“We asked him, obviously. We always discuss every procedure to see if it is... necessary. But he wouldn’t talk. And we couldn’t force him to.”
A defensive note had crept into his voice now, so Helen decided to cut to the chase. She gestured to the file:
“May I?”
He handed it over. As soon as she saw his name, Helen felt a knot in her stomach. His picture—young, hopeful, alive—confirmed it. Her worst fears realized.
This was about her. It had always been about her.
78
She was dead. She must be dead. There wasn’t enough oxygen in there for a fly to breathe, let alone a human. There was no energy, no life left in her body, and she was barely aware of her surroundings anymore. She was consumed by darkness. The heat was unbearable. There was no air.
Hannah tried to convince herself, but she knew she wasn’t dead... yet. Death would be a sweet release from this slow torture. And there was no relief, no letup in her suffering. She had been reduced to the level of an animal, wallowing in her own misery and ordure.
How long had it been since she last heard Sandy? She couldn’t remember.Good God, what would it smell like in here if he died?The rotting excrement was one thing, but a decomposing corpse? If Mickery had had any tears left, she would have cried them now. But they were long gone. She was a husk. So she lay there, willing death to claim her.
Then suddenly it happened. Without any warning, a blinding light that set Mickery’s eyes ablaze. She howled in agony—it was as if lasers had shot into her brain—and clamped her hands to her face. A sudden rush of cool air, freezing yet blissful, poured over her body. But the respite was temporary.
She was being dragged. It took her a while to work out what the sensation was, but she was definitely being dragged. Someone had a viselike grip on her arm and was dragging her across the floor and out into the light. Was she being rescued? Was this Grace?
She struck something metal and yelped. Now the hands were under her, hauling her up. Instinctively she knew this was no rescue, that there would be no salvation here. She landed with a thump in a small, enclosed space. Her hands felt around and slowly, gingerly she began to open her eyes.
The light was still punishingly bright, but she was lying in someone’s shadow now, so could just about bear it if she snatched glimpses. She was in the boot of a car. Helpless and splayed in the boot of a car.
“Hello, Hannah. Surprised to see me?”
It was Katherine’s voice—her tormentor and jailer.
“Don’t be. I’m not the sadistic type, so I’ve decided to spare you.”
Mickery looked up at her, unable to process what she was hearing.
“But I need you to do one little thing for me first.”
Hannah waited. Reeling as she was, she knew straightaway that she would do anything Katherine asked. She wanted to live more than she’d ever wanted anything before.
As the car drove off, Hannah found herself smiling. Something—she didn’t know what—had happened. And she had been delivered from purgatory. Any price—any—was worth paying for that.
It never even occurred to her to wonder what had happened to Sandy. He didn’t exist anymore as far as she was concerned.
79
Would she ever stop laughing at them? Mickery and Morten constituted the fifth forced abduction and still the killer didn’t put a foot wrong. Sanderson, Grounds and McAndrew had supervised diligent house-to-house inquiries, hoping to find a witness to this latest abduction. Whittaker had allocated them extra uniformed officers—but all to no avail. Charlie and Bridges had spent the day at the Morten family home supervising the crime scene, but not a single shred of forensic evidence had been found. The trio had obviously been drinking champagne—two sedative-laced flutes lay where they had fallen on the floor and the imprint of another was dusted up on the coffee table—but the third glass and the bottle had vanished. Charlie fielded an angry call from Whittaker and was forced to admit she had no positive developments to give him.
Bold to do it in the victim’s home. Sandy’s wife had been abroad visiting relatives, but even so. Was the killer untouchable? It was beginning to look that way. The Morten house was a noisy, stressful place—the forensics circus was in town and there in the background was the wife, Sheila, who refused to go and stay with friends, feeling no doubt that her belated presence there, or at the very least her refusal to desert the family home, would somehow guarantee Sandy’s safe return. It wouldn’t—Charlie knew that, though she obviously couldn’t say anything to the distraught wife. Sandy would return in a body bag or as a traumatized, gibbering wreck. The whole atmosphere was oppressive, and as another wave of nausea struck, Charlie hurried outside.
She’d just about made it out of sight when she hurled. A big, feisty regurgitation of her breakfast. Charlie had felt sick all day and in more ways than one. There was something profoundly odd and disquieting about bringing a new life into this dark world. She and Steve had been so looking forward to starting a family, but now Charlie was full of doubts. What right did she have to bring a baby intothis? When there was such violence and cruelty and evil all around us. It was a profoundly depressing thought and made Charlie retch again.
As she was wiping herself down, her phone rang. Jaunty and inappropriate. She hurried to answer it.
“Charlene Brooks.”
“Help me.”
“Who is this?”
A long silence, an intake of breath as if the caller were summoning energy to talk, then:
