She searched the faces of approaching strangers. Some of them hesitated and she trembled expectantly but they would walk on, having only stopped because she looked lost and like she needed help. Eleven-twenty, and still no sign or any approach. She remembered what the Sadist had said about the public telephones and she waited within hearing distance of them.
He'd be watching her of course. She did not speak into her microphone and the boys in the van knew better than to call her.
She asked herself what a woman would do, if she had agreed to meet someone and he was late. They would almost certainly get a coffee, she decided, and perhaps a croissant from the nearest vendor. She bought the coffee and stood blowing on it, to cool it enough to take a sip and decided to amuse herself by trying to work out who amongst the passers-by were undercover officers.
By eleven forty-five am, she had drunk the coffee; bought a stale croissant; thrown half of stale croissant away and helped an elderly lady carry her bag to the cab queue. She really wasn't having fun now. Where was he?
Everybody waited. The ten armed officers in the unmarked transit, which was parked just outside of the station behind a waiting column of black cabs, sat in full siege gear. Several of them had loosened their stab vest a little as the small space had quickly become stifling and it was never comfortable sitting in your own sweat. They listened so carefully to every sound coming through their ear pieces just as a parent might listen to the gurgling sounds of a sick baby coming through on the intercom. The only movement came from the red and green LED lights on the recording equipment, registering the only sound which was the swish swish of the DI's movement or the munch and gulp of her coffee and croissant going down. The code word was 'Master' and, when they heard this, they would know that the DI was talking to the right man and that she had successfully manoeuvred him to a position where they could isolate him from the crowds. This would be watched by the plain clothes undercover officers, who were also armed and who would rush to the DI's aid should she appear to be in distress.
Yvonne's mood was now very low and she found that she was no longer scared of what would happen, only scared that he would not show up. By twelve o'clock, that feeling was overwhelming, but there was a chance that he had somehow been unavoidably delayed. That he would come running into the station and apologise for being late. She bought another coffee but this time stopped to talk to the vendor, a middle-aged, stocky guy who said he was originally from Giggleswick in Yorkshire.
Then she heard the public telephone. She ran fast as she could to the kiosk and picked up the phone expectantly and was shocked and disappointed to hear a woman's voice on the other end enquiring about ticket prices. She hung her head in utter dejection and replaced the handset.
It was Twelve-thirty and she knew that this mission was going nowhere. Still she did not call it off.
She needed to sit down for a bit though as her feet were aching from standing for so long. She went back to the coffee stall with the friendly vendor and sat down just to one side of it, directly on the cold floor, and blew steamy breath and watched it disperse.
One pm. “Okay, that's it,” she declared out loud for the benefit of the Microphone. “I'm calling it in.”
She headed towards the exit of the station and towards the officers in the unmarked van. The door rolled back and an officer poked his head out, “So knock it on the head, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she nodded and slowly the undercover officers (Only three, she noted) joined them at the van. The DI shook her head, “I just can't believe it. I was so sure he would follow through and now I feel stupid.”
“Ah hell, it's one of them things. Inspector,” one of the undercovers reassured her. “Don't beat yourself up about it.”
“Come on, let's roll,” someone else called from inside the van.
“Just wait one minute,” the DI called back. “I need to pay a visit to the little girls’ room before we go. But before I do,” she turned away from the crew and walked to the side of the van where she couldn't be easily seen. She hitched up her dress and reached up for the uncomfortable microphone paraphernalia and pulled it off with half her skin she felt. That done, she walked back to the crew, handed them the microphone and her silly yellow hat and strode off to relieve herself.
The toilets lay at the bottom of steep stairs, like descending into a dungeon she thought as she checked her purse for some change for the turnstile. The attendant, in his dirty, grey overalls and cap, held his hand out for the money and her automatic response was to pass it over even as her brain began to question why he was there and to register that his cap was pulled down such that she couldn't see his eyes.
When he grabbed her and pushed the handkerchief over her mouth, there was a moment of agonised recognition of the trap she had fallen into and then it was too late. As the noxious smell from the handkerchief made her head swim, she felt the stab of a hypodermic in her arm.
She knew nothing of the cloth laundry bag into which he bundled her. Neither did she feel the bumpy ride as he hoisted her over his shoulder, carrying her to the top of the stairs to a waiting trolley and heaved her onto it. No one stopped or questioned him, he was part of the background: courtesy of his grey porter's uniform he had obtained during a hospital appointment a while back. He wheeled the whole contraption coolly past the unmarked police van and out into the street beyond.
Even the two officers, who passed by on their way to the toilets to find out what was delaying the inspector, failed to give him a second thought.
Boy would they be in trouble, he mused, but he just kept on going until he reached the little van he had 'borrowed' the night before and pushed her unconscious form into it. He'd be on CCTV of course but not enough to be recognised due to his cap and uniform. It would only be enough for them to know how he managed to pull it off.
