Authors: Kate Rhodes
Crossbones Yard (24 page)
The taxi pulled up on Kemerton Road just before eight o’clock. There were no lights on in the windows of Alvarez’s house, and I wondered if he’d stopped at a pub after work, treated himself to a beer after a day of getting nowhere. I climbed the steps to his porch and rang the bell. His front door must have been crimson once, but it had faded to a dull rust, paint blistering from the wood. The prospect of another long taxi ride back to the overheated hotel didn’t appeal to me. It was a relief to finally hear movement in the hall.
Alvarez’s expression was a mixture of shock and pleasure. He was wearing faded jeans and a black shirt, and his feet were bare, wet hair slicked back from his face. He opened the door wide, without saying anything, then his arms closed around me. He smelled perfectly clean. I’ve always thought that the sexiest thing in the world is a man fresh from the shower, skin glistening, completely renewed. It was a struggle to stay focused on the reason why I’d come.
‘I need your help, Ben.’
‘Anything you like.’ He lounged against the wall. ‘But only if you have dinner with me first.’
Following him along the hall I could see why he’d neglected the exterior of the house. All his time, effort and cash had been spent on perfecting the rooms inside. It must have taken days to bring the old quarry tiles in the hall back to their original
glory, and the walls had been painted a soft dove grey. A row of landscape paintings pulsed with colour. I paused to admire the casement of a grandfather clock, so tall it almost reached the ceiling.
glory, and the walls had been painted a soft dove grey. A row of landscape paintings pulsed with colour. I paused to admire the casement of a grandfather clock, so tall it almost reached the ceiling.
‘That was shipped over from Spain,’ Alvarez called over his shoulder. ‘Cost me an arm and a leg.’
He was already busy preparing the meal when I got to the kitchen. For some reason I didn’t associate him with cooking. I thought he would be like Burns, subsisting on a diet of fast food and Mars Bars, waiting for the damage to hit. He chopped handfuls of fresh herbs deftly with a long-handled knife. The smell of garlic frying was already making me feel hungry.
‘Can I do anything?’ I asked.
He paused to drop a mound of linguine into a pan of boiling water. ‘Choose some wine, if you like. Take a look in the cellar, it’s the second door along the hall.’
It was a good excuse to snoop around. The living room was elegant and simple, a family of armchairs arranged around an Art Deco fireplace, delicate African sculptures lined up on the mantelpiece. I remembered Alvarez saying that his wife had trained as an interior designer. She certainly had a great eye for colour; the walls were the hot ochre of sunlight on a summer afternoon.
I paused by the door of the cellar. I’ve always gone out of my way to avoid them. The combination of confined space and no air always kick-starts a panic attack. But when the light flicked on, there was nothing to worry about. The space felt airy because the walls had been whitewashed, and an exercise bike, free weights and a bench press stood in the corner. That explained why Alvarez was fit enough to run, even though he claimed to be allergic to gyms. Two wine racks were leaning against the wall. I grabbed the first bottle that came to hand
and headed back upstairs. He inspected the label on the Rioja thoughtfully.
and headed back upstairs. He inspected the label on the Rioja thoughtfully.
‘Good choice. My father brought this over last summer. He’s convinced there’s nothing to drink in England.’
For a moment I thought he was going to smile, but it never materialised. It reminded me of a teenager I treated once who suffered from Moebius syndrome, which left him physically unable to smile. He had developed a brilliant deadpan sense of humour, but he still felt isolated, because other kids read his blank expression as coldness or hostility. I found a corkscrew and poured two glasses of wine.
‘Your house is stunning,’ I commented.
‘I can’t take any credit.’ Alvarez kept his back to me as he tipped the pasta into a colander. ‘Luisa chose everything in here. It was her obsession. She must have taped every episode of
Grand Designs
.’
Grand Designs
.’
I glanced at the earthenware bowls on the dresser, the antique ladder-backed chairs around the dining table, and tried to imagine how it would feel to wake up alone each morning, surrounded by beautiful relics.
Alvarez was too busy serving the meal to answer any more questions. He had made a crisp green salad to go with the garlic chicken and pasta. He watched me dig in, twirling pasta around my fork.
‘So what do you need help with?’ he asked.
