Death Bed E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A DI Geraldine Steel Thriller
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 476

Beschreibung

The fourth in the detective series featuring DI Geraldine Steel When the bodies of two black girls are discovered in North London, the pressure is on to find a killer before the case divides the local community. But motive seems to go far beyond race in DI Geraldine Steel's first investigation in the nation's capital. Two teeth were extracted from each victim, and when this information is leaked to the press, there is a media frenzy over the unusual MO. As the police pursue their lead suspect, a third girl goes missing. With the death toll mounting, time is running out for Geraldine as she hunts for the elusive killer the media are calling 'The Dentist'.

Leseprobe

Contents

Part 1

1: TAKE ME HOME

2: USUAL TERMS

3: KEEPING SECRETS

4: CRY INTO THE SILENCE

5: SENSE OF PURPOSE

6: A LOW PROFILE

7: COLLECTION FROM LIFE

8: CONSTERNATION

9: WORKING TOGETHER

10: ONE DEAD STRANGER

11: SHOCK

12: CAUGHT OFF GUARD

13: SICK WITH WORRY

14: WORDLESS RAGE

15: MEMORY OF THE DEAD

Part 2

16: A LONG SHOT

17: THE AGONY OF MOVING

18: TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

19: STILL MISSING

20: A POSITIVE IDENTIFICATION

21: HELL TO PAY

22: MURDER IS MURDER

23: BLOOD

24: A QUIET GIRL

25: A POSSIBLE SUSPECT

26: SHARP EDGE

Part 3

27: A GRAND JOB

28: A STRAIGHTFORWARD QUESTION

29: THE DEVIL’S FACE

30: AROUND MIDNIGHT

31: CONCEALED FROM EVERY ANGLE

32: WILD ACCUSATION

33: DRUNK AND DISORDERLY

34: AS GOOD AS DEAD

35: WILD SPECULATION

36: CROSSING THE LINE

37: NOT ALWAYS SAFE

38: A DIFFERENT ANGLE

39: ADDITIONAL PRESSURE

40: A MINOR TRAFFIC INCIDENT

41: UNSEEING FACES

42: A MADDENING CONUNDRUM

43: SEARCHING

Part 4

44: VULNERABLE WOMEN

45: A DEAD END

46: TOO CRUEL

47: LOST CONTACT

48: IN A BAD WAY

49: ON THE MOVE

50: DARKNESS MORE PROFOUND

51: IN TROUBLE

52: A TRICKY CASE

53: A REGULAR CUSTOMER

54: LAST SEEN ALIVE

55: RITUAL

56: HEADY RECKLESSNESS

57: SUDDENLY SCARED

58: THROUGH THE NIGHT

Part 5

59: A HINT OF AGGRESSION

60: MORE THAN HIS LIFE WAS WORTH

61: AS GOOD AS THEY SAY

62: SOUND OF CRYING

63: ON THE BRINK

64: DANGEROUS PREDICAMENT

65: LET DOWN

66: ONE MEMENTO

67: TWILIGHT ZONE

68: A RIGHT TO KNOW

69: VANISHED WITHOUT TRACE

70: FOREBODING

71: PATHETIC LIVES

72: OUR DARK SIDE

73: UNREMARKABLE PEOPLE

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR LEIGH RUSSELL

'taut and compelling' - Peter James

'Leigh Russell is one to watch' - Lee Child

'Leigh Russell has become one of the most impressively dependable purveyors of the English police procedural' - Marcel Berlins, Times

'A brilliant talent in the thriller field.' - Jeffery Deaver

DEATH BED

LEIGH RUSSELL

Dedicated toMichael, Jo and Phill

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Dr Leonard Russell for his medical advice, all my contacts on the Metropolitan Police Force who have been so generous with their time, Heather Bonney at the Human Remains Unit at the Natural History Museum for her expert knowledge, my editor Keshini Naidoo for her guidance, and the wonderful team at No Exit Press for their support and assistance.

‘“He knows death to the bone - Man has created death.”

W B Yeats

PART 1

1

TAKE ME HOME

Music thumped out a regular beat, any melody obscured by the fluctuating din of voices. Struggling towards the bar with the rest of the clamouring throng, Donna felt sick. She had drunk too much on an empty stomach and the coke wasn’t helping either. Telling herself she was old enough to know better, she manoeuvred her way over to the toilets and swore when she saw the long queue. A wave of nausea washed over her and she felt as though she would suffocate in that hot, noisy bar. She fought her way back to the table in the corner and tapped Lily on the shoulder.

‘I’m going out for some air.’

Lily smiled up at her.

‘Orange juice,’ she yelled in reply.

‘I’m going out,’ Donna shouted. ‘I can’t breathe in here.’

Lily nodded. Donna wasn’t sure if she’d heard her or not.

‘I’m going outside,’ she repeated. ‘You coming?’

Lily shook her head and said something that Donna couldn’t make out. She turned and made her way through the door and onto Camden High Street. Pausing in the entrance, she leaned unsteadily against the door jamb and took a few deep breaths that only made her feel dizzy. A couple of men were standing on the pavement in front of her, smoking. Donna was aware of their eyes following her as she staggered forwards. One of them held out a spliff. She took it and inhaled gratefully. It didn’t make her feel any better.

‘Not bad looking,’ he commented, loudly enough for her to hear.

‘You know what they say about black girls,’ the other one replied and whistled.

As she hurried past them her heel caught on an uneven paving stone. She felt her ankle turn over and almost lost her balance. Startled, she registered that something was wrong and, looking down, saw a thin high heel lying uselessly on the pavement beside her left foot. ‘Sod it,’ she grumbled. Behind her she heard the two men laughing. ‘Pricks,’ she muttered under her breath. Afraid she was going to throw up in front of them, she hobbled to the corner and turned off the main road into a narrow alley where she stood for a moment, steadying herself with one hand against the wall and leaning forward, waiting to be sick. She wasn’t. Reeling, she turned back to the main road. All she wanted was to get home, but a large group of raucous young men had gathered on the corner of the High Street and she would have to limp past them to reach the station. In desperation she decided to return to the pub and find Lily, but her head was spinning and she couldn’t remember which way to go. One of the youths on the corner had turned and was watching her curiously as she tottered on one heel.

