I can hear noises from some neighbours again. Running footsteps, laughter, the bang of a door closed by a gust of draught.
Straightening up, I look around, bothered by something that I can’t put my finger on. Something is wrong. Something doesn’t add up.
Apart from the double bed, the room looks empty. I’m about to leave, when I hear a sound. It seems to come from the space between the bed and the wall that adjoins Mr Collins’s flat. I can barely hear it. Soft. The scraping of feet against something hard. Or it could be a voice, a low moan, someone trying not to make a sound.
I turn back to the door and raise my voice. ’Mrs Holt? Marcie? Hello?’
Frantic movements come from behind me and a muffled voice trying to shout.
Crossing the room, I see his legs first. Dark socks and ankles bound together with brown packing tape. It is the same type as I saw earlier stuck on Collins’s elbow. No shoes. The dog chain is looped around his feet and a leg of the bed. I bend down and see that his hands are tied with plastic ties to the buckle of his belt in front of him
The man is rocking his head from side to side as if he is stuck in a nightmare, his body jerking in protest. His nose is running and his breathing seems to be a struggle, making his body twitch in panic. From what is visible of his face, his skin is pale, perhaps a bit bluish. The same brown packing tape is wound around his head and neck, holding a piece of cardboard over his eyes, and a piece of cloth is pushed into his mouth. Snot drips from one side of his nose. He can’t afford to get his nose blocked; he will die.
His suddenly lies motionless, perhaps sensing that whoever has entered the room, could be his abductor, or maybe not. Clearly he doesn’t want to take a risk.
Just as I open my mouth to reassure him that his ordeal is over, he lifts one elbow and kicks it against the wall. The hammering sound returns and I swallow; I should have realised much earlier what it was.
I crawl towards him. My fingers touch his arm. ‘Hello, Trevor,’ I say, holding his hand. ‘You’re safe.’
His fingers try to squeeze mine. He rocks his head, urging me to take the blind off his eyes. Gently, I remove the tape that has got stuck in his hair and I can see him flinch as I do so. The sharp pain overrules the anxiety of not being able to see.
His eyes flutter open. Pupils dilating with the sudden light, and then he shuts them again. When he opens them again more carefully, he stares at me until he recognises me. And he relaxes.
‘Mr Bennett, Trevor,’ I say comfortingly, my voice hoarse. ’How good to see you.’
He squeezes his eyes shut and a tiny marble-like tear rolls down his cheek and disappears in his ear. He cries openly like a man who’s been given a second chance, who wants to tell everyone that he nearly died but was saved miraculously.
I try to untie his hands, but I need a knife or a pair of scissors to cut the strong plastic of the ties. He’s straightening up and I see his eyes widen. He still can’t believe that help has come for him eventually.
‘I need to find something to cut you free,’ I say, reassuringly, swallowing as I see panic rise in his eyes. ‘I’m only going to the kitchen.’
I think of the empty cupboards, and wonder if there might be something useful there. Like a knife or scissors.
He jerks his head, mutters something that sounds like a ‘no’ and I realise he still has the packing tape over his mouth. Attempting not to expose him to the sharp pain again, I try to tear it off his face carefully. His eyes are rolling in their sockets, he is almost passing out.
‘Trevor? Mr Bennett? Stay with me! Everything will be all right.’
He opens his eyes. I see more fear and panic. I don’t understand. There is a moment, a heartbeat of silence, when we stare at each other. He is trying to tell me something, I am trying to understand his silent message.
He lifts one finger from his tied-up hand and points at my shoulder.
I want to ask what he is trying to tell me. My mouth opens. No sound emerges. Instead, I hear something else. The rustle of footsteps on the soft carpet. Bennett is pointing again. I realise what he means when I feel something hitting me hard on my head. My legs buckle. Someone steadies me but my body crumples and I feel myself sliding onto the edge of the bed, and then falling onto the floor.
Then there is only darkness.
