festival staff found us and woke us up. That's when I called you guys."

Stone took in Leigh's brief account of events and then twisted around. "Is the guy who revived everyone still here?" he called out the question to the two constables at the entrance to the pavilion.

"Yes, sir, he's out here having a smoke," came the reply. "Do you want him?"

"Not yet, just keep him there. I'll get to him shortly." Turning to Burke, Stone said, "Can you organise the questioning of all the festival staff, and anyone else who might have been around, while I get some details here."

Burke nodded and, putting away his notepad and pen, got to his feet; he left his barely touched coffee on the table as he made his way out of the pavilion, glad to have an excuse not to finish the almost undrinkable beverage.

"What can you tell me about the guys who robbed you?" Stone asked, his attention back on those at the table.

"Not much," Leigh answered. "They were both dressed in jeans, dark tops and leather jackets, and they were both wearing balaclavas."

Stone scribbled that down in his spider scrawl, disappointed by the lack of a useful description. "Anything else? Did you notice an accent, did they sound local or from somewhere else; maybe you saw a tattoo, or something that might make it possible to identify the guys who took your money?"

Once he had all the information the quartet could give him, which took very little time, Stone made his way outside. He found the festival crew member who had untied and revived David Leigh, his family, and their employee, a short distance from the pavilion entrance, still smoking. The small collection of cigarette butts on the ground at his feet indicated that he had been chain-smoking for quite a while, most likely to calm his nerves after the night's events.

"How did you know Mr Leigh and the others needed help, Mr Powell?" Stone asked once he had introduced himself. He moved to one side until he was downwind - the breeze was only slight, but it was enough to send the smoke from the cigarette into his face. It wasn't that the smoke bothered him, more that it awoke cravings he thought he had long since put behind him.

"After being almost run down by those idiots I was sure something'd happened, so once I got to my feet I went and checked the pavilion. That's when I found them, tied up and knocked out," Powell answered. Dropping his cigarette to the ground he crushed it into the dirt with his foot. "I revived them, wasn't easy, they didn't want to wake up, and Mr Leigh called the cops while I went and got one of the first-aiders."

"You say you were almost run down, can you describe the car, or the people in it?"

"It was blue, a Vauxhall, Astra I think." Powell paused to light a fresh cigarette, which he puffed on for a moment before he continued. "I didn't see it pull up, I was having a piss, but it was out front when I finished, with the engine running. I didn't think much of it, I just thought it belonged to someone in the pavilion and they'd brought it round so they could load some stuff up."

"Did you see the license plate?" Stone didn't hold his breath; he was sure that even if Powell had seen the license plate it wouldn't help any. In his experience, the car used by the robbers would most likely have been stolen, perhaps even specifically for this job. "How about the men? Did you see anything of them?" he asked when Powell shook his head in response to the first question.

"Not clearly," Powell said regretfully. "I did get a glimpse of the driver, though."

Stone felt his hopes rise as he waited for Powell to continue.

"He had messy brown hair and stubble."

"Was there anything distinctive about him that you saw? Scars, tattoos, anything like that?"

Powell had to think about that for a moment. "Tattoo, yeah, he had a tattoo on the side of his neck."

"What sort of tattoo? Can you describe it?"

Powell took a long drag on his cigarette, which was almost finished already, and shook his head. "I couldn't see it clearly, but it looked like some kind of bird, not sure what sort, I only got a glimpse - I had to dive out of the way when they nearly ran me down."

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# 3

"Why'd you hit the old guy?" Ben asked, resuming the argument they had abandoned only a short while before as he got out of the car.

Jerry ground his teeth in frustration. "I told ya, I couldn't miss him. We was on him before I knew 'e were there." He'd been through it already, and wasn't in the mood to go through it again. "Just let it go, it's done, there's nowt we can do 'bout it now."

"I shoulda been driving," Ben declared, as if he could have somehow avoided the old man and his dog who had been crossing the road as they raced around the corner. "Now the cops are gonna know where we were after leaving the bloody festival."

"How the hell are they gonna know that?" Jerry wanted to know. "There's no way that old geezer had a chance to see anything, and there were no-one else around." He saw the look on his brother's face. "What? You think his dog's gonna tell the cops what sort of car it were run him down? Even if that were likely, it don' matter; the bloody car won't exist in another hour." He spun around as a pair of headlights blazed on, lighting up both the car and the brothers, before relaxing when he recognised the deep-throated chuckle that came from the darkness behind the headlights.

"You two're worse than a married couple." A burly, tattooed figure entered the cone of light. "If I didn't know better, Ben, I'd think you were a woman."

"How long you been there?" Ben asked sourly, not rising to the bait from the bigger man.

"Long enough," Ash said with a grin. "Long enough. So, you 'it someone," he directed the comment to Jerry.

"Yeah, a silly old bugger out walking his dog at stupid o'clock. It's not a problem," Jerry reassured Ash, who was their partner in that night's activities; Ash showed no concern over the situation, unlike Ben, and Jerry and Ash both knew that Ben's concern was not caused by any worry over the fact that a man had been run down, only over the possibility that the accident might lead to their arrest.

With an uncaring shrug, Ash peered into the rear of the car at the bulging bag. "How much did we get?" He was far more interested in the result of their night's caper than anything else, especially old men who were foolish enough to walk their dog so late and get knocked down as a result.

"Hard to be sure," Jerry answered. "Forty, fifty kay, mebbe. More'n we expected.

Ash was pleased by that - they had only anticipated getting about thirty thousand pounds. "C'mon then, let's get this shit finished so we can celebrate." The other two were quite happy to go along with him since they couldn't relax until they were finished.

Ben retrieved the bag and their shotguns from the back seat of the Vauxhall and carried them to the Ford they had parked down the road earlier that night. While he did that, Jerry got back behind the wheel and, with Ash's guidance, manoeuvred the car up onto the trailer of the vehicle transporter Ash had brought. It was tricky to manage with only the dim moonlight and the meagre glow from the nearby street lights to aid them, but they got it done with a minimum of trouble and quickly secured the car.

That done, Jerry joined Ben in their Ford. They headed in one direction while Ash drove off in the opposite to dispose of the Vauxhall and remove one possible link between them and the robbery.

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# 4

Still tired after his unplanned and unwanted late-night visit to the festival, Stone nudged open the door and walked into his office. Burke was already there, with the coffee machine percolating merrily behind him; Stone wasn't surprised, somehow Burke nearly always beat him to the office. Stone supposed it was because his partner was single, and had no-one to delay him of a morning, whereas his wife invariably held him up with some last-minute issue that couldn't wait until another time, and which only he could deal with.

"Is that the witness statements from the festival?" Stone asked with a gesture at the stack of paper on his desk.

"If you can call them that." Burke poured a mug of coffee for his superior and carried it over.

Stone accepted the mug gratefully and dropped into his chair to start going over the statements; it didn't take him long. Apart from those he had spoken to at the time, none of the festival crew members, or the others who had been at the site at the time of the robbery, had seen anything; not one of them was able to add anything to what Stone already knew.

Frustrated, he tossed the last statement back onto the desk, where it joined the untidy pile of similarly useless statements. He sipped slowly at his coffee to give himself time to think and then he turned to his partner. "Any CCTV or traffic cameras in the area that might help us?" he asked, wishing they had more to go on than a brief, almost useless, physical description of the two robbers and the belief, expressed by Rose Leigh, that they had a slight accent. The description they had of the car was as helpful as that of the armed pair, leaving them to hope that forensics could come up with something that might lead them to the men they were after.

Burke shook his head. "I'd just finished checking that when you arrived. The nearest camera is three quarters of a mile away; it covers a traffic junction that's apparently pretty bad for accidents. I've requested the footage, but even if we find the car on it we won't be able to use it in court, it's too far away to be able to say for definite it's the same vehicle."

Stone dismissed that problem with a wave of his hand. Just then he wasn't bothered about evidence for court, he was more interested in identifying the car and the two armed robbers; proving it was them could wait until they knew who it was. "David Leigh and the others should be in later to give formal statements; with a bit of luck they'll have remembered something useful. In the meantime, I want to know about any Vauxhalls reported stolen recently, especially if they're an Astra and they're blue. We might get lucky and hit on the right vehicle."

Burke scribbled quick notes on the pad he kept handy by his phone. "How about putting out an alert for a possible abandoned vehicle," he suggested. "They might have dumped the car somewhere. A patrol might spot it."

"Let's get the description out to the local news as well." Stone suspected that if the car had been dumped, it would have been done in an out of the way place, where it was more likely to be found randomly by a member of the public than by a police patrol. "Just the car, not what we have on the pair, it's too vague at the moment, and I don't want to spook them."

"Okay, anything else?"

"Not unless you can think of something."

**

STONE SETTLED ON THE corner of the desk opposite his subordinate and focused his attention on Detective Sergeant Mason; he didn't say as much, but since he had had to work during the night, when he was supposed to be off, he was glad to see that Mason was working beyond the end of his shift. "Tell me about the hit-and-run," he directed the man who had been after the promotion he got.

"Bugger-all to tell," Mason said, the dislike he felt for the man who had got the job he wanted there, as always, in his eyes, and just beneath the surface of his words. "Old geezer walking his dog got knocked down by some ignorant little prick."

"Any witnesses?"

Mason snorted. "Are you kidding? It was almost three in the morning on a Sunday, no-one was around, leastways, no-one who's gonna come forward." The knowing look on his face suggested that Stone should already have realised that. "I've got Chris and a couple of uniforms canvassing the area, just in case someone saw something, and I'm putting together a request for all CCTV footage from the area. I doubt anything'll come of it, though, it'll be a complete waste of time. Even if we manage to catch the bugger responsible, it'll just turn out to be some little punk out for a joyride in a stolen car, and he'll get away with a slap on the wrist and nothing more." His expression was one of disgust as he said that.

"Let's hope that isn't the case." Stone was just as frustrated as Mason with the minor sentences handed out to youths, regardless of the damage they did to people and property, who took cars for a joyride. "What's the old man's condition?"

"Not good," Mason said with a shake of his head, his demeanour changing slightly, the animosity he felt towards his superior disappearing, or at least receding. "He was still unconscious when I called the hospital a while ago; he's got a fractured skull, three cracked ribs, a broken arm and a broken leg. Traffic reckon whoever hit him must have been going at least forty-five, and they didn't even try to stop."

"Bastards!"

Mason could only nod in agreement of that sentiment.

"What do the doctors put his chances at?" Stone asked.

"Somewhere between crap, and make arrangements for a funeral," Mason replied in his usual callous way. "We don't even know the old geezer's name since he wasn't carrying any I.D. when he was found."

"Try and remember, Justin, he's not an old geezer, he's an old man who has had the misfortune to be in a bad accident," Stone said, though he doubted his words would have any effect on his subordinate. "Now, what are you doing to find out who he is?"

**

"IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE to report?" Detective Chief Inspector Collins asked of his subordinate.

"Not at the moment," Stone answered, uncrossing his legs in preparation to leave his superior's office. "Hopefully, Justin will get a quick response to his appeal for help in identifying his hit-and-run victim, not that it's likely to help much in finding the person who ran him down."

"What about the gentleman who reported the accident? Could he possibly have been responsible?"

Stone shrugged. "You'll have to ask Justin about that."

"I will. What's your next step with the robbery?"

Before Stone could answer there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Collins called out.

The door swung open to reveal DS Burke, who quickly apologised for the intrusion. "Excuse me, sir, but I've got a possible lead."

"What is it?" Stone asked.

"I was talking with a couple of the uniforms," Burke said. "It seems that one of our favourite lags recently got himself some new ink."

Stone thought about who Burke would include on a list of their favourite lags - it wasn't a long list - and who would be of interest in regard to their current case. "You're not talking about the Ice-cream Boys, are you?" he asked, thinking of Ben and Jerry Logan, whose first names had resulted in them being given the most obvious of nicknames. When Burke nodded, Stone remarked. "They're out on license, aren't they?"

"Yes, they got out three, four months ago," Burke said. "I think they've both got about three and a half years, a little less maybe, on license."

Stone didn't doubt his partner had the information right, Burke was very good at that kind of thing. "So, which one of our pains-in-the-ass got the new ink?" It wasn't something he wanted to guess at for both seasoned criminals were fans of tattoos and had many adorning their bodies.

"Jerry, apparently," Burke answered. "According to PC Williams, he gave the Logans a tug the other week for a broken light on their car - not a blue Vauxhall," he said quickly, seeing the question in his superior's eyes. "He recognised the Ice-cream Boys and made a note of Jerry's new ink, he said it's an eagle, about two inches by three, on the left side of his neck."

Stone smiled at the news. "Shall we go and have a chat with Jerry then, and perhaps his brother as well?"

"Sure, we probably won't get much out of them, but it should put the wind up them." Burke was as keen to speak to the Logans as Stone; nailing them for armed robbery would, he thought, make up for the early releases Ben and Jerry had somehow secured.

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# 5

Stone ascended to the fifth floor of the grandly named Harper Tower two steps at a time, ignoring, as best he could, the smell of urine that filled the stairwell. He would have preferred to take the lift, but it was out of order, and by the time he got to the fifth floor he was out of breath, though not as much as he would have been before he quit smoking.

"Come on," he said to his partner once he had recovered.

Together, he and Burke made their way along to flat seven, where they took up positions on either side of the door. They didn't expect trouble, despite why they were there, but they still had sense enough not to stand in front of the door; after all, a shotgun had been used in the robbery, and such a weapon could be fired straight through the door. Neither of them wanted to get shot, if it should turn out that the Logan brothers were behind the robbery, and were reluctant to go back to prison.

"Ben, Jerry," Burke called out after knocking twice without getting an answer. "It's the police - open up."

It was almost two minutes before the detectives heard shuffling footsteps and a voice that grumbled and swore as it approached the door. Finally, the door swung open to reveal a half-asleep Ben Logan. "What the fuck d'you want?" he mumbled in a sleep-filled voice as he held the door and looked from DI Stone to DS Burke.

"Morning, Ben," Stone greeted the criminal. "Can we come in?" Without waiting for an answer, he stepped forward and eased past Ben, who made no attempt to stop him entering the flat. "Is Jerry here?"

Knowing it would do him no good to protest the intrusion, since he was on license, Ben pushed the door closed behind the detectives and followed them into the living room.

"Is Jerry here?" Stone repeated his question.

"Not a bloody clue," Ben said with an indifferent shrug. "I was asleep 'til you buggers banged on the door. If he ain't in his room, then no, he ain't." He dropped gracelessly onto the sofa, where he looked as though he would quite happily go back to sleep.

Stone gestured for his partner to have a look for the absent Logan brother; while Burke did that he settled in the armchair near the door and looked around for any sign that the Logans had been doing anything they shouldn't. He didn't really expect to see anything, Ben wasn't quite that stupid, but it was always possible that Jerry, who was not as much into thinking as his brother, had left something incriminating laying around.

"Why're you here?" Ben wanted to know, without seeming all that interested in the answer.

"Why don't we wait for your brother before we get into that," Stone suggested.

"What the fuck d'you want?"

The harshly voiced question alerted Stone to the arrival of Jerry Logan, who, like his brother, was clad only in a pair of boxer shorts. "Morning, Jerry," Stone greeted him. "Sorry to wake you."

"Yeah, I bet you are," Jerry said sarcastically. As he dropped onto the sofa next to his brother he asked, "What do these jokers want?"

"No idea, they ain't said," Ben told him.

"I see you've got a new tattoo, Jerry," Stone remarked, gesturing at the eagle on the side of his neck.

"I got a few," Jerry responded. "What of it?"

"Nothing," Stone said, "except a couple of guys held up a pavilion at the Rock Radio Music Festival last night, and one of them had a tattoo matching that new bit of ink on the side of your neck."

"Big deal, I'm sure there's plenty of guys with the same ink; I picked it from the catalogue."

"But how many of them have it where you have yours, and have a record for armed robbery?"

Jerry shrugged. "How the hell should I know?"

"Is that why you're here?" Ben wanted to know, amused. "'cause someone saw a tattoo like my brother's at a robbery."

Stone didn't respond to that, instead he said. "Do you mind if we have a look around?"

"What for? D'you think you're gonna find a stack of cash and a coupla sawn-offs just laying around?"

Stone smiled at Jerry, while his brother scowled at him ferociously. "I never said anything about shotguns, or guns of any kind, did I?" he asked of Burke, who thus far had remained silent.

"Not that I heard," Burke said. "Why would you think we'd be looking for sawn-offs?" he asked of Jerry, who, with a look at his brother, remained silent. "It's funny that you should mention shotguns, though, because the pair last night were carrying sawn-offs. Maybe he's psychic," he suggested to his partner.

"Maybe," Stone said, matching his partner's smile. "Are you psychic, Jerry?"

"I don't think he can be psychic," Burke ventured.

"Why's that?"

"Well, if he was psychic, he'd have known we were coming," Burke said. "And he'd have either been somewhere else or dressed, at the least he'd have been in better boxers, instead of those stupid Simpsons things."

Stone nodded. "Very true. I guess you're not psychic after all, Jerry, so why mention shotguns, especially sawn-offs?" His gaze shifted from the resolutely silent Jerry to Ben, who was trying to look innocent, and not at all angry with his brother. "How about you, Ben, do you know why Jerry brought up sawn-offs?"

"How the hell should I know?" Ben snapped irritably. "You know what an idiot Jez can be, always talking about stupid shit." For a moment Jerry looked as though he was going to protest, but he held his tongue when he saw the warning look in his brother's eyes. "If you're gonna search the place, get on and do it. You're not gonna find anything."

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# 6

Stone and Burke had not long finished taking the official statements of David Leigh and the other witnesses to the robbery, when DCI Collins strode into their office.

"Sir," Stone acknowledged his superior without taking his eyes off the keyboard in front of him - he couldn't touch-type, and not looking at what he was doing would only slow him down significantly, and leave typos in the statement he was putting on the system. Fixing the typos would make an already time-consuming job take a lot longer, and leave him very irritable.

"How's the investigation going?" Collins asked. "Any breaks?"

Only sixteen hours had passed since the robbery, Stone wasn't surprised that the DCI was chasing a result though; quick results looked good for the department, and for the DCI, and Collins liked things that made him look good. "It looks like the Ice-cream Boys, Ben and Jerry Logan, are our boys, sir, but it could take time to prove it."

"Why's that?" Collins was pleased to hear that they had suspects, but not so pleased by the lack of an arrest.

"We've got a witness who spotted a tattoo on the neck of one of the blaggers, it matches a piece of ink Jerry Logan got recently, and both brothers match the physical descriptions we have, such as they are; not only that but Rose Leigh heard a faint accent when the blaggers spoke, which the Ice-Cream Boys have. They were both wearing masks during the actual robbery, though, so we don't have positive I.D.s on them yet." Stone took a sip of his coffee and grimaced when he discovered it was cold. "We're trying to track down the car they used, and forensics are looking for anything that might link them to the robbery, that's likely to take some time."

Collins considered for a few moments and then nodded. "Keep me up to date," he told Stone. "I want to know the moment you've got a result."

"Yes, sir." Stone looked over at his partner in time to see him roll his eyes, he had to fight the urge to copy him.

*****

"HELLO, NATHAN."

Stone recognised the voice even before he turned to face the speaker.

"Louisa." His voice was neutral as he greeted the reporter. It didn't surprise him to find Louisa Orchard waiting by his car as he left the station for the evening; she had been trying, without success, to get hold of him all day.

"You've been avoiding me," Louisa said in a voice that suggested she was used to people avoiding her, and used to finding ways to get them to talk to her when they didn't want to. "I hear you're in charge of the investigation into the robbery at the Rock Radio festival - have you any suspects yet?"

"You know I can't comment on that while the investigation's ongoing, but we're doing everything possible to find the people responsible. We have leads we're pursuing, and we're confident they will result in arrests soon."

Louisa looked dubious at that, she had heard such statements many times before, and seen how often they were proved accurate. "That's the standard crap you're supposed to give me, Nate, now how about you give me something I can actually use. Is it true the thieves got away with more than fifty grand? And that they used sawn-off shotguns?"

Stone considered the questions for a few moments before he nodded. "We don't know exactly how much was stolen, it was being counted when the robbery happened, but we do know they stole more than forty thousand pounds; and yes, they did use sawn-off shotguns. No-one was hurt beyond a few headaches, though."

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" Louisa asked once she had scribbled that down. "Come on, Nate, there's got to be something else you can give me - I know about the blue Astra you guys are interested in. How about the elderly dog-walker that got knocked down? Anything you can give me there? Is there a connection between the two, the robbery and the hit-and-run?"

"Why would you think that?" Stone asked. He wasn't aware that there was a link between the two incidents, but it didn't surprise him that Louisa was trying to combine the two stories into something bigger. "The hit-and-run happened five miles from the festival; we've got no reason for thinking there's a connection between it and the robbery."

Louisa gave a knowing smile. "Is that the truth, or just the official answer?"

"The truth," Stone told her. "If you find any reason to think differently, let me know."

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# 7

Stone pulled open the door and entered Branton police station, ready for another day of investigating. Almost immediately he was hailed by the duty sergeant at the counter.

"Nate."

"Bill." There was a cautious note to Stone's voice as he acknowledged the sergeant.

"Can you spare a minute?" Sergeant Frost asked.

"What's up?"

"This is Mrs Cromwell," Frost indicated the lady at the counter. "She'd like to speak to someone about the hit-and-run on Sunday night. Mason and Grey aren't in yet; would you mind?"

Stone was tempted to say that yes, he would mind, but that was the kind of thing Mason would say, and he had no desire for anyone to consider them similar, in any way. "Sure," he said with a nod of his head. "If you'll come with me, Mrs Cromwell, I'll take you up to my office and you can have a cup of tea while you tell me how I can help."

"Thank you." Mrs Cromwell made her slow way through the security door Stone was holding open.

**

"STEPHEN, WOULD YOU get a cup of tea for Mrs Cromwell," Stone requested of his partner when they reached his office. "While we wait for the tea, Mrs Cromwell, would you care for a biscuit?" He fished in the bottom drawer of his desk for the packet of digestives he kept there to stave off the cravings for a cigarette, cravings that were, thankfully, getting fewer and farther between.

Burke returned to the office in a little over five minutes, bearing a tray on which he had one of the few china cups to be found in the second floor's small kitchen.

"Thank you, Stephen." Stone waited until his visitor had taken a sip of her tea, and then he addressed her. "Now, why don't you tell me how I can help you, Mrs Cromwell; Sergeant Frost said you want to speak to someone about the hit-and-run that took place on Sunday night."

"That's right, inspector. I saw the picture in the paper this morning of the gentleman who was knocked down - I think he's my neighbour, Alan Bollard. It was hard to be sure, the picture wasn't very good, but I think it's him."

Stone had seen the picture in the paper and had to agree with her, it wasn't very good, but he knew it could have been worse - Mason had at least waited until the mystery gentleman had been cleaned up in hospital before he took the picture.

"It looked like him, and I didn't see Alan yesterday."

"Do you normally see Mr Bollard?" Stone asked.

Mrs Cromwell nodded, making the cup rattle in the saucer she was holding. "Yes, I see him every day, walking his dog or going to the shop; he's a good neighbour, always pops in to see if I need anything."

"That's good of him. I'm sure it's a comfort to have such a considerate neighbour."

"It is. I don't get out much now, even with my stick, and my daughter can't get over to help me out or take me shopping as often as I'd like, so it's a real help that Alan is willing to get bread or milk for me when I need it. I'm not sure what I'd do without him."

Her words made Stone feel a little guilty, as he thought about how long it had been since he last checked on his grandmother. "You say Mr Bollard has a dog," he said, resolving to pay his grandmother a visit that evening. "Could you describe it?"

Mrs Cromwell sipped at her tea while she thought about the question. "I've never been very good with animals," she admitted. "It's some kind of mongrel, I think, part Labrador and part something else."

"That sounds like the dog that was found with the gentleman who was run down," Stone said. "If you'll excuse me for a moment." Pushing his chair back, he got to his feet.

"What're you looking for?" DS Mason asked suspiciously when he found Stone going through his desk.

"I'm after the photographs you took of your hit-and-run victim's dog," Stone told him. "I've got a lady in my office who thinks she might be his neighbour. She's pretty sure she recognised him from the paper this morning; I want to see if the dog looks familiar, if it does I'll take her to the hospital, so she can make a positive ID on the guy."

"Why wasn't I called?" Mason wanted to know. He stepped forward, as though he was going to force Stone away from his desk. "The hit-and-run is my case."

"I know, Justin, but the lady was in reception when I got here; Sergeant Frost tried to get hold of you, but when he couldn't, he asked me to speak to her."

Through gritted teeth, Mason said, "Thank you, Nathan, I can take over now, though."

"I don't think so," Stone disagreed. "I'll finish up with Mrs Cromwell, I'll let you know if she's able to provide a positive identification." He found the photos he was looking for and turned away.

"Nathan, sir!" Mason protested, following Stone as he headed back to his office, where he was stopped by the door, which was shut in his face.

*****

WHILE BURKE REMAINED at the office, Stone took Mrs Cromwell, who was more confident that the man featured in the paper was her neighbour after seeing pictures of his dog, to the hospital.

Together they stood at the foot of the bed, looking at the elderly hit-and-run victim, who was heavily bandaged and hooked up to a number of machines. They remained like that for a minute or so before Stone asked, "Are you sure this is your neighbour?" of Mrs Cromwell.

Mrs Cromwell nodded slowly. "Yes, that's him. Poor Alan, he never did anything to anyone, why would anyone run him down."

"We suspect it was an accident, rather than deliberate," Stone told her. "Not that that makes this any better." He intended the comment to be reassuring, but it didn't sound it to his ears. "Does he have any family? Anyone we should contact?"

"He has a sister in Australia, and a nephew in Canada, I think. He hears from his sister occasionally, but I don't think he's had any contact with his nephew since he left." Mrs Cromwell was silent for a few moments when a noise came from the man in the bed. "I have his sister's number at home somewhere, he gave it to me in case of an emergency. I'll look it out when I get home and call her; I don't suppose she'll be able to come anytime soon, but she should know what's happened to Alan."

"That's good of you, Mrs Cromwell," Stone said, "but if you'd prefer, you can give me the number and I'll arrange for someone to call her."

"Thank you. Alan has told me about his sister, but I've never spoken to her; I'm not sure I'd be able to find the words to tell her what's happened." Her relief at not having to make the call showed on her face.

"Would you like to go home now?"

Mrs Cromwell shook her head. "I think I'll stay for a while; after everything he's done for me, it doesn't seem right to leave Alan here on his own, especially when his family is so far away."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate the company, even if he doesn't seem aware of it," Stone said. "I'll get the nurses to arrange a cab for you when you're ready to go home." She smiled at him in gratitude. "It's the least I can do since you've solved the mystery of who Mr Bollard is." From his pocket, he took out a card. "When you find the number for Mr Bollard's sister, you can get me on this number."

Stone was at the door when he thought of something and turned back. "We have Mr Bollard's dog in the kennels with our canine units - do you know of anyone who could take her? She's being well looked after, but I'm sure she'd be happier with someone she knows."

"I suppose I could take her," Mrs Cromwell said after a brief hesitation. "Daisy knows me, and I have a spare key to Alan's house, so I can get her food and things from there."

"Thank you. I'll have a constable deliver Daisy this evening, if that's alright."

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# 8

Stone arrived back at the office bearing a couple of bags, one from Subway and the other from Greggs the bakery. "I got us lunch," he told Burke, who was going through the latest information from the forensics team. "I got a meatball marinara sub and a Belgian bun for you."

Settling himself in his chair, Stone took out his own lunch, a turkey, ham and cheese sub, and was about to take a bite when Burke stopped him.

"You might want to hold off on that, Collins wants to see you."

"What about?" Stone asked, reluctantly re-wrapping his sub.

"I don't know for sure, but," Burke lowered his voice, "Justin went to see him after you left to take Mrs Cromwell to the hospital - he was in with Collins for a while and when he came out he was looking very pleased with himself, the way he does when he thinks he's got one up on someone."

"I must have hurt his feelings," Stone remarked, giving every appearance of being concerned. "I guess I'd better go and see what the boss wants." He caught the satisfied look on Mason's face as he passed his subordinate's desk but ignored it.

"Stephen said you want to see me," he said after being invited to enter the DCI's office.

"Yes. Have a seat, Nate," Collins told him.

Stone knew his superior well enough to know that he wasn't in all that much trouble - Collins never invited someone to sit if he was going to bawl them out.

"I had Mason in here earlier," Collins said after a few moments. "He isn't very happy with you."

Stone gave an amused snort. "He never is."

"True," Collins agreed. "But on this occasion, I think he may have cause. Mason claims you are trying to steal the hit-and-run case from him - that you spoke to a Mrs Cromwell this morning, who should have been dealt with by him."

Stone had to resist the urge to laugh; it was a bit of an effort, given how amusing he found the suggestion, and it showed on his face.

"I'm glad you can see the humour in this, Nate," Collins said. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me what happened."

"Sure. Mrs Cromwell was in reception when I arrived this morning; Sergeant Frost had tried to get hold of Justin but couldn't, so he asked me to have a word with her, which I did. By the time I discovered she could identify the gentleman who was knocked down on Sunday night, Justin had arrived. I could have let him take over, but Mrs Cromwell is an elderly woman, and I thought it best not to confuse her.

"Besides, would you really want Justin dealing with an elderly woman? She was only here to help us and her neighbour by doing her civic duty; he'd have left her feeling as though she was a suspect."

Collins nodded. "That's true. He's never been the gentlest of people when it comes to questioning. So, was she able to make a positive identification?"

"Yes. His name's Alan Bollard and he lives at Forty-Seven Foxholes Road, which, according to the map, is just two streets away from where he was knocked down. He has no enemies, no family in the UK, no nothing really. According to Mrs Cromwell, he's just a nice old man who likes to make himself useful to his neighbours. She doesn't know for sure, but she thinks he was out with his dog at that time of the night because he has difficulty sleeping, he's on medication that keeps him awake, and walking Daisy helps.

"Oh, and she's agreed to take Daisy, so we don't have to keep her in the canine unit. I've given Justin all of this information, so he's up to date."

"From the sounds of it," Collins said, "Justin's making a fuss about nothing, like usual. I'll have a word with him. In the meantime, you'd better get on with your own investigation. I want to hear you're making progress, and are getting ready to make an arrest."

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# 9

Stone waited for the dimly lit couple to move out of the way, and then he pulled off the road into the drive. He stopped in front of the garage, under the glow of the security light he had had installed, and got out. As he made his way up to the front door, he saw his grandmother peering out from behind the living room curtains to see who was there. He gave her a wave, but it was a few moments before recognition dawned and she returned it; she disappeared then, he assumed so she could answer the door to him.

"Evening, gran," he said when the door opened. He was surprised, and disturbed, by her appearance - she seemed to have shrunk since the last time he saw her; she had always been small, but now she was so slight there seemed nothing of her. The sight of her, looking diminished and sickly, made him feel even more guilty about his failure to visit regularly and make sure that she was alright.

"Nathan, what's up?" Barbra Stone asked, her voice betraying how unexpected his visit was.

"Nothing, gran." Stone was a little hurt that she thought something had to be up for him to visit, though he couldn't blame her for thinking like that, given he had often only found the time to visit when there was something going on. "I just wanted to see you. It's been a while."

"Well, you had better come in." Barbra stepped back.

Stone loosened his tie as he seated himself on the sofa and ran his eyes over his grandmother. Not only was she slighter than he remembered, she moved more slowly, and seemed to have difficulty with her breathing. The effort of crossing the living room exhausted her, and he worried that she was going to collapse before she got there.

"Are you okay?" he asked in a voice filled with worry.

"Yes," Barbra dismissed his concern. "For someone my age, I'm as well as can be expected."

Stone looked dubious, but knew it would do him no good to press her for another answer, she wasn't the sort to complain, no matter how bad things were.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked.

"Thanks, I'll make it, though," Stone said, getting to his feet quickly before she could. "One for you as well?"

When she nodded, Stone collected his gran's cup from the table at the side of her chair. As he did, he saw the plastic tray that held more than half a dozen pills in a variety of colours - the sight worried him; he was sure his gran had only been taking one or two pills the last time he saw her. Since he knew his gran wouldn't tell him what was up if he asked, he looked through the items pinned to the cork noticeboard he had put up in the kitchen when he got there.

In one corner of the board was a collection of bills, he flicked through them, and was relieved to see that none were outstanding. The opposite corner held prescriptions, repeat prescriptions to be put in every month he saw; his gran was taking fourteen pills a day - that came as a shock to him, and left him certain something was wrong with his grandmother. The noise from the kettle rose as the water approached boiling point, he ignored it, though, as he continued to check the board, stopping when he found a letter from the hospital.

He took the letter down and read it slowly, a cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. His fingers trembled as he returned the letter to the board and took out his phone. "Call me as soon as you get this," he said, hoping that his sister would check her voicemails soon.

That call made, he put his phone away and washed his grandmother's cup and saucer before finding a mug for himself, so he could make the tea.

"Can I get you anything else?" he asked as he gave his grandmother her cup.

"No, thank you. I'll have a few biscuits before I go to bed. I don't eat much these days."

Stone was tempted to admonish her about her eating, but there was something more important he needed to talk to her about. "I saw the letter from the hospital," he said. "Why didn't you call and tell me you've got cancer?" Reading the diagnosis in the letter had been like a blow to the stomach.

Barbra's eyes rested on her grandson for several long seconds before she spoke. "I didn't want to trouble you, you have so much to deal with already. Your family, little Robert's condition, and your job - I saw in the paper about the armed robbery you're investigating. How is Robert? Is he managing school okay with his condition?"

Stone recognised the diversion for what it was, but still answered the questions. "Robert is fine now, he had the operation I told you about last time I was here, and now he's as fit and healthy as any other seven-year-old. It took him a bit of time to get over it, but now the hole in his heart's been fixed, he's been running Melissa ragged. I think he's making up for lost time."

"That's good to hear. You both must be relieved not to have that worry hanging over your heads anymore."

Stone nodded. "I'll get Melissa to bring Robert and little Isobel over at the weekend. You'll be amazed at the difference in Robert since you last saw him. If I can get my investigation finished by then, we'll make a day of it." He returned the conversation to where he wanted it then. "You still should have told me about the cancer. Melissa and I could have made more of an effort to come round and help you out; we should have."

"I've been managing," Barbra told him, though the effort it was for her to breathe gave the lie to that." April checks on me whenever she's home, and she's arranged for one of those home helpers to come in every other day."

"You shouldn't have to just manage," Stone told her guiltily.

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# 10

When he got to work the next morning, following a restless night, Stone was glad to see that Burke was already there and he had the coffee machine going. Before he settled down with a cup to read the forensics report someone had put on his desk he checked in with DC Reid, who had the night duty - he was relieved to discover that only relatively minor crimes had been committed during the night, crimes that were already being investigated, and no guidance was needed from him.

Only when he had finished his coffee did he pick the report up. There was still a lot of material for the forensics team to process, but they were making progress; he saw that matches had been made on many of the partial fingerprints found in the pavilion - most of those matches were to David Leigh and his family and staff, but some were to people in the criminal database. Every one of them had to be checked out to determine if they were a possible suspect, and he made a note of each name.

A smile lit up Stone's face as he approached the end of the fingerprints section.

"I take it you've got to the bit about Jerry Logan's print," Burke remarked when he saw the smile on his superior's face.

"Yes." Stone nodded. "It's not conclusive, only a partial print, but it's enough to bring him in for questioning, and to make a proper search of the flat." He planned on bringing Ben Logan in for questioning when he brought his brother in, even though they had no evidence against him yet; he could not imagine that one of the Ice-cream Boys would have been involved in a robbery that netted so much money without including his brother.

Stone returned his attention to the report then.

*****

"IT'S A COINCIDENCE, sir, nothing more," Mason said, not in the least happy with the thought of having his investigation taken from him.

"Not according to this, Justin," Collins said, gesturing to the report on his desk. "The forensic analysis shows a ninety-two percent match between the tyre prints found outside the pavilion at the festival and those at the scene of your hit-and-run. That's enough to consider the two investigations linked." He held up a hand to forestall whatever it was that Mason had opened his mouth to say. "It's settled, sergeant; you will continue to investigate the hit-and-run, but DI Stone will decide the direction your investigation takes, and you will make no arrests without his approval.

"I understand you've made progress with your case, Nathan." Collins turned to his inspector. "Are you close to an arrest?"

