‘Hello, how can I help you?’ he asks.
‘Oh, I’m being taken care of, thank you,’ I reply. ‘I’m waiting for Nick Whitely.’
The man looks confused. ‘Yes, that’s me. I’m Nick Whitely. And you are . . .?’
51
Beth: 20 November 1992
‘If you want to find out if he’s telling the truth, you should just follow him.’
She’d dismissed the words as crazy the minute Jen had uttered them so offhandedly, but they had followed her around all week until she couldn’t ignore them any longer. Now, though, now that she was crouched behind the rain-soaked bushes staking out the disused building like some kind of secret squirrel, the idea seemed crazy once again.
Beth had seen them turn up one by one, the boys her fiancé called friends, knock four times on the warehouse door and slip inside without a word. All she had to do now was creep up to one of the broken windows and try to sneak a look through, see them playing poker or whatever it was boys did when they had a night of freedom. Then she could make the three-mile trek home in the cold and dark feeling stupid but relieved all the same.
OK then, here goes. She had her story all planned out in case she was caught: her sister had called, her father had been taken ill and she needed to speak to her fiancé. That wasn’t so unreasonable, was it? And Mark wouldn’t be mad if all he was doing was playing poker. Beth hoped her story wouldn’t be tested; she’d worry about explaining Dad’s miraculous recovery later. Maybe she should say it was Josh who was ill. They never saw him anyway so it wasn’t like he’d drop her in it.
This was crazy. Why did she need to go and look? She’d watched the boys arrive; she knew Mark must be telling the truth. What did she think they were doing in there? She got to her feet, suddenly feeling very stupid. She should go back to her room, get a bottle of wine and take it over to Jen’s. They would have a drink and laugh at her temporary insanity. It was about time she spent some quality time with her best friend; she knew she’d been neglecting Jen, choosing to spend all her free time with Mark instead. Maybe it was time to cool things off, build some bridges.
Through the darkness the distant hum of a car approaching made her drop to a crouch once more. The black Vectra, a car she didn’t recognise as belonging to any of Mark’s friends, drew slowly up to the warehouse and came to a stop less than twelve feet away. Beth held her breath as the driver’s door opened and Jack Bratbury stepped out. She let her breath out as slowly as possible and silently prayed that he wouldn’t spot her. If Jack saw her crouched there in the bushes, Mark would never hear the last of it.
Beth hated Jack. Loud and brash, he was the leader of the group and a bully. He had taken a shine to Beth and would hit on her at every possible opportunity, whether Mark was watching or not. Especially if Mark was watching, it seemed. ‘He’s just messing,’ he’d say when Beth expressed her discomfort. ‘Just a bit of fun because he knows it winds you up.’ It wasn’t her idea of fun, and Jack wasn’t her idea of a friend, but she understood why Mark didn’t speak out, even if it infuriated her.
She watched as Jack walked around the front of the unfamiliar car and came to a stop on the passenger side. He opened the door slowly and a pair of long female legs unfolded from within. Beth didn’t recognise the girl who followed them, and she knew that if she’d seen this girl before she’d remember. Her long blonde hair skimmed her generous breasts, barely covered by the tiny skin-tight leotard she was wearing. Beth felt a chill just looking at her; God only knew how cold the girl must be feeling. An unsteady falter when she began to walk suggested it was probably alcohol keeping her warm.
Who was she? Beth didn’t think she’d heard Jack mention a girlfriend, and anyway this was supposed to be a boys’ night, a detail that had apparently eluded this trampy-looking creature. She watched as the pair approached the door, knocked four times then slipped inside, swallowed up by darkness.
There was no way Beth could just leave now. She had to know who this mysterious scantily clad girl was, and what she was doing here tonight. With as much stealth as she could manage on shaking legs, she approached the building.
The windows of the large industrial unit had long been boarded up from the inside, partially rotted boards masking the events unfolding within. It didn’t take Beth long to find a fist-sized hole in one of the boards large enough for her to peer through; what took slightly longer was for her to pluck up the courage to press her eye to the hole and peer into the darkness within.
