She fell into the chair – a low lying chair, with what felt like a canvas seat – and then she heard him moving things around on the worktop. He pulled something out of a box and then moved back closer towards her. She felt something soft and slightly perfumed touch her cheek. A tissue. Gently, he ran the tissue over her skin in a circular movement. He was cleaning her, she realised. But then she thought – for what? What was he going to do to her?

She tried to keep her breath steady, but the more she tried to calm herself the more she felt like her chest was going to explode. Her fear felt like a nest of insects trapped deep inside her.

‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ he said, as he pulled another tissue out of the box. ‘We don’t want anything to spoil your beauty, do we?’

She felt his eyes on her. Studying her. Assessing her. Looking at her as if she were not a person, but some kind of object. Something that he had control over. Something he could keep. Something he could kill.

She had to try and speak. Maybe if she could talk to him she could find a way out of this. She tried to clear her throat, but her windpipe felt dry. She moved her tongue about in her mouth, and tasted the bitterness of bile. She coughed, but she swallowed her first words. She forced herself to try again.

‘W – what’s your n- name?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘No – no.’

‘But you felt my face, right?’

‘Yes – but.’

‘But what?’

‘It can’t be possible. It’s –‘

‘It’s true.’ His voice took on a sharp edge. ‘Now shut up.’

She felt him snatch hold of her right hand. Then something wet and jelly-like on her fingers. Then the feel of something soft, the sheath of a tissue running up and down each finger, cleaning each of them in turn.

He did the same with her left hand, massaging each of her fingers with, from the smell of its strong perfume, some kind of industrial strength cleanser. Then she felt a nail brush skim across the surface of each of her fingertips, gently sloughing off every drop of oil, every last spot of grease.

‘There, there,’ he said. His voice was soft, tender even. Perhaps he wasn’t going to hurt her after all.

She heard him move away from her towards the work bench. He was looking for something. He expelled his breath slightly as he lifted something off the surface and carried it over. She heard the clash of metal on metal and then the gradual turning of a screw. She felt he was concentrating on something. He wanted to get something exactly right. She heard him make various adjustments – another couple of screws were turned – and then suddenly he wrenched her right hand upwards.

She tried to fight, but he was too quick. He gripped both of her wrists, expertly tying one to the arm of the chair and bringing the other one, her right hand, onto what felt like a flat surface of cold metal. He pushed her flesh down, and then grasped hold of her forefinger, extending it outwards. Her other fingers tried to scratch him, but he was too strong. He clamped his hand over hers with all his strength, pushing it down.

She heard the screw turning. And a second later the feeling of cold metal either side of her forefinger. Then the pressure – the terrific pressure – that started to crush her index finger. She screamed – half from shock, half from pain. She struggled with all her strength, turning her body violently in the chair in the hope that she could somehow wrestle herself free. But what if she tipped over her chair? Then, with her hand clasped in the vice, she could easily break her wrist or arm, or worse.

But she had to try. She thrashed about, screaming like something possessed. She thought she heard something fall, or smash, in the distance. Was someone else at home?

‘Help. Help me, please,’ she screamed.

‘There’s no-one to help you now,’ he said, laughing to himself. ‘And by the way the whole place is sound proofed.’

No one can hear you scream. That was the line that Gleason had used. That night. When he had kidnapped her, raped her, tried to kill her.

‘No, you can’t do this. Help. Help me!’

She heard him take hold of something from the work bench. Then the horrific scrape of metal. He was running the edge of some kind of blade across a sharpening device.

‘I’ve got to tell you this may hurt.’

She felt the tip of something press onto her forefinger. Then the feel of his breath on her face. His voice dropped to a whisper.

‘Do you remember that present I sent you?’

She nodded in silent acknowledgment. She was too frightened to speak.

‘Well, it’s about to become a reality.’

41

‘I think we’ve got a lead,’ shouted Lansing across the investigation room. He had been scanning 911 calls for anything that could give the team a clue to the abduction of Cassie, the murder of Kaplinski and the disappearance of the cab.

‘What’ve you got?’ said Josh.

‘A report from a guy – a Wayne Farson - over in Van Nuys. Says he was driving home from work on the 405 when a cab – emblazoned with the Courtesy Cars logo - suddenly pulled out in front of him and nearly hit him. Farson flashed his lights at which point the cab driver went crazy. Suddenly began to hit his breaks, then slowed down so he was behind Farson and started to tailgate him. Apparently did everything to intimidate him. Nearly caused a couple of really bad accidents. Farson was so pissed he followed the cab, coming off the 405 and into Van Nuys. Admits he was going to teach the guy a lesson, but when he got to the house he changed his mind.’

‘Why?’ asked Josh.

‘Heard the screams of a woman from inside. That’s when he called 911.’

‘Did he get the plates?’

‘No, didn’t think about it until after the guy parked the cab in the carport.’

‘Okay – let’s get someone over there. What’s the address?’

‘15104 Raymer Street. Zip 91405.’

‘Curtis?’ he shouted. ‘You’re coming with me. And Lansing? Inform any cops patrolling the area of the situation. If they arrive on the scene before us, we don’t want a bloodbath. There’s a blind woman in there.’

42