Someone To Save you (42 page)

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Just follow me.’

Alison held back.

‘You’ll be alright,’ the girl repeated. ‘Come with me.’

‘Are you here to save me?’ Alison hardly dared speak the words for fear that the answer would destroy her hope totally.

‘Follow me.’

Alison nodded and followed her across the room, praying that she was walking to freedom, and not a greater horror. But the truth was, whatever her destination, she had no choice but to do as she was told. She might as well have been in chains, such was her enslavement.

She followed her out onto the landing, and for a moment Alison thought that they were heading for the same store cupboard from which the first failed escape had been launched. But instead the girl took her downstairs.

Alison’s hopes rose as she scrutinised the girl’s behaviour. She was hurrying, and her nervous glances around corners were the mark of someone who didn’t want to be discovered.

By the time they had moved along the lower floor corridor, after another few glances from the girl, Alison convinced herself that this was the beginning of the end. Soon she would be free. The nightmare would be over and she would be home with her family. So convinced was she of the situation, that when the girl beckoned her through the door, she passed through with excitement, almost elation.

She hadn’t expected a man to be waiting for her on the other side.

47

As she answered the door, Victoria Friedman tried to maintain her composure, but something in her expression told Sam that Marcus had been right – she knew more than she had claimed.

‘Mrs Friedman, can I come in for a few minutes?’

Sam resisted the temptation to put his foot in the gap between the door’s opening. Instead he stood his ground, hoping that she would let him in.

Her face creased, and then she nodded. ‘Okay, a few minutes.’

Sam followed her inside and through into the living room, taking a seat opposite her.

‘What can I do for you now?’ she said, blinking. Her tone was meant to convey annoyance, but Sam detected something different; nervousness, defensiveness maybe.

‘I need your help,’ Sam said.

She looked surprised, thrown by his tact. ‘My help?’

Sam nodded. ‘I think that you can help me.’

‘How?’

‘By telling me who killed Wayne Cartwright.’

Now she looked stung, and again those now tell-tale blinks. She snorted her incredulity at the statement. ‘He killed himself.’

‘No,’ Sam replied. ‘Someone made it look like a suicide.’

She shrugged. ‘So what? Some prisoners killed him, or he killed himself. Like I told you before, I’m afraid I don’t really care.’

Sam just stared at her for a few seconds. ‘How did you find out?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘How did you find out what Richard had done? Arranging Wayne Cartwright’s murder. Did Richard tell you himself?’

A micro-expression of guilt, an almost subliminal message, flashed across her face. ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Sam sensed that he had her on the ropes. If he pressed some more, she would give way. ‘Who killed Wayne Cartwright, Mrs Friedman? How did Richard come to meet these people?’

She tried to remain defiant, but the mask was slipping. ‘You should be careful, throwing wild accusations around.’

‘Does the phrase “Black Wolves” mean anything to you?’

Again a micro-expression. ‘I think you’d better leave.’

Sam stayed seated. ‘You’ve heard that phrase before, haven’t you? It’s linked to the people who killed Wayne Cartwright, isn’t it? The people who Richard asked to kill him.’

‘He didn’t ask them to kill him, they offered,’ she shot back, tensing as she realised what she had just said.

Sam held his composure, hardly daring to believe the breakthrough that he’d just made. ‘Who are they?’

Victoria Friedman looked wounded, refusing to meet his gaze as her eyes darted around the room, seeking refuge.

‘Who are they?’ Sam repeated, drawing her attention back to him.

‘Why are you so concerned?’ she asked, almost pleading for an end to the questioning. ‘What does it matter to you? It’s all finished with now.’

Sam decided it was time. She needed to realise the reality of the situation. ‘The people who killed Wayne Cartwright. They’ve taken my wife.’

She looked genuinely shocked. ‘Your wife?’

‘It’s all connected,’ Sam said. ‘My sister’s murder, your brother, Wayne Cartwright, my wife.’

‘But, I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do I, but I’m beginning to,’ Sam said. ‘Someone, some people, killed Wayne Cartwright for your brother. And then they wanted something in return. He stole my friend’s mobile phone, and called me, taunting me about my sister’s murder, because they told him to do it.’

She shook her head. ‘Richard wouldn’t do that kind of thing; it’s not in his character.’

‘Richard had no choice,’ Sam explained. ‘These people would have forced him to do whatever they wanted.’

‘You don’t know this,’ she said.

‘Your brother is dead because of these people,’ Sam replied.

She tried to dismiss it. ‘He’s dead because of what he did, killing Margaret.’

‘No. He’s dead because of these people. They drove him to it. They offered to kill Wayne Cartwright, then made him do things he didn’t want to do, and the guilt was too much for him.’

She put a hand to her head, as if an explosion of pain had just detonated inside her skull.

‘Please,’ Sam pressed, ‘they have my wife. I need your help.’

She brought her hand down. ‘How do I know that you’re not one of them? That this isn’t a test?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘They said they might do it,’ she said. ‘They might send someone around to the house, to ask questions, to check that I would keep quiet.’

Now the extent of the gang’s web of fear was apparent. Sam pulled out his wallet and showed her his photo driving license. ‘Sam Becker,’ he said, gesturing towards the card. ‘I am who I say I am.’

She nodded, satisfied. ‘I want Richard to be remembered for who he was,’ she said. ‘A good man. A troubled man, but still a good man. He never would have gone down this road if it hadn’t been for me.’

Sam blinked. ‘You? You arranged for them to kill Wayne Cartwright?’

‘I don’t have to tell you anything,’ she said, ‘and I certainly won’t tell the police anything. I just don’t want Richard’s memory to be besmirched. He’s finally at peace now, and that’s how I want it to stay.’

Sam leant towards her. ‘I just want to find my wife.’

