A Wayward Game (24 page)

I guess you’re based in
or near London. Can we meet? I can understand if you’re reluctant
to agree, but it’s probably the safest and most secure way for me
to tell you about what I’ve discovered. We need to meet up and talk
this through in person.

Please, please consider
it.

I stare at the
message for several minutes, re-reading it, analysing it. My first
reaction is disbelief. When Diane disappeared, detectives and
experienced journalists alike scoured the case for clues, evidence,
indications. How likely is it that an inexperienced student has
managed to turn up something of importance at this late stage? But
then again, I remember, I only had to perform a quick internet
search to find out information about Martin Stevenson – information
that nobody, to the best of my knowledge, had picked up on before.
The constantly-fluctuating internet reveals its truths fleetingly,
and to unexpected eyes. Perhaps Lurker really
has
come up
with something new. Such things do happen, albeit rarely. Someone’s
very inexperience might lead them to look in places or speak to
people that a veteran would ignore. I remember my own days as a
rookie reporter: the freshness I had, the willingness to try
different things and challenge accepted practices. Most of it led
only to dead ends, but occasionally I found something new and
exciting as a result. Why shouldn’t Lurker have achieved something
similar?

And besides –
and I am almost reluctant to allow the thought into my mind – what
if there really
was
a high-level, widespread conspiracy?
What if those experienced investigators and journalists were part
of it, whether they knew it or not? If that were so, then perhaps
an outsider, someone who had not been corrupted or suppressed by
the system, would be the only person who
could
come up with
a vital new piece of information.

I tap out a
reply:

Lurker,

This all sounds very
interesting, but – as I’m sure you’ll understand – rather unlikely.
I can quite understand your reluctance to say a great deal online,
but could you give me some indication as to what this evidence
consists of? Is it a witness statement, actual physical evidence, a
forensic discovery?

And (and I hope you’ll
forgive me for asking this) are you quite sure that this evidence
is really so compelling? Might you not be seeing what you want to
see? I’m not being disrespectful in saying this, believe me. It
happens all the time: people overestimate the importance of things.
You have to consider the possibility that you’ve done the same.

What makes you think
that this evidence is so explosive? Does it involve people other
than Sallow?

I’m nervous about
meeting you in person. I don’t know you, obviously, and I can’t be
sure of your intentions. Are you quite sure that there’s no other
way you can get this information to me?

Kitty.

I wander out
into the kitchen and make some tea while I’m waiting for a reply.
Lurker’s words niggle me, and I feel unaccountably nervous. It’s
probably nothing, of course; in all likelihood, he’s either a
hoaxer or a fool. But what if it’s
something
? Who is Lurker,
and why has he chosen to confide in me?

I carry my tea
back into the living room, and find Lurker’s reply awaiting me.

Kitty,

The information I’ve
uncovered relates to Sallow’s web of contacts. And believe me, it
really is explosive. We all know that Sallow has friends and
supporters in the City and various financial institutions, and the
media. What I have uncovered, however, suggests that it goes much
further. This web encompasses not just the worlds of finance and
business, but also academia, the police, and the Civil Service, all
the way up to Westminster. I am not exaggerating. This information
could, if accurate, cause a scandal that might bring down the
government. You can understand, I think, why I don’t want to report
it through the usual channels.

You must have so many
questions, of course. I’ll explain everything if we meet. I don’t
want to give too much away here because, believe me, I’m truly
afraid.

I know you don’t want
to meet me in person, and I quite understand that. But please,
please consider it. I don’t know who else I can possibly speak
to.

I feel my heart
hammering in my chest as I read, despite my scepticism. Can Lurker
really mean this? I quickly type out a reply:

Lurker, tell me – are
you serious?

A reply comes
back within seconds:

Yes. I wish I
weren’t.

Still I can’t
make up my mind. I need advice. I can’t ask Neil; if what Lurker is
saying is true, then it confirms my suspicion that I can’t trust
him. Lurker’s words reflect my own fears, and I find that I cannot
dismiss them.

