Kidnapped

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He needs a heroine to save him and she arrives

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This is my story for the Summer Lovin' competition and it's set in July, during the two weeks of Wimbledon, but the locations are not limited to London.

In days of old, when knights were bold, a handsome knight in shining armour would gallop in, sword in hand, to rescue the beautiful maiden. Fighting his way past the disreputable henchmen he would find and vanquish the dastardly villain. But these are modern times, a time of female equality, and this time it's a beautiful heroine who arrives to rescue the handsome young man, keep him safe from the henchmen, and finally the evil villain will receive his just reward.

This being Romance the ending is inevitable, although you do have to wait a while for the sex, because I've tried to write an interesting story in which the sex is integral, and hopefully after reading the story, you will feel I've succeeded.

I've tried a different approach by using two tenses. The scenes with the heroine are all first person as seen from her point of view whereas everything else is third person. I hope you appreciate what I'm tried to do and don't find it confusing.

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Black is the colour of evil. The colour of night without a moon. That's when they came. Under the cloak of concealment and deceit. All in black, creeping along, their soft soles not making a sound. Their black gloves leaving no trace. They opened the door with a key. With the key they had somehow obtained. All was silent as the liquid soaked cloth covered his face. His eyes opened but, in those first few seconds of awakening, the brain doesn't see and he sank back into the chemically induced sleep. The larger of the two men hoisted him over his shoulder like a sack of feathers, the smaller opening the door, beckoning him out into the empty corridor. Everything was quiet, as they had been told it would be, as they escaped with their prize.

The kidnapping was efficiently done. A lot of planning had gone into it, as one would expect if the perpetrators wanted to be successful. Most kidnappers will hide their victim as far away from the scene as possible. A remote location is very popular. But, as the police and the media were mingling with the student body and the administration trying to come to grips with what had happened, he was being held less than a mile away in a luxury home the kidnappers had rented.

It was the beginning of July and Wimbledon had started yesterday. One of the few years when it seemed not to be raining. Spectators, packed like sardines, queuing in the sweltering heat. The crowds had begun arriving for the last three days, accommodation in London was at a premium, and if you hadn't booked it months ago you didn't have any. They had rented the house, at a cost of twenty thousand, for the two weeks of the tournament. Every year the owners went on a cruise to get away from the annoyance of a Grand Slam tennis event and weren't bothered who they rented the house as long as they got the money and no breakages. The kidnappers had provided impeccable, but false, references.

Because of who his father was the details of the kidnapping were all over the media and the kidnapping rivalled Wimbledon for the headlines. It had been captured on closed circuit television, which the media were desperate to get their hands on but the police were having none of it. In any case, the cctv hadn't revealed anything in the way of identification and not much else either. Two men, both wearing balaclavas, had entered the university, gone to his room and abducted him. They'd carried him, still wearing his pyjamas, to a plain van and the kidnapping had been concluded in less than fifteen minutes from them arriving to driving away.

He was just an ordinary student, in his final year, except he just happened to be the son of a man worth, at the last estimation, over eight hundred million.

"We don't have a single lead to go on, Boss," said Detective Sergeant Lewis, shaking his head as he looked at the recording for the umpteenth time, trying to see something which would be of help. This one is going to be a stinker, he thought, as he addressed the man stood behind him, and those also in the squad room.

"No sightings whatsoever. They must have driven straight out of the city and, in the hours before it was reported, they could be in Scotland for all we know. If it wasn't for who he was we wouldn't even have done anything until tomorrow. We would have told anyone concerned twenty four hours would have to elapse before him being considered missing. It would probably have been forty eight hours before the cctv would be checked. That first day he would have just been a student who had stayed out all night, probably with a girl, because he had no lessons that day."

"I agree," said the man he was addressing, running his hand through the greying hair that had seen more cases, and captured more criminals, than he, or anyone else, could remember.

"But that doesn't mean we aren't doing anything. We've got a nationwide alert out, we've got the ports covered, although I don't think they'll be on a ferry to Ireland or France, and I don't think they will have used a plane. In fact, I don't think they will have gone very far."

