Suddenly, Kitkat was clear of the water. He wheezed a heavy breath that was largely water, sending a spray of liquid from his mouth as he gasped desperately. He panted, the flecks of water irritating the back of his throat and nose. It was a while before he opened his eyes, feeling the froth running from his face until he managed to settle on the stony face of Carter. There was a thick cord in the man’s hand but he seemed to be taking no pleasure from what he was inflicting.
‘Where’s my money, you four-fingered freak?’
Chris’s name was on the tip of Kitkat’s tongue. He wanted to say it but what then? Carter and his men might kill his friend. If not, they’d definitely hurt him. Did Kitkat want that on his conscience? Perhaps they’d believe him that there was only four and a half thousand in the bag.
‘That’s all there was!’
Kitkat managed to snatch a breath in the fraction of a second that he saw Carter’s grip loosen on the cord. He scrunched his eyes as tightly as he could, feeling the foamy water swirling around his face. He tried to tell himself not to panic again, counting the seconds instead of flailing. If he could stand up to the punishment, perhaps that would impress a man like Carter?
It was almost a minute before Kitkat felt the pressure on his legs intensify and he was hauled clear of the water. He started to take a breath but the cord was released again and, before he had a lungful of air, he was back in the sink, panicking and struggling. Water stung his eyes, filling his nose and mouth. Without meaning to, he gulped in the liquid, and then he really was scrambling. His head rocked back and forth, sending the water spilling over the top of the sink as he bumped into the sides. He took a second mouthful, mind racing before it was over.
In a flash, he was out of the water again. He puffed deeply, trying to get the liquid out of his mouth, expecting to be dunked once more. This time it didn’t happen as he slowly regained some composure. The only noise was the sound of drips falling from Kitkat’s head into the sink. His eyes were still closed but he could hear the swirl of water disappearing from beneath him. When he finally risked a peek, he could see the scratched metal at the bottom of the nearly empty sink.
At some point – he wasn’t sure when – his hands had been cut free. His wrists were so sore from the slices that, even though they’d been separated, it still felt as if they were bound together. Kitkat blinked and coughed, feeling the liquid scraping the back of his throat. Every breath was painful.
The spot in which Carter had been standing was now empty, the cord tying Kitkat’s feet looped over the bracket on the ceiling and tied to the corner of a metal shelf. As far as he could see, he was alone.
He bobbed back and forth, still trying to get his breath properly as he angled himself to peer up at the rope that was holding him. As he wondered how he was going to release himself, Kitkat realised a knife was resting next to the taps. Had it always been there, or had it been put there by whoever had cut his wrists free? Not caring either way, Kitkat stretched for the blade. It was heavy, the type used to slice vegetables, and he wasn’t feeling particularly strong.
It took time, but with a series of grunts and resting periods, he hoisted himself up and slowly cut through the cord.
Eventually, the rope gave way, allowing Kitkat’s exhausted body to flop to the floor, where he landed in a puddle of water with a fleshy plop. He put his hands to his face, checking he was all there before emitting another choke of water.
‘You can still use your hands, then?’
Kitkat didn’t have the energy to turn quickly but he slumped to the side, spotting Carter standing close to a chest freezer, hands in pockets. Kitkat’s throat was on fire: ‘Huh?’
‘Four fingers or not, your hands still work.’
‘I guess.’
Carter stepped forward as Kitkat reeled away, arm across his face, expecting a blow that never came. Instead, the suited man offered his hand and helped Kitkat to his feet.
His features were as impassive as ever. ‘I hear you’ve been asking around for work,’ Carter said.
‘Er . . . yeah.’
‘You know who I am?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what I do.’
‘Sort of, I mean—’
Carter cut him off: ‘I need honest men who might have to handle certain types of goods or money but wouldn’t think of nicking from me.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘Loyal, too. People who don’t grass.’
Kitkat tried to read Carter but there was nothing to see. He wondered how much of this had been planned. He had been asking for work and his car was distinctive enough to be spotted at the chicken place the previous evening. Had he been given the money by accident? Was it deliberate to see if he tried to do something stupid with the cash? Who was the server? Perhaps he’d passed the test by not being an idiot? Maybe he’d never know.
He covered his mouth as another cough erupted. Carter stepped to the side, pointing towards the fire exit. ‘Get me back my five hundred quid and I’ll have a job for you.’
At least that answered the question of whether Chris was in on all of this – he wasn’t and he’d nicked five hundred quid. The idiot. Kitkat stumbled across the kitchen, passing the snipped remains of his rucksack.
Carter’s voice echoed across the room. ‘I’ll get you a new bag.’
Kitkat had one hand on the metal bar across the fire exit, freedom tantalisingly close. ‘Right.’
‘One more thing.’
‘What?’
‘Get better mates, Kitkat – Chris Green’s a liability. I’ll be in touch, yeah?’
Kitkat gazed up at the brute of a man, knowing he couldn’t say ‘no’. What were the career options when you were born in a place like this? Roofer? Some shit job in a call centre?
No way.
He nodded, still tasting the detergent. ‘No problem.’
SCARRED FOR LIFE
There’s no going back . . .
DI Jessica Daniel is not having a good week. Her wallet’s been nicked, the refurbished incident room is already falling apart, and a new football-mad constable is driving her crazy.
But she has bigger things on her mind. A student, vaguely linked to an Olympic medallist, has been found dead; his body dumped in a wheelie bin at the back of a university building. One theory is that it could have been an induction that went wrong.
There’s also the tattooed shop raider who has her team stumped; someone attacking lone women; a chief inspector who seems to have a problem with her; and she’s started receiving threatening letters through her front door.
Worlds are colliding for Jessica – and, if she’s not careful, someone close to her might not make it out in one piece.
JANUARY
Since turning thirty in late 2010, Kerry Wilkinson has been busy.
He’s topped the Amazon Kindle chart; had eight consecutive top 20 Kindle crime books; written a young-adult dystopian trilogy; had a paperback in the UK chart; been translated into more than a dozen languages; sold around 800,000 books; worked for the London 2012 Olympics and the 2014 World Cup; visited more than thirty US states; and, in 2014 alone, cycled 10,000 miles.
There’s probably more but his memory’s not that good.
January is part of Kerry Wilkinson’s ebook series A Calendar of Crime.
Website: www.kerrywilkinson.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/kerrywk
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/JessicaDanielBooks
Email: [email protected]
By Kerry Wilkinson
The Jessica Daniel series
LOCKED IN
VIGILANTE
THE WOMAN IN BLACK
THINK OF THE CHILDREN
PLAYING WITH FIRE
THICKER THAN WATER
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
CROSSING THE LINE
SCARRED FOR LIFE
The Andrew Hunter series
SOMETHING WICKED
The Silver Blackthorn trilogy
; RECKONING
First published 2015 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2015 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-9266-1
Copyright © Kerry Wilkinson 2015
The right of Kerry Wilkinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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January Page 3
