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‘How old do you think she is?’ Imogen asked.
‘Twenty if she’s a day. God only knows. She’s been through a hell of a lot. She could be younger.’ They all stood over the body staring, each lost in their own ruminations.
‘What about the toxicology report?’ Brown interrupted.
‘Well, it seems to be a crystal meth-like compound, but it’s got something else in it, I’ve not seen anything like it before. The full report will take a while,’ Foster said, obviously grateful for the return to science. Anything to avoid getting emotional over a case.
‘Is there anything else?’ Imogen asked.
‘Actually, yes.’ Foster walked over to the girl and lifted her hand. ‘She has the remnants of a UV stamp on her hand; I think it’s entry to some sort of nightclub.’
‘Let me see,’ Imogen said, leaning forward as the doctor shone the light on the girl’s left hand.
‘I know that stamp! It’s for Aphrodite’s, that club down town,’ Sam said immediately.
‘Aphrodite’s?’
‘Yeah, it’s owned by that Greek family. Bit of a dive.’
‘Never heard of it.’ Imogen shrugged.
‘Not being funny, Grey, but that’s kind of an endorsement in itself. When was the last time you went to a nightclub?’
‘Aphrodite? The Goddess of Love – is it a strip club?’ She wouldn’t be surprised if Sam knew all about the local strip clubs – some of the comments he made on a daily basis had her working hard to resist punching him in the face.
‘No, but I’ve heard rumours about the things that go on behind the scenes there – you know, bung the manager a few quid and he’ll arrange for some extra entertainment out back.’ Sam let out a big cheesy smile as he spoke.
‘Underage?’ Imogen asked.
‘Nah, just the usual skanks.’
‘That’s really nice, Brown. Skanks are people too.’ Imogen shook her head.
‘Whatever you say.’ Sam was indifferent as usual, lifting the blanket and checking out the rest of the girl’s body.
Imogen shook her head. She could never quite discern if this was all part of her partner’s bravado act, or if he really was just a misogynistic pig.
‘Is that where they got the drugs do you think? The nightclub?’
‘I don’t know, but let’s check it out.’
Aphrodite’s was a pink and red monstrosity, a stone’s throw from the infamous Union Street in Plymouth. The club was clearly trying to cash in on the vintage retro mania that was taking over the town, and yet somehow it missed the mark entirely. It was a clash of red leather booths and deep pink walls, mosaic mirror tiles almost wall to wall, and everything else was made of shiny black surfaces. There was an overriding theme of pink flamingos, and the male bar staff wore Hawaiian shirts while the women wore fifties-inspired dresses that looked more like swimsuits, and left very little to the imagination. There were poles dotted around the room, but maybe they were just for show. There was definitely an undertone of sleaze about the place. Imogen didn’t even want to think about what was going on behind the scenes.
‘We’re not open yet!’ a man called out from behind the bar.
‘I’m Detective Brown and this is Detective Grey.’ Sam pulled out his badge as they walked across the room and leaned against the bar.
‘Really? Those are your real names? Or are you just Tarantino fans?’ the barman asked, looking Imogen up and down.
Imogen looked at Sam and he shrugged.
‘Reservoir Dogs, you know, Mr Pink and Mr Orange, stuck in the middle, the world’s smallest violin?’ Another voice came from the end of the bar. There was a man sitting there holding a scotch, one eyebrow raised at them. He wasn’t wearing the bar staff uniform.
Imogen shrugged. ‘We need to show you a picture. We have a body in our morgue that needs identifying, and the victim had a stamp on her hand from this place.’ She walked over to the man with the scotch; he seemed comfortable, like he spent a lot of time there.
Sam wandered off in the opposite direction, looking around the club.
‘OK, let me see your ID first, please. Can never be too careful around here.’ He smiled and held his hand out. He had toffee-coloured hair and a natural tan. His eyes were amber and green with a sort of Clint Eastwood squint that was incredibly distracting. She imagined he spent a lot of time staring menacingly into the distance.
Imogen reached into her pocket and pulled out her wallet, holding it up for the man to see her ID. He took the card from her hand.
