DI Taylor plopped his notepad on the nearest desk and clapped his hands together, sharp enough so every head in the room shot up. ‘We have a lot on our plates. Let’s get to it, team!’
28
Monday 20 April 1215 hours
Poppy unfurled from the ball she’d tucked herself into to keep warm. With the second oversized man’s sweatshirt on, hitched down past her knees, she’d managed to generate enough heat to sleep, waking only once when she needed to pee. She’d sidled over to the furthest corner and used a small amount of cotton wool to wipe with.
She popped more painkillers and washed them down with a few swigs of Coke. aware of how little she had left.
On her right side, she gave a tentative stretch. Sonofabitch! Her side burned.
She propped herself up on her right elbow to have a look around. On first entry into the barn, no one would be able to see her lying down. She’d positioned herself further back in the hollow of loose straw behind a short stack of bales. Laying her right arm on top of them she rested her chin on her arm. Her stomach moaned a protest and had her reaching out for the food bag she’d placed nearby.
Ravioli was her only real choice. She opened the lid and stared at the contents. Her throat closed at the thought of cold snot-like slime sliding down her throat. It was bad enough hot.
She scooped a couple of squares onto her spoon and shovelled them into her mouth. Three chews and she swallowed. Gagged.
Her stomach clenched and her side burnt.
She repeated the action. Scoop, shovel, chew, swallow. Gag!
She needed her strength. There was no point dying now when she’d survived so much.
Scoop, shovel, chew, swallow.
If she stared at the shafts of sunlight coming through the barn doors, it became easier.
Scoop, shovel, chew, swallow.
With no concept of time, Poppy rolled her options around inside a head which had started to clear.
She needed a plan. Every plan she conceived was pivotal to one essential thing.
The time.
She tapped the spoon on the empty tin and then threw them both into the plastic carrier bag. She reached out and picked up the Ted Baker iPhone case smeared with dried-on blood. Dare she risk switching it on?
Daddy.
There was no doubt in her mind he was still out there. The heavy blanket of evil thickened the air until she could barely breath.
She drew in a shaky breath as she rubbed the brown flaky blood from the phone case with her forefinger in light, rhythmic motions to soothe herself.
If he looked, he’d locate her. And he would look. She knew her own daddy. Manipulative. Obsessive. She’d never even tried to disable the find-a-friend function once he’d set it up. He’d never have allowed her to before.
He’d broken his hold over her but not his connection.
The only way to do it would be to switch the phone on. She’d need to be quick.
She flipped the cover open and stared at the shiny, black screen. She touched the tip of her finger to it. What if she was quick? What if she switched it on, checked the time, switched it off again?
Would it work? Would he know?
Poppy pressed and held the on button for a moment and gazed mesmerised as the screen flashed the white apple and started to load. Her heart thrummed in her chest to make it ache until the breath she held threatened to burst out of her.
The screen loaded and she couldn’t contain the tremor as she held her forefinger on the recognition button.
A rude buzz came from the phone and she tried again. Then a third time, but it wouldn’t allow her access. Please. A desperate sob burst from her lips as her fingers shook. Please.
Panic tightened the muscles around her throat as her breath rasped in and out. Please, please, please.
She touched her fingertips against the button again and the phone vibrated in her hand refusing her access again.
Her eyelids fluttered down, then sprang wide. She sucked in a breath, tapped in the code manually and the screen blinked to life.
Monday.
12:25 p.m.
White-hot panic raged through her and she stabbed her finger on the power button, switching the phone back off again, praying Daddy didn’t just happen to glance at his phone and see her location.
If he did, she was as good as dead.
She whipped her head around, eyes narrowing as she scoured the huge barn before she made a move to gather up all the evidence of her presence, panic slicing through her heart.
She needed a safe place. Somewhere daddy wouldn’t instantly see her.
She traced her gaze up a tall stack of straw.
If she could get up there, it may give her a chance.
A chance against daddy when he came for her.
29
Monday 20 April 1235 hours
Gordon Lawrence leaned forward. He dangled his hands between his knees, his head lowered.
That had to be the worst night’s sleep in the history of his life.
The small cot in the aerodrome offices made for a lumpy resting place.
He’d barely snatched a wink, and when he had, it had been plagued with ugly flashes of scenes he didn’t want to see.
The plan all along, since its inception the week before, had been to take his own life once he’d despatched his family. Cemented in his mind, he’d not been side-tracked from the statement he’d make to the world. Death didn’t bother him.
Up until the very last minute, he’d not wavered.
His daughter was the one responsible. Poppy.
As he’d shot her and then the nameless boy, a flash of inspiration hit him.
With no time to think it through, he’d acted.
It was all about the body count. And fate had found him an extra one.
30
Monday 20 April 2035 hours
Jenna's stomach growled with hunger. With Fleur tucked safely under her arm, she slipped in through the front door in the vain hope that she wouldn't be accosted by the huge spotty dog who she’d sneaked home only three hours earlier.
The warm waft of savoury food hit her stomach and her salivary glands danced with joy. Knees weak, she almost sank to the floor with relief.
Today, it appeared, was one of the days Fliss had decided to cook something other than junk food, which probably meant that they were going to be joined by Mason, despite the fact that he hadn't mentioned anything. Not that they'd had much time to mention anything personal between the two of them, nor did Jenna encourage it. During the hectic day, they'd had a lot on their respective plates. He’d been at Mountside dealing with the drug scenes for most of the day and they’d had a quick debrief before they went their separate ways again.
She nudged the front door closed, holding onto the deadlock to deaden the sound of the loud click. But when she turned around, Domino's fat, black, wet nose was already by her ear as he planted his paws on her shoulders and gave her the greeting she already expected, and God forbid anyone else should know, but she loved his greetings.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and cuddled him in for a few precious moments, taking comfort from the adoration he bestowed on her while a squished Fleur snuffled into his neck, squeaks of delight coming from her.
Jenna lowered him to the ground and let him trot ahead of her into the kitchen. She’d known more frenetic greetings from him, which went to prove her secret theory that the Dalmatian suffered from separation anxiety. Long before he was beaten, he’d shown signs of anxiety, but since then, he hated to be alone.