The Victim
G.D. SANDERS

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © G.D. Sanders 2019

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Cover photographs © Shutterstock

G.D. Sanders asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008313227

Version: 2019-04-10

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Part One: Junk Mail

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Part Two:: Fighting Back

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Part Three: The Trials

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Part Four: Seeking Revenge

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

You’re careful?

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You’re safe?

Are you sure?

Listen …

You’re all vulnerable.

Part One:

1

Did I choose you today? At the ATM as you checked your balance? Was I behind you in the supermarket? If it was you at the checkout, I liked your skirt. If it wasn’t you, was it your friend, a colleague, or maybe somebody you’ve never met? If it wasn’t you, who was it? I certainly chose someone in town today.

If it is you, I shall know before you realize what’s happened. Does that seem complicated? Don’t be deceived. My plan is simple and elegant. I’ve done my research, completed my planning and made my choices. Now all I have to do is wait. Whoever you are, I’m here, waiting for a response.

Will you be the one? Why do I ask? I ask because I don’t know which of my chosen women it will be. I won’t know her until she makes a choice, until she chooses herself. How will she do that? One simple everyday decision is all that’s required. Take that decision, make that choice and you will have offered yourself. Follow it through and you will have let me into your life. You will be blind to the implications of your action, but be in no doubt, I know exactly what I’m doing.

Did I choose you? If I chose you today you wouldn’t be aware of it. If I didn’t choose you today maybe I’ll choose you tomorrow, or the day after, or next week. I choose and I wait. I’m patient. Patience is easy when I’m in control. One day soon, one of my chosen women will return the favour. Perhaps it will be you. I’m out here waiting. Waiting is easy because the outcome is inevitable. One of you will choose me; it’s only a matter of time.

Perhaps it has happened already. Perhaps you’ve chosen me. Is your door locked? Are the windows secured? Don’t bother checking. If you’ve chosen me, I have your key. You haven’t given your key to a stranger? Are you sure? If you’ve chosen me you will have given me a key, invited me into your home – and into your life. You will have made the choice, but I will be in control.

I may bide my time, but don’t be fooled, I’m here waiting. Delaying the moment will prolong my anticipation and bring added pleasure. When the time is right, it will happen. Even then I’ll be patient, enjoying your slow realization that you no longer have a choice, that you must accept your fate. Eventually, you’ll give me everything. You’ll give me the act I desire – you’ll show you want me by giving yourself.

Why am I doing this? It’s not as bad as you might think. All I want is for you to want me. I need to see, hear and feel you giving yourself to me. I want the moment of giving more than the gift itself. But it’s not that simple. There’s more to it than that. To be sure of the giving I must take the gift. Although the moment of giving will be the epitome of my pleasure I shall enjoy the entire dance from comprehension to panic, from panic to horror, then submission and sacrifice. No, not submission, not sacrifice. Your willingness will not be enough. I can be patient. I shall be patient. I will be patient. I shall not take the gift until your desire to give matches my desire for the giving.

2

DI Ed Ogborne wasn’t in the best of moods. She faced a day spent tying up loose ends from the team’s last major case, serial abductions which stretched back a decade. It had been Ed’s first case in Canterbury. They’d caught the perpetrator, but his evil deeds continued to haunt her. Revisiting the investigation wasn’t something she relished, but, as the Senior Investigating Officer, she had to do it.

On her way to work, she picked up a flat white from Deakin’s, hoping it would kick-start the morning. It didn’t. When she arrived at the Police Station, her humour darkened immediately; there was a new addition to the CID Room door. Some jobsworth responsible for signage was clearly out to ruin her day. Above the names of her three colleagues, she was designated Detective Inspector Edina Ogborne.

For most this would have been a non-issue, but Ed was sensitive when it came to her given name. Edina came from her grandmother, but only Ed’s parents and her grandfather had ever used it. From an early age she’d insisted everybody else call her Ed, or maybe Eddie if it were someone she knew intimately. In her mind, Edina was a homely, wholesome name; for herself she wanted something short, matching her sharply cut, blue-black hair.

After several phone calls, she eventually tracked down the man responsible for the increase in her ill humour.

‘The sign on our door needs to be corrected. I’m DI Ed Ogborne, not Edina.’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, the official records show your name as Edina.’

‘That’s as may be, but I’m known as Ed.’

‘We’re obliged to use the official form of your name.’

‘What do I have to do? Change it by deed poll?’

‘If you wish Ed to be your official—’

‘Thank you for your time.’

Ed terminated the call with the feeling she should have been more gracious. Then, with a wry smile, she put aside her increasing annoyance by thinking that the issue of her name was probably already an in-joke among her colleagues.

3

Confident but cautious – that’s me to a T. Can you be truly confident if you’re cautious? Let’s not go there. I know what I mean. I’m confident when I’m in control. I’m confident and in control because I plan. Careful planning is where the caution comes in.

The project has been up and running for three months. I’d chosen Canterbury for the main event. It’s a good-sized town, there’s easy access to the countryside and I could readily lose myself among the tourists. I’d rented a small flat and spent a week or so choosing my women. The first to take the bait wasn’t suitable: married and expecting a baby. How did I miss that? Sloppy work, but no problem. Statistically, it had to happen and, not long after, I got the perfect woman: single, unattached and living alone. She wanted the right things, things that made her vulnerable, and she made the right choice. She offered me access and now the incidentals are all in place; that’s stage 1 completed. Soon, I’ll complete stage 2 and she’ll be mine; we’ll be isolated together in her own home.

When that happens, we’ll be at the crux of the project, stage 3, conversion; leading my chosen woman from her initial panic and horror to a position from where she’ll recognize my true worth. Obviously, successful conversion will depend on how I handle things once we’re alone together. The problem is, I’d no experience of that. Back in Gravesend, the stuck-up graduates at work had all turned me down. I was reduced to clubbing and copping off with the thin girl’s friend. Unfortunately, they were easy, did anything, anytime, anything to please. With them it was open access and willing isolation: no conversion required. The women I want are not like that.

I’d known from the start that I’d need practice, the right experience; gaining that experience became a parallel part of the project. Confident but cautious, I took time to plan and prepare: a cheap phone, a couple of pay-as-you-go SIM cards and a dating app for which I created two fake profiles. To find the right practice woman, I’d need to meet several and check out promising candidates more than once. When it was over, if any of them complained to the police, I didn’t want to be tracked down. Public places have security cameras and my bleached hair is eye-catching. I bought several simple disguises, as many as possible from charity shops. Faded baseball caps and worn beanies were good; lightweight reversible hoodies and a reversible cotton bag were essential.

My plan was to pick less attractive women from the dating app, reckoning that would maximize my hit rate. Location wasn’t important; any small town in Kent, apart from Canterbury, would do. By day, I worked on the main event – my chosen women. The evenings I put aside for my practice runs – nothing fancy, just well planned. I’d let the women choose where and when we met, as long as it was a large bar, in the centre of town, and at a busy time of day.

Using my first fake profile, I went for Jackie from Rainham. She was immediately up for it. I asked where she’d like to meet and we settled on a pub near the station at six-thirty; a time when I knew there’d be plenty of commuters dropping in for a drink after work. I arrived a little late, bought a pint, checked where she was sitting and positioned myself to observe without being seen. After a few minutes I changed my hat and jacket in the Gents and returned to my pint. It was quite touching watching her angular face, expectant, then concerned, checking her phone for messages, and finally crestfallen.

Eventually, she left the pub and I followed her home, taking great care to hang well back and to walk on the opposite pavement. She turned into a street lined with semi-detached bungalows and my heart sank. Sure enough, she lived with a couple of wrinklies, probably her parents. There was no way I’d have time to get rid of neighbours, let alone people in the same house. My practice woman had to live alone and in a spot with nobody close by.

4

The day was coming to an end and the young Detective Constables Jenny Eastham and Nat Borrowdale were the first to leave the CID Room, but not together. Jenny let Nat get well clear of the building before she locked files in her desk drawer and said she was off for an early night. Ed had noticed the atmosphere between Jenny and Nat had changed dramatically. They’d always been competitive but now there was a new edge to their exchanges. At team meetings Nat had stopped trying to catch Jenny’s eye; in fact, he noticeably avoided doing so.

It wasn’t her concern but, from soon after her arrival in Canterbury, Ed had wondered if Nat was the right man for Jenny. Physically, they were a strikingly attractive couple. Nat’s dark hair and sharp features contrasted markedly with Jenny’s fresh face and honey-blonde head. Ed’s doubt came from her perception of them as people. Jenny was bright, open and honest. Nat was more closed, with a suggestion of potential danger behind his eyes.

Ed watched the door close behind Jenny before turning back to the document on her screen. A few minutes later, her second-in-command, Detective Sergeant Mike Potts, stretched, yawned loudly and pushed back his chair before levering his somewhat overweight frame to its feet.

‘D’you fancy a drink before calling it a night?’

At that moment Ed could think of nothing better than a cold glass of white wine, but she was determined to finish the job she’d set herself.

‘Sorry, Mike, I must finish this. I can’t face one more day with these abductions.’

‘Another time then. I’m off, see you tomorrow.’

Ed had just re-gathered her thoughts when the telephone rang. It was DI Saunders, calling from Maidstone.

‘Hi, Brian, what can I do for you?’

‘I’m calling to ask a favour.’

‘Hit me.’

‘We’ve just appointed a new DS.’

‘And?’

‘He’s sharp, but still a bit police school. I want him to start thinking laterally, outside the box. I was wondering if—’

‘Surely you can handle that?’

‘Yes … but I think you’d do a better job.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘If you could spend an hour with him, talk through the way you handled the serial abductions investigation.’

Ed thought for a moment and then decided to reward herself with a trip to Maidstone.

‘Okay … how about tomorrow? I could get over to you by nine.’

‘Give me five minutes. I’ll call you back.’

Twelve minutes later Ed’s phone rang. It was Brian.

‘First thing tomorrow’s not good for him. Is there any chance you could make it after eleven?’

‘Tell him I’ll be there at half past.’

‘Thanks, Ed, I’ll make sure he’s here waiting.’

‘By the way, what’s his name?’

‘It’s Dan, DS Daniel Wheadon. As I said, he’s not been with us long. It will be good for him to have a chat with you.’

‘No problem, but you owe me.’ Ed paused as her memories of previous visits to Maidstone came flooding back. ‘Remember those coffees you used to greet me with? It would be good if Dan did the same.’

‘Consider it done.’

5

DS Daniel Wheadon looked younger than his 26 years. Short sandy hair, tight and wiry against his head, enhanced his boyish features. His clothes hung easily on a slim, lithe body which, as Ed would discover, was more muscular than it first appeared. He’d greeted her with a coffee in each hand and led her to an Interview Room where they sat in chairs arranged at right angles across the corner of the table.

‘Right. Brian said you’d like to hear about our recent case of serial abduction.’

Dan looked a little embarrassed. ‘He said I’d learn a lot from the methods you used to solve the case. It would be a privilege to hear it from the Senior Officer.’

‘It was a team effort. I’ve got a good bunch of colleagues in Canterbury. As for DI Saunders, we didn’t overlap much, but from what I saw of Brian, you’re lucky to be working with him.’

‘We’ve got on well so far.’

