A Woman's Place (60 page)

She swallowed. He was massaging her breast, hard. He must be able to feel her trembling.

‘Wha – what do you want me to do?'

‘Take off your clothes. It isn't cold. Put them over there.'

He indicated a chair. Next to it on the bare floor was a mattress with an inappropriately flowered quilt.

‘Then lie down. And don't scream. Nobody will hear you. And if you do, I'll have to kill you.'

‘Cup of tea, love?'

Short, stolid and pale-faced, PC Sharon Bassett held out a sympathetic hand. Karen rubbed her eyes and sleepily accepted the proffered drink. Its scalding sweetness roused her.

‘Where am I?'

‘Canon Row police station, where you were before. It's six o'clock. The cleaners'll be in here in a minute. Thought I'd better warn you.'

‘Oh – yeah.' Karen dragged herself back into life. Suddenly she remembered why she had been asleep under a black police mackintosh on a sofa in the inspector's office. She jumped up anxiously. ‘My mother – any news?'

The young policewoman shook her head. The same age as Karen, she had joined the Met straight from school in the footsteps of a father, brother and two uncles, determined to prove that a girl could be as effective a law officer as any man. The teasing in the station had been acceptable after the endless jokes at home. What was harder was the assumption that as a female she would have special treatment when promotions came up; and that when she did get her stripes it would not be through merit. Yet all her mates came from similar backgrounds. It was most unfair.

That said, she gravitated naturally towards the more humane aspects of police activity which might have bored the men. An assignment to care for victims and their families was the kind she relished. Some people almost deserved what came to them, in her opinion. But nobody, not even a politician, deserved what had happened to Mrs Stalker.

She chattered encouragingly at Karen, who was attempting to brush her hair using a small comb and the inspector's tiny mirror. Sharon felt sorry for the girl. How long might this case last – long enough to make friends, perhaps? What would be its outcome? The hunt for Mrs Stalker was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. But she must neither raise Karen's hopes nor dash them unnecessarily.

‘They're chasing up the information you gave them. Having a name helps.'

She did not say that Dunn's police and hospital records, once unearthed, were altogether too substantial and alarming for comfort. The various episodes of unprovoked belligerence, the spells detained in secure units under the Mental Health Act 1983, the plethora of addresses at which he had briefly lodged: everything painted a picture of a deviant but cunning psychotic who had repeatedly evaded incarceration. Nobody had been able to curb or cure him; nor did he consider himself ill at all.

The search exercise had, however, been useful. Old mug-shots were being hastily copied, fingerprint records examined. But knowing
who
he was was not the same as knowing
where
he was; and there, so far, the investigation had drawn a blank.

‘We'll find her, don't you worry.' Sharon spoke with an assurance she did not feel. The man and his captive might have gone to ground anywhere.

‘Oh, yes, I'm certain of that,' Karen murmured, averting her eyes. It would not do in any way to undermine the efforts of so many people doing their best.

More robustly, Karen asserted: ‘I'm sure of something else, too – my mum can look after herself. I wouldn't like to be in the shoes of any guy who tried to hurt her. She's brave and strong. She'd flatten him.'

The moment he arrived at the department, Fred knew something was terribly wrong. The greater intensity of security, so that he and his driver had to show their passes; the ‘Red Alert' signs everywhere which had replaced the more usual ‘Black'; the wary expressions on the faces of messengers and doorkeepers. It added to the unease which had nagged at him all night once he realised that Karen had not come home and had not phoned to explain.

Since he knew better than to ask questions he headed for his office but at the corner was intercepted by a grave Martin Chadwick. The two went up in the lift in silence, as if the Deputy Permanent Secretary feared the machine might be bugged.

On the fourth floor Fred was ushered into the Secretary of State's room. Two other men in suits whom he did not know waited respectfully at one side. An assistant secretary stood ready, notebook in hand. Bampton paced about in agitation.

‘What's up, Ted?'

‘We have a problem,' Bampton said gruffly and indicated the strangers. ‘Police.'

The officers introduced themselves but Fred did not catch their details. He listened with mounting incredulity as the tale unfolded of Elaine's disappearance.

