Torn

Book 3: Wheeler and Ross

by Anne Randall

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

A fast-paced, gripping thriller with a shocking twist. 2004 The court case had been harrowing. The fifteen jurors sat in silence while the prosecution produced evidence of how a man with obsessive sado-masochistic fantasies had turned into a killer. Fourteen of the jurors were repulsed. One man was secretly enthralled. A new world of possibility had opened up for him. 2014 When an actress is found dead, the ligature marks suggest that she had been involved in extreme sex games. When DIs Wheeler and Ross begin to investigate her death, they realise their investigation is being blocked not just by the owners of the exclusive club where she was found but by some of Glasgow's most influential citizens. Meanwhile Skye Cooper, Scotland's latest indie-rock sensation is playing the final gig of his sell-out tour but his dreams of stardom are on a collision course with the obsession threatening to consume him . . . Praise for Anne Randall 'Brilliant' The Sun 'Randall has grown in confidence since her debut, and this is as assured and clever a novel of "tartan noir" as you could hope to find' Daily Mail

Release date: April 4, 2017

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 400

Sample

It was stoking her own hope, trust, and sure and certain knowledge that Amy was alive, which exhausted her. If, in some unguarded and unarmed moment, she let a splinter of doubt pierce her resolve then she would be defeated and something dark, something sticky and awful would bleed into her consciousness. No, better to keep herself armed with certainty until the city and the cruelty of its river told her otherwise.

Rachel Dawson stood on the bridge and watched the police divers search the River Clyde.

A softly spoken family liaison officer had informed her gently that the police had specialist resources, that they would follow up every lead while uniformed officers would continue to conduct city-wide inquiries. But Rachel knew that the combined time, money and resources of the special support units screamed quietly that they were looking for a body. They were convinced that Amy was gone. Rachel knew that they were not looking for her bright, vibrant daughter, but for an empty vessel. They weren’t searching for Amy, they were looking for a corpse.

Rachel had passed a reporter staring into a camera lens, had heard him confidently tell the television audience, ‘Amy Dawson was last seen leaving her flat at 7 p.m. on Friday 25 June.’ Rachel knew that he would show the grainy CCTV image of Amy’s car travelling along London Road at 7.23 p.m. She heard him continue, ‘The last confirmed sighting of Amy’s car suggests that it was heading towards the Campsie Fells. Detectives from Carmyle Station are working on building a picture of Amy’s last movements after she left her flat in Prosen Street in the East End of the city. Amy was last seen wearing a white cotton summer dress and black sandals.’

Rachel knew that the picture she’d given the police was a good likeness. Amy smiling into the camera, brown eyes, short, dark hair, a silver nose stud which glittered like a talisman.

Sometimes it is better that the city gifts us her secrets, however dark and unpalatable they may be.

‘DARK?’

‘SUBVERSIVE?’

‘DEPRAVED?’

I watched the defence. Mark Ponsensby-Edward, QC, allowed a lengthy pause between each word. He was six foot four of sinewy muscle and sarcasm. After the first day of the trial, I’d googled him. He was from a prominent family, had excelled at rugby as a youth and had chosen his career path to sate a desire for adversarial debate rather than from financial necessity. His hair and moustache were prematurely white, the result of a teenage skiing accident which had left him temporarily paralysed. He’d recovered but had been left with a pronounced limp.

When he stared at me, I believed that he saw straight through to my bones and, given his sour expression, he didn’t like what he saw. His nails were long, his bony hands, claw-like. His teeth were small and perfectly straight apart from the two incisors which tapered to unusually sharp points. A modern-day Dracula, he sucked the life out of his opponent’s argument.

