Someone Else's Skin (34 page)

‘Okay. Take care.’ Ed ended the call.

London had never felt so large, impenetrable. What was it she’d said to Noah, at the start of all this, in Finchley?

Imagine living without trace. I don’t think I could do it. Could you?
and Noah had said,
If I was desperate, maybe. If there was no other choice.

Her eyes were hot. She blinked, concentrating on the traffic. No hen parties this time. The only people she saw were alone. Solitary shoppers in all-night stores, or bouncers outside clubs.

Two streets on, her phone buzzed again.

‘Boss?’ It was DS Carling. ‘CCTV footage of Proctor and Simone. They didn’t get off at Elephant and Castle. It was Kentish Town. Seven stops after they got on.’

Marnie checked the car’s mirrors, looking for a place to turn.

Kentish Town.
Lowell Paton’s penthouse was in Kentish Town. Was that Hope’s plan? To show Simone how she should’ve dealt with Paton?

‘I need you to do something,’ she told Carling. ‘Get a trace on Noah’s phone.’

A beat passed before Carling asked, ‘Why?’

‘I can’t get hold of him. There’s a chance he’s at risk.’

‘From Hope Proctor?’

‘Yes. Speak with Welland, would you? See if he can shake some skirts at Tandem.’

Tandem supplied the Met with its covert surveillance software. Software that hacked off all the civil liberty groups, but sometimes found the Met what they needed, before it was too late for anyone but Forensics. ‘I’m on it,’ Carling promised.

‘Kentish Town. Do we have any carriers in the area?’

‘Should be someone patrolling . . . Want me to put in the call?’

Did she? Want a police support unit smashing into Lowell Paton’s apartment, on the off-chance Hope and Simone were there? She could see Commander Welland cocking an eyebrow in inquisition. ‘Give me a chance to get over there and speak with the concierge. But check who’s in the vicinity, in case we need backup.’

‘You want me over there?’ Carling asked.

‘No. I want you looking for Noah. Stay where you are.’

She tried Noah’s number again, as she cut through traffic between Notting Hill and Kentish Town. His phone was still off. She left another message: ‘Where are you?’ She didn’t bother editing the panic from her voice. ‘Call me back as soon as you get this.’

Hope Proctor had taken her dad’s kettlebell when she ran. Was it wrong that Marnie was hoping to find Lowell Paton pinned underneath it? Noah, if he was there, attempting to negotiate? He’d switched off his phone in concession to Hope’s demands, but otherwise he was okay. Hope was punishing Lowell Paton. There was justice in the world, and peace between nations, and free French toast with every cup of coffee from Marnie’s favourite café.

‘No one,’ she reminded herself, ‘loves me that much.’

Pearly light shrouded Paton’s apartment block, as if the building was wearing a giant prophylactic. The front desk was fiercely lit, the front door securely locked. Marnie showed her badge to the concierge through the reinforced glass. Not the same man she and Noah had seen yesterday morning. This man was younger, less concerned about the police presence. He buzzed Marnie inside without much more than a glance. ‘When did you come on duty?’ she asked him.

‘Six. I start at six.’ He was eastern European.

The foyer smelt of new carpeting, rubber underlay and whatever polish they used to shine the mirrored doors of the lift. The lift was purring, on its way down or up.

‘Lowell Paton, on the top floor. Do you know if he’s had any visitors?’ The man’s eyes glazed over. She could tell he was trying to recall the appropriate passage from the manual. ‘I’m sure it’s not your policy to give out information about residents, but this is a police emergency. Has Mr Paton had any visitors since you came on duty?’

The man shrugged. He smiled. ‘Two women.’

‘Two women.’ She wished she’d brought photos of Hope and Simone. ‘Can you describe them?’

‘Black. African.’ He mimed long hair with his hands. ‘One . . . blonde.’ He repeated the same mime.

The lift pinged, its doors sighing open to release a weary-looking woman with a vacuum cleaner. ‘Did they have anything with them?’ Marnie asked.

The concierge shook his head. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘And Mr Paton let them in?’

‘Sure.’ He smiled again. He’d assumed the women were prostitutes.

Marnie wondered if Lowell made a habit of using call girls. ‘Are they still up there?’

‘Sure, they stay.’

‘No one else. Visitors, I mean. No men.’

He shook his head emphatically. ‘No men.’

