by Bill Kitson
‘As you say, harmless enough. Now you take care of yourself and your little girl. If whoever did that to Lee has a grudge, they might be tempted to take it out on you.’
‘You wouldn’t give a toss what happened to me,’ Karen muttered. ‘Just fuck off and leave us alone.’
As they negotiated the broken concrete, Nash smiled. ‘So now we know why Lee was beaten up.’
‘Sorry, you’ve lost me,’ Clara confessed.
‘Haven’t you worked it out? You saw that living room. There must have been £5,000 worth of electrical equipment in that room, and she was wearing a pair of trainers that would have set them back over £100. You’re not telling me Machin got that amount of cash working as a projectionist? There’s no way they’d get credit, and in addition, he’s able to fund their drugs habit. If that’s all come by honestly, we should retrain as projectionists.’
‘Okay, but I still don’t see where the money’s come from.’
‘Look at it this way. Machin starts work at the Gaiety Club. He’s up in the projection box night after night, watching the same trash. He gets bored, so what is there for him to do? He starts watching the customers. Whether he sees someone he recognizes or the idea just comes to him, it doesn’t matter, but he dreams up a great idea for earning extra cash. I mean a lot of extra cash. The Gaiety Club’s punters would be prepared to pay handsomely to have their dirty little habit kept secret. There could be councillors, vicars, local businessmen, even police officers among the members. So Lee shakes them down, a little here, a little there. The trouble is, people like Lee get greedy. Eventually, one of his victims gets tired of handing over increasingly large sums of money and sends someone along to teach him the error of his ways. Let’s go visiting the sick.’
En route to the hospital, Nash got a call from Pearce. ‘Mexican Pete’s been trying to reach you. You’re to phone him. And the tech lads have said they can’t do any better with the video enhancement.’
‘Thanks, Viv. We don’t need it anyway; we know it was Jennings.’ Nash dialled the pathologist’s mobile.
‘I’ve no time, I’m between lectures. I have the results of the haematology test. The deceased, Lizzie Barton, was HIV positive, probably contracted within the last eighteen months. Not yet noticeable physically, and she probably wasn’t aware of the condition.’
The line went dead. Nash sat motionless for a long while, the dial tone droning unnoticed in his ear. He repeated what the pathologist had told him to Clara.
‘Do you think that’s relevant?’
‘It might be more than relevant, it could be vital or it might mean nothing. I need time to think about it.’
Nash stared at the young man in the hospital bed. Machin’s face was a mess. The only expression came from his eyes. Nash saw a curious mixture of fear and defiance. It was more the look of someone who’d committed a crime than a victim. Nash opted for a confrontational approach.
‘You’re in here because your dirty little scam backfired,’ he told Machin bluntly. ‘I’m not sure whether you tried to shake a punter down once too often, whether you demanded too much, or simply picked the wrong man. Nor do I care. As far as I’m concerned, you got what was coming. You can tell me the name of the man who was responsible for the attack or not. That’s up to you. To be frank, I don’t care either way.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Nash looked at him wearily. ‘In that case I’ll spell it out. I’m talking about the dirty little scheme you dreamed up to blackmail customers of the Gaiety Club. You realized that by threatening them, you could get them to fork out sizeable sums in exchange for your silence. Some of them were no doubt in positions where membership of a club peddling hard porn would generate considerable interest.’
‘I didn’t do that.’ His denial wasn’t even remotely convincing.
‘Oh give it up. You’re not even a good liar. It didn’t take much working out. We’ve just come from your place. I was particularly interested in all that flash electrical gear. There’s no way you could have afforded that on what you’re pulling in. And don’t try feeding me any bullshit about a win on the horses or the lottery. I’ve heard it all before. I might take some interest if you tell me the name of the man responsible. Otherwise, I see no reason to waste any more time on a blackmailing little toerag like you. So, if you’re going to talk, talk now; if not, I’m out of here.’
Nash signalled to Mironova, with a nod of his head towards the ward entrance. He was about to move away from the bedside, when he turned back. His tone changed. ‘Do you know all the club’s members?’