While she wavered, a car drew up beside her and a man got out. Seeing Donna sway, he ran round the front of the vehicle in time to catch her by the elbow and steady her.

‘Are you alright, Miss?’

‘Fine, fine. Get away from me.’

She stumbled and almost fell over.

‘You really shouldn’t be out on the streets alone in your state.’

‘I’m going to the station. I’m going home,’ she mumbled, close to tears. ‘I need to find Lily. I’m with Lily.’

‘Is there anyone at home to look after you?’ the man asked. ‘You’re in no state to be left on your own.’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied.

She was trembling, afraid she was going to pass out, yet at the same time overwhelmingly grateful for his concern.

She had left her jacket in the bar, but it was a warm evening and she felt uncomfortably hot.

‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘I’ll tell you what. My car’s here. I can take you home. It’s alright,’ he smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m a police officer.’

He pulled an identity card from his wallet and held it in front of her face but her eyes wouldn’t focus properly.

‘Come on, let’s get you home.’

Donna nodded her head in relief and was fumbling in her bag for her front door key when a thought struck her.

‘What about Lily?’

‘What?’

‘Lily. My friend, Lily. My flatmate.’

‘Don’t worry about her. She hasn’t been too bothered about you, has she?’

He sounded impatient and Donna realised he was right. Where was Lily when Donna needed her?

‘Come on, let me take you home,’ he urged again.

One thing was for sure, there was no way Donna would make it home by herself.

‘My shoe’s broken,’ she explained and began to giggle helplessly as the man put his hand on her shoulder and guided her to his car.

‘Here we are,’ he said.

Donna clambered in, hoping she wouldn’t chuck up, and relaxed. Her shoes were no good to her with one heel anyway. It was a relief to remove them, they were beginning to rub, and wearing them all evening had made her calves ache.

‘I live by Highbury Fields,’ she told him as she leaned back and closed her eyes.

It wasn’t far but they seemed to be driving for ages. When she looked up again they were passing Kentish Town station which didn’t seem right. Donna sat up and tried to work out where they were.

They passed Tufnell Park tube and soon after that she recognised shops on Highgate High Street. Everything looked blurred but at least she knew the road they were on, and the policeman must know where they were going. She closed her eyes again. She just wanted to sit without moving.

‘If you want to know the way, ask a policeman,’ she sang under her breath and sat up, gripped by a sudden anxiety.

‘You are taking me home?’

‘Don’t worry, we’re almost there.’

Donna leaned back feeling nauseous again.

The car slowed down and opening her eyes she saw they had turned off Highgate Hill and were driving past a pub on their left. Without warning, she leaned forward, bent almost double in the seat, and threw up all over her jeans.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ she mumbled.

The whole drive was turning into a nightmare, but the policeman didn’t even seem to notice she had been sick, although it stank. He drove on, staring straight ahead.

Looking up, Donna saw a small patch of grass, like a village green. Turning to look out of her passenger window she caught sight of a church on the other side before they turned sharply right into a narrow lane screened from the road by a row of tall trees.

‘Where are we?’

She tried to scoop some of the puke off her jeans with a tissue but it stuck to her thighs, sticky and disgusting.

‘This is where I live.’

‘Take me home. I want to go home.’

‘I brought you here so my wife can look after you until you sober up. Then I’ll take you home. You passed out in the car back there and you’ve been sick. If you vomit while you’re unconscious, you can choke. That’s dangerous and you shouldn’t be left alone. It was either bring you here or take you to the hospital, and they’re busy enough on a Saturday night as it is. My wife’s a police officer as well. She knows what to do.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s waiting for us inside. Now don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine.’

She fumbled with her seat belt while he opened double wooden gates with a remote control.

‘I can’t get this off,’ she grumbled as they drove in.

‘Here,’ he released her and helped her out of the car into darkness behind the high wooden gates which had slammed shut behind them. Sharp gravel pricked the soles of her bare feet as she followed him across the drive under the shadow of the trees. The front door closed and the man put one hand against the small of her back, propelling her towards the stairs. Donna resisted.

‘Don’t worry, my wife’s expecting you.’

For the first time he sounded irritated.

‘Why doesn’t she come down here then?’

‘Come on, there’s a bed all ready for you.’

The man grabbed hold of her wrist and half led, half dragged her up a carpeted staircase. She was dimly aware of passing a landing and a closed door, before lurching after him up a second narrow wooden flight of stairs. With a growing sense of alarm, she wondered how his wife had known about her.

‘Did you phone her?’ she asked, her voice thin and fretful.

The man didn’t even turn round.

At the top of the stairs he opened a door, pulled her inside and kicked the door shut behind her. Donna blinked. The room was very dark and it smelled foul. A skylight was covered with a black blind. Very little light came through narrow slits down the sides. She couldn’t make out much in the dimness, but she could see there was no one else there.

‘Let me go. I want to go home. Where’s your wife?’

She could barely speak, she was so frightened. Too late, she felt coldly sober, alert to the danger she was in. With an impulsive strength she jerked her arm free and rushed for the door. It was locked. A naked light bulb clicked on and she looked round and gasped. The wall opposite was covered in shelves displaying nightmarish objects.

Suddenly the man grabbed her by the throat and thrust her so she fell backwards onto a bed in the middle of the room. For a second she lay mute with terror then she began to scream, kicking out, trying to scratch him, horrified, while he twisted her round until she was lying lengthwise on the mattress. Swiftly, the man shackled her wrists and ankles with cold metal manacles attached to the bed, then sat back on his heels, astride her body.

