A coffin was her first panicked thought, reaching her hand upwards, half expecting to feel a hard surface just above, her hand shooting into air, finding nothing within reach. Not a coffin then and the relief helped soothe the fear. She sat and then tried to stand, banging her head, swearing softly as more pain added to the blinding pain behind her eyes. Confused and muddled she laid down again, her feet drawn up, arms across her chest, head throbbing so badly it triggered a wave of nausea that swept over her leaving her limp.
Curling up into a ball, the foetal position she acknowledged even as she sought its comfort, she tried the relaxation technique the counsellor had advised. ‘Simple deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth,’ he’d said, and she had laughed that something so simple could have the slightest effect. To her surprise, it did. ‘People hold their breaths,’ he’d explained, ‘and when they do everything tenses and becomes uncomfortable and more difficult. So when you are upset, stressed or panicked. Breathe. It doesn’t make problems go away but it allows you to deal with them.’
He’d been right. Of course. She had tried it, had been staggered at how effective it was. And of course, he had also been right, it didn’t make her life any more straightforward but it did allow her to see it more clearly. And to deal with it.
So she lay curled up in her foetal ball and took long slow breaths in through her nose and let them out slowly. And she fell asleep.
When she woke again she guessed it was some time later. There was no change in the light to indicate time had passed, but her head had stopped throbbing, only a faint throb to remind her of the previous pain. It must be some hours later, she decided.
She uncurled, stretched as much as she could to release the kinks and cramps, and allowed her eyes adjust to the darkness. She sat up, and then stood carefully, using her hands to judge where there was height; she really couldn’t face banging her head again. She reached out and, hand by hand felt the surface of the enclosure she was in. It was wedge shaped. Three walls. A sloping ceiling. One wall held a door, she could feel a slight draught, fingers teasing out the edges. Definitely a door, but no handle. She put her ear to it, listened for a long time for any sound. Nothing. Putting her hands flat on the door, she pushed gently at first and then with her whole weight behind it, putting her shoulder to it, pushing as if her life depended on it.
And then she slid down onto the floor and did what she had wanted to do since she opened her eyes. She cried.
She allowed herself this indulgence for a few minutes and then wiping her eyes and her nose on her sleeve she sat up straighter and took stock of the situation.
She was in a small dark room. Maybe an attic, she considered, thinking of the shape. But it didn’t really fit; it was too small for an attic. Then she laughed. Harry Potter. The room under the stairs, a wedge-shaped room with a door. It made sense. At least the dimensions of the room did. But why she was locked under someone’s stairway didn’t make any sense whatsoever.
The last thing she remembered was having tea with Heather. Heather? She’d been a long time making the tea, had gone upstairs. She had drugged her? It was the only logical explanation but it didn’t make sense at all. Why on earth would she do such a thing? Was she protecting Viveka? She’d told Heather she would tell the police what Viveka had said, was that it? She’d been drugged and locked up to protect Viveka Larsson. It was unbelievable but it was the only explanation that made sense.
Fear was replaced by anger. Much healthier. Anger would get her out. She wasn’t going to sit, waiting for something to be done to her, the proverbial sitting duck. If there was one thing she had learned about herself over the last year, she was a survivor. She felt around the floor, hands searching for anything that could be of use. Nothing, damn it, she would be locked into the tidiest under-stairs room in the world.
She felt the walls again, looking for a weak spot, something she could work loose. It was smooth as a baby’s bottom. She knocked the walls, the wall around the door wasn’t solid, maybe she could kick a hole in it. Unfortunately, she was wearing trainers, but that didn’t stop her aiming several kicks at the wall and at the door. Again and again.
Exhausted, she sat on the floor, cross-legged, telling herself not to cry. Then, with a sinking feeling, she realised she had another problem. She needed to pee. She banged on the door, calling Heather’s name, shouting until her voice became ragged.
