Disgrace (38 page)

I march to the front door with Will at my heel.

“Wait!” Leon calls. “I’m coming with you!”

I nod my approval but don’t break my stride. In the taxi, Leon is busy getting dressed. I didn’t stop to wait but he bundled enough clothes together and came running from the building. Barefoot and sporting just his boxers but he was just in time to catch the taxi door as I went to slam it shut. I spend the time making some calls. I call my head of security, Patrick, to alert the authorities. Not sure what I am alerting them to but I insist some sort of call is made. I speak to the office manager at the Mission and confirm Sam never turned up for her interview and she didn’t call to explain why. My last call is to Daniel. I don’t even care if the guy is on extended paternity leave and has a new baby to contend with; all I care about is Sam.

The taxi slows enough for the red light on the door to change to green and I am out of the vehicle and taking the steps down to the bar two at a time. The door is wedged open and several men in paint splattered overalls are working in the room. Dust sheets cover the tables, chairs and the bar at the back of the room. The smell of wet paint is strong but the room looks nearly finished, other than the sheets. I check my phone again for the tracker signal. I’m definitely in the right place.

“Can I help you mate?” One of the painters, a big guy, more fat than fit, wanders over to us now that Will and Leon have joined me. They look just as confused as I feel.

“My girlfriend was here for lunch.” I say. His expression is comical as he looks around at the empty room amused at my statement. The place is clearly not ready to start trading.

“I don’t think so.” He gives a hearty laugh and his colleagues join in. I stiffen because there is fuck-all humour in this situation. I feel Will’s hand on my shoulder easing me back. I hadn’t even noticed how tight my fist was clenched.

“Do you mind if we have a look around?” Will smiles with an easy charm that isn’t remotely confrontational. I’m glad he’s here.

“Sure, I don’t see why not.” He nods and backs away to allow us into the room. I quickly walk through the main room and spend the next fifteen minutes checking every door, cupboard and room.
Nothing
. I run my hands through my hair in agitation. This fucking stinks. Leon and Will have both conducted their own search will equal fruitless results. The man approaches again.

“Find what you’re looking for?” He grins but it’s more taunting than malicious. I shake my head and let out a heavy breath.

“Not exactly but maybe the police will have more luck.” I reach for my phone.

“I’m sorry.” A young lad blurts out behind the big man in front of me. We all turn to look.

“You’re sorry about what Jay?” the big guy grumbles.

“It was on the floor I thought it was lost property.” He fumbles in his overalls, his face a picture of guilt and apology. He holds his hand out as far from his body as humanly possible. The shine from the platinum reflects the overhead lights and glimmers when he opens his fingers. Sam’s cuff rests in his flat palm. I close my eyes, and my body starts to shake. I feel Leon step around me and I open my eyes to see him take the cuff from the young lad.

“Did you see the girl…did you see the girl who wore this?” Leon holds the cuff up so everyone in the room could see. They all fall silent but slowly shake their heads. “It’s really important guys. If you saw her, you need to tell us,” he urges.

“Honestly, mate, we haven’t. I thought you were yanking my chain about lunch. We got here at five this afternoon to work overnight. The bar is supposed to open this weekend, but they haven’t even installed the kitchen that’s why I thought you were joking.” He gives out a light laugh but snaps his mouth shut when I fix him with my glare. “I’m sorry, man, no one was here when we got here and I didn’t know the lad had found anything until a minute ago.” I turn away and pinch the pressure that is knotting nicely at the bridge of my nose.

“Okay, we believe you.” Leon’s voice is firm and seems to ease the growing tension. No one likes to be accused of lying, even if one of them is technically a thief.

“Come on we’re wasting time.” I state flatly and leave the basement.

On the street, I draw in a deep breath that does nothing to calm my volatile emotions. I lean against the railings and open my phone to check for any news. There is nothing. Will is standing silently to one side, and Leon is staring at the window display of the gallery above the bar.

“She was here.” Will confirms but all I can do is nod. My phone buzzes, and I swipe to take Daniel’s call.

“Peitra boarded a flight to Auckland at six this evening. She is due to stop in Singapore, and I have contacted the local authorities to make sure she is put on the first flight back. But that is still thirteen hours until you will get to speak to her and double that before she lands back in the UK and you can see her face to face.”

“It might not be the best idea if I see her face to face.” I grit out through my locked jaw. “Thanks though.”

“Don’t mention it. I will have Patrick alert the airports. Can you send over your most recent picture?” I let out a bitter laugh that hurts like a bitch.

“Not the most recent no, but I do have one I can send. I’ll ping it over now.”

“Good.” He pauses and the silence is heavy. “We’ll find her, Jason.” His confidence goes some way to alleviating my worry, but it crashes once more with our next exchange. “What about her phone do you have a tracker on that?”

“It’s switched off or broken. Either way, it’s not working.” I look up to the sky and silently pray. Without any other information that is all I have.

“Ah…” His silence speaks volumes. It is a big ass haystack of a world and my little needle is out there somewhere. “We’ll find her, Jason.” His assertion is absolute as he ends the call.

I turn and lean on the railings next to Leon, his eyes are fixed on the intricate glass sculpture in the window. The door to the gallery jingles open with the sound of the bells hanging above in an old fashion cast iron loop. An elderly gentleman fumbles with his keys in the lock. He turns to face us and tips his felt hat.

“My display seems to be working well at least. If only that would lead to a sale or two.” He chuckles to himself and stands for a moment next to Leon, gazing at the display as we all are. “I did try and tempt a beautiful young lady earlier, she seemed to be just as enamoured as you gentlemen. But sadly no luck, just another window shopper.” He turns to walk away and Leon nudges me sharply in the ribs.

