Chapter 60
SCARLETT
My heart races as Justin grunts and groans with the effort of dragging Phoebe’s dead weight out of the stables. I shudder at every small sound. I thought the bastard was stronger than that.
He leaves the door open. The fading light reaches into the building.
He’s making for the lake. I listen, honing in on a faint splashing sound.
Then a thud as the rowing boat bumps against the jetty.
I sketch the scene in my mind: Phoebe’s body dropping ungraciously into the hull of the boat, Justin pushing the oars in the rowlocks and the sound of the boat gliding out to the centre of the lake.
The place where he’ll no doubt dump Phoebe’s body into the water to rest with their other victims.
A sickening fear doesn’t leave me as I wonder if he’s going to come back for me. Or if Beth is planning to come and finish me off, believing I ate the food or drank the drink, which had been drugged.
I think back to when Connor was standing over me as I pulled myself out of the lake.
Is he part of this vicious enterprise, I wonder?
And when Justin berated me for swimming in there.
Had he suspected something then? Had he thought I’d seen his watery graveyard?
He gave no indication in the slightest, or he could’ve been pretending to play it down. He’s certainly a smooth operator.
These thoughts repeat in my mind as night morphs into morning.
Still I don’t sleep. I dare not, so abundantly aware of the grave danger I’m in.
Birds begin their dawn chorus outside, free and melodic.
I curl up in the corner of the stall, staring at the door, in anticipation of one, or maybe both of them, coming for me.
Images of Mum creep into my mind. I have to block them.
The thought of her losing another daughter is too unbearable.
Somewhere in the madness of it all, I must’ve dropped off, because the next thing I know, footsteps are approaching the door to my stall. It slides and clangs as Justin wrenches it open. The sparse early morning light casts a warm glow across my cell. I sit up and gather myself.
This is going to be all about self-preservation.
‘Morning, Justin,’ I say as brightly as I can manage. ‘I see Phoebe has left.’
He glances at me, lowering a fresh tray of food and a bottle of water onto the ground and picking up the tray he left last night. At least I’m not going to be bumped off quite yet, then. He surely wouldn’t feed me if that were the case.
‘She said sorry she couldn’t say goodbye. We were in a bit of a rush.’
‘Where’s she gone?’
‘Home,’ he replies.
But she was homeless, I want to scream. ‘Shame. Look, Justin. I’m sure there’s been a terrible misunderstanding here.
I can quite imagine how angry you were that I went into your office.
But I was honestly only trying to placate your mother.
’ I’m less convincing than I was last time. My act of bravado has misfired.
He holds up a hand. ‘Stop right there, Imogen – if that’s indeed even your real name,’ he says, too quickly.
‘Don’t take me for a fool. You’re in no place to do so.
I look into people’s souls for a living.
’ He points at me. ‘And you are lying. My mother never went into my office with you, for one thing. I saw it on my security footage.’
I wince. Beth told me they didn’t have any cameras monitoring the property. What a fool I was to believe her.
He places one hand on his hip and strokes his beard with the other. ‘The thing is, I’m not quite sure why you’re here, or why you’re lying. So until you tell me exactly what you’re up to, and what you’re doing here, you’re going nowhere.’
He steps towards me, too close. ‘And, please, let me be clear. You most definitely will tell me what you’re doing here.’ He turns on his heel and roughly slides the stall door shut with a loud clank before leaving the building.
I wasn’t expecting that. So it’s evident they don’t know who I really am, or what I’m doing here.
How would they? That’s what’s keeping me alive.
Surely they wouldn’t do anything with me while they’re concerned about who might be looking for me.
Perhaps they think I’m some sort of investigator.
Now that would be a problem for them. But then, what would they do with me?
I play out a series of different scenarios.
None finish well. Trying to inject a bit of positivity into my reasoning, I convince myself I’m safe… for now.
But I still can’t process why Justin and Beth are doing this.
I can understand why they would be suspicious of me.
But all those other women. My sister. What’s the point of it?
On the face of it, Beth steps in at the end.
Phoebe gave no indication that Beth ever visited her during her time here.
So is it purely an ego trip on Justin’s part?
Doesn’t he get enough kicks from all those conferences he attends?
And from all his followers? Or is it some sort of sick study he is carrying out?
It makes no sense. If I could unpick it all, it may help me find a route out of here.
I need to be more inventive. I can’t talk myself out of this.
Especially with someone as cunning as Justin.
I stare at the tray with two slices of toast with marmalade and a bottle of water.
Even white bread looks appealing. I pick up the bottle.
It’s from the fridge and so tempting. The sealed lid suggests it hasn’t been tampered with.
I study every inch of the plastic but can’t detect any tiny pin holes.
I imagine drinking it, quenching my thirst. I shake my head and place it back down. It’s not worth it.
As the hours pass, Daisy consumes my thoughts.
I hope she didn’t suffer. I’m as certain as I can be that she was drugged before she met her fate…
before being filled with barbiturates and dumped by that canal in London.
If only DS Porter had listened to me. I wonder if he is being true to his word and is looking into my sister’s death.
I believed he would. But how much time and resources could he devote to what amounts to a closed case?
I like him. And I think he liked me. Perhaps the chemistry between us will have swayed him to give my sister’s case another look.
I need to be clever here. To orchestrate my escape, I’ve got to catch them unawares. Play dead, then go for the kill. But my bare hands are not enough. I sit rigid, looking around. But there’s nothing in reach suitable to use as a weapon. He would’ve made sure of that.
I muse, deep in thought, scanning the space.
The rancid smell coming from the drain makes me heave.
I thought I would’ve become desensitised to it by now, but periodic whiffs remind me that this used to be a home for horses.
An abstract memory of Daisy and me competing in a swimming event when we were kids enters my mind.
I stare at the shit-encrusted drain. A thought comes. I wonder. I just wonder.
I crawl on my hands and knees across to the drain cover and gag at the foot-square grate bunged-up with old horse excrement.
Edging my fingers under the thick, heavy cast-iron piece of metal, I pull.
It takes a few attempts, but eventually it gives.
I gasp. It’s heavy, an effort to hold. I pass it from one hand to the other and smile, briefly comforted by the weight of it as I visualise thrashing it into his face.
Again. And again. Cracking his jawbone and smashing his features. The image fires me up to at least try.
Thirst consumes me. My throat is so dry.
I stare at the water again. I can’t survive much longer without fluid.
Reaching for the bottle, I unscrew the top and tear it off.
I pause, concerned he could’ve drugged this in some way.
The bottle shakes in my hand. I can’t risk it.
The likes of him could’ve tampered with it in some way invisible to the eye.
I discard the bottle on the tray, grab the grate again and, with a handful of old hay, I wipe away the horse’s mess, before placing it on the ground and covering it with another layer of old hay.
There’s hope.
I sit back and plan my attack.