Captives, p.1
Captives, page 1
CAPTIVES
JANE HEAFIELD
Copyright © 2023 Jane Heafield
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The right of Jane Heafield to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books.
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8549-6
CONTENTS
Love best-selling fiction?
Also by Jane Heafield
Birth
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Rebirth
Acknowledgements
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ALSO BY JANE HEAFIELD
The Yorkshire Murder Thrillers
Dead Cold (Book 1)
Cold Blood (Book 2)
Cold Heart (Book 3)
Don’t Believe Her
Her Dark Past
Obsessed
BIRTH
‘It’s midnight, Tuesday April 19th, 2022, I’m Noa, and the phones are already ringing, so let’s take the first call.’
‘I killed and ate my neighbour’s dog with a bottle of nice Chianti. I also touch kids and plan to blow up a school. Come get me, if you dare.’
The caller started to list his address, but Noa hit the kill switch to terminate the call.
‘He forgot the fava beans,’ she told her audience. ‘That call allows a nice segue into my introduction. I am Noa Vickerman and this is Confessions, midnight until 1am, every night here only on Divine Radio. For one hour, ring me and admit anything. Jealousy, cheating, lies, even crimes. I can’t promise you absolution, but I’ll listen. I can’t guarantee legal immunity, but I’ll listen. I can’t even promise good advice, but I’ll listen. Confess to me and maybe you’ll find peace. Or a good night’s sleep. Or just a laugh.’
After a radio jingle, Noa said, ‘Welcome all. Now, my caveat. You all just heard me cut a call. I will never ask for your name or address, but if you give those things, it will be deemed consent to inform the police. No such information, though, will be aired live. That’s my promise here.’
She had cleverly worded her pledge. The dog-eater’s call had been cut from live broadcast, but not terminated. Instead, it had been routed to another phone. The switch had been seamless; only if the caller was listening to the radio show would he know he no longer had the ears of thousands, only an old man who was recording everything. Joke or not, Dog Man had threatened to attack children and the police needed to know. Confidentiality was one thing. Moral duty was another.
‘Now, down to business,’ Noa continued. ‘The lines are buzzing. Myriad heavy hearts wish to unburden.’ She hit a button to patch through a waiting call. ‘Hello, friend. What’s bugging you at this late hour?’
‘My mum’s a stripper,’ a young, screechy female voice said. ‘I stabbed her car tyres so she can’t go to work. Did it three days running and now she thinks some punter is jealous and trying to stop her and stalking her…’
‘So what should I do? Kiss him? Or just admit it to him?’
‘In my opinion,’ Noa said, ‘end the relationship. Staying with your boyfriend in order to be around his hot dad will make things worse in the long run. But that’s just my opinion.’
The call continued for a few more minutes. Afterwards, it was 12.50am and Noa decided to take just one more call, and drag it out for ten minutes if necessary. Three callers were on hold and two got an automated message with instructions to try again next time. She made the final guest live with the touch of a button.
‘Hello, friend. What’s bugging you at this late hour?’
Six calls over the last fifty minutes. Three foul-mouthed pranksters who got cut off quickly. One man who wanted to know if his wife had ever called the show to admit cheating. A lady who’d been stealing from her grandson’s house because he’d never repaid her for sweets and toys given when he was a kid. And the last, a teenager who’d started dating and had even become engaged to a former schoolfriend just so she could hang around his father. All told, a night that was par for the course, and Noa didn’t expect anything memorable from the show’s final guest.
Even Larry Faulds, the bald, ageing station’s producer, was close to nodding off in his wheelchair in the doorway to his office. They both sat bolt upright when a male voice said, ‘I’ve got a prisoner. I’ve had her about a year and a half.’
‘I’m sorry, repeat that, please.’
She’d heard perfectly fine, but needed a moment to compose herself. By the time the caller had repeated himself, word-for-word, all eight switchboard lights were on: callers eager to talk about this very admission.
‘What else would you like to tell us?’ Noa said.
‘You mean like who she is?’ His words were perfectly formed and slow, like high-end speech synthesis. She got the impression he was trying to hide an accent. ‘Perhaps her name? Where I kidnapped her from? My name, even? A postcode?’
‘I’m not trying to trick you. You called my show. I’m here to listen. Usually, those who call here have heavy hearts.’
