Behind Closed Doors

by Elizabeth Haynes

  As she walked back the way she’d come, she dialed Jason’s mobile. He picked up straight away. “Don’t tell me—you’re finishing early again, right?”

  She smiled. “Course not.”

  “So I guess our date’s off?”

  “I have no idea what time I’ll be done. I’m sorry.”

  “You can still come over. Whatever time it is.”

  “Thanks. Don’t wait up, though.”

  All the way back up to Major Crime, via the canteen for a coffee and the last baguette—cheese, but at least it wasn’t tuna—she was thinking about the night before and how she was enjoying every minute she got to spend with Jason Mercer, especially those that happened in bed. Even when she was exhausted, wrung out by the day and the pressure and the constant worry of a job going badly wrong, or by being called out just at the moment when she’d finally allowed herself to relax, being with him made her feel better. Nearly a year together, too. That had gone by fast. They should do something—celebrate, go out for a meal—whatever it was people did. It had been a long time since she’d had a relationship that had lasted all the way to an anniversary. She tried to think when exactly the relationship had started, but there wasn’t what you’d call a defining moment. Jason had been the analyst on Operation Nettle last year; with all the stress of heading up a high-profile murder investigation, he had kept her sane by being calm, reliable, getting the job done—and all the time he had been waiting for her to realize that the attraction between them was mutual. There hadn’t exactly been a first date.

  The trouble was, with such a pressured job, it was hard to make time for Jason. If it wasn’t work getting in the way, it was his social life. He was playing hockey and training most weekends, or going to see another team play, or, when it wasn’t that, he was out with his brother. She liked that he let her have her own space. But was this how it would continue? True, she didn’t have time for a serious relationship, not really, and this was a useful compromise. She wanted someone who was there for her, someone who would escort her to weddings and functions, and thereby allow her to keep the family at bay. Every time she saw or spoke to her parents now, they asked her whether she had “anyone special,” whether she didn’t think it was time to “settle down.”

  Lou hadn’t phoned them for a couple of weeks. Time to ring them . . . later maybe. The thought was followed immediately afterward by another: she wouldn’t ring; she would find some sort of excuse. She didn’t want to lie, but if she admitted that at last she had a boyfriend they would all spin into an excited frenzy. Her mother would tell everybody, from the extended family to her Women’s Institute buddies to random strangers at the bus stop. The next phone call would be all about him—“How’s Jason? When are we going to meet him?”—which would escalate into requests for them to come and stay, unsubtle hints for him to persuade her to be committed. As if she was somehow less of a person without a ring on her finger. Rootless, feckless, unshackled . . . unhinged.

  It wasn’t that she thought Jason was not up to this particular task. In fact, they’d fallen into this easy, comfortable relationship so well that it was a bit surprising he hadn’t suggested making it official already. But it felt as though he was leaving it up to her, to choose the right time for them both. And it wasn’t even as though she had doubts—he was the best relationship she’d had, ever, by far: he wouldn’t cheat on her, she knew; wouldn’t make unreasonable demands for her attention when she was working on something major.

  He had asked about her family. When she had gone to see them, just before Christmas, he had joked about coming with her and surprising them. The look on her face had told him everything. “Hey, just kidding,” he’d said hastily. After that, he would ask how they were. And that was it. There was no more discussion about visiting.

  Her cousin Tracy was getting married in a few weeks, and so far the invitation for “Louisa plus one’ had been left unreplied to, tucked into the flap of her organizer. Lou’s mother mentioned this during every conversation, usually either immediately before or after the question about the boyfriend . . . the lack of a boyfriend.

  “I’ve requested the day off, and it’s been approved. But you know if something comes up I will have to miss it.”

  “It’s a shame, that’s all. If you’ve got the day off, why can’t you just send Tracy an email? Let her know you’ll try to be there?”

  “I will, Mum.”

  “Because even if you can’t take someone with you, you know, she needs to know the numbers for the catering . . .”

  Oh, Jesus, not the catering again. She wasn’t invited for the whole day, just the evening, so why was it such an issue? Surely they were only talking about having the right number of sandwiches and chicken drumsticks? She wouldn’t eat, if it was such a big deal. She would turn up with some cash in a congratulations card, dance a bit, wish the bride and groom every happiness in their life together, get rat-arsed quickly and completely, and get a taxi home. It was called showing your face.

  She didn’t need to take Jason with her for that.

  On the other hand, it would be good to get all of that crap out of the way. It would send a message to the parents that yes, she was seeing someone, a real person—a man, no less, since the question of her sexuality had been raised once in public (last Christmas; everyone had been drunk) and at least once in private (an email to her sister Jasmine, which had been accidentally forwarded to her). It would get the whole discussion out of the way and they would leave her in peace for a little while. There would be the inevitable fierce questioning to endure, which would start off benignly enough—“Where did you meet? How long have you been together? Where are you from? Oh, yes, we love Canadians, so polite!”—and would end up being personal and downright intrusive—“What does your father do, Jason? So, it’ll be your turn next up the aisle, then, Lou? Your biological clock must be ringing an alarm by now!”

