Lynda La Plante
Vanished
Max, my faithful writing companion, you are greatly missed.
Hugo, a new companion and a new Chapter begins.
Chapter 1
Avril Jenkins was in her early 70s, but, tucked beneath an old heavy duvet in her king-size four-poster bed, she could easily have been mistaken for a child. Avril’s messy grey hair was piled up into a top-knot and held in place with a pink ribbon, then tucked beneath a hairnet. A frilly eye-mask finished her night-time look. She wasn’t snoring, but she was breathing loudly as the air escaped through her slightly blocked nose.
The thin hairs on Avril’s exposed arm suddenly stood on end, gently stirring in a new breeze — a window, or a door, had been opened. Avril lifted her eye-mask, held her breath and listened. Her eyes involuntarily flicked from left to right, as though it might help her to hear better.
The second she heard a landing floorboard creak, she flung back the duvet and sat bolt upright. Her toes landed in her fur-trimmed slippers. She bent quickly, put one finger behind each heel and pushed her feet home. As she stood, her hand slipped beneath her pillow and by the time she was upright she was armed with a fire poker.
Avril wore cream pyjama bottoms adorned with butterflies, and a pink vest top that was far too baggy for her old cleavage. Rather than being fearful, Avril was furious. She did not leave her bedroom with any degree of caution, rather she raced out, flicking on every light switch as she moved. She bolted along the landing towards a set of billowing curtains and slammed the sash window closed. For a second, Avril’s head spun as she tried to visualise her evening routine of checking all the doors and windows. Had she missed this one? Truth was, she couldn’t be certain of anything anymore. Floor-to-ceiling rosewood wall panels kept this landing dark, and even with the lights on, the heavy shadows taunted Avril’s imagination with the prospect of her intruder being close...
...and then the distinctive noise from the sticky door handle linking the hallway to the kitchen told her that he was one floor below. Her left hand grabbed the balustrade whilst her right hand wheeled the poker above her head.
‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’ she screamed. ‘I know it’s you!’
Avril tackled the wide imposing staircase as quickly as she could, shouting all the way. Each deep step down made her old knees click with a sharp pain and, by the time she was in the hallway, her right arm had dropped to her side with the weight of the heavy poker. Avril’s body could no longer keep up with her brave and fearless spirit, but at the bottom of the stairs, fuelled by rage, Avril summoned a second wind.
She headed along the hallway towards the kitchen, flicking every light switch on as she went. One of the switches lit a series of six antique brass picture lights which illuminated the extensive art collection adorning the hallway walls. Avril shuffled and shouted her way towards the kitchen door, which moved and creaked in the night wind from the open back door that the intruder must have used as their exit just seconds earlier.
As she burst into the kitchen, she could see the first twenty feet of back lawn lit by a semi-circle of light. Beyond that, the remaining five acres of land stretched out into the pitch-black night. By the time Avril reached the back door, she could hear someone running through dried leaves, which she knew were piled up against the east wall because she’d put them there earlier that day. Then she heard the scrabbling of feet on brickwork as he dragged himself up and over the ten-foot-high perimeter wall.
‘I’m not scared of you, Adam! You hear! This is my bloody home. MINE!’
Avril scurried back into her kitchen, slammed the back door shut and slid the top and bottom bolts into place. She stood with her back to the heavy wooden door and panted until her breathing returned to normal. All the while she listened in case he had a mind to come back.
Avril moved towards the dining room, leaning heavily on the large island in the centre of the kitchen. She flicked the light on and glanced around to see if there was anything obviously missing. Her display crystal was where it should be, as was her Royal Crown Derby dinner set. Avril looked at the poker in her hand — her cold white knuckles were frozen in place and, as she slowly uncurled her arthritic fingers, her joints felt like they might snap. Now much calmer and certain that she was, once again, the only person in the house, she walked through to the living room, constantly looking and checking for what he’d stolen this time. He’d have taken something. He always did.
Avril opened the large, ornate globe that stood next to the fireplace, to reveal an extensive array of half-full bottles of spirits, wines and those drinks that only came out at Christmas, such as Advocaat, Baileys and Cinzano. As she poured herself a large brandy, Rossetti’s Venus Verticordia looked down on her from above the white marble Georgian mantelpiece. It was only when she closed the lid of the globe that she noticed the space on the mantel where a silver-framed picture had once stood. Although her face gave away no trace of emotion, Avril’s eyes filled with tears. A precious wedding photo was no longer where it should be. It wasn’t the best picture of Avril and her late husband, Frederick, but it was her favourite. It captured one of those moments in time, in between the obligatory posing, when they had glanced into each other’s eyes and laughed at how deliriously happy they were. It was an impromptu snapshot of pure, honest, soulful love. And Adam had taken it from her.
It was another twenty minutes before the solo police car arrived, driven by a weary young officer who had drawn the short straw. He diligently took Avril’s statement and added it to the other thirteen which all claimed exactly the same thing: that Mrs Avril Jenkins’ ex-lodger, Adam Border, was on a mission to slowly drive her insane. And when he finally got bored of doing that, Adam would put an end to her torment by murdering her in her own home.
Maggie looked at her reflection in the black screen of the monitor. Operating theatre 1 was so high-tech, Maggie thought it could probably fix Mr Thornton’s heart all by itself. With its perfect, sterile steel lines, it looked like it had come from the imagination of a sci-fi writer. Four screens, two robot arms, numerous computers and seven people were about to come together to save the life of a 47-year-old man; it was a fabulous and terrifying feeling to be part of something so special. This was the first week of Maggie’s surgical rotation, but she knew exactly what she was doing and so really had nothing to be nervous about — except for the fact that the lead surgeon was none other than the great Mr Elliot Wetlock. And he made her blush like a schoolgirl.
Wetlock’s reputation preceded him, and the very mention of his name brought on palpitations in male medical staff as well as female. He wasn’t a tall man, possibly the same height as her husband-to-be Jack, and he was slightly overweight, but he had a velvety voice and pale blue eyes framed by a perfect pattern of crow’s feet. His beautiful eyes, above a black surgical face mask, was a vision made for a global pandemic! In fact, Maggie thought that he looked better in a face mask, because he also sported a rather outdated goatee, which was the only bit of his appearance that didn’t make her go weak at the knees. She imagined that his 60-odd-year-old body probably left a lot to be desired, too, but it looked magnificent inside a grey waistcoat and a silk shirt with sleeves rolled up high until they were tight around his biceps.