Our exit from the building and into the cars was timed perfectly: me into the police car – driven, as it happened, by WPC Pauline Wilkins – and Connie out of the fire exit at the side of the building and into the waiting taxi. One of the stringers shouted something at me as I was getting into the squad car. I wasn’t clear what he had said, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway; I simply ignored him.
“Evening, Sarge. Alphonso’s, isn’t it?”
“Hi, Pauline. Yes, Alphonso’s. How long have you been with the motorised unit?”
She smiled enigmatically. “Oh, I’m not with them permanently. Inspector Kewell allocated me the car when he asked me to collect you this evening. It’s Connie’s birthday party, isn’t? What is she – 18? How lovely. I can hardly remember my 18th…”
On and on she chatted – probably through nervousness, I thought. Then we found ourselves stuck, for what felt like an age, in heavy traffic on the Birmingham ring road. I checked my watch: it was coming up to eight o’clock. Connie would probably be there by now, having taken a different route to the restaurant. Moments later my mobile went off, and as I fumbled for it in my bag it suddenly stopped. Then I heard Connie’s voice say: “This isn’t the way to Alphonso’s, and I don’t believe you’re a taxi driver. Who are you? Where are you taking me?”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Oh no, no, no!” I pleaded with the gods above. “Don’t let this be true!”
“Sarge? Are you all right? Is that Connie on your mobile?”
I ignored her, instead checking the signal from the phone. The display was brightly lit and the tiny arrow was clearly pointing north-eastwards – away from the city centre. Someone was saying something to Connie, but I couldn’t hear it too well because of Pauline’s wittering.
“Shut up, Pauline, will you; I’m trying to listen.”
“I think you know who I am,” a man’s voice was saying. “And it’s no good trying the door – it’s locked.”
“My worst nightmare?” I heard Connie say in a hoarse voice. Then the man laughed; a harsh humourless laugh that sent a shudder through me.
“You don’t seem very afraid,” the man said.
“Should I be? After all, I’ve been expecting you; it just took you longer than I thought.”
“Oh, you should be afraid, little one. You should be very afraid.”
Then I heard what I thought was a shuffling in the car, and Connie was saying: “Will you take that fucking knife out of my throat? ...Unless you intend to kill me here in the car. And would you mind telling me where exactly we are heading? I don’t like mysteries.”
I closed my ears to the angry reply, but not to the thud of a fist striking bone that followed. Oh, Christ! Why did she choose to sit in the front with the driver? I reached across to grab hold of the radio.
“Come in, Central. Car four here; Sergeant Crossley”
“Acknowledged, car four. Do you need assistance?”
“Yes. Patch me through to DCI Robbins, will you. Urgently.”
“Wilko.”
Then Jim’s voice came on the line. “Ange? What’s the problem?”
“Jim – that taxi you sent to collect Connie? It’s fucking fake. It’s the paedophile – he’s snatched her!”
“Snatched her? How do you know that? She can’t have been in the cab more than 15 minutes.”
“Jim, please; listen to me. She’s carrying a tracer – it’s linked up to my mobile. I can hear her talking now to the killer.”
“Sweet Jesus!” he gasped. “Where is she now? Have you got a direction finder on her?”
“Yes. The car’s heading north, moving slightly east. I think it’s heading towards the M6 in the direction of Walsall.”
“Okay, Angie. Keep following. I’m arranging for some patrol cars to join up with you. Stay on the line while I check out this taxi business. I don’t suppose you can communicate with her?”
“No. It’s only one-way. I’ll keep listening.”
“No!” I heard Connie sob as I broke the connection with Jim. “All I know is that for some sick reason you made me a target.”
“Think about it, bitch. It’ll come to you eventually.”
Connie was clearly injured, going by the difficulty she had in speaking.
“Is…is it because I can see you? ...In my visions? Or do I know you from somewhere?” There was a distinct tremor to her voice now, as if she had suddenly realised that even though she would know I was following her, she could still be in danger.
