Текст книги "One by One (Роберт Хантер 5 Поодиночке)"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Hunter nodded in silence.

‘And you have the whole thing digitally recorded?’

‘Yes.’

With heavy eyes, Brindle looked down at the tortured body again. ‘I don’t understand this city, or the people in it anymore, Robert.’

‘I don’t think any of us do,’ Hunter replied.

‘How can anyone make sense of something like this?’

Hunter kneeled down to better examine the body. With the strong forensic light, every detail was visible. The smell was already crossing the line into putrid meat territory. Hunter used his left hand to cover his nose. He noticed little dents on the man’s feet, legs and arms. ‘What are these?’

‘Rat bites,’ Brindle said. ‘We had to scare a few off the body when we got here. There’s quite a bit of food in these dumpsters. This back alley services a bakery, a butcher’s shop and a small coffee shop stroke diner.’

Hunter nodded.

‘We’re going to sieve through most of the trash inside all four dumpsters in case the killer decided to discard something around here,’ Brindle said. ‘But after the story you told me, he doesn’t sound like he would be that careless.’

Hunter nodded again. His gaze moved over to the black man at the end of the alley. He was dressed in ripped and stained clothes, and wearing an old, colorless long coat that looked to have survived an attack from a pack of hungry wolves.

‘His name is Keon Lewis,’ Brindle offered. ‘He’s the one who found the body.’

Hunter stood up, ready to go ask some questions.

‘Good luck with that,’ Brindle said. ‘You know how homeless people love talking to the cops.’

Twelve

Keon Lewis was still sitting on the concrete step at the far end of the alleyway. He was about six foot four and stick-thin. His raggedy black beard seemed to be irritating his face no end. He would scratch it vigorously every few seconds. He had grimy, broken fingernails packed with dirt. His hands were scarred and blistered. One of them had a cut that seemed infected, the skin tender and swollen around a deep maroon scab. His eyes would gaze back at the scene every so often, but he would quickly pull them away and stare down at the ground or at his hands.

Hunter approached Keon and the officer standing by his side. Keon looked up, but again quickly averted his gaze. He rubbed his hands together like a cook seasoning a dish.

His lips were dry and cracked, and he kept on blinking as if he were wearing old, dry contact lenses. The physical signs all pointed to crystal meth addiction. He could’ve been in his thirties, forties, fifties or early twenties. Hunter doubted Keon knew himself.

‘Keon?’ Hunter said. ‘I’m Detective Robert Hunter with the Homicide Division.’

Keon gave him a tense nod but still kept his eyes low.

The officer stepped away, giving Hunter and Keon some privacy.

‘Listen,’ Hunter said in a calm, non-patronizing voice. ‘There’s no need for you to be nervous. No one is here to hassle you, I promise. Unfortunately you were unlucky enough to find the body of a homicide victim. My job is to ask you a few questions, that’s all. After that, you’re free to go.’

Keon scratched his beard again.

Hunter could tell that his face had once been kind and attractive, but drug abuse, alcohol and a life lived well below the poverty line had transformed it into something very different.

‘OK if I sit down?’

Keon scooted over to the edge of the step. His clothes stank of stale sweat and garbage.

Hunter sat down and let out a deep breath. ‘This is some messed-up stuff, isn’t it?’

‘Shiiit, man, that is real fucked up.’ His voice croaked as if he had a sore throat. ‘What the fuck happen to him, man? Someone skinned him?’

‘You really don’t want to know,’ Hunter said.

Keon picked at the loose skin at the back of his hand, twisting it painfully, as if trying to tear it off before going quiet for a moment. ‘Say, man, you don’t have a smoke, do you? I’m shaking like a bitch.’

‘I’ll get you one.’ Hunter motioned the officer to come closer and whispered something in his ear. The officer nodded and took off toward the other end of the alleyway.

‘This is a very quiet street,’ Hunter said. ‘Do you come here a lot?’

