Left for Dead: A Maeve Kerrigan Novella (Maeve Kerrigan Novels) (6 page)

The only thing we really knew for sure about the rapist was that he hated women.

‘What are you up to?’

I looked up to see Andy Styles standing beside me, looking curious. There was no reason not to tell him.

‘I wanted to read up on the other sexual assaults this guy has carried out. Sally-Ann’s attacker.’

‘In case you get asked to be on the team?’ Andy started to grin. ‘I don’t think God is going to be asking for you, somehow. Not by name, anyway.’

I felt my face flame. ‘I’m just interested.’

‘Yeah, you must be. You’ve only got ten minutes to get ready before briefing. If I was you I’d get a move on.’

I checked the time and realised he was right. Swearing under my breath, I logged out and ran.

I got kitted up in record time and logged on to the radio just before I slid into the briefing room. I got the last seat, right in front of the inspector, and tried not to look flustered as I willed myself to cool down. Chris wasn’t in his usual spot by the door, I noticed, and I leaned over to ask Ray West if he’d seen him.

‘Off sick. You’ll be crewed with someone else.’

It was a learning opportunity and nothing to be scared of, I told myself sternly. But when the inspector read out the crewings, I wasn’t at all pleased to hear my name bracketed with Gary Lovell. I was intensely aware of him sitting at the back of the room. He’d watched me hurry in. If I turned around, I knew I’d see him watching me.

How the hell was I supposed to manage eight hours in a car with him when just being in the same room with him made my stomach flip over?

I tried to listen to the list of stolen vehicles and suspect number plates, but my mind kept wandering. Inspector Saunders was brief and brisk when she dealt with the events of the previous night. There was no news on Sally-Ann’s condition. There was no sign of a likely suspect.

On the way out of the briefing room, Gary nudged my arm. ‘All right? Did you have a good day? Get some rest?’

‘Not much,’ I admitted, blushing again.

‘Busy, were you?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘It’s hard to switch off sometimes. You have to learn how to leave the stress at work.’

‘Easier said than done.’

‘You’re telling me. You need something to distract you. Or someone.’

There was something in the tone of his voice that made me glance at him, and he wasn’t smiling, as I’d expected. He was watching me with intense concentration, and when our eyes met he didn’t look away. I couldn’t hold his gaze for long. I stared down at the floor, tongue-tied. Other officers pushed past us, talking loudly about everything under the sun, but we might as well have been alone.

He took pity on me in the end. ‘Come on. Let’s get a car and get going.’

I followed him into the writing room, passing the inspector who was talking to her opposite number on Team 3. She eyed me as we went by, and I could practically hear what she was thinking.

You’ve been warned. Don’t get this wrong
.

I squared my shoulders and lifted my head. I wasn’t going to let her down.

Besides, if I couldn’t deal with Gary Lovell without coming over all flustered, I was in the wrong job.

* * *

‘Do you ever wonder if you’re in the wrong job?’

‘Never. You?’

Sometimes
. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not really. But I’m still getting used to it.’

It was the dead time of night, the time when you couldn’t help being honest. Half past three. The pubs were closed. The nightclubs had kicked out their patrons. The people of Camberwell, whether law-abiding or criminal, were fast asleep. Half of the shift were back at the station processing the people they’d arrested earlier. We were following Inspector Saunders’ orders from briefing: if you’re not on a call, stay on the move. Even if it was unlikely that we would run across the rapist this way, at the moment it seemed to be Saunders best hope of finding him.

‘This job,’ Gary said. ‘It’s not like anything else, is it?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘What did you do while you were waiting to get called up for training?’

‘I was at university.’

Gary whistled. ‘Clever girl.’

‘Not really.’ It always embarrassed me when people assumed that I was more intelligent than them, just because I’d gone on to third-level education. I had done well at school, but that didn’t mean anything in the real world.

‘Did you finish your degree?’

‘Yeah. My parents would have killed me if I’d left before finals. Then I had to wait six months before I started at Hendon.’

‘What did you do while you were waiting?’

‘I was a receptionist.’

‘What was the business?’

‘Are you taking an exam on me or something? Why so many questions?’

‘Just curious.’ He grinned. ‘But I’m interested that you don’t want to tell me what it was.’

‘I never said that.’

‘And you never said what it was.’

