by Vera Morris
Laurel folded her napkin and placed it on the side plate. The meal was over as far as she was concerned; she needed to get back to Aldeburgh and see if Frank and Stuart had discovered anything. ‘That was a delicious lunch, Ben. Mr Diamond will be upset when I tell him about the magnificence off the oysters and Dover sole.’
Tucker nibbled at a piece of Stilton. ‘He’s a bon viveur, is he, your Mr Diamond?’
Laurel smiled. ‘He’s a good cook.’ She waited until Ben put down his knife. ‘I must be off, but thank you once again.’
Tucker got up. ‘A quick cup of coffee before you depart? Hager’s already made it. We’ll go back to the parlour, shall we?’
She would have liked to have given it a miss, but it would seem rude to refuse; and she’d drunk two glasses of wine, so perhaps it would be a good idea to have a coffee.
‘Thank you.’ The hours spent here had been a waste as far as helping to find David. If she could have met Tucker’s friends perhaps something might have come of it.
Kelvin Hager spooned freshly ground coffee into the cafetiere and filled it to the maximum mark with water which was just off the boil; he stirred it and placed the lid on, waited a few minutes and then pushed down the handle. He placed two cups and saucers on a tray with hot milk in a silver jug, and a bowl containing lumps of brown sugar.
He took two bottles from a cupboard. Which one should he use? Rohypnol or GHB? He’d have preferred to use the side of this hand and have done with it. Why had Tucker invited her here? He’d said it was a back-up, a bargaining tool, in case things went arse over tit. He didn’t believe him. He felt like giving them both a dose and then finishing them off, but if Tucker died he’d be left as high and dry as a jellyfish on a beach.
He decided to use Rohypnol as GHB didn’t mix well with alcohol, and the bitch had drunk two glasses of wine. She was a smug bastard, thought she was as good as a man. Because she’d bettered the headmaster everyone treated her like a hero. Pity the headmaster hadn’t added her to his list of victims. But never mind, he’d add her to his list, which was much longer than the headmaster’s. Nicholson was an amateur; he was a professional, a trained killer. How many had he seen off? He wasn’t sure, he didn’t keep a score, didn’t put notches on his bedpost, or stick gold stars in a diary. He’d been cashiered from the army for violence – what did they expect? He’d met Tucker, or to put it another way, Tucker had engineered the meeting. He’d served him faithfully for fifteen years, with the promise when the time came for them to leave the country, he’d be well looked after. He’d have a high-level job in the government, one which suited his skills, plus a luxurious apartment and the finest whores Moscow could provide. He’d even learnt bloody Russian. Now he was suspicious. Tucker’s attitude to him had recently changed. Did he intend to travel solo and leave him holding the can?
He wasn’t sure. But if he found Tucker was double crossing him …Why make things more difficult by involving this bitch? What was Tucker up to making him cook lunch for her? Treating him like a servant? At the beginning, he’d enjoyed fooling the suckers who came to the house, because he knew what they were in for. How he’d scared them to death when they realised the shit they’d were in. The bluster soon stopped when they saw the evidence and he mentioned the names and addresses of their wives, children or lovers. A few cracks of his knuckles and a squeeze round their throats were enough to make them shit their trousers. Yes, he’d enjoyed that. Then Tucker made him nursemaid to that squit upstairs and now he was adding Miss Bloody Bowman to the menagerie.
He carefully measured some liquid from one of the bottles and poured it into a coffee cup. He poured out the coffee and picked up the tray. He entered the parlour and placed it on a low table; he handed one cup to the bitch.
‘Cream? Sugar?’
‘Cream, please, no sugar. Thank you for the lunch, Mr Hager.’
He smiled at her. She frowned.
‘My pleasure, Miss Bowman.’
He half-bowed and silently left the room. He washed up while he waited. Waiting. Waiting. Fifteen years waiting. He was sick of mixing with old queens, buttering them up, listening to them braying away to Tucker, seeing their faces when after aphrodisiacs in their drinks, they’d been offered what they most desired. He was sick of filming them buggering children, although some of the old ones could only manage kissing and fondling. But it was enough. He was ready for a proper job. Searching out dissidents and making them squeal out their secrets. That was a proper work.