His own car was waiting in the suburbs and he would do a simple exchange. They'd find the van eventually, but they wouldn't tie it in with his car, at least not until after he had had plenty of time with his captives.
“You'll sing for me now, my little police canary,” he said as his car purred into action. “You'll sing for your life.”
115
When Graham returned to his house on Lansdown Cresent, he threw his bag down on the step muttering, “bloody police!”
He was not able to access his own home because it was cordoned off for ongoing forensic examination. There seemed to be tape everywhere and even though he knew the safety of his wife might depend on their efforts, Graham felt sick to the stomach at the police intrusion into his home. He even had to provide a list of the things he needed in the short term to officers, who retrieved them for him only if it did not interfere with what they were doing. He managed to get a few clothes and toiletries.
He then spent the day in his shop going through the books to examine the damage that might have been done to their business by the previous few weeks’ disruption.
He rang his brother's home several times but got no answer. He was unsure whether that was because Michael knew it was him and didn't want to answer or because Michael just wasn't there. Either way, he would surely hear the news about Catherine soon and would try to get in touch.
Graham sat down at his Georgian, mahogany desk and rested his head in his arms. At that time, with his wife gone; his brother not answering his calls and surrounded by the old relics of times past, he felt that this was definitely the worst day of his life.
116
The news of The DI's disappearance, and suspected kidnap, took a long time to reach the Oxford station. The Metropolitan force spent the whole of that day trying to sort out the mess, before reporting it. It was hugely embarrassing for them, that a lead investigator be taken from right in front of their noses on an undercover op.
When the news did break, Brian and Tasha stood in utter disbelief: both shaking their heads with their mouths wide open.
“How the hell did that happen?” Brian broke the shocked silence first.
Brian shook his head, he was still trying to understand how she could be taken like that.
Tasha was finding it hard to take in, “So she was definitely taken by the Sadist?” she asked with a tight frown furrowing her forehead.
“That is the only explanation the Met can come up with, Natasha but to be honest, they are still going through CCTV footage to sort out how, when and whom.”
“So, now he has two women captives.” Tasha could have cried at that moment. “How will we catch him, now?”
“Well, that's where I was hoping you might be able to help Doctor,” Peterson crossed the floor to her. “We need to second guess his next moves and I thought perhaps we might goad him into giving something away.”
“What, like torment him via a news conference or something?” Tasha's frown deepened.
“Something like that yes.” Peterson nodded. “Unless you can come up with any alternative solutions? Have a think about it and we'll discuss it at briefing tomorrow. Who knows, by then the Met may have located Yvonne and sorted out their own mess.”
Tasha doubted that and so too did Brian.
117
When Yvonne came to, she was aware of a throbbing in her temples and of a coldness which seemed to have penetrated every part of her body. She coughed dry and hoarse in the darkness which surrounded her. She couldn't see a thing but she could feel a heavy, iron shackle clasped around her ankle and, try as she might, she was unable to open it or move very far because of it.
“Catherine? Catherine are you there?”, she called out into the black but there was no reply. If Catherine was being held in the same place, they were in separate rooms and she was not hearing this... in wherever it was that Yvonne was being held.
The DI examined the floor with her hands. Cold stone or possibly concrete greeted her fingertips. There was a dampness about the air too and this suggested to her that she was underground, possibly in a cellar. She didn't know how long she had been here or what time it was. She could feel her watch on her wrist but it was useless as there was no light.
As her hand reached behind her back, she found something soft and warm: a wool blanket. She was grateful for that and pulled it around her shoulders. Her sudden movement made her dizzy and she sat dead still for a few seconds to right herself and stop the spinning.
She was angry at herself for having taken the wire off. Why, why, why? She had been so sure that he wasn't coming but he had been lying in wait.
He had probably even known at what point she had removed her microphone. This could mean only one thing and that was that he had known she was planning to trap him. He must have known all along that dahlia was a police officer. Rather than trap him, she had walked right into his and it had been so, so easy. If her feet hadn't been shackled, she would have kicked herself.
It seemed like hours later that the door opened above her. The incoming light hurt her eyes and she shielded them, trying to make sense of the silhouette and looking for any object she might be able to recognise in the background behind him, but she couldn't do either. The shape seemed to watch her for a few moments and then threw down a two litre bottle and a plastic pack of sandwiches.
She fought to control her breathing, “Who are you?” she called knowing as soon as she asked that there was not a hope in hell that he would tell her unless he planned to kill her.
“Eat.” the shape barked in a gruffness designed to disguise his voice. “I'll have fun with you later.”
She did not recognise the voice but there was something familiar about it. Then, as quickly as he appeared, he vanished and the light was gone with the clunk of the door.
She reached for the bottle he had left her, opened the top and smelled the contents before taking several gulps of the sparkling water inside. She couldn't face the sandwiches just yet, but the water was just what she needed.
