The Chosen Ones. G Sanders D
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.
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.
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.’