She retreated and thought again. Perhaps in the morning … Perhaps he would simply open the door and let her walk out of the house. Why not? Why not? If she said it often enough, it acquired a sort of credibility. After all, what else would he do? Well, that certainly didn’t bear thinking about.
After a time the dog stopped yapping and she thought she heard it pad away. Raiding the hanging clothes to fold into cushions, she settled down on the floor. If this was to be a waiting game, then she’d learn to play it her way, and rest while she could.
She thought of Campbell again, and wondered where he might be. Lying unconscious downstairs? Trussed up perhaps? Or dumped miles away, unable to remember what had happened, incapable, for some other reason, of getting help?
And everyone at Ashard, what would they be thinking? She pictured Nick in the book-lined room wondering where on earth she’d got to. Feeling let down perhaps, thinking she was tricky and unreliable, regretting his change of mind. She allowed herself a few moments’ pure fantasy, a scene in which all this was long over and everything they had fought for had been vindicated, and she was standing at the door of the studio, waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing. This time when he turned it was to smile. Then …
Best not to let the reel wind on.
The picture of the others at Ashard was even more confused. Was Simon managing to coax the story out of Alan Breck? Was he doing it sympathetically or was he steaming ahead in his usual oblivious way? Only one thing seemed fairly sure, Simon wouldn’t notice her absence except to remark on the inconvenience and added difficulties it was causing him. And Alan Breck? He would be closest to the truth, she suspected. He would be seeing disaster at every turn.
At some point she must have dozed because her mind filled with dogs that pulled at her legs and grasping hands that reached out of the darkness to drag her down. She woke with a start, and stared with blind relief into the darkness. She didn’t mean to sleep again, but it stole up on her and she found herself dreaming quite another sort of dream in which the Nick fantasy came alive. This time, after turning to smile at her, he got up and reached an arm round her shoulders and pulled her against him, just like he had at the flat, but this time he kissed her, and, needing no encouragement, she kissed him right back. Then, in the maddening way of dreams, the scene shifted and the two of them were standing close to the burning laboratory, which somehow seemed to be located close to Ashard, though it wasn’t the equipment that was burning, but her carpetbag with all the hard-won evidence against Morton-Kreiger.
She had woken, disturbed at the reality of it, not quite persuaded it wasn’t true, wishing the dream had stayed firmly on Nick. Then she had looked down to watch the lick of dawn light creep onto the shoe.
The music must have been going for half an hour when it stopped in mid-song. Pulling herself hastily up, putting an ear to the door, she heard a mechanical click and the music started again. She hammered on the wood, though not so hard that she couldn’t hear what was going on outside. ‘I see the moonlight, baby, and I dream of you …’ The music was louder than before. She sighed with frustration, and the wardrobe was suddenly uncomfortably hot, and the mugger in the shadows moved several inches closer. Finally she sat down again and did some breathing exercises, and it was then that she looked down and realized that the splinter of light had gone. She ran her fingers along the crack and leant her face lower to the floor, but there wasn’t the smallest whisper of light. She stared at the place where the light should have been, and a chill crept into her stomach. The curtains had been drawn. Or – a ridiculous overblown thought – something had been pressed against the outside of the door, something designed to seal the cracks and prevent the air from getting in.
She fought down the nudge of panic. She thought: Get a grip! Ten deep breaths, slow and steady; count to five, hold five, exhale five.
She stopped abruptly on an in-breath. Beyond the door one song had finished, another, a slow mournful number, was starting. And in the slight pause in between – what? Nothing she could be sure of, nothing she could pin down, yet –
What? A faint rustling?
Her senses reached out into the darkness, she forgot to breathe, resuming abruptly with a gasp. Slowly she got to her feet and, resting her hand against the door, put her ear to the edge. The dog? No: too quiet, no snuffling. Something else, something huge and furtive.
