by John Nicholl
Helen seriously considered putting the phone down but thought better of it. ‘It’s about the murder case, all those poor girls. I saw the report on the Welsh news.’
Kesey grabbed a pen and poised the tip above her notebook. ‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘My name’s Helen Edwards; I’m Mr Turner’s secretary, Charles Turner, the solicitor.’
‘Ah, okay, you must know Emily Gravel, then?’
‘Yeah, I do, we work together. Lovely girl.’
‘What is it you want to talk to me about, Helen?’
She shifted her weight from one stockinged foot to the other, still doubting the wisdom of calling. ‘Look, I don’t want to waste your time, but I talked it through with my husband, and we decided I should ring.’
Kesey increased her grip on the phone. ‘Why don’t you tell me what this is all about and let me decide if it’s relevant?’
‘I think I may know where Mr Turner’s gone.’
Kesey sat upright in her seat. ‘Where?’
‘I don’t know with any certainty, mind, I could be completely wrong. It’s just something I overheard him telling Emily in the office a few days back. I wasn’t eavesdropping. My office is right next to his. You can’t help but hear everything if the door’s open. He usually shuts it, but… ’
Kesey tried not to reveal her impatience, but it was betrayed by her voice. ‘What was it he said to her exactly?’
‘He asked her if she’d like to go to Devon one weekend, for a break. I think he fancies her. One of his friends has got a cottage somewhere on the coast. He lets Mr Turner stay there when he’s not using it himself. Or at least that’s what he told Emily.’
‘You said Devon. Can you be more specific for me?’
‘I know it’s in Devon because he mentioned it, as I said, but that’s about it. Maybe they’ve gone together.’
‘They?’
‘Emily and Mr Turner. She didn't come to work today. I had to cancel all her appointments at the last minute. I’ve tried to ring her a few times, but her phone’s switched off. It’s just not like her.’
‘Has she ever done anything like that before?’
‘Well, she hasn’t been with the firm long, but, no, she seems very dedicated and hard- working … I just hope she’s okay, that’s all. I’m sure Mr Turner wouldn’t hurt her, but... ’
‘I want you to think very carefully. Has either of them ever said where this cottage is? The name of a town or village, perhaps?’
Helen pressed her lips together and shook her head. ‘No, not that I heard anyway. I’m only the secretary. They don’t talk to me about that sort of thing.’
‘And you didn’t overhear anything?’
‘I only wish I had.'
‘Okay, we’ll move on… Do you know the name of the friend, the one who owns the cottage? It would be extremely helpful if you do.’
‘I haven't got a clue.’
‘You’re certain, not even a first name?’
‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’
Kesey cursed under her breath. ‘Not at all, the information you’ve provided may well prove useful. I’ll be sharing it with Devon and Cornwall Police straight after this call. I appreciate you ringing. And maybe there’s something else you can help me with.’
‘If I can.’
‘One of Turner’s neighbours said she thought she saw him driving a rusty, old, white van in recent weeks. She couldn’t be certain when it was, she’s getting on a bit to be honest. Do you know anything about the vehicle?’
Helen laughed, the tension melting away. ‘You have got to be kidding. He loves his cars, he’s a right petrol head, but they have to be fast, and they have to be expensive. He wouldn’t be seen dead in any van, let alone a rusty one. He’d hate it. I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn when I say that he’s very image -conscious. Vain would be another way to put it. That Carly Simon song always reminds me of him. Do you know the one?’
Kesey smiled. ‘Okay, that’s helpful. Is there anything else you can tell me, anything at all? Even the most seemingly insignificant information may prove crucial.’
‘No, that’s it, there’s nothing else I can think of.’
‘Okay, we’re done for now … I’m grateful, Helen, and you know where I am if you need to speak to the police again. Don’t hesitate to ring if you think of anything else. If I’m not here, leave a message and I’ll get back to you; someone’s here twenty- four hours a day, seven days a week.’
‘He’s a nice man, you know. Pleasant, gentle and helpful. I was saying the same thing to my husband before ringing. I’m sure all this must be a terrible mistake. Maybe it’s a case of mistaken identity. Maybe the killer looks like Mr Turner. That could explain it.’
‘If you see him, don’t approach him. Ring 999 immediately. People can be deceptive. Not everyone’s as they seem. He’s a very dangerous man.’
44
Kesey gave up on the idea of breaking Grav’s ground- floor bathroom window with her elbow, after two bruising attempts, and retreated to his garden shed where she found a hammer and screwdriver in a cluttered toolbox that was half hidden behind a pile of paint cans.
She placed the tip of the screwdriver against the bottom right -hand corner of the window, lifted the hammer, and shattered the glass with one powerful, well aimed blow, causing the inner and outer panes to break into what seemed like a thousand small pieces that sparkled like diamonds in the winter sunshine. She threw the screwdriver aside, but held on to the hammer, thinking it could prove a useful weapon, if required.
Kesey put her head through the gap and listened intently. What sounded like Radio 2 was playing somewhere in the house, but there were no other signs of life. She called out quietly at first, and then louder, at the top of her voice, to be sure of being heard if anyone was there to listen. ‘Emily! Are you in there? It’s Laura Kesey, police, I’m coming in.’