‘I want you to consider the thrall that bondage and discipline, dominance and submission and sadism and masochism, held over both Marcus Newton and Amy Dawson.’ His voice echoed around the silent courtroom. ‘Marcus Newton openly admitted that he took pleasure in disciplining Amy Dawson but Ms Dawson was a very willing participant. Remember that it was Ms Dawson who first made contact, she was the instigator of their relationship. Remember too that she had been an active member of the BDSM community for many years. We have heard evidence that she regularly demanded the use of leg restraints, handcuffs and erotic asphyxiation to satisfy her craving for submission, a fantasy that my client and Ms Dawson explored together. A fantasy that she continued to explore with a great number of partners, long after she split from Marcus Newton. The prosecution’s case is severely flawed, there is no concrete evidence that Marcus Newton was with Amy Dawson on the night she died.’ Ponsensby-Edward waited, poised, a magician expecting applause. As if the court were a stage and he had magicked the brutal, enticing images from a dark abyss.

Previously I’d listened to the prosecution, Advocate Depute Duncan McConnell, QC. Google hadn’t had so much on him. He was a bit of a hermit. Lived for his work. Unmarried. No scandal. He’d spoken in a voice that was full of outrage, had appealed to our humanity. It was a pity I had none. ‘It was a torture chamber, nothing less. Despicable acts of sadomasochism were repeatedly inflicted on Amy Dawson, until that fateful night when Marcus Newton decided to act out his murderous fantasy and finally kill her in cold blood.’

Lacking Ponsensby-Edward’s passion and charisma, McConnell had stumbled over his words at one point. ‘Amy was a sexually adventurous woman who joined the BDSM community looking for fun. What happened next was that Marcus Newton preyed on her and exploited her for his own pleasure. In effect, he denied her the oxygen of self-esteem and continued to control her in increasingly barbaric ways.’

I and my fellow jurors listened as the evidence was presented. We accepted the graphic, explicit photographs that were circulated to us and the judge. In the first one, a naked woman was bound, the ropes around her wrists attached to a hoist. A bar between her ankles ensured that her legs remained open. Around her neck, a thick leather collar. I was enthralled and listened, fascinated, while McConnell fed us the tantalising details. ‘This image was recovered from Marcus Newton’s mobile phone and shows a woman in the act of strappado.’

My heartbeat quickened.

‘As part of the BDSM community, Marcus Newton would have been familiar with this practice. Strappado has its origins in medieval torture and the bar fixed to the woman’s ankles, known as a spreading bar, would have been placed there with the express intention of keeping her off balance. Whoever held the rope had total control over her. This physical control was a precursor to the psychological control Marcus Newton used to dominate and exploit women.’

My mind was in turmoil. As the trial progressed, I became aware of the difference in my and my fellow jurors’ reactions to the images. I heard deep sighs, saw hands being wrung, an uncomfortable shifting in seats. I’d tried to mirror their actions but was acutely aware that I was aroused. I had to be careful. I recalled how a psychology lecturer at college had once explained how easy it was to reveal our true selves through body language. I dutifully stared at the photographs, resisted the desire to lick my lips and trace a finger over the images of the naked women. Instead, I calmly folded my hands on my lap, forced myself to remember what the lecturer had said, that the usual response, when confronted with images for which one feels distaste or repulsion, is that the pupils of the eyes become constricted. I knew better than to meet the gaze of either QC; I was certain that my pupils would not be constricted, but instead would be dilated, the common reaction when one is excited. My mind became a fantastic kaleidoscope of disturbingly thrilling images and, as I tuned out of what was being said by the defence, I allowed these images to loop and play endlessly in my imagination. Bliss.

Finally, the closing statements were delivered and the judge made a short speech. Then, we, the jury, were taken from the court and led to a cramped, airless room. I desperately wanted to be back in my flat, alone with my thoughts and the dark sexual images. Instead, I hovered around a table set with tea, coffee and biscuits. Busied myself pouring coffee, listened to John, the foreman, speak. Heard the disgust in his voice as he asked, ‘Well, everyone? What are your thoughts?’

‘Such shocking images,’ said one juror. ‘And the poor mother sitting in the room, having to hear all of it.’

