Page 380 of The Hallmarked Man
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… many a man,
Seeking a prey unto his hand,
Hath snatch’d a little fair-hair’d slave…
Matthew Arnold
The Sick King in Bokhara
The blow fell upon Jones’ skull with a loud crack and he fell forwards, smacking his forehead on the opposite edge of the rectangular hole in the floor and falling clumsily through it, hitting first a short ladder then, with a resounding thud, the basement floor. Strike moved forwards to see Jones’ sizeable body sprawled, unmoving, on concrete. Well aware there was a strong possibility he’d just killed a man, he stepped onto the ladder and, hampered by the heaviness of his overcoat, climbed with some difficulty down into an underground space that smelled much more strongly of the musky smell he’d already detected, now with faecal and urinous overtones.
‘Who are you?’ said a girl’s terrified voice.
She was sitting against the far wall. As Strike’s eyes acclimatised to the pitch darkness, he saw a skull-like face and sunken eyes. The pallor of her skin shone, moonlike, in the darkness, and he could see on a cursory glance that she was wearing very little. He pulled off his coat and approached her, stooping so his head didn’t hit the very low ceiling, then dropped the coat over her.
‘I’m here to help you. Are you tied up?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, her voice shrill and panicky. ‘Who are you?’
‘A detective.’
The basement room looked as though it had been dug out by theowner himself. The concrete floor was uneven and lumpy. There was a toilet in the corner. A low pipe ran around the bottom of the wall. Two enormous dildos lay on a small wicker table. There was also a washing-up bowl of soapy water with a sponge floating in it.
He bent down to examine the girl’s arm, which was both tied and chained to the pipe that ran around the bottom of the cavern wall; it certainly wouldn’t be quick work to free her.
‘You’re Sapphire?’ he asked.
‘How did you know?’
‘We’ve been looking for you. I’ll get you free,’ he promised her, ‘I just need to check whether that fucker’s dead.’
Still stooping, Strike returned to Jones and felt for a pulse in his neck. He found one, but wasn’t prepared to bet Jones hadn’t broken his neck in the fall. Notwithstanding his receding hairline, the porky Jones looked absurdly young, unconscious.
Strike was certain his phone, which was still in the pocket of the coat covering Sapphire, wouldn’t have reception underground.
‘I’m just going to get my mobile and go back upst—’
‘No – let me go, first! Let me go!’ Sapphire cried, her voice rising to a wail.
‘I need to call some people who can help free you.’
‘Let me go! LET ME GO!’
‘Shut up!’
Strike had heard something above: the unmistakeable sound of the back door opening, followed by a rumble of men’s voices.
‘Oh God, no, no, no, get out, he’ll kill me—’
Strike gestured furiously at the girl to be quiet as he crept back towards the opening in the ceiling, rapidly calculating odds. He didn’t doubt Wardle or Barclay had tried to warn him that Griffiths and friends were on their way home, and it wasn’t their fault he was currently in a concrete chamber underground without phone reception, but that didn’t alter the undoubtedly perilous position he and the girl were now in. His glib response to Barclay’s ‘an’ if Ah hear ye yellin’ “help”?’ was no longer so funny; possibly his colleagues were waiting for a sign or a shout that he required assistance, but as making any noise right now would expose his presence to what sounded like four or five men, one of whom he knew to be a serial killer, Strike chose instead to move into the shadows behind the ladder.
Loud music began to play from the sitting room: Steely Dan.
While the music played…
Any moment now, somebody – possibly the ‘Mickey’ mentioned by Jones, who ‘wanted a go’ – was going to turn the corner in the hall and see the open trapdoor and the unconscious Jones. The men’s loud conversation mingled with the music.
