Forward Slash

by Louise Voss

  If Becky even was still alive.

  Amy did need to pee, badly. She went over to the toilet but could not work out how the corset undid. With her still-numb fingers, she fiddled with the poppers on the crotch, feeling even more nauseous to think that Lewis must have put her into it when she was unconscious. His fingers would have brushed against her pubic hair. Her breasts didn’t properly fit into the cups of the corset either, implying that he had stuffed her into it. She managed to sit and pee, but then had to turn straight round and vomit into the bowl, unable to shake the thought of Lewis undressing her. Was he going to rape her? What was wrong with her, that men seemed to think they could do exactly what they wanted with her? The only man who had helped her recently was Gary, and she had rejected him.

  Amy did up the corset again, rinsed out her mouth under the tap and took a long drink of water. It went against every instinct she had, to open the door and walk back out there to Lewis and his Taser, but she knew she had to.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said appraisingly when she returned, and gestured to the bed. ‘Up you get.’

  He was treating her like a puppy, she thought, allowing him to handcuff her again. She decided that all she could do was to go along with it.

  For now.

  Oh, please God, she thought, let Gary have got her text.

  ‘Why did you help me with the social-networking stuff when it could have helped me find her?’ she asked.

  He raised an eyebrow and she answered her own question. ‘Because you knew it wouldn’t do any good. That no one would have seen her or would know what had happened to her. Please, tell me where Becky is. You promised – in the message you sent me.’

  He stepped back from the bed, appraising her. ‘The message Daniel sent you.’

  ‘But you are Daniel.’

  His lips twitched. ‘I was Daniel, yes. And Becky loved Daniel.’ He leaned closer to Amy until his nose was just two inches from hers. His breath smelled of cloves. ‘But that’s the thing, Amy. You have to be very careful about people you meet online. They’re not always what they seem.’

  42

  Becky

  Sunday, 21 July

  My first reaction is utter confusion. I feel like a baby who goes to sleep in his pushchair at home and wakes up at the cheese counter in the metal seat of a supermarket trolley, blinking at the bright lights.

  How can I be here? My packed suitcase is sitting across the concrete floor of the garage looking reproachfully at me. So … that meant I had gone away for that weekend, or at least had tried to. I’m sure we were meant to be going away together … As my woolly head slowly clears, I try to think through the options. Some kind of delay? Was I in danger, and he brought me here to get me out of the way … of what? A terrorist attack? The dirty bomb I’ve had nightmares about for years? Are we safe here? Where is he? I try to stand up but I can’t, and I don’t immediately understand why until I realize I can’t move my arms or my legs – they are tied to the chair I’m sitting on. The corners of my lips feel strange and stretchy, and that’s when I clock that I’ve been gagged, too.

  It’s dark in here apart from one small standard lamp, and cold even though there are chinks of sunlight coming in under the up-and-over metal door. I am wearing an unfamiliar thick jumper – a Guernsey, I think. That sort of heavy, oily wool. I don’t know whose it is but I’m grateful for it. I can’t feel my feet.

  I can’t begin to think about the implications of being tied to a chair and gagged. I’ve been kidnapped!

  It’s got to be a bad dream. Panic starts to ferment inside me and I begin to thrash about, moaning through the gag. The chair starts rocking, harder and harder – then I fall, sideways, and my head must have cracked on the concrete floor because the lights go out again.

  Next time I wake up, I’m not alone any more. He’s here! Someone has come for me! He’s standing over me and the sharp smell of antiseptic fills my nostrils. This time my head isn’t just woolly, it’s pounding, and I think I’m going to vomit. But he’s here! Oh, thank God, I try to say, thank God it’s you, get me out of here! But it comes out as Mmmnh mmmnh mmmmnh. He dabs at a very sore lump on my forehead with some extremely cold sodden cotton wool, but he doesn’t attempt to remove my gag or untie me. I entreat him with my eyes, then frown and shake my head – the pain nearly makes me throw up. He’s refusing to meet my eyes! Why isn’t he untying me? Why?

