Death Sentence (20 page)

He waited while her eyes adjusted to the light, smiled pleasantly, and then waved his arm around, like an estate agent showing off a property. It was empty, dusty and derelict, crumbling brickwork, boards at the windows, Rebecca noted, her heart sinking. Original beams supported the roof, ropes and chains hanging from a cross-beam.

Her heart lurched into her mouth. Rebecca quickly averted her gaze, lest she draw his attention to what possible use he might make of it. The front door looked like the original, stout wooden and heavy. He’d placed the key on the inside of the lock, she registered, which meant it could be locked from both sides. Her gaze strayed to the hefty iron bolts, top and bottom.

‘Nowhere to go,’ he repeated, obviously following every movement of her eyes. ‘All exits are well-secured.’ He bent to flick at the mud spatters on his trousers, tsking as he did, and then looked back at her, with a scowl.

‘The door is solid wood, by the way, so if you were imagining you might claw your way out with your fingernails, think again. Your hands will be, shall we say, otherwise engaged, in any case.’

Cold terror gripped Rebecca’s stomach, as she followed his gaze back to the cross-beam.

‘But that’s for later. Let’s get you comfortable for a while first, shall we?’ He smiled again, an almost paternal smile. Rebecca felt the hairs rise on her flesh.

‘Get the old circulation going and do something about those feet. Can’t have you walking around barefoot and hurting yourself, can we?’ he chatted jovially away, unbelievably.

Rebecca stared at him, waiting, wondering. Was he really oblivious to the broken brickwork and debris he’d just force-marched her over?

‘Sorry about that.’ He nodded at her face, obviously referring to the swelling Rebecca could feel forming under her eye, red-hot, throbbing right down to her cheekbone. ‘But you did ask for it, didn’t you?’

He looked at her, as if expecting a reply.

Rebecca glanced down and back, her throat constricting, as she looked back at him. Even without tape on her face, was he really expecting an answer?

‘I asked you a question,’ he said quietly. ‘Bit rude not to answer, sweetheart, don’t y’think?’

Dear God, he was. Rebecca swallowed, and nodded, barely.

‘That’s better,’ he said, apparently satisfied. ‘Course, you would’ve struggled to answer a bit, I suppose.’ He cocked his head to one side, surveying her thoughtfully. ‘Here, let’s take this off,’ he said, at length. ‘Then we’ll get you some water. How does that sound?’

Rebecca’s overwhelming urge was to knee him hard in the groin. She nodded again instead, playing along. No choice but to. No choice.
Oh, dear God, please, please help me
.

Carefully, his eyes almost crossed as he concentrated on his task, he reached to peel a corner of the duct tape away from her face, then ripped it away fast.

‘
Ouch
,’ he said, as Rebecca winced, and then, ‘Needs must.’ He shrugged, and smiled. ‘I’m going to untie your hands now, so you can get the feeling back. I’ve got to retie them anyway, so it’s not a problem,’ he chuntered inanely on, as if he was being noble. As if he was concerned she thought she might be inconveniencing him in some way.

Swaying on her feet, Rebecca attempted to still the nausea rising inside her, as he moved around behind her, his hands touching hers, as he worked to untie her.

‘Don’t try anything silly now, will you, sweetheart?’ he said, leaning close to her ear as he loosened the knots, ‘because, if you do, DI Adams is going to struggle to identify the body. Got it?’

Gulping back hard, Rebecca nodded, and prayed she wouldn’t vomit, as he came back to stand in front of her.

‘Better?’ he asked, as the blood rushed to her hands like a thousand burning needles.

Rebecca stared at him, horrified. He was smiling again, looking at her as if he might be indulging a child. He was completely insane. The smidgeon of hope that he might let her go faded. She stood no chance. Absolutely none. She was going to die, here, in this cold, lonely place. And her baby? Her hand straying instinctively to the soft round of her tummy, Rebecca closed her eyes, forced back the tears that welled up inside her, and then snapped them wide open as she felt the flat of his hand close over hers.

‘You don’t have something you’d like to share, do you, Mrs Adams?’ he asked, amusement now dancing in his cruel, grey eyes. ‘A happy upcoming event possibly?’

‘No!’ Rebecca croaked, too quickly. Much too quickly.

He raised his eyebrows.

Rebecca dropped her gaze. ‘No,’ she repeated, shaking her head vehemently.

‘Right,’ he said, and paused.

Her heart twisting with a new kind of terror, Rebecca looked warily back at him.

