The Taken Girls: An absolutely gripping crime thriller full of mystery and suspense. G Sanders D

was still no reply. Feeling a twinge of anxiety, he grabbed the hood from its peg behind the door, pulled it over his head and went to look through the chain-link partition. Lucy was lying on the bed, headphones on her ears, listening to the iPod he’d left in her room. Relieved, he went back to the car and returned with the other shopping bags. This time he shut the door firmly behind him and she looked up as he came into the room. She was making an effort to compose herself in his presence but it was clear she’d been crying. He got the impression she was struggling to look defiant but lacked both energy and determination. The face she presented was one of resigned submission. When she spoke her voice carried little conviction. He took these as very good signs.

      ‘You said you’d warn me before coming in.’

      ‘I said I would and I did. You didn’t hear me because of the music.’

      She was silent and then, with an obvious effort, retorted, ‘More likely your funny voice. Why don’t you speak normally?’

      ‘I intend to release you. Your parents and the police will ask what happened and where you’ve been. They’ll ask about me. I’m breaking the law but I don’t intend to get caught. The less you can say the better. I have a distinctive voice so I use this device to disguise it.’

      ‘If you don’t want to be caught, why kidnap me in the first place? Why keep me here?’

      ‘That’s my concern.’

      Turning his key in the padlock, he opened the chain-link door and placed three plastic bags within her reach. Before she could move he left and locked the door behind him.

      ‘Check those bags and make sure I’ve got what you need.’

      While she looked through the shopping he unpacked the food, selected a large pizza and put it in the Calor gas oven. He was dividing a pre-packed salad between two bowls when she called out.

      ‘Where’re the jeans?’

      ‘I got skirts. They’re easier for me to wash and iron. Have you’ve got everything else you asked for?’

      ‘Yes.’ There was a pause and then, in a soft voice, she added, ‘Thank you.’

      He felt good. This time he’d chosen well. She really was a very sensible girl. After they’d eaten he asked her to change into a set of new clothes and give him the ones she was wearing to be washed.

      ‘Where will you be while I change?’

      ‘I’ve things to do in the other room. It’ll take me 10 to 15 minutes so you’ve got plenty of time to change. I’ll warn you when I’m coming out.’

      ‘I can’t change my clothes with this handcuff and chain on my wrist.’

      ‘Come to the slot and I’ll unlock it. Tomorrow’s Sunday. I’ll be here early to give you breakfast. If you’re sensible we’ll do without the handcuff for longer.’

      ‘What d’you mean, sensible?’

      ‘When you’ve changed your clothes, I want you to put the handcuff back on and let me lock it.’

      ‘And if I don’t?’

      ‘I’ll leave you without food or water and I won’t return until tomorrow evening. Believe me, by then you’ll be hungry and very, very thirsty.’

      She came to the slot and held her arm up so that he could unlock the handcuff. He left her to change and went to his private room. With the door closed he pulled on latex gloves and began decanting the cloudy preservative from Nos. 4, 5 and 6. With each jar he slid the contents into a shallow dish and refilled it with fresh formalin before returning the specimen and screwing the lid into place.

      He imagined Lucy behind the chain-link partition. There was no image of the young woman in his head, just a logical analysis of what she must be doing and thinking. She’d be hurrying to change her clothes before he re-emerged. His irregular comings and goings must unsettle her. He wished he could avoid that but he had to fit caring for Lucy around the face he presented to the world. If she was beginning to think beyond her immediate predicament she must be wondering what he was doing in his private room. Wondering what it had to do with her. Wondering what was going to happen to her. Hoping but still unsure she’d be released.

      Lucy was changed and sitting on the bed reading well before there was a loud knocking and his strange Mr Punch voice called, ‘I’m about to come out. Are you ready?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He came to the slot in the partition. She passed him her clothes, folded so that her underwear was hidden between her top and her jeans. Without being asked, she held her wrist and the handcuff near the slot. He locked the handcuff in place, put her clothes into a plastic bag and left.

      Alone in the dark, listening to music, Lucy was overcome by a sense of despondency. At first she couldn’t understand why. Nothing had changed. She was totally dependent on him for food and drink and had little option but to do as he said. He was in control but she was coming to terms with that. She had a plan and she drew strength from that. Trying to read him, searching for the best thing to do, for a way out, would occupy her thoughts and prevent the horror of the situation taking over her mind. But, if nothing had changed, why was she feeling sad?

      Turning on the bed to get comfortable, Lucy sensed her bare legs and was reminded of the new clothes. Something had changed; he’d taken her own clothes, her last contact with the real world. Now she had nothing of her own, nothing but things he had given her. Everything, even the most intimate things, had come from him.

      It was long before Lucy tried to sleep, and longer still before she succeeded.

       13

      Ed registered names and places as Mike Potts drove her around the streets of Canterbury cataloguing the local crime scene. When they arrived at the Brewers Tap, DI Saunders was talking to a man behind the bar. Borrowdale and Eastham were sitting at a table with near-empty glasses. Ed took the opportunity to build bridges.

      ‘What can I get you?’

      ‘We’re still on duty,’ said Nat.

      Perhaps the edge was harder than he’d intended. Either way the message was clear. We may be with you in a pub but that doesn’t make it a social occasion.

      ‘Mine’s a Diet Coke, Nat’s on orange juice.’ Jenny spoke with a softer tone, attempting to pour oil.

      ‘Alcohol-free beer for me,’ said Potts as he pulled out a chair beside Nat.

      With no ‘please’ or ‘thanks’ ringing in her ears Ed walked to the bar alone and asked Brian Saunders what he was drinking. Before he could reply there was a shout from the far end of the room.

      ‘Well, if it ain’t Potty Potts! Who’s a brave boy then, coming in my boozer?’

      A thickset man stepped out from a group of companions at the far end of the bar. His neck was as wide as his head with hair razored to a grey stubble. If his nose hadn’t been broken and poorly re-set then he’d been an unfortunate child.

      ‘Ah … but y’re not s’brave are ya? Y’got yer slag of a daughta f’protection.’

      Ed saw Potts stiffen and turn.

      ‘Nah … can’t be yer bleedin’ daughta cos yer bleedin’ daughta’s bleedin’ dead. Ain’t she?’

      The speaker looked at his target with malevolent contempt.

      Potts’s ruddy face turned white and he struggled for control.

      The thickset man continued to goad him. ‘Cummon then, Potty, y’wanna tek me on?’

      ‘Fynn McNally, you bastard!’ Potts got to his feet and stepped forward raising his arms.

      At