Free Worse than Death (Anna Southwood Mysteries) by Jean Bedford

knitted balaclava covering his face, who must have been crouching on the car floor, leaned out quickly and grabbed my arm. The front passenger door of the car opened, too, blocking my way, and I stood completely unresisting and silent. It was so like every cliché of every kidnap scene that I was immobilised by its apparent unreality. As I was bundled roughly into the back seat, the only coherent thought I could summon was to thank Christ I’d bought cigarettes.
    “No need for a gag, is there, Mrs Southwood?” said the man in the balaclava. The car was already moving and I could only see the backs of the men in front. One of them, the passenger, laughed, and half turned his head. He was a redhead and he had what Trent called one of those moustaches, probably false. He had on dark glasses.
    “Better blindfold her, though,” he said, and passed over a large checked scarf. His voice was pleasant, with a Scottish edge — probably a Glasgow thug, I thought viciously.
    “Why?” I finally said, when the scarf was in place around my eyes. “What’s it all about?” This had to be a dream, I thought — the banalities were tumbling over each other, almost as if it was rehearsed. I had absolutely no idea of struggling. or trying to get out — it all had the inevitability of a much-watched movie sequence.
    “Shut up,” said my companion in the back seat, and poked me with what I assumed was a gun.
    I shut up and sat back in the seat. I wondered if they’d let me smoke and groped towards my bag. The pressure of the presumed gun increased and I made miming movements with my hand to my mouth. I heard the click of a lighter and a cigarette was put in my mouth — not one of mine, a real one that made me cough, but I smoked on, bravely.
    Many cigarettes and what must have been hours later, the car slowed down over a badly rutted track. No one had spoken during the entire trip. A shack in the bush, I thought. Of course. I had no idea what direction we’d taken out of the city — I’d tried to listen for the Harbour Bridge traffic, but going north you don’t have to stop for the toll. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard southbound drivers throwing their coins in or not. You can imagine a lot when you’re blindfolded and in a state of shock. Any script I’d written would make it the mountains — it was the obvious location shot.
    But when we pulled up and they untied the scarf, I wasn’t any wiser. It could have been somewhere in the hills near Black-heath, but equally it could have been Kangaroo Valley or out past Foxground going south. It was very beautiful, wherever it was — lush rainforest and the hint of mist lifting from the trees. The ‘shack’ was more of an elegant weekender — architect-designed, built of stained pine with large gracious decks around three sides.
    My minder took off his balaclava, revealing a suntanned, rather good-looking blond man, and, sure enough, the Scotsman ripped away his moustache. The driver got out, and all three shepherded me towards the house. I recognised none of the men, and the fact that they didn’t seem to mind if I was in a position to identify them later gave me a very nasty feeling.
    They took me into a well-equipped kitchen and indicated I should sit at the scrubbed pine table. The shock was wearing off and I was starting to panic.
    “Coffee?” the Scotsman said, as if I’d just dropped in for a visit. I nodded. The balaclava man delved into my bag and put my fags and the lighter on the table in front of me. The driver left the room and I heard him lift a receiver and dial a long number. We were definitely out of the metropolitan district. A lot of help that was. New South Wales is a big state, and there’s a lot of remote bush within a few hours’ drive of Sydney.
    “Please,” I said, when I had my coffee, wrapping my hands around its warmth to try and stop their shaking. “Please tell me what this is supposed to be about. I honestly don’t know what I’ve done.