The Winding Stair

by Millie Vigor

  ‘Beef will do fine.’ The woman was pulling his beer. ‘With mustard,’ he added.

  With mustard it was and as he ate his sandwich the woman, arms folded and resting on the bar, questioned him.

  ‘Where you from, then? You ain’t local, not with that tan, and what you doin’ in this dump?’

  ‘Actually, I came here to visit a friend,’ said Brett. ‘But I don’t know exactly where to look. Perhaps you might be able to tell me?’

  ‘Might. What’s his name?’

  ‘Her name is Virginia Harvey.’

  At the mention of Ginny’s name the barmaid jumped back.

  ‘You’ll be lucky,’ she said. ‘She’s disappeared. Police are looking for her; though what good they can do I don’t know. Lot of goons they are. I reckon she’s run off with some chap meself, either that or she’s been murdered.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘Not really. She comes here once or twice for a meal. She was nice.’

  ‘And where does she live?’

  ‘Number three, Carver’s Cottages. Go across the road and up Church Lane and you’ll find it on the left. She won’t be home, you know.’

  ‘Apparently not. Do you do bed and breakfast?’

  ‘Yes. You ain’t never goin’ to stay here.’

  ‘Why not? Have you got a card?’

  A card with proprietor’s name, address and phone number on it tucked into his wallet, Brett finished his beer and picking up his bag, set off in the direction of Ginny’s house. When he found it he stood and looked at it. He wondered how she had come to settle here. Did he hope to see a face at the window? Did he hope that she would look out and recognize him, open the door and invite him in? It was a vain hope. The windows stared blankly back at him.

  In the sitting room of the house next door, Bill Graham lounged comfortably in his favourite armchair. The TV was on, but Bill was asleep and had missed the programme he had wanted to watch. He woke as the credits rolled up the screen.

  ‘Nancy,’ he shouted, ‘where are you?’ Switching the TV off, he got up and stretched, then ambled off to join his wife. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked when he found Nancy in the kitchen, beating something in a bowl with a wooden spoon.

  ‘I thought I’d make a few of your dad’s favourite cakes.’

  ‘You’ve already got enough stuff to feed an army.’

  ‘But you never know who might drop in and it would be awful if I had nothing to offer.’

  Bill shook his head. No one would drop in. ‘Did you put the kettle on?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Nancy as she spooned the mixture from the bowl into paper cases on a baking sheet.

  ‘I’ll do it then,’ said Bill.

  When the little cakes were in the oven, tea was in the pot, mugs and a jug of milk on the table, Nancy poured tea. Bill put the mugs on a tray and picked it up. ‘Come and sit down for a bit,’ he said. ‘Bring the Hobnobs with you.’

  Nancy picked up the biscuit barrel and followed her husband.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Ginny,’ said Bill. ‘You miss her, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I look out every day and hope I’m going to hear her talking to her cat. But the house is like a morgue.’

  ‘She was as bad as us when it came to friends, wasn’t she? But then she was always glued to that computer. I don’t suppose she had time for a social life.’

  ‘Bill, don’t,’ said Nancy as he helped himself to several biscuits, ‘you’ll be fat as a pig.’

  Bill grinned at her. ‘I’m a growing boy,’ he said as he crunched. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve given any more thought as to who might have had it in for Ginny?’

  ‘Well, there was that man at the hotel she went to. Isn’t it time you pulled him in for questioning?’

  ‘You know I can’t talk about that.’

  ‘Well, I think you ought to collar him. I saw him and Ginny having a row. That wasn’t about nothing and it wasn’t long after that that it all blew up—’

  ‘There’s someone at the door,’ said Bill, when a loud knock interrupted what Nancy was saying.

  Nancy ushered Brett into the sitting room. ‘Here’s someone who wants to know what’s happened to Ginny.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ said Bill.

