Dead Man's Footsteps

place aren’t that thick. I can’t take any risks, I’m sure you understand. So – maybe the bed was a little hard? Still, very good for your posture, that position. Straight back. Did anybody ever tell you about the importance of good posture?’
    She said nothing.
    ‘No, well, I don’t suppose the word straight features much in your vocabulary.’ He put the carrier bag down on the floor. It made a heavy clank, followed by the rattle of metal objects inside.
    ‘I’ve brought along a few things. I’ve never actually done torture before. Seen it in films, of course. Read about it.’
    Her throat tightened.
    ‘I just want you to understand, Abby, that I don’t have to hurt you. All you have to do is tell me where it is. You know, what you took from me. Like, my entire stash.’
    She was silent. Trembling.
    He picked up the bag and shook it, with a loud, metallic rattle. ‘Got all kinds of stuff in here, but most of it’s pretty primitive. Got a power drill that could go right through your kneecaps. I’ve got a packet of needles and a small hammer. Could whack those up inside your fingernails. Got some pliers for your teeth. Or we could be a bit more cultural.’
    He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a black iPod. Then he held it up close to her eyes. ‘Music,’ he said. ‘Have a listen.’
    He inserted the ear-pieces, checked the display and pressed the start symbol. Then he turned up the volume.
    Abby heard a song she recognized but could not immediately name.
    ‘“Fool for Love”,’ Ricky helped her. ‘Could be me, really, couldn’t it?’
    She looked at him, almost incoherent with terror, not sure what reaction he was expecting. And trying not to let him see how scared she was.
    ‘I like this record,’ he said. ‘Do you? Remember, eyes right for yes , left for no .’
    She moved her eyes right.
    ‘Good, now we’re cooking with gas! So, is it here, or somewhere else? How about I make the question simple. Is it here, in this flat?’
    She moved her eyes left.
    ‘OK. Somewhere else. Is it in Brighton?’
    She moved her eyes right.
    ‘In a safe-deposit box?’
    Again she moved her eyes right.
    He dug his left hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small, thin key. ‘Is it this key?’
    Her eyes told him it was.
    He smiled. ‘Good. Now all we need to establish is the bank and the address. Is it NatWest?’
    Eyes left.
    ‘Lloyds TSB?’
    Eyes left.
    ‘HSBC?’
    Her eyes moved left. And she nixed Barclays too.
    ‘OK, I think I get it,’ he said, and moved away from the doorway. A short while later he returned holding a copy of the Yellow Pages , open at the listings page for security companies. His finger ran down, stopping and getting a negative from Abby at each name. Then it came to Southern Deposit Security.
    Her eyes moved right.
    He studied the name and address, as if memorizing it, then closed the directory.
    ‘OK, good. All we need now is to establish a few more details. Would the account be in the name of Abby Dawson?’
    Eyes left.
    ‘Katherine Jennings?’
    Her eyes went right.
    He smiled, looking much happier now.
    Then she stared at him, trying to signal. But he wasn’t interested.
    ‘Hasta la vista, baby!’ he said cheerily. ‘That’s from one of my favourite movies. Remember?’ He peered at her intently.
    She moved her eyes right. She remembered. She knew this film, this line. It was Arnie Schwarzenegger in The Terminator . She knew what it meant.
    See you later!

58
OCTOBER 2007
    After the briefing meeting, Roy Grace retreated to the quiet sanctuary of his office and spent a few moments looking out of the window, across the main road at the ASDA car park, and the ugly slab building of the supermarket itself cutting off what would have been a fine view across the city of Brighton and Hove he loved so much. At least he could actually see some sky, and for the first time in several days patches of it were blue, with rays of sun breaking through the cloud.
    Nursing the hot mug of coffee that Eleanor had just brought him, he glanced down at the plastic trays containing his prized collections – three dozen vintage cigarette lighters that he hadn’t yet put up on display and a fine selection of international police caps.
    Lying beside his stuffed brown trout, which he used to teach young detectives a lesson, in an analogy between fishing and patience, was a new addition, a birthday present from Cleo. It was a stuffed carp, in a display case, at