Perfect Crime
Page 37
‘Get off me!’ he yelled, wrenching his foot upwards, trying to scrabble away. He hit a wall with his head shortly before his foot locked solid and his hip popped from its socket. The scream he let out was loud enough to wake the entire terrace he lived on. He rolled right, instinct kicking in, and the displaced hip shifted again back into its socket, easing the dreadful pain and allowing him to lean forward to take hold of whatever had his foot.
He didn’t want to extend his hand. There was something about reaching his fingers out into the black void that seemed to be inviting a bite. Like slipping your hand into a murky river in the sort of place where, when animals attacked, the general reaction to the news was – what the hell did the idiot tourist expect? What Bart found was both less and more terrifying. His ankle was bound by a leather strap. There was no bogeyman occupying the darkness with him. Not one that had hold of his leg, anyway. The strap was thick and sturdy, with a chunky metal link sewn through it. At the end of that, he realized miserably, was a chain. What was at the end of the chain, Bart wasn’t sure he was ready to discover yet. So he did what all cautious people would do in a foul pitch-black room, finding themselves inexplicably chained up. He began calling out for help.
His cries echoed. He called for help. Stopped, listened. Called out again, this time louder. Stopped, listened. Bart could feel the rumbling below the floor more readily than he could hear the engine, but an engine it unmistakably was. He put his hand to the floor. The surface was rough but not cold. Neither wood nor metal. More like the sort of industrial liner that was used to insulate modern houses. He’d seen it being carried in huge sheets into Edinburgh’s ever growing new housing estates. Perhaps he was in a factory then, in a room high above the machinery. That made sense. The low level growl of metal and the lack of sharp sounds from the outside world. He pressed himself closer to the wall and began yelling afresh.
‘Hello! Anyone! Can anyone hear me? Help. I need help.’ His cries got louder, his voice higher. He banged on the wall first then the floor between phrases, punctuating his cries for assistance. His cries became screams. Bart had never heard himself scream before. It was terrifying. Then he was hammering on the wall and stamping on the floor at the same time as he screamed. Just make noise, he thought. Someone would hear him. Someone would come.
But what if it was the wrong someone?
No, he told himself. Not that. Those thoughts were what would stop him being rescued. If all he had was a short window of time before whoever had chained him up was due to come back, he had to make all the noise he could right now. He took some steadying breaths. Think. The chain on his ankle allowed him limited movement. He walked along the wall as far as he could, tapping as he went, feeling for the edge of a doorway or handle, listening for a place where there might be an exit. Nothing. Then he walked the other way along the wall. Tapping all the time.
A crash at his feet made him leap backwards. He tripped and fell, scrabbling away from the metallic noise. The darkness made everything nearer and louder. He’d never considered what a threat the lack of light was before. Everything was alien. His sense of distance and direction had completely gone. As the noise faded, he reached out tentatively, groping on the floor for whatever it was he’d hit. The bucket was just a couple of feet away on its side, still rolling gently to and fro. He grabbed the handle and pulled it closer, exploring its edges, neither brave nor stupid enough to put his hand all the way inside. The smell coming from there was its own unique warning.
Human waste was remarkably distinctive. Neither cat, cow, dog nor pig excrement came close to replicating its odour. Bart contemplated what it meant. The bucket’s handle was rough with what could only be rust. Its outside was dry and there was no liquid slopping anywhere. Not recently used then. Yet it was there for a reason.
‘It’s here for me,’ he whispered, not liking the rawness in his throat from all the yelling. He’d lost track of the time he’d spent calling out to apparently absent listeners. He’d be lucky if he could speak at all within the hour.
Setting the bucket down, he took stock. There were two options left. Sit down, huddle, wait it out. If someone had brought him here – he had no idea how that had happened, but a dim recollection of being bought a drink by a very attractive woman after finishing his shift was blossoming – then it was for a purpose. They would be back. If he chose not to simply wait, he could assess the situation, explore his surroundings, try to figure out the state of play. It was a phrase he remembered his father using on his infrequent trips home from active duties. He summoned whatever genetic courage might inhabit his DNA. What he learned was that bravery was a myth.
In the end, fear was a far livelier motivator. If Bart waited, things could only get worse. He could think of no earthly reason why anyone would want him. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity by some chancer who thought he was from a wealthy family able to pay a ransom. Maybe it was some sort of bizarre terrorist event. And they were the better options. More likely – much more likely – it was some sick fuck who wanted to rape then kill him. He wasn’t sitting on the floor and waiting patiently for that.
Forcing himself to get to his feet, he felt for the wall, arms stretched out so that only his fingertips were touching it, and tried to measure the space. Four walls, rectangular, maybe twelve feet by twenty. The chain was attached to a central metal loop in the floor and secured with a hefty padlock. No discernible door. Three other objects. A coarse blanket that reeked of damp and sweat. He bundled it up and kept it close to his chest, as much as a comforter as for warmth. A shoe, definitely belonging to a woman, with its high heel snapped and hanging half off, laying on its side in a corner. Finally something dangling from the wall, also chained, that he found as it squeaked back and forth when he knocked it. Reaching out, he identified its hexagonal shape, felt the chill of glass round its sides, then his fingers found the dial they’d been looking for. He turned the metal cog.
Light, enough to barely illuminate a metre radius, spilled from the lamp. Bart let out a soft coo. Amazing how such a simple thing could suddenly mean more than all the money in the world, given an appropriate degree of terror. The colours it shed were dappled. A sickly yellow nearer the top from the old bulb, graduating into a dull pink in the middle, then brown at the bottom. Bart stepped even closer, letting his eyes adjust. It wasn’t that the glass panes were coloured, he realised. Nor that a special effect had been used on the bulb.
The outside of the glass had been spattered red. He reached out his fingers, wanting to know, not wanting to know. The lantern’s panes were bloodied with delicate streaks, settling at the bottom. Different layers. Subtly varied shades. A mixture of very old, crackled blood, like a glaze on an antique vase, and newer congealed blood. A single blob came away on his finger. Congealed but not yet fully hardened.
Bart sank to the floor in the small circle of light, an actor mid-stage in a spotlight with no audience to appreciate the beautiful tragedy being played out. Then he pulled the blanket around himself, and wondered how long both the lamplight – and he – would last.
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On a remote Highland mountain, the body of Elaine Buxton is burning. All that will be left to identify the respected lawyer are her teeth and a fragment of clothing. Meanwhile, in the concealed back room of a house in Edinburgh, the real Elaine Buxton screams into the darkness …
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About the Author
Helen Fields studied law at the University of East Anglia, then went on to the Inns of Court School of Law in London. After completing her pupillage, she joined chambers in Middle Temple where she practised criminal and family law for thirteen years. After her second child was born, Helen left the Bar. Together with her husband David, she runs a film production company, acting as scriptwriter and producer. The DI Callanach series is set in Scotland, where Helen feels most at one with the world. Helen and her husband now live in Los Angeles with their three children.
Helen loves Twitter but finds it completely addictive. She can be found at @Helen_Fields.
By the same author:
Perfect Remains
Perfect Prey
Perfect Death
Perfect Silence
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