  While Nancy went to rescue the little cakes that smelled as though they were done, Brett explained to Bill how he knew Ginny. That he’d been working abroad and had hoped to catch up with her when he came home. He said he’d seen a report of her disappearance in a newspaper, and on a whim had travelled down to Salisbury, hoping that she might have been found. He wondered if Bill could tell him if there had been any development in the search for her.

  Bill gave as much information as he could. This man was a stranger and he would have to find out for himself. Brett had seen the policeman’s jacket and cap hanging in the hall, and guessed that he was not being told anything that wasn’t already public knowledge. He stood up, thanked the Grahams for their hospitality and made to leave.

  As Nancy saw him out he said, ‘Ginny lived next door to you, did you know her well?’

  ‘We were great friends,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Then you must miss her,’ he said.

  ‘I do, and I hope they find her soon.’

  ‘And so do I,’ said Brett, ‘so do I.’

  FOURTEEN

  The laptop didn’t have access to the internet. Did she think it would? Curtis was no fool, certainly not careless enough to give her the chance to connect to send emails. But it was a computer and she was a writer so she would use it. He had asked her what she was going to write and she had said she had a book to finish, but that was at home and already forming in her mind was a journal of her captivity. Not only would that be a record to present to the police when she escaped – as surely she would – but it would give her enough material for a book later on. Of course, everything depended on whether she could escape and at the moment there was little likelihood of that. But that was a negative way of thinking and not the way forward. Her chance would come.

  With recent happenings fresh in her mind, what better time to start writing than now? She needed a password which had to be different to the one on the computer she used at home, different and difficult. She’d read somewhere that the first characters of the words in a sentence, a line from a poem maybe, would be very difficult for someone else to steal. A line from a poem would be easy to remember and that was her choice. But it was one taken from an obscure Scottish poet and not one that Curtis was likely to know. To make it more difficult, Ginny turned the sentence back to front. Happy now that no one would have access to a single word she wrote until she was ready to share it, she set up the parameters of the page.

  A title for the document would have to be relevant to her situation. As it would mostly be about the way Curtis treated her perhaps just his name would do. It had been very wily of him to lure her into his house the way he did. He must have had it planned for some time and been waiting for her to fall into his trap. But he had, in fact, kidnapped her. Ginny sat down and began to write.

  Who’s Afraid of Curtis Brookes?

  I can’t believe I’m locked up in the cellar of Curtis Brookes’s house. How could I have been so foolish as to walk into his trap? But here I am. He says he wants to look after me, make it easy for me to do my writing without having to spend time doing housework or cooking. He’ll do all that for me. I don’t know why. I didn’t flirt with him or give him any encouragement to think I thought anything of him. I treated him the way I would have any other library assistant. Nancy and I thought he might be gay, seeing that he didn’t seem to have any interest in women. I still think he might be because he hasn’t made any moves on me and when I asked him when he was going to rape me, he looked as shocked as my grandmother would have done. What’s wrong with him? And that’s another thing, I would never have followed him up the steps and into his house if he had been a testosterone laden male. I would have been well aware of the danger and
would have feared for my safety. But Curtis was gay, or so I thought, and there could be no harm and I, fool that I was, wasn’t going to miss the chance to see what the inside of his house was like.

  There’s something else wrong with Curtis, I don’t really know what, except that I suspect that he has what is known as multiple personality disorder. He can switch from his normal unoffending self into a monster in seconds then minutes later switch back and not appear to remember a thing about it. It’s very strange.

  On the second night I tried to escape, I stood behind the door and slammed it in his face when he brought me my supper. He went flying and laid there on the floor in the midst of broken plates and dishes. It was my chance so I leapt over him but he was quick and grabbed hold of my ankle. After that it all went so fast. He was so strong. I fought. I bit. I scratched. But the more I fought the stronger he seemed to become. And then he was up and throwing me through the door. I fell, got up and tried to get away from him, but he grabbed me and we fought again. I was afraid for my life but suddenly he shook his head and looked at me with eyes that were dull and blank. And then he was asking me why I was looking so frightened and what had we been doing to be in such a mess.

