Looking Good Dead (39 page)

The stench of vomit was even stronger in here, and Willingham, concentrating on the screen, carefully stood clear of the mess on the carpet. He watched Bryce sit down, stare at the screen, frown, then search down through it.

‘It was here,’ Tom said. ‘It was here, an email with a fucking attachment. Oh Jesus, where the hell is it?’

Willingham said nothing; Tom seemed a little calmer for a moment. Then he appeared to lose it again. ‘IT WAS HERE!’

Tom stared in disbelief. The bloody email had vanished. He tapped in as a search key, one after another, every word from the email that he could remember. But nothing appeared. He sank forward, cradling his head in his hands, sobbing. ‘Please help me. Oh please do something, please find her, please do something. Oh Christ, you should have heard her.’

‘You saw her, on your screen?’

Tom nodded.

‘But she’s not there now?’

‘Nooooo.’

Willingham wondered about the man’s sanity. Was he imagining something? Flipping under the pressure? ‘Let’s take it from the top, shall we, sir?’

Trying to keep calm, Tom talked him through exactly what he had seen and what Kellie had said.

‘If you received an email,’ the PC said, ‘then it must be on your computer somewhere.’

Tom searched the deleted folder, the junk mail folder, then the rest of the folders in his email database. It had gone.

And he began to wonder, just for a moment, whether he had imagined it.

But not that scream. No way.

He turned to the constable. ‘You are probably thinking I imagined it, but I didn’t. I saw it. Whoever these people are, they’re clever with technology. It’s happened before – I’ve had emails this week that vanished, wiping my entire database out.’

Willingham stood there, unsure what to believe or what to do. The man was in a bad state but did not seem mad, just in shock. Something had happened, for sure, but in his limited knowledge of computers emails did not just disappear. They might get misfiled; that had happened to him. ‘Let’s try again, sir. Let’s go through all your files, one at a time.’

It was past midnight by the time they finished. Still they had not found it.

Tom looked up at him, imploring. ‘What are we going to do?’

The FLO was thinking hard. ‘We could try the High Tech Crime Unit, but I doubt if anyone will be there at this hour on a Sunday night. How about the technical support of your internet service provider – they might be twenty-four-hour?’ Then he frowned. ‘I, er . . . Actually, on second thought, I need to run this by DS Grace first.’

‘Let me just try,’ Tom said. He looked up the number and dialled it. An automated response put him on hold. After ten minutes of drecky music a human voice came on the line, an Indian accent, helpful and eager to please. After a further ten minutes that felt like ten hours he came back and reported that he could find no sign of the email or the attachment.

Tom slammed the phone down in fury.

In a tone that told Tom the FLO was becoming increasingly sceptical, Willingham asked, ‘What were the exact words your wife said to you?’

Trying desperately to think clearly, Tom related her words as accurately as he could remember.

‘She said, “Don’t tell the police. Do exactly what they tell you, otherwise it will be Max next then Jessica. Please do exactly what you are told. You must not tell the police – they will know if you do.”’

‘Who are “they”?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, feeling so utterly helpless.

Willingham pulled out his digital radio. Tom immediately clamped his hand over it. ‘NO!’

There was a long silence between them. Several more emails came in and the junk filter deleted them. Tom checked the folders. Nothing.

Finally, Willingham said, ‘I think I should file a report on this.’

‘No!’ Tom snapped back.

‘It will be secure, sir; I will only file it on the police system.’

‘NO!’

Taken aback by the man’s vehemence, the constable raised his hands. ‘OK, sir, no problem.’ He grimaced. ‘How about I make a cup of tea for us both – or a coffee – and we have a think about what to do next?’

‘Coffee,’ Tom said. ‘Coffee would be good, thank you. Black, no sugar.’

The constable left the room. Tom continued to stare at the screen; his entire life lay somewhere beyond its horizon.

A new email came in. It was from [email protected]. Instantly, he clicked on it.

Congratulations, Tom! You are cottoning on fast! Now get out of the house, take Kellie’s car, head north on the A23 London Road and wait for her to call you. I don’t like you ignoring my instructions not to talk to the police. If you say one word, just ONE word to your new best friend, your rookie cop housekeeper, then my friend you will never see your wife alive again. Don’t attempt to reply to this email. And don’t bother searching for the hidden camera – you are looking at it.