Machin looked wary, obviously suspecting another trap, but eventually answered, ‘Most of them.’
‘I mean by their real names. Not “John Smith”, “Fred Brown”, “Tom Jones” or whatever they sign in as.’
‘I know most of them,’ Machin admitted, his wariness compounded by perplexity.
‘Were you working last Friday?’
‘Yes?’ Machin was now totally mystified.
‘Do you know Roland Bailey?’
Machin tried to laugh, his bewilderment replaced by scorn. ‘Friend of yours, is he? It figures.’
‘I take it from that, you do know him?’
‘Yes, I know him. He’s a complete wanker.’
‘Was Bailey in the club last Friday night?’
‘No, not him. The stuff they were showing was far too soft for Bailey. He likes the real hard stuff. If it’s got plenty of S & M in it, so much the better. Sits there in the dark and wanks away, imagines nobody can see him.’
‘I want you to think this over very carefully. I need to be absolutely certain beyond any doubt that Roland Bailey wasn’t in the Club at any time last Friday night.’
‘I just said so, didn’t I? There were only about a dozen punters all night, and Bailey wasn’t one of them. Why, what’s he done?’
‘Never mind. If you change your mind and want to tell me who beat you up, call Helmsdale station.’
‘Don’t hold your fucking breath,’ Machin called after them.
Mironova shook her head in disgust. ‘So Bailey was lying about being at the Gaiety.’
‘Yes, and if he was prepared to use a visit to the Gaiety Club as an alibi, what was he doing?’
‘You mean, what’s worse than watching blue movies in a porn house?’
‘Exactly. We’re going to have to pull Bailey in and talk to him again. In the meantime, I want to know if we’ve any news on that PNC link. I’ll phone Tom, remind him we’re going to the pub and the night club tonight, see if anyone remembers anything, although I reckon it’s a long shot.’
Nash’s call to Netherdale took only a few minutes. He put his mobile away and shook his head.
Clara watched him. ‘Not bad news, Mike. I don’t need it. Not only that, but I haven’t eaten yet.’
‘Sorry. Tom reckons the link won’t be repaired until tomorrow. Then we can get Viv back working on it.’
‘What exactly is he going to be looking for? You’ve never mentioned it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were being secretive.’
Nash explained the theory behind the search. Clara’s eyes widened with shock and astonishment. ‘What made you think of that?’
‘It was something Jack Binns said. When I mentioned the state Mrs Kelly was in. He said it was difficult dealing with bereaved relatives. Something in his voice, the way he said it, suggested he was speaking from experience. It stuck in my mind, and later I tackled him about it. Turns out he’d to deal with another missing girl case a year or two back. A girl called Megan Forrest, I think the name was. So I asked him for details, and right in the middle of what he was saying, he told me how much like Sarah Kelly the other girl was in appearance. That set me thinking. What if there was someone out there, a predator with a taste for a particular type of victim. A killer who selects his targets because of their looks.’
She sat in silence for several moments when he’d finished. When she
eventually spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper, ‘Dear God, Mike, I hope you’re wrong.’
It was almost 7 p.m. when they reached The Red Dragon. The bar was no more than a quarter full. He ordered a round of drinks and joined the others at a table.
‘We’re a bit early to start with the photo parade, aren’t we?’ Pearce glanced around the sparsely populated bar. Nash followed his gaze. The Red Dragon was like many others he’d seen. From the red and blue patterned carpet, the dark wood balustrades separating the dining area from the bar, to the water-colour prints of Dales’ scenery churned out in their thousands by unknown artists with indecipherable signatures. It was all depressingly familiar. Even the beer tasted more chemical than organic.
‘It is a bit. We might as well grab something to eat. We’ll not get chance later.’ Over the meal they discussed strategy for the evening’s work.
‘Right, you two make a start. I’ll sit here and watch the customers’ reactions. If anyone starts getting fidgety or acting suspiciously we’ll pull them over and have a chat.’
