The Missing Model

By Clive Webster

An abduction of a young model takes Ray Eastwood into the twilight world of the demimonde and the brooding mudflats of Essex

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9780244873387

Book preview

The Missing Model

The Missing Model

Also by the writer

Part Free

The System

The Systemski

The System Y2K

The Millennium Murder Case

A Foreign Invasion

The Oyster Smack

Our Noble Friend

Losing It

The Price of Rubies

Southend Made Me

The Ship of Consolation

This is a work of fiction. All names, places and characters are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to any living persons or organisations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © Clive Webster 2011. All rights reserved.

UK bookshops and Amazon.co.uk £8.99

Printing and binding by Lulu.com.

ISBN 978-0-244-87338-7

Cover illustration: Stambridge Mills. C. Webster

2nd Edition.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s permission.

The Missing Model

When an aspiring young model disappears everyone fears the worst. Suspects materialise like models on a catwalk: the smouldering blonde, Cheryl Bombe; the overbearing fashion designer, Dolores Constance and the neurotic photographer, Carl. In comes scruffy private investigator Ray Eastwood, doing a favour for an old friend, though it has already triggered an unfortunate side effect - someone has locked him in an oyster cage on a river bed about to be inundated with sea water. Amidst the glittering demimonde of modelling and the brooding skies of the Essex coastline, Eastwood’s cherchez la femme takes him on a long and painful journey. That is until he arrives at an old abandoned mill where even greater danger awaits…

To the local people of the River Roach who, despite any impressions I may have given to the contrary, were helpful and unfailingly courteous.

PART ONE

The model, a vestige of voluptuous barbarianism,

is like some plunder-laden prey.

Sidonie Gabrielle Colette (Writer of Gigi)

CHAPTER ONE

Sunday March 8th  4.15 pm.

‘The Cage,’ River Roach, Essex

First impressions were not great; confusion, disorientation, dark and troubling thoughts pushing upwards, competing for attention with a desire not to panic. Second impressions were worse and more physical; deep searing pains across his upper back and through his neck, piercing sensations coming from the back of his head. If he could relieve the physical pain, he thought, perhaps he could comprehend just what the hell was happening.

Several hours earlier, he’d been excited at the prospect of some strenuous hiking across the marshland. He’d intended to enjoy a hearty meal at the local hostelry and had left his Toyota Auris in the car park at Pagelsham. He’d felt that spirit of adventure - the tingle of anticipation he always experienced whenever he stepped into this barren landscape. Then he’d walked.

He’d strolled along the seawall, past marshland, where swaying reed beds revealed scuttling creeks. He recalled, in particular, the sea lavender, admiring its purple hues and the way it traced a haze around the numerous lazy lagoons that pitted the landscape. The main river had been on his right, snaking its way inland, through arable fields and water meadows, before heading off a narrow creek. The swollen river then went north until it met it’s big sister; the River Crouch. The river gave direction, movement, life-giving properties but it also spelled danger. As he’d stumbled along the undulating and ragged path, he’d kept one eye on the route ahead, and the other on the muddy waters below.

He remembered the weather too; cool, overcast, and he’d particularly remembered the clouds; slate-grey slabs shifting like paving stones, fanned by a brisk north easterly. He recalled doing up his jacket and pressing down on his baseball cap. Then he had gritted his teeth and pressed on.

He had been feeling unashamedly optimistic; he was making good progress, the weather was changeable but mercifully dry and the walk afforded glorious views across the estuary. What could possibly go wrong?

That was when it happened. Silent, out of eyesight…without warning. From behind - his Achilles heel – swift and stealthy, its approach muffled by the wind. A blow: a single, hard concentrated blow across his neck, a severe chop almost like a rabbit punch. He had fallen immediately - collapsed more accurately - because his spine had gone momentarily numb causing his legs to buckle beneath him.

Yes, that was the source of the pain, the punch running across his broad shoulders like a yoke. He tried to manoeuvre his body, around the cramped conditions but he was encased, bound on all sides. Eventually he managed to bring his knees up, closer, until they reached his chest. It eased the hurt, just a fraction.

Clearly he was trapped; within this outer casing, scarcely able to move. Above and below him he could feel the metal grilles, pressing into his collapsed and constrained body shape trapping his right arm, while all around horizontal metal bars scoured deep into his shoulders, hips and rump.

