Scare Me (10 page)

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

REST. MORE INSTRUCTIONS TOMORROW MORNING.
 

 

Will felt relief partially unlock his muscles.

“Taking it?” The gangly teenager with his tattooed arms folded around him had hung back while Will tested the laptop. Dropping his own hadn't damaged it, but the battery power had run out as soon as he'd booted it up again. There were no electronics stores open and he'd jogged down the main street before making a beeline for “Ellicott Jewelry and Loan”. They'd refused to sell him a charger separately.

Will looked at the stack of other battered laptops amongst the jumble of pawned electrical hardware. At least this one worked. “So, you'll throw in a charger for this?”

The teenager raised the metal piercings in his eyebrows, as if keeping open the store had already been trouble enough. But he untied his arms and started hunting through the mess of wires, old mobiles and power packs on the lower shelf. He untangled one and handed it to him.

“Four hundred and seventy-five dollars,” he twanged and moved to the register.

Will didn't care if he was being taken for a ride. He needed the laptop and had enough money in his wallet. He followed the boy to the raised counter at the back of the room to pay it into a revolving window. Through the distressed, yellow glass the boy moved his mouth silently, counting every note.

The teenager followed him out afterwards and Will walked briskly away as the shutters clanged down. Gangs had replaced the pedestrians he'd seen earlier. A jacked up Toyota crawled slowly past him, the men inside following him as he walked. He spotted a dirty yellow taxi rank sign on the other side of the street and crossed quickly to it. He held his mobile to his ear and waited for Carla to pick up while he clutched the laptop tighter under his arm.

 

Pope was ramrod straight in front of the computer monitor in Burrito Joe's, his jacket and tie draped over the back of the chair. He'd dispatched Weaver back to the crime scene and told him to get the statement. They were sure to be releasing the names of the victims. But with any luck the detective would be customarily late and they'd have to hold it over for 55's news at 9. If need be, he could do a hasty pickup and they could stitch it together.

But Pope was already thinking beyond News 55. If what he had in front of him wasn't some sort of bizarre hoax it looked like he'd stumbled on a major story that had barely started rolling.

There was no doubt the cut-out house depicted on the home page of the site was the crime scene they were camped outside. If he'd been in any doubt then there was the exact address in the little box that popped up when he played his cursor over it. He clicked through to the interior photos again and saw exactly what the crime scene team were photographing and fingerprinting while the rest of the TV circus waited outside.

How could this be a hoax when Weaver was probably at that moment jostling with the other cameras in North Vine Street? He'd seen plenty of bodies pulled out of rivers and dumpsters, but the methodical evisceration and arrangement of the family on the blood-soaked couch was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Why had they been made to look like they were covering their eyes like that?

His breaths came unevenly, but he didn't know if that was the prospect of his sudden access to the situation or being privy to such calculated evil. Were the occupants of the other houses on the street to be found disembowelled as well? He considered how the psychopath behind the site would react if Pope's unwanted observation were detected.

Pope had done a search for the man the website was named after and quickly gleaned who he was. He'd confirmed this when he'd found that the person who'd sat in the same chair as he was had logged into a personal Ingram International email account. He had to be the guy the instructions on the site were for. If he were anyone else why would he have used a local Internet café?

When he'd clicked back to the home page the words that had originally been there had been replaced. But he didn't need to read the first again to know the industry millionaire's daughter was being held. It also looked like her release was dependent on Frost visiting the houses and collecting an item of her clothing from each. If it was money being demanded from him, why put the guy through such a horrendous ordeal? It looked like he was being made to play a seriously twisted game.

Only two houses on the row displayed their addresses and interiors – North Vine Street and the one in Ellicott City. No bodies in the photos of the second one. Judging by the Google map that had been opened it looked like Frost was heading there next. He'd been here over seven hours ago.

 

REST.
MORE INSTRUCTIONS TOMORROW MORNING.
 

 

They were the new words typed across the dark blue sky of the street. Perhaps he was already done. Pope had already checked the Ellicott local online news for stories, but had found nothing significant. Didn't mean it hadn't happened though.

