As soon as the light waned outside, Sheena Pearson had carefully closed all the curtains around the ground floor before turning on any lights. It felt more like a superstitious gesture to ward off the darkness than anything of practical value, but it somehow made her feel more secure.
There was nothing for her to worry about. If her life really was under threat – and, even now, despite everything that had happened, she still struggled to believe it – her security here was protected by her sheer anonymity. No one could know she was here. That simple fact offered more protection than any amount of security.
She switched on the television, searching through the channels until she found a news broadcast. There was a brief mention of the continuing investigation into the shootings, but no indication that any further progress had been made. There was a similar short report on the continuing murder investigations, but it seemed that only limited information had so far been released to the media. Sheena switched off the television and reached for her briefcase. She’d brought a range of paperwork with her in the hope she might at least make good use of this unexpected hiatus in her working life.
It was then that she heard the sound.
It took a moment to realise what she was hearing. The noise of a window being broken, somewhere in the rear of the house.
She reached for her mobile phone on the table, already preparing to dial 999. Even so, she was too slow. The living room door was thrown violently back to reveal the figure of a man framed in the doorway.
She’d instinctively placed the phone behind her back and now, still scarcely conscious of what she was doing, she slipped it into the waistband of her jeans, hoping it would stay in place. ‘What the bloody hell is this?’ She tried to sound angry but knew she simply sounded terrified.
The man walked forward and grabbed her by the arm. She was on the point of pulling away when he placed the point of a knife under her chin, the blade almost piercing her flesh. When he pulled her towards the front door, she made no effort to resist.
Outside, there was a car parked in the driveway, one of its rear doors already open. The man pushed her forward and thrust her into the rear seat. There was a moment, as he loosened his grip and lowered the knife, when she thought she might pull herself away, but it was already too late. The man climbed into the seat beside her, grabbed her head and pulled her down so that she was half lying on his lap. She was hidden from anyone outside the car, and the knife was once again pressed against her skin.
‘Okay.’ It was the first word she’d heard the man say, and it was addressed to a second man in the driver’s seat. ‘Drive. But slowly. Don’t do anything to attract attention.’
Sheena was still trying to concentrate, trying to gather any clues she could about what was happening. She had to keep believing she could somehow get herself free, and the key to that, more than anything, was not allowing her fear to overwhelm her. She could still feel the mobile phone pressed against her back, but its presence was irrelevant for the moment.
She tried to gauge from the movement of the car which direction they might be taking, but even the first few turns out of the estate left her confused. She twisted her head to look up at the man holding her, wanting to be able to recognise him again, assuming she ever had the chance. He was holding a mobile phone in his free hand, apparently sending a text. But his attention remained on her and the knife was still steady against her throat. The man clearly had no concern about concealing his appearance. That thought alone sent a chill down her spine.
She could tell the car had picked up speed, suggesting that they had perhaps left the estate, but by now she had no idea which way they might be heading. There was nothing she could do but wait. Wait, and hope and pray.
‘Where are they?’
‘They’ll be here. Relax.’
‘I don’t like this. There’s too much that can go wrong.’
It was almost like the first time they’d visited Kennedy Farm, Clive thought. In a car with Rowan and Charlie. This time, though, there was no Greg Wardle, and it wasn’t Rowan’s car but one that had been waiting for them at the rear of the house. Charlie was in the back seat beside him.
It was Charlie who’d manhandled him into the car, with some assistance from Mo Henley. Neither had shown any compunction in using whatever force they felt was necessary, and Clive had been left with no doubt about what they would do if he made any effort to escape. Henley was seated in the front beside Rowan, and he was the one expressing concern. ‘How do we know it’s going okay?’
‘Because he texted to say they’d got her.’
‘It all just feels too complicated to me.’
‘Too complicated for you, maybe,’ Rowan said. ‘It’s how Robin works. He’s always been like this. He’s done okay so far.’
Henley clearly wanted to say more, but was silenced by a glare from Charlie. It was the first time Clive had seen any evidence of dissent among Kennedy’s followers. He wondered how long Henley had been part of this group. Was he one of the recent so-called neophytes? If so, Clive wondered quite what Henley’s initiation had involved. For that matter, what had Rowan and Charlie done to become part of Kennedy’s inner circle?
They were parked just off the road, somewhere on the moors west of Chesterfield. It was a bleak, windswept area that Clive knew only as somewhere he had driven through on his way to more conventionally picturesque parts of the Peak District. Kennedy had said something about the location closing the circle, but that had meant nothing to Clive. All he knew was that the area was sufficiently remote that any chance of finding assistance was likely to be small.
‘They should be here by now,’ Henley said.
‘It’s a good twenty-minute drive,’ Rowan said. ‘They’ll be here in a few minutes. Just relax.’
Henley looked far from relaxed but said no more. In the event, it was another ten minutes or so before they saw a set of car headlights approaching along the single-track road. ‘That’ll be them,’ Rowan said.
The car drew to a halt alongside them, immediately extinguishing its lights. Beside him, Charlie pushed open the door and dragged Clive out into the night. The rear door of the second car opened, and Clive saw Eric Nolan push a woman out in front of him. Clive had no interest in politics but he recognised the woman’s face. It was the MP.
He decided to have one more shot at reasoning with them. ‘Look, I don’t know if this is some sort of protest or statement or what it is, but it’s all gone far enough now—’
‘Just shut up.’ Charlie sounded bored rather than threatening, but there was no doubting he was serious. ‘Let’s get this done with.’
Rowan and Henley had left the car to join them. ‘We need to do it properly, though.’ She gestured towards the second car. ‘How’s he doing?’
‘He’s done okay so far. We planted all the stuff in our friend here’s house. But, frankly, that was the easy bit. Now’s the real test for him.’ He turned and tapped on the car windscreen, gesturing for the driver to join them.
Clive assumed that this was one of the so-called neophytes. The one who was supposedly being initiated tonight. He had begun to feel a panic that made him sick to the stomach. This was finally beginning to seem real, rather than just some convoluted piece of psychological torture.
He watched the driver emerge from the car. At first, in the darkness, he thought he must be mistaken. But he knew he wasn’t. And he knew, too, that he’d suspected this ever since Kennedy had mentioned the help they’d received. It was impossible, but it was also obvious.
‘Greg.’