by James Carol
Had he even noticed she was gone?
Had anyone noticed?
13
The driveway was a minefield of potholes, but Templeton didn’t seem to notice. She drove across them as though they didn’t exist, the BMW’s suspension complaining with every bump and jolt. She pulled into a walled courtyard and skidded to a halt, kicking up a spray of gravel that rattled against the underside of the car.
Dunscombe House was centuries old, older than America. Over the years new bits had been added here and there. Different styles, different periods, different architects. The building had an air of randomness, and a sense that it had been dislocated from time. It was big enough to be classed as a manor house, but nowhere near big enough to be a stately home.
We got out of the car and walked to the main entrance side by side. Templeton pressed the buzzer then took a step back and peered into the lens of the security camera. There was a look on her face like she was daring whoever was on the other end to deny us entry. Two seconds passed, three. The door clicked, the lock released, and Templeton strode in like she owned the place. Shoulders square, back straight, hips swinging. From behind, those tight jeans looked fantastic.
A Christmas tree opposite the reception desk was ten feet tall and totally over the top. It had dozens of glittering ornaments and baubles, hundreds of tiny white lights, yards upon yards of tinsel, and a large silver star on top. Templeton marched straight up to the reception desk and showed her ID.
‘We’re here to see Sarah Flight,’ she said.
The receptionist looked surprised.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.
The receptionist shook her head. ‘No, not at all. It’s just that Sarah doesn’t get many visitors.’
‘When you say not many, how many are we talking about?’
‘Her mother visits every morning without fail. You’ve just missed her.’
‘Anyone else?’
A shake of the head.
‘What about her husband?’
The receptionist hesitated. She glanced left then right, a classic tell for someone with a secret to share.
‘He’s never visited, has he?’ I said.
‘Not once.’
‘Where will we find Sarah?’
‘She’s in the day room.’ The receptionist pointed to a set of double doors opposite a wide old-fashioned staircase.
The day room was large and churchlike. Wood panelling, parquet flooring and a high vaulted ceiling. Someone had gone to town with the Christmas decorations, and there had to be a mile of tinsel and banners and strings of silver bells. The Christmas tree in front of the large fireplace wasn’t as big as the one in reception, but it was still impressive. It was decorated in a similar style, probably by the same person.
The room stank of overcooked vegetables and gravy and cleaning products, and reminded me of every institution I’d ever been in. It was like something from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The patients were being supervised by two orderlies, a black guy and a white woman who both looked bored to death. They were at a table near the door, killing time until their shift ended.
Sarah Flight’s chair was positioned in front of one of the bay windows and she was staring blankly out at the grounds. Her hair had grown back. It was shiny and healthy and neatly styled, and it had been brushed recently, probably by her mother as part of their morning routine. There was no way the orderlies would have taken the time to do it. Sarah was dressed in loose, baggy clothes. Easy to get on, easy to get off. A hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight was hard to manage, and the orderlies would be looking to make their lives as easy as possible. A trickle of drool escaped from the corner of Sarah’s mouth and dripped down the side of her chin.
‘Have you got any tissues?’ I asked Templeton.
Templeton fished a clean tissue from a pocket and I gently wiped the drool away. It was a small gesture, one that would go unnoticed, but Sarah deserved some dignity even if she wasn’t aware of it.
My first thought when I saw Patricia Maynard yesterday was that she’d be better off dead, and I was thinking the same thing now. That’s not a conclusion I’d come to lightly. Alive is always better than dead because any sort of life has to be better than a cold, lonely grave. If you’re alive, it doesn’t matter what horrors have been inflicted on you, there’s a chance you can be fixed.
That said, not everyone can be fixed. I know that from bitter experience. My mother had never been physically abused by my father, but the psychological scars ran deep, and they ultimately killed her. There will always be a few survivors who turn to drink or drugs to numb the memories, and in the more extreme cases, things will become so intolerable they kill themselves. Most manage to pull together something that resembles a functioning life, though.
Alive is always better than dead.
I looked at Sarah Flight sat there staring into nothing through dead eyes, and wondered if this was the exception to that rule. Sarah would never be fixed. For her, this was as good as it got.
I positioned a chair alongside Sarah’s, unzipped my sheepskin jacket, then pulled the hood of my top up and for a while just sat there sharing her view. Thoughts of the case tumbled randomly through my head and I did my best to ignore them. I wanted a few moments when my mind was as white and blank as the landscape on the other side of the glass. My biggest failing is getting too close, too involved. I want to solve the case so badly that the trees blur into one great big forest.
The winter sun made everything look sharper and more real, more defined. It reflected off the snow-covered lawn, dazzlingly bright, and the trees and bushes resembled white minimalist sculptures. The whole scene looked like a Christmas card. It depressed me that Sarah would never really see this.
For a split second my perspective shifted. The grounds blurred into the background and the window became a dull mirror that threw back a reflection of Sarah and myself. Because of the angle and the light and the lack of a reflective surface on the back of the glass, it was like the whole world had shrunk down until it was just the two of us.
