Torn Read online

  Also by Anne Randall

  Riven

  Silenced

  Torn

  Anne Randall

  Constable • London

  CONSTABLE

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Constable

  Copyright © Anne Randall, 2017

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-47212-277-3

  Constable

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  For Don

  Contents

  Then

  The Search

  The Trial

  Now

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  THEN

  Sunday 27 June, 2004

  The Search

  It was stoking her own hope, trust, and sure and certain knowledge that Amy was alive, which exhausted her. If, in some unguarded and unarmed moment, she let a splinter of doubt pierce her resolve then she would be defeated and something dark, something sticky and awful would bleed into her consciousness. No, better to keep herself armed with certainty until the city and the cruelty of its river told her otherwise.

  Rachel Dawson stood on the bridge and watched the police divers search the River Clyde.

  A softly spoken family liaison officer had informed her gently that the police had specialist resources, that they would follow up every lead while uniformed officers would continue to conduct city-wide inquiries. But Rachel knew that the combined time, money and resources of the special support units screamed quietly that they were looking for a body. They were convinced that Amy was gone. Rachel knew that they were not looking for her bright, vibrant daughter, but for an empty vessel. They weren’t searching for Amy, they were looking for a corpse.

  Rachel had passed a reporter staring into a camera lens, had heard him confidently tell the television audience, ‘Amy Dawson was last seen leaving her flat at 7 p.m. on Friday 25 June.’ Rachel knew that he would show the grainy CCTV image of Amy’s car travelling along London Road at 7.23 p.m. She heard him continue, ‘The last confirmed sighting of Amy’s car suggests that it was heading towards the Campsie Fells. Detectives from Carmyle Station are working on building a picture of Amy’s last movements after she left her flat in Prosen Street in the East End of the city. Amy was last seen wearing a white cotton summer dress and black sandals.’

  Rachel knew that the picture she’d given the police was a good likeness. Amy smiling into the camera, brown eyes, short, dark hair, a silver nose stud which glittered like a talisman.

  Sometimes it is better that the city gifts us her secrets, however dark and unpalatable they may be.

  Wednesday 8 September, 2004

  The Trial

  ‘DARK?’

  ‘SUBVERSIVE?’

  ‘DEPRAVED?’

  I watched the defence. Mark Ponsensby-Edward, QC, allowed a lengthy pause between each word. He was six foot four of sinewy muscle and sarcasm. After the first day of the trial, I’d googled him. He was from a prominent family, had excelled at rugby as a youth and had chosen his career path to sate a desire for adversarial debate rather than from financial necessity. His hair and moustache were prematurely white, the result of a teenage skiing accident which had left him temporarily paralysed. He’d recovered but had been left with a pronounced limp.

  When he stared at me, I believed that he saw straight through to my bones and, given his sour expression, he didn’t like what he saw. His nails were long, his bony hands, claw-like. His teeth were small and perfectly straight apart from the two incisors which tapered to unusually sharp points. A modern-day Dracula, he sucked the life out of his opponent’s argument.

  ‘I want you to consider the thrall that bondage and discipline, dominance and submission and sadism and masochism, held over both Marcus Newton and Amy Dawson.’ His voice echoed around the silent courtroom. ‘Marcus Newton openly admitted that he took pleasure in disciplining Amy Dawson but Ms Dawson was a very willing participant. Remember that it was Ms Dawson who first made contact, she was the instigator of their relationship. Remember too that she had been an active member of the BDSM community for many years. We have heard evidence that she regularly demanded the use of leg restraints, handcuffs and erotic asphyxiation to satisfy her craving for submission, a fantasy that my client and Ms Dawson explored together. A fantasy that she continued to explore with a great number of partners, long after she split from Marcus Newton. The prosecution’s case is severely flawed, there is no concrete evidence that Marcus Newton was with Amy Dawson on the night she died.’ Ponsensby-Edward waited, poised, a magician expecting applause. As if the court were a stage and he had magicked the brutal, enticing images from a dark abyss
.

