Benold fumbled with the room key and eventually opened the door, beckoning her to enter. She did so and was mildly impressed by the room’s size: he hadn’t been lying when he had said it was one of the venue’s more luxurious suites.
A cork popping behind her caught her attention and she turned to see him pouring chilled champagne into two flutes, before returning the champagne to an ice bucket.
‘Wait a minute,’ she teased, ‘have you been planning this?’
He handed her a flute, grinning sheepishly, ‘Ever since I saw you in the bar a week ago.’
What a jerk, she thought, but said, ‘That’s so sweet.’
She took a sip of the champagne and nearly sneezed as the bubbles tickled the end of her nose. He leaned in for a kiss and she reciprocated to keep up the pretence, hoping that Carmichael wouldn’t be too long. The usual pattern they followed was for him to come in within about ten minutes. By that point she had usually managed to get the victim naked but intercourse would not have officially started.
‘You are very beautiful, Melissa. Do you know that?’
‘And you’re very handsome, James. All this,’ she said indicating the room and the champagne, ‘is quite overwhelming. I feel like I don’t deserve such attention.’
He leaned in and kissed her hard on the lips, forcing his tongue between her lips. She eventually broke it off and said that she wanted to freshen up.
‘Why don’t you start to strip…I won’t be long,’ she said as she disappeared into the bathroom.
He took his cue and quickly unbuttoned his shirt, hanging it carefully on the back of a chair. He then removed his trousers and hung them on the trouser press, before finally removing his socks and flinging them across the room.
‘Are you going to be long?’ he asked casually.
‘It’ll be worth the wait,’ she replied from behind the door, keen to string him along whilst she killed some time.
Benold lifted a small bag up from under the bed and carefully unzipped it, eager not to draw attention to what he was doing. Once open he removed a set of handcuffs and a black leather whip from the bag and quickly pushed it back under the bed. One thing his wife had never understood was his desire to be dominated by women. He enjoyed it as much as he enjoyed dominating them. It didn’t matter whether Melissa would be in to what he had in mind, by the time she realised what was happening it would be too late. He placed the handcuffs under one of the pillows and the whip under the bed, but within reach.
Melissa sent a text message to Carmichael, saying ‘Five Minutes’ and then opened the door and returned to the bedroom. Benold was on the end of the bed and held his hand out for her. She took it and he pulled her to him, standing as he did. They began to kiss and then he began to kiss her neck and unbutton her blouse. She allowed him to grope at her breasts and to twist her around until they fell on the bed. He was quickly aroused and she did all she could to play along, touching herself occasionally and playing with his average-sized penis.
‘Take it all off,’ he pleaded and so she moved to the edge of the bed and removed her skirt and tights hoping her slow approach would seduce him further.
*
Carmichael dropped a second twenty pound note on the front desk and looked at the attendant.
‘I could lose my job if the manager ever found out,’ said the youth picking up the money.
‘He’ll never find out,’ Carmichael quickly assured him. ‘I only need the key for five minutes and then you’ll have it back. Nobody will know it was ever missing.’
The youth looked around to make sure nobody could see or overhear them and then passed the skeleton key over to the intimidating black man, adding, ‘Five minutes, and then I need it back.’
Carmichael accepted the key and then tore off towards the stairs, camera bag in hand. Three minutes ago he had received a text message from Melissa, the sign that she was nearly ready for him. He reached the room’s door thirty seconds behind schedule and had to pause to get his breath back. He hadn’t anticipated the desk clerk being so difficult to convince. He placed the key in the lock and turned it, carefully opening the door as quietly as he could. As the door opened a creek, he suddenly became aware of screaming from the other side: Melissa.
He pushed the door open fully, camera up and snapping as he saw his young protégé lying face down on the bed, her hands cuffed to the frame of the headboard and with no clothes on. Standing above her was James Benold, naked, aroused and whipping her. Carmichael could see six bloody lash marks across her back already and his sudden presence in the room seemed to have gone unnoticed by the fetishist. Happy that he had all the evidence he needed, he threw the camera to the bed and leapt at Benold, the two men falling to the floor in a heap. Benold looked shocked and scared as the large stranger began to punch at him shouting, ‘Fucking pervert!’
Satisfied that Benold would give him no more trouble, he located the keys to the handcuffs and released Melissa. She was whimpering at the pain endured by her back. He found a towelling bathrobe and put it around her shoulders.
‘We better get that looked at,’ he promised.
‘I’ll be alright, boss,’ she lied, not wanting to show her vulnerability.
‘No,’ he replied evenly. ‘I am taking you to the hospital.’
‘Okay. Did you get everything you needed?’
He scooped the camera up and flicked through the photos that he had captured.
‘Oh yeah, this is just what we needed. I’m sorry that…’
‘It’s okay,’ she said again, forcing a smile.
Benold stood up and looked at the pair of them on the edge of the bed.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked, dabbing at a bloody lip.
