Paternoster Read online

  Rachel raised her candle. ‘Where are you from? You’re not Mrs Bedwin’s girls.’

  ‘I was on an errand for my mistress in Bath,’ the girl with the shaved head said. ‘There was a bag over my head and I was in a coach before I knew it.’

  ‘You were all snatched?’ Emma echoed. The girls nodded.

  ‘What are we here for?’ Rachel said, panic building.

  ‘The gents that want to join the club. They have a test, like a trial by ordeal,’ the girl said. Her mouth worked silently for a moment before she was able to utter her next words. ‘Us too.’

  Dread crawled over Rachel’s scalp. Desperately she calculated her chances of escape if she sped down the tunnel, out of Greville House and away. Mrs Bedwin would set the thief-taker after her for her gowns, but surely that was better than staying here. She gripped Emma’s hand. ‘We should run away while we can. Before someone comes for us.’

  ‘We can’t leave them here.’ Emma crouched in front of the girls, studying their faces. ‘How long have you been here?’

  Before they could answer, a door opened behind them and they all flinched. Rachel pulled Emma to her feet and cowered back against the wall.

  A squat man with grey stubble peppering his head came into the room and grabbed one of the girls by the elbow. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘They’re ready for you.’

  He dragged her through the door, forcing the others to shuffle and hop along in her wake. Rachel cast Emma an anguished glance, and they too trailed behind them, into a temple punctuated with stone columns and draped with crimson velvet. It was lit with hundreds of candles and incense burned in the corners, filling the air with perfumed fug. A table covered with black velvet stood in the centre of the room like a satanic altar. Rachel shivered. There must be some way to escape. Perhaps she could fight her way out. But no, there were six masked men already there; too many to take on. She’d have to bide her time and pray a better opportunity came along.

  A man wearing a ram’s head stepped forwards and held his arms high and wide.

  ‘My children. We are gathered here together so our dear brother may be tested and show he is ready to be one of us. Brother, come forwards.’

  A man wearing a wolf’s mask moved into the centre of the circle.

  ‘Are you ready to be tested?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You know that if you pass the test you will hold the power of life and death?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Are you ready for this honour?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Do you swear to keep all you see, hear and feel here tonight secret until your dying day, and to take the secrets of the Paternoster Club with you to the grave?’

  ‘I do.’

  Ram’s head clapped his hands. Another man brought forth a glass of wine and a small inlaid box. He opened the box and thrust it at the initiate.

  ‘Choose.’

  Wolf man scrabbled in the box and brought out a bean. At a signal from ram’s head, he plopped it into the wine, held the wine glass up high, and downed the contents in one long swallow. Everyone gasped.

  ‘And now we will see whether you have passed the test, and whether you are worthy to join us.’ Ram’s head snapped his fingers. ‘Choose a damsel to accompany you to heaven or hell.’

  The wolf strutted up and down the line of girls, scrutinising each one in turn. Eventually he chose one of the scrawny captives, hoisting her arm high in the air as though she’d just won a prize fight. A long, low moan escaped the girl’s lips. Rachel’s insides turned to water. She’d heard that moan before from the captives tied in the back of the cart on their way to the gallows. It was a moan that betrayed there was no hope. She shrank back as wolf man hauled the girl away, shutting her ears to the girl’s pitiful screams.

  ‘Take your partners,’ ram’s head announced. ‘Ladies’ choice, I think.’

  The men did not remove their masks as one by one the girls picked their partners with blindness born of shock. Rachel was barely aware of what was happening; her mind echoed with everything she’d witnessed. This was all play-acting, surely? It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. It was just a bit of silly dramatics to amuse these silly men who had too much money and liked to feel important.

  The girl wasn’t really going to die, was she?

  In a daze of fear, Rachel chose one of the men. They were all the same; it made no difference to her. Throughout what followed, her eyes never strayed from the doorway where the girl had disappeared. She’d punch this fellow in the guts and run to help the girl. Then they’d escape into the night and …

  She wouldn’t. She had no money, nowhere to go, no one to help her, and Mrs Bedwin could tell the thief-taker something that would snap Rachel’s neck. They’d both be dead: her and the girl, the poor snatched girl. A tear glided over Rachel’s cheek as she leaned against one of the stone columns, bracing herself on her palms while her gentleman battered into her. All the girls were silent. The only sounds came from the five men. When they were done, they slunk away, never speaking a word.

