‘You have no idea what’s so funny, do you?’ he said, recovering his breath. ‘The super fucking detective doesn’t have a bloody clue. Christ.’

Stevie swallowed and shook her head.

‘Mumps.’

He’d lost her. ‘What, what are you talking about?’

‘Shooting blanks. It probably would’ve come out eventually if you’d ever given me a chance. Now don’t tell me in your heart of hearts you never questioned your child’s paternity. Hell, your mother sure knows Izzy’s not mine; I’ve seen it in her eyes often enough—Jesus, the kid doesn’t even look like me!’

She looked at him, shocked.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean she never breathed a word? Maybe she thought you deserved to be a dupe, you can be a prickly little bitch. Funny though, I never took you for the screwing around type. It was Monty, wasn’t it? It had to be. You always did have a thing for him. It made framing him all the more sweet, made the killing of Michelle that bit easier.’

No. This had to be another of his lies. She wanted it to be true though. Her throat was too dry for words.

She struggled to fathom the implications of what he was saying. When she’d discovered she was pregnant, she had no doubt it was from the rape. The violence had left an indelible impression on her mind of powerlessness and self-hatred. The encounter with Monty had been so brief, a stupid drunken impulse in response to his tenderness, a small measure of unexpected comfort at the end of that ghastly week with Tye.

Tye sighed and shook his head. ‘I never understood how you could be so blind, you were so convinced the kid was mine. Course I didn’t mind.’

‘Why? So you could keep the link with me?’ she finally managed to croak.

‘I knew you were putty in my hands so long as Izzy was in the equation.’

A sob pressed against the back of her throat, she couldn’t let it escape. No tears. But her internal battle proved pointless when she realised that for once in his life, Tye might be telling her the truth.

She’d read of cases in which extreme fear caused physical blindness. Could the same be said about mental blindness? Perhaps deep down she’d known all along that Monty was Izzy’s father. Had she suppressed the knowledge out of fear of losing him, thinking that he’d only ever regarded her as a little sister? She was convinced he’d been repulsed and ashamed of their brief intimacy. Even during their fleeting but passionate lovemaking, she’d known it was the alcohol running things, and that it was Michelle he’d had in his mind.

‘Never mind, babe, it’s over now. Time to put an end to your misery,’ Tye whispered in her ear. ‘Only I think this time our impotent killer’s going to get lucky. This’ll baffle your profiler friend, eh?’ He rubbed his bulging groin and grinned. ‘But first, precautions have to be taken.’

Stevie watched in horror as he sauntered to the other end of the room, turned his back and started to rummage among the junk on the table. The noise from the generator made it hard to interpret the sound of his movements, but she could imagine the grinding of tablets, the clinking of a glass and the trickle of liquid. When he turned once more to face her, he was holding out a glass of orange juice.

No! She knew what was coming next. She felt like she had always known.

He held the glass up for her to see the liquid turning blue. ‘You’re going to enjoy this, babe,’ he said.

With her ankles and hands bound, all she could do was roll onto her stomach and wriggle like an inchworm, anything to stop him from forcing her to drink the drugged juice. He gripped her shoulders and flipped her onto her back and she found herself cradled in his arms like a baby, like a lover.

She closed her lips and clamped her jaw, but he pinched her nostrils until her limbs tingled and her chest felt as if it would burst. The glass clunked against her teeth, her lips parted for air, and in a reflex action she gulped the mixture down.

When he let go she shrank into herself and curled like a leaf onto the gritty concrete floor. She watched him return to the table through blurred eyes.

She clenched her jaw. She couldn’t let him win.

She forced herself to think. It was Rohypnol, the dye confirmed that. It could start taking effect as early as fifteen minutes after ingestion, but might take longer to work its way through her fettuccine dinner. Her mind raced as she recalled the symptoms: impaired memory, dizziness, confusion, lack of inhibition, sexual compliance—there had to be more.

Think Stevie, think. Christ, you might only have fifteen minutes!

Tye glanced over his shoulder and smiled before turning back to the boxes on the table.

Stevie scanned the room for anything she might use to cut her bindings. Her eyes came to rest on the nearest metal cradle. If she could get closer, maybe she could use one of the edges to saw through the duct tape. But that glimmer of hope soon shattered when she realised the jagged hunk of metal was further away than it looked. She’d never be able to reach it without Tye seeing her.

He extracted the dark wetsuit from the box and laid it on the table between some cans of gold spray paint. The dull metallic gleam of a gun next to the paint cans caught her attention. It looked like the Glock Barry had given her for the re-enactment. Tye must have taken it from her bag. If she could find a way of getting to the gun ...

A pleasant floating feeling began to overtake her senses, she felt herself gently rocked, like a lilo on a calm sea. Thoughts of the gun faded into the back of her mind.

A sudden dry retch brought her back. It broke through the soporific rhythm of the drug and gave her scattered senses one last chance to regroup. Then an idea filtered through the fog of her mind; an idea that might even save her life. Nausea. That was it. Another side effect of the drug was nausea.

Drawing in a deep breath, she willed the filthy odour of the generator deep into her stomach, then begged her body to expel it. She gagged again, turned her head to the side and opened her mouth. Nothing happened. Perhaps she shouldn’t have suppressed the urge before. Tye turned to look at her and she pulled her head back with a jerk, she couldn’t let him see what she was trying to do. The sudden movement of her head caused her ponytail to flick against her face. Up floated another idea.

She jerked her head again, this time catching the ponytail between her teeth. She forced the tickling hairs to the back of her throat and gagged.

Again only a dry retch.

Tye had his back to her. He’d taken off his clothes and was busy easing himself into the wetsuit when her body finally obeyed her command. With several heaves she puked out the fettuccine and, she hoped, most of the Rohypnol. But she couldn’t let him see the mess. She wriggled as far away from it as she dared, nudging a bit of filthy tarpaulin across to hide it from sight, and prayed the stink of the generator would mask the acid smell.

Now she had to convince him the drug was still coursing through her system. She attempted to conjure up the pleasant floating sensation she’d experienced before she’d vomited. Returning to the lilo she willed back the sleepy feeling. On the verge of sleep, her limbs felt blissfully heavy. A moan escaped her lips, followed by a deep sigh.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Tye pull the diver’s hood over his head. Then he manipulated his erect penis through a hole in his wetsuit so it lay flat against his belly. Under any other circumstances the image would have been ridiculous.

Block the fear.

Lack of inhibitions, sexual compliance. She giggled. The giggle became a laugh. He smiled and moved towards her with a pair of scissors in his hand. She concentrated on making her breathing slow and even.

He cut through the bindings on her ankles and eased her legs apart. Not yet, she cautioned, not yet. She must wait.