104
The news from Surrey was not good. Yvonne ran a hand through her straggled hair in anguish. “I can't believe it,” she said to Tasha and Brian as they climbed the stairs at the station. They were due for another press call and Peterson had been hopping up and down again, “He dropped a girl off alive and we have absolutely nothing. No fibres, no DNA, no description apart from a vague one of the voice with an English accent. Nothing!”
“What were you expecting?” Tasha asked, “He wouldn't have given her back if he thought it would lead us straight back to him.”
“What next, guv?” Brian sighed, scuffing his shoes on the stairs. It was only three days to Christmas and he knew that his hope for extended leave didn't have a chance in hell.
Yvonne was about to answer him when Mike came hurtling down at them.
“Guv, he's got another one.”
Yvonne knew this sinking feeling very well. “What do you mean? Who?”
“He's taken Catherine Swann...”
“Oh no...” Yvonne thought back to the fragile, graceful creature at Lansdown. She couldn't think of anyone less capable of dealing with being kidnapped and tortured.
“When?”
“This afternoon. He emailed this pic.” Yvonne took the picture from his hand which was of Catherine crying and looking dishevelled. “The rest of the email just explained who she was and that he had taken her from her home. When Avon police turned up there, they found the door wide open.”
“Signs of a struggle?”
“Not that they could see. Just some empty sherry glasses which have been bagged up for forensics.”
This one was different, she knew it was: this was the first time he had taken someone from their own home. She also knew that, in some way, Catherine was linked to the root of this whole affair. She could have kicked herself. Now, after the fact, it was obvious. Obvious that he was going to take Catherine. Damn it, she should have suggested protection for her – not that it would have necessarily been agreed. The DI wanted to scream but she merely nodded and composed herself ready to face the onslaught from the press.
105
They were a merciless bunch Yvonne thought, as she waited, poised at the desk, whilst technicians finalised the set-up of the microphones.
Brian sat quietly to her left and she could see the tiny beads of perspiration which had started to make their way down his temples. To her right sat Peterson and she could have sworn he must have spent all morning polishing the buttons on the front of his tunic and getting those boots just so. Behind them the Thames Valley Police badge and in front of them the three-miked desk, the shield between them and the wolves. It was Christmas Eve and not a single person in the room had Christmas on their minds.
She knew it was probably unfair to lump them all together as wolves, who cared only for the story or the picture they could get onto the front page that day or the next, but that's how she saw them.
When things were going well they would lick your hand and follow you around in awe but when answers were scarce, they could bite your hand so ferociously, the wounds could cost your employment.
She thought back to her childhood and the 'spitting image' comedy sketches with the dogs in hats and mac's cooking up their headlines and, despite the nerve-racking wait, she wanted to laugh out loud. Instead, she cleared her throat and tapped the mike like the technicians asked her to. The expectant faces shuffled and waited, pens and cameras poised.
She watched her words so carefully that she thought she might appear to be mentally retarded. She called for Catherine's friends and anyone who knew her to come forward and talk to detectives. The DI knew that the most important witnesses would be almost certainly those from Catherine's past but she didn't say this for two reasons: firstly, because the investigation needed to stay as wide as possible and secondly, because she did not want the Sadist to know what she was thinking. She was careful also not to mention the internet though she was now more determined than ever to follow through on a plan to trap him into meeting her. She was almost there. Almost.
106
He finished his bacon and eggs, rubbed his stomach and sat back taking in a large lungful of air, which he let out again very slowly as though he could feel every molecule of the gases passing up his windpipe and out through his teeth and lips. She was here and she was his and with her presence, his work was almost done. Almost, but not quite.
The soft strains of the TV permeated from the room next door. He recognised the rhythmic music announcing the morning’s news and jumped up, taking fast strides to stand in front of his widescreen. He didn't bother to sit down and he didn't have to wait long. Catherine's abduction was the first item, with a major press conference.
He watched the questions and answers like he would a tennis match, words being lobbed, backhanded and occasionally smashed from one half of the court to the other. He watched the care with which the DI made her replies. She impressed him, cool and determined while the others perspired.
Something in the way she held herself; something in the way in which she held her jaw high made her look as though she had the upper hand. He admired her confidence in that and it would make his victory all the more sweet.
He smiled and switched off the TV to go check on his captive. He was annoyed that she hadn't even touched the large breakfast he had prepared for her. In fact it was obvious that she had angrily kicked it away from herself, spilling its contents all over his floor. He bit his lip.
“Have it your way, Catherine, you'll eat, sooner or later.”
She let out a sob and did not look at him, her head remained bowed towards the floor where she sat, hands tied behind her, still wearing the clothes in which she was kidnapped.
“You won't be able to keep me for long,” she rasped from between dry, chapped lips. “They'll find you and when they do you'll go away for a very long time.”
