ALONE WITH A KILLER an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist (Detective Mike Nash Thriller Book 6)

by BILL KITSON

  ‘Nevertheless, not many civilian officers would be prepared to give up the weekend.’

  ‘That’s habit, I suppose,’ Pratt admitted ruefully. ‘Once a copper, always a copper even after you’ve retired.’

  Clara turned to Jack Binns. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home now? All tucked up with your cocoa.’

  ‘I thought you might want me to stay on, with Mike being away and all that.’

  ‘If I need you, I know where to find you, OK? Now, home!’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Binns gave Clara a reassuring smile as he headed for the locker room.

  When they reached the CID suite, Tom Pratt headed for the small desk in the corner of the outer office that Nash had allocated him. Tom had always been a good administrator, and despite the fact that he handled all the unit’s paperwork, his desk was commendably neat, especially compared to the untidiness of the trio of detectives. Tom pointed to the computer monitor. ‘I’ve typed up the text for a flyer and a bulletin regarding the missing woman from the details Jack gave me. Hopefully, it might not be needed but I thought it would save time later on. I could do with a photo and a description, though.’

  ‘We might have to rely on the missing woman’s sister, Dr Grey, for those,’ Clara told him. ‘She should be coming in here sometime this morning.’

  ‘I’ve also started compiling a missing person form in case that’s needed. That was about all I could do until I spoke to you and found out what you need me for.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom. It saves me having to think of these things when you’re about. The main objective today is to locate the missing woman’s husband. His name is Brian Dawson, and he went to Spain sometime last week on a golfing holiday, so I’m open to any bright ideas about how we trace him.’

  ‘It could be dead easy,’ Pratt told her. ‘If it was a trip organized by his golf club, which a lot of them are, someone at the clubhouse will know where they’re staying, how long they went for, that sort of thing. If it was a privately organized trip it could be a bit more difficult, but it should still be possible. The airlines will know who they’ve taken that had golf clubs in their luggage, as they are subject to special regulations these days. I assume Dawson is a member at Netherdale?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I’ll start with them. I play there, and although I don’t know Dawson, the club secretary should. Failing that I’ll try the other clubs in the area.’

  ‘One other thing, I know it’s hardly likely to give us anything meaningful, but check Dawson out on the computer, see if he’s got form.’

  It was sometime later after SOCO had left and Pearce was about to lock the doors, when he heard the sound of a vehicle. He saw the logo and the sign on the panels. Good Buys Online was the internet-shopping arm of the local supermarket chain. Pearce showed the driver his warrant card, a man he recognized vaguely, but couldn’t place.

  ‘I’ve a delivery for Mrs Dawson,’ the man, whose badge proclaimed him to be Chris Willis, told Pearce.

  ‘I’m afraid she isn’t here.’ Viv opted not to explain. He pointed to the paperwork the man was clutching. ‘Can you tell from that when Mrs Dawson placed the order?’

  ‘Should be able to,’ Willis scanned the document. ‘According to this, the order was received at 11.33 a.m. on Thursday.’

  ‘Hang on a sec.’ Pearce thought rapidly. From what Clara had told him, there was no sign of a computer in the house. ‘Is it possible to tell how the order was placed?’

  Willis frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you?’

  ‘I mean, was it phoned in, or sent via e-mail or via your web pages?’

  ‘Oh, I see. I’m not sure if it gives that info. Let me have a look.’

  It took a couple of minutes of intense concentration before the driver found it. ‘Here it is. The order was placed by Vanda Dawson, customer account number 75285 via a PDA using a Google Android platform, whatever the hell that means. Is that what you need to know?’

  ‘It’s a mobile phone with computer capabilities,’ Pearce explained. ‘Do you visit here regularly?’

  ‘We usually get a large order every few weeks or so.’

  ‘And is it always you who delivers?’

  Willis grinned. ‘Unless I’m on holiday, then the manager has to get off his fat backside and do some work for a change.’

  ‘How long have you been doing the job?’