The female voice sang: ‘… nothin’ ain’t the same without you …’
Daisy flattened her hand against the door and applied a minute amount of pressure. The door seemed to give a little. She felt very hot suddenly, and when she reached up to find the hook, her hand was trembling.
The slow song ended, there was a short pause, and the band crashed into a swing number screeching with brass. The sound seemed to pulsate through the darkness, smothering everything in its path. Gripping the hook, she increased the pressure on the door. Finally she gave it a distinct push.
A slight resistance, then it gave suddenly and opened with a plop.
Reflexively, she yanked on the hook to prevent the door swinging out too far and in her anxiety pulled the door back against the jamb so that it almost closed again.
She waited for the thumping of her heart to subside. She felt the heat inside her shirt, the looseness in her stomach.
Part of her was crying: Stop! Suppose he hasn’t gone. Suppose it’s a trick. Something elaborate and unpleasant, something –
She forced herself on. No good wasting time over questions without answers; no good hanging about.
Gripping the edge of the door, she pushed it slowly open. She saw a faint thread of light reflected vertically down a wall, revealing the edge of the drawn curtains. Another faint dusting of light showed against the ceiling.
She stepped over the threshold. The curtains must have been very thick or lined with a particularly dense material because almost no light permeated the room. It was impossible to make out the position or shape of the furniture. Keeping a hand on the open door, she took another tentative step forward, senses reaching out into the darkness. She strained to hear something – anything – over the shrilling trumpets; she strained to see, but the blaring music seemed to intensify the darkness.
The scent came suddenly, a distinct smell like the one in the cupboard but sharper. It wafted towards her as if blown from some invisible source, and she had the impression that it was coming from close by. She half turned. She sensed him before she saw him; his closeness was like an unbearable heat. Then he seemed to loom above her, huge, suffocatingly close, a giant black shape against the greater darkness of the room. The fear shot into her throat. Instinctively she tried to step back, but he was very quick. Somehow his arm came up from behind and, before she could dodge aside, it looped around her neck with a force that pushed her head back with a snap. Reflexively, her hands flew up and tried to pull his arm away, but he was massively strong. Even as she clawed ineffectually at his arm, he was forcing her forwards, over and down. She struggled to keep her footing, to try to get some leverage from the floor, at the same time twisting violently to free herself from the stranglehold. But his power was remorseless, like a massive weight pressing down on her. He caught her unimpeded arm and twisted her wrist round and backwards. She felt the screaming deep-seated fear that comes from complete helplessness, and opened her mouth to cry out. No sound came. She lost the last of her balance, her foot skidded away, her leg twisted over, the bed came up and pressed into her face.
His weight continued to bear down on her, crushing into her back, while he slipped a hand round the front of her throat. She thought: He’s going to kill me. Somewhere in the far distance the music had paused, and she heard ragged gasps which she dimly recognized as her own.
Another number started, a duet with a sickly violin accompaniment. The pain was excruciating as he twisted her wrist inwards over her back. Something breezed against her ear. It was only when he spoke that she realized it was his breath.
‘Where a
re the other files, you little cow?’ His voice was high and uneven. The odour of his breath hit her, pungent and stale. ‘Where?’ he repeated in a hiss, giving her throat a squeeze.
Her head throbbed, the blood pounded in her ears, she felt herself choking. Perhaps he realized he was half killing her because he suddenly eased the pressure.
‘Where?’
‘Gone,’ she gasped.
‘Gone where?’
‘Gone.’ A realization nagged at her; she couldn’t think it through.
‘Gone where?’ He gave a savage twist to her wrist.
‘Away.’ Most of her mind was registering pain, but another part was working overtime, trying to read the message her brain was attempting to deliver.
Suddenly he jerked at her throat, and his hand was tight as a noose. She couldn’t breathe. The fear rose up and burst like an explosion in her head. She fought for air, her lungs heaved, a loud drumming filled her ears.
He let go suddenly, and she sucked in a long shuddering breath. The blood came back into her veins with a roar.
