Deadly Obsession

by DS Butler

  “Okay, Anya. We don’t need to be friends, but we do need to help each other just until we get out of this mess.”

  “Has he told you what we have to do?” Anya asked, shuffling forward, until Victoria could see her face.

  Victoria swallowed and shook her head.

  “We are competitors,” Anya said. “We put on a show for him.”

  Victoria waited, from the way Anya spoke, she knew there was more to come.

  Anya narrowed her eyes and leaned forward until her forehead was almost touching Victoria’s.

  “Then he judges us. And do you know what the prize is?” Anya’s breath smelt of sour milk and fear.

  “No.” Victoria’s voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

  “The winner gets to live,” Anya said. “At least, until the next round.”

  It took Victoria a moment to find her voice. “He won’t really do that. He’s just trying to scare us.”

  Anya shook her head. “He means it. This isn’t the first time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Anya leaned back against the padded wall, stared up at the ceiling and muttered something in Polish that might have been a prayer.

  She looked back at Victoria and said, “Last time, I won.”

  30

  Collins picked up the phone on his desk, his face set in concentration. He spoke quietly, so Mackinnon couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying. He tried to gauge Collins’ facial expressions, and work out whether it was good news or bad. But Collins kept his face rigid and blank.

  He thought about splitting the list with Collins and ringing some of the girls’ families himself, but decided visiting Victoria Trent’s parents would be more helpful. Her disappearance was recent. Memories and incidents would still be fresh, so there was a much greater chance of getting useful information, some vital clue from them.

  The girls on the list had been missing for months. Would the parents remember an odd phone call their daughter received the day she went missing? Or a new friend their daughter might have mentioned? Possibly. But it was more likely that time had dulled the memories, and most of those recollections would be eclipsed by the pain caused by their disappearance.

  No, Mackinnon thought, his best chance of getting ahead on this case was dealing with the most recent girls. Anya and Victoria.

  Collins, white as a sheet, finished the call. His hand shook as he put down the phone and stared at it for a moment.

  “What did they say?” Mackinnon asked.

  Collins looked up and gave a half-smile. “That was the first one. Pamela Short. She’s all right. She’s at home with her little boy. She left the Star Academy after she fell pregnant.” Collins held up the list. “You know, Jack. Maybe we are reading too much into this. Maybe they are all fine. I mean, it’s like the gym, isn’t it? These girls probably signed up for dance classes like people sign up for the gym. Pay for a yearly membership, then never go.”

  “Maybe,” Mackinnon said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that Anya Blonski and Victoria Trent are missing.”

  “No,” Collins said, the weak smile slipping from his face.

  “I hope you’re right though. Maybe these other girls all had genuine reasons for leaving.”

  Collins didn’t answer. He just stared down at the list.

  “Will you be all right going through the list on your own?” Mackinnon asked. “I want to go and visit Victoria Trent’s parents.”

  Collins nodded. “Sure. I’ll give you a ring as soon as I finish all the calls.”

  ***

  After Mackinnon left, Collins worked his way steadily through the list of girls. After the first call, his luck ran out. Each conversation, with concerned mothers and fathers asking him for news, crushed him. Every time, Collins heard the tinge of hope in their voices turn to despair when he had to tell them he wasn’t calling with good news. But worst of all, was how the hope crept back into their voices at the end of the call. He imagined them thinking no news was good news.

  Out of all the girls on the list, only one was safe at home. Probably cuddling her little boy with no idea what had happened to the other girls or what might have happened to her.

  He supposed he shouldn’t think of them as girls. The youngest on the list was nineteen, and the eldest was twenty-three. They were women. But as Collins got older, he realised just how young nineteen really was.

  Collins picked up his mug and took a mouthful of coffee. It was stone cold and made his stomach turn. He felt a lump in his throat and stood up quickly, knocking over his chair.

  DC Webb and Lisa, the office manager, looked up, surprised.