Carmichael stood up and looked Benold in the eye,’ I’m the private investigator your wife hired to catch you cheating on her. She paid me to watch you cavorting with other women so that she can take your sorry arse to court and get the divorce settlement she deserves, you stupid prick.’
Benold looked stunned by the admission and then had a thought, ‘How much did she pay you? I’ll double whatever the fee is for you not to give her those pictures.’
Carmichael couldn’t believe the man’s audacity.
‘Alright,’ said Benold realising that Carmichael wasn’t even considering the offer, ‘I’ll triple what she’s paying you. Please, don’t give her the pictures. I couldn’t…take that humiliation.’
‘If you didn’t want your wife to find out you were cheating, you should have kept your dick in your pants, you arrogant prick!’
‘Okay, okay,’ Benold said, holding his hands up in surrender. ‘I’ll give you fifty grand to hand that camera over now and to forget about what happened. That’s more than reasonable. What do you say, eh? Let’s be men about this.’
There was that figure again; why did everyone think that fifty thousand pounds could buy you what you wanted?
Carmichael helped Melissa to her feet and then turned to Benold.
‘Fifty thousand you say?’
Benold nodded eagerly.
He put his right hand to his chin as if he was considering the offer and then, quick as a flash, he lashed out and connected with Benold’s jaw, sending the naked man sprawling across the room.
‘I don’t think so,’ muttered Carmichael as he left the room and slammed the door behind him.
19
An hour later, Carmichael was back behind the old mahogany desk, in his much worn favourite, leather-upholstered swivel chair. It was where he was at his most creative. Whenever he had a problem he couldn’t solve or he needed to plan a tricky operation, he would come to this chair, and stare out of the window absent-mindedly until the answer presented itself. It could take hours, but the answers always came.
He and Melissa had left Benold’s hotel and walked the short distance to his car. She had tried to hide the obvious discomfort she was feeling from the lashing, and it was her refusal to accept his help that had troubled him. He had
insisted on driving her to the Accident and Emergency Department at Southampton’s General Hospital. She had tried to dissuade him but even she had to admit that stitches might be required.
She had eventually relented and told him to drive there but to drop her outside of the hospital.
‘Why?’ he had asked.
‘You know what these places are like. It doesn’t matter what story I give them about what happened; they are going to assume I am in some kind of abusive relationship, and if they see you they will put two and two together and accuse you of doing it. They’ll probably report the wounds to the police and then you’d be in all kinds of shit. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re my Mr Grey, do I?’ she added, smiling.
Despite his reservations, he had dropped her at the entrance to the hospital and slipped her thirty pounds for a taxi home. She had grabbed the pile of clothes she had scooped up before leaving the hotel room and had headed in. Carmichael had felt bad for abandoning her but she had made a valid point. The last thing he wanted was the police poking around in his affairs.
A short, sharp knock at the door caught his attention. The door was ajar, so he invited his visitor in. A woman in her late twenties with light brown straggly hair entered. She was wearing tight denim jeans, a woollen sweater and a rain mac. She looked anxious, not quite certain if she was in the right place. Her face was small and unconventionally pretty.
‘Mr Carmichael?’ she asked nervously.
‘Yes,’ he said warmly, standing and offering out a hand to shake.
His answer seemed to bring some relief and she shuffled forward and shook the extended hand.
‘Oh good,’ she said, placing a large brown leather handbag on the floor and removing the rain mac and hanging it from the back of the chair in front of her. ‘I’m Lauren. I wasn’t sure if I had the right place. I was expecting a dark and shady room, like something…’
‘Out of a Philip Marlowe novel?’ he finished for her. ‘I get that a lot. Please take a seat.’
The woman obliged and then sat in silence as if uncertain where to begin. He found that it was always best for the potential client to explain what they wanted and then he could decide if it was a case he was prepared to take. The woman had sounded scared on the phone earlier, and he had been considering what she could possibly want him to do that would warrant a fee of fifty thousand pounds. He had had several enquiries in the past as to whether he would be prepared to kill cheating spouses for the right price. He was always very careful with his response to that particular question, just in case the person suggesting it had some kind of hidden agenda.
The woman’s eyes darted around the office as the awkward silence continued.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?’ he eventually asked when he could stand it no more.
‘No, I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Well why don’t you tell me what it is you are after and we can start from there. You sounded worried on the phone earlier. Is someone following you?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ she said.
‘So, what then?’
The woman took a deep breath.
‘I’m not sure where to start.’
‘Okay, well why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself and then see what happens?’
The woman smiled thinly at him.
‘Okay, my name is Lauren Roper. I’m a nurse at the General Hospital and I’ve lived in Southampton all my life.’
Carmichael grabbed a pen and started jotting notes on a blank piece of paper.
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘I’m twenty eight.’
‘Married? Single? Divorced? Kids?’
‘I’m single at the moment,’ she said blushing, ‘and I don’t have any children…maybe one day.’
