The Bursar's Wife (27 page)

“What?”

“That’s not a serial number, George, it’s a date.”

I looked at the number. True, it was six digits, the last two ending in what could be a year, but the middle two numbers were twenty-three, and the first two eleven. Just how stupid was she?

I gently pointed this out.

“You’re being thick, Kocky. He’s an American, you fool.”

“So?”

She stared at me until a light bulb went on in my head.

“Of course, they swap the day and month.”

“There you go.”

I looked at the date on the DVD. It corresponded with the date I’d seen the woman in the film leave his place.

“Now, do you remember the date Trisha was here?” Stubbing asked.

“Mmm, lets see, I could work it out…”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a good job I can remember it, isn’t it?”

I was spared the need to answer by the silver Merc pulling up outside River Views. I flicked the wipers on and off. Mark the driver spoke into his earpiece as the car idled and proceeded to check himself in the rear-view mirror.

“There’s our man,” said Stubbing. She wrote down the date I was looking for and wished me luck.

“Have you got a mobile on you?” I asked.

She looked at me suspiciously.

“Jesus, woman, it’s just so you can ring me in case they come back.”

“OK. Give me your number.”

“I don’t know the number,” I said. And when she gave me another look I told her it was the office mobile and I never rang it.

“Give it to me,” she said. I handed her the phone and she fiddled with it then keyed a number into her phone – one that looked more ancient than mine.

The lights went off in the penthouse and a few minutes later Quintin emerged from the gate of the apartments. Mark sprang out of the car and opened the rear door of the Merc. I spotted a bow tie under Quintin’s coat. Mark did a three-pointer, pulling briefly into the car park entrance requiring us to duck our heads to escape the headlights. Our heads touched beneath the dash and oddly enough it was a more intimate moment than the one we’d had on my bed earlier. When the lights had gone we sat back up, but not before I’d noticed the build-up of wax in Stubbing’s ear. A pizza delivery scooter pulled up outside the gates. I saw my chance; it would save me pressing all the buzzers on the off-chance someone would let me in with the old ‘it’s me’ trick.

“OK then, I’m going,” I said. “I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.”

She nodded. I got out into the rain and walked over to the gates as the helmeted teenager pressed a bell on the panel. I hoped Eric the concierge (if he was on duty) didn’t come out of his room. I put my mac over my head to protect myself from the rain and the CCTV camera. The gate buzzed as I reached it and I went through behind the pizza boy, following the lovely smell. A smell that promised more than it delivered – like Chanel No.5 on a woman who turns out to be wearing polyester underwear, or indeed a man in an Armani suit who buys his underwear in packs of five from the supermarket. At least when it came to Stubbing, what you saw is what you got.

IT WAS DARK INSIDE QUINTIN
’
S APARTMENT BUT THIS TIME I
knew my way around. After dropping my wet raincoat over the back of a dining chair I went straight through the archway and down the hall to the office at the end, passing the bedroom and the door that was locked last time. The office was lit only by the computer screen. The computer, which was humming, hadn’t yet put the screen to sleep; presumably because Quintin had been using it just before he left. I approached the desk and studied the screen more closely than I had last time. The computer was an Apple Mac, so I understood even less what I was looking at than usual. Some programme was running, a completion bar was nearly complete. I gave up, deciding I would look more closely when I had got what I came for, and went to the oak cabinet.

I opened the right-hand drawer and located the empty sleeve I’d left behind, slipping the DVD I’d borrowed back in the correct place. I flicked through the rest; it seemed they were arranged by date going back several years, the most frequent one being last week. This wasn’t a recently acquired hobby, it was something he’d been developing for some time. I moved forward through the discs until I found the only one with a date that coincided with Trisha Greene’s visit.

Then I had a brainwave, the sort that hits you every now and then and makes you feel more intelligent than you really are. I looked for DVDs with the date of the night of Trisha’s death. Yes, there was one. I put both DVDs in my jacket pocket.