They worked methodically, starting with the drinkers before moving on to the diners in the alcoves and finally speaking to any newcomers who drifted in. By the end of the operation it was almost closing time. Although a few of the pub’s clientele recognized Sarah’s photo and a couple of them even remembered seeing her the previous week, the task yielded no fresh information.
They moved on to Club Wolfgang which was in the first storey of a building whose ground floor consisted of three shop units. Entrance to the club was via a door at the end of the building. As they climbed the stairs Nash paused. ‘Have either of you checked the employees out on the PNC?’
‘Yes, they’re clear. We checked the pub staff and landlord as well,’ Clara told him.
In a small reception area, the manager was acting as receptionist. The regular girl had flown to Majorca at teatime. Alongside the reception was one of the club’s two bouncers. Nash explained the purpose of their visit and the manager promised to cooperate in whatever way he could.
Club Wolfgang would never class as a venue for a big night out. The club comprised one room, scarcely bigger than the bar they had just left. Into that space was crammed a DJ console, seating area with nine tables, tiny dance floor, and a bar about ten feet in length. The cramped, mildly claustrophobic effect was compounded by the low ceiling. Across this was strung a wide-meshed net interwoven with tiny, white, fairy lights that flashed on and off in a chaser pattern. Helmsdale itself was small scale, no reason to expect its solitary ‘nightspot’ to be any different. Nash stationed himself at one end of the bar whilst the other two prepared to adopt the same procedure as in the pub. The plan was amended, however, when the club’s DJ suggested a halt in proceedings to explain to the punters what they needed. This ensured they didn’t miss anyone and stopped them getting twitchy.
They were no more successful than they’d been at the pub. Pearce was left in the reception area to intercept any latecomers. ‘Get away as soon as you can, Viv. Come in a bit later in the morning. Hopefully we’ll be back on-line by then.’
Nash and Clara spent most of Saturday morning reviewing paperwork. Pearce came in to report progress, or lack of it. ‘We’ve hit a few snags. To be honest, it’s a right bloody mess. It’ll be much later before we’re through. What do you want me to do when I’ve finished?’
Nash looked at Clara. ‘We’ve got to do it, Mike. What’s more, we’ve got to work on that information the minute it’s available. Whatever time of day or night that is. You know that, as well as I do.’
‘What time do you think you’ll be done, Viv?’
‘Seven?’ he shrugged. ‘Eight o’clock maybe. The problem is—’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I’ve promised to go out tonight, and I don’t want to call off at the last minute.’
‘Who is she?’ Clara asked.
Pearce tapped the end of his nose.
‘Okay, so I was being nosey. But who wouldn’t be, with all my colleagues acting like tom cats on the prowl.’
‘So, it’ll be up to us, Clara,’ Nash interjected hastily. ‘I’ve an idea. If I nip off home early and cook us a meal, you can bring the computer printouts over when Viv’s compiled them. That way we get something to eat before we start on them, and he can go meet his queen. That is, if you’re alright with that arrangement.’
‘Why not? Did you think it’d damage my reputation, being seen going into your place at night?’
‘Sort of,’ Nash admitted.
‘I don’t think people worry much about that sort of thing any more. Tell Romeo here to get a move on though. I don’t fancy eating after midnight.’ She noticed Nash masking a grin. ‘What is it?’
‘I was only thinking it might not damage your reputation but it would do mine the world of good.’
‘Mike, the best advertising agency in the world couldn’t do anything for your reputation.’
It was a few minutes after 9 p.m. when Nash’s doorbell rang. She walked past him without a word and placed a document box on the chair. ‘There are fourteen cases,’ she stated flatly. ‘I haven’t looked at them. I thought that could wait. I’m starving. What have you got for me?’
‘Chicken risotto.’ He held up a bottle. ‘Glass of wine?’
‘Just one, I’m driving.’ They ate in silence, aware of the task that lay ahead. When she’d finished, Clara pushed her plate away. ‘If you ever get kicked out of the police force you could make a living as a chef.’
chapter nine
‘Shall we start?’ Nash cleared the dining table whilst Clara fetched the box.