‘Sometimes. If I’m close enough,’ Keon replied, giving Hunter a sequence of quick nods. ‘That’s the reason I come here, you know what I’m sayin’? Because it’s quiet. You don’t have to fight to get a spot to crash. And sometimes you get some good food from the dumpsters, you dig? The food shops throw things away that you wouldn’t believe, man.’ Keon smiled a mouth full of decaying teeth. ‘You have to fight off the rats, but, hey, it’s free.’

Hunter gave him a sympathetic nod. ‘Can you run me through what happened when you got here?’

‘Oh man, I already told the cops everything.’

‘I understand, and I know it’s a pain in the ass. But it has to be done, Keon.’

The police officer returned with a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches and handed them to Keon. He quickly tapped one out, lit it up and took a drag so long the officer thought he would smoke the whole thing in one breath.

Hunter waited for him to exhale. ‘You can keep the pack.’

Keon wasted no time in placing it inside his right coat pocket.

‘So, can you tell me how you came across the body?’

Keon shrugged. ‘Sure.’

‘Do you know what time it was when you got here?’

Another shrug. Keon pulled back his left sleeve and showed Hunter his naked wrist. ‘My Rolex is in the shop.’

The corner of Hunter’s mouth curled up slightly. ‘Could you take a guess? Were all the shops already closed?’

‘Oh yeah, y’all. It was late, man. Long past midnight. I walked all the way from Panorama City, and it took me a while ’cos I’ve got a bad foot, you know what I mean?’ Keon pointed down to his left foot. He was wearing a dirty old leather Nike sneaker. There was a large hole on the left side where Hunter could see two of his toes. The shoe on the right foot was a black Converse All Stars.

‘Cops don’t never come down here, you know what I mean?’ Keon continued. ‘So you never get poked or kicked while you’re sleeping and told to move on. You can get a good few hours of sleep back here, and don’t nobody bother you, you dig?’

Hunter nodded. ‘So what happened?’

Keon took another drag, let the smoke out through his nose and nervously watched it dance in front of his face for a while. ‘I never saw him until I got real close. The alley was dark, you dig? I came up to the first dumpster and checked inside. It’s usually the one with the best food because the bakery dumps their scraps in there. I got me a nice piece of cornbread.’ As he said that, a thunderous rumble came from Keon’s stomach. He ignored it and took another drag of his cigarette. ‘But before I could have a bite of any of it, I saw this pair of legs sticking out from behind one of the dumpsters. I thought it was just another brother crashing out, you know what I mean? There’s enough space here for more than one, you dig?’

Hunter was attentively observing Keon’s movements and expressions. His hands had begun shaking again once he started telling his story. The croak in his voice had worsened a touch. His eyes had trouble focusing anywhere for too long – a symptom of drug dependency – but the jitter in them was genuine fear.

‘I thought maybe it was Tobby or Tyrek,’ Keon continued. ‘They crash here every once in a while too. But when I got close—’ Keon scratched his beard as if it were burning his face. ‘Holy shit, man, what happened to him?’ His scared eyes met Hunter’s. ‘He’s got no face. He’s got no skin.’ He finished his cigarette in one massive drag and stubbed it out under his shoe. ‘I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit in my life, y’all. I’ve seen a few dead bodies too, but that—’ his head jerked toward the dumpsters ‘—that’s the devil’s work, man.’

‘Was he covered?’ Hunter asked. ‘By newspapers, or a piece of cloth, or something?’

‘Nah, y’all. He was just lying there like a big piece of gooey meat, you know what I’m sayin’? Scared the shit out of me, man. Even the rats were half scared of it.’

‘Did you see anybody else around?’ Hunter asked.

‘Hell no. The alley was empty.’

‘Any cars parked close by, maybe around the entrance to the alleyway?’

Keon paused, his brow furrowed a little and he ran his tongue over his cracked bottom lip.

‘Was there a car around?’

‘Well, when I came around the corner, a truck was backing up from the alley.’

