by Bill Kitson
‘Why not? It’s my house. It was my parents’ and grandparents’ house.’
‘Even though everybody knows you’re a rapist and murderer?’
‘A convicted rapist and murderer,’ Vickers stated, without expression.
Nash shrugged. ‘What’s the difference?’
‘I was convicted of those crimes. That doesn’t mean I committed them.’
‘Why not go for a fresh start, under a new name? Somewhere you don’t have to look over your shoulder?’
‘If I’d done that, everyone would assume I killed Stacey.’
‘You’re saying coming back is a statement of innocence?’
‘Partly, but more besides.’
‘Such as?’
‘Unfinished business. You may have drawn a line under her murder, but I haven’t. If you won’t bring her killer to justice, I’ll do it myself.’ Vickers paused and, without a flicker of emotion, added, ‘It’ll be my kind of justice, not yours. So it won’t be me that’ll be looking over my shoulder.’
‘Do you know who the killer is?’
Vickers stared at the detective, as if the question was stupid. ‘Not yet. But I soon will.’
That evening, after they shared a pizza from Vickers’ new freezer, Nash checked the front and back doors and ensured the bolts were securely closed. He wandered into the lounge and stared at the TV, undecided whether to switch it on. The sound of movement came from upstairs. He turned and went to find Vickers. He was inside the room he’d been looking in earlier, opening and closing wardrobe doors, sliding drawers from the bedside cabinets and dressing table in and out. ‘Lost something?’
Vickers looked round. Nash was aware of that same wintry expression he’d seen earlier. In a second it was gone. The mask was securely in place. ‘Not exactly.’
‘What are you doing then? Searching for something?’
‘Sort of.’
‘If you tell me what you’re looking for, I’ll give you a hand.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t know what it is. Not yet at any rate.’
‘Now you’ve lost me.’
‘I’m looking for something. But I won’t know what it is until I find it. And I’m not sure where it’ll be.’
‘Hang on a bit. If you don’t know what or where it is, how can you be sure this mysterious “something” actually exists?’
Vickers’ smile was as cryptic as his reply. ‘That’s the one thing I do know.’
‘Yes, but remember the house was broken into only a week ago. How can you be sure what you’re looking for wasn’t taken?’
‘That wasn’t the first time the house has been broken into. Five times over the last two years, to be exact. The maintenance company reported each incident. The break-ins are the reason I know it exists. And the attempted arson proves it hasn’t been found.’
‘I’m confused. What do you think this mysterious object might be? And how can you be certain it ever existed?’
‘I know it exists, because I was told it did. I’ve no idea what it is, but I know what it represents.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Proof.’
‘Proof? Proof of what?’
‘Like I said, you’re the detective. You figure it out.’
Nash thought for a moment or two. ‘You said there’d been a few burglaries, yet you’re certain what they were looking for hadn’t been removed?’
Vickers nodded.
‘Then how can you be sure what they were looking for was in the house?’
‘It must have been in the house, it couldn’t have ...’ Vickers’ voice trailed off into silence. He stared at Nash, but it was obvious his thoughts were elsewhere.
‘Well?’ Nash prompted.
‘Nothing,’ Vickers said unconvincingly.
Nash declined Vickers’ offer of a bed. ‘My job’s to keep you safe. I can’t do that if I’m asleep. I’ll settle for a dining chair and freedom to drink your coffee. I take it you’ll be in the front bedroom? I assume that was yours.’
Nash was watching Vickers. The expression on the released man’s face was curious. It took Nash a few moments to identify it. It was one of distaste. ‘No, I’ll be in the middle room; where you saw me earlier.’
‘That was Stacey’s room. People might consider that perverted.’
‘I don’t care what people think.’
‘Will you be able to sleep in that room? Knowing what happened to Stacey?’
Vickers’ laugh was completely devoid of mirth. ‘You think I’ll have nightmares? You think I’ll spend the night tossing and turning, because of where I am? No, that room is the one place I can be assured of a good night’s sleep.’
