Next to Die Page 18

  He cursed the noise and looked at the screen. It was his mother. He remembered that he had promised to go see her. He backed out of the room to answer. ‘Hi, Mum. I’ll be up there in a bit.’

  ‘Sam, you’ve got to come round now.’

  His mother was shouting, distressed.

  ‘Mum, what’s wrong?’

  She paused as she took some deep breaths, and then said, ‘It’s Ruby.’

  He went cold. ‘Ruby? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Ruby said that someone was following her. She’s scared, Sam.’

  He closed his eyes. His mind shot back fifteen years to the day Ellie never made it home from school, and that same sick feeling in his stomach was there again, the knowledge that danger lurked so closely. And he remembered Grant’s taunt.

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ he said, and then he ran down the stairs.

  Monica was sitting on her bed, turning the pages of a magazine, the television blaring its mid-evening tedium of reality shows. Her nights were too often like this during the week, as the bare minimum of a trainee’s salary didn’t stretch to luxuries. Her surroundings were less salubrious than what she had hoped for when she was still a law student, living out of what her landlord called a studio apartment on Lower Broughton Road, an area of once grand houses turned into bedsits and student accommodation. In her world, it just meant that there was no living room, only a bedroom and a kitchen.

  Her phone rang. She looked at the screen. The number was unfamiliar. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Monica? It’s Ronnie.’

  She was confused for a moment. It took her a few seconds to realise that she knew only one Ronnie, her mind having made that separation from her working day. When she made the connection, she remembered that she had given Ronnie her number, just in case there was a development. She was getting used to the fact that criminal law was conducted at strange hours. Criminals don’t work nine to five, and don’t even take time off for bank holidays.

  ‘What can I do for you, Ronnie?’

  ‘I need to show you something. It’s important. It’s about Carrie. I think I’ve seen her.’

  ‘Really?’ Monica sat up, suddenly alert.

  ‘Yes, but you’ve got to come now.’

  Monica looked down at her magazine, then at the view out of her window, towards a brick alley and a broken streetlight, the back yard crammed with the rubbish bins needed for all the flats in the building. Her evening wasn’t unfolding with any excitement, and she realised that Joe would expect her to go. He wanted her to stay on after she qualified, but she had to keep on impressing him or else he might change his mind.

  ‘How sure are you?’ she said.

  ‘Absolutely, and she had Grace with her, but no one will believe me. They’ll believe you though.’

  Monica knew he was right. There was nothing in it for her to lie. The firm would lose money if the case finished early.

  ‘Where are you? You sound different. I can hardly hear you.’

  ‘Outside Victoria station. That’s where I saw her. I know where she might have gone, but I’m scared to go there in case I’m wrong.’

  Monica thought about the rest of the evening, about how tired she was, but this was going to be her life, running around at a criminal’s request. She had only been with the firm for a few months, but already she had got used to being a taxi and cigarette provider. And it was only a short drive to Victoria. ‘I’ll be five minutes. Wait there.’

  She slipped her dictation machine and a pad of paper into her bag, and was about to head for the door when she thought about her camera. Photographic evidence would be even better.

  She paused for a moment. Was she doing the right thing? She dialled Joe’s number, just to check, but his phone went straight to voicemail. She had to go. This was a chance to end the case, to prove that Carrie and Grace were alive. She checked herself in the mirror, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing jeans and a long black jumper, and then headed for the door.

  The evening was still warm, and she swatted away midges as she walked quickly along the crumbling path that led down to the pavement outside. The road became a race track at night, a long sloping curve connecting North Manchester to Salford, but it was quieter than normal. No one to bother her.

  She was cautious though, because Ronnie unnerved her. She had caught him staring at her a few times, and it wasn’t the usual flick up and down she got from men, checking out her figure. It was more intense than that, direct, in her eyes, and never looking down. And he had got too close at times, almost as if he was trying to smell her. She knew she was taking a risk, but she had seen Ronnie and knew she could handle him.

  Her car keys were in her hand, her Mini parked on the road outside. She clicked the fob on her car and noticed that the lights didn’t flicker. She must have left it unlocked. She gave a silent thank you to Ronnie, because her car wouldn’t have made it through the night if she had left it like that. There were too many who had given themselves night shifts, patrolling the streets, checking front doors and car door handles. She had heard rumours of turf wars, streets and estates divided, with the old hands given the nice new estates built in the spaces left by closed down factories, where each driveway had two cars filled with iPods and satnavs. Her Mini wouldn’t have got past midnight.

  She climbed in and locked the doors, putting her bag on the passenger seat. Monica enjoyed the security of her car. It was the quiet stillness of the interior, the danger of the night just outside, but it was muffled, on the other side of the glass. She checked her hair in the mirror. Although she was in her own clothes, she was still representing the firm.

  She slid her keys into the ignition. She stopped. There was a noise just behind her. A rustle, like something moving. She looked over to her bag. Perhaps it had settled.

  There it was again. Then there was a giggle.

  She gasped, a scream forming, and then there was the sound of fast movement.

