Death Bed (3 page)

G
eraldine had been to the office in Hendon, getting her bearings. Usually acute with people, the faces she encountered passed in a haze, she was so excited to be joining the Met and so exhausted from the strain of moving. The buildings looked more like a quadrangle of four-storey flats constructed around a playground than a police headquarters, with four blocks surrounding the central parade ground used in the passing out ceremony for recruits. Geraldine had been kitted out with a desk, a computer and a phone, minimal but sufficient for her needs. Working in cramped conditions didn’t bother her. She was used to it and anyway, the less time she spent gazing at a computer screen the better, as far as she was concerned. All the same, sitting at her own desk in the Homicide and Serious Crime Command in London for the first time was a thrill, especially as the inspector who shared the room with her was on leave, so she had the office to herself.

The equity on her flat in Kent hadn’t amounted to much but with her pay rise and the money she had inherited from her mother’s estate she had been able to get a mortgage on the flat she wanted, just off Upper Street in Islington. It was a glorious summer’s day and she abandoned her unpacking to spend the morning exploring the area on foot. She stumbled across a market full of pricey curios and antiques that looked authentic, rails of retro dresses and accessories on the pavement, and boutiques stuffed with amazing and wonderful garments of gorgeous fabrics: velvet, silk, tulle and net decorated with pearls and costume jewellery, splashes of brilliant colour. She could have spent hours looking around.

Controlling an urge to linger in the market she moved on and discovered Highbury Fields, a series of grassy plots bordered with trees, the pathway thronged with pedestrians, joggers, runners and cyclists. Everyone she saw looked young and healthy, enjoying the sunshine. Peaceful and open, it was a different world to the busy streets beyond Highbury Circle where the roads were jammed with traffic, the pavements packed with people rushing past. She turned and walked back to emerge opposite Highbury and Islington Station where she crossed the busy junction back into Upper Street. On the opposite side of the road was a row of elegant residential houses, half concealed behind railings and trees. She walked on past shops, hair salons, a pub on the corner of Islington Street, a Japanese restaurant. The shops gave way to blocks of flats as she walked on towards Angel, past the large white town hall and Islington Museum where cafes spilled tables, chairs and blackboards onto the pavement, giving the street a Mediterranean air. Tired of walking, she sat outside a café drinking coffee and soaking up the atmosphere.

‘This is my home now,’ she told herself, but she felt as though she was on holiday in Italy or France.

Leaving the café, she bought a few groceries and walked slowly back to her flat, past white and brick terraced houses with elegant arched windows and narrow balconies with wrought iron railings. The flat in Waterloo Gardens had appealed to Geraldine as soon as she saw it. The ground floor of the building was occupied by two businesses: a flooring company with a cheerful red awning, and an internet firm concealed behind mirrored windows. The first and second floors of the block were private flats accessible only through tall metal gates opened with a remote control or a keypad. Inside the security gates was a car park for residents and the entrance to the flats. Geraldine’s flat had two small bedrooms, one of which she would use as an office, an L-shaped kitchen and dining area, a living room and small bathroom. It was perfect for her.

At first she had appreciated having time to settle in and roam around in her new surroundings, but after a couple of days a familiar boredom seized her. Work gave her a sense of purpose, a distraction from the sense of emptiness that dogged her. Sorting out her belongings reminded her of sifting through her adopted mother’s possessions after she had died. It was pointless brooding about her adoption, but she had nothing else to occupy her thoughts beyond arranging for the gas and electricity to be connected, and sending off letters and emails registering her new address. She’d heard of twins separated at birth who felt something had been missing all their lives, and wondered if she had a twin somewhere. It was possible. Certainly she might have siblings or at least a half-brother or sister.