65

Cleo smiled at him, her face so gentle and beautiful in the glow of the candlelight. Mellow jazz was playing in the background. Roy Grace could feel her warm, sweet breath on his face, saw strands of her tousled hair on her cheeks.

‘That wasn’t bad,’ she whispered.

‘For a copper?’

She gave him a playful punch. Then she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. The bed felt so comfortable, Cleo felt so comfortable, so good to be with, as if he had known her for years, as if they were the bestest-ever mates in all the world.

He caressed her skin, a deep warm glow inside him; he felt utterly, sublimely at peace. He was, for this fleeting moment at least, in a space he never believed he could ever find again in his life. Then he remembered his phone ringing earlier, the beep of a message which he had ignored and should not have, and he looked at the clock, emitting weak blue light, on the bedside table.

1.15 a.m.

Shit!

He rolled over, groped on the floor, found his phone and pulled it to his ear, hitting the message retrieval button.

It was Glenn, telling him to call if he picked the message up before midnight, otherwise to wait until the morning. He put the phone back down, relieved.

‘I’m glad you came over,’ Cleo murmured.

‘It was the lure of Glenfiddich, that was all. Can’t resist it.’

‘So you really are that shallow, are you, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace?’ she teased. ‘Anything for a free drink?’

‘Uh huh. And maybe I was just a tiny bit curious about your fiancé. How shallow does that make me?’ He took a sharp breath as she suddenly cupped his balls in her hands.

‘Do you know what they say, Detective Superintendent?’ She squeezed gently.

Gasping with pleasure – and just a tiny bit of pain – he said, ‘What do they say?’

‘When you have a man’s balls in your hands, his heart and mind will follow.’

He exhaled sharply, deliciously, as she released the pressure a tiny bit. ‘So talk me through your plans for the rest of the night?’ he whispered.

She increased the pressure, then kissed him again. ‘You’re not in a very good position to negotiate, whatever my plans are!’

‘Who’s negotiating?’

‘You think you are!’ She removed her hands, rolled out of the bed and padded across the room. He watched her slender, naked body, her long legs, her firm, round, pale and gorgeous bum disappear through the doorway. Then he put his arms behind his head and lay back against a soft, deep, down pillow. ‘Plenty of ice!’ he called out.

She returned a few minutes later with two rattling glass tumblers, and handed one to him. Climbing back into bed beside him she raised her glass and clinked it against his. With a toss of her head she said, ‘Cheers, big ears. Here goes, nose. Up your bum, chum!’ Then she downed half her glass.

He raised his glass. ‘Cheers, big ears!’ he responded, then took a deep swig. Tomorrow was a million miles away. Her eyes, fixed on his, were sparkling.

‘So you came over just because you wanted to know about my fiancé. Was that the only reason, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace?’

‘Stop calling me that!’

‘What do you want me to call you? The bonk at the end of the universe?’

Grinning, he said, ‘That would be fine. Otherwise, just Roy would be fine too.’

She tilted her glass to her mouth, then leaned across, kissed him sensuously on his mouth, and pushed a whisky-flavoured ice cube in through his lips. ‘Roy! It’s a great name. Why did your parents call you Roy?’

‘I never asked.’

‘Why not?’

He shrugged. ‘It never occurred to me.’

‘And you’re a detective? I thought you queried everything.’

‘Why did your parents call you Cleo?’

‘Because . . .’ She gave a little giggle. ‘Actually, I’m embarrassed to say, it was because my mother’s favourite novels were The Alexandria Quartet. I was named after one of the characters – Clea – except my father spelled it wrong in the church register. He put an “o” on the end instead of an “a” – and it stuck.’

‘I’ve never heard of The Alexandria Quartet.’

‘Come on, you must have read them!’

‘I must have had a deprived childhood.’

‘Or a missspent one?’

‘Could you play poker when you were twelve?’

‘That’s what I mean! God, you need educating! The Alexandria Quartet were four novels written by Lawrence Durrell – beautiful stories, all interlinked. Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive and Clea.’

