‘What I’m doing is getting some perspective.’
I smiled and waited for Templeton to smile back.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘You do this job to catch the bad guys, right? That’s your endgame. And you’re good at it.’
Templeton’s head bobbed ambiguously from side to side, which was as close to an admission as she was ever going to give. There was no way she was going to admit something like that out loud.
‘You’re a classic overachiever,’ I added. ‘Driven and good at your job, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with that whatsoever.’
‘Your point?’
I nodded towards Sarah Flight. Another slither of drool had escaped from the corner of her mouth and I wiped it away with the tissue.
‘She’s the point. Her and every other person who’s come up against a lunatic with a warped world perspective and a bunch of twisted fantasies. When you focus all your energies on the bad guy it’s easy to forget the victims. Way too easy. I’m as guilty of that as anyone. That’s why I came here. To remind myself that the real reason I do what I do is because of the victims. Catching the bad guys is just a bonus. Somewhere out there is a woman who has been snatched by our unsub, and if we don’t do our job properly then she’s going to end up like this.’
I reached out and touched Sarah Flight’s hand. Partly because I wanted to check she was real, but mostly because I
needed
to know. I half expected my hand to pass right through hers but it didn’t. I expected her skin to be cold but it was as warm as my own. There was a space on her one remaining finger where her wedding band had once been. The stumps of her other fingers and thumbs had been cauterised and were covered in scar tissue. Who’d removed the ring? Her mother? One of Dunscombe’s staff? A nurse or orderly Sarah would never know? One thing was for certain: Greg Flight hadn’t removed it. I got up and headed for the door. Behind me, Templeton’s footsteps sounded tentative and timid on the parquet floor, nowhere near as confident as when we’d walked in.
14
Greg Flight’s PA showed us into his large corner office on the top floor of a three-floor building leased by Fizz, a Soho-based advertising agency. The agency wasn’t premier-league, but it wasn’t a bottom-feeder, either. It sat comfortably in the middle, surviving on the crumbs dropped down from the tables of Saatchi and Saatchi and the other big boys.
Flight’s office was large and uncluttered, so was his desk. The furniture had soft round edges and was made from dark wood, and the ego wall screamed out that Flight had low self-esteem and was desperate to be taken seriously. He was doing his best to hide his insecurities and, given his position as art director, for the most part he was succeeding.
The PA escorted us towards two seats near one of the windows. They were made from soft padded leather and had been positioned so that when the blinds were up, you’d end up squinting into the sun. Flight’s chair was big and throne-like and positioned in front of the window so anyone talking to him would be forced to look in that direction. It was also a good three inches higher than the ones we were supposed to sit in. The power play was obvious and pathetic, and smacked of desperation.
Templeton stood beside me, tall and imposing and giving Flight her best cop stare. Greg Flight looked lost and nervous in his big chair. It was a major win for us. A total slam dunk. Flight had made his play, and couldn’t have got it more wrong. He’d aimed to be the top dog and failed spectacularly. If he stood up now then he might as well wave a white flag. The golden rule with power plays was that you never made your move until you were absolutely certain what your opponent’s move was going to be. Sun Tzu got it right two and a half millennia ago when he said you needed to know your enemy.
The PA flashed her boss a look, then shut the door gently behind her. She was in her early twenties, brunette and perky and no doubt useless at her job. What she lacked in competence she must have made up for with her athleticism. It was the only reason I could see for Flight hiring her.
I smiled down at Greg Flight, and he fired a smile right back at me. He was doing his best to save face, but he’d already lost, and didn’t even know it. Flight also had a space on his ring finger. His way of dealing with what had happened was through denial, and he’d no doubt done a thorough job of erasing Sarah from his life. If this meeting had taken place at his home rather than his office, there wouldn’t have been a single trace of their life together. No pictures, no mementos, no reminders whatsoever. There was a good chance he’d sold the house he shared with Sarah. It had taken some serious persuasion from Templeton to get five minutes of his time, not because he was busy, but because we were representatives from a past he was trying very hard to run away from.
