She remembered a trick her Dad had shown her where you slid a piece of paper under the door and pushed the key out from the inside, retrieving the paper with the key on it. She didn’t have any paper, but she did have the tray from her morning delivery. The tray was a single piece of preformed plastic, the sort you got in a cafeteria, and the gap beneath the door measured about two fingers, just enough to allow it to be pushed under. Now she needed something to poke the key with. She racked her brains, listing things in the room she might use. She had gone through everything and was beginning to despair when... fruit to the rescue again: a banana! She grabbed the peel and felt the woody stalk, perfect. The stalk didn’t fit into the keyhole so she whittled away at it with her fingernails until she had trimmed the excess and then pushed it in. The key wasn’t straight in the lock so it didn’t drop out, but after a bit of wiggling and twisting she heard it fall down and clatter onto the tray.
Silence. The only noise the beating of her heart. Thump, thump, thump, thump. No footsteps in the hallway, no sound of anybody coming to investigate. She pulled the tray in, picked up the key and tried it in the lock. Click. She pushed the handle down and opened the door.
The door swung open to reveal a hallway lit by a bare bulb glowing white and hanging from an old, twisted wire. A carpet ran down the centre exposing stained wooden floorboards either side. The carpet was ancient and in an old-fashioned style, coloured deep red with gold swirls in amongst the dirt somewhere, the pile worn and threadbare. A short way along the corridor to the left a door stood half-open. Inside the room a huge roll-top bath sat beneath a window. There was no blind or curtain, just glass with condensation streaming down in rivulets. The bath and a cracked washbasin had antique fittings, the tap on the basin dripping dirty water onto brown stained enamel.
To her right she could see another door, closed this time, and beyond the corridor turned a corner. In front of her stairs led down to either a hallway or a room below. The stairs were steep with the carpet held in place with brass rods and had a wooden banister to the right.
Alice retrieved the duvet from the bed and wrapped it around her. Then she padded out of the room and across to the stairs and began to descend, stopping on each step to listen.
For what?
Nothing but the distant drip, drip, drip, drip of the tap echoing the cadence of her heart thumping.
A board creaked under her foot and she froze. She lifted her foot and eased it away and down onto the next step. An old song, one of her mum's favourites, began to play in her head. Kris Kristofferson was it? And how did it go?
One step at a time, sweet Jesus
, only that didn’t sound quite right.
Fuck knows, who cares anyway?
She carried on down, mouthing the words of her new song until she reached the bottom step.
Another corridor, a closed door next to her and the hallway turning back in the opposite direction from the stairs. Halfway along another bare bulb hung down, the light so weak she could see the coil of red wire glowing hot inside the glass. At the end of the hall was a big, old door, thick with years of paint. Black iron bolts top and bottom and a burglar bar dropped into U shaped cups fastened to the frame. A rough, bristled mat lay on the floor.
Front door. The way out!
She eased herself along the corridor, half-sliding, half-shuffling. Down on the left an opening revealed a large room, dim with no light. In the gloom she could see a long table with high-backed chairs. She inched past the room and moved toward the front door. To the right yet another door stood open, a flickering light dancing within. She crept nearer. There seemed to be a rhythmical sound, a slight rubbing noise, coming from somewhere close.
Shuffle, slide, shuffle, slide. Her own rhythm this time, the Alice Nashville two-step.
She was at the door now and when she peered in she had to bite her lip to prevent herself letting out a cry.
In the centre of the room a man knelt on the floor. Short dark hair, mid-thirties and naked. And she recognised him. The nakedness shocked her, but the recognition chilled her.
Always best to go with your first opinion of someone, girl. Best not to go for a drink with them. Asking for trouble that.
She remembered now. It had all been Cath’s fault. She said it would be a giggle so when he asked them to go to the pub with him they accepted.
Who is giggling now, Cath?
She didn’t think he had taken her for the money. He as good as had weirdo tattooed on his forehead. She had felt uncomfortable when she first met him, the way his eyes drank her in and his tongue flicked in and out like a snake or a lizard tasting the air.
