Sally pushes the stroller into the dark gap between her Shogun and the big manky Luton van. That’s when the giggling stops.
Becky sits up and frowns. Stares at her. Then hauls in a huge breath, mouth open and ready to scream.
Sally stuffs the gag into it.
Quick — before anyone sees!
She shoves Becky back into the stroller and grabs her hands — tying them together at the wrists with a double length of baler twine, ignoring the legs kicking against her thighs, the muffled roars as the little girl bucks and writhes.
Soon as she’s got the hands secured, Sally ties the gag as well, then hauls the Shogun’s rear door open and bundles Becky into the footwell. Pins her against the carpet and ties her ankles together in the dim glow of the interior light.
More muffled roaring.
‘Shh...’ Sally reaches out to stroke her hair, but Becky thrashes in the footwell like a mackerel in the bottom of a rowboat trying to escape the hook.
‘Shh... It’ll be OK. I promise, it’ll be OK...’
Another length of rope goes around her waist and then around the metal struts supporting the passenger seat. Tied tight so she can’t get free.
‘It’s only for a little bit, I promise. Be a good girl and it’ll all be over soon. OK?’ And then Sally takes the pillowcase from the back seat and pulls it over Becky’s head.
More roaring.
She closes her eyes and lets out a shuddering breath. ‘Oh God...’ Then backs out of the car, closes the door, shoves the stroller in the boot, and hurries in behind the wheel. Starts the engine and twists on the headlights.
It isn’t easy, sticking to the posted fifteen-mile-an-hour limit, but Sally does her best, even though muffled screams and thrashing sounds boom out from the back of the car.
‘Please, it’ll be OK. Please: shhhh...!’ Her voice is shrill in her own ears, panicky, pleading. ‘Shhhh...!’
And it makes no difference — Becky keeps going.
So Sally switches on the radio and turns it up to drown her out.
A broad Doric accent joins the cacophony, so thick it’s barely comprehensible. ‘...an amazin’ four thoosand poon! Absolutely crackin’. And dinna forget we’ve still got a richt load a thingies ye canna buy oanywye else tae auction off fir the Ellie Morton Reward Fund! Noo: fit aboot a bittie music?’
‘Hold still!’ Sally tightens her grip on Becky’s dungarees, unlocks the shed, then carries her and the teddy bear inside.
It’s gloomy in here. The ivy choking the window stops all but the faintest glow from the spotlight above the kitchen door getting through. Rain hisses on the roof, rattles in the ivy, scratches against the walls. It took most of the morning to clear the shed out, and now the only things in here are a couple of yoga mats with a sleeping bag on top, a pillow, a bucket, and the chain — screwed to one of the shed’s uprights.
Sally carries Becky over to the sleeping bag and lowers her onto it, which would be a lot easier if she wasn’t wriggling and squirming. Growling behind her gag, face still hidden by the pillowcase. Thrashing away on the floor of the shed.
Maybe she’ll tire herself out?
Or maybe she’ll hurt herself.
Sally grabs her by the shoulders and gives her a shake. ‘Stop it! Stop it, please...’
And she does. She actually does.
Quick — before she starts up again! Sally wraps the chain’s loose end around Becky’s chest, just under the armpits, tight enough that she won’t be able to get it down over her tummy, and fixes it in place with a padlock.
Good.
Sally stands and puts the sunglasses on again. Makes sure her baseball cap is straight and her hood is up. Then removes the pillowcase from Becky’s head, revealing a pair of puffy bloodshot eyes and a bright-pink tear-streaked face.
‘Oh my baby...’ Sally reaches out to stroke her hair, but she flinches away — growling again. ‘Look, I know it’s bad. I know. But I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I...’ She lowers herself to the wooden floor, sitting cross-legged in front of Becky. ‘I need your help. It’s only for a couple of days.’
Becky glowers at her.
‘If you promise to be a good girl, I’ll untie your legs. Do you promise?’
‘Mnnnphgnnnph mmnnn...’ She holds up her hands.
‘No. Not the hands, the legs. You promise?’
Silence. Then a nod.
‘There we go.’ Sally undoes the quick-release knot. Tucks the baler twine in her pocket. Sits back again. ‘Isn’t that a lot more comfortable?’
‘Mmmgnnnfff...’ Still glowering.
‘They took my little boy, Becky. They took him and they sold him to some very bad people.’ Sally picks up the teddy bear, squeezing it tight. ‘And I know he’s still alive, I know it, because people have seen him. People have...’
This won’t be easy to explain to a five-year-old.
‘Becky, they have something called the Livestock Mart: it’s like an auction where you can buy and sell people. Children. He’s going to be auctioned off again.’ She looks down at the teddy bear in her arms. ‘I...’ Hugs it tighter. ‘I’m going to buy my little boy back, but it’s not easy. The people who run the auction are... suspicious of newcomers. If you want to be there you have to prove you’re one of them.’ Bile stings at the bottom of Sally’s throat. She swallows it down. ‘You have to have someone to sell.’
Logan pushed into his temporary office.
Rennie was slumped over his computer, nose inches from the screen. Behind him, rain sparked and crackled against the windows — the streetlights turning it into amber fireworks. He looked up and yawned. Stretched. Then a short squeaky trumpet noise sounded from somewhere beneath the desk. His eyes widened. ‘Oops.’
Revolting little monster.
‘You better not have been saving that up for when I got back.’
Rennie pointed at a collection of evidence bags sitting on one of the other desks. ‘Chalmers’ stuff. I got everything they took off her at the mortuary. Couldn’t find any notebook, though.’ He swept an arm out, indicating the cardboard boxes on the other desks. ‘DI Bell’s stuff. Pick a box, any box.’
‘Not tonight, Josephine: time for home. We’ll go through his things tomorrow.’
‘Cool!’ Rennie scrambled to his feet and grabbed his jacket. ‘Bright and early though, right? Cos I’m SIO?’
‘No. Because one: tomorrow’s Sunday. And two: it’s a suicide. Soon as you sent off your report, that was it. Job’s done.’
His bottom lip popped out, trembling. ‘But I’m SIO...’
It was like running a nursery some days, it really was.
‘Fine. Come in early and draft a press release, if you like. But if you send it anywhere before I approve it, I’ll have your bollocks for tiny doorstops. Understand?’
Rennie grinned. ‘Thanks, Guv.’
‘And make sure you remind me to—’ Logan’s phone burst into the Addams Family theme tune and his shoulders slumped. ‘Why does God hate me?’ But he picked up anyway. ‘Sheila. What can I do for you?’
‘Inspector McRae, I would request your attendance at the mortuary. It appears we have something that may prove pertinent to the inquiries you make.’
What?
‘Why do you sound like something Dickens threw up?’ He checked that his computer was switched off. ‘You know what, it doesn’t matter. I’m heading home, so—’
‘Make haste. My mistress has other appointments and a mind to keep them.’ And with that, she hung up on him.
Great. Because God forbid Logan McRae should actually be able to go home. And no prizes for guessing who Tara would blame for leaving her alone with the kids for however long this was going to take.