by Ellis, Tim
‘Mr Parish,’ Niko said. ‘I had a little bet with myself that you wouldn’t come back today, but I have lost my last ten Euro note to myself because here you are.’
‘If I was in my right mind, I probably wouldn’t have come back. We could take things a bit easier today though.’
He did some stretching and warm-up exercises and then climbed onto the jogging machine. ‘Okay, I’m ready for a nice easy session.’
Niko set the controls of the machine.
His legs and arms began pumping. ‘I thought we agreed to start off easy.’
Niko smiled like Lucifer’s right-hand man. ‘Yes, I am familiar with the word “easy”. It is a word that unfit and flabby people use a lot. I can see that it has become your favourite word, Mr Parish.’
‘Maybe you’ll win your ten Euro note back tomorrow, Niko,’ he gasped.
‘Maybe I will, Mr Parish. But first, we have to get our money’s worth today – as you English are fond of saying.’
He didn’t recall ever having said that.
Once the sweat was dripping off him he began to get the feel for exercise again – the adrenaline coursing through his body was like a drug. He ran four kilometres on the jogging machine, did fifty sit-ups gripping the medicine ball as if it had become a part of him, cycled fifteen kilometres, did fifteen repetitions on each of the multigym exercises, rowed six kilometres and swam fifteen lengths in the pool – five each of breast-stroke, back-stroke and crawl.
It was a good job there were steps to get out of the pool, otherwise he’d have had to have stayed in there treading water all day. He felt faint, his legs were quivering like chaff in the summer breeze and his body ached as if the Spanish Inquisitor-General had tortured him for a week.
When he reached his room, he found that Richards had parked herself in his chair again. Sky news was blaring away – something about a massive explosion at WikiUK in Iceland on the day they were due to publish top-secret UK government documents, and she was swilling herbal tea as if it was Bacardi and coke with a lemon twist.
‘You’re in my room, you’re sitting in my chair and that’s my television set,’ he said.
‘You look like the grumpy daddy bear as well. So, how’s the training going? You don’t look any better. In fact, you look a lot worse. Have you lost any weight yet? I don’t think you have, you know. I think you’ve put weight on. When we arrived, you could have used the spare tyre you had for a pushbike. Now, it would probably fit an articulated lorry.’
‘You could get a job as a fitness psychologist. Are you coming to breakfast?’
‘I don’t think so, and I don’t think you should either. I’ve booked myself in for a massage and . . .’
‘A female masseur, I hope?’
‘I don’t think . . .’
‘I’ll go and ask at reception, make a lot of noise, accuse them of running a brothel . . .’
‘It’s a female.’
‘It would have been a lot simpler if you’d just said that in the first place. You’re already in my bad books . . .’
She grinned. ‘Did you bring your bad books with you? What do they look like? I’d love to see your bad books. Who else’s name is in your bad books?’
‘Your mother appears in my bad books quite frequently.’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
‘Talking of disgusting. I hope that Ludwig van Beethoven isn’t sneaking back here today?’
‘What if he is? His name is Marcus and he’s not sneaking.’
‘I’m not sure I like him much. Maybe I’ll speak to the Air Commodore about getting him confined to the camp.’
‘You just want me to become a withered old spinster like Miss Haversham – forever in her wedding dress, wearing one shoe and never having experienced love.’
‘If I’m not too much mistaken, love has slithered under your door and into your bed a number of times.’
‘You can be really cruel and mean sometimes.’
‘I’ll be speaking to Mr Ludwig today to ensure that his intentions are honourable, so don’t go undermining me by smuggling him into your room for . . .’
‘He’s a Lieutenant, and – having taken your advice on board – I’ve decided to play hard to get.’
‘On a scale from one to ten – how hard?’
‘Three.’
‘THREE? If all you are is a three, he’ll drop ten Euros on the bedside table as he leaves.’
‘Four then?’
‘Nine-point-five.’
‘NINE-POINT FIVE! He’ll go and find someone easier. He won’t want to know me. He’ll . . .’
‘. . . keep coming back for more.’
‘No . . .’
‘Yes. Trust me. Have I ever let you down?’
‘Mmmm . . .’
‘I’ve never let you down. You’re worth more than a Faberge egg to me and to everyone else who cares about you. If he can’t see that, and he doesn’t come back . . . Well, then all he’s worth is a dog turd.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts. Are we agreed?’
‘I suppose so. What’s a Faberge egg?’
He dragged her off his chair and pushed her through the connecting door. ‘Go and look it up on the internet, you’ll make me late.’
***
He hadn’t slept much – if at all. No news from – or about – Jerry. He feared the worst. What was the worst? Death wasn’t the worst – he knew that from experience. Where the hell was she?
He was full up with coffee. In fact, he’d had more coffee than was good for him over three lifetimes. His heart was using the coffee as fuel, but sooner or later that fuel would either run out or clog up the tubes and the filter. How he hadn’t had another heart attack already was beyond him.
The kitchen wasn’t large enough for pacing. He needed something bigger – like Wembley – to get a head of steam up, open up his stride, increase his pace . . .
