He arranged Hayden on the bed, laying him on his back with his arms by his side, and then he lit candles. The bedroom seemed to pulse and glow in the soft, forgiving light. Only then did he feel comfortable peeling off his own clothes until he was naked. Ready on the nightstand was a pair of round-ended scissors. The kind used for cutting the clothes off patients in the hospital accident and emergency department.
He worked carefully, untying Hayden’s shoelaces and slipping off each of his trainers. He took the tip of each long sports sock and pulled so that the material stretched out like bubble gum before sliding off Hayden’s leg and foot and pinging back. He dropped them on the floor at the end of the bed. He ran a fingernail across the clean, soft sole of each bare foot, and Hayden gave a little moan. Tom set to work, slowly cutting him out of his jeans and T-shirt. He took care with the scissors when he sliced off Hayden’s white briefs on each side of the waistband. Then stood back and admired Hayden’s naked form, rolling him over onto his front and then back again. He was so muscular and lean. His body in that firm yet juicy stage that lasts fleetingly in the early twenties.
Slowly, he clambered up and lay on top of Hayden, their naked bodies touching. His older soft, crepey flesh molding around Hayden’s sculpted muscles. He lay there for a moment, slowing his breath until they were breathing in unison and he felt the hot thud of Hayden’s heart against his chest.
“Are you awake?” Tom whispered, his mouth close to Hayden’s right ear. Hayden moaned, and his eyelids fluttered. Tom sat up and peeled the gaffer tape off Hayden’s mouth from each edge and then pulled the oropharyngeal airway out of his mouth. Hayden swallowed, wincing.
Tom slapped him hard across the face and sat back, enjoying the thrill of hurting this tall, strong athlete. He slapped him again, harder. Hayden opened his eyes.
“Where am I?” he croaked, struggling to focus.
“You’re in heaven, or hell. It depends how willing you are to make me happy.”
14
Kate got up early the next morning for a swim and then had breakfast with Jake. They didn’t mention what had happened the night before, and he was enthusiastic to start work clearing out the shop and sorting everything for the dive and surf hire.
The delivery of bed linen arrived at ten, and after Jake had helped stack it in the office, he went downstairs to work in the shop, and Kate turned her attention back to Joanna Duncan.
The day before, she’d emailed Dr. Trevor Paulson about Famke van Noort, who had worked for him and his wife as an au pair. She found a reply in her in-box that was short and to the point. Dr. Paulson said he had lost contact with Famke after she went back to the Netherlands in 2004. He included Famke’s last known address in Utrecht and said that he was now retired and he’d told the police everything he knew, which wasn’t much, and to please not contact him again.
Kate googled “Famke van Noort, Utrecht.” Results came up for a “Frank van Noort” and an “Annemieke van Noort” on LinkedIn. Annemieke also had a Facebook profile, but the privacy controls were locked. There was only one “Famke van Noort” on Facebook, but on closer inspection, she was listed as “Famke van Noort （van den Boogaard），” which meant that “van Noort” was her married name. And this Famke van Noort was twenty-two, which meant that she’d been only nine or ten years old when Joanna went missing.
Kate tried a search through Google Netherlands, and lots more Famkes came up on LinkedIn, but none with the same name and right age. Just as Kate started googling the address in Utrecht, Tristan rang.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
Kate told him about the email from Dr. Paulson, and about her search. “I’m going a bit cross eyed from all the ‘Van’ surnames: ‘Van Spaendonck,’ ‘Van Duinen,’ ‘Van den Berg.’ There’s even a ‘Famke van Dam,’ as in Jean-Claude.”
“Ahh. Good old Jean-Claude Van Damme. I remember watching Universal Soldier when I was thirteen and realizing I might be gay. Did you know that van in Dutch means from the?”
“I didn’t know that,” said Kate, with one eye on the search results generated by the address in Utrecht.
“The actor James Van Der Beek’s name translates as James ‘from the creek,’ which is a weird coincidence, as he was Dawson in the TV show Dawson’s Creek . . .”
“I can’t find anything about our Famke. All I have is an email for an accountancy firm in the building where she lived,” said Kate, picking up her pen and noting it down.