Vanish Without Trace (2019 Reissue)

by Bill Kitson

  ‘Are you alright, Mike?’

  Nash blinked and stared at Tom Pratt for a long moment, as if seeing the superintendent for the first time. He blinked rapidly as he dragged himself back to the present. ‘Er, yes, sorry, Tom, I was just trying to think things through.’ Nash saw Pratt’s sideways glance and wondered what his boss was thinking. ‘Tom, I wonder if you could use your influence to get hold of someone from the council. We need to know if that street lamp at the end of the ginnel was working on Friday night. If not, what was wrong with it? Ask them to send one of their cherry pickers out.’

  Pratt nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I think we should have another look at the CCTV footage from the club. I’d like to get someone to enhance the image of the bloke Sarah spoke to by the bar. Then we can show it to the staff and customers, see if anyone recognizes him. In the meantime, it’ll be a while before SOCO get here, even longer before they’re ready to release the handbag to us. Unless you have any better ideas, I suggest a coffee and bacon butty’s called for. There’s a café on the High Street. The bacon’s tasty and the coffee’s not bad either. I reckon it’ll be lunchtime before the lads are through here.’

  As they ate, Nash asked Tom how he wanted to tackle the investigation.

  ‘I’m happy for you to run with it. Standard operating procedures say mine should be the lead name, but you’ve more experience of this type of enquiry than I have. I’ll run the admin. Just find the girl. Find out what’s happened to her, and if needs be, find the bastard who’s kidnapped her. Keep me up to speed with progress, that’s all I ask.’

  Nash began to outline his ideas. ‘If it proves to be Sarah’s bag, we need every possible media machine in action in the hope we can find someone, somewhere, who might be able to tell us something. I think we should also check the Sex Offenders’ Register to see if there’s anyone living locally who might prove likely candidates.’

  ‘You think this might be a sex crime?’

  ‘Can’t see any other motive. We can discount jealousy, revenge, and we can certainly discount profit. Sarah Kelly hadn’t been in a failed relationship. She hadn’t nicked someone’s husband or boyfriend, and she certainly isn’t from a wealthy family. That leaves a motiveless psychopath or a sex crime. Okay, I know psychopaths have been known to plan an attack carefully, but somehow that doesn’t seem to fit.’

  Nash and Pratt had only been back at the station fifteen minutes when Mironova and Pearce returned from canvassing the neighbours. Nash greeted them. ‘A handbag’s been found near the nightclub. We’ll have to show it to Mrs Kelly once SOCO have finished with it. That’s down to you and me, Clara. What did you find out?’

  ‘A few were out at work but the men we talked to all think Sarah’s a thoroughly nice, decent lass,’ Pearce told him, then grinned. ‘I suspect most of them would prefer it if she wasn’t, but daren’t admit it in front of their wives. The women also thought Sarah’s nice. A normal set of reactions from a normal enough bunch of people.’ Pearce hesitated for a second, ‘for the most part, that is.’

  Nash lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘There was one bloke seemed a bit shifty. Clara has him marked down as a weirdo. He’ll warrant consideration.’

  Mike turned to Mironova.

  ‘It’s the way he looked at me. I get plenty of looks from blokes; it’s a bit of a compliment, normally. Occasionally, though, a man looks at you and it makes you shiver. You may not know exactly what he’s thinking, but you get a damned good idea and it isn’t nice, it isn’t nice at all. That’s how this guy made me feel.’

  ‘Netherdale’s going to handle the computer work because we’re going to be too busy. Ask them to check the neighbours on the PNC. What do we know about the character who undressed Clara with his eyes?’

  ‘This was far worse. It was a sort of promise, a threat almost. As if he was thinking of what he would do given the chance. Not only that but visualizing it.’

  ‘As you said, not very nice.’

  Pearce consulted his notes. ‘His name’s Roland Bailey. Forty-eight years old and single.’ He looked up. ‘His employers are Rushton Engineering.’

