She had woken up earlier because she could hear him moving around outside the door. She swallowed down the rising panic that was getting harder and harder to control. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do, what he wanted from her. She could smell her own faeces, could feel the dirtiness of her body and clothes. She had waited for him to rape her, or assault her, but he had done nothing. He brought her some water at regular intervals, and he emptied the chamber pot at some point, and he had also left her a blanket. She could only assume he had kidnapped her, and he was waiting for her father to pay the money. He would pay it – her mother would make sure of that. But why was it taking so long?
She kept thinking of every serial-killer film she had ever watched, every book she had ever read about men who abducted young women, and tortured and raped them. Only in the books and the films, there was always a detective on their trail who you knew would eventually save the girl and kill the maniac; you knew that because the detective always solved his case no matter how obscure the clues. The maniac would also often be in direct contact with the police, would be taunting them and, as the reader or viewer, you would be cheering on the detective, knowing all along that he or she would eventually work it out. But that was not real life. She worried that he was going to come in at some point and really hurt her, and she was so terrified about that.
Her initial arrogance was gone; she was not only stone cold sober for the first time in years, she was also acutely aware that she wasn’t ready to die. She loved her son in her own way, and she wanted to see him again, see her mum, be hugged by her once more. She had to wonder if this was something to do with her dad – he had stepped on a lot of people’s toes. Surely she should have been out by now if it was about money? What if this man was holding her as a grudge against her father? Or what if he was a serial killer and her father’s name and reputation meant nothing to him?
She pushed her fist into her mouth to stop herself from screaming; she still had enough strength left to make sure she didn’t show him her fear. She wouldn’t show him how scared she was until she absolutely had to. She would beg him on her knees if that was what he wanted, she would do whatever she needed to try and get herself out of this situation.
She pulled the blanket around her, and she forced herself to try and think rationally. But it was hard to concentrate – the darkness was so intimidating, so final. And the man who held her was still an enigma. Until he spoke to her or acknowledged her presence in some way, she knew she couldn’t even begin to understand exactly what she was dealing with. She felt the tears running down her face, and she didn’t even try to stop them.
‘Come on, Jake, eat your dinner up.’
Michael winked at his grandson, as always amazed at the love the child could engender in him. Considering the circumstances of his birth, Michael had always been in awe of the feelings he had for this child.
‘I’m eating my dinner, Granddad, so I can grow up big and strong like you.’
Michael sighed. He remembered when his Jessie had been like this little lad, innocent, trusting and eager for her parents’ company. All that had changed when she was thirteen. Overnight she had become a different person – difficult, awkward, full of hate. Everyone said it was teenage angst, that she would grow out of it. But she hadn’t, she had gradually got worse, and she had become out of control. Now she was missing, and he didn’t know what more he could do.
Book One
We will either find a way, or make one
Hannibal
Do not trust in extortion or take pride in stolen goods, though your riches increase, do not set store by them
Psalm 62:10
Chapter One
1979
Michael Flynn looked around the dingy offices with interest. This was where Patrick Costello, the legendary East-End Face, orchestrated the serious earns for the Costello family. Up to now, Michael had been working for one of Patrick’s collectors – a ponce named Jimmy Moore – but what he really wanted was to be in the thick of the Costello business. He knew he could learn a lot from Patrick Costello.
Patrick Costello was now nearly fifty, although he looked younger than his contemporaries. He had done a nine-year stretch in his twenties, and he had used his time inside wisely. He had been in for murder and, as a lifer, he had been afforded the opportunity to better himself, and he had taken advantage of everything that was open to him. He had taken up body-building, and he had also gained himself a degree in English Literature, understanding, for the first time in his life, the power that education could bring.
Since his early release, Patrick had a different approach to the Life. He had done his time, and he was not about to make that mistake again. Now he made sure that everything he was involved in could never be traced back to him. He paid his people to ensure that they would take the fall if everything was to go pear-shaped, and he paid well.