Forty-one

The room was small, square and empty, save for the heavy office chair Tina Boyd was strapped tight to. She was cold and tired – naked too, apart from her blouse and socks.

He'd removed all her other clothes when they were alone together earlier, slicing them off with a knife before tossing them casually into the corner. Tina had been expecting him to rape her, but strangely he hadn't, preferring to use his hands to stroke and paw her, every so often breaking off and pacing slowly around the chair, taunting her in cruel little whispers.

Are you ready to die yet?

Do you want me to fuck you now, or should I wait for the others?

She'd said nothing, enduring his attention in cold, defiant silence, trying to ignore the way her skin slithered and crawled under his touch, preparing for the inevitable.

But the inevitable had not yet come. It was as if he'd suddenly lost interest, replacing the hood on her head and leaving the room with a final, almost half-hearted taunt.

Later, bitch.

That had been hours back now; since then there'd been nothing but silence. She couldn't even hear anything outside. She was freezing cold and starving hungry, and worst of all she was utterly alone, with no prospect of help.

The thought scared her. Her life had been hard these past four years, and in some ways it had been getting worse, particularly the constant fight with the booze, but she wasn't going to give it up without a fight. In a fit of sudden desperation she struggled against her bonds, howling her frustration from behind the gag as the realization that her efforts were utterly pointless hit her once again. The only part of her body she could move was her head. It was as if she was paralysed from the neck down. Her ankles were tied to the chair's base with ropes, and her hands and elbows were lashed to the arm rests. Several rolls of thick masking tape had been wrapped round and round her chest and stomach, giving her the appearance of a half-dressed mummy. Thankfully, the set of picks in her sock hadn't been discovered. She might not have been able to reach them but they still represented some sort of hope, however faint.

Suddenly she heard something. It was a muffled cry, coming from beyond the wall.

For a second, she thought she'd imagined it. Then it came again. Someone was trying to call out to her but whoever it was was gagged too.

Jenny Brakspear! It had to be her. So she was still alive…

Tina made a noise in return, using her weight to try to force the chair nearer to the wall. But the damn thing wouldn't budge. Someone had removed the wheels, and it was way too heavy. She made more noises, wanting to let Jenny know that she wasn't entirely alone. Relieved herself, that she wasn't the only prisoner here.

Tina waited for a response, but the cries from beyond the wall had stopped. Then she heard something else, much fainter this time. The sound of weeping.

Tina made some supportive noises, hoping this would encourage Jenny to stop, but the weeping continued, then finally it stopped altogether, and the cold silence returned.

She wondered what Jenny had had to put up with from the man who'd kidnapped her, what kinds of torments he'd put her through. She also wondered what it was that was going on here. They'd kidnapped Jenny two days ago and were clearly keeping her alive. They were keeping Tina alive, too.

The burning question was, for how long?

Wednesday

Forty-two

I was feeling groggy, having been given painkillers by a harassed-looking doctor who couldn't have been long out of medical school, and they must have been pretty damn strong because the terrible burning sensation in my right arm had been reduced to a dull throb. I still ached all over, and my mouth was bone dry, but I felt a vague euphoria. I was alive. Against all the odds, I was alive.

My hospital room was small and bright, and I was lying in bed. Outside I could hear voices and people moving about. Comforting sounds. People meant safety. The clock on the wall read ten past midnight.

As I lay there, I remembered with intense clarity digging my own grave in the rain, and watching Maxwell die. I'd never seen someone die before, even though I'd written about death vividly enough in Conspiracy. The sight of Ramon sitting lifeless in my bedroom had been awful, but seeing Maxwell actually murdered in front of me had been a whole lot worse. I remembered running through the trees, hearing the men behind me, thinking that this was it, the end; then the headlights, the sound of screeching tyres, and the car slamming me over its bonnet and sending me flying into the dirt.

Jesus. I'd been so damn close to death. For the second time in less than forty-eight hours. It was as if I was involved in an intense, never-ending nightmare that seemed to get worse and worse.

But it looked at last like it might be over.

I was desperately thirsty. I hadn't drunk a thing since the two Peronis at Maxwell's, close to four hours ago now, and no water since the middle of the afternoon. There wasn't a glass on the bedside table so I climbed out of bed, my hospital-issue pyjamas crinkling in time to my movement. My head began to spin and I had to stand still and shut my eyes for a few moments.

When I felt normal again, I opened the door and was surprised to see there was no police guard outside. The guy who'd come to me when I was semi-conscious had said he was police and that I was safe now. So, where were they?

I stepped out into the corridor.

And saw him immediately.

He was about ten yards away, talking to one of the nurses. He was dressed in the black jacket and jeans he'd been wearing back at Maxwell's place earlier, and his boots were still muddy with the soil from Maxwell's vegetable patch, but he was wearing a baseball cap again now, and horn-rimmed glasses.

For a split second I froze, unable to move, then he slowly turned my way and our eyes met. His lips curled in a tight, triumphant smile and, ignoring the nurse now, he put a hand inside his jacket.

And that was it. I ran.

But it was like wading through treacle. The painkillers, my injuries, my pure exhaustion, they were all slowing me down, making each step seem like an incredible achievement. And all the time I could picture him in my mind, raising the gun, aiming, pulling the trigger…

I swung a hard left, narrowly missing a cleaner with his trolley coming the other way. Behind me, I could hear his footfalls as he gave chase. Someone yelled for security. Someone else screamed the words I was dreading: 'He's got a gun!'

In front of me, the corridor stretched for thirty yards. A pair of orderlies were coming the other way, with a patient on a stretcher. Apart from them, it was empty. I was never going to make it. No way.

In one instinctive movement I shoved the cleaner out of the way with my good arm, then, as my pursuer came round the corner, a calm, determined expression on his face, the gun he'd used to kill Maxwell by his side, I kicked the trolley straight at him.

He was caught by surprise and crashed right into it, his momentum sending him sprawling in a heap.

Ignoring the nausea rising up in me, and the throbbing in my head and arm, I kept running. My heart hammering relentlessly.

The two orderlies stared at me aghast, then they both ducked down, using their gurney as cover.

I didn't wait for the bullet. I saw a door coming up on my right and scrambled through it, slamming it shut behind me.

I was in a small ward. A handful of beds were lined up against the opposite wall. But they were all empty. The whole place was empty. Outside, I could hear panicked shouting. More footfalls.