118
In the crowded briefing room in Oxford station, everyone stared at the TV screen. Peterson pushed the tape into the VCR.
“This tape is fresh from Scotland Yard, it has footage from the CCTV cameras covering the time frame during which the DI was taken. The tape is edited down to all the frames which contain the person they believe abducted her. Take a good look at this man and at the uniform he is wearing. Where is this uniform from? Is it where he works?” Peterson paused the tape every now and then for them to get a good look at the perp. “As you can see, he's using a cap to hide his features and he's made himself look as innocuous as possible. He set up a trap and appears to have planned this abduction very carefully. You can see that he is carrying something heavy in that sack over his shoulder. They think the DI was in that sack. We're hoping to get further footage as he must have had a vehicle parked not too far away. If we can get the details of that we'll really have something. They're questioning the cabbies who were parked outside Paddington that day. Has anyone got any thoughts?”
“It looks like a porter's uniform to me, guv - hospital or College.” Brian spoke slowly, he was still trying to come to terms with what had happened. “So he may work in a hospital.”
“Or. he's visited one recently and stolen one?” Tasha offered tentatively. She sounded relatively calm, but every nerve ending and sinew of her was taut like a high wire. She hadn't slept a wink all night, knowing that the DI was in his hands and knowing as she did the fragility of the DI if panic set in. He would be elated right now, and probably even at this very moment would be planning exactly what torture he would carry out and Tasha was very sure that he would plan it.
She believed that he probably derived as much pleasure from his preparation as he did from the actual execution and right now she hated him. “If he knew from the beginning that he was talking to a police officer in the chat room, then he's had a long time to plan this and to obtain what he needed by whatever means necessary and he will have covered his tracks.”
“So what do you suggest Doctor?” Peterson asked, and it seemed that every pair of eyes were on her.
“I think the key to this whole thing has to do with Catherine Swann and something in her life links her to the Sadist. This whole thing may be designed either to punish her or to make her see something. Why else would he have sent her the trophies taken from the dead girls?”
Brian nodded, “I agree, but we can hardly go ask Catherine at the moment can we?”
“We can talk to her husband.” the look Tasha gave Peterson was forceful, “he knows her life better than anyone. Whether he knows it or not, he is probably our best hope.”
Peterson pondered this for a moment or so, “yes,” he finally said, “I agree. Brian, I'd like you to question him again, this time about his wife and what she's done recently that might anger someone enough to want to take revenge against her.” he nodded in Tasha's direction, “I'm sure the Doctor will be more than willing to help steer the line of questioning. If anyone needs to see the CCTV tape again, it can be found in the office behind the front desk and you can view it as much as you need. Any questions?”
It was clear from the lack of further response that everyone just wanted to get on with the job. The killer had taken one of their own and the team had never felt more focused.
119
The blanket was not enough to keep warm and Yvonne thought she might shiver her teeth right out of her head, if she continued to shake as she did. Then she remembered the food. She wasn't sure how much time had passed since she had last eaten, but she was sure that it was a long time since she still had not touched the plastic pack of sandwiches he had given her. It wouldn't help her to keep warm if her blood sugar was low she thought and she fumbled in the dark to find the pack.
Having found the pack, it was proving to be a more difficult task than normal to open it since her fingers were
so cold they just did not respond in the same way. In the end, she used a mixture of fingers and teeth to get into it and then set to eating the sandwiches with ungracious haste.
The sandwiches contained bacon with lettuce and tomato and though probably to her normal taste buds they would seem bland, to her right now though they tasted like the best BLT sandwiches, ever.
As she ate, she mulled over strategies to overpower him if she got the chance and he came into the room. The only weapons she had were the blanket and bottle of water. The water was half empty now, but if she swung it hard enough. She dismissed the idea immediately.
Perhaps she could trip him up with the blanket, but then what would she do? Smack him to death? She had lain down at full stretch and felt all around her for anything which she might use as a weapon but there was nothing. He'd taken her jacket, in which she'd left the CS spray and she suspected he had been through all of her pockets as her cuffs had gone. As a police officer, she had regular cuffs, baton and combat training, but it wasn't much use with no kit and your ankles shackled to the floor. She had no choice but to wait in the dark for his next move.
She felt a bit warmer after eating the sandwiches and finally felt sleepy even though she was terrified of what may be to come. If she had been younger, much younger, she would have had hope that rescue was imminent. That it couldn't possibly be approaching the end for her but she knew from experience that sometimes shit happens.
Her main concern at the moment was for Catherine. She felt for the fragile, graceful creature she had met in the house on Lansdown and didn't see how she would have the strength to survive prolonged torture by him. She still had no idea if Catherine was alive or dead or even where she was being held if she was indeed still alive. If Catherine were up in the main house with him, then there was still a chance that he could be influenced to let them both go.
DI Giles BoxSet Page 24
