Stalkers

The shock of all this was simply too much. Louise had tried to maintain her composure, tried to rationalise her way through this entire kidnapping ordeal rather than keep surrendering to panic, but surely she was insane to think that remaining calm would serve any purpose now? Good God, she’d been in these animals’ clutches no time at all, and she resembled a corpse already! Suppose they kept her for weeks, months, maybe longer?

There was no option. She had to escape from here, any way she could, whatever it cost her.

She backed into the main room again, turning frantically. She’d been correct in her first impression that there were no windows in here. She glanced up: the ceiling, which comprised bare wooden boards, was only about two feet above her head. She reached up and pressed it; it was unyielding. What she’d been expecting, she didn’t know — that it would lift like a lid? Ridiculous. But for some reason she pressed again, even harder, exerting all her strength, then overbalanced, almost fell.

At first she assumed that she was having a relapse; that maybe the drugs were kicking in for a second time. But then she realised something bizarre: she wasn’t the one who’d overbalanced — it was the room itself. The floor had tilted. It tilted again and she had to stagger to keep upright. The entire room was swaying — not hugely, but noticeably.

So what in Christ’s name was this? Where the hell was she?

Panic once again nagged at her to get out of here, insisting that, whatever this horrendous situation was, she needed to get out — for Christ’s sake, she just had to get out!

There was still the remaining door.

Louise had no doubt that this one would be locked. And indeed, when she pushed against it and tried the handle — in this case a brass knob — it wouldn’t budge. She swore under her breath, struggling to suppress whimpers of despair. She tried again, but couldn’t even get the knob to turn.

‘Goddamn,’ she moaned, thrusting her shoulder against the wood, but only succeeding in hurting herself. ‘Goddamn it!’ Her voice rose to a desperate cry. ‘Goddamn it, someone please help me! ’

Abruptly, the handle turned in the opposite direction. There was a loud click as a lock was disengaged. Louise retreated. The door virtually flew open, and a man came through, closing it behind him. It was the tall black man in the overalls, gloves and day-glo orange ski-mask, an ensemble he was still wearing. He eyed her up and down. As before, it was not the way she’d been eyed by men in the past. There was no hunger there, no arousal — it was strictly professional; a cool, clinical appraisal. When he finally spoke, she was so astonished by what he said that at first she thought she’d misheard.

‘I said you’re size four, yeah? Your feet, I mean?’

Hardly knowing what to say, Louise nodded.

‘Good. These are for you.’

He pushed a pair of shoes into her hands. With a sense of unreality, she looked down at them: heeled sling- backs, black patent with red trim, evidently brand new. Under normal circumstances, they’d be far too trashy for Louise’s taste. Yet somehow she didn’t think that they were intended as a gift for her.

‘And for Jesus’s sake, take a shower,’ he added. ‘You’re stinking the entire place out.’

She glared up at him, the injustice of the situation finally firing her spirit. ‘Surely that doesn’t bloody surprise you?’

He pointed to the shower-room. ‘In there. You’ll find a toothbrush and toothpaste in the cabinet next to the mirror, so clean your teeth as well. And freshen your breath.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve got two hours. Better do a good job.’

‘What’re you talking about?’

‘Pretty yourself up, you silly tart!’

Perhaps the fact that they still hadn’t killed her, proving that she was of more value alive, was giving her extra courage. Or maybe, in some basic animal way, she now realised they were approaching the main event and that all bets were off. Either way, Louise was suddenly angry rather than afraid.

‘I’m not going to do any such thing,’ she stated.

The man lurched towards her. ‘Listen girl, you have no say here. You have no opinions. You have no views. You just do as you’re told. Understand?’

‘You’re not going to get away with this!’

‘No?’

‘The police will be looking for me.’

‘Occupational hazard for us, darling.’ And he smiled, showing white, shark-like teeth. ‘But I have to say, not much of one.’

She made a dash to get past him.

He caught her before she could even open the door, clamping one gloved hand to her throat and throwing her violently back across the room. She landed in the armchair with sufficient force to drive the wind from her. For all his size, he advanced like a cat — lithe, sinuous. He sprang onto her, thrusting his face into hers. This close, the whites of his eyes were red-rimmed; his breath reeked of garlic. She craned her neck to look away from him, but his weight pinned her down.

‘You stupid bitch!’ he hissed. ‘I’m under orders not to mess you up until this is all over, but I won’t hesitate to do it afterwards! So don’t try that shit again!’

‘My name is Louise Samantha Jennings,’ she said in a quaking but determined voice. ‘I am thirty years old. You may think my family are rich because I work in the City and live in South Buckinghamshire. But I was born in North London. My father is a taxi-driver, my mother a day-care worker. I have two older sisters and one little brother. We see each other all the time. We’re a very close-knit family. I also have a niece and nephew, one on my side and one on my …’

‘What am I supposed to do?’ he snickered. ‘Fall on the floor blubbing?’

‘I’m a human being. I don’t care what you think you’re going to get from this, you can’t treat human beings this way …’

He slapped her across the left side of her face — not hard; to humiliate rather than hurt. ‘How about this way?’ he wondered. Then he slapped her across the right side. ‘How about that way?’

She mashed her lips together, determined not to cry out, trying desperately to show that she wasn’t the crumpled wreck she must have appeared. But her mouth trembled and fresh tears brimmed from her eyes. ‘I … I want to speak to your boss …’

‘Really?’

‘If I can’t reason with the oily rag, I’ll try with the engine driver.’

He gazed down at her for several long moments, licking his lips with a sharp, pink tongue. ‘Well … who knows,’ he finally said, ‘you may get that chance.’ He seemed excited by the resistance she’d shown: sweat greased the flesh around his eyes; he panted rather than breathed. But perhaps thinking that he was starting to enjoy himself too much here, he now released her and rose slowly, reluctantly to his feet. ‘Not yet though … first you’ve got some business to attend to. These clothes, these undies.’ He pointed at the jumbled garb. ‘Get yourself something sexy and pretty on.’ While Louise watched in amazement, he reached down and pulled a foot-locker out from under the rack of dresses. ‘There’s make-up in here, perfume and what-not.’ He kicked at a second locker. ‘This one’s jewellery. Help yourself. Just make sure you look and smell good.’ He moved to the door, but turned to face her one more time. ‘You’ve got two hours. Do not disappoint us.’

‘Dis- disappoint you?’ she stammered in near-disbelief. And then she laughed, though it was actually more like a deranged cackle. ‘And … and if I do?’

‘Ask the women all this stuff used to belong to.’

He closed the door behind him. And locked it.

Chapter 6

The National Crime Group was based at New Scotland Yard, where it shared several floors with the