Tucker came into the kitchen. ‘She’s unconscious. What did you use? Rohypnol?’
Hager nodded.
‘Minimal dose?’
‘As you said.’
‘Good. Take her upstairs, put her with him. Make sure you place her on her side.’
They went to the parlour. The bitch was lying on the settee, her head on a cushion, her mouth open, breathing heavily. She wasn’t bad looking, good figure. He hadn’t had a woman for a few weeks. The whores of Ipswich avoided him, didn’t like his idea of playful sex. Tucker was looking at him. He picked her up, she was warm against him, her head lolling against his shoulder.
‘You’re not to touch her, that’s an order,’ Tucker barked. ‘You’ll have plenty of women soon enough.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll come up with you. I’ll unlock the door.’ He doesn’t trust me. And I don’t trust him.
David, Age 13 Years and Seven Months
I don’t want to go back. I won’t go back. Daddy says I must. He asks me why I don’t want to. I can’t tell him. I promised Peter. He said if I tell, they will kill him. They will do terrible things to him. There’s another boy. His name is John. Sometimes he sits with us. I don’t like him as much as Peter. He is not happy. He never laughs. Even though Peter is scared he still makes me happy. I don’t know what to do. If I tell they will kill Peter. If I don’t tell they will keep on doing bad things to him. I know I should go back to school for Peter. He will be alone except for John. They’ve done things to him, too. Peter told me. John won’t say. Peter tells me they go in the minibus to a big house. They’re made to have drinks. It makes them all funny. There is a tall man and a short man, they are always there. The tall man gives them the drinks. Peter is more frightened of him than the short man. Then they go in a room and there are other men. Sometimes the same man, sometimes new men. The tall man and the short man go out of the room and the men do things to them, or they have to do things to the men. Sometimes the men kiss them and tell them they love them. Sometimes the men hurt them. If they tell anyone they will die.
Next week I have to go back to school. I draw John and put him with my secrets. He is frightened. Why do these men do this? Why doesn’t Mr Baron stop it? Does he know? Mr Salmon drives the mini-bus. He must know it’s wrong. The men do it to them because they are orphans. John is an orphan. They have no mummies or daddies to tell. I’m afraid but I am angry. I hate all the teachers and the nurse. I’m not going back. I am going to run away, then I will go to the school at night and I will rescue Peter. If John wants to come with us he can. We’ll run away together. We’ll be happy. I can do drawings and sell them. We will live in a hut in the woods. We can catch rabbits and eat them.
I will find my way to the school. I can run and walk. I’ll take a knife and if they try to stop me I’ll stick it in them. They are bad so I think it’s all right to do that. I’ll plan what to take and when to go.
Daddy will be upset. I don’t want him to worry. I’ll do a drawing for him and send him a postcard and say I’m all right. I will write a sentence to Miss Fenner. I will not write to Mummy. Perhaps after a bit we can come home, I will tell Daddy what happened and the bad men will go to prison. Peter will live with us. Miss Fenner will make a special cake. We’ll all be happy.
Chapter 25
Tucker followed Hager up the stairway to a first-floor room at the back of the house. Hager carried Laurel without any effort; Tucker would never cease to be amazed by his strength. He unlo
cked the door; beneath its veneer of mahogany was solid steel. Hager would never be able to break it down, and Tucker would have both the keys on him when he left.
Hager slid Laurel onto the single bed and put her in the recovery position. The room was empty; David must be in the bathroom. He often hid in there when he heard the door opening. No time to coax him out today.
‘Good. Go downstairs, check the seals on the envelopes and put them in the hall. We don’t want them splitting open in the post office. I’ll lock the door. Have you everything ready for tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please don’t wear your protective vest.’
Hager glowered. ‘Why not?’
‘If we get stopped and searched at Customs it will raise questions.’
‘OK.’
‘You’re quite sure this is what you want? There’ll be no going back, Kelvin. Once the newspapers get the information all hell will be let loose.’
