Authors: Michael Robotham
I watch the early interviews, hoping for some sign that sets one of these men apart. Each of them is guilty of sexual assault and conspiracy and false imprisonment. They held her against her will. They cut off her clothes. They made her dance. They ignored her pleas. I don’t know if they raped her or penetrated her, but one of these men is likely to have kidnapped the girls. Who among them is the collector?
According to Toby Kroger’s statement, Theo Loach came up with the plan to punish Natasha. Aiden Foster had gone to prison for crippling Callum, but Natasha was equally culpable in Theo’s eyes. She caused the fight. She provided the drugs. She walked free. His sense of outrage only grew when he saw her flaunting herself, flirting with boys, turning heads, walking on two legs. Someone should teach her a lesson. Show her that actions have consequences.
He recruited the others with the help of Kroger and Gould, organizing a meeting at a pub in Abingdon.
“We were only supposed to scare her,” Kroger said. “Theo talked about using acid on her face or tattooing something on her back, but we didn’t want no part of that. So we agreed we were going to shave off her hair. Nelson said that’s what they did to women in the war who fraternized with the enemy, you know, the Germans.”
Watching the interviews from behind the mirror, I learn what I can about the suspects. Theo Loach appears unrepentant. Reuben Loach is strangely silent, pushing his glasses up his nose and frowning at every question. Thomas Rastani is in denial, asking when he can go home. Scott Everett is defensive and difficult. Craig Gould cries twice during the interview and keeps apologizing for his tears.
Shown footage of the assault, he says, “I know it looks bad, but she was just dancing. Nothing else happened.”
Only Nelson Stokes appears unperturbed. He doesn’t act hunted or feign contrition or construct a defense for himself. He’s not delaying his answers or embellishing them with extra details. There are no outward signs of stress in his posture or his face. He’s even playing games, jotting down numbers on scraps of paper, refusing to say if they’re map references or coded messages.
Often the guilty look relaxed because they have less to worry about—they’ve already been caught. The innocent have more to fear because mistakes can be made. Witnesses can lie. Evidence can be lost. There are the dodgy juries, hanging judges and corrupt police.
No matter how hard I try, I still can’t picture Stokes as the kidnapper. He’s a pervert and a peeping tom, but on the continuum of sex crimes it is a major leap to have kidnapped and imprisoned the girls… to have mutilated Natasha. Not impossible. Not unprecedented. Unlikely.
Leaving the interviews, I wander upstairs to the incident room. DS Casey is updating the whiteboards with new information that links each suspect to the leisure center.
“How many of them have alibis for the Saturday night of the blizzard?” I ask.
“The Loaches, Rastani and Everett.” He points to their photographs. “Gould and Kroger are claiming they were with each other.”
“What about Stokes?”
“Says he can’t remember. He’s a cocky bastard.”
“What about the fingerprints at the farmhouse?”
“Forensics will be another few hours but we won’t have DNA profiles until after Christmas.”
Drury appears upstairs with DS Middleton.
“Gould has given a statement,” he says. “He’s implicated the others.” There are cheers and high-fives among the assembled detectives. “I want them charged. A special bail hearing has been convened. We’re not opposing bail for Theo and Reuben Loach, Rastani, Gould or Everett but we’ll be asking for provisions: no contact with each other or any witnesses. Kroger and Stokes have breached parole. We’ll apply to have them remanded in custody.”
“What about Piper Hadley?” I ask.
“Gould and Kroger are both denying they have her. The others aren’t talking. We’ll keep asking the questions and tracing their movements.” Drury addresses the assembled detectives. “The job isn’t over, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s get busy. The sooner we get them charged, the sooner we get home for Christmas.”
I
hear him coming this time.
He’s moving boxes and furniture.
“Knock, knock,” he says, tapping his knuckles on the trapdoor.
His face appears, smiling. “Did you miss me? I’ve brought you a present.”
“Why?”
“It’s Christmas Eve. I have lovely hot soup and fresh bread rolls and something sweet for afterwards.”
“Can we eat with Tash?” I ask.
His voice turns cold. “Don’t start.”
Climbing the ladder, I raise my arms. He lifts me easily, pinching the skin on my wrists beneath his thumbs. I rub the marks and walk ahead of him into the main room. The bamboo skewer is pressed into the small of my back, held against my spine by the elastic of my knickers. I’m scared it’s going to slip out and fall through the leg of my jeans onto the floor.
“Shall we eat or wash?” he asks.
“I’m so hungry I’m feeling woozy,” I say. “Can we eat first? Please.”
“Since you asked so politely, the answer is yes.”
He holds out the chair for me and sits opposite. He looks happier today, almost carefree, as though a weight has been lifted. We eat soup. I have difficulty swallowing because my throat is closing, but I’m also starving and the smell is making me feel weak. He eats with his head down, picking at his bread, tearing it into smaller and smaller chunks. He doesn’t close his mouth, showing me glimpses of masticated food churning between his teeth and tongue.
I sneak glances around the room. His coat is on the back of his chair. Old bricks are stacked against the wall next to a bag of charcoal for the wood boiler.
He makes small talk. I ask about Christmas. Does he have a tree? A family? He says of course, but doesn’t add any more.
After the soup he produces a bag of four cream buns. I can smell the sweetness of the cream and icing sugar. I want to take them back to the basement, but he wants to see me eat my share. They’re sticky and sweet and the cream squeezes out onto the corners of my mouth. He reaches across the table and uses his thumb to wipe cream from the tip of my nose.
