The Vault

by Karen Long

  “Caleb,” he repeated, as if that would somehow ensure that it had been stored in his memory. “Would you like a few moments to prepare yourself?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Eleanor replied. The man nodded and turned his back to her. She undressed to her underpants and lay down on the bed. The hotel had supplied sheets of laudable vintage with a faint brown stain in the middle, which gave the event the rather sordid vibe she secretly loved. The hand and ankle cuffs had been supplied by Eleanor herself and were designed to allow the wearer an unscripted escape if the narrative wasn’t going according to plan. “I’m ready,” she said simply. The man turned to her, his breaths increasing as he took in her appearance. It was immaterial to Eleanor whether the man did or didn’t find her attractive and as he took in her slender frame and small breasts she wondered if he found her as repulsive as she often found herself.

  The man shrugged off his jacket and hurriedly slid it over the back of a metal chair, loosened his tie and slackened his belt. His fingers trembled fractionally, as he placed his hand onto her stomach. For a moment he was completely still and silent, as if mesmerised by the scene, then with a halting fumble he grabbed her wrists and fastened her to the uprights of the headboard. Her acquiescence must have given him more confidence, as he cuffed her ankles together in a fluid motion and then sat back onto the bed to take in her vulnerability. His trousers bulged tightly at the crotch in a tasteless display of arousal. Eleanor glanced away; she didn’t want to see evidence that her selected partner was sexually stimulated by the act. It was etiquette that the majority of men or women that she shared these events with remained stolidly indifferent to the process. The right to a climax was hers, for the dominant partner, retrospection in the privacy of his or her room was the ideal.

  The event began calmly and predictably with some gentle stroking, interspersed with slaps and squeezes. The man had managed to vary the rhythms so that she wouldn’t be able to anticipate when a blow or pinch would occur. Eleanor didn’t writhe or pull away from the blows she let them purge her. Nothing she’d felt whilst sitting in Seb Blackmore’s office had been as cathartic as this. She allowed her mind to drift as her body made and wasted endorphins. Sensing her ease the man flipped her onto her belly, causing her arms to twist across each other, pressed to each side of her head. He pushed her face into the mattress, while slapping her legs and buttocks. She was conscious of being uncomfortable and restricted by her position but more concerning was that she could no longer see the man’s expression. She pulled her head back sharply in an effort to free her face from suffocation but sensing this he pushed it down again, pressing so hard she felt the cartilage in her nose begin to crack. Before she could make a decision regarding the aborting of the event, the pressure was released and gently he turned her onto her back and let her recover. He had stepped away from her, as if taking time to calm himself. She examined his face and noted with a rising panic that he was no longer able to meet her eye. With a sudden lunge, he leaped onto the bed, straddled her and slapped hard at her face. That in itself wasn’t particularly distressing, it was her glance at his left hand that sent a warning pulse through her. He was fishing in his pocket for something.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed, bending her middle finger and pinioning it with her thumb in preparation to release the emergency catch. The man looked puzzled and then pulled out a white cotton handkerchief, which he used to mop his brow, shrugging off her concerns with an eye roll. The man was still, as if deep in thought. Eleanor waited, her breathing hard and ambivalent. He cleared his throat and began to speak haltingly. “I want to blindfold you.”

  Keeping her eyes firmly on his face she slowly rolled her head from side to side. He took a couple of seconds to mull over this reply before grabbing her hips and twisting her onto her belly. He pushed her face between her arms and into the mattress with his left hand, dropping his weight on top of her. Her finger was beginning to twitch under the pressure of holding it against the catch. Just as she felt his penis push between her legs she unclipped the cuff, releasing her hand. ‘Rule One’ stated clearly and categorically that no attempt at any form of penetration would be tolerated. The rage that suddenly began to boil inside her had a detached, almost clinical quality to it. In fact she could have been lying in Seb Blackmore’s chair, focusing on the little grey dot for all her conscious self knew.

  Eleanor grabbed his left wrist with her free hand and twisted it as hard as she could, using her right hand to push her away from the bed and embed her elbow into the soft tissue of the man’s neck. Rotating her hips, she shoved her knees into his groin causing him to drop his raised fist and roll off the bed in a rictus of silent pain. As he fought for expression, she unfastened her right hand and not waiting to free her ankles, rolled off the bed and onto his chest. The first couple of punches broke his nose and snapped his bridgework. The second volley was less emotionally satisfying but the monotonous delivery, despite upbraiding the knuckles of her right hand, were a succinct reminder that rules were there for both party’s protection.

  She really wasn’t sure how many seconds or even minutes had passed before she decided that some sort of external help was required. The man sobbed and cowered in the corner of the room, his erection long since deflated in contrast to that of his face and neck. His eyes were sealed with blood and haemorrhage and his spat out bridgework gave his collapsed features an ageless misery.

  “Laurence?” she whispered into the phone.

  “Yeah?” he said sleepily.

  “I need you.”

  Laurence made a cursory knock as he opened the door to Eleanor’s apartment and marched in.