‘Imogen. That’s a pretty name.’ He tilted his head and looked at her; unlike the barman, he didn’t break eye contact. He stood up slowly, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on hers, and moved closer to place the ID back in her hand. ‘How can I help you, Imogen?’
She wasn’t sure if he was trying to intimidate her or flirt with her. His eyes were dancing and he had the most confident smirk she’d ever seen. Imogen cleared her throat.
‘You can start by telling me your name.’
‘My name is Dean. Do you want my number, too?’ He grinned, the furrow in his brow relaxing.
‘I want you to look at this picture and tell me if you recognise the girl.’
She pulled the photo out of her pocket and handed it to him. He briefly shifted his gaze from her to the photo before handing it back.
‘Sorry, I don’t know her.’
‘Are you sure? Are you the manager here, Dean?’
‘I’m afraid not, just passing through.’ He looked at her and smiled, softer this time. When she looked into his eyes she could see the hardness behind the smile. She blinked and looked away, unsure what his pull was. She decided it was best to avoid eye contact with him for now. Something about him was deeply unsettling.
‘Do you know the proprietor, Elias Papas?’ She saw him flinch.
‘I know him, yeah; he’s not here much though. He’s more of a silent manager.’
‘What about his brother, Antonis Papas?’ She was almost certain he was trying to hide a sneer as he drank from his glass, avoiding the question entirely. From what she’d guess, he knew him all right, and he didn’t like him.
‘You’re sure you don’t know the girl?’ Sam appeared by Imogen’s side, his eyes fixed on Dean. Imogen hadn’t even noticed him approaching. Dean’s eyes were still on hers; she wasn’t looking at him but she could feel him grinning at her discomfort.
‘Best I can tell you is we have a ladies night here on Thursdays, it’s more than likely she was here then.’
‘We? I thought you were just passing through?’ Imogen said.
‘It’s a figure of speech.’
‘Sure it is.’
‘Do these cameras work? Wait, don’t answer that, I’m going to use my special psychic powers and say they don’t,’ Sam scoffed.
‘I believe they’re out of order at the moment, but you’d have to check that with George over there. He works here. George! Come here!’ The uniformed barman walked over to them and smiled. Dean held out his hand for the photograph again, and passed it to his colleague. ‘George, you seen this girl?’
‘No, sir, I haven’t.’ The barman shook his head.
‘Sir?’ Imogen smiled. Passing through my ass, she thought to herself. ‘Is that a figure of speech, too?’
‘Would you believe me if I said yes?’ Dean said.
‘My instinct is telling me you’re pretty liberal with the truth,’ she said. He was leaning towards her, dangerously close.
‘Do they teach you how to read people in detective school?’ Dean smiled at her and moved backwards, returning to his drink. Imogen took the photo from George, and returned it to her wallet.
‘George, are the cameras in here working at the moment?’
‘I’m sorry, Detective, they aren’t.’
‘Well,’ she shook her head. ‘Thanks for nothing, guys.’
Dean pulled out a business card and handed it to Imogen. She glanced down at his name: Dean Kinkaid.
‘Shouldn’t you give me one of yours, you know, in case I think of anything?’
Reluctantly, Imogen pulled out one of her cards and handed it to him. She was already certain that this was not the last she’d see of him. She couldn’t figure out how important he was. Generally speaking, people stick to their own and there was nothing Greek about Dean Kinkaid, not with his green eyes and dark sandy hair. His name suggested Irish origins. Maybe he would be useful in the future; it was easier to flip someone who wasn’t blood loyal.
Chapter 9: The Lover (#ulink_67ae3036-ca58-549d-8f2c-a01a4d6f2c15)
The present
The first thing Bridget could feel was her leg. It was throbbing, beats of pain working their way through her body. She opened her palm and touched the surface underneath her; it wasn’t the muddy riverbank that she’d fallen asleep on. It was a bed.
