by Linda Coles
“Shush, I’m busy. Hang on and I’ll tell you.”
He watched as she took a set of earphones out of her bag and fiddled with his phone again. A pinprick of a blue light glowed from the screen.
“Okay, here we go.” She leaned in, showing him his phone and the green Spotify app. “This is your music,” she said, pointing, “and these are your headphones. Put them on.” She pressed play on the short playlist she had created. ELO’s ‘Hold on Tight to Your Dreams’ filled his ears, and Amanda watched as a huge grin spread over his face. He needed a shave. Again. His fingers tapped on the bedrail; he was clearly enjoying this. She let him listen for a minute or two then pressed pause. He took the headphones off.
“I thought you’d like a musical accompaniment while you work. And you can add more music in. Let me show you how.”
For the next while they sat with their heads together as Amanda showed him how to search for the songs he adored and add them to a list to listen to later. Every so often, he’d say “I used to have that on blue twelve-inch vinyl” or “And that was on purple vinyl” or “I’ve not heard that in ages!” It made Amanda glad that she’d taken the trouble; now she didn’t feel quite so bad about asking him to work while he sat.
When he finally took the headphones off, she broached the subject of his house. “Jack, I have something else for you, something I’m hoping you’ll accept in the spirit which it is meant and not be pissed at me. Or Ruth.”
“Uh-oh. What else have you done?”
“I couldn’t help noticing you need little help around the house. So first of all, I’ve organized a lady to go in a couple of times a week and keep on top of things for you, give you a hand.” Jack opened his mouth to object but Amanda waved it shut. “And she’s under strict instructions not to move anything of Janine’s or change anything – just take away the inches of dust. And if it doesn’t work out after four weeks, you can get rid of her. In the meantime, you’ve got stitches and recovery to worry about, not dust bunnies and mice.” Jack sat quietly. Amanda suspected he knew deep down he needed a hand.
“Four weeks,” he said. “I’ll let her clean for four weeks, as you suggest. Then I’ll decide. Deal?”
“Deal. She might even cook your dinner every once and a while. I wish someone did that for me.”
“Well, you’re about to get wed, so you two have no excuse between you. You need to get yourselves organized. Living under one roof would be a start. And you’ve got Wong’s if all else fails.”
“Too true.” The comment about one roof had hit home. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled. Now, I’ve got to go, so let me know if you find anything worth knowing about. If you get stuck, give Ruth a call. She said she’d be happy to be your dark web guide.” She added, “Sort of sounds like a tour guide of the seedy. Could be fun.” She winked again and stood up to leave.
“Thanks for these,” Jack said pointing to his headphones. “I’ll report back later with my findings. The dark web will be under my control in your absence.” He mock-saluted his captain as she turned to go.
Amanda hoped he found something useful or interesting. Other than porn, that was.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Her eyes fluttered open in the dusk of the room. Drowsy and disorientated, Ellen lay on the silk comforter trying to comprehend where she was and what time it was. Her eyes searched around the room, the part she could see without moving her head, but nothing she observed looked familiar. Her ears tuned in for sound. Nothing, save for the gentle hum of what sounded like traffic outside, wherever outside was. The light in the room was dwindling; a lamp glowed faintly in the far corner. Slowly she rolled over onto her back, then onto her other side, and scanned the rest of the room, blinking to digest her surroundings. It seemed she was in someone’s bedroom.
And alone.
She sat bolt upright, heart pounding with fear now, ears on full alert. Something didn’t feel right. Slowly, she lowered her eyes.
Her ankles were bound together.
But not with cord or rope.
They were bound with a distinctive patterned silk scarf, featuring a design Ellen knew well. Hermes. It was tied artfully around her ankles and arranged like it was all part of a window display, in Selfridges perhaps. She looked closer: her toenails, usually painted a neutral shade, were now a deep rouge, the same colour as the border on the silk scarf. They matched perfectly. Instinctively, she wriggled her ankles to see how tightly she had been tied up and was surprised to feel the give. They weren’t tight at all.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she noticed that she was surrounded by rose petals that had been delicately sprinkled on the bed, almost the same deep red. She picked one up to test its authenticity, pressed the soft, silky petal to her nose and sniffed. The strength of the perfume surprised her. Was it a natural scent, though, or something from a bottle? She couldn’t be sure. Forcing herself to become fully alert, she leaned forward to untie her binding and set her ankles free. Whatever had happened to her, whatever had brought her to this room, she knew she hadn’t come here voluntarily.
Shimmying herself off the comforter, she stood on slightly shaky legs and walked around the room as quickly as she could manage. There was a silver teapot and single cup and a small plate of triangle sandwiches, and an envelope was propped up against a milk jug. It had her name on the front. Tentatively, she opened it and took the card out. There was a simple message printed in beautiful handwriting. It read, “Your debt has been settled. I’d advise you to tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.”
