The Winding Stair

by Millie Vigor

  SIXTEEN

  With a newspaper tucked under his arm, Brett McIvor was looking to buy a postcard to send to a workmate in Africa. He chose the one of Salisbury cathedral seen from across the water meadows. It was typically English and would bring cooling thoughts to a hot and dusty office. He was about to pay for his purchase when his mobile buzzed. It was a text.

  Outside the stationers he looked at it. It was from Nancy. She was asking him if he could meet her at the library. The woman was certainly persistent. It was less than twenty-four hours since he had seen her last. Whether she was going to be a help in finding Ginny, he wasn’t sure, but at least her local know-ledge would come in handy. She had promised to text him if she thought there was something he ought to know. He wondered what it was she wanted to tell him now. Be with you in twenty minutes, he replied.

  She was sitting at a table in the library café. When she saw him, she waved a hand and greeted him eagerly. She had bought coffee for them both.

  ‘Did you see Ashley?’ she asked. ‘What did you think of him and how did you get on?’

  ‘Mrs Graham,’ said Brett. ‘I am not a private detective. The police are the ones who must find out what happened to Miss Harvey. I’m just here killing time till my next contract starts.’

  ‘But you knew her, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did, but we did not have a relationship. She was an acquaintance, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh.’ Nancy, who had been leaning forwards, sat back in her chair while she digested that piece of information. After a few moments she said, ‘But you did see Ashley, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and he didn’t come across as being very nice. He’s still angry about his split with Ginny, but I’m not sure he has anything to do with her disappearance.’

  ‘Well.’ Nancy drank some coffee. ‘What about the photo-grapher? I can tell you what Ginny told me, and what I thought about him. She said that when she was at the hotel he wouldn’t leave her alone. He lives here, but he told her he was a visitor at the hotel when all the time his parents owned the place. So there was a lie for a start. And,’ Nancy leaned across the table and wagged her finger at Brett, ‘who better than him to leave roses on her doorstep? I bet he met her at a book launch somewhere and I bet he’s been following her around for yonks.’

  ‘But he couldn’t have known that she would choose his parents’ hotel to run away to, could he?’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t, but maybe that was just coincidence. He could have hacked into her computer, though, and I wouldn’t put that past him.’

  It was obvious that Nancy was eager to tell all, so why not let her? ‘So go on,’ said Brett. ‘What was the impression you got when you met him?’

  ‘I didn’t actually meet him. I was doing my shopping in the supermarket. He and Ginny were in the café. They were having a row. It was when Ginny stood up and shouted at him that I noticed them. I wasn’t the only one. But here’s another thing. I looked him up in Yellow Pages, and what do you think? He only lives three miles away from here.’ Nancy sat back in her chair and looked at Brett, a satisfied smile on her face. ‘I think he’s got something to do with it,’ she said. ‘In fact I’d bet on it.’ As she spoke the smile on her face fell away. ‘He hasn’t murdered her, has he?’

  ‘I’m not going to think that and neither must you. All sorts of things could have happened and you know that she went off on her own once before.’

  ‘But she didn’t leave stuff ready to cook that time.’

  ‘Well, what are a few potatoes and a couple of carrots? Nothing to change your mind for. Anyway, what is this man’s name?’

  ‘It’s Paul Turner.’ Nancy handed Brett a slip of paper. ‘That’s his address. Are you going to see him?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Huh.’ Nancy stood up and shrugged herself into her coat. ‘Did I find out all that about him for you to tell me you’re going to do nothing?’ She was obviously not pleased. ‘I think you owe it to Ginny to find out as much as you can. You can go where the police can’t, so you should.’

  ‘Oh well, then, if you insist.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘All right then, I will, just to please you,’ said Brett.

  And as Nancy walked away, he pondered his next move.

  ‘Ugh.’ Hazel Thomas banged the phone back on its cradle. ‘That’s all I need. Curtis.’