Stone nodded, ignoring the venomous look he was being given by Mason. "Forensics found a partial print at the pavilion that matches what we have on record for Jerry Logan. It's not conclusive, but with the witness statement that mentions the tattoo similar to Jerry's new piece of ink, it's enough to bring him in for questioning. I'm off to do that as soon as we're finished here. I want to bring Ben Logan in as well."

"Have you got any evidence against him?"

Stone shook his head. "Not yet, but there were two people involved in the robbery, and the Logan brothers pretty much always work together. If I can find enough evidence to get a conviction against Jerry, I should have enough to convict Ben as well."

"Be careful when you question Ben Logan," Collins cautioned. "You might be right about him being the second blagger, but without evidence you're just fishing. You don't want a solicitor putting a barrier between you and him that makes it difficult to investigate him."

"That shouldn't be a problem, sir," Stone said. "Both the Logan brothers are out on license, if they don't behave themselves they'll go straight back inside. Their solicitors will know that, and won't want to do anything to cause them problems." He knew that without hard evidence he would have to be careful while questioning his suspects, but not as careful as he would have to be if they weren't on license.

"Do you want armed support when you bring the Logans in?" Collins asked. "If they are your blaggers then they've got sawn-off shotguns - they might not hesitate to use them if they think they're about to go back to jail."

Stone considered the question for a short while before shaking his head. "I'd like them on alert, sir, but I'd rather not have them with me. I doubt Ben and Jerry have the shotguns with them, they won't want them found too easily, but if they do have the shotguns close to hand, the sight of an armed response team might create a situation we'd rather avoid.

"What I would like, is a few uniformed officers. I don't really expect trouble, Ben and Jerry both know that resisting arrest will see them back inside, regardless of anything else, but just in case."

*****

"POLICE, OPEN UP!" STONE yelled loudly, banging on the door of the Logan brothers' flat for a second time.

"What?" Ben snapped the question before he even had the door fully open. "I shoulda known it'd be you," he said when he saw who was on the doorstep. "What d'you and the goon squad want?" He eyed the constable with the ram contemptuously.

"We've got some questions for you and your brother, down at the station," Stone told him. "Are you going to come quietly, or do we need to cuff you?"

Ben looked as if he would like nothing more than to resist arrest, but changed his mind when he saw Stone already had a pair of cuffs out, ready. "I wouldn't want to give you the satisfaction," he said.

Stone smiled. "I knew you'd be reasonable. Now, where's Jerry?" he asked as he entered the flat, so he could look for his other suspect. "Where is he, Ben?" he wanted to know, having found the rest of the flat empty.

"No idea," Ben answered innocently. "He could be anywhere; you know what he's like."

"I do. No matter, we'll find him," Stone said indifferently. "By the way, I've got a warrant to search the flat." He put the handcuffs away and took out the search warrant, which he waved in Ben's face. "And the lock-up you've got downstairs."

Ben eyed the warrant for a few seconds, annoyance on his face, and then he grinned. "Knock yourself out, you won't find anything, other than some dirty laundry, and a few rusty tools and an old bike in the lock-up."

"Take him away," Stone directed the constables with him. He watched for a moment as two of the constables led Ben off, in case he was going to resist, and then he, Burke, and the other two constables made a start on searching the flat for anything that would connect the Logans with either the robbery or the hit-and-run.

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# 11

Sighs of relief almost drowned the bell that signalled the end of the class, and the day. The loudest sigh came from next to her, and Alice Keating looked round to see her best friend, Julia Harris, already stuffing her things in her bag, eager to be gone.

"Is Ryan going to be there this afternoon?" Julia asked as the two of them left the classroom and headed down the corridor outside on their way to the exit.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Alice said, bemused by her friend's interest in her brother. "You know what he's like; he'll be around if he's got nothing better to do and nowhere to be. I wouldn't hold your breath on him noticing you this time, if he is around, though. Knowing him, he won't even realise you're there."

"He'll notice me this time," Julia said, a wicked gleam in her eye. "I bought a new bikini at the weekend, it's very sexy, I got it special for today. My parents'd ground me for a year if they saw it."

Alice wondered how skimpy the new bikini was, the previous one had been skimpy enough, but didn't ask, instead she said, "At least the weather's good today, we can have the roof off the pool, and maybe get a bit of a tan."

"Hopefully, Mrs Wembley will have something cold to drink," Julia said. "I'm parched."

"Good afternoon, Miss."

"Hello, Brian," Alice returned her chauffeur's greeting.

Once both girls were settled and belted in, Brian Jacobs slid behind the wheel and started the engine, so he could leave the school grounds. He was so focused on not missing his chance to merge with the traffic flowing past the drive, he didn't notice the van that pulled away from the kerb and began following as he drove away from the school.

**

"DON'T GET TOO CLOSE," Jim instructed his heavily bearded partner.

Crash scowled at the unwanted advice. "I know what I'm doing," he said, his attention on the traffic in front of him, and in particular on the Bentley that was further up the road. Seeing the Keatings' car take a turn up ahead he hit the indicator, so he could follow it around the corner. He followed the Bentley, without closing the gap between the two vehicles, as it took several turns and made its steady way through town towards the Keating home.

"Are you guys ready?" Crash asked of his partners in the back after about five minutes. Up ahead, the Bentley slowed as the lights at the crossing changed, and the moment the car stopped he pulled out from the line of traffic and gunned the engine to race up the road.

Brian was caught by surprise when the white van, which he had seen but paid no attention to, jumped the queue of traffic. Before he could react, it screeched to a halt next to the Bentley and the side door flew open.

"Kidnap!" he yelled the warning as two masked men jumped from the back of the van and reached for the rear door of the car. He was about half a second too slow in hitting the central door lock.

Alice knew, intellectually, that she was a potential target for kidnappers, she had never thought it would happen, though. The sight of the two dark-clothed and masked men leaping from the van froze her where she sat; it wasn't until the rear door of the Bentley was yanked open that she recovered from her shock and regained the ability to move. She had her hand on the passenger side door when her ankle was grabbed.

Automatically, she kicked out and fought to get free. She writhed and twisted every which way as she desperately struggled to break the grip on her ankle. Slowly, inexorably, though, she was dragged through the car, despite her grabbing at everything within reach to stop what was happening.

Brian cursed himself for not having put the locks on before starting the engine and quickly released them again. He then took off his seatbelt and threw open the door next to him, so he could get out. The moment he was on his feet he lunged for the figure that had hold of Alice, confident that his past as a Royal Marine would stand him in good stead in confronting the man trying to pull his charge from the car.

"Bloody help me," Jim ordered his partner, who was standing uselessly at his side. He was not unused to fighting, and could generally hold his own, but he was hampered by the need to keep hold of Alice.

Unlike his partners, Lewis was not a fighter, and he had no intention of getting physical with the chauffeur, who was a more imposing figure than him. Instead he reached into the rear of the Bentley to take hold of Alice Keating's flailing foot and help pull her from the car.

When he failed to break the grip the would-be kidnapper had on his charge, Brian changed tactics. He let go of the man's arm and wrapped his own around his neck, putting him in a chokehold; once he was unconscious, Brian figured he would release Alice automatically. He had no sooner secured him in a headlock, however, when he was forced to let him go as a punch to the kidney sent pain shooting through his body.

Crash smashed a fist into the chauffeur's kidney a second time, he then pulled him away from Jim and threw him into the side of the van. A kick to the back of the knee made Brian fall forward, and Crash smashed his head into the side door of the van; twice more he did that until the chauffeur's body went limp and blood ran down his face.

"Get on with it," he snapped at his partners, who were still trying to drag Alice from the car. From the back pocket of Jim's combat trousers, he took the envelope that was sticking out, which he shoved into the inside pocket of Brian Jacob's jacket. That done, he returned to his previous position behind the wheel, where he revved the engine impatiently.

With two men pulling at her, Alice found it impossible to save herself, and with a final heave, she was yanked from the Bentley to land with a painful thud on the concrete.

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# 12

Stone got the preliminaries out of the way and then got started on the interview with Ben Logan.

"As you've already been made aware, Mr Logan, we are investigating an armed robbery and a hit-and-run, two incidents we believe are linked - incidents we have reason to believe you were involved in. You're currently out of prison on license, so perhaps you would like to take this opportunity to tell us everything, in which case things may go easier for you when it comes to sentencing."

Ben grinned. "Whenever you guys say something like that, I know you ain't got shit and you're fishing. You'd think you'd learn. I've been behaving meself since I got out: signin' on, lookin' for working, checkin' in with probation."

"Acting like an idiot outside the Horse and Jockey," Stone added. "You and your brother both. I suppose you know you could already be back inside, if your probation officer hadn't given you a break, undeservedly, I'm sure.

"Where were you on Sunday night?" he asked.

"Depends what time you're talkin' 'bout," Ben said. "I were a few places on Sunday."

"How about between half one and three in the morning. Where were you then?"

"At a mate's place," Ben replied after a brief hesitation. "Got there bit afta twelve. Picked up takeaways on the way from the pub, and by 'bout half one we was all pretty much out o' our heads. He had a coupla six packs in the fridge and some tequila - we finished them off while playin' Call of Duty."

"Who's we?" Burke asked.

"Me, Jerry, and Ash."

"Ash who?" Burke couldn't remember an Ash being on the list of known associates for the Logans.

Ben glanced at his solicitor but answered without consulting him. "David Ashford."

"Where can we find him?" Stone gave Ben a hard look when he didn't answer. "You know how this works, Ben, this isn't your first time here; if you want to use Mr Ashford as your alibi, we need to be able to speak to him. It'll also help if you can tell us what takeaway you visited so we can see if anyone there remembers you."

"Ash lives on Cutler Street, seventeen. I forget the name o' the takeaway, it's the kebab place on St Peter's Road."

"Does Mr Ashford have a criminal record?" Stone asked, drawing the first response of the interview from the duty solicitor tasked with representing Ben Logan.

"I fail to see what possible relevance Mr Ashford's criminal record, if he has one, has to do with him providing an alibi for my client."

"Well, firstly, Mr Valentine, if Mr Ashford has a criminal record then it calls into question any alibi he might provide for Ben here, and secondly, as previously mentioned, your client is out on license. One of the conditions of that license is that he avoids contacting or associating with known criminals, specifically anyone he has been convicted with at any time in the past; the only exception, of course, being his brother." Ben couldn't be kept from having contact with his family, but Stone would have preferred it if he was. "So, does Mr Ashford have a criminal record?" Stone asked for a second time.

This time Ben did consult with his solicitor. They spoke in hushed tones, their heads close together, for about a minute and a half before Valentine responded to the question. "To the best of my client's knowledge, Mr Ashford was convicted of handling stolen goods when he was twenty-one, for which he served a short prison sentence, but hasn't been in trouble since. Mr Logan's parole officer is aware of the friendship, and has spoken to Mr Ashford, and is satisfied that the association does not breach Mr Logan's license."

"Fair enough," Stone said. He would check on that, but left it for the moment. "You said your brother was with you at Mr Ashford's place on Sunday night, can you explain how, if that's the case, he came to be identified as one of the two people who robbed the Stag Inn's pavilion at the Rock Radio Music Festival?"

Ben smiled. "You said yesterday the person seen had a tattoo similar to what my brother had done, that ain't no positive identification. Why don't you just admit it, you're fishing; you ain't got nothing, and you're hoping I'll say summat you can make your case with. Give up."

There was a contemptuous look on Ben Logan's face, and Stone enjoyed seeing it disappear as he said, "That may have been the case yesterday, but now we have fingerprints, confirmed as your brother's, that place him in the pavilion."

Before Ben could respond there was a knock on the door of the interview room.

"What is it?" Stone asked of Grey once he had suspended the interview and left the room.

"The DCI wants to see you, sir."

"Does he know I'm in the middle of an interview?"

"Yes, sir; he said it's urgent," Grey told him. "He wanted to see you immediately. Mason's already with him."

Bemused, Stone re-entered the interview room. "Take Mr Logan back to his cell, Stephen; we'll have to finish this interview later, something's come up." He closed the door on the protests from Valentine, leaving his partner to deal with the solicitor.

"You wanted to see me, sir," he said when he entered the DCI's office. He hoped there was a good reason for his interview being interrupted - he couldn't imagine that Mason had come up with something to complain about that would be considered sufficient to disturb an interview, but he also couldn't think why else the DCI would want to see both him and Mason.

"Yes, Nathan." Collins waited until Stone had taken the seat next to Mason before he said anything more. "I've got to take you off the armed robbery and the hit-and-run. A situation has arisen," he said quickly when he saw that Stone was about to protest. "Something important."

"What kind of situation?" Stone asked, wondering what Mason could possibly have said that would have convinced Collins to take him off either case, let alone both.

"There's been a kidnapping," Collins said, surprising Stone.

"What sort of kidnapping?" Stone asked when he had recovered. "A snatch and grab on some kid on the way home from school?" It was the right time of day for that kind of thing.

"Early details are limited, but it looks more serious than that. I want you to go out to Pine Street and take charge of the investigation; I'm putting Justin in charge of the armed robbery case."

Mason couldn't conceal his pleasure at that news, though under that pleasure his demeanour suggested that he would have liked to be put in charge of the kidnapping, which was likely to be the more high-profile of the two investigations.

"So make sure he's up to date with everything before you go."

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# 13

Lewis looked unhappily at the unconscious form in front of him. "Did you have to hit her?" he asked.

Jim looked up from where he was securing the schoolgirl's wrists and ankles, and said simply, "Yes. It was either that or let her carry on yelling. Would you rather I left her to tell everyone we pass that we've got her back here?"

"She secure back there?" Crash asked from up front. He risked a glance over his shoulder, but quickly returned his attention to the road ahead - the last thing he wanted was to have an accident while they had a kidnapped teen in the back.

"She won't be waking up anytime soon," Jim assured his partner. "Even if she does, she won't be getting free."

"Good, 'cause we're coming up on the switch."

Two streets later, Crash turned onto a side road and slowed the van. His eyes moved constantly between his mirrors and the road ahead, checking for potential witnesses to their moving an unconscious and tied up young girl about. The street was empty, thankfully, and he brought the van to a stop alongside an almost identical vehicle; the only difference between the two, other than the license number, was the name of a local plumbing firm emblazoned along the side of the parked van.

"We're here."

Immediately, Jim appeared from the back of the van. He leaned on the passenger seat as he peered out through the windscreen. "All clear?" he asked, his eyes darting up and down the street.

"Yeah, we're clear." Crash remained where he was, maintaining a watch, while his partners climbed from the van and quickly transferred the inert and trussed up Alice Keating to the new vehicle. It took barely thirty seconds to move the girl, and once it was done he drove off up the road to park the van.

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# 14

Stone found a crowd at the crime scene when he got there, and among them was Louisa Orchard; it didn't surprise him to see the journalist there, it was a rare occasion when he didn't find her at a major crime scene - she often reached them before he did.

"I guess we're not going to be able to keep this quiet," he remarked to Burke as they climbed from their car.

"Did you really think we'd be able to?" Burke asked as he followed his partner up the road; they had been forced to park thirty yards from the scene because of the crowd, and the line of traffic stuck there by what had happened.

"Nate. Inspector Stone! Are you taking charge of the investigation here? I thought you were in charge of the robbery case at the music festival."

Stone did his best to ignore Louisa, who had spotted him before he even made it through the crowd, let alone to the ambulance that was his destination. Just then he was more interested in finding out what was going on than in talking to the press, she was persistent, however.

"Is it true three men dragged a girl from the Bentley? It's Owen Keating's car, isn't it? Was the girl his daughter? Does her kidnapping have anything to do with the attempted takeover of his company by Feliks International? The rumour is that Grigori Feliks has connections with the mafia back in Russia; could this be an attempt to convince Keating to sell his business to the Russian mafia?"

Reluctantly, Stone turned to face the journalist. "I've only just got here, Louisa; why don't you give me a chance to find out what's happened before you bombard me with questions."

Louisa ignored the request. "Will you be investigating the possible mafia connection? How will you go about doing so? Will you be talking to the Russian authorities to get their help with investigation?"

"You have a vivid imagination, Louisa," Stone told her. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get started. If I find anything the press needs to know, I'll speak to you." With that he turned his back on the journalist and continued to the ambulance.

He was not happy that the press was there already, even if it was only in the form of Louisa Orchard currently, but consoled himself with the thought that as fanciful as Louisa's suggestions might be, she would only print what she could confirm.

"Well, constable, is she right?" Stone asked of the officer standing by the ambulance. "Is the kidnapped girl the daughter of Owen Keating?" He hoped not - it was bad enough that a girl had been kidnapped; if it should turn out that she was the daughter of one of the most prominent businessmen in the county, he was sure that an excess of pressure would be brought to bear on him to see her returned home safely as quickly as possible, and that would make an already difficult job more so.

"It's not certain at the moment, sir," the constable replied. "But it looks like it. The car is definitely registered to Owen Keating, and, according to the schoolbooks we found in the back, Alice Keating was in the car, and she isn't now."

Stone felt like swearing but resisted. "What do we know so far?"

"It looks as though Alice Keating was being driven home from school with a friend, Julia Harris. When they stopped at the lights a van pulled out from the line of traffic and drew up alongside the Bentley; two men got out and proceeded to drag a girl, Alice Keating, we assume, from the car. Brian Jacobs, who was driving the two girls, tried to stop them taking the girl. He was attacked by the driver of the van and badly hurt, he's been taken to hospital already. After that the girl was put in the back of the van, and the kidnappers drove away in a hell of a hurry."

"Okay, the driver can't talk to us right now," Stone said. "But why can't the missing girl's friend confirm whether it was Alice Keating that was kidnapped? Surely she can tell us who got taken - could she be Alice Keating, and the kidnapped girl the friend?"

"She can't tell us anything at the moment. Oh, she's alright physically, but she's in shock. She's in the ambulance, hasn't said much so far - she's practically a zombie. She's done nothing but stare into space since I got here, hasn't given the slightest sign that she's aware of anything or anyone, not even when they're right in front of her.

"We are pretty sure she's Julia Harris, not Alice Keating, though."

"Why's that?"

"Sergeant Wells googled her when we found out who the car belonged to, and realised the girl we've got can't tell us anything - she's not Alice Keating, so we figure the kidnapped girl has got to be her."

It was a long way from conclusive, but Stone accepted it for the moment. "Has anyone notified her family yet, or the Keatings?"

"Not yet, sir. Sergeant Wells thought it would be best to wait for you to do that."

"Probably a good idea," Stone admitted. He waited then for his partner, who had joined Sergeant Wells in his questioning of the witnesses, to finish; there was no point in him examining the car, not when doing so might damage any evidence forensics might find when they got there. "Anything useful?" he asked of Burke when he was done with the witnesses.

Burke flipped through his notepad, stopping when he reached the beginning of his scribbled notes. "We've got a few things," he said. "We have seven witnesses who were on the scene at the time of the kidnapping, and eleven more who were in the vicinity. I don't think those eleven are going to be much use to us, though; they were all either in the surrounding shops, or too far away to see any details that will help us.

"All of the seven main witnesses agree that the vehicle used by the kidnappers was a white Ford Transit, and that it was in need of a wash - bloody filthy in the words of one witness. One of them, fortunately, had the presence of mind to note the license number 'Y715 CLH'. There were three kidnappers in total, all of them dressed in black; two of them wore hoods or balaclavas, the witnesses disagree on that point, while the face of the third, the driver, was hidden by a heavy black beard.

"Times for the duration of the kidnapping range from one minute to five minutes." Burke was used to the lack of consistency between eyewitnesses, but that didn't mean he liked it. "There are two recordings of the incident, or parts of it at least, made on phones, that put the time at between two and a half and three minutes."

"We've got video of the kidnapping?" Stone asked, pleased by the news. Like his partner, he knew how unreliable eyewitnesses could be; they were good to have, but too easily confused or discredited by defence counsel - photographs or video that couldn't be disputed were better.

"Yes, one was made from about twenty feet away, while the other is from further away. We also have a series of photographs. I've taken a quick look at them, they appear to be good quality and should confirm the license number of the van. With one exception," Burke continued, "the owners of the phones have agreed to surrender them as evidence."

"Who's the holdout?"

Burke nodded in the direction of a young man who was standing a little apart from the rest of the witnesses. "It's a new phone, apparently, and he doesn't want to give it up."

"I'll have a word with him," Stone said. "Anything else?"

"The lady in the green top is the driver of the Peugeot 205 in front of the Keatings' Bentley, she was closer to what happened than anyone else, and is of the opinion that the beard of the driver was a fake."

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# 15

Unlike his partner, Stone found it hard to sit and wait patiently; instead he paced up and down the lobby of Griffin Games, looking at the magazines, posters and other displays that made it clear Owen Keating's company was a leader in the European computer games market.

After an interminable wait, a young woman approached from the lifts. "Inspector Stone?" she queried.

Stone nodded after turning away from a poster, which showed the company's newest franchise - Luke Kane: Treasure Hunter.

"If you'll follow me, inspector." She turned on her heel and strode briskly back to the lifts.

"You are?" Stone asked as he, Burke and the mystery lady ascended.

"Sally Bryant, Mr Keating's assistant."

Stone filed the name away in case it should be important, and then followed Sally Bryant along the corridor after leaving the lift on the top floor. They entered a spacious outer office, where they were acknowledged by a middle-aged woman seated at a desk to one side of the double doors that led, Stone assumed, to Owen Keating's office. "Mr Keating will see you momentarily," she said the moment she saw them; her demeanour was professional, but there was a look in her eyes that made it all too plain she did not approve of her employer's day being disrupted, especially by the police.

Stone only had time to look around quickly before a buzz sounded from the phone on the secretary's desk.

The secretary listened for a moment, said, "Yes, sir," and then hung up the phone." Mr Keating will see you now," she told the two detectives.

The first thing Stone noticed when he entered Owen Keating's office was the gigantic screen on the wall - he estimated it was about one hundred and fifty inches, far bigger than anything he had seen before. As he watched, a man, vaguely reminiscent of Indiana Jones in appearance, leaped across a crevasse, scrambled up a wall and dropped down to hide while an armed thug searched the darkness with a torch. The scene shifted then to show the ground collapse under the Indiana Jones figure, leaving him to fall a significant distance before hitting the ground. When he got to his feet and looked around, he was in a dimly lit chamber whose walls were decorated with intricate carvings.

"It's going to be a huge hit."

The statement drew Stone's attention away from the screen. "It certainly looks good," he remarked, though he wasn't sure looking good was enough to make the game a success.

"I'll be getting a copy," Burke said, his eyes still on the screen, where he watched Luke Kane - presumably - burst into the middle of a group of thugs to rescue a young woman tied to an altar, over which loomed a multi-armed idol. "I've enjoyed everything you've produced so far, even Undead Evil 4, and it took me forever to figure out how to kill Carter Weyland."

Owen Keating's mouth lifted at the corners. "There's a trick to it; if you shoot the environment instead of Carter, you bring it down on him, injuring him; killing him's a lot easier then. Plus, there's a few little bonuses to be found."

Burke nodded. "I figured that out, but not until my fourth run through, when I already had all the achievements."

"Wait till you play Legacy; if you think Undead Evil 4 is tough, you're going to find 5 a nightmare," Keating told him; he seemed amused by the idea of people struggling with his game. Pressing a button on the remote control on his desk he changed the images on the screen - they now showed a female, dressed in military style clothing, fighting a group of undead monsters.

"Is that Jasmine MacNally?" Burke asked as he watched the woman chop off an arm and then cave in the head of another monster. "I thought she died in UE2."

"You'll have to play the game to see how she's back."

Though he was amused to see his usually reserved partner so animated, Stone knew he had to bring conversation around to their reason for being there. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr Keating, but we are here on a matter of the utmost importance and urgency."

"Yes, of course, sorry," Keating apologised. "I tend to get a little over-excited when I'm talking about our games. So, inspector, what can I help you with?"

"I'm afraid we're here with bad news," Stone said. "And there's no way to sugar-coat it. Approximately an hour and a quarter ago, after leaving school, your daughter, Alice, was kidnapped."

The colour drained from Keating's features and, white-faced, he sagged in his chair. His breath came in short sharp gasps, and Stone feared he was having a heart-attack. It was several long moments before he recovered, enough at least to straighten up a little, though he still looked as if he had just survived an encounter with a phantom. "What happened?" he asked hesitantly. "Who took my little girl?"

"We don't know at this time," Burke answered before Stone could say anything. "We have some witnesses who were able to tell us that your daughter was taken by three people in a white van; we have the license number, and are confident we will catch your daughter's kidnappers and have her home safe, soon."

Stone wished Burke hadn't said that. He could understand wanting to reassure the upset father, but unfounded confidence was not the way to go about it. "I realise this will be of little comfort to you right now, Mr Keating," he said in his most compassionate and professional voice. "But based on what we know at this time; we believe your daughter was kidnapped for financial reasons. Not...not for any other reasons."

If it was possible, Owen Keating went whiter than he had before - his face took on the sickly pallor of someone nearing the end of a long-term and fatal illness. Both Stone and Burke started round the desk, but Keating waved them away, indicating that he was alright.

"Do you have any enemies who might be responsible for taking your daughter?" Stone asked, once Keating no longer looked as though he needed medical attention.

Puzzled, Keating shook his head. "No, I have no enemies, I just run a computer games company. Why would you think I have enemies?"

"It's a possible line of enquiry, Mr Keating; after all, you are rich, and becoming rich can involve making enemies. Then there's the recent attempted takeover of your company by Feliks International; as I understand it, the owner has been linked to the Russian mafia. It's possible that he has resorted to extreme measures to get his hands on your company."

A quick bark of laughter escaped Keating, surprising him as much as it did the two detectives. It was enough to bring a touch of colour back to his face, making him look less unhealthy. "Grigori Feliks is not connected with organised crime, in Russia, or anywhere else, at least not as far as I'm aware. He's a tough businessman, and used to getting what he wants, I can certainly vouch for that, but that's all.

"His interest in buying this company, other than it being a good asset for anyone, stemmed from his favourite grandson's interest in the Undead Evil series. I wasn't prepared to sell the company, but we were able to make a deal which we are both happy with."

"Can I ask the nature of that deal? It might have a bearing on your daughter's kidnapping?" Stone said when he saw that Keating was about to say something.

After a moment, during which he appeared to be trying to work out what the inspector was thinking, Keating shrugged. "It's not public knowledge yet, and the agreement allows Grigori to make the announcement, but as long as you keep it to yourself it should be okay. Grigori owns a lot of companies, among them a production company and a publishing company; the agreement allows Grigori's companies to produce films, television series and books using characters from the Undead Evil series and set in the UE universe. We also agreed to include a character named after Grigori's grandson in the next game.

"I can't go into any more detail at this time but, given the agreement, I can't imagine that Grigori would have had anything to do with Alice being taken."

Stone nodded. "I think you're right, we can rule Mr Feliks out. To be honest, Mr Keating, I didn't consider it very likely, but I had to ask."

Keating nodded understandingly.

"Whoever has kidnapped your daughter, we will catch them and bring Alice home safely," Stone said, projecting as much confidence as he could. "My superior has requested a technical expert from Scotland Yard," he continued. "They should be here in a couple of hours, and will help us with tracing the kidnappers when they get in touch. We'll need to set ourselves up at your home, and speak to your family and your household staff; we might even need to speak to some of your employees here." When it became clear that Owen Keating was having difficulty taking things in, Stone signalled his partner to fetch the man a drink from the bar that sat discreetly in the corner of the office.

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# 16

Burke knew he had found the right room when he saw the constable seated to one side of the door.

"Everything alright, Hanks?" he asked the young officer.

Hanks jumped to his feet at the detective's approach. "Yes, sergeant, no problems so far - they're both still out of it."

Burke nodded and pushed the door open, he then held it so the couple with him could enter. "I'm sorry your daughter hasn't been given a room of her own," he said once they were all inside. "But it was thought best if she and Mr Jacobs were put in a room together, so they can be protected easier."

"Protected! Why should Julia need protecting?" Mrs Harris asked in a worried voice as she approached the right-hand bed, which held her daughter. Julia showed no sign of being aware that her parents were there.

"We have no reason for thinking that she does," Burke said reassuringly. "It's simply a precaution. She is a material witness to a serious crime, the kidnapping of Alice Keating, as is Mr Jacobs. There is a chance, though we consider it unlikely, that the kidnappers will try to keep them from talking to us. Don't worry," he said quickly in response to the alarm his words had inspired in Julia Harris' parents. "As I said, we don't consider it likely. Just in case, though, there will be a constable stationed outside this room at all times, and the hospital's security staff have been warned to keep an eye out for anyone acting suspiciously in this area."

"Why isn't Julia responding?" William Harris wanted to know. He waved a hand in front of his daughter's face, and then shook her shoulder, but there was no reaction from her. Her eyes were open and fixed on a spot on the wall opposite. "Did they do something to her?"

Sheila Harris' hand flew to her mouth, and she went white as she imagined the things that could have been done to her daughter. None of the possibilities that occurred to her were good, and she sagged against the bed.

"No, they didn't do anything to Julia," Burke reassured her. "She's in shock; it's understandable after what she witnessed. She'll come out of it in time, probably by morning; for now, the doctors want to keep an eye on her."

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# 17

With DC Grey at his side, DS Mason walked up the path to Seventeen Cutler Street. He would rather have been at the station, questioning Jerry Logan, but the second half of the Ice-Cream Boys was still to be found.

Mason knocked loudly on the door and rang the bell, making sure that if he was home, David Ashford would hear him. He was on the doorstep for the best part of a minute before he heard footsteps approaching, and then the door swung open. The unhappy, and slightly contemptuous, look on the face of the huge man framed in the door told Mason that both he and Grey had been recognised as detectives, and their profession was not well thought of.

"What d'you want?" the giant of a man asked in a deep voice that was intended to discourage them.

"David Ashford?" Mason asked.

Large - an understatement - and slightly menacing, the figure looked down on Mason and Grey for a second before nodding. "That's me, what d'you want?" he asked again.

"Detective Sergeant Mason and Detective Constable Grey," Mason said. "We need to ask you a few questions, can we come in?" He stepped forward, as though he was going to force his way into the house.

Despite being big enough at six-five, and seventeen stone of muscle, to keep the detective out with ease, Ashford stepped back. He let Mason in without a vocal protest, though his expression made it all too plain that he would rather have told him where to go.

"Well, Mr Logan," Mason said when he reached the living room and saw the figure on the sofa. "This is a surprise; we've been looking all over for you."

Annoyance written on his face, Jerry Logan paused the game he was playing. "You can't have been lookin' hard," he remarked. "I've been 'ere, all day." The slur in his voice revealed that the can of lager on the coffee table in front of him was not his first.

"Well, we've found you now, and we have some questions we'd like to ask you down at the station. Chris," Mason turned to his partner, "would you take Mr Logan out to the car and keep an eye on him, while I speak to Mr Ashford."

Briefly, Mason thought Jerry was going to protest, or make a break for it - his eyes darted around the room as if he was searching for a means of escape. After a second or so, though, he got to his feet and allowed himself to be led from the room without complaint, and without resistance. Mason was glad about that, the paperwork resulting from someone resisting arrest and breaching their license conditions was a pain he preferred not to have to deal with.

Once he heard the front door close on his partner and Jerry Logan, Mason turned his attention to David Ashford, who fixed him with a very unfriendly look. "Why don't you have a seat, Mr Ashford," he suggested; looking up at the bigger man throughout an interview was likely to hurt his neck.

Slowly, as if to make it clear that he was doing so because it was what he wanted to do, and not what he had been told to do, Ash sat. "So, what d'you want?" he asked impatiently when the detective before him didn't speak straight away. "You said you have some questions for me, what are they? I got better things to do with my time than talk to a pig."

Mason ignored the insult, knowing it had been made deliberately, with the intention of getting a reaction. "Where were you on Sunday night?" he asked once he judged he had kept the man waiting for long enough. He didn't think Ashford was involved in the robbery, he was far too big to be either of the armed robbers, but he was sure the man had agreed to provide his friends with an alibi - he just had to prove that.

"What the hell d'ya want to know that for?" Ash demanded suspiciously. "I ain't done nothin' wrong."

"I didn't say you have; is there any reason why I might think you have done something wrong?" Mason asked.

"No, but you pigs are all the same; once a guy's got a record you think he can't go straight, and you're always trying to find him guilty of something." His dislike of the police was evident.

"If you've done nothing wrong then you've nothing to worry about. Now, where were you on Sunday night?"

"I was in the pub, having a good old pissup."

"Which pub, and until when?"

"The Horse and Jockey; I was there till it closed, 'bout midnight, something like that."

"Is there anyone who can confirm that?" Having listened to the recording of the interview with Ben Logan, Mason knew the details of the alibi the suspected armed robber had given.

"Ben and Jerry, the landlord, Nick Lansing, Charlie and Magda, the barmaids, and probably a bunch of the regulars." Ash smiled. "It wasn't a busy night but there were a reasonable bunch of guys there."

That tallied with what Ben Logan had said, but Mason didn't consider it confirmation of his alibi. "That takes you up to midnight, or thereabouts," he said. "What about after that? What did you do after you left the pub?"

"I came home."

"Alone?"

"No, Ben and Jerry were with me."

"Did you come straight home from the pub?" Mason moved over to the window and, keeping one eye on Ashford, flicked the net curtain aside so he could look out and check on his partner and Jerry Logan - everything was okay as far as he could tell.

Ash shook his head. "Not straight away; we stopped off at the takeaway, Nando's, for some grub. Once we had that we came back here and finished off some beers I had in the fridge while playing Call of Duty. We were here for the rest of the night. That good enough for you? D'you need anything else?"

Mason shook his head, as if accepting Ashford's story, but then he spoke again, "Ben Logan gave us the same story when we questioned him down at the station; the funny thing is, he couldn't explain how, if he and his brother were here with you, two people matching their descriptions were seen leaving the scene of an armed robbery that took place just after one o'clock on Sunday morning at the Rock Radio Music Festival. Nor could he explain how his brother's fingerprint came to be in the pavilion where the robbery occurred." He paused to let that sink in, noting the nervous look that appeared in David Ashford's eyes. "Perhaps you can explain that."

Ash was silent as his mind raced; he wasn't dumb, but neither was he very good at thinking on his feet. He couldn't think of an answer, and he didn't want to say anything that might get his friends, or himself, into more trouble than they might already be in.

"Perhaps you'd like some more time to think about what you and the Logans were doing on Sunday night," Mason suggested. "How about down at the station."

Ash surged to his feet, his face darkening, and Mason had to resist the urge to back up and put some more space between them. "Don't do anything stupid," he said warningly. "It won't do you any good; just sit back down."

"I'm not having you pigs set me up." The muscles in Ash's huge arms flexed and rippled and his meaty fists clenched and unclenched, hinting unpleasantly at the damage they could do. "I already did two years because of you bastards, for what, a few lousy radios."

"It was a little more than that, Mr Ashford," Mason said, having looked at David Ashford's short criminal record before coming to talk to him, "as you know. I can assure you, though, that I have no intention of setting you up, for anything. If you've done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to worry about; I simply want to confirm the alibi that you and Ben Logan have provided for both Ben and his brother."

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# 18

Stone turned away from the gate, glad that Louisa Orchard was still the only reporter he had to deal with, and made his way up the drive. He could only wonder how much longer it would be before more reporters, perhaps even some from the national newspapers, and representatives of the news networks, arrived to report on the kidnapping of Alice Keating - he hoped it would be a while, but he suspected that sooner than any of them would like, it wouldn't be possible to leave the property without being bombarded by questions and having dozens of photographs taken.

"Okay," he said briskly as he entered the library, where the staff had assembled at his instruction. "I'm sure by now you are all aware of what has happened." He had said nothing to the staff himself, and he had instructed his officers not to say anything, but he didn't doubt that the news of Alice Keating's kidnapping had reached them anyway.

There was a chorus of nods from the staff, revealing that he had been right. To a person, they wore shocked expressions, with the housekeeper and the butler, whom Stone presumed were the longest-serving of the Keatings' servants, seeming almost grief-stricken.

"I want it understood that none of you are to speak to the press, or any news reporters, or indeed anyone, about this without my permission, is that clear?" Another bout of synchronised nodding answered him. "Good. Now, I will be speaking to each of you in turn about this."

"Why? Do you think one of us was involved?" A concerned voice asked.

Stone identified the speaker as Ken Williams, one of the two junior gardeners - he had been introduced to all the staff as they were assembled, but he knew nothing about them yet beyond their names, and their positions within the household. "Not at all," he said, making a mental note to have the young man checked out.