‘The photographs are seared into my mind,’ replied another.

And so it continued.

‘How can I ever forget?’

‘Dreadful.’

I sipped my coffee, thought of the women in the photographs, felt a rush of excitement and desire. Kept my voice neutral, emotionless. ‘Appalling. Just appalling.’

That night in my flat, I’d turned on the news, heard a reporter state what I already knew – Marcus Newton had been found guilty. A few seconds later, he finished by stating that, ‘the murder of Amy Dawson was a cruel and unforgivable act.’

I flicked through the channels, another reporter mid-sentence: ‘. . . and in this case, role play, at the hands of depraved Marcus Newton, led to something far more sinister.’

I opened my laptop, found the website and downloaded the video. Strappado. Just like in the photographs at the trial, the women were naked, bound to hoists, their legs forced apart by bars. I felt my heartbeat quicken, my palms become moist. I was instantly hard. I knew that the trial had been life-changing, that I was not the same person who’d entered the courtroom a week earlier. For me, the exquisite carnal journey was only just beginning.

Forty-five minutes in this heat, thought Karlie Merrick, and she’d be basted like a fucking turkey. The temperature was building steadily and there was no air con but she still couldn’t face the motorway. Couldn’t trust herself. Not today. Not the way she was feeling.

Once she was clear of Glasgow, she turned the silver Volkswagen Golf towards Strathaven, kept her speed on the low side, switched on the radio, heard the Kill Kestrels, ‘Death of an Angel’. Turned up the volume. Tried to ignore the anxiety that gnawed in the recess of her mind. It had begun last night after she’d spoken with Steve Penwell. His paranoia had been infectious as he’d warned her, ‘What I’ve told you is gold. You need to be careful.’ For a moment she’d had hope, then he’d ruined it all by seeing faces in the curtain and talking about pirates. ‘Fucking pirates,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t know what to believe.’ But the old man had her so freaked that by the time she’d left the care home she’d checked the back seat before getting in the car. ‘Nuts,’ she’d muttered, ‘I’m going crazy.’ But, hands shaking, she’d made the call. He’d told her that he’d take care of it. They were meeting up later that evening, after she’d finished at the farm.

Last night, when she’d been going to bed, she’d crossed to the window to draw the curtains and could’ve sworn that there was someone standing in the shadows across the road. She forced the image to the back of her mind, indicated and pulled out to overtake a lorry, accelerated. Just as she passed it she saw the turn-off for the farm. ‘Shit.’ She swerved left, barely made it in front of the lorry, shot off the road, skidded onto the dirt track, braked fiercely as she heard the squeal of brakes behind her, the rasp of the horn, as she made her way down the farm track, past the crumbling outbuildings. The whole place was a decrepit sore on the landscape and the old boy who owned it was so cash poor he’d been pathetically grateful for the opportunity to diversify. She felt the car bump down the track, on towards the huge, windowless, metal barn. She pressed a button and the car windows closed, keeping out the stink from the hundreds of battery hens shut up inside. She drove past another field before the three metal shipping containers came into sight. They were surrounded by junk, bits of old cars decayed beside a crooked crane, ancient farm machinery tilted against piles of building detritus, broken bricks and concrete slabs slumped next to rubble. Dirt and decay, the whole place was rotten. Again, images of a lone figure standing across from her flat curled and wove its way around her imagination, whorls of fear and sinister shadows. ‘Cut it out,’ she told herself as she parked beside a battered pickup truck, ‘You’re paranoid.’ She stepped out into the fierce heat.

Ahead of her, a short, skinny man, whose face was set with deep lines, was leaning against a container. He was engrossed in watching a movie on his phone. He might have been watching a classic perhaps, or a favourite musical. If it wasn’t for the screaming. Then the voice pleading for it to stop. Her voice sounded tinny, it always did. She knew that Johnny Pierce was watching a film of her. Strappado. It had been shot at one of the empty hotels Gary Ashton had access to, shit places mostly.