But that wasn’t the only cause for concern. Ever since he had regained consciousness he had felt them; two plastic restrainers securing his left wrist and left ankle to the cast-iron structure. Every time he moved, they chaffed his hand and foot preventing him from moving. But then, that’s what they were for. He had two options, searing pain or severe discomfort.

He could discern this much through touch – the feverish fumbling of bloodied fingers and feet – because he couldn’t see a thing. A blindfold, rough and uneven, banded across his eyes, made sure of that.  And tight against his mouth was a gag, forcing him to breath noisily through his nose, like a pig. He only needed foot bindings to be completely trussed up like a carcass.

Then, rising above the drifting cadences of wind, he heard a noise, A single note, like a strained, plaintiff cry.  It came from above. In his mind’s eye he saw it; brown, languorous, its broad wings beating slowly, its beady eyes looking down as it moved slowly across the sky, it’s long curved beak pointing the way to food. A curlew: the nomad of the mudflats.

Yet even more discernable was the smell of mud. Salty, damp and claggy, its cloying stench clung to his nostrils as pervasively as the metal structure clung to his knees and elbows.

Then he sensed a third element. Not earth, not air.

And he realised it had got a whole lot worse.

Liquid; a steady drip of fluid, followed by a tiny trickle, seeping through his shoes and moistening his socks. It had to be water - the life-giver - approaching from behind, tickling him playfully, toying with his senses. Yet there was no sense of fun or expectation in the man’s reaction, only dread.

It confirmed his worst suspicions: the tide was coming in.

He tugged once more on the restraints. They clacked against the metal frame. They were plastic -  just like the cuffs employed by police, prison officers and the armed forces. Private security firms used this type to restrain burglars trying to escape.  In fact, they could have been bought by anyone from anywhere - even army surplus stores sold them.

He’d used lots of different types in his time: flexicuffs,  zipcuffs, wrist ties, cuffs with chains, cuffs with hinges, some even had ratchet teeth and straps like electric cables. These days cuffs were lightweight, disposable and keyless. One thing hadn’t changed though; they still remained almost impossible to get out of. Not even Houdini, with his powers of escapology, athleticism and trickery would have found a way out of these.

Another trickle of salt water brushed against his shoes, ebbed and then came back more strongly as if to remind him that it wasn’t going to go away.

That blow, a single sharp chop. Most likely a martial arts expert or someone trained to disable an opponent with the minimum of fuss…and the maximum of effect. Someone who understood the power and capability of one’s own body to injure another. Not to kill or maim, merely to knock-out, incapacitate and render ineffective.

The motive for this seemingly unprovoked attack could come later. Right now, he had to think. The area he found himself in was barely inhabited; yet it possessed a colourful past all of its own – revealing the constant struggle between man and the shifting shoreline. A few miles to the north east were battlefields of ancient Britain, where mighty Vikings were repelled by the tide and the cunning Saxons. And around the next bend in the river, were the reputed remains of the HMS Beagle, Darwin’s ship of exploration; once a proud circumnavigator now languishing deep in the Essex mud. And two miles due north, King Canute was believed to have sat  by the water’s edge, waiting for the tide to come in, attempting to show his earthly fallibility to his devoted followers who believed him to be divine.

Floods, constant erosion, freak tides, even a tsunami; experience showed that the elements always won over in this part of the country. He didn’t think that even divine assistance would help him now. To avoid becoming part of that watery folklore, he’d have to figure out his own escape route.

Tides came in quickly in this remote part of the county;  buoyed by the winds, the swirling currents, the flat terrain and the raging North Sea. He ran through the facts in his head; two tides a day, every twelve hours and twenty-four minutes. He’d set out at midday, he clearly remembered the village clock ringing. The water level had been low, he remembered the last vestiges of tidal water which always flooded out of the narrow creeks and streams in a mad watery panic, as if not wanting to be left behind. Fifteen minutes later, the attack took place. He assumed he had been dragged here immediately. It took two hours to empty the basin and harden the glistening silted mud. Another two for the tide to return which meant he had been incarcerated for four hours. That made it at least four-fifteen. No one ventured out onto this desolate coastal path at four-fifteen.

The only creatures attracted by this inundation were of the feathered variety: waders like knot, a fluttering sandpiper, and a pair of fussy oyster catchers. Soon there would be flocks of black tailed godwits and scurrying plovers (he should have brought his binoculars), followed by the plundering gulls, strutting and pecking and finally the skittish redshanks. All congregated along the water’s edge sampling the seafood delights. At least, he wouldn’t be lonely.

