The Insulators by John Creasey

worth a job as a chef any day. I’d forgotten that mushrooms tasted so scrumptious and that minute steaks really melted in the mouth.” And later: “Darling, I don’t believe you did make this apple pie!” Soon, he put the Suite from Swan Lake on the record player and stood over her as she sat in an armchair, content and a little overfed. “Sweetheart,” he said. “I’ve a report to make for the VIPs, and I ought to go and do it. I’ll be back by eleven. Will that be all right?”
    “Of course,” she answered. “It will give me a chance to do some chores.” By ‘chores’ she meant some personal laundry and mending.
    Instead of suspecting the truth, she was actually glad; work even in this tiny apartment did pile up.
    She had to scurry to finish by ten-to-eleven, tidied up, and by a minute or two after eleven she was waiting. When another five minutes passed she was aware of their going, but not troubled.
    After ten minutes, she wondered whether she ought to call Philip’s flat, but all the telephones here were electronically controlled and if she showed any anxiety then the VIPs would learn from one of the computers. She did not want to appear over anxious.
    It was as that thought struck that fear followed, with a shattering blow. All contentment faded and she went cold. She began to shiver. He wasn’t coming back. This was the night he had chosen to escape.
    Oh, God! What could happen to him?
    Oh, dear God, how could he leave her without a word of warning? How could he be so cruel?
    She stood close to the windows, looking out, imagining figures in the shadows, moving forward as they had on Paul Taylor, but it was imagination. No one was outside. It was a wet and windy night, perhaps that was why he had chosen it.
    How could he—
    She stopped herself from these reproaches; if he had had to go then he could not possibly have warned her, lest she should show her emotions and warn all those who watched.
    At half-past eleven, there was no sign of him.
    Nor by twelve.
    She had not the slightest doubt now that he had made his attempt and wondered, anguished, whether he had been caught already, whether he really had a chance, did not help. She made herself her usual malt drink, then went to bed, acutely conscious that he wasn’t with her; that he hadn’t made the drink for her as he usually did. She was obsessed by fear, and was sure she would not sleep.
    But she did sleep.
    And she was still asleep next morning when Ashley and Parsons with two other men opened the door of her apartment with a pass key. The first awareness of waking was of a hand at her shoulder, shaking vigorously, and when at last she opened her eyes there was bright sunlight, and she knew that she was late.
    Then Ashley asked in a cold, cruel voice: “Where is Carr? Where is he?” And after a pause he clutched her shoulders and his fingers bit into the flesh with sharp and intended pain. “You know. And if you don’t tell us at once, we’ll thrash the truth out of you.”
    She remembered the attack on Paul Taylor.
     
    They took her out of her apartment to a small, barely furnished room, a strange room of mirrors. By the time she reached this room she was out of the shock, and knew that everything Philip had said about The Project was true. Philip’s disappearance had shaken them so severely that they gave up all pretence. These were evil men. She would never be free from this place; might not even get out of this room alive.
    A man she did not know asked in a cold voice: “Where is Carr?”

 
6: The Thunder
     
    Janey gasped: “I don’t know, I don’t know!” And it was the simple truth. The awakening and all that had followed brought terror but the question, repeated, relief and elation, for Philip must have got away.
    The man in front of her, not Ashley, not Parsons, had the thinnest lips and the thinnest face she had ever seen in a man. He had a long, hooked nose and hooded eyes and a high, domed forehead, the thin, grey hair