My hands are sticky. I get up from the table and he puts his leg out to prevent me leaving.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I want to wash my hands.”
“I didn’t give you permission.”
A pain darts up from my bladder and rushes to my throat. I sit back down again.
He’s eating a cream bun. His mouth is full of sodden bread and jam and he doesn’t bother swallowing before he speaks again.
“Do I look different today?” he asks.
“No.”
“You’re staring at me. Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m not.”
He pushes himself away from the table and stands. I stand with him. He’s six inches taller and leans over me.
“You were staring at me.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
His anger is immediate, as though he’s been saving it up, waiting for me to make a mistake. I’m frightened, but I’m also annoyed because I’ve done nothing wrong.
“It’s a bad habit of mine,” I say.
“Maybe you should get out of the habit.”
“I will.”
I can feel the skewer against my back. I have to do this before I undress or he’ll see it. I have to do it when he turns away.
His face softens. He leans across and kisses me near the mouth. He still has cream on his top lip. I have to stop myself from turning away.
He smiles and glances at the bath. “Are you ready?”
“It’s so cold,” I say. “I don’t want a bath. I’m clean.” I crawl onto the bed, wanting to reach the pillow. “You can warm me up.”
He smiles, pleased with the change in me. My heart is beating itself against my ribs.
Sitting on the bed, he kicks off his shoes and socks, unbuttoning his shirt.
“I should brush my teeth,” I say, going to the sink and putting toothpaste on a brush. I look at my face in the small mirror on a stand. This is it, I think… now or never.
Taking off my clothes, I fold them neatly, slipping the skewer between the threadbare jumper and faded jeans before carrying them to the bed. He has set out baby doll pajamas for me to wear. They make me look eight years old!
I pull on the panties and he folds back the bedclothes, already naked, erect.
I let him kiss me. I let him touch me. I let him lie on top of me. My right hand has found the skewer. I hold it against the mattress, willing myself, waiting for the moment.
I drive it hard into the side of his chest where I think his heart might be. I don’t see myself doing it or feel myself doing it. The skewer breaks and I’m holding the makeshift handle. The sharp end is sticking out of his chest.
He grunts and turns on his side, his body shuddering and his legs kicking as though he’s struggling to get up. I roll away and spring across the room. He’s sitting up, holding the wound. The blood seems to animate him. He roars.
Picking up a brick, I swing it through a full arc, hitting him hard on the side of the head as he tries to stand. He falls backwards. The brick thuds to the floor. I should pick it up. I should hit him again. I don’t know how to kill a person. Maybe he’s already dead. He’s not moving.
Spinning around, I grab my clothes, pulling on the jeans, jumper and dirty canvas shoes. I grab his coat, which is thick and heavy. Every part of me is screaming to run, but I have to find Tash. She must be in one of the other rooms. I try the doors, calling her name, whispering rather than shouting. I can’t find her. Maybe he lied to me. I can’t leave her. I can’t stay.
Most of the rooms are full of old machinery and rusting drums. Some are locked. He must have a key. He keeps a keychain in his trousers. They’re on the chair. I move towards the bed, but hear him groan, dragging snot through his nose. He turns his head. His eyes open.
I scream as he rolls and reaches for me, falling off the bed. He’s lying on the floor, still holding his chest, trying to stand.
Running through rooms, I reach the outer door. It’s locked. I turn and take the stairs, feeling the rickety metal frame rattle and shake beneath my weight, threatening to come loose from the wall. He’s behind me, climbing the stairs slowly. I reach another door. Propped open. I move a drum and rubbish. Push the door closed. Slide a deadbolt into place.
I’m in a large room, empty except for a table and mismatched chairs. There’s a window. I peer through the dirty glass and see a flat roof.
George’s body hits the door and I scream at the sound. He talks to me through the door, speaking softly, saying that he isn’t angry. He can forgive me. I have to say that I’m sorry. I have to open the door.
I don’t answer. The door shakes as he crashes against it.
“I’ll kill you, bitch, I’ll cut you up! You’re dead.”
I want to shout back, I’ve been dead for three years.
Balling his coat around my fist I punch at the window, but I’m not strong enough to break the glass. I pull a table closer and lie backwards across it, bracing my arms and kicking at the window with both feet. Once, twice, three times. The glass shatters and pieces fall outwards, tinkling against the roof below.
Using the coat, I clear the sharp edges and crawl outside, feeling the metal roof buckle and creak. I look for a way down. I can see the ground below, overgrown with weeds, littered with rubbish. I drop his coat. It doesn’t make a sound when it lands.
Behind me the door breaks open. George appears at the window.
I start yelling from the rooftop.
“Help! Somebody help me!”
“Nobody can hear you,” he says.
I’m sitting on the edge. I look at the ground. It’s too high.
“You’ll break your legs,” he says. “And then I’ll have to shoot you like a horse.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Come any closer and I’ll jump.”
“You’ll never be able to see Tash.”
“I don’t think she’s here.”
“I’ll take you to her now.”
“You’re lying.”
He slides one leg out the window.
“Don’t come any closer.”
“You’re not going to jump.”
He keeps climbing out. Turning onto my stomach, I slide backwards over the edge, holding onto the rusting gutter, feeling the jagged edges bite into my fingers.
I hear him coming and let go. Falling. I expect to break my legs. I expect to die. The weeds and the overgrown bracken and George’s coat help break my fall. I lie on my back, staring up at the roof. His face appears above me. I’ve surprised him. I’m alive.