by BILL KITSON
‘Esmerelda?’ Mironova had never heard the name before.
‘Pantomime,’ Nash told her. ‘Esmerelda’s the goose that lays the golden egg.’
‘That’s right, and there’s the reason Esmerelda attacked you,’ he pointed to the line of eight goslings clustered round Mother Goose. ‘They’ll fetch between forty-five and fifty pounds each come Christmas.’
Before Turner signed his statement, he told Nash, ‘You asked me what time it was when I saw the car on Friday night.’ Nash nodded. ‘Well, as I was walking to the allotment this morning, I was passing the church, and the clock was striking. That’s what reminded me. As I came out of the pub I was talking to Barry, when I heard the chimes of the church clock. I thought “Ayup that’s two o’clock”. I reckon by the time I got to the alleyway it’d be about ten past,’ Turner grinned, ‘given that I wasn’t exactly walking in a straight line.’
‘Thank you for coming forward, Mr Turner. You’ve been very helpful.’
When Mironova had seen Turner out of the station, resisting his offer to join him for a pint at The Horse and Jockey, she returned to find Nash, who told her, ‘I’d best get off. I’m taking an hour off. I’m going to look at a flat.’
‘Which estate agent?’
‘Helmsdale Properties.’
‘I’m sure Helen Tate will be delighted to show you all she’s got.’
The search parties had just changed shift, returning after another fruitless day. Nash fought his way through the mass of bodies in the reception area. The CID suite was also crowded with a contingent from Netherdale. Tom Pratt was receiving reports from the search leaders and Sergeant Jack Binns was fielding phone calls. Nash pointed to his office and Clara followed him in. ‘How did the flat hunting go? Did Helen Tate have what you wanted?’ Clara’s face was a mask of innocence.
‘They’ve nothing suitable on their books. I’ll try some of the other agents when I get chance.’
Binns poked his head round the door. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mike, but I’ve got our WPC from Mrs Kelly’s house on the phone. Apparently there’s a horde of reporters camped outside the house and they keep shouting questions through the letter box. Mrs Kelly’s quite distressed, and they’re ignoring our officer.’
‘That’s the last thing she needs. They’re like bloody vultures at times like this. Clara, nip round and clear them out. Take Jack with you. Give them the hard word. Let them know our officer on site will be reporting back.’
Pratt and Nash discussed plans for the following day, which would follow broadly the same pattern as the past two, with the addition of a media conference regarding Sarah’s disappearance. ‘I’ll hang on for Clara, then I’ve got to attend the Lizzie Barton post-mortem,’ Nash told him.
When Clara and Jack returned from the Kelly house they both looked subdued. ‘How is she, Clara?’
‘Bad doesn’t begin to describe it, Mike. The longer it goes on without news, the worse the torment gets.’
Binns agreed, ‘That’s the hardest part of our job, dealing with the relatives at a time like this. But I don’t think we’ll be having any more problems from the press.’
‘Thanks for your help, Jack. I’m sure Clara will reward you with a cuppa. I’m off to see Mexican Pete, but I’ll call in when I get back into town, see if there’s been any developments before we call it a day.’
The autopsy on Lizzie Barton yielded little new information. Ramirez proved much more forthcoming than he had been on the phone. ‘She seems to be in generally good health,’ adding with a flash of macabre humour, ‘except that she’s dead. She died, as I’ve no doubt you’ve guessed, from a stab wound to the chest. You’ll no doubt have also deduced that the murder weapon was the same one forensics removed from her body.’
‘Can you tell me anything I don’t already know?’ Nash asked a trifle sarcastically.
‘I can tell you from the stomach contents and preliminary tests on her internal organs, that on the morning of her death she ate toast and butter and drank coffee. The previous evening she ate something that was composed largely of minced meat and cheese, probably lasagne. No doubt the fact that she last ate breakfast tallies with the time of death. Somewhere between noon and 2 p.m. yesterday.’ A brief smile flitted over Ramirez’s face. ‘But then you probably knew that as well. The deceased was slightly over the age of forty. She was sexually active and, from the condition of the vagina, I would suggest very sexually active. She had given birth not once but several times. Not recently and she was not pregnant.’
