by Eva Hudson
“Yes?” Her voice inflected upwards.
“Can you open the door, please?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Please Katja.” Ingrid leaned into the door, speaking as gently as possible.
“I do not have key.”
Ingrid couldn’t believe it. “You’re locked in?”
No answer.
Ingrid checked the lock. It was just a simple latch. It would be easy enough to kick open, but she didn’t want to create any noise. She reached into her pocket for Jen’s charge card. She’d never actually used a card to open a lock, but she knew plenty of thieves who had.
Footsteps thundered up the wooden stairs. Someone was coming. Ingrid glanced both ways, then slid the plastic rectangle between the door and the frame. The lock depressed easily, and the door swung open.
Katja crouched on a small double bed, holding the comforter around her shoulders. She had a long red welt on her trembling face. Apart from the bed, the only other furniture in the room was a Victorian washstand, a wastepaper basket, and a wicker chair draped with clothes. In the corner was a riding crop. So that’s how the girls got the marks on their faces. Katja pressed herself against the wall.
“Do you remember me?”
Katja nodded. Her eyes were red from crying.
“I can get you out of here.”
The girl moved her head slowly from side to side. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Ingrid examined the lock from the inside. The knob that would normally open the lock had been removed, but the night latch still worked. Ingrid latched the lock in the open position and pushed the door to. She leaned against it and raised her finger to her lips. The footsteps outside got louder. The two women held eye contact as they listened to them approach. Ingrid couldn’t breathe. She dug her heels into the floor and pushed her body against the door, bracing for it to open.
The footsteps grew louder still. Ingrid felt them vibrate through the floor. They were right outside. But they did not stop. Whoever it was carried on down the corridor, stomping furiously.
“I spoke to your brother,” Ingrid whispered.
Katja looked confused.
“You used to call your family every week. From Tesco.”
She nodded.
“But you haven’t called them since you phoned for an ambulance.”
Katja looked over Ingrid’s shoulder at the door, as if she was expecting someone.
“My name is Ingrid. I work for… the police. I need to talk to you about the motorcycle accident.”
The comforter slipped off Katja’s bare shoulder. Ingrid suddenly placed the smell: sex. Ingrid picked up the clothes from the chair and gently put them on the bed. She turned to face the door. “I won’t look.” Ingrid balled her fists. She wasn’t just going to get Katja out, she was going to make the bastard who’d done this pay. “Get dressed.”
Katja shuffled behind her.
“Your sister had her baby. A girl. Xenia. She is doing very well.”
Katja sniffed loudly.
“You can call them later, when we get out of here.”
“I cannot leave,” Katja said. “They will not let me.”
Ingrid checked over her shoulder. Katja was dressed, so she turned around.
“And if they know I speak to you, they kill me.” Tears breached Katja’s eyes. “Please, go.”
Ingrid moved toward her and kneeled next to the bed. “I will protect you.” She held Katja’s gaze until the girl blinked. “And I will make sure the people holding you are punished.”
Katja’s head wobbled, as if she had lost all strength in her neck muscles. “But I did not see a motorcycle. I cannot help you. They will kill me.”
Ingrid ran a hand through her hair. “Katja. I am not going to leave you here. Even if you don’t want to talk about the accident, I will still protect you. What they are doing is illegal.”
“But there was no accident.” She wiped away her tears.
“Then why did you call 999?”
Katja’s shoulders heaved, and a sob shook her chest. “Ayana.”
Ingrid was not expecting that. “Who’s Ayana?”
30
Ingrid sat beside Katja and waited for the girl to speak. Her instinct was to put an arm around her, or to reach out and touch the girl’s hand, but Katja had had enough of unwanted physical contact for one day, if not a lifetime.
“Tell me about Ayana.”
Katja nodded she wanted to talk, but she couldn’t stop crying to get the words out. Ingrid needed to be patient.
“Whatever it is, I promise I will help.”
Katja wiped her face with her sleeve. “You are American, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So, you are not police?”