  “Are you all right, mate?” DC Webb asked.

  But Collins didn’t answer. He ran out of the room.

  Collins didn’t stop running until he reached the gents’ toilets. Once inside, he locked himself in a cubicle and let the nausea wash over him. He breathed in the air, which was tinged with a strong smell of disinfectant, gulping it down. Slowly, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach eased.

  He unlocked the cubicle door and moved across to the sinks to splash his face with water. He grabbed a bunch of paper towels, dried his face and looked at himself in the mirror.

  “Get a bloody grip, you idiot,” he muttered.

  He hadn’t expected his reaction to this case to be so immediate, so visceral.

  He regretted not acting on Anya’s disappearance sooner, but logically, he knew the way he acted was in line with procedure. He’d done his job. Professionally, he performed the role expected of him. But personally, he felt like he had let Henryk down. If it turned out that these other girls…

  Collins shook his head. He wouldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t. He needed to detach himself. To take this case one step at a time and find Henryk Blonski’s sister. He could make it right. He would make it right.

  With his hair damp and pushed back from his face, Collins returned to the open plan office.

  DC Webb walked up to him. “What’s up?”

  Collins shook his head and placed a hand on his stomach. “Think it’s something I ate.”

  Webb grimaced in sympathy and returned to his own desk.

  Collins collected his notes and the list of girls before heading off to find the head of MIT, DCI Brookbank.

  He found the DCI in his office, opposite briefing room two. Brookbank was flicking through some sheets of paper when Collins knocked on the open office door.

  Brookbank gestured for him to come in. He was a short man, but sturdily built. He reminded Collins of a bulldog.

  “I have some paperwork for you, sir,” Collins said. “Regarding the disappearance of Anya Blonski. It seems we might have more missing girls–”

  Brookbank held up a hand to cut Collins off. “I am aware of the latest developments. I’ve spoken to the superintendent. What’s this paperwork?”

  “A list of names of the girls who are missing and their contact details, along with the notes I made after speaking to their next of kin.”

  Brookbank nodded. “Thank you. We’ll have a briefing in an hour. Can you attend?”

  Before he realised what he was doing. Collins shook his head. “I can’t, sir. Sorry. I have something I need to do.”

  Brookbank nodded. “Very well.” He lowered his head to resume flicking through the sheets of paper on his desk.

  Collins had been dismissed.

  Collins left Wood Street Station without telling anyone where he was going. He had a plan. DI Green told him this morning to keep the pressure on Nathan Cleeves, to make him very aware the police were watching him. And Collins intended to do just that. He’d pile on the pressure until Nathan Cleeves squealed.

  All the girls had one thing in common: The academy. And Nathan Cleeves was the epitome of a narcissistic bully. It was him. It just had to be.

  So if Nathan Cleeves abducted these girls, where was he keeping them? Close to home? He lived above the academy, so it had to be nearby.

  Co
llins felt his hand trembling against the side of his thigh as he walked. He held it up and stared at it. He was literally shaking with anger.

  Nathan Cleeves was going to feel pressure, all right. Collins would make sure of that.

  31

  Victoria licked her lips and tried to swallow as she searched the dark room for a weapon. The rope tied around her leg meant she could only move a metre away from the wall.

  “I’m so thirsty,” she said.

  “So drink,” Anya said.

  Anya hadn’t moved from her position in the corner in ages.

  “You said he always drugged the water. I don’t want to fall asleep again.”

  “Isn’t it better to sleep than to stay awake through this?” Anya asked, gesturing around the room. “What is there to stay awake for?”

  Victoria watched her for a moment. Anya hadn’t touched her own water bottle.

  Did Anya want her to be drugged? Perhaps so she would have the advantage at competition time…?

  No. She couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t make them compete. She would refuse.

  She needed water. Her lips were dry, chapped and painful. She didn’t know how long she had been in this room, but thirst burned her throat. Perhaps the thirst was a side effect of the drugs.

