by Sibel Hodge
I stared at the video box on screen. Before our eyes the ‘Live Stream Coming Soon!’ text disappeared and was replaced with ‘The Next Red Room Will Be Live In . . .’ and beneath it was a digital timer.
Lee leaned closer to the screen. ‘Fuck.’
‘We don’t have months to find her,’ I said. ‘We don’t even have days. We need to find where this place is now.’ I watched the timer clicking down in hours, minutes, and seconds.
16:29:05
16:29:04
16:29:03 . . .
THE MISSING
Chapter 26
I wake suddenly to the sound of screaming. I shoot upwards from lying on the hard floor into a seated position and realise it’s not screaming. It’s the creaking sound of the wooden door opening. And before I can even question how I could fall asleep in this place, in this desperate situation, he’s in the room with me.
It’s the one who punched me.
He’s tall. Wide. Huge. With blonde spiky hair. There’s something vacant in his pale-blue eyes, but excitement there, too. I know that look well. It’s the same as many of the serial killers and psychopaths I’ve studied.
He smiles at me. No, not a smile. His lips twist into a curve but it’s a sneer. He has crooked teeth.
He carries on sneering as he looks me up and down from the doorway, his gaze crawling over me, chilling me to the core. There’s something feral about him that reminds me of a rabid dog.
I shuffle backwards on hands and heels and press myself into the wall furthest from him.
He pushes the door shut without taking his cold eyes off me and stares, the sneer turning into something else, something more menacing. More savage.
My heart threatens to explode. I want to close my eyes and block it out but my eyes have a mind of their own and they’re staying open. Wide open.
I refuse, I refuse, I refuse. I will not cry. I will not show I’m scared.
He takes a step towards me.
To block out my fear I recite things in my head about him to tell later. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. He’s got gel in his hair. His right ear’s pierced with a gold stud.
I look down then, away from him, to my feet, and realise, weirdly for the first time, that my trainers are missing. Lost in the van or in the cutting, I don’t know.
My trainers are missing. I will not look at you. My trainers are missing. They were black with yellow laces and—
‘I think it’s time you and me had some fun before the show begins.’ His voice stops my thoughts and he laughs loudly, a cackling sound that echoes around the bare room and vibrates through every cell of my body.
I stare at the ground, palms pressed hard against the floor, a lump of concrete digging into the ridges of my spine. Stare until I see a black boot in front of my eyes.
Black lace-up boots. Doctor Martens. There’s a scratch on the left toe. And a red stain on the bottom lace. Red stain. Red stain. Blood!
And however brave I’m trying to be, I’m not strong enough to stop the images of the video I saw flooding into my head. The video of the girl with the leopard tattoo. Even though I didn’t watch it all the way to the end. Couldn’t watch it all. I know she’s dead. No one could survive what I saw.
Panic freezes me in its grip. I stiffen, like I’m already a corpse. Already dead, dead, dead, like her.
Then I’m being lifted up in the air as he pulls me by both arms and thrusts them above my head, one of his big hands holding both wrists together. I struggle but I can’t move. Even if I wasn’t still weak from whatever drug they injected me with, I would never be a match for his strength. His bodyweight pins me against the wall. And I stare the badness I’ve been researching all these years in the face, because it’s the only voluntary movement I can make when he has me trapped, summoning up a little bit of defiance because I refuse.
His breath is on my chin as he smirks and grinds his crotch into me, already hard.
My throat is closed. I can’t even swallow. Can’t do anything. My lungs forget how to work.
I know he’s going to rape me and there’s nothing I can do except try to stay alive a little bit longer.
So when his other hand roams over my breasts and squeezes them hard, when his hand goes lower and tugs at the buttons on my jeans, fumbling to undo them, I stare at him and think, I’m not scared, I’m angry. And anger is just as powerful as fear, but in a different way. But although my mind thinks these things, my body says something different. All the involuntary things I can’t control show otherwise. Sweat beading on my forehead, trickling down between my shoulder blades. My muscles twitching with terror. A gurgling sound in the back of my mouth that says ‘No!’ My ears ringing with panic.
