‘Sweetie! Don’t dare to call people silly! Chris is a policeman!’
‘I get called worse than that,’ said Gibbs. ‘Patrick’s surname?’
Cordy frowned. ‘I suppose he might have needed one to be officially registered or whatever, or for medical appointments. Good question: it could have been either, I suppose. My guess would be Oliva, though, like Amy.’
Now Gibbs was certain something strange was going on. ‘Officially registered?’ he said.
Realisation dawned, and Cordy O’Hara looked embarrassed. Guilty, almost. ‘Oh, right, you don’t know. Patrick is Amy’s cat,’ she said. ‘A big fat ginger tom. All the girls adored him.’
17
Friday, 10 August 2007
Once I’ve knocked out all the glass with the leg of the massage table, I hoist myself up on to the window sill and scramble out into the yard. I run back and forth blindly, whimpering like a wounded animal, hitting the hedge and then the wall. My body feels ice cold in spite of the sun. I stop, wrap the flimsy stained dressing gown around me and tie the belt tight.
I am trapped. Again. This yard is an outdoor cell that goes round the house on two sides. There’s a second wooden gate, one I couldn’t see from the window, also with a padlock on it.
Three wheelie-bins stand against the wall-green, black and blue. I grab the green one and drag it over to the hedge. If I could get up on to it… I try, but it’s too thin, the sides too smooth. There’s nothing to help me get a foot-hold. Once, twice, I yank myself up, but lose my balance. Think. Think. Beating in my head like a pulse is the idea that the man will be back at any moment, back to kill me. I scream, ‘Help! Somebody help me!’ as loudly as I can, but I hear nothing. No response. The air all around me is still; not even a rumble of traffic in the distance.
I put my full weight behind one of the large, terracotta plant-pots and shunt it towards the bin. It scrapes along the concrete slabs, making a horrible noise. Panting with the effort, I finally manage to up-end the pot. Its base is wide and flat. I stand on it and climb up on to the bin lid, landing on my knees. For a few seconds I am rocking in mid-air, arms flailing, certain I’m going to lose my balance. I lunge towards the hedge, grab hold of it and manage to stand, leaning my upper body against the thick slab of twigs and leaves.
Looking over the top, I see an empty road, three street lights-the twee, mock-antique lantern kind-and the loop-end of a small cul-de-sac, around which stand several identical houses with identical back gardens. I turn and look at the house I’ve escaped from. Its flat beige stone-cladding façade tells me nothing. I have no idea where I am.
I’m not high enough to climb from the bin on to the top of the hedge. If the bin were two or three inches higher, or the hedge more uneven so that I could use part of it as a ledge… I try to stick my bare foot in, but it’s too solid. I stare at its flat top, unable to believe I’m this close and still can’t get up there.
What can I do? What can I do?
The milk bottles. I could take some paper and a pen from my bag, write a note and push it into an empty bottle. Could I throw a bottle far enough so that it lands in one of those back gardens? How long would I have to wait for help, even if I could?
I jump down from the bin and run round the house, back to the smashed window. Directly beneath it, a small, square alcove has been built into the wall. There are two full bottles and one with no milk in it, only a rolled up sheet of white lined paper sticking out of the neck.
The man who kidnapped and violated me has left a note for his milkman. He still belongs to the ordinary world, the one I can’t reach.
I pull the note out and read it. It says, ‘Hope you got my message saying not to come. If not, no more milk until further notice please. Away for at least a month. Thanks!’
Away for at least a month… I would have died, if I hadn’t got out. He planned to leave me to die in the room. But… if both gates to the yard are padlocked from the inside, how can the milkman…? Oh, my God. You idiot, Sally. I haven’t even tried them. I saw two padlocks and assumed…
The one on the back gate that I could see from the window is locked, but the second one isn’t, the one round the side of the house. The padlock has been pushed closed, which is what I saw, what misled me. But it hangs only from the gate itself; it hasn’t been looped through the part that’s attached to the wall. I pull it, and the gate swings open towards me. I see another quiet, empty road.
Run. Run to the police.
My heart pounding, I push the gate shut as violently as I pulled it open. He’s not coming back. Not for at least a month. If I can get into the rest of the house somehow, I can clean myself up; I won’t have to run through the streets with nothing on apart from a dressing gown that’s covered in my own blood. If the police see me like this, they will know William Markes made me take my clothes off. They will ask questions. Nick will find out… I can’t face it. I have to go back inside the house.
A heavy plant-pot would break a double-glazed window. I try and fail to lift the one that looks heaviest. Three smaller pots stand against the wall, lined up side by side on a long, rectangular concrete plinth. I move the plants and strain to pick up the base. I can lift it, just about. Holding it under my right arm like a battering ram, supporting it with both my hands, I run as fast as I can towards the kitchen window, panting. The glass cracks the second time I hit it. The third time it breaks.
I climb into the house, cutting my hands and legs, but I don’t care. The recipe book has been put back on the counter. Beside it is the gun. He hasn’t taken his gun. He’s given up. Given up and left me to die. I back away, bile rising in my throat when I see the syringe lying neatly by the sink.
I can’t stay in the room once I’ve seen it. Gagging, I run upstairs. Clothes. I need clothes. The wardrobes in the blue and pink rooms are empty. There are a few clothes on wooden hangers in the one in the master bedroom, men’s clothes. His. A suit, a padded coat with paint stains on the arms and lots of keys in one of the pockets, two shirts, a pair of khaki corduroy trousers.
The idea of putting on his clothes is unbearable. I cry, wanting my own clothes. Where has he put them? Two ideas come to me at once: the locked bathroom door. A pocket full of keys…
I shake them all out on to the landing carpet. Some are obviously too big, too small or the wrong shape. I push these to one side. There are five left. The fourth one I try opens the locked door. The bathroom is large, almost as big as the master bedroom, with a sunken bath in one corner. In the middle of the floor, like a pyre-some kind of sacrificial mound or a bonfire waiting to burn-is a heap of somebody’s possessions. Clothes, shoes, bags, school exercise books, Barbie dolls, a watch, a pair of yellow washing-up gloves, a bottle of Eau du Soir by Sisley, gold and pearl cuff links: hundreds of things. Things that once belonged to a woman and a girl. All their possessions, heaped up in this one room. And, on top, my clothes and shoes. Thank God.
I push my way through the pile, hear things from the top falling into the bath and basin. The loudest crash comes from a black anglepoise lamp with a chrome base. It scares me until I realise what it is. It looks like a little creature-black head, silver spine. Its bulb has fallen out and smashed in the basin.
My heart thuds harder when I find two passports. I open the first one, flick to the back page. It’s her: the girl from the photograph. Amy Oliva. The other passport belongs to her mother, and her face is as familiar to me as her daughter’s for the same reason. Encarnación. A Spanish name? Yes. I flicked through a book a few seconds ago that was written in a foreign language.
Amy Oliva’s father. But he told me his name was William Markes.