  Previously I’d listened to the prosecution, Advocate Depute Duncan McConnell, QC. Google hadn’t had so much on him. He was a bit of a hermit. Lived for his work. Unmarried. No scandal. He’d spoken in a voice that was full of outrage, had appealed to our humanity. It was a pity I had none. ‘It was a torture chamber, nothing less. Despicable acts of sadomasochism were repeatedly inflicted on Amy Dawson, until that fateful night when Marcus Newton decided to act out his murderous fantasy and finally kill her in cold blood.’

  Lacking Ponsensby-Edward’s passion and charisma, McConnell had stumbled over his words at one point. ‘Amy was a sexually adventurous woman who joined the BDSM community looking for fun. What happened next was that Marcus Newton preyed on her and exploited her for his own pleasure. In effect, he denied her the oxygen of self-esteem and continued to control her in increasingly barbaric ways.’

  I and my fellow jurors listened as the evidence was presented. We accepted the graphic, explicit photographs that were circulated to us and the judge. In the first one, a naked woman was bound, the ropes around her wrists attached to a hoist. A bar between her ankles ensured that her legs remained open. Around her neck, a thick leather collar. I was enthralled and listened, fascinated, while McConnell fed us the tantalising details. ‘This image was recovered from Marcus Newton’s mobile phone and shows a woman in the act of strappado.’

  My heartbeat quickened.

  ‘As part of the BDSM community, Marcus Newton would have been familiar with this practice. Strappado has its origins in medieval torture and the bar fixed to the woman’s ankles, known as a spreading bar, would have been placed there with the express intention of keeping her off balance. Whoever held the rope had total control over her. This physical control was a precursor to the psychological control Marcus Newton used to dominate and exploit women.’

  My mind was in turmoil. As the trial progressed, I became aware of the difference in my and my fellow jurors’ reactions to the images. I heard deep sighs, saw hands being wrung, an uncomfortable shifting in seats. I’d tried to mirror their actions but was acutely aware that I was aroused. I had to be careful. I recalled how a psychology lecturer at college had once explained how easy it was to reveal our true selves through body language. I dutifully stared at the photographs, resisted the desire to lick my lips and trace a finger over the images of the naked women. Instead, I calmly folded my hands on my lap, forced myself to remember what the lecturer had said, that the usual response, when confronted with images for which one feels distaste or repulsion, is that the pupils of the eyes become constricted. I knew better than to meet the gaze of either QC; I was certain that my pupils would not be constricted, but instead would be dilated, the common reaction when one is excited. My mind became a fantastic kaleidoscope of disturbingly thrilling images and, as I tuned out of what was being said by the defence, I allowed these images to loop and play endlessly in my imagination. Bliss.

  Finally, the closing statements were delivered and the judge made a short speech. Then, we, the jury, were taken from the court and led to a cramped, airless room. I desperately wanted to be back in my flat, alone with my thoughts and the dark sexual images. Instead, I hovered around a table set with tea, coffee and biscuits. Busied myself pouring coffee, listened to John, the foreman, speak. Heard the disgust in his voice as he asked, ‘Well, everyone? What are your thoughts?’

  ‘Such shocking images,’ said one juror. ‘And the poor mother sitting in the room, having to hear all of it.’

  ‘The photographs are seared into my mind,’ replied another.

  And so it continued.

  ‘How can I ever forget?’

  ‘Dreadful.’

  I sipped my coffee, thought of the women in the photographs, felt a rush of excitement and desire. Kept my voice neutral, emotionless. ‘Appalling. Just appalling.’

  That night in my flat, I’d turned on the news, heard a reporter state what I already knew – Marcus Newton had been found guilty. A few seconds later, he finished by stating that, ‘the murder of Amy Dawson was a cruel and unforgivable act.’

  I flicked through the channels, another reporter mid-sentence: ‘. . . and in this case, role play, at the hands of depraved Marcus Newton, led to something far more sinister.’

  I opened my laptop, found the website and downloaded the video. Strappado. Just like in the photographs at the trial, the women were naked, bound to hoists, their legs forced apart by bars. I felt my heartbeat quicken, my palms become moist. I was instantly hard. I knew that the trial had been life-changing, that I was not the same person who’d entered the courtroom a week earlier. For me, the exquisite carnal journey was only just beginning.

