Identity Crisis

by Bill Kitson

  ‘It’s a possibility, but no more than that,’ Nash agreed reluctantly.

  ‘And if that’s true, it means I’ve to prepare myself for the worst. Because if Vanda’s one of his victims there’s no chance for her. You’ve no idea who he is, no idea where he’s going to strike. All you can do is sit and wait for a body to turn up. That’s what you’re really saying, isn’t it? I hoped you’d come here to offer me some comfort, some hope that Vanda might be all right. Fat chance of that. You’re useless, simply useless, and what’s really appalling is that you’ve more or less admitted it.’

  She rose from the sofa and walked across to the reception area without a backward glance. Nash watched her go, prey to mixed emotions. If circumstances had been different, she would have been just the sort of woman whose company he’d have enjoyed. As she’d said, fat chance of that. Not least because it seemed the rules had changed, without him even noticing. Once, he’d treated a woman’s companionship as a sort of game. Having Daniel was a permanent reminder that the only way to play was for keeps. Nash remained seated long after she left. She had a point, he thought ruefully. He’d read the Cremator’s case files, and had felt a degree of sympathy for the investigating officers. If the circumstantial evidence proved reliable, Nash was beginning to feel the same helplessness and frustration his colleagues in other forces had experienced.

  Vanda Dawson was tired. Not physically so. Not as she had been for the last few days. She was tired of feeling afraid. Tired of being submissive. Tired of fearing to upset other people’s feelings, which, when she thought about it, summed up the whole of her miserable life. A life of total non-achievement. Trapped in a loveless marriage to a husband who regarded her as nothing more than a cook and housekeeper. Except that he had other uses for her. Uses, such as someone to vent his cold anger and meanness on, someone to boss about and belittle because she was nothing. Less than nothing, someone who didn’t do anything for fear she’d get it wrong.

  The realization of all this came suddenly. Along with it came the knowledge that whatever the outcome she could never go back. She knew it, and on the first possible occasion, she’d tell him it. The marriage was over. That would be the message. He could find someone else to cook and clean, to wash and iron. Tasks she’d have undertaken cheerfully if he’d only repaid her with a little kindness, tenderness or physical love.

  That thought came as a second shock. That all those years of repressed emotion added up to the frustrations of a highly sexed woman going without the joys of physical intimacy. Brian hadn’t touched her that way for years. Hadn’t shown the slightest wish − not even an admiring glance at her body. She needed it. From almost out of nowhere she felt this surge, this appetite for a man to make love to her. Like a bitch in season, this unquenchable flame of desire came over her.

  All these things were immaterial. She’d never have chance to express her feelings, whether to Brian or any man she met. Because next time her kidnapper came through that door, it might all be over.

  She was lying, tethered to the bed and she was hungry. The winter sunlight was filtering round the edge of the heavy curtain and she guessed it must be near lunchtime. She frowned; there was something odd about her abductor’s routine. He always woke her for breakfast, then he never reappeared until the next meal. Although she couldn’t be sure, she thought he might leave the house after he’d fed her. She’d thought on more than one occasion that she’d heard a door close, after which there was a long period of silence. Silence that lasted for hours, until she was convinced she’d heard a car engine, then the sound of doors again. Why was that? Where did he go every day? Was he going to work? Trying to maintain some form of routine: showing respectability to the outside world? If so, where was he now?

  Almost as if she’d given voice to her thoughts, he entered the room. For a second the old Vanda tried to return, and she felt herself quail internally. Then her anger and frustration took over. ‘What are you going to do?’ she demanded.

  He stopped, head on one side. Something in her tone of voice was new.

  ‘I’m fed up with you coming and going, feeding me, fiddling about, pretending to be scary with that ridiculous mask. If you’re going to kill me, why bother? Does it matter if I know who you are, or what you look like if you’re planning to burn me alive? Or is that not it? Could it be you don’t want me to see you because you’re too hideous to show your face?’

  He shook his head. Her aggression seemed to have unnerved him.

