Deadly Dance

by Hilary Bonner

  His voice tailed away as he glanced back from the cupboard to the pump.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered.

  ‘Let’s get on to it,’ snapped Vogel.

  ‘You guys.’ He turned to the workmen. ‘Either of you two know any more about engineering than this lot seem to?’

  ‘A bit, I’ve worked in mining in South Africa,’ said one of them, a big man with an abundance of red hair that matched his complexion. ‘We used hydraulic rams over there. I’ll have a look if you like.’

  ‘Good, get on with it.’

  Vogel turned to the second workman. ‘And you, clear all that rubble away in the pit. They’ll help you.’ He gestured at the less-than-thrilled-looking CSIs. ‘If I’m right, we need to make sure there’s nothing down there that might impede smooth movement.’

  The redhaired workman was already at work.

  ‘The pump’s petrol driven and its tank’s half full,’ he reported. He moved the pump close to the cupboard. Vogel was no longer surprised when it became apparent that the pipe-fitting connectors in the wall cupboard and on the pump itself matched perfectly.

  The workman was able to attach the pump with little difficulty.

  ‘Shall I fire her up?’ he asked.

  ‘Quick as you like.’

  The man paused.

  ‘You know, it would be quite an engineering feat to construct anything like this. Can’t be many people capable of it.’

  ‘No,’ agreed the DCI, thinking about Willis’s background as a mechanical design engineer.

  ‘Just the one,’ he continued. ‘But he is Aeolus.’

  The man looked confused, perhaps he was one of surely only a handful of people in the country who’d managed to avoid the massive media coverage.

  ‘Just get on with it,’ instructed Vogel.

  The pump fired at the third attempt.

  The workman then began to turn the wheel within the cupboard, at first with no apparent result. He tried again. There was a grinding noise, followed by a shuffling sound, which came from the foot of the inspection pit. Vogel swung round, lurched towards the edge of the pit and lowered himself down in one clumsy but effective motion.

  Part of the base of the pit was moving; a section of concrete was sliding slowly to one side. But the giant plug, as he had rather aptly described it, was moving too slowly for Vogel. As soon as a big enough gap had been created he leaned through it, hanging on precariously in a crab-like position, with one arm and one leg still on the stationary part of the pit’s base.

  As soon as he got his head through the gap, he could tell there was a considerable space beneath him. But it was very nearly pitch black, barely illuminated at all by the light behind him. He yelled for a torch which was thrown down by a CSI. He shone it into the space.

  Dawn Saslow was just a few feet away, sprawled on the floor and chained to a wall, the way Willis must have left her. Even in the dim light of the torch, it was immediately apparent that she had been badly beaten. Her face and clothes were covered in blood. One cheek was little more than a swollen, black mass. Vogel could also smell the sweet stench of human excrement. Oh my God, he thought, were they too late? Then Dawn lifted one arm, just a little, almost like a weak wave of greeting.

  She was alive.

  ‘It’s all right, Dawn, it’s all right now, we’re here,’ he shouted.

  She seemed unable to speak. He couldn’t tell yet how bad her injuries were. But Dawn Saslow was alive. The massive block of concrete continued to shift. Vogel let himself drop to the lower ground level. He ran to Dawn, scrabbling hopelessly at the cuffs around her legs and the chain which restrained her. PC Jenkins followed Vogel down through the inspection pit and was quickly beside him.

  ‘Sir, gently, sir, you could hurt her,’ she said.

  She let her fingers brush lightly against Dawn Saslow’s good cheek.

  ‘Hang on in there, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘We’ve got you now and we’ll have you free in a jiff.’

  It was probably the gentle touch and the kind words which caused the tears that began to run freely down Saslow’s damaged face.

  The workmen had come well prepared. On cue, one of them jumped down wielding a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters. Vogel gestured him forwards and he began at once to cut through the cuffs and the chain restraining Saslow. She grunted with pain as the man attacked the cuffs around her ankles, which had bitten deeply into her flesh, but, although clearly shocked to the core, he was admirably quick and efficient.

