DEAD AIR (Henry & Sparrow Book 2) Read online

  DEAD AIR

  A Henry & Sparrow Novel

  A D FOX

  SPARTILLUS

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Acknowledgments

  Also by A D FOX

  About the Author

  DEAD AIR

  Published worldwide by Spartillus.

  This edition published in 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 A D Fox

  The right of A D Fox to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted with accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book review.

  1

  www.adfoxfiction.com

  Prologue

  For a man who always had a great deal to say, Dave Perry was pretty quiet at the end.

  The journey through the dark had been terrifying. His jeans were soaked, and not with rain or spilt tea. He had tried to plead with his captor; tried to understand what drove the lunatic to do this.

  His voice - so highly regarded by many thousands of listeners for its deep and authoritative tones - was querulous and feeble as he’d said: ‘OK… let’s talk.’ If he was hoping his breakfast show catchphrase, emblazoned below his wryly grinning face on a hoarding outside the BBC Radio Wessex headquarters, might help, he was wrong. His captor merely glanced at him in the rearview mirror, snorted, and said nothing.

  He coughed and tried again, marshalling decades of BBC gravitas and reminding himself that he was someone. Someone to be reckoned with. He had left senior politicians floundering with his incisive grilling; had confronted cheating businessmen; disarmed world-class celebrities with his quick wit - all on live radio; no edits here, thank you.

  ‘What do you want? Where are we going? Look… you’ve got to see this is madness!’

  He got no reply, so he rested his forehead against his tightly taped wrists, which were anchored to the base of the front passenger seat headrest, and tried to think. He wasn’t a strong man. He’d spent way too many hours sitting in a studio, exercising his jaw and his faders; not nearly enough in the gym. He’d never felt the need to work on his physique; he was a local celebrity and got plenty of female attention whenever he appeared at outside broadcasts or charity events. He was nearing his mid-50s but he still had all his hair and if he was perhaps slightly doughy and average looking, his radio voice made up for it. He’d talked an impressive number of young women into bed over the years, and then, when he’d grown bored or stifled, talked them neatly out of his life again with his famously acerbic put-downs.

  But his voice was pretty useless now. He needed to get himself out of this car; out of the bonds around his wrists and ankles; out of this crazy situation.

  He wondered, briefly, if this was a stunt. Those two new guys on mid-morning, Spencer and Jack, they fancied themselves as edgy and funny, with their endless stupid ‘memes’ and piss-takes. They’d targeted him before; trying to make him look like some fuddy-duddy boomer or whatever. Maybe this was their work. There could be hidden cameras in this car relaying his desperately ‘sad’ attempts to get control while they rolled about laughing and live-streamed him on Facebook.

  But he doubted that even they would sanction the blade which had cut right through his leather bomber jacket and into his side as he’d been jumped in the shadowy corner of the BBC car park. His attacker had forced him at knifepoint, gasping and shocked, into the back seat of his own Audi, then made him wrap up his ankles and knees with yards of tight gaffer tape. When that was done he’d had to sit still while his wrists were efficiently bound to the headrest. There had been no time to react or resist.

  The car park barrier had risen automatically after scanning the number plate. There was no chance anyone would notice anything had gone amiss. Unless the attack and abduction had been caught on security camera, and given that the lighting on the lower level had failed - he’d had to use his phone torch to walk safely down the ramp - he would guess there was no telly feed to alert the one sleepy guy at the security hub.

  ‘I have kids, you know,’ he whimpered, after a long time silent. It was quite a claim. He did have kids; three of them, the fruit of two long defunct marriages, all now in their twenties. Only one of them still spoke to him and that was just at Christmas. He’d not been much of a provider since he’d left their mothers and each of them had no doubt been poisoned against him over time. Even so, he was a father.

  ‘People… depend on me,’ he went on.

  His abductor snorted again. It made him angry.

  ‘They fucking do!’ he snapped. ‘I am The Voice of Wessex! I keep tens of thousands of people company every day; fight their corner; look out for the little guy. Is that what this is about? Were you someone I brought down?’

  There was a hoot of laughter. And then, muffled a little by the black face mask: “Jesus. You really do believe your own publicity, don’t you?’

  He caught his breath. He knew that voice. But where from? Because, in his position, you met so many people. It was hard to remember everyone’s name. He had a producer and a researcher to do that for him.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, getting angrier and more righteous now that he’d heard that voice. ‘What is all this about?’

  The only response was a sudden and sharp turn into a narrow country lane. They’d been travelling for maybe twenty or thirty minutes now. It was late and dark and very few other vehicles were on the road. A minute or two later there was another right turn up a short gravel drive; high hedges and trees on either side. Dave began to shake as the car came to a halt. Outside it was perfectly dark, apart from a gleam of metal picked out by the front headlamps - a wide five bar gate.