  ‘Ever since the company set up the service − about three years ago.’

  The moment she woke up, she was aware something had changed. The bed; this surface felt harder. She opened her eyes. The lights; they were different too. Further away, at the other end of the room. No longer directly overhead. No longer hurting her eyes.

  Only, it wasn’t a room. It was much bigger, and colder. That much she could tell without moving. And the ceiling; it was no longer a plaster ceiling. This place had what looked like metal sheets over a framework. What was it they were called? Corrugated. So, what was this place?

  Curiosity made her try to sit up, to look round. But she couldn’t. Her wrists and ankles were still tied. That hadn’t changed. She moved as much as her bonds would allow. She could see there was some sort of structure running down one wall of the building. It looked like…? She frowned, concentrating, trying to think – stalls. Like they kept animals in. She sniffed the air, certain she was right. The building smelled of animals. She was in a barn. The straps securing her wrists were looped round iron rings attached to the walls. She wriggled slightly, trying to see how her ankles were tied.

  That was when she realized why the room felt colder. She was no longer covered. Strangely, though, she could feel material beneath her shoulders. So the table, or whatever she was lying on, had been covered, but she hadn’t. She wondered why that was then swiftly dismissed the thought. Not one she was keen to dwell on. The material felt soft, plush even. Not like a linen tablecloth at all. She squinted downwards and to one side. She could just see one edge of the fabric. It was the wrong colour for a tablecloth as well. Nobody used that shade of rich purple to cover tables − not since Victorian times. It was more like – her brain baulked at the final word, frozen with terror at the implication – an altar. Like the one used by the serial killer she had read so much about. He placed his victims on an altar surrounded by satanic symbols, before setting fire to them.

  She hadn’t spoken the word aloud, yet it was as if she’d given him his entrance cue. She heard a door open and close. Heard the sound of approaching footsteps. She dared not look. Not at first. After a few seconds, she had to. Just a quick glance. He might not notice that. Might not see she was awake. She turned her head towards where she guessed he’d be. Ever so slowly, ever so gradually. Opened her eyes a fraction. Looking from beneath her eyelids. Then wished she hadn’t.

  He was standing close to her, no more than six feet away. Still masked, but wearing some sort of loose-fitting robe. He was aware she was watching him. He stooped and set the object he was carrying on the ground. An object she recognized immediately. An object that raised her terror to even higher levels. Two feet high, four inches wide, painted drab green. A can that would hold five gallons of liquid: usually petrol.

  She looked away, unable to stand the sight of it, of him, unwilling to let him see how afraid she was. After several seconds’ silence, she heard a rustle of movement. Had to look. Didn’t want to, but had to. Turned her head, wished she hadn’t.

  The sound had been him; removing the robe. Apart from the mask, he was as naked as she was. She couldn’t bear to look, dared not look away. He stepped forward. Stood alongside her. Looking. Then he turned slightly and bent his head. What was he doing? Praying? She looked down. Another mistake. He certainly wasn’t praying.

  She looked hurriedly away, her heart thumping violently. He was preparing himself and she knew exactly what for. She heard another movement and looked again. As she did, he waved one hand in a strange sort of gesture. Was this part of some strange, sick ritual? Before she knew it he moved ag
ain, quickly, mounted the altar and straddled her. He was close now, almost close enough for his body to touch hers. She shrank back as far as she could. He moved closer. She could feel the warmth of his body against hers, smelt his masculine scent. Saw the glitter in the eyes half hidden by the mask. Then he was on her.

  How long he lay there, she couldn’t tell. Eventually he raised himself from her, and climbed off the altar. He stood beside her and waved his hand again, in that same curious gesture. She saw him walk away. Saw him pick up the can.

  He stopped, his back towards her and fiddled with something. Then he turned and she saw he had a carrier bag in his hand. He collected his robe and put it on. Her relief was beyond measure. He hadn’t been able to do it. Was that because of her? Did she fail to satisfy his libido in some way? At that moment the reason didn’t matter. The violation she’d dreaded, the assault she’d been expecting hadn’t taken place. In fact, what had happened had been more like a simulated sex act. Her relief was short-lived. As he walked away he stopped and bent down and picked up the can again. She watched, bewilderment and terror mingled. Seconds later, she heard the door open and close.