And then my vision readjusted and I was back in the day room again. Templeton was standing behind me in a state of agitation. I could see her reflection in the window. She glanced at her watch, glanced at her cell, glanced over her shoulder at the patients. She sighed a couple of times, bit her lip. She was a woman with places to go and people to see.
I gave her another minute, a minute that was more like forty-five seconds. She crouched down and leant in close enough for me to get the full effect of her perfume. It was a good smell, one that monkeyed around with my overactive imagination and filled my head with all sorts of interesting and inappropriate notions.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, what the hell are we doing here, Winter?’ She was talking in a low whisper, her breath tickling my ear. ‘The reason I ask is because it looks to me like you’re sitting here watching the flowers grow when we should be out chasing the bad guy.’
‘What I’m doing is getting some perspective.’
I smiled and waited for Templeton to smile back.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘You do this job to catch the bad guys, right? That’s your endgame. And you’re good at it.’
Templeton’s head bobbed ambiguously from side to side, which was as close to an admission as she was ever going to give. There was no way she was going to admit something like that out loud.
‘You’re a classic overachiever,’ I added. ‘Driven and good at your job, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with that whatsoever.’
‘Your point?’
I nodded towards Sarah Flight. Another slither of drool had escaped from the corner of her mouth and I wiped it away with the tissue.
‘She’s the point. Her and every other person who’s come up against a lunatic with a warped world perspective and a bunch of twisted fantasies. When you focus all your energies on the bad guy it’s easy to forget the victims
. Way too easy. I’m as guilty of that as anyone. That’s why I came here. To remind myself that the real reason I do what I do is because of the victims. Catching the bad guys is just a bonus. Somewhere out there is a woman who has been snatched by our unsub, and if we don’t do our job properly then she’s going to end up like this.’
I reached out and touched Sarah Flight’s hand. Partly because I wanted to check she was real, but mostly because I needed to know. I half expected my hand to pass right through hers but it didn’t. I expected her skin to be cold but it was as warm as my own. There was a space on her one remaining finger where her wedding band had once been. The stumps of her other fingers and thumbs had been cauterised and were covered in scar tissue. Who’d removed the ring? Her mother? One of Dunscombe’s staff? A nurse or orderly Sarah would never know? One thing was for certain: Greg Flight hadn’t removed it. I got up and headed for the door. Behind me, Templeton’s footsteps sounded tentative and timid on the parquet floor, nowhere near as confident as when we’d walked in.
14
Greg Flight’s PA showed us into his large corner office on the top floor of a three-floor building leased by Fizz, a Soho-based advertising agency. The agency wasn’t premier-league, but it wasn’t a bottom-feeder, either. It sat comfortably in the middle, surviving on the crumbs dropped down from the tables of Saatchi and Saatchi and the other big boys.
Flight’s office was large and uncluttered, so was his desk. The furniture had soft round edges and was made from dark wood, and the ego wall screamed out that Flight had low self-esteem and was desperate to be taken seriously. He was doing his best to hide his insecurities and, given his position as art director, for the most part he was succeeding.
The PA escorted us towards two seats near one of the windows. They were made from soft padded leather and had been positioned so that when the blinds were up, you’d end up squinting into the sun. Flight’s chair was big and throne-like and positioned in front of the window so anyone talking to him would be forced to look in that direction. It was also a good three inches higher than the ones we were supposed to sit in. The power play was obvious and pathetic, and smacked of desperation.
Templeton stood beside me, tall and imposing and giving Flight her best cop stare. Greg Flight looked lost and nervous in his big chair. It was a major win for us. A total slam dunk. Flight had made his play, and couldn’t have got it more wrong. He’d aimed to be the top dog and failed spectacularly. If he stood up now then he might as well wave a white flag. The golden rule with power plays was that you never made your move until you were absolutely certain what your opponent’s move was going to be. Sun Tzu got it right two and a half millennia ago when he said you needed to know your enemy.
The PA flashed her boss a look, then shut the door gently behind her. She was in her early twenties, brunette and perky and no doubt useless at her job. What she lacked in competence she must have made up for with her athleticism. It was the only reason I could see for Flight hiring her.
I smiled down at Greg Flight, and he fired a smile right back at me. He was doing his best to save face, but he’d already lost, and didn’t even know it. Flight also had a space on his ring finger. His way of dealing with what had happened was through denial, and he’d no doubt done a thorough job of erasing Sarah from his life. If this meeting had taken place at his home rather than his office, there wouldn’t have been a single trace of their life together. No pictures, no mementos, no reminders whatsoever. There was a good chance he’d sold the house he shared with Sarah. It had taken some serious persuasion from Templeton to get five minutes of his time, not because he was busy, but because we were representatives from a past he was trying very hard to run away from.
‘How long have you been screwing her?’ I asked.
