A Woman's Place (62 page)

He could not fathom why she might be in the least interested. Yet it was so pleasant to sit here with her, as she nodded and encouraged him. As if they were married, nearly.

For the next hour Elaine managed to engage her captor in trivial conversation, but gleaned a great deal of valuable background along the way. His interest in martial arts, for one, and his extensive and exploitative knowledge of the gaps in the community care system for another. It was one way to pass the time safely. The technique she had learned in advice bureaux – of prompting the constituent to confide while she took in not only the spoken words but the manner, body language, tone of voice and other clues – was extremely useful in this surreal context. For Bob clearly liked talking about himself. His face became animated, at least as long as the topics were anodyne. Only on the subject of those who had hindered him did his manner change.

‘Did you find the doctors helpful at St Kitts?' she enquired.

‘Yeah, they were all right. Bit weird. In some of these places the doctors have been there so long they're madder than the patients.' He chortled, an unpleasant sound. Then his expression darkened. ‘St Thomas's, though. That was a bad place. Acute psychiatry, they call it, but it's only a ward with beds in. No treatment. When I made a protest they bunged me so full of Clopixol I didn't know what day it was.'

Elaine made a sympathetic gesture. ‘Must have been awful. Do you still have to take tablets?'

He looked slyly at her. ‘Well … I'm supposed to. But I'm better. Don't need 'em anymore.'

‘Yes,' Elaine murmured, ‘I can see that.' She sat up purposefully. ‘Are you finished? I have to get on with the washing up.'

He looked at her with astonishment verging on gratitude. ‘You don't have to.'

‘Oh, but I want to.' She rose and started to collect dishes and cutlery.

‘Well, look …' He stopped, suddenly confused. ‘I have to go out and get some things – food and that. I was going to tie you up.'

Her heart skipped a beat. She carried on stolidly clearing the table and waited until she could reply in a steady tone ‘You don't need to. I'm not going anywhere. Where's the washing-up liquid?'

He paused, doubtful. His hand strayed to the knife: he picked it up and weighed it in his palm as if seeking its opinion. The menacing act served to remind him of his purpose. He spoke brusquely, as if denying some vestige of a better nature.

‘No. I don't trust you yet. I'll be out for some time and you may try to escape. Downstairs, now. I want to be sure you're still here when I get back.'

It was useless to argue. This time he tied her hands behind her back and pushed her gently down the stairs before seating her on the chair and fastening her ankles, one twisted behind each chair leg. It took several minutes of grunt and strain for him to complete his handiwork, for his movements were clumsy. Nevertheless he achieved his crude objective of rendering her immobile. She would not be able to stand or stretch; if she struggled she would fall forward on her face with the chair on top.

‘I'll leave the light on,' he offered charitably. Then he bent down, put his hand into her hair, pulled her head back, and kissed her sloppily on the mouth. ‘Be good, now.'

His steps receded up the stairs and she heard the back door slam. She could not reach up to wipe her mouth clean: instead, in urgent need of clearing his spittle from her lips, she spat out as hard as she could.

The house was eerily quiet. Breathing hard and whimpering she looked around unhappily at the newspapered walls of the fantastic grotto. Her own image returned her gaze, Elaines in their dozens, smartly arrogant, untouchable, inaccessible. Her former face mocked her for her current impotence: the past, ignorant of the future, so merrily had assumed that such a thing could not possibly happen.

Yet the dead creature was in truth the one plastered all over her prison cell. Those photographs were relics of a life smashed beyond repair. She would never again be that person, for even were she invited by a future administration to return to government – which, given the manner of her leaving, was unlikely – the brittle certainties of that Elaine Stalker were gone.

She could not recover the same self-confidence and assertiveness. She harboured a sense of her own passing: it was time for the next generation to move in, to take the risks, and, if they wanted office enough, to pay the high price demanded. There would never be a shortage of takers, of that she was sure.

