‘Where’s Nick?’
‘Safe.’
‘Here?’
‘Somewhere.’
‘I want to see him.’
Ostrowsky shot an impatient glance up at Tymon, muttered something in Polish.
‘If I don’t see him—’ Before Jake could finish the sentence, he fell to the floor clutching a hand to his back, writhing in agony and unable to catch his breath.
Ostrowsky watched impassively, then bent down to pick up Jake’s spilled glass and refilled it. A moment later he nodded at Tymon, who reached a hand down to Jake and yanked him back up on to the padded chair, where he continued his recovery, rubbing his back and drying his watering eyes.
‘Drink,’ said Ostrowsky, holding out the glass.
Jake took it, and this time, eyes closed, drained its contents, finishing with a rough cough before regaining his breath. Finally he looked up at Ostrowsky. ‘I didn’t know it was yours. I thought it was just a random van . . .’ Ostrowsky glanced at Tymon, who drew back a fist. ‘All right, all right,’ shouted Jake. ‘I thought it belonged to Max, not you. I found his address in the office and I went to his place to smash up the van.’
‘Why would you wish to damage my brother’s van?’ Ostrowsky’s voice was flat, devoid of curiosity.
‘To piss him off.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re his brother,’ said Jake with a disbelieving sneer. ‘Don’t you know?’
Tymon raised an arm in anticipation but Ostrowsky shook his head. The big man lowered the fat fist to his side.
For the first time it was Ostrowsky’s gaze that fell, and he nodded quietly. ‘But instead you stole it.’
‘Only because the dozy bastard hadn’t locked it.’ Ostrowsky glanced at Tymon. ‘I thought I’d run a few speed traps, dent a few parked cars. Drop him right in it.’
Ostrowsky’s expression was severe. ‘And you took Nick with you to steal my van? What kind of example is that for an elder brother to set?’
Jake was surprised. ‘I couldn’t leave him in the flat all day and night. Not on his own. You’ve seen him. He’s just a kid.’
‘Then you should lock him in to protect him.’
‘Is that what you do with Max?’ said Jake.
Ostrowsky flicked his eyes at Tymon and another blow caught Jake in the kidneys. Ostrowsky took a sip of vodka, waiting for the spluttering and panting to be over. ‘And the girl?’
Jake recalled the disfigured face, the broken body, but could barely speak. ‘What about her?’ he finally squeezed out.
‘Who was it?’
‘It was Kassia.’
‘Kassia?’
‘Your cleaner.’
‘You’re sure?’
Jake nodded. ‘She was badly beaten about the face. But I think so.’
Ostrowsky downed his drink and refilled his glass. ‘Why did you kill her?’
‘What?’
‘Why did you kill her? I need to know.’
‘I didn’t kill her. Max did.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It was his van, wasn’t it?’
Ostrowsky studied him before taking another large gulp of vodka. ‘It was my van. Now I want the truth. Let’s start again.’
‘This is a waste of time.’
‘Then why did you come?’
‘To get my brother.’
‘Then give me a reason I can believe. For Nick’s sake.’
Jake laughed bitterly. ‘Think I don’t know how this ends? Just kill me and get it over with.’
‘Kill you?’ laughed Ostrowsky. His mirth subsided quickly, his brilliant eyes boring into Jake. ‘I’m not going to kill you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true.’ Ostrowsky shrugged. ‘I won’t insult you by saying I value your life, but I’m not going to kill you.’
Jake stared. ‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t need to. But I’m curious. You expect to die, yet you say nothing. I have to cause you pain to get answers. Most people would talk for hours and say
anything
to delay that. But not you.’
‘Step into my life for a week,’ said Jake. ‘Then tell me it’s worth the living.’
‘Ah, you persuade me that you welcome death so I don’t kill you,’ said Ostrowsky appreciatively. ‘Very clever. But it won’t work. When you are young, life is good. I know this. Yes, you are poor, but I have been where you are.’
