by Bill Kitson
She took several sips before the glass was removed. ‘That’s enough, dear Sarah. We don’t want any little accidents during the night, do we?’
She was lowered back down; her head came into contact with something soft. She heard footsteps then a door closing. Hoping against hope that she was alone she screwed up her courage and opened her eyes. It took a while to focus, even longer for her brain to sort out and identify the images. The first thing she saw was dolphins. Above her head they swam, dived, rose again and bumped together. It was this bumping sound that had woken her and Sarah understood what she was looking at. It was a child’s cot mobile. The dolphins had created the gentle cacophony she had heard on waking.
She looked further afield, taking in the room’s wallpaper. It was gaily patterned in bright pastel colours dotted here and there with figures she recognized instantly. They were some of her favourite cartoon characters. She turned and looked across the room. She saw a large set of pine drawers, on top of which was an array of stuffed toy animals. Alongside the drawers stood a much larger, far nobler-looking animal. His proud neck was arched, his head carried proudly aloft. A long mane was swept to one side of his dappled grey body; a rocking horse. Sarah realized she was in a child’s nursery. But where was the child?
She looked at the single bed on which she lay, with a duvet covered by more figures she remembered from childhood. The garment she was wearing was a flannelette nightdress covered in similar characters. A fresh wave of horror overcame her as Sarah realized she was the child!
She was unable to cope with the implications of this. It seemed like too much trouble. It was far easier to lie there, relaxed and content. What she had seen ought to be disturbing, frightening even. But it didn’t seem to matter much anymore. Her desperate situation didn’t seem as alarming. After all, she wasn’t being mistreated, really.
In the next room her captor carefully washed the glass, dried it methodically on a tea towel and replaced it in the cupboard. He brushed his teeth in a well-established routine, counting each stroke. He dried the toothbrush and placed it precisely on the shelf above the basin. He dried his hands and looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed, ample time for the drug to take effect. He glanced in the mirror, smiling slightly at his excited reflection.
He returned to the room and looked at the girl. ‘Not asleep yet, Sarah dear? Never mind. Now let me put the duvet over you. We don’t want you catching cold, do we?’
He crossed to the bed and deftly slid the duvet from beneath Sarah’s body. She stared at him throughout, her expression one of puzzlement rather than fear. A sure sign the drug had worked. He touched her cheek. ‘My word, you are cold, dear. Never mind, we’ll soon have you warm.’
Moving the duvet to one side he stared at the curves of her body. He smiled gently, longingly. He continued to gaze at her as he began to unfasten his shirt.
chapter six
Nash walked the short distance through Helmsdale towards the police station. His thoughts were on Lauren. Fun to be with, demanding no commitment. He’d miss her. Suddenly his mind crowded with memories of Stella: Stella laughing, Stella in his arms, Stella’s beautiful smile. He shook his head to dismiss them. Guilt pricked his conscience. For the moment, however, he’d a case to solve. One he knew would test him to the limit. It was as well Lauren was going back to Cheshire. More guilt; he still hadn’t got round to reading the PNC information. Fortunately, the details couldn’t have prevented the crime, couldn’t have avoided whatever had happened to the missing girl.
By mid morning Nash had caught up with some of his delayed reading. It yielded a surprisingly large number of offenders whose profile fitted the search parameters, although there was none who seemed likely to be the suspected abductor. He called Mironova and Pearce into his office. He was about to start when Tom Pratt wandered in. ‘I’ve left the search parties to it. I’m not built for scrambling through undergrowth. Not interrupting anything, am I?’
‘Certainly not, Tom. We’re about to run through what we’ve got on the two cases.’ Nash turned to his colleagues. ‘Unless something breaks soon this looks likely to be a long haul. We can start by eliminating those possible suspects we have. I’m talking about Bailey and one or two candidates from that list.’ He waved a hand towards the PNC documents, ‘Plus the man Sarah spoke to in Club Wolfgang shortly before she vanished. We’ve also got the Lizzie Barton murder. At least we’re certain that’s a crime that has actually been committed.’
