A Woman's Place (58 page)

‘What in God's name is going on? Who was that?'

George could not keep the fear from his voice. Behind them a street door opened. A slim young man in shirtsleeves emerged, wineglass in hand, and yelped in disbelief at the mangled BMW. Soon he was joined by his guests and a few onlookers disturbed by the noise who gesticulated at the car. None mentioned Elaine. It appeared no one else had seen the incident.

Her left shoe, plain, black and low-heeled, lay in the gutter. George positioned himself over it and bent down swiftly as if picking up a dropped coin. When he straightened up the shoe was in his hand and he hid it under his coat. He turned to Karen, who stood stock-still and open-mouthed.

‘You got the key?' he whispered. She nodded. ‘Upstairs, then. Quickly. Hush now.'

Without a word she did as she was told. In the flat he closed the door and reached for the phone. She noted dully that he seemed to know his way about.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Calling the police. Your mother's in some kind of trouble.'

Karen sat down heavily on the sofa. ‘Oh, my God.'

The girl's face was white. George decided she had to be has second priority, not his first. He began to talk rapidly in a low authoritative tone into the phone.

The van, from what she could tell, appeared to have been parked in an open yard. Elaine heard the footsteps move away, then the sound of a heavy metal object being dragged across and a loud clang, as if a big gate had been closed.

The footsteps passed back and forth in the yard. The man was muttering to himself. A
wooden door banged open, shut, twice. A light was switched on – the yard must be next to a house. Minutes passed. She wondered miserably if he intended to leave her inside the unheated van the whole eight. Despite her resolve she was shaking. Held before her as if in supplication her bound hands were turning blue. She agitated them up and down to bring the life back into her fingers but to no avail. The cord cut into the flesh behind her knees and reduced the circulation there, too. Her captor need have no worry about her leaping up and trotting off: her legs would not have carried her.

The door handle began to turn. In panic she shrank away, dragging her numbed legs after her, as if to hide among the sacks. Then the doors were flung wide open and the man stood framed in the glare from a window which left his face in shadow. His hunched figure seemed larger than before, and more powerful. Elaine strained to see his expression, while keeping herself away from the light. She sensed he was scrutinising his booty with interest. He reached to her face and with some gentleness removed the tape, though she whimpered as hair came away with it. Then he nodded in satisfaction.

‘We've made it. Well done, Elaine.'

It had to start now, the deception, if ever. She took a deep breath but her voice quavered.

‘Well done
you
, you mean. What do I call you, anyway?'

‘You can call me Bob.'

The way he spoke implied that it was not his name, but it would do. She wondered if he could manufacture a personality as neatly as a name, and if so whether he would be kind, or crazy, or vicious – or simply mad. And whether she could cope, whichever it turned out to be.

He was not young. A few years older than herself, mid-forties, at a guess. A faint scar disfigured the forehead and gave him a rascally, distorted air – or maybe that was her imagination: most people wouldn't spot it. The hair was thin and grey but had been cut recently. He was
clean-shaven
, more or less: the chin was covered in light stubble as if he had shaved very early that morning but not since. It was as if he knew how to be dapper when he wanted but had chosen not to be, perhaps in an effort to go unremarked.

He reached out a hand to help her. Clumsily she shuffled forward to the opening, then blushed as she realised her skirt had begun to ride up over her knees. She halted.

He looked at her, puzzled. ‘Come on, out. You can't stay in there for ever.'

Modesty would not be in order, it seemed. With another wriggle she was sitting on the edge of the van, legs bound, thighs exposed. A broad ladder snaked down her tights. Bob stood in front of her, one hand on the door handle, the other outstretched. His gaze fell on her legs. A sigh escaped him and he made as if to pull the skirt down but stopped himself. Then he looked longingly at her.

‘Not yet. Not here. But thank you.'

With a thump her feet were on the ground and she tried to stand. The ankle throbbed and gave way so that she stumbled. She made herself laugh lightly.

‘Sorry. I think you had better untie my legs or I won't be able to move.'