‘If Jerry never comes back . . .’ Matilda touched the wood of the kitchen work surface to ward off any evil juju, ‘. . . your four children will still need a father,’ Jerry’s mum said. ‘Not sleeping, pacing around like a caged animal and creating a catastrophic shortage in the world’s supply of coffee is not helping.’
‘I feel useless.’
‘That’s because you are useless.’
‘Thanks for your support.’
‘It’s not just you – everyone is useless. Nobody has a clue where she is.’
‘I’m a detective – I should know.’
‘You did everything you could to find her last night.’
‘It wasn’t enough.’
‘And it wasn’t your fault either.’
He sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar and put his head in his hands. ‘What am I going to do without her?’
‘You’ve given up, haven’t you?’
‘No.’
‘It sounds like it to me. Is that what you did when you were running difficult murder cases – walk round the station tearing your hair out and moaning, “Woe is me”?’
The corner of his mouth creased up. ‘Yes, mostly.’ He stood up and hugged her. ‘Thanks.’
‘You can stop that for a start, Raymond Kowalski. Jerry’s only been gone one night and you’re already after my body. Bert . . . Bert . . . Your son-in-law is taking advantage of your poor defenceless wife . . .’
Ignoring the twinges in his chest and left arm, he hurried up to the bedroom, stripped off his clothes and dived in the shower. Matilda was right – he was being pathetic. The fact that Jerry was his wife had been affecting his capacity to think straight. This was a straight-forward missing person case. He’d followed the most obvious lead, which had ended in a brick wall. Now, he had to go back and explore all the other possibilities.
A total stranger could have snatched her, but he tried not to think of that. He focussed on the statistics – victims usually knew their attacker. If that was the case, who could it have been? Was there any other client she’d had a r
un-in with at Charlie Baxter’s? What about the university? Was it a coincidence that she’d gone missing on a university day? Was someone at the university involved in her disappearance?
He’d have to put everything on hold, take a few days off, investigate her disappearance himself. If he didn’t do it – who the hell would? She hadn’t even been missing for twenty-four hours yet. At least it was Friday – he had three days to find Jerry before work swallowed up his time and energy again.
He climbed out of the shower and started drying himself.
His mobile buzzed..
‘Yes?’
‘The Ritz would be a nice place to have lunch,’ Inspector Carla Morgan said.
‘You’ve found Jerry’s car?’
‘They don’t call me the “Queen of Traffic” for nothing, you know.’
‘I didn’t know they called you that.’
‘That’s because you’ve never taken any interest in me, Kowalski.’
‘So?’
‘So you should.’
‘I mean the car.’
‘It was captured on camera first on the M11, and then on the A12 heading into London . . .’
‘That’s the first bit of good news . . .’
‘But your wife isn’t driving.’
‘Who is?’
‘I’m sending you a picture.’
He waited for the black and white photograph of the young woman with dark shoulder-length hair to materialise on the screen of his mobile. It was a bit grainy, but it was good enough for people to see who it was.
‘Do you know who it is?’ Morgan asked.
‘No, but I plan to find out. You’re checking with traffic at the Met?’
‘Of course. If it was driven into London, they’ll find it. They have more CCTV cameras than a security convention. I’ll call when they call.’
‘Thanks for your help, Carla.’
‘Just don’t forget my phone number.’
‘I won’t.’
He ended the call.
London! Who did she know in London? As far as he was aware, the university was the only place in London where she knew anybody.
He phoned Carrie and told her he wouldn’t be in. ‘Anything urgent should be passed to Inspector Threadneedle in Operations.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s only for a day. Don’t let her move my desk out into the corridor – I like that desk.’
‘I’m only a secretary. If she wants to paint her new office pink – what can I do to stop her?’
‘All right, it’s probably better to simply put everyone off for today. Tell them I’m on a course and out of contact.’
And that was how they’d left it.
He hurried downstairs, told the kids to behave themselves and Matilda he was off to London.
***
What had she done to deserve this?
She’d forgotten to tell Julie she needed a pee. She’d hung on and hung on, squeezed until there was no squeeze left, and then she felt it dribbling out onto the cold damp floor.
Calling softly hadn’t elicited a response. Raising her voice to an ear-splitting level hadn’t worked either. In the end, she’d had no choice but to pee. What else could she have done?
And now, because of the chains, she was sitting in and stinking of urine. It wasn’t pleasant, but at least the pain in her abdomen and the associated feelings of desperation had gone.
She needed to escape, and to do that she had to be able to think clearly. Now that her bladder wasn’t stretched to bursting point – maybe she could do that.
Julie was obviously mentally unstable – probably had been for some considerable time. Why? What had led the woman to such extreme behaviour?
If she hadn’t been so wrapped up in herself and her own world she might have seen it, but she hadn’t. In hindsight, it was obvious – Julie Wilkinson’s behaviour hadn’t been the behaviour of a normal person.
How was she going to get out of here? She was chained up like an animal. She should have reacted more quickly when Julie had asked her if she needed the light on. Yes, she did need the light on. Without light, how could she plan her escape?