He had no idea if Williams had anything to do with Alice Keatings' kidnapping, but the concern in his voice suggested he wasn't happy at the thought of being questioned by the police. Not only that, but the way he glanced at Stone and then quickly looked away, without being able to take his eyes off him completely, indicated he had something to hide. "But it's possible you know something that will help us find Miss Keating and catch the people who have taken her.

"I gather from Mr Keating that there are some staff members not here at present," Stone said, looking around the assembled group.

"Yes, that's right," Vincent Chambers, the house-manager, said with a nod of his head. "It's Hamish Gordon's half day, he's the senior gardener, and Katya Bilinski, the second maid, is on holiday - she's gone home to visit her family, in Poland I believe." He looked to the housekeeper, who doubled as cook, for confirmation.

"That's right, she's due back on Monday," Mrs Wembley - the moment he was told her name Stone had thought of the old sitcom 'On The Up' and its catchphrase 'Just the one, Mrs Wembley' - said, her face the most troubled of all the staff.

"Then of course there's Brian, who's in hospital," Chambers continued.

Stone waited until the house-manager, a position he still thought of as butler, whom he had questioned last, left the library, only then did he turn to Burke. "What do you think?" he asked.

Burke allowed himself some time to consider the question before he answered. "That gardener, the young one, Williams, is hiding something," he said. "If I had to guess, I'd say it's drugs, or something like that, rather than anything to do with the kidnapping, but we'll have to check him out."

Stone nodded.

"That maid, Gabby, could do with being checked out as well; there was something about her. I'm not sure what, but I'm positive she's hiding something."

Mentally, Stone reviewed the interview with the maid; he hadn't picked up on anything at the time, and still couldn't on reflection, but he trusted his partner's instincts. Over the years they had worked together he had learned that if one of them missed something, the other was almost guaranteed to pick up on it; between them, suspects and witnesses were rarely able to get away with anything.

"I think we should have them all checked out," he said, "just to be on the safe side."

There was a knock on the library door and Burke crossed to find out who was there - it was Owen Keating.

"Did you find out anything?" Keating asked, his face drawn. He bore only a vague resemblance to the bright and animated games developer who had talked to them about the games his company was preparing to release.

Stone didn't answer straight away, instead he asked a question of his own, "How's your wife? What did the doctor say?"

Keating moved into the room and settled into one of the comfortable armchairs near the windows that looked out on the colourful grounds at the rear of the house. "She's in shock, it's hit her very hard. I don't think she ever expected anything like this to happen - neither did I, if I'm honest." He was silent for a moment. "The doctor's given her something to calm her down and help her sleep; hopefully she'll feel better when she wakes." His tone was positive, but his body language reflected what he really thought.

It was no surprise to Stone that Owen Keating had the air of a man who found himself in the middle of the worst nightmare he could imagine. As a father of two, the possibility of losing one of his children was something that preyed on his mind; to lose one would be bad enough, but to have one taken away - he was sure that must be a thousand times more terrible. His job as a detective made it all the worse because he too frequently saw the evils that men, and women, inflicted on each other and on children.

"Hopefully, by the time your wife wakes, we'll have some good news. Were you able to get in touch with your son?"

Keating shook his head. "He's not answering his phone. He's probably off somewhere being an idiot," he said disapprovingly.

Stone couldn't disagree with him - Ryan Keating was a regular at one or other of Branton's police stations, most often the central station where Stone worked, for he had a propensity for getting into trouble, whether it was for being drunk and disorderly, dangerous driving, or for even more serious matters. The elder Keating child featured in the local papers with greater frequency than the rest of his family combined, and never for a good reason.

"Did you learn anything from the staff?" Keating asked.

"Nothing useful at present, but we haven't finished with them yet, it's possible we might still learn something from them. We have leads to be followed up on from the witnesses at the scene as well."

"So, what happens now?"

"Now, Sergeant Burke and I need to go to the station to get the rest of our team working on their assignments; there's a lot that needs to be done, and the quicker the better. Once we've finished at the station, we need to find your gardener to see if he knows anything." Stone straightened his jacket in preparation to leave. "Detective Constable Laughton," he introduced the other man in the library, who had been so silent up to then that he had gone unnoticed, both by Keating and by the servants being questioned, "will remain here as your liaison officer; if you have any questions, or you need anything, before I get back, just ask him."

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# 19

Together, Stone and Burke searched the pub for Hamish Gordon. They found him after a few moments, seated at a table in the regular's bar, a half-empty glass in front of him. His flaming red hair and matching beard, tinged here and there with patches of grey, made him easily recognisable.

While his partner ordered them a couple of cokes, Stone made his way over to where the gardener was watching cricket on the large TV screen that hung over the bar. "Good afternoon, Mr Gordon," he said when he reached the table. "May I sit down?"

"There's plenty of other seats," Hamish Gordon said. He showed no curiosity over how the stranger knew his name as he looked pointedly around at the empty tables to either side of him, and at the stools at the bar.

"I know, Mr Gordon, but I need to ask you a few questions." As he sat, Stone took out his warrant card. "This is my partner, DS Burke," he said as the sergeant arrived with their cokes.

"What sort of questions?" Gordon wanted to know, exhibiting the first sign of curiosity.

"There was an incident this afternoon - your employer's daughter, Alice, was kidnapped while on the way home from school," Stone said, watching the gardener for any sign of guilt.

The old Scotsman's hand froze in the act of lifting his glass to his lips. "Is she alright?" he asked in a voice filled with concern.

"We don't know, we haven't yet had any contact with the kidnappers," Stone told him. "We have no reason for believing they will have harmed her, but until they do get in touch, we can't say for sure. Where were you at a quarter past three, Mr Gordon?" he asked.

"Ye dinnae think I had anything to do with it, do ye?" Gordon's Scottish accent became broader and more noticeable as his voice rose in indignation. "I'd nae hurt a girl, especially no Alice, she's a sweet wee thing."

"We have no reason for thinking you were involved in the kidnapping, sir," Burke assured him. "We simply want to eliminate you from our enquiries. We've already spoken to the rest of the Keatings' staff," he said, wanting to let the man know he wasn't being singled out.

Gordon calmed a little, though his face remained tense. "I was out wi' the wife," he said. "We were at the shops. It's the same ev'ry Wednesday - I finish at one, head home to have a bite to eat, and then take the wife to the shops." It became clear as he spoke that he only lapsed into Scots' dialect when agitated, for as he calmed, his words became more English and less distorted by his accent.

"Is there anyone, other than your wife, who can confirm that you were at the shops between three and half past?" Stone asked.

The expression on Gordon's face was that of a man about to snap and lash out, verbally if not physically, and Stone wondered if he was always so quick to anger, or if there was something behind his reaction. After a couple of deep breaths, he responded in as even a voice as he could manage. "Yes, we bumped into my wife's friend, Tracy, at the shops and stopped for a coffee and a chat. We were there for almost an hour - when that women starts talking, ye cannae stop her."

"What's the last name of this Tracy, and how can we get hold of her? In case it's necessary to confirm what you've told us."

"Ye'd have tae ask the wife. The woman's a nattering pain, I have as little tae do with her as I can." He drained his glass and set it down. "Have ye got anything else tae ask me?"

"We've got a few more questions for you, Mr Gordon," Stone told him.

"I'll tell ye what I can," Gordon said, "but talking's thirsty work." He looked significantly at his empty glass.

Stone took the hint and signalled for his partner to get a fresh drink for the older man. He waited until the amber-filled glass had been set in front of Gordon before he continued, "It's possible that whoever has kidnapped Miss Keating has been to the house recently to gather information in preparation for today. Have you seen anyone suspicious, or heard anyone in the family or staff mention seeing something or someone suspicious, either at the house or in the vicinity?"

"No." Gordon shook his head. "I've nae seen anyone, but that's no a surprise, I'm usually out the back o' the property, and ye cannae see much from there. As fer the staff, I've nae heard them say anything, but Ken, my assistant, is on drugs."

"You know that for certain, do you?" Stone asked.

"No. He often acts a little strange, though, and young Dan, my other assistant, he says he's on drugs, says the boy likes a smoke, if you get what I mean."

That matched his suspicions, and those of his partner, but Stone chose not to say anything about that, instead he asked, "How about deliveries or workmen?" He saw he had confused Gordon, so he explained. "Have there been any deliveries or workmen at the house recently? People you wouldn't normally be suspicious of."

"Ah," Gordon expressed his understanding monosyllabically before taking a long swallow of his lager, draining a third of his glass in one go. "I wouldn't know about deliveries, not unless they were gardening supplies; ye'd have to ask Mr Chambers or Mrs Wembley about deliveries. They did have the pool cleaners in last week, though, I know that."

Stone doubted anything would come of it, nonetheless he made a mental note to have DC Hill look into the pool cleaning company, along with the delivery companies they had already been told about.

"Thank you for your assistance, Mr Gordon." Stone ended the informal interview after another quarter of an hour, when he was sure there was nothing else the gardener could tell him. "You've been very helpful. If you should think of anything, no matter how insignificant it might seem to you, don't hesitate to contact me, no matter what the time." He handed over a card with his number on it before putting in a drink for Gordon at the bar on his way out.

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# 20

Alice woke abruptly. Her eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright as a scream erupted from her throat to echo around the room. She stared around her wildly, trying to pierce the darkness she found herself enveloped in. It was to no avail; the darkness was almost absolute.

She had no idea where she was, but after a moment she did recall what had happened to her. Her heart, which was already racing, shifted into overdrive as the memory of being kidnapped came back to her. Not sure what she was going to find, she hurriedly ran her hands over her body - she calmed only a little when she discovered that she was uninjured, aside from sore spots at her wrists and ankles, and a tenderness on the left side of her jaw, and that the only item of clothing she was missing was her shoes.

"I think Sleeping Beauty's woken," Crash remarked when the scream reached him from upstairs. An amused grin lifted the corners of his mouth as he said, "I hope she's comfortable up there."

A squeak from the armchair diverted his attention for a second time, and looking around he was surprised to see Lewis getting to his feet. "Where're you going?" he asked of his partner.

"To check on Alice," Lewis told him, "and to take her some water and a sandwich."

"What the hell are you doing that for?" Sitting up, Crash swung his legs round and got to his feet, so he could follow Lewis into the kitchen. As he passed the foot of the stairs, his eyes went to the door at its head, it was still closed, locked and bolted as far as he could see, not that he had expected it to be anything else.

"We can't leave her without food and water, especially water."

"Why not? She's only here for a few days, there's no reason for us to have anything to do with her. If you or any of us go into that room, we run the risk of her being able to identify us, and to escape, is that what you want?"

"Of course not," Lewis said quickly, "but we can't leave her without water, she'll get sick." As he spoke, he took a bottle of water from the fridge, as well as a plate of thickly cut Wiltshire ham and some strong cheddar cheese.

Crash wasn't sure if his partner was telling the truth about Alice Keating getting sick if she was made to go without water. It seemed like a reasonable possibility, though - he knew how he felt when he went most of the day without anything to drink; just in case, he let Lewis carry on with what he was doing. He didn't care, personally, what happened to the girl so long as he got his money, but he didn't want Lewis to know that. "If you want to take a chance on her being able to identify you later, that's your lookout, just don't cause me any trouble." With that he turned away and went back to the film he had been watching.

**

THE MOMENT SHE HEARD the sound of a key in a lock, Alice backed up. She didn't know what was behind her, but the door being opened was in front of her, of that she was certain, and she wanted to get away from whoever was entering the room. She had scrambled just a few feet when she backed into a wall, which she began exploring with her fingers. She stopped when the door opened and she was blinded by the light that flooded the room; it wasn't strong, but it was enough to sting her eyes after the darkness.

Alice blinked her eyes rapidly to get them to focus properly. Once she could see the room she was in, and the silhouetted figure that entered it, she hurriedly crawled away until she was in the corner farthest from the door, where she felt a little safer.

"It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," Lewis said as he moved into the room and saw what she was doing. "I've just brought you some water and something to eat, and I thought you'd like some light." He set down the lamp he had brought with him at the side of the room, where it would provide the most illumination.

Alice could now see the room she was in properly, but her eyes remained fixed on the man who approached her. Just then the only thing that mattered was him, her kidnapper.

"Here you go," Lewis said. Stopping in front of the teen, he bent to place the plate he was holding on the floor, he then took a chocolate bar and a bottle of water from his pockets.

"Please, let me go," Alice begged, ignoring the food, even though its very presence made her stomach rumble.

"We will," Lewis told her, "soon."

"Why can't you let me go now?" Please, I won't tell anyone anything, I just want to go home." Tears stood in Alice's eyes and slowly ran down her cheeks as she pleaded with her captor.

"You will, soon. A couple of days and then you can go home, you just have to be patient." Lewis didn't like the distress Alice was displaying, and sought to calm her. "Everything's going to be alright, you'll be home soon enough."

"When?" Alice wailed.

"You'll go home when your father pays up."

Alice's gaze shifted, moving from the relatively non-threatening figure in front of her, to the owner of the new voice. The stubbly and tough-looking person who stood by the door sent a shiver of fear running up and down her spine - there was something about him that spoke of violence. Briefly, the idea had popped into her head that if she made a rush for the door, she could beat the man in front of her to it and maybe escape. The arrival of the second figure pushed the idea from her mind, though - she was afraid of what he would do to her if she tried to escape. Without taking her eyes from the doorway, Alice shuffled about, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them to protect herself.

"What do you mean?" Alice asked in a muffled voice.

"What do you think I mean?" Crash sneered. "We've got you, and your dad's gonna have to pay to get you back, and pay big. You'd better hope he pays up; if he doesn't, things'll get unpleasant for you." With that he strode across the room, grabbed Lewis by the back of his shirt and dragged him away.

He didn't let him go until they were out of the room and he had slammed the door shut. While his partner started down the stairs, Crash locked the door, a more involved process than it should have been, thanks to a touch of paranoia from Jim. Crash had tried to persuade his partner that the lock already on the door was sufficient, but Jim had been insistent, as a result, a heavy duty catch with a padlock had been fitted.

Once he had the door locked, bolted and padlocked, Crash made his way downstairs, where he confronted his partner. "What the hell were you doing?" he wanted to know.

"What do you mean?"

"What d'you mean, what do I mean? Taking her something to eat and drink's one thing; there's no reason for you to be talking to her. D'you want her to be able to identify you when this is all over? Or are you hoping that being nice to her will get the cops to take it easy on you if you get caught?"

Lewis tried to respond to the accusation, but the harshness in Crash's voice, and the look on his face, made the words die on his lips. He doubted that anything he said would make a difference; Crash was going to think whatever he wanted.

**

HUDDLED IN THE CORNER of the room, Alice could hear the raised voice that drifted up to her from downstairs. She couldn't make out what was being said, but the angry tone was enough to keep her where she was. She didn't want to do anything that might draw attention to her, though she did take the opportunity, now that she could, thanks to the light she had been brought, to examine the room she was in. It was barren of furniture, even the carpet had been removed, exposing the bare floorboards she felt under her, while from the ceiling hung a light fitting that was missing a bulb; there was no handle on the door, and a sheet of wood was on the wall across from the door - she assumed it covered a window, though she couldn't be certain.

Finally, her eyes came to rest on the plate and the bottle of water that had been put in front of her. Slowly, as if she suspected they were a trap of some kind, she released her knees and unwound to reach for the bottle of water. When the bottle didn't disappear upon contact, she closed her fingers around it and snatched it up. She drained it without pause and then put the empty bottle to one side. It was then that she saw the bucket in the other corner; how she had missed it before, she didn't know.

What the bucket was for, Alice had no idea, but its presence disturbed her - she suspected its purpose was something she didn't want to discover. Pushing it from her mind she reached for the plate; as troubled and upset as she was, she couldn't ignore the grumbling in her stomach, not when there was food right in front of her.

Alice felt a little better once she had filled her stomach, and after a couple of minutes she pushed herself to her feet. She could no longer hear anything from the two men who had kidnapped her, and that made her worry; she wondered if they might be just outside the room, spying on her. Despite that, she knew she couldn't sit around and do nothing. She was not the kind of person to simply accept a situation, no matter what it was - it was a trait she had inherited from her father, who always did everything he could, no matter what was going on or what inconveniences or difficulties he was facing.

Worried that with every footstep she was going to encounter a squeaky floorboard, which might alert her kidnappers to the fact that she was moving around, she crossed to the bucket. It was shiny red, obviously new, and empty; her examination of it left her with no more idea of its purpose than she had before.

Leaving the bucket, she was sure she would find out what it was for sooner or later, even if she didn't like it, she crossed to the door. When she reached it, she discovered that not only had the handle been removed, but the lock on her side of the door was blocked up. She ran her fingers around the edge of the door, trying to find some way to get it open, to no avail. She gave up on that after a fruitless couple of minutes, and made her way over to the board nailed to the wall opposite; she was sure it covered a window, a possible means of escape for her, and after examining it she thought she might be able to uncover it.

She was forced to abandon her efforts to pry the board away from the wall after she sliced her palm open, drove a splinter under one nail, and nearly tore another nail off. She might have continued, despite the injuries, if there had been any sign that she was getting anywhere in removing the board, but she wasn't.

Frustrated, and depressed by her lack of success, Alice sank to the floor beneath the window. Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped to her blouse as she hugged her knees to her chest and sucked at the bloody wound on the palm of her right hand.

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# 21

Burke was already at the Keating house when Stone got there. They had split up after briefing their team at the station and assigning duties; Burke had returned to Griffin Games to collect a list of personnel dismissed from the company within the past two years, while Stone had gone home to let his wife know he would be working overnight, and to collect a change of clothes.

Stone found his partner in the kitchen. "I see you're making the most of the situation, Stephen," he remarked, nodding at the plate of chicken, covered in a sauce of some kind, new potatoes, peas, carrots and cauliflower.

"I have a plate for you as well, inspector, if you're hungry," Mrs Wembley said, getting to her feet. "And there's fresh coffee in the pot."

That was music to Stone's ears. "Thanks." He poured himself a cup of coffee and accepted the offered meal gratefully - he hadn't wanted to take the time to stop for a meal at home. "Justin picked up Jerry Logan earlier," he told his partner as he cut himself a forkful of chicken and lifted it to his mouth.

"Where'd he find him? Burke asked after washing down the last mouthful of his dinner with a sip of coffee.

"David Ashford's, apparently," Stone answered. "He went there to check on Ben's alibi, and found his brother there, playing a game and drinking beer. It seems Ashford got a bit aggro when he was questioned about Ben's alibi, so Justin ended up bringing both of them in, so they can sober up before he questions them again."

"Did he have any problems?"

"He said Ashford got a bit aggro, but that's all. Why do you ask?"

Burke smiled. "I looked up Ashford's file while you were with the chief - he's six-five and seventeen stone of muscle, and he was a boxer in his youth. I wouldn't have put it past Justin to say the wrong thing and get himself knocked out."

"He's not likely to have said anything to me if that had happened. If he did get himself thumped, I'm sure we'll know about it sooner or later," Stone smiled at the thought of his subordinate getting hit, though he knew it wasn't very nice of him to do so.

His expression as neutral as he could make it, Burke changed the subject. "Have you been told that the tech expert from Scotland Yard is here?"

Stone hadn't, and said so. "Where is he?" he asked.

"The library," Burke told him. "He and his assistant/partner arrived about twenty minutes before I did, apparently, and started setting up straight away. I haven't introduced myself yet, I thought it best to leave them to it and wait till you got here."

**

"EVENING, INSPECTOR Evans I take it," Stone said upon entering the library. "I'm Detective Inspector Stone, I'm in charge of this investigation," he introduced himself with an outstretched hand, which was shaken by his fellow inspector.

"Terry Evans, and this is Sergeant Hunt, Dana," the inspector provided his half of the introductions.

"You're the tech experts who are going to help us catch these kidnappers," Stone said. "How exactly are you going to do that?" he asked. Even after several courses he struggled with computers and the more technical side of investigations - he was a bit of a luddite, and not afraid to admit it.

"Well, the kidnappers could get in touch in one of a few ways: by email, by calling the landline, by calling or texting a mobile belonging to either one of the family or a member of staff." Evans paused to wet his lips from a glass of water and then continued, "They might even use an instant messaging program, or one of any number of other communication programs, like Skype." He smiled at the look on his Stone's face. "There's no need to feel daunted or overwhelmed; by the time we're finished, we'll be able to track any communications in or out of here, no matter where they come from.

"This isn't going to be easy, I don't want to give the impression it will be. There are ways the kidnappers can make it difficult to trace their communications, ways they can find from the internet with a bit of searching, but all they can do is slow us down. Even if they use a mobile phone and a wireless internet access point, or something similar, we'll track them down."

Stone liked his confidence, he just hoped it wasn't misplaced.

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# 22

Lisa was fed up of arguing with her friend; the argument was bad enough, but it was made all the worse by the need for them to keep their voices low to avoid being overheard by her parents.

"I told you, I'm not going to the police."

"We have to," Megan told her. "You saw the news, the old guy's still in hospital, still in a coma, and we saw who did it. We have to tell the police."

"We've been over this," Lisa said in a hoarse whisper, her ears pricked as she listened for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. "We didn't see who knocked the old guy down, so there's nothing for us to tell the police."

Megan couldn't believe the way her friend was acting. "They nearly ran us down, you know that, and the old guy was knocked down just a couple of streets away; do you really think it could have been someone else, the streets were empty apart from them." She could see her friend was about to speak and hurried on, "I know why you don't want to go to the police...you're worried your parents will find out we weren't where we said we were going to be."

"You're bloody right I am; you know what my dad'll do if he finds out where we were." Lisa's eyes darted to the door, as if she expected to find it standing open and her dad in the doorway, ready to punish her for her lies.

"You think things will be any different for me?" Megan knew she would be in just as much trouble as her friend, and hoped she could avoid it, but was prepared to face it if she had to. "What's more important, though, staying out of trouble or doing the right thing?"

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# 23

Mason sipped at his almost cold coffee while his partner got the recorder set up, and once that was done he got straight down to business. "Where were you between one-thirty and three on Sunday night?"

"I already answered that question before," Ben Logan said without even looking at his solicitor. "Don't you guys talk to one another. Try asking Stone, he's the one in charge of the case ain't he."

Mason gave a small smile. "Not anymore. Detective Inspector Stone has had to take over another investigation; I am now in charge of this case. I've spoken to the inspector, as it happens; I've also looked into the alibi you provided earlier."

"Well then, why're you asking the same questions he did?"

"Because, Mr Logan, I don't believe your alibi," Mason told him. "Your friend, Mr Ashford, gave the same as you, but the only part of it we've been able to confirm is that you, your brother, and Mr Ashford were in the Horse and Jockey until it closed at midnight. After that we ran into a few problems; none of the staff at the takeaway you say you went to; Nando's according to Mr Ashford, remember serving the three of you, and you don't appear on the shop's CCTV footage from Sunday night." He paused for several moments to see if either Ben or his solicitor were going to respond to that, when they didn't, he continued, "Nor do any of you appear on any of the CCTV footage recorded on the cameras to be found between the Horse and Jockey and Mr Ashford's home - my team and I have spent the last few hours going through the footage." Still Ben said nothing, though his solicitor did look at him questioningly. "Why don't you tell me where you really were between one-thirty and three on Sunday morning."

Ben finally responded by leaning over to hold a whispered conversation with his solicitor; it lasted for about a minute and then he said, "Guess we got unlucky and didn't walk by any of the cameras you checked." He shrugged as if it was no big deal and nothing to worry about.

Mason smiled. "I don't see how that's possible; there is no route you could have taken to get from the Horse and Jockey to Mr Ashford's house without passing at least one of the cameras. If you include the stop at Nando's for food, which can't be proved, then you would have passed, and been visible on, two or more cameras. Now, I'll ask you again, Mr Logan, where were you on Sunday morning between one-thirty and three?"

"I was at Ash's place from about one, with Ash and my brother, we was there for the rest of the night," Ben said.

Mason studied Ben Logan without speaking for almost a minute - as much as Ben tried to project confidence and innocence, Mason could see in his eyes that he was troubled by the ease with which his alibi had been punctured. "If you don't want to tell me the truth, maybe Mr Ashford will, or your brother; yes, Mr Logan, we found Jerry, he was at Mr Ashford's and is now in custody. We'll be questioning both of them once they sober up."

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# 24

Constable Robin Hanks stifled a yawn as he slouched a little lower on the chair he occupied outside the hospital room which held Julia Harris and Brian Jacobs. He had an easy assignment that was putting him to sleep, but he was startled into full wakefulness by a sudden burst of music.

He shot to his feet as though scalded, and looked around a little wildly for the source of the music. It took him a moment to realise that the music was coming from the room he had been ordered to guard. Pushing open the door he entered the room. It was dark, the only illumination came from the corridor behind him, and the machines monitoring the two patients, but Hanks had no difficulty figuring out where the music was coming from; it's source was a plastic bag on a chair in the corner of the room. The bag held Brian Jacobs' clothes, and in the inside pocket of the chauffeur's jacket he found the man's mobile phone, which chose that moment to stop ringing.

A quick check of the phone revealed that the missed call came from someone called Penny. Hanks slipped the phone back into the pocket, since the call had no bearing on his duty at that time, though he made a mental note to let DI Stone know about it at the first opportunity. Of more immediate interest to him was the envelope he found in the same pocket, an envelope addressed not to Brian Jacobs but to Owen Keating.

*****

"THIS IT?" STONE ASKED, indicating the envelope and sheet of paper which sat on the table at the end of Brian Jacobs' bed.

Though the room's main light blazed overhead, neither the chauffeur nor Julia Harris showed any sign of being aware of it - they were equally oblivious to the small group that was taking up all the space in the room. Brian Jacobs was still unconscious, and Julia Harris remained in shock.

"Yes, sir," Hanks said with a nod. "I found it in the inside pocket of his jacket when his phone rang."

Stone slipped on a pair of latex gloves, to avoid contaminating any fingerprints or DNA evidence there might be, and then picked up the envelope and ransom note in turn. There was little for him to see - the envelope looked no different to millions of others, and the ransom note, a brief thing printed in black ink, was on a very ordinary sheet of white paper. The paper and the envelope might be ordinary, which would make it hard for the forensics team to get anything from them, but Stone had confidence that they would discover something, whether it was some minute trace of DNA or a fingerprint.

"At least we know what they want now," Stone remarked to Burke, who was standing at his shoulder. "It's not much." He was caught out by a yawn, which reminded him that he had been on his feet for almost fifteen hours, and it was likely to be a while longer before he could get any sleep. "But it's something." Carefully, he slipped both the envelope and the ransom note into the clear plastic bag his partner held for him. "Take it to the station, would you, Stephen, and tell the lab boys I want it gone over ASAP, this is top priority, ahead of anything else they might be doing."

"Sure, Nate." Without another word Burke turned and left the room with the plastic evidence bag. Before he headed to the police station, however, he found himself a vending machine, from which he got a cup of black, heavily sweetened, vile-tasting coffee.

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# 25

"...how would me being here have made any difference? It's not like she was kidnapped here."

Stone entered the Keating house to find an argument in progress between Owen Keating and a young man, whose resemblance to Keating led Stone to assume he was the as yet unseen son, Ryan. What had caused the argument, he couldn't guess, and he doubted it had any bearing on his investigation, or his efforts to rescue Alice Keating from those who had taken her.

Not wanting to get in the way of arguing family members, Stone skirted the foyer and made his way into the library. As important as the ransom note was, he didn't think just then was the moment to bring it up.

"I know that, but I've been trying to get hold of you all afternoon and evening. Where have you been?"

"I was out, having fun. What does it matter?"

"You're always out having fun," Owen snapped at his son. "You should have been here; your mother needed your support, she needs it now. You can't tell me you didn't get the message I left on your answerphone, but you're too selfish to think of others. Alice would have been here if the situation was reversed."

"Why'm I not surprised you're comparing me to her, to your precious Alice."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Owen wanted to know.

"Why don't you just come out and say it; you wish it was me that was kidnapped instead of Alice. She's your perfect little girl, and I'm just the screw-up you'd be happy to be rid of."

Though he was in the library, and had closed the door behind him, Stone could still hear the argument going on between father and son. He tensed involuntarily at the telling silence from Owen Keating, which stretched on uncomfortably for several long moments.

"Go on, father, admit it, we both know it's the truth," Ryan urged his father. "You wish I'd been kidnapped, not your perfect little Alice."

"What do you want me to say?" Keating asked of his son, a weary note in his voice, audible to those in the library, though they tried not to listen.

"The truth!" Ryan told him.

"Yes!" Owen Keating snapped. "I wish it was you they'd kidnapped. You've been nothing but trouble since Alice was born, and you just keep getting worse. It doesn't seem to matter what your mother and I say or do, you go out and do whatever the hell you want, and you don't give a damn who gets hurt, or how much I have to pay to keep you out of jail." His voice rose as his anger grew, and it became clear he was voicing things he had been holding in for some time. "Do you have any idea how much it's cost me this year alone?"

"A fraction of what you're going to pay to get your precious Alice back, I'm sure."

"I don't yet know how much her kidnappers want for her release."

"You'll pay it, no matter how much it is. You wouldn't pay a penny for me, though, would you." Bitterness filled Ryan Keating's voice. "You've had no time for me since Alice arrived. You just shoved me off to one boarding school after another, and the further away the better. The only time you pay attention to me is when I get in trouble, and even then, you're more concerned with limiting the bad press and protecting your business than you are with me.

"Hell, even when I got my degree you were more concerned about me getting drunk the night before the ceremony and crashing my car."

"How long has that been going on?" Stone asked of Evans, who was doing something on the laptop that controlled the equipment he and his assistant had set up. Stone was sure he wasn't actually doing anything, and was merely pretending, so it wouldn't be obvious he was listening to the argument.

"Ten, fifteen minutes," Evans answered. "It started the moment Ryan Keating got here. I'm not even sure how it started, though I'm sure the son's been drinking and that contributed to it. As far as I can tell," he said, revealing that he had been paying more attention than appearances suggested, "it's a continuation of something that's been going on for a while. It seems Ryan Keating is a bit of a selfish bugger," Evans kept his voice low, so he wouldn't be overheard by the arguing father and son, "who doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself, and he's on the verge of losing his allowance and being written out of the will because of it.

"That's based on me reading between the lines, I could be entirely wrong, but I don't think I am."

Stone raised an eyebrow at that but had no opportunity to respond to what Evans had said; the argument in the reception hall ended abruptly and the library door flew open as Keating strode through. He paused for a moment, his hand on the door, to take several deep breaths and calm himself, and then he closed the door behind him.

"Inspector," he approached Stone, "was it the ransom note that your constable found?"

Stone nodded. "Yes, I've sent it to the lab to be checked for fingerprints and DNA."

"What did it say?" Keating asked, searching the inspector's face for some clue.

"Not much," Stone said, thinking that if nothing else, the argument with his son had returned some of the colour and animation to Keating's face - he no longer looked as if he had just had an encounter of the spectral kind. "It didn't say anything about where or when the ransom is to be paid, all it said it is," he took the copy he had made out and opened it, "they want three and a half million Euros, in five hundred Euro notes." He paused to look up at Keating and asked, "Are you able to get hold of that much?"

Keating considered the question for a few moments before he nodded sharply. "Yes, I can get it," he said. "I'm not sure how long it will take the bank to arrange the money, though, a couple of days at least, I'd guess, especially since they want Euros not pounds. Why do you think they asked for Euros?"

Stone had thought about that when he first read the ransom note so he was able to answer straight away. "Most likely because they can ask for higher denomination notes, which means the money will take up less space and be easier for them to transport."

"I guess that makes sense. I'll have to speak to the manager when I go to the bank in the morning. I just hope they can organise the money before the kidnappers want it."

**

STANDING ON THE OTHER side of the door to the library, Ryan Keating listened as his father accepted the price of his daughter's freedom with no sign of being unwilling to pay the money. He had known his father would be able to afford the ransom, when the demand was received, but hearing him accept it with barely any thought, when he protested every request for money from him, angered Ryan. He forced himself to resist the urge to kick open the door and confront his father, knowing that it would accomplish nothing.

He turned away from the library and stomped upstairs, where he made his way into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

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# 26

Stiff from having slept awkwardly and intermittently in one of the library's reading chairs, Stone woke to a flurry of fresh information: Brian Jacobs had regained consciousness, though he was now asleep; Julia Harris had come out of her shock - she too was currently sleeping, but had taken a cup of tea and a few biscuits and was, according to the doctor who had checked her over, fit to be questioned when she woke next; the van used by the kidnappers had been located, and finally - and best of all in Stone's opinion - another ransom note, this one giving more details about what the kidnappers wanted, had been received.

"Friday," Stone said, reading the ransom note for a second time. "That only gives the bank a day to get the money together, do you think they'll be able to manage it?" he asked of Keating, who was with him in the study.

Keating shrugged uncertainly. "I hope so." Setting down the mug of coffee he had been cradling, but not drinking, he checked his watch. "I'll call Tom, Tom Andrews, the manager of my bank," he clarified, "as soon as he gets in; the bank opens in an hour, hopefully he'll be there when it does. Do you think you'll be able to get anything from this ransom note?" he asked, gesturing to the plastic-encased sheet of paper that sat on his desk.

Stone studied the ransom note, and the stamped and addressed envelope that sat next to it in its own evidence bag, for a moment before he answered. "I haven't heard back from the lab about the other ransom note yet, so it's hard to say what might be found on these. We'll need Mr Chambers' fingerprints, and a DNA sample from him, so they can be eliminated from anything found, and we'll need to track down the postie who delivered the mail this morning, so he can be eliminated as well." Stone shook his head uncertainly. "We have the best forensics people available working the case, so if there is anything to find, they'll find it - they have the van to go through as well, so there's every chance they'll come up with something from somewhere."

"Why do you think they're only giving us the information a bit at a time?" Keating wanted to know.

"To make things more difficult for us. The more time we have to plan and make arrangements, the more likely we are to catch them; they want to avoid that, and the best way for them to do so is to keep us in the dark as much as possible."

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# 27

As she had every step of the way there, Lisa protested and resisted. "We're going to be late for school," she said as her friend started up the steps to the police station. "If we go in there we'll end up in trouble with our parents about Sunday, and late for school, which will get us into even more trouble, is that what you want?"

Megan paused to look back at her friend. "You do what you want, Lisa, but I'm going in, and I'm gonna tell them what we saw. If I'm late to school and get in trouble, I can live with that." With that she turned and finished her ascent of the steps, pushing open the door when she got to it so she could enter the police station.

She waited patiently for the officer to pay attention to her when she reached the counter. As she did, she wondered what her friend was going to do; she didn't have to wait long to find out, the door opened and then closed noisily after a short while, announcing that Lisa had decided to join her.

"Good morning, girls," Sergeant Wells greeted the two schoolgirls in front of him. "How can I help you?" It wasn't often that he had schoolgirls entering the station voluntarily, and never so early in the day, which made him think that they were there to report something potentially important; he soon learned that he was right.

Lisa gave her friend a significant look.

Megan took the hint. "We'd like to speak to someone about the hit-and-run on Sunday night, the one that's been on the news and in the papers."

"Do you know something about it?" Wells asked, wondering what they could possibly know about it, given the time the incident had occurred. When he received a curt nod in answer to his question, he picked up the phone and called through to CID. "What's your names?" he asked of the girls halfway through the call.

"I'm Megan, and this is Lisa," Megan told him, not thinking to provide their last names.

Wells repeated what he had just been told.

"Someone will be down to speak to you shortly," Wells told the girls once he had finished on the phone.

**

"HELLO, I'M DETECTIVE Constable Grey," he introduced himself. "You're Megan and Lisa?" He received nods from both teens. "Good. I understand you want to speak to someone about the hit-and-run that occurred on Sunday night."

With more eagerness than she had shown up to that point, now that she saw the young detective they were to deal with, Lisa nodded. "That's right. We think we know who did it," she said importantly.

Grey put the two teens in an interview room and then went to find a WPC to sit in on the interview with him. "Lisa, Megan, this is WPC Unsworth," he informed the girls. "Now, I realise you both need to get to school, so why don't we get started. You say you have information about Sunday night's hit-and-run, that you know who did it, is that right?"

"Yeah, that's right," Lisa said.

"No, we don't know," Megan disagreed quickly. "But we think we saw who ran that old man down."

"You saw Mr Bollard get knocked down?" Grey asked in surprise. Given when the incident occurred, he hadn't expected to find a witness, let alone that that witness would be a pair of schoolgirls.

Megan shook her head. "No, but we were almost knocked down not far from where he was. We were crossing the road and a car almost ran us down."