It took her eyes what seemed like an age to process the scene that met them. The absence of light inside the unit had been countered by what looked like a hundred candles, each a different shape and size, casting an eerie glow around the vast space. A large rectangular table covered in black cloth stood in the centre of the room, made visible only by the candles that lined each side, their flickering lights reflecting off goblet-shaped glasses filled with a dark liquid. The ornate oak chairs that sat around the regal looking centrepiece were empty, their intended occupants choosing instead to mill around the edges of the room.
This certainly didn’t look anything like a poker night, although what it did look like eluded Beth completely. The boys who had entered the building one by one were now wearing long black robes, black hoods falling forward to create dark holes where their faces should be. Trying to pick Mark out from the group proved impossible; each figure was a similar height and stature. They stood together in twos and threes, some sipping on glasses of the dark liquid – please God don’t let it be blood, she thought for a frantic second – others dragging furiously on cigarettes. Even from outside in the cold Beth could feel the tension in the room; it ran across her skin in waves, radiating from everyone within. Something was going to happen – something more than a game of cards – she could sense that much.
Where was the girl? She was the one Beth had stayed to see, yet for a moment she seemed almost inconsequential, lost in the strangeness of the scene. Someone spoke, a short, sharp instruction, although Beth couldn’t make out the exact words. Some of the covered heads turned towards the corner of the room; others seemed to avert their gaze. Beth strained to see what they were looking at, but billowing robes obscured her view.
The voice spoke again, low and commanding, and Beth knew it must be Jack. The others in the room simply obeyed. Each man took his place at the table and Beth saw what they had been looking at. The girl.
52
‘I think there’s been some mistake.’ Once the shock has worn off, I gather my composure and shake my head. Have I come to the right place? ‘I am at the
Star
, right?’
‘Indeed you are.’ The man who claims to be Nick Whitely nods in reply. ‘The one and only.’
Granted I can’t see it right at this second, but I know there will be a rational explanation for this.
‘I’m looking for a man I’ve been dealing with who works here. Is there another Nick who works for you? He’s about six foot two, short dark hair, bright blue eyes, smartly dressed.’ I can see this isn’t making any sense to the man in front of me. The girl from behind the desk has come out and is quietly tidying the newspapers on the table near us, probably as a way to find out what’s going on – I remember how valuable office gossip is.
‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone here who meets that description. Terri?’ He turns to the girl, making it clear that he’s aware she’s eavesdropping.
‘Sounds like someone I’d remember.’ She shrugs. ‘Sorry.’
‘What did you say your name is?’ he asks, and I realise he knows exactly who I am.
‘I didn’t. Sorry, I must be at the wrong place. My mistake.’ I stand up and flee before either one can ask any more questions.
Back in the car, the shock rises from my stomach to my throat. Nick has lied to me all this time. I’ve been so stupid, trusting that he is who he says he is, allowing a perfect stranger into my life. I feel as though I’ve had a one-night stand that I’m too drunk to remember. And now I have no idea where to go or what to do. Should I give up and go to the police? I don’t feel like I can do this without Nick. Someone is dead and this is beyond serious.
I drive down the street and park up somewhere that isn’t full of journalists to gather my thoughts. If Nick isn’t Nick Whitely of the
Star
, then who the hell is he? Is he friends with Mark? God, maybe he went to uni with them, one of the Durham elite even. It would make sense; he could have faked the wine and aspirin episode to make me believe I’m going crazy. Did he break into my house?
Kill a stray cat?
But it’s been him who’s convinced me there might be some truth in my claims; he’s championed my beliefs, made me feel vindicated. Why would he do that just to try and scare me off? To stay close to me, to find out what I know? Then just as we get near to the truth, Kristy Riley is murdered in her own home
. Possibly just minutes after I left a message on Nick’s phone telling him I knew who she was.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Nick?
It isn’t; the name ROB flashes across the screen: How are you? X I shove the phone back into my pocket. I don’t have time for Rob Howe now; all I can think about is what to do about Nick.
I want more than anything to drive to his house and confront him, scream and shout and demand an explanation, but the fact is, he could be dangerous or crazy, probably both. At the very least he is a liar, and a damn good one. Although saying that I never once questioned who he said he was. In fact looking back at our first meeting I’m not even sure I didn’t tell
him
he was a reporter. He could be anyone. Holy shit, what kind of trouble am I in?