She nodded, considering her response. ‘Richard spoke to a man on the telephone several times. His name was Vincent.’

Another breakthrough.

It had to be the same Vincent who had dated Jane Ainsley. Who was this guy?

‘You don’t know his surname?’

‘No. I don’t know anything else about him, apart from his first name, and I’m not naïve enough to believe that his name really is Vincent.’

‘What about Black Wolves. Does it mean anything to you?’

‘Just a moment.’ She rose from the chair and Sam heard her footsteps trudge up the stairs. When she returned, she handed him a canvas. The drawing, in pencil, seemed to almost burst out of the frame. The wolf’s jaws looked to be heading for the throat of the viewer, saliva spitting from its open mouth. In the background, once again, was the mysterious figure, arms open wide.

Like Richard’s other artwork, Sam was transfixed by the image. ‘But you don’t know what Black Wolves refers to?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Just that Richard drew this shortly before he died.’

‘And who is this?’ Sam said, gesturing at the figure.

Victoria Friedman shrugged. ‘Richard would never tell me. But it always made me think of the devil.’

Sam could see why. He turned his attention away from the drawing. ‘One last thing - has my friend been to see you again, Marcus?’

‘No.’

She could have been lying, but Sam saw no reason for her to. Wherever Marcus had rushed off to, it hadn’t been here.

Sam exited onto the street and watched on as Victoria Friedman closed the door. He now had confirmation, as much as she was willing to give, that Wayne Cartwright had been murdered to order. And that name Vincent, surely the same Vincent who Shirley Ainsley had spoken off. Her suspicions, which a few days’ ago had sounded outlandish, even paranoid, now made sense. He opened his wallet and pulled out the address that Shirley Ainsley had handed him shortly after storming into his office and quizzing him about his role in her daughter’s apparent suicide. As another caught in the web, the next logical step seemed to be a visit to her.

On the way to the bus stop, in between checking to see if anyone suspicious looked to be following him, Sam tried Marcus and Louisa. But again there was no answer from either. He did get through to ICU for an update on Sophie. She was still doing well. The bus had just appeared when his phone rang. It was Paul Cullen.

‘Sam. I’ve got some news about the case.’

Sam held out a hand and stepped aboard the vehicle. ‘Go on.’ He took a seat near the back.

‘We’ve determined the identity of the girl who claimed to be Alison Ainsley.’

Sam held his breath. Another piece of the puzzle was coming together. He felt excited and nervous. ‘Right. Who was she?’

‘Her name is Stacey Bond,’ he replied. ‘Sixteen years old, from Newcastle-upon-Tyne. She ran away from home three years ago after a family argument and hadn’t been seen since.’

‘Are you sure it’s her?’

‘The family came down and gave a positive ID,’ he replied.

The bus stopped and a large man thumped down next to Sam, pressing into him. He nodded a hello. Sam nodded back and switched ears. ‘Did they come forward?’

‘No,’ Cullen replied, ‘we found them. We had a call yesterday. The person gave us the name Stacey Bond and we worked back from there to find the family.’

‘Who gave you the name?’

‘No idea. They rang the Crime stoppers line and reported it anonymously. The caller was female, but that’s all we know.’

Another mysterious aspect to events. ‘So what now?’

‘At the moment it doesn’t give us much,’ Cullen admitted. ‘This girl dropped off the radar for three years, no contact whatsoever with the family. But we obviously know she was in London, at least for a time, so we’re sending people out to the hostels and places to ask again. Maybe the name will lead to something.’

Sam doubted it. The photograph had yielded nothing, so he didn’t have any reason to believe that a name would make any difference. But there was no point in being defeatist. ‘Hopefully it will.’ Cullen might not have been in the loop regarding Anna’s kidnap, but he was still an important ally, and the big break might yet come from his side. ‘Any news on what black wolves means?’

‘No,’ Cullen said. ‘How about you? Any new thoughts?’

Sam glanced around the bus as he suddenly thought again that there could be people watching and listening from a nearby seat. Although it was unlikely they’d followed him here, he’d been unnecessary open in such a public place. It was time to end this call. ‘No new thoughts,’ he lied, ‘but I’ll keep thinking.’

48

Sam stepped off the bus in unfamiliar surroundings. The Ainsley’s home was only a mile and a half from his own, but as was the nature of the capital, with its many intertwined villages and communities, he had never been around this way before. The area was noticeably poorer than Clerkenwell. There were no chic cafes, shops and pleasant social green spaces. Here pubs, scruffy fast food outlets and betting shops predominated, and the people looked jaded, heads down as they passed Sam on the street. Once through the high street, it took a couple of minutes to reach the Ainsley’s house, a red brick mid-terrace, sandwiched together with five other properties between two ugly tower blocks.

Shirley Ainsley answered after the first knock. She looked worn and troubled; different from the feisty character who had challenged him in his office. Shirley registered surprise before shepherding him in quickly, as if she was embarrassed at her visitor. She led him through into the living room, where a man Sam presumed was her husband was sitting. He glanced up at Sam, holding a wary gaze. He looked tense, maybe even frightened.

‘Eric, this is Sam Becker,’ Shirley said.

Sam shook his hand as Eric rose to greet him. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘You too, doctor.’ Eric seemed relieved at the identity of their guest, but he avoided eye contact, as if he was embarrassed.

They sat down while Shirley went to make a cup of tea. Sam looked around the room, noticing a photo of Jane. She was beaming at the camera, so far removed from her vacant expression as she had faced down the oncoming train. Sam pondered on that in silence, allowing Eric an opportunity to speak which he didn’t take. The stillness was only broken when Shirley returned. ‘Here you are,’ she said, handing Sam a cup. ‘Careful, it’s very hot.’