The man was sideways on to her and she had a clear view of his right hand moving up and down in the age-old manner. The man’s face contorted, creasing and flattening in time with his hand’s rhythm, although whether the expressions showed pleasure, pain or grief Alice found impossible to tell.
To each side of the man a candle burnt in a tall, silver candlestick. The candles guttered every now and then sending shadows feathering across the floor, the fluttering light picking out a bare room with heavy, velvet curtains at the window and an open fire crackling in a grate.
The man was staring forward, a grey tongue lolling in the corner of his open mouth as he gazed at something in front of him. Alice couldn’t see what it was. She knew she should turn and run, but she didn’t. Instead she edged closer to the door, craning her head to see.
Oh no. Fucking hell!
Her mouth dropped open and the shakes returned. Now she knew she should move and she tried to inch backwards. One step. Two steps.
A creak from a floorboard.
The man’s hand stopped moving and he turned his head towards her, a smile broadening on his face before changing to a manic grin below staring eyes of pure madness.
‘Emma! Are you clean at last?’
Alice screamed and dropping the duvet from around her she ran.
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Wednesday 3rd November. 10.15 am
Back at her desk Wednesday morning and Savage was trying to make sense of it all. As she scribbled a couple of Post-Its and clicked through some documents on her screen she began to realise how much the scope of the investigation had widened. The boundary between
Leash
and
Zebo
had become indistinct and the clear picture the team had been working with blurred. Focus shift. She had seen it before and knew the danger. They now had a tangle of threads to tease apart: Rosina, Kelly, Alice, Forester, Trent,
Leash
,
Zebo
. Kelly had got involved with Forester through the modelling and the drugs and they had linked Forester with the rapes thanks to the videos and the GHB the CSI team had found at Forester’s flat. But what did the videos have to do with Kelly’s murder?
The answer came with Riley. He breezed in with a cup of coffee for Savage and some good news too. He had been given a heads up by DC Susan Bridge, the statement reader on
Leash
.
‘Photography, ma’am. That’s got to be the answer.’ Riley showed her the printout DC Bridge had given him. ‘Door-to-door has come up with the goods. Old fashioned policing as Hardin would say.’
Savage read the statement. The account came from a neighbour who had seen something odd going on at the house opposite Trent’s late one night.
‘Flashes, ma’am. Up at a first floor window. Like someone taking pictures. And the neighbour claims to have spotted a woman at the curtains. Naked.’
‘Interesting viewing for the neighbour, but taking pictures of your missus in your own house is not illegal, is it?’
‘Not at all. Not had the chance myself mind you.’
‘So? I get the impression you’ve got something else,’ said Savage.
‘Plymouth Snappers.’
‘The photography club Donal and Forester were members of?’
‘We obtained a list from the club secretary comprising some two hundred names of current and recent members. Trent is not on the list of course, we checked already, but I went back and had another scan through. The house where the neighbour saw the flashes is owned by a man called Everett Mitchell. Just happens he is a former member of the Snappers. That gives us a link to Forester, but there is something else too.’
‘Go on.’
‘Mr Mitchell is self-employed and I took a little look into his business affairs. Now what type of business do you think he is involved in?’
‘I have no idea, but I expect you are going to tell me.’
‘His registered business name gives a clue: Devon Cream Film Distribution.’
‘I don’t need to ask, do I?’
‘No. It is a porn company. He sells DVDs and downloads from a number of websites. The business is legit, above board and everything, but bearing in mind we know Forester was involved in some dodgy videos I’d call the fact one hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you?’
*
An hour later Riley and Enders coasted into Moor Vale in an unmarked pool car. Savage had said Mr Mitchell would need to answer some questions, especially because in his statement given to the officers on the door-to-door enquiries he claimed not to know David Forester.
Mature trees of oak, ash and beech half-hid the houses and though the autumn leaf fall had long since started the lawns were clean and well-manicured.
‘Fantastic place this,’ Enders said as they cruised by the first couple of properties. ‘I’d get a pad here if I won the lottery.’