"I tend to agree with you, Chief Inspector Morse," boomed Superintendent Dexter. "I also think they haven't gone far."

Both Morse and Lewis turned to view the man who had come into the squad room unnoticed, which was difficult going by the size of him. Nearly seven feet tall when wearing his peaked cap, Dexter was a hard man to miss. Of the several people in the room he was the only one in a dark blue uniform, neatly pressed, shoes and buttons shining.

"Settle down, lads," he said, in a quieter voice, as everyone stood up. "Before you think anything, I'm here because of who the victim's father is, not to run the investigation. For one thing, I know Morse is a better detective then I will ever be, so I'm here just in a supervisory capacity. I'll also handle the press briefings because, and I'm sure he'll agree with me, that's a job Morse hates."

A chuckle ran round the room, everyone knowing it was true because, as good a detective as he was, Morse wasn't a people person.

"So what's your next step, Morse?" Dexter's manner with Morse was more of a friendly colleague than a superior. They had attended the police academy at the same time but afterwards their paths had taken different directions. Both were happy holding their current positions, particularly Morse.

"We've started on a house to house search between the university and Wimbledon. If we find nothing we'll widen the search. There's no point in us running around the country without any idea where we're going. I'll leave that up to the locals."

Morse wasn't being sarcastic when he spoke, he was giving his opinion in the same matter of fact way he always did.

"Gather round everybody, and we'll look at the street map," called out Lewis.

With fifteen police officers and ten desks in a room only big enough for eight it was really tight, not helped by the presence of Dexter. There was the sound of chairs scraping backwards as officers tried to find room to see the board.

"We'll start in Somerset Road, near the tennis club, and work our way back to the university," Morse told them when they were all gathered round. "It's a long shot but no longer than rushing around the country hoping to get sight of a van, although we know the registration of it they may have changed the plates, and hoping to catch a glimpse of a man held out of sight. It's an hour's walk from Wimbledon to the university, but only fifteen minutes by car, and I think they'll have wanted to get to their safe house as quickly as possible. Assign everyone their routes, Lewis, and let's see what we can find."

"How about you, Morse?" asked Dexter, who was stood at the back, knowing Morse wouldn't be doing anything as mundane and boring as walking round checking housing occupants.

"Lewis and I will be going back to the university. I want to go over everything again. We can't afford to have missed anything on this one."

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The kidnappers were eating fish and chips, while sitting around the kitchen table, with their captive. They had him fastened by his ankles to the sturdy, carved legs of the heavy Victorian table, with its shiny oak top, obviously polished regularly. Probably by a maid. In a house like this they couldn't see the owners doing it. The floor was Italian marble. Not that they would know.

"Eat up, mate," said the larger of the two. "You never know when you're going to get your next meal."

"We'll be eating again this evening, idiot," exclaimed the smaller man. "I'm doing the cooking, which is just as well, because your limit is soup and sandwiches. As long as the soup comes out of a can."

He smiled but his friend didn't. He'd heard that line too many times before.

"We've brought enough food with us for two weeks but he told us we'd probably only be here for a week. Just until things begin to cool down."

"I wonder where the people who own this house have gone?" said the big guy, wiping some grease from his mouth with the back of his hand, not bothering with the napkins held neatly in the frame in front of him.

"Who cares? We're getting well paid for doing this, and it couldn't have been easier. He had it really well organised. As for this house I've never been in anything like this before. Who the hell wants six bathrooms? If all our jobs had been as easy maybe we wouldn't have jail time."

"How come he got into this kidnap lark?" the big man asked. "He's never done anything like this before," he said, picking up the remains of the fish and stuffing it into his mouth.

"Must have thought it was an easy way to make a big score, which it would have to be because of the money he's laid out. Hey, keep off," he cried out, as his mate tried to take what was left of his chips from his plate. "This house must have cost a packet to rent. He's paying us five thousand each. There'll be some other payoffs as well."