  The driver got out, scraped the metal gate open across the tarmac, and came around to the back. The door opened with a cold gust of air. Sharpened steel glinted in the weak courtesy light and Dave heard himself whimper again, but all the knife cut though this time was the gaffer tape around his legs, releasing him in a burst of pins and needles. Next his wrists were freed.

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘Where are we?’ he croaked, stumbling out of the car. He could smell that it was rural - right out in the sticks. There was next to no light pollution and very little noise, but he could make out a low electrical hum. The car sidelights cast a dim glow, revealing tarmac underfoot and some kind of metal structure up ahead. He felt the blade in his side again, and a strong grip pinching into his shoulder. He still couldn’t make out the face inside the hoodie but he knew his ca
ptor was younger than him… and fitter. Wiry rather than brawny, but with undeniable strength. Fighting back or trying to run was going to be useless. His only hope was reasoning himself out of this.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ he babbled as they moved through the dark. ‘I’ve got money. Not much… but I can go to a cashpoint and get you a couple of grand. You can take the car too.’

  He was spun around and slammed against the metal structure, its cold criss-cross struts digging into his shoulder blades. ‘Go up,’ his captor ordered. Dave turned and grabbed hold of the struts, finding the horizontal ones with his numb feet and scaling the structure until he was maybe a metre up.

  ‘Turn around.’

  He turned carefully, flattening his back against what felt like a giant climbing frame. It fleetingly occurred to him that he might leap out, like Spiderman, land on the other side of the hooded figure below and then race away into the dark. Then his ankles were grabbed and held tightly together against some kind of girder while the reel of gaffer tape was handed up again. ‘Tape yourself to it.’

  He considered kicking the guy in the face. As if reading his mind, his abductor said: ‘Try it. Just try it. You’ll be on the ground with a knife through your neck before you can say “OK - let’s talk.”.’

  He couldn’t move his ankles anyway. He was too afraid; too weak.

  He taped up his legs and then his kidnapper climbed up next to him, blade in one gloved hand, and taped each wrist, outstretched, to a separate metal strut, so that Dave was tightly held in a T shape.

  In the midst of his terror he finally realised where he was. He still had no idea why. The taping ended and the kidnapper jumped down and stared up at him, flashing a mobile phone torch beam into his face.

  ‘Are you going to..?’ whispered Dave.

  There was a burst of energy and then something was shoved deep into his mouth. It was only as it was taped into place, silencing him forever, that Dave realised what it was. Dense, thick sponge. More of it was shoved into his nostrils. Quality material; Neumann, probably. Too expensive to breathe through.

  He was going to make the morning news. But not in a way he’d ever expected to.

  As his chest began to hitch and spasm in a hopeless quest for air, The Voice of Wessex reflected that his last words had been pretty lame.

  ‘And now,’ said his killer, ‘back to the studio.’

  1

  ‘So, tell me, does your dowsing help with your art?’

  Lucas Henry sat back in his seat, raised both palms, and stared across the blond wood edifice that separated him from Louella Green and her desk of buttons and faders. She shrugged at him and raised her palms too, mouthing ‘Sorry!’ In her mid-30s, black and pretty, he suspected she was used to charming her way out of awkward situations live on air.

  Lucas sighed. He wasn’t surprised. He might have known it would go this way.

  ‘Well,’ he said, at length, adjusting the heavy headphones and leaning back in to the microphone which hung from an adjustable angle-poise style bracket. ‘I guess it doesn’t hurt. Dowsing is all about patterns and energy… and I guess you could say my paintings are too.’

  For the first five minutes of the interview the mid-afternoon presenter on BBC Radio Wessex had behaved perfectly well, discussing only his very successful art exhibition in an independent Salisbury Gallery. But they both knew that she was dying to get to the real meat - the reason why an obscure abstract painter from the back-end of Wiltshire had suddenly caught the attention of the art world.

  In his return email to Louella’s producer, Lucas had initially said no thanks. But the producer had come back, pointing out that the reason he’d been asked was that there was a big push across the Wessex region’s schools to inspire the artists of the future, and somebody like him - home-grown and now slated for an exhibition in London - was going to be massively inspirational. Lucas had tried to decline again but in the end the producer had worn him down and he’d agreed to come in and talk.

  He should have known better.

  ‘Of course,’ said Louella. ‘Dowsing helps you to find inspiration… but many of our listeners will also know that it helped you to find quite a bit more than that a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Will they?’ asked Lucas, although he knew the battle was lost. He could have wrenched off his headphones and stormed out of this soundproofed cell, and been quite within his rights. He’d specifically said to the producer that he didn't want to talk about the events of early September. He had hoped the nature of his involvement would stay out of the news but of course it had eventually filtered through. The producer, though, had assured him that Louella was only interested in the art.

