Behind Closed Doors

  “What were you going to say?” Lou asked.

  “Nothing. Clive just—he doesn’t want our daughters to grow up too fast. These days, girls are sexualized at a younger and younger age, aren’t they? We didn’t want that for our girls. They both knew that. They knew the difference between right and wrong; we’d told them often enough.”

  “So what happened after you discussed the boy with Scarlett? Did she see him again?”

  “She stayed indoors, sulking. She said she didn’t feel well, and I guess she might have had that tummy bug we’d all had, so she didn’t come out to dinner with us the night after. That was the night she went.”

  Annie lifted her glass again and drank the last of the wine in two noisy gulps.

  “You said earlier that you saw her go,” Lou said. “What did you mean?”

  Annie looked at her hands, rubbed the fingers of her right hand over the back of the left. Lou could see a tear hanging on the bottom lashes of her eye.

  “Annie?”

  But she shook her head, causing two tears to fall in wet splashes onto the table. “I can’t, I can’t.”

  “It will be much better if you tell me,” Lou offered, “it really will. It sounds as if you’ve been carrying this around with you all these years.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said, taking a shuddering breath in. “If Clive knew I was telling you this . . .”

  “What would he do, Annie?”

  “Nothing, nothing! But he’d be so upset. He thinks you don’t understand us, how it is between us and Juliette—with both of the girls, before . . . We’re happy together. We make each other happy. Nobody seems to understand that.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Lou said softly. “Take your time.”

  “I . . . I heard the patio door go. It was the middle of the night—well, the early hours of the morning, really. I thought I’d dreamed it, but then I couldn’t get to sleep. I got up and went next door a few minutes later. Scarlett’s bed was empty. I went looking for her.”

  “And—you found her?”

  “She was on the road outside the resort where we were staying. I was standing just by the gate. I was about to shout out for her, and then I saw her getting into a van.”

  “Getting into a van?” Lou echoed.

  “A white van—like, I don’t know, a Transit, something like that, with a door at the side. It pulled up next to her. I saw her talking to someone, and then she moved closer to the van—it was blocking my view. And a few seconds later it drove off and she was gone.”

  Lou couldn’t say anything for a moment. She waited for Annie to continue, but the woman was staring at her wine glass as if hoping it would magically fill up again. Lou wanted to shake her.

  “I know I should have said something.”

  “Yes,” Lou said. Left it there.

  “But it didn’t cross my mind that she’d been taken. I thought she was meeting that boy. I thought he’d just picked her up. What could I do? I couldn’t chase after a van at two in the morning. I thought she’d be back in a couple of hours, back in her bed pretending nothing had happened.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I went back to the room. Clive woke up when I came in. I told him what I’d seen. He was cross, of course he was. We sat up for a bit hoping she’d come back, then after an hour or so we went back to bed.”

  “And the next morning, when she still wasn’t back?”

  “We went out to look for her. I was getting worried. I hadn’t thought for a minute that she wouldn’t come back. I thought she might have run away, but that she’d think better of it and come back of her own accord before the bus came to collect us for the airport. Or we thought—we thought she might have slept with him, this boy, and that she’d fallen asleep and hadn’t realized that it was morning. Then we thought maybe she was too scared to come back, in case we were angry.”

  Lou breathed in. “But you still didn’t think to tell the police all this?”

  “When we called the police, we agreed that something must have happened to stop her coming back. So the best way to deal with it was to say we assumed someone had taken her against her will. And that was true, wasn’t it?” She looked at Lou defiantly.

  “But the police could have been looking for a white van. Did you not think about that?”

  “Clive said she would probably have been moved into a building by then, or into a different vehicle. There was no point.”

  “What did you think?”

  Annie looked baffled. “Me?”

  Clive was clearly something of an expert in missing person inquiries, Lou thought. Annie didn’t seem capable of an independent thought. As much as she was struggling with the gravity of what Annie was choosing to share with her, the fact remained that ten years had passed.

  “What made you decide to tell me this now, Annie?”

  “Oh, lots of reasons. I’ve wanted to tell someone for a long time. Since it happened. I didn’t want to keep it quiet, not really. It was Clive. And I do want you to try to understand: we didn’t keep it to ourselves for any bad reason, it was for a good reason—to keep everyone looking for our daughter until she was found. Not that it worked, did it? And we’re not going to get into trouble now, are we? Please say we won’t be prosecuted, or anything like that. After all, she’s back safe and sound, isn’t she?”

  “But why now?”

  “Oh! Clive’s got me worried about what she’s going to say. Because she saw me, you see. Scarlett saw me waiting at the gate, just before she got into the van.”

  SCARLETT

  Sunday 21 October 2012, 17:00

  The vampire never returned. Scarlett wondered if she’d not given him enough of her blood, or if she’d been too dismissive of him. There were girls who would let their customers do anything, especially if they paid over the odds and left them with some spare money. Scarlett doubted that any of the others were saving for a possible future, though. If they were saving, it would be for an extra fix.