“Oh, I think not, Catherine.” There was menace in the delivery of the words. “Haven't you been watching the news?” He paused for effect. “I decide when my captives are found, not the police. I decide my captive's fate, not the police. I'll decide your fate, not the police.”
107
That evening, Yvonne left Tasha in the kitchen reading through notes: the little amount of information they had managed to get from Caroline. Tasha was hoping that it would enable her to refine the profile which they would again give out to the waiting public. Yvonne felt guilty about Tasha working so hard on Christmas Eve, when she really ought to be with her family, but at the same time was glad to have her company.
As she sat down at her computer, the DI was afraid that he wouldn't show up. He had Catherine in his clutches and, to date, he had held only one captive at a time which made it less likely he would now want to meet with her any time soon. She was bitterly disappointed that he had taken Catherine, both for Catherine's sake and for the sake of this enquiry.
When she pictured him, as she did whenever she talked to him on chat, she saw him as a middle-aged man; tall and sure of himself; long, black coat; bow tie at the neck; greying hair combed over a spreading bald patch. She couldn't help it, it was Dr. Jeffries the cocky professor whom she saw in her mind. Only, he appeared even more ghoulish in her thoughts than he had the day she saw him in Wolvercote cemetery when the crows seemed to appear at his behest. It was him she imagined raining horrible blows or cutting vicious tracts on his victims. She could visualise his thin mouth curling cruelly as he taunted them and she knew this was the image that would stay in her mind until the killer was caught.
She logged into the chatroom and waited. She picked up her pen, twiddled it around in damp fingers and put it down again. She nibbled at a finger nail and then cursed herself that she nibbled it right down and it now looked at odds with all her other nails. She shrugged: no matter, she'd just nibble the others down to the same length. This wait was far worse than the one she had endured at this morning's press conference. Lady firebird was probably sleeping as her symbol wa
s a coffee cup again.
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: Well hello little one.
“Yes!” Yvonne punched the air, shouting out loud, “come on!”
Tasha came running in from the kitchen. She didn't speak, just silently took up position at the DI's shoulder.
“He's here, Tasha.” Yvonne's voice trembled with the words. “Oh my God, I didn't think he would come.”
“Don't rush it,” Tasha said softly.
dahlia: hello Master .
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: How are you sweet maid?
dahlia: this one is well Master and so happy to see You.
Ask me to meet you, Yvonne pleaded with the screen, please ask me to meet you.
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: and I you, I have missed our little chats recently I have been sooooo busy.
Dahlia: You were talking last time of us meeting Master.
She couldn't help herself, she nibbled her lip while Tasha's fingers gripped her shoulder.
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: Oh that's right, and so I was little one.
She pictured him smiling cruelly to himself, watching her taste his dangling maggot, waiting to reel her in.
Dahlia: this one has thought of little else since we last spoke Master.
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: That is good my dear.
This was excruciating.
Dahlia: this one is with her parents all over Christmas but could get away to You on New Year's Eve?
MASTER SLAVESTALKER: New Year's Eve would be just perfect.
Yvonne knew that it would take at least several days to get the needed authorisation and to prepare a team from special Op's for the delicate operation. Even getting it all ready within a whole week was a very tall order. She would get on to Peterson as soon as this conversation was over and tell him what she had planned. She just prayed that he would go with it.
The Master gave her very specific instructions. She was to wear yellow: a canary yellow dress beneath a cream Mac. On her head she must wear a yellow woollen hat. Yvonne pulled a face, where the hell would she find a yellow woollen hat, let alone a yellow dress?
She should get off the train at 11.18 am in Paddington station and she should wait on the platform for him to contact her. If she heard a telephone ringing from one of the public kiosks then she must go and answer it. Either way, she must wait for further instruction.
She agreed to all of it, asking the sorts of questions she thought would be appropriate from a naïve young woman. By the time they wrapped up the conversation and said good night, Yvonne didn't know how much longer she would be able to contain herself and as soon as she had logged off, she jumped up and started bounding up and down for joy like a twelve year old girl who had just been given a pony.
“Woohoo,” she screamed out breathless. Her excitement was contagious and Tasha joined her in the mad whooping and bouncing about and the two of them bounced around for what seemed like minutes, holding onto each other for balance. When they stopped, they collapsed down on the floor in a heap and then it happened. It took them both by surprise when Yvonne fell into Tasha, her head on Tasha's shoulder. Tasha turned towards her as they both stopped laughing and their lips met. Tasha couldn't hold back and took the slightly parted lips in her own. Her kiss was hungry and she lifted her hand and curled her fingers into the hair at the back of the DI's head, holding it whilst she deepened the kiss. Yvonne, swept away by the moment and by feelings and the warmth of Tasha's mouth, responded and she felt herself floating. She thought she could taste coffee and something spicy and the feelings welling within her had not been stirred for a very long time.
The warm cotton of Tasha's check shirt felt good beneath he hands as her arms curled around the psychologist's waist. She was on her back then, and the feeling of being crushed was not at all unpleasant.