  “He insists on not pressing charges,” he said angrily. “What the fuck are you doing? This is the second guy you’ve hospitalised in a matter of days!” He was struggling to modulate his tone and decibel level. “This is insane!” He began to pace in an effort to control his frustration. He pointed a finger at Eleanor and then withdrew it. “I am sick of being reminded that I fail you as a partner…”

  “I have never said that,” responded Eleanor, calmly.

  “You don’t need to say anything! The whole fucking department feels as though I let you down and that I don’t support either your ideas or methods of policing.”

  “I don’t feel you’re alone on that one.” She tried a smile but Laurence was on a roll. She watched his body language change as he revved himself up for the argument.

  “Hughes had put you in a plastic body bag and was hanging you off a meat hook when I found you and how did he find you?” Laurence’s cheeks were red, his pupils dilated with anger. Eleanor suspected that this was rhetorical and kept quiet, waiting for the inevitable answer. “He was gifted this information by a guy you met casually for abusive sex! But not having bothered to learn anything from this near death experience, you are still contacting random guys using the same card!”

  Eleanor was feeling considerably less calm. “You have no right to…”

  “I have every fucking right to!” he bellowed. “Because it wasn’t just your life on the line when I went in to save you!”

  “Would it have been more acceptable if Hughes had located me using his own initiative and not that of a casual sexual encounter?”

  “You’re a detective and you exposed yourself to unnecessary danger by your actions!” he hissed.

  “I do that every day I put on a badge. You are objecting to my sex life, which is not yours to scrutinise or judge,” she said quietly.

  “This relationship was killed, once and for all, when you accused me of arranging to have you kidnapped and tortured…I’d say that you do a pretty good job of arranging that yourself,” he said, opening the door and slamming it shut behind him.

  The silence settled heavily.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Samuelson looked tired. He hadn’t shaved and was worrying his sleeve cuffs. “Your partner came in earlier to see me. He was very upset.” He waited for her to say something but w
hen nothing was forthcoming he carried on. “It is his belief that you are no longer fit for work.”

  Eleanor nodded, aware that Samuelson was scrutinising her hand and the bruising around her face. He leaned forward, his voice lowered. “I knew you weren’t ready to come back.” He looked away and sank back into his chair. “I don’t know what has happened and –” he put up a warning hand “–don’t want either to be told or given a hint of the reason because if you do that I have to investigate. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  She nodded.

  “I am recommending that you accept the decision by this department that you require another three months’ further sick leave, with a period of psychological assessment and probation before resuming full time responsibilities. Is that acceptable to you?”

  Eleanor slowly shook her head. “I accept.” Her career in homicide was over now. If Seb Blackmore deigned to provide an endorsement of psychological fitness, she’d be considered too fragile or jumpy for front line crime. They’d give her a pay rise and extra stripes but she’d be desk bound till retirement.

  “I’m putting Whitefoot in charge of the case and Smith as his second. Mo will supervise unofficially. Give a debriefing before you take your leave.”

  She thought about this for a moment.. “Of course.” She got to her feet.

  “I’ll need –” he began but she was already placing her badge and firearm on his desk.

  Smith seemed particularly unhappy about the change in leadership. He stared grimly at Laurence as he explained that they would be running the case together for the foreseeable future with help from Mo. “I don’t want this shit,” he said with conviction.

  Laurence shrugged.

  “I don’t want it because I don’t know what the fuck we’re dealing with and those connections you see on the board…” he looked pointedly at Eleanor. “I don’t see any of those. I do not excel at these sorts of investigations,” he said, choosing his words carefully.

  Eleanor nodded. “I’ll be ready to read through any material and advise. I would suggest that you start…”

  “This is something to do with you, isn’t it?” he said, scowling at Laurence. “You think you can do this without her. That you’re going to ride in like the fucking cavalry with the perp roped behind you, like Jesse fucking James. Well –”

  “Laurence is right. I’m not ready for work,” said Eleanor quietly.

  “The fuck! You were alright yesterday!” said Smith.

  “You need to interview Toby Adams today.” she said calmly. “The link is the ROM. It’s important that you put that in the centre of the investigation.”

  Laurence nodded, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. “You coming?” he glared at Smith. Taking sufficient time to register his reticence, Smith snatched up his pad and gave Eleanor a last growl. “You’d better pick up!”

  Mo walked passed them, his cheeks flushed. “What the hell’s going on? Samuelson’s just told me that you’re on sick leave and Whitefoot’s in charge.”

  Eleanor got to her feet. “I need a little time, that’s all.” She gathered some papers together and put them into a box.

  Mo rubbed his head. “Something’s happened. Is it…Can I help in any way?”

  “I fucked up but it’ll be ok,” she smiled.

  Mo shook his head. “Not on this you haven’t. I just popped in to see Timms. Tommy Banks can be linked to the ROM. The Saturday morning class he attends is held there.”

  Eleanor’s body language changed in an instant. “What sort of class?”

  “Apparently. It’s for ages five to fourteen. They draw stuff and learn about it. He’s been going there for about six months.”

  “I need a list of anyone who helped out there. You need to make sure Whitefoot gets all the employees’ names and addresses. Our killer’s name is on that list,” she said emphatically.

  “Keep your phone on you,” said Mo anxiously.