Although I can’t move, there is something I can do after all.
I spit in his face.
He steps back, surprised. He snorts, as if he doesn’t know whether to laugh or not. Wipes his cheek. Then he reaches his free hand back, clenching it into a fist. ‘You fucking bitch!’
I close my eyes then, waiting for the punch. Waiting for another smash to my nose, or my jaw. My heart races so hard I can hear it pounding in my ears. But the punch doesn’t come because the screeching door opens and someone says, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
My eyelids fly open. The pressure on my chest eases up as he twists around to look at the other guy who’s just come in. I haven’t seen him before.
He speaks with a posh accent, so the swear word sounds at odds with him. He’s wearing jeans and a white shirt. He’s fat.
‘What? I’m just getting her warmed up!’ The blonde one chuckles, but he sounds less sure of himself, his voice wavering a little, and I realise that he’s not the one in charge here.
‘I told you before. Do not touch the merchandise before the show!’ The fat one points his finger at him. ‘They’ll pay extra for that if they want. I don’t want her damaged before it starts. All the damage starts on screen. How many times do I have to fucking tell you? Didn’t you learn anything from the last one escaping?’ Fat Man narrows his eyes at him.
The blonde one shrugs, steps back and turns to face him.
I slide to the floor, my legs too liquid to hold me up. I pant hard through my mouth because my nose is still blocked with dried blood. And I look at the half-open door behind the fat one, longing for escape. I can see a sliver of corridor out there. It must lead to the way out. But I know I’d never get past both of them before they grabbed me again.
‘Stay the fuck out of here until it’s time,’ Fat Man snaps, glaring at the blonde one.
He laughs. ‘Whatever.’ He moves towards Fat Man, then says over his shoulder to me, ‘Won’t be long now anyway.’ He sneers again.
Then they leave, the door screeching again as they pull it shut and lock it with the sound of a bolt sliding into place.
My chin collapses to my chest and the tears fall in a great big, wrenching, painful river, splashing off my jaw and on to my dirty jeans. On to the hard, concrete floor where they sink into the knobbly, pitted, uneven surface, where they’re lost forever. Trapped in the dusty cement. Lost, like me. My whole body shudders and shakes, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be warm again. Only the icy cold depths of death are waiting for me now.
I’m such an idiot! I’ve already proved I don’t know what I’m doing. And that’s the stupid, stupid bit. I was on my way to the police station to tell them what I’d found. I’d taken my laptop with me so I could show them what I’d looked at. I’d had the address of the chat room where I’d found the link to the red room written down so I could give it to them. At first, I didn’t think it was real. I thought it had to be a hoax, because I got on to the site easily, without paying anything like they wanted. I don’t know, maybe there was something wrong with the page, but it let me in. Just like that. And I clicked on a video. The girl with the leopard tattoo. The baseball bat. The man dressed head-to-toe in black, his face completely hidden. I still don’t know who she is. Was. I tried to find out
if someone of her description had been reported missing. I tried to research if a red room really could exist, but I couldn’t find a proper answer. I struggled with myself, the images of the video playing over and over in my head. Fake or not a fake? But in the end, I had to go and report it. So what if it turned out to be a hoax and they thought I was just some hysterical, mad girl? Better that than if it was real and I hadn’t told the police.
I didn’t want to ask the police to come to my house, though. I couldn’t think how to explain it all properly on the phone in the first place; it would have to be done in person, to a detective, not a uniformed officer on the beat. Plus, I didn’t want Mum to find out what I’d discovered. If she had, she’d never have let me on the Internet again. Never have let me do the criminology course. And if she came home from work for lunch, like she sometimes did, and the police were there, she’d be frantic. Plus, nosey old Bert would’ve seen them and most likely told her. That’s also why, after finding the site the first time, I didn’t research it from home and went to the library instead, in case she realised what I’d been looking at. What I’d found. But those men must’ve been watching me. Must’ve found out, somehow, who I was. Knew I wasn’t like them and all the others who paid to watch what they did. Or maybe they realised there was some problem with the page that was giving away their videos for free and they wanted to trace who’d looked at one. I don’t know. I don’t understand how the dark web works, especially now, when I thought no one could see what I was doing. I’m an idiot! Idiot, idiot!