A pause. ‘I do, too. But I don’t know if I want to do this. I found this show while surfing the net, so thought I’d call. I didn’t plan it. I can tell you I don’t plan to hurt her. I want to give her up. I don’t know how to. You can help.’
‘I hope so. Is the young girl okay? Hurt, or ill?’
‘She’s not a young girl. She’s a woman. She’s fine. I have her somewhere safe. I feed and look after her.’
She’d called the captive a young girl in the hope that the caller would correct her – or not. Now she knew a little more.
‘Can I ask why you took her?’
‘You’ve been doing this for a while. I bet the police are tracing this call. I’m on the move with a burner phone, so that won’t help. If they trace me to location A, I’ll be long gone by the time they get there. Still, no risks. I need to think a bit. I’ll call your show back tomorrow night. This is just the start. This is the birth of something big.’
She began to protest, but the line went dead.
She looked round at Larry. The seventy-year-old shrugged. ‘Bullshit. Another damn prankster.’
‘Probably,’ Noa said.
CHAPTER ONE
‘For all your local news and gossip, head over to UbyU dot com and on social media. Goodnight.’
After her regular sign-off, Noa hit a button to play music for the final seconds of the show. She sat back in her chair. Larry rolled his wheelchair to her side. ‘Prankster or not,’ he said, ‘we’ll get a big headache from this.’
She looked at the switchboard, where all eight lines were still ringing. ‘For sure. Tomorrow night it will be people moaning that I didn’t ask enough questions. And people calling about their own missing wives and sisters and stuff.’
‘And the police, they’ll be on your case before long.’
Noa stood up and grabbed her bag, and shifted the chair from the desk so Larry could roll up to the computer. The final show of the night, Bizarre Tales, was hosted by him.
Noa said, ‘I know. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. We’ll see if he calls back tomorrow.’
‘Doubt it. Probably bullshit.’
‘Maybe. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
And she would. Larry owned not just the radio station, but also the whole building floor. He had installed a bedroom, bathroom and kitchen and called it home; given that he slept here, had food delivered, and was present for every show, every day , Noa knew he hadn’t been outside in at least a few months. He was present for every show from 6am until 2am.
She left. The station occupied the top floor of a three-storey building, with offices in the middle and a department store on the ground. Noa used to like to run up and down the stairs, but ten days ago that had changed and now she always took the lift. While it lowered her, she called her solicitor.
When she stepped out into the foyer, one of her bodyguards was waiting for her. He was about her age of thirty and very flirty, although she’d told him on day one that while she didn’t mind playful banter, she was uninterested in him romantically. Since then he’d concentrated on his job, which was to stay close but not noticeably so, make sure she got safely to her car, follow the vehicle to her home, and watch her house until his relief came in the morning.
‘I don’t need you overnight,’ she said as they walked. ‘I have guests coming. Take the night off with pay.’
He nodded, watched her get into her car, and jogged to his own. While she drove home, her phone rang. The screen said BOKAYO.
‘I hear we’ve got some nice frozen mash and sausages in,’ he said.
She groaned. ‘I swear half my listeners are you guys. Should I head down there, or is this more about pissing me off?’
‘The latter. As always.’
‘When can I expect them? The usual time?’
‘The night shift can be boring. I’ll see you tomorrow, when it’s done. Enjoy the mash.’
‘Piss off,’ she said with a laugh, and hung up.
Home was almost four miles north-east of Hammersmith, site of the radio station. Formerly composed of stables and coach houses for Grosvenor Square mansions, Adam’s Row was a luxury residential area in Mayfair where Noa’s father, now deceased three years, had managed to buy a four-bedroomed property for half the advertised price. Today it was worth ten million pounds.
He had died very rich. His will had bequeathed Noa exactly one million pounds to live on. She also got the house, but wasn’t permitted to sell it until her fortieth birthday. Locked in a private bank account was another hefty sum of cash that would be released to her when she turned fifty. How much she wasn’t sure and, since that day was two decades away, barely thought about.
With no father around, the house had felt empty and Noa had rented out one of the bedrooms. That hadn’t solved the problem because her tenant was a movie producer with a jet-set lifestyle. He spent half the year shooting music videos and TV films in America, but was quite happy to pay the rent of £1,400 every week. She hadn’t seen him for a month and he wasn’t due home for a long time yet.
