‘Good, that’s much better. Now, listen carefully. In 15 minutes, I’m going to put out the lights and leave. If you don’t have something to eat and drink now, you’ll be searching for it in the dark.’
He left her and went to sit in the van. Ten minutes later he returned to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, eating and drinking. Stressed and disorientated as she was, it appeared not to have occurred to her that the food and drink might be drugged or, even worse, poisoned. It wasn’t. Well, it wasn’t except for the crushed sleeping pill. As he’d done with Teresa and Kimberley, he intended to look after Lucy and treat her well.
He asked her to put the empty plate and glass on a shelf by a slot cut in the chain-link partition. She seemed afraid to approach him even from the other side of the barrier but, after a moment, she did as he’d requested. He took this as a good sign.
‘I’ll put another drink here in case you’re thirsty during the night. There’s a bucket at the other end of the bed, rather primitive but we’re far from any modern sanitation. Don’t be shy. I’ll respect your privacy. I’ll shout to warn you before I come in.’
Without another word, he extinguished the lights and left.
The building was pitch black; no light penetrated from outside. Lucy heard an engine start and a vehicle drive away. The sound faded to silence. Left alone, chained in the darkness, she found her arms and the duvet inadequate comfort. Crushed by a sense of absolute helplessness, she whimpered and shook with fear until tiredness overcame her and she slept.
In her hotel room, Ed Ogborne slipped naked into bed. Reaching for the light, she caught a glimpse of an arm in the dressing-table mirror and was reminded of her last day before the furore broke in London.
At that time the November weather had been miserable, wet and cold. She was alone at the house in Brixton. It had been a tough week but she was comfortable and relaxed, admiring her body in the mirror at the end of her bed. She felt like a woman in one of her grandfather’s art books, a woman positioned by Schiele, ready to be captured in effortless black chalk and startling touches of red gouache. If pushed to pick one, she’d say Egon’s Crouching Woman with Green Headscarf – there was something about the face.
At precisely nine-thirty in the evening, the mobile beneath her pillow had started vibrating. Still admiring her body in the mirror, she reached for the phone with her left hand.
‘Hi …’
It was Don, always on time for these calls. Ed knew all his lines and could anticipate what he’d say without him having to speak, but knowing what was to come only heightened her arousal at the sound of his voice in her ear.
‘Where do you think I am?’
She moved a leg to exaggerate her pose.
‘Not on it. I’m in bed but with the duvet pushed aside so I can see myself in the mirror. Where are you?’
There was a pause.
‘Naughty.’
Ed sank back into the pillows, still looking at her image in the mirror.
‘What I always wear for us. You’d love the colour.’
There was another pause.
‘Red wine. A burgundy to match my underwear.’
There was a further pause and Ed took a sip of wine.
‘Mmmm … that sounds nice.’
At that point, a second mobile on the table beside her bed had started to ring.
‘Fuck!’
She grabbed it with her right hand.
‘DS Ogborne.’
Ed spoke sharply, unable to keep the annoyance from her voice.
‘Right, I’m on my way.’
To her left hand she said, ‘That was the Station, serious assault in Victoria Park. I have to go.’
Then, in response to sounds of displeasure: ‘How do you think I feel? Text me to set another time.’
Ed had swung her legs off the bed, reached for her glass of wine but thought better of it. Within five minutes, dressed for work, she’d been walking to catch the tube at Stockwell. Her frustration gradually dissipated as she travelled towards Moorgate. Getting on the CID team at Bishopsgate had been her dream move. She was on track to make DI at 27 and her career plan didn’t stop there. Detective Inspector would be one of several steps towards a top job at the Met. Ed loved working as a detective but, ultimately, she wanted a position from which she could influence policy, institute change and improve prospects for female officers.
Arriving at Bishopsgate Police Station, Ed had paused at the desk, ‘Assault in Vicky Park, what’s the score?’
‘You’ve had a wasted journey. The victim’s now claiming she was raped. It’s already with Sapphire.’
‘Typical, you get a girl out of bed and then disappoint her. Still, better that than the other way round.’
Before leaving, Ed checked her email. Chief Superintendent Shawcross wanted to see her at 08.30 tomorrow. A thought crossed her mind but she dismissed it. Surely it was too soon for a promotion?
The next morning, Ed had been up early, in by eight, and outside Shawcross’s door at eight-thirty.
‘Come!’ Ed had opened the door and closed it carefully behind her. ‘Ah, DS Ogborne.’ The Chief Super indicated a chair and frowned at her for some moments before saying, ‘You must know why I’ve sent for you.’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Manchester!’
Ed’s stomach dropped. ‘Manchester, Sir?’ She’d known what he meant but needed to play for time.
‘Yes, Manchester, but it didn’t stop at Manchester, did it, Ogborne?’
She looked down at her hands and immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘Do I have to spell it out for you, Ogborne? Manchester. You were at the conference attended by DCI Johns.’
Ed felt herself blushing. Of course it would get out. Apart from Manchester she hadn’t put a foot wrong. As soon as she’d discovered who Don was, she knew it had been a mistake, but by then they were in too deep. Still playing for time, Ed looked across the desk and held Shawcross’s eye while continuing to feign puzzlement. ‘Sir …?’
‘Starting a relationship with a senior officer in the Met would be bad enough but this man’s married, in the same Division, here in this building. This is serious, Ogborne, a disciplinary matter, potentially demotion, even dismissal, although I’m hoping it won’t come to that.’ Shawcross looked sternly at her, his eyes fixed on her face, allowing his words to sink in, letting her stew as he waited for a response.
When it finally came, Ed’s response had been pragmatic.
‘I’m sorry, Sir. You gave me a chance and I’ve let you down.’
‘I’m sorry too. I’ve had you in mind for promotion but I can’t let this situation continue. I can’t have you and DCI Johns together in the same building. You’ll have to transfer.’
Ed had struggled to control her outrage. Why me? Why not him? However, despite her sense of injustice, she didn’t argue. She knew her perception of fairness would have no match among the senior hierarchy of the Metropolitan Police. Coppers protect coppers and Chief Superintendent David Shawcross, with the backing of those above him, had chosen to protect Detective Chief Inspector Donald ‘The Don’ Johns.
Without appearing to breathe deeply,