by DC Brockwell
Mrs Harrison had broken her into her new role gently, first of all just cleaning the reception area, then helping to greet customers behind the bar and getting them refreshments. Then came the real work: preparing Mrs Harrison’s bees, as she called them. Kimiko was responsible for washing New Bees, and for preparing them for their customers’ arrival.
The first time she’d had to prepare one of the bees, she hadn’t wanted to at first. Mrs Harrison had been insistent, and when Kimiko had refused, Mrs Harrison became really angry, slapping Kimiko so hard on her cheek that her ears rang. She’d cried, not that it helped. When Mrs Harrison grabbed her and forced her to do the preparations, Kimiko knew what her future life would entail.
She’d found it disgusting at first, making sure she rinsed her mouth for at least ten minutes after. Over time, however, she’d acclimatised to preparing them. Now she did it without hesitation, sometimes even enjoying the response she received from the bees. Fortunately, she only had to prepare New Bees while they were tied up. Once they demonstrated that they would behave, they were released from their shackles and her assistance was no longer required. If a bee asked her to, it was still her duty to help them, and she always did as she was asked. How could she refuse? This was her life now.
Kimiko followed Mrs Harrison out of the house, along the paved path behind the building and over to the barn before heading down the thirty steps to the reception area. Walter and two guards were stood by the bar, as they normally did when the bees were getting ready for their first customers of the day. The support staff were busy changing the bed sheets and cleaning the rooms while the bees were showering and readying themselves for the day ahead.
“Go and get your trolley, and meet me in room five,” said Mrs Harrison as she carried on walking.
“Yes, Bea,” Kimiko replied dutifully.
She continued walking to the storeroom on the right, past the showers and toilets where three guards were watching some of the bees shower and relieve themselves. She left Mrs Harrison outside room five where Kimiko heard her boss slide open the hatch. She so desperately wanted Freddie to be back to normal; she hoped he had calmed down.
Having filled her plastic basin with hot soapy water, she wheeled the trolley back along the corridor, past the toilets and showers and past the bee rooms until she reached room five.
The door was open, and Kimiko could see Mrs Harrison stood talking to Freddie.
“I’ll ask that again, Freddie, are you going to behave today?”
Kimiko watched as Freddie’s whole body erupted violently, convulsing as he fought against his restraints. It was like every part of him was moving at the same time; it startled her. He looked like he was having a fit, or seizure.
“Fuck you, you fucking bitch!” He coughed then spat, saliva spraying over his face and chest. “I’d rather fucking die than spend another minute here, you hear me?”
Kimiko jumped, startled, when Freddie spat in Mrs Harrison’s face.
Kimiko watched as Mrs Harrison wiped her face with the sleeve of her blouse. She knew something bad was about to happen, when her employer lunged forward and slapped his face, hard. His head snapped to the side.
Hearing the commotion, Walter rushed into the room. “There a problem in here, Bea?”
To Kimiko’s surprise, Mrs Harrison didn’t reply; she stood there, contemplating.
Walter reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a pair of secateurs. He then walked around to the right side of the bed, took Freddie’s ring finger, and placed it inside the garden cutters. “Say the word…”
Kimiko waited for Mrs Harrison to respond. Instead of replying, her employer stood there, thinking. Kimiko didn’t want to be in the room when Walter was given the green light, and she was sure Mrs Harrison would oblige. Kimiko could see how angry she was by the expression on her face; she had a slight red glow and her eyes were searching for something.
“No!” replied Mrs Harrison, finally. “We’re past that now… It won’t do any good.”
A moment of relief swept over Kimiko as Walter relinquished his grip on the secateurs, releasing Freddie’s finger. Then, however, it dawned on her what that meant.
“Kimiko, go and make a start on prepping Danny for his first customer; I’ll be in shortly.”
Kimiko nodded, pushing her trolley through the doorway. The last thing she heard before she left was Mrs Harrison saying, “You’re going to regret that, Frederick…”
7
“Mrs Singh, I know you’re in there. Please open up; I need to talk to you about your missing neighbour.”
Nasreen knocked on the door one more time. Mrs Singh was the last neighbour living in the row of townhouses that she needed to speak to about Danny’s disappearance.
“I don’t know nothing about it,” came a heavily accented voice through the door. “Don’t know him. Go away!”
She turned away in frustration; it wasn’t as though she was going to get any more from Mrs Singh than she had from any of the other neighbours. Danny apparently had no interaction with any of them – never said hello in passing, and never had any conversations or arguments with either of his immediate neighbours. It was a dead-end line of enquiry. Nasreen hoped Terrence had had more luck going further up the road, although she doubted it.
Nasreen glanced at her watch: eight thirty. Her partner had suggested making an early start to catch Danny’s neighbours before they went to work, and it had proven fruitful (to a degree), as she’d managed to speak to all his neighbours except Mrs Singh.
