by James Carol
The wounds left by Adam’s knife were red and sore, but all the butterfly stitches were still in place. While Rachel got washed, Adam went over to the mattress and checked the cable ties. A single click echoed through the basement and Sophie groaned. Rachel froze, then quickly started scrubbing again. Another click, another groan. This time she didn’t stop. She finished washing then towelled herself dry and waited for the next instruction.
Adam nodded to the purple dress on the chair. On top of the dress was a black bra and matching panties. ‘Number Five will get dressed.’
Rachel put on the underwear. The panties were a size too small, the bra a size too big. The underwear was old-fashioned, decades old rather than years. The dress was old, too, fancy for its time, but that time was long gone. The shoulder pads and frills dated it back to the eighties. It smelled of mothballs.
Rachel pulled the dress over her head. It was a tight fit but she managed to wriggle into it. With a twirl of his finger, Adam motioned for Rachel to turn around so her back was to him. His fingertips brushed across her neck and she forced herself not to flinch as he fastened the clasps. He started at the bottom and worked his way up. His hands were soft and his fingers worked the clasps gently. The last one went in and Adam stepped back. Rachel breathed easier again. Adam looked her up and down then nodded to the door.
‘After you, Number Five.’
65
My cellphone rang and I snatched it up. Sumati Chatterjee didn’t bother with any niceties, she just blurted out a name. It was the third name on my mental list of seven.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely positive.’
She gave me the edited highlights in bullet points, brief and concise, her delivery rapid-fire. I hung up, grabbed the list, drew a big red circle around Darren Webster’s name, then held it up for Hatcher to see.
‘There’s your bad guy,’ I said.
Hatcher grinned. ‘That’s the best news I’ve had in a very long time.’
I grabbed my coat and ran for the door. Hatcher caught up with me at the elevator. He was already on his cellphone, organising and planning, getting the troops rallied. He was still on his phone when we reached the ground floor. I detoured via the reception desk and asked the concierge if anything had been left for me. The concierge told me to wait a moment then disappeared into a small back office, returning a few seconds later with a small silver Samsonite case and a set of car keys. The key fob had a Maserati logo on it and the case was as heavy as I would have expected.
‘We’re taking my car,’ I said to Hatcher.
Hatcher put his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. ‘Since when have you got a car?’
‘Since thirty seconds ago. It’s a Maserati.’
Hatcher stared at me. I stared back. He wound up his call and put his phone away. ‘What’s going on, Winter?’
‘I’ll explain everything in the car.’
Donald Cole’s Maserati was parked near the exit of the Cosmopolitan’s underground lot, nose out for a quick getaway. I’d asked for a fast car, and this was a very fast car. It had a 4.2-litre V8 engine, a six-speed gearbox and a top speed of 177 miles an hour. It could do nought to sixty in 5.2 seconds.
We got in and I dumped the Samsonite case onto Hatcher’s lap. The engine roared to life and we took off, tyres squealing. Five seconds later we bumped out onto the street. Driving on the left threw me to start with, but I soon got the hang of it. The principle is the same as back home. You keep the passenger next to the sidewalk, and the oncoming traffic on the side of the driver. Do that and things usually work out fine.
I drove hard, feet dancing between the accelerator and the brake pedal. The engine revved and ebbed, and the gearbox switched gears. Horns blared and brake lights flared, and I just kept going, weaving and dodging and bullying my way through the night traffic, absolutely relentless. The wipers were on full, swiping away the snow. There were no signs of Cole’s bodyguards in the mirrors.
‘What’s going on, Winter?’
‘Open the case.’
The catches clicked, one after the other, like a double tap, and Hatcher muttered a breathy ‘Jesus’.
‘What sort of guns?’ I asked.
‘Colt 45s. Two of them. I’m guessing they’re unlicensed.’
‘Unlicensed and untraceable and never fired in anger.’
Donald Cole had come up with the goods again, which made it two for two.