  When he speaks, his voice seems to come from a very long way away, streaming into my ear like the sun’s rays under the door, oozing out of the cement between its breezeblock walls. ‘I’m sorry, Becky,’ he says. He still won’t look at me. ‘Try not to panic. You won’t be here for ever. It’s for your own good. Trust me.’

  43

  Declan

  Friday, 26 July

  ‘Have you got an address for Lewis Vine?’ Declan asked.

  ‘Yes, hang on … He lives in a place called Claygate, in Surrey. He’s actually a well-known businessman. I Googled him – he’s a millionaire several times over. We should go up tomorrow, pay him a visit.’ Because Sussex and Surrey shared a major-crime investigation team, there would be no problem with worrying about whose jurisdiction it fell under.

  ‘I can go and see him now,’ Declan said. ‘I’m in London. It shouldn’t take me long to get there – only about half an hour. I think it’s near Esher.’

  ‘Sir, I really don’t think you should go on your own.’

  He thought about it. The murder was fifteen years ago, and although there was no statute of limitations on murder, if Vine was Amber’s killer, he would probably think that he’d got away with it. He wouldn’t be sitting at home waiting for the police to call. Declan tried to imagine how he would feel in his situation: the attempt to buy the property was a logical move. If he owned the farm, he could move the body, or fill the cesspit with cement, make sure the remains were never found. He would probably have panicked when the sale fell through, especially as his name was now linked with the property. But as time had gone by and nothing had happened, he must have felt increasingly safer.

  If Declan turned up now, Vine wouldn’t immediately think it was in connection with Amber and his guard would not be up. He ought to go back to Eastbourne, talk to the SIO and the rest of the team. But the moment Vine was alerted to the investigation, he would hire a lawyer. As a millionaire, he would be able to afford a top defence lawyer – who would no doubt argue that all they had was circumstantial evidence. There was no forensic evidence against him, no witnesses. There was a strong possibility he would get away with it.

  And Declan had made a promise to Amber that he didn’t intend to break.

  If he surprised Vine, caught him unawares, he would be able to see how he acted when a police detective came to his door. He would be able to get some measure of him, maybe get him to say or do something incriminating.

  ‘I’m going to go and talk to him now,’ he said, explaining his reasons to Bob.

  ‘Let me drive up,’ he said. ‘Come with you.’

  ‘No. That would take ages. I want to go there now.’

  He sighed. ‘Just be careful.’

  ‘I will. Listen, I’ll call you back in a minute. Can you go online, get some more information about Vine? Thanks.’

  If he had been lucky on the way up, with clear roads and a lack of roadworks, he was now paying the price. It was gridlock all the way out of town, but at least the slow-moving traffic gave him a chance to get his thoughts together and prepare for his encounter with Vine.

  Ten minutes into the journey, he called Bob using the hands-free kit on his phone.

  ‘I’m really sorry to do this to you on your day off. Can you talk me through what you found out?’

  ‘It’s OK. Although we could have picked a better day for it. Isobel wants to try for another baby and today’s the day. She’s in bed reading Fifty Shades of Grey and getting in the mood. I hope she doesn’t want to try anything too scary.’

  Declan couldn’t help but smile.
<
br />   ‘OK,’ Bob continued. ‘Here’s Lewis Vine’s Wikipedia page. Hmmm … Dotcom millionaire, born 12 February 1974. Grew up in north London, raised by a single mother. He didn’t go to university – apparently, he caused some minor controversy by saying that uni is a waste of time. He set up his first dotcom business in 1997, a games site called SilverJoystick.com. Then he expanded into gambling – had one of the first British poker sites. Wow.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He sold them both in January 2000 for six million quid. Just before the bubble burst. Clever bastard – cashed in just in time. Then he seemed to disappear for a little while before setting up BulletProofClub.com in 2003. He sold that a few years later after it became the UK’s biggest lifestyle site for men. He hasn’t given any interviews for years, apparently, but he now works as a consultant.’

