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Back The Dead Line
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. By the Same Author
  3. Dedication Page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Also Available by Holly Watt
  87. The Hunt and the Kill

‘No,’ said Casey sadly. ‘I don’t suppose she will. Did Shamshun get the number Romida was calling from?’

Savannah read it out. ‘It’s just a Bangladeshi mobile.’

‘I’ll see what I can do with it,’ Casey said. ‘How many women did Romida think were being held there?’

‘Only four or five,’ said Savannah. ‘At the moment. The women said other girls have been taken somewhere else. They are sleeping on mats on the floor. There’s only one bed, which some of them share. But they can’t open the windows, Romida said. And the lights are only switched on a couple of hours a day.’

Casey stared out of the window of the Four Seasons. ‘Savannah, how old is Romida?’

There was a pause.

‘Thirteen,’ Savannah said quietly. ‘Her mother said she’s thirteen years old.’

‘Right,’ said Casey, because there was nothing else left to say.

‘Casey.’ Savannah’s voice was urgent. ‘You’ve got to get these fuckers, OK? You have got to find these girls. The police won’t do anything here, you know that. Shamshun was beside herself when she was talking to me. And there is nothing she can do.’

‘I will,’ Casey promised. ‘I’ll do everything I can.’

‘All right,’ said Savannah. ‘You do that. For Romida.’

Savannah rang off. And Casey sat there for a long time, in the elegant suite of the Four Seasons, trying not to scream.

7

7

It was a grey day in London. Miranda dragged open the door to the sagging shed at the bottom of the garden. Loose on its hinges, the door screeched over the paving stones and then stuck hard. The shed smelled of damp and mushrooms. Miranda peered unenthusiastically at grimy bottles of weedkiller and half-empty paint pots.

Sighing, she reached for a heavy pair of gloves, a small gardening fork and a sack of compost.

There was the pretty sky-blue watering can she had bought during an eager trip to the garden centre just after they moved in. It sat next to a piece of broken trellis, covered in dust and spiderwebs. Miranda glanced at it resentfully.

Hurrying now, she made her way through the house. There were four terracotta pots by the front door, all of them filled with dead plants.

Miranda dumped down the compost and stared balefully at the selection of plants she had bought from the nursery the day before. She began to scratch at the surface of one of the terracotta pots.

‘You’re going to do what?’ Tom had stared at her in surprise that morning.

‘I’m going to do some gardening.’ Miranda had met his eye firmly.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be working?’

I’m going to save my marriage.

‘I’m going into the office a bit late. They won’t mind.’

‘And are you sure you know how?’

‘Of course,’ she had lied.