by Ed James
Palmer followed them, trying to add some notes despite the teeming rain. ‘You said Hammersmith, and yet he was out here?’
‘That estate agent business covers most of London, darling. Best fives pitches in all the boroughs are out here.’ Diamond pointed at the new towers at the end of the road. ‘Geezer was walking down to Aldgate East tube. District line takes him virtually door-to-door. We checked his Oyster card, his bank cards, you name it, but nothing belonging to him was swiped that night.’ He stepped over to the traffic island in the middle of the road. ‘Even looked at station CCTV in case he’d jumped the barrier. I mean, stranger things have happened, know what I mean?’ He set off again. ‘Again, no dice.’ Over the other side of the road, he pointed back at the Ten Bells pub. ‘This street was hell back then. Full of roadworks. Reckon that’s how they did it.’
Palmer looked up from her sodden pages. ‘Explain.’
‘Hide in plain sight, darling. Whole road was blocked off from seven at night till six in the morning. Ton of vans and work gear around. No witnesses anywhere near the road. Least, nobody that came forward.’ Diamond checked his watch with a frown. ‘Soz, better take this.’ He reached into his pocket for a swish smartphone and set off.
Corcoran watched him go, then looked round at Palmer. ‘You got any ideas?’
Her notebook was a damp mess, and her head was worse. She traced the path from the pub down towards the tube station. A man walking alone at night, wearing a suit, his sweaty football gear in a bag, slightly tipsy but desperate to get home to his wife and his new son.
And someone took him. In plain sight. Enough pubs and restaurants to give a ton of witnesses now. The road being blocked off might change things, make it easier to snatch someone. Possibly the best opportunity to abduct someone in London, east or west.
‘It fits our guy’s MO.’ She looked over at Corcoran. ‘Coupled with Howard seeing his name, I think it’s incredibly likely we have a third case.’
Diamond sauntered over, hands in his pockets. ‘While you pair argue the toss, I’ll take Matt’s missus and his dear mum out to this hospital in Oxford. That okay with you?’
Corcoran looked relieved at the prospect of getting away from London.
Twenty-nine
[Corcoran, 14:45]
Corcoran powered along the hospital corridor, leaving Palmer trailing in his wake for once. Through another door and back into Dr Yadin’s office.
And that prick Diamond had beaten them.
Corcoran knew they shouldn’t have gone along the river, but would Palmer listen?
And God knows who’d approved Diamond’s promotion to sergeant. Jesus wept.
He sat with a mid-twenties woman who cradled a screaming baby. Dark hair, an aggressive fringe skirting her eyebrows, but the terrorised look of someone struggling with a young baby and the trauma of a missing husband.
As ever, it looked more like Diamond was trying to pick her up than doing his job. He spotted Corcoran and came over with a cheeky grin. ‘What kept you, Corky?’
‘Take it that’s Matt’s wife?’
‘Jen Gladwin. And that’s baby Oscar screaming his head off.’ Diamond shook his head. ‘Why anyone would have kids, mate . . .’ He grimaced. ‘Oh, sorry. Touched a nerve?’
Corcoran barged past. ‘Mrs Gladwin, I’m DS Aidan Corcoran and we’re—’
‘I know who you are.’ Jen wrapped her son over her shoulder to burp him. Red lines crawled across her tired eyes, her expression switching between exhausted vacancy and outright aggression. ‘Have you caught who did this to my husband?’
‘We’re working on it. Can I call you Jen?’
‘That’s fine.’
Corcoran took the seat next to her and kept his focus on her, trying to build trust. ‘We think your husband’s abduction is possibly linked to another two cases.’
‘That woman in Witney?’
Corcoran nodded. ‘And another in Rugby. I need to know—’
An older woman blustered through the door, carrying the air of royalty. Tall and elegant, though late fifties if a day, a Cruella de Vil streak through her hair worn like a badge of honour. She cast her gaze around the room and settled on Diamond. A nod and he was over, dealing with her every whim.