She had distanced herself from the area where the truth about her adoption had been kept from her for so long, but she couldn’t banish it from her mind. She would have to return to the adoption agency at some point to find out more about her birth mother. All she knew was her name, Milly Blake, and her approximate date of birth. On her last visit to the agency, her social worker had shown Geraldine a letter in which her mother had refused contact with the daughter she had given away at birth. Now Geraldine wanted to take another look at it, because she thought there had been an address on the letter. Trained to recall such details, she was furious with herself for not being able to remember it clearly.

She sat in her London flat staring at a faded photograph, all that her unknown mother had left her.

D
ouggie took the car to Jack’s, avoiding the main roads and junctions with traffic lights where he knew there were cameras. It never did any harm to be careful and Douggie had been in the business for a long time. He was a survivor. Whistling, he spun the wheel and pulled the sun visor down. It was a beautiful day but he kept the roof up, just in case. There were a few coppers who just might recognise him if he was unlucky and Douggie wasn’t one to take risks. Far better to keep a low profile.

As he drove in Jack gave him a nod to let him know there was a space round the back, away from prying eyes. Douggie got out and Jack walked over, smiling.

‘Nice set of wheels,’ he said, sizing the car up. If he’d been a cartoon character, dollar signs would have lighted up in his eyes.

‘What’s it to be, Douggie?’

‘A quick demolition, mate, no questions asked.’

‘Well there’s a surprise.’

They both laughed and Douggie tossed Jack the key.

‘Seems a pity, mind,’ Jack said, walking round the car.

Douggie didn’t answer. They both knew the car was too hot to keep.

‘But leave it with me. I’ll have her stripped and gone in no time.’

‘Cheers.’

‘A bloke called up asking for you,’ Jack said as they walked back across the yard together.

Douggie was on his guard at once.

‘What bloke?’

Jack shrugged.

‘He didn’t give his name. He wasn’t asking about you specifically, mind. He was just after someone to get rid of a car for him. I said he could bring it here but he said he wanted something else. Something more definite, he said. Whatever that means.’

‘Who was he?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Well why did you tell him about me if you don’t know who he was?’

‘Don’t lose any sleep over it. All I told him was to go to the King’s Head and ask for Douggie.’

‘But you don’t know who he was. Shit, he could’ve been anyone.’

‘He wasn’t a copper, if that’s what’s worrying you. He was way too posh for that.’

‘Posh? What’s some posh bloke want with me?’

Jack shook his head with a grin, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together suggestively.

‘Just because a bloke talks posh, it doesn’t follow he’s going to be loaded,’ Douggie pointed out, rattled that Jack had mentioned his name. ‘What did you go and give him my name for?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You just said you told him to ask for me at the pub.’

‘Yes, but I only said Douggie. There must be lots of guys called Douggie knocking about. Common as muck you are, mate.’

He laughed and slapped Douggie on the back.

‘Don’t worry about it. You’re alright.’

‘I suppose,’ Douggie agreed half-heartedly.

He took the bus back and nipped into the pub for a quick pint. He wasn’t in the mood for serious drinking, but it was on his way home and he had a pocket stuffed with cash so it was daft not to stop for a bit.

‘Someone’s been in here asking for you,’ the landlord told him. ‘Smart looking geezer.’

‘Who was he?’

In familiar surroundings, with a pint in his hand, Douggie was interested rather than nervous.

‘I’ve no idea. I never saw him before. He’s not here now. He left straight away, didn’t even stop for a drink.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told him he might catch you later.’

‘What did he look like then?’

The landlord shrugged.

‘I didn’t notice his face. He was wearing a hood.’

‘I thought you said he was smart?’

‘It was the way he spoke. He had an upper class accent.’

‘Well, I’ll be back this evening then. Perhaps he’ll turn up again.’

‘Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.’

Douggie waited in the pub all evening but the man with the posh voice never showed up.

* * * * * * *

Lily sprawled in front of the telly with an apple and a packet of crisps. She was starving so she went out to Highbury Corner where the shops were open till late. Not having grown up in a city, she wasn’t comfortable out on her own on the streets at night and hurried into Budgens, the first food shop she passed.