  And now I think I know what’s made him the way he is. I was asking him about his parents and he went all weepy on me and started saying, ‘Dirty boy.’ That didn’t last long, but then another person was there, another voice, a woman’s, and when I asked who it was, she said her name was Angel and she was the one who protected him, along with the others. Others! She warned me about Mikhail, who, it seems, I have to be very careful not to upset. How am I going to do that when I don’t know who is going to come out? There aren’t any signs beforehand and it isn’t until Curtis starts twitching and blinking his eyes that I know something’s going to happen. I remember reading about people like that. It’s thought it’s because something traumatic happened in childhood. They put on another face and kid themselves that it never happened to them. Poor Curtis. But this puts a whole new light on everything. If I was only dealing with Curtis I might be able to persuade him to set me free, but … oh, God, it’s like trying to fight an octopus, arms and legs everywhere. What am I going to do?

  The words flowed and Ginny’s fingers flew over the keyboard. When at last she hit the save button, closed the lid and disconnected the power cable, it was close on midnight.

  As he walked across the square in Salisbury, Brett paused. While he was here, perhaps he ought to buy some more underwear, socks and a spare shirt. But would he need them? He hadn’t planned to stay in the Salisbury area long and there was a change of everything in his backpack, but perhaps another set wouldn’t go amiss. There was another thing that had to be attended to first, though, and for that he had to find a café.

  Threading his way along pavements crowded with shoppers, Brett savoured the Englishness of the scene. Brightly lit shop windows, people going about their business and snatches of conversation, often with a smattering of a country accent. A Starbucks sign loomed and Brett homed in on it. Coffee and a bun would fill a space till he could eat again. He stood in line, then, mug in hand, looked for somewhere to sit.

  ‘Hi, over here,’ called a voice. Brett looked round and there was Nancy Graham. She sat at a table for two, an empty chair opposite her. ‘Come and join me,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you again,’ said Brett as he put his coffee on the table and sat down.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be on your way home to Scotland now, won’t you? Your family will be expecting you.’

  ‘They will, but I’d like to find out what’s happened to Virginia first.’

  ‘Me too. I’m sorry if I was a bit off when I first saw you. I admit Ginny upset me when she accused me of stalking her, but I’m over that now. She was my friend and I would like to know what’s happened to her, so if you feel like doing a bit of sleuthing, I’ll help you.’

  Brett grinned at her. ‘You fancy being a private eye, do you?’

  ‘Well, somebody’s got to do something. The police are doing what they always do, saying nothing. Even Bill doesn’t really tell me anything. I get the impression they think Ginny wanted to disappear and that there’s nothing they can do about it. But that’s not her. Something’s happened to her … I know.’

  ‘OK, where would you start?’

  ‘PC World. There’s a chap there that Ginny used to go out with. His name is Ashley. I don’t know his last name. He’s tall and he’s not a nice man. I wouldn’t trust him. And then there’s Paul, he’s the one whose parents owned the hotel Ginny stayed at. I don’t know where he lives but it’s somewhere here, he’s a photographer so he should be in Yellow Pages. Have you got a mobile?’ When Brett nodded she said, ‘OK, let’s exchange numbers. I prefer texts to calls, how about you?’

  ‘Hey, look,’ said Brett. ‘I’m not a detective.’

  ‘I know, but if I hear anything I can let you know, can’t I?’

  They exchanged numbers and parted company, and Brett grinned as he watched Nancy walk away. She seemed to think that he was going to play private eye or something. Come to think of it, he hadn’t anything better to do so perhaps a few questions here and there might turn up some clues. The more he thought about it the more he liked it, so he left the café to make his way to the computer store. What did he expect to learn from meeting Ginny’s ex-boyfriend except what sort of man Ashley was? Maybe, if he could steer the conversation in the right direction, he could find out what their relationship had been like, and whether the man still had feelings for her. With luck, he might also discover if they were still in contact or if the relationship was past resurrection. If that was the case, then it might be possible to put Ashley on the back burner, but not devoid of suspicion.