‘Anything else I should know?’
Ramirez paused, looking at the corpse. Nash waited uncomfortably. He detested mortuaries and the memories they brought back. If he never entered another one, he’d be less than unhappy. It wasn’t that he was particularly squeamish, but the heavy chemical smells seemed to linger for days after each visit. Even they weren’t as bad as other odours associated with the post-mortem process.
When Mexican Pete eventually replied, his tone was guarded and he chose his words with great care. ‘There are one or two indications that may point to a certain medical condition. If that’s the case, it may have relevance to your enquiry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait on the results of further tests.’
‘How long will those take?’
‘That’s out of my hands; a few days at least. The laboratories have a tendency to prioritize their work in favour of the living.’
‘I thought there was a Home Office laboratory?’
Ramirez sighed, ‘Keeping a laboratory staffed for this area wasn’t considered viable.’ Ramirez laid a heavy sarcastic accent on the last word. ‘I’m afraid that medicine, like police work, is now controlled by accountants.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Nash said with feeling. ‘You’ll let me know the minute you have those results?’
‘Naturally.’
‘If that’s everything, I’ll be off back to the station. Good night, Professor.’ Nash didn’t offer to shake hands. It’s an unwritten rule amongst police officers that you never shake hands with a pathologist. Especially one who’s just completed a post-mortem and is still wearing surgical gloves.
chapter seven
Lee Machin wasn’t the most popular character on the Westlea estate. In his late teens he’d formed the habit of loitering close to the vicinity of the school and children’s playground. When his presence became a source of disquiet to local mothers, a few of their menfolk had what is euphemistically called ‘a quiet word’.
He had other unacceptable traits; his use of controlled substances was one. The other a tendency to carelessness in the manner of his dress, to the extent that certain parts of his anatomy became visible. Curiously, this only seemed to occur when young girls were in Lee’s immediate vicinity. On more than one occasion, Lee had appeared bearing the marks of a little rough justice, meted out by an irate elder brother or parent.
When Lee left Helmsdale Secondary School, not entirely of his own volition, a number of former pupils were more than a little surprised to learn that Lee had taken up with a woman on the estate. Karen Thomas may have been several years Lee’s senior, but she looked younger. She was slim, wafer-thin almost. This, together with her baby face and short-cropped hair, made her appear barely to have reached the age of consent. Certainly far too young to have a nine-year-old daughter.
Karen hadn’t been below the age of consent when she conceived Emily, the product of a rash romantic impulse. An impulse instantly regretted. Never to be forgotten. The father had long been forgotten. Her memory was not helped by the partiality she shared with Lee for a variety of the drugs readily available in the area.
The couple lived in a fair degree of squalor, in a tiny flat on the extreme northern edge of the estate, their existence, for the most part, dependant on ‘the social’.
Lee’s contribution was by no means dependable. It relied on him obtaining money by whatever means he could, usually illicit. Both he and Karen were known to the police. Both had a string
of convictions. Their offences included possession of drugs, shoplifting and, in Lee’s case, an instance of petty theft that had tried the patience of the local magistrates too far. As a consequence, Lee had spent six months in prison. If the magistrates hoped this would teach him a hard lesson, they were right. It taught him to be more careful.
Karen, who was more the specialist shoplifter than Lee, narrowly escaped a similar fate on the occasion of her last court appearance. Following Lee’s release, the couple decided they needed a more reliable income. The responsibility fell on Lee. The search for a suitable job proved no easy task, but in time he landed one he was actually rather good at. The pay wasn’t lavish, but provided the opportunity for a lucrative sideline.
The couple’s fortunes definitely seemed to be on the up. Emily began to wear clothes that had actually been bought. She’d had to wait until Lee and Karen had bought their new clothing and certain essential electrical items first.