‘A truck?’

‘Yep, more like a pickup truck, you know the type? But it wasn’t open-back. It had a hardtop over the back box.’

‘Did you notice what type of truck it was?’

‘Nah, man. I wasn’t that close. As I said, I had just turned the corner when I saw the truck backing up and taking off.’

‘How about color?’

Keon thought back for a second. ‘It was a dark truck. Maybe black or blue. Hard to say from a distance. The lighting around here ain’t that good, you know what I’m sayin’? But there was a big dent on the back fender. I remember that.’

‘A dent? Are you sure?’

‘Um-huh. I saw it as the truck backed up from the alley, on the driver’s side.’

‘How big a dent?’

‘Big enough for me to see it from that far.’

Hunter took some notes. ‘Did you get to see the driver at all?’

‘Nah, y’all. Dark windows.’

‘Could you tell if the truck was old or new?’

Keon shook his head. ‘I can’t really say, but I don’t think it was an old truck.’

Hunter nodded. ‘OK, let’s move on. So what did you do when you saw the body on the ground? Did you touch it at all?’

‘Touch it?’ Keon’s eyes went wide. ‘Are you high, man? Can I have some? Keon ain’t no fool, y’all. I didn’t know what was wrong with the stiff. It could be a sickness or somin’. Some weird shit like “AIDS of the skin” or some new disease created by the government, you know what I mean? Like an experiment or somin’. Either that or the devil really is walking the streets, skinning motherfuckers, erasing their faces and dumping them in back alleys.’ Keon reached for another cigarette. ‘No, man, I didn’t touch no dead body. I just dropped everything and got the fuck out of here, grabbed a payphone out in the streets and dialed 911.’

‘You dialed 911 as soon as you saw the body?’

‘That’s right, y’all.’

Keon’s stomach roared again. He lit up his cigarette, took another long drag and paused, looking a little hesitant. Hunter noticed it.

‘Something else, Keon?’

‘Well, I thought that maybe . . . you know . . . there was some sort of reward, or somin’. I did good, didn’t I? Calling y’all down here? Remembering the truck and all.’

And that explained how come Keon was cooperating so freely.

‘Yes, Keon, you did good, but there’s no reward. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, c’mon, man. Nothin’?’

Hunter gave him a slight headshake.

‘Shiiit, man. That ain’t fair. Couldn’t you help a brother out with somin’? I could do with a little help, you know what I’m sayin’?’

Another loud, longer rumbling of his stomach.

‘When was the last time you had a proper meal, Keon?’

‘You mean a full meal?’

Hunter nodded.

Keon chewed his lips for a moment. ‘Not for some time, man.’

‘OK, look. I’m not going to give you any money, but if you’re hungry—’ Hunter nodded at Keon’s stomach ‘—and I can hear you are, breakfast is on me. How about that?’

Keon scratched both sides of his beard while chewing his lips again. ‘C’mon, y’all. Just twenty bucks, man. Twenty bucks is nothing for y’all.’

‘No money, Keon, sorry.’

‘Ten, then. You can spare a brother ten bucks, can’t you?’

‘Breakfast, Keon. That’s the best I can do.’

Keon looked down at his hands, considering. ‘Can I have hot pancakes?’

Hunter smiled. ‘Yes, you can have hot pancakes.’

Keon nodded. ‘Yeah, breakfast sounds good, y’all.’

Thirteen

Despite having the body, Hunter and Garcia were no closer to finding the victim’s identity. His entire skin had dissolved in the alkaline solution, and that meant no fingerprints, no identifying tattoos or birthmarks, if there were any, and absolutely no facial features. DNA analyses would take a few days, but even then they would only have a match if the victim’s DNA had been archived into CODIS, the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System, and for that to have happened the victim would’ve had to have been previously convicted of a felony offense such as sexual assault or homicide – a very long shot. They were also still waiting for any news from the Missing Persons Unit.