  When the men were gone, the girls huddled together in the temple. Emma and Rachel sobbed, their arms tight about each other’s waists. The chained girls did not cry, just stared with hollow blankness into space.

  ‘This trial by ordeal?’ Rachel asked. ‘What is it?’

  The girls shrugged.

  ‘And your friend, the other girl, she’ll be back tomorrow?’

  ‘No.’ One girl raised her head. ‘We never see the girls again.’

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Thursday, 26 February 2015

  17:27 hours

  Eden ran a computer search on Zamir Sussman and found an address in Gloucester and a business registered to him: a takeaway food shop near the bus station. Perfect location to prey on teenagers too pissed to realise what was happening to them.

  She looked again at the photos of Chelsea out shopping with her friends: overly made up, trying too hard, vulnerable, sassy, desperate to prove they were grown up. Easy prey. Zamir must have picked them out straight away: three girls on the lookout for excitement, for attention, for flattery, and he knew just how to satisfy them.

  She made copies of the photos of Chelsea and drove the short distance to Gloucester, first stop Zamir’s address. No one answered the bell, nor when she knocked on the door. Peering through the windows she could make out no trace of Chelsea: no coat hanging up, no shoes lying on the carpet, no handbag. A scout round the back of the property also yielded nothing. Dishes lay drying in the kitchen rack: one mug, one bowl, one spoon. She liked this less and less.

  A tiff, making up, Chelsea stays the night, too loved up or embarrassed to call her mum; all of that was possible. But the way Zamir had homed in on the girls, buying them clothes and makeovers, reeling them in; that disturbed her. And if Chelsea had stayed the night, where was her mug, remains of her breakfast and lunch? If she wasn’t here, where was she?

  Eden climbed back into her car and headed for Zamir’s shop. The takeaway had yellow lettering covering much of the front window, and a formica counter where four youths were loitering and eating their takeaways.

  She pushed open the door and the smell of hot oil, garlic and chips assaulted her.

  ‘Is Zamir in?’ she asked the serving girl.

  ‘Zamir? No, he’s out at the moment.’

  ‘When’s he going to be back?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘He doesn’t come here much. Do you want to speak to the manager? He’ll be back in about an hour. He’s at the cash and carry.’

  Eden dug out a photo of Chelsea. ‘You ever seen her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Try looking.’

  A sigh, but she looked properly this time. ‘No. I don’t know her.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  Eden tried the youths on the off-chance they’d seen Chelsea, but they all shook their heads. ‘Wouldn’t mind, though,’ one contributed. ‘She’s well fit.’

  She lef
t the shop and scouted round the area. Above the takeaway was a flat: grimy windows and a square of cardboard taped over a fractured pane. The door to the flat was round the side of the building, no name underneath the bell. She pressed the buzzer.

  ‘’Lo?’

  ‘Hi, is Zamir there?’ She made her voice light and frothy, copying Olivia and Bryony’s breathless manner.

  ‘Zamir?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  A snuffle. ‘No.’

  ‘I thought this was his flat.’

  ‘No, love. Just me here. I rent it from the council.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Damn! Still, worth a try. What she needed now was street intelligence. A thin rain was falling as she left her car in a central car park where she knew it would be safe, and walked to an area of Gloucester where tall Victorian houses jostled next to each other. Once prosperous, the area had slid steadily downhill. Now the haughty Victorian facades were grubby and the stone steps were broken. The buildings were chopped into the sort of flats and bedsits where blankets served as curtains. Student digs, landlords who demanded key money, shabby B&Bs with brown nylon carpet tiles where a toaster and a pile of white bread constituted breakfast.

