Free Stalkers by Paul Finch

eiderdown folded neatly back on crisp, golden sheets. However, none of this amazed her as much as the person occupying the room.
    He was a middle-aged man, but tall and well built, with grey at his temples and pale, handsome features. He was usually a very imposing figure; scrupulously neat, with a formal air and stern attitude which appeared to brook no nonsense, but at present, though he wore his normal pinstriped suit, his jacket and collar were unbuttoned and his tie hung in a loose knot.
    Despite this, there was no mistaking him.
    ‘Mr Blenkinsop,’ she said, hardly able to believe her eyes – new tears now appeared there, tears of relief.
    He gave a helpless shrug. ‘Hi.’
    Ian Blenkinsop was not part of Louise’s department at Goldstein & Hoff, but a director in Commodity Finance, two floors above her. She didn’t know him particularly well, but they’d been part of the same company long enough to be on speaking terms. He was now standing on the other side of the bed, in front of an oak-panelled door, next to what looked like a well-stocked drinks cabinet.
    She slammed the dressing-room door behind her and rushed towards him, jabbering frantically. ‘They … they grabbed me on my way home. I didn’t realise until it was too … there was nothing I could do … I’m so, so sorry … honestly, there was nothing …’
    He nodded patiently, but seemed rather nervous. He was breathing quickly; sweat glinted on his brow – which was not his normal form. Ordinarily, Ian Blenkinsop was a man of poise, a smooth operator from whose fingertips multi-million-pound deals flowed on a daily basis. But why was
he
here? The question hit Louise hard. He was a banker, for Christ’s sake! Why was
he
the one who’d been sent to find her? Unless …
    ‘Oh my God,’ she breathed. ‘Did they get you too?’
    ‘Er …’ He half-smiled. ‘In a way, yes.’
    ‘Oh … Jesus!’ She put her fingers to her brow as it furrowed with disappointment. She wasn’t saved after all. Still, if nothing else, at least here was a friend, an ally, someone to share the ordeal with.
    ‘Who … who are these people?’ she said, trying her damnedest not to start crying again. ‘I mean …
who
?’
    ‘I don’t know. Listen, come and have a drink.’
    To her bemusement, he turned to the cabinet. On its shelf there was a bottle of champagne, which he’d uncorked, and two glasses. He’d already filled one and now filled the other. He came around the bed and offered it to her.
    ‘Are you serious?’ she said, ignoring it. ‘Don’t you think we should be trying to get out of here?’
    Still he pushed the drink towards her. ‘I know this has all been a bit of a shock for you, Louise, but if you play along it’ll be a lot easier.’
    ‘“Play along”?’ Confusion made her tone shrill. ‘What the hell do you mean?’
    He drained his own glass and placed hers on a sideboard, before sitting on the bed and patting the mattress next to him. ‘Come here for a minute.’
    ‘What? Mr Blenkinsop … what are you doing?’
    ‘Louise, there’s no point trying to resist. These people are professionals.’
    ‘You
know
them?’
    He stood up again, frustrated, pacing the room. ‘You haven’t guessed what this is about yet?’
    ‘Am I supposed to have?’ In the midst of her fear, she was completely bewildered.
    ‘You should just accept the inevitable.’ His voice had hardened, but he eyed her up and down as if noticing her attire for the first time and appreciating it a great deal. ‘You look good, I must admit.’
    She backed away from him. ‘You’re not a prisoner here at all, are you?’
    ‘You want the truth?’ He stared at her, glassy-eyed. Suddenly he’d dropped all pretence at friendship. He looked cold, indifferent. ‘It’s the first time I’ve done anything like this here in the UK. But why not? Every day I create wealth and jobs for others. Society owes me so very much, so if I see something I want, why shouldn’t I