‘Keep it that way.’ Ed paused. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ She took a sip and then began. ‘Right, I’ll take you through the investigation from the beginning. Stop me at any time if you have a question.’

Fifty minutes later, coffees drained, they’d finished their chat. Daniel picked up the empty cups. ‘I’ll just get rid of these.’

Ed smiled. ‘I’ll go to the loo and meet you back here.’

As Ed re-entered the corridor, she saw DS Wheadon standing by the Interview Room door. At the sound of her footsteps, he turned and smiled.

‘It’s a bit early, but, if you’re not in a hurry, I thought we might grab some lunch. There’s a pub round the corner.’

‘I was thinking the same thing.’ Ed didn’t add she’d been thinking the same thing ever since Daniel had introduced himself earlier that morning.

The pub was literally around the corner.

‘I’ll go to the bar. What’ll you have?’

‘A sandwich would be good, anything but tuna.’

‘Drink?’

‘Tonic, ice and lemon,’ said Ed, ‘I’m driving back to Canterbury this afternoon.’

Familiar as she was with the drinking habits of old colleagues at the Met, Ed didn’t remind him they were technically on duty, so she was pleased to see Daniel return with her tonic and a mineral water for himself.

‘Cheers.’ Daniel touched his glass against Ed’s. ‘Thanks for making time to talk me through the investigation. I’d already heard about the neat way you narrowed your search for the abductor’s hideout. It’s entered local folklore.’

Ed smiled inwardly, but she wasn’t about to bask in perceived glory. ‘As I said, I’ve got a good team at Canterbury.’ She took a mouthful of tonic. ‘How about you?’

‘I came here from Medway, Chatham actually, to get my promotion to Sergeant. Still settling in, but I’m getting on well with the team – as you said, Brian Saunders is a good boss.’

‘And apart from work?’

‘Rugby. I used to play for Medway, now I’ve transferred to Maidstone. You?’

‘Nothing so energetic. I work out at the gym, but since I outgrew self-defence classes, I prefer to spend my free time in a wine bar or restaurant.’

Daniel’s phone rang, but he ignored it. ‘Favourite food?’

‘I’m open to anything, but if pushed, I’d say Italian. We’re well served in Canterbury. There’s a good family-run trattoria near the County Courts.’

With her eyes on Daniel, Ed stirred her drink, waiting for him to reply.

‘We’re playing a summer friendly at Canterbury next Saturday. If you’re free, and fancy meeting for a meal, I’ll forgo the post-match beers.’

‘I’d like that. Are you sure you’ll be up for it?’

‘Friendlies aren’t particularly gentle, but I’ll make sure I’m intact.’

‘Excellent. I’ll book Gino’s, the Italian, for seven-thirty if that suits.’

‘Sounds good to me. The match will finish late afternoon. I could meet you earlier.’

‘Okay. Here’s my mobile number. Call me when you’re free. Perhaps we could meet for a drink before eating.’

6

By now, counting Jackie from Rainham, I’d worked my way through seventeen lonely women in flat-shares, bedsits or still living at home. Frankly, I was getting anxious. Everything was in place for the main event. In less than a fortnight, I’d have to move in on my chosen woman in Canterbury. Then, just when I thought the practice run would be a nonstarter, I struck lucky; Kay from Dover, the eighteenth woman from the dating app, was up for it.

Kay was great, no need to nudge her at all. When I asked where we should meet, she opted for a pub in the town centre at seven-thirty, but then insisted we swap numbers, in case something came up. I set up a WhatsApp account because it’s encrypted, but she didn’t use it. I was on the train to meet her in Dover, when she texted, asking if we were still on. I replied, sure, see you there, which was exactly what I intended to do. After a drink near the railway station, I arrived at our rendezvous ten minutes late. On my way to the bar, I caught sight of Kay from the corner of my eye. Keeping my back to her, I bought a pint and moved away to a stool from where I could see her, but there was little chance she’d notice me. Anyway, if she did look in my direction, she’d be searching for the guy in my fake profile; she’d not give me a second glance.

Kay from Dover was sitting alone, at a table by the wall. To my surprise, she looked exactly like her photo; face a little chubby with too much make-up. Her clothes, a loose top and knee-length skirt, did nothing to disguise the fact that she was more than a little overweight. Definitely not my type, but what the hell, she was only a practice run. I went to the Gents, reversed my hoodie, turned my cotton bag inside out, swapped my beanie for a baseball cap and went back to my pint.

Fifty minutes after we were due to meet, Kay was looking thoroughly miserable and she showed signs of being about to leave. I drained my glass, slipped out ahead of her and lingered across the road, checking my phone. When Kay left, she walked along the Folkestone Road towards the outskirts of Dover. I hung back and followed on the opposite pavement. When she turned into a side street, I pretended to look at my phone and saw her go into a small block of flats with a For Sale sign by the door. I watched the dark windows of the building until a light went on in a second-floor window, to the right of the entrance. Pocketing my phone, I walked further along the Folkestone Road and then circled back, to stroll past the building and check the agent’s board.

Maxton House

AVAILABLE SOON

SIX ONE-BED FLATS

NEWLY RENOVATED

The next day, I rang the estate agency and – bingo. Renovation was scheduled to start in a month, when the last remaining tenant would have moved out. She might not be my ideal woman, but for this stage of my project, Kay from Dover was perfect. She lived alone and the other flats in her block were empty.

I’ve now been watching Kay carefully for a week, whenever I could get away from Canterbury. She works in a corner shop on the main Folkestone Road. For lunch she takes a sandwich and a bottle of water to a small park, where she sits by herself on a bench facing the gate. Outside the shop, Kay doesn’t speak to anyone. It’s almost too good to be true; her home is isolated and she’s a loner. As soon as I’m sure, I switch to my other pay-as-you-go SIM, get on the dating app and hit her with my second fake profile. Once more, Kay from Dover is up for it and we arrange to meet next Thursday. She’s chosen the same time and the same pub. I could get there early and wait for her to arrive, but, just for the buzz, I’ll follow her into town.

On Thursday, I took the train from Canterbury. As we entered Dover Priory station, my phone buzzed with a text from Kay. I replied, reassuring her our date was still on. It’s early evening as I walk along the Folkestone Road with plenty of time to pass Maxton House and wait, further down the side street, for Kay to leave. I know where she’s going, The Three Horseshoes, so I don’t need to be close as I follow her to the pub. When she goes inside, I walk straight on, to kill ten to fifteen minutes looking in shop windows before returning to our rendezvous.

Kay’s at the same table. I buy a pint and take a stool close to where I sat the last time we were here. Watching her face, I almost feel sorry for her as expectation becomes concern and then the inevitable disappointment. What do the military call it – collateral damage?

I swap my hoodie and baseball cap for a plaid shirt and a balaclava rolled to look like a beanie. After waiting for an hour, Kay leaves the pub and I follow at a distance on the far side of the road. I follow her into her side street, quicken my pace and close in as she approaches Maxton House. No need for subtlety. I pull the balaclava down over my face, tailgate her through the street door, grab the keys from her hand, bundle her up two flights of stairs, turn to the right, open the door and push her into the flat.

She’s screaming, but no one will hear; there’s no one else in the building. I force her onto the bed and sit on her chest to tie her arms to the headboard. She’s still struggling and crying out at the top of her voice. I turn, sit on her knees, and tie her legs to the foot of the bed. When I get up to check the knots at her wrists and ankles, her screaming has turned to pleading, but she’s still struggling against her bonds. The knots are fine; she won’t be able to escape.

The flat’s not warm, but I’m sweating and the blood’s pounding in my head. I must get out for some fresh air. Before leaving, I need a sample of her writing, her mobile, her real name and the keys to the flat. I also need a pee.

In the bathroom, zipping up, I’m aware there’s no longer any sound from Kay. I flush and dash to the bedroom. Kay’s still on her back but she’s silent and no longer struggling. Her eyes are closed. I rock her head from side to side. She doesn’t respond. The silly bitch has fainted. To make her more comfortable I flip off her shoes and let them fall to the floor. Now for the things I need. I look for something with her writing on. No sweat. There’s a diary on a box by the bed. I put it in my pocket. From her bag, on the floor by the entrance, I take her mobile and a bank card. Ready to go, I let myself out, pulling her keys from the lock as I leave.

Outside, I swap the balaclava for a baseball cap, leave the building and circle the block before heading back to the centre of Dover for a pizza. At a corner table, I check her things. The phone’s switched on. I open the dating app. There’s the meet with me, or rather my second fake profile, but no other dates. The same is true of her texts: nothing since our last meeting except the exchange earlier this evening. No complications there. I open her diary. It’s schoolgirl writing, easy to copy. I get her name and signature from the bank card, noticing she’d used her real name on the dating app. After a few practice attempts, copying the writing from the diary until I’m fluent, I write a short note.

Need a break. Sorry for short notice. Back in two weeks. Kayleigh Robson.

All’s going to plan. I pay the bill with cash and step into the street.

It’s still early and I’m not ready to confront Kayleigh just yet. There’s a pub next to the pizzeria. I drink a couple of pints while leafing through her diary. God, I thought my life was bad but hers – no friends, just occasional guys from the dating app. Some have hung around long enough to cop a shag, but none has lasted beyond a third date. What a life. Well, things have changed, Kayleigh Robson, you’re going to have my company for a week or two. I won’t be able to remove my mask, but I hope you come to see my worth and enjoy my company.

On the way back to Maxton House, I push the note under the door of the corner shop. The flat’s still silent. Kayleigh’s spread-eagled on her back just as I left her. In our struggle, her skirt has bunched around her waist. I don’t want her to be embarrassed when she comes round, so I lean over the bed and ease the skirt down to cover her thighs. My fingers brush her skin. It’s cold.

Panicking, I feel her wrist and neck. No pulse – nothing!

What the fuck!

Kayleigh’s dead.

7

It was late afternoon. Ed had just got back to her apartment when her personal mobile buzzed with a message from Daniel. His rugby friendly had finished and he was waiting for her in the bar of a large hotel on the High Street. The County was the last place Ed wanted to meet him, but she didn’t want to raise questions by suggesting he move somewhere else. Instead, she called him back.

‘Hi, Daniel, I’ve just got home and I’m about to take a shower.’

Ed paused for a response, but he remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

‘If you don’t get ideas, you could come here and we’ll have that drink at my place before going out to eat.’

‘If that works for you. Where are you?’

Ed gave him her address and then added, ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’ She was just stepping into the shower when the phone rang again. With a curse, she dashed into her bedroom to answer it.

‘Hi, Ed, I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if you fancied a drink?’

It was her friend Verity Shaw, who edited the local newspaper. ‘Hi, Verity, a drink sounds good but I’ve got something on this evening. How about next Friday?’

‘Next Friday would be good. I’ll look forward to catching up.’

‘Me too. Sorry, but I’ve got to dash. Bye.’

‘Until next week. Bye.’

Back under the shower, Ed wondered if she’d have time to blow-dry her hair.

Daniel arrived with flowers and a sports bag, which he dropped in the hall. Neither of them mentioned it when it was time to leave for the restaurant. The bag remained where Daniel had left it until late Sunday evening when he returned to Maidstone.

8

‘Are you sure it’s above board?’ asked Rachael.

Ostensibly to say goodbye, her boss had looked into the room at the back of the dental practice where Gina Hamilton was collecting her things. The holiday had been a surprise and Rachael was obviously curious.