  Standing just a couple of yards away and a little behind Hazel, Curtis said, ‘I’m here; there’s no need to shout. What’s the matter?’

  ‘You’ll have to work late tonight; Janice has just phoned in to say she’s not well and can’t make it.’

  ‘Oh but …’

  ‘Yes, I know. You don’t do late shifts, but you’re going to this time. You haven’t got anyone at home waiting for you, have you?’

  ‘Um … well … I did have plans for this evening, Mrs Thomas.’

  ‘And so did I. Too bad, Curtis. You know your contract says that you will be required to do overtime when necessary. So let’s get on with it, shall we?’ Curtis’s face settled into a scowl. ‘And it’s no good you looking like that, young man, it isn’t as though you’ve got a family to go home to. I have, and we all have to do things we don’t like from time to time.’

  Without a word Curtis turned and walked away. Hazel watched him go. Bad temper showed in every line of his body and she wondered why. He’d told her that he lived alone and liked it, so being late home for once surely wasn’t the end of the world. Lump it, Curtis, she thought, and with a sigh left him to his moods and went to her office to work on a stack of papers that were piled up on her desk. She settled down to the job and gradually the pile shrank. A glance at the clock made her think that perhaps it was time for a coffee. She yawned and stretched. What wouldn’t she give to be home with her feet up and a large mug of hot chocolate in her hands? She’d find Curtis and see how he was getting on.

  The sound of raised voices greeted Hazel as she opened the door of her office. Noisy conversation was not allowed in the library so what was it all about? The voices grew louder and sounded as though there was an argument.

  Curtis was standing at the desk. Opposite him a woman, red faced and angry, confronted him.

  ‘I will tell you once again and that is all,’ said the woman. ‘That book was not defaced by me. That is the way it was when I opened it. And you, young man, would do well to mind your manners.’

  ‘Madam …’ Curtis slammed his hand down on the desk. ‘No book leaves this library in such a state. No one else has had it so blame has to be levelled at you, for you must be the guilty party.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Hazel. ‘Will someone tell me what the problem is?’

  Curtis and his adversary spoke in unison.

  ‘That book …’

  ‘That woman …’

  Hazel held up her hand. ‘One at a time, please. Ladies first – madam …’

  The woman gave Curtis a scathing look then turned to Hazel.

  ‘Your assistant has accused me of defacing a work of literature. It is something I would never do, but I am afraid that someone else has not held the written word in such high regard. I demand an apology.’

  Hazel turned to Curtis. The look of absolute hatred on his face shocked her. Surely there was no need for that.

  ‘And you, Curtis?’ she said.

  ‘I most certainly will not apologize. That book never left this library in anything other than pristine condition. Damage that is done to any of our books always, and I say always, happens outside our doors. There is nothing for me to apologize for.’

  Hazel reached across the desk and picked up the offending article. She opened it and found pages with turned down corners and even one that had been torn. That someone had abused it was plain to see.

  ‘It certainly is in a sorry state,’ she said as she put the book down. ‘How it came to be like that we shall never know.’ She looked at the woman opposite her. ‘Not many people are as passionate about books as my assista
nt here.’ She placed a hand on Curtis’s arm. ‘So perhaps, madam, you will excuse him for his outburst. And you, Curtis, will accept this lady’s denial of damaging the book.’

  ‘I will not,’ snapped Curtis. ‘I maintain that it was not in that condition when it left us. The borrower must accept responsibility.’

  Hazel stared at Curtis. She could understand his annoyance at having to work late without knowing in advance, but that was no reason to take it out on someone else.

  ‘Go to my office, Curtis,’ she said, ‘and wait for me there.’

  ‘But, Mrs Thomas, I—’

  ‘Not here and not now, Curtis,’ said Hazel.

  Curtis took a deep, exasperated breath, glowered at her then turned and walked away. Hazel moved to pacify the waiting woman.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I have never seen that young man lose his temper before; something else must be upsetting him. I apologize most sincerely for him, which I do hope you will accept.’