39
A face is peering down at me: a woman with swollen eyes and a dark red smudge across one ear. The earring is missing, ripped out. The other ear has a large gold loop in it. Strands of dull brown hair are hanging down beside her face. She is sniffing and sobbing; clear shiny fluid is running out of every orifice in her face, dripping onto me.
It’s Marcie Holt. I recognise her only by the clothes I saw in the wardrobe. She is dressed in a black skirt, but it is now spattered with dirt and torn at one side. One of the buttons on her blue blouse is missing and I can see the edge of a plain white cotton bra. No lace on the edges. Nothing fancy. There is a dark red stain just above her waist, though she doesn’t appear to notice that she might be hurt.
‘Hello?’ she whispers. ‘Are you awake?’
I try to nod, but the movement sends electric shock waves through my body. My head is pounding and there are little dots of light shooting from one end of my peripheral vision to the other. I don’t know how or why, but I know instantly that these light dots aren’t a good sign.
‘You’re Marcie,’ I half say, half ask. My mouth is dry and my lips are cracking. Every word is painful to speak.
‘Yes. Marcie Holt.’ Her voice is dull and I realise that she is in shock. Her eyes are vacant. She’s staring into the distance, not seeing anything. Her face looks like white and grey marble, like those ancient statues in museums. She’s holding a mobile phone in her hand. The screen is cracked but I can see the distorted letters of some notifications of messages.
‘You called me?’ She gestures with her mobile.
As I lift my head, a sharp pain shoots inside my skull and I nearly fall back into unconsciousness.
‘You are Tregunna?’
‘Yes,’ I say, but she doesn’t need an answer.
I move my head slowly. I recognise the wallpaper but it takes a while before I realise where I’ve seen it before. I’m lying next to a wall and on my other side I can see a cotton sheet printed with lavender and lilies-of the valley. A cold draught comes from underneath me and I realise that I ‘m lying on the floor in the narrow gap between a bed and the wall, my head half under a wooden dining chair.
Shards of memory are coming back.
‘Where is Collins?’ I try to see what’s behind her, but she is blocking my view, hanging too closely over me. ‘Marcie? Is he still here?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘And Bennett? Trevor Bennett?’
‘He’s gone. He’s left me.’
I try to think. Bennett has left her? It doesn’t make sense.
‘He left me.’ Her eyes are locked in horror.
‘Marcie, I need to know where Trevor Bennett is!’
‘I’m so sorry. I could have … I should have stopped him.’
I’m not sure if she’s talking about Collins or Bennett.
All the same, I become aware of the silence, which seems more frightening somehow. A shiver runs down my spine, a foreboding of danger. I need to get out of this place before Collins comes back. I’m not sure what he is capable of, whether he is responsible for the deaths of Alicia Poole and Wilbur Torrington, but I do know that he brought Trevor Bennett, voluntarily or not, to this flat and tied him up, and that he lied when Penrose and I spoke to him. And he knocked me unconscious.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, her voice hoarse with crying. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She’s constantly repeating herself, shaking her head as if she still can’t believe why her life is in such a mess. I want to tell her that this isn’t her fault at all, but somehow I know I’d be talking to deaf ears.
‘Where is Trevor Bennett? And where is Collins?’
&nb
sp; She stares at me, a flash of emotion in her eyes. There is something unfathomable in them. She’s stuck in a single moment, the moment her personal world collapsed. Possibly mine too. I feel a small tremor vibrating inside me, expanding from between my shoulders, filling my chest and throat. I try to move, but I can’t.
‘Marcie, you need to help me. Please!’
‘Don’t shout at me.’ She looks over her shoulder with raw fear in her eyes, ready to jump up and run away. Something tells me that, once she’s gone, she won’t come back.
‘Sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t shout at you, but you need to help me get up.’
