She wondered about Tasha's past. Who was the woman who almost became Mrs Phillips? The DI didn't know her name and, even worse, had never even thought to ask. Her thoughts returned to the night in the restaurant when Tasha had begun to open up but they had been interrupted. She recalled her own embarrassment and how she had cut the psychologist short. It hadn't been fair and she regretted it now.
She left the office for a meeting with Peterson which she anticipated would not be easy. His increasing desperation was obvious, as was Yvonne’s determination.
“Please Sir, I know I can do this.”
“You’ll have to be wired to the hilt...”
“Fine.”
“The back up team will need to have visual contact at all times.”
“Of course.”
“No unnecessary risks and no heroics…”
“Goes without saying.”
“Well, if you’re sure then it seems as good a method to bring him in as any but I want you working closely with Natasha. I don’t want there to be any accusations of entrapment: I remember only too well the bloody fiasco around the Rachel Nickell enquiry.”
“Those mistakes were understandable and everyone has learned from them.”
“Just keep it tight. How do you know you can get him to meet you?”
“I’ve been gaining his trust over the last month or so.”
“Even while you were on leave?” Peterson raised an eyebrow. Yvonne looked down at her shoes.
“And he doesn’t have a clue about your motives?
“I’ve been very careful, sir.”
“Then set it up.”
Yvonne nodded and turned for the door, a spring in her step.
“Oh…and Yvonne?”
“Sir?”
“Keep me informed.”
“Sir.”
96
Tasha’s colour had deepened considerably while she’d been away. The white of her beautifully pressed cotton shirt only served to emphasise this. Yvonne stood behind her, eyes fixed on the area above the collar and below the hairline. That dark, slender neck.
Tasha, suddenly aware of another presence, turned fast enough to catch the DI with a glazed expression in her eyes. Her own eyes took on a sparkle.
Yvonne coloured. “Welcome back,” she said softly. Tasha rose to take her in: the mussed blonde hair; the colour in her cheeks; the tremble in the hands and the striking blue of her eyes. She had missed her and she realised that this must be written all over her face but she couldn’t help herself.
They stood like that for several seconds, each taking the other in. Finally, Yvonne broke the silence of her tiny office, closing the door behind her as she spoke.
“Learn anything?” It was a stupid question and the DI wanted to slap herself. She shifted her balance awkwardly.
“There were quite a few new ideas bouncing around: new analysis software; shorter forms to fill in, never a bad thing. I couldn’t help feeling though that the whole show was being run by the Americans.”
“Well, there’s a surprise.” Yvonne smiled, her face suddenly more relaxed. Tasha smiled back, daring to hold eye contact for just that little bit longer.
Yvonne tuned to the window. “I’m going to meet with the ‘Master’. I’m going to need your help.”
Tasha moved to stand at her shoulder. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” Yvonne wanted Tasha to place a hand on her shoulder or on her back. She had an unusual urge for physical contact. None came.
When she left the station late that evening, Brian was still there and busy matching names, disappearances and time lines for the bodies found in Slaughter Field. He was proud of the work done so far.
The killer appeared to have been operating at the rate of two murders per year until the Kelly James’ killing. It was at this point that he appeared to have increased his kill rate. The choice of victim, however, was consistent. Always roughly the same height, same physical characteristics, hair colour and similar age group: this guy definitely had a ‘type’. These girls weren't just small and slim, they were meek in nature and capable of subservience. They were girls who were all described as good girls, never been in trouble, kept themselves to themselves and were probably inexperienced, sexually.
Brian thought about his girlfriend. He worried about her but he doubted anyone could ever see her as a victim. He allowed himself to muse for a moment that the killer would have his work cut out for him if he wanted to subdue her. Her feisty nature and strong physique would probably scare the sadist off. Then he shook his head. He shouldn't even think that and it was high time he went home.
The ends of the DI's fingers and nose tingled as though they were being teased by a feather, the heating having gone off over an hour before. The Master had been a long time coming to the chat room tonight. Lady Firebird had fallen asleep. Yvonne's lids were heavy but she was determined not to succumb. Tasha was snoozing on the sofa. Yvonne gazed at her: at the empty coffee mug loosely held in the sleeping fingers. She smiled to herself. A lone bead of condensation stuttered its way down the window pane.
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: you're up late tonight little one.
Yvonne jumped, almost knocking the keyboard from the table as her quivering hands reached for it.
dahlia: yes Master, this one could not sleep.
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: and why is that little one?
dahlia: this one's thoughts turned to the Master.
Was this too obvious? Yvonne pursed her lips.
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: and why is that little one?
Dahlia: this one did not think you serious Master.
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: Oh but I was little one
Dahlia: When might we meet Master? This one feels she knows You so well now.
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: That my dear is up to you...
