A Woman's Place (61 page)

He was naked. The flabby body seemed grey and shapeless in the pale light. He was taller than her and much more thickset – at a guess a good four stone heavier, possibly more. Her inner voice noted with a desperate drollery that he was not well endowed: the knife was a great deal longer than his modestly erect penis. He would not hurt her that way, it seemed. Unless he used the knife instead.

He came to stand behind her and undid the bra hooks, sliding his free hand round and pinching her left breast and nipple hard. She winced in pain and braced herself. Then he slid his hand down and felt around inside her panties, sticking two hard fingers into her and exploring. The action made him lean his whole body against her back. The pressure of his rough chest on her chilled skin made her want to scream.

The inner voice was not necessary. There is only one way to get through this, she told herself. You can't simply ignore it and switch off – not if he keeps pinching and hurting. And it will hurt all the more if you resist. No, you'll just have to try the other tack. You'll have to pretend you're with somebody else. Someone you love and would want to make love with. Isn't there a fine line between good and bad sex? Between loving lust and this ghastly travesty? You must imagine you are with a real lover, somebody you
want
inside you. Like George. Only that will make it bearable.

She closed her eyes and exhaled, long and deep, as if his fondling were acceptable. He was nuzzling her neck and murmuring that she was lovely; the voice had an oddly soft, almost child-like
quality. Perhaps there had been some gentleness about him: he had been a child once, and maybe had been loved. How strange, she caught herself, to be thinking kindly thoughts about a man about to rape you.
But
if you think anything else, you will die.

‘Take 'em off.' He indicated the panties. She took a step away from him and did as she was told, then stood humbly, hands limp at her sides, head bowed, her skin crawling.

He pointed at the mattress. ‘Lie down. On your back. Open your legs.'

As she did so he knelt beside her. ‘Wider.'

It was almost laughable: he wanted to gawp. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling and breathed as regularly as she could. Was he only going to stare at her? She could cope with that. Whereas a virgin or young girl would have found such blatant exposure the worst humiliation, since she had had to put up with being examined by strangers when pregnant, in a curious way this was not an ordeal. Though no other stranger had bent down close to sniff at her and giggled as he did so.

After several minutes he appeared satisfied. With a grunt he placed the knife out of her reach but within his own. One hand returned to pinching her breasts until she gasped: the effect of causing pain seemed to please him. His other hand he ran lazily over her abdomen and tested where her
hip-bones
rose as if committing her personal geography to memory. His fingers were stubby and not clean; several nails were ragged and scratched her. She kept as still as possible but tried not to go rigid. It seemed wiser to keep her eyes open, but terrified of confrontation she avoided looking him directly in the face. To judge from his ecstatic expression, from his point of view all was going to plan. She suppressed a shudder as he traced the dimple of her navel with the broken edge of his thumbnail.

Then his manner changed. He slid his hand further down and reached between her open legs with a sudden shove. The thrust was brutal and uncompromising: she cried out involuntarily and arched her back away from him. He laughed – a high, thin sound, as if from some other body or soul, unearthly and triumphant. Then he was on her and, fingering her still, thrust himself inside her. She clamped her mouth tight shut to stop from screaming as he heaved up and down on top of her, his distorted face a few inches from her own; as he tried to kiss her she wrenched away, so that the bristles on his chin scraped the small wound on her neck and made it bleed once more.

It seemed like an eternity, but it must have taken only a few moments until he uttered a deep groan, grunted once more, then flopped, his breath coming in short rasps, his eyes shut. At last he slithered off her and rolled on to his back, belly heaving. She hoped he might let her be and that she could remain unbound; but he had not forgotten their peculiar circumstances. He reached over her, grabbed the end of the flex and roughly re-tied her unresisting hands. And that, for the moment, was that.

She forced herself to count her blessings. She was alive. He had had enough for the moment. He could have humiliated her further, but had merely sighed happily, given her a quick affectionate peck on the cheek and, almost unbelievably, rapidly fallen asleep. He did not seem interested in any further sex: he had wanted it only once, and straight, missionary style. She had survived, and she had respite, at least for a while.