My head is killing me. She opened her eyes. As they adjusted to the light, she saw a sliver of sunshine peeking from the far corner of the room. From her surroundings she discerned that she was in a basement or cellar of some kind, below street level, that was for sure. She could see where the grate led up to the road; she could also see the shadows of people’s feet as they occasionally walked over the glass bricks. Where the hell am I? She looked down and saw that her leg had been bandaged. She no longer had the tracksuit bottoms on, just her underwear and a hooded jacket, the one she’d taken from the brothel. It gaped open; instinctively she pulled it closed. She felt groggy, as though she was hungover, but she hadn’t been drinking the night before so it was probably just from the swim and the water. The room smelled of damp, with torn, filthy wallpaper falling away from the walls. There was a wrought-iron bed and a Persian rug. There was also a large standard lamp with a pink lampshade, almost exactly like one her grandmother used to have. In the corner sat a yellowing kidney-shaped dressing table with a brush and a handheld mirror laid out on the surface. There was even a picture hanging above the bed. It looked like someone’s bedroom.
She swung her legs over the side and stood up. Dizziness forced her back down and she stared at her hands for a moment. They didn’t look like her hands. She ran to the metal door on the far wall, her leg protesting as she moved. Bridget tried in vain to push it, pull it, anything, but it wouldn’t open. The window was the same, frosted and thick, there was no way out. There was a piece of fabric hanging in the corner, she walked over and saw a dirty old toilet behind the curtain. This room felt as though it had been made just for her. She tried to think. Surely whoever had put her here wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble if they were going to kill her straight away.
Her head was thumping now, the air was stale and she could feel the damp coating the walls of her throat as she breathed in. There was a vent in the corner above the door, she raised her hand to it but couldn’t feel any airflow at all. Where were the rest of her clothes? She glanced around, spotting her tracksuit bottoms folded at the end of the bed. She rushed over and pulled them on. They were clean, and smelled of washing powder. It was warm down here, wherever here was. There was a half-empty bottle of mineral water by the bedside table; she grabbed it and drank thirstily. What’s that funny taste? Perhaps the man who’d been chasing her had caught up to her at the riverbank. Could he have carried her to a car and then taken her back into the city? She felt the foundations of the place vibrate, and wondered if she was near a train station. Was she even still in Exeter?
There was no way out. Bridget banged on the door, but it was thick and made barely any noise. She moved her fingers along the walls to see if any of the exposed bricks were loose, but they all held tight. She looked at her hands again. When she was a child, Bridget would often get put in her room as punishment. Her current surroundings were strangely reminiscent of that room, right down to the bad seventies painting hanging over the bed. When she was grounded by her father, Bridget’s brother would sneak treats in to her and she would stay there with no television, no contact with the family. Her father’s strictness had been reflected in his own police work; he was part of the reason she’d joined the force in the first place. She could deal with this. She would find a way out eventually. She knew she would.
Bridget suddenly heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. She hobbled back over to the bed and lay down, closing her eyes almost fully. She needed to get some information; she needed to see what she was dealing with. The blurred image of a man walked into the room. She wasn’t sure why, but she wasn’t scared. Immediately and without reason, she felt that she could trust him. It was the strangest feeling, going against all her police training. She sat up.
‘You’re awake?’ The man had a tray of food with him. He put it on the chair next to the bed and sat down next to her. A thought popped into Bridget’s head: you’re not Sam. The stranger brushed the hair out of her face and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Why am I here?’ Her voice sounded strange to her ears.
‘I’m sorry Bridget, I’m just trying to keep you safe. Remember, I am always on your side.’
‘I need to get in touch with Sam.’
‘I spoke to Sam. He’s going to come for you when he can, for now he told me to tell you to stay put.’
‘He did?’ She was confused. ‘Can I call him?’
‘I can’t let you use a phone, I’ve told you, they’re always watching us.’ He pointed to a camera she hadn’t noticed in the darkened corner near the window. ‘When I can, I will get you out of here to safety. I’m sorry, my beautiful girl.’ He put his hand on her shoulder; to her surprise it felt good, comforting. ‘You should eat. Keep your strength up.’
