Peter James - Dead Like You

Garry paused while Maurice and Ulla laughed. Denise, who had heard it before, remained stony-faced.

He continued, ‘Then a little later Coolidge asked the farmer more about the rooster. “Tell me, does it always screw the same hen?” The farmer replied, “No, Mr President, always a different one.” Coolidge whispered to the man, “Would you mind telling my wife?”’

Maurice and Ulla were still laughing when crispy duck and pancakes arrived.

‘I like that one!’ Maurice said, then winced as Ulla kicked him under the table.

‘A bit close to home for you,’ she said acidly.

Maurice had confided to Garry, over the years, about a string off affairs. Ulla had found out about more than one of them.

‘At least the rooster has proper sex,’ Denise said to her husband. ‘Not the weird stuff you get off on.’

Garry’s mask smiled implacably at her, humouring her. They sat in awkward silence as the pancakes and spring onions and hoisin sauce appeared, and while the waiter shredded the duck before retreating.

Helping himself to a pancake and rapidly changing the subject, Maurice asked, ‘So, how’s business looking going into the New Year, Garry? Think people are going to cut down?’

‘How would he know?’ Denise butted in. ‘He’s always on the sodding golf course.’

‘Of course I am, my darling!’ Garry retorted. ‘That’s where I get my new leads. That’s how I built my business. I got the police as customers through playing golf with an officer one day.’

Garry Starling had started in life as an electrician, working for Chubb Alarms, doing installations. Then he had left and taken the gamble of forming his own company, operating at first from a tiny office in central Brighton. His timing had been perfect, as it was just when the security business began to boom.

It was a winning formula. He used his membership of his golf club, of the Round Table and then the Rotary Club to work on everyone he met. Within a few years of opening his doors, he had built up Sussex Security Systems and its sister company, Sussex Remote Monitoring Services, into one of the major security businesses in the Brighton area for home and commercial premises.

Turning back to Maurice, he said, ‘Actually, business is OK. We’re holding our own. How about you?’

‘Booming!’ Maurice said. ‘Incredible, but it is!’ He raised his glass. ‘Well, cheers, everyone! Here’s to a brilliant year! Never actually got to toast you on New Year’s Eve, did we, Denise?’

‘Yep, well, sorry about that. Don’t know what came over me. Must be the bottle of champagne we had in our room while we were getting changed!’

‘That you had,’ Garry corrected her.

‘Poor thing!’ Ulla said.

‘Still,’ Maurice said, ‘Garry did his best to make up for you by drinking your share, didn’t you, old son?’

Garry smiled. ‘I made a sterling effort.’

‘He did,’ Ulla said. ‘He was well away!’

‘Hey, did you see the Argus today?’ Maurice said with an abrupt change of tone.

‘No,’ Garry said. ‘Haven’t read it yet. Why?’

‘A woman was raped in the hotel! Right while we were partying! Incredible!’

‘In the Metropole?’ Denise said.

‘Yes! In a bedroom. Can you believe it?’

‘Great,’ she said. ‘Terrific to know your caring husband is getting shit-faced while his wife’s in bed alone, with a rapist at large.’

‘What did it say in the paper?’ Garry said, ignoring the comment.

‘Not much – just a few lines.’

‘Don’t look so guilty, darling,’ Denise said. ‘You couldn’t keep it up long enough to rape a flea.’

Maurice busied himself with his chopsticks, lifting strands of duck on to his pancake.’

‘Unless of course she was wearing some high – ouch!’ she cried out.

Garry had kicked her hard under the table. Silencing her.

Saturday 27 December

Rachael was beyond caring about the pain she was in. Her wrists, behind her back, were numb from cold as she sawed, desperately, back and forward against the sharp rim of the fuel can spout. Her bum was numb and a sharp, cramping pain shot down her right leg every few moments. But she ignored it all. Just sawing. Sawing. Sawing in utter desperation.

It was desperation that kept her going. Desperation to get free before he came back. Desperation for water. Desperation for food. Desperation to speak to her parents, to hear their voices, to tell them she was OK. She was crying, shedding tears as she sawed, writhed, wriggled, struggled.

Then, suddenly, to her utter joy, the gap between her wrists widened a fraction. She could feel the bonds slackening. She sawed even harder and now they were becoming slacker by the second.

Then her hands were free.

Almost in disbelief, she moved them further and further apart in the darkness, as if they might suddenly be propelled back together and she would wake to find it was all an illusion.

Her arms ached terribly, but she did not care. Thoughts were racing through her mind.

I’m free.

He’s going to come back.

My phone. Where’s my phone?

She needed to phone for help. Except, she realized, she did not know where she was. Could they locate you from where your phone was? She didn’t think so. Which meant all she could tell them, until she got out of the door and found her bearings, was that she was in a van in a garage somewhere in Brighton or Hove, perhaps.

He might come back at any moment. She needed to free her legs. In the darkness she felt the area around her for her phone, her bag, anything. But there was just slimy, stinky diesel oil. She reached forward, to her ankles, and felt the PVC tape around them, wound so tight it was as hard as a plaster cast. Then she reached up to her face, to see if she could free her mouth and at least shout for help.

But would that be smart?

The tape was just as tight around her mouth. She got a grip on it with difficulty, her fingers slippery with the diesel oil, and tore it off, almost oblivious to the pain in her urgency. Then she tried to get a grip on an edge of the tape around her legs, but her fingers were shaking so much she couldn’t find one.

Panic rose.

Must escape.

She tried to get to her feet but, with them bound together, at her first attempt she fell over sideways, striking her forehead hard on something. Moments later she felt liquid trickle down into her eye. Blood, she guessed. Snorting air, she rolled over, sat back against the side of the van and then, trying to grip the floor with her bare feet, began pushing herself up the side. But her feet kept slipping on the damned diesel oil, which had turned the floor into a skating rink.

She scrabbled around until she found the hessian she had been lying on, then put her feet on that and tried again. This time she got more grip. Steadily, she began to rise. She made it all the way up on to her feet, her head striking the roof of the van. Then, totally disoriented by the pitch darkness, she fell sideways with a jarring crash. Something slammed into her eye with the force of a hammer.

Saturday 3 January

There was a ping from the data unit on the dashboard. It startled Yac, who was parked up in a meter bay on the blustery seafront, close to Brighton Pier, drinking a mug of tea. His 11 p.m. mug of tea. He was actually ten minutes late drinking it, because he had been so absorbed reading the newspaper.

He looked at the screen. It was a call from the dispatcher that read:

China Garden rest. Preston St. 2 Pass. Starling. Dest. Roedean Cresc.

The China Garden restaurant was just around the corner. He knew the destination. He could visualize it now, the way he could visualize every street and every dwelling in Brighton and Hove. Roedean Crescent sat high up above the cliffs to the east of the city. All the houses were big, detached and individual, with views out across the Marina and the Channel. Rich people’s homes.