by G D Sanders
Sex!
Ed froze.
She’d enjoyed sex on this bed with Nigel, not to mention evenings by herself. With growing anxiety she checked the position of the spy-cam. A suitable lens could cover the entire king-sized bed and the space around it.
The bastard!
He’d filmed them together.
As soon as the idea entered her head, Ed dismissed it.
She was being paranoid. Ever since Nigel became a major suspect she’d felt anxious, but that was at work, that was appropriate. At work she needed to tread carefully. Outside work was a different matter. She mustn’t let anxiety about work cloud her judgement. She must think rationally, treat the spy-cam like any other investigation.
Ed’s professional training kicked in. As yet, there was nothing which linked the hole for the spy-cam and staple tracks to her occupation of the room. She mustn’t be hasty; the surveillance could have happened months ago. Checking damage to the wardrobe, she looked for wood splinters or signs of sawdust. There were none. It was impossible to tell if the work was recent. Forensics might be able to come up with something but they were the last people Ed wanted to investigate her hotel bedroom.
Was there anything which pointed to Nigel? Ed crossed to the armchair and forced herself to remember the two evenings they’d spent together in the hotel: dinner followed by a nightcap, followed by sex. Why had she been so ready to jump into bed with him? She’d certainly been up for it but that wasn’t surprising. Discounting the telephone sex with Don, it had been the best part of a year since she’d last had a man. And Nigel … compared with Don he was a male model with much more going for him. Ed couldn’t imagine Don loving Schiele’s landscapes, but on the other hand … landscapes rather than nudes seemed out of character for Nigel.
From the armchair, Ed let her eyes wander over the hotel room, trying to reconstruct the evenings with Nigel. On the table beside the bed were three books of Schiele prints. Two had been her grandfather’s, while the third was a paperback of landscapes she’d bought a couple of years ago. She usually kept those books on the floor of the wardrobe. If Nigel had fitted the camera, he would have seen them. Could that have prompted his unexpected reference to Schiele over dinner? It was a logical chain of events, suggestive but nothing more than speculation.
There was clear evidence that a camera had been used in this room to record scenes on the bed. Was there anything directly linking Nigel to the spy-cam? Would the recordings show her enjoying sex on the bed?
This bed!
Ed felt cold.
The upgrade!
Her knowledge of the town was sufficient but she crossed to the window to be certain. She was right. About 80 metres away she could clearly see the rear of Nigel’s office in Margaret Street. At that distance, he could have used wireless surveillance recording onto the hard drive of a laptop or PC. All of this clearly implicated Nigel but there was a clincher. She was in this room because Nigel had recently arranged the upgrade. He’d used his influence with management to upgrade her from her original room on the other side of the hotel to this room with its direct line of sight to his office less than 100 metres away.
Ed was convinced. She felt sure the bastard had tapes of her enjoying sex. Feeling sick, she forced herself to consider what the tapes might show? If he’d recorded her nights here alone that would be embarrassing but it shouldn’t threaten her job. If he’d recorded the two of them together then the tapes of her in flagrante delicto with a suspect could end her career. Fighting her mounting nausea, she forced herself to remember exactly what happened when she and Nigel had been together in the hotel.
Ed shuddered at the memory. The first time, in her old room, he’d slowly removed her clothes, prolonging the moment. The second time in this room was different; there had been an urgency. His passion didn’t surprise her but now, reliving the moment, she had no doubt. Nigel had used passion to distract, to mask what was happening. He’d pushed her back onto the bed and manoeuvred her into position like a Schiele nude, half-dressed and directly facing the wardrobe. Verity’s warning had come too late. The bastard had set her up and filmed them having sex. The images had been wirelessly transmitted to his office. Nigel had got his insurance.