‘Of course. It’s organized by Tuscan Sun Tours. I was sent their brochure. They’re an ABTA tour company. I’ve even checked the travel agents in the High Street. They’ve got the same brochure with my holiday in it. A week in Orvieto and then Siena.’

Gina closed her locker, anxious to get home. She was looking forward to an early night before starting her holiday. Rachael, nosey as usual, wouldn’t be deflected.

‘What about your ticket?’

‘I rang the tour company to confirm the flight number and check-in times at Gatwick. They had my name on their list for the tour. We’ll be in Siena when they have that horse race, the Palio, and a seat in the stands was included as a special option. I’ve wanted to go ever since a guy at university described seeing it.’

‘Sounds like you’ll have a great time. Be careful of those Italian men.’ Rachael smiled. ‘We’re going to miss you.’

‘It’s only a fortnight. Sorry I wasn’t able to give you more notice.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve lined up a locum.’

Gina bent to pick up her bag and turned to leave but Rachael stood between her and the door.

‘By the way, you never said – how did you win it?’

‘Last month I got one of those circulars through the door: a competition linked to a new singles club. They organize groups for dinner parties, trips to the theatre, weekends away – that sort of thing. I had to write twenty words saying why I would value membership and send my answer with a request for further details. Actually, that reminds me – not that I’m interested – I won the holiday but I still haven’t received details of the club.’

‘It sounds like a great holiday. Lucky you!’ Rachael stepped aside. ‘I’ll not keep you. I expect you want to pack and get an early night. Have a wonderful time.’

‘Thanks. See you in a fortnight.’

Gina took the stairs down to the front entrance and stepped into the street. At the ATM in the High Street, she introduced her card, tapped in her PIN and selected cash with receipt. Gina was impatient. Every time she entered or left the practice, her eyes were drawn to the much-polished brass plate by the door. It still read Metcalffe and Metcalffe, Dental Practice followed by Morris Metcalffe, Rachael Metcalffe and, on a newer strip of brass, Georgina Hamilton. How long before a new plate read Metcalffe, Metcalffe and Hamilton? Bleeping from the ATM interrupted Gina’s thoughts. She retrieved her card, folded the cash into her purse together with the receipt, and doubled back down Guildhall for the 15-minute walk home.

9

I thought it might take a while to get through but there were only three rings before someone answered.

‘Hello, Tuscan Sun Tours. Clare speaking, how may I help you?’

‘I’m calling on behalf of my sister—’

‘I’m sorry, Sir, perhaps we could start with your name. You are Mr …?’

‘Hamilton, Colin Hamilton. I booked a place on your Tuscan tour, which leaves Gatwick tomorrow morning—’

‘Is that Tour TST247, Sir?’

‘Yes, that’s right. A fortnight in Tuscany, a week in Orvieto followed by a week in—’

‘I’m sorry, Sir, are you sure it’s TST247? I have the passenger list on screen but your name doesn’t appear. There’s a G Hamilton but that’s a woman.’

‘Yes, my sister, Georgina Hamilton. I’m calling on her behalf. I wish to cancel her booking.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir, before making a change to a booking we must speak with the principal traveller.’

‘If I’d got my secretary to call, you’d speak with her and cancel the booking.’

‘No, Sir, as I said, I would need to speak directly with the principal traveller, Ms Georgina Hamilton.’

‘And how would you know the woman you were talking to was or wasn’t Georgina Hamilton?’

‘We have security questions.’

‘And they are?’

‘Personal, Sir, and I cannot discuss a client’s personal details with anybody but the client. I must speak directly with Ms Hamilton.’

‘I’m privy to more of my sister’s personal information than you will ever be. She may be the one travelling, but I booked and paid for the holiday as a surprise.’

‘That may be so, Sir, but the holiday is booked under her name and she is the only traveller. I must speak with her if I am to make changes to the booking.’

‘Clare, if we continue talking in circles I shall have to speak with your superior and we don’t want that, do we? I didn’t want to mention more personal information than is necessary but you are forcing my hand. I’m sorry to say Georgie, my sister Ms Georgina Hamilton, has been taken ill and she will not be able to go on the tour. She has asked me to cancel the holiday on her behalf.’

‘We are very sorry to hear that Ms Hamilton is sick, Sir, but as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, our procedures are in place to protect our clients.’

‘I appreciate your position, Clare, but at present my sister is too poorly to come to the telephone. She has been prescribed complete bed rest and must not be disturbed. Please don’t force me to speak with your supervisor. I know what—’

‘I’m sorry, Sir, but we must follow our procedures.’

‘Clare, please let me finish.’

I paused to ensure her silence and then continued to speak firmly but without emotion.

‘I anticipated this might be problematic so I visited my local travel agent and explained my position. They told me that to cancel the booking I would need to return with Georgina’s passport, all the holiday documents and the original payment details. I could do that, but I didn’t make the booking at the agency; I arranged the holiday directly by telephone with your company. So Clare, am I to read the contents of those documents to you or to your superior?’

‘Just a moment, Sir – may I put you on hold while I speak with my manager?’

‘Please do and stress that we should resolve this matter quickly because I need to return to my sister’s bedside.’

There was a click and cheerful classical music filled the earpiece. I was confident I’d get my way. I could always take the documentation to the High Street travel agent but I wanted to keep my local exposure to a minimum. The music stopped and Clare returned to the line.

‘Thank you for holding, Mr Hamilton. In view of the exceptional circumstances we will accept the cancellation provided you can confirm the booking reference and Ms Georgina Hamilton’s address plus details from her passport.’

I began to relay the information. ‘The booking reference is T, S, T, zero, zero, two, one, three, H, A, M, zero, one.’

‘And Ms Hamilton’s address?’

‘Thirty-two, Great Stour Court, Canterbury.’

‘And the postcode, Sir?’

‘It’s CT2 7US.’

For Gina’s passport details I had to pay close attention to the photograph on my mobile. With that completed I thought Tuscan Sun Tours would be satisfied but no, Clare also wanted details of the original payment.

‘Rather old-fashioned,’ I said in a lighter voice, conveying a smile. ‘It was a surprise for my sister. I paid with a postal order. I have a note of the serial number here somewhere …’

‘Thank you, Sir, that won’t be necessary.’ Clare paused and resumed apologetically, ‘I’m afraid that for such a late cancellation we will not be able to offer you a refund.’

‘The money isn’t important. Georgie just wanted you to know that she will not be joining the tour.’

‘Thank you, Sir. I have made a note.’

‘Will that information be available to everybody in your organization? My sister is very unwell. I don’t want her bothered by telephone enquiries about her failure to show up at Gatwick.’

‘That will not happen, Sir. A note that Ms Hamilton has withdrawn from TST247 is now on our company-wide system. Please give your sister our very best wishes for a speedy recovery. If she returns the confirmation and travel pack we’ll send a voucher for 10 per cent off her next booking.’ There was a brief pause before Clare added, ‘Is there anything else I can help you with today, Sir?’

‘No, thank you. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Sir, and thank you for calling Tuscan Sun Tours.’

10

I am feeling good. It’s gone well. This won’t be like Dover. That was a practice run. This is for real and extensively planned. This woman is perfect – elegant, slim, sexy and with long fair hair of the kind that only models and posh girls manage to have. Back in Gravesend, when I was at Scotts, she’d have been one of the smart set, the graduates who looked down on the likes of me. One of those confident professional women I wanted but couldn’t have – the unobtainable.

Things are different now. I’m in control. There’ll be no put-down this time.

I’ve learnt a lot, come a long way, learnt how to handle people, people like the woman at Sun Tours. She’d been resistant, exercising her power – ‘It’s procedure, Sir.’ I soon put her in her place.

It hasn’t always been like this. I wasn’t born with that confidence. It came when I started spending the money. I soon learnt how to get what I wanted. Not only does money make people want your custom, money also gives you the assurance not to take no for an answer. I guess a good education does the same, but that wasn’t on offer when I was young. I’m bright, but I didn’t pass the 11+ exam. My dad said I was a late developer. My mum, wiping her hands on her apron, and turning away to hide the look in her eyes, said she didn’t know where I got it all from. ‘Not y’ dad – or me, that’s for sure,’ she’d added diplomatically.

They loved me, my parents, and I loved them, but none of us was good at showing emotion.

At school I got into computers and wanted my own. I remember the first time I asked for one.

‘Dad, can I have a computer for my birthday?’

‘We can’t afford one, son.’ His eyes, which had flicked up when I spoke, had already returned to his newspaper.

I was desperate. I pleaded. ‘Birthday and Christmas combined?’

No dice. His eyes remained fixed on the sports page.

‘Maybe when I win the pools, lad, but it’ll have to be a big win.’

Dad never did have that big win, at least not while he was alive. He joined Mum in East Hill cemetery some six years after I’d left the Tech to work in electronics at Scotts. I inherited the house, but Dad’s building society account didn’t even stretch to a new computer. I planned to sell up and move to a new-build apartment, but, in the meantime, I carried on working at Scotts. It must have been three months before I went into Dad’s room to clear out his things. I thought there might be something I could sell. There wasn’t, but I did find his pools coupons. He’d been very tidy. They were piled in date order with the one for the week he died on top. The games had been selected and the form completed, ready to post. The season hadn’t finished. I found the current coupon, marked the same lines and posted it in my name as a last throw of the old man’s dice.

I won. Well … to be fair, he won. Dad’s system finally turned up trumps. It was a big win, a very big win. Although I’d ticked the ‘no publicity’ box they tried to persuade me, but there was no way I was going to be photographed with a cheque the size of a billboard. I carried on working for another 18 months. With the cash to give a girl a good time I asked a few of the women at work for a date. There were no takers. The stuck-up graduates had in your dreams, geek written all over their faces. I had to lower my sights.

I started going to football and buying drinks for the guys I’d known at college. I was generous. I fixed their computers and sometimes they’d take me to a club. I took what was on offer but I wanted more, I wanted better. I wanted a bright woman, a woman who’d been to university, a graduate like those who’d turned me down. It was then I had the idea and started working on my plan. I resigned from my job, stopped going to football and gave up clubbing. I told everyone I’d inherited some money and was going on a long trip to Australia.

In fact, I went to London. I spent one night in a small hotel changing my appearance and then rented a cheap bedsit in a run-down part of town. Immediately, I put my plan into action. First, I had to identify women who took my fancy and try to get their names from their credit cards. I trawled ATMs and supermarket checkouts. It was often easier on the tube, but that wouldn’t be any use because I intended to operate in small towns. I soon discovered it wasn’t as difficult as I’d first thought. There was no need to have an exact name because I was patient. I had all the time in the world. I couldn’t believe how many partial names I could confirm using company websites. A pattern developed. I’d follow a target back to her work and, later, back to where she lived. Some of the women even had their names by their doorbells.

As soon as I’d lined up a target who lived alone, I could have broken in, but that wasn’t my plan. If I forced my way in, they’d shout and scream, the neighbours would hear, call the police and I’d be in serious trouble. Even if no one heard, I didn’t want that, I didn’t want rape.

