by Bill Kitson
When time had passed with no contact, Nash had all but given up hope of getting a positive response to his request for information regarding Dr North. The phone call came as a considerable surprise, not the least part of which was due to its source.
‘Detective Inspector Nash? Major Smith, Military Intelligence.’
‘Another one?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A colleague of mine had a phone call from a Captain Smith. I wondered if you’d been promoted? Or if you’re all called Smith, like in The Matrix?’
‘Coincidence,’ the major told him. ‘I understand you’re concerned about Dr North?’
‘That’s certainly no exaggeration.’
‘I’m happy to tell you Dr North is both alive and well. Unfortunately I’m not in a position to tell you much more.’
‘That’s certainly good news, although it’s of very little help in my investigation.’
‘I understand that, and believe me, I am sympathetic. However, I may be able to be of some limited assistance, as far as I’m allowed. I can tell you that Dr North was at a meeting in Birmingham on the night his wife died. Over twenty people can vouch for that fact. They include several eminent scientists and half a dozen high-ranking army officers. As for when his son was killed, Dr North was in hospital at the time, having suffered head injuries in a car smash. And before you ask, my people have conducted a thorough investigation into the accident and there are no suspicious circumstances surrounding it.’
‘It would have been useful to speak with Dr North, if only to ask him if he has any idea of a motive for either murder, or even a possible suspect.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Inspector, but my superiors will not allow that. Dr North’s work is highly sensitive, and I understand it to be at a critical stage in development. Please believe me, though, we have questioned him ourselves as to who might be behind these deaths and he has absolutely no idea. I can also assure you that he is being extremely well protected. Without wishing to denigrate your officers, I believe we can offer him far better protection than you would be able to.’
‘And what about Jessica?’
There was a pause. ‘To the best of my knowledge, Miss North is also alive and well. I’m sorry, but that’s all I’m allowed to say.’
After the man rang off, Nash stared at the phone for a few moments. That pause worried him. That, and the sentence that had followed it. Reading between the lines, he wondered if the military actually knew where Jessica was.
He called Clara into his office. ‘Go back to Gorton. Talk to anybody and everybody you can. Find out anything you can about Jessica North. If nothing else, ask if anyone’s ever seen her in school uniform, and if so, see if they can describe it. If they could, it might be a help, especially if the logo or badge is distinctive.’
‘Damn it, Mike, why didn’t I think of that?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘One of the forensics guys unearthed something from beneath a huge chunk of broken plaster. It had come off the wall of the smallest bedroom. It was a plaque in the shape of a shield.’
‘Can you remember what it looked like?’
‘No, but I’m sure the fire service collected a lot of the smaller items such as that.’
It took an hour of searching through a series of black plastic bags before they located the shield. Clara held it up; then stared as Nash began laughing. ‘Drive over to Harrogate this afternoon. I’ll give you directions.’
Clara blinked. ‘You recognize this?’ She looked at the shield. Despite the smoke damage she could make out a griffin’s head, an oak tree and two white roses. ‘How come you know it?’
‘Because I went to the same school.’
Clara stared at him. ‘But Jessica’s a girl. How come? Is it a mixed school?’
‘It is now. It wasn’t when I went.’
‘I bet a lot of mothers would be glad about that, if they knew.’
It was mid-afternoon when Mironova rang him. ‘I spoke to the headmaster. Jessica was taken out of school a couple of weeks ago. The men who came for her had Military Intelligence warrant cards. The headmaster told me he wouldn’t have accepted the cards on their own, but that they also brought a letter explaining that Jessica’s mother and brother were dead, and that Dr North was in a hospital, unconscious, and that there were fears for Jessica’s safety on grounds of national security. The letterhead was Helm Pharm, who Jessica confirmed as her father’s employers. The headmaster didn’t pass the contents on to Jessica but kept the letter. I’ve brought it away with me.’
‘Who signed it?’
‘Dr Caroline Dunning. Her title is given as “Head of Scientific Research”. The headmaster asked Jessica if she knew Dr Dunning. She told him Dr Dunning worked closely with her father.’ Clara paused. ‘He got the impression Jessica didn’t like Dr Dunning much.’
Nash sat pondering the news. Jessica had been taken from the school by Military Intelligence, on the strength of a letter signed by Dr Dunning. So, where had they taken her? Presumably to the same house where Dr Dunning had arrived. So, what had the panic been about after her arrival? What was it Major Smith had said? ‘To the best of our knowledge Jessica is alive and well’. Or in other words, we don’t know where she is. Nash had a mental image of a man carrying a bundle out to a car. A man whose face he hadn’t recognized, although it was familiar. Not just to a car, but to Dr Dunning’s car.
The connections came, thick and fast. It was the front page of the newspaper visible on Mironova’s desk that did it. It carried the picture of the new, charismatic American president. Nash realized whose face he’d seen. The man carrying the bundle had been wearing a Ronald Reagan mask. And he’d posed for the surveillance camera. But why use Dr Dunning’s car? Of course; to allay suspicion. The guards would be expecting Dr Dunning. He picked the phone up. ‘Jack, do me a favour. That car you checked out. See if any others of the same make, model and colour have been reported stolen in the last seven days, will you?’