Gradually the sickness in the pit of her stomach was replaced by a professional calm. It was pointless asking Nigel for the video. If he gave it to her she’d never be certain there weren’t copies. She needed her own insurance, something on him, but what? Ed went systematically through everything she knew about Nigel. She remembered Verity saying that when she was alone with Nigel, he would attempt to rile her with stories of his successes with susceptible girls in his secret room. There was his weak spot. Evidence of his liaisons with young girls would be her insurance. Ed smiled. She knew exactly how she’d get it.
Tit for tat.
40
Happiness was not an emotion he experienced, but today he drove to the building in the woods with a strong sense of satisfaction. Everything had gone to plan.
It was barely 10 a.m. when he arrived. They ate their breakfast in silence. By the time he’d finished cleaning up, Lucy was on the bed listening to music. Deep in the woods little light penetrated the densely packed trees and even less entered the building. There was no birdsong and the only noises were the faint sounds coming from Lucy’s headphones. She appeared totally resigned to her fate. There was no sign she realized what he was doing. The ache in his heart, which never left him, began to ease. It had happened before but this time he was sure it wasn’t a false hope. Everything was going well. He was convinced of success. Beyond the trees, the sun was shining.
Thirteen miles northeast, screeching gulls filled the air above the cliff top at Reculver and a warm July sun bathed the lines of ageing mobile homes. It was almost midday when there was a squeak of rusty hinges and a woman appeared in the doorway of one of the more dilapidated caravans. Holding an open can of lager in her left hand, she barely paused before taking three steps to a plastic chair. The sun glinted on her bottle-blonde hair, warming her upper arms and shoulders. She needed that warmth. Oblivious to the screeching seabirds, she slumped in the half-broken chair on the bare patch of soil outside her caravan and abandoned herself to the comfort of the sun’s embrace.
No bugger cuddled her now. She hadn’t been cuddled for years. Sure, they slept with her but by the time the buggers climbed into bed she’d be too pissed to care, and Len, or Paul, or that new guy who’d moved into the park last month, they just wanted to get inside her. No thought of pleasure, just a drunk striving for release. Sometimes they weren’t up to it and she’d find her head pushed down and her mouth full of soft flesh. With luck they’d be snoring before she’d conjured life to their drunken loins. Who was it last night? Who was in there now, farting and snoring his head off? Bleary-eyed, she’d not noticed as she clambered out of bed for an urgent piss. Last night …? It was just like every other night. The evening slipping away, and, when it was almost gone, a voice in the back of her head would say – it could be different. And her last thought was always the bleeding same – how? I’ve never known another way.
When every day was the same it was difficult to keep track of time. Sitting in the chair, her mind still focused, she set herself a task: which month was it? June, July, August, surely not September already? She knew it must be summer because of the warmth. Once the summer had gone even the sunniest days lost their heat to the wind off a grey North Sea. She took another swig from the half-empty can in her hand, a hand old before its time.
Why did she do it? Why did she fucking pick up the drink? She didn’t know and each morning after a drink or two she no longer fucking cared. But this was the first can of the morning. Sod it, she’d not been up an hour and right now she did care. She didn’t think she was going to be all right – definitely not all right! She crushed the empty can in her hand and threw it at a waste bin. In a minute she’d get a new can. The moment would pass. Why get so worked up? Beating the drink was easy. All she
needed was a second can and her worries would be gone. Just one more lager and then a few more cans to keep the worries at bay. With a grunt, she heaved herself up to get the second can of the day.
Back at her chair with her mind still clear, she paused before tearing off the ring-pull. The drinking, why did she fucking do it, when did it fucking start? The why she didn’t know but the when was fucking easy. It started before she’d left school but it was different then. She’d be with her mates and some of the lads from St Cuthbert’s. They’d get chips from The Frying Plaice and a couple of bottles of vodka from the corner shop. Have a laugh in the park. In the bandstand if it rained.
Chips eaten and most of the vodka gone they’d sit side by side letting the boys touch them up. When they started, breasts were off limits. They weren’t having the boys feel how small they were. All except Ginge. She was a redhead, early developer, already filling her first bra and angling for a new one that fastened at the front – easier for the guys to get it undone. All the boys fancied Ginge but she was a good mate and shared them round.
