Page 15 of Silent Scream

‘Excuse me?’ Bryant asked.

‘Well you’re obviously not from the missing persons unit, otherwise you’d know.’

‘Know what, Mrs Pearson?’

She harrumphed and crossed her arms across her chest. ‘That Professor Milton has not been seen or heard of for more than forty-eight hours.’

Nine

Nicola Adamson closedher eyes against the foreboding that washed over her as she put the key into the lock of the penthouse apartment. Despite her gentle touch the sound still seemed to reverberate around the hall; as did most things at two thirty a.m.

Myra Downs in apartment 4C would be out any second to see who was making all the noise. Nicola could swear the retired accountant slept against the front door.

As expected she heard the familiar sound of her neighbour’s deadbolt sliding across the bottom of the door, but she managed to curl herself into her own apartment before the one-woman neighbourhood watch committee spotted her.

Even before she hit the light switch Nicola could feel the difference in her home. It had been taken over, invaded. Although the space was still hers, she was having to share it all. Again.

She removed her shoes and padded through the lounge quietly, headed for the kitchen. Despite the visitor in the spare room she tried to maintain her own habits, her own routine, her own life.

She took a lasagne from the fridge and placed it into the microwave. Work always made her hungry and this was her routine; get back from the club, warm up a meal while taking a shower, then a bite to eat with a glass of red wine before going to bed.

Having to share her home was not going to change that. Nevertheless, she tiptoed across to the bathroom. She was tired and in no mood for drama.

Once in the bathroom Nicola breathed a sigh of relief. Each door she closed behind her was a battle fought and won. She pictured herself inside a computer game where the object was to clear each room whilst outrunning the enemy.

That was unfair, she chided herself as she dropped the clothes in a pile beside the walk-in shower. She had to adjust the temperature dial, which irritated her. Until a week ago no adjustment had been necessary. The dial would have been right where she left it.

She closed her eyes and lifted her face to meet the steaming water. The needles felt good on her skin. She turned away from the spray and craned her neck back. Within seconds the power shower had soaked her long blonde hair. She reached behind to the metal rack but found an empty space. Dammit, the bottle had been placed on the floor again.

She reached down and picked it up. The force of the squeeze sent a stream of shampoo onto the shower glass. Again she swallowed down the irritation. Sharing her space shouldn’t be so difficult, but it bloody well was. It was what she’d had to do all her life.

She could feel the tension in her shoulders. Tonight had not been a good night for her.

She’d worked at The Roxburgh for the five years since hertwentieth birthday and had loved every minute of it. She didn’t care if people thought her job was seedy or degrading. She loved to dance, enjoyed showing off her body and men paid a lot of money to watch her. She didn’t strip and there was no touching. It wasn’t that kind of club.

There were other clubs in the centre of Birmingham and every dancer at every one of them aspired to work at The Roxburgh. For Nicola it would be the only club at which she would ever work. She intended to retire from dancing when she reached thirty and pursue other interests. Her bank balance supported that plan.

During the last five years she had become the most popular dancer at the venue. She received on average three requests for private dances per night and at two hundred pounds a time it was not to be sniffed at.

She knew she was the anti-Christ for some feminists and to that she raised her middle finger. Women’s liberation for her was about the right to choose and she chose to dance; not because she was some vacant crackhead needing the money, but because she enjoyed it.

Even as a child she had enjoyed performing. She had strived for that individuality, that uniqueness that would set her apart, that would make people notice her.

But tonight she had felt dissatisfied with her performance. There had been no complaints from her customers; the Cristal had flowed and two bottles of Dom Perignon had been bought by her last client, making her boss a very happy man.

But Nicola knew. She knew that tonight her mind had not been fully on her work. She had not felt that total submission of herself, her mind and body, to the performance. To her it was the difference between Best Actress or Best Support.

She washed the conditioner from her hair and stepped out of the shower. She towelled herself dry and snuggled into the robe, enjoying the sensation of the warm fabric against her skin. She tied the belt around her waist and stepped out of the bathroom.

She stopped dead. For a moment she had forgotten. Just for a moment.

‘Beth,’ she breathed.

‘Who else?’

Nicola headed to the kitchen. ‘Sorry if I woke you,’ she said, removing the lasagne from the microwave. She took out two plates and halved the meal.

She placed one plate at her own seat and the other opposite.