You hand the bucket over without thinking. Christie takes it, and before you quite realize what’s happening, he grabs your left wrist and slides a foot forward to block the door. You pull your right fist back to punch him, but he’s no longer holding the bucket: Somehow, your fist misses his face, then the big man’s got you by both wrists. He must be used to fighting, you realize numbly. Then he’s got both your wrists caught in one big fist, and, as you’re trying to bring a knee up to kick him, he punches you, and the world narrows to a diabolical pain in your chest and a desperate need to breathe.
By the time you get some air into your lungs, you’re lying on your side in the bathroom with your arms behind you. Christie is sitting on your legs. He’s got about half a roll of duct tape wound around your wrists, and now he’s working on your ankles. You try to writhe, but he just leans on you, as calmly and unemotionally as a farmer dealing with a chicken. “Where is my luggage?” he asks.
“I threw it out!” You lie wildly, hoping he’ll believe you. For a wonderful moment you think it worked—then he shoves a hand between your thighs and squeezes your balls.
“I don’t think so,” he says, as you jack-knife like a gaffed fish. “I think you opened it. Had a little look inside, didn’t you?”
You can neither confirm nor deny: All you can do is scream, but he sees it coming and shoves a roll of toilet paper in your gob as you draw breath.
“I think you hid it somewhere.” He keeps hold of the toilet roll, and now you’re panicking, finding it hard to breathe. “I’m going to remove this,” he says. “Don’t scream, or I’ll put it back.” Air hits your mouth, cold air in your lungs, crushing pain between your legs: You inhale, shuddering, sobbing. “Now you’re going to do exactly what I want, aren’t you? Play frog. If I say hop, you hop. Croak, little frog. Where is my luggage?”
“Attic,” you manage between gasps.
“Attic? Where?”
“Out. Outside. On top landing. Ladder.” Christie is clearly nuts: He could do anything. Please let him take his fucking suitcase and leave, anything to make him go away—
He goes away.
A minute later he’s back. You’ve managed to roll over, putting your back to the bath. He smiles as he stands in the bathroom doorway. He’s got his case. He puts the thing down on the landing. Something inside it is scratching quietly, trying to get out. “Mr. Hussein.” His tone is amused, sympathetic. “That’s a very nice attic you have! You must be proud of it.” You cringe away from him. “Come along.” He leans down and grabs your legs, begins to drag you onto the landing. “Let’s have a look at your attic together, shall we?”
“Go—’way. I called the police!”
“No, I’m quite sure you didn’t. You’re completely unable to call the police, even when you need their protection. That’s why you were recruited.” The lintel of the bathroom door slides by above your face. Every bump in the carpet makes your crotch ache. “You really shouldn’t have opened my luggage, Mr. Hussein. That’s a capital offense.”
“Didn’t.”
Christie pauses and looms over you. “Somebody did. And this is your house. You’re the husband, aren’t you? The husband is the head of the household. So you’re responsible, little frog, whoever actually did it.” His expression scares you silent. “Let’s go and inspect the scene of the crime, shall we?”
He drags you up the stairs to the second floor by your ankles, making slow progress—you’re too heavy to lift easily. You try not to let your head bang on the hard edges of the steps, neck straining. It’s confusing and painful, then you’re lying on the top landing, staring up at the hatch in the ceiling with the loft ladder extended. How is he planning on getting me up there? you wonder.
“It’s funny,” Christie says conversationally, “but I never actually killed anyone before today.” He pauses. “With my own hands, I mean.” He grins. “Some asshole buys your produce and drops dead, that’s just shit happening, isn’t it? It’s not the same, I mean. But in case you were wondering: No, I’m not some kind of mother-fucking serial killer, Mister family man Hussein. I play by the rules, mostly. Well, some of the time. And I expect other people to play by the rules, too. One of the rules, Mr. Hussein, is you don’t look in my luggage. As for the rest”—he shrugs—“I’m an Operation man. Just so you know, this isn’t entirely personal.”
He puts his left foot on the ladder, and his right hand, as he prepares to ascend through the trap-door. And that’s when you see the rope he’s hung there and realize what he’s planning to do to you, and open your mouth to scream.
LIZ: Protective Custody
There’s a brace of flashing blue lights drawn up alongside the road, evidence tape closing off the pavement around the university buildings: As you pull up, you get a distinct sinking feeling. “Let me just override this,” you tell Kemal as you fiddle with the car’s autopilot. You’ve got a feeling you’ll be needing it again, sooner rather than later—best not to let some uniform in Traffic requisition it.
As you approach the doors, the constable on duty moves to intercept you. You tag him with your ID, and his attitude changes instantly. “You’ll be wantin’ the ninth floor, Inspector.” His expression’s grim. “SOCO are already inside. Anything you need?”
“Do you have a positive ID on the victim?” you ask. It’s a long shot, but sometimes word of mouth spreads faster than CopSpace.
“Nothing I’ve heard. Sorry, Inspector…”
He’s clearly uncomfortable, so you get out of his face fast, past the wedged-open and sheeted-over door (they’ll be sniffing for DNA and fuming for fingerprints in due course) and into the lift. Fragments of blue evidence-capture gel, still tacky, adhere to the control face-plate. As it rattles and squeals its way up to the CS department, you idly roll a blob of gel between finger and thumb, then dispose of it in a jacket pocket. (One of the sundry expenses of your job: having your suits altered so that the pockets are real. A detective can never have too many pockets, your uncle Bert told you. He wasn’t wrong, but a quarter century later, the fashion industry still hasn’t caught on to the existence of female cops.) Kemal is tap-tapping one knuckle on the side of the lift.
The door opens.
SOCO have tubed the corridor in blue plastic, taping the end to the walls about a metre from the lift-shaft. They’ve deployed a couple of battered plastic gear crates as an improv boot barrier, and there’s a bunny-suited civvie waiting for you both with the necessary kit. It’s not a drill you forget easily: boots, gloves, mask. “Where’s the scene?” you ask.
“It’s in Room 509. Follow me.” You trail the crime-scene bunny down the blue plastic rabbit-hole. Bot-sized bulges whir and hum behind the billowing walls, moving slowly as they sample every nook and cranny, mapping and recording.
There’s an unpleasant taste in your mouth as you approach the cloacal end of the warren—the tubing stops abruptly just past MacDonald’s office. The open doorway of Room 509 is covered by a transparent blue caul. “Shit,” you mutter. Kemal picks up on it, too: You see him tense out of the corner of your peripheral vision.
“It’s all here,” says your Girl Guide, blinking innocent peepers that have seen far too much. She gestures at the opening. “We havena officially ID’d him, but if you can help—”