You Are Dead

97

Saturday 20 December

Guided by his torch, and grim determination, Grace strode across the floor towards the screen. It was a drop-down fabric affair, and he lifted it up. Behind was a thick wooden door, which he opened and went through, stabbing the torch beam warily into the darkness. He was greeted with a smell of damp and the sound of dripping water. ‘Logan!’ he called out. ‘Logan Somerville? Louise Masters? This is the police! You are safe, this is the police!’ His voice echoed.

‘Thank God! Over here!’ a female voice screamed, her voice echoing back. ‘I’m Louise Masters, thank God you are here!’

He took several steps forward and the beam fell on two rows of four rectangular wooden boxes, the length of coffins but several feet taller, and squared off equally at both ends. What looked like hose pipes were connected to each of them. Each of them, except for one, was covered with an opaque lid.

He reached the open one and shone the torch inside. The interior was lined like a glass tank. A woman in her early twenties, in police-issue trousers and shirt, lay there looking terrified, steel cords fastened over her neck, wrists, thighs and ankles. The ones around her wrists, where he could see congealed blood, were cutting into her flesh.

‘Louise?’ he said.

She nodded.

‘I’m Roy Grace, police, you’re safe. Do you know where Logan Somerville is? And is anyone else here?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I–I don’t. I just got into my car outside my home — I’d gone back to change, ready for my shift, after shopping — and the next thing I knew I was here.’ She gave him a weak smile. ‘Thank you. Thank you for coming.’

He tried to free one of her wrists, but she winced in pain and cried out.

‘I’ll get someone to cut you free. I’ll leave you for a few moments, but don’t worry, we have the place surrounded and secure.’ He turned to the box beside her, and slid back the lid. The interior, another glass tank, contained about three feet of water, but nothing else. He moved to the next box.

And stood rigid for an instant.

He stared down at what looked like a corpse. He recognized the young woman instantly, from the photographs. It was Logan Somerville.

Unlike Louise Masters, she was naked. Her face was the alabaster colour of so many corpses he had seen before. Her long brown hair was matted and spread out around her head, like a dark shroud.

He looked in horror at the branding on her right thigh.

U R DEAD

Shit. Was he too late? Too damned late?

‘Logan?’ he said, softly. ‘Logan?’

There was no reaction.

As he looked down at her, he felt the utter despondency of failure. Thinking about her boyfriend, Jamie Ball. Those photographs of her looking so happy, that were spread around her apartment. Thinking about her parents, so desperate for news, clinging to hope.

Dead.

Dead for no other reason than her hairstyle?

Because she had been unlucky enough to be picked up by the radar of a total madman?

Her cheek moved, just a tiny fraction. Or had he imagined it?

He peered closer, kneeling. ‘Logan?’ he said. ‘Logan? Logan?’

She was motionless.

In the silence he heard the steady dripping of water.

Where the hell was Crisp? How had he slipped the net? How many more deaths were on his hands? How many had died, like Logan Somerville, because he hadn’t been smart enough to catch Crisp in time?

Then she opened her eyes and whispered, weakly, ‘Help me.’