  She raised the bottle of water to her lips and tried to sip it, fighting the urge to swallow the cool liquid down in one.

  Victoria resumed her search, and after five minutes or so, her right hand closed around a solid metal object. She smiled as she weighed it in her hand and ran her thumb along the cylindrical shape. It was some kind of file, made of metal and heavy. She took it back to her side of the room and hid it in the dark shadows by the wall, so it would be within easy reach when she needed it.

  She began to feel light-headed and dizzy. The bastard had drugged the water again. She reached out her hand for the file. Its cold, hard surface reassured her. Then her head dropped to her chest, and she slept.

  ***

  On the way to visit Victoria Trent’s parents, Mackinnon made use of his Oyster card. There was no point using one of the pool cars, especially at this time of day. He could get there faster using public transport.

  He caught the number eight bus from the SY bus stop at St. Paul’s. The bus trundled along in the bus lane along Bishopsgate. It took about ten minutes for the bus to slip by the stationary traffic and make it across to Bethnal Green. He got off the bus outside the Bethnal Green Centre, then turned left into Barnet Grove. From there, it was only a five-minute walk to Wellington Row.

  Victoria Trent’s parents lived in Brabner House, a low-rise block of flats, which sat opposite a row of terraced houses. It was much nicer than the Towers Estate. Each flat had a balcony that faced the road. A few balconies had bikes chained to the railings, and others had washing hanging outside.

  The entrance to the flats had a security system. Mackinnon pressed the bell for flat ten. A male voice answered and buzzed him in.

  The front door to number ten was open as Mackinnon approached. A skinny man with a shaved head leaned against the doorframe, watching Mackinnon closely.

  “Have you got something to tell us about Victoria?” The man chewed his fingernails as he spoke.

  “I’m DS Mackinnon.” He held out his hand.

  The skinny man took it reluctantly and gave it a limp shake. “So what have you got to tell us?”

  “Are you Victoria Trent’s father?”

  “Stepfather.” The man corrected Mackinnon. “But I’ve been on the scene since she was tiny.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tony. Tony Bryant.”

  Tony kept his position by the door. It didn’t look like Mackinnon was about to be welcomed into the flat with open arms. In fact, it looked as if Tony would prefer him to disappear.

  “I’d like to have a chat with you and Victoria’s mother. Is it all right if I come in?”

  Tony sighed heavily. “Yeah. Go on then. She’s out the back. She thought you were bringing bad news.”

  Mackinnon shook his head. “I don’t have any new information to tell you. I spoke to your wife on the phone. We’re just trying to track Victoria down. We don’t have any reason to believe she’s been hurt.”

  Yet… Mackinnon thought. The words tasted bitter, but he’d assured DI Green he wouldn’t say anything to make the missing girls’ parents panic.

  Tony stood back from the door, allowing Mackinnon to enter the hallway.

  “Denise,” Tony called, then turned back to Mackinnon. “So what’s Victoria done now? What sort of trouble has she got herself mixed up in?”

  “It’s nothing like that. She’s not in any trouble. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “She always was a bloody troublemaker. Never happy unless she was causing some sort of mischief.” Tony nodded to the sofa. “Take a seat.”

  Tony settled back into an armchair, opposite the TV.

  After a pointed look from Mackinnon, Tony reached for the remote control and switched it off.

  The room was a mess. With their daughter missing, that was understandable. But this mess looked more than a few days old. Dust covered every surface, piles of washing were heaped on chairs and the floor, and there was a lingering smell of mildew, fried food and stale cigarette smoke.

  Nothing matched. The sofa was covered in a brown velveteen material, the curtains were orange, and the carpet was a hideous mixture of purple and blue swirls.

  It seemed like every home he visited these days had a top-of-the-range, flashy television. It didn’t matter about the rest of the house or flat, they might have threadbare carpets, chipped mugs and sagging sofas, but they always had a fancy TV. Victoria Trent’s parents had a thirty-two-inch Sony.

