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Zoe had obviously injected him with a lethal compound, that could lead to a painful death. God only knew what it was, but the driver, in her opinion, was ex-military, so it could have been anything.
She replayed the scene in her mind, remembering how odd it was that the driver kept his distance from the needle.
Why?
Was he frightened of what was inside the syringe; or was he actually frightened of the needle itself? A lot of people were. Was that the chink in Iron Man’s armour?
Zoe glanced at the screen, deciding she would really test the water. She sent an email to Rosie telling her everything.
She sat back and waited for the fireworks.
Within minutes, the driver opened the door, dressed in a military uniform, wearing a snug fitting mask with holes for the eyes, nose and mouth. He carried with him a piece of A4 paper, which he placed on the desk in front of her.
“Don’t be stupid, young lady.”
“What do you mean?” Zoe played dumb.
“Do you honestly think I would let you play around with all this equipment, knowing how dangerous you are, without some form of security?”
Zoe lowered her gaze, silently elated.
“Please,” she lifted her head, her eyes imploring, “don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean anything by it. I won’t do it again.”
“You’re damn right you won’t,” replied the driver, “now you can resend that email and you will tell Rosie Henshaw exactly what I want you to tell her.”
“I’m not feeling well,” pleaded Zoe, “please, I need you to bring me an injection of Carbimazole, and a vitamin supplement.”
“I will, when you’ve done what I asked.” The driver leaned in closer. “And if you try anything like that again, I’ll kill you. Think on, you’re coming to the end of y
our usefulness, so don’t push me.”
As the driver stepped outside to grab a chair, he left the door open. With a quick glance at the roof of the building, Zoe knew exactly where she was being held prisoner. She would recognise that pipework on the ceiling anywhere. All she needed now was a back door into her own computer system. Then she’d see who was pushing whom.
Chapter Thirty-six
Rosie read the email from James three times, trying to spot hidden messages or meanings. Problem was, it was short and sweet and to the point, sticking to the facts; not really the kind of thing he would normally write.
He claimed he was still in Brussels. Lying bastard. The meetings were complicated, therefore taking longer to strike a deal. Who was he kidding? He sent his love, and asked to be remembered to the children – didn’t use their names, simply referring to them as the children – and said he would be home soon.
Rosie wasn’t sure what to think. Despite the deception she still loved him and longed for him to be home. Part of her was elated that her long lost husband had finally made an appearance at last, albeit in cyber space. It proved he hadn’t left her, or worse, was dead. Another part of her felt nothing but disgust and revulsion for what he had been accused of. Did he really think he could kill someone and walk away from it all? Did he really do it?
Was the email even from James? She doubted it, for a number of reasons. She’d heard nothing at all for weeks, and now a bolt out of the blue. And the phrasing, James wouldn’t write and ask to be remembered to the children. No way. He would have referred to them by name.
But if he hadn’t sent it, who had: and from where? Then again, why wouldn’t he have sent one? She’d emailed not much more than half an hour back. Still, it was strange. Her head was a mess.
She raised her mobile phone and read it again.
The doorbell saved her from any further thoughts. When she answered she found two men on her doorstep. One was tall and thin with grey hair and a suit that had seen better days. The other was balding, wore wire-rimmed spectacles, and had very white teeth. His suit was smarter, more in keeping with a married man. He held a plastic folder in his right hand. Both had warrant cards on display.
“Mrs Henshaw?” inquired the tall one.
“Who wants to know?” demanded Rosie.
The smaller one answered. “DCs Bob Anderson and Frank Thornton. We’re with the West Yorkshire Major Incident Team.”
“Oh not this again,” said Rosie, stepping aside. “You’d better come in.”
She left one of them to close the door and continued through to the kitchen.
