Stalkers

Not that this troubled her now. Briefly, as she stood rigid in front of the cold glass, wearing skimpy drawers seemed the very least of her problems.

She kept envisioning her house, her garden, Alan’s tousled head and grinning face when he woke her up each morning with a cup of tea, the spare bedroom they’d tentatively begun to think of as a nursery, which she’d filled in her imagination with soft, pink and white furniture, with cuddly toys, with animal mobiles turning on strings, with Disney wallpaper – but no, no, NO!

It didn’t pay to dwell on those things. She had to focus on the positives. She’d been a prisoner all this time, but they hadn’t yet brutalised her; in fact they’d fed her, watered her, allowed her to wash. In some ways that was sinister, but in others it was good. And she had definitely been abducted to order – they hadn’t just grabbed her off the streets; she wasn’t a random victim. As such, the idea had coalesced in her mind that this kidnapping could only be some kind of plot against Goldstein & Hoff – which was less frightening than it being directed against her, but even so it could have a fatal outcome, so she had to play it smart and go along with them for the moment. She had no other choice.

At least, this was what she told herself as she assessed her reflection for the umpteenth time. Cheap – that was the only way to describe the version of Louise Jennings that her captors wanted; cheap and slutty, like a porno actress on set. It was such a different look from her normal tasteful preference that this in itself almost made her cry, but she resisted resolutely. They’d degraded her enough; she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of breaking down. Besides, as she kept reminding herself, it was vital to keep a cool head. Cooperate but be cool – that was her plan. It was the only way to earn their respect. Never show a dangerous animal that you’re frightened.

But of course, it was easier to say such a thing than to do it.

The jewellery for example – Louise had glanced into the jewellery box, and had been surprised by the quality of the stuff it contained: earrings, bracelets, brooches, rings, necklaces, all of real gold and silver, encrusted with gems. But after the rather large hint her jailer had dropped about where this high-class merchandise had come from, she couldn’t bring herself to touch any of it, much less wear it. She doubted that she’d ever be able to wear jewellery again, not even her own – assuming she ever got home to it. Her bravado half-crumbled and fresh tears sprang into her eyes, though she hurriedly wiped them away with a tissue, determined to be brave.

As she did this, the door clicked open.

She spun around. Surely two hours hadn’t passed already?

Nobody came in. Louise waited tensely, hands clasped in front of her. Then she heard a voice from the next room.

‘Louise?’ it said hesitantly. Incredibly, it sounded familiar. ‘Do you want to come in here?’

At first bewildered, but then with sudden desperate energy, she dashed forward and pushed the door open. On the other side she saw a larger room, which was much more luxurious than her dressing-room-sized prison. There was a thick pile carpet on the floor, and soft fabric covering the walls. A shaded bulb cast a rosy glow over a double bed, its eiderdown folded neatly back on crisp, golden sheets. However, none of this amazed her as much as the person occupying the room.

He was a middle-aged man, but tall and well built, with grey at his temples and pale, handsome features. He was usually a very imposing figure; scrupulously neat, with a formal air and stern attitude which appeared to brook no nonsense, but at present, though he wore his normal pinstriped suit, his jacket and collar were unbuttoned and his tie hung in a loose knot.

Despite this, there was no mistaking him.

‘Mr Blenkinsop,’ she said, hardly able to believe her eyes – new tears now appeared there, tears of relief.

He gave a helpless shrug. ‘Hi.’

Ian Blenkinsop was not part of Louise’s department at Goldstein & Hoff, but a director in Commodity Finance, two floors above her. She didn’t know him particularly well, but they’d been part of the same company long enough to be on speaking terms. He was now standing on the other side of the bed, in front of an oak-panelled door, next to what looked like a well-stocked drinks cabinet.

She slammed the dressing-room door behind her and rushed towards him, jabbering frantically. ‘They … they grabbed me on my way home. I didn’t realise until it was too … there was nothing I could do … I’m so, so sorry … honestly, there was nothing …’

He nodded patiently, but seemed rather nervous. He was breathing quickly; sweat glinted on his brow – which was not his normal form. Ordinarily, Ian Blenkinsop was a man of poise, a smooth operator from whose fingertips multi-million-pound deals flowed on a daily basis. But why was he here? The question hit Louise hard. He was a banker, for Christ’s sake! Why was he the one who’d been sent to find her? Unless …

‘Oh my God,’ she breathed. ‘Did they get you too?’

