Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

as he comes up from behind,’ Cody continued.
    It was over in next to no time. The kidnapper scooped up Nadia’s legs and shoved them in the boot. He straightened up and took something out of his other pocket then leaned into the boot. ‘What’s he doing?’ one of the others asked.
    ‘Hard to say,’ Cody said. ‘We watched it a few times and couldn’t make it out.’
    ‘Packing tape,’ Paula said. ‘He’s restraining her.’
    Cody flashed a quick look at her. She couldn’t tell whether he was impressed or pissed off.
    ‘Could be,’ Fielding said. ‘We’ll take another look after we’ve seen the rest of it.’
    There wasn’t much more of it. He finished whatever he was doing, closed the boot, walked round to the driver’s door, got in and shortly after, drove out of shot. All of it without letting the camera have even a fleeting glimpse of his features. It was as if he knew exactly where he was being surveyed from, so effectively did he avoid the lens, Paula thought.
    ‘Let’s have it again,’ Fielding said. This time, Cody slowed it down after the man tipped Nadia into the boot. It still wasn’t clear what was happening; the man’s body obscured what he was taking from his pocket. But Fielding conceded Paula was probably right. With a marker pen, she wrote what they knew about the man on the board. ‘Anything else?’
    A hand went up in the far corner of the room. A woman who looked like she wanted to disappear into the woodwork. ‘Boss? I think he’s got a limp.’
    ‘A limp? How do you work that out, Butterworth?’ Fielding was already moving away from the whiteboard.
    ‘You can’t see it in the diagonal shot because of the angle. And then he’s running. But when he walks round to the driver’s seat, it looks like he’s limping.’
    Fielding frowned. ‘Play it again, Cody. Just the last bit. And slow it down.’
    Cody did as he was told. And as they watched, it was clear that DC Butterworth had spotted something the rest of them had missed. The man was limping. Whether it was temporary or permanent, they had no way of knowing. But that Saturday night in the car park of the Trafford Centre, the man who had abducted Nadia Wilkowa had something wrong with his left leg.

32

    Day twenty-six

    T he sun was a thin brilliant line across the top of the moors. For the first time in more than a week, the morning sky was clear, dark blue fading into eggshell as dawn broke. The light crept down the side of the hill, bringing the colours to life. White Edge Beck sparkled as the broken water caught the light and the rocks glistened. Early morning dog walking didn’t get any better than this, Paul Eadis thought as he drove up the twisting single-track road to the National Trust car park. His two lurchers, caged in the rear section of his estate car, were restless, as if they too could sense a change in the weather.
    He rounded the last bend. As usual at this time of the morning, the White Edge car park was empty, the only break in the skyline the stone rubbish bin and the hollow cairn where motorists were supposed to deposit a pound whenever they parked. Paul had never paid to park here; that was for tourists, and he considered himself a local. For five years now, he’d been running George Nicholas’s dairy operation. He’d done more for the local economy in that time than most folk around here managed in a lifetime.
    He turned off the road and parked in a random slot. Paul liked to pretend to himself that he was an enemy of habit; the truth was he fetishised variety in small things so he could kid himself he wasn’t hidebound in the things that mattered. It was one of the things that made him such an effective herd manager.
    Humming under his breath, he got out of the car and released the lurchers from their captivity. They took off with their usual enthusiasm. But in the business of closing the tailgate and locking up, Paul missed the sudden arrest of their headlong plunge for the moors. When he turned, expecting to see the dogs a distant blur of movement, he was astonished to see they’d stopped behind the bin, nosing at something on the ground. ‘Bloody dead sheep,’ he muttered, pulling leashes from his pocket and heading for the dogs.
    But it wasn’t a sheep.

    Startled awake by an unfamiliar sound, Carol was out of bed and halfway to the door before she registered what she was actually hearing. A scratch at the door, followed by a soft whimper. Then a more insistent scratch.