She dragged her mind back to Imogen’s question. She had no words - just thoughts, images and feelings. The hollow sensation she felt when she knew without him saying a word that Hugo was displeased, and the disproportionate joy she experienced when he smiled at her with some degree of affection. Actions and attitudes that would seem normal in most relationships took on a significance of monumental importance and flooded her with hope. But the master puppeteer knew just when her desperation point had been reached, and always rewarded her with nothing more than a kind word or a gentle kiss. And of course, over time these moments became rarer and therefore infinitely more precious.
‘I can’t describe how I felt, even to you. I realise I was stubborn to start with, but I was strong - or so I thought. I wasn’t about to give in and admit that my idyllic marriage had failed in less than a year. Nobody gives in that easily. So I needed to give it time, and have patience. The trouble was that within those first few months I became weaker, and my self-belief was gradually eroded. Perhaps he did know better than me how people should behave. Perhaps I was over reacting to things that were perfectly normal, just because they weren’t what I wanted. The problem was a lack of anything tangible. He always made it seem as if he was putting me first, but what he was actually doing was undermining my every thought. But I had nobody. I was no longer working, you and I weren’t speaking, Will was away and I couldn’t bear to tell my mum. So I only saw myself through Hugo’s eyes, and the person I saw was a failure.’
Laura had never expressed these feelings out loud, and she felt a deep sense of shame. She could hear the branches of an overgrown tree scratching at the window, and the noise reminded her of the many nights she had lain awake, wondering what she was doing wrong. She had been conditioned by then to believe that every problem was a result of her own shortcomings.
‘But what about the sex? I’m really sorry to raise it, Laura, but I’ve just read about your first night in that room. It sounds practically like rape to me!’
Laura lay back on the bed with her hands behind her head, and fixed her gaze on the elaborate ceiling rose. She’d always found it easy to talk about sex - when it had been fun. Now it was incredibly difficult.
‘I know. That was the one solid thing that I could hang the name ‘abuse’ onto. But was it? It wasn’t what I wanted, but was it wrong? So he liked to be tied up. Was that really strange, or was I being a prude? And he liked to be rough. But what I thought was brutal, he said was passion. I convinced myself that I had an idealised notion of romantic, earth-shattering sex. I did a lot of reading on the subject, and I was staggered to find how common bondage is, and how many people like to exert power and control during sex. I was ignorant enough to believe that all married couples make love and experience real intimacy and joy. When I discovered that I was far from alone in being dissatisfied with our lovemaking - if you could call it that - I made excuses. Perhaps that was the only way he had ever known, and I would have to help him to understand a more loving approach to sex. I constantly made allowances, and fooled myself that I could change him. In a way, it was because of my strength and self-belief that I thought I could make things right. It’s not a particularly unusual scenario for a woman, is it?’
‘Did you never rebel - not even a little?’
‘There was one occasion when we’d been married for a couple of years. Hugo had been away, and I took the opportunity to go out to lunch with my old boss, Simon. Just that two hour break gave me back a tiny fragment of my self-esteem. We were due to go to a charity event at the Dorchester on the night that Hugo returned, and I was meeting him there. I decided to show a bit of spirit - probably my last remaining morsel - by not wearing what he had chosen for me. I thought I was no longer the woman he’d fallen in love with. So I went shopping on my own, and I found the most glorious dress. It was a deep, deep blue, in the softest velvet you can imagine. It had a bodice top with no straps, which hugged perfectly to my figure, and came just to the top of my hips. And I still had hips then. The skirt was the same fabric, but was cut straight to the floor, with a slit to the knee. I wore a plain silver band around my neck, and had my hair dyed back to its natural colour, getting rid of the red. It was just plain old brunette, but it looked stunning with the dress, and suddenly I felt like me again.
‘I was due to meet Hugo there, so I made my way in a taxi and planned to arrive a couple of minutes late so that I could make an entrance. And I did. I wound my way through the tables to where Hugo was sitting with some of his highflying charity people. All the men immediately stood up from the table, and even the women smiled at me. I knew I looked fabulous.’
Laura could remember looking for admiration in Hugo’s eyes, and when it wasn’t there she suddenly felt anxious. She had been so sure that he would fall in love with her all over again.
