According to the paperwork, Waite lived in a first-floor apartment—second-floor if you were American—and the stairs stank. Alaric skirted a suspicious-looking puddle gleaming in the light from a single bare bulb and pushed open the door to Waite’s floor.
“Nice,” Ravi muttered. “Makes the apartment in Thailand look like a palace.”
For a moment, Alaric thought back to the hovel they’d shared with Judd and Naz for a few weeks, a cheap two-bedroom place chosen for its location rather than its decor. Yeah, it had been grim, but it had served its purpose, and at least the four of them had known how to use a bathroom. Thanks to Naz and his OCD, the place had reeked of bleach rather than piss with an underlying note of marijuana.
“Where’s Naz when you need him?”
“He wouldn’t have made it through the front door.”
Speaking of front doors, Waite’s looked as though it had been kicked in more than once and patched back together again. When Alaric nudged it with a foot, it wobbled.
Should he knock or not? After a moment’s hesitation, he rapped on the flimsy wood with his knuckles, then stood to the side as they waited. And waited. And waited. Nobody answered, and he didn’t hear any movement inside either.
Ravi reached into his pocket for the set of lock picks Alaric knew he kept in there.
“’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” By the time Ravi finished the second line of the poem, he had the door open. “After you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Inside the minuscule apartment, the only light came from unwashed windows, and the place had a feeling of stillness about it. Nobody home. Nobody alive, at any rate. Alaric sniffed the air. Sweat, the musty smell of unwashed bed linen, and a hint of damp. Nothing that indicated decomposition. He took that as a good sign.
But where was Waite?
Ravi opened the fridge. “Two cans of Red Bull, a jar of pickled beets, and an unopened block of cheese. Either Kevin’s not much of a cook, or he cleared out for a while.”
Alaric eyed up the tiny counter. Knife block, chopping board, empty fruit bowl. Two recipe books—100 Meals for Students and Family Favourites for Under a Fiver. The cupboard beside the fridge was stacked full of cans—chickpeas, baked beans, plum tomatoes, sliced carrots…
“It’s the latter. But where the hell has he gone?”
A possible answer came when Alaric flattened out a piece of paper from the trash can beside the desk. At some point, the printer had run out of ink, and the list of “50 free things to do in Marbella” had cut off halfway down the page. Had Waite gone on vacation?
It didn’t take long to search the apartment. The place was basically one room plus a bathroom not much bigger than an old-fashioned phone box. A logoed baseball cap and two polo shirts that smelled of fried chicken hanging in the closet suggested Waite worked at a fast-food joint along the street, and he didn’t own much else in the way of clothing. Jeans, tracksuits, half a dozen pairs of branded sneakers. According to the bank statements in the desk drawer, he was overdrawn, and he had indeed purchased airline tickets recently, plus paid three hundred Euros and change to a hotel booking website. His phone bills showed texts and calls to Gemma’s number, hundreds a year ago, plus a dozen or so in the last month. Recently, another number had borne the brunt of his obsession, it seemed. Alaric photographed each page for follow-up.
“Anything?” he called out to Ravi.
“Not unless you count the photos in his nightstand—twenty or so of two different brunettes. Cheap paper. Appears he printed them at home.”
“Posed?”
“Some of them. But the majority look covert.”
“Got pictures?”
“A nice selection.”
Then it was time to leave. Waite wasn’t there, neither was Gemma, and Alaric was conscious of Beth sitting in the car alone. Despite the fact that Waite was obviously disturbed, Alaric had bumped him down the suspect list.
“Let’s go. Waite feels wrong. He’s definitely got a problem, but I’m not convinced he’s our man.”
“Agreed. Pick up lunch on the way back?”
Ravi always thought with his stomach, but it was almost dinner time. “Sure. How do you feel about fried chicken?”
By the time they headed back to Judd’s place, Waite’s colleagues at The Chicken Hut had confirmed he was indeed sunning himself in Marbella for two weeks. Left last Friday, apparently, which put him out of contention for abducting Gemma. Could he have faked a vacation? Possibly, but yesterday, he’d sent one of his buddies a photo of himself burned to the colour of a baked ham, and there was no way he’d turned that colour in England, not in the last couple of days. The heatwave had given way to showers.
“Now what?” Beth asked from the back seat.
She’d wrinkled her nose when Ravi offered her a piece of chicken and muttered something about a salad instead. Alaric offered her a French fry, and she hesitated before reaching out a hand.
“Maybe just the one.”
“Take the bag. I got extra.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“You haven’t eaten today.”
“Because I’m worried.”
“Lesson number one—you have to eat, whatever happens. You need to keep your energy levels up. And in answer to your question, now we move to the second suspect on the list. What do you know about Ryland?”
“Hardly anything. Just that Gemma seemed happy with him at first, but then she gradually got more and more miserable. She mentioned one time that she always attracted the wrong sort of guy.”
“You said you saw him once—would you recognise him again?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Alaric hated to involve Beth, but he saw little choice at the present time. “Then tomorrow, we join a gym. That was where Gemma met him, right?”
“Both of us? Don’t you need to travel to America?”
“If you think I’m leaving you here to hunt for a possible kidnapper by yourself, you’ve got another think coming. We’ll find Ryland, and then we’ll go to the US. I’ll call Emmy and tell her we’ll fly commercial in a few days.”
“Are you sure? The painting…”
“Is less important than a living, breathing woman.”
At least, Alaric hoped Gemma was still living and breathing. Otherwise, he might have to brush up on some of his old skills.
Beth reached between the seats to touch him on the shoulder, and he suppressed a shiver at the contact. The effect she had on him…it wasn’t healthy.
“Thank you. I…I don’t know what else to say.”
“Like I said, we look after our own.”
“How was the parkour, Cinders?”
Alaric was sitting at Judd’s dining table with his phone and a glass of wine, checking Gemma’s social media accounts. She didn’t post much. There was no mention of Ryland, or Kevin, or any other man either, just the occasional cat meme and a bunch of “Happy Birthday!” messages from friends back in February. Mind you, if Kevin had been stalking her, then the lack of content made complete sense.
“Okay.”