‘I thought you were convinced Sarah Kelly had been abducted?’
‘I may be, Clara, but that wouldn’t stand up as evidence. All we’ve got at present is supposition, based on meagre facts. Yes, we found her handbag, but she could have dropped that because she was under the influence. Or she could have lost it whilst she was having a knee trembler in the alley.’
He stilled Pearce’s protest with an upraised hand. ‘I’m not saying either of those happened. The only fact we have is that her disappearance is completely out of character.’
‘What do you suggest we do?’
‘Keep asking questions; check some of these characters out.’ Nash tapped the PNC reports, ‘And keep on searching all the likely places she could be.’
‘Do you mean where her body is likely to have been dumped?’
‘Yes, Viv, I’m afraid that’s exactly what I mean.’
‘Which case gets priority?’
‘We’ve got to concentrate on the murder. It goes against the grain to push the Sarah Kelly case into the background, but we have to.’ Nash turned to his boss. ‘Anything to add, Tom?’
‘No. I think you’ve summed it up as well as you can. Depressing I know, but our job’s like that.’
When Pratt had gone back to receive the reports from the search teams, and Viv had been sent on coffee-making duty, Clara looked at her boss. ‘You okay, Mike? You look tired. Is the case getting to you? Not starting with nightmares again, are you?’
He shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. I didn’t get much sleep last night,’ he confessed ruefully. ‘That’ll change though. Lauren’s going back to Cheshire tomorrow.’
‘Have you ever thought of settling down? Living a more normal lifestyle, I mean?’
Nash’s expression changed. ‘Once maybe, not now.’
‘Sorry, Mike, I wasn’t thinking. Perhaps you could do with a change. That place of yours is too big, too many memories. Get a smaller flat or something.’
Nash sighed, ‘You may be right.’
‘Why not try Helmsdale Properties? The woman we met there, Helen Tate was it, remember her? She’ll be happy to find somewhere for you to lay your head. I’m sure she’d be more than pleased to show you what she’s got on offer.’
‘You never miss a chance to have a go at me, do you?’
Clara smiled. ‘I’ve got to get my fun where I can. Seriously though, as well as Helmsdale Properties, have you thought of trying Charleston’s? They’re a big outfit, with branches all over the place. They’ll even help you move home.’
‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’
‘They’ve all sorts of additional services to offer. Not the sort Helen Tate has in mind for you,’ Clara added with a wicked grin, ‘but equally useful. Charleston’s have a removal company, a firm of solicitors, mortgage brokers, the lot. They even own the firm that puts up the FOR SALE signs. They’d be my first port of call. But then, I don’t fancy Helen Tate.’
The Home Office didn’t consider their part of North Yorkshire warranted a full-time pathology department, so post-mortem examinations in the area were carried out by Pedro Ramirez, Professor of Pathology from York University. At some stage, an officer with a better than nodding acquaintance with The Ballad of Eskimo Nell had nicknamed him ‘Mexican Pete’. Despite the fact that he hailed from Madrid!
Nash got a call regarding the post-mortem. The conversation was brief to the point of curtness: ‘I viewed the body yesterday. I have lectures all day. Be at Netherdale Hospital at 6 p.
m.’ Before Nash could reply the line went dead. He stared at the phone for a bemused second.
Mironova was watching, a smile on her face. ‘Mexican Pete?’
Nash nodded.
‘Talkative was he?’
‘As ever,’ Nash agreed.
‘He’s a damned good pathologist, even though he is a pervert. He tries to feel my backside every time he sees me.’
‘That’s not perverted. That’s good taste. I’m off to see Rawlings again. Want to come?’
Predictably, Rawlings was studying the morning’s racing paper. He was sitting on a bar stool, a mug of coffee and an overflowing ashtray in front of him. He looked up as they entered. ‘What is it this time?’ His tone was resigned, but Nash guessed this was more habit than genuine resentment.
‘Some questions, I’m afraid.’
‘As long as you’re quick. It’s the barman’s day off and I want to phone the bookies before the pub gets busy.’
‘We’ll keep it as short as we can.’