  She couldn’t inflict that on him. He would run a mile.

  Intel Reports on Carl McVey—Op Trapeze

  5X5X5 INTELLIGENCE REPORT

  Date: 18 March 2013

  Officer: PC 9921 EVANS

  Subject: Carl McVEY DOB 29/09/1970

  Grading: B / 2 / 4

  Carl McVEY runs two pubs in Briarstone town center, the Railway Tavern in Queen Street and the Newarke in Cavendish Lane. He also owns the Ferryman pub and restaurant in Baysbury. It is thought that these businesses are used for laundering the proceeds of various criminal enterprises.

  5x5x5 Intelligence Report

  Date: 30 July 2013

  Officer: PC 9921 EVANS

  Subject: Carl McVEY DOB 29/09/1970, Lewis McDONNELL DOB 21/10/1953, Harry McDONNELL DOB 06/07/1956

  Grading: B / 2 / 4

  Carl McVEY has been associating with the McDONNELL brothers recently. They were seen enjoying lunch at the Ferryman restaurant in Baysbury on Monday 29 July 2013. Another male was with them who was described as dark-haired with a large tattoo of a bird on his lower right forearm. (Research shows this may be Gavin PETRIE DOB 17/03/1975).

  14:56

  The office was quiet. Sam Hollands was at her desk, DC Jane Phelps was on the phone.

  “Did I miss anything?” Lou asked Sam.

  “I’ve just been trawling back through the historic intel on McVey. Nothing too exciting—but there are a couple of reports linking him to the McDonnells; they had a cozy lunch together back in July. I’ve sent Les and Ron out to the Ferryman pub to see if they’ve got any CCTV. I know it’s unlikely.”

  “Worth a try, though. Let me know if you get a result? I’ve got to go to Knapstone.”

  “SB?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. I’m meeting a DCI called Stephen Waterhouse.”

  Sam raised her eyebrows. “Really? Good luck with that.”

  “You know him?”

  “He was Jo’s line manager for a while, when she was seconded down there. He was still a DI then—can’t have been long since he was promoted.”

  Lou hes
itated, concerned about following any line of thought involving Sam’s ex-partner. “What’s he like, then?”

  “I don’t think I can say without swearing.”

  “Oh, God, that bad? Seriously—tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Just between us, he was described as ‘a jumped-up little cock with an attitude problem.’ No offense. Jo’s words, not mine.”

  SCARLETT

  Saturday 23 August 2003, 19:53

  The next time she opened her eyes, it was less bright around the edges of the back door of the van. She had been asleep for some while, then, and it was because she had been untied and could finally move, stretch out her arms and legs and not have that unbearable pain in her shoulders and wrists. It wasn’t comfortable now, far from it, and the high-pitched whine of the engine was so loud it should have been impossible to sleep, but she had done just that.

  At some point the van must have stopped and they must have opened the door, because next to her was a bottle of water and a paper bag containing a stale-smelling slice of pizza, folded in half to fit in the bag. Stale or not, she ate half of it there and then, and the rest of it less than an hour later. She drank the water, not even caring if they’d drugged it.

  Above the noise of the engine she could hear music coming from the radio in the front cab. Some woman wailing a tune with a beat behind it, nothing like the music she was used to. It sounded awful.

  The men weren’t talking anymore. They’d run out of things to say, for now at least. She tried to listen to the music, thinking that she might hear the news or something—hear her name mentioned. But, when the song ended, the voice that introduced the next track was foreign, unintelligible. She could tell it wasn’t the news, though. The tone of the voice was the same as any other commercial radio station—unnaturally happy, intoning up and down, shouting almost. There would be a different voice for the news, if indeed they had news on the radio here. Wherever they were.

  She found herself thinking about Nico again. Where was he, right now? What was he doing? He would be looking for her, of course. Everyone would be looking for her. Even her father would be out, hunting for her. He would be doing the right thing, and making sure everyone knew it.

  Oh, Nico.

  Cerys had lost her virginity to Matt Hayward, at the end of the summer term. Scarlett had always thought it would be her first, that she would be the one, but when it came down to it she didn’t want any of them, the boys. Being alone with anyone made her feel nervous. She didn’t feel safe. And, even though Cerys had wanted to get it out of the way as quickly as she possibly could, Scarlett couldn’t help feeling that her friend was making a mistake. But Cerys had curves and an almost unnatural level of self-confidence, and, although Scarlett was the one who got all the attention from the boys, it was still Cerys who did it first.

  They had had plenty of discussions about it. How it didn’t really hurt. How they’d managed to use a condom the first time but he’d taken it off halfway through the second time because he didn’t really like using them but it hadn’t mattered because he pulled out just before.

  Cerys was suddenly worldly-wise. She was the one with the knowledge, and the balance of power had shifted in their friendship, as if Cerys was the grown-up one and Scarlett was still a child. If only she knew. . .

  And, despite all the time she’d been spending with Mark, she hadn’t really been paying attention. She hadn’t thought of him in that way, not really, not until that last day in the library, and not really even then.