‘Thanks.’ Marnie walked a short distance from the desk, calling Carling’s number. ‘All right, I’ve got enough to justify the police support unit. Call it in.’

23

The PSU pulled up outside Paton’s apartment just before 3 a.m.

Marnie was glad to see Rex Carter heading up the unit. Carter was phlegmatic, with a tight rein on his team. No happy-bashing accidents happened on his watch, although she knew better than to be complacent where shields and batons were involved.

‘What’re we looking at?’ Carter had recently swapped Marlboros for nicotine gum, which he snapped between his teeth with the expression of someone short-changed at the corner shop.

‘No firearms, as far as I know.’ How to sum up what she thought was happening in Lowell Paton’s apartment? ‘It’s a hostage situation, but I doubt it’s negotiable. Two, possibly three hostages. Hope Proctor absconded from the North Middlesex, where they were treating her for shock after the attempted murder of her husband.’

‘They were treating her for shock? What were they giving him?’

‘A couple of pints of blood. She stabbed him.’

Carter snapped gum. His eyes were all over the building. ‘Knife?’

‘Yes.’

‘No firearms. You’re sure about that?’

Marnie thought about Lowell Paton’s gangster pretensions, his swagger; his father’s money. ‘I can’t be sure,’ she admitted.

Through the reinforced glass, they watched the concierge leaning on the polished reception desk, looking at the woman vacuuming the new carpet.

‘Why’s it non-negotiable?’ Carter wanted to know.

‘I don’t think there’s anything she wants.’ Other than to punish Lowell Paton, and Noah Jake if he was in there.

‘Everyone wants something,’ Carter said. ‘Right now, I’d kill for a Four Seasons pizza and some seriously high-tar cigarettes.’ He showed his teeth, in a humourless smile. ‘She knows you? Hope Proctor.’

‘She knows me. Not sure she likes me. No way she trusts me.’

‘Mad, bad or sad?’ Carter asked. The standard question for a hostage situation.

Marnie wished she could answer it to her satisfaction, never mind Carter’s. ‘A bit of everything,’ she hedged. ‘But if I had to come down one way or the other? Mad.’ She only half believed it, but she needed to give Carter something to work with.

‘Mad,’ Carter repeated. ‘Terrific. My favourite.’

‘We could wait for Welland,’ Marnie offered.

Carter schooled his face to an expression that said red tape was his very favourite thing. ‘
Should
wait for Welland.’ He hated red tape as much as she did, especially at moments like these.

‘Noah Jake might be one of the hostages.’ It was the first time she’d said the words aloud. They’d been shouting in her head for the past two hours, since Leo Proctor had warned her of what his wife might do.

Carter gave a nod, empathy in his eyes. ‘Your DS, your call.’ He touched a hand to the police baton at his side. ‘I’m not an SFO yet. No need to wake anyone in Marsham Street. Not that I’m suggesting the Home Office ever sleeps.’ They stood side by side on the pavement, eyeing the apartment block.

‘How’s the firearms training working out for you?’ Marnie asked. ‘Abseiled down any tall buildings recently?’

Carter looked at the pearly light sheathing the block. ‘This one looks like it’s ribbed and lubed . . .’

‘They’re on the top floor, penthouse.’

‘High-rise window-licker . . .’ Carter turned to brief his team. ‘And they wonder why I want a gun.’

They took the lift to the floor below Paton’s, and then the stairs. Lozenge-shaped windows showed the moon and stars above London’s skyline. Music pounded from behind Paton’s door: the mindless beat of electronic pop. In the breaks between the beats, a different percussion, unmistakably that of fists on flesh. Pain. Sobbing. Electro-pop. A rhythm to the different sounds, as if the damage was synchronised to the music in an attempt to drown it out, or possibly because whoever had started couldn’t stop.

Rex Carter moved the gum to his cheek. ‘You want to try knocking?’

Marnie pointed at the battering ram. ‘With that, maybe.’

Adrenalin was making her fingers dance. Her mouth was dry. Carter had insisted she put on a stab vest, or stay in the carrier. She’d opted for the vest. It was heavy, dragging at her chest. The carpet throbbed underfoot with the volume of the music in Paton’s flat. The neighbours downstairs must’ve been used to his sound system; no one had reported a noise nuisance. The music was camouflage for whatever was going on inside the flat.

