A Woman's Place (59 page)

‘Here it is.' Her pondering sharply interrupted, she came back to the present with a surge of despair. The man she knew as Bob was standing by a small wooden door set under the stairs. A single light burned inside.

‘Is this where you want me to…?'

She could not bring herself to finish the sentence, she who was so articulate, so adept with words. Her breath choked in her throat. He pointed.

In his right hand was the knife.

Deep inside, Elaine longed to cry, but she suppressed the feeling swiftly. Whatever was to happen next she needed to be completely alert.

‘Are – are you coming too?' She paused on the second step.

‘If you would like me to, Elaine.' His face creased in what passed for a smile.

Her gorge rose in horror. Elaine looked up and found herself staring straight into the man's eyes.

The closeness of his presence meant she could smell him, as she had when he first bundled her into the van. A sweetish, sweaty smell, not unusual in one engaged in massive effort. But it was not an odour of several days; however neglected the house, to her relief he was not too foul in himself. Then she recalled his reluctance to let her use the toilet unobserved or wash her hands, and shuddered.

Life came first
. Only if she got out alive could this be brought to a conclusion. She would not let herself be panicked into losing the battle. Fear there was in abundance, but like a soldier she must assess the risks, diminish and avoid them wherever possible, and do everything in her power to get through this night in one piece.

Like a soldier
. The memory of George came into her mind and she half smiled. George would not flinch under fire but would strive to do his duty. George would not fear pain, or wounding, though he would not be reckless. With a pang she realised that George would not have the foggiest idea where she was, nor even that she had vanished. He would not be riding to the rescue. Nor, unless she was mistaken, would anybody else, not for some time. This night she was on her own.

The bleakness of her imprisonment made her square her shoulders. Then with a shock she saw that Bob had taken that wistful half-smile to be directed at himself.

The knife was held out, as if not to threaten her but in pride at what it could do. Its blade was broad and shiny – the brightest and best-cared-for thing in the entire house. She examined it almost inquisitively, then recoiled. The tip was stained by what she recognised with horror as her own blood.

He reached out his other hand. Giving a Song sigh he touched her golden hair, and let the strands run slowly through his fingers.

Inspector Morris stood in the flat and made rapid notes. ‘Don't worry that nobody else saw. That could be useful. Now to this van. Did you get the number, sir?'

George screwed up his face. ‘I think it started M one four five, or something like that,' he began, then hesitated. ‘It was a greengrocer's van, of that I'm sure. “Somebody's Fruit and Vegetables” was painted on the side. An Irish name.'

‘We'll check that out. Sounds as if it was stolen.' Morris spoke into his mobile phone, his
tone cool to conceal his worry. ‘Right. I need an exact description of the man. Did you get a good view?'

‘I think I did.' Karen spoke evenly. ‘He looked … I can't put my finger on it … familiar. I was just wondering if I might have seen him before.'

Morris's eyes lit up. ‘Good. If he's been tailing your mother he may well have left clues. Everything you can remember. Both of you.'

The next hour passed in a blur. Karen and George found themselves deep inside Canon Row police station talking to a bleary-eyed artist who, unshaven and tieless, started to make a passable sketch of the man they had so fleetingly seen. It was best, he explained, to do it while the picture was still fresh in their minds. Nobody mentioned the obvious fact that if Elaine were to be found alive and well speed in identifying her attacker was essential.

Calls were made to Betty and to Diane at their homes: both were aroused from their beds and sworn to secrecy. If the abductor had been stalking his victim then he may also have written or left messages. Both women were requested to examine files going back at least two years and to indicate anyone who had aroused their suspicions. ‘That means any man who did not have a legitimate reason for contacting Mrs Stalker,' Morris tried to explain, but Diane had cut him off. ‘We keep a barmy file, inspector,' she informed him, then pulled on her clothes and headed grimly for the office.

As the charcoal and pastel picture emerged, Karen groaned and frowned deeply. ‘Come on,' she cajoled herself. ‘Who is it?'

