The Disappearance of Katie Wren (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

The Girl on the Inside

“This is utterly ridiculous,” I whisper, as Annabelle and I sit in the front seats of her car, shrouded in darkness. “As soon as she walks through that door, they'll be all over her like a bad rash!”

“That's what I'm counting on,” she replies, keeping her voice down.

“But what good does that do us?” I ask, watching as Agnes tentatively makes her way across the street, heading toward the steps at the front of Knott's Court. Even from here, her silhouette looks tentative and nervous, and it's hard to believe she'll get all the way to the front door. She's clearly terrified. “You don't even know that your silly little microphone will work. Isn't that the sort of thing they'd spot a mile off?”

“I've scanned the frequencies all around the house,” she continues, leaning forward a little and furrowing her brow as Agnes reaches the bottom of the steps. “I'm reasonably confident that this particular microphone will get through without being noticed or blocked. Unless they subject her to a
very
thorough physical examination, of course, in which case there's really not much else we can do. Sometimes you just have to...”

Her voice trails off.

“Sometimes you just have to
what
?” I ask finally.

“Huh?”

“Oh. Sometimes you just have to take a risk. Why? Is that not true back in Shropley?”

“In Shropley, we tend not to have such awful things to deal with.”

“Sounds like a nice life. You get to hide away from the truth of the world.”

“Nobody's hiding,” I reply, bristling at the suggestion. “There just doesn't seem to be any need to cause trouble. That's all.”

She turns to me. “You think that's what I'm doing? Causing trouble?”

“No, but -”

“You'd rather just walk away and pretend like Knott's Court doesn't exist?”

“Of course not! My daughter -”

“But if your daughter
wasn't
here,” she continues, interrupting me. “If Katie was suddenly safe, would you then turn around and just leave this place to get on with its sick business?”

I open my mouth to tell her she's spouting nonsense, before realizing that there might be a kernel of truth in what she's saying.

“That's what they rely on,” she mutters. “That's how they get you.”

“I'm not here to change the world,” I tell her firmly. “I'm here to get my daughter back and take her home.” For a moment, I watch as Agnes stands at the bottom of the steps. She looks to be still unsure as to whether she can go through with this. “I didn't ask to get caught up in all of this, and neither did Katie. What happens in London is London's business. We're going back to Shropley.”

“And why am
I
here?” Tim asks from the back seat. “I don't mind keeping you company, but I'm really not sure I can be of much assistance.”

“They'll be keeping an eye on your apartment building,” Annabelle explains. Ahead, Agnes is still at the bottom of the steps, as if she's having second thoughts. “Come on, bitch, in you go. If you know what's good for you, you won't even -”

Suddenly Agnes starts making her way up toward the front door.

“Bravo,” Annabelle whispers. “Either she's braver than I thought, or this is
indeed
just a trap to lure us here.”

“If Katie is in there -”

“Katie's in there, alright,” she continues, “but that's good, in a twisted kinda way. At least we know she's alive, and we know how to get her out.”

“We do?”

“I'm working on it.”

“But you don't have a plan?”

“I said I'm working on it! A lot depends on how this goes. I'm still not entirely sure whether Agnes genuinely ran away, or whether she's being used to lure us here.”

As Agnes goes in through the house's main door, Annabelle picks up the small black device from her lap and taps the screen. Immediately, a static-filled whistle fills the air, although a moment later voices start to emerge from the noise. Evidently the microphone is working for now, although I rather suspect that it'll be discovered before too long. After all, according to Annabelle these Knott's Court people are very much on the ball.

“This way,” a man says, his voice crackling over the airwaves. “You've got a lot of explaining to do.”

“I was just feeling sick,” Agnes replies, sounding absolutely terrified. “I'm sorry I didn't tell anyone when I left, but I felt so awful, I had to go home.”

“Save it,” the man mutters. “It's not me you've gotta convince.”

This is followed by a rustling sound and various sets of footsteps, and then the bump of a door being swung open.

“She's being taken further into the house,” Annabelle says, grabbing the A4 sheet showing the scribbled map that Agnes drew earlier. She points toward one of the sections. “Maybe into this part. She said the rear of the ground floor is mostly admin rooms, which kinda makes sense, along with a kitchen and a pantry area. I've always assumed that the kinky shit and the dark stuff is upstairs. She also claimed that there's an underground section, but she's never been down there. I think she -”

“Move!” a male voice hisses suddenly, accompanied by faster, rushed footsteps.

“Sounds like they're not very happy with her,” Annabelle mutters.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Tim asks. “I'm not entirely sure of the ethical aspect.”

“I'll get her out again,” Annabelle replies, “provided she sticks to the goddamn plan.”

“You and your infernal plans,” I mutter under my breath. “I should have just gone to the police again and refused to leave until they -”

Before I can finish, there's a brief, flaring rustle from the device.

“I should have gone to the police,” I continue, “and
made
them listen to me, instead of listening to all your clapped-out conspiracy theories.”

“You tried the cops already,” she replies. “Twice. Didn't get you anywhere. Please, let's not go through this again. I've told you how the goddamn world works. I've told you what happened to Harry, and -”

“Oh, your precious Harry,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “The patron saint of journalism.”

“He was a good man!” She sounds irritated now.

“And he was murdered, you say? Because he was on the verge of uncovering some vast conspiracy at the heart of British life? Are you
sure
he didn't just get cancer, the way millions of people do every year?”