  ‘Is there any alternative? I suppose not. Your assistant needs to be given a severe reprimand if not dismissal. I hope that you will not neglect your duty. Good day to you.’

  The woman tossed her head, turned on her heel and walked away. The door swung to behind her and Hazel, fuming at Curtis’s behaviour, went to her office to deal with him.

  ‘What is the matter with you, Curtis?’ she said. ‘I know you didn’t want to work late but you can’t take your temper out on people who come to borrow books, no matter what state they return them in.’

  An unrepentant Curtis glared at her and she saw the dark anger that simmered in his eyes, at the snarling mouth as he said, ‘I will not tolerate people who have no regard for something that has taken months if not years to produce and which will give them hours of enjoyment.’ He spoke with passion. ‘It takes at least a year to bring a book to completion. Therefore it should be appreciated, taken care of and not abused.’

  ‘I agree with you, Curtis, but you must keep your opinions to yourself. Sometimes books do get abused but we have to grin and bear it, it’s one of the unpleasant sides of the job.’

  Was she making any impression on him? Probably not, for the expression on his face had softened not one jot. What had got into him to make him behave in this way?

  ‘I will let this episode pass,’ she said. ‘But I warn you now, and believe me when I say this; I do not want a repeat performance. You had better promise me now that it will not happen again.’

  ‘I can’t promise that, Mrs Thomas.’

  ‘Then if it does happen again, I shall dismiss you on the spot and you will have to suffer the consequences.’

  Curtis did not answer but looked long and hard at her and as they locked eyes, a shiver went down her spine. His face seemed shrivelled and deformed as if moulded by hatred and the look on it was one that she had never seen before.

  ‘I think we’ll lock up and go,’ said Hazel. ‘It’s about time we did anyway.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Ginny looked at her watch. She was hungry and there was no sign of Curtis. For someone who was always was so punctual it was odd that he hadn’t told her he would be late. But he’d be here soon. If she had her mobile she could call him, but he had thrown it away so there was nothing she could do. She had been working on her journal so, sitting on the bed with her feet on the chair and her laptop balanced on her knees, she went on with it.

  I have to confess that I’m beginning to like being looked after and having my meals prepared for me, Curtis is such a good cook. It would be even better if he would let me out of here, let me sit at a table and use some real cutlery instead of those rotten plastic things. But he doesn’t trust me … yet. And that’s something I have to get to grips with. I mustn’t lose my temper because that brings out the bad in him and that will only make him keep me down here longer. He does seem to have my best interests at heart, though he’s going a funny way about showing it. What made him think that shutting me up in his cellar would make me want to stay with him? Did he think that if he treated me badly at first and then turned to kindness I would want to please him, want to stay? He has said that he loves me but if that were true why did he not declare his feelings for me before this? Ah, he thinks that if he keeps me here long enough I will agree with him and go over to his way of thinking. The Patty Hearst affair, in America, where she was kidnapped and held prisoner and eventually went over to the side of her kidnappers, comes to mind. She eventually agreed with their ideals and became part of their gang. I think the process of being brainwashed into crossing over from one side to the other is called Stockholm syndrome. Well, there’s an idea there. I can play act too. But I’ll have to be careful not to go over to his side for real.

  Ginny checked the time again. It was eight o’clock; supper was at least an hour overdue. What could be keeping Curtis? Maybe Hazel had got him to work late; the library was sometimes open till nine. That was probably it. But he would have known that and could have said. Whatever the reason for his being late, it would surely be a good one and it would be stupid to get worried about it. Ginny went back to her journal.

  Someday when I’m out of here, when I’m married and have children, I’ll tell them about this, about how I was held prisoner by a mad man and how I fought him and escaped. I will get out. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but one way or another, I will not end my days in this house. Why should I tell them? Because they have to know that whatever situation they are in, they must never give up hope, never have to stop believing that things will get better. I shall not give up because the thing that I want most of all is to walk out of Curtis’s front door. What a day that will be, but right now I’d welcome my supper. Where is that man?