He saw another waitress taking orders and remembered Albertine. Looked like she'd gone. He'd been sitting in front of the computer for nearly half an hour.

Every second he kept it to himself he was withholding evidence from the police. Neither victim nor kidnapper or anybody else knew he was in the picture. What the hell was he going to do with this?

 

When Will had asked his driver to suggest somewhere to stay he'd recommended a place out of town. It had sounded like a good option and he hadn't cared if the cabby was on a retainer.

He got dropped at The Hotel at Turf Valley, which was a converted horse ranch nestling in some hills and surrounded by its own golf course. He checked in to a basic room that smelt of chemical pine, plugged in the laptop and lifted the lid. The aroma of stale nicotine leaked out of it into the air. He positioned it on the nightstand. The cursor was sluggish, but the next house still wasn't active and the instructions hadn't changed. He looked around him. His bed wouldn't be slept in, but he was grateful for some privacy to collect his shredded thoughts.

As he seated himself on the edge of the mattress the silence became unbearable. While he'd been travelling and anticipating the task he'd been set there had been little time to dwell on what he'd seen. Now his perception of events had time to catch up, the nausea he'd been restraining intensified.

He considered the picture of Libby and Luke that had been screwed to the wall in the house. It was a taunt to the police as well as him. Anyone investigating the crime scene wouldn't know who they were, would assume they were just part of the family that lived there. Were the kidnappers getting a perverse thrill out of pushing it right in their faces? It wasn't difficult to guess where they'd obtained it. Libby had uploaded hundreds of photos to her Facebook wall.

He rose and turned on the TV, surfing images aimlessly and then finding purpose. It didn't take him long to locate the news report he was looking for.

“A family of four, whose bodies were discovered at their Florida vacation home earlier this afternoon, have now been identified. St Louis business entrepreneur, Holt Amberson, his wife and two children were found after maintenance workers alerted police. Kissimmee police have cordoned off the property, just off Highway 193, and are appealing for eyewitnesses.”
 

A helicopter's eye view revealed the pool he'd recently stood beside and the curving path of bay trees to the gates. A concentration of white vehicles was clustered where he'd parked the Volvo and, further down North Vine Street, an even larger body of media transports had assembled along the grass verge. If the pilot got any closer, Will could have seen his bloody footprints from the gate.

Holt Amberson. Nothing came to mind even when his lips formed the name.

The voiceover filled in the gaps.

“Mr Amberson, CEO of Consolidated Breweries, made his last public appearance at the Stockwood Alliance Industry Awards only two weeks ago.”
 

His mobile rang. Carla's name was in the display.

“Police say they're treating the case as a homicide investigation.”
 

He could hear the delay of the same news reporter's voice in his office.

“You got a room OK then?” There was a quaver of exasperation in her voice.

Will had spoken to her outside the rank. He'd spared her most of the details of what he'd found and told her that he'd secured the scarf. She'd been silent when he'd described the framed photograph. He'd promised to call her when he'd found a room. “I'm in some golf hotel just outside Ellico–” He grunted as he felt a prong of pain at his abdomen.

“What's wrong?”

“Just stubbed my foot.” He hunted for the remote so he could turn up the volume of the news, but the presenter had handed to a reporter at a local flood scene. “You've got CNN there; does the name Amberson mean anything to you?”

“Nothing,” she said immediately.

“Something big in the brewing industry…”

“I'm seeing what's online, but I haven't found much.”

“Something to do while we wait,” he said grimly.

“You have to at least try to sleep. You need to recharge yourself. They expect you to.”

Will suddenly felt powerless at the prospect of being manipulated further. “There are another four houses yet…” His voice sounded anaesthetised. He felt anaesthetised. The sightless occupants of the first two addresses were already fused to his memory. “I'm going to demand we speak with Libby before we go any further. I tried when I called the number earlier, but they just hung up.”

“I'll try again.”

Will heard Carla use his desk telephone to speed dial and then the muted engaged tone over the speaker.

