Safe House by Chris Ewan

least eight devices. They’re not state of the art, and judging by the dust on the wires and the cabling, I’d say they were installed a few years ago, at least. But you asked me how somebody could have known that you and Lena were leaving here on your bike.’ She aimed the end of the cable towards me. ‘This is how.’
    I shuddered. Went to reach for the microphone bud, then thought better of it when I remembered I wasn’t wearing gloves.
    ‘How far can these things transmit?’ I was thinking about the way Mr Shades had been focused on his laptop when I’d seen him in the kitchen. Had he been watching over Lena and me in the garage? Had he been listening to our conversation? No, I realised. Because then he’d have known what we’d planned with my bike.
    ‘The range on these things can vary,’ Rebecca said. ‘Maybe as far as two miles. Far enough, anyway, to reach that road at the end of the plantation.’
    It took a moment for me to see where she was going with it. ‘You think they were watching from the van you mentioned?’
    ‘Watching and listening. You gave them time to get into position. To cause your accident and snatch Lena.’
    I shook my head. ‘This is crazy.’
    ‘No. This is logical.’
    ‘But for somebody to do this . . .’ I let the words trail off, unsure what I’d been trying to say. Then a new thought occurred to me. ‘People say there are safe houses over here. That the island’s used for witness protection, hiding people connected to major crimes over on the mainland.’
    ‘It’s possible.’
    ‘And the police would know, right? If that’s what this place is for.’
    ‘Makes sense. And it could explain why they sent two detectives to speak with you at the hospital. It might also explain why they haven’t looked into what happened here too closely.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘This level of surveillance equipment.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a bit more advanced than your average police force might be used to. Smacks of a sensitive situation.’
    ‘Sensitive, how?’
    She smiled. ‘That’s what I intend to find out.’
    ‘But you think they backed off deliberately?’
    She opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted before she could get the words out. The mobile phone had started buzzing. It was glowing and vibrating against the tabletop. Number Withheld.

Chapter Twelve
     
     
    Failure. It wasn’t something Menser was used to, still less something he could tolerate. The frustration ate at him. Gnawed on his insides. The job had taught him patience. Control. But they were just skills. Part of his professional shell. And he could feel the shell cracking.
    The girl’s attitude was bothering him. The casual way she was slouched against the wall of the cabin in her red-and-white gingham blouse, her swollen wrist cradled in her lap like something only vaguely connected to her. The curled lip. The glazed eyes.
    Clarke hadn’t helped. He’d started things off on the wrong foot. Raised her hackles. But Menser had compensated for that. He’d shown her respect. Made her tea.
    She’d smirked at the tea. He was sure of it. But she’d drunk it all the same. The first breakthrough. The one he’d planned to build from. But there’d been no progress. Not the slightest advance. Only silence. And that sneer, as if she knew something he didn’t. It was getting under his skin. Itching like a rash.
    In just a few hours, they’d reach their destination. He had to know what was sustaining her. Keeping her this way.
    He’d read her file. Absorbed its contents. He saw an explanation in it.
    Her father had spoiled her. Indulged her. Furnished her with a lifestyle that only the offspring of the elite and powerful could hope to enjoy. He’d protected her. Cocooned her. Taught her to believe that she was better than people like Menser. Better than the people Menser was delivering her to. A charmed existence. One it would be hard to believe was in jeopardy.
    The cabin tipped. Lurched.