‘What are we looking for exactly?’ She dug out the stack of Missing Persons documents, printed off and placed neatly in individual files by Viv.
‘Anybody with no possible reason for going missing. Any similarities to the Sarah Kelly case, no matter how small.’ Before he sat down, Nash refilled their glasses. Clara was already engrossed in the first file and didn’t notice.
Pearce had arranged the folders chronologically. The first file Nash opened was dated 1991, eighteen years previously. He read the two-page report on Julie Cummings. The information was sparse, but contained some similarities. Julie was about the same age when she vanished. The home circumstances were similar, with a divorced father living a long distance away. There was no apparent reason for either girl to abscond. He turned to the photograph and, although the quality of the print wasn’t brilliant, he saw she was blonde.
Thoughtfully, Mike turned to Clara. He gave brief details of the file he’d read. ‘That was in Lincolnshire, though. What have you got?’
‘This one’s dated 1994 and it’s from Northumberland. The name on the folder is Sue Blatchford. There’s not a lot of hard information in here. The disappearance isn’t explained.’
Nash opened another file, that regarding the disappearance of Danielle Canvey in 1998. This was an original file, much bulkier, and contained a far more detailed report. ‘This one’s local. Viv’s obviously thought to dig it out from the records,’ he told her. ‘Listen to this, Clara. Danielle Canvey was walking home from the tennis club after a game of doubles with her twin sister Monique. The following morning a man exercising his dog discovered the unconscious body of Monique Canvey lying on the path near the cricket field. Monique had suffered severe head injuries, the result of a savage assault with some form of blunt instrument, most probably a lump hammer. Although she survived the attack, she spent several weeks in a coma. There’s a note added much later that says she suffered complete amnesia covering the forty-eight hours prior to the assault and, following her recovery, her physical health was frail and her nerves equally fragile.’
Nash looked across the table. ‘This is what the officer leading the enquiry wrote. “The sisters quarrelled bitterly in the weeks leading up to the incident. The cause was Danielle’s accusation that Monique had stolen her boyfriend”.’ Nash slammed his palm on to the table. ‘From that, the bloke
deduced, without the slightest amount of circumstantial evidence, that Danielle attacked her twin sister. That she ran away through guilt and fear of the consequences of her act.’
Nash shook his head in anger and disbelief at such shoddy police work, at the sheer bungling incompetence surrounding the enquiry. ‘Where did he think she went? There’s a note to the effect that French police had been asked to check with Danielle’s grandparents to see if the girl had turned up at her maternal family home. How the hell did he think she was going to get there?’ Nash muttered. ‘Dressed in tennis gear and without a passport? Not only that, but who takes a lump hammer to a tennis match?’
‘Hang on a minute. Didn’t Mrs Kelly say Sarah played tennis?’
‘Yes, another link?’ He put the file aside in disgust. ‘I wish I’d been in Helmsdale then.’
‘But these files are from long before you came. And in any case, most of them aren’t even from around here. I’m still not certain why we’re looking at them. There seems to be little to connect them.’
It was slow going but by now they each had a pile of files they felt had some slight connection. ‘Tell me what you’ve got,’ he pointed to the folder in front of Clara.
Clara turned to her file. ‘This one’s dated 2001.’ As she picked the file up the page containing the photograph slid on to the table top.
Nash picked it up and glanced at it. ‘That’s come out of the Sue Blatchford file, I think.’
‘No, it hasn’t. The name’s printed below it. It’s Louise Harland, she lived in The Lake District. It’s the one I’m about to read.’
Nash and Clara looked at one another. ‘Get all the photos out of the files we think have similarities,’ Nash instructed her, ‘then put them alongside one another.’
Clara assembled all the photos, including one of the attack victim, Monique Canvey. Nash brought a picture of Sarah Kelly from his briefcase and laid it alongside. They studied the collection: eight photographs. Nash was breathing heavily as if he’d been running. Clara was almost hiccupping with distress.