“I'll keep dialling.” Despair leaked into her voice.

Will realised how much of an ordeal it had to be for her. Even though he didn't understand the motives, he was at least occupied in responding to the demands being made. Carla had nothing to do but wait and count every second Libby and Luke were being kept prisoner. “The line's only open when they want to hear from us.”

“Try to get some sleep while I do some background on Amberson.” She tried to sound purposeful.

“Carla, there's no point. I won't be able to.” He stretched the skin taut on his forehead with his fingers.

“Just. Rest. Then.” She enunciated each word precisely. “I'll call you in a couple of hours. I'll watch the site. It doesn't look as if anything's going to happen until morning there. Even murderers have to sleep.” Her voice cooled again.

Murderers. That's who had their daughter. How could he rest when she was drugged and sprawled out in some anonymous cell thousands of miles away? But Carla was right. If tomorrow was anything like today he needed an extra gear. And he wouldn't begin to find that if he didn't shut down for a while.

“OK. Call me in an hour.”

Nineteen years as man and wife,
 

And still so many years ahead,
 

“I love you.” She cut the call before her emotions took over.

Will was suddenly sitting next to her bed in hospital after Jessie had been taken from them, her fingers tightly clutching his. She'd uttered the same words over and over as she'd fought to keep her eyelids open. It had sounded like an apology and it had been months before she'd been able to bring herself to tell him why.

The miscarriage had brought them closer together, but their adjustment to its emotional repercussions still divided them. Carla had mourned the child and gradually released her. They'd kept the picture taken of her in the maternity ward on the mantel in their bedroom, but one day Carla had asked if he minded her putting it away.

For Carla, Jessie would always be a part of her, but the picture represented too painful a memory. Will had felt like it was an act of treachery. When Libby had become pregnant and Carla had gifted her the nursery that had been decorated for Jessie he felt the same again, but had said nothing. He wanted Carla to heal, but her recovery militated against his.

The event had shut him down. He believed he'd accepted what had happened, but knew he still hadn't fully comprehended its finality. Whenever there were photos taken he still couldn't stop himself from imagining another face amongst theirs. How could he consider the absence of Libby from them as well?

He dragged himself up to the head of the bed and didn't take his eyes from the site as he dialled room service and ordered up some coffee and sandwiches. He had to feed his body, fortify it for the next day. He wouldn't sleep, but he could at least allow his limbs to re-energise themselves while he hunted online.

He thought of Carla suffering in isolation. Was she secure while he was so far away? What if Carla were the real target? He recalled the fire that had been lit on the doorstep of Easton Grey. Had they been wrong in assuming that it was the work of Motex or someone connected to Carla's protest? Again he tried to dismiss the notion that he was being kept occupied to conceal a hidden motive. Why send him to these specific locations? What could connect either of them to Amberson and the family in the garden? Water Aid Alliance? Unlikely. A supply contract they'd both been instrumental in implementing?

He racked his brains for any significant events that had occurred when he was in Southeast Asia. A lot had happened in the four years that followed.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 
 

Holt Amberson has been in the global beer and beverage industry for seventeen years. His expertise in international expansion has introduced Stookey's Lite to several emerging markets including Latin America and Asia.
 

Previously Chairman of Tandemico, a logistics company jointly owned by the UG Group and Consolidated Breweries, Mr Amberson is also industry chairman of Globas, a US trade organisation promoting responsible alcohol consumption.
 

He earned his MBA from Olin Business School at Washington University, St Louis.
 

 

As well as his corporate bio, the UG Group website also featured a clip of Amberson reciting the brewery's policy on ethical responsibility and environmental stewardship. Stood awkwardly in front of a row of books, a balding and slightly jaundiced Amberson read his assurances off centre so he only engaged the viewer at the beginning and end of his speech.

He was in his late thirties and blinked his weak blue eyes nervously throughout his address. Carla tried not to think of his hands taped over them in the photo posted on the website.

