Stalkers

now. The real reason was that he’d always found his supreme boss so aggravating that open criticism of him was unavoidable. It wasn’t even a personality clash; the wound went much deeper than that. To Heck, Laycock was a poster-child for the modern-day senior policeman; young, good looking, university-educated as well as being an ex-military man — and more than capable of kissing all the right buttocks. In short, he embodied everything that was turning British law-enforcement into a career opportunity rather than a vocation.

Not that going lip-to-lip with your commanding officer like Heck had just done, was well-advised. Okay, there’d been no witnesses, so there’d be no one to corroborate accusations at a disciplinary hearing. But he had no doubt that Laycock could and would fix it for him somehow, if he got the chance. There were times when Heck would say that he didn’t care about stuff like that; that as far as he was concerned an idiot was an idiot, and he would always use that exact terminology because he couldn’t abide being disingenuous. But there were other times when he regretted this impulsive nature. It wasn’t as if he was innately rebellious or insolent. Fair enough, he resented having seventeen years in and still only holding the rank of sergeant, but he accepted his place in the pyramid of power. But there was something about Laycock and the number-crunching suits he represented that really stuck in Heck’s craw.

Of course, whatever the reason for it, today’s confrontation — and it was only one of several he’d had with Laycock, but it had been more explosive than most — might have more serious repercussions than usual. Until now Heck had always relied on his reputation for being a highly productive officer who’d sent way more than his fair share of slags and skags to prison, to guarantee his job security. In addition to that, aside from his differences with Laycock, he had a relatively clean shirt. So it wouldn’t be easy ousting him. And it would be even harder to oust Gemma. She was probably the NCG’s most prized asset: not only was she a woman, which was always a bonus these days, but she’d blazed her way through the male-dominated world of CID with skill, guile, determination and, above all, results, and had earned her high position because she deserved it rather than because of positive discrimination. On top of all that, she was eye-candy, so it looked particularly good when she was accepting her commendations on TV. But Laycock would still try to stick the knife in, possibly using the missing women enquiry, and how much cash had drained into it for so little return, as the main springboard of his assault.

Which, when Heck thought about it, made the plan he was now hatching for the next three months — extremely risky though it was — all the more important.

Chapter 7

Louise looked herself over in the mirror.

She’d had the shower as instructed, and had done the best she could with her hair and make-up, though it had hardly been a labour of love. The clothes she’d finally selected would never have been her normal choice, but there hadn’t been much option. She’d put on dark stockings, a short, black, pleated skirt, a red silk blouse with ruffles at the front, and a smart black jacket. The trashy red and black shoes had come last, though in truth the whole thing was trashy, not to mention demeaning; it was the ‘office look’ perhaps, though a male fantasy version of it rather than the real thing. She hadn’t been able to find a single item of underwear that didn’t come straight from the advertising section of Penthouse, and after some searching had eventually opted for a matching set of black lace bra and knickers, though the knickers were so sheer that they might as well not have been there.

Not that this troubled her now. Briefly, as she stood rigid in front of the cold glass, wearing skimpy drawers seemed the very least of her problems.

She kept envisioning her house, her garden, Alan’s tousled head and grinning face when he woke her up each morning with a cup of tea, the spare bedroom they’d tentatively begun to think of as a nursery, which she’d filled in her imagination with soft, pink and white furniture, with cuddly toys, with animal mobiles turning on strings, with Disney wallpaper — but no, no, NO!

It didn’t pay to dwell on those things. She had to focus on the positives. She’d been a prisoner all this time, but they hadn’t yet brutalised her; in fact they’d fed her, watered her, allowed her to wash. In some ways that was sinister, but in others it was good. And she had definitely been abducted to order — they hadn’t just grabbed her off the streets; she wasn’t a random victim. As such, the idea had coalesced in her mind that this kidnapping could only be some kind of plot against Goldstein amp; Hoff — which was less frightening than it being directed against her, but even so it could have a fatal outcome, so she had to play it smart and go along with them for the moment. She had no other choice.

At least, this was what she told herself as she assessed her reflection for the umpteenth time. Cheap — that was the only way to describe the version of Louise Jennings that her captors wanted; cheap and slutty, like a porno actress on set. It was such a different look from her normal tasteful preference that this in itself almost made her cry, but she resisted resolutely. They’d degraded her enough; she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of breaking down. Besides, as she kept reminding herself, it was vital to keep a cool head. Cooperate but be cool — that was her plan. It was the only way to earn their respect. Never show a dangerous animal that you’re frightened.

But of course, it was easier to say such a thing than to do it.

The jewellery for example — Louise had glanced into the jewellery box, and had been surprised by the quality of the stuff it contained: earrings, bracelets, brooches, rings, necklaces, all of real gold and silver, encrusted with gems. But after the rather large hint her jailer had dropped about where this high-class merchandise had come from, she couldn’t bring herself to touch any of it, much less wear it. She doubted that she’d ever be able to wear jewellery again, not even her own — assuming she ever got home to it. Her bravado half-crumbled and fresh tears sprang into her eyes, though she hurriedly wiped them away with a tissue, determined to be brave.

As she did this, the door clicked open.

She spun around. Surely two hours hadn’t passed already?

Nobody came in. Louise waited tensely, hands clasped in front of her. Then she heard a voice from the next room.

‘Louise?’ it said hesitantly. Incredibly, it sounded familiar. ‘Do you want to come in here?’

At first bewildered, but then with sudden desperate energy, she dashed forward and pushed the door open. On the other side she saw a larger room, which was much more luxurious than her dressing-room-sized prison. There was a thick pile carpet on the floor, and soft fabric covering the walls. A shaded bulb cast a rosy glow over a double bed, its eiderdown folded neatly back on crisp, golden sheets. However, none of this amazed her as much as the person occupying the room.

He was a middle-aged man, but tall and well built, with grey at his temples and pale, handsome features. He was usually a very imposing figure; scrupulously neat, with a formal air and stern attitude which appeared to brook no nonsense, but at present, though he wore his normal pinstriped suit, his jacket and collar were unbuttoned and his tie hung in a loose knot.

Despite this, there was no mistaking him.

‘Mr Blenkinsop,’ she said, hardly able to believe her eyes — new tears now appeared there, tears of relief.

He gave a helpless shrug. ‘Hi.’

Ian Blenkinsop was not part of Louise’s department at Goldstein amp; Hoff, but a director in Commodity Finance, two floors above her. She didn’t know him particularly well, but they’d been part of the same company long enough to be on speaking terms. He was now standing on the other side of the bed, in front of an oak-panelled door, next to what looked like a well-stocked drinks cabinet.

She slammed the dressing-room door behind her and rushed towards him, jabbering frantically. ‘They … they grabbed me on my way home. I didn’t realise until it was too … there was nothing I could do … I’m so, so sorry … honestly, there was nothing …’

He nodded patiently, but seemed rather nervous. He was breathing quickly; sweat glinted on his brow — which was not his normal form. Ordinarily, Ian Blenkinsop was a man of poise, a smooth operator from whose fingertips multi-million-pound deals flowed on a daily basis. But why was he here? The question hit Louise hard. He was a banker, for Christ’s sake! Why was he the one who’d been sent to find her? Unless …