I sighed. ‘All right. If you promise not to make any comments about it.’

‘Not until I hear what it was.’

‘It was a beauty salon.’

‘No way.’

‘Absolutely true.’ I turned it back on him. ‘What about you? What did you do before this?’

‘I worked in a phone shop. Three years. I almost topped myself from boredom. Mind you, I always had the latest mobile phone so it wasn’t all bad.’

‘How long have you been a police officer?’

‘Five years next November.’ He stopped for a moment to listen to the radio, but the call went to another unit before we could respond. ‘My turn. What was your degree in?’

‘Sociology and criminology.’

He laughed. ‘You knew what you wanted to do, didn’t you?’

‘I thought I did,’ I said, unguarded for a moment.

‘Not living up to what you imagined?’

‘I didn’t say that. It’s just – it’s hard.’

‘It’s not for everyone.’

‘I like the work,’ I said quickly. ‘I like being on response and meeting people and getting to lock up anyone who needs locking up.’

‘So what don’t you like?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I said slowly. ‘I’m not sure if I can be the person I need to be. I’m not sure if I’m that tough, really.’

‘If you stay in, you’ll change. No question about it. But you’re young. You’d change anyway.’

‘If you say so.’

‘How old are you?’ He looked at me, his eyes narrowed, as if he was trying to guess.

‘Twenty-two.’
Nearly
.

‘Really? Shit.’ He laughed. ‘I’m almost thirty.’

‘That’s still young,’ I said and almost meant it.

‘Only compared to Chris Curzon.’

‘You are very different from Chris Curzon,’ I agreed.

‘Missing him?’

‘No,’ I said, and blushed.

‘Having fun?’

‘Yes,’ I said, surprised into telling the truth. Because it
was
fun. That was the thing about response: last night had been non-stop horror. The current shift had been nothing but nonsense – trivial complaints that no one wanted to take any further. We’d searched for two missing persons who returned home under their own steam, safe and well. We’d had a neighbour dispute that was resolved with a good talking to and a handshake. Gary had been nothing but friendly and professional, and I told myself I was glad about that. I liked him more and more, as a person.

And God, he was pretty to look at when we weren’t busy.

‘Lima Delta Two Two, what is your location and commitment, over?’

Gary got to his radio before I could reply. ‘Lima Delta Two Two, not committed, what have you got, over?’

‘On an immediate grade, possible assault in progress at the Bagshawe Hotel on Oakley Road. Reports of a woman screaming.’

I felt as if someone had put a handful of ice down my back.
Not again
.

‘Two Two received. Is there a unit available to back us up?’

‘Two Two, apologies, you’re my only available, over.’

‘Two Two. Never mind. Show us towards.’

Gary swung the car into a U-turn that pressed me back in my seat. I hit the lights as he accelerated towards Oakley Road.

Please be all right. Please be all right
.

‘Are you okay?’ Gary asked.

‘Fine,’ I lied. Not having flashbacks at all. Not trembling with fear at the prospect of finding another woman slashed to ribbons. I held on to the grab handle so I didn’t slide out of my seat as we slalomed around the turns, and I watched the road, and I prayed that this time, we would be in time.

The Bagshawe Hotel was a dingy building tucked between a DIY superstore and a block of flats. It had definitely seen better days, and the blue awnings over the windows on the ground floor only made it look more pathetic.

‘Is this a proper hotel or a rooms-by-the-hour sort of place?’ I asked.

‘It’s completely respectable, as far as I know. I’ve never nicked anyone here before.’ Gary eyed the sign by the front gate, which promised bed and breakfast accommodation for forty pounds a night. ‘Cheap, though.’

One of the hotel’s main advantages was that it had its own car park. Gary ignored the marked spaces and swung the patrol car in front of the main door. There was a woman waiting on the front steps, wearing a cheap white shirt and a narrow blue skirt. She had a nametag pinned to the pocket of the shirt.

‘Did you call us?’ Gary asked.

‘Yes, I did.’ She had a slight accent but I couldn’t place it. Up close, I could see that the nametag read ‘
ELENA
’. ‘I’m the night manager.’

‘We had reports of a disturbance.’

She rolled her eyes.
‘Such
noise. Like someone being killed.’

‘It came to us as a female in distress,’ Gary said. He jogged up the steps as I followed, adjusting my belt.