Rex Carter nodded at the officers with the battering ram. To Marnie he repeated what he’d said in the carrier, ‘Stay wide until I give the all-clear.’

His team swung the steel nose of the ram at the door.

It splintered cleanly at the point of impact, delivering the PSU officers into the apartment to loud warnings rapped by Carter.

When Marnie heard Rex curse in surprise, she stepped over the fractured wood of the door, into the open-plan apartment.

One of the red leather sofas was messy with flesh.

Three bodies. Two women. One man. All naked.

Lowell Paton was wearing his gangster chains, and nothing else. He’d wrapped one chain around his right fist and was using it to hit the two girls on the sofas. Marnie could see the indented pattern of the gold links on the girls’ thighs and breasts.

Not Simone Bissell or Hope Proctor. Marnie had never seen these girls before. Both were dark-skinned, with dreadlocks. One girl had bleached her dreads blonde. Daggered heels and fake-fur jackets lay on the spare sofa. A large weekend bag in cracked black plastic pretending to be patent leather was open on the floor. Filled with cheap S&M novelties, including a whip and handcuffs. Lowell had opted for the gold chain instead.

Rex Carter stooped and picked up a remote control, using it to switch off the music.

In the silence that followed, the girls’ sobbing was a lament, rising to a wail when they saw their audience.

Carter and his team checked the flat routinely, but there was no one else here. Certainly not Noah Jake.

Marnie took out her badge. ‘Lowell Paton? You’re under arrest for two counts of wounding with intent.’

‘No fucking way!’ Lowell balled his fists at his crotch, glaring at Carter, at the other officers, at Marnie. ‘This junge and she? They beg me to bang them!’

The two girls had curled up on the sofa, wiping blood and mucus from their faces. They weren’t much older than the girls at Sommerville who’d attacked Stephen Keele.

‘Wounding with intent,’ Marnie repeated to Paton. ‘That’s a possible life sentence. I hope your dad’s feeling rich, because you’re going to need an expensive lawyer.’

24

Eyes in the white tiles next to his head. Eyes and a mouth, unsmiling, chipped at the edges. Noah Jake lay and looked at the chips, the way they formed a face. It helped with the pain. Of breathing. Being alive. Not that he expected to be that for much longer. His left leg spasmed involuntarily. He prayed for it to stop. If she thought he was kicking again . . .

Focus.

On the face at floor level next to his head. A friendly face. Not smiling, but not shouting either, not whispering threats and promises. Just a face. Made up of a short crack and twin chips: a mouth and two eyes.

This was the way sight worked. How seeing happened. The eyes supplied an image and the brain found the nearest fit. It wasn’t perfect, or trustworthy, but it was close enough most of the time. We’re wired to recognise foe or friend. The brain sees faces in brick walls and clouds, ink spots and plug sockets, chipped tiles.

Psychology 101. The women in the refuge all saw a violent husband, an abused wife. Noah had seen the same thing. He knew Marnie had.

God, it hurts . . .

Breathe. Focus. Ignore the crushing agony in your lungs and the fear that the broken rib will cause an internal bleed or, worse, a puncture . . .

Slow death by suffocation.

Leo Proctor had kept quiet. He’d been through what Noah was going through, and worse, but he’d kept quiet. He’d let Marnie accuse him of rape and torture, when he was the one who’d suffered, not Hope. At the hands of Hope.

Noah understood the weight of machismo. He understood how Leo Proctor had struggled to keep his abuse secret, for the sake of friendships, work relationships. Pride.

Still, there came a point, didn’t there, when the secrets had to stop.

His chest heaved, panicked by the lack of air getting into his lungs. He sobbed, pleading with his body to stay calm. Panic only made it worse.

Each time he’d twisted free of the kettlebell, she’d replaced it. Each time, she’d hit the bell with the hammer until he thought his chest would explode.

Crash course in conditioning.

She’d taken the kettlebell away, for twenty minutes, maybe more. While she was eating her supper. By the time Noah was ready to trust the relief, she was back – and so was the kettlebell. The hammer.

He’d learned to lie still. To put up with the crushing weight of the bell on his chest. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep doing it.

He could tip the bell off him. He just about had the strength left to do that. But it would make a noise, falling. Hope would hear and come back, with the hammer. He couldn’t face the hammer again. Better to lie still and let the kettlebell crush his chest than to move and have her do it, harder.