‘Might he have come to an advice bureau?' Morris was hovering, notebook in hand.

She shook her head. ‘If he had I wouldn't have seen him there. No, that's a red herring. I live a separate life from my mum, you see. She's very busy. I go to college, and in my spare time I –'

She leapt up and danced around the room, then stopped, embarrassed. One result of her attending that class might come out – what she had done to Jim Betts, even though he deserved it. His plight had completely slipped her mind.

The struggle on her face left the two men puzzled. ‘What is it, Karen? What have you remembered?' George gently took her hand. ‘It doesn't matter how disagreeable. We have to know, for your mother's sake.'

His expression was haggard. On the wall a clock ticked softly.

Karen pointed to the drawing as the artist held it up. ‘My Tai-kwondo class. He used to go to it. Wasn't any good. Clumsy, ugly man. I only spoke to him once or twice.'

‘Name?'

‘Can't remember. Give me a minute, it'll come back to me. If you can get a list of the people who attended from the sports centre, I'll know then… There has to be a list, we were all insured. But wait … I do remember he was boasting about inheriting a house. From his grandfather, I think. Said it was a mess. Could they be there?'

‘It's possible.' Morris tried to hide his excitement. ‘Did he say where?'

‘Not far from the centre – Wandsworth, I think. And his granddad was eighty-three and dying, and that would be about a year ago. Is that any use?'

‘Could be. We can get on to St Catherine's House. They may be able to trace recent deaths of men born in … what? Nineteen-fourteen or thereabouts … with addresses in that area. It would really help, though, if we had a name.'

The girl bit her lip and looked to George in misery. He sympathised. ‘It mightn't be the same one anyway. Or he could have been using a false name.' He put an arm round her shoulders and squeezed. The natural gesture was fatherly and comforting.

The inspector excused himself and left the room. The artist continued to shade and tweak, then rubbed his eyes and lumbered out also.

George and Karen found themselves alone. He sat down heavily in a chair while she
continued to pace agitatedly around the room, forcing her brain to recall more. Then in that irrelevant way which sometimes occurs to those under great stress, it came to her that her manners left something to be desired.

‘George – thanks for being here,' she started, but he cut her short.

‘I'm as involved as you are, Karen.'

She examined him for a long moment. ‘You very fond of my mum?'

‘Of course. If I could change places with her right now I would – I'd give anything to know she is safe.'

His voice shook. The passion in it wiped out the girl's remaining composure. She bent her head and wept, her hand on his shoulder. He touched her arm wordlessly.

At last she found a tissue and blew her nose. ‘I can see why she likes you. I think you'd be good for her.'

‘If she'd have me,' muttered George with feeling. ‘I tell you, Karen, if –
when
– we get her out of this, I shan't take no for an answer again. But take heart. We're not done yet –'

The youngster's answering squeal made him sit up in alarm.

‘You OK?' he asked anxiously, but she was already running for the door.

‘Done yet – that's it,' she answered breathlessly. ‘Got it. You're brilliant, George, you know that?'

He was at her side in a trice. ‘What do you mean? What did I say?'

‘Dunn – Graham Dunn, that was his name. That's him.'

Elaine shrank away and looked down the stairs. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. She bit the inside of her cheek, hard, to remind herself this was no fantasy, and tasted her own blood.

Cold metal was pressed into the back of her neck.

‘I won't use it, Elaine. I promise. Not unless I have to.' The man was edgy: the blade trembled. ‘Downstairs.'

Slowly, one step at a time as if uncertain of her footing, she descended into the gloom of the basement. She steeled herself against dankness, but to her surprise the place smelled relatively clean and was quite warm, as if a heater had been switched on down there for a long time. A few boxes and a rusty bike came into sight. For most of the way her view was obscured by the low ceiling, but as she reached the bottom step she paused and gaped in astonishment.