As she stared, his face came into focus. The shadows from the light behind him exaggerated the length of his narrow pointed nose, and his eyes gleamed darkly at her. Slowly his thin lips curved in a smile.

‘There’s no point calling out for help. The house is pretty isolated so don’t think any of the neighbours will hear you if you make a racket. They won’t. No one will. Except me, of course.’

He climbed off the bed and left, closing the door firmly behind him.

Alone in the darkness Donna tried to calm down so she could think about what to do, but she couldn’t stop sobbing.

2

USUAL TERMS

Douggie’s straw-coloured hair flopped over his eyes as he waited, head lowered. At last George set his glass down.

‘Got a job for you, sunshine.’

Douggie squinted across the table.

‘Oh yeah?’

It was best not to seem too keen.

‘Usual terms,’ George went on in his husky voice.

‘I was thinking - ’ Douggie began.

‘Don’t think,’ George interrupted him. ‘Just listen.’

Douggie wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward. He glanced around the pub but no one was paying them any attention. Just two blokes sat in the corner over a pint. He turned back to his companion.

George was his contact with a group that suited Douggie down to the ground; he’d always been a sucker for a smart set of wheels. Since meeting George he’d been given the chance to drive some real beauties - BMWs, Jags, SAABs, Porsches, Douggie had driven them all, and he’d seen most of them dismantled too, battered, beaten and all but crushed before being loaded into a container along with other cars for scrapping and melting down; nothing logged in, of course.

Douggie knew which scrap yards were safe when there was a motor that needed to disappear without trace. It was hard watching some of the vehicles go, but he knew it would be too dangerous to hang on to them. He never speculated about why the cars had to be destroyed. All he wanted was to drive them and collect the dosh, no questions asked. It wasn’t as though he was taking any risks. He’d never been asked to drive a getaway car, for example. To be honest, he quite fancied the idea of a high-speed chase across London, like in the films, but in reality he knew the streets would be crawling with filth and it was impossible to escape once they were after you. Best to keep a low profile and stick to the steady jobs. Not only was Douggie reliable, but he had a clean driving licence, totally legit. He’d never so much as skipped a red light or been caught on a speed camera. He knew that once his licence was marked he might be less valuable as a driver for whoever was running George so he was always careful, and George knew he could trust Douggie to keep his trap shut. It was a sweet set up, and it suited Douggie just fine.

‘There’s a job,’ George said, lowering his voice so Douggie had to strain to hear.

‘Are you free tonight?’

Douggie nodded.

‘You can pick the wheels up from the corner of the car park here.’

‘Hang on, isn’t there a camera - ’

‘So what if there is? What’s the problem? You’re only picking up a set of wheels. No one will be looking for it. Not yet. You do what you’re paid to do, and by this time tomorrow no one will be able to find the car even if they want to. No evidence.’

He winked at Douggie and took a swig of his pint.

‘Keep it out of sight overnight then get rid of it first thing tomorrow morning.’

Douggie narrowed his eyes, considering, and reached a decision. He would drive it straight to the lockups.

‘There’s not going to be a problem, is there?’ George asked, when Douggie didn’t reply straight away.

Douggie shook his head.

‘No, you’re alright. There’s no problem. I know what to do, you know that. So, what’s the car?’

‘It’s a black SAAB 9-3 Sport Saloon.’

Douggie grinned and gave a low whistle.

‘I can’t tell you the number - could be anything by now – but it’ll be in the car park like I said, right in the corner by the bins.’

‘What if someone else is parked there?’

‘They won’t be. Relax, it’s all taken care of. Just do the job, will you? All you have to do is pick up the car and get rid of it. Don’t worry about anything else.’

‘I’ll sort it then. What time will the car be out there?’

‘Just after midnight. That’s as much as I know for now. We’re alright then?’

George raised his glass and drained it with an air of finality.

‘No worries. Cheers.’

‘See you around, sunshine.’

George stood up and sloped off without looking back.

Douggie finished his pint and sat for a moment wondering whether to have another one but he was going to be behind the wheel soon and wasn’t prepared to take any risks with his licence. You never knew when you might be stopped, for no reason. He was hungry but he had to be back at the pub to pick up the car in just over an hour, so there was no time to go home. Instead he decided to go for a walk to clear his head, grab a pizza and come back for the car. In the morning he’d take it along to the scrap yard where Jack would deal with it as a priority, no questions asked, and Douggie would collect the cash from George the following evening when the job was done. It was that simple.

Half an hour later Douggie left the pub. He waited until he was out on the street before he flipped open his phone and called Mary.

‘I won’t be in till late, love … I’ve just bumped into an old mate and we’re going to have a few beers together … I don’t know what time I’ll be back so don’t wait up … I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

Mary was used to his erratic hours. She probably thought he was out on a bender, but she knew better than to ask questions. It wasn’t a bad life, when all was said and done, and soon he was going to start saving up for his own wheels. In ten months he’d be thirty and he was planning to treat himself. A red MX5 drove by, about 1998 and well maintained, its headlights up, its soft top closed. The engine roared beautifully through the dual exhaust as Douggie watched it slip past. He reckoned he could afford one like that before long. Whistling, he strolled along the pavement towards the pizza place.

3

KEEPING SECRETS

Geraldine put down her knife and fork and took a sip of wine. It was now or never, she thought. Her niece, Chloe, had gone up to bed.

‘She says she’s tired, but I bet you anything you like in two hours’ time she’ll still be awake, texting her friends,’ Geraldine’s sister sighed. ‘It’s impossible to keep on top of it all.’

Despite his wife’s protests, Geraldine’s brother-in-law had gone into the living room to watch football.

‘It’s the final,’ he explained.

‘It’s also rude,’ Celia replied.

‘Don’t worry on my account,’ Geraldine smiled. ‘You don’t have to be formal with me, for goodness’ sake.’

