up. There was a red
mark on her left cheekbone that would emerge as a big black bruise; her right eye
was half-closed. Dove walked over to the sink and ran some cold water into an orange
plastic washing-up bowl which he proceeded to pour over the young woman he had beaten
up more efficiently than he had ever beaten a man.
'That,' he said, 'is just a sample of what you'll get if you
don't give me some very quick and honest answers to a couple of questions. Do you
understand?'
She tried to say something, but the words came out in bubbles.
He grabbed hold of her wet hair and pulled it back over the chair so that she stared
up at him. 'Understand?'
This time she managed to whisper 'yes' before she started to
cough on the blood and he was obliged to let her head drop back to enable her to
clear her mouth. He spun the chair round so she was facing him.
'Where's Koller?'
'Don't know,' she whimpered. He slapped her, quite gently and
held her to prevent her falling out of the chair. When this happened she realised
that if she was going to survive, the truth wasn't good enough.
'Who are you?' She was playing for time while she tried to clear
her throbbing head and think of some plausible answers. It appeared that he really
did want to know where Hans was. For a moment she had been convinced he was a particularly
sadistic rapist with whom there could be no reasoning at all.
'Never mind who I am. Answer my question.'
'Beirut.'
'Where?'
'Beirut.'
'Yes, but where in Beirut?'
Out of her pain Ruth vaguely remembered that Beirut had French
connections.
'Rue....'
'Rue what?' He was standing beside her, pulling her hair again.
She put a hand, as weak as a child's, on his forearm to try and stop him.
'Rue Isa ... Isabelle,' she gasped. Her mind was clearing. A
moment ago it had been impossible to think of a single French name.
'What number?'
'48.' Year of her birth. That was easy.
Dove let her head go and she slumped down. He walked round until
he stood in front of her and then pulled the Webley out of the waistband of his
trousers. 'Look at me,' he said.
Slowly, she raised her eyes to find herself looking down the
hexagon-shaped muzzle of the pistol. On each side of the barrel she could also see
the business ends of two copper-jacket .38 bullets waiting in their chambers. Dove
held her head in his left hand as gently as a lover and kept the barrel just far
enough away from her mouth for her eyes to focus on it.
'If I find out you're lying I'll come back and kill you ... Are
you lying? This is your last chance.'
'No, no. It's the truth. Really, it's the truth. I swear it.
I'm not lying. He's a shit. He ran out on me.' She squeezed her eyes shut. She was
a child again, daring God to strike her down dead. She felt the cold metal against
her forehead and gave another little gasp. It stayed there for a long moment and
then went away. Her jeans went damp at the crutch, but she was too relieved to realise
what it was.
'Have you told the police this?'
'No.' Her mind was clear now. If she'd told the police and the
address was correct Koller might have been caught.
'Where's the cellar?'
She told him the entrance was under the stairs.
'Open your mouth.' He was behind her again, gagging her with
a tea-towel. Then he tied her hands behind her back with some nylon plastic washing-line
he found on a hook, led her down the cellar steps and seated her on the earth floor
with her back to the wall while he tied her ankles with more of the line. Her breasts
were now completely exposed because her buttonless shirt had been pulled even further
apart when her arms were bound. For the first time since he started hitting her
he felt a twinge of something close to compassion. He pulled the shirt together
and did up two surviving buttons. In doing so his knuckles skimmed her nipples and
he caught the fresh alarm in her eyes, felt her body tense. 'Don't worry,' said
Dove. 'Not with a bloody bargepole.'
For good measure he went back up to the
mark on her left cheekbone that would emerge as a big black bruise; her right eye
was half-closed. Dove walked over to the sink and ran some cold water into an orange
plastic washing-up bowl which he proceeded to pour over the young woman he had beaten
up more efficiently than he had ever beaten a man.
'That,' he said, 'is just a sample of what you'll get if you
don't give me some very quick and honest answers to a couple of questions. Do you
understand?'
She tried to say something, but the words came out in bubbles.
He grabbed hold of her wet hair and pulled it back over the chair so that she stared
up at him. 'Understand?'
This time she managed to whisper 'yes' before she started to
cough on the blood and he was obliged to let her head drop back to enable her to
clear her mouth. He spun the chair round so she was facing him.
'Where's Koller?'
'Don't know,' she whimpered. He slapped her, quite gently and
held her to prevent her falling out of the chair. When this happened she realised
that if she was going to survive, the truth wasn't good enough.
'Who are you?' She was playing for time while she tried to clear
her throbbing head and think of some plausible answers. It appeared that he really
did want to know where Hans was. For a moment she had been convinced he was a particularly
sadistic rapist with whom there could be no reasoning at all.
'Never mind who I am. Answer my question.'
'Beirut.'
'Where?'
'Beirut.'
'Yes, but where in Beirut?'
Out of her pain Ruth vaguely remembered that Beirut had French
connections.
'Rue....'
'Rue what?' He was standing beside her, pulling her hair again.
She put a hand, as weak as a child's, on his forearm to try and stop him.
'Rue Isa ... Isabelle,' she gasped. Her mind was clearing. A
moment ago it had been impossible to think of a single French name.
'What number?'
'48.' Year of her birth. That was easy.
Dove let her head go and she slumped down. He walked round until
he stood in front of her and then pulled the Webley out of the waistband of his
trousers. 'Look at me,' he said.
Slowly, she raised her eyes to find herself looking down the
hexagon-shaped muzzle of the pistol. On each side of the barrel she could also see
the business ends of two copper-jacket .38 bullets waiting in their chambers. Dove
held her head in his left hand as gently as a lover and kept the barrel just far
enough away from her mouth for her eyes to focus on it.
'If I find out you're lying I'll come back and kill you ... Are
you lying? This is your last chance.'
'No, no. It's the truth. Really, it's the truth. I swear it.
I'm not lying. He's a shit. He ran out on me.' She squeezed her eyes shut. She was
a child again, daring God to strike her down dead. She felt the cold metal against
her forehead and gave another little gasp. It stayed there for a long moment and
then went away. Her jeans went damp at the crutch, but she was too relieved to realise
what it was.
'Have you told the police this?'
'No.' Her mind was clear now. If she'd told the police and the
address was correct Koller might have been caught.
'Where's the cellar?'
She told him the entrance was under the stairs.
'Open your mouth.' He was behind her again, gagging her with
a tea-towel. Then he tied her hands behind her back with some nylon plastic washing-line
he found on a hook, led her down the cellar steps and seated her on the earth floor
with her back to the wall while he tied her ankles with more of the line. Her breasts
were now completely exposed because her buttonless shirt had been pulled even further
apart when her arms were bound. For the first time since he started hitting her
he felt a twinge of something close to compassion. He pulled the shirt together
and did up two surviving buttons. In doing so his knuckles skimmed her nipples and
he caught the fresh alarm in her eyes, felt her body tense. 'Don't worry,' said
Dove. 'Not with a bloody bargepole.'
For good measure he went back up to the
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