“American police. FBI.”
Katja screwed up her mouth. “So how can you help?”
Ingrid nodded. “I work at the US embassy in London. I work closely with the British police. I promise, whatever it takes, I will make sure you are protected.”
“You have gun?”
This shocked Ingrid. “Not today. Not here. Tell me about Ayana.”
Katja sniffed. Ingrid looked for a Kleenex for her. She saw several used condoms in the wastepaper basket, but there were no paper tissues.
“Ayana was new.” Katja wiped her nose with her hand. “Only been here two weeks.”
Ingrid didn’t like her use of the past tense.
“She was young, fifteen. No, fourteen. From Kyrgyzstan.” Katja froze at the sound of floorboards creaking. There was someone in the corridor. “He will come back,” she said. “If he finds you here…”
Ingrid crept over to the door. The footsteps didn’t get any closer. “Keep talking,” she whispered.
“Ayana thought she was getting good job, but…” Katja gestured at the room. “She fight. She say it not right. So…”
Ingrid pressed herself against the door to prevent it from opening. “I’m listening.”
“They have parties here.”
“Like tonight?”
“Yes. And when the guests leave… most of the guests, they make us… you know…”
Ingrid nodded. “They make you sleep with the remaining guests?”
Katja wiped away another tear. “And they take photographs.”
Ingrid clenched her fists to contain her anger.
“So, they say, oh you are just prostitute, you will be deported. You will bring shame on your family, you know?”
Tears pooled in the corner of Ingrid’s eyes.
“But Ayana said ‘no’. She said her family would know they had made her do it. They would tell the police, they would tell the TV people.”
An icy draft scraped under the door. “What happened to Ayana?”
“One month ago, I was cleaning. On the family’s floor, where their bedrooms are. There had been party the night before, and there is always a lot of cleaning. They like it all done before they get up. This man, this American man, one of the guests, he come out of his room and he ask for help.” She paused, letting out another sob.
Ingrid resisted the urge to offer comfort. Her job was to let Katja talk.
“Ayana was in his bed. He is going crazy. He is saying ‘oh no, oh no’, you know?” Katja bit the corner of her lip. “I look at Ayana, I try to help. But… but she is already… she is already dead.” Katja sniffed hard. “He ask me to call doctor, then he put his clothes on, put his boots on, he put his jacket on.” She wiped her tears away. “She is dead and he just leaves. Just go. Ride away.” She flicked her hand toward the small window. “I don’t know what to do, but I call for ambulance, only… Samir, he come, he take the phone and he tell me I will get killed too if I tell anyone. This,” she gestured to the room, the bed, the wastepaper basket with used condoms, “this is because I had a phone.”
Ingrid shifted her weight and took Marshall’s phone out of her pocket. “I promise to get you out of here.”
“How?” She shrugged. “They will kill you when they find y
ou. Bury you with the others.”
Ingrid searched on her phone for an image. “Others?”
“In the woods. Girls who got sick. Girls who starve themselves to escape. Boys who are too much trouble.”
“And Ayana?”
“Yes.”
Ingrid held out the iPhone and showed Katja a photo of Marcus Williams. “Please take a look. Is this the man? The man who killed Ayana?”
Katja took the phone. “It is the man, but he did not kill Ayana.”
“He didn’t?”
“Bashir kill Ayana.”
Ingrid was confused. “If Bashir killed her, why was Ayana in this man’s bed?”
Katja shrugged. “Maybe they blackmail him too.”
Ingrid fell hard against the door. Katja hadn’t witnessed the accident, but she had seen so much worse. “And who is Bashir?”
Fear flashed across Katja’s face.
“Is he the one who takes you to the supermarket? Who did this to you?”
“Yes.”
“And he killed Ayana?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Oksana, one of us, she see him.” Katja held her hands in front of her and mimed placing them around someone’s neck.
“And this man,” Ingrid pointed to the photo of Williams. “This man thinks she died in his bed? He thinks he killed her?”
