by Peter James
He gestured. ‘Go ahead. You can take those.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Thanks a million.’
53
OCTOBER 2007
Shaking in terror, Abby watched the creeping shadow, heard the squeak of a trainer on the shiny hall floorboards, followed by the rustle of paper.
Then Ricky appeared.
He stood in the doorway and leaned casually against the jamb, his leather motorcycling jacket unzipped, a grimy white T-shirt beneath. He had several days’ growth of stubble and his hair was greasy, and looked as if it had been flattened down on his head by the helmet. He seemed different from the last time she had seen him. He no longer had the air of a relaxed surfer dude, but one of a haunted man. He had aged in just a couple of months. He had lost weight and his face was haggard, with black rims and heavy bags beneath his eyes. He smelled rank.
Christ, how had she ever fancied him?
He was smiling, as if reading her mind.
But it wasn’t a smile she knew. Not a Ricky smile. It was more like a mask he had pulled on. She caught a glimpse of his watch. It was 10.50. Had she been unconscious for nearly four hours?
Then she saw the Jiffy bag. He held it up, nodded and turned it upside down, allowing the contents, Friday’s Times and Guardian newspapers, to fall out and on to the floor.
‘It’s good to see you again, Abby,’ he said. His voice wasn’t smiling.
She tried to speak, to ask him to untie her, but all she could do was make a muffled sound from her throat.
‘Glad you feel the same! I’m just a bit confused about why you want to courier someone old newspapers in a Jiffy bag.’ He looked at the address. Laura Jackson. 6 Stable Cottages, Rodmell.’ Old friend of yours? But why would you want to send her old newspapers? Doesn’t make a huge amount of sense to me. Unless of course I’m missing something. Am I missing something? Perhaps they can’t get newspapers delivered in Rodmell?’
She stared at him.
He tore the bag in half. Fluff poured out. Then, being careful to take only small strips at a time, he ripped the rest of the bag apart. When he had finished, he shook his head and let the last piece fall to the floor. ‘I’ve read both the newspapers. No clues there either. But hey, none of that really matters now, does it?’
He locked on to her eyes, staring her out, still smiling. Enjoying himself.
Abby was thinking fast. She knew what he wanted. She also knew that to get it, he was going to have to let her speak. She racked her petrified mind, thinking desperately. But she wasn’t getting any traction.
He disappeared for a few moments, returning with her large blue suitcase, and laid it down on the floor, in full view of the door. Then he knelt and unzipped it and raised the lid.
‘Nice packing,’ he said, staring at the contents. ‘Very neat and tidy.’ His voice turned bitter. ‘But I suppose you’ve had plenty of practice at packing and running in your life.’
Again his grey eyes locked on to hers. And she saw something in them that she had never seen before. Something new. There was darkness in them. A real darkness. As if his soul was dead.
He began to unpack, one item at a time. First he took a warm knitted jumper that was folded on top of her wash and make-up bags. He unfolded it unhurriedly, checking it carefully, turning it inside out, then, when he was satisfied, he threw it over his shoulder.
She wanted to pee badly. But she was determined not to humiliate herself in front of him. Nor to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. Instead she held on and watched him.
He was taking his time, being incredibly, agonizingly slow. Almost as if he sensed that need she had.
She could see from his watch it was almost twenty minutes by the time he had finished unpacking, discarding the last item, her travel hair dryer, which he sent skidding down the corridor, banging against the skirting board.
All the time she kept trying to move. Nothing gave. Nothing. Her wrists and her ankles were hurting like hell. Her bum was numb, and she was having to clench her knees together to fight the need to pee.
Without a word, he pushed the suitcase aside and walked away down the corridor. She had a raging thirst, but that was the least of her problems. She had to get free. But how?
She peed. At least she was still able to do that, he hadn’t taped that up as well. Then she felt better. Exhausted, her head was throbbing, but now she could think a little more clearly.
If she could get him to take the tape off she could at least talk to him, try to reason with him.
