by R. S. Sutton
‘Really?’ said Valerie. ‘How about the other?’
‘Suit, black I think, not sure – he was the one holding me from behind.’
‘Real brave lads,’ said Valerie, pinching a Ferrero Rocher. ‘Anyway, that one should be easy to identify.’ She tossed the gold wrapper into the waste basket. ‘Just so long it’s not his beating-up-small-girls uniform,’ she added quietly.
Valerie stayed for a couple of hours. Before leaving, she phoned Charlie. ‘I think we need a guard on Jane. Don’t want to call in the police in case we get a bent one. If you can spare someone? Needs to be twenty-four hours or there’s no point. Make out a proper invoice and I’ll make sure you get paid.’
Valerie waited outside Jane’s room for perhaps twenty minutes until a slim but well-built man of about six foot two came along the corridor, his patent leather crocodile shoes marking out long, measured steps. The pure white shirt cuffs, revealed at the sleeve ends of his neatly cut grey suit, were fastened with opal links that matched the tie pin on his blue silk tie. His eyes were soft brown, and the slight smile revealed perfect white teeth.
‘Miss Stone?’ His voice was sweet, dark and thick, like the molasses of his native Barbados. ‘I’m Winston. Charlie sent me.’
Valerie pushed at the door. ‘Meet Jane,’ she said, ushering him in. ‘Only leave her to hand over to someone else.’ On raising his eyebrows, she added, ‘There’s a shower and toilet through the door in the corner.’
‘Okay.’ He approached the bed and put a large but gentle hand on Jane’s shoulder. ‘Now don’t you worry no more, Miss Jane, Winston’s here.’
Seeing Jane’s face relax, Valerie slipped quietly from the room as something very private and very intimate silently passed between the two strangers.
Twenty
In spite of brown parcel tape securing the two cracks in the glass panel, it still rattled as Valerie knocked on the faded blue doorframe. The flat was part of a dreary concrete complex. Graffiti covered the walkways that connected three flat-roofed constructions. The part-tarmac, part-mud parking area at the foot of the compound had several vehicles up on breeze blocks, the occasional new car indicating where that particular tenant’s priorities lay.
Along the open corridor, split and untied black bin liners spilt rotting contents into a communal gutter. Broken toys, long abandoned in the grime, were scattered around. Architects got praise for this heap of garbage, thought Valerie. They should have been made to live in one, or thrown from the top of the highest. She shook oily water from one of her trainers.
Balancing a strawberry yogurt and plastic spoon in one hand, a short-sleeved man pulled back the door. ‘Yes?’
Valerie moved away as he thrust himself forward. ‘Inspector Jamison?’
‘Well?’
‘Can I come in? Have a word?’
‘About?’
Thinking that she would only get the door shut in her face with a general enquiry, she pulled out her security pass. ‘Inside would be better.’
‘Jesus Christ and chief constables,’ he tutted, ‘it’s the bloody Girl Guides.’ Stepping aside, he motioned her into the lounge.
The paintwork had long lost its gloss in the gloomy room and was now a pale yellow. Wallpaper showed oblongs of dust where pictures had been removed. The odd piece of matching furniture sat on a carpet that had not been vacuumed for several weeks. If this man was on the take, it was not being spent here.
Moving a basket of underwear and socks to the ironing board, she brushed the chair with the back of her hand and sat down. ‘Maid’s day off?’
‘No. Wife and kids’ day off. Bleedin’ permanent.’ He moved a couple of ornaments along the mantelpiece and put his yogurt down. ‘What do you want?’
‘Few nights ago, your lads pulled someone at the scene of a beating down by the river. Where is he?’
‘Why, what’s it got to do with you? Your mob let Queen and country sleep at night. What’s a second-rate sex attack doing on your desk?’
‘Where is he?’
‘Don’t know,’ he said, taking a bottle from the side and pouring two glasses. ‘I’ll just get some ice.’ Valerie shook her head. ‘Tea?’
‘Coffee if you have some, milk, no sugar.’