  The visit to Joan Kelly had been distressing. Nothing could disguise the grim conclusion Sarah’s mother reached on seeing the handbag. She identified Sarah’s purse, which contained over £100 in notes. Along with the usual assortment of feminine bric-a-brac they also found a set of house keys. Clara tried one of them in the front door lock. It fitted exactly and turned easily.

  Pratt was talking to DC Pearce when Nash and Clara returned. It didn’t need Nash’s nod to confirm the identification. The grim expression on their faces was proof enough.

  ‘We must assume the worst,’ Pratt said heavily. ‘This moves the enquiry to another level. You must decide what resources you need. I’ve sorted a press release, but for the time being I’ll concentrate on arranging a media conference. What do you reckon, Mike? Wednesday or Thursday, unless something turns up?’

  Clara shivered. ‘What you mean is, if anything bad was going to happen to Sarah, it already has done?’

  Nash agreed, ‘Exactly. She may not be dead. But she’s certainly not safe and well.’

  ‘Are you thinking of putting Mrs Kelly in front of the cameras?’ Pearce asked.

  Pratt and Mike exchanged glances. ‘If nothing breaks within the next forty-eight hours we’ll have to. Apart from focusing the public’s attention on the case, the media will demand it,’ Pratt said.

  ‘And if we get her to a media conference, it might prevent them camping out on her doorstep, causing her more distress,’ Nash agreed.

  ‘I’m going back to Netherdale to organize things from there. I’ll check on the PNC progress,’ Pratt told them.

  Later, Nash received a phone call from Pratt. ‘I’ve a couple of bits of news. I’ve had the reports back on the surveillance camera and the street light. You were dead right. The lamp was out of action on Friday night. Both it and the camera were disabled by airgun pellets.’

  ‘As we suspected.’

  ‘I agree, so I’ve put more men to work on the background info. The computer reports should be ready for you by around 9 p.m. tonight.’

  ‘Thanks. Can you send the paperwork over in a squad car? I’ll give Viv and Mironova a break so we can work on it overnight.’

  ‘You’ll need a break at some stage, Mike. This could be a long haul.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m used to doing without sleep.’

  ‘Now, extra resources. You set up the incident room. I’ve organized staff to man the phone lines.’

  ‘I think we should extend the search areas into the countryside. There’s a hell of a lot of ground to cover. I suppose that’s really always been the most likely place to find her.’

  ‘What you mean is, that’s where we’ll find her body,’ Pratt agreed sombrely.

  It was at 8 p.m. that night when he rang again. ‘Would you believe it, the PNC’s gone down for “routine maintenance”. It’s been out of action all evening. We can’t get anything till tomorrow at the earliest. What do you want to do? As soon as it’s up and running, every force in the land will be logging on for info, so it’ll take a while, even when we can get through.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll get a decent night’s sleep and try again tomorrow.’

  It had been a dreadful few days for Monique. She’d had them before of course. But this one was more severe than most. Monique knew when the first signs appeared: migraine. It knocked her out. As soon she’d felt the symptoms start, she phoned work. Her boss was understanding, as he’d seen the effects before during the ten years she’d worked there. ‘Come back when you’re fit.’

  She dug out her medication and filled a flask with cold water. Then she went to bed. The curtains were drawn tight. The phone and doorbell disconnected. Eventually the pain eased. The flashing lights dimmed. She slipped into unconsciousness. Then the visions began. Her brain, its defences weakened, began to replay her ordeal. With it came guilt
and the unanswered questions. What had happened?

  Then Danielle appeared, pleading for help. Help she was unable to give. How could she when she couldn’t remember?

  It was another three days before she emerged from her bedroom. Her legs were weak from disuse. Her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes were clear evidence of her ordeal. She set about restoring order. She replaced the telephone cable in its socket, reconnected the doorbell and pondered whether to ring the office.

  Charleston’s was a busy estate agency. Monique was in charge of the Helmsdale branch. Despite this, she decided not to return yet. Even though she knew the owner was going on holiday, she couldn’t face the thought of going to work. Potential clients could wait. Far better to rest, go back fully restored.