  “So what do you want to know about Victoria?” Tony asked.

  “How long has she been missing?”

  “God knows. She’s always doing this. She used to run off for days when she got into her teens. Drove her mum round the bend.”

  “I hoped you and Victoria’s mother–”

  On cue, Victoria’s mother entered the room. She looked like she had a good few years on Tony Bryant. The freshly applied makeup couldn’t hide the lines of pain on her face, and the mascara around her eyes only highlighted how red and puffy her eyes were.

  “I’m Denise, Vicky’s mother,” she said, meeting Mackinnon’s eyes for only a fraction of a second before turning her gaze to the carpet and its lurid purple and blue pattern.

  She moved across to the armchair next to Tony’s, picked up the pile of folded washing from the seat and dumped it on the floor. Then she let out a little sob.

  “Sorry,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

  “Don’t start the waterworks again, love,” Tony said. “That won’t help anybody.”

  Denise sniffed.

  Tony slapped the palms of his hands against his thighs. The noise caused his wife to jump.

  “He hasn’t come with bad news,” Tony said, nodding at Mackinnon, “and it’s not as if you’d seen her much over the last couple of years.”

  Denise stared at Tony with such a burning look of hatred Mackinnon expected him to apologise, but he didn’t. Tony carried on, oblivious to his wife’s reaction.

  “We haven’t seen her in years,” he said. “So I’m not sure we’ll be much use to you.”

  Denise’s lower lip trembled, and she lowered her head to stare at her feet. “She is my daughter, Tony.”

  “Yeah, I know that,” Tony said. The peevish tone of his voice revealed traces of a Birmingham accent. “Not much of a daughter though, is she?”

  “Are you telling me that you’ve had no contact with Victoria, even though you live within walking distance of her flat?” Mackinnon asked. It sounded like an accusation. He didn’t mean it that way, but his frustration was rising. It didn’t look like Victoria Trent’s parents were going to be any use in tracking down the missing girls.

  The City of London, the s
quare mile, had a low crime rate, and now, in the space of a couple of days, a man was dead, and girls were disappearing.

  Denise didn’t speak. She got to her feet slowly as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders.

  Mackinnon watched Denise take a couple of steps over to the fireplace. The fire wasn’t alight. They had one of those gas fires that gave the illusion of flames flickering in the background.

  One of their neighbours turned a stereo on. The thudding bass seemed loud in contrast to the awkward silence of Victoria Trent’s parents’ living room.

  Denise grabbed a packet of red and white Marlboros from the mantelpiece. Her hands shook as she tried to pull out a cigarette.

  “Something’s happened to her,” Denise said, looking at Mackinnon.

  “We want to find her,” Mackinnon said. “Make sure she’s okay.”

  Denise lit a cigarette and held it to her mouth with shaking fingers. She sucked in the smoke hard and held it for a few seconds before exhaling a long plume of smoke.

  “I know something’s happened. I can feel it.”

  “Feel it? Don’t make me laugh.” Tony got out of his armchair and grabbed his jacket. “I’m not sticking around listening to this. You’re a hypocrite. You never bloody saw her.”

  Tony turned to Mackinnon. “You can try and talk to Denise if you want. But I can tell you now, you’re wasting your time. We won’t be able to help you find her. We’ve not seen her in years. She hates us.”

  “She hates you!” Denise screamed to Tony’s back as he walked away.

  “Not me,” she muttered after he’d gone.

  After her husband stormed out of the flat, Denise seemed to gather herself together. “I need some air.”

  She opened the double doors onto the balcony and stepped out. Mackinnon joined her. It was a relief to get out in the fresh air.

  “I suppose you think I’m a terrible mother.”

  “I think you’re very upset.”

  Denise took another puff of her cigarette. “I do see her. Not often, only when Tony’s not around. I saw her just a couple of weeks ago, in June.”