I closed the drawer and was about to open the left-hand drawer with the VHS tapes in when the room went dark – the screen on the desk, which had been providing all the light in the room, had gone black. I went to the desk and jogged the mouse and got the dialogue box asking for a password. Now I felt stupid for not having a closer look when I’d had the chance. Then I heard a key in the front door and froze. I heard the front door close. Why hadn’t Stubbing rung me?

It was quiet and no lights came on. What was he doing? Perhaps he’d forgotten something and gone to the bathroom. Shit: I’d left my raincoat over the back of a dining chair. I didn’t understand why it was so quiet; the whole place was wood-floored so you would hear someone walking down the hall. I decided he must have gone to the loo so it was a good time to sneak out – in which case I’d have to forget about Sylvia’s tape – or I could wait it out and hope he left without noticing my coat. I looked out into the dark hall and the last thing I saw before understanding why Stubbing hadn’t called was a gold coin mounted in a claw heading for my eyes.

Surprised rather than stunned, the back of my head hit the door frame and I found myself on my arse looking at a pair of stockinged feet. No wonder I hadn’t heard the fucker coming. A hole in the left sock allowed a long toe with a yellowing and cracked nail to protrude. Blood trickled down my nose and I tried to get up but cold sharp steel pressed against the side of my neck and stale cigarette breath came down at me.

“Don’t fucking move.”

I considered sweeping his legs from under him but my left arm was jarred from taking the brunt of my fall and my right hand was better occupied carefully feeling the damaged flesh between my eyes. My legs were splayed; the right inside the office, which meant the left was my only properly useful limb. But the thin man, as if anticipating my thoughts, moved to the side of me – any heroics would have to wait.

“OK, get on your front. Slowly.” The cold of the knife contrasted with the warmth of the underfloor-heated hardwood against my cheek as I lay down.

“Now put your wrists together behind you.”

I did as he said – I needed to find the right moment to strike the bastard and lying on the floor with a sharp point in my neck wasn’t it. I heard rustling and looked up to see him undoing his tie with one hand. If he was planning to tie my hands he would need both of his – this could be my chance. But he had simply loosened his tie and slipped the noose over both my wrists with one hand and then pulled it tight. Still, I thought, a Windsor knot would be easy enough to loosen. But then the knife left my neck and was replaced by his foot and he swiftly bent down and secured the tie ends properly. It all took a couple of seconds and the knife was back on my skin. Then his hand gripped a handful of hair at the back of my neck and pulled.

“On your fucking knees, arsehole.”

It’s not easy getting on your knees from a prostrate position with your hands tied behind your back. And they were tightly tied, so tight that my fingers were beginning to lose feeling. I struggled to my knees and felt the point of the knife move to the back of my neck. He pulled my hair back which made it stick painfully into my skin.

“Easy,” I said evenly.

“Shut up and start walking on your knees.”

“Where to?”

“The next room.”

I shuffled forward until we reached the door which he opened with his free hand. A light came on and revealed the massage table in the middle of the room – the table I’d seen in the film earlier. A large, professional-looking camcorder sat on a heavy duty tripod at the foot of the table. Another handheld camera was on some units along the right-hand side wall. A light with a large diffuser was mounted on another stand near the table.

“What now,” I said.

“Just get on the fucking table, face down.”

I stood up gingerly, my knees cracking. All this with him remaining behind me. There was a hole in the head of the table in which he told me to stick my ugly mug. He took his hand from my hair and leaned over me. I thought he was going to whisper in my ear but something came over my middle and arms and was tightened hard. Then another strap, the sort you use to tie luggage to a car, appeared in my vision and I could feel it being tightened hard over the back of my neck. Another strap was tightened over my ankles. I heard the door close and after a few seconds realised I’d been left alone. All I could think of was the message written on the back of the photo I’d woken up to last time I was here: next time we use this on you.

I tried to move but the most I could manage was to swivel my eyes. My hands were becoming increasingly numb, and no amount of movement would loosen the tie. Even if I could get my hands free, I was still strapped like a rolled-up carpet to a roof-rack. I relaxed, tired from thrashing about, and tried to make sense of my surroundings, the bits I could see anyway.