Dahlia: this one could get holiday next week Master *blushes*.
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: now that is good to hear my dear one.
The conversation continued as they discussed possible places they could meet but it stopped short of specifying a day. He settled on Paddington Station. She would get the train. He assured her he would reimburse her travel and take good care of her whilst she was with him.
Yvonne remained calm and printed the conversation. She could just see the look which would appear on his face when she clapped cuffs on him as the team of well-equipped Special Op's officers descended on him. It would be a sweet moment.
97
The cuff tightened and tightened, the hiss of the hand pump marking the uncomfortable increase in pressure. When the pumping finally stopped, the doctor seemed to hold his breath as he waited for the clicks.
“Your blood pressure is fine,” he said, taking the earpieces of his stethoscope out of his ears and the cuff off his patient. How are you coping on the medication?”
The Master took a deep, labouring breath, feeling that he couldn't really be bothered with this conversation but after a minute's wordless silence he answered, “There are days when I hate myself and everything. I feel so tired and pointless. Other days I feel fine and it’s as though I have nothing wrong with me at all.”
“Have you been feeling sick?”
“Yes.”
“Have you actually been sick?”
“Yes.”
“Does this happen after you have taken the medication?”
“Yes.”
“How long after?”
“Oh, I don't know, about twenty minutes, thirty minutes, maybe. I don't time it.”
“Okay. If you go over to the couch and lie back.”
He crossed the tiny room with its nondescript smell of medication and hand wash and sat on the couch. He took his time settling on the couch, making the doctor wait for him.
The doctor's hands were warm and gentle but the intrusion of the younger man made him clench his teeth. Must be fresh out of medical school.
“I'm sorry, did that hurt?”
“No,” he lied. “Look
, is this going to take long?”
“Are you going to the toilet regularly?” the doctor's face was a mask. If he was put out by the brusqueness of his patient, he wasn't showing it.
“I've been constipated the last few days.”
“I can prescribe you something to help. I want you to come in for an X-ray next week. We'll send the appointment by letter.”
He nodded as he climbed down from the couch, tucking his shirt back into his trousers.
“By the way, doctor, the receptionist said to tell you there's a package waiting for you in reception.”
The doctor looked puzzled. “Right...err thank you,” he said as he opened the door.
The Master walked out into the corridor and along to the disabled toilet. He went inside and waited. He didn't have to wait long: he heard his doctor's door go and the footsteps padding down the corridor. He looked left and right and then deftly ran to the doctor's door; noiselessly entering the room.
Just like tissues, the curling fingers of the latex gloves were spilling through the oval hole at the top of the box on the corner of the doctor's desk. He took a plastic food bag from his pocket and, just as though he were a butcher bagging up sausages, he used the bag to grab several of the latex gloves: pulling them into it so that he could put them away without having touched them and knowing they would not then be exposed to fibres from the inside of his pocket. He smiled silently to himself and did not hang about. Listening for the silence, he let himself back out into the corridor and returned to the disabled toilet to wait for the tell-tale sounds of the doctor returning to his room. That heard, he confidently strode down the corridor and out into the cool fresh air.
98
Caroline stood shivering and naked in his shower. Although still a little woozy from the drug he had given her, she was coming round and felt somehow stronger today. He hadn't tortured her for several days. In fact, she had barely seen him and the only time she had been aware of him was when he had come to make sure that she had enough food and water.
As she waited, she wondered whether her meek and accepting behaviour had made the difference. She had read somewhere that if you could befriend your captor, and let him see your humanity, you stood a better chance of survival. It made it harder to kill you.
As the warm water cascaded onto her head and back, she felt a happiness at odds with her predicament. The sort of happiness a child feels a when being given a bag full of the sweets they had been crying for all the way along a supermarket aisle. Her shivers increased for a moment as her whole body seemed to reach for the warmth of the water, the gooseflesh gradually subsiding.
He was moving and she could hear the creek of a polythene-type material. She started to turn as she felt a soap bar being pushed into her hand.
“Don't look at me.”
She turned back, but not before she had caught a glimpse of the deep green, hooded PVC rain cover he was wearing. So that's what she had felt against her skin earlier. A hard, grating sea sponge was pushed into her back.
“Scrub yourself.”
She could sense the tight lips and the clenched teeth in his voice as she reached behind, took the sponge and began to wash.
“Scrub harder.”
She scrubbed and scrubbed. She had washed all over for what seemed like forever and her skin hurt as though she had been dragged across gravel.
“Wash again.”
He couldn't be serious. Surely she was perfectly clean now.
“Do it!” he barked.
She sighed, reluctantly beginning the process again. It wasn't until she had scrubbed herself for the third time and she thought her skin might bleed that he took the sponge from her.
A nail brush was thrown into the shower.