She looked at the plate of food on the tray. Whoever this man was, he knew what she liked. Lucozade was her comfort drink, her brother used to buy a bottle of it on his way home from school and smuggle it in to her if she was grounded. There was a red apple too; she loved red apples, as a child she would take out the pips and make pictures with them. She and her brother had invented their own secret language using the pips, leaving each other hidden messages around the room. There was also a yogurt with a spoon, and a chicken salad sandwich with mayonnaise and mustard on granary bread: perfect. How could he know these things?
The man smiled at her. He moved his hand around her back and pulled her closer to him, lowering his lips to hers. Her thoughts blurred: I can’t remember your name. She kissed him back, his lips were so soft and he tasted of cigarettes. Hazily, Bridget put her hand up to his face and stroked his cheek. He kissed her hard, pushing her on to the bed. She clawed at his clothes, desperate for the feeling of security she somehow knew she would get from being in his arms. She pulled her underpants off and they slipped under the covers together. Bridget climbed on top of him; the weight of his body was making her leg ache. Quickly, she unzipped her top and he put his hands on her, moving them up and down her body. God, this felt good.
As they moved together, Bridget was overcome by a wish for the man to stay with her, but somehow she knew that this was just a stolen moment, that they didn’t have much time. This man was protecting her, he couldn’t be her captor. Her whole body felt as though it was on fire. She had never felt like this with Sam. Had she?
When he was done, the man stood up and pulled his trousers back on, doing up his flies as he stared down at her on the bed. He handed her the hooded sweatshirt back and Bridget wrapped it around herself. He smiled at her and went behind the curtain to use the bathroom; Bridget picked up the sandwich, and ate the whole thing in a few bites. Leaving the yogurt, she picked up the spoon, put it in her pocket and thirstily drank the Lucozade. The man came back to the bed. He grabbed a bag from the side of the room, rummaged inside it and handed her a bottle of water. She took it gratefully.
‘I’ll come back soon. I promise.’ He went to the door and then turned back. ‘I forgot, you need to take your antibiotics, you don’t want your leg to get infected.’
He pulled a tub of pills out of his pocket and handed her two. She placed the pills on her tongue and washed them down with the water. She immediately needed the toilet. When she emerged from behind the curtain, the man was gone, along with the empty tray. He’d taken the apple back too.
Bridget ran to the door and pulled on the handle. It was locked. She sat back on the bed as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She shouldn’t have taken those pills. What was the matter with her? She had an overwhelming urge to sleep again; she lifted her knee on to the bed and started to undo the bandage. The wound wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be, it was scabbing over already. It had felt so deep when it had happened. The memory of cutting it by the river seemed distant now, as though it was slipping further and further away from her.
There was a sudden scratching noise in the room. Bridget turned her head. It was coming from the corner behind her, it sounded as though someone was clawing at the wall. But it wasn’t a person; to her surprise there was a dog sitting there. It looked strangely familiar; with its brown and white markings, it looked like her old dog, Wilberforce. He was scratching at the concrete floor in the corner, trying to dig his way out. The sound of his panting was comforting to her, like an old friend, a reminder that she wasn’t alone.
‘Hey, doggy!’ she called out.
How did he get in here?
The dog turned around and dashed over, sitting obediently at the side of the bed and breathing excitedly in her face. She didn’t know how it was possible, but this was Wilberforce, it had to be – he had a bone-shaped brass tag on his collar with a big W engraved on it. Wilberforce had died when Bridget was just thirteen years old. She was dreaming. She must be. As Bridget stared, the dog lay down on the ground and started to wheeze. She watched him struggle for breath, remembering the day they had found him dead – knocked over by a car in the street. To her horror, she realised that it was happening again, before her eyes – the blood was oozing out from underneath him. The puddle of blood was spreading, carpeting the floor, beginning to rise. Bridget began to panic. What was in those pills? She lay down, trying to steady herself, trying to keep a hold of her thoughts.
‘It’s not real, it’s not real,’ she repeated over and over to herself.
