by Iain Cameron
One day in this place and she was already forming plans for her escape. It did not take long to realise he was drugging her with some form of date-rape drug, as she tasted its bitterness on her lips when she woke up, but she was at a loss as to why she had been selected. She didn’t earn a lot of money and spent most of it on clothes, her expensive flat in a new development close to Three Bridges station, and in socialising. She didn’t come from a rich or famous family, her dad worked as a planning official with Crawley Town Council and her mum owned a hairdressing business in the town.
On the first night, she’d sat in the corner ready to defend herself if he came in to rape her or to perform some strange sadistic act. Her job was intensive while on duty, but for long periods she often lazed around with nothing to do and used the time to text friends, flick through magazines, talk shop with colleagues, and read loads of books.
She avoided chick-lit and vampire novels but adored authors such as Brent Easton Ellis and Thomas Harris, and she’d read Silence of The Lambs three times, but if re-covering the hall table lamp was part of her kidnapper’s plan, her skin was staying exactly where it was, thank you very much mate.
To her surprise, the attack didn’t come, but after the first meal and her subsequent vague recollection of what happened afterwards, she knew she was being drugged and already thinking of ways to combat it. She suspected her clothes were being tampered with and maybe he came in to have sex with her, but she couldn’t be sure until the end of the following day.
She planned to get to know his routine over the next day or two and exploit any weaknesses she could find. She knew how date-rape drugs worked and suspected the kidnapper used to be in the army but on a one-to-one, his faded military combat training would pull up short against what she was trained to do. Confidence was everything and so it was important for her to keep her spirits up.
Day two, and things were going as well as she expected, but then she saw the face at the window. She felt spooked, but what girl wouldn’t be surprised with a strange man peering into her bedroom window? It didn’t take long to realise he was most likely a policeman or a fireman or some other rescue service, as who else would be clambering over the roof at this time of night? If so, why didn’t he and his buddies kick the door in?
She didn’t panic as she remembered her training but she started to scream at the top of her voice to try and tell him to get her out. She knew the room was soundproofed, as she couldn’t hear birdsong or passing cars, and he wouldn’t be able to hear her unless she screeched as loud as possible.
Later, she chided herself for overdoing it and coming across like a hysterical teenager, freaked-out by a hideous face at the window, as featured in a thousand horror movies, but it was reassuring to know he was there at all. It proved someone was looking for her and his sudden departure would be to summon additional help. If Gatwick Security had called it in, she was impressed by their rapid response, as she had only been missing a short time.
After the strange encounter with her window visitor, time moved slowly and it took the passage of a couple more hours before she felt tired enough to lie down and sleep. Even though nothing indicated the imminent arrival of the cavalry, difficult to assess with any accuracy on account of the high level of soundproofing, it didn’t stop her glancing up at the window every ten seconds or so and lying as far from the door as possible, just in case it flew open and a SWAT team barged in.
The darkness made her feel despondent, as she knew even on the busiest nights, the police would never take this long to respond to an emergency. She began to doubt if the man at the window was from the emergency services at all, but instead a burglar, shocked to find someone at home, before scarpering. No, even though she only saw him for less than a minute and only from the shoulders up, her knight in shining armour didn’t look like a burglar, he looked like a cop. She’d met plenty of them in her job and could recognise one at a hundred paces.
She’d been such a fool to fall for the suave, good looking and tanned Steve Egan. He didn’t look like the usual sort of guy she went out with, but all his fine talk of deals and contracts seemed to be so exciting. Working at an airport, all they discussed in the staff room was far-off destinations, lying in the sun and sightseeing, and it only succeeded in making the people who worked there, long to visit such places themselves. When the seemingly rich Mr Egan promised her the lot, she fell for it hook, line and bloody sinker.
She now realised he was sham and all the profiling and psychological techniques she used on passengers should have been applied to her personal life, as he didn’t wear expensive clothes or drive a smart car and anyone could say the fine words he spoke. She felt a fool for not sussing it earlier and cursed herself for dropping her guard.
When, not if, she got out of here, her boss, far from being pleased at her return, would give her a serious bollocking for getting snatched so easily. He was her guiding light and mentor and paid for all the expensive training courses she attended and maybe when the heat died down following his arrest and she learned to live with the ‘survivor’ tag, she would be transferred into a back-office position or fired, as who would have any confidence in a member of airport security staff if they could be seduced by a smooth talking dude with fine words and empty promises?
Her training taught her to assume the worst and in this case, to assume the kidnapper would kill her, if he wanted a ransom paid or not. Time now became an important issue too. The longer it went on, the more it would suggest negotiations between the kidnapper and her employer were not progressing and with food rations less than she would like, in a week or two her main weapons, strength, confidence, and energy would start to deplete.
Tiredness took over and with reluctance she resigned herself to the disappointment of no one coming tonight. Forever the optimist, she felt comforted by the thought that perhaps the delay was deliberate, leaving everything in place so as not to alert the kidnapper and wait for him to show up in the morning and nab him.