Again the harsh guttural laugh; it had a kind of maniacal quality to it that sent shivers through me.
“You know me alright, little one. And, I promise you, before the night is out you’ll remember me.”
I indicated to Pauline she should follow the direction the arrow was pointing. The incident had certainly shut her up; all she seemed able to do was cast scared glances at me from her driving position.
The radio crackled again, and Jim’s voice came through. “Ange. I’ve got some information on the taxi driver. He’s a regular, been with the company for five years, and he’s 52 and got grandkids. So, it can’t be him. The only thing I can think is that our man picked us up on the police band when Corkhill ordered the cab this afternoon. He must have intercepted the driver and commandeered the taxi.”
“What about the original driver?”
“Dead, probably. I don’t think this shit’s going to leave any witnesses – do you? Where are you now, Ange?”
“Coming up to the motorway. I’m sure he’s heading for Walsall.”
“Has Connie given us any more clues? You know: who he is, or where they’re headed?”
“No. But she’s being incredibly brave. I heard her tell him to take the knife out of her throat! But I’m afraid, because of that, he struck her in the face. I don’t think she’s badly hurt, but she is having problems in speaking.”
“Yeah. I was afraid something like that might happen. This guy is an out and out psychopath; Christ only knows how he will react. Listen; I’ve got three patrol cars waiting at the motorway exit to Walsall. We know now at least what car he’s driving, and I’ve also passed on the registration number. An armed response vehicle will meet up with them there in a few minutes. Ange, I do believe we’ve got him, thanks to your unorthodox tracer.”
“Where are you, Jim?”
“In one of the patrol cars. I’ll be waiting for the bastard. Keep in touch.”
The only sound coming from the taxi after that was Connie trying to keep her breathing normal. Then there was the sound of braking, followed by the same guttural voice. “This is where we get out, bitch. Come on – move!”
“W…where are we? Why are we stopping here?”
“Strip!” he ordered. “Take off all your clothes. NOW!” he screamed. “Either you do it or I will.”
There was a pause followed by another thud, and then a scream of pain from Connie and the sound of her hitting the ground, coinciding with a loud cry of, “Oh. No!” Then came a tearing noise – apparently the sound of her dress being ripped off. By now I could hear Connie sobbing. Next, I heard the sound of a boot striking flesh, and I realised she was on the ground being kicked. I felt the hatred boiling over inside me, and an overwhelming desire to kill him myself.
“Faster!” I urged Pauline. We’re going to lose him.”
“Not so tough now, are you?” the sneering voice said. “You’ve a nice body, though I must admit. I’m looking forward to getting my hands on it. Now, get up, you fucking bitch, and take off those shoes. Didn’t you hear me? I said everything.” This command was followed by yet a further blow. Then: “Take the fucking shoes off – do you people think I’m altogether stupid? I’ve an idea you’re wearing a bug of some sort, so, unless it’s up your fanny, it’s staying here. My own car’s just over there. Come on. Move!”
There was silence for a moment, then I heard Connie say, partly in a whisper, partly in a sobbing voice, “Angie, I’m remembering. We’re going to his house in Sutton Coldfield – it’s very big, and it’s on a hill. I can’t say…”
“I said: ‘Get up!’ bitch.”
The last sound I heard was a long yell from Connie – no doubt he was pulling her up from the ground by her hair. Then total quietness. I urged Pauline towards the by now stationary direction arrow on my mobile. It took us something like ten minutes, though, to locate it; the bastard had pulled the taxi into a narrow lane, and we had to reverse a couple of times before we found it. Not surprisingly, it was empty, with Connie’s torn clothes strewn across the rear seat. I choked back a tear when I spotted that her bra and knickers were included.
I immediately contacted Jim again.
“What’s going on, Ange? You should be here by now.”
“We’ve lost him, Jim. He knows.”
