Broken Dolls (A Jefferson Winter Thriller) (13 page)

‘Because he needed to practise. The four victims we’ve got back were all successfully lobotomised. You don’t get this proficient without practice, and I’m betting that his practising got messy. Look back at any unsolved murders or mysterious deaths that pre-date the first kidnapping. Cross-reference these with the victim profile I gave you and you should come up with a name. Okay, questions?’

This was met by a wall of silence that stretched out for a couple of seconds before it was shattered by a ringing telephone. One telephone was quickly followed by another, and another. Within ten seconds every phone in the incident room was ringing. For a second everyone just stared at them like they couldn’t work out what they were. It was Hatcher who broke the spell. He grabbed the nearest telephone, listened and asked some questions, told the person on the other end that someone would get back in touch, then hung up.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said. ‘Rachel Morris’s father has just offered a million-pound reward for any information leading to the safe return of his daughter. It’s all over the news channels. Photographs, a press conference, the works.’

A collective groan went around the room.

‘Great,’ I muttered.

24

Rachel heard the rattle of a trolley behind her and strained to turn around. The leather straps dug into her arms and legs, restricting her blood flow and making her fingers and toes tingle. She could see the walls either side of her, but she couldn’t get far enough around to see the wall with the door in.

‘Number Five will face the front,’ said Adam.

Rachel’s head snapped forward and she stared at the mattress. She forced herself to breathe slowly, told herself to relax even though it was impossible. The growing bruises on her back throbbed in time with her racing heart, a painful reminder of the cane. The artificial pine stink of disinfectant made her head swim.

Adam took his time coming into the room. Slow footsteps behind her, the rubber squeak of the trolley wheels on the tiles. He stopped the trolley in front of her, positioning it so she got a good look. It was the sort of trolley found in any hospital. Stainless steel that glinted under the halogens, three shelves, black wheels. The trolley was crammed with an odd assortment of equipment. Most items she recognised, some she didn’t. A mallet, a jigsaw, kidney bowls, safety goggles, knitting needles with heat-blackened ends. Clean clothes and a towel on the bottom shelf. Rachel tried to swallow but her mouth was bone-dry. Her back was on fire but, looking at the trolley, she realised there was much worse to come.

She stared at the collection of objects on the trolley, her mind spinning one dark nightmare after another. She was too young to die. This wasn’t fair. There were still so many things she wanted to do. She wanted children and a happy ever after, she wanted to visit Mexico and New Orleans and the pyramids, she wanted to get to the end of her life and have no regrets. Right now all she had were regrets, a whole list of them, a ton of things she would have done differently.

‘Number Five will sit still.’

Adam picked up a pair of stainless-steel hairdressing scissors from the trolley and grabbed a handful of Rachel’s hair. Instinct kicked in and she tried to pull away, but Adam dragged her head back into place with a sharp tug that almost ripped her hair out by the roots.

‘Number Five will stay still or face the consequences.’

The needle-sharp point of the scissors was only a couple of millimetres from her left eye. It was too close to focus on and all she saw was a grey, shiny blur. Rachel closed her eyes and waited for the thrust that would steal her sight. Seconds passed. Long seconds. There was a metallic
snick-snick
as the scissor blades separated then came together again. She opened her eyes and saw a clump of her hair tumble to the ground. Adam took hold of another handful of hair and hacked it off. This time Rachel didn’t see it fall because her vision was smeared with tears.

Adam hacked at her hair until all that was left was a rough, uneven stubble. He dropped the scissors onto the trolley and the metallic clatter shattered the uneasy silence. Then he picked up a bottle of water and tipped the contents over her head. Rachel tried to move out of the way, but the restraints held her in place. She coughed and spluttered, convinced she was drowning. Adam shook out the last few drops of water then returned the bottle to the trolley. Rachel’s sweatshirt was soaked through, a chilling damp that made her shiver. Adam picked up a can of shaving gel, squirted some into his hand, and massaged it into Rachel’s scalp.

‘Number Five will sit very still.’

