LITMIR.BIZ

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made her cry, but she resisted resolutely. They’d degraded her enough; she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of breaking down. Besides, as she kept reminding herself, it was vital to keep a cool head. Cooperate but be cool – that was her plan. It was the only way to earn their respect. Never show a dangerous animal that you’re frightened.

      But of course, it was easier to say such a thing than to do it.

      The jewellery for example – Louise had glanced into the jewellery box, and had been surprised by the quality of the stuff it contained: earrings, bracelets, brooches, rings, necklaces, all of real gold and silver, encrusted with gems. But after the rather large hint her jailer had dropped about where this high-class merchandise had come from, she couldn’t bring herself to touch any of it, much less wear it. She doubted that she’d ever be able to wear jewellery again, not even her own – assuming she ever got home to it. Her bravado half-crumbled and fresh tears sprang into her eyes, though she hurriedly wiped them away with a tissue, determined to be brave.

      As she did this, the door clicked open.

      She spun around. Surely two hours hadn’t passed already?

      Nobody came in. Louise waited tensely, hands clasped in front of her. Then she heard a voice from the next room.

      ‘Louise?’ it said hesitantly. Incredibly, it sounded familiar. ‘Do you want to come in here?’

      At first bewildered, but then with sudden desperate energy, she dashed forward and pushed the door open. On the other side she saw a larger room, which was much more luxurious than her dressing-room-sized prison. There was a thick pile carpet on the floor, and soft fabric covering the walls. A shaded bulb cast a rosy glow over a double bed, its eiderdown folded neatly back on crisp, golden sheets. However, none of this amazed her as much as the person occupying the room.

      He was a middle-aged man, but tall and well built, with grey at his temples and pale, handsome features. He was usually a very imposing figure; scrupulously neat, with a formal air and stern attitude which appeared to brook no nonsense, but at present, though he wore his normal pinstriped suit, his jacket and collar were unbuttoned and his tie hung in a loose knot.

      Despite this, there was no mistaking him.

      ‘Mr Blenkinsop,’ she said, hardly able to believe her eyes – new tears now appeared there, tears of relief.

      He gave a helpless shrug. ‘Hi.’

      Ian Blenkinsop was not part of Louise’s department at Goldstein & Hoff, but a director in Commodity Finance, two floors above her. She didn’t know him particularly well, but they’d been part of the same company long enough to be on speaking terms. He was now standing on the other side of the bed, in front of an oak-panelled door, next to what looked like a well-stocked drinks cabinet.

      She slammed the dressing-room door behind her and rushed towards him, jabbering frantically. ‘They … they grabbed me on my way home. I didn’t realise until it was too … there was nothing I could do … I’m so, so sorry … honestly, there was nothing …’

      He nodded patiently, but seemed rather nervous. He was breathing quickly; sweat glinted on his brow – which was not his normal form. Ordinarily, Ian Blenkinsop was a man of poise, a smooth operator from whose fingertips multi-million-pound deals flowed on a daily basis. But why was he here? The question hit Louise hard. He was a banker, for Christ’s sake! Why was he the one who’d been sent to find her? Unless …

      ‘Oh my God,’ she breathed. ‘Did they get you too?’

      ‘Er …’ He half-smiled. ‘In a way, yes.’

      ‘Oh … Jesus!’ She put her fingers to her brow as it furrowed with disappointment. She wasn’t saved after all. Still, if nothing else, at least here was a friend, an ally, someone to share the ordeal with.

      ‘Who … who are these people?’ she said, trying her damnedest not to start crying again. ‘I mean … who?’

      ‘I don’t know. Listen, come and have a drink.’

      To her bemusement, he turned to the cabinet. On its shelf there was a bottle of champagne, which he’d uncorked, and two glasses. He’d already filled one and now filled the other. He came around the bed and offered it to her.

      ‘Are you serious?’ she said, ignoring it. ‘Don’t you think we should be trying to get out of here?’

      Still he pushed the drink towards her. ‘I know this has all been a bit of a shock for you, Louise, but if you play along it’ll be a lot easier.’

      ‘“Play along”?’ Confusion made her tone shrill. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

      He drained his own glass and placed hers on a sideboard, before sitting on the bed and patting the mattress next to him. ‘Come here for a minute.’

      ‘What? Mr Blenkinsop … what are you doing?’

      ‘Louise, there’s no point trying to resist. These people are professionals.’

      ‘You know them?’

      He stood up again, frustrated, pacing the room. ‘You haven’t guessed what this is about yet?’

      ‘Am I supposed to have?’ In the midst of her fear, she was completely bewildered.

      ‘You should just accept the inevitable.’ His voice had hardened, but he eyed her up and down as if noticing her attire for the first time and appreciating it a great deal. ‘You look good, I must admit.’

      She backed away from him. ‘You’re not a prisoner here at all, are you?’

      ‘You want the truth?’ He stared at her, glassy-eyed. Suddenly he’d dropped all pretence at friendship. He looked cold, indifferent. ‘It’s the first time I’ve done anything like this here in the UK. But why not? Every day I create wealth and jobs for others. Society owes me so very much, so if I see something I want, why shouldn’t I take it? Because at the end of the day, I will have the things I desire and deserve. And if that means hurting a few little idiot-bitches who think it’s alright to dress provocatively because it makes them feel good, but who scream “harassment” the moment someone so much as looks at them … well, that’s hardly my problem. On the subject of which, you do look good, Louise.’

      He slid towards her. She continued to back away; the dressing-room door was close behind her, but of course that offered no escape.

      ‘I’ve watched you every day for quite a few years now,’ he added. ‘Sashaying around Branscombe Court in those “fuck-my-wet-cunt” outfits.’

      Despite everything, it was a chilling shock to hear such profanity from him. Louise couldn’t suppress a gasp.

      ‘Though you never looked as good then as you do now.’

      ‘You bastard,’ she whispered.

      She’d now backed right up to the door. He didn’t come straight up to her but stopped a few yards short, from where he continued to eye her in the sort of brazenly lustful way that nowadays could land a man in court.

      ‘It’s up to you how you play this,’ he said. ‘But if you comply, I reckon we’ll both have a good time.’

      Finally she understood. Several times in the office recently she’d suspected that Blenkinsop was furtively observing her. Evidently it hadn’t just been her imagination. ‘I … I …’

      ‘I think the words you’re looking for are “okay, let’s do it.”’ Blenkinsop was clearly growing impatient; his mouth fixed in a half-smile/half-snarl. ‘Look Louise … it’s not like you’ve got a choice here. You’ve seen the sort of team I’m working with. They don’t mess around. They’ve been watching you for weeks, noting your every move. They know who your friends are, where your family can be found …’

      ‘My … my family?’ she said, with a new sense of creeping horror.

      ‘That’s

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