‘They must be if . . .’

‘If what?’

‘If they resulted in you.’

Then his phone rang again. And this time he answered it – very reluctantly.

Two minutes later, even more reluctantly, he was standing by the bed hurriedly and clumsily pulling his socks on.

66

‘You scare easily, don’t you, Kellie?’

Dazzled by the light in her eyes, Kellie squirmed against the bonds holding her, trying to move back in her chair, trying to move away from the wriggling legs of the hideous black beetle the fat, squat American was holding up to her face.

‘Nooooo! Please nooooooooo!’

‘Just one of my pets.’ He leered.

‘What do you want from me? What do you want?’

Suddenly he removed the beetle, and was holding out the neck of a vodka bottle. ‘Drinkies?’

She turned her head away. Shaking. From terror. From hunger. From withdrawal. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘I know you want a drink, Kellie. Have some, it’ll make you feel so much better.’

She desperately craved that bottle, wanted to take the neck in her mouth and gulp it down. But she was determined not to give him the satisfaction. Out of the corner of her eye, in the glare of the light, she could still see the wriggling legs.

‘Have one little sip.’

‘I want my children,’ she said.

‘I think you want the vodka more.’

‘Fuck you!’

She saw a shadow, then felt a fierce slap on her cheek. She cried out in pain.

‘I’m not taking any shit from a little bitch – do you understand me?’

‘Fuck you!’

The next blow was so hard it knocked Kellie and the chair over sideways. She crashed with an agonizing jar onto the rock-hard floor; pain shot through her arm, her shoulder, right along her body. She burst into tears. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she sobbed. ‘What do you want from me? WHAT DO YOU WANT?’

‘How about a little obedience?’ He held the beetle up to her face, so close she could smell its sour odour. She felt its feet scratch her skin.

‘Noooooooooo!’ She writhed, rolling across the floor with the chair, crashing, banging, every bone in her body hurting. ‘Nooo, nooo, nooo!’ her breathing getting faster, gulping down air, hysterical. She felt a sudden wave of anger against Tom. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come to find her, rescue her?

Then she lay still – spent, staring up into dazzling light, and darkness. ‘Please,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t know who you are. I just want my children. My husband. Please let me go.’

This must be something to do with the email Tom had seen, that he had gone to the police with, she was certain. ‘Why am I here?’ she asked, as if for confirmation.

Silence.

‘Are you angry with me?’ she whimpered.

His voice was gentle suddenly. ‘Only because you are misbehaving, Kellie. I’d just like you to cooperate.’

‘Then un-fucking-tie me!’

‘I don’t think that’s really possible at the moment.’

She closed her eyes, trying desperately to think clearly, to fight the terrible craving for alcohol. For just one tiny sip of that Stoli. But she was not going to give this fat American the satisfaction. Never, no way in hell, no way, never, never, never.

Then the craving took over her brain.

‘Please can I have a drink now?’ she asked.

Moments later the bottle was inside her lips and she was greedily gulping the liquid down. Its effect on her was almost instant. God, it felt good. Maybe she was wrong about this man – maybe he was kind after all.

‘That’s good, Kellie! Keep drinking. That’s really good, isn’t it?’

She nodded in gratitude.

‘See! All I want to do is be nice to you. You be nice to me, and I’ll be nice to you. Any part of that you don’t understand?’

She shook her head. Then felt bereft, suddenly, as he abruptly pulled the bottle away.

And suddenly she was thinking clearly again. And every scary movie she had ever seen started playing in her mind simultaneously. Who the hell was this man? A serial killer? What was he going to do to her? Fear squirmed like some wild creature loose inside her. Was she going to be raped? Tortured?

I’m going to die, here, in the darkness, without ever seeing Jessica or Max or Tom again.

How did you deal with a person like this? In films she had seen prisoners trying to establish a relationship, a bond, with their captors. It made it much harder for them to harm you if they got to know you a little.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think you need to concern yourself about that, Kellie.’

‘I’d like to know.’

‘I’m going to leave you now for a little while. With a bit of luck, your husband will be joining you soon.’

‘Tom?’

‘You got it!’

‘Tom’s coming?’