there. Get back to Peckham as soon as and I’ll see you then.’
‘OK,’ Sally managed to get in before he hung up, leaving her alone with Zukov.
‘Problem?’ he asked.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ she muttered, a feeling of dread crawling over her skin. A suffocating anxiety was spreading through her body like an unstoppable rising tide turning dry sand wet and heavy. ‘I’ve got to head back to the office.’
The few steps to the car felt like miles and the car door seemed heavy as a drawbridge as she pulled it open, falling into her seat, feeling for the thick scars under her blouse, her breath coming in short sporadic bursts. She grasped the computer case she used as a holdall and frantically searched inside until she found the two small cardboard packets she needed. She popped two tramadol from one and six hundred milligrams of ibuprofen from the other into the palm of her hand and threw them down her throat, swallowing drily. She was glad now she hadn’t concealed a bottle of vodka in the bag as she’d considered doing.
Leaning back with her head on the headrest she closed her eyes, waiting for the drugs to give her some relief, both physical and psychological. To expel the memories of Sebastian Gibran breathing into her face as he waited, expected her to die – of Sebastian Gibran sitting opposite her in an exclusive London restaurant, smiling and flirting and her liking it. The memories forced her eyes open. She found herself gazing up the branches of a nearby tree, dead-looking limbs beginning to burst into life, the little green buds forcing their way through the hard bark. She thought of Louise Russell’s parents, so normal and unsuspecting, dragged from their comfortable life of cruise-liner holidays and early evening soap operas into a world they’d only ever seen fleetingly on the news. She hoped Sean wasn’t planning on putting them in front of the cameras – a tearful appeal from loving parents wanting their precious child returned to them unharmed. She had a horrible feeling he was, but as she shook the thought away more unwelcome images rushed her consciousness. Where was Louise now, right now? Was she looking into the eyes of the man who’d taken her, the man who meant her harm, the way Sally had looked into Gibran’s eyes? Was she feeling sick with fear the way Sally had? Did she feel suddenly weak and vulnerable, as impotent as Sally had – like a victim?
A victim. Sally had never realized how much she feared becoming a victim until it happened. All the power and prestige she’d built up as a detective, a cop, stripped away by a man whose madness ran so deep even Sean had struggled to grasp his motivation. She felt the tears beginning to force their way to her eyes, the pressure of holding them back numbing her brain and dulling her senses, and all the while the questions banging inside her head – could she face another killer now each case was all so much more personal to her than ever before? Could she sit across an interview room from them and resist the instinct to flee or worse? Would she be able to chase a suspect into a dark alley in the middle of the night, alone? ‘You bastard,’ she whispered to the car. ‘I hope you rot in hell.’
A loud rap on the window put her heart into her mouth. It was Zukov. She wound the window down.
‘You OK?’ he asked, registering the glassiness in her eyes.
‘I’m fine,’ she told him. ‘Just knackered, that’s all.’
Zukov offered his packet of cigarettes to her. ‘Smoke?’
‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘I quit. Remember?’ It wasn’t true entirely. The fact was she’d been unable to smoke after the attack, lying for weeks in a medically induced coma, then weeks more of drifting between this world and another few would ever see. By the time she could make her own way from her bed to the hospital garden she’d broken the physical habit, but the psychological addiction still burned strongly, only the pain in her chest stopping her from reaching for a packet. ‘I need to get back to the office,’ she told him, winding up the window and starting the engine. ‘I’ll see you later.’
She drove away leaving Zukov standing alone, cigarette in mouth.
‘Nice speaking to you too,’ Zukov called after her, knowing she couldn’t hear him. He reminded himself to speak with Donnelly about Sally. No one wanted someone who was going to lose it on the team. The poison of their inability to cope would affect them all. He was young, but old school. He liked everyone around him to be solid and predictable, to pretend everything was fine even if it wasn’t. All troubles, be they domestic, health, financial or other, should be left at home, not brought to work. The job took precedence over everything. If Sally couldn’t handle it any more, then maybe it was time she was moved on. He dragged on his cigarette and wondered whether they would make him acting sergeant if Sally went. He saw no reason why not.
Louise Russell sat in the gloom of her cage dressed in the clean clothes he’d brought her, but despite their pristine condition they made her skin crawl with revulsion. These weren’t her clothes and no matter how much she tried to quieten her mind, it kept asking her the same question. Whose clothes are they? Whose clothes were they? She looked across at the shape she knew was Karen Green and remembered what she had told her: the first few days he’d let Karen wash and then he’d given her some clean clothes to wear, but the night before he’d taken Louise, he’d made Karen remove the clothes, his false affection towards her replaced by violence and lust, an outlet for his sick frustrations. Was she about to become what Karen was already? And if so, what was he going to do to Karen?
Desperation to survive forced her into action. ‘Karen,’ she whispered, just loud enough to be heard, a barely audible echo reverberating around the hard walls of their prison. No answer. ‘Karen,’ she said a little louder. ‘We have to help each other. We can’t just wait for someone to find us.’ Still no movement. ‘I think he leaves the door open,’ she explained. ‘When he comes down here, I think he leaves the door open. The door to this cellar or wherever we are.’ Karen moved a little on the floor of her cage. ‘Please, I’m not your enemy,’ Louise promised. ‘I know it probably feels that way, but that’s what he wants. He does it on purpose, to stop us helping each other.’
‘How do you know?’ Karen broke her silence with a quiet, defeated voice.
‘How do I know what?’
‘How do you know he leaves the door open?’
‘Because the last time he came here there was daylight. I heard him opening the door and then there was daylight and the light stayed, even once he was down here, the light stayed. Next time one of us is out of these cages we have to try and free whoever isn’t. Together I think we can overpower him.’
‘How would you get the key to open the cage?’ Karen asked, already doubtful and afraid of the consequences of any attempt to rescue themselves.
‘Take him by surprise,’ Louise explained. ‘Throw the tray in his face and kick him where it hurts. Just keep hitting him until he’s the one cowering on this stinking floor. Take the keys off him while he’s still confused. Then open the cage and free whichever one of us is locked in. Then we can both kick the bastard to death.’
‘It won’t work,’ Karen argued. ‘And if we try, it’ll only make things worse. He’ll be so angry, it’ll just make things worse.’
‘How could things be worse?’ Louise asked, exasperated.
‘We could be dead.’
Karen’s response silenced Louise for a moment while she tried to come up with another way to reach her. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked. ‘Sorry. Stupid question. You must be. I have some food left, maybe I could get it over to you.’
‘No,’
