Identity Crisis

by Bill Kitson

  Weariness and stress were making Jo tetchy. ‘Of course I did. Upstairs as well as down.’

  ‘Were all the doors closed when you arrived?’

  ‘Yes. I left them open when I looked for Vanda. Why, is that important?’

  ‘It might be. If you’re staying in, you usually leave one or two doors open. Closing them is more the action of someone leaving the house. Is this the lounge?’ Mironova gestured to the nearest doorway.

  Jo nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Clara was heading towards the open door when she heard the sound of a phone ringing. As she thrust the door wider the sound ceased; a voice said, ‘Who are you? Who are you?’

  If Jo had been startled earlier, Mironova was shocked rigid. She took a deep breath. ‘You might have warned me,’ she muttered as she eyed the parrot.

  ‘I’d other things on my mind,’ Jo answered tartly.

  Mironova inspected the room. Before she began to look closely, she tried to imagine how Nash would have tackled the job. She started by noting the position of each piece of furniture, then turned her attention to the smaller items. Her interest centred on the TV remote control. It was on top of the display cabinet located between the door and the TV.

  ‘That’s odd,’ she murmured.

  ‘What is?’ Binns asked.

  ‘The remote. To use it you’d have to get up and walk all the way across the room, whether you were in one of the armchairs or on the sofa. Which rather negates its purpose.’

  Mironova stepped further into the room. From a different angle she could see the stain which had spooked Jo earlier. She walked slowly across the carpet, accompanied by the continuous interrogation from the parrot. ‘Who are you? Who are you?’ the bird screeched repeatedly.

  Clara ignored the grilling at first, but eventually the significance of the agitated squawking attracted her attention. She paused and looked back at Jo, who was hovering anxiously near the door. ‘Does that bird always ask the same questions when someone comes in the room?’

  ‘I’ve never heard him do that before. It must be something new Vanda’s taught him. He’s only a young bird, still learning his vocabulary.’

  Mironova turned to look at the stain on the carpet. Rich, dark, red. The colour of blood. Except … She reached down, prodded it with the tip of her finger and sniffed at it. Looked up and smiled encouragingly at Dr Grey. ‘This isn’t blood. I can’t tell you for certain what vineyard it is, but it’s definitely red wine. Blood would have turned dark brown by now, like that around the steak in the kitchen.’ She shuffled sideways and caught the reflection of a stray beam of light on glass. ‘The wine glass it came from is under there.’ Clara pointed to the sofa. She looked at the TV listings magazine on the coffee table next to the armchair and examined it for a few seconds. ‘Does your sister like soaps?’ she asked. ‘Coronation Street, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Can’t get enough of them.’

  ‘OK, as far as I can tell, and it’s only guesswork, I’d say whatever happened to Mrs Dawson took place somewhere around 7.30 on Thursday evening. 8.30 at the latest.’

  ‘How do you work that out, Clara?’

  ‘For one thing, it had to be early evening, because she hadn’t cooked her meal. It had to be Thursday, because there wasn’t enough for two people. It might have been a day earlier of course.’

  ‘No, I spoke to her on Thursday afternoon,’ Jo told her.

  ‘How can you pin the time down?’ Binns asked Clara.

  ‘She was watching TV, enjoying a glass of wine. The listings magazine is opened at Thursday’s page, which confirms what Dr Grey just said. Whatever happened, when the TV was switched off someone put the remote over there. Nobody does that whilst they’re watching, otherwise they’d have to traipse all the way across to change channels. And given her liking for soaps, that’s about the time they’re on.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘As far as I can see. My only question, is what did the parrot see? Was the bird repeating something he’d been taught,’ Clara paused and added grimly, ‘or something he heard for the first time on Thursday night.’

  By comparison, the dining room looked untouched. Mironova turned to Jo. ‘I want you to sit in here whilst Sergeant Binns and I look round upstairs. Are you all right with that? It’s just that if there is anything to find, I don’t want to risk contaminating any evidence.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Jo hesitated, ‘but you won’t be too long, will you?’

