He ran up the steps to the landing and crashed, painfully, into something heavy and solid. The bloody stuffed stag! He switched the torch on and shone the light along the corridor. Nothing. He turned and shone it back down the stairs. No one there. Not that he could see, anyhow.
Goosebumps pricked the nape of his neck, as he walked slowly along and stopped at Bruno’s door. He glanced over his shoulder once again, then opened it and peered in.
The room was empty.
Where was Bruno?
He walked further along, stopping every few moments to check behind him. Each time he saw nothing but darkness and shadows. He reached Kaitlynn’s door. Again, after checking behind him, he opened it and shone his torch in.
On an empty room. And empty cot.
Oh Jesus.
It felt like an unseen hand was clamped around his throat, crushing it so tight he could barely breathe.
Where were they?
Then he heard another scream. Faint. Where was it coming from?
‘Royyyyyyyyyyy!’
15
Through his pain, ravenous hunger and desperate thirst, Jack Alexander heard the distinct sound of a woman screaming, somewhere way above him. Too faint for him to make out who it was. Kaitlynn? Oh my God, what were these monsters — whoever they were — doing to her? To all of them? What was this madhouse they’d stumbled into? Who were the crazies here?
Feeling so bloody helpless, he tried desperately to think back, for any clues. All he could recall was arriving at lunchtime in a happy mood. He’d been looking forward to seeing Kaitlynn and to a holiday — thanks to Roy and Cleo’s kindness — in a glorious chateau. At least, it had looked that way in the photos online — but a bit less so in the pelting rain as he had driven up. He was also looking forward to spending a week with Roy Grace, his boss.
Dating the Graces’ nanny had given him this unique chance to spend an entire week on holiday with the Detective Superintendent. He could learn a lot from him, which might help his promotion prospects, he thought — and besides, he really liked him.
He recalled being surprised not to see any other cars parked outside the chateau. The unfriendly woman greeting him at the door, and a mangy dog hauling itself around on its front legs. Then something hit him. The next thing he knew, he was down here.
Nothing made sense. It was as if he was dreaming. But the pain in his head and arms was real enough. Too damned real.
Then he heard the scream again.
His wrists were agony, the bonds cutting in, as sharp as razor blades; every movement gave him burning pain. He sensed blood trickling down his arms. All the same, that scream made him try again to break free. Flexing his toes, he launched himself backwards, his cry of agony stifled by the tape around his mouth as he tried again. Then again.
And finally felt movement. Hope rose.
Whatever he was shackled to was definitely looser than it had been. Again, clenching his teeth against the pain, he sprang backwards as hard as he could. And this time he very definitely felt movement. Something was loosening on the wall.
Tears of pain stinging his eyes, he took another very deep breath and launched himself backwards once more. Suddenly, catching him out, there was no longer any resistance. His bound wrists pulled whatever they were shackled to out of the wall. It came away with a loud crack, as he fell backwards, painfully, onto the hard floor.
He lay for some moments in the darkness, winded, collecting his thoughts, his hands still tightly bound and attached to something heavy. He brought it to his face. It felt like a metal hoop.
Sneezing from the dust, he knelt and brought his wrists to his face, rubbing them against his cheek to try to figure out what the bindings were. They felt like cable ties, made from plastic as hard as steel. Giving up, he stumbled to his feet and stood, confused, in the pitch darkness, swaying unsteadily. His watch was meant to be luminous, but he couldn’t see the hands. Maybe he’d been in the dark too long.
Then he used his fingers to work away at the tape over his lips and chin. It took him several anxious minutes before, finally and gratefully, he was able to uncover his mouth.
‘Hello?’ he said to the man and woman he had seen in here. ‘Hello? Bonjour?’
Nothing.
He stumbled around in the darkness, thinking this was what it must be like to be blind. Where was the door? Was there some sharp edge down here he could rub the cable tie against? Then he banged into something hard, flat, cold and damp. A wall.
Just keep moving in one direction and I’ll come to a door, he thought.
Keeping his right elbow against the wall, he began inching along. Suddenly, after only a few paces, he felt a cold draught. Then wood on his hand.
A door!
Open, please God.
Using both hands now, he felt the coarse surface, wincing as a painful splinter dug into his skin. Then a square, metal lock. And the handle.
His heart pounding, he turned the handle. Pulled. Pushed. Pulled again as hard as he could, then pushed once more. But the door did not move. It was locked.
Shit, shit, shit.
Tempted to start pounding with his fists, he thought better of it. Stealth. Keep quiet and his captors would not know he was free. That gave him one small edge over them, even though his wrists were still bound together. He tried to cut through the tie using the edge of the lock, but it wasn’t sharp enough.
What else was here? Another door? Window? Air vent?
He smelled piss, and realized it was his own, from some time ago — he had no idea how long — when he’d finally relieved himself.
He carried on, keeping the back of his hand against the wall, feeling his way around his prison. Desperate to get out, to find Kaitlynn — and to find out just what the hell was going on here. Then, suddenly, his foot struck something hard, sending him hurtling forward onto the floor.
He lay for some moments, winded and bruised. Then, as he hauled himself back up, his face brushed against something soft and firm. Something covered in fabric. A trouser leg? It moved away. An instant later, something crashed into his face with such force it knocked him over onto his back.
As he lay on the ground, the taste of blood in his mouth, checking if he had lost a tooth — and confirming it with his tongue — he realized he had been kicked in the face. ‘Hey!’ he called out, aware his voice sounded strange, slurred, as if his jaw was broken. ‘I am your friend — ami!’
He climbed back, unsteadily, onto his feet. ‘Englishhh!’ he slurred. ‘I’m an English police officer. Je suis police, gendarme! Friend! Ami!’
He inched his way back to the wall, grateful when he finally touched it, and stood there, not daring to get too close to whoever had kicked him. ‘Police!’ he said again, his voice drowning out the sound of the door opening a short distance away. ‘Ami! Friend!’
Making his way along, he touched the leg again. This time it did not flinch. ‘Do you speak English? Parlez-vous Anglais? Raise your right leg if you do!’
An instant later, he was startled by a powerful beam of light from behind him. For a moment, it lit up an elderly man, with messy hair and terror in his eyes, his mouth and chin covered in duct tape. Beside him was a similarly gagged woman, maybe in her late sixties, also chained to the wall by her wrists.
Then, just as Jack turned his head, he felt a violent blow. He fell sideways, unconscious, to the floor.
16
‘Royyyyyyyyyyy!’
The sound pierced Roy Grace’s heart.