LITMIR.BIZ

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to his feet, confused and distrustful of how he came to be there. The memories of what had happened in the cellar came seeping back, and with them his anger, but it was controllable now. He could turn this weakness into his strength, but in order to do that she needed to be taught a lesson. He would have to show the whore he knew what she was.

      Keller made his way to the shed attached to the side of the cottage and pulled the unlocked door open. Undaunted by the disorganized chaos that confronted him, he began to scoop armfuls of items from their shelves, kicking the things that landed on the floor out of his way until he found what he was looking for: a bag of litter and a tray he’d bought months ago when he was trying to domesticate one of the feral cats that patrolled his land. He paused for a second, the memory of the ungrateful cat pricking his thoughts. It had got what it deserved, but at least he’d given it a proper burial, in one of the few green and picturesque spots on his land, under the sole willow tree that shaded the back of his cottage. He shook the memory away and examined the items he held.

      Satisfied that this would teach the whore who was in control, he set about filling the litter tray, then made his way back to the stairs that led to the cellar, taking care to avoid the obstacles that littered the way. Once inside, he raced down the stairs, abandoning caution now, revelling in his power when he saw them cowering in the corners of their cages. He saw the holdall he’d dropped on the floor earlier and the clothes inside. No matter. First he’d deal with the whore.

      He unlocked the padlock to Karen Green’s cage and pulled the door open. This time there was no need to brandish the stun-gun; she wouldn’t dare cross him now. The terror in her eyes told him she knew it was no use trying to escape. He threw the tray of cat litter on to the floor of her cage. ‘When you need to piss, whore,’ he shouted, ‘you piss in there. You piss in there and you shit in there.’ He watched as she hugged herself, rocking rhythmically back and forth. Again he pointed at the tray. ‘In there – understand, whore?’

      Neither waiting for an answer nor expecting one, he slammed her door closed and carefully replaced the padlock. Then he crossed the cellar to retrieve the holdall, a smile changing the shape of his face as he pulled the clean and pressed clothes from within: a sky-blue blouse, grey knee-length pencil skirt, a cream V-neck sweater and white underwear. Next he removed two bottles: Elemis body lotion and Tom Ford Black Orchid Eau de Parfum.

      ‘This is for you, Sam,’ he told Louise. ‘Your own clothes, not the ones they made you wear. These are your own. And look – your favourite perfume and lotion. Use the lotion before you dress. Understand?’ Louise nodded that she did. ‘Put the perfume on after,’ he added. ‘Understand?’ She nodded again. He moved to the side of her cage and opened the hatch just wide enough to fit the items through once he’d rolled them into a single package. ‘Take them,’ he demanded, making her stretch out and snatch the package away, falling back into the corner of her cage.

      ‘I have to go to work now,’ he said. ‘But I promise I’ll come and see you when I get home. And don’t worry about her.’ He flicked his head towards the other cage. ‘She can’t hurt us any more. Nobody can. Nobody can keep us apart, Sam. They’ll never find us here. They’ll never take you away from me again. I swear it on my life, Sam, I’ll never let that happen.’

      Mid-morning Thursday and Sean waited in the comfortable office of Harry Montieth, owner-manager of Graphic Solutions, the small business in Dartmouth Road, Forest Hill, where Louise Russell should have been at work. He heard Montieth knock on his own door before ushering in two women in their late twenties. They both looked scared and anxious; the darkening around their eyes a clear indication that neither had slept well since learning of their colleague’s disappearance. He liked them already because of their concern, their self-inflicted sharing of her pain.

      ‘This is Tina,’ said Montieth, fumbling for the best way to introduce them to a cop. ‘Tina Nuffield. And this is Gabby – Gabby Scott.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Sean acknowledged, examining his face for any signs of guilt or shame, searching the women’s faces for telltale indications of disgust. Having concluded there was nothing untoward going on between Montieth and his female employees, he set about questioning them. ‘Mr Montieth has told me that you are Louise’s closest friends.’

      ‘We’re good friends,’ said Gabby, brushing her short blonde hair behind her ear. Tina remained silent, chewing on her bottom lip, in danger of opening the partly healed cut she’d already made.

      ‘How good?’ Sean probed.

      ‘I’ve known her since she started here, must be nearly five years ago.’

      ‘And what about you, Tina?’ Sean wanted to drag her into the conversation.

      ‘About three years,’ she answered quietly. ‘That’s when I started here. Louise really looked after me, and Gabby too,’ she added, so as not to upset her friend.

      Sean had already decided there was nothing here for him. He continued the standard questions, barely listening to the replies.

      ‘Things sometimes happen at work that stay at work,’ he suggested. ‘Things that never find their way home. You know what I mean?’ Everyone in the office did.

      ‘Not Louise,’ Gabby said firmly. ‘If anything like that had happened, we’d know about it for sure and I’d tell you now if it was. I wouldn’t risk lying to you.’

      ‘You’re her best friends, so I guess you would know,’ Sean encouraged.

      ‘We would,’ Gabby reaffirmed. ‘And there wasn’t. If Louise went out without John she would be out with us. We would’ve known. She loves John. All she ever talked about was John and how they were going to start a family soon.’

      ‘What about an unwanted admirer?’ Sean asked as a last procedural question. ‘Someone hanging around outside the office waiting for her? Someone other than the husband sending flowers, cards?’

      The three colleagues looked blankly at each other before Gabby answered for them all.

      ‘No. Not that I ever saw and not that she ever mentioned.’

      ‘What about at home? Anyone making a nuisance of themselves?’

      ‘Same,’ said Gabby. ‘Nothing. If there had been, she would have reported it to the police.’

      They were interrupted by Sean’s phone ringing on the borrowed desk. He glanced at the caller ID. It was Donnelly.

      ‘Excuse me,’ he said, snatching the phone up, turning his back on them for false privacy. ‘What’s happening?’

      ‘We’ve found the car,’ Donnelly told him.

      ‘Where?’

      ‘A place called Scrogginhall Wood, in Norman Park, Bromley.’

      ‘Bromley!’ Sean exclaimed. ‘That’s only a few miles from her home.’

      ‘You were expecting something different?’ Donnelly queried.

      Sean realized he’d been thinking out loud. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘Not necessarily.’ He already had a strong feeling that whoever had taken Louise Russell was local. She hadn’t been snatched by some long-distance lorry driver or salesman on a trip down South. No, this one was from somewhere within the borders of this forgotten part of London. ‘What state’s the car in?’

      ‘Locked and secure, apparently. No signs of damage or a struggle. A routine uniform patrol found it in the car park while they were looking for local toe-rags who screw the cars there with annoying regularity.’

      ‘Are you already with the car?’ Sean asked.

      ‘No,’ said Donnelly. ‘I’m on my way. ETA about fifteen minutes.’

      ‘Fine. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. Travelling time from Forest Hill,’ Sean explained. ‘Make sure uniform preserve it and the car park for Forensics. And have the AA meet us there to get the thing open. I don’t want any over-keen constables smashing the windows in.’

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