  Once Dawn was free Vogel wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

  ‘It’s all right, baby,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’

  He could feel the young woman’s body heaving, her sobbing now quite out of control. But she was alive, bless her, she was alive. Vogel felt relief flowing through every vein in his body. Eventually Dawn’s sobbing began to subside, then she spoke. Her voice was weak, little more than a croak, but the message was clear enough.

  ‘Just get the bastard, boss,’ she said.

  The paramedic team were still checking out Dawn Saslow, before carrying her from the prison that had nearly become her grave, when Hemmings called Vogel’s mobile. He said that Willis/Aeolus had been duly tracked up the M4 and spotted swinging off towards Heathrow.

  A simple check of flight information had already revealed that he’d booked himself on a flight to Moscow under the name of Richard Perry, whose passport and driving licence he presumably had with him.

  Well, he didn’t think he had anything to fear, did he?

  After all, he’d been quite confident that Dawn Saslow would not be found, unless he chose for her to be.

  The airport police, a branch of the Met since the 70s when airport security concerns had begun to seriously escalate, had been alerted. Yet, so far, they had been told to keep only a watching brief. They, and just about every cop in the country, had been informed of DC Saslow being missing and instructed that her recovery was first priority. Now she was safe, their priorities had shifted. Heathrow’s highly trained specialist police unit were fully armed and programmed to handle major terrorist situations. Vogel thought they were just the boys to deal with bloody Aeolus.

  ‘Dawn’s safe, boss,’ he said. ‘We’ve just found her and she’s alive. You can tell the Heathrow lads to move in on Willis, or whatever he’s calling himself today. And they can move just as hard as they like.’

  The relief was clear in Hemmings voice when he spoke again.

  ‘Thank God,’ said the DCI.

  ‘But please boss, can you make sure I’m the one to talk to Willis first?’ asked Vogel.

  ‘He’s yours, David,’ said the DCI.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Willis was arrested on suspicion of three counts of murder and brought straight back to Bristol, where he was processed at Patchway and held in a police cell.

  Within four hours of Dawn Saslow being found, Vogel – backed up by Polly Jenkins – was ready to conduct the first interview. Freda Heath, whose expert opinion was much-needed, had dropped everything to make the journey from London as soon as Vogel contacted her. She might be NHS and overworked, but she wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.

  ‘You do realise this is psychiatric history in the making,’ she told Vogel excitedly.

  ‘It wasn’t my first thought,’ responded Vogel drily.

  DS Nobby Clark travelled to Bristol with the professor. After all, the extraordinary suspect now in custody had murdered on her patch too.

  Willis was already sitting in an interview room, when the four entered. Vogel studied him carefully while PC Jenkins made the usual formal pronouncement of date, time and those present, for the video record.

  Willis looked like, well, he looked like Willis, thought Vogel. Nothing more or less. Albeit Willis in a custody suit. Other than that he looked pretty much as usual.

  It was Willis who spoke first and it really was Willis, or as near to Willis as was ever likely to be seen or heard again. Willis’s voice wit
h more than a hint of Lancastrian.

  ‘I don’t understand boss, what’s all this about?’ he asked, as he straightened the sleeves of his suit and turned them back so that they formed neat cuffs of equal size. ‘I was heading off with Saslow, to see that walk-in at Avonmouth, and the next thing I knew I’d been arrested.’

  ‘Is that really your only memory of today, Willis?’ asked Vogel.

  ‘Yes, boss. Of course it is.’

  ‘Do you remember where you were arrested.’

  ‘Course I do. I was in my car. A load of armed heavies pulled me over. They were none too gentle, either.’

  ‘Yes. But do you remember the location of your car at the time you were pulled over?’

  Something flitted across Willis’s eyes. One of those involuntary events Freda Heath had described to the DI, perhaps.

  ‘Uh no. Not exactly.’ Willis suddenly seemed confused. Unsure.

  Vogel glanced towards Freda Heath. He’d already asked her to intervene and indeed to take over the questioning, if she felt he were muddying psychiatric waters. She shook her head very slightly and gestured for him to continue.

