by BILL KITSON
She pulled the photo out of her handbag and passed it across the desk. Clara stared at the image. ‘I see what you mean. She’s a very pretty girl.’
She looked at the anxious mother. ‘Let me explain how the system works. Unfortunately, we can’t launch a full-scale enquiry just yet. There are two reasons for that. Most missing persons return home within twenty-four to forty-eight hours of going missing. In addition, we simply don’t have the manpower or resources to divert to a case like this. Not at this stage,’ she added hastily, seeing Mrs Kelly about to object.
‘If Sarah still hasn’t returned home or contacted you tomorrow morning, I want you to come back. At that point I’ll discuss the matter with my boss. He’ll decide what action might be justified. In the meantime, I’ll copy this photo and distribute it at our Daily Management Meeting, which takes place just before the next shift change. If and when Sarah does return, I’d like you to ring me to let me know.’ Clara smiled at Mrs Kelly. ‘And try not to worry too much. I’m sure she’s fine, and she’ll turn up fit and well.’
Sarah stirred slightly then woke up. She tried to move but her wrists and ankles were restrained. She opened her eyes, but to no effect. It was dark. She was blindfolded with some sort of hood. She writhed in panic. It achieved nothing. She tried to remember what had happened, but couldn’t. Questions crowded her bemused brain. Where was she? How had she got here? Who was holding her prisoner? And, much worse, why? She heard a voice. Its tone was gentle, the words soothing. Unwillingly she listened.
‘Hello, Sarah. You’re awake I see. You must be wondering what’s happened. Don’t worry, everything will be alright. Just be patient a little longer then I’ll show you why you’re here. It must be difficult for you, but soon you’ll be able to relax, and then you’ll know how fortunate you are. Because you have been carefully selected, no, that would be an insult. No, you have been chosen.’
If the words and the timbre of the voice had been designed to dispel her fear, they failed utterly. She tried to scream, but even in her dazed state she realized how pitifully weak her voice sounded against the muffling cloth of the mask over her face.
‘Now, now, Sarah dear, don’t take on so. It’s only because you don’t realize what’s happening that you’re afraid. Just wait a few minutes longer then you’ll calm down. I promise you. When you do, we can begin to enjoy our time together.’
Fear turned to terror, terror to blind panic and way beyond. Unable to control her emotions Sarah realized she’d wet herself. Shame and mortification combined with the horror of her situation. She began to cry.
‘There, there, please don’t upset yourself. You’ve had a little accident, that’s all. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll take care of you. I’ll clean you up and change your wet panties for some new ones. Then you’ll be nice and dry again, won’t you. And when I’ve done that I’ll see if I can find a special treat for my Sarah.’
Her brain reeled. She knew the voice was a man’s, but not one she recognized. And yet he was talking to her as if he knew her well, as if she was someone special in his life. In so dreadful a position, she might have expected roughness, brutality, if any words had been spoken at all. This man was talking to her like a lover, or a parent with a tiny child. It should have comforted her. It didn’t. She felt the rope round her ankles being slackened then removed. A few seconds later she felt fingers undoing the waistband of her jeans; then unzipping them. She writhed in panic but her ankles were gripped by hands with the strength of a vice. ‘Sarah dear,’ there was a hard note of command in the voice, ‘stay still so I can take your wet things off.’
It was fear that caused her to stop struggling. She felt the wet garments being removed. Then there was quiet for a few moments. What had happened? Had he gone away? Suddenly he was back, ‘I’m just going to wash you, dear. We don’t want you to get sore, do we?’
She felt the wet flannel, felt the gently rhythmic movement of the material against her skin. This was followed by the touch of the rougher fabric of the towel as he dried her. Sarah’s horror was compounded as she realized the deeper significance behind the gently caressing motion of both flannel and towel. ‘There,’ she heard him murmur, ‘that’s better isn’t it, my beautiful Chosen One?’ Sarah had feared the worst when her abductor touched her so intimately, but he’d done her no harm. That might have comforted her slightly. It didn’t. After drying her, he covered her with something loose, a blanket? Then he left her alone.
