by S J Bolton
It was beyond me. I was handing over to Joesbury and his ‘boys’ as soon as they got here and then I was never having anything to do with SO10 as long as I lived. I might even apply to join Traffic.
I pushed open the door and went through into the kitchen. No sign of the dogs. The room was warm but the house had an empty feel about it.
‘Hi!’ I called from halfway up the stairs. ‘It’s me.’
There was no response. Nick could be outside with the animals but the note had definitely said come upstairs. I stopped at the top. Still no sign of him. The master bedroom where I’d slept the other night was at the front of the house, behind me, as was the main spare bedroom. Both doors shut. The bathroom was to my left. Door shut.
‘Hey, gorgeous, I’m in here,’ he called.
I stepped forward, pausing on the threshold of a room I hadn’t seen before. I’d just registered that Nick was leaning over an old desk with a tin of polish in one hand and a leather bridle in the other when I heard the creak of a stair behind me. Joesbury.
I turned just as Nick straightened up and we both looked towards the door, the goofy smile freezing on my face. The man blocking our way out wasn’t Joesbury.
‘Good God,’ said Nick, over my shoulder.
I could have cut off my own arm for being stupid enough to get trapped in an upstairs room. The man in the doorway, whom I’d last seen running after a stolen van at the industrial estate, ignored me. ‘Hello, Nick,’ he said. ‘Long time no see.’
The room wasn’t brightly lit, the hallway quite dark, but even so Tom’s eyes seemed to have lost all their colour. They were like millponds at night, black and empty, and I couldn’t remember why I’d ever thought them kind. Then I was sizing up the situation, checking the room for ways out, weapons, distractions, anything. All I really had to do was to stay calm and stall them. Joesbury and the cavalry would be here any second.
‘I take it you’re Iestyn Thomas?’ I said. There were any number of hard objects I could introduce to Thomas’s head given the chance.
‘Laura, what on earth …?’ began Nick, his eyes going from me to the man in the doorway.
Then Thomas stepped into the room and any hope I’d had that he was alone was quashed. Scott Thornton was with him, his blue eyes gleaming at me the way they had through the ninja mask the night he’d half drowned me. And then another man appeared. This one I didn’t know, except that I’d seen him leaving Megan Prince’s house the day before.
‘John?’ Nick knew him, then, but from the tone of surprise and growing alarm in his voice it was obvious he was completely in the dark. ‘What’s going on? Has something happened?’
‘Nick knows nothing,’ I said. ‘Let him go. Or tie him up and leave him here. Either way, he’s not a threat.’
A nervous laugh that was more like a choke from Nick. ‘Laura, don’t be ridiculous. John is DI Castell. He’s a police officer. Local CID.’
John Castell, the man in charge of the suicide investigations. Oh, there weren’t words.
No, actually, there were. ‘I’m a police officer,’ I said. ‘He is a twisted, psychotic piece of shit.’
They moved forward at that. Thornton and Thomas took hold of Nick and, ignoring his increasingly alarmed protests, pulled us apart. Castell and I glared at each other and I was praying I’d have the nerve to do some serious damage before he overpowered me. Or before help arrived, and on that subject, where the hell was Joes—
‘Nick, how did you get my number?’ I asked without taking my eyes off Castell. ‘You phoned me just now on a new number. Who gave it to you?’
‘Will you lot get the fuck out of my hou—’
I’m not sure who hit Nick, I only saw him sink to the carpet, before someone else appeared on the landing outside and all I could do was stare like a halfwit.
Your nutty room-mate found it this morning when she went to the hospital to pick up some books.
Talaith Robinson, my nutty room-mate, sidled up to Castell and wrapped herself around him like a bad smell around rotten meat.
‘Hello, Lacey,’ she said.
Bank of the River Cam, five years earlier
ARECENT SUMMER STORM had shaken millions of leaves from the willow trees. They were floating in the still backwaters of the river, looking almost solid enough to walk on. They adorned the moored punts lining the river’s edge and covered the banks like a dappled green carpet. Already the heat was building again, making the damp earth steam.