I sit thinking.
None of my friends or other acquaintances can advise me on this. I
don’t know anyone whose guidance I can seek. Fellow journalists,
editors, contacts in the media – they must all be treated as
suspect now. At last, and in desperation, I call Frieda. She knows
no more than I, but at least I can trust her honesty and good
intentions. She answers at the fifth ring, sounding sleepy and
rather out of breath.

“What do you
mean, should you go?” she bellows when I tell her what has
happened. “Of course you have to go! This could be it. This could
be the one thing we need to blow this whole thing wide open.”

“It probably
isn’t, Frieda,” I warn her.

“But there’s a
chance, isn’t there? And if there’s a chance, you’ve got to see
him.” She gives a small, bitter laugh. “It sounds right to me,
Katherine, you know? Sallow’s got friends in high places, we all
know that – but
how
high?”

“Very,
according to this fellow.”

“And he might
have some proof of that?”

“Don’t get your
hopes up. It could be a prank. It could be nothing at all. I’ll
have to see this evidence for myself before I can say.”

“But if it
really
is
something—”

“If it really
is something, then that’s just the beginning of our problems. If
the media, the police, the government, are all in on this, then who
the Hell do we turn to?”

“We’ll think of
something. We’ll make it public. If the public are on our side,
we’re winning. For God’s sake, Katherine, arrange to meet this
guy.”

“All right,” I
say wearily.

“Get every last
scrap of information out of him. Beg him, bribe him, torture him if
you have to. Just do it.”

“I’ll do my
best, but really, I don’t know—”

“I’m coming
down to London,” Frieda says, cutting me off; and then, before I
can try to dissuade her, she hangs up. I sit quietly for a while,
looking at the receiver. It could be a wasted journey – in fact, it
almost certainly will be – but my heart still twitches nervously in
my chest, and a voice in my head whispers, “What if?” Besides, what
can I say to Frieda? She’ll clutch at any hope, no matter how faint
or mistaken, if she can only find out what happened to her
daughter.

I go back to my
desk and send a message to Lurker:

I need to talk to you.
Can you give me your phone number?

A few minutes
later a reply arrives:

I have a prepaid mobile
phone. Should be pretty anonymous.

A number is
attached to the message. I pick up the phone and dial. There are
two rings, and then a voice – male, soft, well-spoken – answers.
“Kittyminx?” he asks.

“Lurker?”

“Thank you for
calling.” He has a smooth voice, polite and cultured – a voice you
can trust.

“Are you
serious about all of this? Really serious?”

“Yes. I mean,
of course, I’m not a police officer, and I’m not even a proper
journalist yet, but it certainly looks very convincing to me. And
if it’s true, I don’t know what to do with it. I need advice.”

“Where are you?
London?”

“Not far from
London. I don’t want to say where, exactly. Not on the phone.”

“Nobody’s going
to be listening in, Lurker.”

“You don’t know
that. Don’t trust anyone.”

“Speaking of
which, why should I trust you?”

“I don’t
suppose there’s any particular reason why you should. But if you
just give me a chance—”

“This had
better be good, Lurker. By the way, I’m physically strong and I
know some self-defence moves, so don’t try anything.”

“I just want to
talk
to you, Kittyminx.”

“All right.
Where do you want to meet?”

“I thought
maybe Essex . . .”

“Essex? Why not
London?”

“I thought
somewhere quiet would be better. Besides, I live out here, and I
haven’t got a car. Listen, do you know a place called
Tidesend?”

“Never heard of
it.”

“Not many
people have. It’s a little village, not far from Canvey Island.
Just on the Thames Estuary. Can you find it?”

“I do have a
road atlas.”

“Okay. If you
drive along the A130, heading east, you’ll see the signposts. Drive
straight through the village, towards the estuary, and just as you
get within sight of the river you’ll see a ruined old cottage on
your right. If you wait outside the front door, I’ll meet you
there.”

“For God’s
sake, Lurker! Why all this skulking around? It’s like a bad spy
novel.”

“Look, we won’t
be disturbed out there; and if anyone does decide to join us, we’ll
see them coming, and we’ll be able to get the hell out of
there.”

“Christ, you’re
paranoid.”

“Maybe I’m
right to be.”

I sigh. “All
right. When?”

“Friday
evening, seven o’clock?”

“All right. See
you then.”