  ‘We’ll be as quick as possible, I promise.’

  When Binns was sure they were out of earshot of the dining room, he said, ‘That was very impressive. In the lounge, I mean. Just like Nash at his best.’ He paused and looked round before asking, ‘What do you think about all this, Clara?’

  Mironova had reached the landing; she turned. ‘It doesn’t look good,’ she admitted cautiously.

  ‘I think you know what I mean,’ Binns persisted. ‘It’s all getting to sound too familiar. From what I’ve read, that is.’

  ‘The Cremator?’

  Binns nodded.

  ‘I’m trying hard not to think that way.’ Clara shuddered inwardly as she spoke. It was one of her abiding fears that she’d have to investigate a Cremator incident. The serial killer had struck four, or was it five times over several years? Clara couldn’t remember and at the moment it didn’t matter. Other serial killers had been more prolific, but the man dubbed the Cremator by the tabloid press was deemed to be one of the most sadistic in recent times.

  The Cremator’s nickname arose from his practice of placing his victims on an altar-like rock, pouring petrol over them and setting fire to them. All this he duly photographed. Those photographs, which had been studied by detectives time after time, revealed a man who hid his identity behind a mask and cloak, and who placed a series of black magic symbols around the site of the funeral pyre.

  Other, yet more horrifying details of his crimes were less well known, although some journalists had broken them to their horrified readership. The fact that he sent the victims’ partners a photo showing him raping their loved one, then a further one showing the actual murder, had been leaked to the media. Although, the fact revealed by pathologists that at least three of his victims had been alive when he set fire to them, was known only to the investigating officers.

  ‘We don’t want to have to face that, not yet at least,’ Clara said firmly.

  ‘You have to admit it’s a possibility though. A woman on her own in a rural location taken at night. Everything about this bears the hallmarks of the Cremator’s other abductions.’

  ‘I know that, Jack. I just don’t want to go there. Not until I’ve eliminated every other explanation.’

  ‘There can’t be many of them.’

  ‘I know that, and with every fresh discovery the alternatives get fewer and fewer. If you’re right, we’ve only got a limited period of time.’

  ‘Before we get called to a dumpsite, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly, although with our force not having been involved, I can’t remember the precise details.’

  ‘I suppose we should think ourselves lucky we’ve escaped.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m hoping our luck hasn’t just run out.’

  Mironova took the main bedroom first. There was nothing out of place. So much so that it barely looked lived in, more like a display unit in a furniture store. She walked carefully across to the large wardrobe on the wall furthest from the door. She opened the twin doors and stared at the clothing. There were seven suits, neatly stored in transparent suit protectors hanging from the top rail. Clara noticed that they appeared to be sorted by colour, from lovat green on the left, through brown to charcoal grey on the right. Alongside them, a further set of protectors contained a blazer and flannels, a dress suit and a sports coat.

  Below these was a series of business shirts, again neatly organized. The shelves at the right-hand side of the unit contained casual shirts, an array of knitwear, underwear, handkerchiefs and socks. Looking
at the base of the wardrobe, Mironova saw a collection of shoes on a rail. All were highly polished. ‘That’s curious,’ she said, more to herself than Binns.

  ‘What is?’

  She turned on her heel. ‘Follow me.’

  Clara opened the door into the second double bedroom. The story there was completely different. On the chair by the window was a motley collection of discarded clothing. A denim skirt, a pair of jeans and a couple of tops, all accompanied by an assortment of knickers, three bras and a jumbled heap of tights. Mironova looked across at the bedside cabinet. She picked up the book that was lying on it. The author was a lady who had made an excellent living from writing a string of romantic novels. She looked across at Binns. ‘Any thoughts?’

  ‘Only to wonder what you’re thinking,’ Binns responded.