By early afternoon Mike Brindle and his forensics team had collected a small bag of hairs, fibers and debris that could prove to be of interest, but in an alleyway with four large dumpsters, all of them packed full with several days’ worth of trash from a number of different establishments, no one was holding their breath for a breakthrough.

Hunter told Brindle about the pickup truck Keon Lewis had seen backing up from the alleyway. Brindle said that they had already come across two sets of tire prints. The first, and more prominent of the two, came from what looked like large, heavy-duty tires. The best impressions were just by the first dumpster. Brindle’s opinion was that the prints were left by one or more of the city’s garbage trucks on collection day. Hunter figured he was right, but the lab would have to confirm that.

Brindle’s team had gotten lucky about halfway down the alleyway, where they found a second, very faint, partial tire mark, courtesy of a small pothole with just enough dirty water to get a section of the tire wet. The partial print didn’t look to have come from a large and heavy vehicle such as a garbage truck. The problem was that by the time they found it, most of the impression had evaporated under the Los Angeles morning sun, but with the help of a special powder and a large sheet of black gelatin lifter, they were able to obtain traces of it. They hoped it would be good enough for the lab to get them something.

Hunter checked with Central Operations. Keon’s 911 call came in just before one in the morning. Hunter allowed two hours either side of that mark and contacted the Valley Bureau’s Traffic Division, asking them for whatever footage they might have from any road cameras surrounding the area from 11:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m. They were still waiting on it.

‘OK,’ Garcia said, hitting the ‘print’ button on his computer. Hunter was at his desk, studying the photographs from the alleyway. He put them down and looked across his desk at his partner.

‘Sodium hydroxide, or caustic soda, can be bought in four main formats,’ Garcia explained. ‘Pallets, pearls, flakes or liquid. Because one of its main uses is as a cleaning agent, it can be easily found and purchased over the counter and Internet in a range of grades and pack sizes. Many vendors will sell it to pretty much anyone, no ID check necessary.’ Garcia got up and walked over to the printer in the corner of the room. ‘Actually, you can even find bottles of caustic soda in supermarkets. It’s also present in many cleaning products, including drain unblockers and floor and oven cleaners.’ He handed the printout to Hunter. ‘This thing is way too easy to obtain. This is a dead path.’

As Hunter took the sheet, the phone on his desk rang.

‘Detective Hunter, Homicide Special,’ he answered it and listened for a few seconds. ‘On our way.’ He put the phone down and nodded at Garcia. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Where?’

‘The morgue. Doctor Hove is done with the autopsy.’

Fourteen

The drive to the Los Angeles County Department of Coroner in North Mission Road took them less than twenty minutes. Hunter and Garcia made their way up the lavish steps that led to the main entrance of the architecturally impressive building and approached the reception counter. The attendant, a large, kind-faced black woman of about fifty, gave them the same sympathetic smile she reserved for everyone who came through the doors of the old hospital turned morgue.

‘Good afternoon, Detectives,’ she said in a voice that seemed to have been trained in a library.

‘How are you doing, Sandra?’ Hunter smiled back.

‘I’m well, thank you.’ The question wasn’t returned. Sandra had learned a long time ago never to ask anyone entering a morgue how theywere doing. ‘Doctor Hove is waiting for you in Autopsy Theater One.’ With a subtle head gesture she indicated the swinging double doors to the right of the reception.

Hunter and Garcia pushed through them and carried on down the long, squeaky-clean white corridor. At the end of it they turned left into a shorter hallway, where an orderly wheeling a body on a gurney covered by a white sheet was coming their way. One of the two fluorescent ceiling lights was malfunctioning, flickering on and off at odd intervals. The scene reminded Hunter of some B-rated horror movie.

Hunter pinched his nose as if he was about to sneeze. The smell of the place got to him every time. It was like a hospital’s, but with a different punch to it. Something that seemed to claw at the back of his throat and slowly burn the inside of his nostrils like acid. But today the overpowering smell of disinfectant and cleaning products was churning his stomach even more. It was like he could smell the sodium hydroxide in them. Garcia seemed to have picked that up too, judging by the look on his face.