‘You forget the police are hunting me for a murder.’
‘Yet you are here. Either the police are stupid or you are clever.’
‘Clever?’ Jake laughed without mirth. ‘If I was clever, I wouldn’t be living with a brother . . .’
‘Continue.’
‘Forget it.’
‘I understand. You don’t wish to speak ill of Nick because he’s a child. But all the same he is your brother. And it’s difficult. I understand very well. I have such a brother – a brother who causes me great concern. And sometimes, in your frustration with him, you do and say the wrong thing. But never forget you are acting out of love.’
‘Just kill me,’ said Jake. ‘You’d be doing me a favour.’
‘It is a mortal sin to wish your life at an end before God is ready,’ said Ostrowsky, wagging a finger.
‘There is no God.’
‘How can you say that?’ said Ostrowsky, shocked. ‘He is everywhere, helping us, guiding us.’ He fondled the crucifix at his neck. ‘You must open your heart to him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he loves you.’
‘Does he love Max?’ demanded Jake. ‘Because that’s not a God I’m gonna like.’
Ostrowsky sighed. ‘You are an intelligent man. I wish the circumstances were different, but time presses.’ He stood with a glance at Tymon, who yanked Jake to his feet. ‘You leave me no choice.’
Jake cowered. ‘What are you going to do?’
Ostrowsky nodded in satisfaction. ‘You were keen to die. Not so easy when the moment arrives, is it?’
‘No,’ admitted Jake, barely audible.
Ostrowsky paused for effect, then, ‘You know the way out. You’re free to go.’ Walking away, he gestured at Tymon to release his bear-like grip on Jake’s shoulders.
‘Wait!’ shouted Jake. ‘Where are you going? What about Nick?’
‘What about him?’
‘He doesn’t know anything,’ pleaded Jake. ‘You don’t need to hurt him.’
‘Need? It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything from need. But you’ve changed that, Jake, because now I need
you
.’ Ostrowsky puckered his lips as though considering something that had just occurred to him. ‘Your brother, on the other hand, I don’t need. So if I kill anyone to get what I want, I will kill him.’
‘Mr Ostrowsky, please.’ Jake’s breath began to quicken. ‘I don’t know what I can say to change your mind.’
‘Yes you do,’ smiled Ostrowsky. ‘Tell me exactly what I want to know and you both live.’ He paused, waiting for Jake’s refusal. When it didn’t materialise, he returned to his seat. ‘Good. Start with why you killed the girl.’
Twenty-Eight
A loud knock woke Caitlin from her catnap, followed by two more.
I’m being moved
.
She looked to the door. An unblinking eye scanned her, unable to see her unfettered hands between her legs. She moved in front of her captor’s vision, holding her wrists as if still bound.
‘Please, I’m hungry,’ she said in a submissive tone. The three knocks sounded again. ‘Bag on head,’ said Caitlin. ‘Right, sorry.’ She pulled the black cotton bag over her head, being careful to keep the nail pressed into her palm, then sat primly on the toilet lid, hands between her thighs.
She heard two bolts slide back and quickly leant down to pick up the broken tile, placing it on the seat behind her. The door creaked open. She could see nothing through the thick bag so she waited, poised like a big cat, for a footstep or the touch of a hand on her shoulder, manoeuvring the nail to protrude between her middle and forefinger and covering it with her left hand.
‘I’m ready,’ she said through the bag. ‘And sorry about last time. I just want another chance.’ Still no commands, but Caitlin could smell that unmistakable musk of unenthusiastic washing in front of her.
‘Up,’ said a male voice.
She sprang to her feet and leapt towards the sound, swinging her fist with the nail gripped as tightly as possible in her hand. She felt contact as the head of the nail pushed back against her palm and heard the satisfying yelp of pain and surprise from her captor.