‘Fire away then,’ Rawlings lit another cigarette and looked at them directly for the first time. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘The lists of customers that were in the bar yesterday lunchtime. Was there anyone on, or not on them for that matter, that Lizzie might have been seeing on a regular basis over, say, the last year?’
Rawlings thought about it. ‘Not to my knowledge, not the last twelve months, and I reckon I’d know.’
‘How, Mr Rawlings?’ Clara asked.
He gave her an amused smile. ‘It’s a landlord’s business to notice things like that. Comes in very handy: especially in a place like this. Knowing who to keep apart, stop a fight breaking out.’
Nash persisted. ‘The way you said it, sounded as if you knew something outside that time limit.’
Rawlings grunted. ‘You don’t miss much, do you? Lizzie and Alec Jennings were going at it hammer and tongs a while back. Alec wasn’t in yesterday; that’s why he’s not on your lists. I teased Lizzie about toy boys, because Alec’s ten years younger.’
‘How’d you find out about it?’
‘Usual way,’ Rawlings grinned. ‘Caught them at it. Had to change a barrel one night and when I took the empty outside, I found him giving her a knee trembler in the yard. His girlfriend had just walked out, so I suppose it was a case of any port in a storm. Anyway, I said, “Don’t mind me, carry on”, and you know what, they did. It went on for a few months, then fizzled out about a year back when Cindy, that’s Alec’s girlfriend, moved back in. Alec didn’t waste any time, maybe he wasn’t prepared to risk her taking off again. He put Cindy up the spout almost immediately. She must be five or six months gone by now.’
‘There’s no one else you can think of? Nobody more recent?’
Rawlings shook his head. ‘No, that’s it.’
‘One more thing; where does Alec Jennings live?’
‘Westlea estate, like most of my punters. This pub would have gone bust long ago if the Westlea hadn’t been built.’
As they walked back to the car, Nash turned to Mironova. ‘I’ve just remembered. That old soak Turner was supposed to have been in to make his statement. Give the station a bell and find out whether he’s made it. If not, we’ll go round via his house and drag him in.’
‘Okay, but we might be better off going straight to the Horse and Jockey,’ Mironova replied.
Turner hadn’t made it to the station, nor was he at home or at the Horse and Jockey. Their informant was Mrs Turner.
Nash rang the bell of the small terrace cottage without response, so he knocked loudly on the door. As he was about to knock again, the door opened a few inches on its chain. One eye peered suspiciously out. ‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Turner?’ Nash produced his warrant card. ‘Is your husband at home?’
‘No.’ The door started to close, but Nash put his hand on it. ‘Can you tell us where to find him?’
‘What do you want him for? He’s just a harmless old drunk.’
‘If you open the door, I’ll explain.’
There was a pause, then the chain rattled and the door swung half open. ‘Well?’
Mrs Turner was angular with a thin, scrawny body, pointed face, hair greying into a dirty off-white. Her mouth was a thin, tightly compressed line, turned down in the corners into an expression of permanent disapproval. The brown frames of her glasses housed lenses liberally smeared with grease.
She was wearing a white, lace-edged blouse buttoned tightly up to the neck, over which was a hand-knitted cardigan of vivid blue, the buttons of which had been pushed through the wrong buttonholes. That, and the cardigan being two sizes too big, gave her a lop-sided appearance. A skirt of startling floral pattern hung below her knees. Her matchstick-thin legs were encased in thick lisle stockings and her feet in tartan carpet slippers.
As she spoke, Mironova was fascinated to see the cigarette in the corner of Mrs Turner’s mouth bobbing up and down in time with the words, like a conductor’s baton. ‘What do the police want with Turner?’
Nash explained.
Mrs Turner sniffed derisively. ‘It’ll be the first time in living memory he’s done owt useful. If he’s not in T’Horse and Jockey pissing his pension against the wall, he’ll be up at his allotment pretending to be gardening. Gardening,’ the repeat was a snort. ‘That means knocking back cans of ale.’
She was about to close the door, when Nash asked, ‘Where is his allotment?’