DI John Castell took off his jacket and slung it over one shoulder. He loosened his tie. The air was thick with sugar stealers and tiny green flying insects. Several of both clung to his shirt and his hair. He left them where they were, rather enjoying the unusual experience of being garlanded by nature.
As he stepped beneath the canopy of one of the larger trees he felt as if he were entering an enchanted tropical forest. Here, hidden from the world by a sphere of green, a woman was waiting.
Her dress was long and made from a light, floaty fabric that managed to cling to her curves and sway in the breeze at the same time. Her hair was long too. She was like a creature from another time. Little more than twenty years old, she was far too young for him and it just wasn’t going to have to matter.
‘Hey, buddy,’ said one of the two men with her, the men he’d come to meet. ‘I’d like you to meet my sister.’
THE HIGH-PITCHED BEEPING of a text message woke Evi from an uncomfortable slumber at around four o’clock. She turned over on the bed and picked up her phone. It was from Laura.
Called back to London and transferred to another case. Powers that be don’t consider this one worth pursuing further. Suggest you refer any ongoing concerns to local CID. Good meeting you. Take care. Laura.
Not fully awake, Evi read the text again. Laura had gone. Evi sat upright on the bed. Most of the light had gone from the day outside and her bedroom was filled with shadows. She realized she’d slept through the entire afternoon, missing two supervisions and a two-hour stint at the clinic. And yet no one had phoned her. It was as though no one had even noticed she was missing.
She got up and made her way to the kitchen, knowing something else was wrong, just unable to put her finger on what it was. Only when she saw the empty space in front of the cooker where she’d put Sniffy’s rug did she realize. The rug was no longer there. Neither were the food and water bowls that she’d put by the sink. And neither was Sniffy herself. All traces of the dog were gone from the house. She might never have existed.
*
The fresh cold air of the early evening stung Joesbury’s face but helped to clear his head. A little way ahead he could see a wooden bench where a solitary smoker sat huddled in his dressing gown. Sitting down felt like a very good idea, except he wasn’t sure he’d ever get up again.
Getting out of hospital before the doctor in charge was willing to release him hadn’t been easy but Joesbury had insisted. He’d waited till just after his prescribed dose of painkillers and had managed to dress himself. Now, he needed a phone.
Conscious of bloodstained clothes and a bruised, battered face, he turned and made his way to the corner of the street. Two hundred yards away was a row of public telephones. There was no response on the first number he tried. He tried again, gave up after the third attempt and dialled Scotland Yard.
‘Jesus, Mark, what’s going on?’ DCI Phillips said, after the phone call to SO10 had been accepted. ‘We expected you twenty-four hours ago.’
He listened while Joesbury explained about the accident, how both his and Lacey’s laptops and mobile phones were missing, even his cover ID.
‘Were you ambushed?’ Phillips asked, when he’d done.
‘Traffic officer who came to see me said all four tyres were in ribbons. Draw your own conclusion.’
‘Looks like we’re into damage limitation. I’m pulling everyone out.’
‘Hang on, guv. DC Flint had information for me. Names and a possible location. Shit, it’s gone.’
Heavy sigh down the line. ‘You didn’t write it down?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my memory when I’m not concussed,’ Joesbury said. ‘We had a trace on her vehicle. Is it still operational?’
‘Give me a sec. And I’ll organize someone to pick you up while I’m at it.’
Joesbury waited, whilst the world around him became less focused. He closed his eyes, opening them only when he knew he was about to fall over.
‘I’ve got it,’ Phillips told him. ‘What do you need?’
‘Can you give me her movements since yesterday first thing?’
Another second passed. Then, ‘She spent the night at Endicott Farm, between Burwell and Waterbeach. Did you know about that?’
Joesbury felt his headache press down. ‘Yeah. She was back at St John’s just before nine, then she went to the hospital. What next?’
‘Went to St Clement’s Road just off the town centre. Stayed about forty minutes.’