When I told him about Lola he looked as sceptical as Burns had, but his expression changed as he heard all the details. I explained that I’d found her passport, so she couldn’t be in Sweden, and none of her family or friends had heard from her since Craig poured her into a taxi in Soho. By the time I finished explaining we had polished off the wine, and Alvarez’s frown had reappeared between his eyebrows.
‘And Burns didn’t do anything?’ He looked amazed.
‘It was like he had blinkers on. He just wasn’t interested.’
Alvarez pushed back his chair from the table urgently. ‘Look, Alice, I need to do something about this. I’ll have to make some calls.’
I’m not sure why I felt like bursting into tears. Maybe it was simply relief because someone finally believed me.
He reached down and touched my cheek. ‘It’s okay, we’ll find her. Look, it’s going to take me a while. Why don’t you take a look around? I know you’re dying to.’
Alvarez picked up his phone and as usual when he was in work mode, he was instantly absorbed, everything else ceased to exist.
I wandered up the stairs, studying the drawings and watercolours lining the walls. The bathroom was immaculate, with stripped boards and a roll-top bath big enough to swim in. But if I’m completely honest it was the bedrooms I was most interested in. The first was much plainer than the rest of the house. The pale walls were blank, no mirrors or ornaments. It must have been Alvarez’s room, because it smelled of him, and it looked lived in. Paperbacks and a radio were stacked on the bedside table, a clutter of shoes piled in the corner. The one space Luisa hadn’t got round to decorating.
At first I thought the next room was locked. When I twisted the handle nothing happened. But when I tried again, the door finally creaked open. I switched on the light and blinked rapidly, not quite trusting my eyes. It had to be the room Alvarez had shared with his wife, but it looked like a museum piece. The bedding had been flung back, as though they had just got up. A woman’s clothes were draped across an armchair, two bathrobes hanging behind the door, a vase of dead chrysanthemums gathering dust by the window. Maybe
that was why the air smelled stale: the windows had been closed for months. He must have walked out of the room on the day she died and not gone back. No wonder the lock was stiff. I couldn’t resist pulling open one of the wardrobe doors. It was still crammed with dresses, shoes and handbags. She was a size eight, even smaller than me. I pulled the door shut gently when I left the room, as if she was inside, taking a nap. For a second Morris Cley came into my mind, terrified of spending another night in his mother’s house, surrounded by ghosts.
that was why the air smelled stale: the windows had been closed for months. He must have walked out of the room on the day she died and not gone back. No wonder the lock was stiff. I couldn’t resist pulling open one of the wardrobe doors. It was still crammed with dresses, shoes and handbags. She was a size eight, even smaller than me. I pulled the door shut gently when I left the room, as if she was inside, taking a nap. For a second Morris Cley came into my mind, terrified of spending another night in his mother’s house, surrounded by ghosts.
There’s no word in the dictionary to describe jealousy of a dead person. I stood on the landing with my arms crossed, waiting for it to pass. Luisa was impossible to compete with, because she was perfectible. By now her memory had been airbrushed and polished; no faults would have survived.
Alvarez’s voice drifted up the stairs, grave and insistent. I knew I should run back down and thank him for helping me search for Lola, but all I wanted was to escape to the simplicity of the hotel. A flight of stairs led up to another landing, but the urge to explore had vanished. I didn’t want to uncover any more secrets, so I went downstairs and waited in the living room. The logs Alvarez had thrown on the fire were beginning to catch. When he finally joined me he was carrying another bottle of wine.
‘That’s all we can do for tonight,’ he said. ‘A team are working on it. It’ll be on the news first thing tomorrow.’
I couldn’t frame the words to thank him, so I reached over and kissed him instead. For some reason I wanted to confess about my foray upstairs, but when I told him about looking in the bedroom his body tensed, as though one of us had done something wrong.
‘I’d feel the same,’ I said quietly. ‘I couldn’t throw anything away.’
He stared at the fire. ‘It’s hard to start, that’s all. I know I should have done something about it by now. I take off my wedding ring, but it always ends up back on my finger.’