  ‘Lucas… you were a wanted man,’ Louella said, grinning at him cheekily. ‘You were arrested and charged with kidnap and murder… and you might be languishing in prison even now if you hadn’t used your dowsing powers to find the real killer - saving the life of a Wiltshire policewoman and another of the killer’s intended victims along the way.’

  ‘Um,’ said Lucas. Because... what could he say to that? Yes - I’m a hero! Do they sell capes on Amazon? ‘It wasn’t just me,’ he added. ‘DS Sparrow saved that woman, really. I just helped.’

  ‘Well, obviously we can’t comment in great detail before the inquest,’ said Louella. ‘But it’s pretty much public knowledge that between you both, you made Wiltshire a much safer place for female runners. And as I’m one of them, I just wanted to say… thank you.’

  ‘O…kay,’ said Lucas, feeling intensely uncomfortable, not least because he’d just name-checked Kate on air and he had a feeling she would hate that kind of thing even more than he did.

  ‘So… how does it work?’ Louella went on. ‘The dowsing? Can you really find water and lost things?’

  ‘Lots of people can,’ said Lucas. ‘It’s not magic. It’s an innate ability in all of us.’

  ‘Really? So… if I lose, say, my mobile phone or my car keys, I can just close my eyes, turn around in a circle with a couple of twigs, and dowse my way to them?’

  ‘In essence, yes,’ he said. ‘But some people are better at it than others - and anyone who tries it has to practise. It takes a bit of work to get yourself into the dowsing state.’

  ‘But if I practise,’ she went on, breathlessly, ‘I can find my keys or my phone?’

  ‘Um… yes,’ he said, tempted to add and bodies, too, if you’re not careful.

  ‘SO!’ went on the presenter, joyfully. ‘I’ve asked Daryl, my producer, to hide my phone. It’s somewhere in or around this building, but I have no clue where. Can you find it for me?’

  Lucas gaped at her. What a total fucking ambush! He wanted to say as much but she was the one in control of the faders and he didn’t like to think about how much of his tirade would be relayed across three counties.

  ‘I mean… I don’t want to put you on the spot,’ she said. ‘Listeners should know that we didn't plan this beforehand. It’s a bit of an ambush.’ She had the grace to look a little sheepish.

  Lucas shook his head at her, mouth compressed and then gave a tight smile as he replied: ‘Fine. Let’s do it. But you might need to go to The Carpenters if I’ve got to search the building.’

  ‘Oooh yes!’ she squeaked. ‘How did you know I’ve got Top of the World cued up next? You must be able to dowse for top tunes!’

  ‘Evidently not,’ he grunted. It was just an unlucky guess. But he dipped into his shirt and pulled out a small blue glass pendant - an old bottle stopper he liked to call Sid. With his free hand he reached across to her.

  She stood up, pulling her mic up with her and giving him her fingers. ‘So - you take my hand,’ she said, commentating for her listeners, ‘and that gives you a connection, yes? Although… shouldn’t it be Daryl’s hand you’re holding? He hid my phone.’

  ‘Either will do,’ said Lucas. He didn’t add that he might be tempted to break the producer’s wrist for all the out-and-out lying.

  ‘Are you feeling
the… what is it… vibrations?’ she asked.

  ‘If you like,’ he said. ‘OK, got it.’ He let her hand drop. ‘You’d better get that top tune up.’

  ‘This is SO exciting,’ said Louella, bringing up the syrupy opening chords of the Carpenters’ hit beneath her voice. ‘We’re about to find out whether Lucas Henry really can dowse… right here and now on BBC Radio Wessex!’

  As soon as the ON AIR light had gone off he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

  She pulled her headphones down around her neck and looked theatrically guilty. ‘I know, I know… I’m sorry! But I just couldn’t help myself. I mean - you’re an actual bona fide hero, Lucas! People should know.’

  ‘They really shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘Now… let’s go and find your bloody mobile.’

  She let her producer take over the knobs and faders, with an instruction to segue into another track if they weren’t back in time, and then she led him out of the studio, into the lobby outside the newsroom, and stood, breathlessly, looking at him.

  He sighed, shook his head and closed his eyes. Getting into the zone was always harder in situations like this. He didn’t do party pieces… not for many years anyway. It was hard to know whether just going home right now would make him a bigger twat than staying and finding her phone. He suspended Sid between his fingers and let the stopper swing to a halt on its strong stainless steel links. The necklace looked a bit like a slender plug chain and could have been prettier in silver, but its strength had saved his life more than once. Sid began to slowly spin clockwise before moving into a figure of eight dance and then, finally, the pendulum rocked back and forth along a single plane.