‘As was always the case at these events, Hugo and I weren’t sitting next to each other, but he got up immediately and came round to pull my chair out. As I sat down, he lent down to whisper in my ear. Everybody at the table thought he was whispering some compliment, because they all smiled. What he actually said was ‘You look like a fucking whore.’ It was the only time I ever heard Hugo swear. I had to sit through the whole of the meal, smiling and being polite, whilst inside I felt like I was dying.’
Imogen was staring at Laura in dismay.
‘Why, oh why didn’t you tell anybody?’
‘Because by then I was so ashamed, so embarrassed, and I didn’t know what I had done wrong. That was the night that I passed the point of escape. I sincerely believed that everything was my fault. I apologised to Hugo for my poor judgement. He forgave me, and I settled down to being a good wife and a stepmother to Alexa, although that part was no hardship at all. But I never dyed my hair red again, and I never tried to look sexy or attractive again. I cultivated the look of a woman who no longer cared. That way, perhaps he would leave me alone.’
Laura got up from the bed and walked towards the window. She could no longer bear to look at the pity in Imogen’s eyes.
And she omitted to tell Imogen that from that day onwards there was a new addition to the gifts on the bed, and one that she found even more alarming.
CHAPTER 24
Tom’s attempts to get back to Oxfordshire were thwarted by a seemingly endless stream of issues, any of which could have provided a breakthrough.
The artist’s impression of the woman seen leaving Hugo Fletcher’s house had appeared in several newspapers, and they’d already had a number of calls. The one that seemed the most likely was from somebody who saw a woman matching the description walking from the direction of Egerton Crescent. She was heading into South Kensington underground station. Unfortunately from there she could have taken the Piccadilly, District or Circle lines, and in either direction. But the timing was right, so now they were in the process of matching this with other sightings and CCTV footage to see if they could get an idea of where she was going. Of course, she could have changed tubes several times, but you never knew your luck.
A couple of members of the team were going over every detail of Hugo’s charity, and Tom was anxious to get their report. They were missing something. He just knew it. In the meantime, Ajay had been tasked with tracking down the missing girl, Danika Bojin, and he had only just given Tom the good news that he’d got the address of Danika’s friend, Mirela Tinescy, when this information was rendered superfluous. He remembered that Ajay had spoken to Peter Gregson, the man who had left the message on Laura’s answer phone. Now it appeared that Mr Gregson had turned up unexpectedly and was waiting in reception, asking to speak to a senior officer.
Tom asked Ajay to go and escort Gregson to an interview room and organise a drink for him. He would join them in a few minutes. He still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Laura about Danika’s visit, or to check whether the original missing girl, Alina Cozma, had ever turned up. For now, though, he needed to find out what Mr Gregson had to say. Danika had to be high on the list of suspects.
/>
He opened the door to the interview room, and was surprised to see that Peter Gregson was not alone. With him was a young girl, so slight in build that she looked no more than about fourteen years old. Gregson stood up to shake Tom’s hand.
‘DCI Douglas. I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but as you can see Danika has returned home, and I think you might want to hear what she has to say.’
Tom was more than a little surprised to hear that the girl with Peter Gregson was Danika Bojin, who he knew to be nearly nineteen.
‘I’m glad to see you’re safe, Danika,’ Tom said. ‘You had us a bit worried there.’
‘Perhaps it’s best if I just give you a bit of background,’ Peter Gregson said. ‘When I talked to your colleagues the other day, I explained Sir Hugo’s rather extreme rule that the girls couldn’t stay in touch with each other. Did he pass that on to you?’ Gregson asked.
Tom nodded.
‘Well, Danika broke that rule. That was how she and Mirela Tinescy realised that Alina Cozma was missing - because she hadn’t turned up for their regular meetings. Sir Hugo was furious when he found out that they’d been in contact, and despite the fact that they never found out what had happened to Alina, Danika promised that she wouldn’t disobey him again. And she hasn’t, until now. Unfortunately, she recently discovered that Mirela has now gone missing too. It’s probably best if she explains.’
Tom felt a pulse of adrenaline as Danika took up the story.
