The scream came again.
‘It’s okay. I’m here! My name’s Beth… What’s yours, can you speak?’
The scream came again, and it was long and low. It went on for a minute, and then Beth realised it was the wind. It was the wind blowing through something. A metallic clanking noise coming from above, like something metal flapping.
‘It’s a vent, some kind of air vent,’ said Beth, hope rising in her chest. She listened to the moaning of the wind as it increased in pitch, and the bash, bash, bash of the metal.
She scrabbled around on the damp rug, running her hands over it until she found the edge where she had tucked the small safety pin. Her fingers were cold and stiff and it took several attempts with the tiny clasp. She finally opened it out, finding it hard to grip it in her bloody fingers. She put her hands up to the back of her head. There was a little slack in the chain, and she pulled the padlock up and, after a few tries, rested it upside down in the crook of her neck. She found the keyhole, and pushed the pointed tip of the safety pin inside.
‘Now what?’ she said. She gave a dry laugh, which sounded nothing like her. She pushed in the pin and twiddled it about, jiggling it harder when nothing happened. ‘Come on,’ she hissed. Suddenly the safety pin snapped, and she was left with just a short piece of metal, and the safety head.
‘NO!’ she cried. ‘No, no, no!’ She felt around the padlock but the rest of the pin wasn’t in the lock. Then carefully she ran her fingers over the lock and down the chain, but there was nothing. She scooted around, and put her hands by the edge of the cage to feel if the pin had fallen out onto the floor. She hadn’t heard it fall, but where the hell was it? What if he found it when he came back?
* * *
Her feelings of despair and panic had risen as she’d spent the next few hours trying to find the small piece of safety pin, but there was nothing. Her hands were numb and she felt faint. She was going to die here. She was going to die. Beth shivered and pulled at the thin blanket folded under her. It was damp, and her legs were starting to cramp at being forced to sit upright with her neck chained against the mesh. She curled herself up into a ball as best she could to stay warm.
To stay warm, and wait for death.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Just as Beth fell into a disturbed sleep, Erika and Moss were sitting in the front of the car. It was just after five thirty in the morning, and they were parked on the ground floor of a multi-storey car park on Tooley Street, opposite London Bridge train station. Their parking space looked out over the Thames, which was a churning brown colour under the lights from the buildings lining the embankment. A large tugboat rolled past on the water, shining a bright light and spewing out thick smoke from its funnel. A long, flat barge was dragging behind it, churning up the water. Peterson was laid out on the back seat, snoring.
‘Does he always snore like that?’ said Moss, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat and looking back. Erika nodded and sipped her coffee, resting the cup on the steering wheel.
‘Moss. Are you on Facebook?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘I’ve never really done social media…’
‘I’m on it, cos Celia’s on it. And Celia’s on it because her brother lives in Canada, and we can see pictures of their kids, and they can see our pics of Jacob. Although I’ve told Celia to stop uploading so many.’
‘Why don’t you like her uploading so many pictures?’ asked Erika.
Moss shrugged. ‘I know she’s proud of our little son, I am too, but it’s not his choice, is it? And you never know who is lifting off the pictures.’
‘That’s the thing,’ said Erika. ‘People don’t realise what the word “sharing” means.’
‘It’s not a difficult word, boss.’
‘No, but the dictionary definition of “sharing” is, “a part or portion of a larger amount which is divided among a number of people, or to which a number of people contribute”.’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘But when you “share” on social media, don’t you give away something of yourself? Your privacy. Information. Social networks are free, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah. That’s another reason we’re on it: we can talk to Celia’s brother, my mother, well, Celia talks to that old bag more than I do.’
‘And that ability to communicate is a good thing, but in return for a free service, don’t they want to find out everything they can about us? Our killer probably didn’t have to leave his house or his bedroom until he was about to grab the victims. He found out everything about them online. Where they were going; what they liked to do; their habits. And people don’t realise they’re giving it away. If a stranger came up to you on the street and wanted to know where you were going next, or what kind of films you like, if you’re married or single, where you went to school, or where you work, you’d be a bit freaked out… The same if they wanted to have your phone for a few minutes to scroll through the photos. But the same people blithely stick it all online for everyone to see.’
‘Course, people don’t see it like that,’ said Moss. ‘They put things on social media to show off. Look at my new car; look at my house.’
‘Look at my little boy,’ finished Erika. Moss nodded ruefully.
‘No wonder famous people sue to have their kids’ faces blurred out… I don’t think it’s people being stupid though. I think most people find their lives boring, and uploading their achievements, things they’re proud of, it validates them.’
‘They don’t think who might be watching them,’ said Erika. ‘I wonder if Janelle and Lacey, Ella and Beth knew?’
‘Jesus, when you put their names together, that’s heavy. Four girls.’
‘Three. We’re going to get the fourth. She’s not going to die,’ said Erika. They sat in silence for a moment, then another tugboat pulled past, and its horn blared out twice.
‘Christ on a motorbike! What was that?’ cried Peterson, waking up and banging his head on the inside of the door.
‘Snoring beauty is finally awake,’ said Moss. ‘Actually, snoring and farting beauty.’
‘Piss off, Moss, you’re the farter. I’ve spent plenty of long car journeys with you.’
‘Ha ha,’ she said, reaching back and slapping him on the backside.
He rubbed his eyes and sat up.
‘What time is it?’
‘Quarter to six,’ said Erika.
‘It’ll be light soon,’ said Moss. ‘Who wants another coffee before the office opens?’
* * *