‘Er …’ He half-smiled. ‘In a way, yes.’

‘Oh … Jesus!’ She put her fingers to her brow as it furrowed with disappointment. She wasn’t saved after all. Still, if nothing else, at least here was a friend, an ally, someone to share the ordeal with.

‘Who … who are these people?’ she said, trying her damnedest not to start crying again. ‘I mean … who?’

‘I don’t know. Listen, come and have a drink.’

To her bemusement, he turned to the cabinet. On its shelf there was a bottle of champagne, which he’d uncorked, and two glasses. He’d already filled one and now filled the other. He came around the bed and offered it to her.

‘Are you serious?’ she said, ignoring it. ‘Don’t you think we should be trying to get out of here?’

Still he pushed the drink towards her. ‘I know this has all been a bit of a shock for you, Louise, but if you play along it’ll be a lot easier.’

‘“Play along”?’ Confusion made her tone shrill. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

He drained his own glass and placed hers on a sideboard, before sitting on the bed and patting the mattress next to him. ‘Come here for a minute.’

‘What? Mr Blenkinsop … what are you doing?’

‘Louise, there’s no point trying to resist. These people are professionals.’

‘You know them?’

He stood up again, frustrated, pacing the room. ‘You haven’t guessed what this is about yet?’

‘Am I supposed to have?’ In the midst of her fear, she was completely bewildered.

‘You should just accept the inevitable.’ His voice had hardened, but he eyed her up and down as if noticing her attire for the first time and appreciating it a great deal. ‘You look good, I must admit.’

She backed away from him. ‘You’re not a prisoner here at all, are you?’

‘You want the truth?’ He stared at her, glassy-eyed. Suddenly he’d dropped all pretence at friendship. He looked cold, indifferent. ‘It’s the first time I’ve done anything like this here in the UK. But why not? Every day I create wealth and jobs for others. Society owes me so very much, so if I see something I want, why shouldn’t I take it? Because at the end of the day, I will have the things I desire and deserve. And if that means hurting a few little idiot-bitches who think it’s alright to dress provocatively because it makes them feel good, but who scream “harassment” the moment someone so much as looks at them … well, that’s hardly my problem. On the subject of which, you do look good, Louise.’

He slid towards her. She continued to back away; the dressing-room door was close behind her, but of course that offered no escape.

‘I’ve watched you every day for quite a few years now,’ he added. ‘Sashaying around Branscombe Court in those “fuck-my-wet-cunt” outfits.’

Despite everything, it was a chilling shock to hear such profanity from him. Louise couldn’t suppress a gasp.

‘Though you never looked as good then as you do now.’

‘You bastard,’ she whispered.

She’d now backed right up to the door. He didn’t come straight up to her but stopped a few yards short, from where he continued to eye her in the sort of brazenly lustful way that nowadays could land a man in court.

‘It’s up to you how you play this,’ he said. ‘But if you comply, I reckon we’ll both have a good time.’

Finally she understood. Several times in the office recently she’d suspected that Blenkinsop was furtively observing her. Evidently it hadn’t just been her imagination. ‘I … I …’

‘I think the words you’re looking for are “okay, let’s do it.”’ Blenkinsop was clearly growing impatient; his mouth fixed in a half-smile/half-snarl. ‘Look Louise … it’s not like you’ve got a choice here. You’ve seen the sort of team I’m working with. They don’t mess around. They’ve been watching you for weeks, noting your every move. They know who your friends are, where your family can be found …’

‘My … my family?’ she said, with a new sense of creeping horror.

‘That’s correct, Louise … your family. If this thing goes tits up, it isn’t going to finish with you. I’m going to get what I want, and I don’t care how. Of course it would be easier for all of us if we kept things nice and friendly.’ He ogled her revealing outfit again. ‘At least … as much as I’m capable of that. Your play, my darling.’

‘I … I need a drink first.’

He looked surprised by that, and not a little pleased. ‘That’s a good girl. Well done.’ He turned to the sideboard, collecting her champagne. ‘This is a Bollinger 1990 by the way. I spared no expense, as you can see.’