"How much fo you think he'll be asking for the ransom?"

The little guy thought about it for a moment, rubbing his two days of black stubble with his knuckles. "A million maybe. His dad must be worth a bit," he said, indicating James with his thumb.

James was listening to all of this, saying nothing, just thinking. What he was thinking was they were going to kill him. When they'd first got to the house, and he was asking why he'd been kidnapped, they told him he was being ransomed, and they were still wearing the masks they'd had on when he was taken. But now he'd seen their faces, because they had taken the masks off to eat, and in a weeks time, because they obviously couldn't keep their mouths shut, he was going to know much more about them. Enough to make it easier for the police to track them down. But not if he wasn't around to help the police with identification. He kept quiet but his brain was spinning.

He knew he wouldn't be able to unfasten the knots on the rope fastening him to the table legs. There would be knives in the kitchen drawer, undoubtably sharp in a house like this, but to get to them he'd have to drag the table two feet closer. Which would be impossible even taking into account the smoothness of the floor. In any event he would only be able to do that if they left him alone. Maybe they would. They wouldn't be staying in the kitchen for the next week or two. They'd probably go into another room to watch tv. Would they take him with them? That might give him a chance to escape. From what he'd seen they weren't armed. He was determined to keep thinking and looking for a way to get out.

Fortunately he was no longer in his pyjamas. When they'd arrived at the house the kidnappers had given him clothing and shoes which all fitted him. He did wonder how they knew his shoe size and the jeans and shirt were also the correct fit. He knew they hadn't removed them from his room when they'd taken him because none of them were his. The thought did cross his mind how had they known but it didn't seem important. He assumed they were just well informed and prepared. So he forgot about it.

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Another day by the pool and I was thinking about booking a flight home. Although there were several places I could call home. The apartment in Paris, or maybe the apartment in London? How about Monaco? Spending time in the casinos was always an enjoyable time if you didn't care whether you won or lost. Business was good and I was rich even though I was still young. Coming from a wealthy background hadn't been a hindrance. My deceased parents would never have believed the profession I would end up in and I hadn't envisaged it either when I left university only a few years ago.

I can't put up with this laziness anymore, I thought, and headed up to my room to pack my clothes and book a flight. I still hadn't made my mind up where to go. Maybe Vegas? Enjoying the nightlife and picking up some handsome guy with a big cock. Although being handsome wasn't any guarantee of satisfaction. Neither is big shoes or being black. I only went in for one nighters anyway so didn't really care about their skin colour or looks. If a guy has a small cock it usually means he's good with his tongue and my trusty strapon always makes me happy. But not if the guy doesn't want to feel its penetration. Which is rare. I seem to have a way with men. Even if they've never taken it up the arse before they always take it from me. That's my nature. I always get my way.

Before I had a chance to do anything my phone rang. Withheld number. Some people say never answer but I can't see the point. If it's someone you don't want to talk to then hang up. They've only wasted a few seconds of my time and sometimes it's a call you want to take.

"Miss Smith?" The voice was quiet, positive, English, and wanting to be certain they'd got the right person.

"Yes. What can I do for you?" I said, equally quietly. Miss Smith was my professional name. No first name. I was just Miss Smith.

"A mutual friend, Henry Livingstone, has given me your name. He said you might be able to help me with a problem." He was phrasing it as if it was a question but it came across as an instruction.

"What sort of problem would that be Mr...?" In my business you learn to be cautious.

"Mr Jones will do at the moment. I need help with...a problem I wasn't expecting...one I want dealing with...quickly and efficiently. Henry said you were a very successful and dependable...troubleshooter." He was considering his words carefully, as was I, because when I'm asked to solve a problem I need to be careful.

"Give me your number and I'll call you back." As soon as I had hung up I rang Henry.

"What the fuck do you mean by giving my number out without asking me? Why didn't you contact me first for my okay? What do you know about this guy? What's the problem he was calling about?"