Bridget lay on the bed, red water now lapping at her sides. It was splashing on to the throw. She could taste it in her mouth as the waves got more and more aggressive. Her hands, her hands were red. Was this some form of latent guilt for what had happened to Dee? If only she had been watching, then Dee would still be alive. I’m so sorry, Dee. It’s not real, it’s not real.
The bed rocked. Bridget lay as still as she could. The sensation reminded her of when she was a child, when she used to play hide and seek with her mother. She would lie under the duvet, keeping totally still as her mother frantically searched the house for her; to this day she didn’t know if she really couldn’t see her under there or if her mother had just been playing along. The first explanation was more likely. Finally, the rocking stopped. Time seemed to stretch. Bridget cautiously opened her eyes; sure enough, the red water was gone, taking Wilberforce with it. The room had returned to normal, and apart from a banging headache, Bridget felt calm again.
She re-wrapped the gash on her leg and lowered herself off the bed, grabbing the stool from under the dressing table and taking it over to the camera, trying to stay out of its view. She got on to the stool and reached for the camera, pulling at the wire that snaked from the side. It came loose. It wasn’t attached to anything, it had already been cut. It was just for show. Why did he tell me they were watching?
Safe in the knowledge that she wasn’t being watched, Bridget grabbed the baseboard of the bed and pulled it towards her. It was heavy but she was determined. Her leg throbbed. Her brain began to feel patchy, as though her memory was slipping away. She felt in her pocket for the spoon she’d taken from the tray. She would use it to scratch a message into the floor, in case she forgot everything again. She couldn’t put it anywhere too obvious. She walked to the end of the bed and then she saw it. Her blood ran cold.
There was a message there already. Lying next to the words was a metal spoon, the end of it worn down to almost nothing. Her name was carved into the floor, again and again, the handwriting growing more and more manic as the words stacked up. She had been here for a while. She had done this before. What was wrong with her memory?
Bridget got down on her knees and started to scribble her name once more. Over and over. Her hand began to ache. Her head hurt and she felt nauseated. Who the hell was that man? The man that had made her feel so good, who she had wanted to stay with her. Who she had wanted to sleep with? She searched her mind for a name. Nothing happened. She couldn’t find it. Was he another hallucination? What the hell were those pills? She hoped to God she would remember. She didn’t want to go to sleep again for fear of forgetting everything. God knew how many times she had forgotten all this before. She lay down and clutched at her head, hoping to stop the spinning. Her eyes grew heavy and sleep drew closer. It was pulling her down, down into the darkness …
Chapter 10: The Scarred (#ulink_b621349a-5230-531f-8d07-fc7488140bfb)
The present
Imogen stumbled around the bathroom in the morning half-light. She thought about running herself a hot bath, but she didn’t want to lie in the water looking at the remnants of her stomach wound. Since leaving Plymouth, she’d found baths harder, preferring to shower so that she couldn’t see her body. Although the scar was pink and faded she liked to pretend it wasn’t there. The scar wasn’t the only thing: if she looked down, she could just see the bullet wound she’d sustained in the schoolteacher case too. It had healed in the last few weeks, forming a neat plum circle. Somehow, that one hurt less; it didn’t give her the same amount of trauma as the injury she’d sustained in Plymouth. She closed her eyes, the memory of what had happened rushing back. Leaving Plymouth. Transferring to Exeter. Sam. The scar.
Imogen turned on the shower. She had to keep going. These days, she spent hours every morning smacking the shit out of the punching bag she’d installed in her garden. Rain or shine, she was out there kicking and punching her way back to work. Still, she couldn’t look at herself until the towel was securely around her, hiding her embarrassment. Twice now she had almost been killed. Twice she had failed at her job. Twice she had needed rescuing. Never again. She picked up her baggy combat trousers and loose-fitting raglan t-shirt and got ready for work.
When Imogen arrived at Adrian’s house there was no answer. She knew he was home; his bike was still chained up to the front railings. She banged on the door again and saw the blinds upstairs twitch before hearing thumping on the stairs. The door swung open and he appeared, shielding his eyes from the sunlight that poured through the door.
‘Have a good night?’ She smiled. Adrian groaned.
