Death Bed Read online

  ‘Here,’ he released her and helped her out of the car into darkness behind the high wooden gates which had slammed shut behind them. Sharp gravel pricked the soles of her bare feet as she followed him across the drive under the shadow of the trees. The front door closed and the man put one hand against the small of her back, propelling her towards the stairs. Donna resisted.

  ‘Don’t worry, my wife’s expecting you.’

  For the first time he sounded irritated.

  ‘Why doesn’t she come down here then?’

  ‘Come on, there’s a bed all ready for you.’

  The man grabbed hold of her wrist and half led, half dragged her up a carpeted staircase. She was dimly aware of passing a landing and a closed door, before lurching after him up a second narrow wooden flight of stairs. With a growing sense of alarm, she wondered how his wife had known about her.

  ‘Did you phone her?’ she asked, her voice thin and fretful.

  The man didn’t even turn round.

  At the top of the stairs he opened a door, pulled her inside and kicked the door shut behind her. Donna blinked. The room was very dark and it smelled foul. A skylight was covered with a black blind. Very little light came through narrow slits down the sides. She couldn’t make out much in the dimness, but she could see there was no one else there.

  ‘Let me go. I want to go home. Where’s your wife?’

  She could barely speak, she was so frightened. Too late, she felt coldly sober, alert to the danger she was in. With an impulsive strength she jerked her arm free and rushed for the door. It was locked. A naked light bulb clicked on and she looked round and gasped. The wall opposite was covered in shelves displaying nightmarish objects.

  Suddenly the man grabbed her by the throat and thrust her so she fell backwards onto a bed in the middle of the room. For a second she lay mute with terror then she began to scream, kicking out, trying to scratch him, horrified, while he twisted her round until she was lying lengthwise on the mattress. Swiftly, the man shackled her wrists and ankles with cold metal manacles attached to the bed, then sat back on his heels, astride her body.

  As she stared, his face came into focus. The shadows from the light behind him exaggerated the length of his narrow pointed nose, and his eyes gleamed darkly at her. Slowly his thin lips curved in a smile.

  ‘There’s no point calling out for help. The house is pretty isolated so don’t think any of the neighbours will hear you if you make a racket. They won’t. No one will. Except me, of course.’

  He climbed off the bed and left, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Alone in the darkness Donna tried to calm down so she could think about what to do, but she couldn’t stop sobbing.

  2

  USUAL TERMS

  Douggie’s straw-coloured hair flopped over his eyes as he waited, head lowered. At last George set his glass down.

  ‘Got a job for you, sunshine.’

  Douggie squinted across the table.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  It was best not to seem too keen.

  ‘Usual terms,’ George went on in his husky voice.

  ‘I was thinking - ’ Douggie began.

  ‘Don’t think,’ George interrupted him. ‘Just listen.’

  Douggie wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward. He glanced around the pub but no one was paying them any attention. Just two blokes sat in the corner over a pint. He turned back to his companion.

  George was his contact with a group that suited Douggie down to the ground; he’d always been a sucker for a smart set of wheels. Since meeting George he’d been given the chance to drive some real beauties - BMWs, Jags, SAABs, Porsches, Douggie had driven them all, and he’d seen most of them dismantled too, battered, beaten and all but crushed before being loaded into a container along with other cars for scrapping and melting down; nothing logged in, of course.

  Douggie knew which scrap yards were safe when there was a motor that needed to disappear without trace. It was hard watching some of the vehicles go, but he knew it would be too dangerous to hang on to them. He never speculated about why the cars had to be destroyed. All he wanted was to drive them and collect the dosh, no questions asked. It wasn’t as though he was taking any risks. He’d never been asked to drive a getaway car, for example. To be honest, he quite fancied the idea of a high-speed chase across London, like in the films, but in reality he knew the streets would be crawling with filth and it was impossible to escape once they were after you. Best to keep a low profile and stick to the steady jobs. Not only was Douggie reliable, but he had a clean driving licence, totally legit. He’d never so much as skipped a red light or been caught on a speed camera. He knew that once his licence was marked he might be less valuable as a driver for whoever was running George so he was always careful, and George knew he could trust Douggie to keep his trap shut. It was a sweet set up, and it suited Douggie just fine.