Most nights they played musical chairs. The boys had five minutes before moving on. Ginge re-fastened her bra between sessions, said she liked the moment her tits were set free more than the boys’ hands on her body. For the rest of them it was fingers, greasy from chips, pushing down inside their knickers. Sarah fancied herself, always did it standing up in the jeans she called her specials, lining cut from the front pockets and her knickers left at home. If it’s five minutes a shot you’ve got to make it easy for them. Some were better than others. Millie said they were all bloody useless. One night she put a hair grip on her clit so the buggers could find it.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Only if you put vodka on it.’
It wasn’t long before her tits grew, not as big as she’d wanted but some guys preferred their women scrawny. She wasn’t complaining. Soon she’d covered all the bases, moved on to proper dating, and going all the way. By her first year out of school she was going steady with Ron from the timber yard. She fell pregnant and they got married before it began to show. Things were okay when Doreena arrived. They’d leave the baby with Ron’s mum and still went to the pub in the evening and a film each week at Dreamland.
All that fell apart after the boy were born. Reena had been easy but not the boy. She’d been in agony for 36 fucking hours before he put in an appearance at 3 a.m. Reena had arrived in the afternoon and she could still see Ron with his daughter in his arms. This time he’d spent the day drinking. The bastard was doubtless at home snoring in bed well before the boy came into the world. When they finally cut the cord, she felt released, but the boy was screaming as if they’d put vodka on it.
With two kids it was all change. Ron’s mum wouldn’t take them both so she had to stay home while Ron went drinking. He started rolling back well after the pub closed. She suspected he was seeing another woman. She confronted him and the violence started. For the few days each month when he wanted sex, if she weren’t up for it he’d force her. When she told him she was pregnant for a third time he threw her on the bed and punched her stomach night after night until she lost the baby. Finally he left with his latest bitch and she’d been glad to see the back of him. When her chance came with Fred she took it. She didn’t miss the boy but sometimes she missed Reena. Most of all she missed chatting with her old mates at the school gates.
The sound of Len, or Paul, or perhaps it was the new guy, moving inside the caravan interrupted her thoughts. Fuck thinking like this. Fuck thinking it could be different. Life isn’t what you make it; life makes you what you are. Either top yourself or handle it. She handled it – just. Finding men were easy, keeping them were another matter. Ron had started playing around soon after the boy was born and left when he was two. Fred had left her before their first anniversary. Well, it would’ve been their anniversary had they married the day they met. Still, with Fred she’d had her second moment in the sun. It was while she was on holiday with Fred that the kids had been taken into care. Social services said she weren’t fit to look after children. Here among the mobile homes she’d more men than you could shake a bleeding stick at but she wasn’t kidding herself. Len, Paul, the new guy, only stayed because, like her, they had nowhere else to go. They were all at the end of the line.
A cloud passed over the sun, taking away the only warmth she had. Her hand cradled the near-empty can. There were more noises from the caravan.
‘Get y’bleeding arse in gear and bring me another fucking can!’
Little light entered the building in the woods. Now there was even less as the sky clouded over. He’d spent the day with his collection, refreshing formalin, rehousing specimens, relabelling jars. He carried the bucket of blood-soiled preservative outside and emptied it in the pit. When he returned, Lucy had put the headphones aside and was reading one of the novels. Neither had spoken. Tonight he would wait until the sedative had its effect and she slept.
41
Ed parked her MX-5 Roadster in the basement garage and took the lift to the fourth floor. Turning her key in the door, she stepped inside. DI Ogborne, she thought, this is your new home. She poured herself a celebratory glass of white wine and took it to the spare bedroom. Her grandfather’s art books, and her CDs of his favourite requiem masses, were still in a box on the floor. While arranging everything in her new bookcase, she thought she would listen to the beautiful Mozart Requiem rather than the power of Verdi or Britten. She was still searching for the CD when the doorbell rang.