‘That’s Melissa.’ Jen glared over at her. ‘Matt’s mother.’ Her expression softened as she waved. Jen looked back at Corcoran. ‘It’s definitely him, you know. The doctor let me see him and . . .’ She slumped back in the sofa. ‘Jesus Christ.’ Tears filled her eyes and she stared into space.
The baby started crying again, joining in with his mother.
Corcoran offered Jen a hand. ‘Do you mind if I take him?’
She gave a slight shake of the head.
Corcoran took hold of the baby, rocking him gently, running a smooth hand down his back. ‘He’s a nice kid.’
Jen just raised her eyebrows.
‘Oh, Jennifer . . .’ Melissa swanned over and wrapped her daughter-in-law in a tight hug. She accepted Corcoran’s offer of her grandson with a coy smile. ‘How’s my beautiful boy?’ She made cooing sounds. ‘How’s my ickle baby boo?’ She stuck her nose against his belly. ‘You’re still my lovely smelly boy, aren’t you?’
Jen gritted her teeth. ‘Does he need changing?’
‘No, he’s fine, actually. For once.’ Melissa cradled him and kissed his forehead. ‘DC Diamond was going to take us to the cafe.’
‘Don’t you want to see your son?’
‘Of course I do.’ Melissa ran a reptilian tongue across her lips. ‘But I’d rather see the police doing their jobs. I’ll defer my full reconciliation until after you catch the vermin who’s done this to my boy.’
Corcoran held her glare. ‘Mrs Gladwin, it’s been a long time. You should see your son. It might help us. Might open something up.’
Melissa seemed to consider it for a few seconds. ‘Very well.’ She walked over to the doorway, then stared up at the ceiling. ‘Oh, Matthew.’ A solitary tear slid down her cheek. She had to adjust Oscar as she nudged her cheek clear. ‘I try to . . . All of his life, I’ve tried to give Matthew the best of things. To give him the best start in life. And these last few months have been beyond intolerable . . . There was nothing I could do. Nothing. He was out there, somewhere, with absolutely nothing I could do. Nobody I could speak to, or influence, or leverage or . . .’ A deep sigh, her face filled with a mix of fury and fear. Then her expression settled back to her previous mask. She nodded at Diamond and marched off, tickling her grandson.
Jen struggled to haul herself up.
‘You need a hand?’
‘I’m fine.’ Jen set off towards the doors, bouncing off the walls as she went. She gave Corcoran one final look. ‘Find them.’ And she was gone.
Palmer was talking to Dr Yadin, their voices low.
Corcoran joined them. ‘It’s okay, they’ve gone.’
‘That woman will be the death of me . . .’ Yadin snorted. ‘As soon as she heard Matt was on his way here, she was on the phone to the trustees, trying to get him moved to her private hospital. Won’t accept that this is the best place for him.’
‘So how is Matt?’
‘Come on.’ Yadin led them to the room between Sarah’s and Howard’s, and looked through the window, criss-crossed with security wire.
Matt still looked at peace, his head on a crisp white pillow, the bedsheet tucked up to his armpits. He seemed sedated now. And the lights were off, just a faint blue glow from the side.
‘We believe that Matt has been subjected to sensory deprivation.’ She rubbed the glass to indicate his feet, raised up at an angle. The soles were puffed up and ragged. ‘His feet are swollen in a way consistent with being immersed in water for a significant amount of time.’
‘Water?’ Palmer looked round at Corcoran, eyes wide. ‘Is this what he means by drowning?’
‘Has he been waterboarded?’
Yadin shook her head. ‘I mean immersed in a tank of water. The way we’ve g
ot the lights. He can’t cope with anything brighter than a smartphone on the lowest light settings. He screamed on the way here as they drove through the midday light. The paramedics had to stick a mask on him.’
Corcoran held her glare. ‘Sensory deprivation . . .’
Yadin brushed him aside, pushing herself between Corcoran and Palmer, and gestured at his arms. ‘He has bonds on his wrists, much like Sarah’s, but it looks like his have born weight. And while Howard was subjected to sleep deprivation and extreme noise torture for twenty-four hours a day, it was for a short period, but Matt . . . I genuinely think he could’ve been in a sensory deprivation tank for five months.’
‘Has he been starved?’