‘The car, the guns, I suppose you got them from your fairy godmother,’ said Hatcher.
‘Donald Cole would not appreciate being called a fairy.’
‘Christ, Winter! Donald Cole! What the hell are you playing at?’ Hatcher took a deep breath and got himself back under control. ‘Okay, start talking. I want to know what’s going on. And I want to know now.’
‘Darren Webster isn’t the unsub.’
‘So, who is?’
I said nothing.
‘You realise I could find out easily enough. All it would take is one call to Sumati or Alex.’
‘But you’re not going to do that. If you were, you’d already be talking to them.’
I swerved to overtake a cab, then cut back in again and hit the gas. The sound of the cab’s horn receded into the distance.
‘Plausible deniability,’ I said. ‘I’ve already told you who the unsub is, and you’ve been a good Boy Scout and passed that information along to Fielding, just like you’re supposed to. The thing is, I’m only human. I make mistakes, just like everyone else. Like back at the hotel when I got the names mixed up.’
Hatcher said nothing.
‘If I give you the correct name you have a duty to pass that information on to Fielding. That would be a big mistake. He’ll want to get the unsub surrounded before he goes in. He’ll want everything in place before he makes a move. He’ll want to make sure his ass is well and truly covered.’
Hatcher still said nothing.
‘Do you think for a minute that this unsub won’t notice dozens of cops sneaking up on him?’ I said. ‘Before you know it you’ve got a siege situation on your hands. Is that what you want? Then there’s the fact that Templeton is one of your own. Emotions will be running high. Way too high. This is personal. There are too many things that can go wrong. All it takes is for one thing to go wrong and Templeton winds up dead, or worse.’
‘And it’s not personal for you?’
‘That’s the wrong question, Hatcher. The question you should be asking is who you would trust with Templeton’s life. Me or Fielding?’
66
Rachel followed Adam up the wide staircase. She didn’t want to, but she didn’t see she had a choice. Disobeying him wasn’t an option. Her legs were heavy and weak and she had to use the banister to keep herself upright, to keep moving, her hand dragging across the polished wood.
The fact they were headed upstairs terrified her. There were bedrooms upstairs. Beds. Adam had already tortured her, electrocuted and mutilated her. Was rape next? If it was, she wouldn’t fight him. She’d lie there and let him do whatever he wanted and pray for it to be over quickly. Adam would be looking for a reaction. That’s what got him off. Fear, hatred, desperation, anything just so long as it was a reaction. Denying him a reaction would be more effective than fighting or begging.
That was the plan, and it was a good plan because it would keep her alive. The problem was that she knew it wouldn’t work. The second Adam laid a finger on her she would fight him with everything she’d got. She’d do anything to keep him away from her. Kick, punch, bite, scratch. Anything. She knew that the harder she went at him, the harder he was going to retaliate and that she might as well be signing her own death warrant, but so long as she had a single breath left in her body she would fight him.
The mirror at the top of the stairs had a gilt-edged frame, and the surface was polished to a high sheen. Rachel stopped dead and stared at her reflection. She barely recognised herself. The woman in the glass looked like a cancer victim.
Her face was pinched and tight, and her eyes were dull and lifeless with large black circles around them. The dress made her look like a kid who’d raided her mother’s wardrobe for clothes to play dressing up with, and her bald head made her want to cry.
Adam was at her shoulder, grinning at the way she was squirming in the glass. Rachel wished she had a knife or a gun, or a cattle prod. She wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt her, to make him suffer for what he’d done to her. She wanted him to understand her pain. Most of all, she wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face.
‘Number Five will keep moving.’
Adam turned right at the top of the stairs and Rachel followed him along a landing and into a corridor, past closed doors that hid darkened rooms. Snowflakes shattered against windows and the wind howled around the outside of the old house.
The air smelled like an orange grove. Underpinning this was another smell, this one fainter, a modern chemical smell that reminded Rachel of hospitals. The further along the corridor they went, the stronger it got. At the end of the corridor was another door, this one glowing from the light sneaking through the cracks.