  Eleanor took a final wistful glance at her office and headed towards the stairs.

  “Mo!” barked Samuelson, on seeing Eleanor depart.

  “Boss?” Mo replied, walking into his office and closing the door behind him.

  “You run everything past Raven you understand. Whitefoot and Smith have no fucking idea what they’re doing. It’s unofficial though. Anything she touches now will be thrown out of court so don’t use any official channels; that includes work cell phones.”

  Mo smiled and tapped his forehead with two fingers in salute.

  “Toby Adams?” asked Laurence, peering at the worried looking, middle-aged curator.

  Toby nodded cautiously. “Is this about Enda Miller?” he asked meekly.

  “You share an office with Mr Miller?”

  “I do, yes.”

  Laurence waited but Toby seemed reluctant to offer any further enlightenment. “You’ve worked with him for the last three years. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary with either his behaviour or work?”

  Toby shook his head slowly. “I’m terribly sorry I haven’t. I feel awful about being so halfwitted about matters. Isabel confided in me that Enda was… suspected of having acquired certain items from the museum but I saw nothing to indicate that his behaviour was anything but noble.”

  Smith pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. “So while all this was going on, you’d have us believe that you saw nothing?”

  Toby’s cheeks burned as he considered this. “I’m sorry, no.”

  “Okay, okay.” Laurence scratched his head, aware that Smith was growing bored. He ran through the print off that Isabel Drake had handed to him. “I see you live over in Little Portugal.”

  “That’s right,” he brightened.

  “On your own?” asked Laurence.

  “No, with my parents,” he said relaxing more.

  “This is your address and current phone number?” Laurence pointed to the information sheet. Toby narrowed his eyes, examining the list of names, job titles and addresses.

  “Goodness, everyone’s down here.” Then, seeing Smith’s expression, “Yes but the landline is currently not working, as they’re laying some new cables down there. So we have mobiles.”

  “Would you mind writing that number down please?”

  “Of course,” said Toby, laboriously writing down a number in fussy italicised print.

  “Do you drive in?” asked Smith.

  “I occasionally drive here in my father’s car but it’s much quicker to use public transport.”

  Smith checked his phone. He read the text from Eleanor and then addressed the question to Toby. “Do you help run the children’s club on Saturday?”

  Toby pinched his lips together and looked embarrassed. “Very occasionally but only when they’re short of hands. I’m afraid that working with children is not to everyone’s taste. I tend to leave that to my colleagues.” replied Toby, with feeling.

  Smith nodded sagely. There was a moment’s silence as Laurence contemplated matters. Smith tapped his foot and raised his eyebrow, much to Toby’s satisfaction.

  “Thank you, Mr Adams, we’ll be in touch,” said Laurence. Toby opened his office door for the two officers and nodded politely as they left.

  “That guy’s a perv,” said Smith emphatically, as Toby closed the door firmly behind them.

  “Based on what evidence?” snapped Laurence, irritated.

  Smith contemplated this. “That cravat thing he wears, it yells perv to me.”

  Laurence sighed.

  “Where are you?” asked Eleanor, checking the call number.

  “At work,” replied Mo.

  “Uh-huh,” she responded, lying back down on her bed. “So, Samuelson wants you to unofficially run the case past me, gather my thoughts but make sure the case sticks by not having any trails to me?”

  “That’d be about right. What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Staring at a spot on the ceiling,” she answered.

  “Well no fucking good will come of that!” he
snorted.

  She smiled. “I agree. What news?”

  “Whitefoot and Smith spoke to Toby Adams but he claims not to have known what Enda Miller was doing.”

  “Where does Adams live?”

  “Little Portugal with his parents.”

  Eleanor thought for a moment. “How old would his parents be; seventies, eighties?”

  “Urm, guessing so.”

  “So, how come a couple with a surname like Adams settled in Little Portugal fifty plus years ago?” she said excitedly, grabbing a pair of jeans off her bedside chair.

  Laurence ran through the address list, occasionally glancing at Smith as he shovelled in ROM café cheesecake. “You should chew,” he noted dryly.

  Smith glared at him. “What’s your plan now?”

  “Raven thinks there’s a link between the victims and here. There’s also a probable link between Giselle and the Annex. If we can find someone working here that lives there, it’s worth looking into.”

  Eleanor slipped on a reflective tabard and attached a radio to the belt of her jeans. Holding a clipboard with a printed sheet she found in the glove compartment, she approached the front door of a neatly appointed terraced house. After several knocks an elderly woman of obvious Mediterranean stock opened the door cautiously. Glancing quickly at her clipboard Eleanor asked, “Mrs Adams?”

  The woman looked suspiciously at her. “Yes.”

  “Hi, my name’s Lucy Fernandes and I work for the Park’s Commission.”

  “Oh yes,” replied Mrs Adams, notably relaxing at her choice of surname.

  “Just doing a little survey into local residents’ views on park amenities. Have you lived in this house for long Mrs Adams?”

  “Forty-three years,” she replied proudly.

  “That’s incredible. Have you any grandchildren that would benefit from an improvement in park facilities?”

  “Yes,” beamed Mrs Adams. “I have three.”