by Cross,Amy
“I'm confused,” I tell her. “What does any of this have to do with Katie?”
I wait for an answer, but now she's just staring at the building.
“Do you think she's in there?” I ask. “Is that it? Do you think that for some reason Katie came to this Knott's Court place?”
No reply.
“Or that she was brought here?”
She pauses, before turning to me.
“No,” she says finally, “or... I mean, I hope not. I really hope not. But yeah. I think there's a real good chance.”
“Then we should check,” I reply, “just in case.” I reach down to unbuckle my seat-belt. “It couldn't hurt to ask, and they might -”
“Don't be an idiot!” she hisses, grabbing my arm.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You do not just go and knock on that door!” she continues. “They have cameras with state-of-the-art facial recognition systems. Hell, it wouldn't surprise me if they can sniff out your D.N.A. in thin air. The point is, they'd know who you are before you even got halfway up the steps, and they really might not tolerate your questions. Jesus Christ, have my warnings somehow been too subtle for you?”
“I don't care what they tolerate,” I reply. “I want to -”
“We have to be smart about this,” she adds, interrupting me. “Right now, they probably don't know that you've ever heard the name of the place. That's good, it keeps you a little safer. You're not on their radar. But if they catch you sniffing about, and if they do have any link to Katie's disappearance, they're gonna come down on you like a sack of bricks. Believe me, a place like Knott's Court doesn't last this long in the heart of London if they don't know how to keep themselves way, way out of the limelight.” She pauses. “Then again, they probably -”
She stops suddenly as the building's front door opens, and we sit in silence for a moment as a silhouetted figure walks calmly up the steps and disappears inside. A moment later, the door swings shut.
“Great,” Annabelle mutters. “Another psychotic pervert arrives for his evening's entertainment.”
I turn to her.
“Trust me,” she continues, “the people who go to Knott's Court... They're the kinda people who refuse to allow their names to get out. It's a very closed shop.”
“What do they do in there?” I ask. “Is it like some kind of gentleman's club?”
She smiles an angry, bitter smile. “I guess you could say that,” she mutters, “although you only need to be a gentleman until you reach the door. Once you're inside, I imagine all bets are off. Plus, I've seen a few ladies heading inside now and again. All you need is money and the right connections.”
“And what happens once they're inside?”
“That's what I wanna know,” she replies, before taking another swig of whiskey. “Either way, the people who run Knott's Court know how to keep things quiet. And that includes getting rid of the evidence.”
“Evidence?”
“You don't think those kids tied themselves up, do you? And threw their own battered, scarred corpses into the river?”
“What in God's name are you suggesting?” I ask, turning and looking toward the building for a moment. “Why don't you go to the police with all of this? If even one tenth of it is true, why is it allowed to go on?”
“The police know better than to get involved,” she replies. “They know the limits of their power. There was one cop, a guy named Stephen Hampshire, who started asking questions about the place back in the 1970's. This was before my time, obviously, but I heard about it from Harry. This Stephen Hampshire guy made the mistake of asking his superiors about some rumors he'd heard. He was given the brush-off, of course, but then he made an even bigger mistake. He asked again. He pushed. He acted like maybe he wasn't gonna stop poking, and they didn't like that.”
She takes another swig of whiskey.
“A few days later,” she continues, “he was killed in a car crash. An articulated lorry drove straight over him.”
“I'm sure that was just an accident,” I tell her.
“Bullshit.”
“This whole thing sounds like an elaborate fantasy you've concocted in your head,” I continue. “I don't know why you seem to think that this house is linked to Katie's disappearance, but -”
“They bring girls here too,” she replies, interrupting me. “It's not just children. Katie was twenty-one, right? A little old by their standards, but I guess they like to spice things up now and again.”
She takes yet another swig of whiskey, keeping the flask tilted this time for several seconds before finally lowering it once more to her lap.
“They do what they want in there,” she continues, “because they know they'll get away with it. Unless you're one of their rich and powerful customers, if you go into Knott's Court... You won't be coming out. Not unless you're in a goddamn cloth sack, tied and bound, with marks in your bones, destined for the river. There's a back entrance, I've seen trucks coming out sometimes, but I've never been able to figure out where they go. Every time I've tried to follow, they've given me the slip.”
She pauses for a moment, and finally the door opens again. Another figure walks into the building, and then the door swings shut.
“This is ridiculous,” I say with a heavy sigh, once again reaching down to unbuckle my seat-belt. “I'm marching right up to -”
“Sod it!” she hisses suddenly, starting the engine and reversing the car at speed, before performing a rather haphazard and hasty u-turn. “I'm not sitting here a moment longer. That goddamn place gives me the creeps! It's like the house radiates evil!”
Before I can reply, she turns the wheel, and the car's tires screech as she races along the street, heading back the way we came.
“I think perhaps you should slow down,” I tell her, trying not to panic. “You've had rather a lot of whiskey and -”
“Don't tell me what to do!” she says firmly, as she flings the car at high speed down the next left-hand turn. “I shouldn't have shown you any of that, but you had to go sticking your craw in, didn't you? Well now you know, and now you have to shut up and pretend you never heard any of it! And you might wanna pray, too, just in case there's any hope that your daughter isn't mixed up in Knott's Court. 'Cause if she is in that place, you ain't gonna see her again! No-one can save her if she went through that door!”