Katja pushed out her bottom lip. “Yes.”
No wonder Marcus Williams fled. No wonder he had an accident on a bike he wasn’t trained to ride. The lengths he’d gone to in covering up the hit-and-run made sense now. He couldn’t risk being caught for Matthew Harding’s death because he feared he would also be charged with Ayana’s murder.
Ingrid needed to think quickly. Assuming Ayana’s body could be found, and traces of Williams’s DNA were still retrievable, it still wouldn’t place him at Uppenham Hall on November nineteenth. Only Katja’s testimony could. And that meant Ingrid’s first priority was getting Katja to safety.
“Katja,” Ingrid said, “I am getting you out of here tonight.”
“How?”
Ingrid didn’t have a car. “There is a truck,” she said, “it belongs to the florist. I will get you into it, and you will hide. When the truck is outside the grounds, I will make the driver stop and you will be free.” She didn’t even know if the florist was still on the premises, but she hoped her plan sounded convincing.
“Then what?”
“Then we call the police and they will take care of you, and they will arrest Bashir and––” Ingrid stopped. Someone was in the corridor. Someone large and heavy and angry. The floor shook as he approached.
Ingrid felt the door move rattle as he put his key in the lock. It didn’t turn because of the night latch. He took the key out. Ingrid thumbed the latch, locking the door, and stepped to one side, flattening herself against the wall. She looked at Katja and raised a finger to her lips. The girl’s eyes widened with fear. Ingrid heard his breathing through the door.
He tried the key again. This time the lock turned and the door flew open, shielding Ingrid from his view.
“Get up,” he said. His voice was deep and thunderous.
Katja pushed the duvet off and shuffled to the edge of the bed.
“Take off your jeans.”
Ingrid nodded at the girl, telling her to obey his instructions. From the other side of the door, he threw something at her. A pink box. Wax depilation strips.
“You’re a hairy bitch.”
Ingrid almost gasped with shock.
“I told you to take your fucking jeans off, didn’t I?” Ingrid couldn’t place his accent, but wherever he was from, his London vowels meant he’d lived in the UK for a long time.
Katja fumbled with her zipper. Surely he would not make her do it with the door open? Ingrid held onto her breath, desperate not to give away her advantage.
“Faster.”
The floorboard moved as he shifted his weight and Ingrid readied herself. She reached into her pocket for the bike key. He took a step toward the bed. He was almost six feet. Over two hundred pounds. His shaved head glistened with sweat.
Ingrid mirrored his next step, shadowing him as he crossed the room. He sensed her and turned. She thrust her fist toward his face, aiming the bike key at his left eye. He grabbed her wrist but she twisted her arm free of his grasp. Her knee made contact with his balls. As he fell forward, she clenched her hands together and rammed them up into his jaw.
“Run. Get out!”
Bashir wheeled back toward Ingrid and he reached for her head.
“Go!”
The girl was too scared to move. She hadn’t even zipped up her jeans.
Bashir clasped the back of Ingrid’s head. He brought his own down sharply, aiming his forehead at hers. Ingrid bent her knees to avoid the blow, but he ripped a fistful of her hairs from their roots. Ingrid reared up, cracking her head into his jaw. Pain detonated in her scalp, radiating outward as he stumbled backward.
“You fucking bitch, you’re––”
He froze. He stood motionless. Only his mouth moved, opening slowly. His hands reached behind his head as Katja brought the riding crop down hard against his neck another time, slicing the flesh. His blood flecked Ingrid’s face. She raised her right knee, slamming it into his groin. A third thwack of the crop landed on the side his face, sending him down onto his knees. Ingrid drove a Dr Marten sharply into his ribs. When he grabbed his sides, she kicked again to cripple his fingers.
Katja’s eyes were bulging with horror. The crop still quivered in her grasp. She couldn’t believe what she had done. Ingrid grabbed her arm and pulled her out into the corridor. Bashir kneeled with his head on the bed, dazed and unseeing. Ingrid picked up the chair and slammed it into the side of his head. He slumped forward and fell onto the floor. Ingrid rolled him over and reached into his pocket for his keys. She pocketed them and pulled the door shut. It would take him a while to get out.