Where was Julie?
What time was it?
Where was she?
Was anybody looking for her? Ray would obviously be searching under every stone for her, but where would he look? He didn’t even know about Julie. Was she still in Essex? Was she in London, or somewhere else?
She heard a noise.
The door opened and the light went on. Julie came down the steps in a pair of pyjama bottoms and a sleeveless top, which revealed how chubby she was. She had no bra on, and her breasts sagged like an old woman’s. Her shoulder-length brown hair had been cut to about an inch all over, dyed blonde and gelled, and she had dark rings under her eyes.
‘Your hair looks nice.’ But what she really wanted to ask was: “Why have you changed your appearance?”
‘It stinks down here,’ Julie said.
‘What did you expect? I needed to pee, and you left me without somewhere to go.’
‘You could have called.’
‘I did that, but you obviously didn’t hear me.’
‘What am I going to do now?’
Maybe this was her chance to escape. ‘You have to take the chains off and let me take a shower.’
Julie smiled with her mouth, but her eyes were as empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. ‘You think you can escape, don’t you? No, I’m not going to take the chains off. I’ll bring a bowl of hot soapy water down and you can wash yourself here.’
‘What about my clothes?’
‘I’ll cut them off.’
‘And how will I get clean clothes on?’
‘You won’t.’
‘I can’t sit here naked.’
‘Yes you can.’
‘I thought we were friends, Julie.’
‘You never thought that. I don’t have any friends.’
‘Yes, you do. I’m your friend.’
‘No you’re not. You just want to get out of here and leave me all on my own. You’re just like all the others, but this time you’re never going to leave me.’
‘Others? What others?’
Julie stood up. ‘I’ll get a bowl of water.’ She went back up the steps.
Others! What did Julie mean by that? Had she kept other “friends” down here? What had happened to them? Oh God!
She looked around the cellar. There was a tiny window with vertical bars covering it high up to her left. It wasn’t large enough to climb through, but a finger of light stabbed through the opening and gave her a sliver of hope. The stone floor was broken and uneven, and the bricks were old. She didn’t know why, but she had the strange feeling that they weren’t in London.
Julie came back down the stairs with a bowl of hot water, soap, flannel and hand towel. She set the bowl down on the floor, produced a pair of scissors and cut Jerry’s clothes off – everything. ‘Wash yourself.’
‘I don’t think . . .’
‘If you do as I say, I’ll feed you. If you don’t, you’ll starve. I might even give you a bucket so that you don’t make a mess again, and some toilet paper as well. You’ll have to work hard to please me, and you’re not doing very well at the moment.’
‘Julie . . .’
‘Stop calling me Julie – my name is Amy . . . Amy Lawless.’
Her forehead furrowed with creases. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You didn’t think I was really Julie Wilkinson, did you? That was someone’s identity I stole.
‘So, you’re really Amy Lawless?’
Amy ignored her and went back up the stairs.
It didn’t look as though she was going to be able to reason with Amy. As far as the chains would allow, she squatted and began washing herself – working from her face downwards.
Tears jumped into her eyes again. This is what happened when she ventured out into the world. Before, she’d been happy and content with Ray, with
her four children and her friends. Ray earned enough money to keep her in the style she’d become accustomed to – why did she need to work? What had possessed her to think she could go to university and become a barrister at her age? If anyone was crazy it was her.
Amy returned with a bucket and mop. ‘I’ll clean it up this one time, but if you do anything as disgusting as this again you’ll slosh about in it.’
‘It’s hardly my fault.’
‘Is that so?’ Amy went to the far wall next to the steps.
Jerry hadn’t noticed them before, but there were three rattan canes of different sizes and shapes resting on nails one above the other.
Amy took down the middle of the three canes and rushed towards her wielding it like a disciple of the Marquis de Sade.
Jerry put up her arms for protection, but for all intents and purposes she was defenceless.
With a ferociousness that took Jerry by surprise, Amy brought the cane down on her forearms, breasts, the side of her body, her thighs and once the end of the cane gashed her left cheek. In the end, she sank to the floor crying and pleading with Amy to stop.
Breathless, Amy said, ‘Don’t ever say that again. It is your fault – it’s always been your fault.’ She threw the cane in the corner of the cellar, stamped up the steps and banged the door shut.
Oh God!
She was never going to get out of here alive.
Chapter Nineteen
‘A friend should be a master of guessing and keeping still, Toadstone.’
Toadstone smiled. He’d already been up to the smorgasbord and helped himself to a substantial breakfast. ‘Good morning, Sir. Good morning, Mary. Friedrich Nietzsche, if I’m not too much mistaken.’
‘Ha! He beat you as usual.’ Richards kissed Toadstone on the cheek and said, ‘I’ve missed you, Paul.’
He grinned. ‘Have you, Mary?’
Parish grunted. ‘Like a hole in the head. Take no notice of her, Toadstone. Find yourself a nice homely Cypriot woman while you’re here and settle down in a stone cottage overlooking the swamp.’