  OK, so he was a good businessman. Declan knew that already.

  ‘What about his personal life?’

  He watched the cars rush past on the opposite side of the road, every one of them well over the 50-mph limit.

  ‘Hold on. Nothing about him being married or having any kids. He seems to keep a pretty low profile. Hmm, we need to check if he’s got a record.’

  ‘Can you do that urgently?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve put the phone down. Isobel’s going to be looking for someone else to fertilize her … Right, there’s a link here to an interview with him on Forbes, from 2002. Let’s see if there’s anything interesting on there.’

  Declan waited while Bob clicked and skim-read the article. ‘This is quite interesting. Apparently, his mother died when he was fifteen, a few days before his sixteenth birthday. She committed suicide. He says he looked after himself from that point – I guess he must have turned sixteen and avoided the care system – and in this interview, he says that he’s been independent and driven from that point on. The interviewer asks him if he’s got a special woman in his life now and he refuses to answer. Doesn’t seem to be anything else interesting about him.’

  ‘Thanks, Bob. I’ll let you get back to Isobel now. After you’ve checked if Vine has a record.’

  ‘Yeah, all this stuff about dotcom millionaires and suicidal mothers has, like, really got me in the mood.’

  ‘Take care, Bob. I’ll talk to you later.’ He hung up.

  So Vine was a loner with no family, driven to succeed after his mum killed herself. Declan had learned that a lot of successful businessmen had psychopathic tendencies because it made them ruthless, able to make hard decisions that other people might balk at. Was Lewis Vine one of those people? Of course, only a fraction of psychopaths actually murder people. But so far, nothing he had learned about him had made him think he was anything less than his prime suspect.

  He passed the sign for Claygate, turned off the A3 and soon found himself on a quiet country road. After five minutes, he pulled up outside a huge house in a secluded spot on a quiet lane. Mock-Tudor, Declan decided, and enormous, with gables and surely too many chimneys. It must have easily been worth four million. The house was set a long way back from the road, which had no pedestrian traffic. A secluded spot, far from prying eyes.

  He got out of the car and walked up to the stable gate that blocked the entrance of the circular drive.

  He could hear banging and someone shouting so he pushed open the gate and hurried up the drive. As the front of the house came into view, he saw a man standing by the front door, banging on it and shouting, ‘Lewis!’

  Declan walked as quickly as he could, his shoes crunching on the path, making the man turn round. He was tall and annoyingly good-looking, though his eyes were wide with anxiety.

  Declan wished he’d got Bob to text him a photo of Vine, but this obviously wasn’t him, unless he was calling his own name.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  The man looked him up and down. ‘Who are you? Neighbourhood Watch?’

  Declan flashed his warrant card. ‘Police. Can I take your name?’

  ‘It’s Gary Davidson. I was just about to call your lot when—’

  He was interrupted by a noise from inside the house. A scream.

  44

  Amy

  Friday, 26 July

  As Lewis went to fasten her to the bed again, Amy said, ‘I need to go to the bathroom again.’

  ‘What? You’ve just been.’

  ‘I know. But I couldn’t go. I was too scared.’

  He stroked her cheek. ‘You don’t need to be afraid, Amy. I’m going to take care of you.’

  She shuddered at his touch but was relieved when he gestured towards the bathroom door. She scurried through. She didn’t really need to pee. She wanted to delay the moment when he put the cuffs on her as long as possible. She needed space to think.

  How the hell was she going to get out of here?

  Once again, he looked around the bathroom, taking in everything, looking for a crumbling brick, something she could use for a weapon. There was nothing. Just the toilet and the sink – both sturdy and solid. She rattled the loo seat, wondering if she could get it off so she could attempt to hit Lewis with it, but it was firmly attached. Could she try to scald him with hot water from the tap? No, she had nothing to transport it in.