Merciful Christ
, her inner voice chided. How could she feel sorry for her old self at a moment like this? To mourn the demise of a meaningless icon when death, stark and genuine, floated like a spectre in the air before her was outlandish in the extreme. Her current agonies demanded her total attention. It came to her as an overwhelming shock how desperate her situation was.

Gagging, she shook her head vigorously to rid herself of the sensation of that hateful hand on her hair. Again she hawked and spat, and tried not to speculate about what might happen on Bob's return. At least while he was out she was not being violated.

Only then, certain she was alone, did she throw back her head and howl in fear, until the tears slid in a despairing flow down her cheeks, and she could see no more.

‘I must come with you.' George stood, his mouth set.

Karen went quickly to his side. ‘Me too. I'm not sitting around here while you're out trying to rescue my mother. She would expect me to be there.'

Fred rose to his feet and nodded his concurrence.

The inspector gazed helplessly from one to the other. ‘I can't have you there. I'm sorry. I need every man of mine to concentrate on the job in hand. The more bystanders, especially VIPs' – he motioned at Fred – ‘the more my chaps get distracted. Not to speak of those in charge,' he muttered.

They look like the Three Musketeers standing there, he reflected irreverently: scared witless, but all for one and one for all. And I'm not d'Artagnan. I have to put my foot down.

‘I'm a reserve Guards officer: I could be helpful. At any rate I know what to do.' George's calm dignity was impressive. Karen slipped her arm through his and stared brazenly at the inspector. Mrs Stalker's well-known features unnerved him. He turned to Fred.

‘I'm sorry, Mr Laidlaw. I know you mean well but you'd only get in the way. We already have one MP in trouble. I can't take responsibility for another. And you're a Minister too. It's more than my job's worth to put you at unnecessary risk.'

Nor, the policeman implied, can I see what it has to do with you. Fred was not about to spell it out, but hesitated just long enough. Satisfied, Morris collected his cap, jammed it firmly on his head, picked up his mackintosh and headed for the door. Karen and George, moving as one, followed.

She must have fallen asleep. Her neck was stiff and she stretched it cautiously this way and that to
free the muscles.

It was the clang of the yard gate which had awakened her. The van engine thrummed and was switched off. The kitchen door slammed, and she could hear his boots clumping about above; but it was not for some minutes that the stair door opened and the familiar baggy-trousered legs started their descent.

Time to be friendly again, though now that her ankle was stronger, from this point onwards she would be seeking any opportunity to escape. A gap between Bob's wariness and her own alertness might blessedly begin to open. If he could be encouraged to relax and become slightly complacent while she kept her wits about her a whisker of a chance might appear.

There was still no evidence of police involvement. Probably no one had yet reported her disappearance, though it could not be long now. Bob had been happy for her to listen to the radio in the kitchen. The news had made no mention of her, but again, she remembered, that was not surprising: a news blackout was quite likely. There was no phone in the house, of that she was fairly certain, or if there was she had seen no sign of one. Yet she realised that if she allowed herself seriously to believe she was entirely alone the despair and self-pity so close to the surface would turn rapidly to panic and destroy her ability to help herself.

Any move would have to be before nightfall. She had no idea what was planned for her second night in their ‘home', but it would be a miracle if further sex wasn't on the cards. This time he might be more adventurous, or more degrading. Instinctively she pressed her thighs together. Her feet, still bare, felt cold and dirty on the stone floor.

Bob had a carrier bag in his hand. The basement had warmed up as the day had proceeded and he discarded his jacket. He must have shaved upstairs and had combed his hair. He pottered around, went to the file of press cuttings and read them through as if to remind himself of his inspiration. Then he came to stand in front of her. He was looking pleased with himself as if he had a secret.

‘Have a successful trip?' she asked with as much gaiety as she could muster.

He shrugged, but without being asked bent down to untie her legs. She turned her back as if it were entirely natural and he undid her hands also.

‘I bought you some trainers. You lost your shoe. Got the right size,' he assured her. He dug into the bag and took out a cheap pair. She made herself thank him, and with some relief put them on and stood up. He was right: they fitted.