Flight looked confused, a man caught on the back foot, which was exactly where I wanted him. He knew what he’d heard, but couldn’t be sure he’d heard right. ‘Excuse me?’ he said.
I shrugged. ‘I was wondering how long you’ve been having sex with your PA. Does she know her days are numbered?’ I nodded to myself. ‘Of course she does. Incompetent isn’t the same as stupid. So were you screwing her before Sarah’s kidnapping? She looks a lot like Sarah, you know.’
Flight just stared, open-mouthed and dumbfounded.
I shook my head. ‘No. Sarah was kidnapped last year and I’m guessing there have been about six or seven women since then. A new one every couple of months would be about right. Did they all look like Sarah?’
Flight just carried on staring.
‘You were screwing around with someone when your wife was kidnapped, though.’ I nodded to myself. ‘Of course you were. And before that there would have been someone else. It’s what you do. You see a woman you like and you have to have her. It doesn’t matter who you hurt.’
A pause, then, ‘Did you ever really love Sarah? I mean really love her. I’m talking the sort of love where you would sacrifice your life.’ Another shake of the head. ‘Of course you didn’t. You could never do that. And the reason you couldn’t do that is because you’re a self-obsessed commitment-phobic asshole.’
Greg Flight’s face turned bright red. And then he launched himself at me. He moved quickly for someone who spent a large part of his life stuck behind a desk, covering the distance between us in seconds. He hit me hard in the chest and I stumbled backwards. One moment I was upright, the next I was flat on my back with Flight pinning me down. I tried to wriggle free but there was too much of him and not enough of me. He curled his hand into a fist. His face was twisted with rage, lips narrow, eyes bulging. I struggled some more and ran through the various scenarios, but it didn’t matter which way I came at the situation, I was going to end up hurt. The question right now was how badly.
The punch never came.
The weight on my chest eased and when I opened my eyes Greg Flight was glaring at me side-on from about four inches away. He was close enough for me to smell the stale coffee on his breath. His right cheek was squashed into the carpet and Templeton was on top of him, pulling his right arm up behind his back.
‘This is police harassment,’ Flight said, his voice muffled by the carpet.
I sat up, crossed my legs and looked down at him. As power plays went, this one was pretty good. I now had the height advantage by almost two feet. And he was being pinned down by a woman. The second part would have eaten into him more than the first. In Greg Flight’s world women were still very much second-rate citizens.
‘Technically it can’t be police harassment since I’m not a cop,’ I said.
Templeton pulled Flight’s arm higher and he grimaced. ‘Let me go.’
I tilted my head to the side so we were looking at each other eye to eye. ‘Look, Greg, nobody’s judging you here. To be honest, I really don’t care who you’re screwing. All I’m trying to do is get an idea of the state of your relationship with Sarah at the time she was kidnapped.’
‘Let me go,’ he repeated.
‘We’ll let you go when you start co-operating. And I’d think very carefully before answering my next question. Another couple of pounds of pressure and that shoulder’s going to pop right out of the socket. It hurts like hell having it put back in, like someone’s grinding glass into the joint.’
I paused, gave him a second to process this. Flight was glaring across at me like he was dreaming up new and improved ways to hurt me.
‘Okay, here’s the million-dollar question, Greg: your marriage was a mess, wasn’t it?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘And that’s the wrong answer. I’m afraid you don’t win the car.’
‘There was nothing wrong with my marriage.’
‘Yeah, that’s what you told the police. And because they were so focused on finding your wife they didn’t dig too hard, did they?’ I paused, softened my voice, made it quieter, more intimate. ‘Every time you have sex with your PA all you can think about is Sarah. You think about her wasti
ng away in that hospital and the guilt eats you up.’
Flight’s eyes darted downwards, seeking out his naked ring finger. Templeton pulled harder on his arm and he gave a yelp.
‘I’m reckoning another pound of pressure before that shoulder pops out, Greg. You might want to think about that.’ I paused again. ‘You know, we’ve just been to see Sarah. That private hospital she’s in isn’t cheap, but you’re doing well for yourself so I reckon you can probably afford it. Does it ease the guilt to see that payment going out of your bank account each month?’
Flight broke eye contact and turned his head downwards into the carpet. When he looked back up at me again I could tell he’d come to a decision, and that the decision was the right one.
‘Things hadn’t been good between us for a while,’ he whispered.
15
The lights came on with a dull thud, harsh, bright halogens that burned Rachel’s sight into blindness. The glare reflected off the white wall and floor tiles, dazzling her. It was too much, too soon.
Rachel put a hand up to her forehead to block out the light, but it was still too bright. She closed her eyes then opened them slowly, a millimetre at a time, letting the light filter in until they were fully open. She’d been right about there being no windows and only one door. The door was painted white, gloss rather than matt, and was almost as reflective as the tiles. There was a large dog flap fitted to the lower part of the door. The ceiling was painted white, the mattress was white, the blankets.