  ‘There’s a job,’ George said, lowering his voice so Douggie had to strain to hear.

  ‘Are you free tonight?’

  Douggie nodded.

  ‘You can pick the wheels up from the corner of the car park here.’

  ‘Hang on, isn’t there a camera - ’

  ‘So what if there is? What’s the problem? You’re only picking up a set of wheels. No one will be looking for it. Not yet. You do what you’re paid to do, and by this time tomorrow no one will be able to find the car even if they want to. No evidence.’

  He winked at Douggie and took a swig of his pint.

  ‘Keep it out of sight overnight then get rid of it first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Douggie narrowed his eyes, considering, and reached a decision. He would drive it straight to the lockups.

  ‘There’s not going to be a problem, is there?’ George asked, when Douggie didn’t reply straight away.

  Douggie shook his head.

  ‘No, you’re alright. There’s no problem. I know what to do, you know that. So, what’s the car?’

  ‘It’s a black SAAB 9-3 Sport Saloon.’

  Douggie grinned and gave a low whistle.

  ‘I can’t tell you the number - could be anything by now – but it’ll be in the car park like I said, right in the corner by the bins.’

  ‘What if someone else is parked there?’

  ‘They won’t be. Relax, it’s all taken care of. Just do the job, will you? All you have to do is pick up the car and get rid of it. Don’t worry about anything else.’

  ‘I’ll sort it then. What time will the car be out there?’

  ‘Just after midnight. That’s as much as I know for now. We’re alright then?’

  George raised his glass and drained it with an air of finality.

  ‘No worries. Cheers.’

  ‘See you around, sunshine.’

  George stood up and sloped off without looking back.

  Douggie finished his pint and sat for a moment wondering whether to have another one but he was going to be behind the wheel soon and wasn’t prepared to take any risks with his licence. You never knew when you might be stopped, for no reason. He was hungry but he had to be back at the pub to pick up the car in just over an hour, so there was no time to go home. Instead he decided to go for a walk to clear his head, grab a pizza and come back for the car. In the morning he’d take it along to the scrap yard where Jack would deal with it as a priority, no questions asked, and Douggie would collect the cash from George the following evening when the job was done. It was that simple.

  Half an hour later Douggie left the pub. He waited until he was out on the street before he flipped open his phone and called Mary.

  ‘I won’t be in till late, love … I’ve just bumped into an old mate and we’re going to have a few beers together … I don’t know what time I’ll be back so don’t wait up … I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

  Mary was used to his erratic hours. She probably thought he was out on a bender, but she knew better than to ask questions. It wasn�
��t a bad life, when all was said and done, and soon he was going to start saving up for his own wheels. In ten months he’d be thirty and he was planning to treat himself. A red MX5 drove by, about 1998 and well maintained, its headlights up, its soft top closed. The engine roared beautifully through the dual exhaust as Douggie watched it slip past. He reckoned he could afford one like that before long. Whistling, he strolled along the pavement towards the pizza place.

  3

  KEEPING SECRETS

  Geraldine put down her knife and fork and took a sip of wine. It was now or never, she thought. Her niece, Chloe, had gone up to bed.

  ‘She says she’s tired, but I bet you anything you like in two hours’ time she’ll still be awake, texting her friends,’ Geraldine’s sister sighed. ‘It’s impossible to keep on top of it all.’

  Despite his wife’s protests, Geraldine’s brother-in-law had gone into the living room to watch football.

  ‘It’s the final,’ he explained.

  ‘It’s also rude,’ Celia replied.

  ‘Don’t worry on my account,’ Geraldine smiled. ‘You don’t have to be formal with me, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘And I’ve no doubt you girls have plenty of things to gossip about,’ her brother-in-law added with a grin as left the room.