‘He’s lost weight, certainly, but nothing like Sarah. He’s lost enough to be weakened, making him easier to control.’ Yadin inspected her tablet computer. ‘From the biometric information in the MisPer report, I’ve calculated a diet of roughly thirteen hundred calories a day. But he’s been drugged like Sarah.’
‘You didn’t tell us that.’
‘I told DI Thompson and I assumed she’d tell you. Sarah had been administered a minor dose of Rohypnol, which doesn’t persist in the blood, but we found traces on her skin where it must’ve spilled. Similarly with Matt, but in his hair, which appears not to have been truly immersed.’
Corcoran nodded slowly. ‘Can we speak to him?’
‘I need to check with the specialist. Just a sec . . .’ She walked off.
Corcoran leaned against the wall and looked at Palmer. ‘I’m so tired of waiting.’
‘I’m just tired.’
‘This seems like another victim, would you agree?’
She snorted. ‘Look, Aidan, there’s someone who can help us. We’ve got more data now to do a geographic profile. Three discrete data points still might not allow for more of a connection, but it just could.’
Corcoran gave her a noncommittal nod.
‘I’ll need your help.’
He sighed. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re a cop and you might be able to throw some new light on the subject.’
Yadin returned with a sigh. ‘Okay, you can speak to him, but watch out. He was very violent with the nurses when we brought him in.’
Palmer hung back, sucking in deep breaths.
Corcoran waited for eye contact. ‘You okay?’
She nodded. ‘After you.’
Corcoran opened the door and stepped into Matt’s room. He stood at the end of the bed and his feet looked even worse up-close. Puffy purples mixed with dark reds, and they stank of the bitter tang of infection.
Matt looked up at him, dazed and confused, barely focusing. ‘You’re the cop, aren’t you? Saw you in the other cell, didn’t I?’
‘That’s correct.’ Corcoran inched up the bed, but kept a good distance from him. ‘Matt, I want to help find out who did this to you. Are you able to answer a few questions?’
A slight nod. ‘You have no idea what I’ve been through. I can’t . . .’ He exhaled hard. ‘I can barely remember who I am. But that’s what he wants, isn’t it?’
‘Exactly.’ Palmer was alongside Corcoran, but further away from Matt. Close enough that Corcoran could smell her shampoo. ‘Matt, whoever did this to you probably wanted to send a message. Did they say anything to you?’
‘Never.’ Matt shook his head, his lank hair flopping against the pillow. ‘I mean, one night I’m walking from the pub to the tube. Next thing I know, I wake up in this cell.’ He rubbed his wrists, covered in bandages, fresh blood soaking the material and dying it red. ‘These chains bit into my skin. You should see how deep the wounds go. How long was I gone?’
‘How long do you think?’
‘Weeks. Four, maybe five.’
‘You’ve been gone for five months, Matt.’
‘Christ.’
‘Can you tell us what you remember?’
Thirty
Matt
Matt wakes up in pitch black. He is wet, soaked through. No sounds, other than the gentle lapping of water. He tries to move but something stops him, something sharp biting into his ankles and wrists. Water slips inside his mouth, tasting metallic. He wriggles but can’t move far. The water dulls the sound, but it feels like metal. A chain?
What the hell?
And how the hell did he get here? He’d been playing football, had a beer after, and then what? All he can remember is heading to the tube, talking to Jen on the phone, then hanging up and . . .
What? It was all a blur.
A thumping sound comes from above. Bright light bursts at him, stinging his eyes. He closes them. Someone grabs his legs and he can kick free. A clanking sound and he comes up against another tension, not as tight but still limiting his movement. A shape moves in front of his eyes, and his hands come free. He tries to swing but they’re held firm.
Then he is lifted up. Water sloshes and he’s carried through the air, splashing and dripping, until he rests on a bed. Still far too bright and he can’t open his eyes.
‘Who are you?’
No response, just slightly heavy breathing and some more clanking.
