Page 38 of Her Last Walk Home

Shrinking against the stove, she dared not glance behind her at the mess streaking the wall. She kept her eyes focused on him. He tore at his hair and smacked his cheeks with his ugly fingers. She had been terrified since the day she’d been brought here, but this development caused her to be petrified. Her legs were like jelly, her hands trembled and she wanted to cry. She feared he was spiralling out of control.

‘What are you looking at?’ he snarled. ‘Clean up this pigsty before she comes back.’

She cowered, expecting a blow. But the back door opened and shut as he retreated to his shed.

Lowering her shoulders, she exhaled with relief. At least he hadn’t hit her. She’d fetched a cloth to clean up when she heard the front door. Terror shot through her all over again.

The woman was back.

34

Lottie suspected Greg Plunkett was more than a photographer. McKeown had emailed her further information that he’d uncovered.

‘It seems to be a front for escorts,’ she said.

Boyd said, ‘I figure the ladies working for Right One are not sex workers, but they still accept money to accompany a man on a date. Selling sex isn’t illegal, only paying for it. Very grey area.’

‘Let’s see what Mr Glamour Puss has to say.’

‘Who?’

‘Greg Plunkett.’ She glanced at the image McKeown had forwarded. ‘His photo looks like it was cloned from a Hollywood A-lister website. Probably airbrushed.’

She turned her phone with the photo towards him before stopping at a door halfway down Barrack Lane, which was located at the back of the town. The office was huddled in between a bike shop and a gift shop.

‘You’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it,’ Boyd said.

She leaned on the brass doorbell and waited.

‘Might be no one here on a Saturday,’ he added.

An intercom beeped and an echoey voice asked, ‘Have you an appointment?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Parker. I’d like a word with Mr Plunkett.’

‘Sorry, but he only meets people by appointment.’

Lottie had had enough bullshit for one week. ‘You can let me in to see him now or I’ll return with ten squad cars to arrest him, and I’ll make sure everyone knows what your office stands for.’

Boyd was shaking his head, a warning to cool it, but she had a dead woman lying on a slab in the morgue whose family needed answers.

The door buzzed open and they entered. Directly in front of them was a wooden staircase with a red runner up the centre. The walls were painted black, for God’s sake. Quelling the urge to raise an eyebrow, she climbed the stairs, followed closely by Boyd.

The corridor on the upstairs landing led to a glass door with a desk behind it, where a pretty young woman sat applying mascara to what Lottie could only describe as fake lashes.

Flashing her ID badge, she said, ‘Mr Plunkett? Is he here?’

‘We only work a half-day today. He said to give him a minute or two. Take a seat.’

‘I’ll stand, thank you.’ She would not be intimidated by Plunkett making her wait. Boyd sat in one of the faded navy velvet chairs. So much for a united front.

She paced the small space. The walls were bare, painted black like the hall, so there was nothing to look at, no reading material on the small glass table. Wouldn’t a photographer have his photos on display?

‘How long have you been here?’ she asked the young woman.

‘I start at nine, so not that long.’

‘I mean, in this job.’

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