  ‘For Christ’s sake do something, say something. Do whatever it is you’ve been planning. Set fire to me. Rape me. I don’t care anymore. Or is it that you can’t? Of course, that’s it, isn’t it? You tried once and failed miserably, now you’re scared to try again. If that’s the case, then I reckon it’ll have to be plan B. So make your mind up. Either fuck me or go for the petrol can. Just don’t drag this pathetic charade out any longer.’ She paused, panting slightly. Was that from the emotion of her delivery, or was she a mite scared after all. She watched as he slowly digested what she’d said. Then again, the new Vanda Dawson took over. Where once she would have been too timid, now she was aggressive, demanding even. After all, what had she to lose?

  ‘So what’s next on the agenda? A spot of rough sex or straight to the funeral pyre? Why do you do that? Is it like the papers reckon, part of some weird Satanic ritual? Or simply covering the evidence of your other crimes? Burning off the DNA? And another thing, for fuck’s sake ditch that stupid mask. Take it off and stop wandering around the place like The Phantom of the Opera.’

  He turned and stared at her. Was that surprise behind the mask? As she returned his gaze, her eyes on his, unwavering, she moved one leg, slightly, invitingly, taunting him with her sexuality. As if to say, do your worst. I know what you’ve got, and it don’t scare me. He loosened her bonds and turned away. She could see the skin on the back of his neck redden: a small victory for Vanda.

  ‘Get dressed.’ His voice was so quiet she’d to ask him to repeat what he’d said. ‘Get dressed, please.’

  This time she was sure there was guilt in his voice. And something else. A slightly familiar quality; something in his tone. Did she know him, or was she imagining it? Whereas previously when she’d dressed in front of him she’d been embarrassed, attempting to hide her shame and cover her modesty, the new Vanda Dawson wouldn’t behave like that.

  She stretched, long and languorously, all the time watching him with half-closed eyes. He was no longer turned away; he was all attention. Still on the bed, she rose to a kneeling position, leaning forward. Hands balancing her, breasts framed by her upper arms. Displaying her wares. ‘Would you pass my bra and pants, please?’

  She just stopped herself from adding, darling. That would have been pushing her luck too far. She slipped the bra cups over her breasts before turning her back on him. ‘This is how you do it,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Watch carefully, it’ll come in handy, if you can manage to do what you keep threatening.’

  She made a burlesque act out of the everyday routine of putting her pants on. A routine where she made sure he got a further prolonged display of all she had to offer. And it was having its effect too. She saw him move as if to mop his forehead, forgetting he was still wearing that mask. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck. Another tiny victory. Once the show was over, she slipped her top and jeans on quickly, pushed her feet into her trainers and stood in front of him, hands forward. ‘What now? Back to the chair and tied up for hours on end? Or off to the altar ready for burning?’

  He didn’t speak, merely grasped her upper arm and guided her to the door. He opened it and gently pushed her in front of him, then guided her downstairs, through the hall and into a farmhouse kitchen. She paid attention to her surroundings. Her eyes wandered from the old, but serviceable-looking Aga in the recessed fireplace to the range of kitchen units, and the large picture window over the double drainer sink. Outside, the view consisted of rolling fields, grassland, dotted with cows. Sh
e was on a farm.

  ‘Please, sit down.’

  She obeyed, although there was nothing in his tone to suggest a command.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘What? You expect me to sit here calmly drinking tea after what you’ve done to me? This isn’t some vicarage tea party, you know. We’re talking kidnapping, false imprisonment, attempted rape and any number of other sexual assaults. That’s so far. God knows what else there is to come. How the hell do you expect me to react? Sit here calmly and say yes please, milk and one sugar.’

  ‘You don’t take sugar.’ The words were out before he could stop them.

  ‘And how the fuck do you know that?’ Vanda reckoned she could count on the fingers of one hand the times she’d used the word fuck during the years she’d been married to Brian. Now she’d used it about four times in the last twenty minutes. She should be ashamed of herself. No she shouldn’t, the new Vanda told her. If you want to say it, say it, girl, and don’t give a fuck. The other interesting thing was that she was already thinking of her marriage to Brian as a thing of the past.

