‘Glad you feel the same! I’m just a bit confused about why you want to courier someone old newspapers in a Jiffy bag.’ He looked at the address. Laura Jackson. 6 Stable Cottages, Rodmell.’ Old friend of yours? But why would you want to send her old newspapers? Doesn’t make a huge amount of sense to me. Unless of course I’m missing something. Am I missing something? Perhaps they can’t get newspapers delivered in Rodmell?’
She stared at him.
He tore the bag in half. Fluff poured out. Then, being careful to take only small strips at a time, he ripped the rest of the bag apart. When he had finished, he shook his head and let the last piece fall to the floor. ‘I’ve read both the newspapers. No clues there either. But hey, none of that really matters now, does it?’
He locked on to her eyes, staring her out, still smiling. Enjoying himself.
Abby was thinking fast. She knew what he wanted. She also knew that to get it, he was going to have to let her speak. She racked her petrified mind, thinking desperately. But she wasn’t getting any traction.
He disappeared for a few moments, returning with her large blue suitcase, and laid it down on the floor, in full view of the door. Then he knelt and unzipped it and raised the lid.
‘Nice packing,’ he said, staring at the contents. ‘Very neat and tidy.’ His voice turned bitter. ‘But I suppose you’ve had plenty of practice at packing and running in your life.’
Again his grey eyes locked on to hers. And she saw something in them that she had never seen before. Something new. There was darkness in them. A real darkness. As if his soul was dead.
He began to unpack, one item at a time. First he took a warm knitted jumper that was folded on top of her wash and make-up bags. He unfolded it unhurriedly, checking it carefully, turning it inside out, then, when he was satisfied, he threw it over his shoulder.
She wanted to pee badly. But she was determined not to humiliate herself in front of him. Nor to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. Instead she held on and watched him.
He was taking his time, being incredibly, agonizingly slow. Almost as if he sensed that need she had.
She could see from his watch it was almost twenty minutes by the time he had finished unpacking, discarding the last item, her travel hair dryer, which he sent skidding down the corridor, banging against the skirting board.
All the time she kept trying to move. Nothing gave. Nothing. Her wrists and her ankles were hurting like hell. Her bum was numb, and she was having to clench her knees together to fight the need to pee.
Without a word, he pushed the suitcase aside and walked away down the corridor. She had a raging thirst, but that was the least of her problems. She had to get free. But how?
She peed. At least she was still able to do that, he hadn’t taped that up as well. Then she felt better. Exhausted, her head was throbbing, but now she could think a little more clearly.
If she could get him to take the tape off she could at least talk to him, try to reason with him.
Maybe even cut a deal.
Ricky was a businessman.
But that would depend. How hard he looked.
He was coming back now. Holding a tumbler of whisky on the rocks in his hand and smoking a cigarette. The sweet, rich smell tantalized her. She would have given almost anything for just one drag. And a drink. Of anything.
He rattled the ice cubes, then his nostrils twitched. He stepped forward and reached past her. She heard a clank, then the lavatory flushed and she felt spots of cold water splashing her backside.
‘Dirty cow,’ he said. ‘You ought to flush the toilet when you use it. You like to flush other people down the toilet.’ He flicked ash on to the floor. ‘Got yourself a nice pad here. Doesn’t look much from the street.’ He paused and reflected. ‘But on the other hand, I don’t suppose my van looks much from up here.’
The word hit her like a punch. Van. That old white van? The one that had not moved? Had she been so stupid that she’d not thought about that possibility?
She tried pleading with her eyes. But all he did was look back, mockingly, drink more whisky, smoke the cigarette down to the butt and trample it on the floor.
‘Right, Abby, you and I are going to have a little chat. Very simple. I ask you questions, you move your eyes right for yes, left for no. Any part of that you don’t understand?’
She tried to shake her head, but couldn’t. She could move it only a fraction to the right and left.
‘No, Abby, you didn’t hear me right. I said move your eyes, not your head. Like to show me you’ve got that?’
After some moments’ hesitation, she moved her eyes to the right.
‘Good girl!’ he said, as if he was praising a puppy. ‘Very good girl!’
He put his glass down, pulled out another cigarette and gripped it between his lips. Then he picked his glass up, shaking the ice cubes. ‘Nice whisky,’ he said. ‘Single malt. Expensive. But I don’t suppose money is much of a problem for you, right?’
He knelt, so he was at eye level, and inched forward, until he was eyeballing her from just a few inches away. ‘Eh? Money? Not a problem for you?’
She stared rigidly ahead, shivering from the cold.
Then he took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke straight in her face. The smoke stung her eyes. ‘Money?’ he said again. ‘Not a problem for you, right?’
Then he stood up. ‘The thing is, Abby, not many people know you are here. Not many people at all. Which means no one’s going to miss you. No one’s going to come looking for you.’ He drank some whisky. ‘Nice shower,’ he said. ‘No expense spared. I expect you’d like to enjoy it. Well, I’m a fair man.’
He rattled the ice cubes hard, staring at the glass, and for a moment Abby thought he was actually going to cut her a deal.
‘Here’s my offer to you. Either I hurt you until you give it all back to me. Or you just give it back to me.’ He smiled again. ‘Strikes me as a no-brainer.’
He took a slow, relaxed drag on his cigarette, as if enjoying her eyes watching him, enjoying the knowledge that she was probably desperate for one. He tilted his head and allowed the blue smoke to curl out of his mouth and drift upwards.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you sleep on it.’
Then he shut the door.
54
Roy Grace sat at the work station in Major Incident Room One, nursing the mother, father, brother, sister, uncle, grandson, first cousin and second cousin-once-removed of all hangovers. His mouth was like the bottom of a parrot’s cage and it felt as if a chainsaw was blunting its teeth on a steel spike inside his head.
His one consolation was that Glenn Branson, seated diagonally opposite him, looked like he was suffering too. What the hell had come over them last night?
They’d gone to the Black Lion for a quick drink, because Glenn wanted to talk to him about his marriage. They had staggered out some time around midnight, having drunk – how many whiskies, beers, bottles of Rioja? Grace did not even want to think about it. He vaguely remembered a taxi ride home, and that Glenn was still with him because his wife had told him she didn’t want him coming home in the state he was.
Then they had drunk more whisky and Glenn had started riffling through his CDs, criticizing his music, as he always did.
Glenn had still been there this morning, in the spare room, moaning about his blinding headache and telling Grace he was seriously thinking of ending it all.
‘The time is 8.30, Tuesday 23 October,’ Grace read from his briefing notes.
His policy book, and his notes, typed out half an hour earlier by his MSA, sat in front of him, along with a mug of coffee. He was maxed out on paracetamols, which weren’t working, and he was chewing mint gum to mask his breath, which he was sure must reek of alcohol. He had left his car at the pub last night and decided a walk there to get it, later this morning, would do him some good.