He must think of her as a wife. Presumably he'd been with prostitutes; maybe he had had a girlfriend. But a wife he might be persuaded to treat with honour. Perhaps that was the knowledge she needed. She would wait until the morning and see if that might work.

She had not dared to move all night. Between her legs she could sense his stickiness and had forcibly to suppress the urge to vomit. Should she reveal her hostility and fear in any way, she reasoned to herself, she would become truly his victim, not only in losing her sense of self but in confirming to him his absolute power. Only if she managed to maintain her outward calm, and even make herself nice to this monster, might her chances of seeing daylight remain.

The clock outside chimed again. Beside her the heavy body stirred and she caught her breath.

‘Bob, good morning.' She made her voice casual. His eyes opened.

With a swift movement he reached for the knife which lay beside the mattress and waved it above her face. His breath reeked, the stubble on his jowls was dark and rough. She raised her hands defensively but not too fast and brushed his arm away. ‘There's no need for that, Bob, you must see by now. I'm not going anywhere.'

He relaxed at that but his manner was still wary. She continued, ‘But I do have to go to the toilet and have a wash. You promised me a hot kettle this morning. Is that possible?'

With a grunt of accord he rose from the floor, collected his clothes and shuffled out. Elaine sat up and took stock. Her head no longer throbbed; her ankle, though wobbly, would serve. Her breasts hurt where he had pinched them, but not excessively. Her hands were still tied but a brief examination suggested she could use her teeth to untangle the flex if necessary. He had tom nothing, not cut her, not bitten or badly scratched her. Not touched her, indeed, during the night. She offered a quick prayer of thanks to whichever deity had so ordained that her captor's libido and technique, despite the knife giving him
carte blanche
, was distinctly limited.

A minute later Bob reappeared, steaming kettle in hand, and motioned her upstairs. She followed his lead and collected her own garments on the way. At the top of the stairs he undid her hands without being asked. She entered the bathroom and pushed the door to, then heard his steps clatter away down the stairs, as if he wished to respect her modesty.

With a fierce savagery she began to wash between her legs. At the smell of him on the flannel she started to retch in terror. With a small cry she fled to the toilet, where she allowed herself the luxury of being thoroughly sick.

It was going to be a beautiful day. The sun streamed through the dusty windows of New Scotland Yard and made its grey interiors almost attractive. Not the best weather to be working when golf or fishing in greener pastures beckoned.

The commander leaned forward, the braid on his dark uniform glinting in the sunlight. His rugged features were as well known as those of many MPs and rather more admired. ‘You think you've found the address, then?'

Detective Inspector Morris flipped back the pages of a notebook. ‘We traced deaths in Wandsworth over the last eighteen months and came up with sixteen Dunns of about the right age. It could have been a different name entirely, of course. But one, a Jacob Dunn, had an address which might fit: in Lysias Road. We're checking it out now. Can't be many places in that area to hide a transit van. It could be our breakthrough.'

‘And he's real trouble, this bloke?'

Morris tapped a pencil on the pile of folders before him. ‘Yes, Commander. He has a long history of violent behaviour. I've not the least doubt he would resist arrest.'

‘But as you're well aware, David, if you want the Armed Response Group I'd prefer evidence that he uses firearms. Best of all, does he have a gun with him?'

The inspector spread his hands. ‘We can't be sure of that, of course. But he is armed. And very dangerous.'

The commander knew exactly what was in the mind of his subordinate. He did not disapprove, but whatever decision was taken he might have to defend it. Especially if anything went wrong.

He pressed his fingertips together. Television training had taught him this made him look wise. ‘I suppose we do have to take into account who the hostage is, don't we? I've had a call from the PM's office asking us to do whatever we can. Private information, that. But we mustn't take any chances.'

‘Absolutely, sir.' Morris waited.

That was enough. The commander signed the piece of paper with a flourish. ‘There you are. But David…'

‘Sir?'

