Dead Man's Footsteps

Grace.’
    The man extended a veined, filthy hand from the over-long sleeve of his raincoat. ‘Nice to meet yer, Officer. Perhaps you could help me?’
    Ignoring it, Grace turned back to Biglow. ‘I need to have a chat with you about an old friend of yours – Ronnie Wilson.’
    ‘Ronnie!’ Biglow exclaimed.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Grace could see that Foster had very definitely clocked him now and was hot-footing it across the park. The dealer sidled out of the entrance, shot Grace a wary glance and set off down the street, half walking, half running, lifting his mobile phone to his ear as he went.
    ‘Ronnie!’ Biglow repeated. He gave Grace a wistful smile and shook his head. ‘Dear old Ronnie. He’s dead, you know that, don’t you? God rest his soul.’
    The fresh air was not doing it for Grace’s headache, so he decided to follow Bella’s earlier recommendation about hot, greasy food. ‘Have you had lunch?’ he asked.
    ‘Nah, we was just on our way to dinner now.’ Terry Biglow smiled suddenly, as if pleased with the alibi that had just presented itself. ‘Yeah, you see, that’s why Jimmy and I – why we is here. Just walking down to the café, it being a nice morning and that.’
    ‘Good. Well, in that case, lead the way. I’m buying.’
    He followed them down the street, Jimmy moving in jerky little steps, like a clockwork toy that needed rewinding, and into a workmen’s café.

66
OCTOBER 2007
    Abby heard the slam of a door. The front door. For an instant her hopes rose. Could it by some miracle be the caretaker?
    Then she heard the squeak of the shoes. Saw his shadow first.
    Ricky came into the bathroom like a thunderbolt and she felt the crack of his hand on her face. She flinched inside her bindings.
    ‘You fucking little bitch!’
    He slapped her again, even harder. She hardly recognized him. He was in disguise, wearing a blue baseball cap pulled low over his face, and dark glasses, and had a heavy beard and moustache. He stepped out of the room and she watched, through smarting eyes, as he picked up the bag in the hallway and emptied its contents on the floor.
    A power drill fell out. A large pair of pincers. A hammer. A bag of hypodermic syringes. A razor-bladed block cutter.
    ‘Which one would you like me to start with, bitch?’
    A moan of terror yammered in her throat. She felt her insides loosening. She tried to signal with her eyes. To plead with him.
    He put his face right in front of hers. ‘Did you hear me?’
    She tried to remember which way he had told her to move her eyes to signal no . Left. She moved them left.
    He knelt and picked up the block cutter, bringing the blade tight up to her right eyeball. Then he turned it and pressed it flat, covering her eye. She could felt the cold steel against her brow. She began hyperventilating in terror.
    ‘Shall I cut one of your eyes out? Take it with me? Would that work? It will be even darker then.’
    She signalled no desperately. No, no, no .
    ‘I could try, couldn’t I? I could take it with me and see what happens.’
    No, no, no .
    ‘Very clever. Biometrics. Iris recognition . You think that’s very smart, don’t you? Lock it all away in a safe-deposit box that requires iris recognition to access. Well, how about I just cut your fucking eye out and take that with me, see if it recognizes it? If not, I’ll come back for the other one.’
    Again she signalled frantically. No, no, no .
    ‘Of course, if that doesn’t work we’re both fucked, because you’ll be blind and I’ll be no better off. And you know that, don’t you?’
    Suddenly he removed the blade. Then, in one sudden movement, he ripped the tape away from her mouth.
    She cried out in agony. It felt as if he had torn off half the skin on her face. She gulped air down her parched throat. Her face was on fire.
    ‘Talk to me, bitch.’
    Her voice came out as a croak. ‘Please can I have some water? Please, Ricky.’
    ‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’ he said. ‘That’s rich! You steal everything I have, make me chase you halfway around the world, and what’s the first thing you have to say to me?’He mimicked her voice. ‘“Oh, please, Ricky, can I have a glass of water?”’ He shook his head. ‘What would you like? Sparkling or plain? Tap or bottled? How about the toilet water you keep pissing in? Would that be OK? Would you like some ice and lemon in it?’
    ‘Anything,’ she croaked.
    ‘I’ll get you some in a minute,’ he said.