Adam walked up to the door, knocked softly, then pushed it open. He stood aside and waved Rachel inside. Rachel didn’t move. She stood frozen to the spot. That hospital smell was stronger than ever. It had got stuck in her nose and lungs. She could feel her stomach crawling up into her throat. She swallowed hard, driving the bile back down, all the time willing herself not to be sick.
‘Number Five will go into Mother’s bedroom.’
Rachel stayed rooted to the spot.
‘Number Five will go into Mother’s bedroom or face the consequences.’
Rachel walked through the door.
The room was decorated like a private hospital room. Pastel shades on the walls, light pink curtains on the windows, tough, practical vinyl on the floor. Extravagant bouquets of fresh flowers brought colour and life into the room.
The hospital bed was angled so Adam’s mother could sit up. Her hands lay limp in her lap, one on top of the other, not so much as a twitch. Her face was sunken and gaunt, but Rachel could see the shadow of the beautiful woman she had once been. She had Adam’s brown eyes, the same bone structure.
At first glance her hair looked real. It was only when Rachel looked closer that she could tell it was a wig. Her make-up was subtle, applied with care. She was wearing a cream cardigan over her white nightdress.
Four large-screen televisions were fixed to the wall opposite the hospital bed, each one connected to a basement camera, the screens filled with green and black night-vision images. Rachel could see Sophie on two of the screens. The policewoman was thrashing from side to side on the thin mattress, desperately trying to work her hands free.
The bookcase contained DVDs, the spines of the discs dated and marked with a number from one through to five. They were arranged in chronological order, a new disc for each day. The only DVD marked with a five was dated the day after she’d been kidnapped. If that one contained yesterday’s footage then she had been here for two days.
On top of the dressing table were two mannequin heads and a hand. One head held a wig, the other was bald. The hand stood upright like it was waving and there were five wedding bands on it, one on each digit. Rachel’s ring was on the little finger. The small camp bed in the corner of the room had been neatly made up but looked well used.
‘Come and sit with me.’
The old woman nodded to the space next to her. Rachel didn’t move. She couldn’t move. She stared at her feet so she wouldn’t have to look at the old woman. Adam gave her a gentle shove and that broke her paralysis. She sleepwalked over to the bed and sat as close to the edge as she could. The old woman nodded to the space between them.
‘Closer.’ Her voice was cultured and hinted at a different era. It was a voice used to giving orders, and having those orders obeyed without question.
Rachel glanced at Adam, then edged closer. The old woman studied Rachel carefully, her eyes examining every inch of her face and body.
‘So beautiful,’ she said. ‘Do you think I’m beautiful?’
‘Yes.’
The old woman laughed. It was a charming sound, and Rachel had the feeling that it was just as false as Adam’s smile, and just as dangerous.
‘I was beautiful once, but not now. Age gets us all in the end. A word of advice, my dear, I strongly suggest that you don’t lie to me. If you do then I’ll get Adam to cut your tongue out.’ She glanced over at him. ‘Adam loves to play with his knives. But you already know that, of course.’
Rachel stared at a patch of wall behind the bed and said nothing.
‘He hates me, you know. I gave birth to him and he hates me. He wants to kill me but he doesn’t have the guts. He’s just like his father. His father was gutless, too. Isn’t that right, Adam? You dream of putting a pillow over my face.’
‘I love you, Mother.’
‘No you don’t. The only person you love is yourself. Just like your father.’ She locked eyes with Rachel. ‘Do you believe in heaven?’
Rachel thought about the sunshine and imagined warm sand between her toes. She thought about her father. ‘I believe in judgement,’ she answered quietly.
The old woman smiled. ‘Finally, an honest answer. What about hell? Do you believe in hell?’
Rachel glanced at the black and green images of Sophie on the screens. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I believe in hell.’
‘No you don’t. Not yet. You think you believe, and you will in time, but you still have a way to go. Adam, go get my make-up bag.’