‘And I’ve no doubt you girls have plenty of things to gossip about,’ her brother-in-law added with a grin as left the room.

A few seconds later they heard the buzz of the football commentary, interrupted by an occasional roar from the crowd. The game was on.

Geraldine poured herself another glass of wine and raised the bottle. Her sister shook her head.

‘I’d better get this lot cleared up - ’

‘As it happens I do have something to tell you - ’

‘Well?’

Celia settled back in her chair.

‘What is it?’

Geraldine hesitated.

‘OK, is it a boyfriend or the job?’ Celia asked. ‘Or – is it about…’

Her voice tailed off.

Geraldine had recently discovered that she had been adopted after the birth of her mother’s only natural child, Celia. The surprising discovery explained the marked difference in their physical appearance. While Celia resembled their blonde mother, Geraldine’s hair was very dark brown and, unlike her blue-eyed sister, her eyes were almost black. The fact of her adoption itself hadn’t shocked Geraldine so much as learning about it in her mid-thirties. That the circumstances of her birth had been kept secret from her all those years had felt like a betrayal and it had taken her a while to forgive Celia, who had known about it for years. But her adoption was not what she wanted to talk about. Her transfer to the Met had been confirmed, and she was relocating to work as a Detective Inspector on the Murder Squad in London.

After months of uncertainty, the move went ahead at breakneck speed once her transfer was confirmed. Thanks to a generous inheritance from her adoptive mother, she had been able to put her flat on the market at a price that attracted a first-time buyer almost immediately, and she had exchanged contracts on her brand new flat in London without having breathed a word to her sister about it. She knew Celia wouldn’t want her to move away from Kent, especially since their mother had died less than a year ago, and the longer Geraldine left it, the harder it became to tell Celia. Now time had run out and she had no choice.

Geraldine looked around, hoping for inspiration.

‘This is a lovely kitchen,’ she said at last. ‘You’ve done a great job on it.’

She felt lightheaded, slightly tipsy.

‘Is that what you wanted to tell me?’ Celia asked, smiling. She didn’t get up from the table.

‘Come on, Geraldine. Spit it out.’

‘I’m moving.’

‘Moving?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you mean, moving?’ Celia frowned. ‘You’ve hardly been in that flat five minutes, and you love it there. Why do you want to move? You’re not moving in with your young sergeant, Ian Peterson?’

Geraldine shook her head with a chuckle.

‘No, nothing like that. I’ve told you before, there’s nothing going on. He’s getting married soon.’ She paused. ‘It’s just that I’m not going to be working for the Kent constabulary any longer. I’ve been transferred.’

‘Transferred?’

Geraldine leaned forward and poured herself another glass of wine. She stared at the yellow liquid slipping from the bottle, aware of Celia’s eyes on her, then looked up. Her sister pushed ash blonde hair off her face with the back of a hand, her eyes fixed accusingly on Geraldine. For a horrible instant, Geraldine thought Celia was about to cry.

‘What do you mean, transferred?’

‘I mean I’m going somewhere else.’

‘Yes, I realise that. I’m not a moron. But where are you going?’

Geraldine relaxed slightly. Celia angry was easier to cope with than Celia going all weepy on her.

‘I’ve been transferred to the Met. I’m going to be working for the Homicide and Serious Crime Command in London.’

She couldn’t hide her excitement any longer.

‘It’s a fantastic opportunity for me. I’ll be staying with the CID – sometimes you have to go back into uniform to get into the Met, but they were recruiting and it was exactly what I wanted, and the DCI put in a good word for me - ’

‘It was exactly what you wanted?’ Celia repeated. ‘Why? Don’t you want to be near us? To Chloe? To me?’

‘Don’t be silly. Of course I do. It’s nothing personal. But this is the Met, Celia. It’s a great chance for me - ’

‘What’s so great about London?’

Celia gave an exaggerated shudder and pulled a face.

‘It’s just so exciting. If you’re in the police, London is where everyone wants to be.’

‘Huh.’

Celia drank her wine, her face sullen, refusing to look at Geraldine.

‘And it’s quite a lot more money, with the inner London allowance - ’

‘You don’t need more money, with what mum left us.’

Geraldine shrugged. She had expected a negative reaction from her sister but was disappointed all the same.

‘I thought you’d be pleased for me. It really is a good career move for me.’

‘Oh, you and your bloody career.’

There was a pause.

‘So, we’ll be seeing even less of you than we do now?’ Celia said at last.

She stood up and began clearing the table.

‘It’s not like I’m going to the other side of the country, Celia. It’s only London. I can be down here in not much more than an hour.’

Celia sat down again with a loud sigh.

‘Can isn’t the same as will though, is it? Well, I am pleased for you, of course I am, but you have to promise me you’ll come and see Chloe regularly. Now mum’s not here, it’s even more important - ’

She broke off, her face twisted into an uneasy frown.

‘I can’t take mum’s place,’ Geraldine said gently.

She reached out and put her hand on Celia’s, both palm down.

‘I know that. But you are - ’ Celia paused. ‘You are her aunt after all.’

There was another pause.

‘So when are you going?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

Celia withdrew her hand abruptly.

‘What do you mean, tomorrow? How long have you known?’

‘It all happened very suddenly - ’ Geraldine said lamely.

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I’m sorry, I know I should have told you before now. I meant to tell you – I kept meaning to – but I was afraid you wouldn’t like it and you were so upset about mum.’

She gave an apologetic shrug.

‘I bottled it.’

‘Keeping secrets seems to be a speciality in our family,’ Celia replied ruefully. ‘But you will come and stay with us, often, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will. And I won’t be that far away.’

‘Well, I suppose it makes no difference if you’re investigating murders in London or Kent,’ Celia said. ‘You’ll still be tied up seven days a week when you’re on a case.’

