daffodils. He asked her to dinner. She refused.
In the hallway, the front door open to the weather, he pleaded with her to keep the child.
He told her he’d applied to join the police force: it was a steady job and it would compliment Kate’s chosen career to the best of his limited ability. That morning he had been accepted as a trainee.
She held him. She stroked his hair, whispered in his ear that he was a strange one, a strange one.
Kate was heavily pregnant when they married at Leeds Register Office. With the exception of Kate’s Auntie Linda, her family didn’t attend. Will asked an old army friend called Geordie to be his best man. His aunt Grace lent him money for the rings and a honeymoon weekend in the Lake District. All together, nine people came.
They held an informal reception in a room above the Cricketer’s Arms in Headingley. Will’s speech was courteous and heartfelt. Kate wished her parents were there to hear it. When the speech was over, Auntie Linda hugged Will to her chest and told him Kate was a lucky girl. Then she offered a toast to the future, in which all present at that moment ardently believed.
Caroline was born late in September. During the birth, Will held Kate’s hand and stroked her sweat-sodden hair, struck dumb with mortal terror at the enormity of what was happening in that shabby cubicle. Later, he cradled the unwashed child, still slick with blood and mucus.
He knew that his love was more powerful, more ferocious, than God.
III
On the day that Joanne was taken, he returned late to his Bedminster flat: rented, one-bedroom, second-floor.
He showered, wrapped himself in a bathrobe and made a mug of tea before booting up his computer, an iMac that he and Caroline had chosen together and bought from John Lewis. The iMac sat before the sitting room window on an Ikea dining table.
Holloway and his daughter exchanged emails twice daily. It was Caroline’s way of maintaining a presence in his life. She sent jokes, apocrypha, urban myths and JPEGs that had made her laugh: dancing babies, singing penises. She wrote about books she was reading and places she had been and things she wanted to do. He pecked out lower-case replies with an index finger.
He set the mug on the pine table, pushed aside a sheaf of bills awaiting payment and clicked on the Mail icon.
Caroline hadn’t written yet but logged in his inbox were two messages from an unfamiliar address: [email protected].
He took a sip of tea and double clicked on the first of the messages. It contained just a brief video clip. There was no text.
The clip was perhaps twenty seconds long. He played it twice. Although the sight and intonation of his wife’s passion was familiar to him, and precious and fearful, he had not heard or seen it for a long time.
The film was shot from a high angle: perhaps through an upper bedroom window. Kate laughed throatily and called out to God. She brushed the sweaty hair from her brow. The young man she was fucking reached up a lazy hand and squeezed her breast. She slapped the hand away. He muttered a glottal response. She ground her hips. The young man scowled as if in pain, clutched her thighs.
Holloway sat without moving until the tea went cold. Then he opened the second file. It contained a JPEG attachment, a single photograph. No text.
A naked woman lay bound on a dirty timber floor.
Because she was blindfold and not wearing the dark wig he paid her to wear, it took Holloway some time to recognize Joanne Grayling. Her real hair was blonde and cropped boyishly short. Something had been written on her body: one word. The lettering ran from her pubic bush to her breasts but her position made the word hard to decipher. Holloway saw an A and a T, distorted by the soft fold of her belly.
He closed the file. Opened it again.
He cupped his mouth.
The clip could only have been sent by the man who filmed it.
His name was Derek Bliss.
He was a private detective whose services Holloway
In the hallway, the front door open to the weather, he pleaded with her to keep the child.
He told her he’d applied to join the police force: it was a steady job and it would compliment Kate’s chosen career to the best of his limited ability. That morning he had been accepted as a trainee.
She held him. She stroked his hair, whispered in his ear that he was a strange one, a strange one.
Kate was heavily pregnant when they married at Leeds Register Office. With the exception of Kate’s Auntie Linda, her family didn’t attend. Will asked an old army friend called Geordie to be his best man. His aunt Grace lent him money for the rings and a honeymoon weekend in the Lake District. All together, nine people came.
They held an informal reception in a room above the Cricketer’s Arms in Headingley. Will’s speech was courteous and heartfelt. Kate wished her parents were there to hear it. When the speech was over, Auntie Linda hugged Will to her chest and told him Kate was a lucky girl. Then she offered a toast to the future, in which all present at that moment ardently believed.
Caroline was born late in September. During the birth, Will held Kate’s hand and stroked her sweat-sodden hair, struck dumb with mortal terror at the enormity of what was happening in that shabby cubicle. Later, he cradled the unwashed child, still slick with blood and mucus.
He knew that his love was more powerful, more ferocious, than God.
III
On the day that Joanne was taken, he returned late to his Bedminster flat: rented, one-bedroom, second-floor.
He showered, wrapped himself in a bathrobe and made a mug of tea before booting up his computer, an iMac that he and Caroline had chosen together and bought from John Lewis. The iMac sat before the sitting room window on an Ikea dining table.
Holloway and his daughter exchanged emails twice daily. It was Caroline’s way of maintaining a presence in his life. She sent jokes, apocrypha, urban myths and JPEGs that had made her laugh: dancing babies, singing penises. She wrote about books she was reading and places she had been and things she wanted to do. He pecked out lower-case replies with an index finger.
He set the mug on the pine table, pushed aside a sheaf of bills awaiting payment and clicked on the Mail icon.
Caroline hadn’t written yet but logged in his inbox were two messages from an unfamiliar address: [email protected].
He took a sip of tea and double clicked on the first of the messages. It contained just a brief video clip. There was no text.
The clip was perhaps twenty seconds long. He played it twice. Although the sight and intonation of his wife’s passion was familiar to him, and precious and fearful, he had not heard or seen it for a long time.
The film was shot from a high angle: perhaps through an upper bedroom window. Kate laughed throatily and called out to God. She brushed the sweaty hair from her brow. The young man she was fucking reached up a lazy hand and squeezed her breast. She slapped the hand away. He muttered a glottal response. She ground her hips. The young man scowled as if in pain, clutched her thighs.
Holloway sat without moving until the tea went cold. Then he opened the second file. It contained a JPEG attachment, a single photograph. No text.
A naked woman lay bound on a dirty timber floor.
Because she was blindfold and not wearing the dark wig he paid her to wear, it took Holloway some time to recognize Joanne Grayling. Her real hair was blonde and cropped boyishly short. Something had been written on her body: one word. The lettering ran from her pubic bush to her breasts but her position made the word hard to decipher. Holloway saw an A and a T, distorted by the soft fold of her belly.
He closed the file. Opened it again.
He cupped his mouth.
The clip could only have been sent by the man who filmed it.
His name was Derek Bliss.
He was a private detective whose services Holloway
Similar Books