Her eyes are blank. It’s pointless. Something horrifying is blocking her brain. I close my eyes and concentrate on trying to get up myself. Ignoring the pain and flashing lights in my eyes, I lift my head slowly until my forehead touches the leg of the chair above me. I move my shoulders. It’s painful, but I can do it. My arms. My legs. I can feel them, but they won’t move. I move my fingers. I wiggle my toes. I feel a prickling sensation and I can almost cry with relief. But then I fear that this could mean that the nerves to my limbs have been cut off, sending the wrong information to my brain. I move my fingers and toes again. Sharp pain, pins and needles. I can’t remember from the compulsory first-aid courses I attended whether this means that there is some permanent damage to my head or spine. And I still can’t move.
I panic. I try to focus and then gradually I realise that my wrists have been tied tightly behind me. I’m lying on my arms which have gone numb, making my shoulders ache by my uncomfortable position. I can move my fingers, but not my wrists and arms. My legs have been crossed over and my ankles are tied-up.
Whereas people, especially in films or books can escape miraculously from situations like this, I can’t. I shall need help.
I close my eyes and feel some energy beginning to return as though it has been drained out of me. I’m sure I’m not fatally wounded. I can move a bit but I need help to untie my arms and legs.
‘Marcie? Look at me! Is Collins still here?’
She blows her nose using a crumpled handkerchief she pulls from in the sleeve of her blouse. ‘He’s left me.’
‘Marcie, you have to help me. You have to untie my hands and feet.’ I remember the plastic ties around Bennett’s hands and feet. They were the type that are meant to be so strong that they can lift really heavy weights without breaking, which is one of the reasons we police use them more often than the traditional handcuffs when we make an arrest.
‘I’m sorry.’
I shake my head. ‘I can sort this out, but you have to help me get up first.’ My voice sounds convincing and I see a flash of understanding on her face, then her shoulders slump.
A fart escapes from my belly. At the same time I become aware of a terrible smell. Her nose still buried in her handkerchief, Marcie isn’t aware of it. Another fart. She stares at me. A gasp escapes from her mouth but I’m not sure why until I notice that my stoma bag is protruding and has grown to abnormal proportions. It is more or less the size of a cricket ball. There is a dirty mark on my shirt beneath it. I don’t want to think about what it is, but the smell is almost unbearable.
‘How long have I been here? What time is it?’
‘It’s past nine.’ It’s her first sensible reply. It’s light outside, so it must be morning.
I gaze at the dark red stain on her shirt. I’m not sure if it’s bigger than a few moments ago. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘He left me.’ Her eyes vacant again, she touches her side with her fingertips. As she lifts her shirt, I can see pieces of brown packing tape crisscrossed over her skin. There is blood around the edges, but I can see it’s dried blood, not fresh blood.
‘Are you alright?’
She shrugs. Indifferent. She’s still in shock and doesn’t seem to understand we need to get help. And she isn’t aware of the sense of urgency which puts us both in more danger.
I remember the kitchen, almost bare. Mugs in one cupboard, no proper cutlery in the drawers. No knives, let alone scissors.
‘Marcie, can you go to the flat next door and get a knife or a pair of scissors?’ I try to sound casual. If she senses my fear and panic, she may become frantic and not be able to do anything useful.
‘What do you need them for?’ Her eyebrows rise and her eyes are like saucers.
I need all my patience to remain calm. ‘To cut the ties around my hands and feet.’
‘Oh.’
‘Did you hear me, Marcie?’ I need your help. Go next door and get something to cut the ties for me. Please?’
She doesn’t move, she doesn’t speak. The moment of clarity, when she asked why I wanted a knife or scissors, seems to have worn off. Yet, somehow, I have to get through to her to make her aware of the situation, of the imminent danger to both of us.
‘Marcie, pull my legs. I can’t sit up. My head is under the chair. Pull my legs.’
She moves from the bed, staring down at my feet. ‘Pull, Marcie, please.’
‘Yes.’ She rises to her feet, stumbling as though she’s been drinking too much. I don’t know how long it takes but she repeats my words until they start making sense to her and she follows my orders to the letter.
Eventually, I am sitting on the end of the bed and she is standing beside me, panting, on her face an expression that suggests that, now that she’s fulfilled this task, she’s gone back into her shell.