  Monique couldn’t think of food until late the following day. She prepared a bland meal of chicken and pasta and carried it through to the lounge. She needed a comfortable chair and the sound of a human voice, if only the newsreader on TV.

  She was midway through her meal, when the bulletin turned to local news. Monique paid scant attention to the first two items. The opening words of the next report focused her mind instantly. ‘Police in Helmsdale have expressed their concern over the whereabouts of nineteen-year-old Sarah Kelly who vanished.…’

  Monique stared at the screen, her body frozen into immobility. She listened, heedless of the sauce dripping on to her lap. The newsreader gave out some scant facts. As the incident phone numbers were being given out, the girl’s photo appeared on screen. Monique stared at the image, transfixed. She began to shake uncontrollably. She put the tray down and ran to the downstairs cloakroom. She was violently sick.

  Sarah tried to clear her brain. Consciousness returned slowly. Something was different. Her mouth felt dry, her tongue heavy and wooden, her throat parched. She remembered the injection. Obviously she’d been drugged. Something had changed, but what? In her drowsy state it took her a long time before she could work it out. Several times she felt she was on the point of solving the mystery when she fell asleep again.

  She was now tied to a chair. The ropes were still fastened to her wrists and ankles. The hood was still over her head. Her neck hurt. She moved slightly, as much as her bonds would allow. Something rustled. She moved again and heard the same noise, faint but definite. Was that her making the sound? She wasn’t wearing anything that rustled. She moved again; again the rustle. She was definitely making the sound, but how?

  As Sarah puzzled it over she felt another new sensation. Something was touching the skin of her neck. It felt like a necklace. But she never wore a necklace. She moved again, this time achieving a little more movement. There was something odd about all her clothing. It felt looser, less restrictive than the stretch jeans and tight-fitting top she’d been wearing.

  ‘So, you’ve woken up once more, dear Sarah.’ She heard the soft voice again and shivered involuntarily. ‘I think it’s time for us to meet properly.’

  The hood was loosened and slipped off. The bright light dazzled her. Instinctively she lowered her head to avoid the glare. She gasped in bewilderment. She had been right. She was wearing a full-length evening dress. A string of pearls had been placed round her neck. Long evening gloves and a matching evening bag lay on her lap.

  She could tell she was no longer wearing her flat shoes, replaced by what she knew to be heeled shoes. Sarah squirmed slightly at the strangeness of it all and was shocked to find that even her underwear had been changed. The bra felt strange, new and unworn.

  Her eyes had adjusted sufficiently, she looked up, her eyes widened, her brain reeled. Was she in the middle of some dreadful nightmare? Suddenly she knew it was only too real and the realization of what she was looking at came to her. Hot bile rose in her throat, threatening to choke her as she stared in horror at the nauseating sight before her. She had gone far beyond fear, into a realm of terror she could never have imagined. Sarah began to scream. She screamed until eventually her brain was no longer able to cope with the level of disgust and revulsion, and shut down. Sarah lapsed into merciful unconsciousness.

  chapter four

  Rushton Engineering was on the outskirts of Helmsdale, where the red-brick town merged into the countryside. Every attempt had been made by the management to soften the ugly outlines of the factory. The depot was a small, specialist unit, with a workforce of no more than sixty. A large open area in front of the building had been planted with trees and shrubs, hiding the car park. This was where Nash found Mironova waiting.

  As they crossed the yard to the company’s offices, Mike noticed they received one or two curious looks from passing members of the workforce. He cast a sideways glance at his companion. For the first time, he realized that Clara, with her height, good figure and striking looks, was sufficiently like Sarah to merit a second glance. Her long blonde hair emphasised the similarity.

  The Managing Director was eager to help. ‘Sarah’s very popular. She’s a good, efficient secretary, careful but quick. If you give her a job to do, you know it’ll get done. She’s cheerful, and gets on with staff and customers alike and she’s not frightened of hard work. If there’s a job to be done, Sarah stays until it’s finished, even if it means working late. Our business is either famine or feast. We’re either laying people off, or we’re rushed off our feet, running three shifts 24/7.’