She stepped forward to accept it, trying her best to smile, though it was difficult to keep her lips from trembling. Perhaps he sensed this as she took the drink from him – his expression suddenly changed, but it was too late. She hurled the drink into his face, glass and all. The glass broke with the impact, a shard slicing open his left cheek.

‘You fucking bitch!’ he squawked, flailing blindly at her.

She pushed past him and went straight for the door next to the drinks cabinet, praying that it wouldn’t be locked – though of course it was. She wanted to scream as she pounded on it with her fists. Behind her, Blenkinsop was still swearing. She swung around to face him, expecting to have to ward off blows. But he hadn’t followed her. Instead he was addressing someone else, gazing up at a corner of the ceiling where she now saw a small surveillance camera.

‘Look what she’s fucking done!’ he shouted, clamping a handkerchief to his bloodied cheek. ‘I told you I need her compliant. I’ve given her every fucking chance, but she doesn’t want to know.’

There was a loud thumping of wood, and a clunk as a bolt was drawn. Louise toppled forward as the door burst open behind her. Two men came barging in: the black guy in the orange ski-mask and the white guy in the purple. Orange grabbed her by the wrists and threw her onto the bed. Purple, she could see, was already tapping another needle.

‘No!’ she shrieked, but her struggles were futile.

Orange held her down easily, pressing her on the mattress with his own body as his associate leaned forward and applied the injection. Blenkinsop stood to one side and watched in silence, though his face had gone a little grey; blood was turning his handkerchief crimson. When Orange got back to his feet, Louise lay still, limp as a rag doll. He casually flicked her skirt up, before turning to face Blenkinsop.

‘Reckon you can manage now?’

Blenkinsop nodded nervously, unable to take his eyes off Louise’s exposed underwear and the golden triangle of pubic hair visible through its filmy material.

‘You might need this.’ Orange pushed something into Blenkinsop’s hand.

It was a jar of lubricant.

Chapter 8

The Raven’s Nest at Hammersmith was the closest thing Heck had to a local. He’d lived in Fulham for fourteen years now, and had finally chosen ‘the Nest’ not just because it was small and homely – as opposed to being large and impersonal, like so many London pubs – but also because its landlord Phil Mackintosh was an Aussie, who regularly had the widescreen TV in his snug tuned to Australian rugby league. Heck, being a Lancashire lad by origin, also had a fondness for the thirteen-a-side rugby code, so this had proved a draw for him.

Unfortunately, that first Sunday evening of Heck’s enforced leave there was no match on, Phil was off duty and, this being one of the quieter nights of the week, there wasn’t really anyone else to talk to. Instead, Heck drank a few beers and sank a few whiskies – since leaving the Yard that afternoon, the idea of getting totally plastered had become very appealing. It was another warm August evening, so he spent his first couple of hours on the terrace watching the river glide by, then finally traipsed back indoors where he bought another beer with a whisky chaser, and moved into the pool room. He shot a few balls around, hoping someone would turn up and offer him a game, but no one did. Going into the bar again, he exchanged pleasantries with a couple of customers who he knew vaguely, but it was difficult striking up conversation purely for the sake of it.

Mid-evening had now arrived, so he bought yet another round and retreated back to the pool room. He was warming up inside and his vision was getting blurry, which was just the way he wanted it. The downside of course was that hitting targets accurately had become a complex process. It took an age working his way round to the black, and he then spent several minutes squinting along his cue, trying to focus on the final pocket, only to be distracted by a very shapely pair of crossed legs that he suddenly noticed on the other side of the table. He tried to concentrate on what he was doing, but those legs were brown, bare, very smooth, and went all the way up to the hem of an indecently short denim skirt. A backless white sandal with a stiletto heel dangled sexily.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the shot went wide.

‘Oh dear,’ said a sympathetic voice.

Heck glanced up at the girl to whom the legs belonged. She was seated on a high stool, from where she’d clearly been watching him for several minutes.

She was somewhere in her late twenties and a stunner – with dark eyes, full lips and perfectly symmetrical features, she almost looked like a young Halle Berry. Her thick black hair was held up with wooden pins, though it would probably fall to her shoulders in a slick of glossy curls if released. A tight green vest with an image of Jay-Z emblazoned on the front accentuated a trim waist and generous bosom.

