'I'm a labourer. On a site near Wembley. Why do you want to know? And anyway, who the fuck are you?'
'I'm the person who's asking the questions,' Bolt answered, speaking loudly, knowing that the best way of getting answers was to continue the quickfire questions, taking advantage of his dominant position. 'So unless you want more of the same, you answer them.' He stamped a foot down hard on Richardson 's chest as he tried to sit up, knocking him back down. 'Now, where have you just been?'
Richardson looked as if he might make a grab for Bolt's leg, then evidently thought better of it.
'Out,' he said. 'Getting lunch.' He motioned towards the kitchen. 'Check if you don't fucking believe me. It's KFC. Three pieces with fries and coleslaw.'
Bolt had stopped panting now. Above the general stench that pervaded the flat was the unmistakable odour of freshly fried chicken. Realizing he might have made a big mistake, he turned back to Richardson, who was a picture of righteous indignation. In no way whatsoever did he look guilty, and in Bolt's experience people who didn't look guilty generally weren't.
'Are you a copper or something?' demanded Richardson, more confident now as he sensed the doubt in Bolt. 'Because I'm going to fucking sue you if you are, you bastard.' He touched a hand to his face, wiped off more blood. 'Look what you've done to me. That's serious assault, that is.'
But Bolt wasn't going to let things go just yet.
'Scott Ridgers. When was the last time you saw him?'
'You are a fucking copper, aren't you?' Richardson said, sitting back up again.
Bolt took a step back and kicked him hard in the chest, knocking him backwards a second time. 'Answer the question!'
'I ain't seen him in years,' Richardson hissed through gritted teeth. 'I don't socialize with perverts.'
Bolt's jaw tightened. 'What do you mean?'
Richardson saw his reaction, and managed a small, mean grin. 'Oh, didn't you know, copper? Scottie Ridgers is a kiddy fiddler. He likes 'em nice and young. Why? He hasn't been after one of your kids, has he?'
Bolt drove the heel of his shoe into Richardson 's face, stamping down hard, then kicked him savagely in the ribs, the force of the blow shunting him across the carpet. The anger roared through him. He spat out curses and kicked him again, even though a voice inside his head was screaming at him to stop, stop, stop! But he couldn't. When the red mist came down, as it did so rarely in his life, he had no control over it.
Richardson wailed in pain, but Bolt kept kicking, conscious enough of what he was doing to concentrate on the body and not the head, but still too lost in the rage and emotion of the past twenty-four hours to cease until his victim was curled up in a ball, silent, unmoving and beaten.
Then the full extent of what he was doing hit Bolt like an express train, and he stepped backwards, retreating into the wall, wondering what the hell he'd become. He had to get out of there.
Turning away quickly, he strode through the stinking flat, past the greasy box of KFC and out the front door. And all the time he was thinking, What the hell is happening to me? Acting on nothing more than a general hunch, he'd deliberately disobeyed orders, broken into a suspect's flat and beaten the living shit out of him. And now it looked like his victim was almost certainly innocent.
But he'd got some answers. Not the ones he wanted maybe, but he'd been doing something to get Emma back, and it had felt good. He'd crossed the line before, and had sworn then he wouldn't cross it again. Yet he just had. And the terrifying thing was, part of him had enjoyed it.
Thirty-four
Upstairs they were arguing again. It was the second time she'd heard them today. Emma couldn't hear what they were saying – the voices were too muffled for that – but she knew it was about her, and was pretty sure what the subject would be: whether she lived or died. She wondered which of the two of them was in charge. She prayed it was the smelly one, but something told her he wouldn't be.
Neither man had been down to see her today. This was unusual. It had been light for hours now, and the bucket she was going to the toilet in needed changing. She was also hungry, and though she'd vowed not to eat anything until she could slip off her handcuffs, she thought she might have to relent on that one. She was using up plenty of energy, scraping away at the wall – a task that had become something of a full-time activity. The chain was definitely getting looser, but it still wasn't budging, and she knew she was beginning to run out of time. The nail had worn down by about a third, and her fingers were stiff and aching. If she stopped eating altogether, she ran the risk of being too weak to escape if an opportunity did somehow arise, although she was still unsure exactly how she'd get out anyway, even if she got the chain free from the wall.
Take it one step at a time, she told herself.
Upstairs the voices stopped, and she broke off what she was doing too, replacing the nail under her pillow and pushing the bed back against the wall so that the metal plate wasn't showing.
For a few minutes she sat there in silence, the butterflies racing around her stomach as she wondered if they'd come to a decision about what to do with her. Maybe they had; maybe they'd agreed it was best simply to kill her. 'Calm down,' she whispered out loud. 'Calm down. Remember what Mum always says. It's the tough ones who rise to the top.'
But when the cellar door opened she had to stop herself from crying out as she pushed herself back against the wall, praying that this wasn't the end, reaching for the hood she had to wear and thrusting it over her head, not wanting to give them any more of an excuse for getting rid of her.
It was the smelly one. She could hear his heavier footfalls as he came down the steps, that wheezing of his. She felt a surge of relief, even enjoyed the familiar odour of his BO, which was stronger than usual today. She heard him stop at the bed, put some food down on the floor, and change the waste bucket.
'Hello,' she said uncertainly.
'All right, love?' he answered, in his gruff voice. 'Did you sleep all right?'
She nodded. 'OK, I guess.'
She could smell his breath as he crouched down in front of her.
'I just need you to do another little message for your mum. I want you to let her know what day it is, so she knows you're OK.'
'OK.'
'So, I'm going to lift your hood up, all right? Just a little bit so you can see the date on the paper.'
She nodded again, waiting patiently while he lifted up the hood and placed the newspaper in front of her face, obscuring her view of anything else. He held it there, giving her plenty of time to see it, and she stared straight ahead obediently, confirmed that it was indeed Saturday, and the hood was replaced. He then recorded a very short message from her before switching off the tape player.
'Well done, love,' he said, trying to sound all cheery, but not quite making it. 'Not long now and you'll be home in front of the telly.'
'What are you arguing about up there?'
'Can you hear us?' He seemed surprised.
'I can't hear what you're saying, but I know you're arguing, because your voices are very loud. Is it about me?'
'Course not.'
She didn't believe him. 'He wants to kill me, doesn't he?'
'No, no, it's not like that,' he said quickly, but he sounded flustered, like one of her friends who'd been caught out telling a lie.
'Please don't let your friend kill me. Please. I never saw his face, I promise, whatever he says.'
'I won't, love, it's all right.'
'Because I know how cruel he is. When he came down here yesterday, he really scared me.'
Beneath the hood, she pretended to cry (she'd vowed not to cry for real any more), hoping this would make him feel sorry for her. And it seemed to work. He put an arm around her and pulled her into his shoulder. The smell of BO coming from his armpit made her want to gag but she forced herself to ignore it. She had to keep him on her side.