  NOW

  Chapter One

  Tuesday 8 July, 2014

  The Actress

  Forty-five minutes in this heat, thought Karlie Merrick, and she’d be basted like a fucking turkey. The temperature was building steadily and there was no air con but she still couldn’t face the motorway. Couldn’t trust herself. Not today. Not the way she was feeling.

  Once she was clear of Glasgow, she turned the silver Volkswagen Golf towards Strathaven, kept her speed on the low side, switched on the radio, heard the Kill Kestrels, ‘Death of an Angel’. Turned up the volume. Tried to ignore the anxiety that gnawed in the recess of her mind. It had begun last night after she’d spoken with Steve Penwell. His paranoia had been infectious as he’d warned her, ‘What I’ve told you is gold. You need to be careful.’ For a moment she’d had hope, then he’d ruined it all by seeing faces in the curtain and talking about pirates. ‘Fucking pirates,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t know what to believe.’ But the old man had her so freaked that by the time she’d left the care home she’d checked the back seat before getting in the car. ‘Nuts,’ she’d muttered, ‘I’m going crazy.’ But, hands shaking, she’d made the call. He’d told her that he’d take care of it. They were meeting up later that evening, after she’d finished at the farm.

  Last night, when she’d been going to bed, she’d crossed to the window to draw the curtains and could’ve sworn that there was someone standing in the shadows across the road. She forced the image to the back of her mind, indicated and pulled out to overtake a lorry, accelerated. Just as she passed it she saw the turn-off for the farm. ‘Shit.’ She swerved left, barely made it in front of the lorry, shot off the road, skidded onto the dirt track, braked fiercely as she heard the squeal of brakes behind her, the rasp of the horn, as she made her way down the farm track, past the crumbling outbuildings. The whole place was a decrepit sore on the landscape and the old boy who owned it was so cash poor he’d been pathetically grateful for the opportunity to diversify. She felt the car bump down the track, on towards the huge, windowless, metal barn. She pressed a button and the car windows closed, keeping out the stink from the hundreds of battery hens shut up inside. She drove past another field before the three metal shipping containers came into sight. They were surrounded by junk, bits of old cars decayed beside a crooked crane, ancient farm machinery tilted against piles of building detritus, broken bricks and concrete slabs slumped next to rubble. Dirt and decay, the whole place was rotten. Again, images of a lone figure standing across from her flat curled and wove its way around her imagination, whorls of fear and sinister shadows. ‘Cut it out,’ she told herself as she parked beside a battered pickup truck, ‘You’re paranoid.’ She stepped out into the fierce heat.

  Ahead of her, a short, skinny man, whose face was set with deep lines, was leaning against a container. He was engrossed in watching a movie on his phone. He might have been watching a classic perhaps, or a favourite musical. If it wasn’t for the screaming. Then the voice pleading for it to stop. Her voice sounded tinny, it always did. She knew that Johnny Pierce was watching a film of her. Strappado. It had been shot at one of the empty hotels Gary Ashton had access to, shit places mostly.

  ‘Hey, Johnny.’ Heard her voice sound different in the sunshine, the wide open space. How normal it sounded in contrast to
the voice on the recording. He looked up. She heard herself scream and beg for forgiveness. Then the silence when a ball gag had been stuffed into her mouth. She knew the video ran for another twenty minutes. The spreading bar had been removed and leg restraints had been put on, then the whip had been used. Her legs had been sore for days after the shoot. Not just her legs.

  ‘This is shit-hot, Karlie.’ Pierce held up the phone. ‘Talent like this, you’re wasted here.’

  ‘You don’t need to convince me.’

  ‘You still looking to relocate to the States?’ he asked.

  ‘If I can.’ She saw him glance at the video again, knew in it nipple clamps were being fitted. ‘You never fancied going out there?’

  ‘Not sure I’d get in, small matter of a holiday I took a few years ago.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was a guest at that big hotel Barlinnie for a while. Her Majesty’s pleasure.’

  She walked to the container. ‘What for?’