His voice was doubtful. ‘You won't try to run away, will you? We have such a lot to talk about.'

‘I won't.' The state she was in, nearly fainting, he could have prevented her flight quite easily. It was not worth contemplating. For the first time the knife was not visible but she had no doubt it was close by.

He bent and fiddled with the flex but it took several attempts to untangle his handiwork. His hands felt clammy and awkward. As the ligature relaxed the blood rushed into her cramped muscles and gave her pins and needles. To reduce the discomfort she rose gingerly on tiptoe a couple of times.

Mutely she held out her hands to be untied but Bob ignored them. ‘Right.' He indicated the back door to the house. ‘Inside. Sharpish, and don't make a sound.'

It was a Victorian property, tall and narrow. The yard was only big enough for the van, which would be hidden from the road by high walls and what she could now see was a large metal sliding
barrier to the road. The house's guttering hung loose; an old water barrel lay tipsily on its side. A broken window-box held a solitary geranium. The property had an unloved air, as if over the years it had been occupied by many different souls, none of whom had wanted to be there; nor had any left a mark save the aberrant individual who had once in hope planted the box. The sole light came from the unshaded ground-floor window. There was no number on the peeling paint of the back door.

‘This your place?' Elaine kept her voice casual.

‘In a manner of speaking. Don't ask too many questions.' He seized her arm and began to hustle her inside.

‘No, no. I was admiring it,' Elaine tried, but he did not respond. The door closed behind them.

The back room was a spacious but semi-derelict kitchen which patently had not been renovated for decades. At least it was warm – a gas stove in a corner was switched on. On the drainer several washed mugs and plates had been placed upside-down. A black bin was full to overflowing. A couple of torn tea towels hung over a string line which stretched from a hook in one wall to another. By the stained sink sat handtowels and, odd in its newness, a bar of soap. A wooden table and several rickety chairs made up the rest of the furniture. Gratefully Elaine sank into the seat he indicated. Turning his back briefly Bob busied himself with an old electric kettle and two of the mugs.

‘You like your coffee black with a sweetener, don't you, Elaine?'

She was startled. ‘Yes. How do you know?'

He snickered. ‘I know a lot about you.' Soon the hot drink was placed before her. She reached out for it with her numbed hands: a sip would revive her. But the liquid scalded her tongue and she grimaced. It would have been easier had she not been bound, she gestured. With a grunt he rose, untied her, took away her coat but then quickly restored the bonds. She was to be in the most obvious way possible his prisoner.

Suddenly she felt very dirty. At the same time other needs were arising.

‘Bob, is there a bathroom I can use?'

His eyes flickered. He was obviously wary but said nothing. With a curt gesture he rose and beckoned her to come with him through the hall and up narrow unlit stairs. The climb made her pant and both head and ankle began to throb again. At the top he jerked his head towards an open door: judged by the odour from behind it, it was what she sought. He turned his back, but did not move to return downstairs.

What the hell is this
? her inner voice demanded as she shuffled inside the smelly cubicle and managed to sit. A new roll of soft pink toilet paper hung incongruously on a piece of raffia tied to a nail in the crumbling wall. It came to her that Bob had attended to certain key details as well as he could. The entire exercise had the hallmarks of careful preparation. But how far would he go? To her relief he stayed outside but held the door handle so that a slit of two inches remained. When she looked up she caught a glimpse of one eye at the crack. She bowed her head.

What are you doing, asking him politely if you can go to the loo? And letting him stand there, peeking through the gap? See, he's at it now.
She started up: the glinting eye disappeared and his bulk shambled a few feet away.

I'm staying alive, that's what
, she told herself firmly. The realisation was grim and basic.
At any point he could have stuck that knife between my ribs or slit my throat
. The most dangerous time in any kidnapping, she recalled, was the first few minutes: that was when tension ran highest. From there on, the longer she could keep her captor in a good humour, the better her chances of making it. At any rate, that was the theory.

It must have been an hour since she had opened her own front door. She raised her arms to see her watch: past eleven. With difficulty she wiped herself and struggled back to decorum.