Hours later, as far as she was able to judge, her senses deprived by the darkness of the mask and the utter silence around her, Sarah felt the thin cotton fabric of her sleeve being gently rolled back. She tried to recoil from the touch. She heard the man speak, his voice close to her ear, whispering almost. ‘Don’t be frightened, Sarah, I’m just going to give you something to relax you. I don’t want you frightened or upset.’
She felt his hand grip her arm above the elbow, not roughly, yet she wriggled furiously. His hand on her arm felt soft, oily, without features. She realized he was wearing gloves, rubber gloves. Her attempts to rid herself of his clutch were in vain. He was far stronger than she could cope with and the ropes at her wrist prevented movement. Something cold and wet touched her arm in a brief rubbing motion. Several more seconds passed before she felt a sudden sharp pain that ceased almost as soon as it began.
Sarah’s terror was matched by bewilderment, as she realized what he’d done. What sort of abductor was this? What was he doing? He’d spoken so soothingly, yet his attempts to reassure her had increased her fear. He’d injected something into her arm, but sterilized the site first to prevent infection. What sort of kidnapper took such pains over the welfare of their victim? Sarah was no nearer solving the mystery when consciousness left her.
chapter two
‘Saturday Night Fever’ kicked off early in Helmsdale, before 7 p.m., with uniformed branch reporting the arrest of a man suspected of dealing cocaine outside The Drovers Arms.
Clara had barely finished dealing with this, when she was called to attend a crime scene. The venue was the town’s only electrical appliance shop. Thieves had broken into the premises via the back door and pulled a van up. They’d succeeded in loading this with several plasma screen TVs and a host of other electrical items before they were disturbed. Hearing the approaching sirens of the police summoned to the scene, the raiders had escaped by crashing the van through the wooden fence that surrounded Helmsdale United’s football ground and driving across the pitch before joining the ring road.
The shop owner was distraught. Listening to him, Clara thought the football club’s groundsman would also be less than ecstatic. She took preliminary details of the missing items from the shopkeeper, and extracted a promise that he’d supply a comprehensive list of serial numbers as soon as he could. She turned the scene over to the SOCO team she’d summoned from Netherdale, and left to return to the station. As she locked her car, she hoped that would be the last she’d see of it until she went home.
No such luck. She’d barely hung her coat up in the CID suite when her phone rang. ‘There’s been a knifing outside The Coach and Horses,’ the duty officer told her.
Mironova sighed, ‘I suppose it was too much to hope that Saturday night would pass without something happening on Westlea estate?’
She heard the officer laugh. ‘Sounds like a domestic, from what the lads told me. Apparently a husband found out his wife was having a bit on the side and started laying into her. She didn’t like that, so she stuck him with a knife.’
‘Sounds like a marriage made in heaven. Was the wife’s boyfriend involved in this little piece of domestic disharmony?’
‘Oh yes, held the husband back whilst the wife went for him.’ The officer coughed, ‘The thing is, it wasn’t a boyfriend. It was a girlfriend.’
‘Well, well, well, never a dull moment on the Westlea.’
After such a busy night, Clara had forgotten about Sarah Kelly until she arrived at the station, shortly befo
re 9 a.m. on Sunday morning. As she entered the building, she noticed Mrs Kelly sitting on one of the benches in the reception area. Her knees were clamped together, handbag gripped on her lap with fingers that were white with pent-up stress. ‘Oh, no,’ Clara groaned inwardly, ‘this isn’t going to be good news.’
‘I take it you haven’t heard from Sarah?’
Mrs Kelly shook her head. It was obvious she wasn’t far from tears. ‘Okay, come through to the CID suite with me. Can I get you a cup of tea, or would you prefer coffee?’
‘No, thank you, nothing.’
‘Look, here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll phone my boss, explain the situation. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you.’
Clara went into Nash’s office to use the phone. She got no response from his home number, and only succeeded in connecting with his voice mail when she tried his mobile. She thought for a few moments, then picked up the phone book.
