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Chapter 6

It was another two hours before Wardle called him. They were sitting eating take out.

"Strike? Where are you?"

"At the office with Pat and Barclay. Alright to put you on speaker?"

"Yeah," Wardle's voice now filled the room, "I don't have long. Look, I don't know what you've done to piss these people off mate, but her parents hate you."

"I know. I'll deal with that later. What can you tell us?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you anything. But... we have CCTV footage showing Robin walking to the tube station from her house. Halfway there... two men in balaclavas grab her and throw her in the back of a van."

"Fuck." Barclay had stood up, pacing back and forward.

"The van turns left, then we lose them. This was just after eight thirty. No ID's. No registration number. So far nothing. Are you still there?"

Strike hadn't said anything. He was staring straight ahead. He didn't notice Wardle had stopped until Pat nudged his arm.

"Hum? Yeah. We're here. Thanks for letting us know. D'you need us to..."

"No. You need to stay away. Like I said, they don't want you involved. At all. I'll call again when I've got more." He hung up. Barclay stopped pacing and looked at him.

"Her parents hate you?"

"Long story."

"Someone took her." Pat was looking out the window, her face blank.

"They'll find her. Pat," Strike stretched his hand over to touch her arm, "she'll be ok."

He sounded confident. He didn't feel it.

oOo

It was late. Barclay was going to take Pat home, before heading to his. As they were getting their coats, someone pressed the office buzzer. They all looked at each other.

"I've got it." Barclay opened the door, re-thinking, turned and grabbed the baseball bat behind him. He looked at them as they stared, "Just in case." Strike smirked.

Barclay returned with a small brown box, addressed to Cormoron Strike. Name spelt right.

"For you," Barclay put it in the inner office, "You ready to head?" Pat nodded. "You gonna be ok?" Strike nodded.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Watch your back. Come here tomorrow."

"Copy that."

The office was quiet once they left. He hauled himself up from the couch, groaning in pain, slowly making his way to his desk. Barclay had left the box there. He just sat. Unmoving. He kept rerunning Wardle's phone call in his head. She had been thrown into a van. Robin had been thrown into a van by two men. No new information had come in, Wardle had text. There was nothing Strike could do. Sighing, he took the letter opener and pulled the box closer. As he went to open it, he noticed there was no stamp, not evidence it had been to a post office. The address was there, but it had been delivered by the sender. With more caution, he opened the box.

He stilled.

Looking inside, he saw fabric, looking as though it had been thrown in. Hesitating, he put his hand in the box, pulling the fabric out. It was dark blue pants. Womens pants. He gingerly put them to one side, putting his hand back into the box. He felt something flat and shiny. Pulling them out, he saw four polaroid photos.

His breath became shallow, his heart pounding faster. It was Robin, tied to a chair and gagged, a guy in a balaclava kneeling at her legs, pulling her dark blue underwear down her calves. The camera had captured Robin trying to scream, head thrown back.

The second was the guy with his hand under her dress, on the outside of her thigh. Even though the photo was still, Strike could almost see Robin trying to throw him off. The third was a close up, the guy holding Robin's hair, knife at her neck, tiny sliver of blood beneath it. She had her eyes screwed shut, her mouth open. As soon as he turned over the fourth, he looked away. The camera had been put up her dress.

oOo

He hadn't slept much. After reading the note in the box, he slowly made his way upstairs, returning to the office with his prothesis on, taking the box up with him. He laid the contents on his small table, not wanting to look at them but knowing he had to. For Robin. He made notes, things in the background, things about the man in the photos. He tried to remove his emotions, but he left the fourth photo face down. There was nothing in it he needed to see. He paced the floor, laying on his bed near three a.m. and waking just before eight. He heard movement downstairs. Looking at his phone, Barclay had text saying he was picking up Pat and they would be in early – around eight o'clock. Nothing from Wardle.

He still had the leg on, his knee sore but he blocked out the pain. He tidied the pants, photos and his notes into the box, putting the note on top - 'Wish you were here' - before closing it and putting it in his top cupboard.

Making his way downstairs hurt, but when he saw his employees standing waiting, he smiled at them.

"Morning." He heard them respond in kind as he squeezed past to open the door. Just as they crossed the threshold, his phone rang. Wardle.

"Eric? How's it going? You're on speaker."

"We have a ransom." Silence followed.

"You what?"

"We have a ransom."

"For what?"

"Money. From the father." More silence. Strike looked at Barclay and Pat, both looking confused.

"Who..."

"Robin's father."

"So, it's nothing..."

"Nothing to do with you. Or her cases."

"So can I come in?"

"Considering this development—hell yeah you can."