"Why don't you tell us where you were, what you were doing, and what happened," Grey suggested.

Lisa answered before her friend could, wanting to give a good impression to the young detective. "We'd been to the festival that afternoon, we stayed there 'til about eleven, then we got a lift back with some friends; we stayed at their place for a while, drinking and listening to music. Then we left to go back to Megan's. We told our parents we were staying at each other's houses, so they wouldn't know where we were. Meg's parents were away for the night, so they didn't know what time we got there." An embarrassed, almost apologetic, look crossed her face as she said that. "We were on our way there when a car came out of nowhere and almost ran us down, we were lucky it missed us. I was so scared, I thought they were going to kill us."

Megan nodded her agreement. "One moment the road was empty, the next the car was there. Where it came from, I don't know. Lisa was on the pavement, but I was still on the road. I had to jump out of the way - ruined my favourite jeans."

Grey quickly concealed a smile. "What time did this happen?" he asked. Hearing that they had been drinking, he worried that their information might have to be discounted - might be useless for securing a prosecution.

Megan had to think about that for a few moments. "We left our friends' place at just after two, so it was a bit after that, quarter past, twenty past, something like that."

"Are you sure?"

Megan nodded. "I remember seeing the time and telling Lisa we needed to get home and get some sleep, or we'd end up missing school. We almost did anyway, and I thought I was going to fall asleep during all my morning classes."

"Did you see the car that almost ran you down?" Both girls nodded. "Can you describe it for me?" Grey asked.

"It was a Vauxhall, an Astra I think," Megan said. "Dark blue."

"What about the license number? Did you see that?"

"No." Megan shook her head. "By the time I got to my feet the car was gone, disappeared round the corner."

"How about you?" Grey turned to Lisa. "Did you see the license number?"

"Yes." Lisa nodded, though it was a few seconds before she said anything more; her brow furrowed as she struggled to remember what she had seen. "It was T248 GUU," she said finally.

"Are you sure about that?" Grey asked.

Lisa nodded. "Uh huh. I've got a thing for numbers, once I see one I can't forget it."

"Good, now, where were you when this happened?"

"Dawson Street," Lisa said quickly. "It's only a street and a bit away from where the old man was hit."

Grey accepted that for the moment, and made a mental note to check the distance between the two locations on a map. If the information was right, then there was little reason to doubt that the Vauxhall Astra that had almost run the girls down was responsible for Mr Bollard's coma.

"Did either of you see the driver?" he asked.

"Not clearly."

"But you did see him," Grey pressed Lisa. He ignored Megan for the moment since her answer had been a shake of the head. "Can you describe what you saw of him?" Having a description of the car, including the license number, was useful, but since the car was almost certainly stolen, he thought a description of the driver, even a partial one, would be of more help in securing a conviction.

"He wasn't young," Lisa said, her brow furrowed. "But he wasn't old either. In his thirties, maybe; he was older than you, but not by much."

Grey jotted that on the notepad he had taken out. When she had been silent for a few moments he prompted her. "What about his hair, did you see what colour it was?"

"Light brown, or maybe it was dirty blond, I'm not sure."

"How about the length? Could you see that? Was it long or short?"

"Medium, maybe more short. It was scruffy," Lisa said that decisively. "It was all over the place; I remember thinking he needed to do something with it, and he needed a shave."

Grey could almost imagine the teen shouting at the guy to clean himself up, and probably to learn how to drive as well. "Do you remember anything else about him? Anything distinctive that might help us identify him?"

"No." Lisa shook her head, and then immediately nodded. "Yes, there was something. He had a mark on his neck; I don't know what it was, a burn, a birthmark maybe, but it was pretty big."

Grey forced himself to control his excitement and asked, "Could it have been a tattoo? An eagle maybe?" He found himself holding his breath as he waited for an answer, and had to resist the urge to let it out in an exultant explosion when she nodded.

"Yes, it could have been."

Containing his excitement as best he could, Grey asked his next question, "Was there anyone else in the car?"

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# 28

Stone was on his way home for a quick shower and a change of clothes, before he headed to where the van used in Alice Keating's kidnapping had been found, when his mobile rang. He answered it, though he knew it was against the law to use a mobile phone while driving; he didn't suppose he was going to get in any trouble for it.

"Sir, it's Grey."

"What's up?" Stone asked of the young detective.

"We've got a lead on the hit-and-run, sir," Grey told him. "A couple of schoolgirls came in first thing; according to their story, they were almost hit by a blue Vauxhall Astra just a couple of streets away from where Mr Bollard was knocked down. They were able to give a partial description of the driver - it matches Jerry Logan."

Though the news pleased him, Stone couldn't help wondering why he was being told, since he was no longer in charge of the case. "Why aren't you telling Justin this?" he asked. "The case is his now."

"I know, sir, but I can't find him. He's not made it into the office, he's not answering his mobile, and his wife doesn't know where he is," Grey answered, doing his best to hide his concern. "Since I can't find the sergeant, I thought it best if I told you about the development."

"You did the right thing," Stone said encouragingly after a moment. "Put an alert out for the vehicle - do you have a license number for it?"

"Yes, sir, it's T248 GUU."

Stone was surprised, and pleased, by that piece of news. "Good. Run the plate through the system; it's probably been stolen, but we might get lucky. Is there anything else?"

*****

GREY GOT A SHOCK WHEN the door to the house the car used in the hit-and-run, and most likely the festival robbery as well, was registered to opened. He found himself faced, not with a hardened criminal who was prepared to threaten people with a sawn-off shotgun, but with a wheelchair-bound man in his mid-thirties. Behind the man, in what he guessed was the doorway of the living room, Grey saw a woman of about fifty, whom he assumed was the mother of the man in the wheelchair.

"Can I help you?"

"Hello, yes, are you Mr Quilty, Mr Paul Quilty?"

"Who wants to know?"

Grey took that for a yes. "I'm Detective Constable Grey, I'd like to ask you a few questions," he said once he had recovered from the surprise of discovering that his suspect was physically incapable of committing the crimes he was there to question him about. It was a bitter blow - Paul Quilty had a criminal record for robbery with violence, and assault, was a known accomplice of Ben and Jerry Logan, and was the registered owner of the car used in the hit-and-run; Grey had been certain Quilty was one of the men he was looking for. Now he wasn't sure what to do.

"May I come in?"

Paul Quilty looked stubbornly unwilling to move from the doorway, or to grant permission for Grey to enter, until his mother moved forward. "Of course you can come in, detective," she said, resting a hand on her son's tensed shoulder. "Paul has done nothing wrong."

Though he looked angrily over his shoulder at his mother, clearly unhappy that she had extended an invitation he didn't wish to, Quilty manoeuvred his wheelchair back from the door. He turned around in the narrow confines of the passage and made for the living room, without waiting to see if either his mother or Detective Grey were following him.

"So, what is it you want?" Quilty asked in a voice that was a mixture of anger, irritation and mistrust. "You here to give me shit about that fight the other night? 'cause my probation bitch has already given me enough grief about it."

"Paul," his mother remonstrated. "You should at least wait until he tells you why he's here before you get angry." She turned to Grey. "How can we help you, detective?"

"I know nothing about any fight, Mr Quilty," Grey said. "I'm here about your car; according to the DVLA, you are the registered owner of a blue Vauxhall Astra, license number T248 GUU, is that correct?"

Quilty shook his head. "No, not anymore."

Grey was momentarily stymied. "What did you do with it?" he asked when he recovered.

"I sold it after I got out of hospital. Since I can't drive anymore, there's no point in me having a car."

"Who did you sell it to?"

"No idea," Quilty shrugged. "He paid cash. I filled out my bit of the form to transfer title, he said he was going to fill out his bit and send it straight off when he got home."

"If that's the case, why is the car still registered to you?" Grey asked suspiciously; he wondered if Quilty was lying about having sold the car, and instead had allowed it to be used by his friends and former accomplices for the robbery.

"How the hell should I know? Maybe he forgot to send it in, or maybe he did what he said he was going to do and the DVLA is dragging its ass about updating their records. It wouldn't be the first time."

"Why are you interested in my son's old car?" Marsha Quilty wanted to know.

Grey shifted his attention to her. "It was used as the getaway vehicle in a robbery, and later the same night it was involved in a hit-and-run. An elderly man was knocked down and left in a coma - he's in critical condition."

"Well it's nothing to do with me," Quilty declared. "The car's nothing to do with me anymore."

Grey accepted that with a nod. "Can you tell me anything about the man who bought the car from you?"

"You think he bought the car to rob someone? Why the hell would he do that? It's bloody stupid, he'd just steal a car if that's what he wanted one for."

"I'm sure you're right, Mr Quilty, but since the vehicle is still legally registered to you, has been used in a crime, and has not been reported stolen by you, it's in your interests to help me trace the car's movements, and the person who bought it from you."

"He was about forty, maybe a little younger," Marsha Quilty spoke up, "with black hair."

"Can you remember anything else about the man?"

Marsha thought back. "I think he said his name is Jeff, and he was buying the car for his daughter. Can you remember anything?" she asked of her son.

Grey took down all the details Marsha Quilty and her son could provide and then left. Although he had been angry and uncooperative, Grey didn't think Paul Quilty was lying about having sold his car, unfortunately, since ownership had not been transferred in the DVLA database, and Quilty could not remember the name of the man he'd sold his car to, Grey was at a bit of a dead end.

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# 29

Burke was already there, waiting for him, when he got to the van that had been used in Alice Keating's kidnapping. Also there was the forensics team, who were waiting for permission to begin going over the van, and a trio of constables, whose job was to keep back the small crowd of interested onlookers. It surprised Stone to see that Louisa Orchard was not a part of the crowd, though he was pleased by her absence, since it meant he could work without being distracted by an endless series of questions.

Stone nodded to his partner as he reached him, and then moved over to check the van. Being careful not to touch the vehicle and disturb any evidence, he peered through the windows; he couldn't see anything in the van that he thought might help to identify the kidnappers, but he didn't expect to - things were never going to be that easy.

"Okay, get on with it guys." At his gesture the four-person forensics team moved forwards, so they could start their on-site investigations.

"Have you got anyone going door-to-door?" Stone asked of Burke as he stopped at his partner's side.

"Not yet," Burke admitted. "I've requested a couple more uniforms to help with it, but they haven't arrived yet."

"When they do, make sure they're aware that the kidnappers could be in one of the properties along here."

Burke nodded, and then asked, "Do you really think that's likely?"

Stone looked up and down the street, his gaze settling on the business park up the street for a short while, before he answered his partner's question. "No," he said with a quick shake of his head. "They'd have to be pretty stupid to hold Alice Keating in one of these houses; there's far too many people living around here, not to mention the people working on the business park - that's a lot of people who might see something. If I was them, I'd have dumped the van here and switched to a different vehicle, figuring that everyone would assume the van belongs to one of the companies on the business park."

"They obviously didn't consider the nosey neighbour factor," Burke remarked with a slight smile.

"The old lady with the walking stick?" Stone asked, running an eye over the crowd of onlookers before settling on a likely suspect.

"No, the middle-aged woman holding the baby," Burke told him. "The van's parked right outside her place. Apparently, she noticed it last night, but didn't think much of it until she saw it was still there when she got up this morning, then the description of the van went out on the news and she recognised it."

"I don't suppose she saw the van's arrival."

Burke shook his head, drawing a sigh from Stone. "I thought that might be too much to hope for."

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# 30

After a restless night, during which she slept fitfully, Alice struggled to keep herself calm - it wasn't an easy task, for she couldn't dispel the fear that her kidnappers had plans for her beyond collecting a ransom from her father. That fear was made worse by a combination of tiredness, hunger, thirst, and a need to go to the toilet.

It had occurred to her some time before - she wished she knew what the time was, and how long had passed since she was snatched; it was not helping her mental state to be in a timeless bubble - that the bucket was intended for use as a toilet. The idea was an unpleasant one, more than unpleasant, and she had quickly pushed it aside, refusing to give it space in her troubled mind.

She could see no way out of the room - she was sure her father's resourcefulness would have found a means of escape already, but, though she had always thought herself like him in that regard, she had failed - but the stubborn streak she had inherited, forced her to resist the urge to simply sit on the floor and wallow in her dark thoughts. It pushed her to her feet and forced her to walk up and down and around the room, so that she could keep herself physically ready in case an opportunity to escape presented itself.

Alice didn't know how many times it was she had circled the room when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She immediately stopped her pacing and took up a sitting position beneath the board that covered the window. It required no effort for her to assume a fearful and non-threatening pose - fear was the dominant emotion filling her; despite that, she was tensed and ready for action.

**

THANKFUL THAT CRASH was still asleep, Lewis ascended the stairs. When he reached the top, he bent to put down the plate he was carrying so he could unlock the door. He saw Alice straight away, she had moved from the corner she had occupied the last time he was in there, but was still on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped protectively around them.

"How are you this morning?" he asked solicitously. Approaching the teen, he set the sandwich he had made on the floor in front of her, along with a bottle of water.

There was no response from Alice, but that didn't surprise Lewis; if he had been her, he wouldn't have wanted to speak. "I hope you were able to sleep okay," he said as he looked around for the plate he had left the previous evening. He was pleased to see that Crash's negativity - he had suggested that Alice would attempt to use the plate as a weapon - was misplaced, the plate was still intact.

Alice watched her kidnapper put the food and bottle of water in front of her, and then followed him with her eyes as he made to collect the plate she had left in the corner. Out the corner of her eye she saw that the door was still open; it was her chance, she realised, and she quickly pushed herself to her feet and darted for the door. The moment she was through, she slammed the door shut behind her and slid home the bolt, then she hurried down the stairs.

Alice descended as rapidly as she could, heedless of the possibility that she might fall. Two and three at a time she took the stairs, all her focus on the front door she could see directly across from the foot of the staircase. Her hand was outstretched, reaching for the door even before she reached the ground floor.

**

CRASH WOKE WITH A START, almost falling off the sofa he had been sleeping on as he sat up. It was only by grabbing at the back of the sofa that he was able to keep himself from tumbling to the floor. He heard thudding footsteps on the stairs as someone descended rapidly, and he quickly got to his feet to find out what was going on - the rapid tempo of the footsteps suggested trouble to him and he prepared himself to deal with it, whatever it might be.

He had barely made it to his feet when he saw Alice dart from the stairs to the front door. Not fully awake, it took Crash half a second to appreciate what he was seeing, and once he did he rushed from the living room, catching Alice as she pulled the door open.

"Where d'you think you're going?" he wanted to know as he flattened the teen against the door, forcing it closed with a bang.

**

ALICE FELT THE AIR explode from her as she was squashed by the much heavier figure behind her, she also saw stars momentarily after her head impacted with the thick wood of the front door. She shook her head to clear it and struggled to get free, a fight she realised she had no chance of winning even as she twisted and writhed, trying, and failing, to drive her elbow into her assailant.

"That's enough of that," Crash declared. With little in the way of effort he secured Alice's wrists and, twisting her arms painfully up her back, pulled her away from the door. She tried again to get free as he guided her towards the stairs, but a quick tug on her arms persuaded her to give it up.

When he got to the top of the stairs, Crash held on to Alice with one hand, while with the other he reached out to unbolt the door and push it open.

**

LEWIS' CALLS FOR HELP had subsided as he heard his partner ascend the stairs, but he reached out to snatch the door wide the moment it was unbolted and began to swing open. He was relieved to see that Crash had managed to keep Alice from escaping - he had a fertile imagination, but he didn't need it to realise that something unpleasant would have happened to him had the girl succeeded in escaping the house and making it to the road.

The relief he felt, which he was sure must have been visible on his face, was short-lived.

"What the hell happened, you bloody idiot?" Crash snarled as he pushed Alice into the room ahead of him. "If she'd been a little quieter, I wouldn't have woken, and she'd have gotten away." With an unnecessarily hard shove, he sent the schoolgirl sprawling; she landed face first with a sharp cry of pain, which he ignored.

"I was collecting the plate I left in here last night; she looked as though she was still in shock," Lewis said defensively.

He was embarrassed by the ease with which he had been tricked by the teen's apparent meekness, as well as by his failure to stop Alice before she could escape the room and bolt him in. In his mind, it only emphasised his inexperience when it came to criminal matters; he was a reluctant participant in this kidnapping, and with every passing moment he couldn't help wishing that he hadn't allowed his anger and greed to overcome his good sense.

Crash gave him a hard look, which spoke volumes. "You're a bloody idiot," he repeated, "and you're gonna screw this whole thing up." Stepping around Lewis he crossed to the sandwich and the bottle of water his partner had delivered, which he gathered up with a look that dared his partner to say something - he didn't.

Lewis kept silent in the face of the dark expression on Crash's face, which hinted at violence, and followed him from the room.

Afraid to move, but impelled by the needs of her body, Alice pushed herself up from the floor, first to her knees and then to her feet. "I need the toilet," she called out urgently as the door swung shut, threatening to leave her alone once again.

"That's what the bucket's for."

The door banged closed with an awful finality, and Alice turned hesitantly towards the bucket in the corner as she heard the bolt slide home and the key turn in the lock. Slowly, and with a great deal of reluctance, she approached the bucket, which seemed to become more horrible and more primitive the closer she got to it. With every step, she hoped and prayed that it was some kind of nasty trick, and that the door would be thrown open, so she could be taken to a proper toilet, one with a seat, toilet paper, a flush, and a sink in which she could wash her hands once she was done.

Only when she reached the bucket, and had moved it away from the wall, did she accept that she would have to use it. With her face a mask of distaste, and her eyes on the door in case her captors should return to catch her at it, she reached under her skirt to pull down her underwear and then squatted unhappily over the bucket. She couldn't believe what she was being forced to do - being kidnapped was bad enough, but this seemed far worse; it was cruel and inhumane.

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# 31

Stone sipped at his coffee for a few moments while he waited for the briefing room to quiet down. Once it did he got started; it had been almost a day since Alice Keating was snatched, and he knew the more time that passed, the smaller their chances of finding her or her kidnappers became - the ransom drop would provide an opportunity for them to try and catch the kidnappers, or to get evidence that would lead to their capture, but he didn't want to wait until then, or to have to rely on a possibility rising from a situation that hadn't yet occurred.

"For those of you who haven't heard about it yet, a second ransom note was received this morning, this one was posted to the Keating residence and delivered by Royal Mail. The note is currently in the hands of the forensics boys, and we hope to have their report by this evening, if not sooner; for now, what matters is that we now know the ransom drop is to take place tomorrow. We don't yet know where or exactly when, but based on how things have gone so far, I think we can expect another note, either later today or first thing tomorrow, which will give us the final details." He saw DCI Collins enter the room quietly and take up a position against the wall at the side of the room. "Following that, Owen Keating was escorted to the bank this morning, where he made arrangements for the three and a half million Euros demanded in the ransom note found in Brian Jacobs' jacket last night by Constable Hanks.

"According to Mr Keating, the bank manager has promised to have the ransom money ready by noon tomorrow at the latest - it might even be ready by first thing, he can't say for sure yet; we can only hope that noon tomorrow is soon enough, and that the kidnappers don't expect the drop to be made before then. Once the manager calls to say the money is ready, DS Burke, along with a couple of uniforms, will take Mr Keating to the bank and escort him home with the ransom. I'm told the sum requested will fit into an ordinary briefcase, which will make transportation of it easier, but will also make it more difficult for us to keep track of."

"Won't those Scotland Yard tech guys put some kind of tracking device on the money?"

Stone didn't see who asked the question, but from the direction of the other officers' looks, he figured out the enquiry's source. "Yes," he answered Constable Ramirez. "Inspector Evans will be putting a tracking device in the briefcase with the money but, apparently, there are ways in which the kidnappers can disable or negate whatever device is used, if they know what they're doing. Since that's the case, I want at least two pairs of eyes on the money from the moment it's collected.

"Now, I understand house-to-house enquiries in the street adjoining the school, and where Alice Keating was kidnapped, have finished, and the reports are waiting on my desk; would anyone care to summarise the findings?" He looked around questioningly, his focus shifting between Sergeant Reynolds and Detective Constable Hill, who had led the two teams of questioners.

It was Detective Hill who got to her feet to answer the question. "We've not had much success," she admitted. "No-one in the street by the school saw anything in the week prior to the kidnapping. White vans were seen, but none that stopped or hung around or acted suspiciously in any way, and no unusual vehicles of any description. Two people did see the van used in the kidnapping on the day, but thought nothing of it, and they weren't able to provide any details about the kidnappers. Only one person was seen, the driver, and the description we got of him is no more useful than that given at the scene."

When Hill finished speaking and sat, Sergeant Reynolds got to his feet. "It was the same for my team," he reported. "No-one we questioned was able to add anything to the witness statements we got yesterday. We were able to follow the van's progress for a couple of streets after the kidnapping, thanks to eye-witnesses and CCTV footage - a couple of the officers on his team had strained their eyes watching the footage - but we lost it after that.

"Now we know where they ditched the van, I've asked DS Burke to put a request in for all traffic and CCTV footage from that area, so we can try and find them on it and see if we can get anything useful, like the vehicle they switched to, or where they went."

It took almost an hour for Stone to go through the relatively small amount of evidence that had been gathered by the various branches of the investigation. Although there were more than a dozen officers working on the case, and the forensics department were giving it top priority, they had little in the way of useful evidence so far: a few smudged fingerprints, which were useless for identification purposes, some DNA traces that did not appear, as yet, to match anyone in the national database; they had also discovered that the license number on the van used in the kidnapping belonged to a Renault Clio, not a Ford van, white or any other colour.

"Anyone else got anything to report?" Stone asked of the assembled officers.

It was DC Reid who answered. "I've finished the background checks on the Keatings' household staff, sir."

"What did you find out?" Stone asked. He was pleased that the job had been finished, but he had expected to hear about the maid and the gardener before then, since he had asked Reid to check them first.

"Most of the staff came back clean," Reid reported. "Barely a parking ticket between them; two have records, though: Ken Williams, one of the gardeners, has a juvenile record for petty theft, public order offences, joy-riding - the usual stuff - and he's been cautioned twice for drug possession since hitting eighteen. Both those times it was for small amounts of pot, personal use amounts, not dealing."

Stone nodded at that, it was what he had expected would be discovered in the gardener's background check; based on how he had looked and acted the previous day, he suspected that the two cautions had done little to persuade him to give up his habit.

"More interesting," Reid said in a satisfied tone, "is the maid, Gabby Johnson, who has a very relevant record." Getting to his feet, he approached the large screen that dominated the left side of the briefing room's main wall, so he could bring up the information from his terminal. "As you can see, four years ago she received an eighteen-month sentence, suspended for a year, for her part in the kidnapping of a young boy; her partner in the kidnapping, who was also her boyfriend, received an eight-year sentence, later reduced to four years on appeal. He served twenty-nine months before being released on license. His license expires in three months and, according to probation records, he still lives with Gabby Johnson."

"Have you got anything else on them?" Stone asked, hoping that this would turn out to be a major lead. Gabby Johnson had been at the Keating residence when the kidnapping took place, and the three kidnappers were male, but Stone knew that the maid could still have been involved; she could have provided information to her boyfriend, and whoever he was working with, assuming they were the ones behind Alice Keating's abduction.

"Not yet, sir; I'm trying to get the records of the case to see if there's something in there, but so far I've found nothing about any known accomplices who might be the other kidnappers. I'm also looking into people Rowan Manning was in prison with. It's going to take some time to get it all together and go through it, though," Reid apologised.

"What about the former employees from Griffin Games' headquarters?" Stone asked. "Have you had any luck with them?"

"Nothing so far," Reid admitted. "None of them have records, at least nothing worth mentioning; I'm still trying to trace them all, though, to be sure of their whereabouts at the time of the kidnapping. Of the seventeen names on the list, physical descriptions eliminate six of them; another five are eliminated because they're female, that leaves six to be checked out. I've got two constables working on that right now; they've been able to confirm the whereabouts of three of them, they're no longer potential suspects.

"Once I've heard back about the last three, sir, I'll get my report on your desk."

"Good work, Art."

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# 32

Stone was in his office, reading the reports from his various teams, when he received the summons. He had spoken to the DCI after the briefing earlier, so he couldn't imagine what his superior needed to see him about urgently - if there had been any developments, he should have been notified before the DCI.

"Nate, we've got a problem," Collins said without preamble.

Another one, Stone couldn't help thinking - after an armed robbery, a hit-and-run, and a kidnapping in less than a week, he could only wonder what else had happened. "What sort of problem, sir?" he asked.

"I understand Detective Grey told you he couldn't find DS Mason earlier." Stone responded in the affirmative. "Well he's been found; it seems he was on the way to work when he witnessed a purse snatching - he left his car and gave chase; unfortunately, during the chase he fell down the steps of the East Walk Underpass, broke his leg and knocked himself out. While he was out of it, someone, presumably the purse snatcher, took his wallet and mobile, not to mention his keys, warrant card and cuffs.

"Which is why we've only just found out where he is. Once he woke up, he was able to tell people who he is, and let us know where he is. He's going to be out of action for about two months, perhaps longer, which, I'm afraid to say, means you're going to have to take over the investigation into the festival robbery and the hit-and-run, while running the kidnapping."

"That's not going to be easy, sir," Stone said. He didn't like the thought of trying to run two important investigations simultaneously.

"I appreciate that, Nate, but there's nothing to be done about it," Collins told his inspector. "Both the festival robbery and the Keating kidnapping are too important to leave to a junior officer. I'm sure between you and Stephen you'll manage." He had confidence in Stone. "You're both very good officers, and you're making good progress with the kidnapping."

Stone recognised the compliment for the flattery it was, still, he accepted it with a nod of gratitude. "I'll do my best, sir," he said. "As will Stephen."

"I'm glad to hear it. Now, you'd better check in with Grey, I believe he's made some progress with the festival investigation."

Stone nodded. "Yes, sir, he called me earlier. He had a couple of witnesses come forward first thing this morning with a description of the car used in the hit-and-run, they were able to provide the license number of the vehicle, apparently."

"I know; things have progressed beyond that, however. I don't know the details, you'll have to check with Grey to get them, but I do know he's been busy while we tried to locate Mason."

"Before you go," Collins stopped Stone as he was heading for the door. "You should know, I was forced to release Ben Logan earlier, his solicitor was kind enough to point out that he had been in custody for twenty-four hours. I reviewed the evidence, but there wasn't enough to charge him, or to justify keeping him for any longer.

"I realise he's almost certainly the second person from the festival," he said quickly to forestall a protest that Stone showed no sign of actually making. "But right now there's no evidence to back that up. I hope you also realise that there's only five or six hours left for you to find enough evidence to charge Jerry Logan, and David Ashford; if you can't they'll have to be released as well."

"Surely there's enough circumstantial evidence to justify holding Jerry for another twenty-four hours," Stone said, "even if we can't yet charge him."

Collins looked dubious. "I'll review the evidence an hour before he has to be released," he said. "But right now, I'll probably order his release, unless you can come up with something more definite than you currently have - the identification of Jerry Logan from his tattoo is far too tentative, while the lack of a confirmed alibi means nothing, since you can't prove he was involved with the robbery. "As for Mr Ashford - you have no evidence against him whatsoever."

Stone accepted that with a nod. "I'll see what I can come up with between now and seven. Since Mason didn't make it to work this morning, I believe Jerry Logan and Mr Ashford are still waiting to be questioned; I'll make that a priority while Inspector Evans is able to keep an eye on things at the Keatings', he should be able to handle anything that comes up until I can get there."

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# 33

While Burke was interviewing Julia Harris, who had recovered enough to be spoken to, Stone spoke to Grey. He listened without comment for half an hour while the younger detective told his superior about his visit to Paul Quilty. Only when Grey had finished his narration did Stone say anything.

"The best thing you can do, Christian, is contact the DVLA directly; if Mr Quilty was telling the truth, you need to have someone at the DVLA check their records manually, it's possible the transfer of title has simply been held up for some reason - it wouldn't be the first time. There might have been a clerical error, something wrong with the paperwork sent in, or any number of other reasons why our system isn't showing the transfer of title."

"Yes, sir, I'll get straight on that," Grey said with a nod. "Do you want me to do anything else?"

Grey's eagerness to help with the investigation made Stone feel very old, and wonder when he had become the slightly jaded and pragmatic inspector he was now. "Yes, when you're finished with the DVLA, I want you to take a photograph of Jerry Logan and show it to Michael Powell, the eyewitness from the festival, and your two hit-and-run witnesses from this morning, Stone told him. "With luck they'll be able to identify him positively."

Stone wondered at the smile that appeared on the younger man's face, but before he could ask about it, he was given the answer.

"I've already been to see both Lisa Grubb and Megan Drake with a photograph of Jerry Logan, sir," Grey said, his demeanour revealing how pleased he was to have pre-empted his superior's instructions. "I took copies of the mugshots taken yesterday evening when he was brought in for questioning; the pictures we have on file need updating - they don't show the eagle he's got on the side of his neck now."

Stone congratulated Grey on his initiative. "Were they able to identify Jerry Logan from the pictures?" he asked. He was tempted to cross his fingers while he waited for the answer.

Grey nodded. "Yes, sir; Megan Drake was only about sixty percent certain it was him, but Lisa Grubb was positive, she recognised him straight away from the photographs."

"That's good news. That gives us enough to charge him, though it still leaves us lacking evidence against his brother." Stone was pleased. "Since Stephen's still at the hospital, why don't you sit in with me while I question Jerry. It's doubtful he'll say anything that will incriminate his brother, but he might just let something slip that will make it easier for us to get a conviction against him.

"One thing, Christian," he said before they headed for the interview room, where Jerry Logan was waiting with his solicitor. "The next time you go to question a possible suspect, no matter what they're suspected of, but especially if it's armed robbery or another violent crime, take backup with you. If Mr Quilty had been one of the blaggers, you could have found yourself facing someone with a sawn-off shotgun, and I would now be trying to explain to your next of kin why you were there alone. I really don't like making next-of-kin calls, so I'd rather you didn't put me in a position where I have to."

Suitably chastened, Grey nodded. "Yes, sir."

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# 34

"Before we begin this interview, inspector," Harrison Neale, Jerry Logan's solicitor, said the moment Grey finished setting up the recording system. "I wish to protest the way in which my client has been treated; Mr Logan has been in custody for almost twenty hours now, and this is the first time anyone has shown any interest in questioning him. His brother, as I'm sure you're aware, was released several hours ago, without charge, when he reached the end of his twenty-four hours in custody and you failed to find any evidence to connect him to the crimes you believe him guilty of."

Stone let the solicitor finish his protest and then he spoke, "I'm sorry that Mr Logan has had to wait so long to be questioned, Mr Neale; when he was first brought in, he was judged to be under the influence of alcohol, and the decision was made to let him sober up overnight before being questioned. Unfortunately, the officer who was to question him this morning is indisposed; since that's the case, I've been assigned to take over the case." He gave the solicitor a chance to respond, and when he didn't, Stone got on with the interview. "Mr Logan, you understand you have been arrested on suspicion of armed robbery, and of dangerous driving, of leaving the scene of an accident, and of failing to report said accident - an accident that left an elderly gentleman in a coma."

Jerry regarded the inspector silently for a short while before nodding curtly.

"For the record," Grey said, "Mr Logan has just nodded."

"The robbery I mentioned," Stone went on, "took place on Sunday night, at approximately one-forty-five, and the hit-and-run occurred approximately half an hour later; can you tell me where you were at those times, Mr Logan?"

"Sure, I was with my brother and our friend, Ash, the guy was arrested with me yesterday by that idiot DS."

"Can you be more specific?"

Logan looked round at his solicitor, who gave a barely perceptible nod, and then answered. "We were all at Ash's place, we were there from about one, perhaps a little after, until the next morning."

Stone accepted that with a nod. "Is there anyone, other than your brother and Mr Ashford, who can confirm where you were?" he asked.

Logan said with a nod, "Before we got to Ash's we stopped at a takeaway a street or so away."

A smile played about Stone's lips when he heard Logan's answer. "Both your brother and Mr Ashford said the same thing when they were questioned," he told the younger man and his solicitor. "We checked it out when Ben told us his alibi; do you know what we learned?"

Logan shook his head. Outwardly, he looked as relaxed and unconcerned as he had previously, there was worry and doubt in his eyes, however. He might not know what had been learned but he knew it couldn't be good.

"We found that none of the staff at Nando's, that's the takeaway, remember either you, your brother, or Mr Ashford, not even when shown photographs of the three of you. We also found that you don't show up on the footage recorded by the CCTV at the takeaway, or any of the cameras that cover the streets you and your companions might have taken to get from The Horse and Jockey pub to Mr Ashford's house." Stone let that sink in. "Your alibi is worthless, Mr Logan, worse than worthless, it's an out and out lie. Might I suggest that you do yourself a favour, confess, tell us the name of your partner, and where we can find the money, the guns, and the car you used; if you do, I'll do my best to ensure you get the fairest deal the CPS can offer.

"Before you say no, I suggest you speak to your solicitor. If you'd like, I can give you some privacy."

Logan's conversation with his solicitor lasted for a quarter of an hour, and then Stone and Grey returned to the interview room. Stone looked expectantly at Logan, but it was Neale who answered him, and the answer was not the one he had thought it would be.

"My client declines your offer to incriminate himself, inspector," Neale said. "Your opinion that his alibi is worthless, simply because you can't verify it, is merely that, an opinion; you have not, so far, presented either myself or my client with any evidence linking him to the crimes you are accusing him of. Unless you can provide such evidence, I suggest you let Mr Logan go; you can either do so now, or in a few hours when your twenty-four hours is up."

"How about an identification, Mr Neale," Stone said. "Would you consider that evidence linking him to these crimes? Because your client has been identified as being at the scene of the robbery."

Neale's smile broadened, and became more of an arrogant sneer. "My client told me about his being identified at the scene of the robbery, inspector, apparently you mentioned it the other day; I hardly think a witness statement from someone who saw a tattoo similar to the one my client recently had done on his neck, a tattoo I am assured was selected from a catalogue, which means it is far from unique to my client, is sufficient evidence to link Mr Logan to the robbery. It is not, in my opinion, sufficient to hold Mr Logan, let alone charge him, and it certainly isn't sufficient to get a conviction."

"I'm sure you're right, an identification of Mr Logan's tattoo is not enough." Stone paused for a moment, and then he went on. "How about two witnesses, though, from different crime scenes, who both identified Jerry Logan from photographs they were shown; we have one witness who was almost run down by Mr Logan as he and his partner left the field where the Rock Radio Music Festival was held, and we have a second witness, who identified both Mr Logan and the car he was driving just a street away from where Mr Bollard was run down. This second witness can testify that your client was driving very recklessly.

"If that isn't enough for you, Mr Neale, we also have fingerprints, matched to those we have on record for Mr Logan, Jerry I mean, from the scene of the robbery. That should give us a better than evens chance of getting a conviction, don't you think." Stone sat back and crossed his arms, a small look of satisfaction on his face as he gave Logan and his solicitor a full minute to think about his words. "Would you like to reconsider my previous offer now?" he asked. "If you confess, and tell me who your accomplice was, I'll make sure you get full credit for cooperating when it comes to sentencing."

Logan's answer amounted to two words, the second of which was 'You'.

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# 35

The investigation into the festival robbery and hit-and-run was far from over; it was a relief to Stone, however, to be able to charge Jerry Logan and have him recalled for a breach of his license, to await trial in prison. It was an important first step. Now, they had to find the car, which was likely to provide them with the evidence they needed to prove Ben Logan was his brother's partner in the robbery.

Ashford, he believed, was the brothers' alibi, but the CPS weren't willing to charge him, and so he was released, after being interviewed in case he could or would provide any useful information.

With those two interviews out of the way, and the robbery case advanced, Stone was now on his way to speak to the Keatings' maid, Gabby Johnson, in the hopes of making progress in the kidnapping. Grey had been eager to come with him and be a part of this interview, but Stone had instead assigned him to help DC Reid check out the former employees of Griffin Games.

Stone found Burke already at his destination when he pulled up outside of Johnson's house. "How did it go with Julia Harris and the chauffeur?" he asked, joining his partner. He didn't suppose Burke had learned much, if he had he would have called in with the information, but there was always a chance.

Burke shook his head. "Neither of them could tell me anything we didn't already know. In both cases, it was all over with too quickly, apparently, for them to take in too much in the way of details. In Julia's case, all she saw was masked faces and gloved hands, though she was able to tell me, after a bit of pushing, that she saw white wrists above the gloves of the man who reached into the Bentley for Alice."