A second later, rough hands grabbed at her throat. She swung again and on the downswing yanked at the bag covering her face, pulling it off to see a fist being drawn back, a thickset face behind it. She ducked to avoid the punch, managing a small sidestep that left the man grasping at thin air as he toppled towards the toilet bowl. She threw out a hand to grab the jagged tile.
‘Bitch,’ spat the man, kicking out at Caitlin as she jinked past him and made for the door.
She stumbled and fell over his leg, banging her head on the jamb. The man righted himself, his face puce with anger, a small puncture wound on his chin weeping blood on to his neck. He clenched his fists, puffing himself up as he loomed over her, but she sprang at him and slashed the tile across his cheek, a line of blood confirming her success.
The man screamed, and while he was on the back foot, Caitlin flung her head into his spongy midriff, forcing him down on to the toilet, levering herself back through the doorway in the same move. She slammed the door shut, feeling frantically for the bolts. It felt like a lifetime before she pushed the top one into place, but before it was fully home, the door shuddered and she was knocked backwards. Another shove and the catch plate buckled, a powerful hand pushing through the small gap.
Caitlin flung herself off her feet at the door, slamming the wood into the groping hand with a sickening crack. The man howled in pain but was unable to withdraw his trapped hand, so she eased back on the door, slashing across the knuckles with the tile.
More screaming but she didn’t hesitate, forcing home the damaged bolt when the hand disappeared then stooping to do the same at the base. She flopped back against the wood, panting.
‘You fucking bitch,’ screamed the man, flinging his full weight against the door. It shuddered but held. ‘You’re fucking dead. You hear me? Dead.’
Caitlin flipped the cover away from the eyehole and, still panting, called out, ‘Rule one, numb nuts. Don’t mess with a Kinnear.’
She closed the peephole and looked around to get her bearings. A gloomy corridor seemed to lead back into the house, so she turned instead to a heavy door that must have been on the same external wall as the toilet grille. She pulled bolts and lifted latches but it wouldn’t budge, despite her best efforts. She saw the sturdy lock, but there was no key and nothing hung anywhere in sight.
‘Where are the keys to this door?’ she screamed towards the toilet door.
‘Fuck you,’ was the muffled reply, the tone betraying his injuries. ‘In here – come and get ’em.’
‘Shit.’ Caitlin had little option but to penetrate deeper into the house, so she inched her way carefully along the dark corridor with its cold stone flags. Before long she came to a door, not fully closed.
Pushing it open, she entered a bright kitchen. A pan of something brown and meaty simmered gently on the hob, scum frothing on the top. She was shocked to see the old man sitting in a corner chair, his hands on his lap. His disfigured head turned slowly towards her and he made a weak attempt to stand.
‘Stay down, Grandad,’ ordered Caitlin, brandishing the bloodied tile. The man relaxed back into the chair, his expression blank. ‘Where am I?’ she barked. No reaction.
She marched to the heavy kitchen door, drew back the two barrel bolts and seized the handle to wrench it open, but again it wouldn’t budge. The door was locked and the window over the sink was barred and padlocked. She cast around for keys but none were visible.
‘How do I get out of here?’ No answer. She advanced aggressively towards the old man to loosen his tongue, but he didn’t seem to register the threat or even understand what was going on. In fact he seemed to be smiling, if that were possible.
He croaked out a pair of indistinct syllables, which Caitlin deciphered as
nice hair
. A trembling hand reaching out to her head seemed to confirm this. It was then that she saw the column of tablets assembled on a small table beside the armchair. She halted, looked the old man in his vacant black eyes and lowered the tile.
‘These locks aren’t just for me, are they? You’re ill. How do I get out of here?’ she asked, gesturing at the bars. He started humming the tune from their abortive dinner.
Caitlin gave up. A folded newspaper sat on the table and she pounced on it, glancing at the date.
‘April twenty-fifth,’ she said. ‘So little time. Feels like a lifetime.’ She skimmed through for any mention of her disappearance. Nothing.