Nash watched him walk upstairs. He was convinced Vickers was after revenge. That made Nash’s job doubly difficult. They had to make sure Vickers didn’t come to harm. They also had to prevent him attacking the person he believed had killed Stacey. That wouldn’t be easy. The fact that they didn’t know the identity of Vickers’ intended victim made it impossible.
Chapter thirteen
Overnight, boredom made time drag. Nash needed something to while away the hours. He was relieved when he heard Vickers moving about. It was 6.30. The sun was streaming through the window. Within minutes Vickers joined him. He looked refreshed, alert and eager. ‘How did you sleep?’ Nash asked.
Vickers smiled. ‘It was the best night I’ve had for fifteen years. If the sun hadn’t been so strong, I’d have been asleep still.’
‘Is that because you’re free? Or because you were sleeping in Stacey’s room?’
‘Probably because I wasn’t disturbed by other prisoners. How was the security patrol?’
‘Bloody boring. I tried TV. That didn’t help. I thought daytime telly was bad enough. What they put on in the early hours is absolute dross. The most exciting event of the night was two cats shagging in your back yard.’
Vickers shook his head sadly. ‘You’ve a perverted sense of fun,’ he mocked. ‘Care for toast and coffee?’
‘Toast will be handy. I’ll pass on the drink. I’ve been supping coffee all night.’
Shortly after 8 a.m. Nash’s relief arrived. Pratt had opted to use Bishopton’s small squad as backup. Nash briefed the man before he left. ‘DC Pearce will be here at 6 p.m. to take over.’ He turned to Vickers, who was watching in quiet amusement. ‘Behave yourself. Do what the officer tells you and keep out of sight. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. In the meantime, give some thought to letting me into your confidence.’ Vickers raised an enquiring eyebrow as Nash continued, ‘If you want to convince me, you’ll have to trust me. If you think I’m going to stand by whilst you wage some private vendetta, think again. I’ll put as much effort into stopping you as I will in preventing Jake and Ronnie Fletcher slitting your throat. Is that clear?’
Nash called at his flat for a shower and shave, and was in the Helmsdale CID office little later than usual. Mironova was already there. ‘How did the child-minding go?’
‘It worries me,’ Nash confessed.
‘You’ve been through the evidence again?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t find anything worth bidding for on the Shopping Channel, so I read the case notes. There’s no other motive. There were no jilted boyfriends, no love triangle. There was nothing about Stacey’s life that presents even a whiff of suspicion against anyone but Vickers. She was a photography student at Netherdale College. The staff and other students spoke of her as a popular girl, friendly but with little involvement in anything but her coursework. She hadn’t had time to make enemies. Nor was she involved in drugs, gangs or criminal activity. Nothing about her murder makes sense, apart from the fact that Vickers got overcome with lust and raped her. Knowing what the consequences would be, he killed the girl to stop her going to her mother or the police. In fact, he’d probably have been more scared of her mother. Because Gemma Fletcher would have gone straight to Jake and Ronnie, and we all know w
hat would have happened then. It’s a cast-iron, logical case any jury would convict on.’
Mironova knew there was more to come. ‘Except?’ she prompted.
‘Except those two huge holes in the evidence. What happened to the piano wire? And, if he killed her at the house, how did he get her to the dump site? Apart from that, I thought Vickers was scared of Jake and Ronnie Fletcher. But he never has been. If he’d been frightened of them, he’d never have returned here. He’d have sold that house years ago. The fact that he went to so much trouble and expense shows he always intended to come back. All his thoughts and actions were bent on coming back to Helmsdale. And I know why. Vickers intends to find Stacey’s killer and take revenge. He doesn’t trust us to do it.’
Clara sighed. ‘It’s a nightmare. Accepting that he didn’t; do you think he knows who killed Stacey?’
‘I don’t think so. In fact, I’d say he only knows one thing we don’t.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Only he knows if he’s innocent. But he’s sure there’s something that will tell him what he needs.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Last night he was searching the house. He said he was looking for something.’
‘Did he say what?’
‘He just said it was “proof”. Proof of what, he wouldn’t explain.’