I rested my hand on his chest, his heartbeat pulsing under my palm. When I looked down he was tugging at his wedding ring, sliding it from his finger. He placed it in the middle of the coffee table, a small chunk of metal, reflecting the yellow light from the fire.
‘That’s a start, I suppose,’ he murmured.
‘It is. But I hope you didn’t do it for me.’
His eyes were as black and unreadable as ever, but the start of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. After he took off the ring it felt different when he held me, more relaxed, like a ghost had finally left the room.
We didn’t make it upstairs, in fact, we didn’t even try. The first time was incredibly quick – my fault, not his. He kept his eyes locked on to mine as he ran his hand along my thigh. I took a long in-drawn breath and watched him take off his shirt. His chest was a solid pack of muscle, no spare flesh in sight. Then he knelt in front of me, never taking his eyes from my face. He pushed my dress up around my waist, dipped his head down to kiss me. I came almost as soon as he was inside me. It must have been the tension, or the long wait, or the fact that I wanted him so badly.
‘Sorry,’ I murmured.
‘Nothing to be sorry for.’
He brushed my hair back so he could see me again. His expression was impossible to understand. I thought I saw a spectrum of feelings there: desire, fear and pity, but that could have been imaginary. He carried on moving inside me. Normally I would have hated that, but this time it was different, a rollercoaster, rising and falling like panic. I don’t know how many times I lost control. Pretty soon I stopped counting.
And then his breathing changed and his rhythm. I felt him start to let go and that’s when I realised something was wrong. There was a look of disgust on his face, as if we had done something unforgivable.
I turned my head away to avoid seeing his distress. My own reaction was the opposite of his, a mixture of jubilation and relief. All I wanted to do was to curl up beside him, fall asleep in his arms.
When I woke up again, he’d disappeared. Maybe I should have climbed the stairs to search for him. He was probably sitting in his spartan room, head in his hands, punishing himself for cheating on his wife’s ghost. But I couldn’t face hearing him explain that it had happened too early, we couldn’t see each other again. I kept on remembering his expression after we’d made love, completely blank until the shame set in. Sleeping with me certainly hadn’t taught him how to smile. I pulled my dress back on and gathered my things, desperate to leave. If he didn’t want me, there was no reason to stay. I lifted my coat from the hook in the hall. The house stayed silent as I left, holding its breath, and the front door seemed eager to shut behind me.
I stumbled down the steps, determined not to cry. I was hoping Alvarez would have a change of heart and come running after me, but there was no sign of him, even though I stopped to look back several times. It was 3 a.m. and Kemerton Road was still pitch dark, almost completely deserted. A lone car drove past, slowing to take a look at me before speeding on again. I was just about to call a taxi when my phone vibrated against my hip. The last thing I remember is a sense
of relief. Maybe I had overreacted, and Alvarez was texting me, begging me to come back. My hand slipped into my pocket and then heat scorched the base of my skull. There was a shattering noise, like a plate landing on a stone floor, then all I remember is sound. A car door slamming and a squeal of tyres struggling to grip the icy road.
of relief. Maybe I had overreacted, and Alvarez was texting me, begging me to come back. My hand slipped into my pocket and then heat scorched the base of my skull. There was a shattering noise, like a plate landing on a stone floor, then all I remember is sound. A car door slamming and a squeal of tyres struggling to grip the icy road.
It was difficult to stay awake, even though it was freezing cold. I couldn’t figure out what had happened. Maybe I’d found my way home, and now I was lying on the floor by an open window. When I came round, I was back in my usual nightmare, trapped in the dark, unable to move or breathe. There was nothing to navigate by, no landmarks except a solid wall of darkness. I tried all the usual tricks, counting to ten, reassuring myself that nothing bad could happen. But this time I didn’t come rushing to the surface with a dry mouth, heart racing. This time the nightmare refused to stop. There was something wrong with my body. Perhaps I’d had a stroke. I couldn’t see or move anything except my mind.
It was hard to decide where the pain was coming from. It was flowing through my body, affecting every joint. But it was worst at the base of my spine and the back of my head. It felt like I had fallen and bumped my way down a long flight of stairs. Even with my eyes open, I couldn’t see anything. My eyelashes scratched against fabric. I was wide awake by now, struggling to breathe. My mouth was packed with something bitter that my tongue couldn’t shift, dry and rough as straw.
