Forward Slash (35 page)

It was Bob.

‘Isn’t it your day off?’ Declan asked.

Bob grunted. ‘Yeah. Isobel is sending daggers through the wall right now. But I’ve got something that’s pretty interesting.’

He stood up straight. ‘Go on.’

‘So, you know the property-development company that owned the land where Amber was found?’

‘JWF.’

‘That’s the one. Well, I left a message with one of the former owners, the guy who retired to Spain. Jonathan Pye. He just got back to me.’

Declan’s pulse accelerated. ‘Come on, stop teasing me.’

Bob laughed. ‘I’m getting there. Patience is a virtue, you know.’

‘And rage is a sin.’

‘All right, all right. Keep your hair on. Where was I? Oh, yeah – Pye is one of those old guys with the memory of an elephant. I got the feeling he could have regaled me for hours with tales of all his exciting property developments over the years. Robertson Farm was, according to him, a right pain in the arse. They could never get planning permission from the local council. Red tape, something about NIMBYs in the village not wanting all the extra traffic the hotel would bring. Then, in 1998 – autumn, he thought—’

‘Just after Amber’s murder.’

‘Yes, someone approached them wanting to buy the land. Made a good offer too, according to Pye. But Pye’s partner didn’t want to sell, was sure they could still get the hotel project off the ground. It had become something of a mission for him, apparently. Anyway, the deal fell through and they were stuck with the farm and then they went bust a few months later – for which Pye blames his partner.’

‘OK. And what was the name of the company that wanted to buy the land?’ Declan fished a cigarette from its packet and lit up. The air was so still that a cloud of smoke hovered around his head before drifting away slowly.

‘Denison Limited.’

‘Right.’

‘After I got off the phone to Pye, I checked the Companies House website. Because it seemed like quite a coincidence – somebody trying to buy the farm so soon after Amber’s murder. I mean, if I was a murderer and had dumped a victim on a piece of land that didn’t belong to me, I’d want to try to buy that land too – remove the risk of someone else finding the body. Denison Limited was registered in 1998, just before the application to buy the farm. It never traded – looks like it was a shell company. And there was one director listed.’ He paused. ‘Name of Lewis Vine.’

Declan threw his cigarette to the pavement. ‘Why do I know that name?’

‘Because he was at the conference.’

When Amy came round she was lying on her back on a king-size bed, candlelight casting flickering shadows against a wall that seemed to be undulating – or was it just her head spinning? She felt so nauseous that she couldn’t tell. The candles were scented, a rich, cloying smell that she could not place. The room was hot, which was fortunate because all she had on was an unfamiliar and very horrible white corset. She had no idea where the rest of her clothes were, or her handbag and phone.

The man who had drugged her was Lewis Vine, Gary’s friend, the social-networking expert. Lewis Vine, whose name was on the Orchid Blue party list.

So it was Lewis Vine who had Becky. She shivered. She had sat with him in a restaurant, listened to him give her advice about how to find Becky. But where was she? What had Lewis done with Daniel? Nothing made sense.

The bed was covered with a satin quilt that felt slippery under her cold skin. There were pillows behind her to prop her up. Her arms were outstretched and handcuffed to the corners of the metal headboard, and they ached like hell. There were no windows in the room so she had no idea whether it was night or day. Was this what Becky was enduring too? For one confused moment, Amy thought she
was
Becky.

A movement made her jump – the sound of a key being turned in the lock and the door opening. Lewis walked in. Amy sat up as far as she could, trying to conceal her terror with belligerence.

‘What’s going on? Where’s Becky? Why have you tied me up? Where’s Daniel? I was supposed to be meeting Daniel, not you. What do you want?’

‘That’s a lot of questions, Amy. I’m the one who’s going to be asking the questions, so just shut up, all right? There’s a good girl.’

He sounded jokey, but his eyes were like flint as they roved up and down her body, critically but approvingly, examining her as though she was a carcass hanging from a meat hook. Perhaps she soon would be. His manner was completely different to when she had met him at Waterloo, when she had thought he was a marketing-obsessed businessman. He had been wearing a wedding ring then, she remembered. He wasn’t wearing it now.