Afterward, Yvonne tried to work out how long they had stayed like that, each exploring the other's mouth but she couldn't. She knew only that it had been some time and that, when they eventually parted, she had felt a sense of loss. She brushed herself down though and jumped up, muttering something about needing to ring Peterson right away and to strike while the iron was hot. Tasha was still sat on the floor, chest heaving up and down, a look of shock in her sparkling eyes. The excitement of both was owed to much more than the success of having set up a meeting with the Sadist.
For his part, the Master left his computer with a self-satisfied grin.
108
Graham was sat on a blue and white vinyl chair in front of a blue and white vinyl-covered table in the greasy spoon cafe in Tottenham, near to his bed and breakfast. He didn't want food, having not long had his meagre breakfast. He just wanted coffee and somewhere warm to while away an hour or two while his room was being cleaned. He thought, as he sat there, that he must be the most depressed he had ever felt in his life.
In the background was the incessant jingle jingle of Christmas music accompanied by the occasional whoosh of pressurised steam being blown through a large metal jug of milk. On the walls were cheap prints of works of the impressionists Renoir and Manet which were badly framed. Around the frames were thin bits of coloured tinsel and at the front of the cafe bar, a string of coloured lights blinked on and off and several bulbs weren't working.
He looked around him at the other people who were busy eating and drinking and wondered if they too were as lonely and as helpless as he felt this Christmas Eve.
There was the old guy in front of him, who appeared unwashed and ate his bacon and eggs so quickly that the yolk cascaded down his unshaven chin. This was wiped by the back of his brown, gnarled hand.
In the front of the old guy, a younger woman who shouted loudly into her mobile phone and appeared to be wearing not a single item of clothing which didn't have one or several holes, from her red Doctor Martin boots, through her green woollen tights to her short woollen skirt and faded red jumper. She looked as though everything she owned besides her mobile was bought in a charity shop but perhaps, he mused, that was the fashion.
Then there was the curly haired cab driver just across from the girl. Graham knew he was a cab driver because he had overheard a conversation between him and the young waitress about it being Christmas Eve and she was asking him if he was busy with fares. The cab driver had confirmed that indeed he was busy but that he didn't mind as people tipped so generously this time of year and it would help to offset the debts his missus was running up buying toys for the kids.
The waitress looked at odds with everyone else in there, in that she was slim and probably barely eighteen years old. She was neatly dressed in a fresh-looking pink uniform dress, hair neatly tied behind in a ponytail. As she approached his table, Graham was suddenly very conscious of his suit jacket which really needed a good dry-clean and his tie which still had the gravy stains from two nights before.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” she asked, pen poised at her pad, an endearing tendril of hair sliding down her cheek as it came loose from her pony tail.
“Err, yes, could I have a milky coffee please?” He thought about ordering a scone but this only made him think of Catherine and he knew that any scone he had would not match up to the ones she made for him. His mind wandered back to the evening after his release from the police interrogation.
It wasn't anything Catherine had said, because she said nothing. In fact, she said nothing at all for hours. It wasn't anything she did either because she didn't do anything. She just sat in the armchair and stared ahead of her, or else wandered into the kitchen and stared out across the lights of Bath. Her silences had rained down on him like hail stones and in the end he could suffer it no more. He had packed a few things into a holdall and left, going straight to his brother Michael.
He had been taken aback by the welcome - or lack of it - which he received. Michael had seemed irritated, in fact, that his brother had turned up and shouted all the things which Graham might have expected his wife to have shouted.
“What were you doing sleeping with prostitutes when you had
a beautiful wife waiting for you at home?” he had barked at Graham, followed by “What went on between you and Emma?” and “For Christ’s sake, man, have you no morals at all?”
Graham thought it curious that his brother should be lecturing him on morality, but he let it ride.
“Please, Michael,” he had pleaded. “I've got nowhere else to go.”
“You should have thought of that before you went messing around. And now everyone thinks you're mixed up in this murdering business.”
“The police have cleared me...”
“Do you think that makes any difference to Joe Bloggs out there?”
To most people you're still involved. You can't stay and that's final. Go home and talk to your wife and I'll be in touch.”
And that was it, Graham was on his own. Perhaps his blunderings really were at the root of this awful mess. He really did not know what to think.
He came back to the present and to the little waitress who was just now pouring the frothed up milk onto his coffee and giving it a stir. The red and green girl had finished shouting into her mobile and was busy eating her sandwich he noted, relieved.
The cab driver rose to his feet, and said goodbye to the waitress, slapping his ample stomach and belching his pleasure at the food. The waitress gave him a warm smile and once she had set Graham's coffee down in front of him, she set to clearing away the plate and mug that the driver had left behind. It was then that Graham saw the paper and, as the waitress began tucking it under her arm, such that she could clear everything at once, he gently enquired whether he might be able to borrow it.
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