Maybe even cut a deal.
Ricky was a businessman.
But that would depend. How hard he looked.
He was coming back now. Holding a tumbler of whisky on the rocks in his hand and smoking a cigarette. The sweet, rich smell tantalized her. She would have given almost anything for just one drag. And a drink. Of anything.
He rattled the ice cubes, then his nostrils twitched. He stepped forward and reached past her. She heard a clank, then the lavatory flushed and she felt spots of cold water splashing her backside.
‘Dirty cow,’ he said. ‘You ought to flush the toilet when you use it. You like to flush other people down the toilet.’ He flicked ash on to the floor. ‘Got yourself a nice pad here. Doesn’t look much from the street.’ He paused and reflected. ‘But on the other hand, I don’t suppose my van looks much from up here.’
The word hit her like a punch. Van. That old white van? The one that had not moved? Had she been so stupid that she’d not thought about that possibility?
She tried pleading with her eyes. But all he did was look back, mockingly, drink more whisky, smoke the cigarette down to the butt and trample it on the floor.
‘Right, Abby, you and I are going to have a little chat. Very simple. I ask you questions, you move your eyes right for yes, left for no. Any part of that you don’t understand?’
She tried to shake her head, but couldn’t. She could move it only a fraction to the right and left.
‘No, Abby, you didn’t hear me right. I said move your eyes, not your head. Like to show me you’ve got that?’
After some moments’ hesitation, she moved her eyes to the right.
‘Good girl!’ he said, as if he was praising a puppy. ‘Very good girl!’
He put his glass down, pulled out another cigarette and gripped it between his lips. Then he picked his glass up, shaking the ice cubes. ‘Nice whisky,’ he said. ‘Single malt. Expensive. But I don’t suppose money is much of a problem for you, right?’
He knelt, so he was at eye level, and inched forward, until he was eyeballing her from just a few inches away. ‘Eh? Money? Not a problem for you?’
She stared rigidly ahead, shivering from the cold.
Then he took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke straight in her face. The smoke stung her eyes. ‘Money?’ he said again. ‘Not a problem for you, right?’
Then he stood up. ‘The thing is, Abby, not many people know you are here. Not many people at all. Which means no one’s going to miss you. No one’s going to come looking for you.’ He drank some whisky. ‘Nice shower,’ he said. ‘No expense spared. I expect you’d like to enjoy it. Well, I’m a fair man.’
He rattled the ice cubes hard, staring at the glass, and for a moment Abby thought he was actually going to cut her a deal.
‘Here’s my offer to you. Either I hurt you until you give it all back to me. Or you just give it back to me.’ He smiled again. ‘Strikes me as a no-brainer.’
He took a slow, relaxed drag on his cigarette, as if enjoying her eyes watching him, enjoying the knowledge that she was probably desperate for one. He tilted his head and allowed the blue smoke to curl out of his mouth and drift upwards.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you sleep on it.’
Then he shut the door.
54
OCTOBER 2007
Roy Grace sat at the work station in Major Incident Room One, nursing the mother, father, brother, sister, uncle, gr
andson, first cousin and second cousin-once-removed of all hangovers. His mouth was like the bottom of a parrot’s cage and it felt as if a chainsaw was blunting its teeth on a steel spike inside his head.
His one consolation was that Glenn Branson, seated diagonally opposite him, looked like he was suffering too. What the hell had come over them last night?
They’d gone to the Black Lion for a quick drink, because Glenn wanted to talk to him about his marriage. They had staggered out some time around midnight, having drunk – how many whiskies, beers, bottles of Rioja? Grace did not even want to think about it. He vaguely remembered a taxi ride home, and that Glenn was still with him because his wife had told him she didn’t want him coming home in the state he was.
Then they had drunk more whisky and Glenn had started riffling through his CDs, criticizing his music, as he always did.
Glenn had still been there this morning, in the spare room, moaning about his blinding headache and telling Grace he was seriously thinking of ending it all.