‘Hey, Johnny.’ Heard her voice sound different in the sunshine, the wide open space. How normal it sounded in contrast to the voice on the recording. He looked up. She heard herself scream and beg for forgiveness. Then the silence when a ball gag had been stuffed into her mouth. She knew the video ran for another twenty minutes. The spreading bar had been removed and leg restraints had been put on, then the whip had been used. Her legs had been sore for days after the shoot. Not just her legs.

‘This is shit-hot, Karlie.’ Pierce held up the phone. ‘Talent like this, you’re wasted here.’

‘You don’t need to convince me.’

‘You still looking to relocate to the States?’ he asked.

‘If I can.’ She saw him glance at the video again, knew in it nipple clamps were being fitted. ‘You never fancied going out there?’

‘Not sure I’d get in, small matter of a holiday I took a few years ago.’

‘Go on.’

‘I was a guest at that big hotel Barlinnie for a while. Her Majesty’s pleasure.’

She walked to the container. ‘What for?’

‘Assaulting my ex-partner. Long time ago. I’ve moved on.’

‘You think Gary might give me a rise?’

‘Gary Ashton’s a tight bastard.’

She watched him pull the door wide. Inside were rails of clothes, a row of cheap shoes. The outfits. On a white plastic table were handcuffs, whips, nipple clamps, ball gags, chokers and rope. The props.

‘But you can always ask.’

‘Does Gary’s partner knows about this little venture?’ she said.

‘Lisa? Doubt it.’

‘Because?’

‘The profits from this hobby are solely for him to fund his coke habit, the wedding stuff he shares with her and the kid.’

‘You think I could use it to get a bit of leeway for a rise?’

‘If you’re looking for trouble, that’d certainly be a short cut to it. From what I hear, Lisa’s mother bought them the house. Any upset and he’s scared she’ll chuck him out.’ Pierce picked up a whip and ran the tip of it gently against her cheek. ‘You still seeing that shrink of yours? What’s his name – Bellerose?’

‘George’s not a shrink, he’s a life coach but yeah, he’s helping me get focused to relocate.’

‘Still offering cut-price sessions?’

She nodded.

‘He’s got a thing for you, he wants to get into your knickers.’ Pierce paused. ‘Is he in with a chance?’

‘Not a snowball’s in hell but as long as he gets me out of here, he’s welcome to his fantasies. The Studio open?’

‘Christ, I’ve just arrived, give me a sec.’

She waited while he dragged open the door of the second container Gary Ashton insisted they called the Studio. Ashton was deluded. Without air conditioning, the heat inside was intense, and more than once she’d felt the sweat run down her back and pool in the waist of her outfits. ‘This whole place is fucking unhygienic,’ she muttered.

Five minutes later, she had put her hair up and had slathered on thick make-up. She kicked off her sandals, stripped off her clothes and walked across to the rack of clothes. Sexy secretary. Couldn’t be more clichéd. She heard a motorbike come to a stop outside. A couple of seconds later, Gary Ashton’s bulk filled the doorway. He was thirty-two, wore his long blond hair in a ponytail. He dumped the crash helmet on the table. ‘Hey.’

Karlie pulled on the leather pencil skirt, buttoned the white shirt, kept her tone friendly. ‘How’s the wedding photography going?’

He shrugged. ‘Pays the bills.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ She drew a slash of red lipstick across her lips. ‘Does Lisa know about your little outfit here?’

‘She doesn’t need to, seeing as it’s got fuck all to do with her.’

‘Why’s that then? You reckon she wouldn’t approve?’

‘I’m not interested in asking her opinion. So, what’s with all the questions, Karlie?’

‘I’m just saying, this is your little secret and I’m sure you’d like to keep it that way.’

‘Go on.’

‘What say you up my wages?’