Hager stared at him, his face blank. ‘We’ve talked about this many times. I want out. I want the job you promised me. Why would I change my mind now?’
It was a mistake to have brought it up. Trying to prevent Hager from killing them was taking his mind away from the main task. ‘Just making sure. I don’t want any last-minute regrets.’
‘I don’t do regrets.’
How true. ‘Very well. Carry on.’
Hager took one last glance at Laurel Bowman, his gaze lingering over her long legs, which were exposed to the thighs as her skirt had ridden up. He turned abruptly and left the room. Tucker gently pulled down her skirt. It had been an impulse to involve her in his plans, but he knew when she didn’t return to Greyfriars, or the meeting in Aldeburgh, someone from the agency would come here to find her. They knew where she was and when they found her, they would find David.
Hager had no regrets, but did he? Should he have settled for a life of mediocrity? One of many small cogs in London’s art world? A safe life, but one where he’d have been consumed by perpetual jealousy as other people took the posts that should have been his. He’d been passed over so often; first the Tate, then the Royal Academy, the Victoria and Albert and even some provincial galleries. His face didn’t fit. He wasn’t friends with cabinet ministers who had the power to open doors. He wasn’t part of the old boys’ network. The bloody establishment. They were going to pay. He wished he could be here, in England, when the scandal broke.
Their approach had been subtle. Sympathising, flattering; saying he wasn’t appreciated in his own country. He wasn’t so naïve he didn’t know what they were up to, but he wanted to see what they proposed, what was in it for him. The offer had to be worth taking such enormous risks for. When they explained their plan his mind was blown away. It was ingenious, breath-taking, and the power he’s been denied by the establishment would be his. It was a long-term plan, nothing was rushed, and money was no object. He’d thought of nothing else once he accepted their offer. The meetings with agents and the attention to details was exciting, and after the success of the gallery in London, it’s sister gallery in Aldeburgh and the setting up of the school, everything was in place.
Regrets? Yes, regrets it was finished. He’d been ordered to bring the project to a conclusion. The time was right. Great Britain was entering a period of strikes and unrest, fomented by left-wing activists. Some of the men he’d blackmailed, like Sam Harrop, were remorseful, or plain shit-scared, like Luxton. They had to be silenced. He couldn’t afford premature discovery. By the time the police found out they’d been murdered he’d be away. He wasn’t looking forward to a life in the Soviet Union, but they’d promised him control of one of the prestigious art museums.
Hager, what about him? He’d be glad to see the back of him. His usefulness was over. Russia had more than enough top-class killers to want another one. If and when he realised he’d been deserted and left to fend for himself, he’d look to destroy anything he could. He’d want to make it personal, kill someone he treasured, and because she was with David, Laurel Bowman would also die. He thought Hager would try to kill them, even before he discovered he’d been double-crossed. But he had both keys to the steel door, and Laurel Bowman to protect David. Diamond, or another colleague, would come to find her. He would have saved one he held dear.
He looked at Laurel Bowman. He liked her: she was decent, intelligent, with a positive attitude to life. He hoped Hager didn’t manage to get through the door. She’d shown great courage fighting Nicholson, but he was an amateur killer, driven by lust for young girls. Hager was a killing machine, with no sympathy for any man, woman or child. Tucker had seen what he was prepared to do. What’s more Hager enjoyed his work.
Tucker took a parcel from inside his jacket and placed it beside Laurel. He put two fingers on her neck – her pulse was steady. She groaned. Was she coming to? Time to leave. Good luck, Laurel Bowman. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to depend on her fighting spirit. If he did, she’d be fighting not only for her life, but for someone else’s, too.
David, 15 years Old
The door thuds. I can’t hear them talking. They’ve gone. Why did they come? Why both together? I’m glad Hager didn’t come alone. He hates me. I hate him. I hate both of them, but him most of all. I open the bathroom door just a little. If he’s there I’ll shut the door and push it tight. There’s no lock. When I do that he laughs and goes out, but sometimes he shouts and forces the door open. He doesn’t hit me. He isn’t allowed. He shouts horrible things. What he’ll do to me one day. How he’ll kill me. He tells me what he did to Peter, because it makes me cry. Peter is dead. I saw him when I went back to the school. He was on a bed in the sick room. All cold and white.