Heck realised he was gawking. He clamped his mouth shut.

‘See anything you like?’ she asked innocently.

‘Er, no … I mean yeah obviously … er, sorry.’ He smiled awkwardly, placed his cue on the table and headed for the bar.

‘Play with yourself here often?’ she called after him.

He turned and looked back. She was smiling provocatively, as if dying to hear his response.

‘I wouldn’t usually,’ he said. ‘But I’ve never found anyone else who’s up to the job.’

‘That’s a brave boast after what I’ve just seen.’

‘You challenging me, miss?’

She leaned forward and rested her chin on her fist. ‘It would be no contest at all.’

He indicated the vacant table. ‘Rack ’em up.’

She did. And very gallantly, he let her take the first shot. Which proved to be a big mistake. She potted four stripes one after another, only missing a fifth by millimetres. In response, he potted a spot, but the white followed it down. She then embarked on another break, which only ended when she potted the black after bouncing it skilfully off two opposing cushions.

‘You know, all that proves is you’ve had a misspent youth,’ Heck said.

‘My mum wouldn’t need that proving to her.’

‘I’ll bet she wouldn’t.’ He couldn’t help checking her out again, especially those shiny, shapely legs. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘You offering?’

They went through to the bar, where Heck – still unable to believe his luck, because this sort of thing never, ever happened – ordered her a rum with coke, getting himself another pint of bitter and a double Scotch.

‘You drinking to forget, or something?’ she asked, as they settled at a table.

‘I’m drinking because I’m on holiday.’

‘You’re on holiday?’ She sounded surprised, which puzzled him a little.

‘That bothers you?’

‘No, it’s just …’ She smiled again. ‘I’m on holiday too. Sort of.’

He shrugged. ‘Good health.’

The glasses clinked; they both sipped.

‘I’m Lauren,’ she said. ‘I’m from Yorkshire.’

He nodded. Her accent had already given that away – he guessed Huddersfield or Leeds.

‘You’re not a local either, are you?’ she asked. ‘Manchester, is it?’

‘Near there. Bradburn.’

‘You’re a long way from home.’

He swilled more beer. ‘Sometimes it feels like that. But I travel a lot, so it’s as broad as long. My name’s Mark, by the way. But friends call me “Heck”.’

‘I know. The barmaid told me.’

‘She did?’ Now Heck was really puzzled. The girl had been interested enough to ask someone his name? That had to be a first. He had a certain rugged appeal – he was aware of that, but he wasn’t the sort of bloke that lookers like this moved in on. Unless? – abruptly his mood changed. He’d been right to remind himself that this sort of thing never, ever happened – because it wasn’t happening now either.

‘This your local?’ she wondered.

‘Suppose so. I don’t get in too often. What can I do for you, anyway?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, love. You’re not on the pull. If you were, you wouldn’t choose me.’

She folded her arms – an unconsciously defensive gesture, he noted. ‘Maybe I just fancied a chat with someone who looked pleasant.’

‘Same as before. You wouldn’t choose me.’

‘You don’t have a very high opinion of yourself, do you?’

‘My opinion doesn’t count for much, I’m afraid.’

‘Listen, I’m just trying to be friendly.’

‘No you’re not. You’re up to something. Now if I didn’t know better …’ he glanced again at her legs, and then much more closely at her arms, but couldn’t spot any tell-tale needle-tracks, ‘I’d guess you were the sort of lady who Phil Mackintosh doesn’t normally allow into this establishment.’

She stiffened. ‘I’m not a hooker, if that’s what you mean.’

‘So why’re you acting like one?’ He gave her the gaze he normally reserved for the interview room, his eyes boring into her. She became flustered, ill-at-ease.

‘I just wanted some information?’ she finally said.

‘So it’s not my amazing body you’re interested in. Now there’s a surprise.’

‘About your investigation …’

‘Ahhh.’

She now looked very uncomfortable. ‘How – look, how’s it going?’

Heck finished his beer. He shouted across to the bar for another, before turning back to her. ‘So what is this? Mr Ballamara’s decided that, as the rough stuff doesn’t work, he’ll try a gentler touch?’

‘Eh?’