Another left turn and they were at the door to Autopsy Theater One.

Hunter pressed the intercom button on the wall and heard static crackle from the tiny speaker. ‘Doctor Hove?’ he called.

The heavy door buzzed and unlocked with a hiss like a pressure seal. Hunter pushed it open and he and Garcia stepped inside the large and winter-cold room. Its walls were tiled in brilliant white. Its floor was done in shiny vinyl. Three stainless-steel autopsy tables sprang out of a long counter with oversized sinks that ran along the east wall. On the ceiling, above each table, was a circular island of surgical lights. Metal crypts took up two walls and looked like large filing cabinets with bulky handles. The Chief Medical Examiner for the Los Angeles County Department of Coroner was standing at the far end of the room.

Doctor Carolyn Hove was tall and slim with penetrating green eyes and long chestnut hair that she usually kept in a ponytail, but today it was rolled up into a simple bun. Her surgical mask hung loosely around her neck, revealing full lips with just a touch of pink lipstick, prominent cheekbones and a petite, delicate nose. Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her white lab coverall.

‘Robert, Carlos,’ she greeted each detective with a nod. Her voice was velvety but firm, the kind that was always in control.

Both detectives returned the gesture in silence.

‘Mike told me the whole story,’ Doctor Hove said. ‘So the killer called your office and made you watch?’ She moved toward the autopsy table closest to her. The other two were mercifully empty.

Hunter and Garcia followed.

‘Made us choose how the victim would die first,’ Garcia replied.

‘Any idea why?’

‘We’re working on it.’

‘Mike also told me that the killer created some sort of . . . torture chamber?’

‘Something like that,’ Hunter answered.

‘You can watch the footage if you like, Doc,’ Garcia said. ‘Maybe you can pick up something that we missed.’

She gave them a hesitant nod. ‘Sure, if you send it to me, I’ll have a look.’

There was a moment of silence before their attention moved to the corpse on the steel table. The skinless and faceless victim lay there like an androgynous creature. Nothing more than a distorted lump of flesh. The infamous Y incision, decorated by thick, black stitches, now added one more layer of grotesqueness to the body.

Doctor Hove put on a new pair of latex gloves, switched on the lights on the island overhead and looked down at the victim. ‘All these years as a forensics doctor and I still don’t understand it. How can a person do this to another human being?’

‘Some people are capable of worse, Doc,’ Garcia replied.

‘As far as pain goes, there isn’t anything worse, Carlos.’ Her tone sent a chill up Garcia’s spine. ‘Sodium hydroxide is a strong base substance,’ she explained. ‘It sits right at the opposite end of the pH scale from strong acids like sulfuric and hydrochloric. Everyone knows what sort of damage strong acids can do if they came in direct contact with human skin, right? But what few people are aware of is that strong bases, like sodium hydroxide, are over forty times more painful and destructive to the human body than strong acids.’

Garcia’s eyes widened. ‘Forty?’

Doctor Hove nodded. ‘Sulfuric acid feels like lukewarm water when compared to sodium hydroxide. What this killer has done was create an alkali bath with the victim in it.’ Her eyes returned to the body on the table. ‘For him, it was like he was being burned alive, but his brain would’ve carried on working for longer . . . a lot longer, so he felt every single burning pain that happened to his body. The solution ate through the two first layers of his skin in absolutely no time.’

‘And then the real pain started,’ Hunter said in a subdued voice.

‘That’s right,’ Doctor Hove agreed.

Garcia looked a little doubtful.

‘The main reason why sodium hydroxide is used in so many industrial cleaning products,’ the doctor explained, ‘is because of its incredible ability to dissolve grease, oils, fats and protein. The third layer of the human skin, the subcutaneous, is made mostly of fat. When that’s gone, you get muscle tissue, which is made mostly of protein. Are you starting to get the picture now?’

