Bolton, J. - Now You See Me

Except, maybe, the cold. It’s difficult not to think about cold when the pain of it is ever present, even when she sleeps. She has no sense of time, has no real idea how long she’s been here, but she knows there came a point when she stopped shivering and when moving her limbs became a struggle. Her world has become darkness and cold.

And soft, scrabbly noises. Scrapings and scratchings and tiny, mewling cries. Movement all around her. She wouldn’t have believed this cold, black, empty place could sustain life, but it does. And they’re getting bolder, the scratchy things. Creeping closer all the time. Maybe they’ve already worked out that she can’t move.

She tries to swallow and can’t. Even breathing isn’t easy any more. The first time she was left alone, she screamed until she could taste blood. And then duct tape was wrapped round the lower part of her face. When it was taken off, great handfuls of her hair had been ripped away with it. She hadn’t screamed again.

She has a sudden sense that the darkness has changed. It isn’t random any more. The darkness has taken on a purpose and that purpose is drawing closer.

‘You’re there, aren’t you?’ she whispers in the direction from which she might have heard something heavier than a scratch. ‘You’ve come back. I know you have.’

Another sound. Definitely a footstep this time.

‘I know why you’re doing this,’ says Joanna, and every word hurts. ‘I know about what you say my brother did to you and your sister.’

The movement has stopped.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Joanna quickly. ‘I didn’t mean that. I’m just scared. What he did to you, I mean. What my brother and his friends did to you.’

Another footstep, getting closer, and Joanna has a sense that she has to speak quickly. ‘What they did was terrible, I know that,’ she says. ‘They should never have been allowed to get away with it.’

A sound of fabric rustling. Someone is crouching just in front of her.

‘But it was nothing to do with me,’ says Joanna. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

Something cold brushes against her face. A sloshing sound. She can smell plastic. She tilts back her head and lets the water flow into her throat. It helps a bit. She pushes the bottle away with her mouth when she’s had enough. Her captor is very close. If Joanna’s hands weren’t strapped behind her back, she could reach out and touch the girl’s face.

‘Can I ask you something?’ asks Joanna.

For a second there is no reply, but she knows the other girl is still there. She can hear her breathing. Then, ‘Why didn’t I just kill the boys?’ a soft voice says. ‘Is that what you want to ask me?’

‘Yes,’ says Joanna, and feels guilty just for saying the words. Toby is her twin. She loves him more than she does her parents. Yet Toby is the reason she’s here.

‘How tall is your brother?’ the voice says. ‘Six one, six two? And he weighs about two hundred pounds? You’ve seen how big I am. There’s only one way I could kill a man of that size and that’s a bullet through the head from a distance.’

She stops and Joanna waits. Then she feels her captor moving closer.

‘Well,’ the girl whispers in her ear, ‘where’s the fun in that?’

85

WE LEFT THE HOTEL THE NEXT MORNING. I’D WANTED to leave immediately; Joesbury had insisted we stay the rest of the night. There was nothing in London that Dana and her team couldn’t do without us, he’d argued, and another night of no sleep would render both of us useless. As we approached the Severn Bridge his phone rang and he gestured for me to take it.

‘Lacey, it’s Dana.’

‘We’re just over two hours away,’ I said. ‘Depending on traffic. Is there any news?’

‘None of it good,’ she said. ‘Joanna Groves hasn’t been seen by her flatmate for two days. She assumed she’d gone away for the weekend, but she can’t be found anywhere.’

I turned to Joesbury and shook my head. He swore under his breath.

‘Lacey, I know what you told Mark last night,’ said Tulloch. ‘Now, listen to me, I don’t want you to worry about anything except helping us catch her. When this is all over, whatever happens, I’ll support you, I promise. So will Mark.’

‘Thank you,’ I managed.

‘Now you are our best chance,’ said Tulloch. ‘You know this woman. You’ll have a better idea than anyone what she’ll do next. It’s all up to you now. I’ll see you when you get back.’

She hung up and I replaced the phone in its holder. Tulloch was right, it was all up to me now. But she was wrong about seeing me. I wasn’t going back.

We reached London just before eleven. At Earls Court we dropped south towards the river. As we approached Vauxhall Bridge, my heartbeat started to race. Now or never.

‘Sir,’ I said, as we reached the summit, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to be sick. I think there are public loos at the Tube station. Can you stop?’

He glanced over, saw me sitting upright, one arm around my waist, the other hand at my mouth. He indicated and pulled over just before we left the bridge. I muttered thanks, grabbed my bag and jumped out of the car. Using my Oyster card to get past the ticket barrier, I turned the corner and was out of sight.

There are no public lavatories at Vauxhall Tube station. I jogged to the platform, praying there’d be a train going south before Joesbury realized I wasn’t coming back. The overhead indicator told me the next train was due in one minute.

Every second seemed to stretch, but at last I heard the rumble of the train’s engines and felt the rush of wind that always precedes them into stations. I travelled one stop to Stockwell and ran the few hundred metres to my flat. Fewer than ten minutes had passed since I’d left the car.

As I opened the door, I told myself that before I counted to a hundred I’d be out again. I raced round, grabbing my bag from the top of the wardrobe, gathering what else I’d need. Behind the door, there was the usual Saturday-morning delivery of mail-order flyers and official-looking envelopes. And a long, thin box, wrapped in brown paper. I didn’t have time to open it, but I tore the paper apart all the same.

Seeing what was inside cost me a few seconds. Then I left my flat for what would surely be the last time, grabbed my bike from its lock-up and set off.

86

AN HOUR LATER I SWITCHED MY MOBILE BACK ON AND called Joesbury. He answered on the first ring.

‘You had better have a fucking good explanation—’

‘Shut up and listen,’ I said. ‘Or I hang up.’

No response.

‘I’m going to save you some time,’ I said. ‘I’m just outside Waterloo Station. In twenty seconds I’m going to switch the phone off, take a train and disappear. There is absolutely no point in your trying to trace me.’

A second’s silence, then, ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘My career is over,’ I said, knowing that Joesbury would be instigating the trace as I spoke and scribbling notes to colleagues to get the nearest uniform here. ‘Any talk of damage limitation is just bullshit, so let’s cut to the chase.’

‘Which is?’

‘Joanna Groves is still alive,’ I said, turning away from the traffic.

‘How the fuck—’

‘Listen! The minute I know for certain where she is, or where Llewellyn is, I will call you, so keep your phone close. Until then, the best thing you can do for her is let me get on with it.’

I could almost hear a whole bunch of expletives bursting to get out of Joesbury’s mouth. Somehow he managed to keep it together. ‘Flint, we have spent weeks searching London’s underclass,’ he said in controlled tones. ‘She isn’t living on the streets any more, you won’t find her.’