Читать книгу Grievous Harm - Sandy Curtis - Страница 4

The sign above the front door said the brothel was legal.

The knot in John Corey's gut told him he would rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Leon Thompson elbowed him in the ribs and grinned. 'You can still have my girl if you want. Like I told you, she likes it rough. Gets off on a bit of pain, really bucks around.'

John shook his head. The thought of inflicting pain on a woman, even one who enjoyed it, repulsed him. Leon shrugged and walked into the reception area. His lanky body reminded John of a retriever, but the large teeth, fleshy lips and slate grey eyes were more fish-like than canine.

The room was better furnished than the nondescript brown brick exterior of the building would have implied. Pale grey velvet armchairs grouped in several small clusters around magazine-strewn coffee tables, full-length dark green curtains and a corner table with coffee and tea-making facilities were more in keeping with a private hotel than the kind of place John would have expected Leon to frequent.

'Good evening, Leon.' The voice of the voluptuous blonde behind the reception desk dripped honeyed welcome. 'Crystal is waiting for you.' Her eyes slid over John in a look that quickly assessed and approved. 'But, I'm sorry, your friend will have to wait a few minutes. Abagail is running a little late.'

'That's okay.' John was more than happy to wait. All night if he had to.

He took out his wallet, but Leon waved it away. 'I told you this was on me.' His grin turned sly. 'I've got a tab. Make sure you enjoy yourself.' He winked at the receptionist and walked through an archway into a corridor that branched to the left.

John sat on an armchair, picked up a magazine that spilled female flesh from every page, and hoped Leon wouldn't ask for a detailed account of his evening when they next met. He flipped through the magazine, looking but not seeing. He'd learned patience over the years, but befriending the Leons of the world sometimes took more than he felt capable of giving.

He'd flicked through a second magazine before the receptionist called softly, 'Abagail will see you now. Just follow the corridor to Room Six.'

The thick carpet deadened his footsteps as John walked slowly towards the room. The doorways into the rooms were set in alcoves that provided privacy from anyone passing. John had just reached the alcove for room six when he heard the clunk of a key being turned in a lock. He glanced up the corridor and saw a door further along on the opposite side slowly open.

A man in his sixties peered stealthily around before stepping into the corridor, closing the door and hurrying to what would have to be the alcove to Room Seven.

Odd. Someone with his own private key to get into the building. Someone whose clothing said if he bought off the rack it was only because it was the best rack in the city. Someone who could obviously afford the kind of prostitutes who came with a 'high quality escorts' label. He could be the brothel owner, but the furtiveness of his movements indicated otherwise.

With instincts honed by years of operating in situations like this, John followed. Just as he reached the alcove he again heard the clunk of a key unlocking a door, and caught a glimpse of the man withdrawing the key from the lock and pocketing it before entering the room.

John listened at the door for a while, but couldn't hear anything. He'd just turned to leave when he heard a cry. The kind of cry a man might make when confronted by something unexpected. Or shocking.

He hesitated for only a second, then grabbed the door handle.

It turned easily and he opened the door a fraction. Silence. Then a man's voice, low, urgent, rapidly rising then abruptly ceasing. John stayed motionless, listening. Soft sounds, like shoes thumping back and forth on carpet. A minute passed. Another male voice. The first man began arguing with the second. John could only make out a few of the words, but the anger in them was escalating.

The first voice suddenly cut off. There was a crash, quickly followed by a thud.

Then silence.

John wondered if there was a woman in the room. If she was in danger. Perhaps hurt. He waited. Damn, but he shouldn't be here. This wasn't in the job description. Stay close to Leon, find out everything, anything. Don't stick his nose in something outside his directive.

A door slammed. Inside the room.

It took only another second to decide. Cursing his lack of a weapon, he eased into the room.

To his right an open doorway revealed a small bathroom. Directly ahead was a large bed. A large bed with a small figure lying on it. A very still figure, almost covered by a white sheet. On the far wall, between two built-in cupboards, was a door. A door that could only be opened with a key.

He crept closer, senses alert, scanning for what had triggered the shock in the man's voice.

Apart from the figure in the bed, the room was empty. As he got to the bed and lifted the sheet away, his breath caught. The girl couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve, her body curled as though in pain. Her long blonde hair had fallen over her cheek and tendrils hung across her open mouth and disappeared into the neck of her white blouse. Her skirt, dark and thick with blood, was scrunched between her thighs. The stench of vomit hung fetid in the air.

Heart thudding madly, he bent forward to check her carotid artery for a pulse, and caught sight of something under the skirt.

Carefully, he edged the material away.

The foetus was probably of three or four months' gestation, its head over-sized in proportion to its body, its tiny fingers webbed with translucent skin, the umbilical cord still attached to the expelled placenta.

No pulse beat in the tiny body, just as no pulse beat beneath John's fingers where they lay on the girl's neck.

The lonely death the girl must have endured cut John to the core.

The door on the far wall began to open. John barely had time to run into the bathroom before it opened and a man rushed in. Through the gap between the jamb and the door John watched as the man kicked something on the floor and a large shard of ceramic vase skittered across the carpet. The man stopped at the bed and cursed. Still cursing, he pulled the sheets off the bed and wrapped them around the girl, then slung the bundle over his shoulder like a sack and hurried back the way he had entered.

The door clicked shut.