  ‘I’m trying to work out what significance there is, if any, in the fact that Mr and Mrs Dawson don’t share the same bedroom, and haven’t done so for some time to judge by the evidence. And, how significant it might be that his room is spotless and dust-free whilst his wife’s has a bit of dust on every surface. She keeps his room cleaner than her own, even when he’s away. Is that out of love, I wonder, or fear? He’s obviously obsessively neat and tidy, almost anal-retentive, you’ve only to see the way he has his suits filed to tell that. Vanda’s bedroom is far more normal. I think a word with Dr Grey about the state of the Dawson marriage might prove enlightening. Whether it has anything to do with her sister’s disappearance is another matter altogether.’

  chapter five

  Consciousness returned. What had happened? She opened her eyes. It had no effect. Darkness was absolute. Her head felt muzzy, her mouth dry. She tried to remember. She’d been at home. The storm: was that what had happened? Had the storm caused some sort of a blackout? She was lying down now. But where had she been before? The lounge – that was the last thing she remembered – being in the lounge. Had she suffered some sort of an accident? Why was it so dark? And why was she lying like this? She wasn’t at all comfortable. Her arms were stretched above her head and outwards, diagonally. Her legs too were stretched apart. Why? She could feel some sort of cover over her and a soft surface below her body, could feel the soft material against her skin.

  Shock gripped her. She was naked. But she was never naked. Not even in bed. Not even with her husband. Not that he’d have noticed. Hadn’t noticed for years. The thought of her nudity, the alarm it caused made her move. Or try to. It was then she felt the restraints. Shock changed gear. Moved up to panic.

  She tried to work some saliva into the arid wasteland of her mouth. Tried to call out. Partial success: the loud cry came out as a muted croak. It was enough. She heard the rustle of movement. Another level of shock. Someone was there in the room with her. But who? And what room was this? As if in answer to the questions that were racing through her brain, a light came on directly overhead, hurting her eyes. She moved her head to avoid the beam. Blinking; trying to focus. It was then she saw the room’s other occupant. Dressed from head to toe in black, only the glitter of his eyes behind the slits in the mask showed he was looking at her. Him? There was no way she could be sure her captor was male.

  The blanks in her memory filled in. She had been watching TV, had heard sounds. Had started to get up from the chair: to investigate. Then seen the door handle turning. Then he’d opened the door. Then she’d seen him: dressed as he was now. Masked, like now. Terrifying, like now. Then she’d screamed. Screamed, although there was no one to hear – except him. Screamed for help she knew wouldn’t come. Screamed until he placed a pad over her mouth, her nose. She’d smelled something odd. That was her last memory. A chemical smell, she remembered thinking that before memory ceased. And that was all, until now. Until the terror returned.

  Again, she tried to scream, to call out. No better than before. She took a deep breath; tried to moisten her lips. Her tongue felt wooden. Her lips parched and cracked. Tried to speak instead. ‘Who are you? What have you done to me? Why am I here? What do you want from me?’

  The mask moved fractionally. He tilted his head to one side, as if considering her questions. She wasn’t sure he’d understood them; wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answers. She waited, trembling now. After a long moment, he moved forward. She shrank back as much as her restraints would allow. Looked wildly right and left; anything rather than look directly at him. It was then she realized she was lying on a bed. Her wrists and ankles secured to the metal frame of the bedstead.

  She opened her mouth to scream again. Saw him shake his head and she stopped. Disobedience wasn’t an option. He pulled the duvet back. Stared down at her body. She squirmed, part embarrassment, mostly fear. He continued to stare. Despite the mask, she could tell his gaze was moving, shifting from one area to another, examining every inch of her. With her legs apart and her arms tied above her head, her whole self was exposed to his inspection. Somewhere deep within her, something curled-up in mortification.

  He nodded. Was that approval, admiration even? But she didn’t want his approval. Didn’t want his admiration. Didn’t want him near her. Didn’t want him looking at her. Didn’t want to be here. Because any doubts about why she was here were long gone. But she’d known that. Known it from the moment she woke up. Known it, but didn’t want to admit it, even to herself. She knew he was going to rape her. And worse. She was in the power of a sex maniac, alone and helpless with probably only a short while to live. Because she knew that was what they did. Once they’d taken all they wanted, once the thrill was over the victim had to be silenced. She had read so many cases and felt that easy sympathy for the victims that distance allows.