  A few seconds later they heard the buzz of the football commentary, interrupted by an occasional roar from the crowd. The game was on.

  Geraldine poured herself another glass of wine and raised the bottle. Her sister shook her head.

  ‘I’d better get this lot cleared up - ’

  ‘As it happens I do have something to tell you - ’

  ‘Well?’

  Celia settled back in her chair.

  ‘What is it?’

  Geraldine hesitated.

  ‘OK, is it a boyfriend or the job?’ Celia asked. ‘Or – is it about…’

  Her voice tailed off.

  Geraldine had recently discovered that she had been adopted after the birth of her mother’s only natural child, Celia. The surprising discovery explained the marked difference in their physical appearance. While Celia resembled their blonde mother, Geraldine’s hair was very dark brown and, unlike her blue-eyed sister, her eyes were almost black. The fact of her adoption itself hadn’t shocked Geraldine so much as learning about it in her mid-thirties. That the circumstances of her birth had been kept secret from her all those years had felt like a betrayal and it had taken her a while to forgive Celia, who had known about it for years. But her adoption was not what she wanted to talk about. Her transfer to the Met had been confirmed, and she was relocating to work as a Detective Inspector on the Murder Squad in London.

  After months of uncertainty, the move went ahead at breakneck speed once her transfer was confirmed. Thanks to a generous inheritance from her adoptive mother, she had been able to put her flat on the market at a price that attracted a first-time buyer almost immediately, and she had exchanged contracts on her brand new flat in London without having breathed a word to her sister about it. She knew Celia wouldn’t want her to move away from Kent, especially since their mother had died less than a year ago, and the longer Geraldine left it, the harder it became to tell Celia. Now time had run out and she had no choice.

  Geraldine looked around, hoping for inspiration.

  ‘This is a lovely kitchen,’ she said at last. ‘You’ve done a great job on it.’

  She felt lightheaded, slightly tipsy.

  ‘Is that what you wanted to tell me?’ Celia asked, smiling. She didn’t get up from the table.

  ‘Come on, Geraldine. Spit it out.’

  ‘I’m moving.’

  ‘Moving?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you mean, moving?’ Celia frowned. ‘You’ve hardly been in that flat five minutes, and you love it there. Why do you want to move? You’re not moving in with your young sergeant, Ian Peterson?’

  Geraldine shook her head with a chuckle.

  ‘No, nothing like that. I’ve told you before, there’s nothing going on. He’s getting married soon.’ She paused. ‘It’s just that I’m not going to be working for the Kent constabulary any longer. I’ve been transferred.’

  ‘Transferred?’

  Geraldine leaned forward and poured herself another glass of wine. She stared at the yellow liquid slipping from the bottle, aware of Celia’s eyes on her, then looked up. Her sister pushed ash blonde hair off her face with the back of a hand, her eyes fixed accusingly on Geraldine. For a horrible instant, Geraldine thought Celia was about to cry.

  ‘What do you mean, transferred?’

  ‘I mean I’m going somewhere else.’

  ‘Yes, I realise that. I’m not a moron. But where are you going?’

  Geraldine relaxed slightly. Celia angry was easier to cope with than Celia going all weepy on her.

  ‘I’ve been transferred to the Met. I’m going to be working for the Homicide and Serious Crime Command in London.’

  She couldn’t hide her excitement any longer.

  ‘It’s a fantastic opportunity for me. I’ll be staying with the CID – sometimes you have to go back into uniform to get into the Met, but they were recruiting and it was exactly what I wanted, and the DCI put in a good word for me - ’

  ‘It was exactly what you wanted?’ Celia repeated. ‘Why? Don’t you want to be near us? To Chloe? To me?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Of course I do. It’s nothing personal. But this is the Met, Celia. It’s a great chance for me - ’

  ‘What’s so great about London?’

  Celia gave an exaggerated shudder and pulled a face.

  ‘It’s just so exciting. If you’re in the police, London is where everyone wants to be.’

