St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(90)

He flicked one on and off but nothing happened. He switched on the second and there was a metallic click somewhere under his feet. Bending down, he tugged at the trapdoor again and this time it opened. There were wooden stairs leading down from the trapdoor into the cellar. The space under his feet was in total darkness. He reached back for the first of the hidden switches. Somewhere in the blackness under his feet a weak blue light flickered on.

He steadied himself with his left hand as he worked his way down the stairs. His right hand held the wrecking bar. There was a bad smell in the cellar and the smell of some sort of chemical trying to cover it up. He spotted where the light was coming from; it looked like a 25-watt bulb set in a fitting in the ceiling and covered with blue plastic or cellophane. The ceiling itself was covered in thick grey fabric stapled to the beams, which Berlin guessed might be soundproofing.

Boxes and crates and rotting hessian bags were stacked up around the walls. There was a spade next to several newer bags, bags in heavy brown paper that had been torn open and were spilling white powder onto the floor. Berlin stepped off the last step and onto something soft. It gave under his foot, a squishy, runny kind of sensation and his stomach turned over. He lifted his foot and the beam of his torch showed black industrial plastic sheeting and heavy adhesive tape. He knew now that the white powder was quicklime, and also what was inside the plastic he had stepped on. Were they all down here, all wrapped in plastic? He didn’t want to think about it.

He lifted his foot and found firmer ground. A whimper came from somewhere behind the stairs. He moved carefully in that direction and stepped on another of the soft places. His eyes were acclimatising to the dull light, his pupils dilating, opening, letting him see more clearly. The clarity only made the vision of the girl more horrifying.

It was the setting from the photographs they’d found with Derek’s suicide note. Gudrun was in a sort of sitting crucifixion position, her arms were spread wide, the chains running from her wrists to metal hooks screwed into the beam above. The chains were new and he remembered that the girls in the photographs, the girls before Gudrun, had been held with rope. A lesson had obviously been learned. Had Melinda Marquet worked her way free after she heard the electric lock click open during that Sunday blackout, or was she already free when it happened? There was no way Gudrun was getting free of her chains without a hacksaw or bolt cutters, and Berlin had neither.

She was naked, just like the other girls in the photographs. The black tape over the eyes and mouth was the same as well. So were the cuts. Scabs had formed on the older cuts. Berlin wondered if there was a pattern, some sort of design to the position of the cuts. If there was it wasn’t obvious. The cuts were mostly above her breasts, with others below.

He tried to speak gently. ‘I want you to listen to me carefully, Gudrun. I’m a policeman, my name is Berlin and I’m here to get you out of this and back home to your dad.’

The girl whimpered again and lifted her head.

‘I’m going to have to go away for a little while and get some help and some tools to get you free.’

Gudrun moaned and shook her head.

‘You’re going to have to trust me. I’ll be back, I promise. I’m going to make a phone call and see if I can find some tools upstairs. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.’

The girl moaned again and began shaking her head furiously from side to side.

Berlin reached forward to see if he could get the tape away from her mouth without hurting her too much. As he did, a drop of blood trickled down her right breast. It reached her nipple, hanging there on the tip, glistening and shiny, looking almost black in the dull blue light. Fresh blood from a still-fresh cut. How fresh? Half an hour, five minutes? Jesus!

Berlin swung round, lifting up the wrecking bar. His left foot slipped on something soft and yielding and he fell sideways, a dead girl saving his life. There were sparks when the edge of the dagger clipped the middle of the wrecking bar and skipped off. The force of the downward sweep of the dagger pushed the iron bar sharply back into Berlin’s face, catching him on the cheekbone, just under his left eye.

Berlin was on his back now, the stairs and trapdoor entrance to his left, the girl to his right and Tim Egan standing above him, holding the dagger high in a two-handed grip, ready to drive it down into Berlin’s chest. Berlin swung his left leg up, catching Egan in the groin. Egan made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan but somehow managed to stay on his feet. Berlin swung the wrecking bar but his position made it difficult to get any power behind it. Egan kicked at the bar and Berlin lost his grip on it.

Egan dropped to his knees, straddling Berlin across the hips. The dagger was above his head now, poised for a final downward strike.

‘Time to die.’ He made the statement almost casually.

‘Flash, Charlie!’

Berlin heard Rebecca’s voice somewhere above him, from the direction of the trapdoor. He caught a quick glimpse of Tim Egan’s head swinging up and towards the trapdoor as he turned his own head away and tightly closed his eyes.

In the enclosed space of the cellar the light from the flashbulb was even brighter than in the vast black expanse of the cathedral. Even with his face turned away and his eyes shut tight Berlin’s eyelids glowed pink, almost white. He heard the crackle as the glass envelope of the flashbulb fractured in the intense heat and the plastic outer coating melted. The sound and the light faded as quickly as they had come and Berlin swung his head back, eyes open now.