Garcia cringed.

‘Add to that the fact that the alkalosis in the solution would’ve kept overexciting the nerves, causing them to become terribly inflamed, and you have every single nerve in his body screaming in agony. The pain causes all the major muscles to spasm, lock and cramp. If he weren’t tied down in a sitting position, he would’ve probably broken his spinal cord from contorting. And his brain was still working, registering everything as his body literally dissolved, layer by layer.’

‘I think I get the picture now, Doc, thanks,’ Garcia said, looking green.

‘Luckily for him,’ the doctor said. ‘His heart gave up the fight early.’

‘Not early enough,’ Hunter said. ‘He was in that alkali bath for eleven minutes before he died.’

Doctor Hove agreed, tilting her head to one side. ‘Still, his heart gave in faster than it should have. Have you identified him yet?’

‘We’re still working on that,’ Hunter said.

‘So this might help.’ She retrieved a document from the counter behind her and handed it to Hunter. ‘The reason his heart failed earlier than a healthier one would have was because he suffered from mitral stenosis, which is a narrowing of the mitral valve in the heart. This forces the heart to work harder to pump blood from the left atrium into the left ventricle. With the immense pain he was put through, his heart would’ve had to speed up to supply his body with more blood. Because of his condition, his heart was fatally overworked sooner.’

‘How much sooner?’ Garcia asked.

‘I’d say about forty to fifty percent.’

‘He could’ve lasted double what he did?’

The doctor nodded. ‘A healthier person like you probably would.’

Garcia shook away the chilling sensation that trickled down the back of his neck.

‘A person with his condition would, most probably, be checking in with a cardiologist every few months just for precaution,’ Doctor Hove said.

‘Thanks, Doc,’ Hunter said. ‘We’ll start checking right away.’

‘Unfortunately the body is a forensics black hole,’ the doctor concluded. ‘If there were anything to be found, the sodium hydroxide ate it away. Not even bacteria would’ve survived.’ She coughed to clear her throat. ‘If you are considering looking at this from a drug angle, I can tell that he wasn’t a drug user, or if he was it was purely recreational and he hasn’t touched anything in at least a week.’

Hunter knew that would be the case, but he sensed a flicker of hesitation in the doctor’s demeanor. ‘Is there something else, Doc?’

‘I’m confused about something,’ she said. ‘Even though the victim went into cardiac arrest quicker than a person with a healthier heart would have, the sodium hydroxide solution should’ve carried on eating away at the tissues and dissolving his body until there was nothing left. It didn’t. It stopped just as it was reaching muscle tissue.’

‘Just as he died,’ Hunter said.

‘I would say so, yes. Which suggests the killer emptied the torture tank and got the victim out of there as soon as he passed away.’

‘That’s probably what he did,’ Hunter agreed.

‘But why? And why dump the body in an alleyway? If the killer had left the victim in the tank it would’ve dissolved the body. Evidence problem solved. Why give the police something to work with?’

‘Because the killer wants to make sure we take him seriously,’ Hunter replied. ‘Without a body, we have no proof that what we saw over the Internet wasn’t just a graphics trick.’

‘Or someone acting it out,’ Garcia added. ‘The water inside the tank went bloody really quick, Doc. All we could see was the victim’s face, nothing else. We assumed he was in tremendous pain, that his body was dissolving, but it could’ve been somebody acting it out, playing a big “you-got-punked” hoax on the LAPD.’

‘The intention was also for the body to be found fast,’ Hunter said. ‘Hence the location where it was dumped – a back alleyway used by several shops. Garbage collection was today, early morning. I’m sure the killer knew that.’

‘So he gives you the body to prove that the whole thing wasn’t staged,’ Doctor Hove said.

‘That’s the idea,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘Because now we know he’s for real.’

