Peter James - Dead Man’s Footsteps

‘Hey!’ she shouted, running down towards them, livid. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

They carried on winching up the car, which moved steadily forward, jerking along the ramp. As Lorraine approached, the taller one stuffed a grimy hand into his front pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘Are you Mrs Wilson?’

Uneasy, suddenly, her confidence eroding, she replied, ‘Yes?’

‘Your husband is Mr Ronald Wilson?’

‘Yes, he is.’ Her defiance was returning.

He showed her the documents. Then, his tone softening, almost apologetic, he said, ‘Inter-Alliance Autofinance. I’m afraid we are repossessing this vehicle.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘No payments have been made for six months. Mr Wilson’s in breach of the terms.’

‘There must be a mistake.’

‘I’m afraid not. Your husband’s ignored three warning letters that have been sent to him. Under the terms of the hire purchase, the company is legally entitled to repossess this vehicle.’

Lorraine burst into tears as the rear wheels of the blue BMW went over the top of the ramp and on to the flatbed. ‘Please – you’ve seen the news today. My husband is there. He’s in – in New York. I’m trying to get hold of him. I’m sure we can sort this out.’

‘He’ll have to speak to the company tomorrow, madam.’ There was some sympathy in the man’s voice, but he was firm.

‘Look – I – please leave the car here tonight.’

‘I’ll give you a number you can call tomorrow,’ he said.

‘But – but – I’m won’t have a car. How am I supposed to manage? I – I’ve got things in the car. CDs. Parking vouchers. My sunglasses.’

He gestured. ‘Go ahead. You can take those.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Thanks a million.’

Shaking in terror, Abby watched the creeping shadow, heard the squeak of a trainer on the shiny hall floorboards, followed by the rustle of paper.

Then Ricky appeared.

He stood in the doorway and leaned casually against the jamb, his leather motorcycling jacket unzipped, a grimy white T-shirt beneath. He had several days’ growth of stubble and his hair was greasy, and looked as if it had been flattened down on his head by the helmet. He seemed different from the last time she had seen him. He no longer had the air of a relaxed surfer dude, but one of a haunted man. He had aged in just a couple of months. He had lost weight and his face was haggard, with black rims and heavy bags beneath his eyes. He smelled rank.

Christ, how had she ever fancied him?

He was smiling, as if reading her mind.

But it wasn’t a smile she knew. Not a Ricky smile. It was more like a mask he had pulled on. She caught a glimpse of his watch. It was 10.50. Had she been unconscious for nearly four hours?

Then she saw the Jiffy bag. He held it up, nodded and turned it upside down, allowing the contents, Friday’s Times and Guardian newspapers, to fall out and on to the floor.

‘It’s good to see you again, Abby,’ he said. His voice wasn’t smiling.

She tried to speak, to ask him to untie her, but all she could do was make a muffled sound from her throat.

‘Glad you feel the same! I’m just a bit confused about why you want to courier someone old newspapers in a Jiffy bag.’ He looked at the address. Laura Jackson. 6 Stable Cottages, Rodmell. ’ Old friend of yours? But why would you want to send her old newspapers? Doesn’t make a huge amount of sense to me. Unless of course I’m missing something. Am I missing something? Perhaps they can’t get newspapers delivered in Rodmell?’

She stared at him.

He tore the bag in half. Fluff poured out. Then, being careful to take only small strips at a time, he ripped the rest of the bag apart. When he had finished, he shook his head and let the last piece fall to the floor. ‘I’ve read both the newspapers. No clues there either. But hey, none of that really matters now, does it?’

He locked on to her eyes, staring her out, still smiling. Enjoying himself.

Abby was thinking fast. She knew what he wanted. She also knew that to get it, he was going to have to let her speak. She racked her petrified mind, thinking desperately. But she wasn’t getting any traction.

He disappeared for a few moments, returning with her large blue suitcase, and laid it down on the floor, in full view of the door. Then he knelt and unzipped it and raised the lid.

‘Nice packing,’ he said, staring at the contents. ‘Very neat and tidy.’ His voice turned bitter. ‘But I suppose you’ve had plenty of practice at packing and running in your life.’

Again his grey eyes locked on to hers. And she saw something in them that she had never seen before. Something new. There was darkness in them. A real darkness. As if his soul was dead.

He began to unpack, one item at a time. First he took a warm knitted jumper that was folded on top of her wash and make-up bags. He unfolded it unhurriedly, checking it carefully, turning it inside out, then, when he was satisfied, he threw it over his shoulder.

She wanted to pee badly. But she was determined not to humiliate herself in front of him. Nor to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. Instead she held on and watched him.

He was taking his time, being incredibly, agonizingly slow. Almost as if he sensed that need she had.

She could see from his watch it was almost twenty minutes by the time he had finished unpacking, discarding the last item, her travel hair dryer, which he sent skidding down the corridor, banging against the skirting board.

All the time she kept trying to move. Nothing gave. Nothing. Her wrists and her ankles were hurting like hell. Her bum was numb, and she was having to clench her knees together to fight the need to pee.

Without a word, he pushed the suitcase aside and walked away down the corridor. She had a raging thirst, but that was the least of her problems. She had to get free. But how?

She peed. At least she was still able to do that, he hadn’t taped that up as well. Then she felt better. Exhausted, her head was throbbing, but now she could think a little more clearly.

If she could get him to take the tape off she could at least talk to him, try to reason with him.

Maybe even cut a deal.

Ricky was a businessman.

But that would depend. How hard he looked.

He was coming back now. Holding a tumbler of whisky on the rocks in his hand and smoking a cigarette. The sweet, rich smell tantalized her. She would have given almost anything for just one drag. And a drink. Of anything.

He rattled the ice cubes, then his nostrils twitched. He stepped forward and reached past her. She heard a clank, then the lavatory flushed and she felt spots of cold water splashing her backside.

‘Dirty cow,’ he said. ‘You ought to flush the toilet when you use it. You like to flush other people down the toilet.’ He flicked ash on to the floor. ‘Got yourself a nice pad here. Doesn’t look much from the street.’ He paused and reflected. ‘But on the other hand, I don’t suppose my van looks much from up here.’

The word hit her like a punch. Van. That old white van? The one that had not moved? Had she been so stupid that she’d not thought about that possibility?

She tried pleading with her eyes. But all he did was look back, mockingly, drink more whisky, smoke the cigarette down to the butt and trample it on the floor.

‘Right, Abby, you and I are going to have a little chat. Very simple. I ask you questions, you move your eyes right for yes, left for no. Any part of that you don’t understand?’

She tried to shake her head, but couldn’t. She could move it only a fraction to the right and left.