Geraldine suppressed a smile, relieved that she had finally shared her news with Celia.

4

CRY INTO THE SILENCE

Donna opened her eyes. Her head pounded with a sharp pain slicing across the top of her skull and her neck was so stiff that when she tried to move an agonising spasm shot down into her shoulders making her cry out. Her wrists and ankles felt as though they were burning. Cautiously she raised herself as far as she could without shifting her head and was shocked to discover she couldn’t move her limbs. She thought she was paralysed but after a few seconds remembered that she had been tied down by her wrists and ankles. Fighting to control her panic, she pulled her right arm up as far as she could and twisted her head until the pain became unbearable. Out of the corner of her eye she could just see her raised hand at the periphery of her field of vision. Squinting into the darkness she struggled to distinguish what was holding her down and made out the metal links of a chain, cold against the sore flesh of her wrist. Startled, she swore out loud and even that movement in her muscles made her face sting.

She had no idea what was going on, apart from the horrifying realisation that she had been chained to a bed. Her lips felt dry and cracked, and her mouth tasted of sick. If she hadn’t been suffering such severe pain she might have suspected she was the victim of an appalling prank, but this was no joke. Between her legs she felt damp and sore where she had soiled herself and there was another even fouler stench in her nostrils. If no one came to release her soon she was going to die, shackled in this fetid room.

‘Think,’ she told herself fiercely, but it was hard to focus. Worse than the chains chafing at her skin, worse than her intense thirst, was her terror of the stranger who had taken her captive. If she could only recall how she had arrived in this place, she might be able to work out what to do. She remembered going to Camden with Lily, and then something about her shoe. The heel had come off in the street, but before that she had been in the pub with Lily and she had gone outside by herself, feeling sick, drunk and high on coke. Some men had laughed at her when she tripped on the pavement. After that she could recall only a giddy jumble of images. She had thrown up in a car. What car? She must have got into a car. Whoever was driving that car had brought her to this place. Tears welled up in her eyes as she reconstructed what must have happened. Even young children who could barely talk knew better than to get into a car with a stranger, but in her befuddled state of mind she had done just that.

And now she was going to die for her stupidity.

‘Help!’ Donna struggled to cling onto the faint hope that someone would notice, but it hurt to call out and her voice was no more than a hoarse rasping, all but inaudible in the darkness. Her captor had told her the house was empty and however much noise she made no one would hear her. Giving way to despair she wept. Her chest heaved and her nose ran, but she couldn’t move to wipe away the dribble of snot stinging salty on her cracked upper lip. She licked it and retched. Her thirst was unbearable.

‘Help! Somebody please help me!’ she moaned.

The air reeked with the combined odour of sweat and excrement that mingled with a putrid stench like rotting fish. She concentrated on taking shallow breaths through her mouth in an attempt to block out the smell. In the silence something stirred. She stopped breathing and listened, every muscle tensed. A faint scuttling, a rustling.

It was probably a mouse.

‘Help!’ she yelled, a feeble cry into the silence. She imagined rats gnawing her feet as she lay tethered, maggots crawling over her flesh.

‘Help! Help!’

She opened her eyes and saw a figure framed in a halo of light.

‘Have you come to rescue me?’ she whispered.

The man gave a low laugh that seemed to ripple round the room as he switched on the light and revealed his face.

‘You said you were a policeman,’ she whispered, remembering.

The man approached the bed and stood above her, studying her face.

‘Let me go.’

It was difficult to frame the words because her mouth was so dry it hurt every time her lips moved. She tried to raise her head.

‘Let me go. Please let me go.’

‘There’s no point in struggling. You can’t escape.’

His calmness only exacerbated her hysteria.

‘Let me go,’ she shrieked.

‘Don’t be frightened. There’s no need to be frightened. I’m not going to hurt you.’

Donna blinked up at him in surprise. The man turned away and she called out in sudden panic.

‘Don’t go. I’m thirsty. Please. I need water. Please. I’m dying of thirst. Please, give me something to drink.’

The man moved away out of her line of vision. Donna twisted her head round as far as she could trying to see where he was, but he had disappeared. She closed her eyes to stop the light burning into them. The pain in her head felt even worse when they were shut. She opened them and saw the man was standing beside her again, holding a chipped white mug.

‘I’ve brought you some water.’

His voice was tender as he leaned towards her and held the cup to her lips.

‘Don’t drink it too quickly,’ he warned as she strained to lift her head upright, gulped and choked.

Donna lay back swilling water round her parched mouth. It slipped down her throat, cold and wonderful. Her headache faded slightly into a dull throbbing and she felt her body’s tension relax a little. Perhaps she wasn’t going to die after all, chained to this filthy bed in this stinking room.

‘What do you want with me? Let me go, please.’

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he repeated gently. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

‘But you are hurting me. These chains are hurting me. It’s agony.’

She hoped he could understand what she was saying. Her voice sounded strange.

‘Don’t worry. By the time we’re finished here you will understand that nothing will ever hurt you again.’

A spasm of terror ran through her.

‘You’re going to kill me.’

The man shook his head vehemently.

‘No. Just the opposite.’

‘What do you mean?’

He didn’t answer.

‘What do you mean?’

He moved away and a few seconds later the light went out. In the darkness she heard the door close.

5

SENSE OF PURPOSE

Geraldine had been to the office in Hendon, getting her bearings. Usually acute with people, the faces she encountered passed in a haze, she was so excited to be joining the Met and so exhausted from the strain of moving. The buildings looked more like a quadrangle of four-storey flats constructed around a playground than a police headquarters, with four blocks surrounding the central parade ground used in the passing out ceremony for recruits. Geraldine had been kitted out with a desk, a computer and a phone, minimal but sufficient for her needs. Working in cramped conditions didn’t bother her. She was used to it and anyway, the less time she spent gazing at a computer screen the better, as far as she was concerned. All the same, sitting at her own desk in the Homicide and Serious Crime Command in London for the first time was a thrill, especially as the inspector who shared the room with her was on leave, so she had the office to herself.

