Charlotte
The green indicator winks out and I collapse onto my side, trying to find a position that relieves the pain.
As the next contraction takes me, I scream… But…
They’re coming…
*****
Michael
“James, copy the screen recording to my laptop please. Can you trace the source of those messages?”
He swipes a hand over his mouth. “it’s not likely. The most that’s generally traceable would be the IP for the server of origin. And that doesn’t tell you much. It’s likely the signal was routed via Delhi or Buenos Aires or who-knows-the-fuck-where… They’re bound to have covered their tracks. But I’ll try. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
I take a couple of deep breaths. “Let’s have another look at the video.” I tap it onto ‘loop’. “Klempner, did you pick anything up? You seemed to be listening hard.”
“I thought I might recognise the voice, but no…I didn’t.”
“Oh my God! Look!” Beth, one hand clapped over her mouth; with the other, she aims a shaking finger at the screen. Excitement brims in her eyes. “Look… There… James, replay the video from the point the door closes.”
As we watch, clustered around, Charlotte mouths her silent message to me and James then, moving clumsily, as though to return to her bed-making, strips off what would have originally been a closing flap on the carton. She moves slowly, awkwardly, turning it over, but for a split second, it’s displayed squarely to the camera…
“Fuck me,” says Klempner. “It’s a packing label. She’s giving us the damned address.”
Standing behind James, a palm on either shoulder, I stoop close. “Tell me you can blow that up. Please tell me that.”
“Damn right.” James’ fingers tap-dance over the keyboard. The video skitters back to the moment then freezes. The still zooms in, pixelated to unreadability.
“Can you sharpen it up?”
“I’m on it. Give me a second. I need a different piece of software.”
There’s a camera-shutter click. Then more clicking as James furiously mouses over the screen which tumbles and spins, opening to an imaging program…
The image opens, shimmers, blurs, then resolves… to a neatly typed address label.
Club Electric
Klempner leans in, whistles, then straightens up. A hand to the back of his head, he takes a couple of paces, spinning on himself, then with a roar, throws his fist at the wall. “Fucking bastard, Finchby! I’ll string him up by his own guts.”
He turns to James. “You realise, she must have been there when we were. Finchby sat there, calmly blaming it all on Baxter and he had her.” He pivots on me. “What’s funny?”
Partly my gut is spinning from stress. Partly my head is spinning in relief. But right now… “Glad to see I’m not the only one who does that.”
“Does what?”
“Slings a punch at the nearest handy object when the balloon goes up.”
James’ voice is dry. “Don’t give him air-time in your head.”
Klempner’s lips twitch, then he chuckles. “Pleased to hear we have some common ground at last. Now…” He claps his hands, rubbing them together… “… how to get Jenny and baby away from those slimy bastards and leave me with partners Finchby and Baxter in usefully vulnerable poses.”
*****
“Knowing that we’re coming has helped,” I say. “We all saw her expression as the question was asked.”
Klempner nods, sucking in his cheeks. “Yes, what was the meaning of that message? About Scheherazade?”
“I’m not sure you want to know.”
“Well, I do,” says James. “Come on. Out with it.”
“It’s not relevant right now…”
Change the subject…
I turn back to Klempner. “Where do you reckon they have her? That Club Electric is a converted mill. It’s got to be twenty, maybe twenty-five thousand square feet inside. That’s a big area to search if we don’t know where we’re headed. We can’t just go charging in. Do you know your way around inside?”
He blows air. “I never spent a lot of time there. And when I did, it was either in Finchby’s office or in the public areas. They’re all on the upper levels. I think we can assume she’s not being held there.”
“What’s in the lower levels? Is there a basement?”
“There is, but I do know it’s not all usable. The river’s close by, canalised around there of course. So, parts of the basement level flood regularly.”
“She was coughing a lot,” says Mitch. “The floor looked damp and the walls were running with condensation. Does it flood at ground level?”
“Not that I know of, no.”
“The basement then. She’s in the basement.” Mitch’s voice is heavy. “Larry, this Finchby. Or Baxter… If they get the money, will they let Jenny go?”
All eyes turn to Klempner. He speaks softly. “Mitch, I doubt it very much. Certainly not once they realise we know who’s responsible. And they know I’ll be coming for them.”
“Besides,” says James, “the police will be dead set against paying ransom.”
Klempner goes into that pose he has when he’s thinking, plucking at his chin, wearing a far look.
His eyes move over Richard in a subtle but obvious appraisal. “We need to get Jenny out. And fast with the physical state she’s in. You feeling any urge to keep this legal? What I’m asking is, does your sense of honour require you to talk to your policeman friend? Or to argue any kind of restraint on how we deal with this?”
Richard looks at the screen: Charlotte weeping; screaming and straining on her putrid pallet, hawking up green muck.
“Not at all…”
“Good…”