Fifteen

Christina Stevenson opened the door to her single-story house in Santa Monica and switched on the lights. The brightness that flooded her living room made her wince, and she quickly used the dimmer to bring the intensity down. Her headache had started in the middle of the afternoon, and after several long hours in front of her computer screen it had now reached torturing phase.

She placed her bag on the floor by the door and rubbed her tired blue eyes for a moment. It felt as if her brain was melting inside her skull. Headache pills had had no effect. What she needed was a long shower, a large glass of wine and a lot of rest.

‘Actually,’she thought better of it, ‘champagne would be much more appropriate.’After all, all the effort she’d put into her work in the past few weeks had finally paid off.

In the now dim light of her living room, her eyes found the portrait of her mother on the shiny black console by the window, and she gave a smile full of sadness.

Christina had never met her father, and she never wanted to. She had been conceived in the men’s restroom of a nightclub in West Hollywood. Her mother was drunk. The guy she had sex with was high on drugs. They had met that night. He was good-looking and charming. She was lonely. After they left the restroom, she never saw him again.

When Christina was old enough to understand, her mother told her the whole story. She also told her that she couldn’t even remember his name. But her mother wasn’t a bad person. Against all her friends’ advice, she decided not to have an abortion. She had her baby daughter, and she brought her up on her own, in the best way she could. She saved every spare cent, and when Christina graduated from high school her mother had enough put away in a savings account to send her daughter to university. When, four years later, Christina received her diploma, there was no one prouder in that graduation ceremony than her mother.

That same night, her mother died in her sleep from a brain aneurysm. That had been seven years ago. Christina still missed her like crazy.

Christina walked into her open-plan kitchen and checked the fridge. She had a bottle of Dom Ruinart 1998 she’d been keeping for a special occasion. Well, this sure as hell was one. She pouted her lips, pondering.

‘Should I open it or not?’

It seemed a shame that she had no one to share it with.

Christina wasn’t married, and though she’d had plenty of affairs and flings, she wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment. She thought about it for a second longer and decided that right now there was no one she would’ve wanted to share that bottle of champagne with anyway. She reached for it, undid the wire seal and popped the bottle open.

Christina had been told plenty of times that good wines needed to breathe. She had no idea if the same applied to champagne, but she didn’t care either. She poured herself a glass and had a large sip – heaven. Her headache was already starting to fade.

Kicking off her shoes, Christina crossed the living room and took the corridor that led deeper into the house, and to her bedroom at the end. Her room was large and a lot more girly than she would like most people to know. Pale peach walls were complemented by a light pink ceiling skirting. Long floral curtains covered the glass sliding doors that led to her backyard and swimming pool. A pink dresser, complete with a mirror and dressing room-style lights, sat in the corner of the room. Her king-size bed, pushed up against the north wall, was overflowing with cushions and stuffed toys.

Christina placed her glass and the champagne bottle on the bedside table, attached her MP3 player to the portable stereo on the dresser and started dancing to the sound of Lady Gaga while undressing. Off came the shirt, followed by her jeans. She returned to her champagne and poured herself another glass, drinking half of it down before pausing in front of the mirrored wardrobe doors. The champagne was starting to have the desired effect, and she began dancing again while undoing her bra and slipping off her purple panties. Naked, she ran her hands over her breasts, pulled a sexy pose and blew herself a kiss in the mirror before bursting into laughter.

She unclipped the clasp on her diamond Tag Heuer watch, a present from an old lover, and as she pulled it off her wrist it dropped to the floor, hit her foot and slid under her bed.

‘Damn, that hurt,’ she said, bending over to massage her right foot. Without looking, she quickly swept a hand under the bed. Her fingers found nothing. ‘Shit.’

Christina got down on her hands and knees and brought her face about an inch from the floor.

‘There you are.’

The watch had slid toward the wall against the headboard. To reach it, she had to slide halfway under the bed. As she did, for no reason at all, her gaze wandered across the floor to the other side, and all the way to the glass sliding doors and the bottom edge of her long floral curtains. And that was when she saw them.