Tossing the paper aside, she proceeded to pull out kitchen drawers, emptying them on to the stone floor in her search for keys. The old man began to whimper at the noise of crashing cutlery but she ignored him, picking fruitlessly through the piles of silverware. Frustrated, she stomped over to the window, peering outside at a walled courtyard where a white panel van was parked. All was quiet. She was so close. A noise from the floor above drew her attention and she rounded on the old man.
‘Who’s up there?’
He moaned at her aggression, lowering his eyes in confusion. Caitlin darted an eye to an internal door set above a wooden step. She pulled it open and swayed back in case of attack. It revealed a polished wooden stairwell that turned left and wound out of sight. She stood for a moment considering her options, glanced at the fading daylight through the window then turned to the tangle of silverware and plucked out a butcher’s knife before making her way to the bottom of the darkened staircase.
She peeked hesitantly round the corner, and in the dim light saw her rucksack in the stairwell, leaning against the wall. Gripping the knife tightly, she tiptoed up to it, wincing at the creaking of the carpet-free steps. It was still packed with her gear, and she pulled out socks, trainers and knickers and put them on quickly. The trainers felt wonderfully alien on her feet. She left the rucksack where she’d found it and continued towards faint daylight at the top of the stairs, every wooden board marking her progress with a groan.
On the landing she was faced with four doors, all of them closed. At the far end, late-evening sunlight danced through a lace-curtained window. She hurried towards it and yanked the curtain aside. The window was locked but at least there were no bars. She looked out at freedom below. The ground was churned and muddy and she saw that it was part of a pen full of fat pigs nuzzling around. Beyond, a large metal barn bookended the property and in the distance the cover of trees was bisected by a rough drive.
She looked around for something to smash the window with, but the corridor was bare except for a worn carpet, so she tried the nearest door. It opened on to a pleasant, if ordinary, double bedroom. It was clean and simple, with a large walk-in wardrobe on one wall. Caitlin ran a hand through the clothes – male and female. With a jolt she saw one of her sweatshirts on a hanger; she grabbed it and pulled it quickly over her head. She closed the door behind her when she left.
The next room was a complete shock. It was like a hospital room, with an adjustable bed made up with spotless starched sheets and pillows. There was a dinner tray on wheels – the kind that could be positioned over a bed to feed immobile patients – a bedside cabinet with an empty fruit bowl and a water jug and glass.
Attached to each side of the bed were sets of leather straps with small adjustable collars at the end. Some form of restraints for unwilling patients, no doubt.
Weird
. She saw a sink beneath the barred window and next to that a toilet. On one wall was another rail of clothes, mainly cardigans and nightwear. She left, closing the door softly.
To open the next room, Caitlin had to draw back a bolt. She instinctively tightened her grip on the knife as she prodded open the door. Unlike the previous rooms, this one was in darkness because the curtains were drawn, but their rippling suggested an open window and a way out. On a mattress on the floor a shapeless form covered by a blanket was wheezing the harsh rhythm of sleep. A knot of straggly black hair peeped from beneath the blanket.
Caitlin walked to the window and drew the curtain aside. The window was barred, though the small top part was open. Knife held in front of her, she turned back to the mattress and with a magician’s flick pulled the blanket away from the sleeping body. She stepped back in revulsion. The girl on the mattress was naked except for knickers and a tiny negligee, which rode up above her stomach to her breasts. She was thin, and her skin had the pale, sickly sheen of jaundice. On her ankle bones and heels were lesions that Caitlin assumed were bedsores. Worse, the leather tether on her left ankle had turned the flesh dark purple with the constant friction. On her wrists were further wounds that Caitlin recognised from her own struggle against the plastic handcuffs.
‘Daniela?’ enquired Caitlin, realising. She edged closer. ‘Daniela!’
