The Insulators by John Creasey Page B

pictures, of one picture thrown against a mirror and then reflected a dozen times. It was a man – oh, God, it was Paul Taylor, being clubbed, and clubbed and clubbed again.
    Next, there was a woman.
    Soon there were men and women, so beaten, so bruised, so broken, that they seemed like limp rag dolls, not the human beings they had once been nor the lovely body that she was. She tried to close her eyes but could not, the pictures flashed in horrible succession, first the living then the dead.
    As suddenly as before all went still and quiet and dark. But soon lights appeared, and she could see the man at the desk and the darkened mirrors which gave little reflection. The man spoke gently. “Janey,” he said. “We don’t want to do these things to you.”
    She made herself say: “You’ve no right to treat me – anyone – like this. I’m just an employee, and—”
    “Tell us what you know and what you were plotting, and you need not worry,” he promised her.
    They had no right to treat her like this but she had no power to prevent them. She had no doubt that what she had suffered so far was nothing compared with what she could suffer at their hands. It was no use talking about right, all she could do was try to ease her own situation, and there was only one way she could do that – by telling them a little, enough to save herself but not to hurt Philip.
    And Philip had escaped.
    She gasped: “I don’t know anything, I wasn’t plotting. All—” she caught her breath.
    “Go on,” the man urged, softly. “Go on, Janey.”
    “All I know is that he once talked about this being like a prison, and of trying to escape.”
    “So he did? And how, without being overheard?”
    “He—he told me when we were in bed together. But I don’t know where he planned to go; I tried to persuade him not to try. I swear I did!”
    “Why didn’t you tell us before, Janey?”
    “I—I love him,” she managed to blurt out, aware of his cold gaze. That made her hesitate for a long time before repeating in a broken voice: “Because I love him so.” And then, belatedly, she went on: “Why should I tell you? I work for you. I’m not a slave.”
    “Janey,” the man said, “you should have spoken of this talk of prison.”
    She was broken enough in spirit to say: “I know, I know.”
    “Then why did you keep silent?”
    She said in an anguished voice: “Because I love him so.”
    There was silence. Soon, her fears flooded back and reached an agonising crescendo when the man behind her moved. But it was not to strike her. He released her wrist and draped a wrap over her shoulders. She clutched it at the neck to hide herself. At the same instant, a chair was placed behind her and the man who had threatened violence and pain now helped her to sit down. Another man appeared, with a tall mug of coffee, hot but not too hot to sip. It poured warmth through her veins and eased her fear; and she began to tremble from reaction.
    “I am inclined to believe you,” the man conceded in his gentler voice. “But you know now what will happen to you if you are ever caught out in a lie. This is no ordinary place, but those who serve faithfully are treated well.” He paused long enough to let the words sink in, with all their sinister implications, before going on: “We know that Philip Carr put a powerful sleeping powder into the malt bedtime drink you had last night. His fingerprints were found on the tin which contained it, and some of the drug was also found in his room.” He paused again, and when he spoke next there was a steely note in his voice. “Now listen and watch with great care. I want to know whether you have ever seen the men whose photographs will soon appear; or whether he mentioned any of their names in your hearing – indeed whether you have ever heard the names before, from Philip Carr or anyone else.” He paused again as she sipped, and the shivering passed: “Do you understand?”
    Philip must have meant her