When they did, she would be the first to kick him in the balls and scratch his face with her short, but tapered nails. He didn’t have any right to lock her up like this and deprive her of her liberty and she would make it her mission to ensure the story was told to every newspaper and television station in the land. Doing so might save her job and ensure the twisted bastard spent the rest of his miserable life in jail.
THIRTY-NINE
It was a beautiful crisp late-October morning, a sharp morning chill to be followed by clear, blue skies and unbroken winter sunshine, according to the weather report, but Max Baris, aka Martin Swift, Steve Egan, and a few other names he used when it suited him, didn’t believe in the tooth fairy either and always trusted his own judgement.
He shut the door of his flat and heard the Yale make a satisfying click. Despite living on the third floor of a modern block of flats in Horsham, with a stout front door and a keypad entry system, he locked the deadlock.
His car was parked in Bay 4 out back, as even though it was an expensive apartment block, it didn’t stretch to underground parking, but being rich, he owned another flat in the building and so had two parking slots. Today he would take the Defender.
‘Mr Baris, I’m so glad I’ve caught you.’
He turned, his face frowning at the approaching figure of his neighbour, Victoria Larchwood, a sixty-plus retiree with nothing to do with her time but to annoy her fellow flat dwellers.
‘I would like to complain about the noise from your stereo system.’
‘When?’
‘The night before last.’
‘I had guests.’
‘It’s not the first time you know. Only last week...’
He tuned out. He had been smoking some fabulous weed and had turned up the sound of the stereo to drown out the strange voices which scrabbled around his head like a family of mice in the loft space whenever he took dope.
‘I can’t put up with it any more,’ she said, ‘I need my sleep and it disturbs Buggles. T
he poor dog hides under the bed.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’ If it means drowning the dog, he would do it too.
‘You’ll need to do more than that,’ she said as she walked away. ‘Next time, I’m calling the police.’
He slammed the car door and started the engine. His lips moved, not in time to the Taylor Swift song on the radio but running through a list of kill scenarios he would exact on old Mrs Larchwood at the first whiff of police darkening his door.
Driving always calmed him down and by the time he arrived at the barn in Adversane Lane, he looked forward to breakfast, followed by sex with his new friend, Elaine. He reached for the key to switch off the engine when he spotted a body, lying against the wall of the barn. Good job he’d chosen the Defender, he kept a couple of guns in a secret compartment in the back. He removed the handgun and exited the car cautiously.
It was a stupid thing to do, to confront a council official or a bloke from the water company with a handgun, if he didn’t want to spend a long time in jail, so he kept it down low, but not out of sight as there wasn’t an election on, his community charge was up to date, and the water meter was half-way down the driveway.
The man lay against the wall of the barn, soaking up the morning sunshine, but he knew from his awkward posture he wasn’t a lost hiker, but someone who’d used his ladder, only to fall off and break something. Who the hell was he and what did he want around here? Did he know what went on inside the barn? If so, he might not realise it but he wasn’t long for this world.
He kicked the nearest leg and the man woke up with a start.
‘Hey.’
‘What the fuck are you doing here? This is private property.’
‘What...what? Who are you?’
He kicked him again. ‘I ask the questions. Who are you?’
‘Detective Inspector Henderson, Sussex Police.’
Fuck, police. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m,’ he said, shifting his body position, ‘looking for some missing women.’
‘Well, you won’t find them here.’ He smiled, a private joke. Henderson shivered. ‘You been here all night?’
‘No.’
‘Liar. It’s bad luck for you but good luck for me eh? What were you doing with my ladder?’
‘Don’t come the innocent with me mate. You’re Martin Swift, aren’t you? You’ve got a woman locked up in there.’
He kicked him again, harder this time. ‘Shut the fuck up. You’ve said enough.’ He levelled the gun at his head. ‘C’mon get up.’
‘I can’t. I broke my leg. I can’t walk otherwise I wouldn’t be lying here.’
‘Why didn’t you call for help, or are you coppers so strapped for cash they don’t give you radios any more?’
‘I called for reinforcements, they’ll be here any minute.’
Baris leaned over and reached into Henderson’s jacket and pulled out his phone. The case was smashed, the electronic circuits visible and the screen broken as if it had taken a smack when he fell. He tried to switch it on and when it wouldn’t, he lobbed it into the long grass.
‘Ha.’ Another piece of good luck. ‘Listen to me copper. I’ll help you move inside, but if you try any funny stuff, I’ll blow your fucking head off. Understand?’
Henderson grunted.
He pulled him to his feet and put his shoulder under Henderson’s right arm to take the weight off his broken leg and led him into the barn. He dumped the dishevelled DI into a chair and walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle. When it boiled, he made two mugs of coffee. He handed one to Henderson and drank his own while standing close to the cop.
‘How did you find me?’
Henderson told him the story about the AK47 gunshot discharge and after asking a couple of questions of his own, it didn’t take long to realise the copper came here under his own initiative. Christ! The third piece of luck this morning and it wasn’t even nine o’clock.