"Not all that helpful," Stone remarked; he hadn't expected much, so he wasn't disappointed, though he had been hopeful. "But it does tell us that at least one member of the trio is Caucasian, that's better than nothing."

He turned away from his partner then, and made his way up the path to Gabby Johnson's front door.

"Hello, inspector," Gabby Johnson said, showing no surprise at finding the police on her doorstep. "I wondered when you'd come to see me."

"May we come in, Miss Johnson?" Stone asked, wondering if there was any significance to the fact that she had been expecting him. "We have some questions we'd like to ask you."

Gabby stepped aside to let the two detectives enter, and then closed the door once they were inside so she could guide them into the living room. When they got there, they found that she wasn't alone - her companion was a man in his late twenties, whom Stone assumed was her boyfriend.

"Mr Manning?" Stone asked.

A nod answered the question. "That's me; who're you, and what d'you want?"

"DI Stone, this is my partner, DS Burke, we're here to ask some questions of your girlfriend, and of you since you're here. Now, I'm sure Miss Johnson has told you that her employer's daughter, Alice Keating, was kidnapped yesterday afternoon on her way home from school."

Manning frowned, an angry look on his face. "And because of my record, and Gabby's, you've decided I must be responsible. Let me tell you, you're dead wrong. I didn't kidnap that girl yesterday, and I didn't kidnap that boy four years ago."

Stone looked sceptical, as did his partner. "The jury believed you were guilty," he said. "And I took a look at the case file; the evidence was against you, you were seen putting the boy into your car, as was Miss Johnson, and he was found in the flat the two of you shared at the time."

"I didn't kidnap him - Josh is my son."

"The file says nothing about that."

"Well it should. I told the police what the situation was, and both my solicitor and my barrister explained it to the jury. They weren't int'rested, though, not after my bitch of an ex finished with her lies." Manning made no attempt to conceal how much he hated his ex. "We were broken up by the time Josh was born, and she never put my name on the birth certificate. When he was five, Lucy agreed to let me see Josh, and to have him from time to time, usually one weekend a month. We had an argument that Friday, and after I collected Josh she called the police and said he'd been kidnapped; she didn't mention my name, just let the police identify me and arrest me.

"It didn't matter what I said, or what my solicitor said, it didn't even matter that Josh's teacher was willing to testify that I'd been collecting Josh regularly, or that he spent one weekend a month with me. All that mattered to the cops, and to the court, was that I wasn't recognised officially as Josh's dad and didn't have formal visitation rights."

As Gabby reached out to take her boyfriend's arm, Stone looked at his partner. He wasn't sure what to make of Manning's story - Manning was convincing, but the coincidence of two people with convictions for kidnapping being connected with the Keating family at the time of Alice Keating being kidnapped was one he couldn't ignore.

"Can you tell us where you were yesterday afternoon, between three and half past?" he asked of Manning.

It was several long seconds before Manning answered. "I was with my probation officer," he said once he succeeded in getting his temper under control. "I had a three o'clock appointment; I got there, musta been 'bout ten to, and she saw me 'bout ten past. I was there until about twenty to four, then I went for a coffee, while I looked through the job section - finding a job ain't been easy. I'm sure you can find plenty of people who can confirm where I was, including two police officers and three probation officers; they all saw me waiting for my appointment, not to mention at least half a dozen others at the probation offices - of course, they're crims, like I am now, so I don't suppose their words count for much."

"Rowan," Gabby tried to calm her boyfriend.

Stone could hardly blame Manning for being bitter, especially if what he had said was true. "We'll check what you've told us, Mr Manning," he said. "It shouldn't take us long to confirm your alibi, but until we do, don't leave town." He turned his attention to Gabby then.

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# 36

Alice heard the motorbike engine start up and then quickly fade away, but the noise didn't register with her. Neither did the slow, measured footsteps that ascended the stairs, approaching her prison. It was the same with the noises that heralded the unlocking of the door; she heard the noises, and her brain recognised them for what they were, but it failed to realise the significance of what was happening.

Lost in the shame of having had to use a bucket as a toilet, a bucket that remained in the corner of the room, and from which came an unpleasant, though thankfully not overpowering, smell, Alice was oblivious to anything else. Compounding her shame was the feeling of being unclean - she hadn't had a shower in some time, nor had she been able to brush her teeth or change her clothes; she felt even more unclean for not having been able to wash after using the bucket/toilet.

It wasn't until a pair of legs appeared before her that Alice came out of her reverie. Her eyes moved slowly up from the shins in front of her until she found the face of her kidnapper - it was the nicer of the two she had seen and the panic and fear that had caused her heart to race in her chest eased, a little. It eased a little more when she saw that he was holding a plate and a bottle of water.

Out the corner of her eye she saw that the door was slightly ajar; escape didn't even enter her limited thinking, though. The failure of her attempt to get away that morning, coupled with her hunger and a desperate thirst, both of which were exacerbated by the food and drink held by her captor, kept her glued to the spot.

"Are you going to be sensible?" Lewis asked when he saw that Alice was paying attention to him.

Alice tried to reply but found that she couldn't make her voice work, her mouth was too dry after going so long without anything to drink. She was forced to answer with a nod, while resisting the urge to reach out and snatch the food and drink from him, as her stomach was urging her to do.

"Good, I don't think you'd like what my partner would do to you if you were to try anything stupid again," Lewis told her as he set down the plate and bottle of water. Once he had done that, and keeping a careful eye on Alice, he collected the bucket, which he could tell from the smell needed emptying.

Alice was eating the sandwich he had brought her as he re-entered the room with the cleaned bucket. Her hand stopped halfway to her mouth when she saw him return. With suspicious eyes, which held more than a hint of fear, she watched him carry the bucket past her. He returned it to its corner and headed for the door, stopping when he saw something on the palm of the hand Alice was holding the sandwich with.

Not wanting to frighten her, he approached slowly and cautiously. Taking the sandwich from her, he put it out of the way, then he took her hand and turned it over, so he could see the mark on her palm, a mark he was certain hadn't been there the previous day. The dried blood made him realise that Alice had injured herself, he just wasn't sure if it had happened that morning, when Crash stopped her escaping, or at some other point.

"I'll be back in a few moments," he said.

Lewis bolted the door behind him, not that he thought Alice would try and escape, she seemed too scared for that, and made his way downstairs to the kitchen. He had seen a first aid kit somewhere in there, but it took him a bit of looking to locate it again. Once he had it, he hurried back upstairs; it hadn't been long since Crash left, and he was sure it would be a while before he was back, but he didn't want to take a chance on him returning and finding out what he was doing.

"Here, give me your hand," he said, kneeling in front of Alice. "Don't worry, I won't hurt you." Despite his reassurance, Alice didn't move, he had to reach out and take her hand, turning it so the palm faced the ceiling and he could see the injury.

From the first-aid kit, Lewis took out a foil-wrapped disinfectant wipe. He tore open the wrapper and used the wipe to gently clean away the dried blood; when that was done, he saw that the injury was minor, a narrow and shallow cut that ran for about two inches along her palm. Since it wasn't serious, he decided that all it needed was a plaster.

"Thank you."

The gratitude was offered in a voice so low that Lewis wasn't certain he had heard it for a moment. He accepted it with a nod and then asked, "Do you need me to look at anything else while I'm here?"

"Why won't you let me go?" Alice asked as Lewis worked to remove the splinter that was under her fingernail.

"I can't," Lewis told her. He wanted to let her go, he wanted to take her downstairs and out to the barn, put her in the van and drive her home, he couldn't, though. It was cowardice that stopped him, he knew that, and the knowledge made him ashamed, but he was afraid of what his partner would do to him if he let Alice go. "I can't," he repeated. "If I let you go, they'll hurt me, and you." He succeeded in getting a grip on the splinter with the tweezers from the first aid kit and, slowly and carefully, began to pull it out. "You just have to be patient," he told her. "This will all be over tomorrow, then you'll be home safe with your family." As he said that, he couldn't help wondering how safe she would be, given how close to her home and family was Jim, who had planned and arranged the kidnapping. "Tomorrow night, your dad will pay the ransom, and after that you'll be free."

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# 37

Grey rang the doorbell and stepped back to wait, wondering as he did so if they were wasting their time, as they had been at the other two houses they had visited. Their whole afternoon had been wasted in Grey's opinion; they had tracked down what details they could on the kidnapping case involving Gabby Johnson and Rowan Manning, and then confirmed Manning's alibi. After that they had moved on to confirming the whereabouts of the three former employees of Griffin Games who hadn't yet been checked out.

The first two former Griffin Games employees they had visited had solid alibis for the entirety of the previous day. Not only did they have alibis, they lacked motives for kidnapping Alice Keating; both had been hired for projects which had ended successfully, left with good references, and now had well-paid jobs with other companies. They were left with just Lewis Rice to check out - he had a possible motive, given how his employment with Griffin Games had ended, but what information they had on the man suggested it was unlikely that he would be involved in Alice Keating's kidnapping; Lewis Rice was, according to what they had been told by his former colleagues, a very intelligent, but meek and retiring, person who wouldn't say boo to a goose, and wouldn't dream of taking the initiative in anything more daring than getting a round of drinks. The mismatch made it necessary for them to look further into the man and his background.

When there was no response to his knock after a minute, Grey knocked again, he then moved away from the front door. Stepping off the path, he moved to the living room window, so he could peer in, in case there was someone at home who either wasn't willing or wasn't able to answer the door. He couldn't see anything or anyone, and after another minute he reluctantly accepted that there was no-one home, just as there hadn't been when the uniformed officers tried to find Lewis Rice.

"Let's try the neighbours," Reid suggested. "One of them might know where he is."

Grey nodded. "His car's here, maybe he just went to the shops or something." There was a small group of shops a couple of streets away, and he supposed it was possible the man they were looking for had walked there rather than driving.

Together, they walked back down the path and made their way around to the house next door. They went to their right first, for no reason they could have articulated. This time they were in luck, their knocked was answered almost immediately.

"Hello," the cautious greeting was offered by an elderly gentleman, who opened the door just far enough to look out and held onto it, ready to close it at the first sign of trouble.

"Good afternoon, sir," Reid said at his most polite. "I'm Detective Constable Reid, and this is Detective Constable Grey." They both held out their warrant cards, so they could be examined. "Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, Mr...?"

"Penfold," the old man answered once he had finished scrutinising the warrant cards, and was satisfied that the two men before him were indeed detectives. He relaxed a little, but his hand remained on the door as his eyes moved constantly between Grey and Reid. "What do you want to know?" he asked.

"We're interested in your neighbour, Mr Rice, Mr Penfold," Reid said. "Do you mind if we come in?" He didn't imagine they were going to be there long, but he didn't think it a good idea for them to ask their questions on the doorstep; if Lewis Rice was one of the people they were looking for, he didn't want him to see them, get spooked, and disappear, should he come home.

"Sure, sure, come on in." Penfold stepped back from the door, gesturing for them to enter as he did so. "The living room's just through there." He pointed to a doorway down the passage from him with his stick. "Go right in and make yourself comfortable; if Buster makes a nuisance of himself, or tries to get up on the sofa, just push him away. He likes to be made a fuss of, and loves it when we have visitors, even if he doesn't know who they are." As he continued to speak the old man shuffled forward so he could close the front door.

"Buster, get down," Penfold said sharply as he entered the living room. With his stick, he nudged the dog, which was far younger and more active than its master, away from the two detectives, who were attempting to sit on the sofa without hurting the frisky animal. "Now, you said you want to speak to me about Lewis, what is it you want to know?" Once he had shooed his companion to his basket, he settled into the armchair.

"The main thing we want to know is, where is Mr Rice, do you know where we can find him? He doesn't appear to be home," Grey said.

"No, I'm afraid not," Penfold answered without hesitation. "I haven't seen him today, or yesterday, but that's no surprise; aside from walking Buster, I don't get out much. Has he done something wrong?" he asked curiously.

Grey shook his head. "No, sir, not as far as I'm aware," he said, downplaying the situation as best he could. "We just need to speak to him."

"How well do you know Mr Rice?" Reid asked, thinking that though Penfold hadn't seen Lewis Rice in the last two days, and hence couldn't help with establishing where the programmer had been the previous afternoon, he might still be able to provide some useful information.

"Well enough, I suppose," Penfold said, the curiosity in his face growing at the questions. "As I said, I don't get out much, but Lewis always speaks when he sees me, and he gets on well with Buster."

"What can you tell us about him?"

Penfold didn't speak for a few moments as he decided what to say. "He's a nice person," he said finally. "His mind's off in the clouds a lot of the time, but he's very a nice; he's very intelligent guy, I asked him once what he does for a living, and was confused by the time he finished the first sentence. It's something to do with computers, I gather. he gave me an old computer he was going to throw out last year, even set it up so I can speak to my daughter in Canada and my son up in Scotland, it's made such a difference."

"That was good of him," Grey remarked. "Not everyone would have taken the time."

"I know, my neighbour on the other side, now he's a right miserable bugger, wouldn't pee on you if you were on fire. Don't think I've passed a dozen words with him in the past three months, if not longer. Always chasing Buster away when he sees him as well, even if he isn't anywhere near his garden." Penfold scowled over his shoulder in the direction of his curmudgeonly neighbour. "Lewis, though, is very good about helping out if I need anything done; I know he's helped Jackie out as well. His neighbour on the other side," he explained. "She's a single mum, got three kids, needs a lot of help at times. Mind, Lewis isn't much use if you need help with anything other than computers; he's hopeless with DIY, gardening, just about anything that isn't electronic or computer related really, but he's always willing to give it a try and do his best.

"At least he was."

"What do you mean by that, Mr Penfold?" Grey asked.

A further delay revealed Penfold's reluctance to get someone who was a friend in trouble, but after a few seconds he seemed to decide that answering the police was the best thing he could do. "The last few months, Lewis has been different; he lost a job, I don't know what he was doing, or who he was working for, just that he lost the job, and was very bitter about it. He didn't speak about it to me, but I got the impression he was sacked, and accused of something, something I doubt very much he did - I can't imagine him doing anything wrong. He's had a hard time finding another job since - he hasn't said anything to me about it, but I know he's spoken to Jackie because she's mentioned it to me - and blames someone he used to work with.

"Apparently, whatever he was accused of, it's making it tough to get a job. He's normally happy and pretty easy going, although a bit off with the fairies if you know what I mean, but it seems the longer he's out of work, the more unhappy, resentful, and snappy he's becoming."

Reid and Grey exchanged significant looks; they knew who Rice had been working for, why he had lost the job, and who he most likely felt unhappy and resentful towards. What had seemed like a long shot was now looking like more of a possibility; while the information Penfold had given was unconfirmed, it did add to the possible motive they had for Lewis Rice being involved with Alice Keating's kidnapping.

"Thank you, Mr Penfold," Grey said. "You said Mr Rice has spoken to his neighbour on the other side about his situation."

Penfold nodded.

"Do you think she will be able to help us?"

Penfold shrugged uncertainly. "I couldn't say, I don't really know what you're after." He couldn't imagine that the friendly and helpful neighbour he knew was in trouble with the police, but he couldn't think why else the detectives were asking about Lewis, and that made him very curious.

Grey tried to think of a way to respond to that without giving away the purpose of their investigation, before he could, however, Reid spoke, "We suspect," he began, choosing his words carefully, "that Mr Rice has gotten himself mixed up in something he would have been better off avoiding; we're trying to determine if that is the case, and if so to get him out of the situation before it becomes too serious. I'm sorry, we can't say anything more than that right now; we really need to find Mr Rice, though, the sooner the better."

The two detectives endured the pensioner's scrutiny, as well as that of Buster, who had left his cushion to settle at his master's feet. Finally, Penfold decided to respond, "Jackie might know where he is," he told them. "If anyone does, it'll be her; she might also know if he's gotten himself mixed up in something he shouldn't have."

"Thank you, Mr Penfold. Please, there's no need for you to get up," Grey said when their host reached for his walking stick to help himself up out of his chair. "We can see ourselves out."

"What do you think?" Grey asked of Reid as the two made their way down the path.

"He definitely bears further investigation, if what Mr Penfold said is right. What Mr Collins told me made Rice a possible suspect, now it seems his motive may have been confirmed." Doubt crossed his face then. "We still need to find out where he was yesterday afternoon; we have a possible motive, but that's no good if we can't come up with means and opportunity as well."

Grey nodded his agreement; as much as he wanted to nail down one of the kidnappers, it would be a major feather in his and Reid's caps, he didn't want to jump the gun. If Lewis Rice was one of the people they were looking for, they needed to make certain and gather as much evidence as they could before they took it to DI Stone.

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# 38

Leaving Lewis to put away the shopping he had bought, Crash flicked the kettle on, so he could make himself a drink.

It was as he was leaving the kitchen, mug of coffee in one hand, that he noticed the first aid kit on the side near the fridge. He wasn't sure where the kit could normally be found, but he did know that it hadn't been next to the fridge when he left earlier.

"What's that doing out?" Crash wanted to know, gesturing to the small, green case, adorned with a white cross.

Lewis' eyes darted to the first aid kit guiltily, wishing he had had the sense to put it away in the cupboard under the sink where he got it from, rather than leaving it out where his partner could spot it. "Alice had a cut on her hand, I had to clean it up and put a plaster on it," he said, deciding that there was little point in dissembling; he didn't doubt that his, somewhat scary, partner would figure out the truth soon enough.

"How did you know about her cut?" Crash asked in a dangerous voice, though he didn't give Lewis a chance to answer. "Jesus Christ, but you're an idiot, d'you know that, a goddamned bloody idiot. You went in the room again, didn't you." He glared at Lewis accusingly, an edge of anger in his voice. "Didn't you learn anything this morning?"

"I had to check on her," Lewis said defensively. "We can't let her go without food and water, and I couldn't leave her with a used bucket, that's neither pleasant nor hygienic."

"What if she'd tried to escape again? If she'd made a break for it and managed to lock you in that room again, she'd have had all the time in the world to get away." There was a dark look on his face and his eyes flashed dangerously.

"She didn't, though, she didn't even try," Lewis told his accomplice. "She's so scared after you caught her this morning that she barely moved." It disturbed him to see how much that comment pleased Crash, who seemed to take a horrid kind of delight in having frightened their teen captive into immobility.

"You're bloody lucky," Crash declared. "When Jim hears how stupid you've been, he ain't gonna be happy."

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# 39

"Mrs Hawkins?" Stone queried when the door opened.

The middle-aged lady who stood in the doorway nodded. "Yes, that's me. Can I help you?"

"DI Stone," he introduced himself. "This is my partner, DS Burke, may we speak to you?"

"Of course, please come in." Mrs Hawkins guided them to the living room. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, I must see to something in the kitchen." Leaving them to seat themselves, she slipped away.

"So, how can I help you, gentlemen?" Sharon Hawkins asked when she returned to the living room, a smudge of flour now decorating her left cheek.

"We'd like to speak to you about your car, if that's alright," Stone told her.

Puzzled, Sharon Hawkins looked at the inspector for a couple of seconds before she responded. "Of course it's alright, inspector, but why do you want to talk to me about my car? I don't even have one at the moment."

It was Stone's turn to look puzzled. His opinion of the DVLA and the police national database, was not exactly positive, but he didn't think it possible that they could have come across two sets of errors in two cases so close together; it stretched the realms of coincidence too far for him. "According to our records, you're the owner of a Renault Clio, registration..." He had to look it up in his notepad. "Y715 CLH. Is that not right?"

"I was," Sharon Hawkins said. "It was stolen about two months ago."

"What happened after that? Was it found?"

"Yes, but it was a write-off; it had been smashed up and set fire to. Fortunately, I have a good insurance company, and the person I dealt with there was very helpful - he took care of everything. The car was taken away and disposed of, and I was offered a hire car until I receive a pay-out and can get myself a new car."

"How was the car disposed of?"

"The insurance company arranged for a scrapyard to take it."

"I don't suppose you know the name of the scrapyard?" Mentally, Stone crossed his fingers.

Sharon Hawkins nodded. "Yes, the insurance company sent me a letter with the details; it didn't really matter to me who the car had gone to, though, so I just put the letter away. Would you like me to get it for you?"

"Thank you."

Sharon Hawkins disappeared from the room, returning barely a minute later with the letter from the insurance company in an envelope that had been neatly sliced open. "Do you mind if I ask why you are interested in my former car?"

Stone nodded as he took the envelope. "The license number of your 'former' car was found on a vehicle that was recently used in a crime. I'm afraid I can't go into details, but I'm sure you understand that we need to investigate how the license number of your car came to be used." He saw the worried look on her face, and spoke quickly to reassure her. "We don't think you were involved in any way - there are a number of ways your license number could have come to be involved, especially with your car having been written off and scrapped."

Sharon Hawkin's relief at learning she was not being considered as a possible suspect was obvious

"Which scrapyard?" Burke asked as his partner read the letter.

"Tredegar's," Stone told him. "I'm guessing someone there has the answer we're after. If we're lucky we might even be able to get there before they close for the day. Thank you, Mrs Hawkins, you've been very helpful."

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# 40

"Jackie?" Grey asked when the front door of the house on the left of Lewis Rice's opened. He couldn't help thinking that he should have asked Mr Penfold what Jackie's last name was; it didn't seem right to simply use her first name.

"Uh huh," Jackie grunted, shifting the baby on her hip into a more comfortable position. "You're cops ain't ya, what d'ya want?"

Grey nodded, sure that Jackie's reaction was prompted by irritation, rather than by concern. "Yes, we're cops, Miss; sorry to trouble you, but we'd like to speak to you about your neighbour, Lewis Rice, may we come in?"

"Is he in trouble?" Jackie shifted the baby again and turned at the sound of rapid footsteps. "Back in the living room," She ordered the young boy who was approaching her at a run, without waiting to see what it was he wanted. "Now," she said sharply, emphasising her command with a pointed finger and a stern look.

"He might be," Reid answered. "We're uncertain at this time; we need to speak to Mr Rice urgently, but he isn't home, and we haven't been able to discover where he is. Mr Penfold, the gentleman who lives on the other side of Mr Rice, said that you and Mr Rice get on fairly well, and that you might be able to help us."

"Him! He's an old fool," Jackie said disparagingly. "He thinks because Lewis has..." Whatever she was about to say was cut off by a crashing sound that seemed to echo down the passage behind her, closely followed by the wail of a young child, one who was either hurt or upset. With an annoyed look on her face, Jackie glanced over her shoulder, sighed eloquently, and said, "You'd better come in while I deal with them. Close the door behind you."

It took Jackie several minutes to get the two boys in the living room calmed down, and that happened only after both had received a quick smack on the bottom for misbehaving, followed by hugs to reassure them that mummy wasn't really mad.

"Sorry about that," she apologised once she had dealt with her children. "What were we talking about?"

"We were talking about your neighbour, Mr Rice," Reid said. "Mr Penfold, on the other side of Mr Rice, believes you might be able to help us find him."

Jackie threw an annoyed and unhappy look in the direction of Mr Penfold's house. "That Penfold, he's a meddling old bugger; he thinks because Lewis has helped me out a few times, we should get married." It was plain to see that she was appalled by the idea. "He keeps saying that Lewis needs a good woman in his life, so he's not alone so much, and that I could do with having a man like Lewis to help me raise my kids." She shook her head. "It's a ridiculous idea. Even if I wanted to get married again, I wouldn't pick Lewis; he's a nice enough guy, but he's hopeless at most practical things, and he's definitely not my type."

She realised after a moment that she was rambling, and quickly apologised, with an embarrassed smile. "Sorry, I don't get to speak to many grownups."

"That's quite alright, Miss...I'm sorry, Mr Penfold didn't tell us your last name," Grey said.

"Just call me Jackie, I don't go much on formality, it makes me feel old."

"Okay, Jackie; can you tell us where we can find Lewis? He doesn't seem to be at home, and we really need to speak to him."

"Sorry, no, I've got no idea where he is. What d'you think he's done?"

"We can't tell you that, sorry," Reid said, though he didn't sound all that sorry. "At this time we're merely trying to speak to him, so we can eliminate him from our enquiries, or determine if we need to investigate him more closely. You say you don't know where he is, have you seen him at all over the last couple of days?"

"Not today - I was hoping he'd give me a hand with something this morning, but he wasn't home. I haven't seen him since yesterday morning."

"Have you noticed anything different about Mr Rice recently?" Reid asked.

"Such as?"

"A change in his behaviour or attitude, spending time with new people, especially those he might seem out of place with," Grey explained.

"He was with someone I've never seen before yesterday," Jackie said straightaway. "They were heading out."

"What can you tell us about this stranger?" Grey asked, perking up a little.

"He was on a motorbike; I didn't get a good look at it, and I probably wouldn't have been able to tell you the make if I had," Jackie said, anticipating the next question. "I know almost nothing about bikes, it was noisy, I know that much, 'cause it woke Laura," she indicated the baby now in a cot in the corner of the room, "and I looked out the window to see what was going on while I tried to settle her down. I got there in time to see the guy walk up the path to Lewis' house, he was wearing motorcycle leathers and carrying a helmet; he had brown hair, not short, but not all that long either, and he looked mean, the sort I'd've been interested in when I was younger - I've made that mistake often enough not to want to make it again."

"Did you notice anything else about him?" Grey asked; he liked the sound of Lewis Rice being involved with a rough-looking motorcyclist; it was only a very basic description, probably useless in locating the man, but it did increase the likelihood that they were on the right track in chasing down Rice as a possible suspect.

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# 41

Stone was back at the Keating house, listening to Inspector Evans explain what he and his assistant were going to do to track the ransom, when his phone rang. He was relieved to hear the sudden burst of music from his pocket, it gave him an excuse to stop pretending he understood what was being said, most of which was going straight over his head; he could only hope that his partner was following it better, though he realised that it didn't matter whether he was, so long as the two specialists knew what they were going to be doing, and did it well enough to enable them to arrest Alice's kidnappers.

"Stone," he answered, keeping half an ear on Evans' explanation, in case something was said that he needed to hear.

"Sir, it's Detective Grey."

"Yes, Christian, what've you got for me?" Stone asked, almost, but not quite, desperate for something that would advance his investigations; he and Burke had been out of luck when they got to the scrapyard where Sheila Hawkins' car was supposed to have ended up - the gates were locked and, apart from a couple of security lights, it was all in darkness.

"Nothing definite," Grey admitted, "but we have come up with something interesting. Lewis Rice, the last of the former Griffin Games' employees we were checking, seems to be missing, he hasn't been seen since yesterday morning, when his neighbour saw him leave his house with a stranger, a motorcycle-riding stranger with a mean face."

"Anything else?" Stone asked, not quite as interested by Grey's news as the young detective seemed to be.

"According to his neighbours, Lewis Rice has changed since he lost his job; he's become more surly, bitter and unfriendly, and has expressed a dislike for the man responsible for him getting the sack. It's possible that sentiment extends to Mr Keating, which would give him a motive for being involved with Alice Keating's kidnapping," Grey said.

"Follow up on it," Stone instructed. He wasn't convinced, but it was a lead and couldn't be ignored. "Find Rice if you can, and see what you can find out about the guy on the motorbike; if Rice has an alibi then we need to look elsewhere."

"Yes, sir. Oh, I've heard back from the DVLA about the Vauxhall," Grey said, the message had been waiting for him when he and Reid got back to the station. "According to their records, a Mr Jeffrey Rodgers attempted to transfer title of the Vauxhall into his name; the paperwork wasn't filled out correctly, though, so they returned it to him."

"What's his address?" Stone asked as he pressed his mobile to his ear with his shoulder and fumbled in his pocket for pad and pen to write down the information Grey provided. "Okay, get Reid to make a start on tracking Rice down, and whatever else there is to do - I want to know everything he can find out about Tredegar scrapyard. I want you to meet me at Mr Rodgers'," he said changing his mind about what he wanted Grey to do. He hoped that Mr Rodgers would lead them to the Vauxhall, which he now believed would firm up the case against Jerry Logan, and enable them to charge Ben Logan.

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# 42

Lewis ignored the look directed at him by Crash as he headed up the stairs with water and a sandwich for Alice. He knew his partner didn't approve of what he was doing, and could feel his eyes boring into him, like drills searching for oil, but Lewis didn't let that deter him as he ascended.

It surprised him when he made it to the door of Alice's cell without Crash stopping him, either verbally or physically. Hurriedly he opened the door, so he could enter the room before Crash could decide to do something, and then nudged it shut with his foot once he was through. It banged shut loudly. He hadn't expected it to make so much noise and he gave a little jump; he recovered quickly and moved further into the room.

"How are you?" he asked as he approached Alice, who was sitting against the wall by the lamp. She was not as tense as she had been, but her eyes were red, suggesting she had been crying, and he felt a twinge of guilt.

**

CRASH WAITED UNTIL Lewis had closed the bedroom door, then he turned away from the stairs and strode into the living room. He snatched up his mobile phone from the coffee table, and ground his teeth in frustration when the number he had dialled rang and rang without being answered. Disconnecting the call with an unnecessarily hard jab of one finger, he rang the number again, while keeping one ear pricked for any sign that Lewis was on his way back down; he didn't want his partner overhearing his phone call.

"Jim, it's Crash," he said, when the call was finally answered.

"I know who it is," Jim said irritably, resisting the urge to point out that the screen had shown him who was calling. "What d'you want? You're not supposed to call me unless there's an emergency." He was glad there was no-one around to overhear the call, it meant he didn't have to be careful about what he said.

"We've got a problem?" Crash told Jim. He knew his partner wasn't happy he was calling, but didn't care; if he had been allowed to do things his way, the problem wouldn't have arisen.

"What sort of problem?" Jim wanted to know. He comforted himself with the thought that he knew it couldn't be that the police were onto either Crash or Alice's location, he would almost certainly have heard about that before his partner.

"You mean aside from the one I warned you about right from the start?" Crash hissed in a sharp voice, wanting to ensure his voice didn't carry up the stairs. "How about the fact that the little bitch made a break for it this morning; it's just as well I'm not a heavier sleeper, or she'd have got away, then we'd all be screwed, you most of all."

Jim knew that, he was well aware that he had, by far, the most to lose if they were caught, though he tried not to dwell on it. "How did she manage to make a break for it?" he wanted to know. "She's supposed to be locked up; you're not telling me she managed to get out of that room after I had you make it more secure."

"Not exactly," Crash temporised. "Lewis took her a sandwich and a bottle of water, and she took advantage, she ran from the room and locked him in; then she ran down the stairs and tried to get out of the house."

"Where the hell were you while this was going on? And what the hell was Lewis doing taking her a sandwich and a drink? Why didn't you stop him?"

Crash resented the questions, and the accusatory tone in which they were asked. Swallowing the urge to snap at the younger man, who he was aware had made it possible for him to make more money than he had ever dreamed of, he answered. "I was asleep on the sofa, Lewis made sure of that 'fore he went up to her room, 'cause I already had words with him 'bout it last night. He insisted we have to give Alice water, at the least, so she doesn't get ill or die." He gave a short bark of quickly suppressed laughter at that.

"Didn't you tell him that wasn't necessary?"

"What was I s'posed to say, that it didn't matter 'cause she's gonna be killed anyway. If I'd told him that, he'd have done somethin' stupid, like call the police, or try and rescue Alice, and bang goes ev'rythin'. We'd never have had this problem if you'd let me kill 'em both straight off."

"I told you why you couldn't do that," Jim reminded Crash. "We need to keep her alive until we've got the money, she's our insurance policy."

"I know, and we need Lewis 'cause his brains are gonna stop the cops followin' me tomorrow night when I get the ransom; 'cept we don't, he's already got his little gadget sorted, so we've got no more need for him."

**

LEWIS FROZE ON THE stairs when he heard what Crash was saying in the living room; he felt as though he had just stepped under a freezing cold shower, while a lead weight settled in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to be sick. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

A part of him wanted to storm down the rest of the stairs and confront his so-called partner, but he realised that would be a bad idea. If he confronted Crash, he would almost certainly be killed the moment he finished speaking, if not before, and that was something he wanted to avoid - he had no desire to be hurt, let alone killed. If he had thought it was a possibility, he never would have agreed to help kidnap Alice Keating, no matter how large a ransom they expected to get.

Straining his ears, he listened for whatever might be said next; he hoped to hear something positive, or at least something that might help him to save his life, and the life of the schoolgirl he had just left. What he heard made him realise he didn't have long to come up with a plan, which wasn't good news because he was someone who preferred to think his way fully through something before coming to a decision or a solution.

"Okay, okay," Crash said. "I won't do anything 'til we've got the money. Are there any problems on your end?" he asked.

Lewis didn't wait to hear anything more, he turned and headed back up the stairs as quietly as he could. He didn't want to let Crash know that his conversation had been overheard. When he reached the top of the stairs, he turned and made his way along the passage to the bathroom. The moment he had the door closed and locked behind him, he took out his mobile phone, and discovered the battery was dead. He couldn't believe he had forgotten to charge the phone before Crash collected him the previous morning - it was too late to do anything about it now.

With his phone dead, he couldn't call the police, which was the only solution he could think of right then.

Slumped against the door behind him, Lewis closed his eyes and tried to think. His current problem was like nothing he had ever had to deal with; normally, his problems consisted of trying to discover the most efficient coding for whatever aspect of a project he was working on, while keeping the processor and graphics rendering requirements as low as possible. The consequences of failure were, at worst, dismissal and damage to his reputation, not death, as he was currently facing.

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# 43

With Grey a pace behind him, Stone made his way up the path to the front door. Someone must have seen them through the living room window, he realised, because the door was opened just before his finger could press the bell. He recovered from his surprise quickly and flashed a smile.

"Mrs Eileen Rodgers?" he queried of the woman who stood in the doorway, guessing from her age that she was Jeffrey Rodgers' wife, rather than his daughter.

"That's right." She nodded. "How can I help you?"

"Is your husband home?"

A concerned look crossed Eileen's face. "What do you want with my husband? Who are you?"

"I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself," Stone apologised. He took out his warrant card. "Detective Inspector Stone, and this is Detective Constable Grey. Is your husband home?" he asked once Eileen Rodgers had satisfied herself that his warrant card was genuine. It always amused him when people scrutinised his warrant card; he was pretty sure that those that did wouldn't have a clue how to tell whether it was real or fake.

Eileen nodded. "Yes." She shut the door behind the two detectives once they were inside, and then guided them through to the living room, which was just a few paces away. "Jeff, this is Inspector Stone and Detective Grey, they'd like to speak to you," she said once they were all in the room.

"What have you been up to, daddy?" a light voice asked from the corner of the room.

The question made Stone look around, at which point he saw Cara Rodgers, the daughter, sitting on the sofa by the window. Though her question had been accusatory, her expression was one of amusement, and she was struggling not to laugh as her father shrugged.

"I don't remember doing anything," Jeffrey Rodgers said. "Are you sure they're not here for you, and simply need me to be your responsible adult? You were pretty late getting home last night; anything you'd like to admit to?"

Cara smiled mischievously. "If I'd gotten up to anything last night, you'd already know about it, someone would have put something up on Facebook or Instagram, and you'd have seen it."

"I'd rather not see pictures or videos of whatever you get up to; no father wants to see their daughter drunk, half-naked, and making an idiot of themselves." Rodgers turned to Stone then. "Sorry, inspector, how can I help you?"

"Did you attempt to transfer the title on a blue Vauxhall Astra, registration number T248 GUU, into your name recently?" Stone asked, glad that the father and daughter had finished their bantering.

Rodgers nodded. "The DVLA sent the form back, said it wasn't filled out properly. Took their bloody time about deciding that as well, I only got it back middle of last week. I sent it back off at the weekend; waste of time that was," he grumbled. "Why're you interested in the car?"

Stone ignored the question and instead asked one of his own, "Where's the car now?"

"It was stolen on Saturday night," Rodgers said after a moment.

"Did you report the theft?" Grey asked.

Stone wondered about that, no report of the theft had come up when the vehicle's details had been put into the police database.

"I tried to," Rodgers said, all humour gone from both his face and his voice. "I was told I couldn't, though, because the DVLA hadn't transferred the title; I can't even claim on the insurance because the insurance company wouldn't cover it until the title was in my name." Frustration lined his face and anger tinged his voice. "I bought the damned car for Cara, for when she goes to college; I can't afford another, and there's no insurance, so unless you guys can find the damned car and get it back to us..." His voice trailed off.

"It's okay, dad," Cara tried to reassure him. "I can manage without a car."

"Can you tell us the circumstances of the car's theft, Mr Rodgers?" Stone asked.

Rodgers shrugged. "There isn't much to tell. Eileen and I went out for the evening, and when we got back the car was gone. It was parked in the drive when we left - I couldn't leave it on the street while the DVLA crap wasn't sorted."