But then I stop that thought. Push, push, push the scared bits away. I think of Mum at home, frantic, feeling useless. Think of Dad, strong, brave, a fighter, a warrior. I want to be a fighter, too. Even though I’ve messed everything up so, so terribly, I can still get out of here. I can.
I clench and unclench my sweaty hands, working up the anger, rolling it around in my head, poking it with a stick until it blazes.
Then I hear a clicking sound, and I’m expecting the blonde one to open the door again.
I gulp in a breath but the door stays firmly closed. I hear another click. And another. And another. At first I can’t work out where it’s coming from. But then my gaze drifts upwards. To the plastic box above the door. It’s got numbers on it now, illuminated in red LED lights. It’s a digital clock, except . . . No, it’s not a clock. Not really. It’s some kind of timer.
And it’s counting down . . .
THE DETECTIVE
Chapter 27
‘What’s the plan?’ Ronnie asked, sliding behind the steering wheel.
‘I want you to contact the local intelligence officer for this area. See what you can find out about this Dex guy. We need to pay him a visit. And find out where the local homeless hang-outs are. I’m going to call Becky.’
‘All right.’ Ronnie got to work on his phone, calling the control room to get a number for the LIO.
I sat next to him, stuck a finger in my free ear so as not to hear Ronnie.
When Becky picked up, the first thing she said was, ‘I’ve got some bad news.’
‘What? The whiteboard has put in a complaint about me?’
She laughed. ‘That’s notice board to you. I’ve just spoken to the forensic technical team and they found nothing of interest on the Jamesons’ laptop or Jan’s mobile phone. No emails or phone calls or texts to anyone that links to Stevens or a possible accomplice.’
‘OK. Is there anything else back from the forensics SOCO took at the scene?’
‘No, we’re still waiting for the results of the soil samples.’
‘I love it when you talk dirty.’
She snorted.
I pictured Tracy Stevens’s palm prints recovered from the patio door, thinking it weird that it was only her who’d left easily identifiable evidence of her presence there. Either her accomplice didn’t touch anything or they wore gloves. I thought back to Becky saying that they must’ve been a bad shot because Mike had been shot three times, but I disagreed. The shots were neat and precise, particularly the forehead shot to Mike Jameson. None had missed their target. But then the shot to Jan’s neck was messy. Why not shoot her in the head, too? Unless they’d been aiming for her head and she’d moved. No furniture had been disturbed in the lounge and there were no signs of a struggle. No signs of panic after they’d murdered two people in cold blood. Then I thought of the traces of soil left on the carpet. Either it was a highly organised crime scene or it was a complete shambles. I hadn’t worked out which yet. ‘OK, first thing . . . I want you to circulate Tracy Stevens’s details to all ports. She may try and make a run for it out of the country.’
‘Got it.’
‘Can you also get on to Tracy Stevens’s mobile phone provider and see if they can trace a location for her if her phone’s switched on.’ I gave Becky the number of Tracy’s phone. ‘And see if they can expedite her call and text logs – see who she was in contact with.’
‘Will do.’
‘And also look into Tracy’s parents’ details. There’s still a chance she may have gone back to Bristol. If you get an address, can you put a call through to the relevant control room and get them to pay a visit? I don’t have time to go up there and check myself. Sorry, I know it’s just you on your own there.’
‘Don’t worry. I thrive under pressure. I’ve had two chocolate bars and four coffees. I can go all night, if you want me to. And for the benefit of the phone record, that wasn’t a sexual reference.’ She laughed.
I grinned. ‘Good, because I also want CCTV checked for London Road. Tracy was last seen by Alice at about eleven p.m., the night before the Jamesons were killed. Then she seems to have disappeared.’
‘All right – oh, and Greene wanted to speak to you as soon as you were free.’
‘Oh, goody, could you put me through,’ I said.