In his current state, Henderson didn’t threaten him but he wouldn’t kill him here. He was a tidy and disciplined person and nothing around here or in the surrounding fields could tie him to any of the missing women and it would remain that way. He would take him to the woods where he took the others. It would be risky in daylight but to delay might encourage more of his ilk to come snooping.
‘What do you intend to do now?’ Henderson said.
‘I’m still thinking about it.’
‘You’re finished, Swift. You made too many mistakes.’
‘Mistakes?’ He leaned over, putting his face close to Henderson’s. ‘The only mistake I made is talking to you, copper.’
‘What about Amy Sandford and Kelly Langton, two similar looking women from the same type of school?’
‘Is this how you found me?’ Damn, he knew he shouldn’t have done it. He used gyms, cafes, and nightclubs to meet women, but Jimmy told him about all the fine looking women at his kids’ school including a couple of celebs, and it didn’t disappoint.
‘More or less.’
‘You got lucky, mate.’
Henderson shifted in the chair, pain etched on his face. ‘Tell me one thing.’
‘What?’
‘Where did you bury them?’
‘Bury who? You got it all wrong mate. Try Archer over the field, he’s a strange one.’
‘The women, the women you kidnapped. Like the woman you’ve got in there,’ he said, pointing towards his secret room, ‘behind the wall.’
Baris picked up a slat of wood, a sample from the company who laid the flooring, and whacked him on the side of his face.
‘Shut the fuck up, I’ve heard enough from you.’
He turned away and headed into the kitchen and packed some of his things into a large sports bag he used for his gym kit, something to eat and drink later, as he hadn’t eaten breakfast and wanted the copper to think they were evacuating the place.
He carried the bag out to the car and after making sure the shovel, rifle, and gloves were in the back, he reversed it towards the door of the barn. He walked inside and grabbed Henderson. He could feel it in his bones. Today was turning into a great day.
FORTY
The shrill whine of the Sony radio alarm clock penetrated deep into her skull, despite being buried under the duvet and holding it tight around her ears. It was no use resisting, her brain rattled to its awful sound.
Carol Walters could not get up this morning, or any morning come to that, and in order to make it into work on time, she used several alarm clocks, all set at their highest ring volume and hidden in awkward places at the far side of the bedroom, impossible to find unless both eyes were open. No matter how hard she tried, it was never enough and she turned up late for more meetings and more appointments than anyone else in Sussex House. The boys in the fingerprint unit, misogynist, sexist pigs to a man, called her ‘late-note’ but that was preferable to any nickname making reference to her legs, bum, or how she performed in bed.
She drove carefully through town, feeling certain the bottle of wine and a couple of vodkas drunk last night while enjoying a good natter with some of her mates, would still be in her system and take her over the drink-driving limit. Most civilians believed that coppers were immune from prosecution, a sort of perk of the job like the discount card given to Marks and Spencer employees, but traffic cops enjoyed nothing better than arresting a drunken detective. It would make their day and give them something special to regale their mates with back at John Street canteen and after the case went to court, she would be lucky to be in there with them, back in uniform, her career path blighted.
She parked the car at the far end of the Sussex House car park in a row of empty spaces. No way would she try and fit her car into a tight space near the entrance, as knowing her luck, the cars either side would belong to a visiting Chief Constable and a minister from the Home Office.
Several coffees and paracetamol later, she felt well enough to switch on her computer and phone. Unlike many of her friends w
ho loved their mobiles and swore they never switched them off, she had a love-hate relationship with the thing. She loved sending texts to new boyfriends and family members and receiving messages back in text-speak which took her ages to decipher, but she hated the frequent interruption of banal work messages, telling her to submit her expenses or requesting her attendance at a tedious meeting.
She started reading a report from the forensics boys about Amy Sandford’s car, found two days ago on a quiet road in Burgess Hill, close to the railway station when the phone beeped, indicating four messages. The first was from her neighbour Jon asking if she would like to come out for a drink this evening. She replied ‘ok’, a fair reward for helping him to repair a leaking tap, but did it make sense to go out with a man who couldn’t do DIY?
The second message was from her mum, bemoaning the fact she never called. In fact, she’d called her several times over the last few days but the daft old bat often forgot to switch her phone on and when she did, it usually didn’t have any battery power.
The DNA lab left the third, informing her the investigation into the flat in Richmond Road was complete and a copy of their report was on its way to her. She knew most of the findings already, but it often paid dividends to read the report in detail later as something that first appeared trivial, might well be important to the investigation. However, she hoped it wouldn’t arrive today, as there was a time for staring at hair samples, fingernail fragments and the contents of the vacuum cleaner bag, but this wasn’t it.
DI Henderson left the fourth, informing her he was heading out to Archer’s place to have a look around and advising her of a meeting first thing this morning. She looked at her watch, 8:00am and an early meeting for him meant 7:30am. So where the hell was he? And why did he go over to Archer’s place?