‘Are we involved?' he asked.

Ted stopped his pacing and glared. ‘Of course we are. The theory – one theory, anyway – is that she's been taken by someone with a grudge against this department. Could have a go at one of us next. So we're on our guard.'

Fred groaned. ‘It's like the IRA back again, isn't it? God, how awful. I hope Elaine's all right.' The thought struck him. ‘Her daughter – Karen! I share a house with her and she didn't come home last night either. They couldn't have taken her too, could they? Is she –?'

‘Miss Stalker is with us, sir,' the older officer said quickly. ‘She's OK.'

‘I didn't know you lived with Elaine's daughter,' Ted muttered suspiciously. ‘How long's this been going on?'

Fred was not about to argue the loose morals or divided loyalties of the younger generation with Ted Bampton or anybody else. ‘Long enough,' he answered curtly, then turned to the detectives. ‘I'd like to go to her, if that's possible. She may need some support. May I come with you?'

‘What, now?' Bampton began to protest. ‘But we've prayers in ten minutes…'

Fred suddenly saw Bampton, alone and blustering, under heavy criticism for the disintegration of his team, the subject of whispers in the Commons Tea Room and bars, dismissed by the media as a failure. His staff had glided imperceptibly away as if the space he occupied had become contaminated. The Secretary of State seemed to have shrunk: in this imposing room he looked too small for the job. Fred, no longer so green and starry-eyed, understood why. Increasingly he realised he despised his boss for his ignorance, his insensitivity, his bad manners and his lack of humanity. Fred had heard too much of Bampton's cruelty towards Elaine to side with him. Yet he suspected that had Elaine stood up to Ted more vigorously that overbearing aggression might have been checked. Fred did not intend to make the same mistake.

The young Minister headed towards the door and motioned the stony-faced police to follow. Out of respect he attempted to keep the sarcasm out of his voice and was glad he did not quite succeed. ‘Then I suggest you pray for Elaine, Ted. It might just do some good.'

Under the duvet, naked, Elaine shivered miserably. Her tied hands had gone numb. She twisted them carefully inside their bonds, but he had made too thorough a job of it.

In the distance a church clock chimed: she thought she counted six or seven. A small window high up in the wall of the basement indicated it was light outside. A car went past, then a bus. Slowly she stretched her limbs and wriggled her toes in an effort to alleviate the stiffness caused by sleeping on a mattress spread on the cold hard floor.

Not that there had been much sleep, though sheer exhaustion had made her doze in the end. Her fingers crept towards her chin and found the matted edge of the scar. It no longer hurt unless she pressed it. There would be a mark, a reminder, for ever.

If, that was, she came out of this in one piece.

For whatever her familiarity with the psychology of captivity, however much self-control she
could exert, she was certain about one thing: Bob, as he called himself, was totally deranged, and she was in mortal danger.

Her inner voice had remained active through the night and now spoke urgently.
Figure him out,
it said.
There is some consistency in him: even if he's completely crackers, recognising it will help you.
For example, much of the time Bob spoke and acted relatively normally. His eyes did not roll and his tone was calm, almost dreary. He didn't froth at the mouth or show any other outward signs of his mental state, except for rubbing his hands together in an oddly compulsive way. His behaviour was methodical, as if he had figured out what to do long since and was following a set pattern to which only he had the key. True, he had threatened her with the knife several times and used it on her once – twice, if cutting off a lock of her hair counted as an assault, albeit trivial by comparison. And her bound hands would not let her forget she was a prisoner. But there had been moments when conversation had been possible. Bob in other circumstances might have been a tolerable companion. Provided he got his way.

Then the events of the previous night, after she had slowly come into the basement, came back with a vividness that almost made her cry out.

‘I don't get it.' She had pointed at the massed press cuttings. ‘You seem to be a great collector, Bob. Could you explain to me?'

He hesitated. He had expected screams and protests. He had pictured her in floods of tears, kneeling at his feet and pleading with him to let her go. The more abject and cringing her response the more he would have liked it. Women ought to beg men for it. That would confirm their status. Men were the dominant creatures. The female should acknowledge that fact.