There was a certain air of refinement about the place, but Riley didn’t think much of the development. It seemed a little too sterile, a little too footballers’ wives.
‘Where is the atmosphere? The concept is a bit artificial for my liking.’
‘What are you talking about? Look at all that lovely grass. And this road goes nowhere. My kids could have a whale of a time here.’
‘Are you joking? What do you think Mr and Mrs We-Paid-Good-Money-For-This would say when your Connor goes whizzing around on his scooter? Or when the two little ones start playing Aliens versus Predator in the neighbour’s rhododendron bushes?’
‘Ah well, if my numbers came up I could send them to boarding school!’ Enders grinned. ‘I tell you what, I would think somewhere like this would suit the lovely Ms Meadows very–’
‘Shut up. Anyway, we are here.’
Everett Mitchell’s house was number seven. White plaster, black wood and shiny steel intermingled with diagonal lines running in all directions. Little windows sat juxtaposed with big windows, huge windows trumped the lot. A hotchpotch of styles and materials vied for attention in a physical manifestation of an architect’s wet dream. They drove up the curving S-shaped drive across gravel that crunched with the sound of money and stopped in a turning circle in front of a double garage attached to the left hand side of the house. Riley wondered if an internal door in the garage led to the inside. If so it would be easy to bundle a girl from the car and into the house without any risk of being seen.
As they got out of the car the front door opened and a man came striding out. He was in his forties or early fifties with dark hair and a jet black goatee beard and had the air of a country landowner about him. He dismissed them with a wave of a hand as if to shoo them away.
‘No thank you. Whatever you are selling I am not buying, I don’t want any hassle and nobody else on the estate does either. We don’t need you lot round here. Back in the car now. Go on, or I will call the police.’
The voice rang with a confidence belonging to someone used to getting their own way, the type of voice Riley despised. He had heard the tone often enough in certain parts of London and the man’s manner told the lie to the myth of a classless society. Some people assumed the world moved for them and them alone. In this case Riley would enjoy showing the idiot how wrong he was.
‘Shocked as you may be to hear, sir, we
are
the police. Detective Sergeant Riley and Detective Constable Enders. If you could step back into the house we would like a word. Assuming you are Mr Everett Mitchell, that is?’
‘Yes, I am but I don’t have the time for–’
‘I will rephrase what I said, sir. Step back in the fucking house before I change my mind and decide to take you down the station.’
For a moment Mitchell appeared taken aback, but then he smiled and a new persona slipped into place. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so to start with? Your scruffy little car doesn’t exactly say “police” to me. It says “trouble”. Come on in.’
Mitchell turned and walked back to the house and Riley clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms to stop himself from boiling over.
‘Let’s face up to reality, Darius,’ Enders said, giving Riley a wink. ‘I am a paddy and you are black. We are not worthy to lick the shit from the man’s shoes, let alone his arse. However, what has really upset me is what he said about our poor car. She’ll never get over such blatant prejudice.’
Mitchell disappeared inside the house and the two detectives followed him across the threshold and went into a hall with snow-white carpets and dominated by a sweeping staircase. A shout came from a room off to the right. They walked down the hall and into a spacious lounge where Mitchell was reclining on a huge sofa.
‘I’ve told the wife to make some coffee. Should be here in a minute,’ Mitchell said, waving at them to sit down. ‘Now what can I do for you? I assume you are investigating the awful business with Mr Trent.’
Riley sat in an armchair and began by asking Mitchell the same questions that had been put by the door-to-door team. Had he noticed anything suspicious? Had he any inkling of what Trent was up to? How well did he know Mr Trent? When Mitchell answered he seemed relaxed, not an ounce of tension in his voice.
‘I know him of course. Lent him my lawnmower once and I chatted to him in the road occasionally. We went to a barbecue a year or so ago but the do wasn’t my type of thing at all. Full of academics. Load of bollocks. Hot air and canapés. Fizzy wine. Environmentalists with big people carriers and tales of holidays in Peru. Labour voters and hypocrites. Poor show indeed, I thought. Those kinds of people don’t know how to have any fun.’