Then: ‘I wasn't sure what you'd like to do this afternoon so I got a couple of videos,' he announced.

She feigned delight. ‘I didn't know we had a TV and video, Bob. That's a good idea.'

He smiled proudly. ‘We've got everything we need here, Elaine. I bought some chops for lunch. You like them grilled with a dash of Lea and Perrins – I know that, and I've bought some for you. Tonight if you're hungry I'll get a Chinese. Can't let my lovely lady starve, can I?'

Where was the TV
? Obviously in a room she had not yet seen. ‘I'd like to see your … our … video. Find out if I can work it. I'd like to help you.'

‘Sure.' He led the way. His mood was lighter, almost jaunty. Over his shoulder he said, ‘And I got you a little present. A token of how I feel about you, Elaine. Hope you like it.'

What could he mean? Her heart was beginning to beat faster. He had not waved the knife at her this time; in fact jacketless he appeared
not to be carrying it at all.
A step or so behind, following him with apparent docility, she urgently weighed up her chances: should she barge in front, give him a hefty shove back down the stairs and run for the front door…?

During their breakfast he had described his desire to keep fit and his attendance at Tai-kwondo classes. He had talked of his prowess, though there was no telling how much was boasting. In a struggle he might be a formidable opponent, as he had proved at the moment of her capture: a straightforward confrontation would not work, even were she briefly endowed with the strength of
desperation. She put such ideas to one side. But she would try something, soon.

They had reached the top of the basement stairs. Sunlight filtered in from the cracked window-panes above the street door and made the dust dance in the air of the narrow hallway. Bob turned towards the front.

Adrenalin was running through every artery. It was as if an extra dose of energy had been delivered to her in preparation for what might come. Outwardly calm but increasingly excited, she concentrated on the prospect of viewing more of her prison.

He pushed open the door of the front parlour and pointed. ‘There's my present. I've bought you some flowers, Elaine. I've put them in there to make it homely for you.' So that was it – that explained why he had looked pleased. Thank God it wasn't anything worse. With a slight bow and a smirk he ushered her in, so that she entered the room first.

It was all she could do not to cry out loud – not at the ordinary television set and video in one corner by the uncurtained bay window; nor at the shabby but relatively clean furniture, the cracked leather armchair facing the TV, the sofa with a coloured blanket thrown over, the single bookcase with a few paperbacks; not even at the pretty blue vase containing a posy of fresh anemones on top of the television.

No – what she had fleetingly witnessed and which had dropped out of sight the second she moved towards the window was the unmistakable peaked helmet of a police officer behind the privet hedge, with a short-barrelled rifle in his hands.

‘The flowers are sweet, Bob,' she whispered.

‘That's our man, sir.'

‘Correction: that's our lady. For Christ's sake, don't shoot.' Morris, on bended knee, spoke into his mobile. ‘Sergeant Fowler – you in position yet?' A crackle startled him and he cursed, then half bent he moved twenty yards away, motioning the four men in front of the house to stay low.

‘Sir,' came the crackle, its tone impassive. ‘We have a reasonable view into the downstairs front room. Two people, a man and a woman. She's a blonde. I think it's Mrs Stalker, sir.'

‘Damn,' the inspector muttered. ‘We should have gone in before he got home. All very well waiting to make sure it was the right house, and the van confirmed it – but she was probably alone in there before, and she isn't now.'

‘You weren't to know, inspector.' Crouched beside him George attempted to soothe but had come to a similar conclusion. He felt bitter and frightened.

‘We need to let her know we're here, somehow.' The inspector bit distractedly at a hangnail. A young officer at his side began to make suggestions but George cut in.

‘I'll go and knock on the door, shall I? Pretend I'm selling double glazing or something.'

‘No! Don't be so bloody stupid.' Morris laid a warning hand on George's arm.

‘Well, then, it won't do any harm if I simply walk past and glance in,' continued George coolly. ‘He doesn't know me from Adam, but if Elaine looks out she'll twig at once.'