  Then she noticed, set high in the wall, a small vent. Looking over her shoulder, nervous that Lewis would open the door at any moment, she lowered the toilet lid and stood on it, reaching up. But the vent was still six inches beyond her reach, and it didn’t look as if it would open anyway, even if she could somehow get to it.

  As she stood on the toilet, a wave of fresh fear crashed over her. She was stuck here with a madman. There was no way out. Her only hope was that Gary had got her message and had managed to use the Find My iPhone app, or that some other passer-by might come miraculously to her aid.

  She screamed as loudly as she could, aiming the blast in the direction of the vent.

  Lewis rushed into the room, swearing, and grabbed her, pulling her roughly off the toilet and through the door. He pushed her onto the bed.

  ‘There’s no one around,’ he said, a little out of breath. ‘No neighbours. No one ever walks past this house. But if you do that again, I’ll be forced to hurt you.’ He grabbed her left wrist and cuffed it to the bedpost, then her right.

  ‘OK?’

  She turned her face away.

  Lewis returned later, unlocking the door and backing in, carrying a small card table that he set down on the floor at the foot of the bed. He smiled coldly at her then went out and fetched two ladderback chairs, which he set up on either side of the table. On his next trip, he came in carrying a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, which he lay across the table, and a tray on which were two small stainless-steel plate covers, crystal wineglasses and a bottle of wine. He set these on top of the cloth. Finally, he moved one of the candles from beside the bed onto the table.

  Then he walked back across the room towards Amy.

  ‘Let me go, Lewis,’ she said, trying to stop her voice wobbling. ‘This has gone on long enough.’

  The room was so dim that Amy could hardly see his face, but she heard him breathing: quick, shallow breaths. He said something, so quietly that she couldn’t make it out.

  ‘I can’t understand you.’

  He took a step closer to the bed and Amy saw that he was wearing a cheap suit that looked two sizes too small for him. Weird, she thought. When she met him before he had been dressed sharply.

  ‘I said, “You’re beautiful.”’

  He came closer still and Amy had to remind herself to breathe, as though his fast breaths were using up her own allowance of air.

  ‘So beautiful.’

  She tried to smile at him, to make some connection. ‘Why …?’ Her mouth was so dry, her tongue felt like a slug that had been drenched in salt. Must be the aftereffects of the chloroform, she thought. ‘Why don’t you unfasten the cuffs? My arms really hurt.’

  He sat down on the corner of the bed, reeking of aftershav
e, as if he had tipped a bottle over himself. ‘That’s exactly what I plan to do, Amy.’

  He reached out and touched the inside of her thigh. His palm was rough and dry and she pulled up her legs, trying to squirm away from him, but the quilt was so smooth she couldn’t get any purchase on it and she slipped, the cuffs pulling her arms, tugging at the sockets.

  Shaking his head slightly, he took the key from his pocket again and unfastened the handcuffs from her wrists, left then right. Amy immediately crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing her upper arms, trying to massage away the cramps. He reached across her and she shrank away, but he grabbed hold of her hand and tugged her.

  Amy looked over at the door, wondering if she could hit him this time, push him over, make a break for it. But her arms were so sore and weak, and he had locked the door again, the key in his pocket.

  He sat her down at the table and pulled up the opposite chair. He smiled at her, that same sick, queasy smile that was as cold as the Arctic. There was a CD player in the room and he picked up the remote control and pressed Play, filling the room with cheesy eighties music.

  He opened the bottle of red wine and poured two glasses. He took a sip from his glass, then lifted the other glass and put it to Amy’s lips. She drank. The wine was thick, bloody, probably very expensive, but her taste buds felt shot from the chloroform and the fear. She gulped down a mouthful but it didn’t quench her thirst. Maybe it would help numb the pain, she thought.

  He suddenly snatched the glass from her and threw it across the room. Amy heard it smash against the wall behind her. Then he grabbed her by the throat.

  ‘You swallowed.’

  ‘What?’ She could hardly speak. Hardly breathe. But he wasn’t squeezing, didn’t appear to be trying to strangle her. Not yet.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to swallow.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’