He returned a few minutes later, handed a mug to Valerie and took a mouthful of the whisky. ‘Good stuff. Small distillery on the Western Isles, got a couple of bottles when I was up there last year. Very smooth. We had the guy in custody for just an hour when a couple from the Yard breezed in and took him away. That’s all I know. They just flashed their cards and that was that. Special Branch.’
‘We’ll check,’ said Valerie, getting to her feet and finishing the coffee. ‘If you’re straight then I’m sorry for disturbing you.’ She started to hand the mug back, but her fingertips went numb and it slipped from her grip, while colour drained from the surroundings. Staggering back, a black curtain descended and she fell to the floor.
***
A pain between the eyes was the first thing she became aware of, then a dim lightbulb, dangling from the ceiling, came into focus. Unresponsive limbs refused any command, but she managed to raise a head that felt full of lead.
Why time should be so important she wasn’t sure, but there was only a pale shadow around her wrist; the watch was gone. Motionless, she let her eyes take in the surroundings. The ceiling was low, no more than a couple of metres. The walls discoloured and cracked, an odd patch disclosing the old distemper. It was obvious that, as bad as the flat complex was, she was no longer there.
The only sound, as she let her head fall back, was the creaking of rusty springs. Her dry tongue tentatively moved around her mouth. She closed her lips and attempted to breathe slowly through her nose. After about a minute, she managed to produce enough saliva to swallow. In an effort to stop the rising panic, she first, very gently, managed to wiggle the fingers on her right hand, then her left. One foot after the other responded to her mental commands, each circle of movement getting larger. Then with relief she was able to flex each knee. Her brain started to clear as she flicked feeling into her left arm, becoming conscious of a chain around her right wrist.
After about fifteen minutes, she managed to turn and sit up. As her eyes became accustomed to the light, she could see that she was on an old single, iron bed. A table, with peeling veneer, and chair were nearby. To their side was a bucket and lid, together with a few sheets of toilet paper. As there was no window, she supposed the small room to be a cellar. A tantalising bottle of what looked like water, and a plastic glass, sat on the table.
She stood up and took a few tentative steps but, because of the length of chain that had been attached to the wall, could not reach the door. She stretched for the handle but was not even close. Sitting back down on the bed, her dry mouth refused to let her eyes leave the bottle of water.
She sat there reassuring herself that, as she was not face down in a ditch, whoever was responsible for her imprisonment had other things on their mind. She also reasoned that in order to soften her up, she would not see them for at least twenty-four hours. That only left one problem to work on in the meantime: was the water drinkable? It seemed common sense that there was nothing wrong with it, but the primitive desire of survival made her sit back and look away.
Trying to keep some sense of time is difficult. Anyone deprived of daylight changing to night, let alone no watch, is quickly days out. Like being lost in the desert, trying to get out just ends up in a circle back to finding the footsteps that started the journey. On top of that, how long had she been unconscious?
Pulling the blankets over the bed, she managed to sleep. It could have been ten hours; it could have been one. With her mouth full of thick saliva, it was probably several, but that could just have been lack of water. After making use of the bucket, she flopped back onto the bed, waiting for the appearance she was sure would come soon
. Meanwhile, she tried to slip the manacle from her wrist. It had been bolted rather than locked on, leaving a small but definite gap. If she could get hold of some soap, and if the pain was not… The door opened.
A man in his early twenties came in and put a plate of gammon and fried eggs on the table. From what she could guess and her complaining stomach, she thought it early evening. He looked at the water, took off the top and drank a small amount, before cutting a piece of gammon and putting it into his mouth. He then went to the door, picked up a clean bucket and replaced the one by Valerie’s bed. It was over in less than a minute.
The man left no knife or fork, but even eating with her fingers, the thick gammon was gone in seconds. Licking at the last dribbles of egg, Valerie then washed the salty taste away with the cold water.
So as to try and keep some sense of how time was passing, she took the manacle and marked the wall. She judged it twelve hours before the man reappeared.