“What are you talking about, ‘We’ve lost him’? How can we lose him unless he’s found the trace? Has he? Is that you’re trying to tell me?”
“He guessed she was wearing one, so he’s forced her to strip off – everything, including her shoes. He’s left her things in the taxi and transferred over to his own vehicle.”
“Didn’t she say anything? Anything at all?”
“I think he’s hurt her badly, Jim. She could hardly speak. She did say something about Sutton Coldfield, but it wasn’t very clear. Look; why don’t you stay there, in case he’s still heading in that direction, and I’ll head off to Sutton Coldfield – see if I can’t spot them.”
“What a fucking disaster!” Jim snorted over the radio. “No, Ange. I’ll leave two of the cars here, and I’ll head towards Sutton Coldfield from the opposite direction to you. We’ll meet up later.”
I urged Pauline to put her foot to the floor, and I switched on the siren as we approached the motorway. I decided to bypass the Walsall turn-off and take the ring road to join up with the Sutton Coldfield connection.
“Which part are we heading for?” Pauline asked me.
“How the hell do I know? Does it make any difference? We just keep going until we see a house on a hill; a big house, I’d guess.”
“No. It’s just that I’ve got relatives round there. I know it quite well.”
“You wouldn’t happen to remember a big house on the top of a hill, would you?”
“Well, I do know of one big house. I’m not sure it’s the one we’re looking for, but it is perched on the top of the hill.”
“God bless you, Pauline! Let’s give it a go, shall we? I’m in your hands now.”
The patrol car put on a sudden surge of speed, which threw me back in my seat and had me hanging on for dear life. Pauline had all of a sudden lost her timidity and turned into something of a rally driver; but who the hell was complaining? We screeched along the main road into Sutton Coldfield at 90 miles an hour, with siren blaring and cars pulling hurriedly onto the pavements to get out of the way. I wasn’t sure now just how much of a head start he had on us, but estimated it must be around 15 or 20 minutes’ advantage.
We entered the beautiful tree-lined avenues in the approach to the town almost in a blur. I barely had a glimpse of the mansion-like properties set deep from the road in their one- or two-acre sites. Without doubt this was an area for the extremely wealthy; we were screaming through it as if it were something from hell – which in some way, I supposed, it was.
The car took a sudden sharp turn to the left, causing me to bang my head on the side window. I didn’t dare say anything to Pauline; the last thing she needed at the moment was discouragement. We were climbing towards the top of a hill, I noticed, and for the first time I started to worry about weapons. We literally had nothing with which to defend ourselves.
Finally, she stopped the car at the top of the hill. All I could see were the bright lights of Birmingham across a valley, on the not too distant horizon. It was a breathtaking sight, but not the one I wanted: there were no houses in the immediate vicinity.
“Oh, shit!” Pauline said irritably. “Wrong street.”
Again I decided not to say anything. It would have achieved nothing anyway, and might just have panicked her. She turned the car around and we tore back down the hill towards the main road again. A sharp right turn, cutting across the traffic virtually on two wheels, then a determined Pauline righted the vehicle, without flinching a muscle, and pointed us back in the direction of Walsall.
“Don’t worry, Sarge; I’ve got it now. We’re two minutes away.”
A half a mile further, another right turn – almost colliding with a local bus in the middle of the road – and we were climbing once more. And there it was: a forbidding-looking property that I could just make out through the protection of trees, standing about 400 yards back from the road. She turned off the siren and unhesitatingly pulled into the driveway, shrieking to a halt at the front of the house. There were no lights showing and no vehicles in view.
“Do you think this is it?” I asked Pauline, worry seeping from my voice.
“I’m pretty sure this is it,” she confirmed. “Are we going round the back, Sarge?”
“I am. You are going to stay here and let the DCI know exactly where we are. Okay?”
“Sure. But, for God’s sake, be careful! That man’s a maniac.”