This is a short but significant chapter. Some references to possible torture but no descriptions, graphic or otherwise.

Chapter Sixteen

Molly and Michele spent the morning at the local play group, with Katy, Charlie, Freddie and Violet. Mycroft wanted to keep the children's daily structure consistent, to give them a sense of normality – even though this situation was anything but normal, as evidenced by the two men in dark suits and dark glasses who escorted them there and back and stood guard, outside the village hall, throughout the playgroup session.

Mycroft and William, in the company of Charles Meadows, the Estate Manager, did the rounds of the estate – which would have happened at the weekend, had Mycroft's services not been required at Westminster, engaged in damage limitation. Checking in with the tenant farmers and other estate workers kept his mind occupied, too, although Arthur was never far from his thoughts.

They all met up again at lunch, which Mrs Orgreave served in the garden, as it was such a lovely, warm July day. While the children were fully engaged with the repast, Molly asked Mycroft, discreetly, whether there had been any developments, during the morning.

Mycroft informed her about the CCTV images of the snatch and the identification of Marcus Frayne, whom he had actually met on more than one occasion, in the line of business, when the man still worked for the Establishment, rather than for himself.

'He was a clever young man, a very quick learner, and an excellent strategist. I do feel that perhaps we should charge people course fees when they leave the service so soon after completing their training. It seems rather unfair to expect the British tax payers to fund them, especially when they go and use their skills against us.'

'Who do you think he could be working for on this occasion?' Molly asked.

'We have a number of suspect groups, movements and individuals in mind, based on the issues with which I have been involved in recent months. We have a number of their representatives helping us with our enquiries, having rounded them up in a sequence of dawn raids, this morning but so far they are either keeping schtum - or they are genuinely not involved. Only time and effort will tell us which.'

Molly didn't ask for any more details. She knew that there was a dark side to Mycroft's role in the Government and she preferred not to think about the manner in which these suspects might be 'helping' her brother-in-law's people.

'But the police are hopeful that they will get some witness statements in the park this lunchtime, so we might have some news soon,' Mycroft concluded, with forced brightness, then turned his attention to the children, drawing a line under the conversation.

ooOoo

Arthur had been left alone for nearly an hour and had spent the time, as advised, reviewing his options. He had come to the conclusion that, physically compromised as he was, following the beating, this was not likely to improve in the near future and was far more likely to deteriorate, if Dr Knowles got to work with his tool kit.

So regardless of how painful it was going to be, if he was going to try to get up to the window – for a look outside or to make an attempt to escape – he had to do it now. He had visually scanned the room and could see nothing that looked like a CCTV camera. That was not to say he was not being observed –cameras could be tiny yet still effective – but he had to take his chance. If the MIB charged in and dragged him down, then at least he knew where he stood, as regards surveillance.

Arthur steeled his resolve, took several deep, preparatory breaths, then went into action. He pushed up with his arms, drew in one knee to plant a foot on the mattress, and stood up, compartmentalising the pain, refusing to acknowledge its very existence. He turned to face the window wall and moved down to the end of the bed, which just overlapped with the opening above.

He flexed his knees, testing the relative springiness of the bed mattress and base and estimating how much force might be required to push him high enough to reach the windowsill with his arms extended. Calculations complete, he crouched then leaped.

His fingers hooked over the edge of the windowsill and he clung on, tensing his biceps and triceps to take the weight of his body, as he hung there and found some purchase on the wall with his bare toes. With a monumental effort and a combination of pulling with his arms and pushing with his legs, he dragged himself upwards, until his chin was level with the windowsill, then scrabbled one forearm onto the ledge, to take the pressure off his fingers.

He paused and took a few moments to re-oxygenate his muscles with some deep breaths, then pulled himself higher still until he could get his second forearm onto the ledge, with his head and shoulders above the windowsill. From this angle, he could see outside and, despite his back muscles screaming in protest at the strain of maintaining this position, he took the time to take a good look round at the location.

His first shock was the realisation that the room in which he was imprisoned was several floors above ground level. So any hopes of using the window as an escape route were doused, immediately. The second shock was that he recognised the location. He had been here before.

As this realisation dawned, he heard a sound outside the locked door and pushed off the wall, to drop, feet first, onto the bed. Only then did he give in to the pain in his back and shoulders, as his knees gave way and he collapsed forward onto the mattress, and shook in delayed reaction to the agony that the physical exertion had cost him.

ooOoo

'We have an image of an ambulance – an old-style ambulance, certainly not one that the London Ambulance Service would be likely to be using – parked up, two streets away, an hour before the snatch,' Anthea announced. 'It was given a ticket for parking on a Red Route. We ran the licence number. It's fake. It actually belonged to a Renault Cleo that was scrapped, two years ago, in Huddersfield..

Sherlock's ears pricked.

'Huddersfield?'

'Yes, it's in...'

'I know where Huddersfield is,' he snapped, rather testily. Anthea grimaced in apology.

'That's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?'

'A coincidence with what?'

'Arthur is from that part of the world, isn't he?'

'Arthur is from Greater Manchester. Huddersfield is in West Yorkshire…'

'Yes, as I just said, I know that,' Sherlock snapped again, taking out his iPhone and tapping at it, furiously. He showed the screen to Anthea.

'Huddersfield has a direct train link to Stalybridge. If you wanted to buy a fake number plate, you wouldn't buy it at your local scrap yard, would you? You'd go a bit further afield.'

'But, Sherlock, what does this have to do with Arthur being abducted?' Anthea could not see the significance.

'Have you spoken to his sisters, yet?'

'No, we're still in news blackout.'

'I think we're on the wrong track,' Sherlock exclaimed, fishing Arthur's phone out of his pocket.

'Look at these texts.' He showed them to Anthea.

How's everything?

Everything OK?

How's things?

She looked at them and back to him, with a shrug, still not seeing the point.

'Something happened, up there, when he went home. He had hardly spoken to his family for months, ever since he and my brother became...intimate. He went there for three days but came back after only two and, since then, he's texted one or the other of his sisters every day.'

'But what does that have to do with him being kidnapped? You're not suggesting his family are behind this, are you?'

'Why not?' Sherlock was quite agitated, now. His brain, which had been idling in neutral, marking time, since he completed the SOC diagram earlier, was suddenly in hyper drive - cogs spinning, claxons sounding and lights flashing.

Anthea had great respect for Sherlock's powers of deduction but this seemed too absurd.

'Why on earth would they want to kidnap their own son?' she demanded.

He, however, was finding her obtuseness infuriating.

'I have no idea. Why don't we ask them?' he snapped back, again.

He was about to speed dial Rosie's number but Anthea put a firm hand on his and stopped him.

'Wait! We need to run this by Mr Holmes, first.'

Sherlock all but screeched with exasperation. The Northern connection seemed so glaringly obvious to him.

'Fine! Run it by him! And don't take all day about it!' he spat and stalked off to study the incident board, again – not because he thought he might learn anything new from it but because he needed to mentally rearrange all the connections.

ooOoo