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
Strong fingers clasp his mouth and pry it open. Liquid hits his tongue, thick, sweet and salty. His gag reflex kicks in but the flow stops. His lips are pushed shut and he fights against swallowing but something closes his nostrils and he can’t help but swallow. Then his mouth is forced open again and more liquid pours in. He doesn’t fight it this time, just swallows it down.
Then he is let go and rested down on the bed. His eyes are adjusting to the harsh light, but he can only discern the outline of the man leaving the room. The door clangs shut and it sounds like a lock is turned.
Matt tries to sit up, but he’s still so woozy. His head feels like it’s going to burst. God knows what was in that drink, but—
He convulses. It keeps happening. Some side effect to whatever that bastard is doing to him? Or the desired reaction? Matt doesn’t know either way. He takes his time sitting up and takes another look at the deprivation tank. He’s seen one before, in a client’s dug-out basement in Kensington, but this one isn’t high-end Californian technology. It looks home-made; he can see the welding marks.
He tries to move but he is chained down, his ankle and wrist restraints attached to a post in the middle of the room. A few tugs at the chain and he figures out how far he can move, how far the chains will stretch. So he stands up and inches over to the desk, the chains stretching as he goes. He has to brace himself on the tank and take deep breaths. Even through the hellish birth, through helping Jen home, through setting up Oscar in the nursery, he’d kept fit yet here he is, breathing like his old man in his dying days. He goes over to the desk and slumps in the chair.
He finds a thin pile of books. Philosophy. Descartes, Kant, Hume, Bentham, Singer. All writers he knows from college. Moral philosophy. Is someone making a point?
Who’s doing this? Someone he’s screwed on a property deal? He can’t figure it out. All is fair in love and war, even in property conveyancing. Everyone he’s done over, they’ve done it back to him. And all of his clients are happy.
Aren’t they?
He picks up the first book and opens it. Utilitarianism by John Stuart Mill. He should know what that means, but his brain is all fuzzy. Something to do with maximising happiness, even if it causes misery to a small minority.
Is that what was happening here? His suffering is for the greater good? How the hell is that right?
The door clicks and clunks open. He tries to turn to look but he’s too slow. Those meaty hands grab him again and lift him clean off his feet. He is as weak as a kitten and can’t fight back.
Splash and he is back underwater, bobbing in the tank, gasping for breath. A firm grip on his left leg, then he is pulled back. A chain tightens on his left ankle, then the right. He tries slapping out, but his arms are locked in place.
He reaches some sort of equilibr
ium, floating in the tank. Then the lid shuts and he is back in darkness.
Matt is dropped on the bed. Can barely move now. Been so long. He doesn’t even fight as the thick liquid is poured into his mouth, sucking like a newborn on a bottle, like when he stayed up playing games on his Nintendo Switch, while he bottle fed—
He lies back on the bed and lets out a frustrated sigh. He’s forgotten his son’s name.
Isaac?
Scott?
Ollie?
Aaron?
What the hell is it? He can remember all the options, just not the decision they made.
He struggles to see his face now. How long has he been trapped here? Weeks? He’ll be—
How old is he?
He hears music playing somewhere. A TV theme tune, one he’d put on to help his son go to sleep. Charlie the Seahorse. Christ, he can remember a stupid TV show but not his own son’s name.
The door clanks shut.
Matt knows he needs to stop this. And he knows how.
He pushes up to standing. His knees ache but he gets there. His muscles have atrophied from inactivity. But weakness is there to be overcome. He shuffles over to the tank and braces himself against it for the final time. The dank water swills around, smells like an open sewer. He dunks his head in through the opening.
The chains pull tight and jerk him back. He pushes against them but he can only put his chin in the water.
Can’t even drink it to poison himself.
Can’t even drown himself.
Thirty-one
[Corcoran, 15:05]
Corcoran shifted forward in his seat. ‘Were you like that all the time?’
‘No. For the first . . . I don’t know. Three months? I was in a room. Had a bed. A desk. These books. I mean, I read them. Philosophy. Weird stuff. I did law at uni, but I was always into that stuff. But it made me question my own existence. Kant will melt your head if you let him. But the last while, I was in the tank all the time. Until just at the end.’ A tear slid down his cheek. ‘I . . . I can’t remember who I am.’