As promised, she and Mirela hadn’t been in touch; she believed she owed her life to Sir Hugo, and so however painful it was, she knew she must abide by his rules. But now, everything had changed.
‘Last Thursday, I went to the park and I hear a girl who speak Romanian to a little boy. I talk with her, and she say she is Allium girl. She lives with a nice family - but only because the last Allium girl has left to go back to be a working girl. She say - in Romanian, of course, ‘Thanks Mirela, you lose, I win.’ I ask her more questions, of course, and it is my Mirela. I know this. She tells me that Mirela goes about eight weeks ago. She leave a note. She say she has big chance to be high class girl and make much money. It was bad of me to go and look for her without telling to Peter, but if he knows what I plan, he would stop me. When I come back today, Peter say we must come here to tell to you.’
Tom looked with sympathy at this girl who was clearly worried about her friend.
‘Why did you try to find her, Danika?’
‘Because I do not believe that Mirela would do this thing. She was - how do you say it - sicked? Yes, sicked by her life as prostitute.’
Nobody corrected her English, as the meaning was perfectly clear.
‘She cried always and say that the men hurt her. She never want to do it again, she said. Only for husband or a kind man who take good care of her, and give her love. I don’t believe she goes back to work in this way. So I go to try to find her. I had to try, Peter. Do you see?’
Danika turned her distraught face towards Peter, obviously very concerned that she had broken his trust again.
Tom spoke gently to the girl, who after all only had her friend’s interests at heart.
‘Where did you go, Danika? How did you try to find her?’
‘I try first to find Sir Hugo. I cannot go to office, because the girl there is not nice to me when I go last time. I wait for him to come, but I never see him, so I try something else. I try to find out how to get job as high-class prostitute, like Mirela says. I don’t think I’m ugly. The men always say they like my body, and I speak some English. Not so good, but okay.’
Tom unfortunately knew that for some men her slight and childish body would hold great appeal.
‘Well, they tell me no. Not ever can I be the high class. They say that everybody knows we are dirty, and nobody will touch us. They cannot get top money for Eastern Europeans.’
‘Why would they say you are dirty, Danika?’
Danika looked down and blushed.
‘The men were allowed to go with us without protection. They say they like it better. We don’t want this, but we have no choice. But I have had all the tests. Peter has arranged this for me. I am not dirty, really I’m not.’
Tom felt a deep sense of shame that men - possibly even men that he knew - would treat such a sweet young girl so abysmally. He couldn’t help feeling some disappointment too. Until he met her, she had been top of his very short list of suspects. Hugo dies, girl goes missing. It had seemed to be too much of a coincidence.
‘I’m quite sure you’re not dirty, Danika. But does that mean that you couldn’t find any trace of Mirela?’
‘No. I even try where we used to be - but I was very frightened that I was caught again. My nice clothes that Grace bought for me were good though. Nobody knew I was prostitute before.’
Tom assumed that Grace was Peter Gregson’s wife. At least something good had happened in this girl’s young life. But if they assumed that the woman seen leaving Hugo’s London house was the murderer, there was no way that it could have been Danika. Even with lots of makeup she would never look like a woman. She had the stick thin arms of a child, and didn’t look as if she would weigh much more than five year old Lucy.
In the end he left her to be interviewed by some of his colleagues. Danika might not fit the bill, but clearly this other girl, Mirela, might.
For now, he needed to get back to Oxfordshire. There were an increasing number of questions that he had to ask Laura. And he understood that Brian Smedley, Hugo’s CFO for the property company and one of the Hugo’s executors, was due at Ashbury Park. Tom was keen to know the detail of the will, and he wanted to be around to assess Laura’s reaction to Hugo’s last wishes.
*
It was around 2.30 when he finally pulled his car up in the darkly shadowed forecourt of Ashbury Park, and mounted the steps to the imposing front door. Becky was expecting him as he had phoned en route, and she opened the door before he had time to ring the bell.
‘Did you bring me those passenger lists? I’m getting bored out of my brains here.’
‘Hi Tom, nice to see you too,’ he mocked. ‘Yes, I do have the lists, and given the number of passengers within the relevant period, you’ll soon be even more bored. Has anything happened round here?’