‘Thank you for this, Marcie, you’ve been a great help. Now, I need you to find something sharp to cut the ties around my wrists and ankles. I can’t walk like this, can I?’ I end with a forced wink, as if this is all a game, but she doesn’t respond.
‘Go to Collins’s flat, Marcie, and get the sharpest knife you can find. Please.’
She nods, but my words haven’t registered. Or perhaps her brain stopped working when I mentioned Collins’s name.
By now I am pretty certain that Collins has gone but at the same time, I am aware that he might have been watching us all the time, listening. Waiting.
‘Marcie, be careful …’ I say, but she withdraws, walking backwards to the doorway, arms outstretched defensively and her eyes fixed as though she’s in a trance.
The flat is empty and silent, but I’m uncomfortably aware that she must have left the front door open. I can feel the cold air coming in, the mizzle dampening the atmosphere
Gradually, I come to the conclusion that I can’t expect any further help from Marcie. She hasn’t come back. She has either decided that it’s not in her best interest to help me escape or she’s slumped in a seat, wondering how the world around her has changed so much and so quickly. Either way, I have to hurry. I have to find out where Sam Collins is and where he has taken Trevor Bennett. I don’t allow myself to speculate about what might have become of Trevor. If I hadn’t been so stubborn and foolish coming here on my own, he would have been back home safely by now. I failed him, I failed Maureen, and I failed Marcie.
Sunlight filters through the drawn curtains. A black leather handbag is sitting by the mirror of the white dressing table.
Marcie’s handbag.
Most women carry a wealth of necessary and needless items with them. My mother had a leaflet with the bus timetables in her handbag for months; she never uses the bus as my father drives her everywhere. She also carried a small purse for foreign currency, empty since their last holiday abroad, four years ago. I hope Marcie’s handbag will be a similar treasure-trove for me.
With a mixture of determination and desperation, I rise to my feet, slightly out of balance with my hands and feet still tied up and my crossed legs.
A movement catches my eye. I don’t recognise the man in the mirror. He is staring at me with tired eyes, his clothes dirty, something the size of a cricket ball at the side of his belly, dirty stains on his shirt.
It seems to take forever to totter over to the dressing table. I lean and turn, grab one of the handles of the handbag before I fall over. Out of breath, I go back to
the bed. My heart is pounding and my head is spinning when I lie on the bed again. It feels like something or someone is hammering so hard on the inside of my skull that I fear I’ll faint. I lie on my side waiting for my headache to go, catching my breath, trying to calm down and think.
I don’t know where Marcie is or what she is doing. More importantly, I don’t know where Collins is. Marcie claims that he’s left her, but she was so confused that he could just have gone to the corner shop to get milk. And now he could be holding her hostage and waiting for me to appear.
I struggle for ages with my hands still tied behind my back to open the zipper and empty the contents of the handbag on the bedspread. Unable to see them I take each item in my hands and try to work out what it is as though I’m blindfolded in some sort of television show and I’ve got to name each item within a limited time to win a TV set, or a holiday to a sunny island.
Then I feel it. Nail clippers. Bless you Marcie.
40
They take me to the hospital. I share the ambulance with Trevor Bennett. People are shouting and shining torches in his eyes. He is strapped to a stretcher, briefly opening his eyes before he falls back into semi-consciousness. I sit next to him, my hope fading that he’ll be able to tell me what happened before the police interview him properly. The paramedic is crouched at the other end of the stretcher, checking in the evidence bag the pharmacy boxes which the police found in Collins’s flat and scribbling on a clipboard on his knee. He has already confirmed that Bennett had been drugged but they’re not certain which drugs Collins gave him, or how many.
Skipping the waiting area at the A&E department, we are steered towards a small cubicle. I feel quite guilty as we pass patients on trolleys or slumped in uncomfortable hospital wheelchairs, waiting to be consulted. Some of them look a lot worse than Trevor and me.
COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL Page 29