The equity on her flat in Kent hadn’t amounted to much but with her pay rise and the money she had inherited from her mother’s estate she had been able to get a mortgage on the flat she wanted, just off Upper Street in Islington. It was a glorious summer’s day and she abandoned her unpacking to spend the morning exploring the area on foot. She stumbled across a market full of pricey curios and antiques that looked authentic, rails of retro dresses and accessories on the pavement, and boutiques stuffed with amazing and wonderful garments of gorgeous fabrics: velvet, silk, tulle and net decorated with pearls and costume jewellery, splashes of brilliant colour. She could have spent hours looking around.

Controlling an urge to linger in the market she moved on and discovered Highbury Fields, a series of grassy plots bordered with trees, the pathway thronged with pedestrians, joggers, runners and cyclists. Everyone she saw looked young and healthy, enjoying the sunshine. Peaceful and open, it was a different world to the busy streets beyond Highbury Circle where the roads were jammed with traffic, the pavements packed with people rushing past. She turned and walked back to emerge opposite Highbury and Islington Station where she crossed the busy junction back into Upper Street. On the opposite side of the road was a row of elegant residential houses, half concealed behind railings and trees. She walked on past shops, hair salons, a pub on the corner of Islington Street, a Japanese restaurant. The shops gave way to blocks of flats as she walked on towards Angel, past the large white town hall and Islington Museum where cafes spilled tables, chairs and blackboards onto the pavement, giving the street a Mediterranean air. Tired of walking, she sat outside a café drinking coffee and soaking up the atmosphere.

‘This is my home now,’ she told herself, but she felt as though she was on holiday in Italy or France.

Leaving the café, she bought a few groceries and walked slowly back to her flat, past white and brick terraced houses with elegant arched windows and narrow balconies with wrought iron railings. The flat in Waterloo Gardens had appealed to Geraldine as soon as she saw it. The ground floor of the building was occupied by two businesses: a flooring company with a cheerful red awning, and an internet firm concealed behind mirrored windows. The first and second floors of the block were private flats accessible only through tall metal gates opened with a remote control or a keypad. Inside the security gates was a car park for residents and the entrance to the flats. Geraldine’s flat had two small bedrooms, one of which she would use as an office, an L-shaped kitchen and dining area, a living room and small bathroom. It was perfect for her.

At first she had appreciated having time to settle in and roam around in her new surroundings, but after a couple of days a familiar boredom seized her. Work gave her a sense of purpose, a distraction from the sense of emptiness that dogged her. Sorting out her belongings reminded her of sifting through her adopted mother’s possessions after she had died. It was pointless brooding about her adoption, but she had nothing else to occupy her thoughts beyond arranging for the gas and electricity to be connected, and sending off letters and emails registering her new address. She’d heard of twins separated at birth who felt something had been missing all their lives, and wondered if she had a twin somewhere. It was possible. Certainly she might have siblings or at least a half-brother or sister.

She had distanced herself from the area where the truth about her adoption had been kept from her for so long, but she couldn’t banish it from her mind. She would have to return to the adoption agency at some point to find out more about her birth mother. All she knew was her name, Milly Blake, and her approximate date of birth. On her last visit to the agency, her social worker had shown Geraldine a letter in which her mother had refused contact with the daughter she had given away at birth. Now Geraldine wanted to take another look at it, because she thought there had been an address on the letter. Trained to recall such details, she was furious with herself for not being able to remember it clearly.

She sat in her London flat staring at a faded photograph, all that her unknown mother had left her.

6

A LOW PROFILE

Douggie took the car to Jack’s, avoiding the main roads and junctions with traffic lights where he knew there were cameras. It never did any harm to be careful and Douggie had been in the business for a long time. He was a survivor. Whistling, he spun the wheel and pulled the sun visor down. It was a beautiful day but he kept the roof up, just in case. There were a few coppers who just might recognise him if he was unlucky and Douggie wasn’t one to take risks. Far better to keep a low profile.

As he drove in Jack gave him a nod to let him know there was a space round the back, away from prying eyes. Douggie got out and Jack walked over, smiling.

‘Nice set of wheels,’ he said, sizing the car up. If he’d been a cartoon character, dollar signs would have lighted up in his eyes.

‘What’s it to be, Douggie?’

‘A quick demolition, mate, no questions asked.’

‘Well there’s a surprise.’

They both laughed and Douggie tossed Jack the key.

‘Seems a pity, mind,’ Jack said, walking round the car.

Douggie didn’t answer. They both knew the car was too hot to keep.

‘But leave it with me. I’ll have her stripped and gone in no time.’

‘Cheers.’

‘A bloke called up asking for you,’ Jack said as they walked back across the yard together.

Douggie was on his guard at once.

‘What bloke?’

Jack shrugged.

‘He didn’t give his name. He wasn’t asking about you specifically, mind. He was just after someone to get rid of a car for him. I said he could bring it here but he said he wanted something else. Something more definite, he said. Whatever that means.’

‘Who was he?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Well why did you tell him about me if you don’t know who he was?’

‘Don’t lose any sleep over it. All I told him was to go to the King’s Head and ask for Douggie.’

‘But you don’t know who he was. Shit, he could’ve been anyone.’

‘He wasn’t a copper, if that’s what’s worrying you. He was way too posh for that.’

‘Posh? What’s some posh bloke want with me?’

Jack shook his head with a grin, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together suggestively.

‘Just because a bloke talks posh, it doesn’t follow he’s going to be loaded,’ Douggie pointed out, rattled that Jack had mentioned his name. ‘What did you go and give him my name for?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You just said you told him to ask for me at the pub.’

‘Yes, but I only said Douggie. There must be lots of guys called Douggie knocking about. Common as muck you are, mate.’