  The area was well furnished with hookers, too, as shabby and broken-down as the Victorian villas. Eden knew some of the girls; knew which ones would lie and take her money, and which ones would tell the truth and take her money. Kaz fell into the latter category. She was shivering on the pavement in shorts and halter top, shoulders hunched against the rain, sucking on a fag as though it were her last breath.

  ‘Hello, Kaz,’ Eden said. ‘Fancy a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Might miss a punter.’

  Eden looked up and down the empty street. ‘Yeah, I can see them queuing. Come on, it’ll be warm in the caff.’

  Kaz sniffed.

  ‘I’ll buy you a doughnut.’

  ‘Make it a few rounds of toast and jam and you’re on.’

  The caff was as dispiriting as the rest of the neighbourhood. Plastic-covered chairs bolted to the floor, chipped formica tables and a blob of tomato ketchup in the sugar bowl. It stank of bad breath and vinegar.

  ‘So what’s up?’ Kaz said, when the toast and jam arrived. Her accent was pure Bristol; vowels so thick you could stand a spoon in them. She bent her face close to the plate to eat, revealing grey roots to her ebony hair.

  ‘I’m looking for a girl.’ Eden slid the photograph across.

  ‘She don’t look like a tom.’

  ‘She isn’t. Yet.’ Eden sipped her coffee: it had come out of a machine not a jar and was surprisingly palatable. ‘You heard of a bloke called Zamir?’

  ‘Pimp?’

  Eden shrugged. ‘Could be. Could just be a supplier.’

  Kaz fixed her with a look. ‘Fresh meat?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  She showed Kaz the photo of Zamir. ‘Know him?’

  ‘Nah. Not seen him before. Could be he doesn’t use cats.’ Kaz poked a triangle of crust into her mouth. ‘Not old cats, anyway.’

  ‘Could you do a bit of asking around for me? Just quietly?’

  Kaz glanced up at ‘quietly’. ‘Vicious bastard, is he?’

  Eden shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. It could just be the old story, runaway teenager, comes home after a few days. But there’s something I don’t like. A feeling in my guts. And it’s got …’ She searched for the right word.

  ‘Hallmarks?’ Kaz supplied.

  ‘Yes, hallmarks.’ The word made her shudder.

  ‘You all right? You look like someone just walked over your grave.’

  ‘Perhaps they just did, Kaz. Perhaps they did.’

  A return to the takeaway didn’t bring her any closer to Zamir. The manager said he hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks, but did pass on a mobile number. Eden rang it and was informed that the number no longer existed. With Kaz gathering intelligence amongst her punters and colleagues, there was little more she could do, so Eden headed back to Cheltenham.

  It was after seven by the time she arrived back, and on impulse decided to visit Paul Nelson’s ex-wife, Zoe. Zoe had admitted seeing Paul on Monday. According to the coroner, Paul was poisoned sometime between Saturday and early Tuesday morning. That put Zoe squarely in the time frame. Time for a surprise visit.

  Zoe evidently hadn’t had time to change after work when Eden called round. She was still in a smart business suit and ivory silk blouse, and she padded around in stockinged feet as if she’d only just kicked off her heels. The death of her ex-husband, the father of her children, evidently hadn’t kept her from work.

  ‘Mrs Nelson? I’m Eden Grey, we spoke on the phone yesterday. I rang to tell you about Paul.’

  ‘Yes, yes. What do you want?’

  ‘I wanted to check you’re all right. How are the girls?’ Eden said.

  ‘They’re upset.’

  ‘Of course. A terrible shock for all of you.’ Eden glanced up at the rain. ‘Can I come in for a minute, please? I wondered if I could have a word.’

  Zoe seemed distracted but opened the door wide to let her in. It was a beautiful house: a Regency terrace with two clipped shrubs standing sentinel either side of a generous front door. The hallway was light and airy, the floorboards had been sanded and varnished to a deep patina, and the walls were palest cream. She could imagine Paul being happy here, with these classic lines and the feeling of space.

  Eden’s nose twitched as she entered the hall and Zoe swung the door shut. A scent, familiar and yet elusive. What was it? The same perfume her primary teacher wore? The scent that spoke to her of stories about owls and illustrations in primary colours. Learning to read.