“Come on,” Ingrid said. “Let’s go.”
“It is this way.” Katja led Ingrid away from the elevator. “We have to get the others.”
“Others?”
“I cannot leave them here.”
“How many are you?”
“Eight.”
How the hell was she going to get eight of them out?
31
“We have to be quick,” Ingrid said. “A few kicks and he’ll break down that door. You get the others and I’ll come and find you at the rear entrance.”
They raced down the servants’ staircase.
“No, too much danger,” Katja said. “We meet in walled garden. We talk about this many times. We hide there till you bring truck.”
“How long will that take?”
“I not know where everyone is. Half hour, maybe.”
“We don’t have that long. Five minutes, max.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs where Ingrid had encountered the groundskeeper and headed to the back of the house. Katja went to the kitchen and Ingrid ran outside to find the florist’s truck. The cold air whipped inside her shirt as she rushed toward the parked vehicles. None of the drivers were behind the wheel, and all the doors of the vans and trucks were locked. Ingrid hurried back into the house to find anyone with a key to any kind of vehicle. It didn’t matter what it was. If it had gas in the tank, she would take it. She reached the dining hall where the table was set and the floral centerpieces had been installed, but the room was deserted. Where was everyone?
Ingrid ran on to the ballroom and found the serving staff already in position, holding trays of drinks. The first guests were imminent. The last thing she needed was to be asked to help, so she ducked back into the corridor and opened the next door she came to. She stepped into a side room, a library of some sort, and examined the keys she had taken off Bashir. None of them were car keys. Damn.
Voices drifted in from the passageway. The first arrivals.
“…of course, if I had shares in i
t, I might feel differently…”
“…ah, yah, well, the best time to buy…”
“…was ten years ago!”
Ingrid waited till they had passed and opened the door. She edged out into the hall and walked as purposefully toward the front entrance. She had a good idea where she could get a vehicle. The closer she got to the lobby, the cooler the air became. Up ahead, she saw where the corridor opened out into the reception area with the Christmas tree and fake gifts. Beyond it was the corridor in the east wing where the cloakroom was. Inside the cloakroom, she was counting on finding a car key inside a pocket of a discarded winter coat. Pleasantries and greetings drifted down the passageway as the host welcomed more guests.
She couldn’t walk through the lobby with the family there, not with Bashir’s blood slashed across her shirt and a clump of hair missing. She needed to create a distraction. She searched for a fire alarm button to press but couldn’t spot one. The chatter stopped and two guests left the foyer and walked toward her. She couldn’t let them see her up close, so she tried the handle of a door and slipped inside another darkened room.
Ingrid leaned against the door and breathed heavily. Katja would be gathering the girls. Bashir would have broken the door down. She didn’t have time to hide. The moment Bashir or anyone else noticed the girls were missing, the chance to get them to safety was gone. When the guests had passed, Ingrid checked the room for a fire alarm panel, and when she didn’t see one, she opened the door. She peered down the corridor at the lobby. How the hell was she going to get on the other side without being seen?
Her options were limited. Run all the way back through the house and approach from the other wing? No. It would take too long and the risk of being caught was too high. Jump out a window and break into the cloakroom from the outside? Out of the question. There was only one plausible option: speed.
Ingrid ran hard toward the entrance. She fixed her gaze on the opposite corridor and accelerated. If she was quick enough, no one would have time to stop her. She didn’t glance at the sheikh and his acolytes. She kept her focus front and center. Lactic acid seared into her quads.
Ingrid saw the wrapped boxes under the Christmas tree too late. Her toe clipped one as she leaped over it. It wasn’t the empty prop she’d imagined and she clattered to the ground, her knee slamming hard into the stone floor. Stars pricked her vision. Pain exploded through her leg.