Surely she’d come. She couldn’t just leave her there, could she? A year ago, Kelly would have said a definite no, but events had conspired to teach her a hard lesson about what could happen. Adam Fletcher sprang to mind, the monster that had killed her husband, killed the hapless Simon Johnson for the crime of getting in the way. It would be easy to say nothing surprised her anymore but she had to be honest, she’d never have dreamt Viveka Larsson was responsible for all the appalling incidents that caused so much stress to so many people. And she was certainly surprised at being drugged and locked up by Heather Goodbody. Not so aptly named now, was she?
Just when she thought she couldn’t wait any longer, when she thought she would just have to pee regardless, she heard noise outside. Quickly, she stood and approached the door.
‘Hello!’ she shouted. ‘Please, can you hear me? Please, let me out.’
‘Stand back from the door,’ a voice she recognised as Heather’s said, ‘move to the wall and turn around. Do as you are told and you will come to no harm.’
‘Heather? Why are you doing this to me? Please, let me go.’
There was silence for a moment then, ‘Do you know what a Taser is?’
Of course Kelly knew. She trembled. Maybe she was wrong, maybe it wasn’t Heather.
‘Do you?’ the whispering voice snarled, sending shivers down her spine.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Well, do as I say and I won’t need to use it on you. I have food and drink.’
Desperate now, Kelly dropped her voice to a pleading whisper, ‘Please, I need to go to the toilet. I’ve wanted to go for hours, I’m in pain.’
This time the silence lasted longer. Kelly, her ear to the door, heard movement, shuffling and the distant sound of a door slamming.
A few minutes passed before she heard the voice again. ‘Stand back from the door, move to the wall and turn around. I’ve brought something you can use as a toilet. You can use it and pass it out. Then I’ll give you food and drink. Don’t forget I have a Taser. I will use it if I have to. Then you’ll know all about pain.’
Desperate, Kelly did what she was told, moved to the back wall, turned around. She heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, the rough slide of a bolt then the creak as the door was slowly opened, the small room suddenly flooding with light. She risked a glance right and left, confirming the contours of the room, searching for a weakness, seeing none all the while conscious of a rustling behind, then a faster creak as the door was closed and she was once again in darkness.
Turning she squatted down, hands searching and finding what felt like a plastic basin. More searching found a roll of toilet paper. Needs must, she thought and quickly unzipped her jeans, squatted over the basin and with a sigh of relief emptied her bladder.
Finished, she knocked on the door. ‘I’m done,’ she shouted.
‘Move back to the wall, turn around, don’t move till I tell you,’ the whisper came immediately.
Doing as she was told, Kelly moved back to the wall. The space was small, she could almost feel the other woman behind, removing the basin, replacing it with something else before moving back and shutting the door, drawing the bolt and locking it. Kelly was once again in darkness. Turning around, she heard a faint shuffling noise and then silence.
Fumbling around in the darkness, suddenly hungry, Kelly hoped she’d find something she could adapt as a weapon or a tool, something she could use to work on the door, or to use as a chisel on the walls. She’d seen Shawshank Redemption, she knew how it was done.
But all she found was a paper plat
e of food and a plastic beaker of what tasted like lukewarm tea. Cross-legged she sat and ate, her hand picking up whatever was on the plate, guiding it to her face where she could just about make it out before biting, chewing and swallowing. She didn’t want it but knew she had to eat, had to stay strong. Then she bit into something she recognised. That blasted lemon cake.
Sugar had been added to the tea. Not the way she took it but she forced herself to drink it, remembering something she had read once about dehydration. If you were thirsty you were already dehydrated. And she was very thirsty.
Within minutes she knew she’d made a mistake. Her head felt light, eyes heavy, head nodding, body swaying to someone else’s beat.
She’d been drugged.
When she woke, she had no idea if she’d been out for an hour or a day. There was a banging drum where her head should be and a sick feeling in her stomach. She’d curled up in a foetal ball, unconsciously protective. Uncurling cramped legs, she lay on her back, trying to ride the wave of pain, feeling it ebb as she lay unmoving.