Now even more confused, she went over to the window and peered out. It was dusk. The street below bustled with traffic, lit by the amber glow of streetlamps. Ellen felt the crispness of the card in her hand and re-read the message. It made no sense to her. Her ankles hadn’t been bound tightly enough to keep her imprisoned, nor were her hands or mouth restrained, so what was she doing in this room? She walked across to the door and tuned the handle. It wasn’t locked. How odd. If someone had taken the trouble to get her into the room and tie her ankles, why not lock her in?
She closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed again, trying to decide what to do. She took stock of the situation: she wasn’t a prisoner, but her ankles had been bound while she slept, and not with rope or telephone cord or some such, but a luxury silk scarf. A body scan found nothing else out of order, apart from a splitting headache. She was still fully clothed; her bag was on the small table next to the tea. Though she couldn’t see her shoes. The card’s message ran through her mind again but she had no clue what it meant or what she was supposed to do, if anything.
Apart from “Tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.”
At last, instinct took over, and she grabbed her bag, flung open the door and ran barefoot down the corridor as fast as her drugged legs would carry her. The lift was at her floor and she stepped in, resting her head back on the wall. As the doors closed and she descended, she closed her eyes.
The lift took an age to get down to the lobby. Once there, she headed to the main entrance where she stood, barefoot, trying to get her bearings. She shivered. She took a few steps outside; the pavement felt cold to her bare feet. Once again, instinct took control and she bolted off, though in which direction she had no clue. Her heart pounded as did her head, and she pulled up short, panting hard. Looking down, she saw there was blood where she’d come to a halt. She must have run over some glass fragments, maybe from a broken bottle. How could she not have felt it? Maybe she had.
“Can I help you, miss?” a male voice at her side asked. It was the doorman of the hotel. He glanced down at her bare feet and raised his eyebrows, but Ellen was too preoccupied to care.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in Knightsbridge, miss. Can I get you a car, perhaps?”
He waited for her reply and seemed about to move away when she said faintly, “Yes, please. I want to go home.”
The doorman signalled to a nearby car to pull in and Ellen slipped onto
the back seat. He closed her door for her.
“Take care, miss,” he added though Ellen barely noticed. Whatever had happened to her that afternoon was going to be a mystery. The last thing she remembered as she wracked her brain was waiting for her car to go to a job earlier on, and that was it. Had she even gone? How had she got into that bedroom? And why? There were too many questions and no answers.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text and she rummaged in her bag to read it. It was from her agent: “Are you okay, Ellen? Only you didn’t show up for your assignment today. Call me.”
“I didn’t show up? I’ve never done that. Ever. What the hell happened to me?” She glanced down at her perfect feet. Her soles were sore and dirty from being barefoot; there were specks of blood on the floor mat of the car. Going barefoot was something she never did. It was all out of place.
Everything about this day was out of place, including her.
The operator completed the transaction on his screen. Another sale closed, and another happy client. The green light changed to blue and two other smaller lights blinked nearby. They were the lights of remaining players, players in place to monitor what she did next.
I’d advise you to tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.
He knew she wouldn’t, but still, he had to make sure.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
After Amanda had left, Jack sat up in his hospital bed. He’d loaded a few more songs onto his playlist and he marvelled at the collection he’d made. While ELO was his life’s fuel, he’d gathered Rainbow, Status Quo and other old rockers into one place and they played in his earphones while he worked. He never knew work could be quite such fun.
A self-confessed luddite, he’d been apprehensive about surfing the dark web, not really knowing what he was doing, but sometimes ignorance was bliss. Amanda had given him a brief tutorial, a brief warning about clicking on images and videos, and set the browser up for him. He’d put in search terms that he thought would bring up results that he could dig into. The crude search engine reminded him of back in the day when he’d first started using the web. It had looked very different than it did today. It was like going back in time, a blast from the past. He’d put in ‘fetish’ and ‘hair fetish’ specifically and was working his way through, though nothing of interest had revealed itself.
Unless you called other people’s kinks interesting.
When he’d found a site for some of the more bizarre fetishes, he’d closed the page as fast as he’d opened it and fought hard to forget what he’d seen. But that was impossible: you couldn’t scrub your brain clean or rewind your life like an old movie. No, you couldn’t un-ring the bell. The image of a young man drinking from a wine glass filled with blood and masturbating at the same time would take him a while to forget. Determined to not fall into any other places that might scar him for life, he realized he needed a bit more direction to what he was doing.
He dialled Ruth’s number and she answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Jack. How are you doing? Feeling any better?”
“I’m a lot better, thanks. Though Amanda has given me a task to do to while away my recovery. No rest for the wicked. And I could do with your help.”
“She told me she’d given you an old laptop to surf with. What do you need?”
“Some instruction, if I’m honest. I think she’s forgotten I’m a luddite, not a techy like you. I can search and surf, but I don’t want to click on shit that’s going to stay in my head forever. I’ve just seen what I can only describe as a vampire having some fun with himself and I nearly puked my guts up again. I swear it’s cauterized onto my eyelids. Any advice, O Technologically Savvy One?” Jack could hear her laughing. He smiled despite himself. “It wasn’t funny, let me tell you. I’m sure it will stay with me forever, burned right into my eyeballs too. Gross!”