By now, more water had drained into his prison. The pulsing surge of tidal water was now his prime concern. Tides were regular but varied dramatically at this time of year - it was less than two weeks to the vernal equinox. Sometimes, with a full moon, the tide flooded the banks and covered the meadows. Anything approaching that volume and he would be under water in less than an hour.

He had to find a way of restoring his vision. He rested his forehead against the metal structure and rubbed. There was a rasp and a sickening scrape. In tiny ribbons of flesh, his skin came away, ripped and gouged by the metal rods. He felt a cool, clinical shiver as the blood began to flow. But at least the blindfold moved, slightly, halfway down his left ear. He turned his head and rubbed his ear. More skin chafing against metal, more peeling flesh, more blood. The knot had eased. He rubbed again, more vigorously this time and at last the blindfold came away. For the first time in four hours he could see; with light spilling in across his left brow he saw the faltering flaxen sky breaking through the gloom. Was this a sign? Was this the first flicker of reassurance that all was not lost?

Soon the river would be in full spate; flowing freely, surging inland, two metres deep, unstoppable. By then he would be dead - unless he did something.

With one final rake, the material frayed and split. It fluttered to the floor. Now both eyes were fully functioning. A large black-coloured metal frame, several feet high, encrusted with algae growth and slime, surrounded him on all sides. A grille filled the top and bottom and there were bars on all sides. Just a hulking frame, he thought, lying in the mud, but he was cuffed to it.

There were several more frames forming a rank along the river bed. The frames were decaying, having succumbed to the elements, buffeted by tides, battered by gales. Recently, these cages had become the naturalised home for creatures like limpets, winkles and barnacles, nothing quite as large as the present incumbent.

They could be for anything he speculated; lobsters, crabs, crayfish and prawns. Then he recalled that lobsters were captured in pots or creels, not farmed and he recently remembered buying some local oysters. Oysters had once been farmed along here for centuries, when they were the staple food of the locals. Then they fell out of favour, or became too expensive. That was until some enterprising chap started farming them again, to satisfy the recent fad for fresh seafood.

Just his luck. He was trapped in an oyster cage.

His left leg and wrist were tethered to the frame, which only left his right side. He tried to swing around and finally released his right hand and leg so that they moved freely. Then he tried to lever himself up. It was a struggle but with all his ebbing strength he lifted himself to the top of the frame. The latch rattled but the grille held firm. He was now hanging onto the frame like a monkey, all four limbs attached. He began to shake it with all his might. The cage clattered and clanked but stayed firm. Finally, with desperation clouding his judgment, he threw his whole body against the structure. It shuddered and buckled, yet still refused to move an inch. He realised it was stuck, held fast in the deep, glutinous mud.

After a full lung-bursting minute of exertion he gave up. His arms and legs sank back into the mud. He lay there panting for several seconds, wild-eyed and confused like the caged animal he’d become. It seemed that all his exertions had been in vain, they had simply pushed the structure deeper into the mire…and still the tide kept coming.

He needed to retain his strength for the final onslaught. He began to curse. He cursed his lack of judgement – leaving behind his mobile not wanting to be disturbed - fat chance now. He cursed his lack of suitable clothing –waterproofs would have been nice. He also cursed his independence; going off and not telling a soul, but then he never did. And he also cursed his naivety for allowing the assault to have occurred in the first place - but then being attacked on a walk and tethered to a rusting, metal frame on a river bed didn’t happen every day.

So far, the removal of the blindfold, had only made him fully aware of the hopelessness of his situation. But now he could see the path winding towards the River Crouch to his left and to his right the haunting solitude of Wallasea Island, an uninhabited place. Then over his shoulder something flickered. He turned his head and looked again. He must be imagining it. Then he saw it again, in the direction from which he had come; a dark, solitary figure walking silently across the horizon. Someone was out there. The person stopped, seemed to hesitate and then continued on his path, moving elusively like a phantom. As the path dipped closer to the river, the figure disappeared from view once more.

The captive man’s spirits began to rise. If the walker continued heading in his direction, he should reappear in a couple of minutes. He wanted to scream out loud but his power of speech was hampered by the gag that cut into his mouth. He had to do something.

