by Bill Kitson
She was confused. When she was in the barn, she’d expected to be raped. When her abductor had straddled her she was convinced that was about to happen. But although he’d simulated the act at no time had he attempted to penetrate her. Tied up as she was, there would have been no way of resisting such an assault, but it hadn’t materialized. Vanda wondered if that had been due to impotence.
She’d read somewhere that many sex-killers suffer from an inability to have intercourse, or to become aroused, and that they channel their rage and hate into violence. That didn’t fit with her experience though. As he’d simulated the act, as his naked body was on top of hers, Vanda had ample evidence of his capacity for arousal. That being the case, what had prevented him slaking his obvious desire? And what had been the point of the charade?
Another thought struck her via her devotion to forensic detective shows on television. Had he refrained because he was afraid of leaving DNA that would be traceable to him? But she was expecting to be killed; her body burned as the Cremator did to all his victims − surely the fire would take care of such evidence? But instead of pouring petrol over her and lighting a match, he’d given her a drink of water. Drugged, as she later realized.
Meals began to arrive at regular intervals; other requirements answered whenever she rang the bell. Within minutes of sounding it, her abductor would appear, to take her to the toilet, or to replenish the water bottle. At night, she was told to undress and secured to the bed before the light was switched off. Her gaoler’s last act was to move the bell from the table to the bedside cabinet.
All of his instructions were conducted in mime. From the moment she first woke up in this strange place, he had uttered no more than half a dozen words, all delivered singly. Nor had he removed the mask that obscured his face.
This was another layer to her increasing bewilderment. If he intended to kill her, what need was there to disguise his identity? The only physical characteristic she was certain of was that he was tall.
To begin with, Vanda was able to keep track of time via the programmes being shown on the television. However, her perception of reality soon became blurred as her captivity continued. She could no longer recall with complete certainty which nights her favourite TV programmes were broadcast.
Unknown to Vanda, her body was adjusting both to her reduced physical activity and the mild sedative contained in every meal she ate, diluted in each bottle of water she drank. Occasionally, she thought about Brian. Had he returned from Spain? Did the police know she was missing? Was there a search being undertaken for her? What would Brian think had happened? Things between her and Brian were bad enough, without all the suspicion and accusations her absence would arouse.
She had remembered with something of a shock that Jo had been coming to visit her. Why hadn’t she thought of that, recalled that before now? Jo would have been sure to have contacted the police. She couldn’t quite recall how many days it was since her abduction. Was it Wednesday or Thursday she’d been taken? And what day was it now?
Even if Jo hadn’t made it to Yorkshire, Brian would be back home. And he would miss her. Wouldn’t he? Or wouldn’t he care? Might he actually be glad she wasn’t there? Tears came to her eyes at the thought of Brian, at the decline in their marriage. Sometimes she’d felt sure he’d be glad to be rid of her. Then, unbidden and unwelcome, a dreadful thought came to her. Was he behind all this? Was this some twisted horrible plan Brian had dreamed up? Was the man holding her in Brian’s pay? A hired killer?
If it hadn’t been for the man’s size she might almost have thought it was actually Brian who was imprisoning her. But it couldn’t be. All right, the mask could have been because her kidnapper was her husband, as could the fact that he didn’t speak, but this man was taller.
Her long period of concentration was tiring her out. As her eyelids began to droop, Vanda’s mind filled with images of her husband donning a mask and putting on shoes that would make him taller. But something in those images was wrong. Something Vanda hadn’t accounted for. Something that proved it wasn’t Brian that was holding her captive. She tried to think, but the effort was too much, and she was already so tired….
Reading the files on the Cremator cases was hard going. Even without looking at the photographic evidence, the contents of the dossiers made it a harrowing experience. ‘God, this bloke’s sick,’ Clara muttered.
‘You can say that again,’ Nash agreed. ‘What have you noticed about these cases? I mean apart from the obvious.’
Mironova knew Nash well enough to realize that behind the question was the inference that he had spotted something that merited discussion and wondered if she had seen it as well. She pored over the files for a few minutes before admitting defeat. ‘All right, Mastermind, what have I missed?’
‘A couple of things sprang to mind. I’m not saying you missed them. They may be significant, or they may be completely irrelevant when it comes to tracking this maniac. For the first point, we have to take victim number one out of the equation. That was back in 2004.’
‘Is that because we don’t know her identity?’
‘That’s part of it. Because we don’t know her identity we know nothing about her personal circumstances. There are a lot of other differences. For one, her age, and the disposal of the body for another. But if we consider the other victims, they’re all of a type. All of them were either married or in a settled domestic relationship.’
‘I grant you that, but surely the fact that no one has come forward who might have known the first victim suggests that she wasn’t missed, which blows your theory out of the water.’
‘I think it’s a bit of an exaggeration to call it a theory. But because we know absolutely nothing about the first victim, I think it would be unwise to rule anything out.’
‘All right, let’s beg to differ on that one. What’s your second point?’