  ‘Do you remember if anyone was with you in the car?’

  Willis frowned. He seemed to be really concentrating, making an effort to answer truthfully.

  ‘I’m not sure. Uh, yes. Dawn Saslow was with me, wasn’t she? But …’

  Was there a kind of panic in Willis’s eyes. Vogel couldn’t tell for certain.

  ‘But … she wasn’t there when I was pulled over.’ Willis clenched both his fists and held them briefly in front of his mouth, before lowering his hands and placing them on the table before him.

  ‘Why was that?’ he asked, almost curiously. Vogel glanced at Freda Heath again.

  ‘Might you have left Dawn somewhere?’ Freda asked in a level tone.

  Willis looked at the professor as if seeing her for the first time.

  ‘Why would I have left her anywhere?’ he asked, sounding bewildered.

  ‘Could you have hurt her, perhaps? Might you have done that, DS Willis?’

  ‘What? Hurt Dawn? Why would I do that?’

  The words sounded normal enough, but Willis’s eyes no longer seemed focused on anyone or anything in the room. His chest began to heave, as if he were having trouble breathing or as if he were struggling to control forces within himself. His eyes rolled back into their sockets. His tongue protruded slightly from his mouth. He lifted his hands from the table and let his arms fell loosely by his side. Then he sprang to his feet and threw both arms in the air.

  The two uniformed constables on duty by the door stepped forward. Vogel and Nobby Clarke both indicated that they should hold back.

  ‘I am Aeolus,’ said the man, who had previously been known to them only as Willis. ‘I am Aeolus. I control the winds. The winds of fortune. The winds of change. I am all powerful. This Willis is merely my servant.’

  The voice was immediately different, more educated and with the hint of Latin accent that Vogel had noticed on the phone. His eyes blazed. If Vogel hadn’t known better, he would have thought it was with a kind of righteousness. So, when Willis was Aeolus, he was aware of his other identities. Or at least some of the time he was, at any rate. Freda Heath had suggested that might be so.

  ‘And the others, Leo, Al, Saul, are they also your servants?’ Vogel continued.

  ‘When I call upon them they are there.’

  ‘But why, you Aeolus, so powerful, why do you call on these …’ Vogel paused, wondering how far too push this. Again he glanced towards Freda Heath. The professor gestured for him to continue. Was she reading his mind, Vogel wondered? Well that’s what psychiatrists were supposed to be able to do, wasn’t it? Or was it? Vogel didn’t have the faintest idea. He went for it anyway. The man he had thought to be a perfectly ordinary police detective was staring at Vogel. Silent. Expectant. Challenging?

  ‘Yes?’ he queried.

  ‘… these pathetic apologies for men,’ Vogel continued. ‘A serial paedophile, a twisted closet gay, an inadequate sexual misfit, who dreams of having a family but cannot even perform the sexual act …’

  It happened very quickly. Again there was the moment of almost total muscular relaxation. Then the man, who had once been Willis, threw himself across the desk that separated them and tightened his hands around Vogel’s neck.

  ‘You think you are better than me, you jumped-up piece of filth,’ he yelled. ‘You think you’re the special one. I can have any woman I damned well want. They flock to me. I know how to court them. I know what they want …’

  The two uniforms leapt forwards, grabbed the suspect and pulled him off the DI. This time nobody protested. They pushed him back onto his chair and now stood on either side of him, each with a hand on one shoulder.

  Willis slumped in his seat. Vogel coughed a couple of times and took a drink of water from the one glass that had survived the unexpected onslaught. The voice Willis had just used had held more than a trace of Wiltshire. A rural burr. That must have been Saul speaking, Vogel thought, just as Sonia had described him.

  ‘Yes, but you can’t give it to them though, can you?’ Vogel remarked, continuing to pressurise. ‘That’s your problem, isn’t it? You can’t do it. You can’t fuck.’

  Willis/Saul/Leo/Al, the man who believed he was Aeolus, raised his head and stared at Vogel. There was ice in his eyes. Vogel wondered if he would try to attack again, but he didn’t. Instead, his lips cracked into a kind of leer.