  He had probably found another willing vein to suck.

  She was gazing out of the window, wondering idly if the blood of a crack addict tasted different, or if it would be possible to get addicted to drugs yourself by doing that. It was sleeting outside, unseasonably early, the light fading already although it was only just past three. The cold had put the tourists off. Inside, they’d turned the heating on—for a change—and, as there was no real ventilation unless she opened the front door, it was stiflingly hot in here. She had seen one of her regulars, and a couple of Eastern European lorry drivers who’d taken it in turns, one waiting outside while the other one had his fun. Their accent had unnerved her; she’d wondered if they were the Lithuanians sent to check her out. But they weren’t the type—big lads, but several days’ growth of stubble, the smell of coffee and burgers on their clothes. Laughing and joking on the doorstep outside as they discussed her fees and which one of them would get to go first.

  Sooner or later they would turn up and demand to know why takings were so low today, no matter what the weather. For the time being, though, she was enjoying the thought that they were probably tucked up in a nice warm café somewhere playing cards, not watching her from the street outside.

  In the past month, the wound on her shoulder now healed, Scarlett had begun to slide into a depression. It happened fairly regularly, prompted sometimes by an act of violence or cruelty—however common they were, she was not unaffected—or it might be something as simple as a change in the weather. This time, the black cloud came down over her because of the vampire. She’d seen that extra money as a door opening out of the blackness of her nightmare, but what she had was barely enough for a night in a hotel and a taxi to get her there, much less a set of reasonable clothes and transport out of the city. Or even a bribe—not that there was anyone she could trust to help her. And now she faced another winter here, long dark nights after long dark days, with bad weather and cold and not enough customers to keep her minders from beat
ing her, not enough customers to take her mind off the passing hours, the grinding despair.

  Scarlett stood to stretch her legs, sauntering to the window and leaning her arms against the cold glass. That was when she saw him, standing in the doorway of the bar on the corner, looking across to her window. That man again. The one that had called himself Stefan, and was probably a rival pimp.

  Scarlett had that feeling that sometimes came over her, an almost uncontrollable urge to scream, to hammer on the glass, to run for the door and rush out into the street, to run and run, screaming her head off, attracting attention from the tourists and the members of the public—who knew, maybe there were actually police around who weren’t taking back-handers from the pimps too.

  The guy who called himself Stefan was at her window now, looking at her. She turned her head. He must know the minders, she thought. He must know they weren’t watching right now. Unless he’d been sent by them.

  A few minutes later, he crossed the road and she opened the door to let him in. He followed her into her room, taking off his jacket as he did so. “Christ, it is so warm in here!”

  “It’s cozy,” she said. “How are your studies coming along?”

  “Good, thank you. I have been practising as much as I can.”

  Good on him for remembering his cover story, she thought. She stroked her hand up his arm, across to his shoulder, trying to get him to respond, to play the game, fuck her or whatever it was he wanted to do today and then get out.

  “No,” he said. “Stella, I’m not here for that.”

  Her hand dropped to her side. “You should go, then,” she said. “I’m not making enough money today as it is. I’ll be in big trouble.”

  He pulled money out of his pocket and dropped it onto the bed. “I’ll pay you for your time,” he said. “I just want to talk.”

  She took the money anyway, posted it—all of it, making sure he was watching—straight through the hole in the wall. “Look,” she said, “you’re wasting your time, whatever it is you want to talk about. Practicing English? Your English is already fine. You want me to leave here and work for you? It isn’t going to happen.”

  “I’m not a pimp,” he said. “I get people out.”

  Scarlett caught her breath but tried hard, so hard, not to show the effect his words were having on her. “Who are you?” she said.

  His demeanour had changed, almost instantly. He was businesslike now, authoritative. “My name is Stefan Lassen. I work with a team that looks for trafficking victims and gets them to safety. We can provide a safe house, transport, access to medical care; drug rehab, if you need it.”

  “Medical care? You mean the fucking Russian in that back room clinic?”

  “No,” Stefan said, not rising to her challenging tone. “There are doctors and specialist nurses who work with our team. If you need it, they can refer you to hospital.”

  Scarlett felt tears pricking the corners of her eyes. That in itself took her by surprise—nothing made her cry these days. Wasted tears, wasted days—what was the point? Crying changed nothing. But this—this scent of rebellion, a glimpse of freedom. . .

  It could happen, she thought. It could be true.

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” she said, but making direct eye contact while she did so. There was still a chance that this was a set-up. Still a chance that the room was bugged, that they’d sent their stooge to test her out on a slow day, for their own amusement as much as anything else.

  “This is how it works,” he said. “You give me your real name, date of birth, relatives in your own country who can confirm who you are. I can arrange to get you a new passport. When you’re ready, when everything’s in place, I’ll come here and take you straight away to a safe house. Your minders are getting lax—they must trust you. I’ve been watching you, and them. They’re only visiting you twice a day. That’s a good sign.”

  “They’re always keeping an eye on me,” she said softly. “I never know when they’re out there.”