Apart from numerous trade references, there was little other background information online. He had a wife and two children; Carla knew that and felt a hollow of sickness open up when she thought of the family grouped on the couch. There was no evidence of them or his life outside of commerce. He obviously kept his private world as sacred as Will.

She speculated about the family in Ellicott City and if they would be linked by industry. Will and Ingram International had no explicit connection to the UG Group. Perhaps there was some indirect association though. UG was a multi-tentacled organisation.

She'd noted UG's trade connections with Asia, but the Stookey's brewing plant was in Ban Song, which was way outside Ingram's territory. Maybe she was still looking for something that wasn't there. Ingram advocated ethical practices, but vociferous objectors were always waiting on the sidelines as soon as you sunk a spade into the soil. Major and minor lawsuits were constantly pending. Her work for the Water Aid Alliance had been accused of being a smokescreen or, at the very best, penitence for Ingram's worldwide monopoly.

What could Ingram possibly be accused of to justify murdering innocent families? Will had spearheaded the secondary pipe op in Southeast Asia, but they'd never once encountered the mafia presence or the territorial racketeering they'd been prepared for.

She drifted her cursor over the next house, but no address had been inputted. In the left corner of her screen she had the GPS tracking map window. According to the site Libby was still in her hotel; her mobile had obviously been left behind.

With repeater triangulation the app could pinpoint Will's location via his mobile within twenty metres in the USA. But the tiny, isolated red dot signifying his current location made her feel even more redundant.

She played the clip of Amberson again, as if looking into his face and hearing his voice would reveal something more about the man behind the scant data. What had he done to deserve his life and the lives of his wife and children being taken in such a way? What could anybody do to warrant that? Will had said nothing of how he'd found the next victims. She knew he was withholding details from her. Protecting her again.

She searched again for the Ellicott City address, hoping she would find a name. A lot of US properties were rented, however, and she found no details of its occupants. They would know soon enough.

She had to keep refining the small amount of information they had. It was all she could do to stop herself thinking about what Libby was enduring. She was alive, Carla was positive of that – had to be.

She wasn't about to lose her. Life had already taken enough of the people she loved. At thirteen, her parents' death had been unfathomable to her. One severe November night several elements had conspired against them as they'd returned from a rare night out, having left Carla with a babysitter. Their car had skidded on black ice, hit an already weakened barrier and dropped them into the path of traffic on the motorway below. Senseless, but beyond anyone's control. She was still trying to accept that, the randomness of events.

She'd met Will in his second year at university when his mother had just passed away. He'd lost his father the winter before. Their long illnesses and deaths had blighted his life outside of his studies. Justifying their investment in his education had become his only focus. Minor relationships with Eva Lockwood and Jenny Sturgess were short lived, which meant he was still a virgin when they got together. She'd lost hers to a mature student, Chris Wing. Not mature enough to make allowances for her loss though. She'd split with him the same time Will had been dumped.

Nobody else there had a frame of reference for what they'd both experienced. Losing both parents was an exclusive connection neither wanted. As two only children it certainly reinforced their need to establish a safe haven for their own family. Easton Grey was the fortress they'd thought they could be secure inside. And until the previous summer it had felt like they'd been invincible there.

What was happening to them now wasn't random. It was premeditated and they were being led to believe they could still control the outcome. Her career in corporate law had cast her as a facilitator rather than the adversarial figure of her counterparts in trial law. But piecemeal negotiation was a process she spent most of her professional life engaged in.

She couldn't begin to determine why Will was being dispatched to the locations on the site, but until his grim journey was completed they were at least being asked to believe Libby would remain safe. There was always room for manoeuvre, but at that moment the dialogue was one way. They had to engage somehow, demand proof of Libby's wellbeing and find another form of leverage in the meantime.

It was then a name occurred to her. She looked at her watch. It was only forty minutes since she'd put the telephone down on Will so he could rest. She knew he would be doing the same as her though.

“Anything?” He picked up halfway through the first ring.

Carla realised it was pointless remonstrating with him. “Nothing significant. You?”

“I'm peeling away UG's subsidiaries, our paths must have crossed.” His voice sounded spent.