“You don't know what you're talking about. These assholes have killed people for less than all the stuff Harry did. If you ever hear that
I've
killed myself, you'd better be damn sure that it's not true. It just means they've got to me.”

“Oh, why would they bother getting to
you
?” I ask. “You're just a piddling reporter who apparently has to hang around police stations, listening in on other people's conversations and trying to do deals for their stories.”

“You don't like the deal? You wanna tear it up and walk away? Fine! But good luck with -”

“Ladies, please,” Tim says suddenly, leaning through from the back seat. “I'm sure you can agree to disagree. Annabelle, you must appreciate that Winifred is simply worried about her daughter. And Winifred, I'm sure you can bring yourself to respect, how grudgingly, Annabelle's skills as a reporter. I mean, she's certainly got us this far.”

“Listening in to a maid being disciplined over a dodgy microphone?” I ask.

He sighs. “I think there might be more to it than that.”

“In what -”

“I've heard of this place,” he adds.

Annabelle and I both turn to him.

“I wasn't sure at first,” he continues, with a hint of fear in his voice as he stares out toward the dark building. “I didn't say anything because I thought perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me, but now I have no doubts. Back when I was in the Navy, I rose quite high in the ranks. The whole thing becomes a bit of a boys' club at a certain level, and I recall being invited to a few rather unusual clubs. I never liked the scene, I only attended once or twice out of sheer naivety, and then I excused myself. The whole thing wasn't my scene at all. To be honest, that's probably why my career stalled and I ended up retiring early. But during those days, I overheard a few conversations that perhaps I shouldn't, and I'm sure one of them mentioned this house, this Knott's Court place.”

“What did they say about it?” Annabelle asks.

“I don't remember exactly. I know it was talked about in hushed tones, and I know one needed an invitation. I recall being told that I might be granted admission one day if I proved lucky enough. There's always been a part of me that hates all that exclusive nonsense, and I also got the impression that perhaps the place was rather sordid. So I backed away from that particular group of officers, and to be honest I rather forgot about it until this morning when you started throwing the name around. Of course, this was back in the late 1990's, but Knott's Court was definitely being mentioned at the time. And I can tell you one thing. I got the distinct impression that it was far more than
just
a gentleman's club. There was a lot of nodding and winking going on.”

Annabelle stares at him for a moment, before turning to me.

“But it's not the kind of place where young women are
hurt
,” I say after a moment, convinced that he'll back me up on this point. “It can't be! The whole idea is ludicrous.”

“There are some dark and twisted people in the world,” Tim replies. “I've seen their edges.”

I turn to him. “But the police -”

“Have the power they're granted,” he continues. “As I believe I've said on multiple occasions now, it's healthy to display a little skepticism, and to ask questions. Otherwise one risks accepting every lie one is fed.” He glances at Annabelle. “And it's a sign of good character to think the world can be a better place.”

I open my mouth to tell him that he's wrong, and to ask if he really thinks Annabelle might be onto something, but suddenly the microphone's receiving unit bursts back to life, filling the car with a static buzz.

“Hang on,” Annabelle mutters, adjusting some dials until the buzz fades and we hear voices.

“So they sent you in with this?” a man is saying. “Did they seriously think it wouldn't be found?”

“I don't know,” Agnes sobs, “but she told me I had no choice. She made me come back and -”

The feed is suddenly cut, and the device falls dead.

The three of us sit in silence in the car for a moment.

“So...” I hesitate, trying to work out what just happened. “They discovered the microphone?”

“They did,” Annabelle whispers, still staring out at the dark street.

I pause for a moment, before sighing. “Well, that's hardly a surprise. Quite frankly, I thought your little plan was doomed from the start and -”

“Who said it had failed?” she asks suddenly, interrupting me. “You don't
really
think I thought I could sneak a microphone into that place, do you? Jesus Christ, Winnie, how naive do you think I am? I knew they'd find it. In fact, I'm surprised it lasted as long as it did. I also told Agnes in no uncertain terms that she needed to rat us out at her first available opportunity.”

“And why would you do that?” I continue.

“Because sometimes, when life presents you with an opportunity, you have to dive straight in and come up with a plan later. Sometimes you can't hold back and wait for everything to be perfect. She was gonna rat us out anyway, she's just that kinda girl, so now I've muddied the waters. We've stirred the hornets' nest, and now we have to see what they do when they come buzzing out. If there's one thing you need to know about a hornets' nest, it's this. You can't get 'em while they're happily going about their business inside. You need to rustle 'em up.”

“In other words,” I say after a moment, “you intentionally made them angry?”

“They were angry already. Remember the friends they sent to meet us at the church? The only way to force these assholes to slip up is to make them act fast. Make them panic.”

“And what about Agnes?” Tim asks. “You sent her back in there. Won't they punish her?”

“Of course they will.”

“But then -”

“Don't try telling me I did the wrong thing,” she continues, turning first to him and then to me. “She was dead anyway, the moment they even suspected she was involved with anyone from outside the house. She'd never have made it back to France.”

“But she could have tried!” I point out, shocked by her heartlessness. “You're not seriously suggesting that you sent that girl in there, knowing full well that she -”

“Don't act like you give a damn about her well-being,” she replies with a faint sneer. “An hour ago, you were damn near ready to beat the truth out of her.”

“And how is this going to help us find Katie?” I ask.

“I'm working on that.”

“I thought you had a plan?”