Chapter Three
Hugh Collins came to slowly, and was immediately aware of being deeply uncomfortable. He was lying on his side, on a cold floor. Concrete? Probably. It wasn't a clean floor – there was grit under his cheek when he moved his head slightly. He breathed in, and promptly began a coughing fit, which wasn't helped by the fact that his hands had been secured behind him in some fashion. The air he was trying to breathe was musty with a smell he couldn't immediately identify.
The coughing also showed him that he had a severe headache, which didn't respond well to the jarring of his whole body. He risked slitting his eyes open, and then wondered if he had been blindfolded too – but no, a very faint source of light from under a door told him that he was in an unlit room, and it was after dark.
After dark? Dottie! He groaned. She was expecting him home long before now. She'd be beside herself. He added heartache to headache, and it was the incentive he needed to start working out how to improve matters.
As his eyes became accustomed to the half light, he realised that he was in a very small, windowless room. Sitting up, though, would be better than lying, and – though his feet were also bound – he managed to roll on to his knees and shuffle to the wall, where he rolled again into a sitting position. Extending his neck thankfully, he stifled a yell of pain as the back of his head made contact with the wall, alerting him to the reason for his headache. It was hard to tell the scale of the bruising, but eventually he discovered a comfortable position (well, less painful, anyway), leaning his temple against the cool of the wall.
He was disgusted to find himself exhausted by such minor exertion, but rested for a couple of minutes, trying to recall what had brought him to this place, wherever it was.
He'd gone to pick up some shopping, that was all. The storekeeper had asked him to step through to the back room, and then everything went blank.
His head was aching even more with the strain of trying to remember when he became aware of low voices on the other side of the door.
"I'm still saying, all he was doing was a bit of shopping!"
"We don't know that, do we? I reckon he's onto us. Sure as anything."
"Might not be. Not letting him see me without me scarf on me face, anyhow."
Although his head was swimming and he was fighting nausea, Hugh felt marginally better for hearing that. If they still cared about him seeing their faces, they were still hoping to keep him alive. Just as well, he thought – Dot would kill him if he got killed.
Then he realised how idiotic that sounded, and winced even as he grinned to himself.
There was a rattling at the door, and he closed his eyes to feign unconsciousness. Maybe if they thought he couldn't hear them, they'd tell him more?
The door opened, but there were no words spoken – only the sound of heavy breathing from the doorway, before the door slammed shut and was locked once more.
He tried not to let the darkness affect him. What would the Inspector do? he wondered. Probably not get caught by one of the oldest kidnap tricks in the book, he thought wryly. But then, he'd had no reason to believe he was a candidate for kidnap.
The smell in the room had become a little stronger with the opening of the door, and he tried to identify it. Flowers? Not a flower he could recognise, anyway. He wasn't much good at flowers. Dot loved them, though. When he got out of here – wherever 'here' was – he was going to buy her a bunch. An armful. A barrowload.
Having reached the full extent of all the evidence his senses could offer, he decided to allow himself a break, and slipped into an uneasy doze once more.