I was lying head towards the door. To the right of me I could make out the bottom of a leather sofa against the wall. To the left I could see vinyl cupboard doors, like in a budget kitchen. I knew, from when I’d come in the room, that they sat under a counter with a sink in it and a paper towel dispenser and a first aid kit above. The first aid kit worried me. I heard a voice from the other room, just the one. Sounded like the thin man was on the phone to his American master. Stubbing probably hadn’t phoned because she didn’t know this guy from Adam.

It went quiet and he came into the room, stepped up to the table and I felt him go roughly through my pockets.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said. He pulled out my mobile phone, then the two DVDs I’d taken from the office.

“Yes I do.” He rapped me three times on the back of the head with the phone and left the room, closing the door behind him again. My head stung and I could hear his one-sided conversation again; or rather I could hear him talking without making out the words. I struggled at my ties and discovered that if I rocked left to right I could make the table move. How this was going to help I didn’t know but I did it anyway, since action seemed preferable to none. Then the door opened again and the thin man’s legs came up to the table and disappeared to my left. He dragged the table back to the middle of the room – he was strong for such a slight man, I’ll give him that. Then he pulled my jacket over my shoulders, then my shirt, forcing it over my back until the top buttons popped and the cloth scraped my shoulder wound and was bunched down at the strap that was over my waist and arms.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, trying to go for dignified outrage rather than helpless terror – at least he hadn’t pulled my trousers down, yet. “That’s an Armani suit you’re ruining.” I could hear him panting with his efforts. I wondered how long it would be before Stubbing started to fucking worry and come up to check on me.

My dream of being rescued was painfully interrupted by him ripping the bandage from my shoulder.

“Listen to me,” I said to the floor. “There’s a copper waiting for me downstairs, a very mean detective.”

“Of course there is. And Kim Kardashian is waiting for me in the bedroom with her legs spread.” He laughed and it turned into a giggle that he cut short, perhaps aware that it didn’t sound too manly. I heard him light up and caught the fresh smell of cigarette smoke.

“Only five stitches, eh? You’ll be needing more than that when I finish with you.”

“What would the point of that be?” I said, adopting the firm voice I’d heard Sandra use with Ashley when he demanded sweets before dinner.

“The point, you cunt, would be to teach you to stop messing in Mr Boyd’s personal business.” I felt the cold steel of his knife running between my shoulder blades and tensed.

“So you’re just doing what you’re told, right?” I said. Then I remembered something. “Why did you visit my father in the nursing home?” The knife stopped.

“Your father?”

“Yes. What the hell were you doing there?”

“Stop fucking talking,” he screamed, but only after a very slight pause. I’d hit a nerve, not a good thing.

I felt the knife move to the wound and immediately began to sweat from places I don’t usually put deodorant. I couldn’t make out what his game was here. Worse case was he just liked hurting people, but he was still an employee, and that meant he was ultimately beholden to the boss.

“Mr Boyd won’t want you committing a crime in his flat. This is already kidnapping, don’t make it worse.”

He giggled and I knew I was lost. Boyd had probably sanctioned this.

“What is it that you want?” I asked.

“I want you to tell me where Lucy is,” he said. “But first I want you to scream.” I felt the knife point in my wound. He flicked it upwards, cutting the first stitch and then pulling the semi-healed flesh apart.

And scream I did.

I MUST HAVE FAINTED AT SOME POINT BECAUSE I OPENED MY
eyes and saw the thin man on the floor, his hands handcuffed behind him in the same position he’d had me. Someone loosened the strap around my head followed by the ones over my middle and ankles. I caught a whiff of Stubbing and relief washed over me, but it was immediately substituted by the pain of trying to move.

“Easy, George,” I heard Stubbing say. “You’ve been operated on by our amateur surgeon here.”

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“I’ve seen worse. It’s not bleeding too badly but you’ll need to get it seen to. I’ll patch it up for now.”

I cautiously sat up on the table – difficult with the shirt and jacket round my arms – while Stubbing got the first aid kit from the wall. I was covered in a cold layer of sweat. I looked down at my torturer and wondered if I could get away with stomping on his head. Stubbing, though, was attuned to my mood.