With that, she turns the wheel again, sending the car screeching into the next dark street at such speed that I instinctively reach down and grip the sides of my seat.
Chapter Sixteen
Harry Plume
“And another thing!” Annabelle says as she tries but fails to rise from the sofa. “Those people, those fucking people, they're gonna pay one day! They're not gonna get away with what they're doing! I hope there is a god, because I want those bastards to pay in this life or the next! I want them to get to the pearly gates and suddenly feel a trapdoor opening beneath their feet!”
She tilts her head back and empties the glass of whiskey down her throat, before slumping back against the cushions. After that she lets out a few groans, but it's hard to tell whether she's trying to get up or simply wriggling to force one of the cushions behind her neck. Finally she elbows a different cushion hard, as if she's annoyed, before mumbling something under her breath. More obscenities, no doubt.
“I'm sorry,” I say after a moment, turning to Tim, “I just... I didn't know what else to do with her. She was already drunk when we parked outside, and I was worried she'd have a terrible accident if I let her keep going. It took me forever to get her car keys.”
“You were right to bring her inside,” he replies, before turning to watch as Annabelle gets to her feet and stumbles back to his drinks cabinet. “She's clearly in no state to be alone.”
“Harry always told me to be wary of that fucking place,” she continues, slurring her words and clearly having trouble seeing properly as she pours herself another glass from Tim's selection. “He told me he'd hea
rd stories about Knott's Court all his life, but that he'd turned a blind eye. He told me he regretted that, and that he wanted to put it right. But my God, when he tried...”
She downs the whiskey in one go, and then immediately pours yet another.
“Steady on there, young lady;” Tim says cautiously. “That's a 1997 Laphroaig. You'll enjoy it more if you sip it, I'm sure.”
“So he started looking into it,” she continues, staring down at her glass. “Poking his nose in, as he put it.” She bites her bottom lip for a moment, as if she's lost in thought. “That's when they decided to get him. He was the best reporter of his generation, and the best mentor anyone could hope to have, but he started causing trouble and asking the wrong questions and they decided to deal with him. He was fired from the paper, and then he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Six months later, he died in St. Vincent's Hospital, and guess what?”
She turns to me, and now there are tears in her eyes.
“Annabelle,” I say after a moment, “I'm sure you -”
“Guess!”
I let out a tired sigh. “I just -”
“Seriously, guess!”
“I honestly don't know.”
“I managed to get a copy of the autopsy,” she continues, as a tear trickles down her cheek, “through a source. It was the chemo that killed Harry. He never had cancer in the first place. That's how they do it, you see? They keep their hands clean. They make sure the circumstances are plausible enough, and that way they avoid questions.”
“I've heard of Harry Plume,” Tim says, turning to me. “I always got the impression that he was one of those proper, old-fashioned reporters. I used to look forward to his pieces.”
“They murdered him,” Annabelle continues, before taking a sip from her whiskey glass. “Huh. You're right. This is better when you take it slow.”
“I'm sure nobody was murdered,” I tell her. “You're clearly tired and emotional, and I'm sure this means a great deal to you, but -”
“Fuckers!” she shouts, suddenly staggering back over to the cabinet and pouring herself yet another drink.
“I should have checked her into a hotel,” I mutter, feeling extremely bad for bringing this drunk, loudmouthed young woman into Tim's home. “I'm so sorry,” I tell him, “I rather thought she'd simply fall asleep, but it seems she's got the bit between her teeth. I should have warned you before she found her way into your liqueur supply.”
“She certainly seems passionate,” he replies, watching as Annabelle sways as she sips from her latest glass of whiskey. “I suppose that's an admirable quality.”
“They murdered him,” she continues, and now there are tears running down her face. “They murdered a good man, and for what? For asking questions. I bet he's not the only one, either. I bet they've murdered hundreds of people over the years, people who dared stand up to what they're doing.” She turns to me. “Suicide. That's their favorite cover. You'd be surprised how many people started taking an interest in Knott's Court and then decided to neck a handful of pills, or hung themselves, or jumped off a cliff. Real convenient, ain't it?”
“She's been like this all afternoon,” I tell Tim. “She has these theories -”
“Not theories!” she shouts. “Facts!”
“You have to give her points for enthusiasm,” Tim mutters. “So many young people are rather apathetic these days, but she definitely cares, even if she seems rather enamored of that whiskey bottle. I dare say -”
Before he can finish, Annabelle falls backward onto the sofa. She drops her empty glass, which thankfully lands on the rug without breaking. This time, clearly lacking the strength to rise, the poor girl simply turns and looks at me. I swear, I can see a hint of desperation in her eyes, as if she wants me to agree with her.