The food, or more likely that awful tea, had been drugged. She wouldn’t eat or drink anything she was given again. But she was already thirsty. How long could she go without food or drink? From the cache of bizarre facts she’d acquired over the years she came up with the statistics. Three days without water, three weeks without food.
But she wouldn’t be here that long. Would she?
If it were Sunday, she thought, Mike would be looking for her. He would have wondered if she were still mad at him, would have rung a few times to see if she still wanted to walk the pier with him. Walking the pier. What a gloriously normal thing to do. They’d have walked the length of it, stand at the end looking out to sea. Then they’d have gone for something to eat. And who knew what would have happened next.
When he couldn’t contact her, he’d look for her. Wouldn’t he? Or would he? She had been mad with him. Had been furious, in fact. But now her argument seemed futile, juvenile even. Everything now judged against her current predicament. If he went to the house he would see her car. Would he think she was in, just not bothering to answer the door to him? Would he go away and forget about her?
He’d come to her rescue before, had flown to the UK, driven to that God-forsaken place in Cornwall and rescued her. She felt a tear trickling, said childish prayers of promise to a God she didn’t believed in, the prayers coming back to her, childish prayers promising to be good forevermore if God would just grant this one wish.
Then she remembered doing the same when her husband had vanished. Had prayed so hard for his return.
And look how that had turned out.
33
When West hadn’t heard from Kelly by Monday morning, he decided he’d blown his chances with her and was determined to put her out of his head. Anyway, there was way too much at stake today to allow his personal life to interfere.
The warrant came through just before eleven. All five of the team were present and as soon as the paperwork was ready they headed out to the apartment taking two cars, West driving his own, the rest going with Andrews.
Warned to be discreet, they parked nearby and walked over to the apartment complex. West rang the doorbell and they waited quietly until, after a few minutes, a voice answered with a soft hello.
‘Ms Larsson. My name is Garda Sergeant West. I am here with some of my colleagues. May we come in and have a word.’ He hoped she’d either come down or let them in. An argument on the doorstep about her rights definitely didn’t come under the heading of discreet.
There was no answer at all, nor was there a delay as they immediately heard the buzz that announced she had opened the entrance door.
They went up as quietly as it was possible for five grown men to be. At the apartment door West signalled Edwards, Jarvis and Baxter to take a few steps back knowing how intimidating they looked massed together in the small corridor.
There wasn’t a doorbell on the door so he rapped his knuckles on the pale wood. It was opened within a minute by an attractive woman who stood in the doorway with a smile of welcome. Her gaze drifted over West and Andrews before passing on to where the other three stood in the wings. And then with dramatic flair she said, ‘How lovely, five handsome men to have morning coffee with.’ And she stood back and waved them in, waiting until the last of them were inside, before closing the door and following them in.
The lounge was a big room. Windows on two sides provided light; pale wood floors, white woodwork, pastel shades on the soft furnishings made it bright. ‘Please, sit down,’ she fluttered, waving them to a selection of chairs dotted about the room, most looking as if they would barely take her weight never mind the likes of the stocky Seamus Baxter who took one look and decided it was a best interest decision to stay standing.
Edwards and Jarvis perched nervously on the edge of a pale grey sofa. West and Andrews continued to stand. ‘I’ll make coffee,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘Unless you’d prefer tea?’
‘I’m afraid this isn’t a social call,’ Ms Larsson, ‘West said quietly.
‘It’s not? How you disappoint me, Sergeant,’ she said softly, her large eyes fixed on his, regret the only emotion he could read there.
He took a breath. ‘I have a warrant to search your apartment,’ Ms Larsson,’ he said, holding it out as he spoke, waiting until she took it, smiling in bemusement, before he continued. ‘The items we are searching for are listed on the warrant. It also covers your computer and gives us the right to take your fingerprints.’