  “I’ve been watching them,” he said again.

  “There are lots of different ones.” She was testing him.

  “I know that. I’m telling you that right now they are in a private bar in a hotel around the corner, drinking schnapps and watching football on a big screen. I know this because my colleague is there with them, making sure they don’t come to check on you until we’re done with our conversation.” He pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and held it up. “He will text me the minute they move.”

  She thought about it—thought about the dark cloud and how desperate she had been to see a man who wanted to suck blood out of her shoulder, and how perhaps this might actually be another way to escape; thought about the girl with the bruises in the clinic, the desperation on her face; the girl who’d run screaming from her room and ended up with her final, awful moments of life being filmed for sick men to get off watching. Thought about what this might mean for her. A life-or-death decision, right here, right now.

  She took a deep breath.

  “Why can’t we go now?” she asked.

  “Because it has to be done properly. We have to prepare for you, set things up. It can be done quickly, though. Three or four days, at most. All you have to do to start things off is tell me your name.”

  “I don’t want my family to know.”

  “You don’t?”

  “They don’t need to know, do they? You can get me out without telling them?”

  “If you want it that way.”

  Scarlett paused. The words, when they came, sounded unfamiliar, strange.

  “My name’s Scarlett Rainsford,” she said. “I’m from a town called Briarstone, in England. I was on holiday with my family when they took me, nine years ago . . .”

  LOU

  Saturday 2 November 2013, 15:40

  Lou’s journey back to the office was one of those slightly scary affairs where you would reach your destination and realize that you could remember no details at all about the drive. She parked close to the Major Crime department at the back of HQ and swiped her card to get in, hurrying to get back to her computer before everything that had taken place started to go out of her head. Thank God Annie had let her record it.

  Nobody was in the office, for which Lou was grateful. While she waited for the workstation to log on to the system, she retrieved the recording from her phone and, holding her breath, pressed “play.”

  Go on, said Lou’s voice, sounding alarmingly nasal. You tell me what happened. I’m listening. . .

  Lou spent the next hour and a half typing, putting as much detail into her report as she possibly could. If she was submitting it to Special Branch to be used as intelligence for their investigation, it needed to be accurate. If they ever conducted a review into Scarlett’s abduction and the way it had been handled, or if Annie and Clive were ever cautioned for failing to provide information when questioned, then what she had on her phone was potentially evidence. For now, her report would suffice.

  Once she had finished, she tried Waterhouse. The mobile number went directly to voicemail, with instructions to call a Special Branch inspector she had met once, briefly, at a retirement do, in the event of something requiring urgent attention. She dialed Caro Sumner instead.

  “Ma’am,” Caro said, clearly recognizing the number. “How are you?”

  “Good—good, thanks. Are you free to talk?”

  “Sure, I’m just in the office.”

  “HQ?”

  “No, I’m down at Knapstone. Do you need me?”

  Lou shuffled the pages of her report together and explained what Annie had told her. Caro’s response was, “What? You’re kidding?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve been trying to get hold of Mr. Waterhouse to let him know, but his phone’s off. I’m emailing the report to you and to him, and I’ve printed a copy for Mr. Buchanan. I don’t think there’s much we can do, but it might make a difference to how we look at the Rainsfords. Are you going to be seei
ng Sam again at all today?”

  “I was going to call her before booking off—I wanted to see if she wants to visit Clive Rainsford with me tomorrow morning. So we can discuss it once we’ve read your report.”

  “Good plan. Get Sam to call me if she needs to?”

  When she ended the call, Lou sat for a few moments in the silence of the office. She had done everything she needed to do. She logged off the system and, because she couldn’t quite bring herself to go home just yet, she went to the kitchen area that served this end of the building and washed up all the mugs that were sitting in the sink. Autopilot. Thinking about Annie, those huge eyes brimming with tears. The desperation in her clutching hand.

  SCARLETT

  Wednesday 24 October 2012, 03:35

  He came for her in the early hours of the morning.

  She was already bone-tired and the streets outside were dead; even the hardened clubgoers had headed home for the night. Just the street cleaners—it was even too cold for rough sleepers to be out. Nobody to see what was about to happen.

  Scarlett had begun to think her minders had forgotten her. She’d even lain down on the bed, curled up into a ball, half-dozing, when she heard a knock at the door. She went to open it, wondering why they didn’t let themselves in, but it was Stefan, with a big woolen coat which he held out for her.

  “Come now,” he said. “Be quick.”

  She didn’t argue or hesitate, half-asleep to wide awake in a moment. As she pulled the coat around her she glanced up and down the street to check if anyone had seen.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “My colleague is watching them. They are in a bar.”

  One arm around her waist, protective and also hurrying her along, he indicated a silver Audi estate parked at the end of the street. He opened the passenger door for her and she slipped inside. He got into the driver’s seat a moment later. Only then did he pause, look at her and smile.

  “Where are we going?” Scarlett asked, as the car’s engine fired into life.