‘Shame.’ He smirked. ‘We could have occupied ourselves thinking up baby names while we wait for your white knight to ride to your rescue. Not to worry, we’ll just have to think of something else to occupy us, won’t we?’

He lowered his gaze, his loathsome eyes eating her up as they trailed over her.

‘Nice tits,’ he commented appreciatively. ‘Adams likes them like that, does he? Firm and fulsome.’

Rebecca gagged, as he reached out, cupped one of her breasts and squeezed hard.

‘I’ll get you some water,’ he said suddenly, pulling his hand away. ‘You look a bit pale. Don’t move,’ he instructed and took a step to his side. ‘It will be worse for you if you do.’

Her mind racing, her whole body shaking, Rebecca glanced towards him as he crouched to ferret in a large canvas bag, nestled against one of the side walls.

‘You know, if you ever did want to share, I’m a good listener,’ he offered, as he pulled a bottle of water from the bag. ‘My daughter’s always confiding in me. Mind you, some of it would make your hair curl, I swear. Kids nowadays …’

He tutted and rambled on, making conversation.
Making conversation!
Rebecca felt her head swim. Desperately, she looked from him to the door, and then, her pulse racing, her heart thrumming wildly against her ribcage, she took the only chance she might have, and flew towards it.

It was hopeless. She knew it was, but … She
had
to try. A petrified sob escaping her throat, she twisted the key, her other hand swiping at the top bolt … and then he was on her, grabbing her hair, yanking her head back, dragging her back through the dust and the dirt, forcing her round to face him.

‘Did I say
don’t
?’ he roared, a globule of spit at his mouth, his face so close to hers she could see a blue-grey vein pulsing at his temple.

‘
Did I?
’ His eyes bulged with rage, as he pushed his face closer.

‘Stupid bitch!’ he spat. Then, bringing his hand back, he landed a searing blow to her face and shoved her away hard.

‘You just don’t learn, do you?’ Wiping his hand over his mouth, he loomed over where Rebecca lay sprawled on the floor.

‘Next time my aim will be lower.’ His gaze moved meaningfully to her midriff. ‘Now … do … not …
move!
’

‘
Oh
God
…’ Rebecca sobbed, realising the enormity of her mistake. Now, he would take no chances. She should have waited. She should have talked to him, tried to reason … There was no reason. No reasoning. None. ‘Why are you doing this? What do you
want
?’

‘Your husband,’ he said calmly. Then, yanking the key from the door, he turned back to his bag. ‘Now, come on, let’s get you up and dressed properly, hey? You’ll want to be looking your best when he sees you, won’t you?’

As he turned back to her, Rebecca’s horrified gaze dropped from his ludicrously smiling face to his hands, in which he held a pair of blood-red stilettos.

Chapter Fifteen

‘Taylor?’ Patrick tapped on his daughter’s bedroom door. Getting no answer, he knocked again and poked his head inside. ‘Hi, sweetheart, how you doing?’ he asked, glancing to where she was sitting cross-legged on her bed, her earphones in and her eyes glued to her phone. Patrick might have guessed. Kids nowadays, they spent their whole lives plugged into some gadget or other. Couldn’t be healthy, he thought, shaking his head as he walked across to her. ‘Hello, earth to Taylor.’

Taylor glanced up at him from under her eyelashes.

Bleedin’ long eyelashes, Patrick thought. ‘You wearing falsies?’ He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

‘Yerwhat?’ Taylor gave him a look. That look. The one that told him she thought her old man was past it and out of touch.

Well, he wasn’t. Patrick was very much in touch with what eighteen year old girls got up to. And he wasn’t having any of it. Taylor was destined for better than hanging out on street corners with delinquent tossers. Patrick’s mind drifted briefly to the teenagers he was happy to see hanging out on street corners, but he dismissed the irony of it. Privately educated, Taylor was destined for better things. She was going to uni to get a proper degree. None of those mumbo-jumbo ten-a-penny business studies or creative crap ones either. The Royal Veterinary College, University of London, was where Taylor was going, to get her foundation in veterinary nursing, he reminded himself proudly. Then quashed a surge of anger as he remembered he wouldn’t be seeing much of her, all thanks to Adams, at least not until he’d got himself sorted and settled in his villa. And then it would depend on Taylor wanting to spend her holidays in Spain. She’d have a new life beckoning here, after all, new mates.
Yes, she would
, Patrick told himself. Loved her old man, his clever little girl.

Course, she could have gone for veterinary medicine if she’d stop fannying about with her girlfriends and put her mind to it, he also reminded himself.