‘I’m puzzled by the victims themselves. If you examine the most notorious sexually motivated serial killers, you’ll find their selection of victims falls into three categories. Either they were picked completely at random, as in absolute psychopaths, or they were prostitutes, or were much younger, in their late teens or early twenties. I’m excluding paedophiles and the like, and I know it’s a generalisation, but I think if you were to study the victim profile of a lot of such killers, those would be the types they went for.
‘In this case, the first victim may have been under thirty, but not by very much, according to the pathologist at the time. He put her age range as mid-to-late twenties. All the other victims were over thirty, two of them were nearly forty. Three of them were mothers, the other two, including our mystery woman, had never given birth.’
‘Where’s this leading?’
‘I’m not sure, to be honest, but one thing occurs to me, and it isn’t a very pleasant thought. If we are looking at a Cremator case, then Vanda Dawson fits right into his victim profile. If the Cremator has abducted Vanda Dawson, then he’s remaining true to type.’
‘You really do think this might be significant, don’t you?’
‘I think it may be, but until we have a suspect in our sights it’s impossible to tell.’
‘I’ve just remembered something. After you left us this morning, Dr Grey and I were talking about Mill Cottage. In particular, she doesn’t think the place should be left unattended. She wondered about going to stay there until either Vanda or Brian Dawson reappear. I said I’d check with you and get back to her, what do you think?’
Nash stared at his sergeant in amazement. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re joking? Don’t you think we’ve enough problems without going out of our way to create more? No way will I sanction any woman being allowed to stay in that remote cottage alone overnight given what we suspect has happened there. I wouldn’t even allow one of my male officers to stay there alone.’
‘I take it that’s a no then? Will you tell her, or shall I?’
The door opened before Nash had c
hance to reply. ‘Yes, Tom, what is it? Have you located Dawson yet?’
‘Sorry, Mike, I haven’t, but one thing I can tell you. Wherever he is, he is not playing golf in Spain. In fact, according to the airports and ferry terminals he’s not in Spain at all.’
‘Oh great! Just what I needed. Another mysterious disappearance.’
Pratt blinked. ‘You don’t think he’s been abducted as well?’
‘No, but it’s fairly suspicious that he’s unaccountably absent at the time his wife disappears. The only thing that stops me believing he might be responsible is that he knew Jo was coming to visit, and that Vanda would be missed immediately. Nash turned to Clara. ‘In answer to your question, I’ll go and see Dr Grey. I think I ought to talk to her anyway. One thing still bugs me, and that’s the whereabouts of Dawson. I’d like to find out more about the state of the marriage, and about the man himself.’
‘What about tomorrow?’
‘I’m going out to Mill Cottage to be there in time for the postman arriving. Will you join me there? Better take two cars because the way things are happening at the moment we don’t know where we’ll be from one minute to the next.’
chapter eleven
Brian Dawson turned off the lane into the long, winding driveway leading to Mill Cottage. He could see by the lack of light from the front windows that the house was in darkness. He took the left fork, the narrow path leading to the old mill. The double doors were closed. He hoped they were also locked. That was what he expected as per his instructions. He got out of the car, unlocked and opened the doors and drove inside. He parked alongside Vanda’s car. After getting out, he closed and locked the mill doors from the inside. Nobody was allowed to see into the old mill. Those were the orders he had given. It was mildly comforting to know they had been obeyed in his absence.
He turned and stared briefly at his wife’s car. Wherever she’d gone, she hadn’t needed to take it. Possibly her fancy man had collected her. He felt sure that would prove to be the explanation. He dismissed her from his mind. His interest in her and what she was up to was minimal at best; except when it involved his comfort.
Further up the drive, a figure crouched in the bushes, watching through night vision binoculars that were trained, first on the mill doors; then on Dawson, and finally on the cottage.
Half an hour after Dawson entered the house the watcher reached into his pocket and took out his mobile. ‘Tony, it’s me,’ he announced. ‘Dawson drove straight home. He put his car in the garage then stayed in there a while. I’ve no idea what he was up to, I couldn’t get near without risking discovery. Then he went across to his house. He’s been inside ever since; looks as if he’s there for the night because he shut and locked the garage doors behind him. What do you want me to do now?’
‘Stay where you are. I’ll send one of the others to relieve you. I reckon they’ll be glad of some fresh air.’
‘They’ll get that all right. Better warn them to put thermals on, bring a flask of coffee and something to sit on. Maybe a rug to wrap round them as well, it’s bloody parky out here.’
After he rang off, Tony selected a number from his own mobile and pressed it. ‘Jerry?’
‘Yes, boss. Everything all right?’
‘I need one of our shopkeepers for the night. It’ll mean a cold, lonely, boring job. Very cold, very boring,’ he stressed. ‘Who do you suggest?’
‘Any of them would probably welcome the change. Harry’s probably the best bet. He won’t worry about the boredom; so long as he can stick his iPod on and listen to some of that stuff he imagines is music.’
‘All right, send him along to me. I’ll give him instructions and directions. How’s the work going?’
‘A couple of days and we should be ready.’
‘Excellent.’
The phone was ringing when Nash opened his front door. Without waiting to close it, he hurried over to the table and snatched up the receiver. ‘Papa,’ Daniel’s voice sounded excited. ‘Papa, I have a bicycle.’
‘What?’