‘I bought us some pastries,’ she called out as she opened the front door.

The flat was dark and silent.

‘Donna?’

There was no answer.

She settled herself in front of the television again and scoffed both pastries. It served Donna right. She had abandoned Lily to make her own way home from the pub in Camden the previous evening, even though she knew very well that Lily had only lived in London for a few months and was nervous about travelling on the tube by herself at night. Lily supposed her flatmate must have picked up a bloke in the bar on Friday. Now she was stuck in the flat, too nervous to go out by herself. She didn’t have any other friends in London. Donna was fun and knew cool places to go, and didn’t seem to mind Lily tagging along. On the contrary, she usually paid for Lily’s entrance as well. She was generous like that, a good friend, or so Lily had thought.

She watched a film with Hugh Grant, and nibbled her way through the large bar of chocolate she had bought to share with her flatmate. It was unlike Donna to go off without saying anything, but they had only been sharing a flat for a couple of months and Lily didn’t really know her very well. Obviously Donna must be well off, because she had bought a flat overlooking Highbury Fields. Donna had said she needed to let out the spare room to help pay her mortgage, but she seemed to have plenty of cash to throw around. Lily suspected the real reason Donna wanted a tenant was for the company. When Lily had admitted she could no longer afford the rent and her share of the bills, Donna had told her not to worry about the bills.

‘I like you, Lily. I like having you live here. You can forget about the bills for now and just pay the rent.’

‘Oh my God, Donna, are you sure?’

‘Yes. Don’t worry, it’s really not a problem.’

‘But - ’

‘It’s only money. And you’re such help around the flat.’

Lily looked at her watch. It was half past ten on Saturday night and she was sitting at home wondering what to do while life passed her by. She tried Donna’s phone again but there was no answer. She imagined Donna going out and forgetting all about her dull flatmate. It was awkward because she couldn’t have a go at Donna as long as she was living in her flat paying a very low rent, but that was no excuse for Donna to take advantage of her, dropping her when she no longer wanted her company. She should have said something. A brief call, ‘Sorry, I’m going out with friends tonight,’ would have shown some respect.

Lily did her best to ignore the possibility that something terrible might have happened, but although she tried to reassure herself that Donna must have gone home with a man, she couldn’t help worrying. What if Donna had been mugged or raped? She lay awake in bed listening to the plumbing creaking and rumbling ominously in the darkness, and wished she had never come to London.

S
uspended in pain, Donna had lost all notion of time.

‘Let me die, please let me die,’ she whispered but couldn’t hear her own voice, aware only of pain pulsing through her brain.

Sudden light dazzled her and she closed her eyes. When she opened them the man was standing above her. He reached down to stuff something into her parched mouth, choking her. ‘Slow down. What do you think you’re doing? Do I have to teach you how to eat?’

Tears slid from the corners of her eyes as she understood that he was angry, but the dry bread was like sandpaper in her dry mouth and she struggled to swallow.

‘Here. Drink this.’

She recognised the chipped white cup in his hand and opened her mouth. Leaning down he put his arm around her shoulders and she groaned as he raised her head off the pillow. He held the cup to her lips and she gulped the chilly water.

‘Someone ought to teach you some manners. I gave you something to eat. You were hungry, weren’t you?’

He dropped her back down on the bed and she fell with a jolt. Pain shot across her neck and shoulders and she fought against crying out.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘Yes. I was hungry.’

‘So? What do you say?’

‘Thank you,’ she muttered. ‘Thank you for the food. Thank you.’

‘That’s better.’

He turned away from her. ‘No,’ she called out. ‘Don’t go. Stay here, please. I want to know what’s going on.’

‘Nothing’s going on.’

She took a deep breath and gagged at the horrible smell in the room.

‘Please. I can’t stay here. I’ll die if I stay here. Let me go.’

‘You’re not going to die.’