  ‘What’s it like at present?’

  ‘We’re fairly busy, about to get busier. We’ve a couple of contracts due for signing.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll try not to get in the way, but we need to speak to every employee.’

  ‘No problem. There are some things more important than making money. Just don’t tell my shareholders I said that. There’s a small dining suite at the end of the canteen where we entertain clients. You’ll be able to talk to people there. I’ve left instructions with the departmental managers to send their workers for the mid-shift break in relays, and for the men to report to you first. It’ll start in about ten minutes, so by 11.00 you’ll have had chance to talk to everyone on this shift. If you come back later this afternoon, you can do the same with the other shift. We’re only running two at the moment. I’m putting it up to three in a couple of weeks, but for now that should get everyone in front of you. The office workers take their lunch break in rotation anyway, so that’ll follow on nicely.’

  ‘That sounds ideal.’

  ‘Planning and neatness: always been essential to me. Part of my nature, if you like, although my wife says it’s an obsession.’

  Nash glanced round the man’s office. The desk had only a telephone and blotter on it. Elsewhere everything looked neat, spartan. Not a file or piece of paper out of place. Almost like a showroom display, Nash thought.

  They’d spoken to more than half the shift when Clara nudged Nash. He looked up at the approaching man. His clothing marked him out from the rest of the workforce. Whereas they all wore boiler suits, this man was in street clothes.

  He walked hesitantly forward, every step reluctant. His gait, a sort of shuffle, added to the furtive air. He was wearing a fawn zip-up jacket and equally bland slacks that failed to match. His shoes, old-fashioned brown lace-ups were dull, unpolished. Nash studied him keenly. Everything about his appearance and demeanour was nondescript. He peered from behind a pair of round, black-rimmed glasses whose high degree of magnification gave him a wide-eyed, mildly manic stare. He had a salt-and-pepper thatch of hair, of a style that defied description.

  Nash gestured to the chair then noticed that the man wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at Mironova, who shifted uneasily in her seat. ‘Sit down,’ Nash’s tone was sharp.

  He sat down, his gaze still on Clara. ‘I’ve seen you before. I remember you.’ Each word in the statement was innocuous; the whole conveyed a slightly sinister overtone.

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Bailey,’ Mironova told him coldly. ‘This is Detective Inspector Nash.’ She turned to Nash. ‘This is Mr Roland Bailey, one of Sarah’s neighbours
.’ Her eyes conveyed her message.

  Bailey looked fleetingly at Nash and dropped his gaze to the table.

  ‘Why are you dressed differently?’

  Bailey looked puzzled by the question. ‘I’m in the stores.’ He spoke so softly they’d to strain to hear him.

  ‘So, Mr Bailey, not only are you one of Sarah’s neighbours, but you also work in the same place.’

  The statement sounded like an accusation.

  ‘Yes,’ the monosyllable was no more than a mutter.

  ‘Then I expect you saw more of her than any of your colleagues. You walked the same way to and from work. You ever walk with her, Mr Bailey?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Sure about that? Not once? I mean, Sarah’s a very attractive girl? It would be only natural to want to walk with her, talk to her. That would be neighbourly, surely?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘But you see her all you want at Ash Grove, at home, in the garden, don’t you? You ever see her sunbathing? Ever watch her? She’s a nice looking girl, isn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come off it, you can’t expect us to believe that. Living near a pretty girl and you reckon you’ve never noticed. She got you excited, did she, and now you’re ashamed to admit it? Or don’t you like women, Mr Bailey? Do your preferences lie elsewhere?’

  Mironova, observing quietly, noticed that Nash’s insinuations were beginning to needle Bailey. A fine bead of sweat gathered above his top lip, another on his brow.

  ‘No, they don’t.’ There was real emotion in his voice, this time disgust.

  Nash tried again. ‘When did you last see Sarah?’

  ‘I don’t remember, last week sometime.’