She tucked the hammer into the rear waistband of her grey trousers, pulled herself onto the windowsill, belly first, and moved forward, one cautious inch at a time, until her weight acted as a fulcrum, and she fell head first, colliding with the white porcelain basin and crashing heavily to the tiled floor.
Kesey swore loudly as she lifted herself to her feet with the aid of a heated towel rail, and took the hammer in hand, clutching its steel shaft tightly and not letting go. She left the bathroom and entered the small, dated kitchen where the radio was playing on a worktop. She switched it off with a gloved hand, just as the DJ was announcing the next track with a degree of enthusiasm that seemed at odds with the solemnity of the situation. She shouted again, calling Emily’s name, hoping for a response, but all was silent.
She crossed the tiny, red- tiled hall into the lounge, walked to the centre of the room, and turned slowly, in a circle, listening for the slightest sound. She didn’t see the envelope at first, but as she turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees for the second time, there it was, propped up against a percolator on the table.
For a reason she couldn’t explain, she knew the letter mattered as soon as she saw it. It was a gut instinct. A message from the heart to brain. She walked slowly towards it and studied the ivory envelope. It was addressed to Grav, formally – using his rank and full name – in flowing script that she guessed was meant to impress. She told herself that it was of no particular consequence, and she tried to push the feeling of foreboding from her mind, but she knew without doubt that things were about to take an unwelcome turn. The faint, but discernible, bloody fingerprint in one corner of the paper and the scent of lavender were a testament to that.
Kesey prised open the envelope as carefully as possible, keen not to compromise any evidence. As she removed the single sheet of writing paper, a bloody fingernail, torn from a victim’s hand, fell to the floor. She gagged and picked up the offending item, dropping it into an evidence bag, before running back to the ground floor bathroom where she threw up until there was nothing left but bile.
&nb
sp; Kesey took a gulp of water from the cold tap, squirted some fresh mint toothpaste in her mouth, rinsed, and returned to the lounge with a resigned expression on her face. She resisted the impulse to run, picked up the letter and slumped on the settee to read it.
Dear Detective Inspector Gravel,
I hope you like the small gift I left you. As you can see, I’m not a man subject to humanity’s usual, self -imposed limitations. Empathy and virtue mean nothing to me. I enjoy inflicting suffering on others. It excites me. The greater the suffering, the happier and more fulfilled I feel. And so, I feel sure you’ll fully appreciate just how much pain and hardship your daughter’s going to experience before I finally strangle her.
I may well keep you updated as the process progresses. Maybe another letter, or two, or even a phone call. That seems fair. You’re the reason I’ve allowed her to live for as long as I have, after all. Have you realised that? No? I picture you riddled with angst, paralysed by dread, and it tickles me. I’ll drag the whole affair out for as long as feasibly possible, before the irresistible desire to kill brings her miserable existence to an inevitable end. How does that make you feel as her father? The great detective, powerless to help the one person who matters most. Not great, I’d imagine. And that amuses me no end. I’m laughing now as I write these words. Can you hear me, Inspector? Can you magnify it in your mind? I hope the sound resonates and haunts you forever. I hope it destroys whatever little peace of mind you have left. If heaven can be a place on earth, then so can hell.
Anyway, enough of such musings, it’s time for me to leave now. I’ll kiss Emily goodbye for you when she finally regains consciousness.
Regards,
Charles Turner
Kesey refolded the letter, slotted it back into its matching envelope, and began to weep. She wanted to scream, she wanted to stamp and shout like a petulant toddler, but instead, she calmed her breathing and centred herself.
She rose to her feet and punched the back of the settee with a clenched fist. The Devon and Cornwall force were searching their entire area; maybe Turner’s secretary had been right. And there was his distinctive appearance, the van, a female passenger. At least they knew who they were looking for. They weren’t completely in the dark, unless they weren’t in a van at all … Say a prayer, Laura. Please, God, let us find her. Please let Emily live. Maybe they’d get a break; maybe they’d save her life, and Turner would be locked up forever.
45
Turner’s journey south, from Caerystwyth to the Ceredigion coast, passed without incident. He was unshaven, dressed casually, and had dyed his hair dark brown, rendering him virtually unrecognisable as the man that the police were looking for.
It took him a little over ninety minutes to drive to Borth – a remote coastal village, bordered by Cardigan Bay, just a few miles from the atmospheric university town of Aberystwyth. He parked the van at the back of the isolated stone cottage, well out of sight of prying eyes, and carried Emily’s unconscious body from the vehicle, wrapped in a multicoloured nylon rug that had lain in Grav’s lounge.
Turner struggled with Emily’s dead weight initially, as he hurried across the overgrown garden towards the front door, but when the familiar feelings of anticipation flooded his system with adrenaline, the task became easier, and he carried her over one shoulder with relative ease.
He closed the front door, locked it, and made his way towards the farmhouse kitchen where a flight of ten worn, wooden steps led down to the cellar. Turner dropped Emily to the slate floor and left her there while he made himself a cup of instant coffee. He sat at the stripped oak table, cradling his mug with both hands, as she moaned incoherently a few feet away.