Ashton crossed to her, his face inches from hers. He was too close; she could smell the coffee on his breath. Practically taste the nicotine.

‘Or?’

She tried for a smile, failed. ‘I’m worth more than I’m getting paid.’ Heard the tremble in her voice.

‘Go ahead, talk to Lisa. I don’t mind.’

‘Really?’

‘Honestly, I’m not that bothered. My only concern would be for you and your work prospects.’

‘Because you’d fire me.’ More of a statement.

‘After I’d broken your fucking neck.’

Pierce called from the doorway. ‘Everything’s set up next door guys and Will’s ready.’

Ashton waved him away.

She tried to move forward. Ashton blocked her.

Her voice small, she said, ‘I was only joking.’

He smiled down at her. ‘Of course you were and now that you’ve had your fun, put on the fucking shoes.’

She reached for the stilettos, knew they were a narrow size four, she was a five. She crammed her feet into them. ‘These are tiny.’

His fist missed her face by a fraction. ‘Another fucking woman nagging me. I don’t want to hear it, OK?’

She nodded, said nothing.

‘That’s it, you just need to be a good girl and get on with it.’

She hobbled across to the second container, felt her toes cramp and a sharp pain shoot up her right calf.

Inside, it was set up as an office, with a wooden desk and chair in the centre. In the corner sat a smaller desk with a telephone, computer and a stack of folders. In the absence of a generator, Ashton had rigged up battery-run lights.

‘The camera’s on the far wall, above the desk, so mind you face it and for God’s sake try to get some action going, this stuff’s supposed to be a turn-on.’

Will Reid edged his way into the container. ‘All OK, guys?’

‘Get into place,’ muttered Ashton.

They took their positions.

‘Action.’ Ashton backed out of the container.

Same old, same old, thought Karlie, she could do this in her sleep. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

‘You’ve made mistakes, Miss Samson, too many mistakes.’

‘I can only apologise, sir. I’ll redo these reports and get them to you first thing in the morning.’

‘That isn’t good enough. I’m afraid the board and I have decided that you need to be punished.’

‘I can explain, sir.’

‘Enough, Miss Samson. You were warned not to continue to make mistakes. You didn’t listen. I have no other option. You know what to do.’ He sat back in his chair, loosened his tie. ‘Strip.’

The same old routine, different outfits, different props. Varying degrees of pain and violence. One theme. Men in power over women. The way of the world, thought Karlie, but she wasn’t going to be exploited, she was going to exploit them. She thought of her other job – it paid well, but again, the same themes. One guy got off washing her mouth out with soap while he called her Jean. Perverted fucker. Plus, she’d only had two shifts there and, well paid as it was, she needed more.

She leaned palms down on the desk. After a few minutes they changed tempo and position. Karlie lay on the desk and groaned as he tried and failed to improvise dialogue. She heard him repeat his usual refrain, ‘I hope you are learning your lesson, Miss Samson.’ Another couple of changes of position and it was over. She eased off the shoes and rubbed her toes.

‘OK, let’s keep going,’ said Ashton. ‘We don’t have all day.’

She traipsed back to the container, changed outfits. When she returned, Ashton had placed a thin mattress over the desk, draped the makeshift bed in nylon faux fur throws and satin cushions. He’d added a couple of steel chains to the head and foot of the bed. ‘A budget dungeon,’ muttered Karlie as she squeezed her feet back into the too-tight shoes.

‘Action.’

Will Reid gripped the leather collar in his right hand and beckoned to her. She had been scripted to be fearful but compelled. Ashton had underlined ‘compelled’ twice. Reid had been instructed to be seething and rough when he fastened the collar around her neck and led her to the bed. Erotic asphyxiation. She waited while he attached the collar, then the lead. She lay on her back. As they filmed, Karlie thought of the recent developments. Three things. When she’d told her friend Maureen about the old man who had contacted her about the night her father had died, she’d been sceptical because he was in a care home, suffered from schizophrenia and had seen faces in the curtains. Two, her cousin Beth had sent through a box of old papers belonging to her father, mainly a jumble of old letters but there were some photographs. It was good to have them, she had so little belonging to her parents. Three, she had emailed one of the Kill Kestrels. He’d been two years above her in school and now he was famous. Things were about to happen; she could feel it.