There was an annoying chime of music while I waited for the call to connect, then Greene picked up and said, ‘We just got the post-mortem results back on the Jamesons.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Professor Hanley said Mike Jameson’s wounds in his chest and leg missed vital organs, but the cause of death was the shot to his forehead, which resulted in severe brain damage and almost instant death. The bullet to Jan Jameson’s neck hit the carotid artery, resulting in dramatic blood loss. Death would’ve occurred in seconds. According to entry wounds, the bullet recovered in the wall, and gunshot residue found, Jan Jameson was shot while the offender was directly in front of the coffee table where the soil prints were most concentrated. The shooter stood in the same spot to kill her husband.’
‘Any idea who was shot first?’ I asked.
‘No. It’s impossible to tell but they died within minutes of each other. Time of death has been narrowed only slightly to between eight a.m. and ten a.m.’
I brought up a mental image of the crime scene. The estimated position of the shooter was exactly the same as Emma Bolton had suggested. ‘Was there any bruising or injuries on Jan Jameson that indicated she’d been restrained?’ I asked.
‘No. And no defensive injuries, either.’
‘Strange,’ I said. ‘Why would the accomplice stand so close to Jan if they weren’t restraining her?’
‘Maybe the intention was to restrain her and it all went wrong too fast.’
‘Surely a gun pointed at her or her husband would’ve been ample threat to an elderly woman, though.’
‘They were unorganised and messy because they were drugged up to the eyeballs.’
‘On the contrary, I think the bullet wounds Mike suffered look professional. Jan’s seems amateur. I think Mike must’ve been shot first. Either in the chest or leg or both to incapacitate him because he was the bigger threat. Then maybe Jan tried to get away and the shooter fired at her, aiming for her head or chest but hitting her neck as she was moving and killing her anyway. Then they fired one final shot to Mike’s forehead to kill him. Were the bullets recovered from Mike’s body the same as the one found in t
he wall?’
‘Yes, also nine millimetres. They’ll be passed over to firearms for analysis,’ Greene carried on. ‘That’s the crux of it. Have you got any updates for me?’
I told him where I was with things.
‘So this Tracy Stevens has done a runner? Hardly surprising after what she did at that house. The press conference appealing for witnesses is due to start in half an hour. I’ll get her photo and details out there at the same time.’
I thought again about Tracy’s palm prints on the outside of the Jamesons’ patio door. Three prints overlapping. ‘Why did she leave evidence that could be traced back to her? These days everyone knows about forensic stuff. Why risk her prints being found at a murder scene?’ There was something niggling at me about those prints, but I couldn’t work out what. Something wasn’t sitting right with me. A gut feeling there was more to this than seemed obvious.
‘She was a drug addict so anything’s possible. If she was high, she could’ve been acting crazy. And we know she was there. Maybe she pressed her hands to the glass when she was looking into the room, seeing if anyone was inside,’ Greene said. ‘She was probably out of her head and didn’t even know what she was doing. She and her accomplice broke into the Jamesons’ with the intent to burgle them. It’s most likely they were disturbed and Mr Jameson was shot. While that was going on Mrs Jameson attempted to intercede. A struggle ensued with Stevens and Mrs Jameson was also shot and killed. They panicked then, and fled the scene before they could steal anything.’
‘I’m not buying that theory. They didn’t search the house for valuables. Didn’t take Jan’s handbag or jewellery in plain sight. It seems like they just came in, shot the Jamesons and left – what seems like a random act of violence when both Jan and Mike couldn’t have been any kind of threat to them because the offenders had a gun,’ I said. ‘And it’s bothering me how a prostitute from Berrisford ended up in a tiny hamlet on the other side of the county in the middle of nowhere, when there would’ve been hundreds of places to burgle in between, if that was the intention. A place, according to her friend Alice, Tracy had never been to or even heard of. Why pick there? Actually, how could she pick it? She’d have to stumble across it so why go there of all places? There had to have been some kind of connection between her and the Jamesons already, another reason they were both murdered, and I need to find out what it was.’