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# 44

Stone ignored the questions that were shouted at him as he crept forwards in his car, making his way through the crowd of reporters and journalists camped outside the Keating residence. He was relieved to leave the circus behind once through the gates, and he headed up the drive to park by the police cars near the garage.

Getting out, he made his way around to the kitchen; he could have rung the bell and waited to be let in through the front door by Chambers, but chose not to, he didn't want to give the press either an excuse or an opportunity to take pictures, and he knew they would if the front door opened - they would take pictures of anything, even a servant, in case they caught a glimpse of something worth publishing.

"Evening." Stone helped himself to a mug of coffee from the half full pot on his way through the kitchen. He stopped when he got to the door and turned back. "Where's Mr Keating?" he asked.

"With his wife, sir," Chambers answered. "Would you like to speak with him?"

"Please," Stone said, thinking that he should bring Owen Keating up to date with things, and check that there were no problems he needed to deal with.

"I'll see him directly, sir." Chambers got to his feet, took his jacket from the back of his chair, pulled it on, and with brisk steps left the kitchen to find his employer.

Stone followed the house-manager as he strode down the passage, cradling the mug of coffee to warm his hands - it wasn't a cold evening, but his fingers were stiff. He stopped following the house-manager when he reached the reception hall, choosing to wait there, since he didn't know where Owen Keating was, or where he would want to talk with him.

The sound of rapid footsteps made Stone turn to see who was descending the stairs in such a hurry - it was Ryan Keating. The Keating heir - though he wouldn't be for much longer, if the rumours were to be believed - was dressed for an evening on the town, in an outfit and jewellery that Stone estimated was worth at least what he made in a month, perhaps more.

"Where are you going?"

Stone spun at the question, and saw that Owen Keating was preceding Mr Chambers towards them from the study. The angry look on Keating's face matched the tone in which he had asked the question.

"Out," Ryan Keating said, as if the answer should have been obvious.

Owen Keating looked at his son incredulously. "You're going out." The anger remained, but now it was overlaid by a disbelieving tone. "How the hell can you go out at a time like this?" he wanted to know as he reached out to stop his son with a hand on his arm.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" Owen Keating asked, the disbelief in his voice increasing. "How can you go out at a time like this? Don't you care in the slightest what's happening?"

Ryan Keating shrugged. "What'm I supposed to do, stay in and mope around the house? What would be the point in that? Me staying in won't help Alice, or mum; mum's doped up to the eyeballs - right now she doesn't know who's here and who isn't, and you've got Inspector Gadget in there," he indicated the library with a jerk of his head. "As well as the rest of the plods, to help you when it comes to Little Miss Perfect.

"It's not as if there's even anything you can do; the ransom drop isn't 'til tomorrow night, you can't pick up the money for it 'til tomorrow when the bank calls, and you can't do anything about whatever evidence he's," that time the jerk of the head indicated Stone, who was doing his best not to get caught in the middle of the family dispute, "got, because that's his job. Not that he's got anything, have you!" He suddenly rounded on Stone, who returned his gaze steadily.

When the inspector didn't respond, Ryan smiled nastily and said, "I thought so, you're as useless as all other plods. Since there's nothing I can do here, I'm going out to have some fun." With that he pulled his arm free from his father's grip and strode across the foyer to the door, which he yanked open, so he could disappear into the night.

Stone and Owen Keating were still at the foot of the sweeping staircase leading up to the first floor, with Mr Chambers a couple of steps away, when they heard the roar of an engine. Owen Keating followed the racing engine with his eyes, as if he could see the car through the walls of his house. Only when it was no longer audible did he turn to Stone, a worried look on his face.

"I hope he doesn't do anything stupid," he said, though he didn't sound the least bit confident that his son would behave sensibly.

"I'll put the word out, and have the patrol cars and uniforms keep an eye out for him," Stone said.

"Thanks, but I don't imagine it will make any difference." Owen Keating sounded resigned. "If Ryan gets it into his head to do something stupid, then nothing and no-one will stop him. Let's go into my study," he changed the subject abruptly.

"Chambers said you want to speak to me," Keating said once he was seated at his desk, his physical and emotional exhaustion showed in the way he slouched in his seat. "Have you got good news?" he asked, a shadow of hope in his eyes, though it reached no further.

"We have a couple of possible suspects," Stone told the worry-filled father. "Nothing definite so far, but we're still investigating, and hope to have a better idea of whether we're looking at the right people soon. We have a name for the first of the suspects, and have established that he has a motive, he also appears to have been away from home and out of sight since yesterday morning. We're now attempting to find him, and to discover if he has an alibi for the time when Alice was taken."

"Is it anyone I know?"

Stone looked at Owen Keating for a moment before answering. "His name is Lewis Rice, he's a former employee of your company," he said.

There was a look of bewilderment on Owen Keating's face for a moment, but then it cleared up, though he remained unhappy. "Isn't he a programmer? I wouldn't have thought someone like that would be involved."

"That's right, Mr Keating, he was a programmer on one of your projects last year. According to what we've been able to discover," Stone said, "he was sacked at the beginning of the year, following allegations that he stole money from the project's funding, the result of which is that he bears a grudge against you."

"But I had nothing to do with that," Owen protested. "I had no idea he had been sacked; I don't know him, I just remember hearing or seeing his name somewhere, probably as part of a report on whatever project he was working on."

"That rarely makes a difference when it comes to something like this," Stone said. "You own the company, and are the one ultimately in charge. He might blame the project manager for what happened, but if he's decided to get revenge and seek compensation, and I stress that we are still investigating, and aren't yet certain of his involvement, then you're the one with the money." It wasn't fair, he knew that, but all too often it was the way of the world.

"What about the other suspect you said you have?" Keating asked, to take his mind off the unfairness of his family being targeted simply because he owned the company.

"At the moment we don't know anything about him," Stone admitted. "The detectives I have trying to find Mr Rice were told by one of his neighbours that he left home yesterday in the company of a rough-looking individual on a motorbike, someone he's never been seen with before. It's vague, I know, but we have to follow up on every lead, no matter how slim."

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# 45

Alice had no way of measuring the passage of time, but she thought it was Thursday evening - it was actually Thursday night, midnight had come and gone - and she couldn't sleep. She wanted to, because her brain told her it was the best way to make the time until she was released pass, but no matter how she tried to get comfortable and clear her mind, sleep evaded her.

She simply could not rid herself of the feeling that the moment she closed her eyes, some new, and unpleasant, thing would happen to her. She couldn't even bring herself to turn off the light, which might have helped her to sleep - in her mind the light held back not only the shadows, but also her kidnappers, whom she was sure were lurking in the shadows, waiting to catch her unawares.

Huddled against the wall, she suffered through the first bout of insomnia she had ever had to deal with.

**

ALICE WAS NOT THE ONLY one suffering with an inability to sleep. Lewis, in a bedroom down the passage from the one in which the schoolgirl was being held prisoner, was also awake. The bedroom in which he resided that night was furnished and comfortable, unlike Alice's barren cell, but that comfort made no difference in helping Lewis quiet his troubled mind and surrender to the sweet oblivion of sleep.

No matter how much he tried, he couldn't put from his mind the phone call he had overheard; it troubled him to such an extent that he was surprised Crash hadn't picked up on it before he went to bed. Fortunately, his partner wasn't very perceptive, and was more interested in the DVD he had put on than in why Lewis was so quiet.

He cursed himself for letting the battery on his phone die; if it weren't for that, he could have called the police, and Alice would be safe, safer than she was now at any rate, and so would he, even if that was because he was in a police cell. He had considered asking to borrow Crash's phone, but decided it was too risky; he couldn't even borrow the charger for Crash's phone, so he could make the call later, because he knew that Crash, like him, hadn't brought it.

Since he couldn't call the police, he had to come up with some other way of saving Alice, and he knew he didn't have long in which to do so. He hadn't heard all of the phone call that Crash had made earlier, but he had heard enough to know that neither he nor Alice would live long past the collection of the ransom.

A morbid corner of his mind wondered how he was supposed to die, while a cowardly part thought he should forget about saving Alice and focus on saving himself - he was sure he could manage to creep downstairs and out the kitchen door without waking Crash, from there he could take the van from the barn and disappear.

As much as he wanted to just disappear, he knew he couldn't. He wasn't a brave man, he never had been, but neither did he think of himself as a coward; he couldn't leave Alice Keating to whatever was going to happen to her, not when he was in a position to help her.

After running the problem around his brain for an interminable period of time, the length of which he wasn't sure, he decided that his best chance of saving Alice was to wait until Crash left the following evening to collect the ransom from Alice's father. When Crash did that, he would be able to get Alice away without much in the way of risk to either of them. There was always a chance that Crash would go out at some point in the morning, if he did, Lewis could save Alice then, rather than waiting until the evening, but even if he didn't, he had less than a day to wait - as endless as that day was likely to feel, he was sure he could tolerate it.

**

THE FARMHOUSE WHERE Alice was being held was not the only place witnessing a lack of sleep. Sleep was just as hard to come by for those under the roof of the Keating house. Mrs Wembley and Mr Chambers, both of whom had been with the family since before Alice was born, tossed and turned in their beds, worrying about Alice's safety.

Maria Keating also tossed and turned, unable to sleep, despite the medication the doctor had prescribed her; she felt as though she was caught in a nightmare, a nightmare she had always feared, but which she had never thought would come true.

Next to his wife in their luxurious, king-sized bed, Owen Keating lay as still as a statue. He could tell that Maria was awake, and that she continued to be troubled by the thoughts that had occupied her mind since he told her what had happened to Alice. As much as he wanted to roll over, take her in his arms, and comfort her, he realised it would do no good; it was irrational, he knew, but she blamed him for Alice's kidnapping.

The worst of it was that he agreed with her; despite knowing, intellectually, that his money made his family a target, he had not taken any serious steps towards ensuring they were protected. He had relied on Brian Jacobs, and his training with the Royal Marines, to keep his family safe, training which had proven unequal to the task when it came down to it.

Foremost in his thinking was not how he could fix the mistakes he had made, though, rather it was his daughter's kidnappers, and what they had in mind for the ransom drop. Not knowing what he would have to do to get his daughter back worried him as much as anything else. What films he had seen that involved kidnappings - not many he realised - featured ransom drops that were either convoluted to the point of absurdity, or which were spoiled by police interference; he hoped the ransom drop for his daughter would proceed more smoothly than any he had seen, and he would get Alice back without complications.

Downstairs in the library, Stone was another person finding sleep hard to come by. As tired as he was, he had too much on his mind to sleep; like Owen Keating in the master bedroom, he wondered what the kidnappers had planned for the ransom drop. It was clear to him that at least one of the people who had taken Alice was of above average intelligence, and that meant they were likely to come up with something to make following or tracking them difficult. Inspector Evans had tried to convince him that no matter what the kidnappers did, he and his assistant would be able to track the money and guide the following officers to wherever those holding Alice were hiding, but he remained doubtful.

Until they heard from the kidnappers, they could do nothing except make the most generic of plans based on the two biggest possibilities: the first was that the ransom drop would take place somewhere in the open where the kidnappers would have a wide field of visibility, while the second was that the kidnappers would want the exchange to take place somewhere crowded, so they could slip away amongst the civilians. Both had advantages and disadvantages, for police and kidnappers alike.

While his partner slept, seemingly having no difficulty in getting comfortable in the reading chair he had settled into, and Evans and his partner went over their programs and equipment in readiness for what they would have to do tomorrow, Stone attempted to get comfortable. Even the copy of Oliver Twist he had borrowed from Owen Keating's well-appointed library, which was one of his all-time favourite books, couldn't help him to relax.

In contrast to those who were finding sleep difficult to come by, Jerry Logan was fast asleep. Years of prison beds meant he had no problem drifting off, despite the lack of comfort provided by the thin mattress and hard wooden shelf on which it rested.

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# 46

Exhausted and bleary-eyed, Lewis made his way slowly downstairs and along to the kitchen, where he switched on the kettle. After a restless night, in which he had gotten no more than a couple of hours' sleep, he needed the biggest and strongest mug of coffee available; unfortunately, the kitchen cupboards held no large mugs, they were all decidedly average in size.

Disgruntled, he took down the first mug that came to hand, and quickly filled it with a heaped spoonful of coffee, two similarly heaped spoonsful of sugar, and a splash of milk. He then made himself some toast while he waited for the kettle to boil, slathering it with butter and a generous amount of strawberry jam.

With the toast in one hand and the gently steaming mug in the other, Lewis made for the living room. He was relieved to see that Crash was still asleep on the sofa - that meant he didn't have to try and pretend that there was nothing wrong; just being in the same room as the man who intended killing him was difficult enough. He tried not to do it, but he could not stop his eyes darting constantly to the man he now considered an enemy while he munched on his toast and sipped at his coffee. He found it impossible to shake the fear that at any moment Crash was going to leap to his feet strangle him, or choke him with his breakfast, or kill him in one of the hundred or so ways that were running through his mind.

Once he had finished his breakfast, which left him feeling no better than he had before, he made a second and took it upstairs to Alice - as he set it down in front of her, he wondered if it would be the last she would ever have. That thought made him feel even worse than he already did.

"You'll be back home soon," he told her. "Your dad will be paying the ransom for your release later today, and then you'll be going home." His good news failed to alter the look on Alice's face, she remained downcast, and he didn't waste any time with a second attempt at perking her up, instead he left and locked the door behind him.

On his way downstairs, Lewis wondered why he didn't just take Alice from the room and leave with her. He could drive her to the nearest police station and let her go down the road from it, she would be safe then, as would he; the only possible danger to Alice then would be Jim, who was close enough to the teen to get at her whenever he wanted, there was nothing he could do about that, however. The answer was obvious, and came to him almost immediately - he was afraid that Crash would catch them.

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# 47

The satisfied sounds from Burke, who was next to him at the kitchen table, made Stone reflect that as unpleasant as Alice Keating's kidnapping was, it did have its up-side. His cup was filled with a coffee that was good enough to delight his partner, and the plate before him held a fried breakfast which pleased his nose as much as it did his stomach.

He was halfway through his breakfast when the post arrived. Out the corner of his eye, he watched Mr Chambers as he sorted it, separating it into piles for the various family members; he turned all his attention on the house-manager as Chambers set before him an envelope with Owen Keating's name and address written on it in the same hand as that used on the envelope of the ransom demand received yesterday.

"Have you told Mr Keating it's here?" he asked, making no effort to touch the envelope, let alone open it; he saw no reason to do so until he had finished his food.

"I'm just on my way to do so," Mr Chambers said. With brisk movements, he turned and left the kitchen, his footsteps sounding in the passage outside before he started up the wide staircase.

Stone finished his fried breakfast just before Owen Keating arrived in the kitchen, and was sipping at his rich coffee when the multi-millionaire joined him. He immediately set aside his mug and reached into his pocket for a pair of latex gloves; pulling the gloves on, he took up the envelope and sliced it open, so he could take out the single sheet of paper that was inside.

He unfolded the ransom note and laid it on the kitchen table so all three of them - Owen Keating, Burke and himself - could read it. The latest ransom note was as short and to the point as the previous two, and once again it lacked the final details of what Keating had to do to exchange the three and a half million Euros of the ransom for his daughter. The lack frustrated Stone as much as, if not more than, it did Owen Keating.

"So," Stone began when they were in the library with Inspector Evans and his partner, both of whom had breakfasted on cereal since they didn't want to be away from their equipment for any longer than was necessary. "How difficult is it going to be to put together a surveillance operation to cover St George's Park?" he asked of the assembled group.

Evans didn't need to be the focus of his fellow inspector's attention to know that he was the one expected to provide an answer. Before he did so, he turned his attention to his laptop; in just a few moments he had Google maps focused on Branton, and with a few more clicks he had the map zoomed in until St George's Park filled the screen, he then spent a short time examining it.

"It won't be easy," he said finally. "The place is too big - there's too much ground to cover. If we knew where in the park the drop's supposed to take place, we could maybe come up with something, but we can't even take a guess at where they're thinking of doing this; there's four roads into the park and several footpaths, they could be planning on using any one of them to get in or out. It'd be impossible for us to cover it all, especially without being noticed, and far too easy for them to slip away.

"We could try and put teams to watch each of the roads, and as many of the footpaths as possible, but we'd be stretching ourselves thin, which might be what they're after. Our best chance of catching them is by bugging the money, and even that's not going to be as easy as I thought."

"Why's that?" Stone wanted to know. He had had his doubts about their chances of getting a result from the tech experts, but Evans had spoken confidently about what his equipment could do, so Stone was disappointed to now hear him express doubts.

"Because there's a limit to the range of whatever bug we use, which means we've got to be within a certain distance of it to pick up the signal," Evans told him. "If the money is handed over in the centre of the park, then we're going to have to be within the park to be able to follow the bug, and that means the chances of us being spotted go up." He was just as unhappy about the situation as he could see Stone was. "I think the best we can do, at the moment, is prepare a non-descript vehicle for the surveillance operation, and plan to put it near to the main entrance of the park. I may be able to rig up something so that we can have multiple people able to pick up the signal from the bug; if I can do that then we can position them, one on each side of the park, and increase our chances of being able to follow the money. Time is against us, though."

"What about using the pavilion in the middle of the park as a base of operations?" Burke asked, pointing to the screen on the laptop to show the building he was referring to. "It's fairly centrally located by the looks of it, so it should give us a better chance of receiving and following the signal from the bug than hoping we can find a spot on the perimeter close enough to where the drop is going to happen."

Evans thought about that for a moment as he examined the map on his laptop, finally he nodded. "That might work. Of course, it'll depend on where the drop is to actually take place, but I think it's the best idea we've got. We're still going to need all the officers we can get; how many do you think your superior will give us?"

Stone grimaced. "Not enough, not nearly enough."

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# 48

Jim yawned hugely and rubbed his eyes, which threatened to close and remain that way, before he picked up the large Starbucks cup that sat in front of him. As he sipped from it, and returned his attention to the bank across the road, he wondered why he hadn't gone to bed earlier, he could have done with the extra sleep - it wasn't particularly early, the bank's door had been unlocked an hour before, on the dot of 9 a.m., but it had been 4 a.m. when he crawled between the sheets.

After about five minutes of careful observation, during which he tried to avoid being too obvious, lest he be suspected of planning a bank robbery, or something equally as ridiculous, he saw Owen Keating enter the bank. That was what he had been waiting for, and he forgot all about his coffee, and about caution, as he watched for Owen Keating's reappearance.

**

"GOOD MORNING, MR KEATING," the secretary outside the office of Tom Andrews, the manager, greeted the distraught father, who acknowledged her with the briefest of nods. "You can go straight in, Mr Andrews is expecting you," she said, rising to her feet so she could open the door for him.

Tom Andrews was on his feet and already on his way round his desk when Owen Keating and DS Burke entered the office. "Owen, how are you doing?" he asked with genuine concern. "I couldn't believe it when I heard what's happened; how are you and Maria coping?"

Keating took his friend's outstretched hand and shook it briefly. "I'm getting by," he said. The strain he was under was clearly visible on his face, which was lined and drawn. "But Maria is struggling; the doctor has her on medication. Thankfully, it should all be over by this time tomorrow - his relief at that thought eased the lines on his face, for a moment - and we can try and get on with our lives."

Andrews nodded, not knowing what else he could say; anything he did say, he realised, would only be platitudes and useless in comforting his friend. "Would you like a cup of tea or coffee while I go and get the money?" he asked of Keating and the -he assumed - police officer with him equally. He was unsurprised when both men declined. "I'll be back shortly then."

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# 49

Stone threw open the passenger door the moment Grey stopped his car alongside the porta-cabin that housed the office of Tredegar Scrapyard. He was out and at the door before Grey had his seatbelt off.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly when the office's sole occupant had finished on the phone.

"Morning," the stocky scrapyard worker returned the greeting absently as he searched the desk in front of him for a pen. "How can I help you?"

"DI Stone," he introduced himself. "I'd like to speak to someone about a car that was sold for scrap in the last month. Can you help?" he asked, taking out his notepad, in which he had the details of the car stolen from Sharon Hawkins.

"I'll do my best," Clark - Stone assumed that the name stitched across the pocket on his grubby denim shirt was his - said. "Are you sure it was sold to us?" he queried.

Stone nodded. "Yes. It was declared a write-off after being stolen and torched, and the remains were sold to this company for scrap by the insurance company; it's a Renault Clio, registration, Y715 CLH."

"In that case it should be in our records." Clark crossed to a shelf at the rear of the office and took down a ring binder. "I don't suppose you know the date the wreck was sold to us, do you?" he asked hopefully, flicking through the receipts in the binder in search of the one for the car in question - there were hundreds for him to go through.

"I've got the date from the insurance company's letter," Stone said, "but I don't know if that's when you guys got the car."

Clark looked at the date Stone had scribbled in his pad, and then quickly flipped through the receipts and invoices until he reached the start of the paperwork for that date. "Why're you interested in the car?" he asked. "Nothing wrong, is there?"

Stone wondered if Clark's question stemmed from natural curiosity, or worry that the scrapyard had gotten itself involved in something illegal. It might even be, he thought, that Clark was involved, somehow, in the kidnapping, and was concerned that the police were on to him.

"A vehicle used in a serious crime," he said, "was recovered yesterday - the license number on the van belonged to the Clio. I'm trying to discover if the license plates from the Clio were stolen from here and used, if they were sold to the people I'm looking for by one of your employees, or if someone made copies. What are the chances of you being able to answer that for me?"

Clark was silent for a few moments while he continued his search for the Clio's paperwork. "Ah, here we are," he said in relief when he finally located it. "According to this, a variety of parts were recovered." He held the binder up briefly, so Stone could see the short list of recovered parts at the bottom of the paperwork. "And then it was crushed; this was about two weeks ago, and the DVLA was informed of the vehicle's destruction the same day. The license plates would have been put with the rest of our collection - we've got a shed at the back of the yard where we keep all the plates from the vehicles we've destroyed.

"It'll take a bit of time, but I can have someone check if the plates are still there." The look on his face suggested he would rather not have to get someone to do that. "I can't imagine anyone would waste their time breaking in here to steal a set of plates, though, or that any of the guys would sell plates; they wouldn't get enough cash to make it worthwhile."

"You're probably right," Stone agreed. "I doubt it'd be worthwhile for them to make duplicate plates either." He was sure that a pair of license plates would only be worth about twenty pounds, though he didn't doubt that that would be enough for some people. "To be honest, I can't say I understand why they used these plates, when they could have gotten plates from just about..." He stopped speaking abruptly as Grey stepped into the office and caught his eye. "What is it?" he asked, not pleased with the interruption.

"There's something you need to see, sir," Grey told him.

"Excuse me." Stone left the office on Grey's heels, wondering what the young detective had found.

Grey, who had chosen to occupy himself by looking around the yard while his superior spoke to the manager, led the way round a small mountain of scrap metal, of varying shapes and sizes. There was an avenue between that mountain and another, virtually identical, mountain, and Grey headed towards the end of it, where a collection of wrecked cars could be seen. When he got there, he walked a short distance along the wall of cars, which were piled two and three high, and ran for at least a hundred yards, before stopping.

Bemused, Stone looked around, trying to work out what it was Grey was trying to show him. He assumed it was connected to the Renault Clio they were there to find out about, but he could see no sign of either the car, or anything related to it.

"Well?" he asked finally, hoping he hadn't been dragged away from the office for no purpose.

Grey gestured to the middle car in the stack next to him and asked, "Isn't that the Astra that was used in the festival robbery, and the hit-and-run?"

The car was battered, though Stone got the impression that the damage was not the result of an accident, but the make, model and colour were still easily identifiable. He still had to check the license plate to be sure it was the car they were looking for, one of them at least, and that wasn't easy given how the Astra was wedged in amongst the other vehicles. He had to climb about on the cars on either side of the Astra, ripping the pocket of his jacket in the process - he swore at that - until he got a glimpse of the license plate.

Discovering that the car was the one that would, he hoped, secure the case against the Logan brothers, made him consider the damage to his jacket in a philosophical light.

"I don't know how you saw that plate," Stone said as he climbed down, "but bloody good spot. Go and get the manager would you," he requested. "I think we need to ask him a few questions."

Stone had just finished a careful examination of what he could see of the car, during which he concluded that the dents, the smashed windows, and the other damage that was visible, were the result of someone taking a hammer, or more likely a sledge, to the vehicle, when he got his second surprise of the morning.

From behind him, Stone heard a cheerfully whistled version of a song he had been hearing a lot on the radio recently - he had no idea what the title of the song was, and didn't care, he just wished he didn't keep hearing it - and turning, he found himself confronted by the burly, tattooed figure of the Logans' friend, David 'Ash' Ashford. As his eyes darted from Ashford, whom he recognised from the file Burke had shown him, to the Astra, now behind him, something clicked in Stone's brain and he realised what must have happened.

Though he hadn't been arrested or interviewed by the man before him, Ash recognised him as a detective, and realised from the way he looked over his shoulder that he was in trouble. His immediate reaction was to turn and head back the way he had come, breaking into a run as he headed for the small area where he and his co-workers parked their cars. He couldn't go home, that was obvious to him for the police would go straight there, and would then search for him at the Logans', so he couldn't go there either.

Yanking his radio from his pocket, Stone gave chase - given Ashford's size, he didn't fancy trying to arrest him on his own, or even with just Grey's support, especially when Ashford's flight made it clear he had no intention of surrendering peacefully.

"Stone to base," he gasped into the radio; he hated trying to use it while in pursuit of a suspect - even for someone in better shape than him it wasn't easy to talk and run at the same time. "Stone to base," he repeated.

It was a few moments before the reply came through. "Base to DI Stone, say your message, over."

"In pursuit of suspect, David Ashford, at Tredegar Scrapyard, suspect believed to be involved in Sunday's festival robbery, backup needed. Send plenty of bodies, Ashford's a big bugger, six-five, and well-muscled. I need a forensics team out here as well, we've found the car used in the robbery." Stone was breathing heavily from the exertion of the chase, and his words came in short bursts. "Christian!" he called out for the younger detective as he exited the avenue between the twin mountains of scrap and turned to follow Ashford, who was darting in and out of his co-workers.

"CHRISTIAN!" Stone called out a second time, lifting his voice to make himself heard above the noises of the scrapyard, which were plenty and loud. He was looking around for Grey, and trying to keep an eye on the man he was pursuing, when he caught sight of a burdened fork-lift truck out of the corner of his eye. He hurriedly skidded to a halt to avoid being run down by the approaching behemoth.

Once the fork-lift had passed, he searched for Ashford, who was no longer in sight. He glimpsed the burly man as he ducked under a cage containing a mixed mass of rusting scrap and headed for the rear of the crane shifting it. Stone immediately took off in pursuit, ducking, hurdling and weaving around every obstacle that threatened to slow or stop him - despite his lack of fitness, he found himself gaining on the larger man, who was moving at a lumbering pace.

Stone had almost reached the gate Ashford had disappeared through after dodging around the crane when Grey caught up with him, appearing out of nowhere.

"Ashford, stop where you are," he called out as he and Grey separated, so they could circle round and come at their suspect from opposing directions.

Grey reached Ashford first, blocking his progress as he made his way between two cars. "Hands where I can see them," he told the giant, his extendable baton held warningly in his right hand, while in his left he held a pair of handcuffs.

Ashford's response was short and to the point, "Fuck you!" Undaunted by the baton, he continued his advance, his body-language suggesting that if Grey didn't get out of his way he would simply walk right over the top of him. Given that he towered over the detective by about half a foot, and was at least four stone heavier, all of it muscle, there was every chance that he could do so easily.

Grey did his best not to be intimidated by Ashford's approach, his concern showed on his face, however, and he raised his baton in readiness to use it. "Stop, or I'll be forced to use force," he said warningly, the trembling of his hand obvious in the way the tip of his baton moved back and forth through the air.

"Don't think about it, Mr Ashford." From behind him, Stone could see the muscles of Ashford's neck and shoulders tense as he prepared himself to do something. Stone wanted to prevent that, sure that if Ashford made a move it would result in Grey being hurt - he hoped he could keep him from doing anything until the backup he had requested arrived.

Looking from the detective in front of him, to the one behind, Ash decided he liked his chances and started forward again. After that one look over his shoulder, he kept his eyes on the figure before him, specifically on the baton in his hand; he was ready when Grey struck out at him and caught the weapon, pulling it easily from the young detective's grasp. Contemptuously, he tossed away the baton, which looked more like a chopstick than a weapon in his oversized hand, preferring to stick with his fists when it came to fighting.

Grey was startled, and a little disturbed, by the ease with which he was disarmed, and fear flickered across his face. He wanted to back up and put space between himself and Ashford, to avoid getting injured, but he held his ground - pride, the desire not to be responsible for a suspect getting away, to not embarrass himself, kept him rooted to the spot. Unthinkingly, he lashed out at Ashford with a clenched fist; he hit him in the stomach, and felt as though he had punched a wall. The sudden flash of pain that shot through his hand and wrist made him sure he had broken something. If that wasn't bad enough, Ashford showed no sign of having felt the blow.

Ash ignored the fist that struck him in the stomach like it was no more than the bite of a mosquito - it had been delivered with all the strength Grey could muster, yet he barely felt it. He might not have felt the blow, but he did respond to it; reaching out, he grabbed the detective by the front of his shirt and, with little in the way of effort, lifted Grey off the ground, holding him almost a foot in the air.

Stone was astonished by the ease with which Ashford picked Grey up, it was even more remarkable because he did so with just one hand - Stone had never known anyone so strong, and he prayed fervently that the backup he had requested would arrive soon; he strained his hearing for any sign of the support he desperately needed, but could hear nothing that might reassure him.

"Put him down," he said sharply, wishing that he wasn't unarmed - he hadn't carried a baton since he became a detective.

Ashford responded to the command by tightening his grip on the front of Grey's shirt and taking hold of his belt buckle. With a heave, he launched him over the boot of the car to his left.

Grey didn't quite clear the vehicle, his feet thudded into the boot of the Hyundai, but that was nothing for him to be concerned about. What was more important was that he crashed into the Kia parked next to it painfully, which made him cry out as he fell to the hard-packed earth of the car park.

Before he advanced on the, much, bigger man, Stone diverted to snatch up Grey's baton from where it had landed. He felt a little better now he was armed, but not a lot given the disparity in size between him and Ashford, and what he had seen Ashford do; he had no desire to be the next one thrown over a car.

"Don't do anything stupid, Mr Ashford, you're in enough trouble as it is: conspiracy to commit armed robbery, concealment of a vehicle used in a crime, involvement after the fact in a serious hit-and-run, resisting arrest." Stone hoped that by listing his crimes, he could convince Ashford to give himself up before he committed any more. He soon saw that his words were having no effect, at least no positive one, on the muscular criminal; the only reaction he did get was a sudden lunge towards him.

Stone reacted the moment he saw the meaty fist, which was on the end of an arm that would have made Arnold Schwarzenegger jealous, come towards him. He twisted to one side, to avoid getting punched - he was sure that doing so would be painful, perhaps even seriously damaging - and lashed out with the baton. He intended driving it into Ashford's stomach, so he could double him up and take away at least some of his advantage, but missed when Ashford pulled back from completing the punch and dodged away.

The baton smashed through the rear passenger window of the Hyundai, and Stone sliced his hand as he pulled it out. The pain was sudden and sharp, and he was sure he had injured himself quite badly; he ignored both the wound, which he didn't look at, and the blood he could feel flowing from it, as he chased after his suspect.

In a move that would have made his P.E. teacher at school proud, Stone dived once he was clear of the Hyundai. He caught Ashford around the knees, and brought him down with a perfect rugby tackle just before he reached the next row of cars - it surprised him that the tackle worked; given the big man's already displayed strength, he had half-expected Ashford to remain on his feet and simply drag him along. He was glad that had not happened, though his victory was short-lived.

Almost hitting his head on the bumper of his own car, Ash rolled over the moment he hit the ground, and lashed out the instant he caught sight of the man who had tackled him. A glancing blow was the best he could manage, but that was enough to spin the inspector away, and Ash scrambled to his feet, his hands plunging into the back pocket of his jeans for his car keys. In his haste, he missed the lock the first time, and then almost broke the key as he unlocked his car and yanked the door open.

Stone felt as though he had been kicked by a horse as he spun away and sprawled to the ground, scratching his cheek and forehead on the small stones embedded in the hard-packed earth. When he tried to push himself up, he found that his left shoulder, which had received the mistimed blow, was no longer fully functional - he could only wonder what damage had been done to it.

Grey was on his feet before Stone, but was moving slower - he more closely resembled an elderly man in need of a walking stick or a Zimmer-frame, than a young man in the prime of life - so it was Stone who had the car door slammed into him as he rushed to stop Ashford getting into his car and escaping. Stone stumbled back a couple of paces but recovered in time to defend himself as Ashford closed the car door and came at him, a huge fist jabbing forward with the obvious intent of doing some serious harm.

Stone twisted aside, glad that he managed to avoid being punched in the jaw - he was sure his jaw would have needed wiring if the blow had connected. He retaliated by striking out with Grey's baton, bringing it down sharply on Ashford's extended forearm; the behemoth had not offered an audible indication of discomfort, let alone pain, either when he was punched by Grey or when he was brought to the ground, but now he cried out. The cry brought a grim smile of satisfaction to Stone's face.

Stone's smile was short-lived, he was lifting the baton to strike again - he didn't like the thought that he might be considered guilty of using excessive force, but he preferred that to both him and Grey being beaten to a pulp and Ashford getting away - when he was grabbed by Ashford, who took hold of him by the collar of his shirt. He tried to pull himself free, without success, and soon found himself sliding across the bonnet of Ashford's Ford. He tumbled to the ground, knocking Grey off his feet as he did so.

The moment he let go of the detective, Ashford turned to pull open the door of his car; he quickly slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Shifting into gear he pushed the accelerator down and raced away from his parking space. He didn't know where he was going to go, only that he wanted to get as far away as possible, though first he needed to get the money Ben and Jerry had stolen, so he could afford to flee.

He didn't like the idea of screwing his friends over, it wasn't the sort of person he was, and he knew they were unlikely to forgive him, but if he had to choose between them and freedom, he knew which he would opt for.

Stone heard the Ford roar into life and scrambled to his feet as quickly as his injured body would allow, he then reached down to drag Grey out of the way. He was sure that Ashford wouldn't stop just because they were on the ground in front of his car. He got them both clear mere moments before the Ford raced away, clipping the rear of the Hyundai opposite, and leaving broken glass scattered over the ground as Ashford struggled to turn in the narrow space.

Troubled by a feeling of guilt for leaving the injured Grey, despite the younger man telling him to do so, Stone gave futile chase to Ashford's car. He saw it almost stopped by the cage of scrap metal being moved about by the crane, which hit the boot of the Ford, making it bounce momentarily, and then he lost sight of it as it sped away through the yard, forcing everyone in its path to scatter to avoid being mown down.

Struggling after the no longer visible car, he took his radio out. He was about to radio an update on the situation when he heard a crash from the other side of the yard. The noise was enough to drown out, momentarily, all the sounds from the scrapyard, and even the sirens of the approaching backup, which had been getting steadily louder.

Stone hurried through the yard, following the denim and overall clad workers as they made their way to the entrance to discover what had happened. When he came in sight of the double gates, and the Tredegar Scrapyard sign above them, Stone saw that Ashford's Ford was stopped on the road just outside the gates, where it had collided with a police patrol car. He couldn't make out the extent of the damage to the two vehicles from his position, but he was not terribly bothered by what state they were in, he was far more interested in what was happening elsewhere.

A short distance from Ashford's Ford, four uniformed officers had the giant on the ground, and were struggling to secure his wrists with handcuffs. He was glad that he was not the one trying to secure Ashford, he had suffered enough at his hands, but he could sympathise with the trouble the uniforms were having; even with a broken wrist - Stone was sure that his blow with the baton he was somehow still holding had smashed the bone - Ashford wasn't giving up without a fight, and it took all four officers to keep him on the ground and get the handcuffs on him.

By the time he reached the group - if he was honest, Stone dawdled on his way there to avoid getting involved with the struggle - Ashford was cuffed and being hauled to his feet.

"Mr Ashford," Stone said when he reached the man who continued to struggle against the restraining grip of the constables on either side of him, constables who looked very much like children trying to restrain an adult. "You're under arrest for conspiracy to commit armed robbery, conspiracy to..." It took him a short while to list everything Ashford was being arrested for, and he was sure that he would end up being charged with more, once the CPS looked at the case.