Had she lashed out at him or tried to run away he would have been ready. If Elaine would not have him then nobody else would have her: on that his mind was made up. He would not willingly have marked that beautiful face, but had it proved necessary to stop her escaping to the arms of another man – any man, ever – then he would make the sacrifice. She was his. Nobody else's.

‘It's all you, Elaine. I told you why when I picked you up.'

‘I can see you're very fond of me.' She had made herself smile directly into his face.
He must believe that I am on his side. Only then can I win his trust.

He twisted impatiently. ‘More than that. I told you.' He raised the knife. ‘I love you. And you love me. Don't you?'

Her voice faltered and her eyes were fixed on the blade. It seemed to have a life of its own.

‘I don't know you very well, Bob,' she demurred.

He grinned. ‘Plenty of time to get to know me. All the time in the world.' Then, in one of those savage mood swings which so terrified her, his mouth turned ugly and he shoved his face into hers.

‘Like now. We're wasting time. Will you take your clothes off or shall I do it with this knife?'

She nodded dumbly. Bob seized the chair and sat down, arms folded across his chest. With revulsion she realised he intended to watch as she undressed.

Her tied hands shook as she moved to unfasten buttons and undo the zip of her skirt. He seemed happy to let her struggle awkwardly: perhaps that was part of the fun.

Do it slowly
, her inner voice urged.
You are playing for time.

She paused and looked sidelong at him. Bob gazed back, eyes hooded, then waved the knife lazily. ‘Not enough just to undo them. I mean it.
Off
.'

‘I can't get the blouse off unless you untie my hands.' He obviously hadn't thought of that. With an oath and an impatient lurch he rose and came to stand before her. She flinched as he touched her but he was too engrossed to notice. His stubby fingers had difficulty with the flex, as if he were unaccustomed to performing intricate tasks. As he breathed heavily she smelled him again: sweatier, more acrid than before. With the greatest effort she held back nausea. He returned to the chair, banged
it into place and sat down heavily. She rubbed her wrists until he began to mutter at her.

In slow motion, every movement dragged from her, she slipped the blouse from her shoulders and stepped out of her skirt. The garments lay discarded by her stockinged feet. It was almost a relief to roll down the torn tights and throw them behind her. Then she stood upright in her slip.

Her body was trim and taut, but in her neck the tendons stood out and her eyes were wide with fright. The blonde hair framed her face in a tangled mass. Her bare arms crossed over her breasts in the lacy bra made them bulge and cleave. The chill air on her shoulders and calves, her naked feet, her toes on the cold floor, made her feel horrendously and miserably vulnerable. She curled one foot protectively over the other and saw his eyes glint at the movement.

‘Very nice,' Bob murmured.

She risked another glance at her tormentor. He was smiling, with his mouth open. He licked his wet lips. Then he pulled off his shoes and planted his feet in their woollen socks on the floor. When he moved, his feet left a damp mark. The knife was in his right hand and held tightly. He sat, knees spread, leaning back and to the side to get a better view. His left hand slid to his crotch.

If all he wanted to do was masturbate then maybe he should get on with it, she thought grimly. She stopped and looked at him enquiringly. Without a word he waved the weapon and signalled to her to take off her slip.

There was only one way to do it and it would leave her completely unsighted for a few seconds. She bent and crossed her arms over her body, reached down and hoisted up the hem, then pulled the silky garment over her head, hiding her face. Now she could not see him, though she was conscious that he was shifting in the chair. The straps became momentarily entangled in her hair and she had to shake her head to free them.

The slip joined the rest of her crumpled clothes on the floor. There was to be no escape. The heater may have been at full throttle but every inch of her skin was goose-fleshed. She swallowed a sob and forced herself to remain silent. Shoulders bowed she stood before him, trying to control her shivering.

‘Aahh!' The breath hissed out of him. ‘You are so beautiful. If you knew how I've waited for this moment, Elaine…'

He rose, unfastening the belt of his trousers. He let them drop and kicked them away. Swiftly he tugged his shirt and jumper over his head, pulled off his socks and disposed of his shorts.