Taken

By DAVID PHILLIPS

Taken2

"We cannot find our daughter. We need help. Please, will you come to us."

 

Can Martin, a private detective battling with addiction to alcohol, find the missing girl as he battles with a cruel and crafty kidnapper?

 

Can he stay sober, and safe, as he chases down the weird structure of the kidnap?

 

And can he find and recover the missing girl before it is too late?

 

Finally, will he find a way to beat his addiction as he finds himself caring for a woman he meets in the process of his investigations?

• Language: English
• Publisher: DavidRPhillips
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201088736

DAVID PHILLIPS

David Phillips, FCPA (ret.) is in his mid-seventies and lives just out of Melbourne, Australia. He began writing in his early seventies and found an enjoyment in putting ideas together with research to come up with stories, often linked to historical events of interest. He finds writing a labour of love and spends time at the keyboard every day.

Book preview

Chapter One

Martin Wright was bent almost double as he looked at the coffee and doughnuts on the table. He reckoned he might be about to throw up on them. Carla, the waitress, stood two paces back after she delivered the breakfast fare. As though she shared his thoughts, she asked:

‘Are you alright, Marty?’

‘I think I’m about to throw up, Carla.’

‘Marty. Go to the washroom. Do whatever. This lot will still be here when you get back.’

He dragged himself upright and headed for the toilets. Carla shook her head. She saw a man of above average height with a slight tan, light brown hair, and brown eyes.  Sadly, he was doing himself serious harm as he hit the booze at night and dragged himself around all day.

Martin stood there, waiting for his guts to heave and send whatever might remain inside him into the bowl. In time, he realized it was not going to happen but, as he waited, his headache grew in intensity until it was close to unbearable. When he returned to the table, he called Carla and asked for a couple of the strongest pain killers she had in the first aid cupboard out back of the serving area. When he had downed the tablets and the glass of water, he turned toward the morning feast and started on the coffee.

It had been another bad week. There was still no case for him to work on. It was becoming a regular problem.

And right now, he needed a client. The booze had taken over and he was a drunk.

He needed police work. The day he lost his badge was the worst day of his life, and the private investigation business was about the only vocation that could save him from putting a gun to his head. This was the main topic in his consultations with the therapist, Jeremiah Hosking. He reckoned he had better call the doc for a session given the way he felt and the hole he was in danger of falling through. He pressed the number on his smartphone.

‘Doc. Can you see me?’ He waited, listening. ‘Today, if you can squeeze me in. I need it, doc.’

‘Okay, 5pm. Thanks, doc. I’ll see you then.’

*

Jeremiah abhorred the term shrink but, whenever he heard it, turned a deaf ear to the degradation of his special abilities. People needed help, and he gave his full attention to every client and problem brought into his care. There were myriad problems assailing people and there was plenty of variety in the needs and wants of his clients. His daily working life was never dull.

A session with Martin Wright always became a sparring match. He wondered what brought on the need for an urgent consultation even as he was sure he knew the way it would go.

*

The door opened as he mounted the step and reached for the doorbell. Martin looked briefly at the row of framed certificates on the wall as he entered the room. They gave assurance to those who needed assurance. The doc could have a heap of letters attached to his name if he ever wanted to place an exclamation point on his many years of study.

‘I feel honoured. My therapist opened the door for me.’

‘I was just coming back from having a leak and I saw you walking up the pathway. I thought I might as well make you feel important, if only for a fleeting moment.’

‘It’s a good start to our session.’

‘Sit yourself down, Martin, get comfortable and be ready to open yourself up to the both of us.’

They made their way to the consulting room, sat, and faced each other. Jeremiah wore grey – grey suit, grey shirt, a grey and maroon tie, and grey socks inside black suede shoes. He had grey hair and light blue eyes and was clean-shaven. The openness of his face would give a client the feeling his problems were in deep consideration and understanding.

‘Okay. I’m comfortable.’

‘And ready?’

‘I am.’ Martin sounded a little insecure.

Jeremiah pushed his spectacles back toward his eyes as he settled himself.

‘So, tell me why you needed an urgent meeting with me today. What motivated the need?’

‘Self-loathing.’

‘I see. And what caused you to turn on yourself?’

‘A screaming hangover. The waitress saw it and sent me to the men’s room in case I threw up over my breakfast.’

‘You were ashamed of how you looked and felt in front of a waitress.’

‘Well, Carla is sort of a friend since I’m a regular at her café.’

‘You hated that she saw you in that situation.’

‘I hated myself for being the way I was.’

‘But you’ve told me you often have hangovers.’

‘I do.’

‘And?’

‘I’m a drunk and a mess and I need your help, doc.’ There was a tear in the voice but none appeared in his eyes.

‘So, you’ve come to me for help. Is it a fix me quick type of help or the need for a deeper probe into the reasons for your need?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the expert.’

‘Why did you have this screaming hangover?’

‘I had nothing to do so I drank a bottle of booze last night.’

‘Has this been a regular occurrence lately?’

‘Yes. I have no work. When I have no clients, and no case to work on, I drink.’

‘So, you need a case to get you involved and, when you are involved, it reduces your need to murder a bottle of whisky?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘You need help, Martin.’