‘Wait. Please.’ She held his eye as he handed her a plastic bowl of stew. ‘I need some Tampax.’ Only raising his eyebrows, the man still said nothing. ‘Time of the month. I’m not wanting to smoke them.’ Immediately regretting the wisecrack, she gave a weak smile. Although the man said nothing, Valerie continued, ‘And I’ll need some soap and a little water, please.’
After the meal, she wiped her hands on the blanket and longed for a shower. The request would be futile, so she pushed the thought aside.
On the next visit, Valerie got the Tampax. The soap was the prized item, but not wanting any evidence of the tampons not being used, she was pleased when he also dropped disposal bags on the bed.
It was while experimenting with the soap and shackle that Valerie started to wonder how long this was going to go on. Just how clever were her jailers, apart from being sharper than she had been? She was aware that a comfortable feeling had started to drip into her brain. Were they drugging her? Or was this how prisoners, left to their own devices, began to feel? Suddenly, in the middle of this meditation, the manacle slipped from her wrist.
Not knowing what was on the other side of the door or how many guards were there, she pushed the shackle back into position, which hurt a lot more than its removal. Lying back on the bed, the pain and anguish gave way to fitful sleep.
Then there was a moment when she thought the situation had been something her overactive brain had come up with. A gentle sensation smoothed her face, then travelled down to a willing breast. But stirring, the beginning of a smile fell away as she became aware of the cold dampness. She was not in a warm apartment, stretching out to a desired lover.
‘What the hell?’ She twisted round as the thoughtful caressing of her breast turned to a painful squeeze. ‘Bastard!’ She pulled away as the colourful braces came into focus. ‘This the way you get your thrills? You friggin’ pervert.’
The squeeze was replaced by a sharp slap across the face. ‘Come on, you fucking tart, don’t make out you’re not getting all sweaty,’ he said, reaching to the top of her thighs.
‘Not for you, you bloody creep.’ She struck out, throwing the chain around his neck. ‘Now get your filthy hands off me or I’ll reduce your windpipe to a pulp.’
Gripping the chain, he moved his head to one side, choking for breath. ‘Okay, okay.’
‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ The young man had returned with a fresh bucket. ‘You know what Jenny said, keep your bleedin’ hands off.’
‘Thanks.’ Valerie scraped the chain over her attacker’s head and, with a flexed knee, sent him across the room.
He wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, swore and pointed a finger across the room. ‘Another time, girl. You and me ain’t finished.’
‘You stupid prick,’ she heard the young one’s hushed voice as the footsteps faded along the corridor, ‘only Jenny dishes it out. Carry on like that and you’ll follow the others.’
Alone again, she leant back against the grubby wall. Bloody hell, what was wrong with Gillian’s idea? Surround herself with Giorgio Armani and Christian Dior. From where she sat now, a little perfume shop was definitely preferable. She was musing about who was responsible for her incarceration and if she’d ever met them, when the door opened.
‘You fallen into something you can’t get out of?’ Valerie said, trying to catch his eye as the young man returned and placed a lamp on the table. ‘I know someone else like you. Call the police and I’ll do what I can. Carry on like this and you’ll finish up in a skip, staring at the stars.’
A woman walked in. ‘Trying to corrupt one of my boys?’ she said, stopping by the table. ‘Well, Miss Stone, what are we going to do with you?’ She motioned the young man away. ‘You’re getting to be a bit of a pain in the backside. We’re here trying to do a little business and you keep shoving your nose in.’ She switched on the light, preventing Valerie from seeing who else had quietly shuffled in. ‘Let’s start with what department,’ the woman continued. ‘MI5?’
Holding allegiance to none but herself, a way out was Valerie’s only thought. Squinting at the glaring light, she shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m just a private investigator. Just doing some work for an insurance company.’
‘Do me a favour,’ said the woman, throwing Valerie’s ID onto her lap. ‘Those did not drop out of a packet of cornflakes.’