  ‘Come on, tell me. How do you know I don’t take sugar? You’ve never given me tea since you brought me here. It’s either been fizzy pop or water. Neither have had sugar in, just sedatives to keep me quiet. And they’ve worn off, by the way. So come on, spit it out. You’ve kidnapped me, stripped me naked, tried to rape me and failed; don’t you think an introduction’s in order?’

  Vanda wondered briefly if confronting her abductor in this way would make things better or worse. What the hell, she thought, if her guess was right she didn’t have long to live anyway. From what she’d read of the other Cremator cases, the attack was so brutal it would all be over quickly. No human constitution could withstand the level of pain this man inflicted for long, she was certain. She’d be dead and gone soon, almost unnoticed, almost unmourned, apart from Jo. She forced herself not to think of her sister. Once they’d been less than friends, now Jo was the only person Vanda was anywhere near close to. That came as a shock, as she realized how lonely her existence had been. That wasn’t always the case. Before her marriage she’d had plenty of friends, of both sexes. She’d enjoyed her social life, but gradually, after she’d got married, her friends had dropped out of her life, or she’d dropped out of theirs. Why? And why had she never stopped to think of it before? It was hardly because her marriage was so happy, or that she was fulfilled by a meaningful career, or bringing up a family.

  As she stared at the man in front of her, she wondered when the attack would start. Was he gearing himself up? Did he need to prepare himself? The rape would be horrid, but somehow that didn’t seem as important as it would have done once. And hopefully it would be over with quickly.

  No, she thought, that’s the wrong way to look at it. Once he’d raped her, he’d move on to the torture and the burning. So perhaps the rape was the lesser of two evils. It would certainly pale into insignificance once he started on the rest of his vile tricks. She felt slightly comforted that she’d faced the inevitable; thought her way through what she felt sure was going to happen. By confronting her fears, she felt she was prepared for what was to come.

  In the event, Vanda’s wildest nightmares couldn’t match the horror of what happened next.

  chapter twelve

  Nash drove towards Wintersett next morning, the memory of yesterday evening’s encounter still fresh in his mind. Dr Grey’s implied criticism rankled, but he could understand the emotional stress that had provoked her outburst. His distraction could have proved dangerous, but there was little traffic on the road. His lack of concentration almost caused him to overshoot the entrance to the driveway of Mill Cottage. If he hadn’t caught the peripheral flash of metal from the tail end of Mironova’s car as she turned in to the drive, he might have ended up out in the countryside beyond the village. He shook his head, making the mental gear change into work mode.

  The first thing Nash noticed as he got out of his car was the blinds at the kitchen window. He waited for Mironova to join him. ‘When we left here yesterday, weren’t those blinds drawn?’

  She looked across the gravel pathway. ‘Yes, they were. I closed them myself. I thought it better, with the house being unoccupied. Do you think someone might have broken in? It wouldn’t have been very difficult, especially if they found that broken pane of glass in the back door.’

  ‘I thought you were organizing someone to fix it?’

  ‘I thought so too, but they’re all up to their eyes in emergency repair work following last week’s storms. A little thing like a replacement windowpane is very low on their priorities. Added to which, they all wanted to charge an arm and a leg just to come out here. If they’d been attending a big job, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but the call-out fee for this was a hundred pounds on average. All for a piece of glass that you could buy at a DIY place for about two pounds and another fifty-pence for the putty.’

  ‘Right, well you’d better stay here. If it is an intruder, they might be dangerous. Have your mobile ready to call for back up if needs be.’

  Clara saw movement over Nash’s shoulder. ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary.’ She nodded. ‘That’s Dawson, isn’t it?’

  Nash swivelled round, sending a cascade of tiny pebbles scattering across the pathway. A man in his late thirties or early forties was standing in the doorway of the house. He wasn’t so much watching them as glaring at them.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man demanded. ‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing on my property?’

  Nash walked over to him, dragging his warrant card from his pocket on the way. ‘Detective Inspector Nash, Helmsdale CID,’ he told the irate householder. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Mironova. I assume you must be Brian Dawson?’