‘What do you intend to do?’
‘There’s nothing we can do, except wait on developments. One thing’s certain. As soon as word gets round that he’s back, there will be developments.’
The weekend had been busy. The media had descended on Houlston Grange en masse. Rathmell was courteous, welcoming, and bore even the most hostile interrogations with calm good humour. Monday marked no lessening in the feeding frenzy, and it was late afternoon before the pack of scribes and TV crews departed.
On Tuesday morning, Rathmell spent several hours running through schedules of interviews and public appearances with his agent. Following that, a prominent TV political correspondent quizzed the MEP about his intentions for the fledgling movement. After the pundit left, Rathmell reviewed the meeting before bidding the agent farewell. When he was alone, he turned his attention to thoughts of the no less exciting events that were to come later that day. He was excited by the thought of having Gemma here. Of having her to himself. Of being able to do all the things they wanted with all the time they needed, without the constant fear of discovery. As he sat in his study, his eyes flicked occasionally to the CCTV monitor covering the various entrances to the estate. This was a reflex action. He knew she wasn’t due for several hours yet.
The cameras had been installed at the insistence of his insurers. Rathmell’s eye was attracted by a movement on the screen covering the main gate. He picked up the remote control and panned the camera. He operated the zoom and the object came into sharper focus. Rathmell’s eyes narrowed as he identified it. He stared at the screen for several minutes before he picked up his mobile.
‘It’s me,’ he began. ‘Slight change of plan. I’ve some business to attend to.’
‘My meeting’s finished early – I was about to leave.’
‘Even better. Meet me in the woods in an hour. I’ll be in the Land Rover.’
Rathmell disconnected and put the phone back on his desk. His gaze returned to the CCTV monitor. He stared at it for a long time. Eventually, as if he’d come to a decision, he turned and walked briskly from the room.
Becky Pollard had been one of the visitors to Houlston Grange. Her photos were too late to make the Monday evening edition but they would form a good background to the profile the Gazette was running the following day. By mid-morning on Tuesday, she’d sent them for printing and was working on other weekend events. She was interrupted by a call from reception. ‘There’s a parcel arrived. It’s to sign for,’ the receptionist told her.
‘At last,’ Becky said. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘Where’s this been?’ she greeted the courier. ‘Did you send it via the North Pole?’
The man looked faintly embarrassed. ‘Sorry about the delay. It got sent to our Northampton depot. How anyone mistakes Northampton for Netherdale, I’ve no idea. If you want to make a claim, the details are on the back of the form. We don’t get many go astray,’ he added defensively.
Becky signed for the parcel. ‘I don’t suppose it matters.’ She turned to the receptionist. ‘I’ll leave this with you. Stick a post-it on, will you. JT will be in to collect it. I’ll give him a call.’
She was about to return to her office when the receptionist’s phone rang. She answered it and held up a detaining hand. ‘Yes, she’s here,’ the woman said. ‘Okay, I’ll tell her.’
She turned to Becky. ‘There’s a meeting. From what Helen said, you can forget lunch; report to the boardroom straightaway.’
‘Damn. Do me a favour. Give JT a bell. Let him know that parcel’s here.’
Pearce reported a trouble-free night, so the team was able to give their attention to the various unsolved crimes they had on their plate. Top of the list were the murders of the Druze family, along with the stabbing of Zydrumas. The arson attacks had left them with few clues, although a whisper from one informant had provided Mironova with a name.
‘He’s got form. Mostly juvenile, although there are suspicions he might have graduated into more serious stuff,’ she told Nash.
‘Who is he?’
‘Name’s Billy Floyd. His brother Danny has been linked with the main supplier of drugs in the area. Danny Floyd heads up a teenage gang known as Danny and the Juniors. They more or less run the Westlea. And rumour has it Jake and Ronnie Fletcher keep a parental eye on them.’
‘Tell me about Billy.’
‘I’m only going on hearsay, but whereas Danny’s rumoured to carry a gun, Billy’s said to be more than a bit handy with a knife. However, his favourite pastime is setting fires.’