Every wall was covered in pictures and press cuttings. From floor to ceiling whole pages of newspapers had been carefully pinned, with articles marked in blue and red ink. Several were duplicates – he must have bought multiple copies of the items he liked. Many were in colour, whole articles from
Hello!
and
Woman's
Weekly
and
Bella
magazines. Some she did not recognise but most were as familiar as her own name.

For the pictures were of herself; and the articles all mentioned her, or were about her, interviews and gossip pieces and reports of press conferences and photographs of her speaking or cuddling children or haranguing audiences. Her face, laughing or serious, mouth open, shut, close-ups and full length, smartly dressed mostly but with at-home interviews in which she wore jeans and an embarrassed expression: pictures by Sally Soames and Jane Bown, by male photographers without number, old poses with Mike and Karen as a young teenager, more recently from her election address with Karen alone – in fact that
was
her election address and there were four or five copies of it. The place was a shrine. It, must have taken ages to collect this stuff, though on closer examination she realised that nothing was more than two or three years old.

The obsession could be dated, then. Where had he been before that? Hospital? Prison? Only he knew. Given his erratic
reactions it would not do to interrogate him.

Her common sense told her that such practices were not so unusual. Around the world thousands of bedroom walls were covered in Elvis or Marilyn, Madonna or Brad Pitt, posters and montages and signed fanzine pictures. Fan clubs flourished for the most hideous pop stars or famous sports or film personalities. Even for politicians the phenomenon was not unknown – Che Guevara and Castro had adorned student rooms for decades, while Hitler featured behind many a locked door. Somewhere in the UK somebody probably worshipped Lady Thatcher and lovingly collected her memorabilia. For anyone in public life, for a celebrity who became an icon, it was almost inevitable. But herself…?

Bob was speaking. ‘This is your sanctuary, Elaine. You'll be safe here. None of those horrible reporters – all the dreadful things they say about you. I will look after you, you'll see.'

Speechless and increasingly petrified she moved around the low room, examining some of the items more closely. On a small table was a large brown folder of press cuttings about her resignation: she surmised that he had not had time to pin them up. Then the far wall brought her up sharp.

On the left-hand side were full-page spreads of the demonstration at St Kitts, complete with herself emerging from the car and being escorted by the burly police officer to the door through jeering crowds. The photographs did not flatter: to her own eye she looked supercilious and remote. In the background of one, however, a blue felt-tip circle had been drawn. Elaine wondered if Bob had seen himself and peered close, but it was the scowling face of a middle-aged woman.

On the right-hand side of the wall there were no pictures of Elaine. Only more lurid headlines about a murder, the finding of a young prostitute, dead and cut, behind a Tube station. Red ink had been scribbled liberally over the pages as if in commentary, and an effort had been made to obscure the murdered girl's features completely.

Elaine began to shake. She took a step back. Dunn was at her side and grabbed her arm with his left hand, gesticulating with the knife in his right at the wall.

‘Both dead, see. That one' – he pointed at the St Kitts story – ‘because she threw something awful at you. I didn't mean to kill her, it was an accident. But she deserved to die. And the other because she was a filthy tart with a nasty mouth on her. She called me stupid. And she wasn't nearly as pretty as you.'

The knife snaked slowly towards her face; she could see it flash out of the corner of her eye. Was he going to cut her? Blind her? Summoning all her willpower she held herself steady. Only a faint tremor betrayed her terror.

The knife slid under her hair close to her ear and lifted up a blonde curl. Dunn's fingers grasped the lock. ‘Keep still,' he warned, and cut the piece of hair, letting it rest in his palm, weighing it as if it were real gold.

The knife came up again and touched the point of her chin, then lightly, so lightly, began to slide down her jugular. She could not see his face but could hear his rasping breathing. It was as if he wanted to demonstrate in the most violent way possible that he was in charge – not only of her, but of himself.

The knife changed hands. It rested more easily in his left, as though it were less dangerous there, nestling amongst her cut hair. Then her tormentor raised his free hand and placed it on her breast.

‘Time, now.'