  ‘That’s correct. What’s this all about? Where is my wife? Has there been some sort of an accident?’

  ‘We don’t know where your wife is. May we step inside?’

  Dawson moved reluctantly to let them pass.

  Nash began to explain. ‘When her sister came to visit her on Friday night, she found the house deserted and in darkness. It appeared as if the kitchen door had been forced. You may have noticed there’s a pane of glass missing. Despite extensive searching and enquiries in the neighbourhood, there appears to be no trace of your wife. I have to say her disappearance took place in very suspicious and alarming circumstances. We’re very concerned for her welfare and safety. Our one remaining hope is that you might be able to shed some light on to where she might be, and that there might be an innocent explanation.’

  Dawson shook his head, less in denial than in sheer disbelief. ‘I don’t understand. Her car’s still here, in the garage. Where do you think she might have gone? And what do you mean precisely by “suspicious and alarming circumstances”.’

  ‘The fact that she didn’t take her car simply adds to our concern. Given the weather at the time of her disappearance, it’s hardly likely that she simply put her coat on and walked out in the middle of a raging storm. In addition to the broken pane of glass the officers found when Dr Grey called them, there’s a red wine stain on the lounge carpet, where a glass had been knocked over. That might have an innocent explanation, of course. What is far less easily explained away is why someone wiped all the surfaces in the lounge, hall and kitchen so that they were clear of fingerprints. Wiped them, may I add, with sanitized wipes. What is particularly disturbing is that we found no trace of any such cloths in the house, not even empty containers in the bin.’

  ‘What you infer is that you think my wife has been abducted; is that it? Has there been some sort of ransom demand?’

  Nash shook his head. He was irritated by Dawson’s manner and couldn’t quite work out why. Perhaps it was the man’s coldness. Although he’d undoubtedly been surprised by Nash’s statement, he didn’t seem particularly distressed about the news that his wife had possibly been kidnapped. The other reason for Nash’s dislike of Dawson
was the way he kept referring to Vanda as ‘my wife’ instead of using her name. Dawson’s aloof and distant arrogance struck him as particularly unfeeling. He decided shock tactics might ruffle the man’s unnatural calm.

  ‘We don’t believe that money was the motive. I’m afraid we suspect that there might be a far more sinister motive behind her abduction.’ Nash waited to see if his assertion provoked any noticeable reaction. When he failed to see one, he continued, ‘Our strongest theory is that this might be the work of a man who has kidnapped several women in the past, in very similar circumstances. All the indications are that your wife’s abduction fits that profile − almost perfectly.’

  Once more, there was surprise, and this time something else. Nash wasn’t sure, but it almost sounded like nervousness. If it was, what had Dawson to be apprehensive about? If he was upset by the news that his wife might be in the hands of a homicidal maniac, then Nash failed to see any evidence of it.

  ‘The Cremator? Is that what you believe? That’s impossible. You can’t surely think this is the work of the Cremator?’

  ‘I’m afraid that is exactly what we believe, Mr Dawson.’

  Dawson opened his mouth as if to say something, but then changed his mind. He merely shook his head in denial. Nash continued as if he hadn’t noticed the gesture. ‘We’ve been trying to locate you since early on Saturday. Our enquiries revealed that you obviously didn’t go to Spain on a golfing holiday, which is what I understand you told your wife you were doing. So would you mind telling me exactly where you have been and what you’ve been doing, Mr Dawson? You must understand that if your wife hasn’t been abducted, your unexplained absence at the time of her disappearance could be seen as highly suspicious.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’ Dawson’s tone was arrogant, dismissive. ‘You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with this. In fact, it seems as if you have very little evidence whatsoever. That doesn’t seem to have stopped you stringing together a couple of fairly preposterous theories. The fact that you seem uncertain whether it’s me or this Cremator character you ought to be pursuing tends to reinforce the fact that you know absolutely nothing. For all you know, she might have gone swanning off with a new boyfriend or something equally innocuous.’