Lynda La Plante - A Face in the Crowd

Sandra took another sip of whisky, just to keep him quiet. He was going on and on at her, so she did. She hoped it might make her feel better, but it didn’t. The room was spinning. She sat down heavily on the couch, and then he was beside her, his breath on her cheek, his hand creeping over her breast. She tried to push him away. Somehow she didn’t have the strength. The room was whirling around and her head felt hot. And all the time he was whispering, whispering in her ear in a sly, silky voice. She couldn’t make sense of the words but she knew what he wanted her to do. She knew from the way his hand was kneading her breasts and tugging at the black velvet dress. And his soft voice whispering in her ear.

“When Joanne wouldn’t pose topless he started pulling at her clothes.”

Tennison sat quite still, not interrupting or asking questions, allowing Sarah to tell her story. Her voice had taken on a mechanical, almost dreamlike quality. As if she were describing a film that was unrolling inside her head. A horror film from which she couldn’t avert her eyes, had to see it through to its grisly end.

“She tried to stop him. It wasn’t funny anymore. He was pulling at her clothes. Joanne was scared. Tony tried to stop him. But Jason got really angry. Angrier than I’ve ever seen anyone. He went completely wild. He punched Joanne in the face. Her mouth was bleeding…”

Sarah’s own mouth twisted into an ugly shape. Her eyes went wide and bright with fear, watching the film unroll. A spasm shook her entire body, held rigid and bolt upright in the chair. The real horror was about to begin. She forced herself to carry on.

“… he broke a bottle. I really believed he’d use it. He made Tony tie some tights, they were my tights”-she faltered, her throat working-“around Joanne’s mouth. Jason took off his belt and tied Joanne’s hands behind her back.”

He’d gotten her dress off at last. She was sitting on the silken-draped couch, shivering in her low-cut bra, staring up at him with fearful eyes as he undid the buckle and slowly slid the belt through the loops of his jeans. He felt he was in a state of fever. The blood was pounding in his temples. He breathed in a deep lungful to steady himself, to take the quaver out of his voice and make it sound natural as he said casually, “Don’t be afraid…”

Sandra stared up at him, hugging herself. It made her breasts swell over the lacy top. He could see right down her cleavage. Beautiful. Firm young titties. He was going to have the time of his life with this lovely piece of cunt; shaft the arse off it, literally.

“Nothing to worry about, eh?” he said soothingly. “It’s the johns. They love a bit of bondage.” He coiled the belt in his hands. “I won’t tie you too tight. It’s all acting really…”

“I don’t like it,” Sandra whimpered, her mouth trembling.

“Course you do,” Jason grinned, uncoiling the belt.

“I don’t…”

“He raped her there in front of us,” Sarah said, the pain of that dreadful night frozen in her eyes. “He held the broken bottle over her face. And we did nothing. We stood and watched. Joanne was choking on the gag. And we stood and watched.”

She shuddered.

He had her just how he wanted her. Facedown on the couch, hands behind her back, the belt wrapped around her wrists and pulled tight so that it cut into her flesh. Sandra cried out then, in agony, as Jason thrust down with all his strength, forcing rear entry. She felt she was being ripped apart.

Getting into his stroke, Jason pumped away. Sandra’s head bounced on the couch under the impact of his incessant pounding. She felt suffocated. She couldn’t see. Her tangled hair was in her eyes and stuck to her forehead. Her cheeks were mottled and blotchy from the hot tears rolling down. She gasped as he went in, deeper. The pain was searing, tearing at her inside. She tried to scream but her head was being rammed into the couch, and what came out sounded like the muffled, terrified squeals of a whipped animal.

Jason kept at it, grunting with every thrust. Sweat from his chest sprinkled her back. His cap of blond hair was saturated. In his left hand he held the remote control. Every few seconds he pressed the button. The shutter clicked. The camera whirred to a new frame. He pounded away and pressed the button. The shutter clicked. He’d been careful in his advance preparation, made sure there was a new roll in. Five down, just thirty-one to go.

“When it was all over he went… suddenly quiet. He warned us that we were guilty too. That he had the photographs to prove it. He let us leave. We didn’t know what to do. We went home. We went to our rooms. When Mum got back we pretended to be asleep in bed. The dreadful thing was that we just left Joanne there. We weren’t even sure whether she was dead or not…

“The following night I heard noises in the next door garden. When I looked out my window I saw Jason and Harvey digging. They were putting the earth into sacks and Jason was taking them off somewhere to dump. I guessed why, but… but I couldn’t look after that.” Her voice sank to a choking whisper. “My nightmare was the sound of those shovels. The following morning I told Tony. We took an oath together never to tell a soul. The next time I made myself look from my bedroom window all the slabs were in place. Not a sign that anything had happened. Sometimes I could almost believe it hadn’t… until she was dug up again.”

Sarah’s face collapsed. She was moaning and sobbing, tears dripping off her chin and splashing onto her bare arms. She was shaking her head, helpless and bereft. “It was an awful secret we carried around with us…”

She covered her face and her body slumped forward until she was bent almost double, great racking sobs shuddering through her.

“Oh, God, what am I going to do… without him? Without Tony…?”

Tennison went quickly around the desk and knelt down beside her chair. She put both arms around Sarah and held her.

With a groan, Oswalde rocked himself forward and swung his feet to the floor. He wriggled his toes inside his Reeboks and arched his back, stretching. He must have been sitting in that same semi-crouched position for over an hour, and had possibly, without realizing it, dozed off. His buttocks tingled as the circulation got going.

Light was filtering through the curtains. From the floor of the caravan came a bass-baritone duet of snores; both C.I.D. men were well away in the land of nod.

Oswalde twitched the curtain aside and looked out at a new day. Over the sea, the sky was a clear tranquil blue, as if it had been washed clean overnight. It was very early, not yet six thirty. Oswalde stared dismally out, wondering what the fuck had happened to Jason Reynolds. Had he got wind of them? Or just been delayed somewhere and would show up later? The thought of having to spend all day cooped up in here with the phantom farter made Oswalde profoundly depressed.

He went outside and gratefully sucked in some of the chill morning air. He’d better give Tennison a call, he thought, rolling his head around to loosen up his cramped neck muscles. She’d want to be brought up to date on what was happening, or rather not happening.

Oswalde’s head stopped in mid-roll. Below him, on the lower level, a Cavalier hatchback was parked outside one of the trailers. It hadn’t been there last night. How the hell had it got onto the site without the man at the gate noticing it?

Thoughtfully, Oswalde zipped up his jacket. Stepping lightly, he moved down the grassy slope and skirted around to approach the trailer end on, because he could see a curtain was drawn across the large picture window, blanking out the view. Arms spread to keep his balance, he tiptoed over the grass and pressed his face close to the glass, hoping there might be a chink in the curtains. No luck. He moved around to the door, pausing at another window, but that too was curtained off.