Adam went to work with the razor, and when he’d finished he stood back to admire his handiwork. He tilted his head from side to side, checking from all angles. Rachel just sat as still as she could, paralysed and dumb, not even daring to breathe. Adam unfastened the restraints then told her to stand up and take her clothes off. Rachel complied immediately. She didn’t try to hide her nakedness. She just stood with her arms by her sides, trembling from head to toe, and stared at a spot on the floor so she wouldn’t have to look at Adam. He handed her a towel and told her to dry herself, gave her a clean set of clothes and told her to put them on. He left with the trolley and the door banged shut. The halogens were abruptly switched off.

Darkness.

Rachel walked back to the mattress and sank down onto it. She squeezed herself tight into the corner, pulled the blankets around herself and hugged her knees, tears streaming down her face. Her naked head felt cold and strangely weightless.

Losing her hair was horrendous, but right now that was the least of her worries. Rachel had had her suspicions, but until Adam cut her hair, that’s all they were: suspicions. She’d chosen denial because the truth was too frightening to contemplate, but the denial didn’t work any more. She thought back to the conversation she’d had at work yesterday morning, and the tears came harder. She’d been talking with some of the girls about the woman who’d been found wandering in a park in St Albans. The woman had been kidnapped and held captive for almost four months. That was scary enough, but what scared Rachel even more was that her head had been shaved and she’d been given a lobotomy. According to police she’d been the fourth victim.

Number Five.

The memory of Adam’s rich, cultured voice resonated through her mind, two words that contained a whole host of terrifying possibilities.

25

Donald Cole was an East End boy born and bred. He was also a poster boy for the rags-to-riches cliché. He’d dropped out of school at fourteen without a penny or a single qualification to his name, and built up a thriving property rental business, while somehow avoiding prison. He had done good and wanted everyone to know it. Rachel Morris was his only daughter.

The headquarters for Cole Properties was in Stratford, a part of London that had been given a new lease of life when the Olympic circus came to town. It was based in an old converted factory, a three-storey red-brick building with blacked-out windows on its south-facing side. Cole’s surname was plastered across the sign on the front of the building in massive capital letters. The ‘properties’ part of the logo was tiny in comparison, more a footnote than a statement. News trucks were parked out front, satellite dishes pointed to the heavens. Sky, BBC, ITV. Camera crews, sound technicians and reporters milled around waiting for something to happen.

Templeton abandoned the BMW on a set of double yellow lines as close to the entrance as she could get. We got out and slammed the car doors shut and dashed through the slush. The sky was bright blue, the temperature somewhere around thirty degrees. The reporters shouted questions at us as we breezed by, and the cameramen hustled to get their cameras pointed in our direction. We kept our heads down and our mouths shut and bowled through the double doors into the building, the heater above the door blasting hot air at us as we passed underneath it.

While I stamped the slush from my boots and unzipped my jacket, Templeton marched up to the receptionist and told her we were there to see Cole. The receptionist stuttered that there must be some mistake since Mr Cole had cancelled all his appointments for the rest of the day, and Templeton flashed her ID. One quick call later and we were riding the elevator to the third floor. Cole’s PA met us off the elevator. She was in her forties, blonde and efficient. She must have been stunning when she was younger because she was still attractive now. She led us along a white-painted corridor that was decorated with bland black-and-white photographs that were trying too hard to be arty, and stopped outside a set of wide double doors. She knocked twice, then pushed one of the doors open and stepped aside to let us through.

Cole’s office was as big as the incident room back at Scotland Yard. Unlike the incident room, though, it was clean and free from clutter, and smelled of orange groves and cigars rather than detectives.

There were two white leather sofas arranged in an L-shaped formation around a glass-topped coffee table for informal chats. The big oak desk with the huge high-backed leather chair was where the heavy business was carried out. Large expensive rugs covered most of the wooden floor and there were more of those bland black-and-white framed photos on the walls.

The silver-framed family pictures arranged carefully on the desk covered three generations of Coles. It was strange that there was no other family here. Given the circumstances, I’d at least expected Cole’s wife to be here. The fact that she wasn’t meant she probably wasn’t handling things too well.