‘Please tell me where Becky is,’ she persisted. ‘Please.’

A look of boredom flashed across his features, and he shrugged. ‘How would I know?’

‘I don’t believe you. You’ve got her too, haven’t you? You sent the email to me. But you fucked up … You didn’t know she’d been to Cambodia before. You won’t get away with it, you know that, don’t you?’ She rattled the handcuffs with her wrists in frustration. ‘You made out that you didn’t know her – you pretended to help me. But you knew her all along. Did you know she was Gary’s neighbour?’

Lewis smirked. ‘That was a surprise, I have to say.’

‘And then he asked you to help me find her.’

‘Yes. When I found out Becky had a sister … well, I had to meet you. And you are even more beautiful than her.’

Sweet Jesus, Amy thought. Gary had unwittingly sent her into the path of the man who had already taken her sister.

Lewis changed the subject. ‘I thought you might want to use the bathroom – here, let me.’ He approached her and Amy shrank away from him as he bent over her with a key, undoing the set of handcuffs that tethered her left hand. Amy’s mind went into overdrive – should she try to gouge his eyes out? Punch him in the throat? Then she saw what was in his other hand: a pistol-shaped object in black and yellow, with a large square muzzle, like a big ugly toy.

‘It’s a Taser gun,’ he said casually, aiming it at her. ‘And I will use it on you if you do anything stupid.’ As if in response, the gun crackled, like a massive, menacing wasp. When her arms were freed she let them drop meekly to her sides.

‘Over there,’ he said, helping her off the bed and towards a different door. ‘Do a bit of exercise while you’re up, too – you know, get the blood flowing again.’

She glared at him and went into the bathroom on unsteady legs, closing the door behind her, looking wildly around her. No lock, of course. No mirror that she could smash. No window, no towels. For a moment, she was taken back to the night she had spent locked in the bathroom by Nathan, and bile rose in her throat. She gritted her teeth. Either all men really were bastards, or she and Becky were the unluckiest women alive.

If Becky even
was
still alive.

Amy did need to pee, badly. She went over to the toilet but could not work out how the corset undid. With her still-numb fingers, she fiddled with the poppers on the crotch, feeling even more nauseous to think that Lewis must have put her into it when she was unconscious. His fingers would have brushed against her pubic hair. Her breasts didn’t properly fit into the cups of the corset either, implying that he had stuffed her into it. She managed to sit and pee, but then had to turn straight round and vomit into the bowl, unable to shake the thought of Lewis undressing her. Was he going to rape her? What was wrong with her, that men seemed to think they could do exactly what they wanted with her? The only man who had helped her recently was Gary, and she had rejected him.

Amy did up the corset again, rinsed out her mouth under the tap and took a long drink of water. It went against every instinct she had, to open the door and walk back out there to Lewis and his Taser, but she knew she had to.

‘Good girl,’ he said appraisingly when she returned, and gestured to the bed. ‘Up you get.’

He was treating her like a puppy, she thought, allowing him to handcuff her again. She decided that all she could do was to go along with it.

For now.

Oh, please God, she thought, let Gary have got her text.

‘Why did you help me with the social-networking stuff when it could have helped me find her?’ she asked.

He raised an eyebrow and she answered her own question. ‘Because you knew it wouldn’t do any good. That no one would have seen her or would know what had happened to her. Please, tell me where Becky is. You promised – in the message you sent me.’

He stepped back from the bed, appraising her. ‘The message Daniel sent you.’

‘But you
are
Daniel.’

His lips twitched. ‘I was Daniel, yes. And Becky loved Daniel.’ He leaned closer to Amy until his nose was just two inches from hers. His breath smelled of cloves. ‘But that’s the thing, Amy. You have to be very careful about people you meet online. They’re not always what they seem.’

My first reaction is utter confusion. I feel like a baby who goes to sleep in his pushchair at home and wakes up at the cheese counter in the metal seat of a supermarket trolley, blinking at the bright lights.

