It could all be coincidence.
Megan hates coincidences. Coincidences are God’s way of seeing if police officers can do their job. She hopes the motorway teams come back with video of the couple with the Camper that will prove there’s a link between everything.
She looks again at Caitlyn’s photograph and then checks the girl’s Facebook page. Obviously handled by a publicist and vetted by her father. There is nothing too personal on there — just fashion, music and girly gossip. Bland stuff.
She tries Twitter. Even more disappointing. Then she checks Jake’s Twitter account. Dating Caitlyn Lock would be the kind of thing any man would find difficult to keep quiet about. She draws a blank. There’s nothing from the last day — no hint of the journey to Wiltshire. She scrolls back twenty-four hours and feels her heart leap. Her eyes hook on a coded piece of male bragging: ‘I have a plan to win my new muse, to unlock her chains and make her mine.’
Encouraging. Even tantalising. But not quite enough. She trawls back further and finds another gem: ‘I have met this American and I’m smitten. She is everything I dreamed of.’
The remarks all point to him running off to Stonehenge with Caitlyn for some quality time out of view of her security. Lust makes everyone go crazy — even sons of English lords and daughters of American film stars. Come to think of it, especially them. They must have run off together. Gone off radar. Maybe even eloped.
No. She’s getting carried away. They certainly did not get married. The Camper was hired for three days only. Off radar is right though. They must have conspired to trick the girl’s security and grab some time together.
But something doesn’t make sense. Something she can’t quite put her finger on. Then the penny drops. Caitlyn must have planned to call in to her minder before the alarm was raised and everyone went crazy. Why didn’t she? It’s the kind of protocol her father and everyone would have drummed into her. Always call in, whatever you do, always call in. And she would have. Of course she would.
But she hasn’t. That means something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
58
Fear stabs Caitlyn like a hot spike in the heart. A group of hooded men have her pinned to the floor. She’s going to be raped. She’s sure of it. Well, she’ll bite their throats out rather than let that happen.
One grabs her left wrist, another her right. She kicks out. Feels her foot connect with soft flesh. ‘Leave me the fuck alone!’ Deep down she knows shouting and fighting is pointless but she sure as hell isn’t going to give in peacefully. ‘Get the fuck off me!’
Unseen hands clasp her ankles. They pull open her blouse and tug down her jeans. They turn her over, unclip her bra and pull off her panties. She thrashes and screams until her throat burns and her energy is spent. She’s done. She has no more resistance.
They’re going to take it in turns to debase her — she just knows they are.
Someone pulls her hair and slides a hood over her head. They haul her to her feet and cuff her hands. She’s unsure what’s happening but is relieved she’s not been molested. Firm fingers grip her arms and shoulders. They push her in the back — force her to walk. Caitlyn’s heart is beating so fast she feels like she is going to die. Don’t panic. Stay calm. She mentally repeats the instructions Eric gave her. Whatever happens, you deal with it. One second at a time you deal with it — or you die.
They walk her down dark mazy passageways, then make her step into some kind of pit. They pull the hood from her head and from the blackness above a waterfall of steaming hot water is unleashed. The shock makes her gasp for breath. She’s in some kind of step-down shower. Isn’t she?
Then Caitlyn realises. It’s not water. It’s blood.
They’re showering her in blood.
59
When Draco and Musca pull into the car park at Stonehenge, it’s crowded with staff busying themselves for the solstice. People are everywhere. Extra toilets are being set up and bins slotted on poles, ready for the avalanche of litter that will inevitably come.
Serpens wanders away from the group he’s been supervising and slips in the back door of the Merc. Draco doesn’t even wait for him to settle. ‘We have to get rid of the Camper and the body tonight.’
The Looker’s instinct for survival kicks in. ‘I’m not driving it. There are police on every major road.’
‘What about your boy?’ asks Musca. ‘Would he do it?’
‘Lacerta is young but not stupid. He’ll get stopped. You know he will.’
‘Sooner or later the police will find the vehicle,’ says Draco. ‘They are checking all roads, car parks, anywhere the dopeheads can hide. It is only a matter of time.’
‘What if we use the Ecstasy we found in the glovebox?’ says Musca. ‘Make it look like he and his girl overdosed.’
Draco shakes his head. ‘You can’t just cram drugs down his throat. He won’t be able to swallow and digest, none of the chemicals will be absorbed. The autopsy will show you did it after he’d died.’
‘What if there’s nothing of him to autopsy?’ presses Musca. ‘We torch the van and him in it, make it look like they had an accident.’
Draco’s interest is awakened. ‘How so?’
‘Well, they were tired, pulled off the road, parked up in the field for the night.’ Musca struggles to complete the picture, then adds: ‘Maybe the guy was making a cup of tea and the stove blew. The cooking gas canister went up. You should get a good explosion from one that size.’
‘Can you rig something like that?’
Serpens nods. ‘It can be done. But they’ll only find the man’s body. They’ll wonder what happened to the girl.’
Musca tries to fill in the gap. ‘They had a row. She walked off. Hitched a ride. Got dropped at the train station and is now out of the area.’ It’s the best he can manage. ‘If she’s out of the county, she’s someone else’s missing person and the police will slacken off.’
‘Can you deal with the body?’ Draco looks deep into Serpens’s eyes. ‘We need you to do this.’
He feels like he doesn’t have a choice. It was his blow that killed the guy. He wants a drink. Needs one badly. Finally he nods.
‘I’ll help you,’ volunteers Musca. ‘You don’t have to do this alone.’
60
Caitlyn opens her eyes and gasps. Blackness. She’s upright and back in the mind-numbing void that’s become her personal prison. She has no recollection of them returning her to this hell hole. She must have passed out in the shower. The shower of blood.
Slivers of light are bleeding through what must be a panel right in front of her eyes. One that can be removed so they can see her. Feed her maybe. She realises now that it’s not the same hole as she was in. It’s slightly different. The space is bigger. Not much, but still bigger.
Gradually she notices other differences. The handcuffs are gone. She can lift her arms from her sides. She feels the walls that enclose her. Stone to the front, the sides and the back. She is certainly in another crevice, no change there. She stretches her arms as wide as she can. Probably less than a metre. She can’t raise her hands beyond her elbows.
There’s something touching the back of her legs, at knee-level. A ledge? She tries to sit and finds it takes her weight. It feels like a blessing. She’s still barefoot but has been dressed in some sort of robe with a hood. She moves her head, shoulders and hips, lets the fabric rub against her. It’s rough. Feels like sandpaper against her breasts.