I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted my chosen woman to have time to get to know me. I wanted her to know my worth, to want me, to give herself to me. She would have to invite me into her home. She would have to trust me with a key. There must be no neighbours around. Once I was inside I knew it would take time. She wasn’t going to come round overnight, so she mustn’t be missed at work. It was a problem. It was a whole string of problems. How could I pull it off?

One day I came back from finding targets and trod on the answer as I came through the door from the street. So simple! So elegant! It just required patience and time. With the old man’s pools win sitting in the bank I had plenty of both.

Actually, that’s not completely true. The money was in the bank because that’s where it went when I won it. Most is still there, but when I began developing my plan I knew I couldn’t use cards, cheques or ATMs. I couldn’t afford to leave traces. I didn’t intend to get caught. Dad’s pools system had given me a really big win. I’d never have to work again so, when it was over, I wanted to walk away and live the good life. I got plastic boxes, a good pair of walking shoes, and a mountaineer’s folding shovel. Every two or three weeks I withdrew cash and buried bundles of notes in isolated spots within easy reach of Canterbury, my chosen town, where I’d already rented a flat. I took my time. Finally, with everything in place, I selected my women.

In Canterbury it’s gone just as I knew it would. One of my chosen women made a choice that offered me access. Now I’ve closed the net. This time it will go right. Not like last time. I’ve got to get Dover out of my head. Kayleigh Robson wasn’t my type, not a top choice, but she wasn’t my ultimate goal; Kayleigh was a practice run. My aim was to get experience of conversion, of winning a woman round. For that, Kay from Dover was a necessary component but she wasn’t meant to die. No one was meant to die. I’m not into killing people. What happened was unfortunate, a freak accident, regrettable, but nothing to do with my planning. One moment Kayleigh was fine – well, she was struggling and screaming – but then she fainted. I made her comfortable before going for a pizza and a couple of pints to settle my head. When I got back, she was dead.

The last thing I wanted was to be linked to her death and caught by the police. For a moment or two I panicked – in that situation anyone would panic – but I quickly gained control and planned what to do: destroy her mobile, mine too with both its SIM cards, and scrupulously clean her flat of all traces of my presence. She had no proper cleaning stuff in the flat so I had to go shopping. In a side street, near the centre of town, I found a late-night store and bought what I needed. Back at the flat, I cleaned scrupulously. Working gently, wearing vinyl gloves, I removed Kayleigh’s bonds, turned her on her side and used enough of her concealer to hide the reddening at her wrists and ankles. It wasn’t perfect, but there’s not been a word on the news or in the papers, so it was good enough to fool some hack of a police doctor.

Now all is calm, I’m back in Canterbury and my chosen one is perfect. I need time alone with her, time for her to see beyond the surface, time for her to get to know the real me. Given time, she’ll come to see my true worth. Later, we’ll look back and laugh about the way we met. She’ll thank me for being so clever. We’ll be happy together.

Earlier today, I got some food and drink; it’s here in her fridge. Everything’s in place. I’m relaxed, sitting quietly, waiting for my chosen one to return home.

11

Alone in the CID Room, Ed glanced at her watch. There was no hurry, but she’d reached a good place to stop. Shutting down the computer, she slipped her mobile into her bag and left the Station on foot. In the city centre, she crossed the Buttermarket to Sun Street and took a window table in Deakin’s where she toyed with a mineral water, wishing Verity Shaw was already there to distract her from her thoughts.

Last June, transferred to Canterbury from the London Met, Ed had been pitched straight into the disappearance of a local schoolgirl. With her new team she’d discovered the case was one of a series of abductions stretching back ten years. The perpetrator was now in jail awaiting trial. However, although the investigation was effectively wound up, Ed still woke at night with an image of the abductor in her head. She had worked on horrendous crimes with the Met, but in London she’d been able to switch off and walk away. With the abductions in Canterbury it had been different. For the first time in her career, the images stayed with her, not because she had led the investigation, but because she couldn’t forget the mothers separated from their daughters. The image of the abductor returned and she shuddered at the evil he had perpetrated.

As she took another sip of water, Ed’s honesty forced her to concede she was troubled by more than recurrent thoughts of the abductions. She would never let her mood influence her work, but for some months she’d felt decidedly below par. Not down, exactly, but until recently things had not been as she would have liked. Ed knew herself well enough to know the reason. There had been a long gap without a man in her life.

Men!

They’d not always treated her well; indeed, a few had treated her badly. Ed could live without them, but on balance, she would rather have a bastard in her bed than no one at all. This time, perhaps, she’d struck lucky. So far there had been no sign that Daniel was a bastard. He was fit and attentive, but he was another cop and that should be warning enough.

12

Gina Hamilton weaved through the meandering tourists on Mercery Lane and Sun Street. Quickening her pace, she left the city centre and headed home via Palace Street. Mechanically following the familiar route, she was still wondering how long it would be before the Metcalffes offered her a partnership in their dental practice.

‘Bhaaarrrr!’

Gina stopped abruptly at the edge of the kerb, jolted from her thoughts by the blare of a car horn. The number of pedestrians had thinned rapidly and the street was narrowing between flint buildings and a high brick wall. From nowhere she felt a twinge of apprehension, a cold tension between her shoulder blades. She’d felt it before, as if someone were watching her, following her, but that had been weeks ago. Approaching the dogleg beside the entrance to The King’s School she glanced back. The pavement behind her appeared deserted but then, before she could be certain, she’d turned into The Borough and Palace Street had disappeared from view.

Why was she feeling so jumpy? The last time it happened, Gina had been unable to fathom what had sparked her apprehension and now she was equally unable to identify the source of her unease. Annoyed that she should feel so unsettled the evening before her holiday, Gina crossed the road to pick up a ready meal and a foil-sealed glass of white wine at the supermarket on Kingsmead.

‘Snap!’ said a guy behind her at the checkout.

Gina jumped at the sound of the male voice and turned to face the speaker. It was some stranger with a beard.

‘Sorry?’

‘Snap! Your items and mine; seems like we’re both facing a lonely meal for one.’

Gina wanted to end this exchange quickly before he suggested they eat their meals together at his or hers.

‘Sorry, I’m in a rush. I have to get back to pack for my holiday.’

What was she doing? That was way too much information – an open invite for him to continue the conversation. Fortunately, the assistant was scanning her last item. Gina, thinking quickly, put her card back into her purse and pulled out some cash.

‘I guess you live nearby?’

‘Sorry, can’t stop, I must run.’

Gina picked up her bag and turned to leave.

‘Excuse me, Madam.’

What now? It was the assistant. Surely the tenner would cover it.

‘Yes …?’

‘You’ve forgotten your change, Madam.’

‘That’s okay. Put it in the charity box.’

‘I shop here a lot so I’ll see you around.’

Ignoring the stranger’s parting shot, Gina walked towards the exit without looking back. Once outside, she paused to put her purse back in her shoulder bag. Zipping it closed, she saw the bearded guy about to follow her out. Without thinking she half ran around the side of the building to a gap in the fence and took the short cut home via the path by the river.

Hurrying along the rough track, she began to have second thoughts. The path appeared deserted but she was aware of someone behind her, their footsteps in time with her own. Was it the guy from the checkout? It couldn’t be; she was sure he hadn’t seen which way she went.

Gina continued walking, but the chill of apprehension and tension between her shoulder blades, which she’d felt earlier in Palace Street, had returned. Here on the lonely path, Gina was convinced someone was following her. She turned to look back, but could see no one there. Why couldn’t the bastard, whoever he was, have come up to her in the street? She could have handled that. What was he playing at, hanging back, following her?

Gina knew she should have taken the main road. It was crazy to lead him down this deserted footpath under the trees by the river. Knowing it was too late now to change her mind, she quickened her pace. The illuminated area, which surrounded her block of flats, was just beyond the next bend.

Stepping into the light, Gina forced herself to walk normally to the rear entrance of her building. She opened the door and relaxed as it clicked shut behind her. The apprehension disappeared the moment there was a locked door between her and the outside world. Peering through the glass door panel, she was unable to see anyone outside. Whoever had been following her had stayed on the footpath, hidden by the bushes. Trying to dismiss the incident from her thoughts, she walked to the entrance foyer and paused to check her post box. It was empty.

Buying the apartment in Great Stour Court had stretched her financially. Even with her minimal social life, meeting the mortgage payments took much of her income, but she was happy. She loved her new home and she’d splurged her remaining cash on having her bedroom redecorated. She wasn’t sorry, but that additional expense had put a holiday out of the question. It really had been her lucky day when she entered the singles club competition. A chance to meet and mix with bright young professional people on equal terms for fun and maybe romance. Never had twenty – well, actually nineteen – words been so profitable. Gina had been surprised she’d won the Tuscan holiday, but she wasn’t going to complain.

Taking the lift to the third floor, she planned her evening. First, she’d pack, and then have a long soak in the bath before the ready meal, glass of wine and an early night.

13

Sitting in the kitchen, I hear a key in the lock. The front door opens and closes. Bleeping starts and then stops as the alarm is cancelled. My pulse remains steady despite a brief moment of doubt. I dismiss my unease. It must be Georgina. There’d been no trace of another person and no evidence in the flat, or on her laptop, that she knows anyone who’d have access to her home. Certainly, there’s been no sign of a boyfriend.

I listen as she puts her keys on the side table in the hall. Everything is ready. Georgina is perfect. All will go well. All we need is some time together, time for her to get to know me, to see my worth.

I hear her turn and then pause. She’s noticed the kitchen door’s closed. I’m pleased. She’s bright. The first few moments could be tricky, but I know exactly how I’m going to play this. Aroused by a sense of anticipation, I wait for the kitchen door to open.

14

Gina opened the door to her apartment and heard the reassuring sound of the alarm. She stepped inside, used her foot to close the door behind her and automatically tapped her code into the pad. Silence. Immediately she felt the warm contentment she always experienced when safely home. She resisted the impulse to look at her newly decorated bedroom; there would be time for that later. Since the workmen had finished, she had gone immediately to admire it every time she came home. Tonight would be different; tomorrow she was flying to Italy.

First things first: wine in the fridge and switch the oven on. Gina put her keys and handbag on the hall table, stepped towards the kitchen and stopped, puzzled. The door was closed. Something wasn’t right. She always left the kitchen door open. Gina shrugged. This morning, preoccupied by thoughts of her holiday, she must have shut it without thinking.

‘I’m here.’

Gina froze.

It was a man’s voice.

Without thinking, she pushed the door open.

15

Gina was face to face with a man sitting at her kitchen table. He rose to his feet and she recognized his thin, almost emaciated body and the white-blond hair that fell sideways across his forehead.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I’m sorry if I startled you, Ms Hamilton. Mr Smith, Colin Smith … of Decorart, the interior design company. We decorated your bedroom last week.’

He held out his hand, which Gina ignored.

‘Yes, yes, I know who you are. More to the point, what are you doing here now?’

‘A problem arose, Ms Hamilton.’

‘A problem? What problem?’ Gina’s first thought was the money. She was stretched financially, but surely that wasn’t the problem? When she had bought a new dress and two tops for her holiday, she’d calculated carefully that what remained in her account would cover the decorators’ bill. ‘Did I make a mistake with the cheque?’

‘No problem with your cheque. It was our mistake. We inadvertently overcharged you for the work. I’ve come round to refund the balance.’

‘You didn’t need to come in person. A cheque in the post would have been fine.’

