policy is that we need a doctor’s note for medical leave beyond three consecutive days.’
Reginald King sighed. He hated the petty rules and regulations that tied him into his banal public existence. The woman on the phone couldn’t possibly comprehend that there were aspects of his life demanding more attention than his underpaid, under-appreciated and underwhelming job.
‘I’m aware of the terms of my employment contract.’
‘So, any idea when we might see you or have confirmation from your doctor?’ Sheila asked, her voice trailing off towards the end of the sentence.
King took a key from his pocket as she whined. ‘A few more days,’ he said. ‘Maybe a week. The virus has gone to my chest and set off my asthma.’
‘Gosh, that sounds awful. You know we have an open-door policy. Do call if you think you’ll need more leave. I’m sure the department head will be sympathetic.’
The Head of School in the Department of Philosophy would not be sympathetic, King thought. She would be as ignorant as ever, and the ignorant always failed to appreciate him. Just because he was an administrator rather than an academic, because his qualifications came from a university she chose not to recognise, because he hadn’t climbed the ranks through socialising and networking, she was not interested in him. Well, the Department of Philosophy could pay his wages while he had some time to himself. Professor Natasha Forge, the youngest Head of School of any department at the University of Edinburgh, would no doubt fail to even register his absence.
King unplugged the phone. Twelve steps down into the cellar he went, switching on the basement light and sliding a wooden panel in the wall to reveal a keyhole. Unlocking the hidden door and stepping inside, he rose twelve steps back up, parallel to the first staircase but concealed behind a layer of plaster, brick and sound proofing. At the back of his house was a secret space, windowless, silent, timeless. It was a place of beauty. He congratulated himself on how well he had designed it with pastel colours to soothe, with gently piped classical music, and art prints adorning the walls. Unless you surveyed the house inside and out, you would never know the back section existed. It was his island. He recited John Donne’s lines as he took a key to the last door. The great poet was right. He could not be entire, if alone. That was why he had gifted one fortunate person with the chance to accompany him on his journey. As he opened the door, the woman on the bed began to scream.
Elaine Buxton, recently presumed dead, the bones attributed to her corpse already laid out on an autopsy table, strands of DNA in code form swirling through cyber space so that her death could be formally recorded, cried out until her voice was hoarse.
‘Your gums are healing nicely,’ King said. He spoke softly to her. It was a point of pride that he didn’t lose his temper, no matter how much she screamed. Not so with the other woman. When he’d taken her, she’d scratched, bitten and kicked him so hard his groin had been agony for a week. She’d required no delicate handling. She had been beneath him.
‘Pleath, ’et me go,’ Elaine mouthed, the tears starting again. That irritated him, as he knew it would any man, but it was to be expected for a while. Until she learned to appreciate him.
‘In a week your mouth will have recovered enough to fit dentures, then we’ll commence speech therapy. It won’t be instantaneous but you’re a bright woman. You need another shot of antibiotics and more steroids. Please don’t fight me, I’m only trying to speed the healing process.’
Elaine began to shudder although the motion made no impact on the metal ankle and wrist cuffs with short chains, binding her to the bed. King took out two syringes. He was respectful when he touched her, would never cause unnecessary pain. She didn’t understand that yet, obviously believing that at any moment she might receive the same treatment as her decoy. It was a shame he’d had to kill the woman in front of Elaine, but it had all been part of the education process. She needed to know that he was capable of being strict. Every pupil had to be shown stick and offered carrot. Knowing that one’s teacher would not tolerate a failure to comply was an excellent motivator.
He stroked Elaine’s arm with his pale, silky hand. She shivered as their flesh made contact but did not tell him to stop. Perhaps, he thought, she was learning already. That was why he’d chosen her. Months of watching, waiting, consuming her days and nights from the shadows. Studying her. Real study with commitment, not the poor excuse for it that universities accepted these days, had borne fruit. She was perfect. Adaptable. Fast. No husband or children to distract her. He’d seen her pick up a set of legal papers at six in the evening and work all night, only caffeine for company, springing into court the following morning as if she’d slept ten hours. Then she’d go to the gym and work the tension from her body. There was no excess. She was driven, like him. Constantly improving.
That was why her choice of body double had been so ironic. King couldn’t have found a more dynamic opposite. All he’d needed was a woman of roughly the same age, height and build. The fact that she was a prostitute, stick thin (presumably from years of drug abuse) and barely able to string together a coherent sentence, had made it all the easier to dispose of her. He could have been kinder, but she wouldn’t listen when he’d tried to explain the service she was performing, giving him a life partner who was his perfect match.
He’d never even learned her name. As it was, she would forever be the missing Elaine Buxton. And Elaine Buxton, erased from the living world, belonged wholly and exclusively to him.
‘I could rename you,’ he said. ‘It might be an important part of the adjustment process. Compile a shortlist in your head of say three or four. You can explain why you selected each of them, then I shall choose the one I find the most pleasing. It’ll be a good way for us to move forward together.’
‘You’re crathy,’ she whispered as he withdrew the needle from her arm.
‘You shouldn’t use such base terms. But you’re upset and I’ll be lenient for a while.’
‘Wha’ ’id you do with the girl?’
‘You needn’t worry about her. At the end, her sacrifice made up for her wasted life.’
Elaine was staring at the area where he’d carefully laid out a vast sheet of plastic for the girl’s body. King had used an old car, hired from a sufficiently disreputable dealership that wouldn’t want any contact with the police, and kept it in a garage away from his home. One night he’d driven to Glasgow, picked up the girl who was soliciting in her usual spot (he’d been there several times to select the right one) and driven round a few streets to find a quiet place for her to earn her money. He’d found that concept amusing, even as he’d pressed the chloroform-soaked rag over her face. Earning money. That was all young women thought they had to do for a few pounds these days, believing that men existed to pay for them, that they simply had to don a short skirt and paint their mouths red. It was pitiful. And she’d wanted to charge him thirty pounds to put her filthy tongue inside his trousers. He was ridding the world of a scourge. He may well have stopped the spread of a dreadful disease by bundling her unconscious body under a tarpaulin and driving her away from her next customer.
It had taken immense physical effort to cart her into the hidden room. Down one set of stairs and up another had seemed like a genius plan when he’d conceived it. The reality was more cumbersome. Several times he’d banged her head hard on the steps, not that it mattered. He’d kept her body wrapped in plastic, but allowed her to breathe. Asphyxiation wasn’t the plan.
Elaine hadn’t liked it when he’d brought the girl in. Perhaps the tiniest hint of jealousy behind the melodramatic hyperventilation and wide-eyed head shaking, he’d thought. How could she ever have believed he would bring such a filthy, low creature into their lives?
King had returned the woman to consciousness long enough to obtain details of past fractures. Previous injuries could tell tales. The thickening of bones long after they’d healed could reveal an unhelpful story, even if all the DNA had been destroyed. She’d been remarkably forthcoming. He’d just had to promise he’d let her live if she provided the information he wanted.
In