The reply came back within minutes. An identical car had been taken from Netherdale the day before the incident at the laboratory. Nash was convinced he was right. So what had been in the bundle? With a jolt that was almost physical, Nash realized he’d used the wrong word. Not ‘what’ but ‘who’. Someone light enough to be carried by a fit young man. A soldier perhaps? Now he knew why Smith had hedged when asked the question. Of course they didn’t know where Jessica was. That was what the panic had been about. She’d been kidnapped. Right from under their noses.
Jessica hadn’t expected to get any sleep. Not after what he’d told her. But then, she didn’t know she’d been drugged. Then, memory returned. He’d said that her mother and brother were dead. He’d told her that he’d killed them. Was that true? Or had he been feeding her a line? Thinking about the gun he wore she doubted that. If it was the case, if what he’d told her was true, why didn’t she feel terrified? Or distraught?
Two of her three closest relatives were dead. They’d been killed by the man who was holding her prisoner. Surely she should be in tears. More than that; hysterics. But then again, she’d told him how much she despised her mother, how little she cared for her brother. That had been true, but it didn’t mean she shouldn’t be upset to hear they were dead. Did that make her unnatural? A cold-hearted monster? As unfeeling as, she paused in her thought process, as, well, as he was?
He’d shown no emotion as he’d told her of the killings. No remorse, no regret. Neither had he glorified in it, or tried to explain or justify his actions. He’d just told her. As a fact; like telling the time. And what was all that about her father? Why had he wanted to know so much? About him: all her family? What was his agenda?
She heard a noise. Slight, the merest whisper of sound. She looked across the room. He was standing in the doorway, staring at her. Assessing her. Suddenly, she felt afraid. A level of fear greater than any so far.
‘So, you’re awake.’ His voice was remote, distant, cold e
ven.
‘Yes, I’ve just woken up. Do you want me?’ Silly question. Worse, a dangerously leading question.
His expression changed, relaxed. ‘Time to get up,’ he told her, obscurely.
Slowly she swung her legs off the couch. ‘I need the loo.’
He helped her to her feet, guided her to the tiny compartment that served as toilet and shower combined. As she was unbuttoning her jeans, she looked up. He hadn’t closed the door, hadn’t turned his back. He was standing watching her. She waited for him to avert his gaze. When he didn’t she asked, ‘Can I have some privacy.’
‘No,’ his tone was neutral. ‘You have no privacy. Not from me. And when you’ve finished I want you to take a shower. I have some clean clothes for you.’
‘Clothes? Where from?’
‘I bought them, when you were out of it. Took the sizes from what you were wearing.’
He slid the shower curtain across in front of the toilet. ‘The controls are self-explanatory, bath towel’s hanging there.’ He pointed to the pegs on the wall.
She turned her back on him and started to undress, slowly, unwillingly. As her fingers fumbled with the bra strap, she wondered, was this it? Was he going to rape her? She looked round for somewhere to put her clothing. A hand reached over her shoulder and took the garments from her. He was standing close to her now, really close. So close she could smell him. A clean, soapy smell. She turned slowly to face him, taunting, striking a deliberately provocative pose, head to one side. He looked her up and down, slowly. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. After what seemed an age, he smiled. ‘Very nice,’ he pointed to the cubicle. ‘Now get your shower. You need it.’
In the shower she felt her fear recede marginally. He didn’t want her. Not that way. Although, when he’d looked at her, standing naked in front of him, she thought she’d seen a glimmer of something in his eyes. Not lust, something she was unable to place. Was it sadness?
She groped for the towel. It was placed in her hand. So he’d been there all along. She stepped out onto the mat. He continued to watch her, standing no more than a couple of feet in front of her as she dried herself. When she’d finished he reached out for the towel. She stared into his eyes. Had she been wrong? Had he been waiting until she was clean?
He took the towel from her trembling hands. ‘Turn round.’
She obeyed, moving slowly, reluctantly. Didn’t he want her to look at him whilst he was raping her? The towel flopped over her face, over her head. He began to rub, vigorously.
Jessica realized she was as far as ever from understanding this man, or gauging his emotions or motives. She stood still as he dried her hair; not even flinching when he felt it to make sure it was dry. He hung the towel back on its peg. ‘Come on,’ he took her hand.
Jessica sat down on the couch, knees primly together, hands across her breasts. He ignored her and walked across to the wardrobe compartment. He took out a pair of jeans and tossed them on the bed. From a drawer he took out a top, bra and pants, then stood watching as she dressed.
When she’d tied her trainers, he helped her to her feet. ‘Breakfast time.’ He kept hold of her hand as they went across to the kitchenette. Why? she wondered. He’d not attempted to assault her, had given no sign that was in his plans. There’d been nothing lecherous in the way he’d looked at her, even when she’d been naked, tempting him. She felt comforted by that, and by the warmth of this human contact. And then she realized, with a fresh degree of shock, that she was holding hands with a self-confessed killer. With the man who’d murdered her mother and brother. It should have repelled her. Oddly, it didn’t.