‘Can you feel that, bitch?’ asked Reid. ‘You enjoying it?’ He tugged the collar and she knelt. She checked that she was face on to the camera. Felt herself being rocked back and forward. Heard the old desk creak. She wanted out of this shit hole and fast. Rumour had it that regulators wanted porn made in the UK to exclude spanking and strangulation. She saw Reid reach for the whip, adjusted her position, closed her eyes and moaned and writhed on the mattress. The collar around her neck dug into her skin, she felt it chaff. Thought of the article about the earnings of the top porn stars in the US. Anything between $50,000 and $95,000 a year. Plus, public appearances. She was certain that the lifestyle would suit her. She knew that she was going places, had always known it. Even at school she’d created drama when she’d accused the bitches in her year of bullying. She’d taken it as far as she’d wanted, then dumped it. They’d been her first audience though. Now she wanted something bigger, she wanted LA, the big house, the pool. She whiled away the time deciding on the décor of the house and choosing the colour of the tiles in the swimming pool.

When it was done, she made her way back to the container, pulled a packet of facial wipes from her handbag and began sponging herself down. Saw Ashton in the doorway watching. She took off the collar, rubbed her neck. ‘Bloody hell, that was rough. I need a shower.’

‘You complaining again?’

‘Just saying we need to get some kind of a shower rigged up in here or even a basin. It’s manky not being able to have a rinse.’ She binned the used wipes and pulled on her jeans and T-shirt.

‘We make it big time in the States and you can get what you want.’

‘We?’

‘If you make it, I’d manage you. End of story.’

‘What will happen with Lisa and Ewan?’

‘They’d stay here. No point in upsetting their routine. You’d be making enough for both of us.’

She grabbed her bag, made for her car. ‘You’re all heart.’

Outside, she waved to Pierce as she drove off. Switched on the radio, heard Pharrell Williams’ ‘Happy’ being played. She waited until she had driven past the stinking chicken shed before she wound down the windows.

A car was parked in the lay-by. As she passed, it inched its way out on to the road. There was no need to rush, the driver took it easy, kept two cars between them. He knew that Karlie was a cautious driver. Used her seat belt every time. Clunk click, every trip. Stay safe, Karlie. But all the care and caution she’d used to keep herself alive would be in vain. He’d been pleased when she’d called him last night after she’d left the care home and now he was looking forward to their meeting later that evening. Clunk click, every trip, Karlie. Stay safe. For now.

Take your pick, he thought, from a billboard of sordid delights. Sex with an underage prostitute (Skye), two accidental overdoses when he’d been discovered shaking uncontrollably (Skye), when an argument had got out of hand, a glass had been smashed into a face, resulting in a photographer being given a substantial bribe not to press charges (Josh). He could go on, the list was, if not endless, then definitely lengthy. The Kill Kestrels manager Dougie Scott sat in the lounge nursing a double vodka and tried not to think too hard about the length of the list. He wore his usual uniform – a loud Hawaiian shirt which strained around his bulk, grey chinos and a pork pie hat. In winter he added a grey cashmere overcoat. He was fifty-five and had managed bands, with varying degrees of success, all his life. His previous two – the Stations of the Cross and the Grimsdales – had done reasonably well for a while, but the Kill Kestrels were by far the most financially successful and he was not about to let them fuck it up. Like every good manager, he made sure his band turned up and got the job done. Of course, there had been times when he’d had to manage the extent of their partying, but he’d been in the business long enough to know which substances fuelled creativity and which killed it. For his part, he let the Kill Kestrels indulge themselve. . .