“Scrub under every nail on your hands and on your feet.”
She bent down to reach for the brush.
“Don't look at me!”
She picked up the brush and scrubbed under her nails. Fingers and toes. Then again. Then again.
Finally he allowed her to stop, reaching in and switching off the shower. He was wearing latex gloves. She could see from the cuffs at his wrist that he was wearing two pairs of gloves. She heard a soft rustle and felt a cold film being wrapped around her ankles and calves, immediately restricting her movement. He continued on up her legs, breaking into a new box of cling-film as he did so. She could feel a rising panic as she struggled to work out what he might have planned. She thought about hitting out and striking him but stopped herself. What she had done had worked so far, she couldn't risk angering him now.
“Put your hands by your hips.”
She did as she was told, not daring to resist even for a second and felt the material being wound very tightly around her middle. She was hot and uncomfortable and wanted to scream as her heart pumped faster. She stared straight ahead at the cold white tiling of the shower.
It seemed to take forever. Several boxes of cling-film later he left the room. She was totally wrapped. Like reverse metamorphosis, the butterfly had become the Chrysalis.
He had made holes for her nose and mouth but she could hear very little save for the blood pumping in her ears like waves breaking. She could see, but only vague, fuzzy shapes through the creases in the multiple layers of film. When he returned he lifted her bodily from the shower and in the cold, dark stillness of the night, he carried her to the back end of his car. She could sense the effort it was costing him to carry her. But couldn't make out the black plastic bin bag he was placing over her feet and up to her waist, or the second one which he put over her head as he forced her body into the back seat.
She thought her neck might break as he shut the door. She was unbearably hot and uncomfortable as she became aware of the vibration through the car. He was driving her somewhere. In her bound and covered state, she feared the worst. If he dumped her like this she would die.
Reaching his destination, the Master turned off the car lights as he drove up the street. He didn't care about the house number, just that this was the right street. They'd find her and by middle morning there would be cops and reporters all over the place. He grabbed her, pulling her from his vehicle like an old carpet he was throwing in a dump. None saw the cloaked and gloved figure that, like a spectre, moved silently as he tumbled the bound girl into a garden. Working swiftly, he removed the bin bags and glanced around again. Satisfied, he strode softly back to his car, started the engine and drove out of the street; switching on his headlights only as he hit the main road.
The journey back from Surrey was uneventful. He didn't remove the PVC rain coat until he arrived home, where he poured himself a stiff whiskey – no ice. Only at this point did he remove the rain coat, folding it carefully ready to put back into the holdall which held his walking boots and other walking gear. He kicked off his shoes and stood in his lounge looking out into the night, breathing deeply and allowing himself to unwind.
99
Mrs Rogers was worried about her dishevelled hair as, in her nightgown and faded slippers, she pulled the post from the letter box and quickly rifled through. She was looking for anything which might be related to her daughter.
She wasn't afraid to open her front door any more, though it was only in the last few days that the press had given up camping on her doorstep and she knew what that meant. They had decided that her daughter wasn't going to be found any time soon and maybe never. But she wasn't going to give up. She knew her daughter was alive. She just knew.
It was then that she heard the noise, like a moaning which she thought at first was a cat. This was followed by a rasping “help”.
“Oh my god.” she called out loud as she grabbed the door knob and yanked the door open so hard she thought it might come off in her hand. She didn't immediately see her bound daughter and it was only when Caroline rasped again that her mother looked down into the garden and made out the wriggling form.
Caroline had managed to snake about 5 feet from where she had been dumped and had almost made
it to the garden path. Mrs Rogers forgot everything else and sped over to her girl, calling frantically to her husband to come and help. Crying and laughing all at once, she fought to open up the clingfilm which bound the girls head.
“Thank God. Thank God.” She said over and over as she cradled Caroline. Neighbours were already gathering at the windows and doors. Then the garden began filling up with people who wanted to help and others who just wanted to be where the action was. When Mr Rogers ran into the garden he was already on the telephone, phoning the police.
100
Yvonne and her team got there as quickly as they could. Surrey police had cordoned off the garden but warned the DI that, since it had been completely overrun that morning, the scene would be heavily contaminated. Despite that, they had a team of officers in forensic outfits thoroughly searching every inch of the ground they had marked out with parallel lines of tape, each of which cut the garden into several manageable rows.
“Did the neighbours see anything?”, Yvonne asked the hassled-looking Surrey DI.
“So far everyone we have spoken to said that they saw nothing. Not a sausage.”
“When can we talk to the girl?”
“As soon as our SOCO team have finished getting all they can from her, but don't hold your breath.”
“Oh?”
“She says she didn't see his face/ doesn't know where he took her and doesn't know how long he was driving her for before she was left here.”
DI Giles BoxSet Page 20