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# 50

Jim finished his fourth coffee before Owen Keating reappeared, accompanied once again by DS Burke and the two constables. Keating had been in the bank for longer than he had expected, prompting Jim to wonder what had happened in there; he quickly pushed aside both his curiosity and his concern and focused his attention on the briefcase in Keating's hand.

There was nothing out of the ordinary about the briefcase, it was no different to the sort carried by thousands of businessmen and women every day around the country, if you discounted the metal chain securing it to Keating's wrist. Despite the ordinariness of the case, Jim's eyes bore into it, as if he could see through it to the money he knew was supposed to be inside - three point five million Euros in five hundred Euro notes, roughly three million pounds at the current rate of exchange.

He would have preferred to have the ransom paid in pounds, as would Crash, but the research he had done while planning the kidnapping had made it clear that three million pounds in English notes was far too bulky - something nearly always ignored by films and TV shows, was how bulky money was, it was both heavy and took up a lot of space. It was just as impractical, his research had revealed, to request the untraceable bearer bonds that films liked to feature as an alternative to hard currency; while such bonds were undeniably easier to hide, transport and deposit, without the bearer being tracked by the authorities - hence the name - they weren't easy to come by. Requesting bonds would have delayed everything, and given the police more time to track them down, and time, he knew, was their biggest enemy.

Fortunately, it didn't really matter to Jim how the ransom was paid, as long as it was paid; he wanted his half of the ransom because he could do with the money, but there was a much bigger reward coming his way as a result of Alice's kidnapping. He would have to wait to get his reward, because it was likely to be some time before the final step in the plan he had come up with produced the result he was after, but he could be patient.

He waited until Keating and his escort had disappeared around the corner, only then did he leave his vantage point. The first thing he did was avail himself of the coffee shop's facilities, after that he left, reaching into his pocket for his phone. "Crash, it's Jim," he said when his call was answered.

"What's up?" Crash wanted to know. He hoped the answer was nothing, because he was looking forward to becoming a millionaire - he already had plans in place for quitting Britain for somewhere with a better climate, where the pound would stretch nicely and allow him a comfortable life.

"Nothing," Jim assured his partner. "I just thought you'd like to know the money's been collected; I just watched him walk out of the bank with it in a briefcase. I'll let you know if anything changes during the day, but right now it's all good on my end. Is everything ready on yours?"

"Yeah, no problems here," Crash said confidently, though the moment he was off the phone he turned to Lewis. "Your gadget gonna work?" he demanded of the man who had been brought on board for his technical expertise.

Lewis stifled the sigh of frustration the question provoked in him and nodded. "Yes, it's going to work, as I've already told you several times over the last couple of days." He crossed to his bag, which was in the corner of the room, from it he took out a small black box with a switch and a light on one side. He put the simple device on the coffee table in front of his partner. "Turn it on, and whatever tracking devices the police have in with the money will be blocked. As long as you have that with you, and you're out of sight of the police, they won't have a clue where you are; remember, though, it's only got an effective range of about ten feet, so keep it close."

When he had first been told what Crash and Jim wanted of him, he had been afraid he wouldn't be able to deliver. After being taken into their confidence, he had realised that he couldn't tell them that he was a programmer and didn't know much about electronics; doing so would have put his life in danger - he realised the irony of that now he knew his life had always had an expiration date as far as his partners were concerned.

Fortunately, Google, as it so often did, provided him with the answer he needed after only a quick search; equally fortunate was the fact that he managed to find instructions and diagrams that were easy for him to follow. An evening in his dining room, after a shopping expedition to purchase the required items, and he had a device that blocked all signals: radio, electronic and mobile phone, within a short range.

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# 51

With the lift at Harper Tower still out of action - he was not surprised by that - Stone made his way slowly up the stairs towards the fifth floor, the rest of his team trailing behind him. He had two uniformed officers in the car park, and five more with him, as well as DC Reid, who had taken the injured Grey's place - Grey was in hospital, where he was undergoing scans to be sure he had suffered no serious or permanent spinal damage.

When they reached the fifth floor, Stone divided the officers with him: Reid and two of the uniformed officers, he sent to cover the rear of the Logans' flat. He gasped as the last of the trio bumped into him on the way past, catching him in the bruised and cracked ribs that had been strapped up during his brief visit to the hospital - the doctor who had dealt with his various injuries had been none too keen to let him leave, it had been necessary for him to sign himself out against medical advice - and had to hurriedly bite back the string of expletives that rose to his lips. The pain made him wish there was someone who could take his place, so he could go home and rest, unfortunately, there was no-one, which meant he had to soldier on.

Stone knocked on the door of the Logans' flat when he got there; he hoped Ben was home, his arrest would not be the end of the festival robbery investigation, but it would be a significant step towards it - all that would be left was the forensics report proving that both Logan brothers had been in the car used by the robbery, and involved in the hit-and-run. They already had paperwork from the Tredegar scrapyard, showing that David Ashford was responsible for the car's presence there, so his connection to the robbery and hit-and-run was established.

"What the hell d'you want now?" Ben asked in a frustration-filled voice when he saw who was at the door.

Stone had to admire the younger man's cool - Ben knew he was suspected of involvement in the robbery, and that the police were actively trying to find the evidence to connect him to it, yet he showed no concern, only irritation, at the interruption of whatever he had been doing. Despite his admiration, which was muted by his knowledge of the crimes Ben Logan had committed, Stone took a measure of pleasure in ruining his day.

"Ben Logan, I am arresting you on suspicion of armed robbery, vehicular assault..."

"Ain't you given up on this yet?" Ben wanted to know when he had heard everything he was being arrested for. "I might be on license, but that don't give you the right to harass me like this; you've ain't got no proof I were involved in anything. If you don't leave me alone, I'm gonna sue the shit outta you." He grinned nastily. "Yeah, I think I'll have a word with my brief 'bout that, I could do with the compo; what d'ya think about that?" Without waiting for an answer, he swung the door closed.

Stone reached out quickly to stop the door closing, a move he immediately regretted as pain shot through him from his strapped-up ribs, making him gasp aloud and swear. He managed to keep the door open, but it was several long moments before he could speak.

"I wouldn't waste your time talking to your brief about a lawsuit, if I were you," Stone said once he recovered the ability to speak. "You'd be better off talking to him about making a deal. We've got your friend, Mr Ashford, in custody, and we have the car," he told Ben as he opened his mouth to speak.

Ben's jaw dropped open and shock showed in every line of his face; how could the police have the car, he wondered, his mind a frenzied whirlwind of confused thoughts, Ash was supposed to have destroyed it. That was Ash's part of the robbery, getting rid of the car, so the evidence was gone; the plan had been for him to take the car straight to the scrapyard where he worked and put it in the crusher, there should have been no car left for the police to find, just a relatively small cube of metal that had formerly been a car, but whose make and model were impossible to determine.

If something had gone wrong, and Ash had been unable to deal with the car, why hadn't he said anything?

He remembered the money then, the money and the shotguns; they were in the garage at Ash's place, hidden there deliberately so they wouldn't be discovered by the police. If it was true that Ash was in custody, though, then the police would no doubt search his house soon, if they hadn't already, where they would find the money and the guns - the final nails in the case against him.

In desperation, Ben snatched the door from Stone's grasp and slammed it shut. He quickly turned from the door and darted down the passage to the kitchen, so he could try and escape - he was barefoot and dressed in just a pair of jeans, with no wallet, phone or keys, but he didn't stop to grab anything, he didn't want to waste the time. Besides, he figured that if he managed to get the money from Ash's garage, he would be able to buy whatever he needed.

Stone stepped aside the moment the door was slammed in his face, and gestured for the constable with the portable ram to step forward. The first swing was badly aimed and caught the doorframe, rather than the door, the second was better, it hit the door just below the lock, and with the third the door burst open. Immediately the two unburdened constables raced inside to find Ben Logan, which didn't prove all that difficult, he was in the kitchen in the grip of DC Reid and one of the constables with him.

"Well, Ben." Stone permitted himself a satisfied smile when he saw the ease with which the blagger had been caught. "Should I add resisting the arrest to the list, or are you going to come quietly now?"

Two words answered that question, words that Stone could have predicted.

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# 52

"Congratulations."

"Thank you, sir." Stone shifted uncomfortably in the chair he had taken in his superior's office.

"Is there anything you need, to close out the investigation?" Collins asked, pleased by his subordinate's success that morning, though he wasn't quite so pleased that the success had come at the cost of a detective in the hospital, and another who should be. Because of the morning's events, his detective's division was short on officers, which had required him to talk to his superior to arrange for cover to fill the vacancies.

"I don't think so," Stone said, gritting his teeth against the pain the movement caused as he reached for the mug of coffee on the desk in front of him. "We have the car, which is in the hands of the lab boys; it's probably going to take them a few days to finish working on it, especially with the weekend coming up. That doesn't matter, though, because we recovered the money and the shotguns from Ashford's garage, and I've been promised fingerprints by lunchtime tomorrow at the latest."

Collins nodded as he took in what his inspector was saying while he looked him over. He saw the pain in his face, and in his movements, and wanted to tell him to go home until the doctor cleared him to return to duty, he couldn't, though, not with the ransom drop due to take place that evening, and Stone the most senior of his officers, injured or healthy.

"Have you interviewed Logan and Ashford yet?"

Stone shook his head; another move he wished he could have avoided. "Not yet, I wanted to wait until the search of Ashford's place was finished, and now I'm not sure there's any point in questioning them; we might as well just remand them, and pass the case to the CPS so they can decide on charges."

Collins was silent for a short while as he considered what Stone had said, finally he nodded in agreement. There was no point in wasting time with interviews when they had enough evidence to charge the Logans and Ashford, especially when there were more important things for them to worry about, namely the Keating case. "Is everything set for tonight?" he asked, mentally crossing his fingers. If anything went wrong there would be an unholy outcry in the media, who had been following the kidnapping closely, despite there being little in the way of facts for them to print or report on.

"As far as I know, sir," Stone said, not entirely certain since he hadn't been back to the Keating house since that morning. "The ransom money is at the Keatings' house according to Stephen, and Inspector Evans should be making the necessary arrangements for tonight. I'm heading there next, so I can make sure everything's in hand. Have you been able to arrange for the officers Evans and I asked for?" He was sure, despite the injuries that had depleted the CID ranks, that enough officers, uniformed and plain-clothed, would be found for the operation that was to happen that night; no-one, least of all the DCI, wanted a lack of officers to be the reason if anything went wrong.

"I've spoken to Chief Inspector Vaughn and Superintendent Vaz, they've both agreed that you'll have all the officers you need," Collins told him. "I just hope everything goes as planned."

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# 53

Owen Keating marvelled that the price of his daughter's freedom, perhaps even her life, could weigh so little as he carried the briefcase from his study to the library. When he got there, he pushed the troubling thought from his mind and focused on what mattered, ensuring the ransom could be tracked once it was collected by Alice's kidnappers.

He stood to one side and watched while a small device, no bigger than a ten pence piece, was slipped into the middle of one of the stacks of money - the stack was selected at random to decrease the chances of it being found by the kidnappers if they made a cursory search of the money. Though he had been given a brief demonstration earlier in the day, he found it hard to believe that something which looked as if it should be given out in change by a cashier could help catch the people who had kidnapped his daughter.

A second tracking device, identical to the first, was hidden within the lining of the briefcase, where it was hoped it wouldn't be found. The redundancy, Evans told Owen, was necessary in case something happened to the first - it stopped working, or it was found; as a further redundancy, the second device was set up to transmit on a different frequency. Once the two devices were hidden, Evans made a quick check on his computer to be sure both signals were being received without interference - they were.

It was Owen's turn to be fitted out then. He tried not to let it trouble him, but he couldn't help feeling a little abused as Sergeant Hunt, with only the briefest of apologies, untucked and unbuttoned his shirt so she could tape a small microphone to his chest. Owen worried a little about the amount of hair that was going to be pulled out when the microphone was removed, there was nothing to be done about it, however, and a few hairs, he decided, was a small price to pay for ensuring that those who had taken his daughter were caught.

Owen ruthlessly forced aside his concerns over what was to happen as he got behind the wheel of his car and set off for St George's Park. None of them thought the handover would actually take place in the park, at least not where he had been instructed to be at eleven p.m., nonetheless he didn't wish to be late.

He reached the park after a little over half an hour and, in obedience to the instructions received that afternoon, left his car in the car park that adjoined it. He then proceeded on foot, without looking around for the surveillance van he had been told would be parked nearby - it took a lot of willpower for him to avoid doing that - into the park so he could make for the play area that was, supposedly, the location of the exchange.

A check of his watch when he reached the play area revealed that it was still a few minutes before eleven; since that was the case he settled himself on one of the benches, the briefcase on his lap, to wait. He didn't know what was going to happen, and that made him nervous; he drummed his fingers anxiously on top of the briefcase, while his eyes moved impatiently between the two entrances to the play park and the forlorn looking telephone that stood a short distance from where he sat.

From his position in the rear of the surveillance van, Stone watched Keating as he carried the briefcase into the park. While his eyes were focused on the millionaire, he waited for his call to be answered; it was nearly a minute before DC Reid's voice sounded in his ear.

"Any sign of Rice?" he asked. He suspected he was wasting the young detective's time by having him watch for the programmer at his house, especially since the ransom drop was supposed to take place any time, but he couldn't afford to ignore any possibility.

"No, sir," Reid answered. "I spoke to his neighbours again, and he still hasn't been home apparently."

Stone wasn't surprised by that; if Lewis Rice was one of the kidnappers they were looking for, it was unlikely that he would return home before the ransom had been collected, and Alice freed, if then. It was entirely possible, perhaps even likely, that Rice would take his share of the money and head out of the country as quickly as he could. It would have been better, he thought, if they had been able to come up with the slightest bit of evidence, so they could get a search warrant for Rice's house - that lack had prevented them even getting access to Rice's phone records, which might have proved very useful, as would his bank records.

"What about the motorcyclist he was seen leaving with on Wednesday morning?" He didn't bother holding his breath or crossing his fingers as he asked that question; doing either would, he was sure, be a waste of time.

Reid caught himself as he was about to shake his head, and quickly responded verbally. "Nothing, sir. I've spoken to everyone who might have been in a position to see the motorcyclist, but no luck, there doesn't seem to be a nosey neighbour amongst them." His voice reflected the surprise and disappointment he felt; even in his short career he had learned that there was nearly always a nosey neighbour who just had to keep an eye on the comings and goings. "Except for Miss Burton, I couldn't even find anyone who saw the motorcyclist, let alone well enough to help us identify him."

With a resigned sigh, Stone ended the call and turned his attention back to Owen Keating. DS Hunt had a video camera on a tripod focused on the multi-millionaire through the windscreen of the van, the footage from it was being displayed on a monitor on the console built into the side of the van, enabling both Stone and Evans to watch Owen Keating as he waited - impatiently they were sure - for the kidnappers to either arrive or get in touch.

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# 54

Crash ended the call with a satisfied smile, pleased with the news he had just been given. He jammed the phone into a pocket, turned to Lewis, and declared eagerly, "Payday." He then left the living room and strode briskly down the passage to the kitchen, where he threw open the back door, so he could cross the yard to the barn.

Lewis felt relief surge through him like a tidal wave crashing down on an isolated beach. It wouldn't be long now until Crash left to go and collect the ransom, then he could save himself and Alice, He had decided earlier in the evening what he was going to do; his plan was simple - put Alice into the van, drive it into town and park it, and then head to his place so he could grab some things and make his escape in his car. He would call the police and let them know where they could find Alice when he was safely out of town.

Anxiously, he waited to hear the throaty roar of Crash's motorbike as he left the farm, he didn't want to waste a moment. When several minutes passed without any engine noises, Lewis started down the passage, so he could find out what was going on.

**

CRASH MADE HIS WAY round to the rear of the already unlocked van once he reached the barn. He collected a long plank of wood that sat at the side of the barn, angled it against the floor of the van and then manoeuvred his motorbike up it. His leathers and helmet followed his bike into the back of the van, and with that done he climbed behind the wheel.

He stopped the van a short distance from the front door of the farmhouse and got out.

Lewis was bewildered when his partner left the barn in the van, rather than astride his bike; not sure what it meant, he hurried back along the passage to the living room, reaching it just before Crash strode through the front door. His bewilderment turned to alarm when Crash started up the stairs. He couldn't think why Crash was doing that, and the surprise of it worried him so much that he felt compelled to follow.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his alarm magnifying significantly when he saw Crash unbolt and unlock the door to Alice's makeshift prison. "I thought you were going to collect the ransom."

"I am," Crash said, turning from the door, though he kept hold of the handle. "I'm taking her with me."

Standing a couple of steps below Crash, Lewis' eye-line was just about level with his partner's waist, which gave him an excellent view of the handle of the pistol, only partially concealed by his leather jacket, he had tucked into the waistband of his trousers. The sight of the weapon, which he hadn't known Crash possessed, made Lewis' alarm tip over into full-blown panic - it was clear to him that Crash was taking Alice with him, because he intended killing her once he had the money from her father, rather than collecting the money and then coming back to kill her.

As much as he disliked violence, and had no faith in his ability to beat his partner in a purely physical contest, Lewis knew he had to stop Crash before he could take Alice away and hurt her. Unsure how he could stop the bigger man, he did the first thing that popped into his mind, he leaped onto Crash's back as he swung the door open and entered the room.

The momentum of his attack carried them both across the room, and almost into the wall opposite the door.

"Get out, run!" Lewis shouted at Alice, who was, as usual, huddled against the wall near the lamp, a look of fear and confusion on her face as she watched the two men. As he called out to her, he fought with Crash, who had twisted round and thrown himself against the wall to crush him and make him loosen his grip; the move worked, and Lewis found himself winded and sliding to the floor.

Lewis didn't stay on the floor, he reacted instantly to Crash's movement towards Alice, who hadn't yet stirred from the wall. Pushing himself up he wrapped an arm around his partner's legs in an effort to slow him, or, better still, stop him; at the same time, he reached up to grab Crash's right hand, so he couldn't draw his gun. He clung on with all his strength, and called out again for Alice to run as Crash tried to wrench himself free.

Alice didn't move in response to the first call, she remained huddled against the wall and watched the fight between her kidnappers, wondering fearfully what it meant for her, and what had caused it. The sight of the weapon in the waistband of the rough-looking figure closest to her, combined with the second shout from the man who had been nice to her over the last two days, galvanised her into action. Surging to her feet, she darted for the door, which stood open. She hesitated when she reached it, so she could look back into the room.

Both men were on the floor, rolling around and wrestling for control of the gun, which she could see in the hands of the man whose very appearance frightened her. Seeing that, she turned away and left the room, so she could hurry down the stairs in her bare feet. She was almost at the bottom of the stairs when a loud, though strangely muffled, bang sounded from the room where she had been held prisoner; it was not a noise she had ever heard for real before, but her mind recognised it immediately from the films and television shows she had watched - it was a gunshot.

The gunshot pushed her to move even quicker, and she jumped the last few steps before darting through the partially open front door. As she did, she wondered which of her two kidnappers had been shot, if either of them had. Despite her natural curiosity, she didn't stop, she didn't even slow, not even when she felt the small stones that littered the yard digging into the soles of her feet.

**

CRASH AND LEWIS REMAINED unmoving, one on top of the other, for several long moments. Finally, Crash shifted under the weight of his partner; one of his hands was trapped between the two of them, but with an effort, which involved much heaving of his body and hauling with his free hand, he managed to get out from beneath Lewis' body. He looked down on Lewis, who remained unmoving, as he pushed himself to his feet; he was about to shoot him for a second time, having managed to keep hold of the gun, to make sure he was dead, when he remembered Alice Keating - he couldn't afford to let her get away.

Forgetting about Lewis, and ignoring the blood that stained his Pink Floyd t-shirt, Crash hurried from the room. He descended the stairs two and three at a time, almost falling a couple of times, and then raced out through the still open front door. The moment he reached the yard, he saw Alice running down the dirt drive towards the road.

Automatically, his arm came up, so he could fire his gun. Alice flinched, and Crash thought he had hit her, though from the way she continued, with only a slight slowing in her pace, he suspected that whatever injury he had inflicted wasn't serious. His finger tightened on the trigger again, but he stopped himself before he fired - he doubted his ability to hit her from that distance, he was not that good a shot.

Lowering the gun, he started after the girl, knowing that the only thing in his favour just then was the fact that the road the farm was on was quiet at the best of times, and at that time of the day - gone ten in the evening - there was very little chance of anyone passing by.

Alice heard the second gunshot, louder than the first and un-muffled, in the same instant she felt a stab of pain in her right arm. Her mind had no problem connecting the bang with the pain, and she stumbled for a moment, before regaining her footing and continuing down the dirt drive. A quick glance at her arm revealed an ugly red wound, and twin lines of bright blood that ran down her arm. She went cold, and the blood drained from her face, leaving her white, as though she had seen a ghost, but she pushed on, ignoring the blood, and the pain in her arm, as well as that in her unprotected feet - she knew she had to keep going, if she didn't she would be killed.

She was limping by the time she reached the end of the drive, and she could hear the heavy footsteps of her kidnapper as he pounded after her, closing the gap between them. The rhythmic noise encouraged her to neither stop nor pause as the drive terminated and she arrived at the road.

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# 55

The long road through rural Hampshire was devoid of any other traffic, and John Wilkins' mind began to wander. Increasingly it focused on the meal he had waiting for him when he got home, not to mention thoughts of a nice glass of cider, rather than on the road ahead of him, or on his surroundings.

He was snapped out of his reverie by a noise that dragged his attention back to the here and now, a noise he recognised all too well - a gunshot.

Though he was sure of what he had heard - he had heard enough gunshots during his time in the army to recognise one when the sound of it reached his ears - his brain reminded him that he was no longer in the military, no longer in Afghanistan or Iraq; no longer did every noise signal a threat to his life. Just to be sure, he reached down to turn the radio off; no sooner had he done so than he heard a second report. This time his brain didn't try to convince him that he was wrong. His head snapped round as he searched his surroundings for the source of the gunshots, at the same time he tensed, ready to react the moment he detected danger to himself.

He could see no-one, though that didn't surprise him; to his right was woodland, it wasn't dense, but there were enough trees and bushes to provide concealment for anyone who didn't wish to be seen; while on his left was a four-foot-high hedge, which made it all but impossible for him to see anything of the farm on that side of the road.

His eyes had just returned to the road ahead when a figure appeared from behind the hedge. John slammed his foot on the brake, and spun the wheel in a desperate bid to avoid the figure, which he realised was a teenage girl when his brain caught up and processed what he was seeing. He missed the girl, to his enormous relief, but there was no way he could avoid the man who ran out after her - he didn't even see him until the moment of impact.

The man was caught a glancing blow by his Audi, and he spun away before collapsing to the ground, where he lay, unmoving. The moment his car stopped, John released his seatbelt, threw open the door, and got out. A small part of his brain was concerned about possible damage to his car from the collision, it was overridden, however, by worry for the girl he had almost hit and the man he had hit. He looked around for the girl, but quickly turned his attention to the immobile figure in the middle of the road when he didn't see her.

Unsure what sort of situation he had found himself in, but certain that it was a dangerous one, John approached the man cautiously. He stopped a dozen or so feet from the prone figure when he saw the gun on the ground and turned slowly on the spot, his instincts and his senses in overdrive as he searched for an ambush, or some other hidden danger, like someone else with a gun.

His heart raced as he mentally returned to his tours of duty in the heat and the dust of Afghanistan and Iraq. Everything and everyone there, at least everyone who didn't wear an Allied uniform, was a potential threat, including - especially - the environment.

It was a good half a minute before his brain and his body accepted that he was no longer in danger from either the Taliban or IS insurgents hiding amongst the local populace, and he didn't have to worry about the possibility of stumbling on a hidden bomb that was going to tear his body apart.

Slowly, he approached the prone figure, stopping when he reached the dropped gun. He bent to pick up the pistol and examined it quickly - the muzzle was warm, and there were traces of gunpowder around it, which told John it had been fired recently, and was the source of the gunshots he had heard. Hoping that there were no other gunmen around, he slipped the safety catch on, and then ejected the clip followed by the round in the chamber. Once he had made the gun safe, he tossed it and the clip in opposite directions, before moving on to check the man he had hit.

He had studied first aid, both before he joined the army and while he was in uniform, but his medical knowledge was still limited. As far as he could tell the man had, miraculously, suffered no major trauma, though there was still a chance of internal injuries - it was impossible for him to tell. It was no consolation to know that there was no way he could have avoided the collision, and he wasn't legally culpable.

His brief and, he was sure, inadequate examination completed, John stood and reached a hand into his pocket for his phone. The emergency operator answered almost immediately, and John quickly explained the situation and gave his location - he couldn't be exact since he was on a back road between two villages with no real landmarks or signs, but he was sure the ambulance and the police would find him without too much difficulty; it would actually be harder for them to miss him than to find him so long as they were on the right road.

When a second examination of the man he had hit revealed he was still breathing okay, and was not about to die, or suffer complications from his injuries in the immediate future, John went looking for the girl he had somehow managed to avoid. He had seen no sign of her since she ran across the road in front of his car, but he was sure she was still nearby; the road they were on ran for almost four miles, with only a few farms, and a single stretch of half a dozen houses along its length. The nearest place the girl could make for, other than the farm she had run from, was about half a mile away.

He searched the woods around where the girl had disappeared with his eyes; it wasn't easy, for the only light came from the headlights of his car and the pale moon overhead, which was alternately concealed and then revealed by the wispy clouds being blown across the sky by the brisk breeze.

He saw movement out the corner of his eye, but dismissed it as just the breeze playing with the foliage; when the movement came again, he turned towards it and spotted the girl, who was hiding behind a tree and using a bush to conceal herself, not very well, as she peered out in an obvious effort to see what was going on.

"Hello," John called out, keeping his voice as friendly and non-threatening as possible. "Are you alright?" There was a quick rustling and the girl's eyes disappeared. He wasn't surprised by that - he didn't know who the girl was, or what had happened to her, but it was clear that something serious had. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you."

John waited a few moments to see if the girl was going to respond, when she didn't he called out again. "It's okay, you're safe now, he can't hurt you anymore." The girl still didn't respond. "What's your name?" he asked, trying another tack." I'm John, John Wilkins," he said, hoping that by giving his name he would appear less threatening to her, which would encourage her to speak - it worked.

"Are you one of them?" she asked. Her eyes, the only part of her that was visible, were filled with fear, while the concealing bush shook in time with the trembling of her body.

"No," John called back with a shake of his head, not that he had the first clue who 'they' were. The news that there was more than one person to worry about had his eyes darting all around, searching again for any possible danger; the figure in the road hadn't moved, and was, apparently, still unconscious, and John couldn't see anyone else, despite that he remained alert. "I was driving home when you ran out in front of my car - as he said that he couldn't help wishing that he had stuck to the dual-carriageway, instead of leaving it to avoid the chaos caused by a three-car pileup - what happened? Who are you?"

"Alice Keating."

The reply came after a silence that stretched on for long enough that John thought she wasn't going to answer him. He knew the name, he had heard or seen it somewhere recently, he just couldn't remember where.

"I was kidnapped, I think it was a couple of days ago," Alice said uncertainly. She wasn't sure exactly how much time had passed since she was taken from the back of her family's Bentley, she had lost track of how long she had been locked in the room she had escaped from.

The moment she said that, John remembered where he knew her name from - he was surprised he hadn't remembered it straight away, after all, her kidnapping had been all over both the local and the national news the last few days.

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# 56

Stone was still in the back of the van, wishing the painkillers he had taken a short while before would kick in and make it easier for him to breathe, and watching Owen Keating, who remained on the bench in the play area, when his phone rang. He gave a sharp gasp as he reached into his pocket for his phone, though the pain was driven from his mind as he answered the call and listened to what was being said - he couldn't believe what he was hearing, it was so unexpected that it pushed aside not only the pain of his injuries, but everything else that had been occupying his thoughts as well.

When the call was finished, Stone set the phone down in his lap and sat for several long moments, his astonishment so great that he couldn't speak. He found his voice presently, and immediately addressed the constable who was behind the wheel of the van. "Slater, go and fetch Mr Keating, tell him there's no need to remain there, no-one's coming to collect the ransom."

"What's going on?" Evans asked as Slater left the van.

"We've had a break," Stone told him. "The best we could have hoped for." The excitement in his voice made it clear to the others in the cramped van just how good the news was, even if it gave no hint of what the news was, fortunately he didn't make them wait to find out. "I don't have all the details right now, but it seems that Alice Keating has escaped her kidnappers."

It was Evans' turn to look astonished, a look he shared with his partner and with DS Burke. "Where is she?" he asked, curiosity and relief fighting for dominance over his features. "Is she alright?"

Stone shrugged, a move he immediately regretted. Once he had a measure of control over the pain, he said, "Wells didn't say; she's alive, and she's free of her kidnappers, but I don't know much more than that right now. I do know that uniformed officers and an ambulance have been despatched to Andrews' Tor Road, that's apparently where she was found."

"A bit out of the way," Burke remarked. "A good area to hide someone who's been kidnapped, no-one's going to think of looking out there without a good reason. I'd guess she was being held on a farm."

"You're probably right," Stone remarked. "There isn't much out there, other than farms. We'll find out soon enough anyway; as soon as we've apprised Mr Keating of this latest news, we'll be heading out there."

**

IT DIDN'T SURPRISE Stone to see that Owen Keating was still with them when PC Slater brought the surveillance van to a stop at the side of the road, behind the patrol car and ambulance which had responded to the situation. He would have preferred that Keating had gone home, as he had advised, but Stone couldn't blame the man - if their situations had been reversed he didn't doubt that he would have ignored the advice, and insisted on being there to be sure that his daughter was alright.

Once out of the van, Stone made his slow way up the road to find out what the situation was, aware that he was being left behind by the faster moving Inspector Evans. He didn't let that trouble him, though.

"Where's Alice Keating?" Stone asked of the two constables standing by the Audi, and the man who, he assumed, was its driver. He looked around while he waited for an answer.

It fell to Constable Archer, the older and more senior of the two, to answer the question, "She's in the back of the ambulance, sir. The paramedics checked her over as soon as they got here and then put her in the back to rest her feet; she hurt 'em some running up the drive," he explained, gesturing to the dirt drive a short distance from them, which ran perpendicular to the road until it reached the yard surrounding a pleasant two-storey farmhouse.

Proving the constable's statement of where Alice Keating was, there came a cry of 'Daddy', followed by a rocking of the ambulance as the schoolgirl hurtled into sight from the rear of the emergency vehicle to throw herself into her father's arms, seeking his comfort.

Stone wavered between walking back to talk to the girl who had been kidnapped, and staying where he was to get the rest of whatever information was available. After a moment, he decided to leave Alice for the time being, it was clear that she was not seriously hurt, and he felt it best to leave her to be comforted by her father following her ordeal. That decision made, he turned his attention back to the two constables.

"Tell us what's happened here," he instructed the constable who had spoken previously.

Archer grimaced, he wished he was better able to answer the inspector. "We don't really know," he admitted. "Mr Wilkins - he indicated the civilian - was driving along when Alice Keating ran out in front of him, followed by a guy; he managed to avoid Miss Keating, who disappeared into the woods, but couldn't avoid the guy. He hit him with his car and the guy was left unconscious on the ground, which is probably just as well because he had a gun when he ran out into the road."

"Where's the gun now, and the guy?" Stone asked. He was a little disturbed by the news that the kidnappers had a weapon, especially a gun, but was relieved that the gun hadn't been used, a relief that was quickly stripped from him.

"The guy's been taken to hospital, and the gun's still in the road," Archer told him. "It's been made safe, but we didn't want to touch it and disturb any evidence - it's been fired."

"At least twice," John Wilkins volunteered. "I heard two gunshots before the girl ran out in front of my car."

"Who made the gun safe?" Evans asked.

The question surprised Stone, who thought it would have been more appropriate to ask about the gunshots - had they been aimed at anyone, and if so had they been hurt. He chose to wait until his fellow inspector's query was answered before he put forth his own question, however, deciding there was no point in bombarding the constable with enquiries, when there was plenty of time to find out all there was to know.

With Alice no longer in the hands of her kidnappers, the urgency to get answers and to act on them was gone, though Stone realised that the press would still push for any and all loose ends to be cleared up as quickly as possible.

"I did," John Wilkins answered the question, and then the follow-up he saw on the inspector's face, "I was in the army until a couple of years ago, so I've got plenty of experience at handling weapons. I ejected the clip, and the round in the chamber, then I tossed the clip and the gun in opposite directions. I was pretty sure the guy I hit with my car was out of it, but I didn't want to risk him being able to use the gun again, not easily anyway."

Stone nodded. "Sensible of you."

John gave a grim smile. "I've been shot at enough times not to want to have it happen again, especially on home soil."

Stone didn't imagine that anyone wanted to get shot at, but he supposed someone who had been through such an experience was going to be even more determined not to repeat it. "Was anyone hurt by the gunshots?" he asked concernedly of Archer. His concern deepened when the constable nodded.

"Yes," Archer said regretfully. "Miss Keating was hit by one of the bullets - it's only a graze," he reassured Stone hurriedly. "She has a minor wound on her arm, nothing serious, she's been checked over by the paramedics and will be okay. The guy in the house, whom we assume is one of the kidnappers, is badly hurt, however; we don't know the circumstances - if Miss Keating knows, she isn't saying at this time, but he's been shot in the stomach, and has lost a fair amount of blood. We found him upstairs in a room we think is the one Miss Keating was kept in."

Once he had all the information the uniformed officers and John Wilkins could provide, Stone left them and started up the drive to the farmhouse, Evans at his side. When they reached the yard in front of the house, the two inspectors examined the van, which stood near the front door, briefly, after that they circled the house, and then looked into the barn at the rear of the yard. Their external search of the property complete, they returned to the front of the house, and the door that stood open, where Burke was waiting for them.

Stone began reeling off instructions the moment he got there, instructions Burke scribbled in his pad. "I want both men identified asap; if they've got records, I want a rundown of their known associates - where they are, what they're doing, and the likelihood of them being the third kidnapper. If they aren't already on the way, I want a SOCO team en-route immediately, with a truck so they can take the van away and strip it down, and I want the house gone through with a fine-tooth comb; there's got to be something here that'll identify the third kidnapper. "Lastly, I want to know who owns this farmhouse; is it one of the men here, and if it isn't, who does own it, and what's their connection to this.

"Can you think of anything else that needs doing?" he asked of Evans.

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# 57

For perhaps the dozenth time that night, Ryan Keating, known to his partners-in-crime as Jim, checked his phone - there was no message from Crash, and no missed call either, leaving him to wonder what had happened. It was almost one a.m. and he should have heard from his partner. He couldn't imagine what might have gone wrong, the plan was simple to follow, and that should have helped to ensure there were no problems, but the lack of communication from Crash had him worried. He didn't worry too much, however, since he was sure he would have heard from his father if anything bad had happened.

He threw back the last of his tequila, slammed the glass down on the table, unlocked his phone, and was scrolling through the phone book in search of Crash's number when good sense stopped him. Without knowing why he hadn't been in touch, he realised that calling Crash was dangerous, and likely to put him at risk of exposure.

Frustrated, he got to his feet and stuffed his phone into his pocket, where he would feel it vibrate if he was called or he received a text, he then made his way through the tables. Reaching the stairs to the ground floor, he grabbed the banister for support, not at all certain that he would make it down safely if he didn't. He wasn't drunk, though he had had plenty to drink, but he was unsteady on his feet, and he didn't want to fall.

Normally, he would have stopped at the dance floor to see if there was anyone who might catch his eye; he nearly always found someone willing to join him for some naked gymnastics. This time, however, he ignored the dancefloor, and the assortment of scantily dressed girls who were showing enough skin between them to tempt the most devout of religious figures into sin, and weaved his way towards the exit.

The fresh air hit him like a blow from a boxer when he stepped outside; it left him reeling, and one of the security staff on the door moved to assist him. He recovered his equilibrium after a few moments and waved away the unwanted help. Steadier on his feet, though still wobbly, despite being on ground that was completely flat and free of obstructions, Ryan made his way down the road, his feet tracing a path that was far from straight.

Two hundred yards from The Black Hole's entrance was the car park, where he had left his mother's Jaguar - his father had refused to let him buy another vehicle after his most recent crash left him minus both a car and a license, so he had been forced to borrow his mother's and drive illegally. He revved the engine briefly, before reversing out of his parking space, and racing from the car park.

