Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(49)

Kate watched as the old lady picked her way down the muddy lane back to her house, and then she set off for the long journey home.





25

Layla Gerrard felt a throbbing pain throughout her whole body, like a hangover mixed with dehydration. It was pitch black, and she had stared into the darkness so hard, it felt as if her eyes were going to fall out of her head.

She had woken several times in darkness and was trying to piece it all together. She was strong and had always thought she could look after herself in a fight, but it had happened so quickly. The man—he smelled like a man—had been dressed in black. She’d seen a flash of a woolen balaclava—eyes glittering and a full mouth with wet, red lips—but it had been so fast.

She remembered being on the road with the kids behind her and going down that alleyway thinking they were following after her. The alleyway always gave her the creeps, but for the past few months, it had always been light on her way home.

She didn’t know how much time had passed. All she wore was her underwear. Her hands and feet were bound tightly, and she could feel a cold, damp concrete floor underneath her back. Her mouth was filled with some kind of rag or bundle of cloth and taped over. She had fought the fear of the man coming back, almost as much as the fear of choking on the bundle of rags. The drug he’d used to knock her out had made her nauseated.

Her panic ran in cycles, and each time it threatened to consume her, the blood pulsed painfully through a huge lump on the side of her head, threatening to burst out. Had he hit her? Or had she hit something when she was dragged into the van?

There was a crashing sound, far away, which seemed to echo around, giving her the first indication that the place where she lay was somewhere big, with a high ceiling. Three times she had woken to hear a soft, faraway click-clack of a train on tracks.

There was a rolling sound, like a large sliding door being pulled back and a crash. Without warning, lights came on above. Her pupils contracted, and she closed her eyes, wincing. Footsteps came toward her, and she felt a freezing gust of air.

“Open your eyes,” said a man’s voice. It was well spoken with a ring of authority. He didn’t sound angry. “Open your eyes, please.”

She felt a kick in her ribs, and the pain focused her, and she managed to open her eyes. She lay in the middle of a large warehouse, with rows of strip lights above against a curved metal roof. The floor was concrete, and the walls were clean and made of old red bricks. Along one of the back walls, a row of six black vans all bore the name CM LOGISTICS. This was different to the dank dungeon she had imagined in the long hours of darkness.

A man stood above her, tall and broad, and he wore a smart blue suit. He had short red hair, and Layla recoiled at his large, wet lips and almost rubbery features. He wore a black leather glove on his right hand. The left hand was behind his back.

The man came closer and stood over her. Vapor streaming from his mouth and nose. He crouched down and took his gloved left hand from behind his back. He held a long, sharp knife. Layla winced and whimpered as he moved closer and grabbed her legs. She angled her body, scraping the backs of her legs and wrists on the floor as she tried to push away.

He tilted his head and looked at her face, then abruptly let her go and moved away into the shadows. He returned carrying a six-pack of water bottles by a plastic handle. Using the knife, he carved the plastic away and released a bottle, throwing the rest across the warehouse. He brought the bottle to her. She was now moving away, edging toward the back wall.

“Stay still,” he said, putting his hand on her belly. He placed the bottle beside her head. “If you scream, I’ll cut your throat.” He tore off the tape on her mouth and pulled out the rags, keeping the knife pointed at her face. She swallowed and gulped in air. “I’m serious; if you scream, I’ll slit you open.” His voice was calm, almost like a newsreader. Layla nodded, her eyes wide. He picked up the bottle and opened it. Cradling her chin with the knife hand, he tilted the bottle to her mouth. “Drink.”

She didn’t take her eyes off him and gulped at the water as he poured, coughing and sputtering as it went over her lips and nose. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was, and she drank half.

He set the bottle down, the knife still hovering beside her head. The water had given her hope. He wanted her to stay alive. He smiled at her. It was a broad, warm smile, but his eyes were malevolent. His teeth were so white. Like a Hollywood smile. He placed his foot under her side and flipped her over. She landed painfully on her front on the cold concrete, yelping.

“Sorry,” she said, hating herself for her subservience, but she knew it was hopeless to fight him.

“If you scream,” he said in a low voice.

“I won’t . . . I promise,” she started to say, but he forced the rag back in her mouth. Her mind was racing. What was this place? It looked like it belonged to a delivery company. The parked-up vans meant there could be delivery drivers arriving. Maybe one would hear her or save her?

For a moment she didn’t know what he was doing as he bent over her. Then she felt his breath on the back of her left thigh, his wet, rubbery lips next to her flesh, and his teeth as they sank into her skin. The pain was terrible as he bit down. He grunted and twisted his head from left to right, like a dog with a piece of meat. He bit down harder. The pain almost made her black out as his head snapped back, pulling a chunk of her flesh free. He spat it out beside her, and she felt the warmth of her blood running down her thigh. She screamed and writhed, but he held her down, and his mouth and teeth moved up to her lower back.