Silent Winter
Silent Winter
Maggie James
Table of Contents
Title Page
Part One | Hell
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5 - Before
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7 - Before
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9 - Before
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11 - Before
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13 - Before
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15 - Before
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17 - Before
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19 - Before
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21 - Before
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27 - Present Day
CHAPTER 28
Part Two | Hospital
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
Part Three | Home
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
POSTSCRIPT
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY MAGGIE JAMES
PUBLICATION DETAILS
Part One
Hell
CHAPTER 1
Concealed by a thick hedge, the Watchman ignored the chill that struck up from the ground into his feet. His target was late in leaving work, but so what? Rick and he had waited twenty-three years to exact retribution, so an extra half hour made no difference. After tonight, time wouldn’t matter for their intended victim; a minute would seem a decade and then an eternity. Or so the Watchman hoped.
His grip tightened around the crowbar clenched in his palm, his gaze fixed on the third-floor window, which hosted the only illumination visible. After a few minutes, the window went dark, and the Watchman exhaled a noisy sigh of satisfaction. Before long his plan would become a reality.
‘Bring it on,’ he muttered.
Seconds later, a man left the building, his breath white plumes in the night air. He headed towards his car, never noticing the dark-coloured van parked next to the hedge. The Watchman crept forward, knowing the security cameras covering the car park were defunct. His rubber soles made no sound as he advanced, cat-like, on his prey. Anticipation pounded through his veins. The moment Rick and he had waited for so long had arrived.
He raised his right arm.
Then crashed the crowbar into the man’s skull.
CHAPTER 2
Holly Blackmore paced the kitchen, anger drumming a staccato beat in her brain. The spaghetti Bolognese she’d eaten weighed heavily in her stomach; Drew’s portion was congealing in the microwave. The red digits on the oven clock mocked her; five past eight, and still no sign of him. Her husband had never been this late before, although seven thirty wasn’t uncommon. She’d heard all the excuses about how his deadline to deliver the firm’s latest app was looming, etc. Holly no longer believed his reasons for coming home late, not given everything else that was wrong between them.
Why the hell hadn’t he called? Or at the very least, texted?
Not for the first time a thought gripped her. Was he having an affair?
Holly’s heart squeezed in pain. Three years into their marriage, and her love for Drew still flared hot and strong, the way it had on their wedding day. She wasn’t so sure it was mutual anymore.
She chewed the skin around her nails, her feet marking a steady pace across the floor, eyes glued to the oven clock. Eight ten, and still no sign of her husband.
Had she scared him off by what she’d said that morning? But damn it, she was twenty-six, the same age as Drew, both of them young and healthy. The time was right for them to have a baby.
Eight fifteen. Her hands shaking, she grabbed her mobile, found Drew’s number and placed the call. Within two rings it went to voicemail.
‘Where are you? Why didn’t you call to say you’d be late?’ Angry barbs laced Holly’s tone, but she was past caring.
‘Selfish, irresponsible git,’ she muttered. The fury that had percolated inside her all day, ever since Drew slammed his way out of the house that morning, was now brewed to perfection, and he’d be getting it full force the minute he stepped through the door.
Five minutes later, still with no sign of her husband, Holly called her brother-in-law’s mobile.
Todd answered straightaway. ‘Hey, Hols. How’re you doing?’
‘Is Drew with you?’ Say yes, she prayed silently. Maybe the two men had gone for a run together.
‘Not tonight.’ Her hopes shattered like glass around her feet. ‘He’s not back from work, I take it?’
Tears pooled in Holly’s eyes. She drove her fingernails into her palms, desperate to dispel her fear that Drew was with another woman. To her relief, her voice came out normal. ‘Not yet. And he hasn’t called. Or texted.’
‘He’ll be immersed in that project he’s heading up. Lost track of time.’
Damn you, Todd, Holly thought. Always Mr Logical. When she didn’t reply, he continued, ‘You know what a pig his boss is. Rides him pretty hard.’
‘Yeah,’ said Holly. ‘That’s what it’ll be.’ She ended the call, then burst into angry tears. Her fingers tugged at the microwave door, then pulled out Drew’s meal. With one swift motion, she flipped open the rubbish bin, sliding the food off the plate into its depths. Twin odours of meat and pasta lingered in its wake.
When her husband came home, she’d give him hell.
PAIN GRIPPED THE BACK of Drew’s head, jolts of fire that stabbed, hot and fierce, through his skull. For a while, he didn’t open his eyes, aware something was wrong, but he had no idea what. Waves of agony crashed over him, then receded, but he found that by lying still he could lessen their blows. He floated in a sea of blackness, reluctant to think about where he was, or why his head felt like a cricket bat had clouted it. He focused on his breathing, the regular one-two in and out of his belly, allowing the world to recede into another, less painful, dimension.