It was around dusk, as Mike Nash was en route from the post-mortem to Helmsdale. One of Lee and Karen’s neighbours, who was returning from an after-work session in the local, crossed the waste land at the back of the estate. Designated as playing fields, it had never been utilized as such. The perimeter was fringed with shrubs and bushes. Left unchecked, they’d grown into a thick, unruly mass. Only the hardy souls determined to cut half a mile off their walk home kept a couple of gaps open.
The returning reveller stared at the base of a bush close to one of these openings as he was about to step through. He blinked in surprise. There was something protruding from the base of the bush. It was a pair of feet.
Staggering slightly, as much from the uneven ground as the effects of the alcohol, he reached down and parted the leaves. Lee Machin was lying face upwards, unconscious. His face badly battered and covered in blood, his left arm at an unnatural angle. The man stared. He tried attracting Lee’s attention by kicking him gently. Getting no response the man did an uncharacteristic thing, possibly as a result of the amount of drink he’d consumed. He went home and rang for an ambulance and the police.
When Nash arrived back at Helmsdale, the station was almost deserted. All the officers assisting in the search for Sarah had departed. Mironova too was absent, and when Nash entered the CID office only Pearce was there, poring over paperwork.
‘Where is everybody?’ Nash was marginally surprised until he glanced at the wall clock. ‘I didn’t realize it was as late as that.’
‘I’ve a couple of messages. Superintendent Pratt said to let you know he’ll be here first thing tomorrow. Mrs Kelly rang too. She’s prepared to go in front of the cameras. Poor woman sounded desperate, but I suppose that’s to be expected. Finally, I’ve a message from Clara. Some bloke off the Westlea’s been badly beaten up. Found unconscious on some waste ground.’
‘We’ll have to wait until she rings in to find out what the score is on that one. How have you got on?’
‘I’m just finishing sorting the rest of the files from the PNC. It’s taken most of the day to sift through everything. I’m surprised how many villains we have on our patch. Some of them are quite heavy too. We’ve a couple of convicted murderers, three rapists and several paedophiles. There are any number of drug dealers and a whole raft of minor criminals too.’
‘Good work, Viv.’ A thought struck him as he turned away. ‘Tell me, did Roland Bailey feature in any of the files?’
Pearce shook his head. ‘Clara reminded me to keep a lookout for him. It looks as if you’d have lost your bet.’
‘You surprise me. I’ll phone Clara. See if I can find out what’s going on at Westlea, then I’ll get us some coffee.’
Nash was unable to raise Clara and assumed she’d be at the hospital. As they drank their coffee he told Viv the results, or lack of them, from the post-mortem. ‘I think we should pull this character Alec Jennings in for questioning. He’s the most recent intimate connection.’
‘Yes, and he lives on Westlea not far from where the bloke was attacked tonight.’
‘I wonder if there’s a connection? Tell you what, we’ll schedule Jennings for a chat tomorrow. Do you know where he works?’
‘Yep,’ Pearce paused. ‘How strongly do you believe in coincidence?’
‘Go on, surprise me again.’
‘Alec Jennings works on the late shift at Rushton Engineering.’
‘Now that is a coincidence.’ Nash frowned, ‘I don’t remember a Jennings when I interviewed them yesterday.’
‘That’s because he wasn’t at work. I spoke to the MD. Jennings rang in sick late morning yesterday, about an hour before he was due at work. I asked if he went absent often. The MD said it was most unusual. Jennings is one of their more reliable workers.’
‘That sounds dodgy. I don’t suppose Jennings was the bloke who was attacked tonight, by any chance?’
‘I’ve no idea. From the description I heard, he’d been beaten almost beyond recognition. We’ll have to wait for Clara.’
It was after 10 p.m. when Mironova telephoned. ‘I’m at Netherdale Hospital,’ she told Nash.
‘What do you know?’
