But not in the basement. The regulars, the punters, never got to go down there. Never had need to. Because there was a different kind of aggression going on below. Not contained, no rules. A room for hire. Soundproofed. Where payments could be made and scores settled. For a price.
Mike Dillman knew all about that. He’d known Lisa was a handful when he met her. That was why he had married her. She was fiery, loud. Quick to anger and ready to fight. He loved that about her. Because it also made her a fantastic fuck. But there was a down side. She got hugely jealous. He just had to look at another woman for her to kick off. And Mike had done more than just look. Often. Now, sitting on a chair in the centre of this room, he wished he’d kept his eyes and hands to himself.
He felt dead. His arms tied behind his back, his legs tied to the legs of the chair. His shirt open. He felt blood running down his face, pain all over, like his body had been wired into the mains.
And there was Lisa, standing in front of him, sweating hard. Bloodied heavy metal glistening on her fists. Chest heaving, eyes shining with a primal light. She looked beautiful. He would give her that.
Behind her, a bored man in a suit sitting on a chair with a porn magazine open on his lap looked at his watch.
‘That it, then?’ he said. ‘You done?’
Lisa shook her head, checked the clock on the wall. ‘Got another quarter of an hour yet. Paid for it. Got to use it.’
The bored man shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ Went back to studying his magazine.
Lisa looked down at Mike. The hatred in her eyes, the rage. Beautiful. When she got like this, the sex afterwards was always brilliant. He still wanted her, even after what she’d done to him.
‘Learned your lesson?’ she shouted. ‘Still want to go fucking around with other women? Have you, Mike? Need reminding who you’re married to?’
‘Yeah,’ he managed to gasp in a voice he didn’t recognise as his own. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve … you’ve made your point an’ I won’t do it again. Let’s … let’s go home … ’
Lisa nodded, pulled her fist back, brought it quickly forward, connecting with his chin. His head went back, blood and spit flew. Jesus Christ, that hurt. Not as much as the last time, though, he noticed. She was getting tired. Her aggression running out like her time.
She stepped back. Head to one side, she studied him.
‘That’s it,’ she said, not turning. ‘I’m done.’
Mike looked up. ‘I’m sorry … Let’s … Get me up an’ we’ll … we’ll say no more about it, yeah?’
Lisa walked away, ignoring him.
The suited man stood up, threw her a towel. ‘Go get yourself cleaned up. We’ll finish off in here.’
Mike Dillman watched her leave the room, puzzled. The man put his magazine on the chair, looked at the beaten man before him. ‘Shouldn’t mess around, should you?’ he said. Not judgementally, just as a matter of fact. ‘Look where it gets you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mike. ‘Won’t do it again.’ He tried to move his arms. They hurt. He looked at the man, tried to focus through swollen eyelids. ‘You … you let me out now, yeah?
‘Just got the cleaning up to do,’ said the suited man, crossing into the shadows. He gestured. A shadow detached itself from the back wall, stepped forward. Mike’s ruined face managed to register surprise.
And fear.
The shadow moved forward. It was a huge man, hair cropped short, wearing a T-shirt and jeans tucked into boots. His size was impressive, but that wasn’t what had drawn Mike’s attention. It was his skin. He was the colour of smoke, of shadow. He was grey.
‘Who’s … who’s that?’
‘We call him the Golem,’ said the suited man, his voice businesslike. ‘You’ll call him the last person you’ll see on this earth.’
The man’s words registered. Mike began to shake, his earlier pain gone, the need to get away, to live now his only thought. He heard screaming, shouting. Realised it was him. Did it some more.
‘Sorry, mate,’ said the suited man. ‘Out of my hands. She paid for the works. She has a go at you first, then we get rid of you. No point screamin’ either. This place is soundproofed. Take it like a man, eh?’
The Golem advanced. Mike screamed.
The Golem reached out. Then stopped as a ringing sound filled the air.
Oh thank God, thought Mike. Thank God …
The suited man frowned. The Golem reached into his jeans pocket.
‘I have to take this,’ he said, pulling out a phone and looking at the display. He spoke heavily accented English.
He put the phone to his ear, waited. Mike stared at him, mouth open, breath held.
‘Now? … Where? … Fee? … ’ He nodded. ‘Good.’ Pocketed the phone.
‘Don’t want to hurry you, mate,’ said the suited man, ‘but we got another one in at seven.’
‘No trouble,’ said the Golem with his heavy accent. ‘Take seconds.’
‘No,’ said Mike, ‘no, no, no … ’
The Golem reached out, wrapped a huge hand round his neck. Mike stared into his eyes, expecting to see … something. Anything. His life flash before him. He saw nothing. Just empty grey pools.
No, he thought, this isn’t fair. I can’t … no. This isn’t the way my life ends. It can’t be … I’ve—
A quick snap and it was done. Mike Dillman was gone. The Golem straightened up, turned away. ‘You clean up,’ he said as he passed the suited man. ‘He has pissed and shit.’
The Golem disappeared into the shadows. The suited man watched him go. Then he crossed to the centre of the room, began to clean up.
As he reached for the broom, he noticed that his hands were shaking.
A lot.
19
DS Jessica James checked her notebook once more. Looked up. Back to the notes. This wasn’t right, she thought.
She looked at the house in front of her, expecting it to match up to the one she had pictured in her head. It didn’t. Old, she had thought, but well maintained. Perhaps wooden or clapboard, with charm and character. Idiosyncratic even, but speaking of money and taste. Probably in a stylishly understated manner. Blue and white pottery on the windowsill.
The house before her was nothing like that. It was old, yes, but poorly maintained. The wooden window frames were flaking paint, rotting round the glass. The once white front was now a mottled, mildewed green. The path to the door was broken concrete, weeds sprouting unchecked through the cracks.
Not the kind of house she had expected Stuart Milton to live in.
DCI Franks had phoned her while she was on her way here. She hadn’t minded; in fact she had expected it. Would have done it herself if the positions had been reversed. He wasn’t trying to tell her her job, he had said, and from the tone of his voice she had believed him. He just wanted to check how the investigation was proceeding and see if there was anything he could do to help.
‘Like what?’ she had asked.
There came a noise down the phone. She imagined him puffing out his cheeks and blowing air. This, along with the gruff Welsh roll of his voice, gave her the mental image of a bull. ‘Anything really,’ he had said. ‘Background, stuff you want to run by me, support, you name it.’
‘I already told—’ She stopped herself. Unsure whether Mickey Philips had told his boss that he had come along to help. She suspected Franks knew, but she didn’t want to be the one to tell him, just in case he didn’t. She didn’t want to get Mickey into trouble. ‘I’ve got a team out looking for the missing girl. We’ll be following up any leads. I think we’ve got everything covered,’ she had said. ‘But if I need anything, you’ll be the first to know.’