He tried to raise himself once again, hoping to come within the eye-line of the lone walker. He began beating on the roof of his structure and clanking the cuffs. Surely the walker would hear? For the next five minutes, the man clung on desperately, heaving his body, thrusting his pelvis upwards in a grotesque parody of sexual congress. But the figure never reappeared, the hapless man lay undiscovered and the chains remained unbroken on the manacled prisoner.

His spirits sank once more. The muddy sepia tide continued to lap around the cage, funnelling through the centre channel, surging upstream. Something long and slippery slithered past his trailing leg; probably an eel or a catfish coming in to feed. The water felt icy cold, it was rushing in so quickly now, he could feel its raw power. Then he had a thought. The notion spurred him into action. It was a long shot but it might just work.

He swung out, using his whole body weight to push the frame to one side. Slowly it slid sideways into the channel of water. Meanwhile, the water rushed alongside, slipstreaming its way past the structure. As he tugged and pushed, he could feel the pressure begin to build; the cage wobbled, the tide surged - something had to give. Eventually it did. With a great groan, the structure lifted up from its base in the mud, flipped and crashed down on top of him.

Argh! He was now lying on his back, still manacled but pinned to the river bed as the water rushed over him. He began to regret his hasty action. Now the water was pummelling his face, beating against his body and blinding his recently found sight. He closed his mouth and held his breath. This is it, he thought, this is my inglorious end, destined to drown in a river that was still only one foot deep.

As the metal frame pressed against his chest, it crushed his ribs and almost squeezed the life out of him. Crushed to death or drowned? either way he would asphyxiate. As the water continued to rush over his limp, swaying body, he lay face upwards seeing the diffused sky above, tantalisingly close but out of reach. What a glorious, dramatic and vibrant sky it was! full of life-giving oxygen - but it was of an unattainable world, a world above water.

He prepared for the inevitable. He loosened his grip, closed his eyes and shut down all thoughts. Then he lay on the soft spongy river bed, feeling the cold water soak through his clothes and prepared to meet his maker...

It could only have been minutes, but it seemed much longer. The mud beneath him began to move, not just keening to the power of the tide but shifting perceptibly. Then he sensed himself being dragged through the mud backwards; the frame, his body and a swirl of water. More water rushed through, filling every vacuum and then, with an almighty wrench, he was up, lying on the bank, mouth gaping like a landed fish, tasting the sweet, pure tang of fresh air.

He lay on his back, his chest heaving, his eyes rolling, the air flowing freely through his lungs. The awful, clanking frame was still on top of him but at least he could move and the ground beneath him felt unyielding and dry. He could sense his aching head, and feel the cool gashes in his arms and legs as they flowed with blood but he didn’t care, Ray Eastwood had come back from the dead.

CHAPTER TWO

The man was getting itchy feet. That was in addition to the dizzying effects of a tetanus jab. He’d already received a saline drip, two blood transfusions, and - just in case there was anything left inside him – a stomach pump. Now he lay in the hospital bed discombobulated like a car undergoing its 60,000 mile service.

The physiotherapist had done a good job in challenging circumstances, getting him into reasonable physical shape. Now he could manage to hobble across the room with a walking frame and relieve himself in a proper toilet. But it wasn’t sufficient to convince the doctor.

‘Ray Eastwood?’ he asked, peering at the clipboard from above his half lens spectacles.

‘Yes,’ the man croaked.

‘You’re going to make a full recovery,’ the doctor said with the distracted air of someone slightly bored with having to make life-defining pronouncements on a daily basis, ‘which is remarkable considering what you went through. Your body is weak now, BP needs perking up, sugar levels low, suggest you stay under observation for a couple more days. Then we’ll think about getting you home.’ The doctor hooked the clipboard onto the back of the bed and strode away.

That was good enough for Eastwood. He grabbed his clothes, signed away all his medical rights and hobbled out to the bus stop with two bruised ribs, lacerations of the wrist and ankles, superficial wounds to face and arms and some scabs that looked scarier than they felt. But at least he was going home.

The police had already interviewed him twice. Speaking in a haze of medication and drips, he’d tried to explain what had happened but none of it had made sense, at least to him. Still groggy, he was trying to piece it together when the bus approached. He thrust out a sore arm and clambered on board. Twenty minutes later, he limped off the bus, found himself buffeted by a crowd of shoppers and school kids with mobiles clamped to their ears, and looked up to see the familiar Victorian terraced house. Home sweet home! 