‘The time is 8.30, Tuesday 23 October,’ Grace read from his briefing notes.
His policy book, and his notes, typed out half an hour earlier by his MSA, sat in front of him, along with a mug of coffee. He was maxed out on paracetamols, which weren’t working, and he was chewing mint gum to mask his breath, which he was sure must reek of alcohol. He had left his car at the pub last night and decided a walk there to get it, later this morning, would do him some good.
He was starting to get seriously worried about his lack of self-control over drinking. It didn’t help that Cleo drank like a fish – he wondered if it was to help her cope with the horrors of her work. Sandy liked an occasional glass of wine or two at weekends, or a beer on a hot evening, but that was all. Cleo, on the other hand, drank wine every night and seldom just one glass, except when she was on call. They would often go through a bottle of wine, on top of a whisky or two – and sometimes make good progress on a second bottle, as well.
At his recent medical, the doctor had asked him how many units of alcohol he drank a week. Lying, Grace had said seventeen, under the impression that around twenty was a safe number for a male. The doctor had frowned, advising him to cut down to under fifteen. Later, after a quick check on a calculator programme he had found on the internet, Grace discovered his average weekly intake was around forty-two units. Thanks to last night, this week’s would probably be double that. He vowed silently never to touch alcohol again.
Bella Moy, opposite him, was already stuffing her face with Maltesers at this early hour. Although she never normally offered them around, she pushed the box towards Grace.
‘I think you need a sugar hit, Roy!’ she said.
‘Does it show?’
‘Good party?’
Grace shot a glance at Glenn. ‘I wish.’
He removed his chewing gum, ate a Malteser, followed, more-ishly, by another three. They didn’t make him feel any worse. Then he swigged some coffee and popped the gum back in his mouth.
‘Coca-Cola,’ Bella said. ‘Full strength – not the Diet one. That’s good for a hangover. And a fried breakfast.’
‘There’s the voice of experience,’ Norman Potting interrupted.
‘Actually I don’t do hangovers,’ she said dismissively to him.
‘Our virtuous virgin,’ Potting grumbled.
‘That’s enough, Norman,’ Grace said, smiling at Bella before she rose any further to the bait.
He then returned to the task in hand, reading out the information Norman Potting had produced at the previous evening’s briefing meeting, that Joanna Wilson’s husband, Ronnie, had died in the World Trade Center on 11 September 2001. When he had finished, he turned to Potting. ‘Good work, Norman.’
The DS gave a noncommittal grunt, but looked pleased with himself.
‘What information do we have on Joanna Wilson? Any family that we can talk to?’ Grace asked.
‘I’m working on it,’ Potting said. ‘Her parents are dead, I’ve managed to establish that. No siblings. I’m trying to find out if she had any other relatives.’
Shooting a glance at Lizzie Mantle, his deputy SIO, Grace said, ‘OK, in the absence of immediate family we need to focus our enquiries on the Wilsons’ acquaintances and friends. Norman and Glenn can concentrate on that. Bella, I want you to contact the FBI through the American Embassy in London, see if you can find any record of Joanna Wilson entering the USA during the 1990s. If she was intending to work there, she would have required a visa. Ask the FBI to check all records and computer databases to see if they can find any record of her living there during that period.’
‘Do we have a point person at the embassy?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I know Brad Garrett in the Legal Attaché’s Office. He’ll give you any help you need. If you have a problem, I also have two friends in the District Attorney’s Office in New York. Actually, the smart thing might be to go straight to them. It’ll cut out some red tape. When we need the formal evidence, we will of course go through all the right channels.’ Then he thought for a moment. ‘Leave Brad to me. I’ll give him a ring and run things past him.’
Then he turned to DC Nicholl. ‘Nick, I want you to do a nationwide search on Ronnie Wilson. See if there’s anything on him cross-border.’
The young DC nodded. He looked as exhausted and pale-faced as usual. No doubt he had spent another sleepless night experiencing the joys of fatherhood, Grace thought.
