“There’s an old barn,” she said, remembering, “with a haymow. The place used to be a farm years ago.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
As they dragged the Ducati out of the bushes and swung themselves back onto the seat, Jools knew that Desh was as tired as she was; but adrenaline – and fear – spurred them on.
“Which way?” he asked Jools over his shoulder.
She pointed to the right. “That way. Look for signs for Shipston-on-Stour.”
He nodded and turned the bike back onto the road, and they headed off into the Warwickshire darkness to find Barrow Cottage.
“I’ve got something, Jack.”
Jack sat up the next morning and pressed the mobile phone closer against his ear. He’d fallen asleep on Oliver’s sofa, and now his back was killing him. “I’m listening, Dev.”
“We’ve got CCTV footage from a Rotherham motorway station. A white van – a Transit – pulled in just after midnight. Four males exited the van, one started fuelling up, and the others went inside the station.”
“The Bombers?”
“We think so, yeah. As soon as the fourth guy went inside, two people – male and female, late teens or early twenties – rolled out of the van. They disappeared behind a lorry fuelling up at one of the other pumps. The girl’s hands were tied and they both had a scarf of some kind pulled down around their necks.”
“Julia and her boyfriend,” Jack said slowly.
“When the lorry pulled away a few minutes later, there was no sign of either of them. It’s like they vanished right into thin air.”
“Or into the back of that lorry.”
“Most likely, yes. We need to find that lorry driver…and hope that the Bombers don’t find him first.”
Jack stood up abruptly. “Did you get a license number off the van?”
“The plates were covered up. No surprise there.” Dev paused. “But we’ve got a partial number on the lorry. Once we trace the owner, we’ll be a lot closer to knowing where your niece is.”
Barrow Cottage was dark against the night sky when Jools and Adesh arrived a half hour later. It looked just as she remembered it; a small, two-storey house, its Cotswold stone partly obscured by ivy, except the original thatched roof had been replaced with slate.
Daybreak was still an hour or so away; nevertheless, as a precautionary measure, Desh disconnected the bike’s ignition wires and pushed it silently up the sloping hill that led to the cottage.
“No use announcing to all and sundry that we’re here,” he said in a low voice, and yawned.
“I told you, there’s no one here.” Jools felt light-headed with exhaustion, and unaccountably irritable.
Desh looked up at the cottage. “Are you sure?”
“Well, there’s one way to find out, isn’t there?” she retorted, and marched up to the flowerpots lining the path. She lifted the middle one, praying that the spare key was still there. It was.
Cautiously, she fitted the key in the lock and they let themselves in. All was silent save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in one corner of the sitting room. It had ticked in that same corner, according to her uncle, since 1795.
“Hullo?” Jools called out, her eyes searching the hallway and the shadowy environs of the kitchen beyond. “Is anyone here?”
Of course, there was no answer. Relieved, Adesh shut the door behind them and turned the lock. “Best not switch on any lights,” he advised, and headed across the uneven oak floorboards and up the stairs. “I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered.”
She followed him up to the master bedroom – her uncle’s, overlooking sloping pastures and the escarpment beyond – and she was too tired to reply. It was cold. They crawled, fully dressed, into the bed. Adesh drew her close against him.
“G’night, Jools,” he mumbled into her hair.
“G’night,” she mumbled back. Within minutes, they were asleep.
The sound of a rooster crowing startled Jools out of a deep sleep. Now there’s a sound you don’t hear in Maida Vale, she thought sleepily as she sat up. She blinked in the bright shaft of daylight that penetrated the thick brocade curtains, and glanced at the bedside clock to see that it was nearly eleven. Adesh was still sound asleep.
Careful not to disturb him, she pushed the covers aside and got up, wincing as a floorboard creaked beneath her feet. She desperately needed the loo…and she was bloody starving.
Jools hoped one of the kitchen cupboards downstairs unearthed something to eat.
There was a small bathroom at the top of the stairs; she went in, shut the door, and had just finished washing up and splashing her face with cold water when she heard something downstairs.
She froze. It sounded like…a footstep. A quiet, stealthy footstep, as if the intruder knew someone was upstairs.
Shit. Was it the Bombers? Had they tracked her and Adesh down to Barrow Cottage already? It seemed unlikely, and yet – there was definitely someone moving around down there.
Her heart in her throat, Jools turned and made her way as quietly as possible back to the bedroom. She stifled a shriek as she ran smack-bang into Adesh in the hallway.
“Did you hear it?” she whispered, her eyes wide with fear as he gripped her shoulders.
Desh nodded grimly. “Stay here while I go have a look.”
“No way! I’m going with you.” She wasn’t being brave, really; she was far more terrified of being left alone.
By now Adesh knew better than to argue, and together they made their way cautiously to the top of the stairs. Desh grabbed a poker from the bedroom fireplace and clutched it tightly. Jools hovered behind him, terror warring with determination inside her.
I’m not going back into that van with that Turkish lot, she vowed silently. No bloody way.
They stopped as another floorboard creaked downstairs. The sound was closer, now. The intruder was coming – slowly, purposefully, quietly – towards the staircase.
Adesh took a deep breath and stepped forward, brandishing the poker; at the same time, a man materialized in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, a gun in his hands.
“Don’t move, either of you.” The man’s arm was upraised and his gaze was steady as he leveled the barrel of his pistol squarely on the two of them. “Or I’ll blow your heads off.”
Jools cried out and shoved Adesh sideways. She heard a loud explosion as the gun fired into the wall just behind them, splintering the bathroom’s doorjamb and sending bits of wood flying.
“Don’t move,” the man at the foot of the stairs commanded as he cocked the hammer, “or I’ll fire again. And this time I won’t miss.”
His faint Australian accent was oddly familiar. Jools peered – very cautiously – around Desh’s shoulder. “Uncle Jack?” she said, incredulous.
“Hello, Julia.” He didn’t seem at all surprised to see her. His blue eyes – and the gun’s sights – remained on Adesh. “And who’s this?”
“Adesh,” she said quickly. “Adesh Patel.