  She waited in silence, wondering what was going to happen next. She didn’t want to speculate but there were few alternatives to distract her. The respite was temporary. Within minutes, he was back. Dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and wearing a sweater over it. That was a relief. He was no longer carrying the petrol can, for which she was more than thankful. He was still wearing the mask, though. That puzzled her. Why was he wearing it? If he was going to kill her, why hide his face? Was it because he knew she would recognize him? But, if he was who she thought he was, he was going to torture her and burn her alive, so what did it matter?

  She had no leisure for further speculation. He reached behind her and unfastened the straps securing her to the wall, then moved to the other end of the table and untied her ankles. He put one arm behind her knees, the other round her shoulders and swivelled her until she was sitting on the edge of the altar. Only it wasn’t an altar, merely a sturdy trestle table with a piece of material thrown over it. Her captor bent down and picked up a small bundle of clothes. Her clothes. He passed them to her. ‘Dress.’

  Vanda realized with some surprise that this was only the second word he had spoken since he’d taken her prisoner. Again, she wondered if that was because he was afraid she might recognize his voice. She needed no encouragement to obey his command. She was acutely aware that he was watching her closely throughout the process, which took far longer than usual because her fingers were numb from the straps and her hands were trembling violently. She donned her trainers, all the time trying to avoid the question that burned in her mind, the question she could not dismiss no matter how hard she tried. ‘What next?’ It was so overwhelming she almost believed she had given voice to it.

  ‘Drink.’

  She looked up. He was holding out a small bottle with the cap removed; just as well, she was sure she wouldn’t have been able to manage it on her own. She took it, sipping cautiously at the cold water; then swallowing deeper draughts as her thirst took over, until the bottle was almost empty.

  He watched approvingly. He was just in time to take the bottle from her hands before she dropped it, just in time to catch her when she slipped sideways off the table, as the sedative again took effect.

  The forensic report from Mill Cottage had been both negative and puzzling. The officer in charge told Mironova they’d failed to find any fingerprints on the surfaces in the kitchen, hall and lounge, apart from those of Dr Grey. What they had found were several specks of white fibre clinging to the kitchen units, door handles and lounge furniture. They had tested the fibres, which they found to be impregnated with some sort of chemical. ‘We haven’t identified the chemical yet, and the samples are so small we might not be able to, but my best guess would be they’re from some of those sanitised wipes used in kitchens nowadays. And I’d say they’ve been used specifically to eradicate any fingerprints.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good. Not good at all,’ Clara commented.

  ‘No it doesn’t,’ the officer agreed. ‘And what makes it worse is that we failed to find any material matching those fibres in the house. If they were used as we suspect, someone brought them into the house.’

  His report decided Mironova to step the investigation up into a full-blown missing person’s enquiry, even though the time-line set out in her guidance notes hadn’t expired. When Dr Grey arrived later to make her statement, Clara managed to obtain a photo of the missing woman from her mobile phone. As she was providing this via a Bluetooth message, Clara was struck by a stray thought. During the time she’d spent examining the interior of Mill Cottage, she hadn’t seen any photos of either Vanda Dawson, her husband, or the pair of them together. She was about to question Dr Grey about this strange fact, but in view of her distress, decided to leave the matter for the time being, merely making a note to mention it in her report.

  Later that afternoon, Pearce returned and was deputed to assist Pratt in the hunt for Brian Dawson. Viv had already told Clara that the postman had delivered nothing more meaningful than a couple of items of junk mail, one from a power supply company, the other from a charity trying to flog raffle tickets. ‘He got there just after you left.’ He detailed the chat he’d had with the man. ‘I asked him if it was his regular round, which it is. He’s been on it a couple of years or so. His name….’ Pearce consulted his notebook, ‘is Glen Clarke, spelt with an E. He was very fussy about that. He lives in Helmsdale.’