He turned back to Lizzie Mantle. ‘Anything you would like to add?’
‘I’m thinking about this Ronnie Wilson character,’ she said. ‘On the balance of probability, he’s got to be our number-one suspect at this point.’
Grace popped the gum from his mouth and dropped it in a bin close to his feet. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘But we need to know more about him and his wife, understand their life together. See if we can find a motive. Did he have a lover? Did she? See what we can eliminate.’
‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,’ Norman Potting cut in.
There was a brief moment of silence. Potting looked as pleased as hell with himself.
Then Bella Moy looked at him and said acidly, ‘Sherlock Holmes. Very good, Norman. You and he are about the same generation.’
Grace shot her a warning glance, but she shrugged and ate another Malteser. He turned to Emma-Jane Boutwood. ‘E-J, I also want you to take charge of drawing the family tree on the Wilsons.’
‘Actually, I have something to report,’ Norman Potting said. ‘I did my homework last night on the PNC. Ronnie Wilson had form.’
‘Previous?’ Grace said.
‘Yes. He was a frequent flyer with Sussex Police. First time on the radar was 1987. He worked for a dodgy second-hand car dealership that was clocking cars, bunging written-off ones back together.’
‘What happened?’ Grace asked.
‘Twelve months, pope on a rope. Then he popped up again.’
Bella Moy interrupted him. ‘Excuse me – did you say pope on a rope?’
‘Yes, gorgeous.’ Potting mimed being hung from a rope around his neck. ‘Suspended sentence.’
‘Any chance you could speak in a language we all understand?’ she retorted.
Potting blinked. ‘I thought we did all understand cockney rhyming slang. That’s what villains speak.’
‘In movies from the 1950s,’ she said. ‘Your generation of villains.’
‘Bella,’ Grace cautioned gently.
She shrugged and said nothing.
Norman Potting continued. ‘In 1991, Terry Biglow went down for four years. Knocker boy, ripping off old ladies.’ He paused and looked at Bella. ‘Knocker boy. All right with that? I’m not talking about boobies.’
‘I know what knocker boys are,’ she said.
‘Good,’ he continued. ‘Ronnie Wilson worked for him. Got charged as his accomplice, but a smart brief got him off on a technicality. I spoke to Dave Gaylor, who was the
case officer.’
‘Worked with Terry Biglow?’ Grace said.
Everyone in the room knew the name Biglow. They were one of the city’s long-established crime families. Several generations into everything from drug dealing, stolen antiques and call girls to witness intimidation, they were just plain trouble in all its forms.
Grace looked at DI Mantle. ‘Seems you could be right, Lizzie. There’s enough there at least to announce we have a suspect.’
Alison Vosper would like that, he thought. She always liked that phrase, We have a suspect. It made her in turn look good to her boss, the Chief Constable. And if her boss was happy, then she was happy.
And if she was happy, she tended to stay out of his face.
55
11 SEPTEMBER 2001
Refreshed after a shower, which had washed the grey dust out of his hair and helped him to partly sober up, Ronnie lounged on the pink candlewick bedspread with the two cigarette burn holes. His thirty-dollar-a-night room did not run to a headboard, so he lay back against the bare wall, studying the news on the fuzzy screen of the clapped-out television and smoking a cigarette.
He watched the two planes repeatedly crash into the Twin Towers. The burning Pentagon. The solemn face of Mayor Giuliani praising the NYPD and the fire officers. The solemn face of President Bush declaring his War on Terrorism. The solemn faces of all the grey ghosts.
The dim, low-wattage bulbs added to the gloominess of this room. He had drawn the drab curtains over his view across the alleyway to the wall of the next-door house. At this moment the whole world beyond his little room seemed solemn and gloomy.
However, despite the raging headache from all the vodka he had drunk, he did not feel gloomy. Shocked at all that he had seen today, at all that had happened to his plans, yes. But here in this room he felt safe. Cocooned in his thoughts. The realization that the opportunity of a lifetime had presented itself to him.