‘What fun,’ she said, causing all the ten eyes focused on her to narrow in surprise. She continued with a smile, ‘I’m sure you have your reasons but perhaps you could tell me why?’
‘If my team can get on with the search, Ms Larsson, perhaps we could have a seat and we can discuss the situation.’
Viveka Larsson shrugged her acceptance of this order of service and took a seat on the sofa vacated by an embarrassed Jarvis and Edwards.
West sat, leaving the organisational aspect of the search to Andrews. He took out a notebook and pen and before saying another word read Ms Larsson her rights. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Perfectly, Sergeant.’ She said calmly but with a puzzled look on her face. ‘Well, I understand that anything I say can be used in evidence against me, but I don’t understand what I could say that would be of the slightest interest to the police.’
‘You are the founder of a voluntary group called Offer?’
Her puzzled look increased. ‘That’s correct. And common knowledge.’
‘And you ran a similar group in Finland. Called Tarjous.’
Her rather thin, pale face went a shade paler. Then she smiled again, but the smile was sad. ‘Similar. Perhaps that is open to interpretation, Sergeant.’
‘Is it not true that Tarjous was a brothel, Ms Larsson, and you were the owner of this brothel.’
She reached a small hand across and laid it on his arm. ‘You are trying to hide the condemnation in your voice,’ she said, her voice quiet, ‘but not doing a very good job, I’m afraid. Tarjous wasn’t all about sex, Sergeant West. We did provide a service for lonely men.’
‘And charged for it?’
She looked sharply at him. ‘You should know by now, Sergeant, very little comes for nothing. There is always someone who pays.’
‘Even with Offer,’ he said quickly.
She sank back against the sofa and sighed. ‘Even with Offer.’ She turned and caught his gaze. ‘Shall I tell you why I started Offer? Why I came to Ireland?
He nodded.
She let her head rest against the back of the chair. ‘I ran Tarjous for many years,’ she said, not looking at West, ‘I made a good living, ran a good place. My girls were clean, they worked for me willingly. I had no time for those who liked their pleasures perverted; these people went elsewhere, were more than well catered for in other establishments. Then my attention slipped and I...’ she turned her head to look at him, ‘what is the expre
ssion you use...I took my eye off...?’
‘The ball,’ West supplied, and she nodded her thanks and returned her gaze to the window.
‘Yes, I took my eye off the ball. A new customer came, took one of my girls...’ She stopped, bit her lower lip, eyes staring into a place West knew he didn’t want to go.
‘We spoke to someone in vice. They hadn’t mentioned an incident,’ he said.
‘Oh, she didn’t die, Sergeant. No. She had to have surgery. It was partially successful. She’ll have to wear pads for the rest of her life because of the damage he caused. She’ll never have children. But she’s alive.’ Viveka Larsson sighed sadly. ‘All I could do for her was to give her money, so I sold up and, except for enough to live on for a while, I gave her the rest. It will help.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ West asked sharply. ‘He should never have been allowed get away with that. What’s to say he won’t do it again?’
She smiled. ‘You don’t survive in my line of work without being able to take care of things. He didn’t get away with it, Sergeant. Believe me, he’ll never hurt another woman.’
West was horrified at the fate of the young woman but he was a policeman to the core. ‘You had him killed?’
Her smile grew. ‘You really are an innocent, aren’t you?’ she said and patted his arm. ‘There are far worse things than death, my sweet man. There is life without what men hold most dear, there is life without fingers to scratch with, without a tongue to call a young working woman a whore.’
If West heard right, she’d had the man’s penis and fingers cut off and his tongue cut out. He wondered where he was now, how he’s survived. Then he thought of the young working woman and shrugged. Maybe not quite an eye for an eye, but close enough.
He looked at the woman sitting beside him with renewed interest. ‘So what brought you to Dublin?’
Close Ranks: A Garda West Novel (Garda West Crime Novels Book 2) Page 26