And that’s when I realised what had happened. I would be like the Crossbones girl. This time it would be someone else’s turn to pull back the plastic sheet and count my scars. A wave of panic crashed over me, as tall as a house, pushing me under, no matter how hard I tried to stay afloat. All I could do was writhe like a line-caught fish.
My first reaction was rage. It was my own fault. I should have called a taxi from Alvarez’s house, or forced him to drive me back to the hotel. God knows how long I’d been unconscious. Hours or days could have passed. I tried to sew the pieces together in my mind. Someone must have followed me to Alvarez’s house. Maybe he hid in the shadows and saw us making love through the ground-floor window. He must have crept up behind me and knocked me out while I fumbled for my phone. Alvarez wouldn’t have a clue what had happened. He was probably still wide awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to forgive himself.
My mind went into overdrive. For some reason it was Michelle’s ruined face that loomed in front of me. I could see every incision, a latticework of neat cuts from a razor or a scalpel, blood congealing on her cheeks and forehead. And it would be my turn next. Suddenly it was impossible to breathe. The gag was blocking my airflow, bile filling my mouth. I kept listening for his footsteps, but the only sound was an impenetrable silence. He must have buried me somewhere deep underground. Maybe I would suffocate before he came back, deny him the pleasure of cutting me to pieces.
I lashed out in panic, but my ankles were bound together, and a rope had been tied around my wrists so tightly that it chafed my skin whenever I moved. If I swung my hands upwards they hit a solid wall of wood, locked or weighted in place. There was no give in it, no chance of shifting the lid, even if I kicked like a mule. I lay on my side and reached out again. My fingertips grazed another wall, rough and splintered like unsanded floorboards. I was locked in a wooden crate, two or three times as big as a coffin, and the only escape tool at my disposal was my mind. I tried to slow my ragged breathing but it was impossible. If I hyperventilated I would
pass out, and that’s how he would find me, unconscious and easy to hurt.
pass out, and that’s how he would find me, unconscious and easy to hurt.
When you can’t move or speak or see, everything is intensified, and time plays tricks on you too, shifting like the slide on a trombone. I don’t know how long it took me to fall back into the past. Something kept dragging me there. The smell of stale air, dust and the chemical scent of fear.
Suddenly I was watching my father take his first drink of the day, as soon as he got home. He chose the worst booze he could find, cooking sherry or the cheapest wine, because the taste didn’t matter. He wasn’t drinking for pleasure. It was anaesthetic. Memories rushed at me from the corners of the box. My father’s swagger when he was drunk. A small man, looking for someone smaller to punish. On Sundays he dragged us all to church, kept his head bowed through the service, wiping the slate clean. But the cycle started again as soon as we got home. And my mother became a monster too. She shrieked at him every morning, until it was his turn to yell. He chose my mother or me to empty his disgust on.
My brother was always his audience. That must have been why Will felt at home with the Bensons. It was more extreme, but he recognised the dynamic immediately. Two monsters destroying everything they saw. Cheryl Martin said that Will was the Bensons’ right-hand man, so Christ knows what he’d seen. Until now I’d refused to imagine him leaning against the wall, watching the girls beg for mercy, calling for their mothers. Maybe he stood beside Marie afterwards, helping her to wrap their bodies in black polythene. A wave of nausea lurched in my stomach and I forced my mind back into the present.
My back throbbed, but at least my legs still worked. I pressed my feet against one of the wooden walls and pushed with all my might, but there was no movement. When I lay
still, thoughts flew at me. There was no way to escape them. I realised that Lola must be dead. He had emptied the box to make room for me, so he had already killed her. Her body probably hadn’t even been found. She would be lying on open ground somewhere, with nothing covering her wounds. Lola would have been glad about what happened next, because she always said that I needed to let go. After years without breaking down, I cried until my blindfold was soaked.
still, thoughts flew at me. There was no way to escape them. I realised that Lola must be dead. He had emptied the box to make room for me, so he had already killed her. Her body probably hadn’t even been found. She would be lying on open ground somewhere, with nothing covering her wounds. Lola would have been glad about what happened next, because she always said that I needed to let go. After years without breaking down, I cried until my blindfold was soaked.