‘That’s it,’ said Joesbury. ‘Scott Thornton, number 108. I was going to have it watched. Shit, we’ve lost twenty-four hours.’
‘Want me to organize a search warrant?’
‘I think so. She’s also worried about Nick Bell and Megan Prince, two local medics. And somebody called Thomas. Ianto? Iestyn. That’s it, Iestyn Thomas. Where did she go after that?’
‘A five-mile trip out of town to a village called Boxworth. Stayed in the high street for ten minutes, then went back into town and parked outside Evi Oliver’s house for a few minutes. Back to the hospital and then on to Queen’s Road. Didn’t move from there for the rest of the night.’
‘Guv, can you have someone find out who lives in Boxworth near where she parked? See if any names ring a bell?’
‘Anything else?’
‘What’s she been up to today?’
‘This morning, no movement until 10.17 a.m., when the car was driven out of town,’ continued Phillips. ‘She went towards the Bell …’
‘Bell Foundries Industrial Estate. Unit 33,’ said Joesbury. ‘She saw Scott Thornton going inside earlier in the week. Please tell me she didn’t.’
‘She parked on the B1102, about half a mile away. Stayed there for eighty minutes, so it’s anybody’s guess what she got up to. After that, she drove out to Endicott Farm again.’
Bell’s place again. Could she not stay away from the twat for five minutes?
‘Then what?’
‘It was there for nearly thirty minutes, then went back to St John’s. Which is where it remains.’
‘She’s at St John’s?’
‘Car is.’
‘Can you get George looking for her?’
‘He’s already on his way to pick you up. I’ll get someone else to do it.’
‘Guv, I need something else. That phone we gave her yesterday. Can you give me its recent use?’
‘You’re stretching my technical skills, buddy. Hang on.’
Joesbury waited, hearing Phillips call to one of the clerical staff. Then, ‘One incoming text late last night,’ said Phillips. ‘Can’t give you the details, just the number it came from.’
‘Nobody should have been texting her. Nobody had that number but me.’
‘It was from you.’
Joesbury leaned back against the Perspex wall of the kiosk, telling himself that throwing up right now would do nothing to improve the situation. ‘Late last night I was bleeding on to a hospital pillow,’ he managed. ‘Somebody was using my phone to text Lacey. Anything else?’
‘An outgoing text late this morning, that one also to you. I assume you didn’t get it. And one more, a couple of hours later. An incoming call this time from a listed number.’
‘Nobody had her number. No one could call her but me.’
‘Hang on, I’ve got it. Here we go. She was called by a local GP. A Dr Nicholas Bell.’
Silence.
‘You still there, Mark?’
WHAT I REMEMBER next is being in my room at St John’s. I was in bed, my arms wrapped tight around Joesbury’s teddy, wearing my usual night-time jogging pants and vest. For a second, everything felt so normal it seemed the only crazy thing in the whole world was me. I felt tired, seriously hungover, and as though my limbs would shake if I tried to move, but otherwise OK.
Without thinking, my eyes went up to where I knew the camera that had been filming me had to be and that’s when I knew everything had changed. The camera wasn’t there. It couldn’t be. The pipework that must have hidden it wasn’t there. The cosmetics around the washbasin were mine but the mirror was different. The one screwed to the wall of my room had a tiny chip in it at the top right-hand corner. This one was whole and perfect.
I pushed back the duvet and sat up. The floor wasn’t right, either. It looked cleaner and newer and the wall behind the bedhead wasn’t plaster but a much softer, warmer substance. Plywood.
I was not going to panic. I was going to think. Difficult, with such a thick, fuzzy head, but not impossible. Just take it slow.
Nick! What the hell had they done to Nick?
I couldn’t help Nick if I panicked. Take stock. I was in Unit 33 and they’d recreated my room out of plywood, just as they’d done for Jessica. What had she said? My room but not my room?
I was going to hold it together.