‘Tante Mirabelle has bought me a bicycle to ride whenever we come here. She says it will save having to carry one back and forward every time. Isn’t that kind of her?’
‘Very kind. I hope you said thank you?’
‘Of course, Papa. She also bought me a helmet to wear. Like the ones the riders in the Tour de France have. Also knee pads, in case I fall off.’
‘You will be careful, won’t you? Don’t go riding it on busy roads, please.’
‘Yes, Papa. The bike has stabilizers. Do you know what stabilizers are, Papa? I have to use them until I have practiced riding it, tante Mirabelle says.’
Nash breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I’m glad about that. Please be careful, son. Remember, cars and trucks are very dangerous. Keep on the pavement when you can. Promise me that.’
‘Yes, Papa.’
‘It sounds as if you’re enjoying your holiday.’
‘Yes, Papa, but I wish you were here. Are you all right, Papa?’
‘I’m OK. Missing you of course, and busy at work. I love you, Daniel.’
‘I love you too, Papa. Here is tante Mirabelle.’
Nash reassured Mirabelle that he was happy with her buying the bike, and that it was a kind thought.
‘Daniel needs something to occupy himself with. I get too tired too easily for a young boy.’
Nash smiled as he rang off. He understood what Mirabelle meant. Until Daniel came on the scene, he’d found it difficult to comprehend parents’ complaints about how tiring their kids were. Now, he found it easy to empathize with them. It wasn’t only looking after an energetic six-year-old that was tiring either. After the long drive to France and back over the weekend, followed by a stressful day at work, Nash felt exhausted, barely able to contemplate cooking an evening meal. He still had to interview Dr Grey, and decided he would get something to eat while he was out.
Nash reached the hotel and asked at reception for Dr Grey. The receptionist called her room, and told Nash she would be down immediately. When she arrived, Nash indicated the small lounge area to one side of reception. It was deserted, such guests as were in the hotel probably still dining.
‘Have you made any progress?’ she asked when they were seated.
Nash shook his head. ‘Nothing positive, I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘It might help if we could find your brother-in-law, and see what he has to say on the matter.’
Jo frowned. ‘Do you think he might be responsible? Surely not? I admit Brian isn’t my favourite person, he’s made Vanda’s life a misery over the past few years, but I don’t think he’s capable of….’
‘How do you know? You told us you rarely see him. Do you know exactly how bad things are between them? Given what little you told us, it sounds as if the marriage was all but over, and were it not for the fact that he must have been aware you were coming to visit your sister, he’d be right at the top of our suspects list.’
‘But he did know. Vanda had to ask him before she could confirm the arrangement. I agree that says a lot for their marriage, but surely it rules him out as a suspect.’
‘What is he like as a person? You’ve made no attempt to disguise the fact that you detest him. Is that purely because of the way he treats your sister, or is there something else?’
There was a long silence before she answered. ‘It was a long time ago. Just before they got married. I was alone in the house. Vanda had gone to the shops and my parents were away. He called unexpectedly, or so I thought. Later, I found out that he knew Vanda was out. He tried to force himself on me.’
‘He tried to rape you?’
She nodded, her eyes reliving the horror. I was lucky. I managed to get away and locked myself in the toilet. Short of smashing the door down, he couldn’t get at me. I stayed there until Vanda got home. By that time he’d gone, but I was too scared to come out.’
‘Did you tell her?’
Dr Grey’s expression was sombre. ‘I did, but
she refused to believe me. Wouldn’t have me at the wedding, wouldn’t speak to me for a long time afterwards. Even my parents thought I’d got it all wrong and was exaggerating things.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘It’s only as their relationship has got worse that Vanda and I have patched things up.’
‘That reminds me, your names, Johana and Vanda, where do they originate from?’
‘Our mother,’ she told him. ‘She was Czech. She came here with her family after the Prague Spring. Do you know about that?’
‘I’ve read about it. An uprising against the Communists wasn’t it?’
‘That pretty much covers it. Anyway, my mother’s family weren’t exactly flavour of the month once it was over, so they managed to get out and came to Britain as political refugees. They were granted asylum and stayed on.’
‘Going back to your sister’s disappearance, do you believe Dawson would be capable of harming her?’
‘I don’t honestly know. I’ve asked myself that lots of times since it happened. Tried to come up with reasons he wouldn’t harm her, but can’t find any. I take it from what you’ve said that you don’t believe he’s in Spain on a golfing holiday?’
Her perception was acute, uncomfortably so. ‘We can find no evidence of him going there, by air or sea,’ he admitted.
‘But you still haven’t found him. That’s why you’re asking all these questions about him, isn’t it? Because if Brian hasn’t anything to do with Vanda’s disappearance, who has? Are there any names on your suspect list apart from Brian’s?’
Nash hesitated, and even as he answered, realized that hesitation had given the game away. ‘Almost none,’ he admitted.
‘Almost none?’ Her tone changed again, the pent-up stress returning undiluted. ‘Apart from one name perhaps? Or is it a nickname? And is that nickname one I would recognize immediately?’ She saw Nash’s face change, saw the frown and the hard set of his jaw. ‘The Cremator; that’s what you think, isn’t it?’
