keep me from stepping in anything as I pulled on a set of dark-grey decorator s overalls. Would ve gone for a white Tyvek SOC-style all-in-one suit, but it wouldn t exactly have blended in on a dark night. Next: plastic overshoes on over my boots. I tucked my hair into a shower cap the thin plastic kind that looked like a condom, given away free in hotel-room bathrooms then hauled on a dark-blue woolly hat, safety goggles, and a face mask. Nitrile gloves over my leather ones.
The Scenes Examination Branch might not bother collecting DNA when a wee shite like Noah McCarthy got a beating, but by the time they found what was left of Steve Wallace Well, that would be another matter.
I stuffed all the plastic packaging back in the bag, scrunched it up and put it in my pocket. Then walked down between the buildings, past the brick-walled back gardens, under another strand of Police tape, and out into Cameron Park.
One of the SOC tents glowed in the distance, nearly obscured by bushes and trees. No chance anyone would see me. I picked my way along a track that ran along the back of the gardens sticking close to the eight-foot-high wall until I could see the ridiculously massive conservatory stuck onto Steve Wallace s house.
A tall wooden gate was set into the brick, tendrils of ivy snaking around it. I tried the handle: locked. Fair enough. I scrambled over the wall and dropped down into the garden.
Silence.
For a minute I just stood there, not moving, scanning the backs of the houses for twitching curtains
Nothing.
I started towards the conservatory and a security light seared the garden with eye-watering brightness. I kept on walking. That s the thing about security lights by the time the owners notice you ve set one off, you can be right up against the house. They look out, see nothing, curse next door s cat, and go back to bed.
Click. The garden plunged into darkness again.
No sign of an alarm box on the back of the house, but that didn t mean the place wasn t wired. A couple of planters sat by the conservatory double doors. I looked underneath both. No spare key. Ah well worth a try.
One brand-new flat-head screwdriver and three sharp taps from a brand-new hammer, and the door lock was buggered enough for me to twist the mechanism. Clunk.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
No screaming alarm. No flashing lights. No irate householder.
That d change.
Say cheese. I raised the camera, let the autofocus whirr, then pressed the button. The flash turned the wine cellar monochrome for a moment, then everything faded back into gloom.
Steven Wallace blinked at me, breath hissing through his nose, tears streaming down his cheeks, mumbling words behind the duct-tape gag.
The cellar was a good size probably bigger than the whole ground floor of my ruined house lined with wooden shelves, piled high with wine.
Where is she, Steve?
He wriggled, but the cable-ties didn t budge holding him tight to the wooden dining chair, rumpling his silk pyjamas. The bruise on his cheek was beginning to darken.
I turned, ran my hands across the rack of bottles. It s here, isn t it? Your secret torture chamber? Hidden away I hauled at the shelving and bottles crashed to the flagstone floor, red white and ros shattering, soaking Steve s slippers.
A muffled shriek. Then nervous giggling.
Oh, you think this is funny, do you?
He shook his head.
Where is she?
More mumbling.
I yanked another set of shelves off the wall. Still no sign of a hidden door.
WHERE IS SHE?
He closed his eyes and trembled. I slapped him.
Look at me, you little shite!
He turned his head away, so I slapped him again.
LOOK AT ME!
He did what he was told. Mmmmmmphnph
You see what I m wearing, Steve? The mask, the goggles, the outfit? They re not so you won t recognize me: they re so I don t leave any forensic evidence behind when I carve you into little fucking bits.
I pulled a birthday card from my pocket Rebecca, the number five scratched into the top-left corner and held it under Steven Wallace s nose. Let him drink it in. Look familiar? Helpless, tied to a chair in a basement, gagged, terrified?
I cleared a shelf of Rioja with a sweep of one hand, then reached into the B amp;Q carrier-bag.
You re already dead, Steve. I pulled a pair of pliers out and placed them on the shelf, then a claw-hammer, braddle, Stanley knife, heavy-duty scissors, and a little blowtorch.
Tell me where she is and I ll make it relatively quick.
Mmmmph MMMPHNPH!
I smiled at him. What, you think I m going to use these to make you talk? The pliers felt nice and solid in my hand I snapped the jaws half an inch from his left eye.
Where is she?
Mmmmmmph! Mnnnphnmmph!
WHERE IS SHE? A shelf full of burgundy exploded on the flagstones.
MMMNNNPH! The sharp tang of fresh urine joined the heady tannin stench of red wine.
She s near, isn t she? When you had this place renovated, you got them to put in a secret room, didn t you? Somewhere you could take people s daughters. Where is she?
Mmmnphnnnmmmnnn
I grabbed a corner of the duct tape and pulled.
Aaaaaargh God I don t I don t know. I don t, I swear.
I put the pliers back on the shelf. Wrong answer.
HELP ME! SOMEONE! PLEASE DEAR GOD HELP ME! HELP
I slammed my elbow into the murdering bastard s face, catching him above the left eye. A nice solid smack. His head snapped back, thumping into the wine rack behind him, making the bottles clatter against each other. Got to hand it to Andy Inglis: when it came to beating the shit out of people, he knew his stuff.
Where is she?
Steven Wallace blinked a couple of times, I grabbed his hair and forced the bastard s head back, staring into his eyes. Dilated pupils.
I didn t do it I don t know anything
What are you on: amphetamines, ecstasy, cocaine? Smoke a few joints before bedtime? The skin above his eye was already starting to swell up. Nah, it s coke, isn t it? Nothing else is showbiz enough for a prick like you.
I dragged him and his chair into the middle of the room. Put a foot on his chest and pushed. The chair tipped over, crashed to the floor amongst the broken bottles, pinning his arms underneath him.
A grunt.
Don t go anywhere.
I was back two minutes later with a couple of hand towels.
Only took three kicks to get the cellar door off its hinges. I carried it over to one of the wine racks and propped the top end up on the second shelf from the bottom, then hauled Wallace and his chair on top of the door still flat on his back, feet up, head down.
Where is she?
You can t do this to me, I know people!
Pliers and blowtorches are for amateurs, Steve. The field of torture has come on leaps and bounds since the Spanish Inquisition.
I pulled one of the bottles from the rack. An 84 Bordeaux. No idea if it was any good or not. Didn t really