It had been a frustrating four days – with only a couple of leads to follow up – and ever since being given the case, she’d thought about nothing but Danny. She didn’t want her memories to be the only thing she had left of him; she wanted to find him, talk to him, to find out what had happened to him to force him to sell his body for money.
Terrence met her at the bottom of the steps.
They walked along the road toward their unmarked pool car.
“Anything?” Terrence asked, a hint of optimism in his voice.
“Nada.”
Anyone walking past them would be forgiven for not thinking they worked for the police; in their navy-blue two-piece suits they could be door-to-door salespeople. Terrence was a lot taller than Nasreen; he was six feet to her five feet five. He was the kind of person the PC brigade would feel immensely proud of. He was also a very competent detective, the kind she looked up to.
Nasreen, on the other hand, had to prove she had what it took to make detective constable. Being female, Pakistani and a Muslim wasn’t going to make it easy, especially as she knew the top brass would be watching her career with interest.
Only a year earlier, on her first day on the job after her promotion, she’d been told by Detective Chief Superintendent Adams that the only reason she’d been promoted was to placate the same PC brigade who were so proud of Terrence. Her promotion, therefore, was effectively an exercise in public relations; she hadn’t scored the highest in the test, and he’d had several candidates who were more capable of doing the job, but their ethnicity wasn’t what the top brass needed. The super had told her that she had to prove she was worthy of being called a detective and that he hoped she wouldn’t let him down.
So, since day one, she’d been the first to arrive at the office every day and the last to leave. In a year, she had successfully helped close thirteen cases, including that of a serial rapist who had attacked five women; that case had garnered national media coverage, and her name had been printed in all the major newspapers. It wasn’t a bad record for year one in her new role, according to her super.
“Where to now?” she asked Terrence.
“Back to the station. Adams phoned me just now to say we have a walk-in.” Terrence took out his car key and held it as he walked alongside her.
“A witness?”
“He wouldn’t say. He just said to get back and interview her.”
When they got to their car and Terrence started
driving them back, Nasreen reached inside her suit jacket pocket and pulled out her notebook. “I don’t get why Danny didn’t speak to any of his–”
“Danny? Did you know him?”
She cursed under her breath at her loose lips. When she’d seen the name of the victim in the briefing, her heart had literally stopped for a second. She was surprised Terrence hadn’t known something was wrong by her pale face; he was a detective, after all. “I knew him a little,” she replied, her head down, as if in disgrace.
“A little?” Terrence repeated, staring at her. “What does that mean? You either know him or you don’t.”
“We were in school together. We weren’t friends or anything.”
“You weren’t friends?”
“Not until after school. We got together after college, when we were about twenty–”
“Jesus, you got together with him? What, like girlfriend-boyfriend together?”
“For about a year, yeah. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you earlier; I thought Adams would take me off the case if I did – I just want to help find him.”
Terrence leaned back in his seat, blowing air out audibly. “Bloody hell, Nas, you should’ve told me before now.”
“I know, I’m so sorry. Please don’t write me up for this; I want to help. He’s my friend; you understand that, don’t you?”
“I’ve got to be able to trust you, Nas, you’re my partner.” Terrence drove around the park and stopped at some traffic lights.
“You can trust me. I know I was wrong to keep it from you, and I get it. I should’ve told you about our relationship, but I really did think I was doing the right thing at the time. I need to find him.”
“Okay, I get it… I suppose I might do the same thing in your shoes,” he replied, overtaking an elderly driver in front. “Promise me you won’t hide anything from me again. Full disclosure, all right? I can’t work with a partner I don’t trust.”
“I promise,” she replied, gratitude etched in her voice as she sat back in the passenger seat and thought about the case. “Full disclosure.”
Finally, there might be something of substance. Since Rita Abbott had phoned in Danny’s disappearance five days earlier, the most they’d found were traces of blood on the other side of the park from Rita’s house, and the blood could belong to anyone – or any animal for that matter. They were still waiting on forensics to confirm if it was his blood or not; they had his DNA on record after he was arrested for assault three years earlier. The blood they’d found was awaiting analysis and the results should be with them soon, according to the forensics lab.
So far, they’d managed to track most of his movements for the week leading up to his disappearance. They knew that the last person to see him was Rita Abbott. They also knew that he’d walked from his home on the other side of the park to Rita’s to pick her up and that they’d taken a taxi from Rita Abbott’s home into town. Rita had told them that she’d heard him leave the house at roughly half three, maybe quarter to four. They’d then surmised that he would have walked back home through the park. They had walked the quickest route to his home, which is where they’d found the blood. Nasreen hoped the DNA results came back positive, giving them something to go on.
She had to be realistic: Danny was a high-risk victim, given his line of work, as male escorts were almost as high-risk as female sex workers. However, he was a high-end male escort – meaning that it was less probable that he would come into contact with unsavoury characters – plus he was a well-built physically fit man in his thirties, so he could probably take care of himself. She’d seen his work history at the briefing; he’d started his escort business with Nagel and Nagel, which had gone bust two years earlier; since then he had taken his escorting freelance, asking his N and N clients to go with him.
They’d spoken to Claire and Eric Nagel about Danny and his work with them, and they’d been as helpful as they could be under the circumstances – up to a point. When Terrence had asked them for a client list, Eric Nagel had declined, saying that information regarding their clients was protected (especially given the kind of work they did) and that their ex-clients would probably lie to protect their reputations; after all, these were often lonely, vulnerable, and wealthy older ladies. Terrence had then informed the Nagels that he would apply to the courts for a search warrant and that they should be more concerned about their former employee. The interview had not ended well. Eric Nagel had terminated the conversation by saying “good luck in retrieving deleted data”; he’d told them that they’d shredded all documentation and deleted any digital data concerning their business.
Inside Danny’s townhouse – an expensive piece of property located in a good neighbourhood – they hadn’t found much to go on. He kept a clean and tidy home, which made searching it easier than usual. Unfortunately, they’d not found anything they could use. Finding a mobile phone would have been useful, but he would probably have had his with him when he was abducted – if, in fact, he’d been abducted at all. They still couldn’t be certain.
If they took the time that Rita Abbott claimed Daniel left her home as the approximate time of his disappearance, it meant that he’d been missing for six days. Nasreen had been taught that if missing people weren’t found within forty-eight hours, chances were they wouldn’t be found at all, or that a body would be found later – sometimes much, much later. Time, therefore, was running out; her super was already hinting at putting the Rose case on the back-burner in favour of more pressing cases that would yield closure and help bolster their force’s clearance rate.
The drive to the station from Danny’s address took twenty minutes in peak-time traffic, and when they got there Nasreen followed Terrence into the lift, up to the second floor, and along three corridors until they arrived at interview room five…
8
Danny’s head felt much clearer. He wasn’t in charge of his situation, and there was nothing he could do about it while he was chained to this stupid bed. It made him want to scream. Instead, he tried to remain calm. Danny prided himself on being a pragmatist and a problem solver.
The previous night he’d got to thinking that the main thing he needed to do was to get the lay of the land; he needed to see what was outside this room. He couldn’t do that while he was chained up, so the first thing he needed to do was get out of his chains, and Kimiko had told him that Beattie let her bees out of the restraints once she believed they would behave. Since there was a rating system in place, he had to do a convincing job. There was no skating around the fact.
With his vast experience of pleasuring ladies, he had no doubt he could please anyone who paid for his services. With that in mind, he had to face facts: he had to please whoever Beattie needed him to. He hated being so helpless – while he could fight Beattie, he was a pragmatist at heart. And besides, he hated pain; he would do anything to avoid it.
The previous night he’d gone through so many different emotions; he felt like he’d gone through the various stages of grief in a matter of hours. He’d gone through shock and denial, anger and bargaining, depression and despair. He was now at acceptance; if he took any longer he would make Beattie angry and consequently incur some horrific torturous punishment, and he really didn’t want that.
After hours of thinking things over, he came up with his escape plan.
Stage one was to make Beattie believe he was playing along so she felt confident enough to release his chains, and he knew he could do it; after all, he had so much experience of playing people. He played most of his clients, making them believe he loved them.
He could do this, he kept telling himself.
Stage two was to get outside that door and see what he was dealing with, to see if he could find an exit strategy. It was only part of a plan, but it was all he had.
He heard a key jiggle outside before the door opened and Kimiko wheeled in her trolley. She was dressed in a different coloured kimono from the previous day, this one turquoise with white Japanese writin
g. She looked freshly showered, with her slightly damp hair tied back in a ponytail. With a clearer head, she was even prettier than he remembered.
“Good morning, Danny,” she said in her heavily accented voice. “I here to prepare you for first customer.”
He watched as she wheeled the trolley to the left side of his bed, dipped her sponge in the warm water and wiped him down.
“Morning. How are you today?”
Kimiko wiped his chest. “I very well, thank you. How you feel today?”
“I feel fine.”
“Bea here soon. You need be ready when she arrive.”
“I’m all yours.” He smiled, thinking that phase one was in play. He was going to charm the pants off everyone…
9
“So, tell me how you came to see this man dragging a body across the road?” Terrence asked the interviewee.
Nasreen was sat next to her superior, her notepad on the table that separated them from the witness, Valerie Chapman. She observed Valerie: she was a pretty blonde in her early twenties, well dressed, with three earrings in both ears and a silver nose stud.
“My boyfriend was dropping me home on Thursday morning–”
“What time was this?” Terrence asked, poised with his pen.
“About quarter to four. Can I continue?”
“Please do.”
“We were on our way to my parents’ house, going past the park, when I saw a man dragging another man across the street and into a white van. At least I think it was white, I guess it could’ve been beige…”
“What kind of van?”
“A white one, I just said…”
“I mean type of van; what type of van was it?” Terrence asked. “Was it a transit van? Something else?”
Nasreen watched the confusion form on Valerie’s face. “It’s helpful to know everything we can about what you saw,” Nasreen told her gently.