‘Nothing since this morning. We did all have lunch together, but Stella did most of the talking. Imogen looked as if she’d been crying, actually. Nobody will talk to me. They’re either locked in their rooms, or they’re hunting in pairs, if you know what I mean. Lots of meaningful glances - but nothing I can get a handle on. What about you?’
Tom filled her in with what had been going on back at headquarters, all the time thinking that it didn’t actually add up to much.
‘Do you think Danika had anything to do with it?’ Becky asked.
‘I’m sure she didn’t, but Mirela Tinescy is missing - and she might. I think we’re going to have to interview them all - at least the ones that Hugo’s helped in the last twelve months. And all the charity staff, to see if they know of anybody who might have a grudge. All the girls apparently swear to love Hugo, but they’ve had a rough time, and it’s just possible that one of them might have been tempted by a big payout. I’ve got a team setting up all the interviews, and we need to find out what we can about Mirela Tinescy. Ajay is on to that.’
‘Would old Hugo sleep with one of his prostitutes, do you think?’
‘Well, lots of men do - although personally I’ve never seen it as one of my goals in life. Maybe Hugo thought of it as a perk of the job.’
‘Tom - that’s disgusting, and despicable. I can’t believe you’re that cynical.’
He looked at Becky’s snub nose, wrinkled in displeasure. If she knew what he did about Hugo’s penchant for deviant behaviour, he reflected, she would think that sleeping with the charity’s prostitutes was practically normal. The events of the previous evening with Kate had temporarily driven the conversation with Annabel from his mind, but now it came flood
ing back, and it had to be significant.
Becky showed Tom into the dining room where she had set up a temporary office, with permission from Laura. The room was papered with flock wallpaper in shades of mud, as far as Tom could make out, and one wall was practically covered by a huge faded tapestry, which he imagined would possibly be quite beautiful with a bit of attention paid to it. Down the centre of the room ran the biggest dining table Tom had ever seen, which must have easily seated thirty people. There was no other furniture in the room, just a vast stone fireplace, and heavy velvet curtains. Another welcoming room then.
‘Bloody hell, Becky. Couldn’t you have found somewhere a little bit more cheerful? And why have you chosen to sit at the far end of the table? It’s a two mile hike to the door.’
‘Precisely. It means that whatever’s on my screen, I have ample opportunity to cover it up before they reach me. I don’t trust them, Tom. I like them - but even if they’re innocent of Hugo’s murder, they’re hiding something. Especially Imogen. She knows a lot more than she’s letting on. I can see it in her eyes.’
She was right of course, and Tom knew it. Becky had a look of a bulldog about her today, her pretty face showing determination and eagerness. He knew what she thought - he was playing it too slowly. But they had nothing to go on, and certainly nothing concrete that implicated either Laura or Imogen. It wasn’t even a case of circumstantial evidence. There was no evidence at all.
‘I can’t make any sense of it, to be honest. I need to get under their skin some more. Becky - it’s absolutely freezing in here. Is there no heating on?’
Tom had taken his jacket off to drive, and he quickly shrugged his arms back into the sleeves. He wasn’t much of a suit man, but it went with the territory and just now he needed whatever warmth it would offer.
‘You’ll get used to it. I thought you northerners were made of stronger stuff,’ Becky grinned. ‘Anyway, whilst I’ve been sitting here going out of my tiny mind, I did some research on Rohypnol. Being the youngster that I am, I assumed it had been around forever, but the first trace of it that I can find on the Internet is in 1999. It had apparently been available for a lot longer as a prescription drug, but that’s when it was first identified as a date rape drug. The serial rapist, Richard Baker, was the first recorded user in this country. He was caught following a Crime Watch appeal. Anyway, it’s the brand name of flunitrazepam and it’s ten times more potent than Valium. Commonly known as a roofie, of course. According to the Internet - and I’d better read this bit - it’s a “highly-potent hypnotic drug with powerful sedative, anxiolytic - whatever that is - amnestic, and skeletal muscle relaxant properties”. Laura said that she thought he’d used it on her as well, but not for rape purposes. You’ve got to follow that up, Tom.’
Tom Douglas Box Set Page 24