‘I wanted to apologize to you directly and I thought this would be a good opportunity to make sure you were completely satisfied with our work. As you know—’

‘Hang on!’ Accustomed to seeing this man in her flat during the redecoration of her bedroom, Gina had lost sight of what was happening. ‘We didn’t have an appointment.’ Anger welled inside her. ‘How dare you come into my home uninvited?’ Spurred by a nascent anxiety she added, ‘This is outrageous.’ Then, before he could answer, a further thought struck her. ‘How did you get in?’

‘With these …’ He reached into his pocket and dangled a set of keys. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to take some photographs for publicity—’

‘Are they my keys?’ Gina desperately tried to think back to when the work was finished and she’d given him the cheque. Had she overlooked getting her keys back in the excitement?

The man continued to speak, ignoring her question. ‘As a thank you for letting us use the photographs I’ve taken the liberty of putting a bottle of champagne in your fridge. I thought we might celebrate the completion of the work.’

‘You’ve done what?’ Gina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘You’ve come into my home uninvited, you’ve brought champagne and you want to celebrate! This is totally unacceptable. Please leave immediately.’

Struck by another thought, Gina added, ‘Wait a minute. Where did you get those keys? I took my spare ones back. Look, they’re hanging on the wall.’

‘I had this set cut while the work was in progress.’

‘What? You copied my keys! You can’t just have somebody’s keys copied!’

‘Oh, but I can. These keys are not high security. Anybody can take them to a shoe repair shop and have copies cut in a few minutes.’

‘But you’ve no right. You can’t let yourself into other people’s homes uninvited. Give me those keys and my refund, then leave my home immediately!’

‘It wasn’t like that. You invited me in and you gave me a set of keys so that I could return when you weren’t here.’

‘But that was for the decoration of my bedroom. I trusted you to return my keys when the work was finished.’

‘I did return your keys. You said so yourself; they’re hanging on the wall.’

‘Yes, but you’d already had them copied.’ Gina paused, frustrated that the exchange was going in circles. ‘Your behaviour is intolerable. Give me the keys you’re holding and get out of my home.’

He slowly returned the keys to his pocket.

‘I’d rather stay.’

‘Give me those keys and leave immediately!’

‘But the champagne, the photographs—’

‘There’s no question of photographs. You can take the champagne with you.’

‘Let’s not be hasty, Georgina. I may call you Georgina?’

‘It’s Ms Hamilton to you. Now, give me those keys and go.’

He remained standing by the kitchen table. Gina’s mind was racing. A new thought struck her.

‘Wait a minute. This morning I set the burglar alarm. Just now, when I came in the alarm sounded and I cancelled it at the pad. The alarm was set but you were in the flat.’

‘As I said, you invited me in. You gave me a code for the alarm. I used my code to enter the flat, reset the alarm and came to the kitchen before the alarm activated. There are no sensors in the kitchen.’

This man had an answer for everything. Why was he here? When she came home to find him sitting at the table her initial fright had quickly been replaced by anger. Now a growing sense of frustration that he wouldn’t leave was morphing into an ominous apprehension. Whatever he wanted she must get him out of the flat before things slipped further from her control.

‘Give me the refund, give me the extra set of keys and get out!’

‘Georgina …?’

‘Leave now before I call the police.’

‘Don’t do that, Georgina. What harm can there be in a glass of champagne?’

‘I’ve asked you repeatedly to leave my home. Leave at once or I’ll call the police.’

He began to move round the table.

‘And leave the keys.’

He stopped, opened the fridge and took out a bottle of champagne.

‘And take your bottle with you.’

‘It’s vintage.’

‘Give me the keys and leave.’

He began to open the bottle.

‘Right, I’m calling the police.’ Gina turned back to the hall. He made no move to stop her. She heard the cork pop behind her as she went to the telephone on the hall table.

‘Where are the glasses?’

Gina began to dial 999.

‘No matter, I’ll find them myself.’

Two rings and then that reassuring voice: ‘Which service do you require? Fire, police, or ambulance?’

‘Police. And please …’

The line went dead. Gina froze and began to panic until the connection went through.

‘Canterbury Police Station: please state your name and address.’

‘There’s a man in my apartment. He won’t leave. Please, send somebody – quickly!’

‘Calm down, Miss. First, your name, you are …?’

‘Ms Hamilton, Georgina Hamilton. There’s a man here and he—’

‘Let’s take it slowly, Miss Hamilton. Your address is …?’

‘Apartment 32, Great Stour—’

‘Apartment 32, Great Stour Court, Canterbury, CT2 7US.’

‘Yes. There’s a man—’

‘You say there’s a man in your apartment—’

‘Yes, and—’

‘—and he refuses to leave. He’s used copies of your keys to access your home and—’

‘Yes, how did you know?’

‘—he’s offering you a glass of champagne.’

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Gina felt her body turn cold. Her mind struggled to grasp what was happening. Words continued to come from the receiver. She recognized the voice. The phone slipped from her hand to the floor. She heard glasses clink in the kitchen. He came into the hall. Her feeling of disbelief turned to horror as he walked towards her. She had to get away. She had to get out of the flat.

Gina rushed to the front door, turned the latch and pulled. The door remained shut. She grabbed her keys from the hall table. He made no move to stop her. Back at the door she searched frantically for the correct key. She felt her panic increasing with each fumble, and the cold tension between her shoulder blades returned. She had turned her back on him. Any second, he could attack her. At last, Gina got the right key and pushed it into the internal lock. It wouldn’t turn. She pulled it out, checked it was the right key and tried again. Still it refused to turn. The feeling between her shoulder blades was unbearable. Tearful and shaking with fear and frustration Gina turned to face the intruder.

‘What’s happening? What’s happened to the lock? What have you done?’

Standing calmly in front of her, he held out a glass of champagne. ‘All in good time. Have a drink. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

‘I’m not afraid. Open this door!’

‘Come –’ he gestured with the champagne glass ‘– let’s take it slowly.’

That voice … let’s take it slowly … the telephone. It was the same voice as the policeman. How could he do that? She had dialled 999! Gina turned back to the door and tried the key again. No use. She pulled frantically at the latch but in vain. The door remained shut. She dropped her useless keys and beat on the door with her fists.

‘Help! Help! In here. Please, somebody, help me!’

‘Nobody will hear you.’

Gina pulled off her shoe and hammered on the wall. The heel dug into the plaster. She screamed uncontrollably, beating at the wall with her shoe. Gradually her blows became weaker and her screams were broken by sobs.

He stood calmly, holding the two glasses of champagne.

The strength to scream deserted her and she convulsed with sobbing. The shoe fell from her hand. Her shoulders slumped and she leant against the wall.

He remained at a distance, still making no move to approach her. Again, he proffered the glass of champagne.

Gina continued to lean against the wall, her fear and panic joined by a feeling of total powerlessness. Vulnerable and defenceless, she forced herself to look at him, pleading.

‘What do you want?’

‘You … you to drink a glass of champagne with me. Come, let’s sit in the kitchen.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Come, let’s have a drink. We’ll go to the kitchen and talk about it.’ He held out the glass. ‘We’ll talk as we drink the champagne.’

Gina remained leaning against the wall. Although she barely had the strength to stand, her mind sought frantically for an escape.

‘My neighbours … they’ll be back soon.’

He smiled. ‘Your neighbours are away for two weeks.’

‘I’m due to check in at Gatwick tomorrow. The tour company will miss me and raise the alarm.’

‘I cancelled the holiday. You’re here until I decide to let you go.’

Gina barely registered what he said. She was flustered, desperate to convince him. ‘You can’t keep me here indefinitely. If I don’t turn up for work, my boss will raise the alarm.’

‘Come now, have a drink. Rachael won’t miss you for a fortnight. You must have told her that you were going on holiday for two weeks.’

Rachael? Holiday? Renewed fear and panic made speaking difficult.

‘How – how do you know?’

At first her arms and legs, but then Gina’s whole body, began to shake. She crumpled and slipped to the floor. He put the champagne glasses down next to the telephone and bent to pick up the receiver. She flinched away from his movement. He replaced the receiver, turned and stepped towards her.

‘Come, let me help you.’

Threatened, her strength and voice returned. ‘Don’t touch me! Stay where you are!’

‘Okay …’ He picked up the glasses. ‘I’ll put your glass by your feet.’

Drained and defeated, Gina was immobilized by an overwhelming sense of helplessness. She stared blankly at an unsightly mark on the opposite wall and remembered she’d meant to ask the decorators to retouch that blemish.

Decorators!

If only she hadn’t contacted them, invited them into her home, he wouldn’t be here now, she wouldn’t be trapped in her own home. She must escape, but the door – her key wouldn’t work. She’d tried to call the police, but the phone wouldn’t work. All of these thoughts tumbled in the back of Gina’s mind as if behind a veil. She didn’t have the strength to bring them into focus. The power to concentrate and think clearly had deserted her. Gina’s eyes glazed; her brain, as if protecting her from the horror of her plight, fixed her eyes on the wall and held on to that one single thought: the blemish should be repaired.

16

In Deakin’s, still musing on the men in her life, Ed Ogborne took another sip of water.

‘I’ve got us a bottle of Picpoul and some olives.’

Lost in her thoughts, Ed had not seen her friend arrive.

‘Verity!’

‘Sorry I’m late, my new reporter had a bit of a run-in with a drunken husband on the Hersden estate.’

Ed didn’t want to go there. Hersden was where the abductor’s sister lived. Looking up at Verity, she smiled a welcome.

‘Thanks. A cold glass of white is just what I need.’

‘You seemed very engrossed.’

‘Haunted is probably a more appropriate word.’

Verity quickly poured two glasses of wine and moved one towards Ed.

‘The abductions?’

‘Yeah …’ Ed sighed. ‘We’ve done our job and the CPS say it’ll come to trial next year. I’ve almost finished tying up final loose ends.’

‘If you’ve put it to bed, why the brooding?’

‘I can’t get the images out of my head – thoughts of what those girls went through.’

Verity reached out to cover Ed’s hand with her own and squeezed it reassuringly.

‘You’ve a tough job, but I’d have thought you saw worse during your years with the Met.’

Ed nodded.

‘Somehow, they weren’t the same. At every turn this case has reminded me of lost children. I thought the pain would ease with time but I’m still waiting.’

‘You need a break.’ Verity sipped her wine. ‘If you’ve wound up the case, you must be due at least a long weekend. Let’s go away for two or three nights. I know the perfect place, it’s on the South Coast, about an hour’s drive from here. Rye, have you been there?’

Ed withdrew her hand and picked up her wine glass. ‘I know of it, of course, one of the Cinque Ports, but I’ve never been.’

‘You’ll love it. We’ll have a leisurely walk or two – Camber Sands is good – and there’s good food to be had in Rye.’

‘Thanks for the offer.’ Ed took an olive. ‘A weekend away sounds good.’

‘So you’ll come.’

‘I’m sorry, Verity, I’ve got a lot on at the moment. May I take a raincheck?’’

‘Of course.’ Her habitual half-smile had disappeared.

Both women busied themselves with their white wine and olives. Verity was the first to speak.

‘How’s the team? I’ve heard your DS Potts has been seen drinking alone in back-street pubs.’

Ed stiffened. ‘My team’s my business. Anyway –’ she indicated Verity’s near-empty glass ‘– Mike’s not the only one who likes a drink after work.’