  He had entered her home easily. Now, tied up, naked and defenceless, it seemed he would be able to enter her with equal ease. To do whatever his filthy, perverted mind could think up. As the thoughts whirled around in her head, one overriding fear came to the fore. Something she had read in the papers. Other women like her. Housewives; snatched from the safety of their homes only to turn up with their bodies burned almost beyond recognition. Her terror became absolute as she realized she was probably being held captive by the man the papers had nicknamed ‘the Cremator’.

  Such was the state of Johana Grey’s nerves that she flinched when the door opened, even though she had heard the officers returning downstairs. ‘I’m going to call in a forensics team,’ Mironova told her, ‘even though technically this isn’t a crime scene. We’ve no evidence your sister was abducted, however the circumstances are such that I think it better not to take any chances.’

  She saw Dr Grey was about to object and added, ‘I know what you’re going to say, the broken pane in the kitchen door does tend to suggest that something has happened to Mrs Dawson, but it is only circumstantial. There have been cases where women have vanished, where all the evidence pointed to an abduction, only for them to turn up safe and well with an innocent explanation. As yet, we simply don’t know enough to be sure, but we’ll get SOCO to do a sweep of the house just to be on the safe side. Sergeant Binns has gone to phone for a team to come out. Meanwhile I need to ask you some questions. I’d prefer to do it here, but if you’d rather to be out of this house we can go back to Netherdale.’

  Jo looked around. It was obvious to Mironova that she wasn’t easy in these surroundings, but she nodded agreement.

  ‘First off, can you tell me if your sister has a mobile phone? And if she has, I’d like the number.’

  ‘Yes, she does; won’t go anywhere without it. She uses it as a diary, an address book, a camera, the works. I have the number in my phone memory. It’s in my bag in the car.’

  ‘Don’t worry just now. I’ll get it from you when we’ve finished. I take it she doesn’t use a traditional diary?’

  There was the briefest flicker of a smile before Jo answered. ‘Actually, she does. I teased her about it. She has a filofax, although why she needs both I’ve no idea. She told me it was in case her mobile packed-in or got stolen, or she was in a bad re
ception area. I said she was getting as freaky as Brian.’

  ‘Her husband?’

  Jo nodded.

  ‘Freaky? In what way freaky?’

  ‘I meant the attention to detail. With Brian, it’s like obsessive-compulsive disorder. I put it down to his being an accountant at first, but now I’m sure it’s more than that.’

  Mironova nodded, trying to gain empathy. ‘I’ll have a look round for Mrs Dawson’s mobile and filofax later; they may be in a drawer somewhere. Now, what can you tell me about the state of their marriage? Are she and her husband happy?’

  Clara knew the answer long before Jo replied. Knew by her expression.

  ‘No, not really,’ Jo said reluctantly. It was almost as if she felt she was being disloyal saying such a thing in the circumstances, and in the couple’s own home. ‘To be honest, sometimes I wonder what it is that holds the marriage together. I’m surprised one or the other of them hasn’t waltzed off with someone else long ago.’

  ‘Any specific reason to say that?’

  Again, the hesitation. ‘Vanda’s never confided in me, not that way. In fact whenever I try to broach it, she changes the subject.’

  ‘Has it been like this for a long time, or has there been a sudden deterioration?’

  Jo looked embarrassed and thought for a few seconds. ‘Things changed not long after they married, Brian has, shall we say, a different agenda to Vanda. I only come here when he’s away.’

  ‘Why is that? Because you don’t like him?’

  ‘You could say that. And partly because there isn’t room anymore. The fact is that Brian and Vanda no longer sleep together.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea what caused this?’

  ‘I have my suspicions,’ Jo replied cryptically.

  Clara raised an eyebrow. Failing to gain a response, she encouraged her. ‘Anything you can tell us, even if it’s only your opinion, might be helpful.’