‘This is what I hear. I go up because someone in another room rings to say there is noise. Luckily we are not full tonight – three rooms only. I hear screaming, lots of screaming, and then the man says, “Shut up, you filthy bitch.” Then I hear the sound of hitting and more screaming.’

‘Did you knock on the door?’

‘No. I called 999. I am afraid. I am a woman on my own. Just because I am the night manager doesn’t mean I am safe.’

‘What room is it?’ I asked, heading for the stairs.

‘Twelve. On the second floor.’

Gary beckoned to her. ‘You need to come too. You’ll have to let us in if we can’t get an answer.’

The two of us ran up the two flights, Elena lagging some way behind. I went first, adrenalin compensating for the weight of my equipment and my heavy boots. I was listening as I went along the corridor, trying to walk softly. The door to room twelve was closed. It looked bland and anonymous. I stopped beside it and looked to Gary for guidance. He took my arm and pulled me back so I was a little bit behind him, then lifted a hand to knock on the door. As he did so, a long, low moan came from behind the door. I bit my lip. Gary thumped on the door.

‘Police. Open the door, please.’ Despite the ‘please’ there was a note of command in his voice that I wished I could manage to reproduce. I always sounded too shrill when I raised my voice.

All of which was by way of distracting myself from whatever was behind the door. I wanted to know, and I wanted to run away.

There was total silence for a moment after Gary’s knock, and then a scuffling sound.

‘Open up.’ He knocked again. ‘If you don’t, I am going to open this door, right now.’

More scrabbling and the sound of whimpering from the woman. Gary looked at Elena, who’d caught up with us. She darted forward and unlocked the door, then got out of the way as Gary went through it, fast. I was right behind him, one hand on my CS spray though I hadn’t taken it out of my belt. I was prepared for anything. Anything except Gary
stopping dead, two steps into the room. I collided with him but even as I stepped back I was looking over his shoulder and I could see straightaway why he’d ground to a halt.

The woman was tied to the bed, face down, naked. Her face was buried in the mattress, but red welts criss-crossed her back, the tops of her thighs and her buttocks. The man was at the head of the bed, tugging desperately on the handcuffs he’d used to secure her wrists to the frame. He had pulled on trousers but they weren’t done up properly and I could see all too clearly that he was otherwise naked. He was maybe fifty, with thinning hair and a paunch. The bedclothes were piled on the floor at the foot of the bed, and on top of them there was a wicked-looking whip, a spanking paddle and a very large dildo. There were two empty wine bottles on the small table in the corner of the room, and a purple-stained tooth glass beside them. The man’s lips were stained purple too.

‘Sorry. Sorry,’ he said, with a northern twang to his voice. ‘We’ll be with you in a minute.’

‘Is
it the police?’ The woman tried to turn her head to see. ‘Oh my God, Steve. It is, isn’t it?’

‘We were making too much noise, love.’ The man looked at us hopelessly. ‘We thought no one would mind in a hotel.’

Do. Not. Laugh
.

I had moved to stand beside Gary, but I was afraid to catch his eye. He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry for disturbing you, folks. We had a report of a woman in distress.’

‘That was me. But it wasn’t serious. I was just playing along.’ She pulled against the cuffs, which were lined with red velvet. ‘For God’s sake, Steve, can’t you undo these?’

‘The key won’t turn, Karen.’ He looked at us. ‘I don’t suppose your keys would work.’

‘They don’t look like police-issue handcuffs,’ I said. ‘I doubt it, I’m afraid.’

‘Take your time,’ Gary advised. ‘Don’t rush and you’ll get the hang of it.’

After another few seconds of agonised scrabbling Steve managed to unlock one of the cuffs. The woman sat up, fortunately with her back to us, and held her hand out. ‘Give me the key. I’ll do the other one. You’re all fingers and thumbs.’

‘If you’re not in distress,’ Gary said, ‘and you can reassure us that you’re all right, we’ll leave you in peace.’

She twisted around to look at us – rising fifty, like Steve, with sweaty make-up smeared around her eyes and mouth. Her face was flushed but it was hard to tell if it was from embarrassment or being face down in the mattress for so long. ‘Oh, it would be a good-looking copper too. Yes, love, I’m fine. We just came up to London to see a show and we thought we’d have a little fun while we were here.’