She parked in the garage, between her Fiat 500 and the producer’s Bentley, and entered the empty house. As the shutter rolled down, her bodyguard drove away.
After a quick bite to eat, she headed up to her bedroom. It was next to a room she’d kitted out as a home studio, but had yet to call upon: Larry was old and lonely and liked the company, so refused to let any of his presenters work from home.
It was closing on 2am. Fully dressed, she lay down and read a book. The house was too silent without the TV on, but she needed silence in order to hear the arrival of her imminent guests. She was unable to concentrate, however, her mind too consumed by what was to come.
At just past 3am, she heard cars arrive outside and went to her opened window. Two vehicles and four police officers for some reason. She waited until they were about to knock at her door and called down: ‘Hey, I’ll be out in a second.’
That surprised them even more than a late-night arrest mission in a place like Mayfair. She gave a smile and a thumbs up. Puzzled, one officer returned it. If he thought his target didn’t seem fazed, he was right. Noa was thinking way past a night in the cells, to tomorrow’s confessions show. She hoped for another call from the man who’d said he’d abducted a woman. She prayed it wasn’t, as Larry had said, complete bullshit.
The two officers sent to interview her were, like last time, fresh-faced newbies. But of course. She was no terrorist or serial killer and would face no charges. These arrests were nought but reminders that the police weren’t fans of her show.
They waited until 9am to come for her, although she’d only slept for two of the five hours she was locked in a cell. She was offered breakfast – not mash and sausage – but Noa declined in order to speed things along. Ten minutes later, by which time her solicitor had arrived, she was in an interview room, where they started with general questions they already knew the answers to, and she gave responses identical to ones already on tape in a file box somewhere. The male spoke first. He was handsome except for an old, white scar that ran across his left jawline.
Why had she chosen to host a radio show that invited people to admit crimes?
‘It’s not about crimes, it’s about sins. Seven days a week, call numbers between five and as many as fifteen each show, which makes a minimum of thirty-five confessions every week. Most laughable. Many outright lies designed to shock. At most a couple will be genuine ones of the sort you guys are interested in.’
How long had she been doing this?
‘Since the new year, so four months now. I hit the big 3-0 on Christmas Day. Some say that’s latter adulthood. It felt like it, so I fancied a change in life. No more jollying about. And in those four months, you’ve only come to me on four occasions. Four times only that someone has admitted something criminal worthy enough for you to hound me with these silly arrests.’
Why had she chosen to deal with people’s confessions?
‘Just an idea I had and ran with. I like to help people. You know about my charity work. I often hold raffles. I’ve paid for fêtes and festivals. I helped pay for the renovation to a youth club not half a mile from this station, which I’m sure gives you lot extra peace in the evenings. I give hard cash away. I also work two days a week at a charity shop, which is where I should be right now. But I’m not there, am I?’
They understood. Charity work, good and proper. Well done. But the confession show hardly fit into that genre. After all, she hadn’t taken a job at the radio station: she had contacted the owner/producer and asked for airtime. Unlike his other presenters, she wasn’t on the payroll, wasn’t paid a penny. It seemed off.
‘I’m not trained in communications or media or journalism. There was no way I could walk into such a job. That’s why I don’t have a drivetime slot. That’s the peak time, late-afternoon, when the station draws three hundred thousand listeners. My slot is the zombie hour and gets less than five thousand tuning in.’
She could have created a game show to give away her riches. Does a confession show really help people?
‘I already give money away. That’s easy for the wealthy. I wanted to help other kinds of people, who have problems that charities don’t cover. I’m not the only radio presenter who hosts confession programmes, you know. For instance, Simon Mayo has run a show on and off for more than thirty years.’
Now the female spoke. She was about the same age and blonde and round-faced like Noa, but was much shorter and had a voice that would have better suited her two decades earlier. ‘I doubt that Radio 1 show exists for a charitable reason. Also, it’s broadcast during drivetime, when people aren’t drunk and are less likely to have just committed a crime they want to get off their chest. It’s also prepared in advance, with the staff selecting confessions already sent in. Yours airs live, late at night, unweeded, no delay that allows for editing what’s said. Don’t tell me you’re unaware that this format invites the, shall we say, shocking?’