Turner pondered his new reality and acknowledged that his life had changed for ever. There was no going back. The die was cast. He pushed his empty mug aside, jumped to his feet, and opened the cellar door. He dragged Emily, by her feet, down the steps; her head bouncing from one to the next until they reached the bottom.
Turner took aim and kicked Emily, before stripping her naked and handcuffing her wrists behind her back. He switched off the light and took her clothes upstairs for burning.
Turner closed the cellar door and ambled into the lounge to while away the hours until his captive finally regained consciousness. Perhaps he’d write her moronic father another letter: something dark, something intriguing. Something to make the pleb squirm.
46
Laura Kesey sat alone in her parked car, pressed the call button, and waited until she eventually heard her old university friend say, ‘Hello,’ with a strong Midlands accent that reminded her of home.
‘Hi, Ed, how’s it hanging?’
‘Like you’d be interested.’
Kesey laughed. ‘I can’t make it this weekend. All leave’s been cancelled for the foreseeable future. Mum’s gutted. I haven’t seen her for ages.’
‘Is that down to the murder case?’
‘You’ve heard about it?’
‘Who hasn’t? It’s been all over the news.’
‘Yeah, I suppose it has.’
‘Well, at least you know who you’re looking for, that’s a bonus.’
‘It would be if we had the slightest idea where the bastard is. He may as well have disappeared off the face of the earth.’
Ed hesitated before changing the subject. ‘How are you doing, Laura? Personally, I mean – after the miscarriage.’
‘I won’t lie, it’s been tough.’
‘Yeah, for me too.’
‘I want to try again, if you’re up for it?’
‘With me? Are you sure?’
Kesey laughed again, more nervously this time. ‘You’re the only one who’d be stupid enough to agree to it. Who else am I going to ask?’
‘Yeah, you’ve got a point there. What does Janet think?’
‘I wanted to sound you out before talking to her. The miscarriage hit her hard. She wants a baby as much as I do.’
‘The two of you will make great mothers.’
‘I just hope we get the chance.’
‘Of course, you will. The things I go through to keep you happy. I hope you appreciate all the sacrifices I make.’
‘I can’t remember you complaining at the time. All that grunting was a dead giveaway.’
Ed grinned. ‘Okay, guilty as charged. If there’s a job to do, I like to do it to the very best of my ability, no half measures.’
‘Well, the least said about that the better, particularly if Janet’s around. I’ve convinced her it was all cold, calculated, and business- like. I think it’s the only way she can handle it. We need to keep it that way.’
‘So, when am I going to see you?’
‘I thought I’d come up for a few days as soon as we’ve caught the bastard. I can’t put a date on it, but hopefully, it won’t be too far in the future.’
‘Sounds good to me. I can be as flexible as you need me to be. It’s one of the advantages of being my own boss.’
Kesey started the engine and turned the heating up to maximum. ‘Thanks, Ed. Joking aside, I’m really grateful for what you’re doing for us. Janet feels the same way. There’s not many men who’d help us out the way you are.’
‘So, come on, give me the inside story. What’s happening with the case? I’ve always loved those detective shows on the telly.’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘I asked, didn’t I?’
‘We’ve got various forces checking the camera footage between Wales and the Cornish border. Hopefully, he’ll show up somewhere.’
‘Sounds promising.’
‘There’s an awful lot of white vans on the road. It’s just a case of ruling out as many as we can, as quickly as we can, focusing on the ones that are left and keeping our fingers crossed.’
‘You’ll have him locked up before you know it.’
‘We’re not even sure he’s in the van at all. It’s fifty- fifty, but it’s the best we’ve got.’
‘That’s
not so bad.’
‘He’s got a friend of mine with him, my boss’ daughter. That’s if he hasn’t killed her already.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s bad.’
‘How the hell am I going to tell him? He’s in hospital after a heart attack.’
‘What, he doesn’t know?’
Kesey shook her head. ‘He’s going to be wondering why she’s not visiting. I can’t delay it for much longer.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Kesey fastened her seatbelt and prepared to drive off. ‘I’m going to have a word with my chief superintendent to see what she thinks. They don’t pay me enough for this shit.’
‘Take it easy, Laura. Look after yourself.’
‘And you, Ed. I’d better make a move. You’ll have to come and visit in the spring when the weather’s better. There’s some beautiful places in this part of the world, I think you’d love it. You could bring the dog.’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Yes, and thank you. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. You’re the best friend a girl could have. I’ll visit you as soon as we’ve got him.’
47
Turner looked down at Emily, imprisoned, naked and shivering on the basement floor, and smiled contentedly. ‘What do you think of your new home? I like to think you’re impressed. I was beginning to wonder if you’d wake up at all.’
She squinted up at him in the glare of the single bulb that seemed focused only on her. ‘I’ve been in the dark until now.’
‘Ah, yes, quite so. I thought you’d find the absence of light relaxing. You were sleeping so peacefully, it seemed a shame to disturb you.’
Emily attempted to raise a hand to massage her aching head, but her wrist jarred against the cuffs. ‘Where are we?’