  PC World was on a small industrial estate. It rubbed shoulders with Staples on one side and Curry’s on the other. Brett walked into PC World and began to wander up and down the aisles. He looked at printers and copiers and, as assistants came and went, glanced at the name tags pinned to their chests. So far, no Ashley was amongst them. In the stationary department he picked up an A4 pad and a value pack of pens.

  ‘You’re going to be busy,’ said a voice as Brett tucked the box of pens under his arm. ‘You do know there’re ninety pens in that pack, don’t you?’

  ‘Got a lot of writing to do,’ said Brett. ‘And there’s never a pen handy when I want one.’ A quick look at the man’s name tag told him he’d found the one he was looking for. Now he had to keep him talking. ‘I’ve been thinking about getting a new laptop, but do I need a laptop or a notebook? What’s the difference?’

  ‘Follow me and I’ll explain.’

  Brett followed Ashley and walking behind him, noted the swagger in the man’s walk. Ashley was tall, but whereas Brett was well-built, the other was lean. Ashley’s head topped a long, thin neck, the sort of neck that would be very vulnerable in a fight. Brett smiled. He wasn’t actually planning to fight the man.

  ‘Here you are,’ said Ashley when he reached the display of computers. ‘If you tell me what you’re going to be using your PC for, I can advise you as to the model that will suit you best.’

  Brett didn’t find it hard to describe the way he used his laptop and Ashley, picking up that this was a man who wanted the best, launched into his sales pitch. Brett listened, nodded and asked questions.

  ‘I can’t make up my mind between this one and that,’ he said, as he pointed at two of the most expensive models. ‘Do you have leaflets for them? I’d like to think about it.’

  He thanked Ashley for his help then said, ‘I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about the young woman that’s disappeared, she was a writer and I believe she used to shop here. I’ve known her since she was a teenager and when I recently came home from abroad I wanted to catch up with her, but then I saw the report about her in the paper and thought I’d spend a bit of time here in case she turned up. Did you know her?’

  ‘You mean Ginny Harvey. Yes, she shopped
here.’

  ‘What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘My mother’s a fan of hers. She’s got all her books. I haven’t seen Ginny for a couple of years and I wondered how she’d changed and if she was married or still available.’ Brett mentally crossed his fingers, his mother would not approve of the lies he was telling. ‘It’s strange that the police seem to have no idea what’s happened to her. My landlady seems to think they’ve given up on the case, says she’s done it before and that she’ll come home of her own accord. What do you think?’ They were walking towards the checkout.

  ‘That bitch,’ snapped Ashley. ‘Don’t know and couldn’t care less.’

  Brett gasped at the vehemence with which Ashley spoke.

  ‘Are you saying that you knew her personally?’

  He stopped walking, Ashley too, who turned and stood facing Brett.

  ‘I took her out for a while, treated her well and bought her stuff. But none of it was good enough. She seemed to think that because she was an author and her books had been published, that she was a cut above me. I soon put her wise to that. But I haven’t seen her for ages now.’

  ‘You might never see her again, doesn’t that bother you?’

  ‘Why should it? She made no bones about giving me the heave-ho. Love ’em and leave ’em, and move on, that’s what I say.’ Ashley grinned. ‘Plenty more fish in the sea, mate.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ said Brett. ‘Thanks for these, anyway.’ He held up the leaflets Ashley had given him. ‘I’ll be in touch, but now I’d better pay for my stuff and get going.’

  Well, that was interesting, he thought, as he left the store. Ashley’s description of Ginny did not describe the young woman he knew. And the way he said he had treated her did not tally with what Nancy had said. But one thing was clear, and that was that Ashley was not the person he professed to be. Though he might be put on the back burner, the lid of the pot he was in should be raised from time to time. And that was what Brett intended to do.