  Ginny switched off the laptop and laid it on the bed beside her. Hands resting in her lap, she began to twiddle her thumbs. It really was bad of Curtis to be so late. But then maybe something had happened that was out of his control, or surely he would have been here before now. Had he had an accident? Was he in hospital hooked up to some machine or other, with tubes up his nose and a drip attached to the back of his hand? Fear pinched her gut. God forbid, because if that was the case she was liable to starve to death. No one knew she was here and without food her body would feed on itself, but without water, and she only had a quarter of the bottle he gave her left, she could last only three to eight days; water was more important than food. Research for one of her books had told her that. She shivered and it was not because her prison was cold.

  Standing up, Ginny began to pace, back and forth, back and forth. Hands stuffed into her trouser pockets, she strode the eight paces that measured the length of the cellar, turned and strode back.

  He cannot leave me here like this. Does he know how much trouble he will be in when I get out? Does he realize he could go to prison for a very long time? When he does get home, when he does put his silly face round that door, I’m going to kill him. I will … I’ll kill him.

  Back and forth went Ginny. Eight steps to the end of the room, swivel, turn and head back towards the door. Turn again and take eight steps, swivel, turn, eight steps back.

  When I get to the door this time, he’ll open it and be there with a tray of food.

  But he wasn’t.

  Ginny put her ear to the door to listen. No sounds of life emanated from the house, just the creaks and groans of it relaxing. No other sound than the muted sound of traffic on the road and the thump of her heart.

  She sat on the bed, but no sooner had she settled there than she jumped up and began to pace the room again. Marking time to her footsteps she chanted, ‘I will … not let … myself … despair … I will … not let … myself … despair.’

  Oh, this is stupid, she thought, he’s got to be home soon. But what if he isn’t? What if he can’t come home? What if he’s been run over and killed? Still Ginny walked. But now she twisted her hands together as she did. She didn’t count her steps, didn’t listen at the door to hear if he was coming. What am I going to d
o? I can’t get out and if I shout, there’s no one to hear.

  She stopped walking and put a hand to her chest; her breathing was laboured and her heart beating so hard. Beads of perspiration stood on her forehead. There was a lump in her throat and she wanted to cry.

  ‘Get a grip, Virginia,’ she admonished as she looked at her watch. It was 10.45. ‘You are not going to give way.’

  About to resume her walk – what else was there to do? – she held her breath to listen. Was that the shuffle of feet? Was that a muffled curse? Was it Curtis? Well, it had to be. Came the rattle of bolts, the door opened and there he was, holding two stacked plates of food wrapped about with a cloth.

  ‘Sorry I’m so late,’ he said, his mouth tweaking into half a smile.

  She looked at him. Suddenly, the sight of him standing there and the casual way he apologized turned her anguish at being imprisoned, at being left without any idea of whether he was ever going to come home again, into anger, and she flew at him. She screamed and beat him with her fists. She sent him flying and staggering backwards, he lost his grip on the plates holding the supper for them both. Fillets of fish and golden rods of chips bounced and skidded across the floor. Still intent on attacking him, Ginny ignored the food. He would have to pay for not telling her he was going to be late, pay for putting her through the worry of what her fate might have been.

  Then she was skidding on the soft flesh of fried fish, losing control, floundering in an attempt to stay upright, losing it, sliding across the floor and hitting her head against the wall.

  Then nothing.

  ‘Virginia, speak to me … please.’ She was sitting up with someone’s arm around her. ‘Can you hear me, Virginia? Speak to me, please, speak to me.’

  Ginny opened her eyes and glimpsed a face that gave a tentative smile, she closed her eyes again, put a hand up to her head. It hurt. There was a large, tender lump on it and her head was throbbing. She opened her eyes again and swimming in front of her was Curtis’s face.