  ‘They have to be the right age,’ he said. ‘If they’re young enough I can do it.’

  The accent was now Scottish. Melanie Cooke had told her friend, Sally, that Al spoke with a Scottish accent. So this was Al, Vogel thought. Vogel watched him pull repeatedly at the collar of his suit, at the back of his neck. What was he doing, Vogel wondered? Then he realised. He was trying to put a non-existent hood over his head. Al was always hooded, even in the summer. All the reports about him indicated that. This was Al all right.

  ‘So,’ Vogel continued gently. ‘Why didn’t you make it with young Melanie Cooke?’

  The other man’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Because she was a vicious, knowing bitch,’ he said, still sounding Scottish. ‘She wasn’t the way I like them at all. She was no child.’

  Vogel almost had to physically gulp back his repulsion. He had worked with this man, lived out his professional life alongside him. Vogel wanted to attack him, just as the creature he had once known as Willis had attacked him, only more effectively. He controlled himself with difficulty.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You can’t ever do it with a woman, can you? Not really. Not the way they want. Not the way you want.’

  The other man’s eyelids flickered. He made no reply.

  ‘You’re all right as Leo though, aren’t you? You can fuck a man all right. Can’t you? That’s no problem for you is it, Leo?’

  Vogel felt Nobby Clarke’s eyes upon him, burning into him. Had he really gone too far now? The man they had known as Willis took a huge intake of air, exerted his not inconsiderable strength, forced himself to his feet not withstanding the restraining hands of the two uniforms and stood, directly facing his four inquisitors.

  ‘I am Aeolus,’ he said, in that curious mix of English public school and classic Latin.

  ‘I know not of what you speak. I am Aeolus.’

  EPILOGUE

  Prolonged further questioning brought about little change and next to no information from the multi-personalitied suspect. Leo, Al, Saul and Willis all seemed to have effectively disappeared beneath the wings of Aeolus. The CPS remained unsure whether a prosecution could be successfully brought in view of such extensive mental health issues.

  Meanwhile, the Avon and Somerset Constabulary successfully applied to the courts to be allowed to remand their suspect in police custody without charging him for four days – the maximum period allowed except in cases of terrorism – whilst they continued their investigations into the case.<
br />
  The Greater Manchester Police were asked to check out Willis’s early life. They quickly found that the story he had told his ex-wife, although factually based, had strayed significantly from the truth.

  Willis’s father may well have been a wife-beating philanderer, who had yet to be found, but his stepfather, Peter Maxwell, was not as Willis had portrayed him. And he was dead. He’d killed himself soon after his daughter had been discovered drowned in her bath. Manchester Police had located Maxwell’s brother, who told them that Peter Maxwell could not come to terms either with the death of his daughter or being suspected of involvement in it. The brother further maintained that Maxwell was a gentle man, who had never been violent or abusive to his wife, his stepson or his daughter.

  But the brother said Maxwell always thought John Willis, whom he considered to be a highly disturbed child, may have attacked the little girl, even though he had only been twelve at the time. Maxwell’s brother claimed that the young John had resented the presence of his stepfather from the start and been seriously jealous of his stepsister, whom he believed to have stolen the affections of the mother he adored.

  It also transpired that Willis’s mother was not dead. She’d suffered from lifelong mental health problems, which she certainly seemed to have passed on to her only son. She remained in a secure hospital having been sectioned under the mental health act when Willis was twenty and at engineering college. Eighteen months later, Willis had suddenly decided to change his career choice and become a policeman, selling the Manchester family home and relocating to join the Avon and Somerset Constabulary.

  Chillingly, there was more. At about the time Willis left Manchester, a fifteen-year-old girl, who lived nearby, had disappeared and never been found. Following the new information indicating that Willis was a multiple murderer, the Manchester Police organised a search of the house which had been the Willis family home. They dug up a concrete patio, which neighbours told them the young Willis had built and found the decaying body of a young female. Nobody had much doubt that she would prove to be the missing girl. It seemed that Willis had something of a fondness for concrete.