  An arm went around her neck, cutting off her scream. It was tight, making her choke. Her eyes flashed to the mirror. She saw just the gleam of gritted teeth. Hot breath was against her ear. Her hands reached behind her head, to try to grab, to fight, but something hit her on her temple. Everything went quiet, and Monica slumped to one side.

  Thirty-Nine

  Joe’s world only started to focus properly at Gina’s house. He remembered the coldness of the toilet floor against his cheek, being helped to his feet, being handed the remains of his phone, cracked and broken when he hit the ground. He didn’t know who had taken him to a taxi, but that’s where he ended up, his head leaning against Kim, her arm around his shoulder. There were words of encouragement, that he was going to be all right, and then frustration that he wouldn’t go to a hospital.

  He told Kim that he’d slipped, but she hadn’t believed him. She said she had seen someone rushing out. Kim had tried to get him to call the police, but he refused. Kim didn’t want to leave him on his own though, and so she got Gina’s number and called her. There was a cut above his eye, but it was more swollen than bloodied, and there was blood coming from the back of his head.

  Gina sat down next to him and pressed a cold cloth against the swelling over his eyes. Kim had gone.

  ‘You didn’t slip, did you?’ she said, her voice soft.

  He opened his eyes. She was still blurred, her voice fainter than it should be, but he could think more clearly.

  ‘No. Someone hit me.’

  ‘Did you get a good look?’

  ‘I was at the sink. I just heard the rush, and the next thing I knew there were people around me.’

  ‘Do you want me to call the police?’

  Joe shook his head, but then winced. ‘No, like I told Kim, you know how much they’ll enjoy it, a defence lawyer as a victim.’

  ‘Yeah, I can imagine it,’ she said, and then, innocently, ‘So before then, how did it go with Kim?’

  Joe was able to raise a smile at that. ‘We’re old friends.’

&nb
sp; ‘You’re more than that, Joe. I could see it in her eyes when she brought you round here. But why didn’t she take you to her place?’

  ‘Her boyfriend might have objected.’

  Gina tutted. ‘If that’s how you behave, I’m not surprised you got hit.’

  ‘It wasn’t a jealous boyfriend. I haven’t seen the action to deserve it. There is one thing though: there has been someone hanging around outside the office.’

  ‘You should have said.’

  ‘It’s a public garden. I can’t start panicking every time someone stares at the office.’

  ‘But you spotted this one. How long has this person been there?’

  ‘Since Monday. Or at least that’s when I started noticing.’

  ‘That’s when you took on Ronnie’s case.’

  Joe thought about that, and then he remembered something else. ‘He was at court yesterday. At the back, watching.’

  ‘Joe, why didn’t you say?’

  ‘Because cases attract crackpots.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘About tonight?’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Let the bruises go down, and always check behind me when I have a piss.’

  ‘You shouldn’t make a joke of it. You could have been badly hurt. Next time it could be me. Or Monica.’

  Joe tried to sit but pain came at him quickly, like a kick to his head.

  ‘Take it slowly,’ Gina said.

  He waved her away and had another go.

  ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m not calling the police, but you or Monica, you do whatever feels right. Be careful. I got a good enough view in court that I’d recognise him again. If I see him, I’ll confront him.’

  Gina didn’t respond, and Joe knew that she wasn’t happy with that answer.

  Once he was in a sitting position, taking deep breaths, he was able to have a good look around.

  He had never been to Gina’s house before. It was a new-build box, all clean lines and bright doors. There was a small table at one end, a vase with a single flower in the centre, and the living room was grouped around the fireplace, rather than the television, which sat modestly in the corner. Candles were dotted around the hearth, and there was a bookcase against one wall filled with worn out spines. Joe imagined her with her feet lifted onto the sofa, a glass of wine in one hand, a book in the other, just peace and solitude.

  ‘Nice house,’ Joe said.

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked around. ‘I used to think it was a bit lonely here, but now I don’t like to think of anyone else in it, because it’s become my quiet little place.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ he said. ‘You’ve found your place.’

  ‘What did Miss Reader have to say about the case?’

  ‘Nothing much. She thinks Terry Day is a good witness.’

  ‘What, you’ve told her what we found out, that he’s a fantasist?’

  ‘No, I’m not stupid. I just floated him as a suspect. She didn’t seem concerned.’

  ‘Did she give anything away?’

  ‘She didn’t get a chance. I was too busy being revived. Anyway, I didn’t go for a drink to tap her for information. We’re old friends, that’s all.’

  ‘Just that?’

  Joe smiled. ‘There were a couple of times.’

  ‘I’m surprised she had it in her.’

  ‘She’s not how she seems at work. She’s sweet.’

  ‘Sweet?’ Gina said, laughing. ‘How hard did he hit you?’

  ‘Not that hard,’ Joe said. ‘Thanks, Gina, but I’ll go now.’

  ‘No, stay,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a bang on the head.’

  ‘Thank you, Gina,’ he said, and then he sighed. ‘I could really do with a drink.’

  Monica struggled against her bindings.

  She was tied to a metal chair, but she was fighting against it, the chair legs clattering on the floor. Her hands were fastened behind her back, her wrists bound together tightly, with ropes around her ankles. She was wearing a blindfold. It smelled of sweat and dirt and put grit into her eyes.