No, I decide, I can’t go back to his house. I haven’t left much there, nothing I can’t sacrifice for my own safety, and I still have some toiletries and clothes in the car with me. I have to go somewhere safe, decide whether or not to approach the police with what I know so far. There’s no way I can go home. Nick knows where I live, and if he’s in this with Mark, he has undoubtedly passed on the information. Dad? I don’t think he’d mind, but the thought of putting him in danger, not to mention telling him about Kristy Riley’s death and what I’ve found out about Nick, doesn’t sound awfully appealing. I’m not in the mood for a serious discussion about my poor judgement when it comes to pretty men. My only real option is Cassie. I already feel bad that I haven’t really kept her in the loop the last few days; everything’s been happening so quickly. Can I really ask her if I can stay at her house now?
I think about all the things we’ve been through together and know she will be OK with it. She is my best friend, and once I tell her about the trouble I’ve got myself into, she’ll know exactly what to do.
Please God let her know what to do.
53
Beth: 20 November 1992
The girl moved between dark-cloaked figures at the table, refilling their glasses from a bottle of red wine – thank God for that! – and smiling pleasantly at each of them. So she was a waitress. Beth sighed with relief. Trust Jack. He couldn’t just hold a poker night; he had to have scantily clad waitresses and ceremonial robes. At least she could make a move now. As soon as she could tear her eyes from the girl.
She moved with the fluidity of a dancer as she brushed lightly against one of the figures and leant over him to fill his glass. A large hand emerged from the robe and brushed against her nearly bare buttocks. His fingers moved lower, pushing aside the small strip of material between the girl’s legs, and disappeared. Beth bit her lip. It’s not Mark, she told herself firmly. Mark loves you, it’s just one of his friends being sleazy.
The stripper – that was how Beth had come to think of her – flinched and moved quickly away from the wandering hands. She glided, slightly more quickly than before, to the top of the table, where the man that Beth presumed was Jack sat, and leant over to fill his glass. Before she could retreat, Jack caught her elbow, pulled her closer and whispered in her ear. Even from a distance, even through this tiny hole, Beth saw the girl’s eyes widen. She shook her head firmly and tried to pull away, but Jack’s grip was tight. He spoke again, his hooded face closer to hers now, more insistent. The girl’s face fell and Jack released her elbow, triumph radiating from his body even while his expression was hidden. The girl stepped to one side, fixed her eyes to the floor and began to slip her arm out of the skin-tight leotard. Every head at the table turned to watch the reluctant striptease. The girl moved slowly, as though she hoped it was a joke, that someone would shout ‘Stop, just kidding!’ but no one did.
The man at the head of the table stood, pushing his chair roughly aside. He grabbed the girl and pulled at the garment impatiently. Beth saw the flimsy material tear under his powerful hands and he cast it to one side. Underneath the leotard she was wearing only a small pair of briefs, a fact Beth was certain she regretted now. This had gone too far. Should she intervene? Could she just go in there and walk out with the girl, easy as that? She didn’t think so. Jack wouldn’t let it happen, and anyway, how would she explain why she had been skulking around in the shadows, spying on them?
Maybe she should call the police? No one would ever have to know it was her. But wouldn’t Mark get into trouble? Was anything these boys were doing illegal anyway? Beth had seen the girl arrive with Jack. She hadn’t looked as though she had been brought there against her will, and even now she had gone back to serving the drinks, albeit with slightly less enthusiasm than before. What if this was all some big game? The police might even charge her with wasting their time.
The atmosphere inside the room seemed to have palpably changed now. The fug of anticipation and trepidation had dissipated, leaving behind a lighter mood. The boys were happy with the naked girl moving among them, getting drunk on it. The girl continued to make sure glasses were full, but now she had taken on a new role, holding cigarettes as the men smoked and lifting glasses to the lips of the drinkers. The sly, unobtrusive pats on the backside had become more blatant, hands darting out of robes to grab at the girl’s bare flesh, pinching and groping as they pleased. She could see the boys were pleased with themselves; behaviour they could never dream of showing in public was positively encouraged around this table.