How can I be here? My packed suitcase is sitting across the concrete floor of the garage looking reproachfully at me. So … that meant I
had
gone away for that weekend, or at least had tried to. I’m sure we were meant to be going away together … As my woolly head slowly clears, I try to think through the options. Some kind of delay? Was I in danger, and he brought me here to get me out of the way … of what? A terrorist attack? The dirty bomb I’ve had nightmares about for years? Are we safe here? Where is he? I try to stand up but I can’t, and I don’t immediately understand why until I realize I can’t move my arms or my legs – they are tied to the chair I’m sitting on. The corners of my lips feel strange and stretchy, and that’s when I clock that I’ve been gagged, too.

It’s dark in here apart from one small standard lamp, and cold even though there are chinks of sunlight coming in under the up-and-over metal door. I am wearing an unfamiliar thick jumper – a Guernsey, I think. That sort of heavy, oily wool. I don’t know whose it is but I’m grateful for it. I can’t feel my feet.

I can’t begin to think about the implications of being tied to a chair and gagged. I’ve been
kidnapped
!

It’s got to be a bad dream. Panic starts to ferment inside me and I begin to thrash about, moaning through the gag. The chair starts rocking, harder and harder – then I fall, sideways, and my head must have cracked on the concrete floor because the lights go out again.

Next time I wake up, I’m not alone any more. He’s here! Someone has come for me! He’s standing over me and the sharp smell of antiseptic fills my nostrils. This time my head isn’t just woolly, it’s pounding, and I think I’m going to vomit. But he’s here!
Oh
,
thank God
,
I try to say,
thank God it’s you, get me out of here!
But it comes out as
Mmmnh mmmnh mmmmnh.
He dabs at a very sore lump on my forehead with some extremely cold sodden cotton wool, but he doesn’t attempt to remove my gag or untie me. I entreat him with my eyes, then frown and shake my head – the pain nearly makes me throw up. He’s refusing to meet my eyes! Why isn’t he untying me? Why?

When he speaks, his voice seems to come from a very long way away, streaming into my ear like the sun’s rays under the door, oozing out of the cement between its breezeblock walls. ‘I’m sorry, Becky,’ he says. He still won’t look at me. ‘Try not to panic. You won’t be here for ever. It’s for your own good. Trust me.’

‘Have you got an address for Lewis Vine?’ Declan asked.

‘Yes, hang on … He lives in a place called Claygate, in Surrey. He’s actually a well-known businessman. I Googled him – he’s a millionaire several times over. We should go up tomorrow, pay him a visit.’ Because Sussex and Surrey shared a major-crime investigation team, there would be no problem with worrying about whose jurisdiction it fell under.

‘I can go and see him now,’ Declan said. ‘I’m in London. It shouldn’t take me long to get there – only about half an hour. I think it’s near Esher.’

‘Sir, I really don’t think you should go on your own.’

He thought about it. The murder was fifteen years ago, and although there was no statute of limitations on murder, if Vine was Amber’s killer, he would probably think that he’d got away with it. He wouldn’t be sitting at home waiting for the police to call. Declan tried to imagine how he would feel in his situation: the attempt to buy the property was a logical move. If he owned the farm, he could move the body, or fill the cesspit with cement, make sure the remains were never found. He would probably have panicked when the sale fell through, especially as his name was now linked with the property. But as time had gone by and nothing had happened, he must have felt increasingly safer.

If Declan turned up now, Vine wouldn’t immediately think it was in connection with Amber and his guard would not be up. He ought to go back to Eastbourne, talk to the SIO and the rest of the team. But the moment Vine was alerted to the investigation, he would hire a lawyer. As a millionaire, he would be able to afford a top defence lawyer – who would no doubt argue that all they had was circumstantial evidence. There was no forensic evidence against him, no witnesses. There was a strong possibility he would get away with it.

And Declan had made a promise to Amber that he didn’t intend to break.

If he surprised Vine, caught him unawares, he would be able to see how he acted when a police detective came to his door. He would be able to get some measure of him, maybe get him to say or do something incriminating.

‘I’m going to go and talk to him now,’ he said, explaining his reasons to Bob.

‘Let me drive up,’ he said. ‘Come with you.’

‘No. That would take ages. I want to go there now.’