The sleeping form, tucked into the foetal position, stirred, and eyes began to blink awake. ‘Adrianna,’ groaned the girl, barely able to part her dry lips. She rolled on to her back as though heavily sedated. ‘Is that you?’ Her Italian accent was pronounced.
Caitlin dropped to her knees and placed a hand on the girl’s bare shoulder. ‘Daniela.’
The girl’s face registered confusion as dazed dark eyes tried to focus on Caitlin. When she’d processed the question, she replied with a faint nod. ‘Si, Daniela.’
‘You’re Italian,’ said Caitlin.
‘
Si
. Yes. Who are you?’
‘I’m Caitlin.’
‘You must go, Caitlin.’
‘That’s the plan. Can you sit up?’ Caitlin grabbed the girl’s frail hands. Her skin was like paper and Daniela winced at her touch. ‘This could hurt.’
‘No,’ said the girl, pulling her bruised hands away. ‘You can’t let them find you here. You must go.’
‘Them? How many are there?’
‘
Tre
. Three. An old man, a younger man and a woman.’
‘A woman? Where is she?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Never mind, we’ve wasted enough time. We’re leaving.’
‘If they find you . . .’
‘Listen,’ hissed Caitlin. ‘Do you want to stay here?’ Daniela’s only answer was to lower her eyes, so Caitlin cut the leg tether with the knife and examined the lesions on her wrists and ankles. ‘Can you stand?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Daniela.
Holding her thin arms, Caitlin helped her to her feet, trying to take a sympathetic grip. Daniela was unsteady and held on to her.
‘Take a step.’ Caitlin winced with Daniela when she made to put her weight on her skinless heel. Daniela nodded to reassure but gazed around as though she had vertigo.
Caitlin gingerly withdrew her support and stepped backwards, watching the pathetic creature in front of her attempt to stabilise herself. ‘Wait there,’ she ordered superfluously and dashed out of the room. Daniela reached a hand out in terror and stumbled forward with a gasp of pain, but Caitlin ignored her and made for the bottom of the stairs, snatching up her rucksack on the way.
She poked her head into the kitchen to satisfy herself that the old man was where she’d left him. He was asleep in the chair. Her eye alighted on a solid-looking weight behind the kitchen door, used to wedge it open when unlocked. It was hard to lift, but she gathered it up and lumbered back up the stairs.
She left the weight outside the room, then flung the rucksack down and helped the stricken Daniela, encouraging her into a painful step. Then another and another until Caitlin was confident in her ability to stay upright while she emptied her rucksack. She pulled out a pair of jeans but realised the material would chafe too much. Instead she opted for khaki shorts and helped Daniela into them, the Italian girl’s thin arm around her neck. They were a little baggy, but there was a belt attached and Caitlin fastened it on the tightest notch for her.
Next she found a tube of Canestan in her toiletries bag – better than nothing. She dabbed some on Daniela’s heels and ankles, ignoring her moans of agony, before delicately cladding her feet in a pair of light cotton socks and plimsolls, tying them tight to prevent rubbing. She tossed a T-shirt at Daniela, who looked helplessly back. She saw the bedsores on Daniela’s elbow so cut the cheap nylon negligee off with the butcher’s knife and helped her drag the T-shirt painfully over her head.
‘Let’s go.’
Daniela took a tentative step, then another, emerging into the corridor, where she leant against a wall, panting. She smiled and shook her head, putting a hand to her mouth. ‘I won’t make it. I’m sick. Dizzy.’
‘You can’t stay here.’
‘Then go. Bring help.’
Caitlin lowered her head, accepting the inevitable. Picking up the doorstop, she advanced on the end window and hurled the weight through the glass, then ran back to the room to scoop up the blanket, returning to knock out as much glass as possible before draping it across the ledge. She lifted her leg over the sill, looking back at Daniela holding on to the wall. The exhausted girl raised a wasted arm, gesturing for Caitlin to leave. Caitlin swung her other leg over the sill and looked down from the ledge.