‘How long have you been screwing her?’ I asked.
Flight looked confused, a man caught on the back foot, which was exactly where I wanted him. He knew what he’d heard, but couldn’t be sure he’d heard right. ‘Excuse me?’ he said.
I shrugged. ‘I was wondering how long you’ve been having sex with your PA. Does she know her days are numbered?’ I nodded to myself. ‘Of course she does. Incompetent isn’t the same as stupid. So were you screwing her before Sarah’s kidnapping? She looks a lot like Sarah, you know.’
Flight just stared, open-mouthed and dumbfounded.
I shook my head. ‘No. Sarah was kidnapped last year and I’m guessing there have been about six or seven women since then. A new one every couple of months would be about right. Did they all look like Sarah?’
Flight just carried on staring.
‘You were screwing around with someone when your wife was kidnapped, though.’ I nodded to myself. ‘Of course you were. And before that there would have been someone else. It’s what you do. You see a woman you like and you have to have her. It doesn’t matter who you hurt.’
A pause, then, ‘Did you ever really love Sarah? I mean
really
love her. I’m talking the sort of love where you would sacrifice your life.’ Another shake of the head. ‘Of course you didn’t. You could never do that. And the reason you couldn’t do that is because you’re a self-obsessed commitment-phobic asshole.’
Greg Flight’s face turned bright red. And then he launched himself at me. He moved quickly for someone who spent a large part of his life stuck behind a desk, covering the distance between us in seconds. He hit me hard in the chest and I stumbled backwards. One moment I was upright, the next I was flat on my back with Flight pinning me down. I tried to wriggle free but there was too much of him and not enough of me. He curled his hand into a fist. His face was twisted with rage, lips narrow, eyes bulging. I struggled some more and ran through the various scenarios, but it didn’t matter which way I came at the situation, I was going to end up hurt. The question right now was how badly.
The punch never came.
The weight on my chest eased and when I opened my eyes Greg Flight was glaring at me side-on from about four inches away. He was close enough for me to smell the stale coffee on his breath. His right cheek was squashed into the carpet and Templeton was on top of him, pulling his right arm up behind his back.
‘This is police harassment,’ Flight said, his voice muffled by the carpet.
I sat up, crossed my legs and looked down at him. As power plays went, this one was pretty good. I now had the height advantage by almost two feet. And he was being pinned down by a woman. The second part would have eaten into him more than the first. In Greg Flight’s world women were still very much second-rate citizens.
‘Technically it can’t be police harassment since I’m not a cop,’ I said.
Templeton pulled Flight’s arm higher and he grimaced. ‘Let me go.’
I tilted my head to the side so we were looking at each other eye to eye. ‘Look, Greg, nobody’s judging you here. To be honest, I really don’t care who you’re screwing. All I’m trying to do is get an idea of the state of your relationship with Sarah at the time she was kidnapped.’
‘Let me go,’ he repeated.
‘We’ll let you go when you start co-operating. And I’d think very carefully before answering my next question. Another couple of pounds of pressure and that shoulder’s going to pop right out of the socket. It hurts like hell having it put back in, like someone’s grinding glass into the joint.’
I paused, gave him a second to process this. Flight was glaring across at me like he was dreaming up new and improved ways to hurt me.
‘Okay, here’s the million-dollar question, Greg: your marriage was a mess, wasn’t it?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘And that’s the wrong answer. I’m afraid you don’t win the car.’
‘There was nothing wrong with my marriage.’
‘Yeah, that’s what you told the police. And because they were so focused on finding your wife they didn’t dig too hard, did they?’ I paused, softened my voice, made it quieter, more intimate. ‘Every time you have sex with your PA all you can think about is Sarah. You think about her wasting away in that hospital and the guilt eats you up.’
Flight’s eyes darted downwards, seeking out his naked ring finger. Templeton pulled harder on his arm and he gave a yelp.
