And yet, like a late-night knock on the door, there was that nagging thought struggling for attention. If I could feel the floor beneath me, cold and hard, and the wood of the knife handle, and the wet stickiness of the gore covering me, why couldn’t I feel any pain?
Could a sedative take away pain yet leave other sensations? Somehow I didn’t think so. I made myself look properly at my mutilated body for the first time. What I saw gave me the courage to touch.
I was unhurt. Oh, Jesus, I was absolutely fine. I put my hand to my left breast and felt my heart beating. And I was breathing, of course I was, my lungs were exactly where they’d always been. Beneath the blood that I knew now wasn’t mine, my stomach was whole and unmarked. They’d laid me naked on the bed, covered me with gore that probably wasn’t even human and hoped it would be the final straw that sent me over the edge.
‘No,’ I said, and put the knife down on the floor beside me. It lay in a crimson pool, its blade gleaming with promise. And a tiny voice whispered inside my head:
DC RICHARDS GAINED Entry to Evi’s house by breaking a small bathroom window. A few seconds later, he opened the front door.
‘Stay in the hallway, please, sir,’ he told Harry. ‘Don’t touch anything.’
Harry could hear Richards speaking softly into his radio as he opened first one door and then another. He caught a glimpse of a kitchen, in which everything seemed lower to the floor than usual, and then what looked like a bedroom.
Evi’s house. Alice had given him her address months ago. He’d looked at it many times on Google Earth, had tried to picture its interior. He’d imagined it cosier, somehow, wide hearths and soft gold light, not this cold, tiled, grand hallway.
There was a slender-framed wheelchair to one side of the door. He reached out to run a hand along the armrest but remembered in time. He wasn’t supposed to touch anything. Directly in front of him were stairs. There was a stairlift. He couldn’t imagine her ever using such a thing. The Evi he knew would climb the stairs herself if it killed her.
A sound from upstairs. A scuffling. Then a low-pitched whimper.
‘She’s upstairs,’ he called out. He took the stairs two at a time. At the top, he stood listening.
‘Don’t go any further,’ came the instruction from below. ‘In fact, come down now.’
Hearing the sound again, Harry ran along the carpeted corridor. Guessing, he pushed open the last door and stopped dead.
Staring up at him were scared, bewildered eyes. The whimpering sounded again. Footsteps behind told him Richards had caught up.
‘What the bugger?’ said Richards, who was peering over Harry’s shoulder.
Harry stepped forward, knelt down and unfastened the muzzle from the dog’s face. Free to pant again, the dog didn’t move, just lay still, its mouth hanging open, tongue dry and furry. Harry pulled at the knots and managed to loosen the bindings around the dog’s front legs enough to slip them off. He did the same thing with its back legs and the dog scrambled to its feet.
George and Joesbury arrived at Endicott Farm just as the sergeant in charge of the attending special operations team received news that a warrant had been signed and he was authorized to enter the property. He was hammering on the front door, shouting out a warning to anyone inside, as Joesbury and George climbed out of their car. George produced his warrant card and vouched for Joesbury to the constable who met them.
Properly handled, a tubular steel police enforcer can deliver three tonnes of pressure to a locked door. The centuries-old, half-rotten wood of Nick Bell’s front door would have crumbled under the pressure of a strong shoulder. The young constable wielding the enforcer broke through with his first attempt and half staggered over the threshold.
As George and Joesbury, kitted out in protective clothing, followed the sergeant through the front door, they heard the shattering of glass that told them other officers were entering the property elsewhere. A dog began barking.
The search team fanned out through the house, calling out warnings, kicking open doors, switching on lights, checking each room before moving on. As instructed, Joesbury and George stayed at the rear.
‘Casualty upstairs.’
Joesbury stepped forward; George’s hand on his shoulder held him back. The sergeant ran heavily up the stairs and disappeared into a room on the right. A second later, they heard a radio call summoning an ambulance. Joesbury set off again and this time he wasn’t stopped.
The air at the top of the steps seemed denser somehow, pressing closer, holding him back, as though trying to prevent him from seeing the prone form. He saw it anyway. A spreading pool of blood steadily making its way across the faded carpet. Bright-coloured hair dark and sodden. A serious head wound. Long, jean-clad legs. Blue sweater. Nick Bell.
AFTER I’D KICKED the knife away from me, I scrambled to my feet and tried the door. Locked, of course. There was no way out of this wooden box short of kicking the walls down and I really didn’t think I had the energy for that. So I pulled the gore-covered top sheet away from the bed and dropped it into a corner. There was no water in the taps but I cleaned myself as much as I could with a towel. On the bed was a blanket that was largely clean. Naked and freezing, I climbed beneath it, grabbed hold of Joesbury’s teddy and did the only thing possible. I fell asleep.
The phone woke me. My own phone, close by. I followed the sound and found it beneath the pillow. They’d missed my phone. How they’d been so stupid I had no idea but seconds were all I needed to tell someone where I was. The screen was bright. Joesbury! Joesbury was calling me.
‘It’s me. They’ve got me. I’m at the industrial estate. Unit 33.’
‘Easy, Flint, keep your knickers on,’ replied Joesbury in his distinctive south London accent. ‘Now, do you have anything serious to report? Because I’m about to finish for the day.’
‘I’m at the industrial estate. They’re going to …’ I stopped. This wasn’t Joesbury. And I could hear him in stereo, over the phone and from directly above me. At that moment I became aware of light getting stronger, flooding the room and coming from overhead. I heard a stifled giggle and looked up.
The false ceiling of my ‘room’ had been removed, and behind the powerful spotlight that shone down on me I could see right the way up to the roof of the industrial unit. Then the spotlight shifted a little, to pool its light against my fake wardrobe, and I could make out a narrow gangway about ten feet above my head. Standing on it and leaning against a safety rail were Talaith Robinson and John Castell. Talaith’s hair trailed down around her face like weed in a stagnant pond.
Then I heard clanging, the sound of two sets of footsteps walking along the gangway. Scott Thornton and Iestyn Thomas making their way towards Castell and Talaith. When the two newcomers reached the couple, they all looked down at me.
And there they were at last, the three men who’d singled me out as their latest victim on my very first night here, and the woman who’d probably tipped them off in the first place.