‘I’m not trying to chat you up, Miss Roper, I just need to establish who you are. Please don’t read anything into my questions.’
She blushed slightly again and her expression became more serious.
‘Most of the people who hire me do so because they have a cheating spouse or partner that they want exposed. What’s your reason for being here?’
She took another deep breath.
‘This is hard for me to talk about. You see…I’ve never told anybody what I am about to tell you.’
‘That’s okay, take your time.’
‘My mother was raped in our home twenty-four years ago and I witnessed it.’
Carmichael sucked air in through his teeth.
‘Twenty-four years ago? So that would be…’
‘1989. September 1989.’
‘So that would have made you?’
‘Four.’
‘Was the assault ever reported to the police?’
‘No. My mother was a very private person and…she kept the whole thing to herself for many years.’
‘So what is it you want me to do? If your mother has suddenly decided to come forward and report an assault from nearly a quarter of a century ago, she’s going to struggle to convince anyone of her story; not to mention the total lack of available evidence.’
‘My mother is dead, Mr Carmichael. She passed away this time last year with cancer. She was only forty two.’
Lauren wiped a small tear away from the corner of her eye.
‘Forgive my bluntness, Miss Roper, but if you were four when this incident happened, how can you remember it? Four year-olds aren’t renowned for having the best retention skills.’
‘Two months before she died, my mother opened up to me and told me what had happened to her all those years before. I had always sensed that something bad had happened in her past, but when I had previously tried to confront her about it she had clammed up and refused to discuss it. I can remember having nightmares when I was younger about a man in a black balaclava hurting my mother. She used to tell me it was nothing to worry about and that they were just dreams, but I used to have the same dream regularly.’
Carmichael continued to scribble notes down. He would ask Melissa to type them up later: she had become a very good decipherer of his handwriting.
‘She spent the last three months of her life in a charitable hospice. The cancer took a lot out of her and she had become weak and frail. There was no way I could continue to support her and work, and she hated being a burden, so she voluntarily registered at the hospice. I would go and visit her every day, take her flowers, that kind of thing. One day in early September I took her for a picnic up on Southampton Common. It was a warm day but there was a slight breeze that meant it wasn’t too hot. She looked frail and anxious, but we sat and ate what I had prepared. Eventually she looked me in the eye and said there was something she needed to tell me. She looked troubled and I wondered whether it would be something about my father, whom I had never met. What she told me broke my heart.’
She wiped another tear away. Carmichael wondered whether he should encourage her to proceed, but there was no need.
‘She told me she had been attacked in our home by a masked stranger, that he had beaten and attempted to strangle her and had then…forced her to do things to him. She wept quietly as she told me of it, and I just wanted to reach out and hug her. She told me that I had woken up and disturbed the attack at one point and had evidently seen him hurting her. She told me it was only when he threatened to harm me that she caved into his demands. How can anyone be capable of such…such brutality?’
‘Why now?’ Carmichael interrupted. ‘Why have you come to find me now? What is it you are hoping to achieve?
‘After my mother passed away, I was very troubled by what she had told me. I mean, in a way, it made perfect sense. She had always been so protective of me, rarely went out on her own and certainly never entertained men at home. Don’t get me wrong: my mother was a wonderfully warm and loving parent, and more than made up for my absent father, but it always felt like she was trying to live her life through me. I suppose, in hindsight, she probably was in a way. Anyway, I started having terrible nightmares
after her funeral…I would wake up dripping with sweat. The dreams seemed so real but in them it was me that I could see being attacked by the masked man. A doctor friend of mine suggested I visit a therapist, which I wasn’t keen on doing, but he recommended a specialist who was happy to meet me and listen to what I had to describe. I really opened up to her: I told her everything my mother had said and described what I was seeing in the nightmare. She told me that the child’s brain is not always able to process things it does not understand and that if I had actually seen the attack on mum, then maybe there were still open wounds in my psyche. She told me to visit a hypnotherapist friend of hers and attempt post-hypnotic regression to the night of the attack. I reluctantly agreed and in February of this year I was regressed.’
He still couldn’t quite tell where she was going with her story. It was already twenty past three and he was eager to start to prepare the report he needed to provide Frankie Benold with.
‘Lauren, look,’ he said, ‘I am sorry for the pain you have clearly gone through in the last year. Losing your mother was clearly a painful experience for you, as it would be for anyone, but I still don’t see what you think I can do for you. You are probably best going to speak with the police if you have anything that might be tangible but, in my experience, testimony based on hypnosis is prone to intense scrutiny in court…’
She wasn’t listening to him.
‘But I know who it is. I know who raped my mother!’
‘How? If he was wearing a balaclava, how can you identify the face of the man you saw when you were four?’
‘His face was covered but his eyes weren’t. The man in the mask had the most intense, bulging white eyes and the brightest of blue pupils. I can see them now in my mind.’
Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2) Page 11