  The sitting room, which Zoe referred to as the ‘drawing room’ was large and square, with a pale blue rug in the centre. The furniture was a discreet wheat colour, and obviously expensive. No Ikea tables or sofas here. Eden was directed to a deep corded armchair.

  ‘What do you want?’ Zoe asked, sitting opposite her with her legs demurely bent to one side.

  ‘I’m investigating Paul’s death,’ Eden said. ‘The coroner believes it’s suspicious.’

  Zoe’s hand crept to her throat. Her fingernails were freshly manicured in palest pink, the half-moons picked out in white. ‘Suspicious? I thought he …’

  ‘Thought he what?’

  Zoe swallowed. ‘He said he couldn’t afford to pay more maintenance for me or the girls. I assumed his business was in trouble. You know how men can react.’

  Eden didn’t reply, intrigued by the sudden appeal to complicity.

  ‘I … assumed he’d done something silly. Taken his own life.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Monday evening, just after six. We’d arranged for him to come over and see the girls, but also he wanted to talk about the maintenance. I was asking him for more. He refused, said he couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  Zoe spread her hands wide. ‘Wary. He seemed to think I had a live-in lover who ought to contribute to my upkeep.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Zoe stared at her. ‘That’s not the point. He’s the girls’ father. He ought to pay for their upkeep.’

  She stood and paced to the mantelpiece, adjusting a photo in a silver frame: her and two girls; matching hair and eyes, a smile printed from the same block. There were no photos of Paul on the mantelpiece; maybe his daughters kept pictures of him in their rooms. Zoe returned to her chair. That scent again, but now Eden knew why it was familiar.

  ‘Do you have a key to Paul’s apartment?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, as it happens.’

  ‘When were you last there?’

  Zoe looked up at the ceiling, thinking back. ‘A while ago. Christmas, perhaps. I don’t go there as a rule. Paul comes here to collect the girls.’

  ‘You went to his apartment yesterday morning, early. You let yourself in with a key. Why?’

  ‘What? I wasn’t …
how do you know?’

  ‘Someone saw you.’ Not strictly true, but easier than explaining that Eden herself was in Paul’s flat when Zoe called. Eden’s voice hardened. ‘So I’ll ask you again, why were you in Paul’s flat the morning he died?’

  Zoe sighed and crumpled against the cushions. ‘He always goes running early in the mornings. I knew he’d be out. I wanted to look at his bank statements. We shouted at each other when I saw him on Monday. He refused to pay any more for the girls, accused me of spending the money on myself. I called him terrible things. I wish I hadn’t. He is their father, after all. Anyway, I know his routine, so I thought I’d go and find the evidence I needed to get the maintenance increased.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes, I took some of his statements away with me. I returned them after you’d called and said he was dead. No point anyway, the statements showed he was broke.’ Her voice cracked. She pressed her hand to her eyes and visibly composed herself. ‘And now he’s dead. I wish we hadn’t parted like that.’

  ‘Did Paul leave a will?’

  ‘He remade it after we divorced. He’s left money in trust for the girls.’

  ‘Are you a trustee?’

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m their mother …’

  ‘How much is the trust worth?’

  Zoe licked her lips. ‘Three and a half million pounds.’

  19:38 hours

  Unfinished business beckoned, and this time it was going to be sweet. She pulled up at the end of the street and made her way on foot to the house. A ring on the bell brought a skinny woman with a fake tan. Eden flashed her ID and put on her most menacing ‘don’t mess with me’ face.

  ‘I want to speak to Chris Wilde.’

  ‘He’s eating his tea.’

  ‘No, he isn’t. You eat early, about six-ish.’

  ‘How the hell do you know …?’

  Eden sighed theatrically. ‘I’m a detective. Where is he?’ She jammed her foot in the door. ‘Get him here now.’

  Chris Wilde’s missus shot her a venomous look but scuttled off to fetch him. There was a babble of voices; recriminations by the tone of it; then Chris Wilde’s bulk filled the hallway.