  She hadn’t wanted to come on holiday at all. She’d been dreading it. A whole week with her parents, and her sister? She wouldn’t be able to stand it. They’d end up killing each other. Who knew what might happen?

  “I’ll stay here,” Juliette had said, when they’d been booking the holiday.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother had answered. “We’re not leaving you here.”

  “I can look after the cat,” she’d volunteered. “And next door will keep an eye on me.”

  Desperate, then, because she was allergic to the cat and avoided it at all costs.

  “She can’t do that!” Scarlett had shouted, knowing full well that, left with her sister, their pet would go completely untended. And it would just be the three of them on holiday, a fate so hideous that she couldn’t bear to think of it.

  “Calm down, Scarlett. Juliette, you’re coming with us and that’s final.”

  “I don’t want to come!” Juliette wailed. “I’m scared!”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. You should be grateful!”

  “Don’t make me go. Don’t make me go.”

  Scarlett had seen Annie’s cheeks coloring. She had had rows with her mother too, at Juliette’s age—but hers had all been about independence and not being a child anymore. She wanted to tell Juliette not to bother with the babyish overacting. It was easier just to give in, to let them have their way. It’s better to grow up in private, she’d thought. It hurts less if you don’t fight all the time.

  The van must have turned off the main road, the long, straight road with the van traveling fast and the whine of the engine underneath her, and there were twists and turns which threw her from one side of the van to the other. It was impossible to sleep. How long had it been? An hour, two? Maybe even longer. In the end she crouched in the corner, bracing her leg against one of the struts that supported the metal side. She felt motion-sick, the pizza and the water churning inside her belly. Despite the sleep she was exhausted; but now the adrenaline had kicked in again.

  It was odd, she thought, how quickly the feeling of terror became the norm. The van had become her world. A night and a day and now it was night again, and in the space of that time she had veered along this crazy path between panic and normality.

  But now, she was afraid. If they were off the motorway, traveling on smaller roads, then the journey was coming to an end. The van would stop and something would happen. Something was coming, and she would have to deal with it, whatever it was. They weren’t going to kill her; if they’d been going to do that they would have done it by now. But it wasn’t going to be good, was it? They weren’t taking her away from her fucked-up family and her stupid fucked-up life and giving her a better one, were they?

  Whatever was coming, it was going to hurt. It was like watching a car heading toward you on the crossroads and knowing it couldn’t possibly stop in time. Or lying in bed listening to the sounds of the house and knowing you were better off staying awake.

  The van stopped. Scarlett pushed herself, pointlessly, back as far away from the doors as possible. After a few moments, the side door was unlocked and slid open. It was dark outside. There were two of them, and at first she couldn’t tell if it was the same two that had taken her. Then she recognized the taller of the two, the one who had given her water. The one who had talked to her out on the street and shoved her into the van.

  “You get out now,” he said, his voice low.

  Scarlett wondered if it was worth screaming for help. “No,” she said, before she had even made the decision to say anything. It was automatic. “No, no no no.”

  “You get out, we don’t hurt you.”

  “Please,” she said, “just let me call my family. Let me call them. They’ll be worried . . .”

  They looked at each other, and then the taller one, the one she thought was almost all right, climbed into the back with her. He was going to talk to her, to reason with her. To ask her nicely, or to offer some reassurance, or at worst just pull her out.

  So she was off guard when he hit her in the face with his fist.

  The shock of it registered before the pain, but when it came it was quick and hard and intense. He pulled her by the hair, dragging her backward, her feet scrabbling against the floor of the van. There was blood pouring from her nose, blood all down her face. She coughed on it and the screams were coming without her thinking about it then, the pain saw to that.

  And now she was struggling, fighting again
st him, pulling and scratching at his hands to try to get him to release her hair.

  The man was saying something in that language, his voice low through gritted teeth, and her voice, crying out with pain, above it.

  At the back of the van he released his grip on her hair and she slithered to the ground, curled up into a ball. The ground was rocky, uneven shale. She was sobbing, now, her hand over her nose. It felt as though her face had exploded. She was aware of him crouching beside her, the handgun loose in his hand, casually knocking it against his thigh. “You look.”

  Her eyes cast a glance over him and then she closed her eyes. The pain thrilled her like an electric charge. He grabbed her hair again and lifted her head.

  “No, stop, no! It hurts! Let go, let go!”

  But she opened her eyes. And the gun was there, held with a kind of easy self-assurance as though it was part of him, as natural a thing for him to be holding as a pen, or a mobile phone.

  “You see this? You think you have pain now? You make trouble, I shoot your foot off. Then I go back to Rodos and I shoot Nico, stupid fuck, and then I go find your baby sister and take her because she is worth big money to me, not like you.”

  It was the first time there had been any mention of Nico. She sobbed at it and nodded some kind of assent, wiping her face, the blood and mucus and tears sliding across the back of her hand, smearing with the dust and the dirt of the ground beneath her.

  “All right now?” he said, his voice almost gentle. “You stand? I help you, here . . .” He put a hand under her armpit and pulled her upright. As though the madness was over, as though it had been someone else, not him, who had smashed her nose and pulled clumps of hair from her scalp.