‘They’re just something I got printed up. Most people don’t know what an official ID looks like. Gets me no end of information in my work.’ Gambling that the woman wouldn’t know a true warrant or security pass from a counterfeit, Valerie tried a straight bluff. ‘Have a close look. All of them are fakes; real ones have a luminous blue stripe down the side.’ She threw in the false description in a matter-of-fact voice.
The woman’s eyes narrowed as she crossed the short distance and picked the ID back up. ‘Don’t get cute with us, Valerie.’
Her querying expression gave Valerie a little hope as the woman went back behind the lights, where a few soft whispers were exchanged. ‘There’s no way out,’ she said returning. A strike across Valerie’s face was sharp and unexpected. She threw the cards back down. ‘The hand you’re holding is crap.’
The searing pain, made worse by the large ring on the woman’s finger, drove the little spirit Valerie had into a black pit.
‘It’s true, honestly.’ Managing to keep her growing dread under control, Valerie licked the blood from her lip. ‘What do you want me to say? I’m just caught up in something I know nothing about. I was asked to look into the insurance claim on Alan Preston’s life. I’m just trying to spin the expenses out. Just a body on the beach, and every day I can add is more in my account. That’s all there is to it.’
The woman disappeared behind the lights again, but all Valerie could hear were low murmurings. Resisting the urge to be sick, she swallowed hard, the bile burning the back of her throat. She rose unsteadily to her feet, trying to ease the panic. She was immediately confronted by the two men who, with a steel grip, held her securely while the woman struck out with a piece of garden hose across the back of her thighs. It was as excruciating as it was sudden.
‘Any ideas come to mind?’ she said, taking a breath before nodding at the two men. One of them ripped the sweat-drenched T-shirt from Valerie’s back as the man with the braces stepped from the shadows and handed the woman a cigarette. She drew deeply, clearly enjoying the nicotine and Valerie’s dread, before blowing the smoke towards the ceiling. ‘You’ve been running around the south coast like bloody Wonder Woman, causing us no end of fucking trouble. Now we’d like to know what you’ve found out, and no shit about a bloody insurance company.’
Somewhere in the house, Valerie could hear music. It must have been playing for a while, but only now did she become conscious of it. Beethoven.
The frantic cry was dragged from deep inside as jagged pain shot through her arm. A violent twist sent a bent wrist up between protruding shoul
der blades, mixing fear with the agonising torture. At first she thought it broken or dislocated, but as it was released the pain eased.
With the diminishing pain returned the music. The Emperor Concerto. The particular Beethoven skill of making the piano notes seem to bounce, mixed with Valerie’s terror, left a surreal emotion she could not define.
The woman drew in another lungful of smoke as the two men turned Valerie around, the hose flashing across her back, extracting a violent scream that rebounded from the walls. Begging for respite, she felt the cigarette burn into her tender skin lower down.
‘Well? Any ideas or is it tits next, before we move on to the more interesting parts?’ The woman smiled as she produced a Stanley knife. ‘You choose, my dear. Burn them off, or would you prefer something a little sharper?’
Valerie twisted from side to side as electrifying bolts of terror shot through her brain. The nightmare of pain and death reached down and gripped her pulsating body as she realised they knew all about her. What information might have satisfied them she couldn’t retrieve, as her racked brain refused to work, the roller coaster of panic descending into a black tunnel.
A bell rang from somewhere above them.
‘Fuck!’ The woman ground the cigarette into the floor with her heel. ‘Who the bloody hell is that?’ With blood pumping crimson streaks through her cheeks, she flung an obscenity at Valerie before striking her across the face. ‘Who the bloody hell is that?’ She looked around at the blank expressions. ‘Out!’ she screamed at the two men. ‘Get upstairs. Out!’ She took a final kick at Valerie, picked up the ID and followed the men out of the cellar.
It was either now or her mutilated body was going over the nearest cliff. She caked her wrist in soap and savagely yanked her hand free of the manacle. Holding her wrist, the door gave way to a hard shove and she stumbled through into the corridor. ‘Stupid bastards.’ Feverishly looking around for a weapon, she grabbed her jacket and picked up the hose end. ‘Useless,’ she said, throwing it into a corner.