‘Square and Compass Hotel,’ the voice said.
‘Good morning. I need to speak to Miss Robbins urgently.’
‘Who? Oh, Miss Robbins. I’m afraid she’s unavailable. Would you care to leave a message?’
‘No. I wouldn’t care to leave a message. It’s very important that I speak to Miss Robbins as a matter of urgency. Please put me through.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. Miss Robbins left clear instructions she wasn’t to be disturbed on any account. It’s more than my job’s worth.’
‘If you don’t put me through immediately you won’t have a job,’ Clara snarled. The Saturday nightshift had left her drained and edgy. Her mood wasn’t improved when she realized she was speaking to the dialling tone. She gritted her teeth and redialled. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Mironova of North Yorkshire police. Don’t hang up on me again. Put me through to Miss Robbins, now. If you don’t, I’ll have four squad cars outside your hotel in five minutes time with lights flashing and sirens wailing. Do I make myself clear? When your guests complain, I’ll make sure you get the blame. What do you think your job will be worth then?’
‘Err, just one moment. I’ll try Miss Robbins’s extension. Did you say Detective Sergeant Mironoma?’
‘Mironova!’
She waited for what seemed an age before she was connected.
Lauren’s voice was heavy with sleep. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Lauren. It’s Clara Mironova here. I’m trying to locate Mike. I’ve tried his flat and his mobile without any joy. I just wondered if you have any idea where he might be?’ Like right alongside you, Clara thought with a grin.
The one thing about Lauren was she didn’t bother to hide their relationship. ‘Hang on, Clara. I’ll wake him. Mike, Mike, you’re wanted.’
‘Yes, Clara. What is it?’
‘Possible missing person, I’ve a woman here frantic with worry. Apparently, her daughter went out on Friday night and hasn’t returned.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Nineteen. She and a couple of friends usually go clubbing every Friday, but Sarah, that’s the missing girl, is usually home by 3 a.m. at the latest.’
‘Probably pulled, and is shacked up with some bloke somewhere.’
You would think that, Clara thought. ‘Maybe, but I can’t tell the mother that, can I?’
‘No I don’t suppose so. You think something’s up?’
‘I do. She called in yesterday and I filled the form out. The thing is, from what I can gauge, this seems out of character.’
‘Okay, it’s your call. Let’s show we’re taking it seriously. I’ll be straight over. Better dig Viv from his pit as well.’
His arrival coincided with that of Pearce. Mironova introduced her colleagues while Nash smiled at the agitated woman. ‘Before we start, Viv, why don’t you make us all a hot drink? Mrs Kelly, or may I call you Joan? What would you like?’
‘Coffee, I suppose.’
Mironova went over what sparse details there were about the missing girl. Nash turned to Mrs Kelly. ‘Has Sarah ever stayed out before without telling you? Maybe when she’s had a few drinks?’
Joan Kelly shook her head. ‘Never,’ she said emphatically. ‘Sarah doesn’t get drunk and besides, she knows I worry. She wouldn’t go one night without telling me, or ringing me from wherever she was, let alone two.’
Pearce arrived carrying a tray.
‘You don’t think she might have mentioned it and it’s just slipped your mind?’
‘I wouldn’t forget a thing like that.’
He tried a reassuring smile. ‘I believe you mentioned to Sergeant Mironova that Sarah usually meets up with a couple of friends on a Friday, then goes on to a nightclub?’
‘That’s right, Club Wolfgang they call it. Sometimes they go through to Netherdale or Bishopton, but not often.’
‘Can you supply the friends’ names and addresses?’
‘Yes, of course, but Sarah mentioned the other day that one of them, Tammy, was going on holiday this week, so she won’t be any help.’
Nash turned to Pearce. ‘Nip through to the ambulance section, would you? Check what emergencies they handled over Friday and Saturday, in case Sarah’s been involved in an accident. Then go through to the Duty Officer of the Fire Brigade. Tell him I want the names and addresses of all key holders for this Club Wolfgang.’