‘Is it up by Westlea estate?’ Mironova asked.
‘Yes, you’ll find him up there with all his boozing cronies. Much good it’ll do you.’ The door slammed shut.
‘I’ll tell you what, Mike, I’m no advocate of people drinking, but you can understand why Turner does.’
Nash nodded, his face straight. ‘That’s true. It also goes a long way to explaining why he fancies you.’
The allotment came as something of a surprise. Nash parked at the end of the broad track leading through the middle of the gardens. An old man was sitting by a shed at the front of the second plot smoking a pipe and reading the morning paper.
‘Excuse me,’ Nash called out. ‘Do you know which allotment Mr Turner has?’
The old man lowered the tabloid and considered the matter. He took his pipe from his mouth and replied, ‘Aye, I do.’
Nash smiled at the old man’s little jest. ‘Would you mind sharing that information with us?’
The ancient relented. He’d had his bit of fun. ‘Last one on this side, you can’t miss it. It’s the biggest. Jonas might be in his shed, potting on tomato plants. Be careful though, I’d call out for him before you go rushing in if I was you,’ he ended cryptically.
They walked down the row of neatly tended gardens. As the old man had predicted, there was no sign of Turner. They stared at the allotment in silence. They’d expected a wilderness with Turner sitting by the shed surrounded by empty cans.
Instead, there were neat rows of potato plants, carefully earthed up. Symmetrical square patches containing onion sets, young cabbage and cauliflower plants, rows of carrots and parsnips as straight as a line of guardsmen, and canes supporting scarlet and white runner beans.
Mironova read the sign on the gate, ‘Beware of the goose’ and frowned. ‘What do you think that is, Turner’s idea of a joke?’
She opened it and stepped through. There was a sudden flurry of movement, a hissing, a flapping sound, and a yelp of pain from Clara. She leapt back through the gate and slammed it behind her.
A bright beady eye regarded her balefully through the mesh fence. The goose had emerged from the protective cover of a rhubarb patch alongside the gate. ‘Now you know,’ Nash said, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face.
‘It’s not funny, it damned well hurt.’ She examined the wound. ‘Look, the sodding thing’s drawn blood.’ She cast a venomous glance at the goose and hissed, ‘Christmas dinner.’ The noise had alerted Turner, who emerged from his shed and was walking down the path. ‘Did you kn
ow there’s a law against keeping dangerous animals?’ Clara snarled spitefully.
‘Aye, and did you know there’s a law against trespassing,’ Turner smiled dourly. He pointed to the gate and added sarcastically, ‘You must tell me which part of the notice you didn’t understand.’
Nash was intrigued. It was clear from both Turner’s speech and demeanour that he was stone cold sober. Everything about him was at odds with Mrs Turner’s portrayal. Nash gestured to the allotment. ‘This is a bit different from what we expected, especially after what your wife told us.’
All trace of humour vanished from Turner’s face. ‘Oh, you’ve met the old b … you’ve met her, have you?’
‘She seemed to think you’d be sprawled out legless by this time.’
‘Aye, well that’s what I want her to think. This place is a good little earner. I don’t want her getting her hands on the money to waste it playing bingo with all the other old biddies. I’ve a mate has a mobile greengrocery van. He goes round the villages; I supply a lot of his stuff. As well as the money I get from it, the allotment keeps me out of her way.’
‘You don’t enjoy being at home, then?’
‘You’ve met the old bitch, haven’t you? I reckon if I’d to spend all day at home, you’d have another murder to solve.’ Turner’s eyes sparkled dangerously at the pleasurable thought.
‘You weren’t as sober as this yesterday,’ Mironova stated bluntly.
‘Aye, well, it was market day and my day off. Would you like to have a look round? Then you can give me a lift to the station and I’ll do that statement for you. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ He saw the doubtful look on Clara’s face and added, ‘Don’t worry, Sergeant Miniver, Esmerelda won’t harm you if you’re with me.’
‘Esmerelda?’ Mironova had never heard the name before.
‘Pantomime,’ Nash told her. ‘Esmerelda’s the goose that lays the golden egg.’