“Thanks,
Kittyminx. Goodbye. Call me if there are any problems.”

I hang up, and
sit still for a moment, thinking. I’m afraid: afraid of meeting
Lurker, afraid of who he might be, afraid of the possibility that
he’s telling the truth. Afraid of the great open spaces out there,
beyond the well-trodden streets of London. Afraid that I have to
face this alone, that I can’t trust Neil or anyone else. But what
can I do? If Lurker’s evidence is genuine, this surreptitious
meeting makes absolute sense. I suppose I could try to talk him
into meeting me at a time and place of my own choosing, but I sense
that he’s skittish, and likely to be scared off unless I let him
have his way.

I had the
feeling that things were coming to a head, and perhaps they are.
Friday evening. I’ve nothing to do until then but wait. I close the
internet window, and try to concentrate on my work, but my mind
runs in circles, and returns always to the same point. Tidesend,
Essex. The name sounds like either a promise or a threat, and I
can’t decide which is more likely. I’m afraid, and I’m alone, and I
sense that danger is very close now.

Neil closes his
eyes and breathes out as I fasten the collar about his neck. Made
of black leather and encircled by metal studs, with a small ring at
the front, it fits him perfectly. I run my hand over it, letting my
fingertips dance over the sensitive skin at his throat.

“This,” I say,
“is to remind you where you belong, and who you belong to. Is it
too tight?”

“No, Mistress.”
He swallows, and leans towards me slightly as my fingers brush
against the sensitive skin just beneath his ear.

“Good boy. And
who do you belong to?”

“To you,
Mistress.”

“Yes.” I pinch
one of his nipples. “All of you.”

“Yes,
Mistress.”

My hand slides
down the front of his body, over his chest and hip, and down to his
groin. I squeeze his balls, and he gasps.

“Every last bit
of you,” I say.

“Yes,
Mistress.” His voice is pleading.

My hand slides
back up along his body, and I touch the collar again.

“You look very
beautiful in this,” I say. “I like to see you wearing it. This way,
you’ll never forget who your Mistress is.” I lean forward and kiss
him, and then give the collar a little tug. “Lie down on the
bed.”

He walks across
to the bed, lies down on his back, and gives me a rather uncertain
glance. I gaze down at him. His naked body is taut with
expectation, his eyes full of unspoken questions, and his cock is
stiffening. I feel a familiar tug of yearning, and the stirring of
something far more dangerous. I sit down on a chair at the foot of
the bed, and cross one leg over the other. I am wearing a tight
black corset, black stockings, and spike heels. His eyes run over
my clothes, and then up to my face. I smile.

“I like you to
feel pleasure,” I tell him. “I want you to feel more pleasure than
anyone has ever felt. Your pleasure gives me pleasure. Is that
clear?”

“Yes,
Mistress.”

“Then feel
pleasure now. Let me see you touch yourself.”

He hesitates,
and a look of anxiety flickers across his face.

“You don’t have
to,” I say. “If you don’t want to do it, don’t do it. What is the
Safeword?”

“Satis,
Mistress.”

“Do you want to
use it?”

He hesitates,
and then, “No, Mistress,” he says.

“Good. Because
I don’t ever want you to feel embarrassed. Not with me. Your body,
and your pleasure, are more beautiful than I can say, and I want to
enjoy them. So touch yourself.”

He runs one
hand down his body until it reaches his cock, and begins to stroke
himself. He is shy at first, unused to being observed in this most
intimate of acts. He once confessed to me, after a few drinks, that
when his marriage began to founder – when he and his wife took to
sleeping in separate bedrooms, and after dark, when all the lights
were off and all was quiet – masturbation became his companion and
consolation. It was like being a teenager again, he said: sweet,
unspoken fantasies, furtive touches in the forgiving darkness, a
world where nothing is real and everything is permitted. A world,
perhaps, not so very different to that of our games. Maybe the
similarity occurs to him too, for he quickly becomes less reticent,
and begins to stroke himself firmly. His breathing becomes rapid
and harsh as his pleasure increases, and his eyes flutter and
close. I watch him gasping and straining, his back arching as his
hand kneads at his cock, and sense that he’s close to climax.