A memory edged into his brain. The night’s chill as he walked to his car. His urge for a beer—or several—at the Red Lion. After that, nothing. He couldn’t recall strolling into the pub, ordering a pint or chatting to any of the regulars. He must have done; why else would his head feel like someone had buried a meat cleaver in it? Somehow he’d made it home afterwards and into bed. Stupid, stupid, he chided himself. It had been years since he’d drunk himself into oblivion, and Holly would rip several strips off him. In a while, he’d use the bathroom, down a couple of paracetamols along with a load of water, and return to bed.
Without thinking, Drew lifted his head and at once regretted his folly. Agony drilled a channel into his brain, and a howl of pain escaped his lips. He lay back, concent
rating on his breathing until the pain faded. Then, with care, he opened his eyes.
And saw nothing.
Blackness surrounded him. Drew strained his vision, sure that his pupils would adjust to the darkness of his bedroom—because where else could he be?—and his wardrobe, his treadmill, the window, would appear. They didn’t. All that lay before him was an impenetrable nothingness, thick and never ending. His head hurt too much for him to question why, or to wonder where Holly was.
Entombed in the blackness, Drew’s eyes grew heavy. Sleep—that was what he needed. Screw the painkillers and water; the en-suite bathroom seemed a million miles away, not a few feet. He’d call in sick later and take whatever crap his boss dished out. He pulled the duvet closer around him, glad of its warmth. The darkness cradled him in a welcome cocoon, and he drifted back into oblivion.
CHAPTER 3
Ten thirty p.m. Exhaustion soaked every cell in the Watchman’s body, yet his mind operated in overdrive. Mission accomplished: Drew Blackmore lay shackled and helpless, at his mercy.
The Watchman’s legs were stiff after long hours seated on the stone floor outside his victim’s prison. Throughout that time he’d waited for signs of life behind the closed door. The makeshift sound-proofing he’d installed was only partly effective; in hindsight that wasn’t a bad thing. Now, as he listened, he heard noises: a soft groan, a muttered curse. Silence for a while. Then a howl of pain.
The Watchman’s face split into a wide grin. Curse and moan all you want, Drew Blackmore, he thought. Won’t get you nowhere. This ain’t the Ritz, and room service won’t arrive anytime soon.
He shifted position with a wince, his ears still on alert. Minutes later a loud snore, then another, rumbled into the darkness. Soon they subsided into heavy breathing that rasped against the night air. Still the Watchman lingered, reluctant to leave. He derived pleasure from listening to his victim sleep, oblivious of the true nature of his plight.
Delay made revenge taste sweeter, the Watchman decided. Not revenge, he reminded himself. Justice. And Drew had plenty more of that coming his way.
With an effort, he wrenched himself back to practicalities. Time to go; Drew would most likely be asleep for hours. The Watchman eased himself upright and onto his feet, grimacing at the protests from his calf muscles. He padded up the stairs and towards the exit.
Cold air blasted against his body as he opened the door. A hard frost had set in; thank God the weather had rendered the ground impervious to tyre tracks or footprints. The faint ones he’d already left on the icy whiteness would dissipate within hours of tomorrow’s dawn. Not willing to risk Drew escaping—although fuck only knew how his victim would manage that—he padlocked the door behind him. He climbed into the Transit van he’d stolen the day before and started the engine. Time to head to one of the rougher areas of Bristol and abandon it.
The Watchman smiled as he drove, thinking of the fun he’d have with Drew. Such gratification there’d be in listening to his victim’s screams, his pleas for release. He’d leave Drew to stew in his misery—no food or water for a couple of days—before making his next move. When the horror of his situation sank in, the Watchman wanted Drew to feel alone, helpless, abandoned. The way he and Rick had done, years before. After that—oh, how he’d enjoy playing with his new toy.
Ah, Rick. Too soft-hearted by far, that one. He’d have to be careful the little bastard didn’t go easy on Drew.
CHAPTER 4
Holly stared at the digital clock. Eleven p.m. and still no Drew. Anger, mixed with fear, churned in her gut.
She picked up her phone for the umpteenth time that night and called his number. Straight to voicemail. This time Holly didn’t leave a message. What was the point?
She briefly considered calling Todd a second time, but rejected the idea. At this time of night he’d be in bed with Nessa, who, as the mother of two toddlers, wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed for anything less than an emergency. Holly wasn’t sure her situation qualified. Not yet.
WHEN DREW AWOKE, THE pain in his head had eased a little. The intense darkness continued to puzzle him, though. Had Holly bought blackout curtains and not mentioned them?
Drew’s eyes strained into the void, but failed to discern any shapes. He couldn’t hear anything either. Normally he’d be aware of Holly beside him: the rhythm of her breathing, the occasional soft snore, the rustle of their duvet when she turned over.
He put out a hand, questing for the curve of his wife’s hip. Instead of flesh, it met with nothing. Perhaps, in her anger, Holly had slept in the spare room. Or perhaps she’d banished him there instead.