‘The eyelashes.’ Patrick jabbed a finger towards his own eyes.

‘Oh, those.’ Taylor turned her attention back to her phone. ‘They’re all the rage. Do you like them?’

‘No, I do not like them,’ Patrick informed her, shoving his hands in his pockets, as he studied her. She was growing up too fast. Much too fast for his liking. Boys sniffing around, after whatever they could get. Well, no one was going to break his little girl’s heart, not unless they fancied a broken neck.

‘They look like tarantula legs,’ he said, a shudder running through him as he visualised actual spider legs. He hated the bloody things. ‘Get ‘em off. And the lipstick while you’re at it.’

‘
Dad!
’ Taylor looked back at him, wide-eyed and clearly peeved. ‘It’s Elizabeth Arden’s, Rustic Red!’

‘I don’t care if it’s Queen Elizabeth’s pure gold. Wipe it off. You look like a tart. If you have to cake your face in crap, wear something lighter, pink or peach or something.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Taylor rolled her eyes, twanged her earphones out and shuffled off the bed. ‘You are
so
outdated, Dad, you’re practically prehistoric.’

‘And the falsies,’ Patrick reminded her, as she stomped past him towards her en-suite. ‘Take ‘em off.’

Taylor turned back. ‘I can’t. They’re attached. See?’ With which she plucked at her eyelashes, pulling her lid away from her eyeball. ‘I have to get them done at the salon, unless you want me to blind myself trying.’

‘All right, all right,’ Patrick relented. In truth, if she’d batted her eyelashes, false or not, he’d have given in anyway. ‘They can stay, for now. The lipstick goes though. It doesn’t suit you.’

‘God, honestly, you’d think I was about two,’ Taylor muttered huffily and turned to flounce onwards.

Patrick couldn’t help wishing she was still two. There were a lot of perverts out there, ready to take advantage of an innocent young girl. He sighed, forgetting the minor fact that he was one of them.

‘So how’s Saffron?’ he asked after the horse that had cost him an arm and a leg.

‘Yeah, good.’ Taylor sounded more cheerful, as she splashed water in the en-suite. ‘She’s doing really well in the arena. I got her up to a canter the other day.’

‘Yeah, well, you be careful. Horses can be temperamental, you know.’

‘
Dad
,’ Taylor came back to the bedroom, dabbing at her face with a towel, ‘I have had a bazillion riding lessons? I do know what I’m doing.’

Patrick smiled, pleased to see his girl looking less like she did actually hang about on street corners. ‘I know, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘You’re a natural with animals. Beautiful and talented, that’s my Taylor.’

He wrapped an arm around her, giving her shoulders a squeeze, as she padded back across the room.

‘I’m glad you’re progressing with her. We might have to get Saffron stabled for a while, though,’ he said, broaching the subject he’d actually come up to talk to her about.

‘Why?’ Taylor’s eyes grew wide again, as she plopped down on the bed, this time with ready indignation.

Patrick glanced down, rearranging his face to suitably grieving. ‘Chelsea’s left,’ he explained, shrugging sadly. ‘Taken off with some prat.’

Taylor looked disbelieving for a second, then, ‘Good,’ she said, tucking her feet up.

‘That’s not very nice, is it?’ Patrick was surprised, genuinely. He’d known Chelsea and Taylor weren’t exactly best friends, but still, he wasn’t used to his baby being bitchy.

‘I tell you she’s buggered off and you say “good”?’

‘Well, let’s face it, Dad, she was loads younger than you, and if ever there was a tart …’

Patrick considered, for all of two seconds. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ He sighed stoically.

‘You should get someone your own age, Dad,’ Taylor suggested. ‘I mean, it is a bit embarrassing, you running around with fake-bake babes all the while. You should find someone genuine who really loves you. You know, for who you are, not for your money.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ Patrick pondered demonstrably.
Not
, he thought. He couldn’t abide all that soppy stuff, doe-eyed women telling him they loved him, thinking they were offering him some prized possession if they opened their legs. And he certainly didn’t want some flabby fat cow his own age. Firm and toned was Patrick’s preferred choice. His thoughts drifted to the rather tasty Mrs Adams, who actually wasn’t that young, but who’d obviously looked after herself. Nice ankles, good bone structure: high cheekbones, which were always a sign of natural beauty. Shame he’d had to bruise them. Her eyes were something else, huge, like bloody great headlights in her head. She’d looked like a petrified gazelle when he’d left her. Worried, obviously, that she’d riled him. And so she should be.