59

‘Mr Ford?’

Charlie’s cry echoed through the house, but remained unanswered.

‘Mr Ford? I have a few more questions for you, so …’

Nothing. Instinctively, Charlie’s hand reached out for her baton, which was holstered discreetly inside her jacket. She half expected Ford to emerge from the toilet, apologetic and contrite. But the other half of her knew he had fled. But where to? The house was a tall, rickety property which backed on to open scrubland. There might be numerous hidey-holes and avenues of escape in houses like these.

‘Mr Ford. I’m going to ask you for the last time to join me. Otherwise I will have to assume –’

Bugger it, Charlie thought, pulling her radio from her pocket. She called for back-up, then moved quickly through the kitchen to the back of the house. There was a small pantry off the kitchen, which was empty save for discarded work clothes, so she moved on to the back door. This would have been Ford’s quickest means of escape, but it was locked from the inside, the key still in place.

Charlie turned quickly. Experience had taught her never to have her back turned for too long – in these situations you had to stay alert to any possible angle of attack. But there was no one there and the only sound she could hear was the sober tick, tock, of the clock.

Extending her baton now, she marched through the kitchen, towards the parlour, pausing only to tease open the front door. It might facilitate his escape, but it would allow her back-up to get in quicker when they arrived. Charlie hoped they would come sooner rather than later. She had a nasty feeling about this place.

The parlour was empty, so turning she mounted the main staircase. This was one of many dilapidated Georgian houses in this part of town. They had been grand once but decades of neglect had taken their toll and now they were just old and rotten. The boards creaked noisily as she climbed, announcing her presence as if screaming to their master.

She crested the stairs on to the first-floor landing.

‘Mr Ford? Back-up is on its way, so it’s in your best interests to talk to me.’

Still nothing. Charlie pressed on. The master bedroom was straight ahead of her, its contents obscured by the door, which stood ajar. Charlie took a deep breath, darted a look over her shoulder, then nudged the door gently open with her foot. It swung round lazily, coming to an ungainly halt against the edge of the bedstead. Charlie scanned the interior as best she could, then stepped inside.

The whole place stank. It was piled high with newspapers and magazines and seemed to be more of a dumping ground than a night-time retreat. Clothes had been left abandoned on the ground and Charlie could see the remains of past meals, some of which now bloomed with fungus. Charlie heard a skittering behind her and spun round. But it was just vermin, fleeing the scene of their crimes.

There was a hefty wardrobe placed between two large casement windows. Having checked under the bed, Charlie hurried over to it and, counting to three, yanked it open, her baton raised. Just more papers and old, mouldering clothes.

Leaving the main bedroom, she darted left into a small side bedroom, but she could barely gain access. It was stacked to the ceiling with boxes marked ‘Mum’ and the window appeared to be totally inaccessible. There was no means of escape from here, so Charlie crossed the landing to the other bedroom. This had clearly once belonged to a child. It was full of Beano annuals, rolled-up posters and a rocking horse, damaged by years of hard toil. Its lifeless eye seemed to stare at Charlie as she entered. But there was nobody here. Which only left one place to look.

Back on the landing, Charlie looked up the stairwell to the top floor of the house. She couldn’t hear anything, but was that smoke she could smell? Alarmed by this thought, Charlie walked quickly up the steps. Creak, creak, creak. She was careless now as there was no chance of ambush and nowhere left for Ford to run.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she grasped the door handle and wrenched it round, flinging the door open. A small attic room lay in front of her. Like the other rooms, it was piled high with junk, but this room had a small sofa, an easy chair and an old coffee table, on which sat a couple of mugs. This cramped, remote room looked the most lived in of the house.

The smell of smoke was stronger now and stepping inside Charlie spotted its source. A small wood-burning stove stood in the corner, connected directly to a flue which pierced the roof. And in front of it was Richard Ford. The doors to the stove were open and to her horror Charlie realized that Ford was now feeding the blaze – with pieces of paper, videotapes, photos. He scrabbled through a cardboard box, pulling out anything he could find and throwing it into the fire.

Charlie charged towards him. He turned as she approached but too late. Charlie brought her baton down and it connected hard with his collar bone. He staggered back, howling in pain, so Charlie followed up with a huge arcing cut to the back of his legs. He seemed to take off briefly, hanging in the air, before crashing to the ground, sending up a thick cloud of choking dust.

As he lay there groaning, Charlie spun and raced to the fire. Pulling her jacket off, she encased her hand in it, then delved into the open furnace, flicking whatever she could out of the flames. A videotape and some books fell to the floor. But there was more in there, so Charlie delved deeper –

She cannoned sideways away from the fire, surprised by Ford’s sudden charge. He had rugby tackled her at speed and she crashed hard to the ground now. Winded, she tried to rise, but he was quickly upon her now. A fist seemed to come out of nowhere, connecting with her jaw – she felt the back of her head hit the floor with a crack that went right through her. Now his hands were seeking out her throat, wrapping themselves around, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. She tried to shake him, but his knees were pinning her down and he tightened his grip now, his eyes bulging with fury and hatred. He meant to kill her and Charlie knew in an instant that this time there would be no escape.

60

Helen dumped her bike and sprinted up the path. The back-up vehicles were only a few moments behind but something told Helen that she couldn’t afford to waste a minute. Seeing the front door ajar, Helen paused to remove her baton, then kicked the door open and ran inside. The hallway was deserted and Helen stood stock still, her senses primed for danger.

But there was nothing. The whole place was deathly quiet.

‘Charlie?’

Helen strained, listening for a response, but none was forthcoming.

‘CHARLIE?’

Helen stalked forward, darting her head first into the pantry, then the parlour as she charged towards the back door. The place was deserted, the door locked, so turning on her heel, Helen sprinted back towards the small parlour across the way. Her disquiet was growing with each passing second – the absence of both Charlie and Richard Ford couldn’t be explained in a way that augured well. Why was the front door open? Had Ford fled and Charlie followed in pursuit? Surely not – she would have radioed in in that case? So what had happened here?

Helen took the stairs two at a time and was soon on the landing above. She explored the side rooms first, wary of ambush, but found only the detritus of Ford’s sorry life, so she pushed into the front bedroom. The room was gloomy and unloved, reeking of mould and rotten food and Helen yanked the heavy curtains open. As she did so, she saw the squad cars pull up outside, sirens blaring and lights flashing. The cavalry had arrived, but to what end? They’d be able to do nothing for Charlie if they couldn’t find her. Where the hell was she?