‘I’m reckoning another pound of pressure before that shoulder pops out, Greg. You might want to think about that.’ I paused again. ‘You know, we’ve just been to see Sarah. That private hospital she’s in isn’t cheap, but you’re doing well for yourself so I reckon you can probably afford it. Does it ease the guilt to see that payment going out of your bank account each month?’
Flight broke eye contact and turned his head downwards into the carpet. When he looked back up at me again I could tell he’d come to a decision, and that the decision was the right one.
‘Things hadn’t been good between us for a while,’ he whispered.
15
The lights came on with a dull thud, harsh, bright halogens that burned Rachel’s sight into blindness. The glare reflected off the white wall and floor tiles, dazzling her. It was too much, too soon.
Rachel put a hand up to her forehead to block out the light, but it was still too bright. She closed her eyes then opened them slowly, a millimetre at a time, letting the light filter in until they were fully open. She’d been right about there being no windows and only one door. The door was painted white, gloss rather than matt, and was almost as reflective as the tiles. There was a large dog flap fitted to the lower part of the door. The ceiling was painted white, the mattress was white, the blankets.
It was a cold, sterile space that made her think of a laboratory.
Easy to clean.
The thought made her shiver despite the heat. Adam had removed her favourite red dress and replaced it with a pair of shapeless grey jogging bottoms and a matching grey sweatshirt. He’d also removed her underwear, lace replaced with cotton.
Rachel saw all these things without really seeing them, registered them without really registering. She was only vaguely aware of the mattress, and the drying puddle of vomit, of the black plastic bucket in the corner. She’d wished herself out of the dark, and now she could see, she wished she was blind again because all she could see was the dentist’s chair.
The chair was made from brushed steel and had cream upholstery. It was solid and heavy and identical to the sort of chair she sat in every six months when she went for her check-up. Identical except for one big difference: the straps. Padded straps to secure arms, padded straps to secure legs, a padded strap to hold the head in place. For a while she just sat on the mattress and stared at the chair. She didn’t want to, but couldn’t help herself. Just looking at that chair made her feel sick.
Rachel got up and walked over to the chair in a trance. The upholstery on the armrests was stained dark in places. She knew it was blood but didn’t want to admit that to herself because then she’d be opening up the floodgates, and she wasn’t ready to go there yet. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready.
‘Number Five will walk over to the door.’
Adam’s voice came from all around her. It was distorted and robotic, so loud it was deafening. Rachel spun around in terror. Four speakers were hung high on the walls, one in each corner, all painted white. The cameras fitted next to each speaker were painted white, too, positioned so there were no blind spots.
‘Number Five will walk over to the door,’ Adam repeated.
Rachel walked slowly to the door. She stared at the floor so she wouldn’t have to look at the cameras, watched her feet move one in front of the other. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else and her whole body was trembling. She was aware of the cameras following her every move. The dog flap swung open and a bucket was pushed through. The bucket was filled to the three-quarter mark with soapy water, a scrubbing brush floating on top. The dog flap swung shut with a clatter.
‘Number Five will clean up her mess.’
Rachel hesitated. She glanced at the speakers, glanced at the cameras, glanced at the pool of vomit next to the mattress. Then she looked at the dentist’s chair. She picked up the bucket and carried it over to the mattress, got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the floor clean. The smell of bleach got into her nose and made her eyes water. The chemicals burnt into her hands and made her skin itch. When she’d finished cleaning up, she carried the bucket back to the door. The dog flap opened when she was a few steps away.
‘Number Five will put the bucket through the flap.’
Rachel complied immediately. The flap clattered shut and the lights went out. Adam’s footsteps faded into the distance, a door opened then closed. The only sound was the sound of her breathing. Rachel made her way back across the room, slowly, arms outstretched like a sleepwalker. She reached the far wall, followed it around until she found the mattress, then lowered herself down and wrapped a blanket around herself. She was searching for comfort, but all she found was a lonely sadness that gnawed away at what little hope she had left. She closed her eyes to fight off the tears and the backs of her lids burned white and pink in the darkness.