Mark Sennen - Touch

For what?

Nothing but the distant drip, drip, drip, drip of the tap echoing the cadence of her heart thumping.

A board creaked under her foot and she froze. She lifted her foot and eased it away and down onto the next step. An old song, one of her mum's favourites, began to play in her head. Kris Kristofferson was it? And how did it go?

One step at a time, sweet Jesus, only that didn’t sound quite right. Fuck knows, who cares anyway?

She carried on down, mouthing the words of her new song until she reached the bottom step.

Another corridor, a closed door next to her and the hallway turning back in the opposite direction from the stairs. Halfway along another bare bulb hung down, the light so weak she could see the coil of red wire glowing hot inside the glass. At the end of the hall was a big, old door, thick with years of paint. Black iron bolts top and bottom and a burglar bar dropped into U shaped cups fastened to the frame. A rough, bristled mat lay on the floor.

Front door. The way out!

She eased herself along the corridor, half-sliding, half-shuffling. Down on the left an opening revealed a large room, dim with no light. In the gloom she could see a long table with high-backed chairs. She inched past the room and moved toward the front door. To the right yet another door stood open, a flickering light dancing within. She crept nearer. There seemed to be a rhythmical sound, a slight rubbing noise, coming from somewhere close.

Shuffle, slide, shuffle, slide. Her own rhythm this time, the Alice Nashville two-step.

She was at the door now and when she peered in she had to bite her lip to prevent herself letting out a cry.

In the centre of the room a man knelt on the floor. Short dark hair, mid-thirties and naked. And she recognised him. The nakedness shocked her, but the recognition chilled her.

Always best to go with your first opinion of someone, girl. Best not to go for a drink with them. Asking for trouble that.

She remembered now. It had all been Cath’s fault. She said it would be a giggle so when he asked them to go to the pub with him they accepted.

Who is giggling now, Cath?

She didn’t think he had taken her for the money. He as good as had weirdo tattooed on his forehead. She had felt uncomfortable when she first met him, the way his eyes drank her in and his tongue flicked in and out like a snake or a lizard tasting the air.

The man was sideways on to her and she had a clear view of his right hand moving up and down in the age-old manner. The man’s face contorted, creasing and flattening in time with his hand’s rhythm, although whether the expressions showed pleasure, pain or grief Alice found impossible to tell.

To each side of the man a candle burnt in a tall, silver candlestick. The candles guttered every now and then sending shadows feathering across the floor, the fluttering light picking out a bare room with heavy, velvet curtains at the window and an open fire crackling in a grate.

The man was staring forward, a grey tongue lolling in the corner of his open mouth as he gazed at something in front of him. Alice couldn’t see what it was. She knew she should turn and run, but she didn’t. Instead she edged closer to the door, craning her head to see.

Oh no. Fucking hell!

Her mouth dropped open and the shakes returned. Now she knew she should move and she tried to inch backwards. One step. Two steps.

A creak from a floorboard.

The man’s hand stopped moving and he turned his head towards her, a smile broadening on his face before changing to a manic grin below staring eyes of pure madness.

‘Emma! Are you clean at last?’

Alice screamed and dropping the duvet from around her she ran.

Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Wednesday 3rd November. 10.15 am

Back at her desk Wednesday morning and Savage was trying to make sense of it all. As she scribbled a couple of Post-Its and clicked through some documents on her screen she began to realise how much the scope of the investigation had widened. The boundary between Leash and Zebo had become indistinct and the clear picture the team had been working with blurred. Focus shift. She had seen it before and knew the danger. They now had a tangle of threads to tease apart: Rosina, Kelly, Alice, Forester, Trent, Leash, Zebo. Kelly had got involved with Forester through the modelling and the drugs and they had linked Forester with the rapes thanks to the videos and the GHB the CSI team had found at Forester’s flat. But what did the videos have to do with Kelly’s murder?

The answer came with Riley. He breezed in with a cup of coffee for Savage and some good news too. He had been given a heads up by DC Susan Bridge, the statement reader on Leash.

‘Photography, ma’am. That’s got to be the answer.’ Riley showed her the printout DC Bridge had given him. ‘Door-to-door has come up with the goods. Old fashioned policing as Hardin would say.’

Savage read the statement. The account came from a neighbour who had seen something odd going on at the house opposite Trent’s late one night.

‘Flashes, ma’am. Up at a first floor window. Like someone taking pictures. And the neighbour claims to have spotted a woman at the curtains. Naked.’

‘Interesting viewing for the neighbour, but taking pictures of your missus in your own house is not illegal, is it?’

‘Not at all. Not had the chance myself mind you.’

‘So? I get the impression you’ve got something else,’ said Savage.

‘Plymouth Snappers.’

‘The photography club Donal and Forester were members of?’

‘We obtained a list from the club secretary comprising some two hundred names of current and recent members. Trent is not on the list of course, we checked already, but I went back and had another scan through. The house where the neighbour saw the flashes is owned by a man called Everett Mitchell. Just happens he is a former member of the Snappers. That gives us a link to Forester, but there is something else too.’

‘Go on.’

‘Mr Mitchell is self-employed and I took a little look into his business affairs. Now what type of business do you think he is involved in?’

‘I have no idea, but I expect you are going to tell me.’

‘His registered business name gives a clue: Devon Cream Film Distribution.’

‘I don’t need to ask, do I?’

‘No. It is a porn company. He sells DVDs and downloads from a number of websites. The business is legit, above board and everything, but bearing in mind we know Forester was involved in some dodgy videos I’d call the fact one hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you?’

*

An hour later Riley and Enders coasted into Moor Vale in an unmarked pool car. Savage had said Mr Mitchell would need to answer some questions, especially because in his statement given to the officers on the door-to-door enquiries he claimed not to know David Forester.

Mature trees of oak, ash and beech half-hid the houses and though the autumn leaf fall had long since started the lawns were clean and well-manicured.

‘Fantastic place this,’ Enders said as they cruised by the first couple of properties. ‘I’d get a pad here if I won the lottery.’

There was a certain air of refinement about the place, but Riley didn’t think much of the development. It seemed a little too sterile, a little too footballers’ wives.

‘Where is the atmosphere? The concept is a bit artificial for my liking.’

‘What are you talking about? Look at all that lovely grass. And this road goes nowhere. My kids could have a whale of a time here.’

‘Are you joking? What do you think Mr and Mrs We-Paid-Good-Money-For-This would say when your Connor goes whizzing around on his scooter? Or when the two little ones start playing Aliens versus Predator in the neighbour’s rhododendron bushes?’