  But it wasn’t just the discomfort that made the cold finger of fear drag slowly down her spine. It was the disbelief, the way her night had changed beyond any way she could have imagined.

  There was someone behind her. She tried to twist her body but it was futile. It was pure instinct, the need to know the direction of attack. There were footsteps, shallow breaths, the stench of sweat and alcohol.

  Monica’s breaths increased. ‘Who are you?’

  There was no answer. Her words echoed.

  She was somewhere large and empty, but there was the hum of traffic not far away, and sometimes voices more distant. Even music drifted over, jumbles of conversation and songs that told her that there was nightlife nearby. And then there were the trains, the unmistakable steady rumble and the occasional blare of a tannoy, mixed in with the whirr and rattle of tramlines, very close by, the carriages screeching on the rails as they curved away.

  Monica jumped as she caught the scent of someone different. It was less masculine, like a perfume, just a faded smell of flowers, and then she remembered the hand around her when she had climbed into the car. It had been slender and soft, even though it had gripped tightly. Not the coarseness she expected from a male hand.

  ‘Who are you?’ Monica said again, but softer this time, more pleading.

  She jumped when the voice appeared in her right ear, a whisper, jolting her. It was a woman.

  ‘Hello, Monica,’ she said. The voice sounded cold and vicious, meanness in every snapped syllable.

  Monica whimpered, she couldn’t stop it, and then she was angry with herself and so gave her bindings another rattle. She was stronger than this. But whoever the woman was, she knew her name. This wasn’t random and that scared her even more. And then she remembered the call from Ronnie. Or at least she had thought it was Ronnie, because that was the name she had been given, but he had sounded different somehow.

  Monica strained against the ropes, her breaths fast, tears soaking her blindfold. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  There was a laugh, loud and strident, echoing again, and Monica got a sense of the emptiness of where she had been taken. Her head thrashed around, not knowing the source of the threat, but then she tried to gulp down deep breaths. She had to stay in control. She put her head down and tried to compose herself. But how was she supposed to cope with being punched until she was dazed and then dragged from her own car and into the back of a van parked just behind? She had tried to fight, but there had been two of them, and they had fastened the blindfold and tied her wrists and feet together. She had been tied to a chair and left there, with no idea of time, with every moment filled with terror, waiting for someone to come near her, unseen, so that she had jumped at the flutter of wings, the drip of water onto concrete, the creak and bang of a loose metal fence. There had been rustles in grass, like rodents.

  Monica pulled against her ropes, but they were too tight. ‘I want to go to the toilet,’ she said, but when the woman laughed behind her, she realised that it had sounded like what it was: a pitiful attempt at misleading them.

  ‘I’m not stopping you,’ the woman said, sneering. ‘You can sit there and piss yourself, if you think it will make you more comfortable, but it will weigh you down.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For what happens next.’

  Monica yelped and flinched as she felt a hand on her neck. The fingers were rougher than the ones that had been round her before. It was a man’s hand. Hardened dry skin rubbed against her, scratching, moistened only by the sweat that had popped onto her neck. She tried to pull away, to put her chin down, to protect her throat, but then she realised that the hand wasn’t going for her neck, but for her hair. A rough finger tickled at the soft hairs at the nape of her neck, and then started to grasp the longer strands and run it through his fingers. Monica felt it as light tugs. The hand ran down the length of her hair, straightening it, and then hovered over
her breast, where it ended. She moaned in fear, couldn’t help herself.

  There was a sound. Of metal blades clicking together.

  ‘What’s that?’ Monica said, aware that there was something new, her terror increasing another notch.

  Her hair was pulled tight. She gasped and then she heard the wet lick of a tongue on a lip, before the blades clicked together and the tension on her hair relaxed. There was a moan of satisfaction, and then she felt the warmth of someone’s breath on the top of her head, the sound of someone inhaling. The smell of human sweat was in her face. A man, definitely. Sour, damp. She tried to turn her face, not sure what was going to happen, but nothing did, apart from the continued inhale and exhale from above her.

  Monica closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Her blindfold was sodden with her tears.

  ‘Please, stop,’ she said, her voice more pleading now, desperation evident. ‘I’m scared. You’ve had your fun. Just let me go home. Please.’

  ‘Fun?’ It was the female voice, shrill and loud. ‘Do you think this is it, tying you up? The fun has only just started.’

  Someone knelt by Monica’s ankles, and then she felt some tugging, before there was the surprise of her ankle coming free, first her left, and then her right.

  Her head filled with a mix of hope and fear, that things were about to get worse, but perhaps about to get better, that she was going to be set free.

  There was a kick to her chest, a booted foot that hit her hard, made her gasp in pain and in shock, and then she was falling. She braced for the collision. Her head jolted backwards as the chair hit the ground, momentum making it carry on to the concrete, the crack loud in the night. She was dazed and winced in pain, and the back of her head felt damp. The chair clattered away from her. Monica lay on the ground, panting, grimacing, her hands still tied behind her back, the blindfold still in place. She curled up her knees instinctively, to protect herself.