Allison frowned. The words were hard, deliberately cruel but the tone was wrong. An actor reciting a part without any real feeling. ‘Why are you doing this? I thought we were friends.’

The knife wavered as Portia’s hand trembled. ‘We were friends.’ She shook her head and tightened her grip. ‘You couldn’t possibly understand so there’s no point in wasting my breath. Suffice to say, we were searching for someone, and you fit the bill. I told you how much we missed Amy, didn’t I?’

‘Your daughter who went to the States? I don’t understand.’ How many days since she’d eaten? The weakness was making it hard to concentrate, making it difficult to understand.

‘I knew you’d be perfect from the first day we met; you’re so unbelievably gullible.’

Was she? Portia and Stuart, Jo, even Peter. Gullible, sad, desperate, bloody pathetic. ‘There’s no daughter.’

A slight nod of agreement before Portia waved the tip of the knife around the room as if casting a spell. ‘There’s no daughter. There was, however, a young woman called Amy. She was the previous occupant of this suite.’

What happened to her? The words were on the tip of Allison’s tongue, but she didn’t ask, didn’t want to give Portia the satisfaction of telling her because it was obvious from the hard glint in her eye that her predecessor was dead.

Portia used the knife to point to Allison’s face. ‘That bruise looks painful.’

Allison put a hand to her cheek. ‘You beat me up.’

‘No, we’re not guilty on that count. You struggled, far more than we’d anticipated, and fell down a few stairs. Luckily you didn’t do any major damage—’

A surge of anger made Allison tense. ‘You don’t count broken ribs?’

‘Broken ribs?’

‘At least one, possibly two.’

‘They’ll heal. In a week or two.’

It was probably a hangover from the drugs, the lack of food, or the continuous simmering pain from her injuries, but Allison was confused by Portia’s expression; she looked almost pleased. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on.’

‘You don’t need to understand; you just need to behave.’ Portia waved the knife up and down Allison’s body. ‘Now, since my clothes wouldn’t fit, and unless you want to remain wrapped in a sheet forever, I’m going to go and fetch you some clothes. The ones you were wearing when you arrived became a little torn during your journey.’

‘Torn?’ Allison knew she was lying.

‘I suppose “cut off” is more appropriate. Stuart wanted to have a look at his prize.’

She thought of lying there, helpless and naked, while that little toad of a man leered over her, maybe touched her with his long, bony fingers. She’d make them pay. If it was the last thing she did.