This was about scaring me, about getting more gruesome footage for their sick films. They didn’t want me dead yet. I had a massive advantage over the other girls who’d been here. I knew where I was and how to get out. And these bastards did not know me. They could not know what scared me. They’d have something in store that would be unpleasant, but I could deal with it. I’d squeal a bit, pretend to be more freaked than I was. Let them get their footage. And all the while I’d be looking for my chance.
First things first. What had they given me? I remembered being held from behind by Castell and Thornton pushing the needle hard into my neck, then a vague recollection of being carried down the stairs. Nothing after that. A powerful sedative would be my best guess, and it had to be starting to wear off now that I’d woken up. I’d be slow and sluggish, far from my best, but still basically OK.
I got to my feet and felt the room tilt. When I felt I could handle it, I reached over the bed towards the window. The curtains were drawn and I just knew there was something behind them I wouldn’t want to see. Telling myself I could deal with it, I took hold of one curtain and pulled it gently back.
Oh, Jesus!
I’d fallen back against the wardrobe door. There was a dark space in my head that was swelling like a balloon. I was not going to lose it. I was not. It was going to take more than a horrific photograph to make me do that. When I could face it, I made myself look again at the dreadful image they’d fastened on the wall of this fake room, exactly where the window should have been.
It was easier the second time, when I knew what was coming. In fact it was nothing I hadn’t seen many times before. They’d found and blown up a post-mortem photograph, taken over a hundred years ago, of a murdered woman. The poor creature lay on the bed of her rented room in London, hacked beyond recognition.
Three months earlier, I’d worked a big case in London in which women were killed as coldly and as brutally as the one in this photograph had been, and now these bozos thought this was what would scare me the most.
They weren’t even close.
I walked back to the bed and sat down for a while to get my breath back and clear my head. I was going to have to leave the room. See what they had waiting for me outside. I would do it in a second. Just another second.
There was blood, trickling down the wall.
I’d closed my eyes. It’s not real blood, it’s not real blood, they did this to Evi, freaked her out with fake blood. It will be paint, theatrical blood, whatever. I was going to walk over there, run my finger through it, write FUCK YOU in very large letters on the wall and when I got my hands on that bitch Talaith Robinson I was going to show her exactly what a great quantity of bloo
d looked like and it would be her own.
I opened my eyes again to find the blood had gone. I got up anyway and walked over to check. The wall was white and clean.
OK, this was more serious than I’d thought. They’d given me some sort of hallucinogen. I pulled the curtain back again. The photograph of the murdered woman was still there. I reached out, touched it. It was real. The real image had sparked a connected hallucination. Well, at least I knew how it was going to work.
Jesus, to have been through this without the knowledge I had.
No time now to worry about what the others had gone through. I was prepared. I was going to cope. On legs that felt weak and shaky, but did what I told them, I crossed the room, pulled open the door and looked outside.
I saw a dimly lit space, narrow and disappearing into blackness. The walls were of old brickwork, the ceiling low. The painted plywood boards I’d seen in a storage room earlier had been for me.
Bring it on, I muttered as I stepped out, knowing the bravado was to make myself feel better and that it wasn’t really working. It’s one thing to tell yourself all they can do is scare you, but being scared can feel pretty bad when you’re alone in a dark space, at the mercy of people you know to be psychopathic, and without the first clue about what’s going to leap out at you next.
Somehow, I held it together. I walked forward, reached a corner and turned into a narrow, fake-brick-lined alley. It was like something an art student had knocked up in a couple of hours and it was not – not – going to get to me. Neither was the little surprise a few yards ahead, where a spotlight in the ceiling picked out a form on the floor. As I drew closer I could see it was a human figure. Closer still and I knew it wasn’t real. This was a clothes-shop dummy, stripped naked and smeared with fake blood. Joesbury and I had found a very similar one when we’d been investigating the case last year. This was all public knowledge for anyone who looked hard enough and, OK, I was scared, really scared, useless to pretend otherwise any more, but I could deal with being scared. I was getting out of here.