“Give me your phone.” He doesn’t wait but snatches it from my hand and pushes into the man’s face. The older man stumbles back a little but straighten and adjusts his glasses.

“Did she look like this?” Leon urges impatiently. The old man raises a bushy silver brow and chuckles.

“Well she did when she entered the bar.” He leans in to whisper. “But she looked rather the worse for wear when she left. If you know what I mean.” He taps his nose conspiratorially

“What
do you
mean?” I snap, startling him. He looks shocked at my sudden change in demeanour.

“Oh, forgive me. I meant no offence.” His cheeks pink beneath his thick, grey beard, and he looks embarrassed.

“None taken, but please explain what you meant.” I soften my voice. The last thing I need is him thinking
I’m
the dangerous person in this scenario.

“She had to be helped into the taxi. Well she was more carried actually come to think of it. Her head was terribly floppy. I just assumed she’s overindulged in the vino department.” He is about to chuckle again but one look in my eye and he wisely closes his mouth.

“And you didn’t think that strange…You didn’t think she might be in some sort of trouble?” Each word is spoken through an ever tightening jaw.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry, she was with the owner. A terribly nice man, very well spoken.” The old man waves his hand dismissively.

“His name?” My fingers are curled so tight I can feel the trickle of something warm as my nails puncture the skin of my palm.

“Mr Brookes-Hamilton, Richard to his friends.” The old man puffs his chest out with pride that he obviously considers himself in that honoured category.

“You didn’t happen to hear where they were going, did you?” My chest is tight and winded at the same time.

“I believe he said St Pancreas to the driver.” The old man’s eyes widen when they notice the slow drops of blood from my clenched fist.

“Fuck!” I curse to myself.

“Is that a problem?” Will steps up to me.

“We contacted the airports and docks but I doubt Daniel thought about the train. St Pancreas is the international station. If he gets her on a train she could end up in any number of European countries. Fuck!” I shout out to anyone in a five mile radius.

“Really sir, language.” The old man glowers at me. “Richard Brookes-Hamilton is a respectable gentleman. I am sure you are mistaken with your concern for the young lady.” His tone drips with disdain at my reaction to his ‘friend’.

“Language! There is not language to accurately do Richard Brookes whatever-his-name-is justice but let me try. He is the
worst
of men,
sir.”
I can feel myself lose my tentative grip on my manners. “Just because he can pronounce his vowels like Prince Charles doesn’t negate the fact that he is an abusive rapist, low life piece of shit.” I snarl. “And now that fucking cunt has my girlfriend.”

O
w, fuck my head, no my stomach…legs. I draw in a breath and cry out. No definitely my chest hurts the most because it is torture just to breathe. I squint to open my eyes, the room is painfully bright but I am just going to add that to my never ending list of agonies. The bright striplight overhead makes it hard to focus but it’s been like that every time I have started to regain consciousness. This time a least I feel more cognisant, less
high
but more nauseous. I am lying flat on a hard surface a few feet from the floor by the look of it. I try to sit up, but I have absolutely no strength. I peer down my body and can see several thick leather straps securing me to the bed. I can see the edge of my panties but I can’t make out that I am wearing much more. The bindings cross my body at my shoulders, breasts, hips, thighs and ankles. The surface I am lying on feels like a slab of glass encrusted concrete against my skin but I am going to assume it’s supposed to be a bed. I have certainly used it as such but I don’t know for how long.

I relax against the bindings, even at full adrenaline-induced anger I wouldn’t be able to break free from these straps. I use the exact same thing to secure my clients to the St Andrew’s Cross in the full knowledge that they are only freed when I
say
they are free.

I close my eyes when my lids start to sting. How can my eyes lids hurt? I feel the tears trickle down my cheek and slide to the back of my neck, soaking into my hairline. I guess that would be why. But I must have been crying for some time for them to hurt like they do. My head throbs trying to work out what the fuck happened. What is the last thing I remember?

Fighting. I remember fighting and falling to the ground. Blood pouring from my mouth and being dragged by my hair. I think I got a punch or two in before I felt the sharp prick of a needle. But that wasn’t the first time.
Think, damn it!
My head is throbbing and it feels like my brain is physically wading through thick sludge, picking out snippets of reality from my nightmares. This all feels like one fucking nightmare. I remember not quite waking but hearing voices, being manhandled but my muscles not responding. I can’t recall much of what was said and the moment I opened my eyes I felt a dull pinch in my arm and then oblivion. My stomach growls an angry protest but I don’t share its enthusiasm. I feel really sick. My mouth is like a cotton fuzz ball and I could down a litre of water and still be parched I am so thirsty.

Where the fuck am I?
Think Sam, what was the last useful thing you can remember?
My eyelids are already closed, and I try to focus my drifting mind. My blood is obviously still swilling with whatever has been pumped in my veins to keep me catatonic. I can see a solid ocean in a shop window, beautiful sculptured glass, with smooth depths and swirling layers I wanted to touch. Why didn’t I touch it, it was right there and the man with the kind eyes wanted me to come inside. No, I couldn’t because I was meeting someone and I didn’t have time. I had an important meeting.
My interview!
I sigh out a happy laugh. Disproportionately pleased with myself at remembering something, anything that isn’t a drug-filled mess of images and sounds. I don’t recall the interview. That’s right I texted Jason to tell him I was meeting Peitra for lunch.
Peitra
.