‘Where?’
He didn’t know. It came to her suddenly: he didn’t know where the other papers were, which meant he didn’t have Campbell, had never searched him.
‘Campbell. With Campbell,’ she managed.
He couldn’t have heard her properly, or perhaps he wanted to hear it a second time because he wrenched her wrist backwards and snapped: ‘Who?’
Through clenched teeth she told him again and he gave her a great shove of rage. ‘In that case,’ he said in a vicious tone, ‘we’re going to have to get them back, aren’t we?’
‘He’ll have contacted the police,’ she said.
‘I don’t think so, somehow.’
The tones were harder, none of the solicitousness remained, but it was unmistakably Maynard’s voice, complete with sing-song and that strange indefinable accent, and she saw again the table at the Waldorf and the fat neck beneath the pasty cheeks and the stomach pushing against the shirt and his lips folding daintily over the scones and the pale eyes following the spinning dancers.
She coughed; her gullet was raw. ‘I know he’ll have gone to the police,’ she rasped.
He didn’t reply. She tried again. ‘He’ll have handed the evidence in by now.’
‘No time.’
‘He won’t agree to hand the files back – ’
He snapped: ‘Shut up,’ and his voice sawed higher.
He had stopped the music but left the room in darkness. She was sitting on the bed, facing the dim outline of the curtained window, following his movements around the room by the sound and scent of him. He was behind her now, somewhere on the other side of the bed.
‘Shut up,’ he repeated savagely for no apparent reason, and she felt a fresh flutter of fear. His hand came from across the bed and grasped the back of her neck loosely, almost caressingly. Her flesh crept, she longed to recoil. She spoke, as much from the need to break the spell of fear as to argue with him.
‘Keeping me here won’t do any good,’ she said. ‘It’ll make things far worse, worse than anything – ’
He shook her slightly. ‘Shut’ – his grip tightened on her neck and he shook her again, more violently – ‘up.’
She kept very still then, looking blankly ahead. His hand stayed on her neck and she sensed that he was considering his next move. The following moments were very long; there was only the closeness of him and his sickly scent and the deadness in her stomach and the ache in her throat.
‘Don’t turn round,’ he announced at last.
When she didn’t answer he gave her neck a shake.
She agreed quickly: ‘No.’
His hand fell away.
Snap! A light came on, a low lamp on the other side of the bed which threw her shadow large against the curtains. An instant later the outline of Maynard soared massively up behind her shadow, filling the whole wall.
‘Strip.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘But … why?’
He exhaled impatiently. His voice came in a vicious singsong. ‘You could be lying, couldn’t you? Hiding things!’
‘I’d have given them to you.’
‘I don’t think I’m going to believe that. Why should I?’ His voice rose sharply. She decided quite suddenly that he was unhinged. ‘Don’t turn round,’ he added quickly. ‘Clothes on the bed. Nothing on the floor. Now.’
Several thoughts converged on Daisy’s mind: how he would react if she refused, what he would do when he discovered the tapes in her pockets, whether she had time to hide them.
Although he wasn’t touching her, she gave a large involuntary shudder as if to slough him off. She realized she had decided what she must do and, feeling faintly sick at the thought of going through with it, she got to her feet and began to undress. As she unzipped her jacket and pulled it off she reached into one of the pockets and, grasping a tape, hid it in one hand as she passed the jacket backwards onto the bed with the other.
She heard him begin to rummage through the jacket. She slipped the remaining tape down the front of her jeans.
‘Bitch!’ he yelled suddenly, and she heard him rattle one of the cassettes. Then: ‘What else have you got, bitch?’
She went on undressing. As she unzipped her jeans she pushed the tape down the front of her pants. When she was down to her underwear she stopped and waited, watching his shadow on the wall as it swayed and billowed against the light, thinking of the times Maynard must have been in her flat, realizing he must have searched through her clothes before.