Adam went over to the dressing table and returned with a large gold bag.
‘You know what to do,’ the old woman said.
Adam took out a lipstick and Rachel shrank back from him. He held the back of her head so she couldn’t get away and applied the lipstick. He took his time. Gentle, careful touches. Fussy touches.
‘My son is a constant source of disappointment,’ said the old woman. ‘He destroyed my body twice. Once when I gave birth to him, and the second time when he crippled me. Never have children. You’ll regret it as long as you live.’
The heart monitor beside her registered ninety beats a minute. The old woman’s blood pressure was up, too.
Adam was as gentle with the turquoise eye shadow as he had been with the lipstick. The blusher came next, smooth circular movements, the pad tickling her cheek.
‘I always wanted a daughter. But instead I got Adam. We used to play dressing up when you were a child though, didn’t we, Adam?’
‘Please don’t do this, Mother.’
‘He looked so pretty with his long brown curly hair and his big brown eyes. And he really suited pink.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘And then he got older and his body started to change and that ruined everything. It just wasn’t the same any more. It didn’t matter what I did, he looked too much like a boy. Adam, go and get the wig.’
Rachel heard Adam’s heavy steps move away from the bed, then move back again. She stared at the flowers, stared at the wall, anything so she wouldn’t have to look at Adam or his mother. She knew how this game worked. Things were going to be bad when they got back to the basement, worse than they’d ever been. Adam was furious. Right now he was holding it in and squashing it down, but it was going to come out sooner or later, and when it did, she and Sophie would be on the receiving end.
The old woman in the bed knew what she was doing, she knew exactly which buttons to push. She was winding Adam up, and then she was going to sit here and watch the show on those four big-screen TVs. Adam placed the wig on Rachel’s head and arranged it with his baby-soft fingers.
‘Well, dear, what are you waiting for? Stand up and give me a twirl.’
Rachel got up on wooden legs and turned a full circle, her movements stiff and awkward. She finished her pirouette and stood dead still, holding her breath. The old lady stared stony-faced then broke into a broad beaming smile. Rachel had the distinct im
pression that if she’d been able to move her hands she would have clapped with joy.
‘It’s just like looking in a mirror,’ she said.
67
I put my foot down when we hit the M1 and the powerful V8 engine roared. The speedometer hit ninety and the scenery turned into a blur. Driving into snow was like flying through hyperspace, the snowflakes turning into white streaks like star trails. The outside lane belonged to me and anyone stupid enough to get in the way was hit with my full beams and horn until they got the hell out of my way.
I was driving way too fast for the weather conditions, but didn’t have an option. Templeton didn’t fit the victim profile and that worried me more than anything else. Whatever the unsubs planned to do, they’d do it quickly. There was a chance we were already too late.
The needle pushed towards a hundred and I stared through the windshield. All I could see were streaks of snow and the occasional red tail light. This was crazy, completely suicidal. I was driving blind. I gave the car more gas and the needle crept past a hundred.
‘Who’s Cutting Jack?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Plausible deniability,’ I reminded him.
‘If anyone asks, I’ll lie. As far as I’m concerned Cutting Jack is Darren Webster, and that’s the way it stays until you realise you’ve made a mistake and tell me otherwise.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Okay, his name’s Adam Grosvenor. I was pretty sure it was him, but I needed to be totally sure. Sumati got me the confirmation I needed.’
‘Why him?’
‘Because of the geography,’ I said. ‘Adam lives at Waverley Hall, a large country house on the outskirts of Redbourn. The village is near junction nine of the M1, which gives him easy access to London. And it’s only five miles from St Albans, which explains why he dumped Patricia Maynard there. Basically he got greedy. He dumped Patricia Maynard then twenty-four hours later he abducted Rachel Morris. He needed to cut corners, so he dumped Patricia Maynard close to home. Also, out of all the seven possible locations we had, Redbourn was furthest away from Charles Brenner’s dump site. Even back then he wanted to mislead you.’