He laughed and slapped Douggie on the back.

‘Don’t worry about it. You’re alright.’

‘I suppose,’ Douggie agreed half-heartedly.

He took the bus back and nipped into the pub for a quick pint. He wasn’t in the mood for serious drinking, but it was on his way home and he had a pocket stuffed with cash so it was daft not to stop for a bit.

‘Someone’s been in here asking for you,’ the landlord told him. ‘Smart looking geezer.’

‘Who was he?’

In familiar surroundings, with a pint in his hand, Douggie was interested rather than nervous.

‘I’ve no idea. I never saw him before. He’s not here now. He left straight away, didn’t even stop for a drink.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told him he might catch you later.’

‘What did he look like then?’

The landlord shrugged.

‘I didn’t notice his face. He was wearing a hood.’

‘I thought you said he was smart?’

‘It was the way he spoke. He had an upper class accent.’

‘Well, I’ll be back this evening then. Perhaps he’ll turn up again.’

‘Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.’

Douggie waited in the pub all evening but the man with the posh voice never showed up.

* * * * * * *

Lily sprawled in front of the telly with an apple and a packet of crisps. She was starving so she went out to Highbury Corner where the shops were open till late. Not having grown up in a city, she wasn’t comfortable out on her own on the streets at night and hurried into Budgens, the first food shop she passed.

‘I bought us some pastries,’ she called out as she opened the front door.

The flat was dark and silent.

‘Donna?’

There was no answer.

She settled herself in front of the television again and scoffed both pastries. It served Donna right. She had abandoned Lily to make her own way home from the pub in Camden the previous evening, even though she knew very well that Lily had only lived in London for a few months and was nervous about travelling on the tube by herself at night. Lily supposed her flatmate must have picked up a bloke in the bar on Friday. Now she was stuck in the flat, too nervous to go out by herself. She didn’t have any other friends in London. Donna was fun and knew cool places to go, and didn’t seem to mind Lily tagging along. On the contrary, she usually paid for Lily’s entrance as well. She was generous like that, a good friend, or so Lily had thought.

She watched a film with Hugh Grant, and nibbled her way through the large bar of chocolate she had bought to share with her flatmate. It was unlike Donna to go off without saying anything, but they had only been sharing a flat for a couple of months and Lily didn’t really know her very well. Obviously Donna must be well off, because she had bought a flat overlooking Highbury Fields. Donna had said she needed to let out the spare room to help pay her mortgage, but she seemed to have plenty of cash to throw around. Lily suspected the real reason Donna wanted a tenant was for the company. When Lily had admitted she could no longer afford the rent and her share of the bills, Donna had told her not to worry about the bills.

‘I like you, Lily. I like having you live here. You can forget about the bills for now and just pay the rent.’

‘Oh my God, Donna, are you sure?’

‘Yes. Don’t worry, it’s really not a problem.’

‘But - ’

‘It’s only money. And you’re such help around the flat.’

Lily looked at her watch. It was half past ten on Saturday night and she was sitting at home wondering what to do while life passed her by. She tried Donna’s phone again but there was no answer. She imagined Donna going out and forgetting all about her dull flatmate. It was awkward because she couldn’t have a go at Donna as long as she was living in her flat paying a very low rent, but that was no excuse for Donna to take advantage of her, dropping her when she no longer wanted her company. She should have said something. A brief call, ‘Sorry, I’m going out with friends tonight,’ would have shown some respect.

Lily did her best to ignore the possibility that something terrible might have happened, but although she tried to reassure herself that Donna must have gone home with a man, she couldn’t help worrying. What if Donna had been mugged or raped? She lay awake in bed listening to the plumbing creaking and rumbling ominously in the darkness, and wished she had never come to London.

7

COLLECTION FROM LIFE

Suspended in pain, Donna had lost all notion of time.

‘Let me die, please let me die,’ she whispered but couldn’t hear her own voice, aware only of pain pulsing through her brain.

Sudden light dazzled her and she closed her eyes. When she opened them the man was standing above her. He reached down to stuff something into her parched mouth, choking her. ‘Slow down. What do you think you’re doing? Do I have to teach you how to eat?’

Tears slid from the corners of her eyes as she understood that he was angry, but the dry bread was like sandpaper in her dry mouth and she struggled to swallow.

‘Here. Drink this.’

She recognised the chipped white cup in his hand and opened her mouth. Leaning down he put his arm around her shoulders and she groaned as he raised her head off the pillow. He held the cup to her lips and she gulped the chilly water.

‘Someone ought to teach you some manners. I gave you something to eat. You were hungry, weren’t you?’

He dropped her back down on the bed and she fell with a jolt. Pain shot across her neck and shoulders and she fought against crying out.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘Yes. I was hungry.’

‘So? What do you say?’

‘Thank you,’ she muttered. ‘Thank you for the food. Thank you.’

‘That’s better.’

He turned away from her. ‘No,’ she called out. ‘Don’t go. Stay here, please. I want to know what’s going on.’

‘Nothing’s going on.’

She took a deep breath and gagged at the horrible smell in the room.

‘Please. I can’t stay here. I’ll die if I stay here. Let me go.’

‘You’re not going to die.’

‘You can’t keep me here. Let me go.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘Why not? What do you want with me?’

The man didn’t answer. She turned her head slightly to follow him with her eyes. He walked over to the far wall where she could make out irregularly shaped objects lining the shelves, all creamy beige in colour. She couldn’t tell what they were.

‘Let me go,’ she begged again. ‘Why are you keeping me here? What am I doing here? It’s a mistake. It must be a mistake.’

She was talking to herself as much as to him.

‘What is all that?’

He turned to look at her.

‘I was wondering when you were going to wake up to what’s here, in this room, right in front of you. I’m surprised you haven’t asked me about it before now.’

‘What is it?’

She was curious in spite of her pain and trepidation.