‘Shit!’ The last thing she wanted was visitors.
Ed checked the entry camera. It was a young woman in a green smock with a large bouquet of roses. Ed buzzed the door open and met her at the lift. There was a short message.
We should celebrate your new apartment sometime soon, Nigel.
Ed felt sick at the sight of his name. She carried the flowers to the kitchen and dumped them in the sink. Then, naturally frugal, she filled the sink to leave the flowers in water overnight. If they continued to remind her of Nigel she’d bin them. As for the message, her first instinct was to ignore it but then she realized she could manipulate this situation to her advantage. She’d let him stew for a day or two but then she’d strike. Fighting the revulsion she felt at communicating with the man, Ed sent a text.
Lovely roses but give a girl time to catch her breath. I’ll call you in a day or two and we’ll arrange dinner.
In a couple of days she’d be ready. Confident she’d soon be on top of things, Ed returned to her grandfather’s books. Arranging them would be her final task before a good night’s sleep. She’d allowed herself the luxury of staying at the hotel until the apartment was furnished. Tonight would be her first night in her new bed with the curtains open to her view of the cathedral.
In her new home, with Mozart’s Requiem in her ears, she arranged her grandfather’s art books and her CDs on her shelves. All seemed right with the world.
42
At precisely 1 a.m. the mobile on Rachel Naylor’s side of the bed started ringing. Twenty-three minutes later, Ed Ogborne would be woken by a similar sound. Neither woman would be completely happy with what happened over the next 48 hours.
Tonight, like many nights before, Mrs Naylor was in bed gazing at the ceiling, counting the days since Lucy had been taken from her. Today was the twenty-second. Twenty-two days. More than five hundred hours. How many exactly? Determined to keep unwanted thoughts at bay, Rachel calculated in her head: ten days, 240 hours; 20 days, 480, plus two more days, 504, 528. Lucy was taken at 10 p.m. and it was now 1 a.m., that’s three more hours, 531. Her mind dulled by the calculations, she began to doze and it was then that her mobile started ringing. She woke instantly and pressed the phone to her ear.
‘Hello, Rachel Naylor.’
Silence.
‘Hello …? Hello?’ She became more and more agitated as the silence continued. ‘Hello! This is Rachel Naylor, who’s that?’
‘What is it, love?’ H
er husband, also woken by the call, turned towards her. ‘Who’s calling at this time of night, Rach?’
‘They’ve rung off.’ She sat up in bed, looked at her call log and gasped. ‘Simon! It’s Lucy! The call was from Lucy. She’s alive!’
‘What? Wait. Let me see.’ Simon Naylor took his wife’s mobile and checked the screen. ‘You’re right. The call was from Lucy’s phone.’
‘Why did she ring off?’ Rachel’s initial elation had gone. She was confused, close to tears.
Simon spoke softly. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t Lucy calling.’ He passed the mobile back to his wife and took her hand. ‘It could have been someone else using her phone.’
‘But who?’ Rachel couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge that the call was from anyone but Lucy.
The mobile began to vibrate.
‘It’s a text.’
Rachel held the phone so they could both see the screen.
‘Look!’ she cried excitedly, ‘it’s from Lucy!’ She read the message aloud. ‘Help! I’m at Hollowmede primary school entrance. Come quickly.’
Simon Naylor was out of bed and pulling on his trousers before his wife had finished reading. He grabbed his shirt and started down the stairs, calling back over his shoulder, ‘I’m going to the school. Call 999. Get an ambulance and the police.’
Lucy was on the ground just outside the school gates. She was unconscious, wrapped in a cheap blanket. Kneeling beside her Simon put his ear to her mouth and nose. In the cool silence of the early morning he could hear her breath. Rachel appeared beside him in her dressing gown.