I look into the room. They’ve gone but there’s someone on my bed. Is it a trap? Will this person spring up and kill me? It’s a woman. She is the first new person I’ve seen for nearly two years. I go closer. She is asleep. She is tall with fair hair. Why is she here? Have they drugged her like they drugged me? I like her face. She reminds me of someone in a painting. It’s in one of the books Tucker gave me. I have an easel, paper, paints, pencils, anything I want. I have newspapers, books, a record player and a tape cassette. I have a colour television. I have nice meals, and lots of tea and coffee, also lemonade, chocolates and sweets. He gives me everything except the one thing I long for. I cannot leave this room. I want to go home. I ask Tucker why he doesn’t let Hager kill me like Peter? He says I am a genius. It would be sacrilege to kill me. He promises one day I will be free again. When all he has to do is over. Hager says he will kill me. But first he will make me hurt. I have been here so long I don’t care anymore. No, that’s a lie. I’m scared of Hager and what he might do.
I go to the bathroom, wet a flannel and wipe her face. I would like to draw her. I will when there is time. If there ever is. Why have they brought her here? Did she come to rescue me? She moans. Her eyelids flutter open. She has blue eyes. She tries to focus on me. She looks shocked. Her mouth opens wide; her eyes stare at me.
‘David?’ she asks.
She knows who I am. ‘Yes, I’m David.’
Chapter 26
Laurel felt something rough and wet moving over her face, like the tongue of a gentle dog. Was it Billy, Dr Neave’s Labrador? Was he licking her back to life? She tried to move her head, it was full of lead shot, rattling round her brain, rolling from one side to the other, hurting, making her head heavy. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth, which was full of a horrible salty taste. Water. She needed water. She felt a movement as someone sat down beside her. She was on a bed. Who was next to her? Where was she? What had happened?
Having coffee. Drinking it. The chair under her starting to move. Her eyes unable to focus. The face of Ben Tucker, close to her, changing shape like a reflection in a fairground mirror. Staring. Then blackness. Drugged. She’d been drugged.
Who was he, the person beside her? Was she ill? Was she in hospital? The lunch. Hager waiting on them. Waves of dislike pouring from him. Was it
Hager next to her? Panic surged from her guts to her throat. Must open her eyes. Her eyelids were sticky. She blinked several times as she tried to open them. The light hurt them. A face was looking at her. It wasn’t Tucker. It wasn’t Hager. It wasn’t Frank.
The bright light made it difficult to see his face. She blinked again. He was a boy, a teenager, with black hair down to the collar of his jumper. His eyes were dark blue, his face as pale as milk. Was he the Caravaggio boy, the one in the painting in Tucker’s parlour? Had he come to life and stepped down from the picture? This boy was as beautiful. Her breath stopped. No. It couldn’t be. But it was. It was him. She knew his face. He wasn’t the boy in the painting. She’d seen him in a photograph in his file. Mounting excitement pushed away the pain in her head. Bubbles of joy exploded in her heart and brain. She couldn’t believe who she was seeing. She thought he would be dead, lying in some cold grave. He was alive.
‘David?’
‘Yes, I’m David.’
‘David Pemberton?’
‘Yes. How do you know who I am?’
She tried to sit up. Her brain whirled round and she collapsed back.
He put a pillow behind her head.
‘Thank you. Have you any water? My mouth tastes as though it’s full of chicken shit.’
He laughed, went into another room and came back with a glass full of water. He held it as she drank. It tasted wonderful and washed away the stale salty taste.
‘Thank you. My name is Laurel Bowman, I’m a private detective. We’ve been looking for you.’
He looked at her as though he couldn’t believe her words. ‘After all this time? I’d given up hope anyone would find me.’
‘Your parents have never given up hope. The police searched for you, and we’re the second firm of detectives your parents have hired.’