He was on the landing. ‘I must wash my hands,' she said firmly. ‘Is there a sink or bathroom?'

‘You don't need it,' he responded gruffly and started to go downstairs; but his unguarded glance had shown her the small room on the other side of the landing. It could be no more dire than the toilet and its use might give her a little privacy.

‘Yes, I think so.' He turned, a flash of anger on his face. She took a breath and kept her voice as even and neutral as possible. ‘It's different for women, Bob. I can see where it is. Is there soap and a towel in there?'

‘Don't budge. I'll have to get them from the kitchen.'

He clattered down and could be heard rummaging. She stared hastily around. The hall lamp was high up and broken; an extended ladder would have been needed to fix it, which was presumably beyond Bob's abilities. The place smelled dank. Wallpaper peeled from the roof line downwards, its raddled surface rain-stained and yellow. She wondered if this was a short-life house, let to a housing association maybe, one with more ambition than money. Perhaps nobody knew the house was in use. If that were so, then a check on the electoral register would reveal nothing. She conjectured with increasing anxiety that nobody was slated to pay the council tax; that no landlord bothered to collect the rent. Then in credit lists only old dead names would appear against this address, noted for minor infringements of hire purchase long ago. At the worst, officially nobody lived here. Her spirits sank.

Bob returned, a clean towel over one arm, a fresh bar of Imperial Leather in his hand. Her favourite soap. It was creepy – as if anything more could make her fearful over and above what had happened so far. With muttered thanks she took the proffered items and entered the ancient bathroom.

Again he was outside the door and would not let her close it. ‘There isn't enough water for a bath. Bit limited, this place. But in the morning I'll boil the kettle for you.'

In the morning?

Slowly she soaped her hands and face. That was hours away. What did he plan to do next? How was the time to pass? She was exhausted, but could not imagine sleeping in this strange place, in captivity. Did he mean to sit up all night and talk?

That might be the best. Methodically she rinsed her face, shook the drops of moisture as well as she could from her hands and dried herself. The bath was grimy but dry, so she left the towel neatly on its side.

‘Good job there isn't any hot water – I'd come out of that bath dirtier than I went in,' she joked as she emerged.

That was a mistake. His voice took on a grating edge again. ‘That's the best I can do. Anyway, it's not important.'

She paused enquiringly on the top step. ‘It's late, Bob. I'm very tired. Where do I sleep?'

A cunning glint came into his eyes and he began to rub his hands. ‘That's up to you. I meant to get a bedroom ready but there wasn't time. There's a basement. Nicer than up here. It has a heater. I've made up a bed for you.'

As she followed him down the stairs a surge of mixed terrors swelled and threatened to unbalance her. She held on to the loose banisters with both hands, still bound. The inner voice was speaking to her, urging her not to compromise herself. This was not a cosy domestic scene: she was not visiting one of the surlier of her constituents. This maniac had deprived her of her freedom and threatened her with a knife. There was no knowing what he might do next. She had to consider her options, and as rapidly as she could.

Escape might be a possibility now that her legs were unbound and sensation restored to them. Her ankle might give way again under pressure – she would have to watch that. Yet how? The front door, of which she had caught barely a glimpse, looked as if it hadn't been opened in years. A huge rusty bolt held it fast at the top. The lock had no key. Above it frosted windows were cracked and half of one pane was missing. But the wood was warped in places; might it be rotten?

The back door was no use. It led out into the yard which she had seen and knew to be well
secured. The brick wall might have been scaled with luck, but the sheer metal gate would be difficult without assistance even were her hands free.

The front room door was closed. Houses like these used to have a best room at the front, a parlour. The proud owners would overfill it with heavy horsehair furniture, antimacassars in place, a shiny coal scuttle on the Mack-leaded hearth; a room used only for Sundays, funerals and visits by wealthier relatives. Sometimes a large bay window straddled the bit of front garden, its window-ledge a repository of treasures to be exhibited to neighbours. Supposing one of the windows were broken or loose…?