“I know you think I'm just a drunk,” she stammers, slurring her speech more than ever, “but that's just because I drank too much. Harry Plume was a good man, the best man I ever met, and when he was murdered I swore I'd bring those bastards to justice. That was ten years ago now, and I always knew it'd be a slow job, but I've been getting closer and one day I'll have the information I need. They can't hide forever. And then, finally, Knott's Court will -”
Her head drops and she slumps down, and a moment later she starts snoring.
I wait a moment, just in case she gets a second wind, and then I turn to Tim.
“Enthusiasm is all well and good,” I point out, “but some of the things she's been talking about this evening have been too extraordinary to be believed. I'm starting to wonder whether she's alright in the head.”
Stepping over to one of the armchairs, he picks up a blanket and carries it to the sofa. He sits next to Annabelle and carefully places the blanket over her shoulders, taking care to tuck it in at the sides so that she's properly covered.
“I had a daughter once,” he says finally. “A long time ago now. She died when she was six. Hit by a car. The loss was tremendous, and I'm afraid my marriage fell apart fairly rapidly. Losing a child...”
His voice trails off for a moment, and then he reaches past Annabelle's shoulder and moves the blanket a little, to make sure her toes are covered.
“I don't know what she was like,” he continues. “Her name was Jessica. For some silly reason, that's one of the hardest things to deal with. She was a happy, lively child, but she was taken before I could really get to know her. Perhaps that's partly my fault, perhaps I was too quick to let my wife look after her when she was young. But Jessica died before I could find out if she was going to be an artist, or a scientist, or...”
He pauses.
“I'm being rather mawkish, aren't I?” he adds with a faint chuckle, as he gets to his feet. He stares down at Annabelle for a moment, as she continues to snore. “I wouldn't have minded if Jessica had ended up as a journalist, if she'd been someone who wanted to change the world for the better. Someone who gives a damn about right and wrong. There's honor in that course of action, and a kind of nobility.”
Annabelle burps, but she remains asleep.
“Well, you know what I mean,” Tim mutters. “Of course, I'd have been proud of her no matter what she'd done with her life. I just wish I'd had the chance to see her grow up.”
“Annabelle certainly has some funny ideas,” I reply, as Tim and I leave the room. “I can't help thinking that I wasted the day with her.”
“I watched the news this evening,” he continues, “hoping to find out about that man with the goat's head, but it wasn't mentioned. I couldn't find anything about it online, either. Funny how the news works, eh? You'd think something like that would be worth a quick mention.”
He gently closes the doors before turning to me.
“Just because she seems to be quite the drinker,” he adds, “doesn't mean you can't dismiss everything young Annabelle is claiming. Plus, if she really was mentored by the great Harry Plume, she can't be all bad. I'm under the impression that he was a highly-regarded journalist, one of the best of the old school. He probably taught the girl some good skills.”
“She seems fixated on that Knott's Court house,” I mutter. “Have you ever heard of it?”
“I'm not sure, to be honest,” he says with a sigh. “Quite a lot passes me by, these days.”
“I need to find out if anything she told me is true,” I continue. “And there's only one way to do that.”
“Which is?”
“It's simple,” I add, before shrugging. “I shall simply have to go and knock on the front door of Knott's Court, and ask them.”
Chapter Seventeen
A Room With a View
By day, Knott's Court doesn't look remotely fearsome. In fact, as I stand on the pavement and look up at the high stone facade, I feel that the place rather blends in against its surroundings. Since there's no sign nearby, nothing to announce the name of the place, I even pause for a moment to double-check that I've got the right building.
Finally, taking a deep breath, I start making my way up
the steps.
I can't help feeling a faint simmering sense of concern in the pit of my belly, even though I know that this is most likely a wild goose chase. Annabelle was still fast asleep when I left this morning, and I imagine she's still extremely hungover, but her words from last night have left me rather unsettled. No matter how many times I tell myself that this is just a house, and that there's no reason to think that the place is connected to my dear Katie, I can't entirely forget my fears.
When I reach the top of the steps, I immediately knock on the black front door, and then I wait. After a moment, I hear footsteps approaching from the other side. At least the occupants of Knott's Court have the decency to answer their door like civilized people.
***
“Mrs. Wren?”
Turning away from the window, I see a well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman entering the drawing room. I had expected to wait quite some time after I was shown in here by the maid, yet it seems that the master of the house is already here. Whatever else one might say about Knott's Court, at least they don't keep people waiting.
“I'm sorry if you were kept waiting,” he continues as he comes across the room, extending a hand to greet me. “My name is Dominic Stewart and I deal with the day-to-day affairs here at Knott's Court. I must admit, it's not often that we receive visitors, but I hope I can help with whatever matter brings you to our door.”
“I'm afraid you'll -”
“Have you been offered refreshments?” he adds, interrupting me. “Tea? Coffee?”
“I'm quite alright, thank you. I simply -”
“Please, take a seat.”
He gestures for me to sit by the window, and I feel compelled to accept the invitation. He sits opposite me, and I can't help but think that he seems like a fine, cultured young man. A little eager with his politeness, perhaps, which makes me think that his manners are learned rather than deeply ingrained. Still, one can't fault him for that. Perhaps he dragged himself up to the level of decent society.