‘This,’ he waved his arm in a circle, ‘is a collection so precious no one could put a value on it. It’s a collection from life.’

He selected an object and held it up in front of her: it took her a second to realise that it was the inverted top of a human skull.

‘That’s horrible,’ she blurted out, with sudden recklessness. ‘Is that what makes the room stink so badly? You should chuck them all out.’

He strode across the room and glared down at her. For a second she thought he was going to hit her as she lay there, powerless to avoid his blows. She closed her eyes and heard his voice raised in agitation.

‘You don’t understand. How could you? Some of these items are thousands of years old. When you’re dead and gone, while you are rotting, they’ll still be here, unchanged.’

He returned to the shelves, picked up a carved object and gazed at it reverently.

‘Look at this.’

‘You’re crazy,’ she stammered, too frightened to be cautious.

His lips curled as he approached the bed and held the thing in front of her face so she could see it close up. The handle was about a foot long, made of what appeared to be light coloured wood, pine perhaps, pitted and pock marked, the ends slightly bent. The middle of the shaft was carved in a spiral pattern. Thin strips of leather had been threaded through a hole at one end and plaited into a single strand, which then divided into two strands each again divided into four.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he demanded, his face suddenly alive with excitement.

She stared at him in horrified fascination.

‘It’s a whip!’ he told her, raising it triumphantly above his head. Donna whimpered and cowered back against the stinking sheets.

‘Don’t hurt me,’ she whispered.

He seemed amused by her reaction and stroked her arm very gently with the strands of the whip. It tickled, tan leather showing pale against her dark skin.

‘You don’t imagine I’d use this on you? You’re the one who’s insane.’

His bark of laughter startled her.

‘Do you have any idea how precious this is? This whip comes from America where it belonged to Chief Sitting Bull himself. He had it fashioned from the thigh bone of an enemy.’

He held it up again, admiring it against the light.

‘From the thigh bone of an enemy?’ she repeated. She wasn’t sure if this was really happening.

The man replaced the whip carefully on the shelf and returned to loom above her.

‘I wouldn’t soil this precious object on a filthy bitch like you. That’s a disgusting idea.’

Spit sprayed from his thin lips; she felt a globule of saliva slide across her cheek, but couldn’t move her hand to wipe it away.

There was a click and the light went out. Donna rolled her eyes frantically from side to side. She couldn’t bear to be left alone again in darkness that was never silent. The chains holding her clanked when she stirred, the bed creaked beneath her and sometimes she heard pattering of raindrops on the skylight, or tiny animals scuttling past. The hideous stench became overpowering and her aching muscles tensed as a fresh sound shuffled softly and steadily across the floor. ‘What are you doing?’ she croaked.

The man didn’t answer. The noise stopped and she heard the door open. With a wrench of her neck she turned to look. Silhouetted against the light from the stairs the man was leaning over, dragging a black bin bag across the threshold.

‘What is it? What’s in there?’

Still he didn’t answer.

‘Where are you going? You can’t leave me here. Please, don’t leave me here.’

The door closed behind his bent figure, leaving Donna in darkness. Even with her eyes tightly shut, she couldn’t ignore the shadowy objects on the shelves. They grinned at her, as her mind spiralled out of control with fear and hunger until she thought she would go mad.

8

CONSTERNATION

Dave rolled over, stretched out and yawned. A Sunday morning lie in was just the job. He wished he could do the same every day.

‘Must be nice not to have to get up for work in the mornings,’ he’d said to his dad when the old man had retired.

‘Don’t wish your life away, son.’

The trouble with sleeping for so long was that it made him feel groggy when he finally woke up, although that could have been the hangover. He smiled. It had been a good night. Liz was still asleep. With a grin he reached over and drew the tip of one finger very gently across her rounded upper arm, like an insect crawling over her skin.

‘Bog off, Dave,’ she said without opening her eyes. ‘I know it’s you.’

‘What is?’

‘Get lost.’

He threw himself on her and set about tickling her until she screamed for him to stop.

‘Best thing for a hangover,’ Dave said cheerfully as he tucked into a cooked breakfast while Liz lit a cigarette, inhaled and threw her head back to blow smoke at the ceiling.

‘Aren’t you eating?’ he asked, fork raised. ‘It’s nearly twelve. You should have something.’

‘I feel more like throwing up than eating anything after last night.’

Dave laughed. ‘Lightweight.’

‘I know my limits.’

‘Clearly you don’t,’ he laughed.

He wiped his plate clean with his last piece of toast.

‘That was terrific. Shame you couldn’t join me.’

He stood up and put his arms round her.

‘What now?’

‘You can start with putting the rubbish out. That bin stinks.’ She pointed at the kitchen bin, overflowing with a week’s garbage topped off with the remains of a takeaway curry.

‘And while you’re at it, we’re nearly out of fags.’

‘Alright. I’ll run round and get some fags and I’ll pick up a paper at the same time.’

He swore as he tugged at the bag of rubbish which slid slowly out of the bin.

‘Don’t spill it,’ Liz fussed.

‘Got it.’

It was threatening to rain as he opened the front door, crossed the narrow paved front garden, dropped the bag in the bin and used the lid to cram it down.

‘Just going round the corner then,’ he called out. He turned off into an alleyway that was a short cut to the newsagents at the station. A foul smell grew stronger as he advanced and he saw that someone had dumped a bulging black bin liner on one side of the path. He swore. People had no respect, leaving their stinking rubbish on a public path. The smell was almost overpowering, making him gag and he stumbled, accidentally kicking the bag which tipped over and fell on its side blocking the path. He reached down and grabbed the bag. It felt slimy. ‘What the fuck is in here?’ The bag wasn’t even tied up properly because as he yanked it to one side it fell open and he drew back in horror at the sight of a bloody, bruised and swollen face staring up at him, unseeing, from inside. He turned away and was violently sick.