‘Touché!’

Before Verity could say more, Ed continued. ‘I’ve never seen Mike the worse for wear and it doesn’t affect his work.’

Verity held up her hands. ‘Sorry, it was the journalist—’

‘It’s a non-story.’ Ed held Verity’s eyes. ‘Your work and mine are our own concerns unless something happens that is of public interest.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Verity looked at Ed apologetically. ‘As I say, it was the journalist speaking.’

Ed realized she’d overreacted. They’d long since established their working boundaries. She softened her voice.

‘Journalist and friend.’ Ed paused, then raised her glass and inclined it towards her friend.

Verity reciprocated and both women drank enough to warrant a top-up.

‘Would you like to stay here or shall we go for supper at Gino’s?’

‘Gino’s,’ Ed replied without hesitation. ‘Pasta with some of their Sangiovese is just what I need.’

‘I’ll ask them to hold a table and open a bottle.’

As Verity called the restaurant, Ed’s work mobile buzzed.

‘DI Ogborne.’ She listened for a few moments. ‘Right, get Jenny. Tell her she’s coming with me. I’ll be at the Station in ten minutes.’ As she spoke Ed looked across the table, waving a finger and shaking her head. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’

Verity muttered, ‘Just a moment,’ into her mobile and her look of surprise became a questioning frown. ‘What? Why?’

‘It’s work. A young woman’s been found dead in Dover. She appears to have been alone in her flat.’

Before Verity could reply, Ed was on her feet and walking between tables to the exit. She had no doubt the editor would use her contacts to get a reporter to the scene well before other journalists got wind of the incident.

17

Gina’s chin dropped onto her chest, waking her with a start. She was slumped on the floor in the hallway of her flat. For a moment she was disorientated, then the horror flooded back. She scrambled to her feet and began pulling frantically at the lock on the front door. It wouldn’t budge. In desperation, she grabbed her keys from the floor and tried each one again. None of them worked. The lock wouldn’t turn.

‘No! No! No!’ Gina beat on the door with her fists, screaming uncontrollably.

A chair scraped against the kitchen floor. Gina froze. She heard footsteps coming into the hall. The cold tension between her shoulder blades returned.

‘You’re wasting your time. Nobody will hear you. Your neighbours are on holiday.’ The voice was getting closer. ‘Please don’t be alarmed. Come, let’s take it slowly … let’s talk it through.’

The telephone … the policeman. No, not the policeman. She turned to face the voice. Three feet away stood Colin Smith, Decorart. His thin, childlike body and choirboy face did nothing to lessen the threat Gina felt. She took a half-step backwards and then something snapped inside her. With a cry of rage, Gina launched herself at Colin with the blind intention of beating her tormentor to the ground.

‘Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!’ she screamed, her fists raised to attack him.

Despite his slight build, Colin held her wrists easily and waited until her shouting became pleading and the adrenalin-fuelled rush of strength left her body. Gina sagged and he lowered her to the floor.

‘I’ll leave you to appreciate the situation. There’s no escape. Take your time. There’s no hurry. I’m here. I’ll be waiting.’

Once more slumped against the wall, Gina felt numb. Her mind and body were devoid of strength. Overwhelmed by an immobilising sense of helplessness, she appeared impassive despite the thoughts raging in her head. The only sign of movement came from the tears that escaped her eyes and dripped steadily onto her crumpled shirt.

18

Glum faces stared from cars in a tailback from the ferry terminal in central Dover. The grey evening was not an ideal start to a summer holiday, but for DI Ogborne and DC Eastham, unexplained deaths came in all weathers. When they reached the far side of town, Jenny parked behind a line of police vehicles near the entrance to Maxton House, an unremarkable block of flats just off the Folkestone Road. Together they approached the uniformed officer guarding the door and showed their Warrant Cards.

‘Who found her?’ asked Ed.

‘Parents, Ma’am. They’re in the van with a WPC.’

‘And the body?’

‘Second-floor flat, two flights up and turn right.’

The two detectives became aware of the smell on reaching the second floor. It was far from overpowering; nevertheless, the WPC standing with her back to the door of the flat had a handkerchief held to her nose. Barely glancing at their Warrant Cards, she lowered the handkerchief to indicate fresh coveralls, overshoes, face masks and latex gloves, housed in bags leaning against the opposite wall. Despite the presence of a senior officer she was unable to hide her distress.

‘Your first?’ asked Ed as she pulled on the protective clothing. ‘I guess it’s not pleasant.’

‘I don’t know, Ma’am, I’ve not been inside.’

‘Probably for the best.’ Ed nodded to Jenny. ‘Ready?’

The full force of the smell hit them as they opened the door and stepped inside. Ed heard Jenny gasp and knew she’d immediately wish she hadn’t. Touching the DC’s arm Ed said, ‘If someone had told me she’d been dead for days, I’d have brought my Vicks. Remember next time.’

It was a small one-bedroom flat, with a few pieces of cheap pine furniture and a notable absence of lampshades. Blonde artificial wood flooring and dull off-white paintwork completed the decoration. There were no ornaments and no pictures on the walls. Through an open bedroom doorway Ed could see a pathologist leaning over a small double bed, examining the discoloured body of a young woman. The dead woman was lying on her side wearing a T-shirt and knee-length skirt. A duvet was folded on the floor at the foot of the bed.

‘DI Ed Ogborne and DC Jenny Eastham, Canterbury CID. What have we got?’

‘Dorling, Buckland Hospital. I’ve just about finished. You’ve got a young woman in her early twenties. Like many these days she’s above average weight for her height. I estimate she’s been dead some six to ten days. When I get her back to the lab, potassium levels in the vitreous humour of the eye might provide a more precise estimate, but I’m doubtful; putrefaction has already started. I’ve found no superficial signs of injury. My initial impression is SCD, Sudden Cardiac Death. Given her age it’s likely she was congenitally predisposed.’

‘Anything unusual?’ asked Ed.

‘Almost certainly she’s been moved after death. The discolouration due to putrefaction is strong, but from what I can see of the livor mortis pattern, I’d say she died on her back and was turned onto her side two or three hours later. I’ll need to confirm that at the post-mortem.’

‘Any chance of fingerprints?’

‘A week or so after death shouldn’t be a problem. When can we have the body?’

‘Forensics will arrange it.’

As the pathologist gathered his things and left, Ed turned to Jenny.

‘If the body was moved, that means somebody was here a few hours after she died. The question is: was the same person here when she died? Either way, why didn’t they call the emergency services?’ Ed indicated the body. ‘Why leave the poor girl to decompose in a locked flat?’

Jenny, who was standing further from the bed, kept her eyes on Ed’s face. ‘I can’t imagine anyone being so callous.’

Sensitive to her young DC’s discomfort, Ed sent Jenny to look at the rest of the flat while she stayed in the bedroom. Apparently oblivious to the smell and horror of the discoloured body, Ed bent close to examine the victim before standing back to study the position of the dead woman on the bed. After a quick glance around the sparsely furnished bedroom, Ed called Jenny to join her.

‘What do you make of this bed?’

Jenny came closer for a quick look and stepped back.

‘The sheet’s not new, but it doesn’t look slept on. Apart from the marks made by escaping body fluids, it’s actually very clean, just like everything in the main room and bathroom.’

‘Same in here: not only the room and the bedding, but also the head and foot of the bed appear to have been thoroughly cleaned.’

‘We need to speak to the parents. Go down to the van and have an initial chat with them. I’ll stay here until forensics arrive.’

With a look of relief, Jenny turned to go.

‘Oh, and Jenny, check the doors for any signs of forced entry.’

19

Gina opened her eyes. She was still slumped against the wall near the door to her flat. Her back ached and her joints were stiff, but these, and other sensations, were overridden by a debilitating sense of listlessness. After fitful hours of weeping, she no longer had the strength to struggle or scream for help. He was right. No one had come. No one could hear her. She was on her own.

There were noises from the kitchen. It sounded as if he were eating. Gina felt sick at the thought of food and then became aware she was terribly thirsty. The glass of champagne was still near her feet. Without thinking, she reached and took a sip. Too late she realized it might be drugged.

‘Ah, Ms Hamilton, you’re awake. I’m pleased to see you’ve decided to try the champagne. That glass must be flat. Let me get you a fresh one.’

‘I want you to leave.’

It was more a weary plea than a demand. Gina felt helpless and too exhausted to insist. The terror she’d experienced as she fumbled with her keys, the horror she’d felt when she grasped she was imprisoned and at his mercy, those extreme emotions had left her body; she could acknowledge them in her head but she lacked the energy to experience their intensity. Physically, her body had shut down.

‘Please go, go and leave me alone.’

‘Let’s not repeat ourselves. Accept the situation. If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done it when you arrived. I could have done it any time since. I could do it now, but I have no intention of hurting you.’

Despite her weary detachment, Gina was aware his manner, in keeping with his unimposing appearance, showed no immediate sign of threat. She felt she should do something, but a total lack of physical strength left her body inert.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of getting myself something to eat. All food I’ve paid for, I hasten to add. I brought it with me when I arrived this afternoon. At the moment I’m eating smoked salmon with cream cheese and bagels. They go well with the champagne. May I get you some?’

With what seemed like an immense effort she forced herself to speak. ‘I’d like you to go. Just go and leave me alone.’

‘Georgina …’ he replied, reprovingly.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Perhaps you’ll have some later. How about some champagne?’

‘No.’ Suddenly, Gina had an idea and felt revitalized. ‘No. No, thank you. I need the bathroom.’

She forced herself to her feet and took her bag from the hall table. As she turned to close the bathroom door, she saw him smile from his position in the hall. Her hand moved to the lock. The bastard! He’d removed the mechanism. Gina tipped her flat champagne into the basin, ran the cold tap and filled her glass. Drinking the water with one hand, she fumbled in her bag with the other and retrieved her mobile phone. It was off. Puzzled, she switched it on. Nothing. Her phone was dead. Gina opened it to find that the battery and SIM card had been removed. Stepping back into the hall, she waved the mobile phone at him.

‘What have you done with my battery and SIM?’

‘Gina,’ he said with a look of mock disappointment, ‘surely you didn’t expect me to leave you free to contact the outside world. Don’t worry. Your battery and SIM are in a safe place, together with the charger and battery from your laptop.’

Gina felt an ominous sense of foreboding. His calm assurance was becoming as frightening as the thought of what he might do to her.

‘If I don’t contact my friends they’ll—’

‘Sadly, you don’t seem to be in regular contact with any friends.’

‘What? How?’

‘This last week I’ve had plenty of time to hack into your laptop while you’ve been at work.’

Gina’s sense of isolation increased. She stepped back into the bathroom to think. Feeling weak, she leant against the washbasin for support. Determined to be rational, she forced herself to take stock. Normal access to the world had been taken from her. House keys, landline, mobile and computer; all were useless. If the people in the flat next door were away, she had little chance of attracting attention. Her flat was on the third floor. The external windows were at the side of the building facing thick leafy treetops. Even if she could get a window open, her cries for help were unlikely to be heard. The lock had gone from the bathroom door, leaving her exposed and defenceless. Gina’s legs began to shake and she tightened her grip on the basin.