Although I'd maintained my calm with Mr Jones, or whatever his name was, Henry got both barrels. We'd known each other for a few years and he knew if he kept quiet my storm wouldn't last.

"I've known him for a while, Smithy. He's well known but many of his dealings aren't well known and he keeps it that way. I'm sure you know what I mean. I've fixed him up with assistance before, although nothing like this. He wants someone of quality to do the work. Financially he's sound, more than sound, and he can afford your fee, however much you decide to charge." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Are we okay now?"

"I suppose so. But you annoyed me, Henry. Don't let it happen again or..." I left the rest unsaid but he knew what I meant.

"Sorry, Smithy. I wouldn't do anything to bring that down on me. You get the jobs, and the big money, because of your reputation and no one with any sense, including me, wants to get on your bad side."

He was right there. It was fairly well known, in Henry's circle, of the one time someone had stepped over the line in a business transaction with me, trying to deny me all my fee, and how it ended up.

"I'm still annoyed with you, Henry. Only half your commission on this one," I said, firmly, although at the back of my mind I knew I'd relent. Henry was a nice guy, although too mature for me, and more like an uncle. Although how many nieces would be in my profession?

"Very well, my dear. Whatever you say," he said, in a resigned voice.

I left it for another hour before I called Mr Jones back. Let him sweat, I thought. He must be very keen, or very desperate to persuade Henry to give him my number. I'll increase my usual fee. That will give me some satisfaction for being so annoyed.

"Hello. Miss Smith?"

"Hello, Mr Jones. Where is the problem?" I didn't want to waste any time. I wanted details to get the basics sorted out.

"London." His voice had taken on a different tone and he obviously thought he was in charge. It was going to be a surprise when he discovered how things actually happened when I was involved.

"I'll give you an email address to send me the details. If I decide to be involved I'll inform you of my fee and terms and, if acceptable, we will proceed." I gave him the temporary email address I would use for this job and cut the call.

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"We're not making much progress with the house-to-house, Morse," said Dexter, the chair he was overlapping creaking under his bulk.

He sounded disappointed, which was how everyone else felt, but he wasn't placing blame on anyone. He knew how tired the whole squad was after two sweaty days of walking the streets in this heat, particularly wearing suits, and knocking on doors.

"I think we've been going about it too systematically, Sir," said Morse, who never seemed to perspire, no matter what the temperature. "I'm going to instruct the men we're changing direction and begin looking at empty houses and houses being rented. Some of the people we've interviewed have been mentioning neighbours who go away every year when Wimbledon is on and some of them rent their houses out for the two weeks. I think we should be looking for houses falling in those categories."

"Good idea, Sir," said Lewis, wishing he'd come up with the idea, but that was why Morse was a better detective, got the praise, and why Lewis was more often the legman.

"The boy's father is waiting in your office, Morse," said Dexter. "I've arranged to meet him here to bring him up to date with progress. I know you don't like trying to give explanations while an investigation is ongoing but I'm getting pressure from above with him being who he is. So we're going to have to bite the bullet and get it over with."

He rose to his feet, the chair being happy to be free of its burden, and replaced his cap onto his shaven head.

"I will warn you he's just as abrasive as his reputation says. So do try and be diplomatic."

Frank Steel was waiting, together with his son Jeremy, and he was obviously impatient. He was pacing up and down the room, threatening to wear out the carpet. Even before he opened his mouth his body language told the story his reputation was justified.

"This is Jeremy," he told them, indicating a man who appeared to be in his late thirties. "My son from my first marriage. He and James are half brothers."

Morse glanced at Jeremy Steel. Did his son always have that scowl on his face?

"So, where are you with this investigation? Are you any nearer finding my son? Why are people hanging around here when they should be out searching? I thought you were doing house-to-house? What's going on? I demand to know, damn you. I want my son found." The tirade ended when he ran out of breath.

"We are changing our focus, Mr Steel," said Dexter, trying to calm him down so they could have a sensible discussion, and indicated the chairs in front of the desk, a gesture ignored by Steel.