Nash switched his gaze back to Mrs Kelly. The implications behind his requests had brought a haunted expression to her face. ‘Joan, do you know where they would meet up?’
‘Yes, The Red Dragon, that’s where most of the young people go these days.’
‘Viv, get the landlord’s details from the Fire Officer as well.’ Pearce nodded and left. ‘The next part is the hardest bit, Joan. Really, all you can do is stay at home and wait for news. I know it seems as if nothing’s happening and you’ll be desperate for some action, but believe me that’s where you’re best off. If Club Wolfgang operates a CCTV system and we can get our hands on the tape, we’ll need you back here to look through it. In the meantime I want you to stay by the phone in case Sarah rings. I’ll get one of my officers to stop with you.’
Mrs Kelly fidgeted nervously, clear evidence that Nash’s assessment of her state of mind was accurate. She needed to feel involved, part of the action. Nash continued, ‘Before that, however, I’m afraid I need to ask you some questions. I want to know everything you can tell me about Sarah, about your home life, family, that sort of thing.’
Clara Mironova listened to Nash drawing information about Sarah from her mother. She’d witnessed his questioning technique many times before. Each skilfully phrased question would be more than a prompt for facts. It would probe into Sarah’s character, their home environment, the girl’s mental state and much more. The art was that he would do it without Joan Kelly even realizing his purpose.
‘Let’s start with a few details. Tell me what sort of girl Sarah is, what her likes and dislikes are. Anything you feel might be useful. Begin with her job, where she works, what she does.’
Mrs Kelly began, a trace of pride evident in her voice. ‘She’s been in the same job for the last two years, straight from school. She works at Rushton Engineering. She acts as secretary for several departments.’
‘Does she enjoy working there?’
‘Oh, she loves it. There’s always plenty to do. With all the different people and departments she reports to, I mean. She never gets chance to be bored. At night she’s full of it, who’s said what, things that have happened during the day.’
‘Tell me about your family.’
‘Sarah’s my only one. Terrence, my ex-husband, left me when Sarah was four. He’d been seeing another woman for some time, an American he met when he was working over at the US base near Harrogate, you know, the one with the giant golf balls. He lives in America now.’
‘It must have been hard, bringing Sarah up on your own.’
‘Sometimes, particularly in the early days, but Terrence’s new wife is from a wealthy family. He’s always been generous with m
aintenance. Even now Sarah’s turned eighteen, he continues to make the payments.’
‘That’s more than a lot do, from what I hear,’ Nash sympathized. ‘Tell me, does he keep in touch?’
‘He telephones about four times a year, never forgets her birthday. Christmas as well, there’s always a present for her. Nowadays he sends money, because he told her he doesn’t know what she needs.’
‘So, you’ve been on your own with Sarah for what, fifteen years? Have you never felt the urge to remarry? Are you in any sort of relationship, perhaps?’ Joan Kelly was still quite attractive; she had retained her looks and figure. Nash estimated her as being about forty-five years old, and a tempting prospect for many a man, despite the presence of a grown-up daughter in the home.
‘It never seems to have been an option,’ she said a trifle obscurely. ‘I’ve gone out with men from time to time, but it never got serious. Maybe that was because I always put Sarah first.’
‘What about Sarah, does she have a regular boyfriend? Or, has she had a regular boyfriend she’s finished with?’
‘No, neither, she always says there’s plenty of time for that later. She’s more interested in enjoying life. She wants to get more experience before settling down. She went to Ibiza two years running and didn’t come to any harm. Last summer she came back full of enthusiasm for Greece. She’s already booked to go back. She’s keeping her tan topped up by sunbathing in the garden when she can. She also wants to go to America next year, to stay with her father.’
Nash’s tone was deliberately casual. ‘Tell me how she gets on with the neighbours?’
The sudden shift of emphasis of his question seemed to throw Joan off balance briefly. ‘Er, alright I think. ’Course she’s not at home during the day, only weekends, so she doesn’t see much of them, those we know, that is. We only moved there about three years ago.’
‘How’s Sarah been recently? Anything upset her? For example, any mood changes, or that sort of thing?’