He asked her what she wanted to eat. She opted for toast. Jessica looked round. The closed curtains reminded her of the house. ‘That place we were in, before you brought me here. Was that your home?’
He nodded, preoccupied.
‘Don’t you ever draw the curtains or blinds? They were closed all the time I was there, now you’ve done the same here.’
‘It wasn’t safe at the house. You never know who might be watching.’
‘The police, you mean? Is that who you’re afraid of?’
He swung round in surprise. ‘No, not the police.’ He laughed. ‘And I’m not afraid.’
She waited for him to explain, but it appeared he wasn’t ready to.
‘But won’t people think it’s odd? The curtains being closed when it’s broad daylight?’
That expression was back in his eyes, a kind of sadness, sadness and anger combined. ‘They won’t think it’s strange. Not in the circumstances. Not round there.’
When they’d finished eating, he stood up. ‘Come on.’
‘Where to?’
‘We’re going to watch TV.’
‘Television? What’s on television at this time of day that you’re so keen to watch?’
‘Nothing on TV, we’re going to watch home movies.’
He walked over to the portable TV/DVD player and switched it on. He sat alongside her and pressed the remote control. What followed was a collection of film clips obviously taken with a camcorder. Almost all of these featured a young woman with two small girls, presumably her daughters, Jessica guessed.
The setting for the clips varied. Some had been taken in the garden of a house. His house? Some were on beaches, some at theme parks and a few taken in and around a motorhome, this one she guessed. From time to time Jessica glanced sideways at her captor. His eyes were fixed on the screen, his expression a compound of rage and sadness.
The last clip was taken indoors, and from the furnishings, Jessica recognized it as the house she’d been kept in. On this occasion the camera was being operated by someone else, the woman perhaps. It had obviously been shot on a Christmas morning, for there was the tree, in front of the window, with the two girls squatting on the carpet, opening present after present. The camcorder microphone picked up their squeals of delight.
Watching them with obvious pride was a man. As the girls jumped on him and hugged him with gratitude, he turned to face the camera. It was the man sitting alongside her, but for a moment Jessica failed to recognize him. He looked so much younger, little more than a boy, his expression happy and carefree. Jessica was still trying to come to terms with this when the screen went blank.
She looked at him. He was staring at the screen, as if willing it to show more.
‘What happened to them? Where are they?’
He turned away, his reluctance obvious. When he faced her his expression was of hatred. ‘They died,’ he told her, teeth gritted, each word a fresh torture. ‘There, in that house.’
‘How? When?’
‘Carbon monoxide poisoning is what they called it. Murder is what I call it. They died because the MOD didn’t maintain the appliances. They died because I wasn’t there to protect them. They died because we were so short of money I volunteered for a special tour of duty. A tour that involved me in something I found out was horrific. Something the intelligence creeps dreamed up using your father and others like him. Taking his skills and corrupting them for their own perverted ends.’
‘But my father isn’t involved in weapons or anything to do with warfare. He’s not an engineer, he’s a chemist. What on earth could he provide that would be useful to the military?’
Jessica listened as he told her. Listened, and learned for the first time the dreadful nature of what her father’s work produced. What she was unaware of was that her captor was in the process of brainwashing her. The solitary nature of her captivity, the lack of contact with anyone apart from her captor were the first stages in a process designed to bend her will to that of her abductor. The real reason behind the closing of the curtains and blinds was not to avoid detection, but to heighten the sense of isolation. Showing the film clips was calculated to engage her sympathy.
The next stage would involve increasing her dependency on him. Over the next few days and weeks, aided by the drugs he was feeding into her system, Jessica would come to realize that
every action she took would need his blessing. Everything, from eating, drinking, sleeping, washing, using the toilet, dressing and undressing, could only be done with his involvement and approval.
It mattered little to him whether Jessica was aware of what was being done to her or not. His objective would be unaffected. He was going to use Jessica in the same way as he had been used. And in doing so, he would create a weapon as potent as he had become. He’d used the short time they’d been together to study the girl closely. He already knew far more about her, both physically and mentally, than she could have guessed. Her physique was ideal – tall, with a good figure and a suitable level of fitness. That would be honed by the training regime he would introduce until she was as strong as he could make her. Mentally, she was tough, with all the strength of character her father lacked. She’d not once cried, or had hysterics, even when she’d been certain he was going to rape her. He smiled inwardly at the thought. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been tempted. She was attractive enough. He couldn’t be sure quite what had stopped him. Perhaps it was down to respect. His respect for her courage; the unconscious display of spirit that showed in a refusal to break down. He knew he would never be able to break that spirit. So his only option was to bend it to his will, pervert all those qualities she possessed for his own use.
Chapter Ten
The bar of The Horse and Jockey was crowded when Nash and Becky walked in. Busier than usual for a Friday night. Nash fought his way to the bar and got their drinks. He found Becky in the corner, where she was sharing a table with Jonas Turner. ‘Evening, Jonas, what’s the crush for? Not another darts tournament?’
Turner grinned. ‘Not likely, most of this lot couldn’t hit double top if they were standing next to t’ board. There’s a load of regulars from out of t’ tap room come in here because they don’t like the company in there.’