Donald Cole was standing in front of a large floor-to-ceiling tinted window, staring blankly out at the cityscape. Stood like that, looking without seeing, he reminded me of Sarah Flight. Cole had his back to us, a cigar burning between his fingers. He was a big man, tall and wide. His face was hard and worn with red drinkers’ veins snaking across his nose and cheeks. He didn’t have a broken nose, which meant he either hit first and asked questions later, or he paid someone else to do the hitting. Once he’d been muscled up, a real tough guy, but the years had softened that muscle to fat. He had a chunky gold bracelet, a sovereign ring, and a large expensive watch, unsubtle reminders of his wealth and success. His suit was bespoke and his shoes were handmade from expensive leather.

‘Have you found the bastard who took my daughter?’

Cole’s voice was a low, rough growl. He was still staring out the window.

‘Bastards,’ I corrected. ‘There are two kidnappers.’

The big man turned and stared, a move he had down to a fine art. It was a move designed to intimidate, and it had no doubt worked successfully for him in the past. He had both the look and presence to pull it off. I wasn’t impressed. I’d been given the hard stare by men a lot more dangerous than Donald Cole, men who would cut you up before breakfast then eat your heart and liver for lunch, and laugh with glee while they were doing it.

‘This isn’t a joke. These bastards have got hold of my daughter and when I get hold of them I’m going to rip their heads off.’

‘No you’re not,’ said Templeton. ‘What’s going to happen is we’re going to catch these people, and they’re going to go to court, where they’ll be tried and then they’ll get sent to prison for a very long time.’

‘And how safe do you think they’ll be in prison?’

‘Is this a good point to mention that I’m wearing a wire?’ I said.

Cole tried the hard stare again. This time I responded with a yawn and the big man’s face turned a shade redder.

‘Who is this Yank? And what the hell is he doing in my office?’

‘Mr Cole,’ said Templeton, ‘we need you to retract your offer of a reward.’

‘Give me one good reason.’

‘I’ll give you four good reasons.’ I walked over to the desk, reached into my pocket for the four after photographs I’d stolen from the incident room, and slapped them down like playing cards. Curiosity got the better of Cole. He walked over to his desk, glanced at the photos, then looked at me.

‘What is this?’

‘Take a look,’ I said. ‘This is what will happen to your daughter unless you retract the reward.’ Cole took a look and I watched him closely. His face wasn’t giving away much, but small cracks of uncertainty were forming below the surface. ‘All these women had parents who loved them, parents like you who would have done anything to get their children back safe and sound. Unfortunately for these four that didn’t happen.’

‘I just want my daughter back.’

‘I know that, but believe me, offering a million-pound reward isn’t the way to do that.’ I paused and looked at the photos laid out on the desk and waited for Cole to do the same. ‘Right now, because of what you’ve done, Scotland Yard’s telephone system is jammed solid. Anybody who has ever seen anyone who even slightly resembles your daughter is calling us up because it’s lottery time and they all think they’ve got a shot at that million-pound prize.’

Cole stared at the photographs without saying a word. His hands were gripping the edge of the desk, eyes narrow, lips tight. My guess was that it was Rachel’s face staring back at him from all four photographs.

‘Then you’ve got the lunatics,’ I continued. ‘The crazies who wear tinfoil hats and have a direct line to the mother ship and are convinced that Rachel’s disappearance is the result of some government conspiracy. And the thing is, Mr Cole, all of these calls need to be checked out. Do you have any idea how many man-hours will be wasted doing that? And those are man-hours that should be employed on something constructive, like, I don’t know, finding your daughter. And here’s the irony. Somewhere amongst all those calls there will probably be a genuine lead, and that lead would have come to light anyway even if you hadn’t offered the reward. At worst it’s going to get lost. At best it’s going to get buried under a ton of useless crap and by the time we realise its significance it’ll be too late to help Rachel.’

I shrugged. ‘Of course, we might get lucky and spot it, but I’ll tell you now, even though I’m a betting man, those aren’t odds I’d bet on.’ I tapped the desk to make sure Cole’s attention stayed on the photographs. ‘Unless you do what we ask then I’m going to be adding Rachel’s picture to my collection.’