‘Is that the deal? I deliver, and I get a night in the sack with some quality tail?’

She looked totally baffled.

He leaned forward. ‘Go back to your boss and tell him to shove it. Not only do I not take orders from him, I don’t take bribes either. And frankly I’m surprised anyone does. You know why? Because he’s a walking-talking anachronism, a throwback – a gobshite who runs a few South London boozers and thinks he’s Pablo Escobar. Another year and I dare say he’ll be at the beck and call of some sixteen-year-old Romanian, and no doubt he’ll be grateful for it.’

He pushed his chair back and stood up.

‘For someone who doesn’t rate himself, you don’t half like the sound of your own voice,’ she said.

‘For someone who looks as good as you, you keep very trashy company. And just in case he decides to send the heavies round again, tell him not to waste his time. I’m off the case. It’s finished.’

‘Finished?’ She sounded startled. But Heck had gone. He was over at the bar again, paying for his next round, when she reappeared. ‘Finished, did you say?’

‘Yes. It’s been closed down. And if Mr Ballamara doesn’t like that – as I told him before, he can take it up with Commander Laycock at Scotland Yard.’

‘You mean no one’s looking into it at all?’

‘Someone will be somewhere.’ He sipped his fresh pint, leaving froth on his top lip. ‘But only if they haven’t got something much, much more important to do. Like watch some paint dry.’

He tried to move away, but she grabbed his arm tightly. He turned to face her – and was surprised to see that she was livid with rage. Tears were welling in her eyes.

‘I heard good things about you,’ she said. ‘I thought you were going to help me, but now I can see you’re just another FUCKING DICKHEAD!’ She banged money on the bar-top. ‘That’s for the drink I owe you. Stick it up your arse!’

And she stormed out of the pub, stopping only to grab up her handbag and sling it over her shoulder.

‘You coppers really know how to make friends and influence people,’ the barmaid, who happened to be Phil Mackintosh’s eldest daughter, commented.

Heck was equally bemused. ‘I’m guessing I’ve just cost her a decent commission.’

He went back to his seat, shaking his head. The lowlifes he had to deal with. Mind you, hookers didn’t generally scream and cry when johns turned them down. Now that he looked back on it, the entire meeting had been a little surreal – but what the hell, this was London. Nothing should be a surprise here. He put it from his mind and the evening rolled on tediously. He managed a couple more rounds and a few more brief exchanges of mundane chat with other punters before the bell rang for last orders.

Before leaving, he went for a pee, and then stood looking at himself in the greasy toilet mirror. Considering he was now in his late thirties, he’d kept reasonably well. Some might say he was handsome but he was also rumpled; his black hair didn’t have any grey in it yet but seemed to be permanently mussed, and he did look tired. He was unshaved and his normally piercing blue eyes were bloodshot, though that might be due to drink rather than fatigue. The rest of him was in okay shape. He certainly wasn’t overweight, though that was because during the investigation he hadn’t been eating properly or even regularly enough. But he was still reasonably solid and well-built; years of sports activities in his younger police days had served a purpose after all.

He yawned, scratched his grizzled cheek, then ambled back out and shouted his goodbyes to the bar staff. The muggy atmosphere outside did little to help with his semi-inebriated state, and he tottered across the pub car park to his Fiat. Even leaning against it, he had trouble inserting his key into the lock.

‘You’re not seriously thinking of driving in that state?’ someone asked.

Heck turned around. At first he didn’t recognise Gemma Piper. Her white Coupe was parked about twenty yards away. She’d got out and approached without him noticing. She was wearing jeans, trainers and a lilac running top.

‘I, er … no, my jacket’s in the back,’ he said.

‘Really?’

He opened the door and, with a flourish, pulled a lightweight leather jacket from the rear seat, where it had been dumped earlier. She eyed him sceptically, unconvinced.

‘What’s the matter anyway?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Yeah? Well tough. I’m off duty.’

He turned, stumbled across the car park and onto the pavement, though he hadn’t walked more than thirty yards before he realised that he’d be lucky to make it home. He’d drunk far more that evening than he had in quite some time. The white Coupe pulled up alongside him, and Gemma powered down her window.

‘Stop acting like a kid, Heck, and get in. At the very least, I can give you a ride home.’