  ‘Huh.’

  Celia drank her wine, her face sullen, refusing to look at Geraldine.

  ‘And it’s quite a lot more money, with the inner London allowance - ’

  ‘You don’t need more money, with what mum left us.’

  Geraldine shrugged. She had expected a negative reaction from her sister but was disappointed all the same.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased for me. It really is a good career move for me.’

  ‘Oh, you and your bloody career.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘So, we’ll be seeing even less of you than we do now?’ Celia said at last.

  She stood up and began clearing the table.

  ‘It’s not like I’m going to the other side of the country, Celia. It’s only London. I can be down here in not much more than an hour.’

  Celia sat down again with a loud sigh.

  ‘Can isn’t the same as will though, is it? Well, I am pleased for you, of course I am, but you have to promise me you’ll come and see Chloe regularly. Now mum’s not here, it’s even more important - ’

  She broke off, her face twisted into an uneasy frown.

  ‘I can’t take mum’s place,’ Geraldine said gently.

  She reached out and put her hand on Celia’s, both palm down.

  ‘I know that. But you are - ’ Celia paused. ‘You are her aunt after all.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘So when are you going?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  Celia withdrew her hand abruptly.

  ‘What do you mean, tomorrow? How long have you known?’

  ‘It all happened very suddenly - ’ Geraldine said lamely.

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I know I should have told you before now. I meant to tell you – I kept meaning to – but I was afraid you wouldn’t like it and you were so upset about mum.’

  She gave an apologetic shrug.

  ‘I bottled it.’

  ‘Keeping secrets seems to be a speciality in our family,’ Celia replied ruefully. ‘But you will come and stay with us, often, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will. And I won’t be that far away.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it
makes no difference if you’re investigating murders in London or Kent,’ Celia said. ‘You’ll still be tied up seven days a week when you’re on a case.’

  Geraldine suppressed a smile, relieved that she had finally shared her news with Celia.

  4

  CRY INTO THE SILENCE

  Donna opened her eyes. Her head pounded with a sharp pain slicing across the top of her skull and her neck was so stiff that when she tried to move an agonising spasm shot down into her shoulders making her cry out. Her wrists and ankles felt as though they were burning. Cautiously she raised herself as far as she could without shifting her head and was shocked to discover she couldn’t move her limbs. She thought she was paralysed but after a few seconds remembered that she had been tied down by her wrists and ankles. Fighting to control her panic, she pulled her right arm up as far as she could and twisted her head until the pain became unbearable. Out of the corner of her eye she could just see her raised hand at the periphery of her field of vision. Squinting into the darkness she struggled to distinguish what was holding her down and made out the metal links of a chain, cold against the sore flesh of her wrist. Startled, she swore out loud and even that movement in her muscles made her face sting.

  She had no idea what was going on, apart from the horrifying realisation that she had been chained to a bed. Her lips felt dry and cracked, and her mouth tasted of sick. If she hadn’t been suffering such severe pain she might have suspected she was the victim of an appalling prank, but this was no joke. Between her legs she felt damp and sore where she had soiled herself and there was another even fouler stench in her nostrils. If no one came to release her soon she was going to die, shackled in this fetid room.

  ‘Think,’ she told herself fiercely, but it was hard to focus. Worse than the chains chafing at her skin, worse than her intense thirst, was her terror of the stranger who had taken her captive. If she could only recall how she had arrived in this place, she might be able to work out what to do. She remembered going to Camden with Lily, and then something about her shoe. The heel had come off in the street, but before that she had been in the pub with Lily and she had gone outside by herself, feeling sick, drunk and high on coke. Some men had laughed at her when she tripped on the pavement. After that she could recall only a giddy jumble of images. She had thrown up in a car. What car? She must have got into a car. Whoever was driving that car had brought her to this place. Tears welled up in her eyes as she reconstructed what must have happened. Even young children who could barely talk knew better than to get into a car with a stranger, but in her befuddled state of mind she had done just that.