‘You can’t keep me here. Let me go.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘Why not? What do you want with me?’

The man didn’t answer. She turned her head slightly to follow him with her eyes. He walked over to the far wall where she could make out irregularly shaped objects lining the shelves, all creamy beige in colour. She couldn’t tell what they were.

‘Let me go,’ she begged again. ‘Why are you keeping me here? What am I doing here? It’s a mistake. It must be a mistake.’

She was talking to herself as much as to him.

‘What is all that?’

He turned to look at her.

‘I was wondering when you were going to wake up to what’s here, in this room, right in front of you. I’m surprised you haven’t asked me about it before now.’

‘What is it?’

She was curious in spite of her pain and trepidation.

‘This,’ he waved his arm in a circle, ‘is a collection so precious no one could put a value on it. It’s a collection from life.’

He selected an object and held it up in front of her: it took her a second to realise that it was the inverted top of a human skull.

‘That’s horrible,’ she blurted out, with sudden recklessness. ‘Is that what makes the room stink so badly? You should chuck them all out.’

He strode across the room and glared down at her. For a second she thought he was going to hit her as she lay there, powerless to avoid his blows. She closed her eyes and heard his voice raised in agitation.

‘You don’t understand. How could you? Some of these items are thousands of years old. When you’re dead and gone, while you are rotting, they’ll still be here, unchanged.’

He returned to the shelves, picked up a carved object and gazed at it reverently.

‘Look at this.’

‘You’re crazy,’ she stammered, too frightened to be cautious.

His lips curled as he approached the bed and held the thing in front of her face so she could see it close up. The handle was about a foot long, made of what appeared to be light coloured wood, pine perhaps, pitted and pock marked, the ends slightly bent. The middle of the shaft was carved in a spiral pattern. Thin strips of leather had been threaded through a hole at one end and plaited into a single strand, which then divided into two strands each again divided into four.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he demanded, his face suddenly alive with excitement.

She stared at him in horrified fascination.

‘It’s a whip!’ he told her, raising it triumphantly above his head. Donna whimpered and cowered back against the stinking sheets.

‘Don’t hurt me,’ she whispered.

He seemed amused by her reaction and stroked her arm very gently with the strands of the whip. It tickled, tan leather showing pale against her dark skin.

‘You don’t imagine I’d use this on you? You’re the one who’s insane.’

His bark of laughter startled her.

‘Do you have any idea how precious this is? This whip comes from America where it belonged to Chief Sitting Bull himself. He had it fashioned from the thigh bone of an enemy.’

He held it up again, admiring it against the light.

‘From the thigh bone of an enemy?’ she repeated. She wasn’t sure if this was really happening.

The man replaced the whip carefully on the shelf and returned to loom above her.

‘I wouldn’t soil this precious object on a filthy bitch like you. That’s a disgusting idea.’

Spit sprayed from his thin lips; she felt a globule of saliva slide across her cheek, but couldn’t move her hand to wipe it away.

There was a click and the light went out. Donna rolled her eyes frantically from side to side. She couldn’t bear to be left alone again in darkness that was never silent. The chains holding her clanked when she stirred, the bed creaked beneath her and sometimes she heard pattering of raindrops on the skylight, or tiny animals scuttling past. The hideous stench became overpowering and her aching muscles tensed as a fresh sound shuffled softly and steadily across the floor. ‘What are you doing?’ she croaked.

The man didn’t answer. The noise stopped and she heard the door open. With a wrench of her neck she turned to look. Silhouetted against the light from the stairs the man was leaning over, dragging a black bin bag across the threshold.

‘What is it? What’s in there?’

Still he didn’t answer.

‘Where are you going? You can’t leave me here. Please, don’t leave me here.’

The door closed behind his bent figure, leaving Donna in darkness. Even with her eyes tightly shut, she couldn’t ignore the shadowy objects on the shelves. They grinned at her, as her mind spiralled out of control with fear and hunger until she thought she would go mad.