Staring sightlessly at her face in the bathroom mirror, Gina struggled to think clearly. Building logical thoughts was like trying to run waist-deep in a swimming pool. Her breathing was laboured and her mouth gaped with the effort. For the moment he had the upper hand. She was at his mercy. There was little choice but to play along, see what developed and look for a way to escape.

He was right; if he’d wanted to hurt her he could have done so already. Slowly a new thought struggled to the surface: he hadn’t done so already but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t harm her, even kill her, sometime in the future. Gina’s knees buckled and she clung to the rim of the basin. Physically she felt weak, but her mental strength was returning. She splashed her face with cold water. This man wouldn’t get the better of her. She didn’t know how, but she would find a way. She straightened and refilled her glass with water from the tap, determined he wouldn’t win.

‘There’s mineral water in the fridge.’ The voice drew attention to his presence, watching her from the hall. Gina shuddered.

‘Tap water’s fine.’ She forced herself to look at him. ‘I know I can’t get out, but you said we should take it slowly. I’m tired. I need to rest. Just tell me what you want and we’ll talk about it later.’

He looked at her carefully. Contrived or not, he appeared innocent, almost boyish.

‘It’s very simple. I want you. I want you to give yourself to me.’

Gina gasped. He’d spoken so calmly, as if his wish was the most natural thing in the world. But why was she so surprised? It had to be sex; why else would a man break into a single woman’s home?

‘If you want sex why haven’t you done it already?’

A brief look of shock appeared on his face and he spoke quickly.

‘No, you misunderstand. I don’t want sex, that is, I don’t just want sex. I don’t want to force you. I don’t want you to submit, to surrender yourself. Your willingness won’t be enough. I want the gift of your love more than I want the act itself, but your desire to give must match my desire for the giving. You must want me as much as I want you.’

He stopped speaking as abruptly as he’d started.

Gina looked at him aghast. The man was deranged. ‘Love you?’ She took a step back. ‘Never!’

‘You’re shocked, surprised, you’re thinking it won’t happen. You’re wrong, Gina. All we need is time.’

She had to get away. She couldn’t get out of the flat, but anywhere would do as long as it was away from this madman. Doing her best to adopt a professional manner, Gina stepped into the hall and faced him directly.

‘I’m going to rest on my bed. Promise me that you won’t come into my room.’

‘We’ll talk again when you’re feeling better. Leave your door open, I’ll not wake you.’

Gina moved past him towards her room. The moment he was behind her, the cold tension returned between her shoulder blades. Quickly, she walked into her bedroom. There was no lock on the door so she did as he’d said and left it half open. She kicked off her shoes, climbed onto the bed without undressing and pulled the duvet tightly around her shoulders. Despite the cover, her body felt like ice.

Why me? Why? Why me?

20

When they’d left Dover and were on the A2 back to Canterbury, Ed asked Jenny what she’d managed to get from the dead woman’s parents.

‘Very little. The husband, Tony Jenkins, did most of the talking. I didn’t push Pat, the mother; she was very upset. Actually, Tony’s the stepfather.’

‘And the daughter …?’

‘Kayleigh Robson, 23, an only child. They’re not from around here; they come from Strood.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Part of the Medway Towns – it’s across the river from Rochester.’

‘So, what was Kayleigh doing in Dover?’

‘She moved out of the family home when her mother remarried. According to the stepfather, they hadn’t seen Kayleigh for three or four years.’

Ed waited while Jenny negotiated a roundabout.

‘If they’d lost touch with the daughter, what were they doing at her flat in Dover?’

‘They had an arrangement. Ever since Kayleigh left home, her mother has paid for a mobile contract. In return, Kayleigh promised she would always call between 5 and 6 p.m. on the 21st of every month. When she hadn’t called by 6.30 today, the mother tried to call her, but she couldn’t get through to Kayleigh’s phone. This had never happened before. She got increasingly worried and finally insisted Tony drive with her to Dover. They had a key to the flat, let themselves in and found Kayleigh dead.’

‘Poor woman – to find your child like that must be an unimaginable experience,’ said Ed.

The two detectives drove in silence, each with their own thoughts, until Ed added, ‘We’ll know more when we get the post-mortem report and hear from forensics.’

21

Gina tried to turn over in bed but couldn’t; something was holding her right arm. She pulled. It tightened round her wrist. Now fully awake, she opened her eyes in time to see the Decorart man loop a cord around her other wrist and pull it towards the head of the bed.

‘What the … You bastard!’

Anger, not fear, rose within her. Colin was standing by the bed. She kicked out, but he stood back and her struggles tightened the cords at her wrists.

‘Gently. Don’t mark your skin. The cords are velvet-covered but even so you’ll not want them too tight. Struggling is pointless. You’ll not escape.’

‘You bastard. Let me go. You promised not to come in here.’

‘I said I wouldn’t wake you. I’m sorry that I did. Please don’t struggle. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. You must see that it’s pointless to struggle.’

Gina saw this only too well. The man who called himself Colin Smith stood at the foot of the bed with two more cords. Unless she could talk him out of it she would soon be spread-eagled, arms and legs stretched to the four corners of her bed.

‘I know I’m in your power. You don’t need to tie me down.’

‘Ah, but I’m afraid I do.’

‘Why? I accept that you’re stronger. I know I can’t escape. You said you didn’t want to hurt me. I trusted you, but now you’re doing this!’

‘More to the point, Georgina, how can I trust you? I may be stronger, but I need to sleep. You must see that it would be foolish for me to leave you unrestrained while I slept.’

He bent, swiftly looped a cord round her ankle and secured her right leg to the foot of the bed. Moments later, her left leg was also tied.

‘Don’t struggle or you really will hurt yourself. I’m going for a short walk to clear my head. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon to get some rest. I suggest you do the same.’

Gina heard him walk to the outer door. A key turned; the door opened and closed. She pulled at her bonds. They were secure. Her fear returned. Left alone in the flat she felt more afraid than when he was with her. What if he didn’t come back? She’d starve or die of thirst.

Immediately, Gina felt very thirsty. Her mouth was dry. She turned her head to look at the bedside table. The near-empty glass of water was still there, but it was impossible to reach. She closed her eyes, trying to put water from her mind. The dryness in her mouth intensified. With her body stretched to the four corners of the bed, her arms and legs began to ache. She longed to turn on her side, to pull up her legs and wrap her arms around her knees.

Eventually, Gina heard him return and she feigned sleep. The dryness and thirst had disappeared. His footsteps came to the bedroom door, paused and moved through to the sitting room. Despite her bonds, she felt reassured now that he was back. She was no longer alone. He would come if she called.

Although she felt safer with Colin in the apartment, Gina was still struggling to come to terms with the horror of her position. Screaming and shouting for help had achieved nothing; he’d calmly waited for her to stop. Clearly, he was confident that no one would hear her cries. With no one immediately likely to come to her aid, and no one who would raise the alarm for at least a fortnight, she had to do something. To do nothing left Colin in control. Do nothing and any change would come from him. To improve her position, she had to know what best to do. Despite her ambivalent feelings of safety and threat in his presence she must get him talking. She needed to ask questions and use his answers to formulate a plan.

Tomorrow morning she’d make a start. She’d try talking with him at length. How did he know so much about her? How did he organize getting into her home? Despite her desperate situation, part of her really wanted to know and she was certain he’d enjoy revealing how clever he’d been. Her interest would flatter his ego. She must steel herself to play a game, act a role, gain his confidence and find a weakness, a weakness that would offer a means of escape.

Tied to the bed, half dozing, half planning, it slowly dawned on Gina that her best chance of escape, probably her only chance, would involve submitting to his desires. She cringed at the thought of him touching her. Her mind recoiled at the idea of submission. Nausea threatened to overwhelm her as she fought to keep images of the likely scenario from her mind. She knew she could disengage during the physical act, but the horror of the experience would remain. In taking her, possessing her, he would rob her of her self-esteem. She might choose submission as her safest option, but it wasn’t a genuine choice. The choice had been his. By engineering this situation, he was forcing her to do something her whole being screamed against.

Gina’s prime wish was self-preservation, but her mind recoiled at the prospect of what survival might entail. What had he said? He didn’t just want sex; her submission wouldn’t satisfy him. Surrendering and giving herself wouldn’t be enough. He wouldn’t be content until he was sure she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Impossible! Gina shrank in revulsion from the prospect. She could not let this man take possession of her. She would not let this man own her. There had to be another way, but what that other way might be she couldn’t think. Only by getting him to talk could she find out. She must overcome her feelings and engage with him tomorrow.

These thoughts repeated in her head, at first logically, but then in abbreviated snatches of ideas, each swirling after the other in a sequence that became increasingly random. There was no progression, no developing argument, just brief flashes of horror and hope, until she slipped from consciousness to a troubled night of dreams.

22

Summoned to Chief Superintendent Karen Addler’s office at 08.30, Ed had spent all of three minutes briefing her line manager on the discovery of Kayleigh Robson’s body when the Super reached for her fat fountain pen and terminated the meeting with a brusque request to be kept informed.

Earlier, Ed had asked Jenny and Mike Potts to re-interview Kayleigh’s parents in Strood. From Jenny’s questioning the previous evening it appeared Kayleigh had moved out of the family home as soon as her stepfather had moved in. Consequently, Ed wasn’t expecting any new revelations, but the follow-up interview had to be done. It would also show the police were actively pursuing an investigation. When Ed returned to the CID Room, Mike and Jenny had left and only DC Nat Borrowdale remained in the office. He looked up as she crossed to her desk.

‘Forensics called. They’d like you to get back to them for an initial report on the dead woman’s flat.’

Ed picked up her phone and dialled. ‘Hi, it’s DI Ogborne, you have a prelim on the flat in Dover.’ Then was a pause as she waited for someone else to come to the phone. ‘Hi, it’s Ed.’ After a few minutes listening, Ed spoke again. ‘And you’re sure there was no mobile phone in the flat?’ Following a brief silence, Ed added, ‘Okay, thanks,’ before cutting the call and redialling.

‘Mike, when you’re with the parents, ask Pat, the mother, for details of Kayleigh’s mobile. It may be in the daughter’s name, but the mother pays the bills. Tell her we need the information in order to access the phone records; explain they could assist our investigation of her daughter’s death.’

Ed ended the call and got to her feet. ‘Okay, Nat, we’re on our way to Dover. I’ll bring you up to speed as you drive.’

When they arrived at Maxton House, Ed recognized the constable at the entrance as the one who, last night, had been inside the building at the door of the second-floor flat.

‘Feeling better out here?’

‘Yes, thank you, Ma’am. Before you go up, the Sarge would like a word.’ She pointed to a uniformed figure crossing the road towards them.

‘Sergeant Burstford, Ma’am. I’m just winding up the door-to-door.’

‘DI Ogborne and this is DC Borrowdale, Canterbury CID. What have you got for us?’

‘Not a lot, I’m afraid. Kayleigh Robson lived here alone. The block’s due for a major refurbishment and Kayleigh was the last remaining tenant. She worked at the convenience store down the road. Some of the locals knew her by sight, but she appears not to have had particular friends in the area. At least, nobody remembers seeing her with anybody. Those who admitted knowing her said she kept herself to herself and barely spoke to people except briefly when they were shopping.’

‘Did you check the shop out?’