“Then don’t click on it, Jack. And keep away from anything with the initials CP on or near it.”
“Dare I ask what CP is?” Then it dawned on him. “Ah, no chance of that, let me assure you. Child pornography is the lowest of the low. God only knows how the special units cope with that shit; they must need a shrink on call seven days a week.”
“Just keep digging as you are. There’s got to be something in there of use for your case. And it’s an old computer, so if you do pick up something with a virus, say, it won’t matter. But while the boss lady has you working, remember you’re supposed to be getting better, not stressing.”
Jack smiled into the phone at her thoughtfulness. “In that case, I shall have a nap, then pick this up again later. Thanks for the heads-up, Ruth.”
“Good idea. Take care, Jack.”
Jack glanced at the disconnected phone. He really could do with a nap, come to think of it. He closed the laptop down and wriggled gingerly down under the covers for a snooze. He smiled wryly: his mid-morning cuppa would probably arrive sometime around then.
Griffin had found Femme Fet-Elle, a group that had interests in things he simply couldn’t comprehend. Why would someone be turned on by such seemingly odd experiences? Did these people not enjoy ordinary sex? How could someone get turned on with human excrement in their midst, for example? He shook his head to clear the images.
He remembered what Vee had said about the women in the videos looking out of it, not active or as interested as the males. Were they high of their own accord, then, or had they been drugged? There was no way of knowing, and as Vee wasn’t in contact with her ex anymore, getting his hands on the files wasn’t an option. And they probably didn’t exist anymore anyway, in hard copy at least, though Vee’s ex probably had copies in the cloud for safekeeping and private viewing.
He knew there were all types of chat rooms and forums on the dark web, for all types of subject matter – he spent time in them himself, after all – but something about this discovery didn’t feel right. His urge to tell someone was getting stronger. What if women were being involved against their will? And what if they were being hurt? And what happened to them after their involvement in the videos: were they passed on to someone else after they’d outlived their usefulness? He’d heard of victims being ‘sold on’ after criminals had had their fun with them, usually to someone who would degrade them even further for their own or someone else’s personal pleasure, and at a price. But that only happened in the movies – didn’t it? He picked up his phone and dialled. He didn’t want their misery to be on his conscience.
It was almost two hours later when Jack woke to his phone vibrating on the bedside cabinet.
“I have a name for you to check out,” the voice said excitedly. Jack’s brain was having trouble coming back into focus after his deeper than usual sleep. But finally, it registered that Ruth was speaking.
“Hang on, let me sit back up,” he grunted groggily. “Okay, what is it?”
“Check into a club called Femme Fet-Elle,” she said, and spelled it for him.
“And what is that?”
“Quite by chance, a friend’s new girlfriend came across some disturbing videos on her ex-boyfriend’s computer some time ago. They involved one of the more . . . unpleasant, I’d guess you’d call it. . . fetishes. The ex was apparently trying to coax her into it as well, but she wasn’t having anything to do with it and ditched him shortly after. Seems he then posted a revenge sex recording of her to get his own back, and she eventually told this friend of mine, who came to me for help with it. Anyway, long story short, that’s the name of the group. Check into it. I’ve told Amanda, so she’ll probably call you later. If there’s something in it, she’s hoping the DI will pass it up the chain to the cyber unit to deal with.”
“Great, because this is out of my league, that’s for sure.” He rubbed fresh sleep from his eyes and yawned. “Thanks, Ruth. I’m on to it.” He hung up and rested his head back to think. They needed something concrete to go on for the cyber unit to take action, and a couple of hair thefts were still not enough. While he didn’t wish for a dead body to turn up, h
e needed a bigger picture, something big enough to warrant more resources and intervention. In the meantime, perhaps he could sniff around a bit more and join the group, pretending he had a fetish that needed fulfilling – though drinking blood had no appeal even in pretend. So, what, then? He glanced at the floor beside his bed. He remembered Amanda coming to see him with the old leather bag from his wardrobe and what she would have had to remove from it. And voila: there was the idea for his own very personal fetish. The question was, would anyone else share it?
Jack got to work, a wide grin fixed on his stubbly face as he typed. He’d have a shave later.
Chapter Seventy
Jack had spent most of that afternoon creating his fake profile and trying to find a way into the group. There were two aspects to it: first was the chat room, where any member could discuss their interests and ask questions and generally arrange meet-ups. He’d already started chatting and finding his way around in there. So far, so good. But he’d found there was also a premium service on offer. That was the part Jack wanted to look into. Unfortunately, it was available only to those who had been members for at least six months and had a track record of positive activity and respect within the forum. He, however, had neither. Even if he had the prerequisites, he knew the moderators could still refuse to give him premium service for reasons they didn’t state. And he expected that, as with any premium service, there would be a handsome price tag attached to it. There had be another way, but what?
The news was playing on the little TV screen over his bed; a local jewellery shop had been turned over and thieves had got away with some key pieces. Security camera footage had luckily supplied reasonable photos of the intruders as they’d fled. One of them had taken his mask off a bit too prematurely. Jack laughed. Idiot.