He turned the front door key. A waft of cold air came out to greet him. The heating had been off for three days. It felt eerily quiet but that was always the impression after days spent in a hospital. At least the smell of hospital disinfectant was absent. Instead he saw a slurry of mail shots and flyers forming an untidy pile in the doorway – welcome back to civilisation! He kicked them to one side and shuffled along the cold and gloomy hallway. He found his way to the kitchen and opened the fridge door. It revealed one pint of rancid milk, two eggs and a paltry morsel of desiccated cheese- hardly a feast fit for a returning hero.

He walked past the tea caddie and plastic soft drink bottles and found the drinks cabinet. One remaining bottle. A twenty-year-old Glenmorangie single malt whisky that had been given to him as a leaving gift. He had been keeping it for a special occasion – that occasion was now. He pulled it out and wrenched off the cap. Then he poured the amber liquid into a large glass tumbler, found a tin of soda and glugged the mixture. At last he felt the blood start to course through his veins again.

Then he noticed something strange. His car. It was parked in the driveway. The one he’d left in the pub car park at Pagelsham. Someone must have brought it back. That meant taking his keys, collecting the car from Pagelsham, driving it all the way home and bringing the keys back without him knowing– but then he hadn’t noticed a damn thing while he’d been in hospital.

It had to be the police - no one else would have brought it back intact.

He stepped outside and opened the car door. He peered inside. It was spotless. The police had been through it with a fine tooth comb and then cleaned it, now why would they do that?

He entered the small lounge clutching his whisky and soda. He picked out a CD and slotted it into his player: Mahler – the Solti version - the maestro in full control in 1971 with the Chicago Symphony. He sat back on the sofa. The pain in his bones slowly began to ease. A brief surge of organ and then the choral notes rose from the speakers like birdsong.

Komm, Schöpher Geist,

Nimm Wohnung in den Herzen der Deinen!

Come, Creator Spirit,

visit our souls!

Symphony No. 8, the Symphony of one Thousand. He drained his whisky as it swirled around the room - dark, disturbing, sometimes discordant…but always sublime. Then a jolt made him sit up.

His mobile phone. Where was it? He’d left it in his car on Sunday. He needed it, it had all his contacts. He stepped outside once more and checked the car. It was still lying there, on the passenger seat, just as he’d left it. He picked it up and played it back, expecting a flurry of messages. Nothing. He searched for his contacts. A blank screen stared back at him.

He came back inside. The answering machine was blinking in the corner, like a nervous tic. Funny, he hadn’t noticed it before, maybe the hospital had dulled his observational skills.

He pressed the buttons and waited. Two cold calls, one, trying to sell him bonds (didn’t they know he was broke?), someone chasing money and Joe’s gruff voice bellowing down the phone. He sat back on the couch. He was drifting vaguely off to a sleep induced by alcohol and medication, with Mahler as his mordent bedfellow, when the fifth message rang out.

That’s when his newly-transfused blood ran cold.

The voice was shrill, jarring, a wailing banshee. It defied age, gender and race. He got up and walked across. His trembling fingers hovered over the replay button. He pressed it.

‘Ray Eastwood, you are a dead fucking man! Yes you are. Ha, ha, ha!’ 

It rhymed, vaguely, but it wasn’t exactly Shakespeare and he couldn’t imagine himself being deceased and fornicating at the same time.

He’d had threats before; phone calls, poison pen letters, verbal abuse – it came with the territory. Usually he laughed them off or just ignored them - the world was full of cranks. But for some reason he paid attention to this one, possibly because it was pronounced with such venom he imagined the spluttering figure at the other end, mouthing obscenities through a stream of saliva-flecked bile.

He played it again. A maniacal voice down the phone didn’t make him or her a nutter, it just made them unpleasant. He switched off the CD player. Then he played it again. No background noise, just this shrill, poisoned voice. If anything, it sounded even more deranged - and therefore less sincere, less threatening - yet he couldn’t afford to take the risk. He sensed a connection. One attempt on his life and one vile threat…and he’d only been on the case for four days.

He began stalking the rooms, checking window frames, locks and doors. He found his spare sets of keys and locked them away. Then he checked the side gate outside, the skylight in the attic room and the front door before finally remembering why he’d walked across to the landline phone