The footsteps came from a long distance away, slow and deliberate. He was making his way down a long corridor, and I began to understand what people meant when they talked about being paralysed with fear. My fingers were numb, a prickling feeling tingled across my lips as I struggled to breathe. My heart rate doubled, then tripled while he fiddled with the catches on the box. And then the lid slid back. I couldn’t see much, but it must have been daytime. A blur of light filtered through the blindfold.
He grabbed my shoulders and jerked me upwards, the pain in my head so blinding that I almost passed out. I winced as he touched my face and pulled the gag from my mouth. His smell was the most frightening thing. There was nothing human about it, just an overpowering stink of ammonia, as if he’d bathed himself in bleach. My throat was so dry that I couldn’t make a sound. Something hard touched my lips, clattering against my teeth. He was forcing me to drink. I managed to gulp down some of the water, but the rest spilled across my chest. He was in a hurry, pouring liquid into my mouth faster than I could swallow, panting, as if he’d overexerted himself. I twisted my face out of his hands.
‘Slow down. Unless you want me to choke.’
His breathing changed. Maybe he was suppressing a laugh. He wasn’t used to his victims telling him what to do. Then the footsteps again, and metal rattling against wood. When
he lifted me I heard the fabric of my dress catch and tear on something. A cold rim of metal bit into my hip. I didn’t understand at first, then I realised he had sat me on a bucket. He was moving around a few feet away, waiting for me to empty my bladder. Maybe he was tired of cleaning the box between each girl.
he lifted me I heard the fabric of my dress catch and tear on something. A cold rim of metal bit into my hip. I didn’t understand at first, then I realised he had sat me on a bucket. He was moving around a few feet away, waiting for me to empty my bladder. Maybe he was tired of cleaning the box between each girl.
‘You could say something, you know,’ I muttered. ‘What are you frightened of?’
The punch came out of nowhere. It landed on my jaw, hard enough to send me reeling. No time to put my arm out to soften my fall, my bound hands hanging in front of me like a dead weight. My blindfold rode up when I hit the floor. In the few seconds before he pulled the fabric tight again, I saw more than I wanted to. Black tiles on the floor and directly in front of my eyes, all his tools, laid out on a green towel. They were arranged by size, from the smallest scalpel to a butcher’s saw, perfect for slicing through bone. He picked me up and dumped me on the bucket again. This time I was too terrified to argue.
After he replaced the gag, he hauled me back into the box, dropping me like a rag doll he’d grown tired of. My hip took the impact this time, as I Ianded on the bare wood. No wonder all his victims were covered in bruises. Bolts clicked into place above my head.
I tried to stop myself shaking, teeth chattering uncontrollably against my gag. If I listened hard, I might learn where he was keeping me. It was best not to think about his knives, arranged with an obsessive attention to detail.
Then the answer dawned on me, and there was so much evidence that it had to be true. I knew who he was. He had organised his instruments in the precise, methodical way that surgeons do before an operation. It had to be Sean. Of course it was. He cut people for a living, and he knew precisely how
pain worked. It was his speciality. And it wouldn’t have been hard to learn more about how the Bensons carried out their crimes. Something about their brutality must have excited him. Maybe he knew the surgeon who patched up Cheryl Martin’s wounds and pumped him for information over a drink, pretending to be sympathetic.
pain worked. It was his speciality. And it wouldn’t have been hard to learn more about how the Bensons carried out their crimes. Something about their brutality must have excited him. Maybe he knew the surgeon who patched up Cheryl Martin’s wounds and pumped him for information over a drink, pretending to be sympathetic.
Until he met me he was everyone’s golden boy; handsome, talented, top in every exam. No one had ever refused him anything before. Rejection must have been more than he could take. I remembered the look in his eyes when I told him it was over. Disbelief mixed with fury, as if he couldn’t decide whether to punch me or walk away. That was why he washed in bleach, to disguise his smell, so I wouldn’t recognise him. I could still hear him, shuffling around, putting things straight in his empire. He must have hired a basement or a lock-up. Knowing Sean he would have been clever about it and found a remote location. Even if I managed to bite through my gag, it would be pointless to scream.
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