‘You can start by telling me your name.’
‘My name is Dean. Do you want my number, too?’ He grinned, the furrow in his brow relaxing.
‘I want you to look at this picture and tell me if you recognise the girl.’
She pulled the photo out of her pocket and handed it to him. He briefly shifted his gaze from her to the photo before handing it back.
‘Sorry, I don’t know her.’
‘Are you sure? Are you the manager here, Dean?’
‘I’m afraid not, just passing through.’ He looked at her and smiled, softer this time. When she looked into his eyes she could see the hardness behind the smile. She blinked and looked away, unsure what his pull was. She decided it was best to avoid eye contact with him for now. Something about him was deeply unsettling.
‘Do you know the proprietor, Elias Papas?’ She saw him flinch.
‘I know him, yeah; he’s not here much though. He’s more of a silent manager.’
‘What about his brother, Antonis Papas?’ She was almost certain he was trying to hide a sneer as he drank from his glass, avoiding the question entirely. From what she’d guess, he knew him all right, and he didn’t like him.
‘You’re sure you don’t know the girl?’ Sam appeared by Imogen’s side, his eyes fixed on Dean. Imogen hadn’t even noticed him approaching. Dean’s eyes were still on hers; she wasn’t looking at him but she could feel him grinning at her discomfort.
‘Best I can tell you is we have a ladies night here on Thursdays, it’s more than likely she was here then.’
‘We? I thought you were just passing through?’ Imogen said.
‘It’s a figure of speech.’
‘Sure it is.’
‘Do these cameras work? Wait, don’t answer that, I’m going to use my special psychic powers and say they don’t,’ Sam scoffed.
‘I believe they’re out of order at the moment, but you’d have to check that with George over there. He works here. George! Come here!’ The uniformed barman walked over to them and smiled. Dean held out his hand for the photograph again, and passed it to his colleague. ‘George, you seen this girl?’
‘No, sir, I haven’t.’ The barman shook his head.
‘Sir?’ Imogen smiled. Passing through my ass, she thought to herself. ‘Is that a figure of speech, too?’
‘Would you believe me if I said yes?’ Dean said.
‘My instinct is telling me you’re pretty liberal with the truth,’ she said. He was leaning towards her, dangerously close.
‘Do they teach you how to read people in detective school?’ Dean smiled at her and moved backwards, returning to his drink. Imogen took the photo from George, and returned it to her wallet.
‘George, are the cameras in here working at the moment?’
‘I’m sorry, Detective, they aren’t.’
‘Well,’ she shook her head. ‘Thanks for nothing, guys.’
Dean pulled out a business card and handed it to Imogen. She glanced down at his name: Dean Kinkaid.
‘Shouldn’t you give me one of yours, you know, in case I think of anything?’
Reluctantly, Imogen pulled out one of her cards and handed it to him. She was already certain that this was not the last she’d see of him. She couldn’t figure out how important he was. Generally speaking, people stick to their own and there was nothing Greek about Dean Kinkaid, not with his green eyes and dark sandy hair. His name suggested Irish origins. Maybe he would be useful in the future; it was easier to flip someone who wasn’t blood loyal.
The present
The first thing Bridget could feel was her leg. It was throbbing, beats of pain working their way through her body. She opened her palm and touched the surface underneath her; it wasn’t the muddy riverbank that she’d fallen asleep on. It was a bed.
My head is killing me. She opened her eyes. As they adjusted to the light, she saw a sliver of sunshine peeking from the far corner of the room. From her surroundings she discerned that she was in a basement or cellar of some kind, below street level, that was for sure. She could see where the grate led up to the road; she could also see the shadows of people’s feet as they occasionally walked over the glass bricks. Where the hell am I? She looked down and saw that her leg had been bandaged. She no longer had the tracksuit bottoms on, just her underwear and a hooded jacket, the one she’d taken from the brothel. It gaped open; instinctively she pulled it closed. She felt groggy, as though she was hungover, but she hadn’t been drinking the night before so it was probably just from the swim and the water. The room smelled of damp, with torn, filthy wallpaper falling away from the walls. There was a wrought-iron bed and a Persian rug. There was also a large standard lamp with a pink lampshade, almost exactly like one her grandmother used to have. In the corner sat a yellowing kidney-shaped dressing table with a brush and a handheld mirror laid out on the surface. There was even a picture hanging above the bed. It looked like someone’s bedroom.
She swung her legs over the side and stood up. Dizziness forced her back down and she stared at her hands for a moment. They didn’t look like her hands. She ran to the metal door on the far wall, her leg protesting as she moved. Bridget tried in vain to push it, pull it, anything, but it wouldn’t open. The window was the same, frosted and thick, there was no way out. There was a piece of fabric hanging in the corner, she walked over and saw a dirty old toilet behind the curtain. This room felt as though it had been made just for her. She tried to think. Surely whoever had put her here wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble if they were going to kill her straight away.
Her head was thumping now, the air was stale and she could feel the damp coating the walls of her throat as she breathed in. There was a vent in the corner above the door, she raised her hand to it but couldn’t feel any airflow at all. Where were the rest of her clothes? She glanced around, spotting her tracksuit bottoms folded at the end of the bed. She rushed over and pulled them on. They were clean, and smelled of washing powder. It was warm down here, wherever here was. There was a half-empty bottle of mineral water by the bedside table; she grabbed it and drank thirstily. What’s that funny taste? Perhaps the man who’d been chasing her had caught up to her at the riverbank. Could he have carried her to a car and then taken her back into the city? She felt the foundations of the place vibrate, and wondered if she was near a train station. Was she even still in Exeter?
There was no way out. Bridget banged on the door, but it was thick and made barely any noise. She moved her fingers along the walls to see if any of the exposed bricks were loose, but they all held tight. She looked at her hands again. When she was a child, Bridget would often get put in her room as punishment. Her current surroundings were strangely reminiscent of that room, right down to the bad seventies painting hanging over the bed. When she was grounded by her father, Bridget’s brother would sneak treats in to her and she would stay there with no television, no contact with the family. Her father’s strictness had been reflected in his own police work; he was part of the reason she’d joined the force in the first place. She could deal with this. She would find a way out eventually. She knew she would.
Bridget suddenly heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. She hobbled back over to the bed and lay down, closing her eyes almost fully. She needed to get some information; she needed to see what she was dealing with. The blurred image of a man walked into the room. She wasn’t sure why, but she wasn’t