‘His name’s Lee Machin, early twenties, lives on the estate. He’s been well done over, but the injuries aren’t life threatening. Looks like a punishment beating. His face is a mess, virtually unrecognizable. His partner Karen only knew him by the shirt he was wearing. She’s with him here, but she’s well nigh hysterical. His arm’s broken and he’s got several cracked ribs. It looks as if someone worked him over with an iron bar or something similar.’
‘Do we know him?’
‘Oh yes. He’s a regular in front of the magistrates. Not recently, though. Last time he got six months for theft and possession. He’s been out eighteen months or so, kept out of trouble since then.’
‘Those injuries don’t sound like he was keeping out of trouble.’
‘True. We know his partner as well. Karen Thomas. She’s got form. Her speciality’s shoplifting. Nothing custodial, but it was close on her last outing. She’s also steered clear of us recently. One other thing; they’re users, but no one’s ever suggested either of them was a dealer.’
‘Do you reckon drugs might be behind the attack? Or might it be linked to the Barton murder?’
‘No idea. There’s not much more I can do tonight. I’ll set off back.’
‘No, get yourself off home. I’ll see you in the morning,’ he replaced the phone. ‘Come on, Viv, home.’
Nash ate a quick meal of pasta. He loved cooking, but tonight it was far too late to think about it and he still had work to do.
It was only later, when he was reading the paperwork Pearce had given him, that Nash gave any thought to a remark he’d heard earlier. He tried to figure out whether it had been merely a platitude, or whether there was some significance behind the statement. He resolved to find out the following morning. He downed the remainder of the tin of beer he’d allowed himself and headed off to bed, so weary that he almost forgot to take his medication.
‘Morning Jack. Before you get started on anything, could I have a word?’
‘What’s the problem, Mike?’
‘It was something you said yesterday; I didn’t pick up on it at the time. When you were talking about the effect on relatives, it sounded almost as if you were speaking from experience?’
Binns’s cheerful expression clouded over. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘Care to tell me about it?’
Fifteen minutes later, Nash called Pearce and explained what he wanted. ‘I want you to make this your number one priority. Get all the help you need. I want the information on my desk by this evening.’
Nash passed the DC a piece of paper. ‘Start with this name and work backward and forward from there. I’ve written some parameters, so hopefully you won’t pick up too many false leads.’
‘Do you want me to restrict the search geographically? I mean, within North Yorkshire?’
Nash thought about it for a moment or two.
He was never sure what prompted his decision. ‘No, Viv. Don’t put so tight a limit on it; try the whole of northern England.’
Clara entered as Viv was leaving. ‘Here’s my report on Machin. I’ll make coffee whilst you’re reading it. Superintendent Pratt’s outside, he’s planning the media conference, with Mrs Kelly on display. He wants us there to hold her hand, so to speak.’
‘Yes, I got the message last night. I’ll read your report now, but make the coffee strong please, Clara, and none of that decaffeinated muck either. I need as much caffeine as you can pack into a mug. It might keep me awake until lunchtime.’
‘What’s tiring you? Work, or your hyperactive social life?’
Nash smiled ruefully. ‘I wish it was the social life. Last night I was up until the early hours reading Viv’s reports. There’s plenty for us to look into, but I’ll be surprised if any of the villains on that list are in the frame for the Sarah Kelly abduction.’
‘You’re still convinced it’s an abduction?’
‘I am. I’ve no solid evidence, but I can’t see any other explanation.’
‘If it’s intuition, Mike, I’d back you to be right. It may be more difficult persuading others, but you’ve been right too often to bet against you.’
Nash glanced at his watch; it was 8.15 a.m. ‘Did Viv tell you I want Jennings pulled in for questioning? After you’ve had your coffee, go get him. Take a uniform with you.’
Nash was reading the final sentence of Mironova’s report when Pratt walked in. ‘Morning, Mike, how’re you? Been on the nest? You look terrible.’
‘No such luck. Just a late night,’ he said tersely. ‘Nothing to worry about, as long as Viv doesn’t keep giving me bedtime reading.’
‘That’s why you’re in early then. What about Mironova and Pearce? Is insomnia catching round here?’