‘Bitch!’ he echoed. He stopped moving. ‘Where’s the rest? Where’s the rest?’
‘There isn’t any more.’
His shadow shot upwards, growing huge. She ducked but he was too quick and, grasping her hair, he pulled her down. Gasping, she threw her hands back to stop herself sprawling flat on the bed, but she still fell far enough for him to see down the front of her body.
He uttered a bark of rage; the sound reminded her of the dog. He gave her a small punch of fury and reaching down grabbed the tape from the front of her pants.
‘What do you think I am – stupid?’ The exaggerated singsong had an oddly mesmeric quality to it. ‘Mmm? Stupid?’
She sat up again, moving slowly so as not to attract his attention, then remained very still. She realized she was behaving like a victim. She made herself speak. ‘You were right about Campbell. He won’t have gone to the police – ’
‘Shut up!’
She could hear his breathing; it was coming in shallow angry pants.
She said: ‘He’s got form, he wouldn’t dare – ’
‘Shut up.’ She felt a movement of air on her back. Don’t show your fear, don’t let him see. The telephone was dropped onto the bed beside her. The hand came back onto her neck. His voice had a malevolent slow-beating rhythm to it now.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘call your friend, but no silly business!’
‘He’s – I don’t know where he is.’
‘Then you’ll have to find him, won’t you?’ On the find, he jabbed a finger in her back.
‘The number – it’s in my bag.’
He gave an exaggerated sigh of annoyance. ‘Wait.’
His shadow expanded and shifted; he left the room. While he was gone she stared at the phone, unguarded beside her. Tempting, but not enough time, nothing to be gained, too frightened: more to the point, no number.
He returned quickly, throwing her carpetbag onto the bed. His hand came onto her neck again.
Moving with care, willing her hands not to tremble, she found her address book in the outside pocket of her bag. She began to tap out the Ashard number and got one digit wrong. She cut the call. The fingers squeezed, biting into the sides of her neck. ‘Come on, darling,’ he hissed. ‘Get it right.’
She waited grimly until he eased the pressure, then wriggled her neck free. ‘Keep off me,’ she protested. ‘Or no call.’
‘Or no call,’ he mimicked in a piping voice. ‘Ha! You break in, you half murder Beji, then you start bitching. Jesus …’ He came at her suddenly, put two hands round her throat and dug his fingers briefly and savagely into her windpipe. ‘Make the call.’
She choked, bent double and coughed herself dry. When she could breathe again she pulled herself up and started again.
She did better this time. The number connected and began to ring. Jenny answered with a squeal: ‘Where are you?’
‘Never mind. Where’s Campbell?’ She heard her own voice, gruff and raw and strange in her ears.
‘He was beaten up. He was – ’
‘Is he all right?’
‘I think so.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘With Nick. He’s with Nick.’
‘What, in Scotland?’
‘No, London. Are you all right? You sound – ’
‘London?’ She hesitated. It was a mistake; a thumb pressed hard into her flesh.
‘Daisy? Daisy?’ Jenny was sounding worried.
‘Where are they?’ she managed.
‘I’m not sure. Look, is everything all right?’
‘You must know where they are!’
‘Daisy – there’s something wrong. What is it?’
‘I’ve got to find Campbell.’
She could almost hear the thoughts rumbling through Jenny’s brain. There was a heavy pause then, catching on, Jenny said briskly: ‘You could try Nick’s house, but you might have more luck with his car phone. Have you got the number?’
Daisy reached into her bag for something to write with. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the blurred outline of Maynard’s head against the light, and, more clearly, his left hand resting loosely on his bent knee. His hands were blunt, she noticed, blunt and very white.
She took down the number and rang off before Jenny could ask any more questions. She dialled the car phone. The line produced a strange screech, and she had to try again. Maynard made sounds of irritation, sharp sucking noises. His hand was clammy on her skin.
Her fingers were stiff; she dialled with concentration. The line connected, the number rang. It went on ringing. And on, and on.
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