  ‘Any other visitors to the house?’

  ‘One more, and it might be significant.’ Pearce related his chat with the supermarket delivery driver.

  At the end of it, Clara said, ‘That confirms our worst fears, I reckon. If Vanda Dawson ordered all those groceries, she obviously wasn’t planning to be absent from home.’

  Pratt summed up the results of their efforts. ‘Before I set about tracing Dawson, I checked him on the computer as you asked. There’s nothing apart from a speeding fine he collected a few months back. As far as the golfing holiday’s concerned, that’s a real mystery. The secretary at Helmsdale Golf Club confirmed that Dawson is a member, but knows of no trips to Spain. Certainly not one organized by the club, and he hasn’t heard of any group of members sorting their own trip out. After that, I started trying to contact airlines that fly to Spain. Unfortunately, most of the departments that could give me any information are closed, so there’s very little I can do until Monday. I even tried the airports, but it’s the same with them. However, those which could search their computers couldn’t find any trace of Dawson on their recent flights. That’s not to say he isn’t in Spain, but I can’t be sure one-way or the other, until Monday at the earliest.’

  ‘Oh great! That’s absolutely brilliant! That means Vanda Dawson’s gone missing and we can’t even locate her husband to tell him. Tom, can you think of anything else that could possibly go wrong today?’

  Pratt shook his head. He couldn’t think of any way the day could get worse.

  As Tom Pratt was leaving the station to drive back to Netherdale, he passed a group of motor cyclists heading through the market place towards the Bishopton road. Bikers were a common enough sight during the summer when Helmsdale was a favourite destination for groups from the West Riding and the north east, but at this time of the year they were much less in evidence. He gave no more thought to them than to wonder where they hailed from and where they were heading so late in the day, then dismissed them from his mind. It was not until much later that he remembered the group.

  After crossing the market place, the bikers pulled into the car park to the rear of the high street at the northern end of the town. When they’d switched their engines off, leaned their bikes on their stands and removed their helmets, the leader spoke to them. ‘Right, let’s be sure everything is ready. Have you got the kit in place?’

  ‘All sorted. The vans are parked out of sight,’ one of the
men replied. ‘The signs and barricades are ready to be pulled into place as soon as I get the word. I’ve concealed them behind hedges, but it’s no more than a couple of minutes’ work to get them into position.’

  ‘I’ll supervise the first part, the rest of you get on your way.’ The leader looked at one of the men, ‘Got your equipment ready?’

  ‘Dead easy, I got it last week. I’ve tested it a couple of times. It’ll work fine.’

  ‘Right, you’d better get yourselves off. The signal will be when I pass you.’

  When Clara told David about her day, she described it as like trying to swim upstream in the river Helm after the flood. ‘I’m afraid I have to go into work again tomorrow. I spoke to the Chief Constable and she agreed there wasn’t much more I could do today, so she’s called a meeting for nine o’clock in the morning; unless something else crops up in the meantime,’ she added darkly. ‘For now, I’m looking forward to nothing more taxing than a long hot soak in the bath, preferably accompanied by a glass of wine, then tasting this dinner that smells so delicious, and finally collapsing into bed.’

  The driver of the security van yawned. It was partly from boredom, mostly from weariness. Saturday evening always got him this way, recently, even more so. That was down to his boss trying to run the company on a shoestring. The recession, credit crunch, call it what you like had hit all industry hard; theirs was no exception. The result was everyone competing for the same business, and cutting margins to the bone simply in order to secure the work. Slimmer margins led inevitably to demands for the overheads to be reduced. In the security business, that was a dangerous practice.

  Guardwell Transport had operated a fleet of twenty vans similar to his until eighteen months ago. They had provided secure transport facilities for banks and retailers throughout the north of England with a staff of over eighty men on the road, plus over half a dozen in the control room and several more at their central depot in Netherdale.