‘And we’ve got three arson victims and someone killed with a knife.’
‘Nobody’s credited Billy Floyd with them. In fact the Westlea’s remarkably tight-lipped. The only person I could get to talk says everyone’s a bit nervous. Well, more than a bit. “Scared shitless” was the expression they used.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Billy Floyd’s the reason. He’s just plain monstrous, reckoned to be a psychopath or damned close. Hobbies: rough sex and setting fires. It’s only rumour that puts him in the frame for the knifing and the Druze and Hassan attacks, but I think we should pull him.’
‘We can’t do that without justification.’
Mironova allowed her frustration to boil over. ‘Bloody stupid regulations! They make our job twice as hard.’
‘Maybe, but that’s the law. Go back to your informant and see if you can persuade them to part with anything more. Might be worth mentioning that the sooner we get these murders cleared up, the sooner we’ll leave the Westlea in peace.’
‘I’ll try, but I’m not promising anything. Last Friday’s meeting has put everyone in a strange frame of mind. There seems to be a body of opinion that lays the blame with the victims. Something along the lines of “wouldn’t have happened if they’d stayed in their own country”. You know the sort of thing.’
‘Bloody interfering politicians.’ It was Nash’s turn to get annoyed. ‘If they’d only keep their trap shut, we’d all be better off.’
Nash was studying reports when he was interrupted by the phone. He answered, his face darkening with annoyance. ‘Take it slowly,’ he told the caller. ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’ He slammed the phone down. ‘Clara, Viv!’ he shouted.
Mironova and Pearce appeared in the open doorway. Nash was already moving round the desk. ‘Come on, both of you. We’ve got another problem.’
The hall at Grove Road was quite large but with four officers in it, there was little room. ‘Tell me again,’ Nash said patiently.
‘Everything was fine. I’d checked round a few times, looked out the back, made
sure everything was locked.’
Nash nodded. ‘Okay, then what happened?’
‘Vickers said he’d arranged to buy a DVD player, something to pass the time. I heard him on the phone. He’d asked the shop to send someone round to demonstrate a couple. When the doorbell rang I thought it was the man from the electronics shop. I answered the door. Vickers was in the kitchen making coffee. He even called out for me to ask the salesman if he wanted some. But it was a taxi driver. He said he’d had a call to the address to pick up a fare. Even then I didn’t suspect anything,’ the officer said miserably, ‘until he told me the passenger’s name was Nash.’
‘What happened next?’ Nash frowned at Mironova and Pearce, who were trying not to laugh. ‘I dashed back into the kitchen. Vickers had scarpered out the back. I went into the alley but he’d long gone.’
‘You’re certain he went of his own accord?’
‘He must have. The back door had been locked and bolted. Chain across too.’
‘That’s bloody brilliant.’ Nash was exasperated. ‘Now we’ve got Vickers on the loose in a neighbourhood where most of the residents would slit his throat for a fiver.’
It was that dead hour in the middle of the afternoon when traffic is at its lightest and pedestrians are few and far between. The Market Place had only a scattering of cars parked on its cobbles. Vickers passed only half a dozen people on his way through town. None of them gave him more than a glance.
He made his way down a narrow, twisting alley. There were a series of these running towards the Helm. Known as wynds, they were barely wide enough to take a car, and were surrounded on both sides by pretty mews cottages. Vickers didn’t pause to admire them. He neither glanced to left nor right. After a hundred yards the wynd opened onto the road that ran alongside the river. Vickers crossed it and took a footpath signposted for Helm Woods.
He increased his pace. Vickers could hear the river now, the water roaring as it tumbled over the weirs. His objective was close. The path split, the left fork leading to Kirk Bolton. Vickers didn’t need the sign. He knew only too well where he was. A couple of hundred yards along the track he stepped into the clearing and walked slowly across the uneven surface. He reached the trees by the river and looked around. It was not as he remembered it. It took him a moment to realize why. The trees were taller. Fifteen years of growth had changed them greatly.