‘The owner confirmed Kayleigh worked there, but said she hadn’t been in for over a week. Apparently, he found a note pushed through the door saying she needed a break and was taking a fortnight off.’

‘When did he find the note?’

‘First thing on Friday of last week, the 14th. Said it must have been pushed under the door during the night. He’d scribbled the date on it and kept it in a drawer. So we know she was alive on the Thursday, maybe early on the Friday.’

‘Mmm …’ Ed hesitated a moment before replying. ‘Probably, unless somebody else delivered the note. What about CCTV?’

‘Maxton House, where her flat is, doesn’t have any security cameras. Nor is this road covered, but there are cameras up there.’ Sergeant Burstford pointed up to the main road. ‘On the Folkestone Road, there are multiple cameras between here and the centre of town.’

‘And the shop where Kayleigh worked?’ asked Ed.

‘They have security cameras inside. We’ll check the tapes for last Thursday and Friday – should pick up Kayleigh’s movements and maybe someone with her.’

‘Good. We might be able to point you to some additional cameras.’

‘Ma’am?’ Burstford’s response was tinged with annoyance. Clearly, Dover was his patch and he didn’t take kindly to outsiders telling him his job.

‘Relevant intel, Sergeant. Kayleigh had a mobile, but forensics didn’t find one in her flat. Two of my colleagues are with the parents in Strood. They’ll be asking the mother, who paid the phone bills, for details so that we can access the mobile records. With luck, we’ll get intel about contacts and meetings around the time of her death.’

Burstford smiled. ‘If you can identify meeting places, we can target relevant CCTV.’

‘It’ll be good working with you, Sergeant. Let’s hope our collaboration leads to a swift result.’ Ed turned to enter the building, then added, ‘Two weeks without notice – that must have pissed him off.’

‘Her boss at the corner shop is from an extended family. Easy for him to get someone to cover. I got the impression he wasn’t sorry to see Kayleigh gone. Said she was an adult and it was her life.’

It had been her life, thought Ed, and it hadn’t been a long one.

‘Thanks. If anything else comes up, let me know. We’re going to take another look upstairs.’

‘Okay, Nat, what’s your first impression?’

‘From what I can see, it’s like you said in the car: everything looks to have been thoroughly cleaned.’

‘The whole flat was pristine. Of course, the sheet and pillowcase were stained where they’d been in direct contact with her body, as were the clothes she was wearing, but everything else had been recently washed.’

‘Scrupulously clean flat,’ said Nat to himself. Then to Ed, ‘What were her hands like?’

‘She’d been dead six to ten days.’

‘Right. I was thinking she might have been a compulsive cleaner.’

‘Unlikely. The flat had been methodically cleaned yet there were almost no cleaning items in the cupboards. Every hard surface had been wiped down with bleach, but forensics found no bleach in the flat, not even empty containers. The bins in the bathroom and kitchen were empty, and fitted with new liners.’

‘Someone carefully covering their tracks, taking their rubbish and cleaning things with them,’ suggested Nat.

‘And someone took her mobile,’ added Ed. ‘Almost certainly the person who cleaned the flat and moved her body.’

‘And the cleaning left no fingerprints?’

‘Only hers on items at the back of cupboards, but we’ve struck lucky. There was a partial print in the bathroom, which appears not to be Kayleigh’s, and a smudged palm print on the outside of the front door, origin debatable.’

‘How come there was a stray print in the bathroom if every exposed area had been wiped?’

‘Chance. The loo has a split-button flush and one half was set a couple of millimetres lower than the other. Whoever cleaned the place hadn’t poked their cloth completely in and the print was left on the lower button. It was incomplete, so a fingerprint match is unlikely to be conclusive, but forensics will be able to retrieve DNA. With luck, whoever left it will be on the National Database and we’ll get a match.’

‘What about the smudge on the door?’ asked Nat.

‘Forensics will run the DNA.’

‘And CCTV?’

‘You heard the Sergeant.’ Ed eyed Nat disapprovingly. ‘It’s a street of old buildings. There’s no camera covering the road, let alone the entrance to Maxton House.’

As Ed spoke her mobile rang. ‘DI Ogborne.’

‘Dorling. I’ve just started the post-mortem and there’s a couple of things I thought you should know immediately.’

Ed switched her phone to speaker, so that Nat could listen in.

‘When we washed the body, we found ligature marks at the wrists and ankles.’

‘Why weren’t they picked up at the scene?’

‘She’d been dead at least a week. Body discolouration alone shouldn’t have masked them, but concealer had been applied to cover the marks. Like make-up, it came off when we washed the body.’

‘Right, and your second point?’

‘Well, the stress associated with being restrained, and whatever else happened to the poor girl before she died, probably triggered cardiac arrest. I’ll confirm that in my report, but I’ve already seen enough from the livor mortis pattern to be certain the body was moved after death. She died lying on her back with limbs spread-eagled from her body by the ligatures.’

‘What about sexual assault, traces of semen?’

‘There were no signs of forced penetration, but she wasn’t a virgin. However, there was no semen and no trace of lubricant.’

‘Okay. Thanks for letting us know so quickly. Can you be more precise with time of death?’

‘Sorry. Putrefaction was too advanced for a vitreous potassium measurement.’

Ed sighed. ‘So … we’re stuck with six to ten days?’

‘That’s what my report will say, but from the temperature in the flat and the extent of decomposition, I’d bet on eight or nine.’

‘There’s a possibility she was alive last Thursday.’

‘That would fit my best guess of eight or nine days.’

‘Thanks, I’ll not quote you.’

Ed switched off her phone and turned to Nat. ‘What do you make of the pathologist’s findings?’

‘Kinky sex gone wrong? That would fit with the guy putting concealer over the ligature marks and cleaning the place so thoroughly.’

‘I agree, but remember there was no semen.’

‘He could have worn a condom,’ said Nat.

‘Unlikely, there were no traces of lubricant.’ Ed paused. ‘Of course, sadomasochistic sex might not have involved penetrative intercourse and …’ Ed paused. ‘Nor does it preclude the possibility Kayleigh’s partner was a woman. Let’s check the bed to see if the ligatures have left cord marks.’

Both Ed and Nat were certain there were marks in the white paint, which were more prominent at the foot of the bed.

‘That’s consistent with her exerting more force with her legs than her arms,’ said Ed. ‘Legs are stronger and the cords were probably more painful at the wrists than the ankles.’

‘The fact that there are marks suggests it wasn’t passive restraint, which Kayleigh accepted; she fought against it.’

‘Good point, Nat, and fighting her bonds could have sparked the stress that triggered the cardiac arrest.’

‘Right …’

‘Even so, I don’t think that confirms she was held against her will. Maybe yes, maybe no. For people into S&M, struggling against the bonds can be a turn-on.’

‘One thing’s puzzling me,’ said Nat. ‘The pathologist mentioned make-up. What were her clothes like? You said they were clean.’

‘I also checked her other clothes,’ said Ed. ‘The ones she was wearing were the best from her small choice.’

‘It’s looking like she got herself ready to meet someone for kinky sex. You said there were no signs of forced entry.’

‘Right. Jenny and I checked and forensics confirmed.’

‘In that case, whoever was with her was probably someone she knew?’

‘Most likely,’ Ed agreed. ‘She lived alone and there’s nobody else in the rest of the building. I can’t see her letting a stranger into her flat.’

‘What about social media?’

‘She doesn’t appear to have a computer and, as you know, her mobile’s missing.’

‘Just like the clean-up,’ said Nat. ‘The missing mobile suggests someone covering their tracks. What about phone records?’

‘Come on, Nat!’ Ed gave the young DC another disapproving look. ‘Remember? We’re onto it. Mike and Jenny are with the parents in Strood. They’ll get Kayleigh’s number and details of the mobile contract from her mother.’

In the car back to Canterbury, Ed drafted a press release specifying a heart attack and death by natural causes. She would press the Super to hold back other details. Whoever was with Kayleigh when she died, Ed needed them to be kept in the dark. The last thing she wanted at this stage was to release a tip-off that the police were treating the death as suspicious.

23

It was late morning when Gina woke aching from her enforced position on the bed. She tried moving and cried out from the stiffness in her muscles.

‘Hey! Are you there? These cords are biting into my wrists. I’m stiff. In pain. Come and loosen them. Please.’

‘Good morning. I hope you slept well.’

Apart from a different shirt he looked the same as yesterday. His blond fringe seemed to be permanently fixed at an angle across his forehead.

‘I’m aching all over. I can’t move with these cords and I’m sore where they’re tight around my wrists and ankles.’

‘That’s because you struggled.’

‘The cords are hurting me, please loosen them.’

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Gina was uncomfortable with the idea of him coming closer to her, close enough to loosen the cords. She felt sickened by the thought that he might touch her. She forced the revulsion from her mind, determined to suppress those feelings in exchange for immediate comfort and the possibility of escape.

Colin stood at the foot of the bed, apparently unaware of what she’d said or might be thinking.

‘You must be hungry. I’ll get us some breakfast – orange juice and toast.’

He left the bedroom without waiting for a reply. Gina heard him busy in the kitchen and then he returned with a tray, which he placed well away from the bed.

‘First a little exercise and then we’ll have breakfast. I’m going to untie one cord at a time so that you can move your arms and legs in turn. I’ll hold on to the end of the cord and, if you try any tricks, I’ll tie you down and leave you alone until this evening. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you promise not to try anything stupid?’

‘Yes.’

They began with her left leg and, after a few minutes, moved on to her right leg and then her left arm. Before releasing her right arm, he moved the breakfast tray closer so that he could reach it while still holding the cord attached to her wrist.

‘What can I pass you first, orange juice or toast?’

‘Thank you. I’d like juice first and then the toast.’

As they ate, Gina steeled herself and began her campaign.

‘How did you arrange all of this? You seem to know so much about me.’

‘Planning and research.’

‘But how? Why me?’

‘Chance.’

‘Because I employed your firm to decorate this room?’

‘I have no firm. At least, the firm you thought you employed was fictitious. I employed a real firm myself once you had given me the keys to your apartment.’

‘But I responded to a circular that came in the post. It was the same for my holiday in Italy, and that was real because I checked with the tour company. They had my name in their records and on the passenger list. They sent me the itinerary and the airline tickets.’

‘Of course. Like the decorators, the tour company and the holiday were real but I made the bookings.’

‘But the holiday in Italy was a prize. I won it in a competition.’

‘I organized the competition. The prize was chosen with you in mind. I found your dream holiday and booked it.’

‘But how did you know I would win?’

‘There were no other entries. Only you received the mailshot about the singles club competition.’

‘Okay … but how did you know I would enter?’

‘I didn’t, but I thought there was a good chance and you didn’t let me down. Through me, you employed the decorators, you entered the competition and you accepted the prize holiday. That’s why I’m here.’

‘But how did you know Siena was my dream holiday? How did you find out so much about me?’

‘Simple. You told me.’

Although it wasn’t cold in her bedroom Gina felt a chill between her shoulder blades at his words.

‘But I don’t even know you. We’ve hardly met. How could you possibly …?’

‘From time to time we’ve been much closer than you realize. Once I’d determined how to find out about you the rest was easy.’

‘That’s what I’d like to know. How did you find out so much about me?’

‘All in good time.’

Colin retied Gina’s right arm to the bed and took the tray to the kitchen.

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