Wait. He’d heard something. A clank: metal upon metal, close to his ear, but he hadn’t a clue what had made the sound. What the fuck was going on?
Breathe, Drew, he told himself, as panic squeezed his chest. Perhaps he’d drunk too much in the Red Lion and banged his head on the way home, hence the ache that pounded through his brain. Why the blackness, though? The silence, broken only by that strange noise? Was this some weird nightmare?
Drew raised a hand to massage his skull, then stopped. Whatever had produced that clank of metal on metal was wrapped around his wrist. Realisation—cold and awful—slammed into him, followed by denial. Once the shock wore off, scream after scream ripped from Drew’s throat.
ONE THIRTY A.M. SAW Holly on the brink of calling the police. Or the local hospitals. Whatever his faults, not coming home at all wasn’t Drew’s style. She’d watched the red numbers on the oven clock tick up towards midnight, her anger boiling all the while, but once one o’clock came around, panic took over. All this time she’d been imagining her husband screwing another woman. Now her conscience was prodding her to examine alternatives.
Images flashed into Holly’s head. A car accident, Drew bloodied and broken in a hospital bed, surrounded by beeping monitors. Or worse, his corpse on a mortuary slab. The thought choked her. She sank to her knees, huge sobs wracking her body.
What if Drew was dead and they had screamed their last words to each other in anger?
The fear inside her swelled until Holly stood up, shoving it firmly back down. She needed to pull herself together, and fast. At times like this she wished she had siblings. That her parents hadn’t taken early retirement and moved to Spain. Holly refused to disturb them when she might be fretting over nothing. So whom could she turn to for help? Amber or Elaine from work? She hardly knew them; they’d shared a few coffees, the occasional lunch, nothing more. Long hours spent as a divorce lawyer afforded her little time for her former mates from school and university, and gradually she’d lost contact with them. Besides, after their wedding, Drew had filled her world. The result? In the chill of this dark November morning, she was alone with her fear.
This wasn’t the time for self-pity, though. ‘Get your act together, for God’s sake,’ she muttered, while searching for her phone.
She’d start with the hospitals. Her fingers shaking, she found the admissions number for Southmead, and placed the call.
Nobody who might be Drew had been brought in that night. The same story at the Bristol Royal Infirmary. Wherever Drew was, he wasn’t in hospital, at least not in Bristol.
Holly grabbed her car keys. Jonas Software Solutions was a five-minute drive away. It made sense to check there before getting the police involved. Besides, wasn’t she supposed to wait twenty-four hours before reporting someone missing? Or was that an American thing?
The night air slapped icicles against her face as she stepped through the door. Not a soul was around, apart from a stray cat sniffing a rubbish bin. Her fingers shook, hampering her efforts to press the ‘unlock’ function on her car key. Be alive, she begged Drew in her mind, because I need you. Maybe I should have told you more often.
Minutes later Holly swung her Golf into the driveway of Jonas Software, parking beside her husband’s car. Thank God; he must have fallen asleep at his desk. She surveyed the grim 1960s structure; no lights shone in any of the win
dows, including Drew’s office. She tried the main door, but it was locked. The reception area was equally dark. Holly’s breath, steamy in the night's chill, fogged the window as she peered inside. The building seemed deserted.
Holly fumbled in her bag, pulled out her phone. She called Drew’s number again in the hope his ring tone might awaken him at last.
No response. Wherever he was, Drew wasn’t asleep in his office. Then why was his Audi still parked up?
Fear gnawing at her brain, Holly returned to her car and drove home. Todd; that was the answer. He’d know what to do. His frequent insomnia meant he was probably still awake. The second she stepped through the doorway she tapped out a text. ‘Call me as soon as you get this message. Drew still isn’t home.’
DREW’S THROAT FELT raw, yet he continued to scream. By now consciousness had fully claimed him; he couldn’t delude himself some nightmare gripped him. No, his plight was terrifyingly real, and the thought petrified him. What the fuck?
Drew’s screams ground to a halt amid a riot of pain from his injured head. His breath rattled harsh from his mouth while he struggled for oxygen. An iron hand squeezed the life from his lungs, against which his heart hammered like a pneumatic drill. He gulped in air, but it wouldn’t penetrate the blockage in his chest. His throat was closing over. Had he been buried alive? Would he suffocate, alone and abandoned, in this hell-hole? No, no, no, he couldn’t die this way, dear God, just one breath, please...
With difficulty, Drew sucked in a scrap of air. Then another. His ribs ached, and his blood boomed in his ears, but he could breathe. Barely, but enough.
He assessed his situation. Thick chains encircled his wrists, linked to a metal ring bolted to the floor close to his head. He knew that for a fact, because he’d tugged, pulled and nearly wrenched his arms from their sockets, but he couldn’t free them. Enough leeway existed to cross one over the other, and to extend them fully on each side. His ankles were secured in a similar fashion.