now, alone and exposed, completely at the mercy of this maniac. Of course, he knows that police radio signals don’t work out here. He’s been one step ahead of us all along.
The rutted track slows me to a bumpy walking pace. For all I know, he could be strolling alongside, gun trained at my temple. Maybe he’s just waiting for me to pull up and get out, so he can soundlessly throttle me in the warm night breeze before spiriting away with the cash.
And no little duck came back quack, quack …
‘I’m so sorry Matt, and Zoe,’ I blurt, like some deathbed confessor. How I wish I was home with them right now, where I should be.
‘We’re picking you up again, Donal,’ crackles Crossley’s strangled whisper, jolting me back into cop mode.
‘Thank Christ,’ I mouth.
My feeble headlights suddenly pick out neat vertical lines. I squint, pulling into focus a wet corrugated tin roof weighing down a squat and long-forgotten outhouse. In this ocean of wet black, my eyes seize suddenly upon a luminous mini-lighthouse; a red and white traffic cone.
‘Holy shit,’ I whisper. ‘It’s the endgame. I’m approaching the traffic cone and, I presume, the bag. Sir?’
‘Awaiting instructions.’
I pull up and look around. All black. I figure if he’s here, my best hope of survival is to offer up the cash, the car and no resistance. I get out, headlights on, driver’s door open, key in the ignition, cash on the back seat.
‘Go ahead, Kipper, stitch me right up,’ I cry.
I take a swift 360. Nothing. All I feel is night’s balmy breath. All I hear is water slapping tin. I take another 360, my heart thrashing like a trapped bird.
‘The money’s in the car,’ I shout.
Wind gasps, water splats.
I make out the black canvas ransom bag at the foot of the cone, empty, deflated, expectant. I palm it open, rummage until I feel a single sheet of paper in the base. I take both to the car. Sliding into the back seat next to the cash, I lock the doors, switch on my torch and, as instructed, transfer the daintily-wrapped parcel of cash into his bag. Somehow, he must have guessed that we’d plant some sort of a tracking device in ours. ‘Ah well,’ I soothe my pogoing heart. ‘I should be dumping it soon and getting the hell out of here.’ The note, stencilled in black capital letters, has other ideas. I read it aloud:
Go back to Underhill Lane.
Turn left towards Ditchling village.
Phone box 1.5 miles on left.
Message B taped under shelf.
My tired brain grapples with these latest commandments. To collect his money, the kidnapper needs to be at the end of this ransom trail. That means he can’t be here. Adrenaline zaps off like a light. All life leaves me, clenched muscles melting to jelly.
‘This is good news,’ declares Crossley, sounding like a local radio DJ relinquishing his star prize. ‘We should have no problems with radio signals at that end of Underhill Lane, so we can resume full surveillance. I’ve got an officer on standby briefed and ready to take over from you before then, Donal. You’ve had more than enough excitement for one night.’
‘I’d like to see it through to the end, sir,’ I say, solely because I expect that’s what any decent cop should say.
‘I admire your pluck. Give me ten minutes to get the lead surveillance team into position at the next phone box. Then I’ll be en route with your replacement. Your night is nearly over, Lynch. Good work.’
‘Thanks be to God,’ I mouth, and set about turning the car on the narrow track.
I crawl back towards the overgrowth of Underhill Lane. As I slip into the hedgerow tunnel and radio silence, I help myself to a ‘Thank fuck that’s over.’
Out of nowhere, a red Stop sign appears, blocking the route.
‘What the fuck?’ I protest to no one.
I ease the car closer, spot a square of white card beneath the circular sign. I squint and recognise more stencilled instructions
‘Sir. Sir can you hear me?’
I know he can’t.
My heart revs hard, a pang of sickening realisation sending bile north. I swallow the burn and fight to breathe against that re-clamped chest. The kidnapper sent the cavalry east almost ten minutes ago, and stayed right here. For me. This is his sting-in-the-tail twist. He’s got me precisely where he wants me now, all alone, no back-up, no comms, no hope of rescue, flush with 175 grand.
Shit.
My only way out of this is to do what he wants. I get out, read the instructions.
On wall by painted cross find wood tray.
Do not move tray, sensor attached.
Place money bag on tray.
If buzzer does not sound leave money there.
Remove Stop sign in front of car and go.
He’s watching me. I know it. And he’s killed before. Seven years ago, he kidnapped and murdered Suzy Fairclough. What’s another life sentence to him? I’m totally dispensable.
I remember Crossley’s request that I pick up anything on the trail that may prove evidential. Good little soldier to the end, I remove the cardboard bearing the instructions, take it to the car and read the contents aloud twice, hoping against all common sense that they can hear me.
They can’t fucking hear me! He’s selected this spot for that very reason. And I’m not hanging around for five minutes to confirm it; not with 175 thousand in hard cash! He might lose patience and whack me.
I grab the money bag, walk over to a four-foot wall. Above a white painted cross, a wooden tray sits on a bed of sand. About 30 feet below, I can make out some sort of lane, maybe a disused rail line. A few feet to my right, an oblong metal box must be somehow connected to the tray’s sensor.
Good God, I am so out of my depth …
Somehow, I’ve got to lower this hefty bag of cash onto the tray without tripping the alarm. Face screwed into a tense ball of dread, I lift the bag and lower it slowly, painstakingly, ion-by-quivering-ion onto the tray. It sits, rests, no alarm.
I wonder why I’m standing here and turn to leave. As I remove the Stop sign from the middle of the lane, the tray scrapes the side of the bridge on its way down, courtesy of his improvised pulley system. He’s below, collecting his winnings.
I’m just yards away from the most wanted man in Britain.
Fuck it, I think. I ‘ve got to do something.
Underhill Lane, East Sussex
Wednesday, June 15, 1994; 21.50
We know nothing about this bastard. I need to spirit over to that bridge, at least get a visual. I pad and wince in turn, Bambi on ice, gripping that metal Stop sign like a lollipop lady in a tornado. If I can bounce this hunk of rust off his bonce, he won’t be going anywhere.
Oh my God!
There he is below, shovelling spilled bricks of cash into the bag. I raise the metal pole to my chest. If I press Go on this Stop sign, he ain’t going anywhere …
He may have an accomplice