Make Death Love Me by Ruth Rendell Page B

the police car turned off and at last he was approaching the Boltons’ house which was down a sort of lane off the Epping New Road. The place was as remote and lonely as he remembered it, but right outside the garage, on the miserable little bit of pavement that dwindled away into a path a few yards on, four men were digging a hole. They worked by the light of lamps run from a generator in a Gas Board van parked close by. Nigel thought he had better back the car out and pretend to be using the entrance to the lane only as a place for turning. It was only the second time he had got into reverse gear, and he bungled it, getting into first instead and nearly hitting the Gas Board van. But he tried again and managed a reasonable three-point turn, observing exultantly that there was no lock on the garage door and no padlock either. But he couldn’t park on the Epping New Road itself which was likely, he thought, to be a favourite venue for traffic control cars.
    He drove a bit further, stuck the Escort under some bushes off the Loughton Road, and went into a phone box to phone Marty.
    The receiver was handed to Marty by the pale red-haired girl who looked as if she were permanently kept shut up in the dark. She passed it to him without a word. He didn’t say anything to Nigel except yes and no and all right and see you, and then he went back to do as he was told and untie Joyce.
    She was cramped and cold and stiff, and for the first time her spirit was broken. She said feebly, ‘I want to go to the toilet.’
    â€˜OK, if you must,’ said Marty, not guessing or even wondering what it had cost her to lie out there for hours, controlling her bladder at all costs, hoping to die before she disgraced herself in that way.
    He went out first, making sure there was no one there, and brandishing the gun. He stood on the landing while she was in the lavatory. Bridey was out, and no light showed under Mr Green’s door. He always went to bed at eight-thirty, besides being deaf as a post. Marty took Joyce back and locked the door again with the big iron key which he pocketed. Joyce sat on the mattress, rubbing her wrists and her ankles. He would have liked a cup of coffee, would have liked one hours ago, but something in him had baulked at making coffee for himself in front of a bound and gagged girl. Nor could he make it now and keep her covered with the gun. So he fetched in a half-full bottle of milk and poured it into two cups.
    â€˜Keep your filthy milk,’ Joyce mumbled.
    â€˜Be like that.’ Marty drank his and reached for the other cup.
    â€˜No, you don’t,’ said Joyce, and swigged hers down. ‘When are you going to let me go?’
    â€˜Tomorrow,’ said Marty.
    Joyce considered this. She looked around her. ‘Where am I supposed to sleep?’
    â€˜How about on here with me?’
    The remark and the circumstances would immediately have recalled to Alan Groombridge’s mind Faulkner’s Sanctuary or even No Orchids for Miss Blandish , but in fact Marty had said what he had out of bravado. Being twenty-one and healthy, he naturally fancied pretty well every girl he saw, and in a different situation he would certainly have fancied big-busted long-legged Joyce. But he had never felt less sexy in his adult life, and he had almost reached a point where, if she had touched him, he would have screamed. Every sound in the house, every creak of stair and click of door, made him think it was the police coming. The sight of the unusable radio tormented him. Joyce, however, was resolved to sell her honour dear. She summoned up her last shreds of scorn, told him he had to be joking, she was engaged to someone twice his size who’d lay him out as soon as look at him, and she’d sleep on the sofa, thanks very much. Marty let her take two of the four pillows off his bed, watched her sniff them and make a face, and grab for herself his thickest blanket.
    She lay down, fully