twelve pounds an hour if she’d agree to play there. It might not be as much as she earned busking on a good day (he judged it finely) but in October it would be warmer indoors and more civilized, and she might get tips from the clientele if she played requests. He’d given his mythical bistro a French-sounding name and said that the waitresses were all students and invited her to come and see it straightaway. Taken in by his polished spiel, she’d walked with him to the Orange Grove, climbed on the back of his bike and been driven away to her prison.
Now she moved again, turning her head on the pillow and freeing a mass of auburn curls from under the blanket. Her eyes opened, large, blue-green eyes, dark-shadowed not with mascara, but anxiety and exhaustion.
“Yes, I’m back,” Mountjoy said. “I’ll make tea.” And when she responded with a moan that was clearly asking to have the gag removed, he responded, “Presently.”
He took a couple of items to the kitchen, or galley, or whatever they called the tiny section where the kettle and cups were. “This is fresh milk,” he informed her. “It should taste better than that stuff from the tin. If you want a sandwich, I can now offer you bread and corned beef.”
It wasn’t malice or sadism that made him delay removing the gag; it was his conditioning. He wasn’t used to people talking to him. Samantha was probably no more loquacious than any other young woman of her age. He just found it difficult to think when someone was talking.
When the tea was in the pot he went to her and untied the gag, staying at arm’s distance, avoiding any more physical contact than was strictly necessary. This he had pledged himself to observe. After almost five years’ celibacy there was a clear risk of some unlooked-for incident undermining his plan. To give way at this stage would be madness.
Samantha rubbed her face against her shoulder. There was a band of pink where the gag had been. “Aren’t you going to untie my hands?”
“Turn over, then.”
“I don’t know why you had to gag me,” she said when she was facedown against the pillow. “There can’t be anybody near enough to hear me scream. Who’s going to be living in a caravan park in October?”
It was a try-on, probing for information, and he didn’t answer. She was constantly testing him out, trying to discover where they were. She seemed to have got over the fear and anger that was her understandable first reaction to being kidnapped and now she addressed him in almost friendly terms. That was another reason why he found conversation such a strain. He’d have coped better if she’d treated him with steady hostility. But she was clever, disarming him with a stream of apparently spontaneous remarks.
He poured her some tea. She sat up and put both hands around the cup to warm them. “Didn’t you get a newspaper?”
“In a supermarket?”
She gave him a sharp look. “They sell them in supermarkets now. Don’t you ever go shopping?”
She didn’t know-or wasn’t supposed to know-that he’d broken out of jail. Several times already she’d almost twigged.
He said, “The news doesn’t interest me.”
“It ought to if you’re in it. There might be a picture of me in the paper. ‘Massive Hunt for Missing Student.’
Mountjoy said, “You’ve got some hopes.”
“My dad will see to it. He’s the Assistant Chief Constable, or one of them, anyway.”
“I know.”
“You think just because he’s a top dog in the police he must have buckets of money, but you’re wrong. They don’t get paid much. What’s your job? What do you do, apart from kidnapping helpless women?”
“I make them sandwiches if they’re not too bloody inquisitive,” said Mountjoy.
“All right.” She tugged the blanket aside. “And I’ll need my legs untied.”
“What for?”
“Don’t be so dense.”
“Again?”
The bodily functions were embarrassing on both sides. Moreover, untying her created an additional hazard. She was a strong young woman and each time she used the toilet there was a risk that it was the pretext for an escape attempt, so the door had to remain open.
He let her loosen the flex around her ankles.
She said, “What do you think I would do if you left me untied? I’m not going to get far without shoes, am I?”
He didn’t answer. Just opened the toilet door and stood with his foot against it to prevent her from closing it. In his planning this large caravan had seemed ideal for his purpose. Civilized, even. He had no wish to cause unnecessary suffering. He hadn’t appreciated the physical constraints. Now they were increasingly stressful.
When she came out, she spoke his thoughts almost exactly. “How much longer does this have to go on?”
“Depends.”
“On my father?”
He said, “It can’t end soon enough for me.”
“But it’s got to end the way you want it?”
“Obviously.”
After an interval, she said, “Sometimes in the past I fantasized about being kidnapped, but it was always by someone like Harrison Ford, and there wasn’t a shortage of blankets and I didn’t even think about wanting a change of clothes or a hot dinner. Being a hostage is degrading and disgusting. Have you spoken to my father on the phone?”
“No.”
“How did you contact him, then? By letter? How will he know I’ve been kidnapped?”
“It’s under control.”
“You left a message with someone else?”
“Something like that.”
“And you’re certain he knows?”
“Positive.”
She brooded on this for a while.
“Doesn’t say much for my parents, does it, if they won’t stomp up? Are you demanding an impossible ransom?”
He said, “Did you, or did you not, want a corned beef sandwich?”
“I told you I did. You weren’t listening. Or is this bribery now? Do I have to stop asking questions before I get fed? I can fix it myself if you let me.”
He wasn’t letting her into the kitchen. He told her to get back on the bed. While he was winding flex around her ankles, she took a comb from her pocket and started working at her hair, separating the strands and teasing them out to restore the exuberant frizz.
Wanting to say something civil as he performed the unedifying task of tying her, Mountjoy commented, “How long have you had your hair that way?”
“Six months or so. It should be softer than this. It wants shampooing.”
“It looks fine.”
“It’s greasy and tangled and it feels horrible.”
“Is it natural?”
“Of course not. It takes ages in the hairdresser’s.”
“I mean the color.”
“That. Yes, I was born with it. I hated it when I was younger. You get called things all the time.”
“If you want to be one of the crowd, why have a Style like that?”
“Oh, I don’t mind now. It’s a big plus to be noticed.”
“By men, do you mean?”
She reddened and stared at him, disturbed by the question. The sexual threat she had largely dismissed suddenly resurfaced. She said rapidly and stiffly, “I meant as a musician. Classical music is becoming just as