Only a fraction of his attention was on the road as he drove away from the club, most it was on the phone in his pocket as he willed it to ring, or to vibrate in announcement of a text message. He wondered if Crash was ever going to get in touch, and if the lack of communication meant he was having a hard time evading the police with the ransom he had collected - he shouldn't be having a hard time, not as far as Ryan was concerned, it should have been a fairly straightforward thing for him to have done.

He felt a shiver of excitement run through him in anticipation of the news that his sister was dead. He had hated her from the moment she was born - hated her for taking his parents' love, hated her for being so perfect, and for the praise and rewards she received for the slightest thing, when no matter what he achieved or how hard he worked he was ignored. Most of all he hated her for stealing his inheritance.

It had been bad enough when she was only to receive half - half the business, half the house, and half the fortune his father's company had made; he didn't know exactly how rich his father was, but he did know he was worth a very great deal, over a hundred million pounds, and that didn't include the company. His father's threat to cut him out of the will, and to leave everything to Alice, had incensed Ryan, magnifying the hatred he felt for his sister, and inspiring him to think of ways to get rid of her and safeguard his inheritance.

The drive from the club to his family's home passed in a pleasurable consideration of what he would do with his inheritance when he got his hands on it. Thoughts of what he would do, and where he would go, were driven from his mind, however, when he reached the road on which his family's home stood, and he encountered the crowd of reporters and journalists who were eagerly awaiting the latest news.

Questions were shouted at him from all parts of the crowd, which was still sizeable despite the lateness of the hour; questions about where he had been, what he had been up to, what he thought of his sister's kidnapping, whether he knew how much the ransom demanded for his sister's safe return was, and if the rumour was true that the ransom was being paid tonight.

Photographs were taken as the questions were asked, with the result that the rude gesture he made - he flipped them the bird - when he got fed up of the questions, was sure to appear in pretty much every national newspaper, and at least a few other places, come morning. He didn't give a damn about that, though; if his plan went as it was supposed to, the news would have more important things to report on than his rudeness.

A minute or so of meandering brought Ryan to the front door, which was already being held open by Mr Chambers, and he walked through without acknowledging the house-manager. He made straight for the library doors and looked around; the moment he saw the uniformed constable slouched in the reading chair by the window he asked, "What's going on with the ransom drop?"

The constable leaped from the chair as though someone had set off a bomb under him, a look of intense embarrassment on his face at having been caught relaxing in such a way.

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# 58

His steps a little more rapid than before he reached the hospital, thanks to the powerful painkillers he had talked out of a doctor, and multiple cups of extra sweet, black coffee, Stone entered the private room where Alice had been placed.

The teen, despite being visibly both tired and affected by the ordeal she had been through over the last couple of days, was sitting up in bed and sipping from a steaming mug; on the table that was positioned over the bed was a plate, on which Stone saw an assortment of biscuits and cakes, while next to the bed, holding his daughter's hand as if he intended never letting her go, was Owen Keating.

Whether it was because of her ordeal, or because her father was rich, Stone wasn't sure, but he got the impression that Alice Keating was being treated with more than the usual amount of care by the hospital staff. It was an impression that was quickly proved right as a nurse bustled in, neatly side-stepping him as he manoeuvred a chair closer to the bed, bearing a tablet, of the electronic variety, which she set on the table.

"I borrowed this from one of the doctors," she said with a smile. "You've been given something to help you sleep, but just in case it takes a while to take effect, I thought you might like something to help you relax and take your mind off things. It's got some movies on it, and some games and books, though I wouldn't like to guarantee Dr Jenson's taste when it comes to either films or books. He said you can add whatever you like, and not to worry about it."

"Thank you," Alice said with a wan but grateful smile. She made no move to pick up the tablet, she was far more interested in warming herself, both physically and emotionally, with the super-creamy hot chocolate she had been brought.

Stone waited until the nurse had finished bustling about, making sure that Alice was comfortable and needed nothing, and had left, and then he got down to things. "I realise you've been through a traumatic experience over the last couple of days, Miss Keating, and I don't mean to be insensitive, but if you feel up to it, I'd like to hear your account of what happened, while it's still fresh in your mind."

Owen Keating raised his eyes to the inspector, an unhappy look of protest on his face.

"I know you'd rather I leave things for the time being, Mr Keating," Stone said, injecting as much compassion into his voice as he could. "This is important, though. We know there were three men involved in your daughter's kidnapping - out the corner of his eye he saw Alice tense up and blanche, and he wished he didn't have to add to her distress - and that two of them were caught tonight, and are currently under guard here in the hospital, but we still need to catch the third member of the gang. Any information Alice can give us will help us to catch the last of her kidnappers.

"Every delay, no matter how small, gives him time to get away; I'm sure you don't want that."

"It's okay, dad," Alice said before her father could respond to the inspector's words. "I don't mind talking about it." A barely audible quaver in her voice betrayed the fact that she wasn't quite as okay with things as she claimed.

Stone studied Alice's face for a few moments before he nodded and asked his first question, "Can you tell me what you remember of events from Wednesday, when you were snatched from your father's car?"

Alice didn't answer straight away; she sipped at the last of her hot chocolate, and nibbled on a chocolate digestive before speaking. "Brian was driving Julia and me home after school. Oh my God! Julia, is she alright?" she asked concernedly, remembering her friend for the first time since she woke in the farmhouse where her kidnappers had taken her.

"She's fine," Stone reassured her quickly. "She was in shock for a while, but she went home earlier today, yesterday I mean," he corrected himself when he remembered that it was past midnight.

Alice accepted that news with a grateful nod and then continued with her story, "We were stopped at some traffic lights when Brian suddenly yelled 'Kidnap' and a van pulled up alongside daddy's car..."

It took some time for Alice to tell her story, covering everything that had happened to her over the past two and a half days, which was both a lot and not very much - her story drew gasps of dismay and looks of disgust, especially when she spoke of having to use a bucket for a toilet, from her father. When she was done, Stone was left with a feeling of frustration; it seemed obvious, even from her first retelling, that no matter how closely she was questioned, Alice would not be able to tell him anything about the third member of the gang that had kidnapped her. All he could do was hope that something would be found at the farmhouse by the forensics team, or that one or other of the two men they had under watch in the hospital would decide to give up their partner when questioned.

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# 59

Ryan's throat burned as the tequila ran down it from the bottle he was holding, but he didn't care, he didn't even notice. How could things have gone so badly wrong? The question repeated itself over and over in his mind, while his ears were assaulted by the music of Aerosmith, which was blasting out from the expensive stereo system in his room. The plan had been simple, thought up by him, and refined by the three of them, him, Crash and Lewis - there was no reason why it should have gone wrong, not to such an extent.

It was bad enough that his sister was still alive - her continued existence meant there was still a barrier between him and certainty of inheriting his father's fortune, but at least she had no idea that he was involved in her kidnapping. Worse was the news that his partners had been caught by the police; it was only a minor comfort to him that, according to the constable downstairs in the library, both men were unconscious and seriously hurt, one of them having been shot and the other hit by a car.

Lifting the bottle to his lips, he swallowed more of the burning liquid while he considered his problem. His first thought was that he should find a way to sneak into the hospital and deal with Crash and Lewis, before they could wake up and reveal his involvement with the kidnapping. He had trusted Crash with taking care of his sister and collecting the ransom, half of which was to go to him, a trust that had clearly been misplaced, but he didn't trust him to keep quiet now that he was in custody. Similarly, he was sure that Lewis would sell him out at the first opportunity, though for different reasons to Crash.

Lewis, Ryan knew from what Crash had told him, had been having doubts and spending too much time with Alice - as far as Ryan was concerned, he should not have spent any time with her. The moment he woke, and the police spoke to him, Lewis would tell them everything he knew, to protect Alice from his partners, and the possibility that they might try again to kidnap her, or worse.

Crash, on the other hand, would spill the beans to the police to save himself.

Ryan guessed, with a grim certainty, that the first words out of Crash's mouth would be 'I want to make a deal', and he didn't doubt that the police would be more than happy to agree to one, which might even include immunity from prosecution, once they heard what Crash had to say.

Ryan would have liked to believe that both of his partners would die before they could wake and cause him any more problems; he didn't think his luck was that good, however. Since he had no intention of just sitting back and waiting for the police to come for him, he pushed himself to his feet, dropping the bottle on the seat behind him to spill its contents, not that he cared about that. From the top drawer of his desk he grabbed his switchblade, which he shoved into a pocket on his way out of the room, though only after he flicked it open briefly to check the blade was still sharp. It was a nice weapon, with a good, five-inch blade, that he was sure would come in handy.

The front door swung shut with a bang that was loud enough to draw the attention of the two constables at the gate. Ryan was oblivious to the curious looks as he made his way around to the garage, so he could get behind the wheel of his mother's silver Jaguar XK8, the car he hadn't long returned home in. He was in less of a fit state to be driving than when he left the club, but he didn't care about that, nor did he care that there were multiple witnesses to him driving under the influence, and without a license; all he did care about was fixing his problem.

The crowd in the road scattered as he raced through the gates opened by the constables - he didn't doubt that that would end up in the papers and on the news, but that was something else he didn't give a damn about that, he had far more important things to worry about.

**

HOW LONG IT TOOK HIM to get to the hospital, not to mention how he managed to get there without crashing his mother's car, Ryan didn't have a clue. Not a single instant of his trip through the streets sank into his brain, and he only became aware of things around him again when he got out in the car park at the side of the hospital.

As he squeezed past a middle-aged couple, the wife/girlfriend supporting her partner, who was hobbling and wincing with every step, he realised he didn't have a clue where to find either Crash or Lewis. A large sign on the wall at the rear of the foyer solved that problem, however - it told him on which floor each department could be found. Since he knew from the constable at the house that both of his partners had been seriously hurt, he came to the obvious conclusion that they were in the ITU, which, according to the sign, was on the third floor.

His next problem was not knowing which room or rooms Lewis and Crash were in, but that was solved when he reached the ITU and saw a uniformed constable outside one of the rooms, obviously on guard. Solving that problem, however, only led to another - how he was to get past the constable and into the room. He retreated to a vending machine he had passed and bought himself a very inferior cup of coffee and a Mars bar, both of which he consumed while considering his dilemma. His thought processes were blurred by the alcohol he had drunk that night, but by the time he reached the end of his coffee he had an idea, one he hoped would work.

Tossing his rubbish into the nearest bin, he smoothed the creases in his iridescent shirt, rounded the corner, and strode briskly down the corridor. He stopped when he reached the constable, and looked pointedly at the door under guard.

"Can I help you?" Constable Flowers asked of the man before him. He assumed he had found his way there by mistake, and was probably there with a friend, who had gotten injured while out clubbing.

"Yeah, I'm Ryan Keating, Inspector Stone asked me to come down and take a look at the two men they caught, to see if I recognise either of them," he said, glad he was able to keep any hint of an alcohol-induced slur from his voice. "There's some suspicion that one of them might be a former employee of my father's, but the inspector doesn't want to disturb him."

Flowers considered what Ryan Keating had said for only the briefest of moments before nodding; from what little he knew of the situation, there was nothing wrong with what he had just been told. "If you can identify them," he said, "it'll be a great help. There's a third kidnapper still out there somewhere, apparently, and the inspector is eager to find out who these guys are in case they can lead to their partner." As he spoke he opened the door, so he could enter the room ahead of Keating. "They're both still out of it, and the doctor can't say when they'll wake."

Ryan paid almost no attention to the constable as he followed him into the room, he was far more interested in getting his switchblade out of his pocket without being noticed; unfortunately, the sound of the blade locking into place drew the attention of the constable, who started to turn, forcing him to take immediate action.

He reached around to clamp a hand over the man's mouth, to keep him from raising an alarm, at the same time he raised his knife to stab it down into the constable's neck, where it joined the shoulder. His hand smothered the constable's cry, which was equal parts an exclamation of pain and a plea for help. Blood spurted when Ryan yanked his knife free, some of it hitting him in the face, then he stabbed the blade down again.

The constable went limp, and Ryan quickly lowered him to the floor. When he tried to pull his knife free, he found that it wouldn't move, it was stuck, and wouldn't shift, no matter how hard he wrenched at it. He gave up on his efforts to retrieve his knife after a few moments, and vented his frustration by kicking the constable in the ribs; since the action prompted no reaction he concluded that the man at his feet was dead, which suited him.

After delivering another sharp kick to the uniformed figure, who remained unmoving, he made his way to the nearest of the two beds. Without hesitation, he yanked the pillow out from under the unconscious Lewis' head and placed it over his face; with a determined look on his own face, Ryan pressed down on the pillow. He didn't know how long it would take for him to suffocate his former partner, but he figured the machine Lewis was connected to would tell him when he was dead, so he kept an eye on the monitor, watching the line that showed the heart rate.

What he hadn't thought of, and what he realised he should have, was that the machine would sound an alarm when Lewis' heart-rate dropped below a certain level. Because his thoughts were still clouded by alcohol, he was caught by surprise when the alarm suddenly sounded, filling the room with noise. The pressure he was exerting on the pillow lessened as his mind raced, and he tried to decide what he should do; his options were limited, and quickly became reduced to just one as the door burst open to reveal a nurse, who stood there, looking in shock from the pillow he was holding over Lewis' face to the immobile form of the constable on the floor.

Ryan froze, just like the nurse, startled by the arrival so soon after the alarm began, but he was the first to recover. With a sudden, savage move, he hurled the pillow across the room; despite the strength with which he threw it, he realised the pillow was unlikely to harm the nurse, except in the most bizarre of circumstances, but that was not his intention. All he wanted from the pillow was a distraction, and that was exactly what he got.

As the nurse raised her hands to bat away the pillow, she took her eyes off Ryan, who took advantage of her lack of attention. He barrelled into her, his shoulder lowered as though he was on the rugby field and heading for the goal line, and threw her back against the doorframe. She collapsed to the floor as Ryan raced from the room and down the corridor to the stairs he had ascended not long before.

**

RYAN HURTLED DOWN THE stairs as rapidly as possible, his footsteps echoing loudly. Several times he slipped and almost fell, each time he caught himself just before he went tumbling head over heels. It would be better and safer for him if he slowed, but he had no intention of doing so, not when he could hear the shouts of alarm coming from the floor he had just left, and thundering footsteps approaching the stairwell where he was.

The door he had just passed was thrown open to crash into the wall with a boom that snapped Ryan's head around in time to see a uniformed security guard appear on the second-floor landing. The guard lifted his radio from his belt to his lips the moment he saw Ryan to report his discovery, at the same time he moved to give chase.

Ryan thought about stopping and dealing with the security guard, but quickly changed his mind and increased his speed. He leaped the last half dozen steps and reached out for the bar on the door. He threw open the door and left the stairwell at a run, almost colliding with the security guard who was hurrying towards him; he twisted sharply to avoid the hand that reached out for him, which brushed past his sleeve, making his heart lurch at the close shave. Adrenaline flooded his system in response to the fright as his fight or flight reflex was triggered, giving him the impetus to race away down the corridor towards the foyer and the exit.

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# 60

Stone was dozing in the passenger seat, while Burke drove him home, when his radio squawked. The sudden noise woke him with a sharp protest for the pain generated by him sitting up abruptly and being restrained by the seatbelt; his protest took the form of a stream of profanity that lasted for almost half a minute. Once he had calmed down a little, he lifted the radio to his lips, ignoring the amusement he could see in his partner's face, which made him want to either say something or punch him in the arm.

"Stone."

"Nathan, it's Frank, where are you?" Sergeant Wells asked.

Stone glanced at his partner, whose expression revealed he was wondering what had happened, just like his superior. Neither of them thought for a moment that the radio call signalled anything good, not after the way things had gone over the last few days, and especially that day. "I'm heading home," he answered. "What's up? Has Collins decided I'm not allowed sleep till the case is finished?" he asked in a light-hearted tone.

"You'd better head back to the hospital," Wells said, not a trace of humour in his voice.

"What's up?" Stone repeated the question, certain now that something new had happened, and that it was not something good.

"There's been an attack."

With one ear, Burke listened to what Sergeant Wells was saying, while the rest of his attention was focused on the road ahead. He didn't waste time digging out the light from under his seat, the streets were all but empty, and having the flashing blue light on the roof would not enable him to speed all that much, he was already at fifty miles an hour, and going any faster would be dangerous.

It took less than ten minutes for them to make it back to the hospital, and once there Stone released his seatbelt, threw open his door, and got out, ignoring the pain that such rapid movement caused. His face set, he strode round the car and made for the hospital's entrance, Burke just a pace or so behind him. They were spotted the moment they entered the reception, and were quickly joined by Sergeant Silvestre, who was the senior uniformed officer on duty at the hospital - as the senior officer, prior to the arrival of the inspector, she had been stationed outside Alice Keating's room, a position she had surrendered to a constable, with two of the hospital's security guards a short distance away as backup, while she co-ordinated things and waited for Stone to return.

"Okay, Milly, tell me what's going on," Stone instructed the sergeant. "Frank said someone attacked Constable Flowers, and tried to smother one of the kidnappers, before escaping."

Silvestre nodded. "We don't know exactly what happened," she admitted unhappily. "Right now all we know for sure is that the alarm went off on the heart monitor attached to the guy with the gunshot wound; Nurse Regan was the first person to get there, reaching the room within moments of the alarm sounding - she found Constable Flowers on the floor, a knife sticking out the back of his neck and a puddle of blood under his head, and a young man standing over the kidnapper, a pillow pressed to the guy's face.

"The would-be killer threw the pillow at Nurse Regan and then barged past her. He took the stairs down, chased by one of the hospital's security guards, evaded another when he reached the ground floor, and ran out through here and round to the car park. He got away," she finished, the frustration she felt at the failure to capture the would-be killer evident in her face, not that Stone could blame her for feeling that way, or for the escape.

"Do we have a description of him, or the car he escaped in?" Stone asked, mentally crossing his fingers.

"The car is a silver Jag, but we only have a partial plate number, Frank's running it now; as for the guy, I've spoken to Nurse Regan and the two security guards who chased him - he's about six foot, slim to medium build, mid-length brown hair, styled, and he was dressed in smart, dark grey trousers and a smart shirt, purplish in colour. They couldn't describe him any better than that, unfortunately, but there's CCTV footage to be checked through that might help with a more accurate description."

"It's a start," Stone said positively, "especially combined with the partial plate number. How's Constable Flowers, and the guy our mystery man tried to suffocate?" he asked, changing the subject. He wondered who the mystery man might be, and why he had tried to kill the kidnappers. His natural compassion made him ask after the kidnapper who had nearly been killed, but he found himself unable to care on quite the level he knew he should; the man was, after all, responsible for taking a girl from her family and holding her against her will for more than forty-eight hours.

"No real harm done to the kidnapper," Silvestre said in a studiously neutral voice. "Flowers, though, he's lucky to be alive. He was stabbed twice and lost a lot of blood, he's in surgery right now - there's concern that his spine could have been damaged, but we won't know for sure for a while yet."

Stone opened his mouth to respond to that news, before he could, the radio on Silvestre's belt crackled into life and she snatched it up. "Milly, Frank," the duty sergeant identified himself. "Got a make on your car, it's registered to Mrs Maria Keating, wife of Owen Keating, mother of..."

"Thanks, Frank." Silvestre didn't need her fellow sergeant to finish what he was saying - she knew who Maria Keating was the mother of.

"I think we should have been looking closer to home for our third kidnapper," Stone said, surprised by the speed with which his mind was working just then, given how tired he was.

Burke's brow furrowed as he regarded his superior; it took him a few moments to realise who Stone was referring to, though the bewildered look on Silvestre's face made it plain that she remained in the dark, and when he did he found him disagreeing with the conclusion. "Don't you think it more likely that he tried to kill them because they kidnapped his sister?" he asked. "I imagine that would be the reaction of most brothers, under the circumstances, and it is definitely understandable."

Stone shook his head. "Given the arguments we've overheard the last couple of days between Owen Keating and his son, I can't imagine that Ryan would act in a protective manner towards his sister. The suspicion is that Ryan Keating is on the verge of being written out of his father's will - losing his inheritance would be a very good motive for Ryan to kidnap his sister, he needs the money to maintain the life he's used to.

"Is Owen Keating still here?" he asked, turning his attention back to Silvestre.

"Yes, sir, he should still be in his daughter's room," Silvestre said, struggling to understand what the two detectives were talking about.

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# 61

Ryan spun the wheel and raced around yet another corner, his fifth, or maybe it was his sixth, he couldn't remember, since leaving the hospital. Once he had made sure he wasn't going to rear-end anyone after taking the corner at more than fifty miles an hour, his eyes moved to the rear-view mirror. He was just in time to see the police car that had been dogging him for the past couple of streets reappear, still three car lengths behind.

He shouldn't have been surprised, but he had been hoping that his sudden turn would lose his pursuer, or at least gain him some space, which he could take advantage of.

Frustrated by the continued presence of the police car on his tail, Ryan pushed his foot down on the accelerator, making the powerful Jaguar leap forward and opening the gap between the two vehicles. As he raced down the road he realised where he was, and his hands tensed on the wheel in readiness to take the next turn, which would enable him to head out of town and begin his flight in earnest - where he would go, and what he would do once he got there, were things he would have to consider another time, just then avoiding ending up in a police cell were more important.

The closest route for him to take to get out of town meant passing close to the farmhouse where his sister had been held. He had enough sense to realise that he would have to take an alternative, if longer and more complicated, route, or risk getting himself stuck on the dual carriageway, rather than the route he was close to; the police were almost certainly still at the farmhouse, and he was sure they would be scrutinising every vehicle that went past, especially those that did so at such an hour and at speed.

He took the turn a little too sharply, overcompensated, and had to fight to maintain control of his mother's car, which he was unfamiliar with. He still didn't have complete control of the Jaguar when he took the next turn - his intention was to keep taking turns until he lost his pursuer and then leave town - and he nearly spun out. He was so intent on straightening the vehicle out, and stopping it fishtailing, that it wasn't until he had succeeded that he heard the approaching sirens; the sounds were converging from all directions, and his eyes darted all around, as if he expected the approaching police cars to appear from within the buildings on either side of the street.

Despite the increasing volume of the sirens, which announced that the converging police cars were rapidly getting closer, Ryan was caught by surprise when one of them appeared from a side road, barely two dozen feet in front of him. He reacted instantly, slamming his foot down on the brake, at the same time he jerked the wheel to his left; his instincts told him he was going too fast and he wouldn't be able to stop in time; all he could do, though, was hope that his jerk of the wheel was enough to steer him past the rear of the police car. It wasn't.

He hit the rear of the car a glancing blow, spinning it round. The impact jarred Ryan's arms and threw him forward into the steering wheel. He was surprised the airbag wasn't deployed by the collision, but at the same time he was relieved; if the airbag had gone off he would have had a hard time continuing his escape. Since he still had control of the car, he moved his foot from the brake to the accelerator, shifted gears, and spun the wheel to take the car around the corner the police car had appeared from.

Ryan could see that the front wing on the passenger side had been crumpled by the impact, fortunately it was having no effect on the engine, and the car leaped forward as he accelerated. He was glad about that, since the police car that had been dogging him had closed the gap while he was slowed by the collision, drawing up to his rear bumper. The flashing light on the roof filled the rear-view mirror.

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# 62

Stone scrolled through the pictures on Owen Keating's phone and then held it out. "Is this the man you saw?" he asked of Nurse Regan, watching her face as she scrutinised the image he was showing her.

The nurse nodded. "That's him," she confirmed. "I'd recognise him anywhere." Her voice was steady and confident, though her demeanour betrayed the shock she still felt.

"Thank you." Stone locked the phone and slipped it into his pocket, so he could return it to Owen Keating, he then left the nurse's lounge, Burke on his heels, so he could coordinate the search for Ryan Keating. They still didn't know if Ryan had been trying to kill his sister's kidnapper out of a misguided, and belated, desire to protect his sister, or because he was involved in her kidnapping; it didn't matter which was the case just then, in Stone's opinion, that was something that could be sorted out once they had Ryan Keating in custody. He was sure his theory was right, though, and Ryan was involved, perhaps even behind, his sister being held for ransom.

Radioing Sergeant Wells at the station, Stone reeled off a list of instructions for him to disseminate to the officers out on patrol. That done, he contacted Inspector Evans, who was still at the Keatings' house; Stone didn't think it likely that Ryan Keating would return home, not when he had to know that doing so would result in his arrest, but he wanted Evans to find out everything he could about the young man, in case he could discover where Ryan might be going, and what his intentions might be.

Stone also hoped that Evans would be able to track Ryan's mobile phone, as well as any activity that might have taken place on his bank account and credit cards, just in case the cars closing in on the borrowed Jaguar lost him - he sincerely hoped that wouldn't happen. With the level of importance attached to the case, and the number of patrol cars heading towards Ryan Keating's last reported position, it should be impossible for him to escape; he had enough sense not to rely on that, however.

His radio calls made, and Owen Keating's phone returned, Stone left the hospital and, his partner behind the wheel again, headed for Ryan Keating's position, which was being updated by Sergeant Wells as the patrols reported in.

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# 63

Ryan's flight ended with shocking suddenness. For a little more than three quarters of an hour, following the appearance of the first patrol car in his rear-view mirror, he had sought to evade the pursuing police - that was over now.

As he struggled against the airbag - this time it had deployed - which threatened to smother him, he couldn't help thinking that life wasn't fair; he had kept ahead of the police, and countered every attempt by them to force him to stop, for forty-five minutes, only to be stopped by a fox, a stupid, verminous, scavenging fox!

What made it worse was the knowledge that it had been instinct, nothing more than that, that had made him crash. Seeing something dart across the road in front of the car, his hands had twitched on the wheel, the result of which was that the front passenger wheel left the road and mounted a low grassy bank that ran alongside the tarmac.

By the time he realised the movement had been a fox, a creature he would have felt no compunction about running down - not that he would have felt much compunction about running down pretty much any animal that stood between him and his escape - if he had the time to think about what he was going to do, it was too late; his efforts to get the Jaguar under control resulted in it racing across the narrow country road, climbing the low bank at its side and then dropping down, nose first, into the muddy ditch beyond it. He was thrown forward, and then pushed back against his seat as the airbag exploded from the wheel, expanding in less than a second to fill the gap between him and the wheel.

The collision left Ryan stunned, and it was more than a minute before he moved again. With the airbag deflated, and able to move again, he threw open the driver's door and climbed out, falling into the ditch in which his mother's car was now stuck. It wasn't a long fall, just a few feet, but he landed heavily, twisting his ankle and falling forwards; he managed to get his hands out just in time to stop him smashing his face into the muddy ground at the top of the ditch.

Slipping and sliding, he climbed from the ditch, while frequent profanities, caused by the pain in his twisted ankle, escaped his lips to drown, momentarily, the quiet engine noises of the Jaguar. Once he made it back to the road, and was standing on firm ground, he straightened up and brushed himself off. Fastidiously, he removed what mud and dirt he could before wiping his hands clean, not that they were all that clean when he was finished; despite his efforts, and his dislike of being dirty, there was nothing he could do just then about his dirty shoes or his sodden socks.

"Ryan Keating."

The loud voice diverted his attention away from his dishevelled appearance and onto the police cars stopped a short distance away, and the uniformed officers closing in on him.

"You're under arrest; keep your hands where we can see them."

Ryan's immediate reaction was to look around for a means of escape; the road leading further out into the country was clear, but he quickly dismissed any thought of making a run for it. Even if he hadn't twisted his ankle - a constant throbbing made him all too aware of the futility of trying to run on it - he didn't think his chances of getting away, when there were so many officers waiting to give chase, were good enough for him to try, and he didn't fancy the humiliation of being caught by a group he didn't respect and which he considered useless.

All he could do was surrender with as much grace as possible, and hope that his father's solicitor could put up a good defence on his behalf. He felt reasonably confident on that score, Harvey Langstrom was, after all, one of the best and most expensive solicitors in the county, if not the country.

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# 64

A step ahead of his partner, Stone entered DCI Collins' office, where he was glad to be waved straight to a chair. He sank gratefully onto the first one he came to while Burke took the other - they were both exhausted after a very long night, which they had only survived thanks to a constant supply of coffee made by Burke to his exacting standards; exhausted, but happy now that the investigation into Alice Keating's kidnapping was over, at least as far as they were concerned. All that was left was for the forensic investigators to come up with the necessary corroborating evidence to ensure convictions.

"Coffee?" Collins asked of his detectives, a question that told them he was very happy with them and the work they had done. He only offered drinks to his subordinates when they had pleased him, and that only happened when they solved a particularly tricky case, and did so quickly, or did something else that boosted his reputation with regional headquarters.

"No, thank you, sir," Stone said with a quick shake of his head. "I've had so much coffee in the last twelve hours, if I have any more I'll either burst or float away. I don't think I could bear to even look at another cup of coffee right now." Next to him, Burke nodded in agreement.

"Fair enough." Collins gave an indifferent shrug and settled into his chair. "How's Miss Keating?" he asked, getting down to business.

"She's going to be alright," Stone answered. Thanks to the painkillers he had taken not long before, he was troubled by no more than a dull ache from his ribs and his shoulder; he was glad about that, but looking forward to finishing up and going home so he could rest, for a considerable amount of time - not that he thought that was likely to happen, given he had two children, one of whom was ill. "All of her injuries are minor, mostly just scrapes and bruises from being handled roughly; her most serious injuries are the scratch where she was shot, that might leave a faint scar, though the doctor hopes to be able to avoid that, and her feet - she cut them up quite badly by running barefoot from the farmhouse. She's going to be kept in today for observation, she's suffering from mild shock." In his opinion, Alice was taking what she had been through a hell of a lot better than he would have, had he been in her place. "But should be okay to go home tomorrow."

"That's good, though I saw in the paper this morning that someone has already leaked the fact that Alice Keating was shot at, and that her brother is under arrest for trying to kill one of her kidnappers." Collins was not pleased that the press and television news knew so much about things that should have been known only to the police and the Keating family; the only positive he could find in the situation was that Stone's suspicion about Ryan Keating's motives hadn't leaked - if it had, it would have been disastrous, especially while it was unproven. "I don't suppose you have any idea who's responsible for the leak, do you?" he asked hopefully.

Stone wished he did know, he had a strong dislike of people who leaked information to the press, a dislike that was exacerbated when the person responsible for a leak was a police officer, as he suspected was the case on that occasion. "No idea right now, but I intend finding out."

"I'm glad to hear it. Now, what's the situation with Ryan Keating? So far this morning I've had the superintendent on the phone, and I've had to field calls from just about every newspaper and news program you can think of. Do you know yet why he tried to kill Constable Flowers, and his sister's kidnapper? I know you have your suspicions, but have you got a definite motive for his actions yet?"

"Yes, sir." Stone was pleased to be able to answer the question. "He isn't speaking at the moment, not about his reasons for doing what he did anyway; he's been very vocal about just about everything else, from the poor treatment he's receiving, to his legal representation - his father is very unhappy with him, and has made it clear that he's not paying for the family lawyer to help him, so he's been forced to make do with a duty solicitor, whose best advice seems to have been for Ryan to say nothing, especially when it comes to what he was arrested for. Keeping him quiet on any other subject seems to be difficult.

"Fortunately, we don't need him to confess."

Collins looked quizzically at his subordinate and Stone's amused expression grew.

"His partners are falling over themselves to pin the blame on Keating," Stone explained. "Lewis Rice, whom Ryan tried to smother last night, is willing to tell us everything we want to know without conditions, he seems to be suffering an attack of conscience over the kidnapping. Callum Marshall, AKA Crash, on the other hand wants to make a deal - he has a record, he's done time on three occasions, so he knows he's looking at a very harsh sentence for this.

"To begin with, he was asking for immunity from prosecution for what he knows. When he heard that we already had Ryan Keating in custody, and Lewis Rice was singing, he changed his tune; now he's saying he'll testify against Keating in return for us going easy on him."

"So you were right, Keating tried to kill his sister's kidnappers to cover up the fact that he was behind it."

"Yes, sir." Stone nodded, though he evidenced no pleasure in having been proved right.

Collins was silent for a few moments, his expression thoughtful, finally he asked, "Have you been able to find out what motivated Keating to kidnap his sister? I can't see what he'd gain from it."

"A lot sir," Burke answered a heartbeat ahead of his superior. "Upwards of a hundred million pounds."

Stone immediately stepped in to answer the unasked question on the DCI's face. "Owen Keating was on the verge of writing his son out of his will - Ryan's caused a lot of trouble, not to mention public embarrassment, for his father - Ryan knew that, and figured the only way to protect his inheritance was to get rid of his sister. Obviously, Ryan hasn't confirmed any of this, but based on what Lewis Rice and Callum Marshall have told us, Ryan's plan was to kidnap his sister, and to have her killed once the ransom was paid. Callum was to kill Alice, and he was to get half the ransom in payment, he was also to kill Lewis Rice because he was a weak link they wanted rid of."

"What went wrong? Clearly something did, because Mr Rice was shot, Alice escaped, and Mr Marshall got run down, when he should have been collecting the ransom. Not that I'm complaining, obviously, since things turned out for the best."

Stone had to stifle a yawn, which he was only partially successful in doing, before he could answer that. "Rice overheard a conversation Marshall had with Ryan Keating on the phone, he couldn't hear it all, but he heard enough to conclude that Marshall had orders to kill both him and Alice - I'm not sure which he was most upset by - and he decided that he had to save her. Kidnapping was bad enough, it seems; he didn't want to be involved in murder. I don't suppose he wanted to be killed either.

"When Marshall announced that he was taking Alice with him to collect the ransom, Rice decided he had to make his move; he fought with Marshall and got himself shot, while Alice ran from the farmhouse. Marshall chased after Alice then, and tried to shoot her before he was hit by John Wilkin's car." Next to him, Burke yawned, his mouth stretching into a cavernous black hole, and that set Stone off, in moments it was like they were in a competition to see who could yawn the widest.

"Alright, I can take a hint," Collins said, watching his detectives yawn, one after the other. "Both of you are off duty as of right now. I want you to go home and get some rest, especially you, Nathan - I don't want to see you until the doctor has cleared you for duty. Don't worry, I'll finish things off on the Keating case," he assured his subordinate, who was certain he would also make sure to take as much of the credit for the case's successful conclusion as he could.

"Thank you, sir." Stone was grateful for the opportunity to recover from his injuries, and not bothered about losing out on the credit, and quickly got to his feet so he could leave the office before anything new could come up.

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Did you love _Where There's a Will_? Then you should read _An Eye For An Eye_ by Alex R Carver!

**Revenge comes to Branton**.

Inspector Stone's past catches up to him with blood and flames.

A series of murders rocks the small town of Branton and leaves Inspector Stone with his toughest case, one which may see him paying a tremendous personal price if he can't solve it quick enough.

At first glance the murder of the wife and mother of an Asian shopkeeper appears racially motivated, and the local paper is quick to stir up tensions within the community.

Another murder, this time the husband of a local barrister, an attack on a trio of teens, and the discovery of a previously unreported murder all lead Stone to the conclusion that something more than racism is at work.

Before he can work out what connects these seemingly unrelated events he is distracted by the most tragic of events.

Can Stone and his partner pull themselves together long enough to figure out who is responsible for bringing terror to the streets of Branton, or will the killer complete his fiendish plan and make good his escape?

Read more at Alex R Carver's site.
Also by Alex R Carver

Cas Dragunov

An Unwanted Inheritance

Inspector Stone Mysteries

Where There's a Will

An Eye For An Eye

A Perfect Pose

Into The Fire

A Stone's Throw

The Oakhurst Murders

Written In Blood

Poetic Justice

Standalone

Exposed

Inspector Stone Mysteries Volume 1 (Books 1-3)

The Oakhurst Murders Duology

Watch for more at Alex R Carver's site.

# About the Author

After working in the clerical, warehouse and retail industries over the years, without gaining much satisfaction, Alex quit to follow his dream and become a full-time writer. Where There's A Will is the first book in the Inspector Stone Mysteries series, with more books in the series to come, as well as titles in other genres in the pipeline. His dream is to one day earn enough to travel, with a return to Egypt to visit the parts he missed before, and Macchu Picchu, top of his wishlist of destinations. When not writing, he is either playing a game or being distracted by Molly the Yorkie, who is greedy for both attention and whatever food is to be found.

You can find out more about Alex R Carver at the following links

https://twitter.com/arcarver87

https://alexrcarver.wordpress.com/

https://medium.com/@arcarver87

https://www.facebook.com/Alex-R-Carver-1794038897591918/

Read more at Alex R Carver's site.