‘Which is why I am here.’

‘I cannot help you unless I get a lot of help. You know what I am saying.’

‘Help? From me? I’m not much good at helping me.’

‘So, help me to help you then.’

‘Okay. I can try.’

‘How can you help me, Martin?’

‘Maybe by not buying booze?’

‘It would be a start. Yes. Can you make such a commitment?’

The room went quiet. There was a frown on Martin’s forehead. Hosking watched, waited.

‘I don’t think I can.’ The voice quavered as he spoke.

‘You don’t think you can avoid buying booze?’

‘Correct. I’ve tried heaps of times, but I always finish up at the liquor store.’

‘And yet, if you are on a case, you say you don’t drink?’

‘I drink, but sparingly. I have a responsibility if I have a client.’

‘So, you can be responsible to a client, but not to yourself?’

‘If you say so. I guess it is the way I am.’

‘You should care more about yourself, Martin.’

‘I know, but I don’t know how.’

‘Can you go the rest of tonight without a drink?’

‘I have not had a drink today, so far. It would be hard to also get through the night without a drink.’

‘Is there any booze at your apartment?’

‘No. I drained it all last night.’

‘Okay. Go home, drink coffee or tea or cocoa or tap water but no booze and come here first thing tomorrow morning between seven and eight o’clock. This is important. Make up your mind to it and make it important to you, Martin.’

‘I’ll do the best I can. For you, doc.’

‘No, Martin. For you.’

They stood and walked to the door. They shook hands and Martin left. Jeremiah Hosking watched him until he was out of sight.

*

As he walked toward his home, Martin was conflicted with the outcome of the consultation. The fear was on him, in the shortness of breath and the sense of pending perspiration. Had he agreed to go without a drink for the rest of the day? It seemed he had made a commitment to Jeremiah and now, he knew, he faced one hell of a night.

There was not a drop of liquor in the house and he would be walking within five minutes of the store. He could feel the tremors even before they arrived, as they would at some time during the night. He could avoid all the discomfort with just a few nips. But then, he knew it was wishful thinking. If there was grog in the house, he would drink it. He had to go along with his tacit acceptance of Jeremiah’s proposition. He would stay off the grog for the night and turn up on the bloody shrink’s doorstep first thing in the morning. Shit!

From the corner of his eye, he noticed a swarthy man with a light brown ponytail hairstyle duck back around the corner as he approached. As he stewed on his inner turmoil, the furtive movement slipped from his mind and he passed the corner without incident. He did not notice that the man had disappeared back up the street. At the next intersection, he glanced to his left and along the cross street and could see the liquor store in the distance. He turned away in a sharp movement and headed toward home, head down and striding out.

Martin was inside himself in every way as he drove himself forward. As a result, he was unprepared when he spotted the same man again. He noted the dark navy duffle coat this time, and the dark blue jeans and shabby Nike running shoes and the black cap with the New York logo, all taken in during the split-second the man was looking his way. It prompted questions. Am I being followed? Unlikely. Who would be interested in my comings and goings?

The dark was closing on him and would settle in before he arrived at his front door and his mind now recalled the stranger who seemed to avoid him and had twice drawn his attention. Maybe he is following me, he thought, even as it seemed unlikely and he hoped the bloke had no nasty intentions.

He came to his street and turned in. There was nobody in the street and he relaxed. He was only five hundred metres from his front door. He said it aloud, for his own benefit.

‘Just a half a kilometre. I am letting my drinking problem get me down and letting it drag me into further negative thoughts. Come on.’

And then he was running for his life. The first shot took a piece out of the lamppost on his right as he started running in a crouch and flat out toward the relative safety of his front fence. The second shot was better aimed and took a piece of him as it nicked his left arm. Martin reached for his Glock but realised he went unarmed with respect to Jeremiah. Taking a gun into the rooms of a psychiatrist would not be a sign of mental well-being. He slammed through the front gate and pitched down behind the timber fence, peeking through gaps in the palings as he tried to spot the shooter. It appeared any further attempt on his life was postponed. Probably because there were too many windows looking down on the street and it meant the risk of being seen by neighbours attracted by the sound of gunshots.

Martin stayed where he was for what seemed a long time - later, he worked out it was five minutes. In the end, he crouched low and opened the front door and scuttled inside. He started toward the liquor cabinet before he realised that he was out of stock, and it left him wondering how he could possibly make it through the night.

‘Why did I agree to go without booze? And who is trying to kill me?’

He jumped. There was a sound outside, at the front of the house, in the street. He realised it was the slam of a neighbour’s front door.

*

Jeremiah had a smile on his face as he watched Martin enter the room and take a seat.

‘You look better than yesterday. Did you manage to go without?’

‘I did, and it was not easy.’

‘It was not going to be easy, was it?’

‘It got a lot harder, doc. I had some trouble.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I had a bloke follow me and shoot at me.’

You what?’

‘Yeah. He nicked my arm. It’s okay. I looked after it.’

‘Who was it?’

‘I don’t know, and I don’t know of anyone who has me on their list, but there are people who have been upset with me, over the years, for setting them up.’

‘Are you saying you set them up for a prison sentence?’

‘Some went to prison.