‘Be careful. There are two people inside that house, remember. And maybe innocent bystanders around. I'm having no shooting gallery out there, understand? No pot shots, no heroes. Don't let anybody get trigger-happy.'

He wagged an admonitory finger.

‘If we're going to have a dead body to explain later, do me a favour. Make sure it's the right one.'

Elaine sipped her tea and regarded her jailer out of lowered eyes. He had given her a clean sweater to wear on top of her blouse, ‘round the house', as he put it. The blue lambswool pullover still had its Marks and Spencer tag intact. It was the correct size, a matter she now took virtually for granted.

On the shelf above the sink a small radio was tuned to Talk Radio. It was on too softly to hear clearly but Elaine was certain her name had not been mentioned. For once she was not big news, just at a time when to know she was the subject of a huge investigation would have been great consolation. On the other hand, a public hunt closing in might have put her life far more at risk than it appeared to be at present.

Bob was eating fried eggs on toast as if he had worked up an appetite. An old copy of the
Globe
was propped up on the teapot. That it was a week out of date did not seem to matter. In the middle pages he found an item of interest and pushed the paper over to her.

‘One of your MP colleagues got caught good and proper, didn't he? What was he up to, four in a bed? Very naughty.'

Elaine glanced at the article. ‘I know him quite well and he's not that sort,' she answered, careful to keep her voice neutral. ‘It was a set-up. He invited some friends – or people he believed were friends – to dinner and didn't realise the woman had a tape recorder. I mean, who'd want to see their private sport all over the press?'

‘Shouldn't carry on, then. It's all wrong.' Bob shook his head morosely and gulped his tea.

It took a considerable effort to conceal her disgust that this evil man, a rapist and killer, who had kidnapped her in a frenzied attack and might at the least provocation assault her again, should have moral scruples about the peccadilloes of an obscure backbencher in the supposed privacy of his own home. She bit back the words, ‘Wait till
you're
the target. Then see how you like it.' He would probably relish the infamy as much as he was enjoying his breakfast – and, she realised with a bitter sigh, might in due course be paid handsomely by the same newspaper for his story.

At the sound of her sigh Bob looked up quickly. ‘What's the matter? Tea too hot? You've hardly eaten anything. Do you want a bit of toast?'

It was futile to volunteer that what she most wanted to do was go home. The knife lay on the table top between them, casually placed next to the cereal bowl he had just emptied. It was joined by a vicious-looking bread knife, brand new, its bar-code label still stuck to the wooden handle. By contrast the broad-bladed knife which was his preferred weapon was older, its black handle well scored, as if it had been in use a long time and had been scrubbed more than once. The thought made her shudder. Yet the unreal air of domesticity in the dismal kitchen was, she sensed, a protection for her, to be preserved at all costs.

She pushed up the sleeves of the sweater. ‘I'm OK, thank you. But I was wondering…' Her voice took on a slight wheedle. ‘If I'm to stay here, it would be nice to know more about you.' He frowned. Hastily she continued. ‘At the moment, you know everything about me. A real relationship, Bob, would redress that balance. At least a bit.'

He put down his mug and pondered. Beyond capturing Elaine and bringing her to his hideout,
he had planned very little. There had been the determination to have sex with her, of course; he still wasn't sure that the events of the previous evening hadn't been a fabulous dream. But if it had been for real, and if he was right that she had secretly loved him all along, then tonight there'd be a second chance. This time, he smiled to himself, she would have to ask for it. On bended knees, as he had always imagined her, in a moment of abandoned passion. With her hands tied in front of her in entreaty, like those pictures of martyred nuns from his childhood. Only without her clothes. With her white skin glowing in the lamplight and her blonde hair falling over her face. Yes, that would be perfect.

‘Bob?' Her voice was anxious.

‘Mmm?' With a wrench he abandoned his fantasy.

‘I was only wondering whether you've always lived here. You sound as if you come from my part of the world – the Midlands. Would that be right?'