“Should I call Anwar?”

“We can't call anyone.” But he had paused before replying.

Carla let him take a breath before she continued. “Let me call Anwar this morning. I'll ask him if he has any background info on Amberson. I won't tell him why I need to know. If he's just been found murdered, a lot of people will be asking questions. Looks like his UG Group had interests in Asia. If anyone knows anything about them, Anwar will.”

She waited. His room was so far away from her, but its TV, the creak of the mattress and his breathing trickled into her ear. It was excruciating. She could only listen in, not touch him or make him lay down for even a minute.

“OK.” He sounded as if OK was the last thing it was. “Any information on the family in Ellicott City?”

“Nothing. We'll just have to wait for the police to find them.”

They both let the delayed sound of their TVs fill in the gap while they considered how many hours that could be. How long the dead family would be their secret.

“I could call it in. Anonymously,” he said stolidly. “Pretend to be a neighbour. I don't think them being found is important to whoever's holding Libby. But the quicker the police do, the sooner we'll know who they are.”

“No.” Carla said firmly, even though she could see it made perfect sense. “We can't call in the police, even if we're not telling them about Libby's abduction. They may well have found them by now anyway…”

“Some people watched me leave the house. Perhaps they dialled 911.”

Carla could tell he was burnt out. He uttered the words like he was under hypnosis. She would start having blackouts herself soon, but, at that moment, she didn't even want to blink and give exhaustion a chance. “I'll keep searching for information on Amberson and call Anwar.”

“You know how to handle him.”

“I do. Just close your eyes for a while. Do it for Libby. I'll watch the website and wake you.”

 

“Just thought I'd let you know, you're officially infringing my Internet porn time.” Weaver absently squeezed at his blister pack of nicotine gum, but it was empty.

Weaver was the only man Pope knew who referred to porn as a legitimate hobby. He'd said it was the only pleasure his alimony payments hadn't robbed him of. Pope held his hand up while he listened to his own voice chip in on his message at home. Lenora had insisted on him saying his name while she recorded the rest. It finished and he tried to sound as weary and reluctant as possible. “Hi, babes, looks like I'm going to be stuck downtown for the foreseeable, so don't wait up for me. Say ‘hi' to the girls.” He imagined her and the wine cooler cougars from the block listening to him or making too much noise to hear.

He rang off and regarded Weaver's puffy eyes. “How can you look so tired? You've only been on the clock since lunchtime.”

“With you. I had an early start covering the fluoridation protest this morning. I'm dead on my feet.”

Pope leaned his body towards the iPad in Weaver's lap. “Any change? I don't want us getting on the wrong flight.”

Weaver checked the site again. “Nothing new.” He ran his finger along the row of houses. “Fuck…this is some piece of work.”

“Any luck tracing the site?” Pope looked at his watch again.

“Finding where a domain is registered is usually easy, but the IP address has been buried amongst a tangle of dead-end email addresses and Liberian servers.”

“OK – I understood the bit about it being a piece of work.” There was no way Pope could have expected Weaver to be his crew without showing him the site. Plus, Pope's IT knowledge was pretty limited. It was also going to dictate their travel arrangements, so he estimated it would be easier to take him into his confidence. Access to the information they had might enable them to record incidents as they happened rather than having to beg for scraps at the crime scenes. If they got lucky he would worry about constructing a plausible story for their presence after the event.

Maybe there was a substantial connection between the houses, something he could say had prompted them to act on a hunch. Did Frost already know what it was? The website was like a perverse treasure map revealing a little at a time. Was it doing so exclusively to keep the murder locations concealed until Frost reached them or was there a bigger punchline in store for him?

Pope wondered if, as the victims were ID'd, he could figure out what it was, if only to give them a credible story for being adjacent to a homicide. But perhaps this was a personal thing Frost alone could solve. He needed to uncover more about him and Holt Amberson, beyond the fact that they were both powerful men. He knew how he'd be spending the flight and took the iPad from Weaver.

“You positive the channel has cleared this trip, Pope?”