by Bill Kitson
‘Oh no!’ Nash could hardly speak.
‘Mike, they’re all.…’ Clara’s sentence tailed off into incredulous silence. Viewed together, the likeness between them was startling. They stared at the photos for a long time, trying to control their agitated emotions. When Nash was somewhat calmer, he pulled an A4 pad from his briefcase. Slowly, methodically, he began dictating a precis of the information in each of the files, which Clara wrote on the pad. Then he included the details of Sarah Kelly. It was a slow, laborious process, but at the end of it they knew they hadn’t been mistaken.
As he stared at the photographs and their analysis, Nash felt he was once again seated in that car, in the alleyway, waiting. Then outside a pub, a nightclub, a railway station, a tennis club. Waiting for a girl to appear. Not just any girl, but the girl. The girl he’d selected.
Nash was in no doubt. ‘I’m sorry to say it, but it looks as if I’m right. There is a predator on the loose, Clara. A ruthless predator with an insatiable lust for a particular type of young woman. A killer with the capacity to plan, and execute, each abduction with meticulous care. A killer who leaves no evidence behind, not even a clue that the girls have been taken.’
‘But they’re all from such different locations, Mike. I don’t see how it could have happened. How would he pick them? If these are all abductions, they surely can’t have been opportunist crimes.’
‘No, they were obviously all carefully planned, by someone who knew the victims’ movements, knew their habits intimately. But as to how he knew that, I’ve no idea. I think we’re only beginning to scratch the surface of this case.’
‘Another thing I don’t understand. What you’re saying, what we’ve got to deduce from these files, is that the man we’re after is a sex killer. A pervert with an uncontrollable lust. If that’s the case, why is there such a gap between each of these cases? I don’t believe he’d be able to contain his desire for so long.’
‘No, I admit that has me baffled too.’
‘And what you’re saying, Mike,’ Clara paused, ‘what we’ve found out from these files means Sarah Kelly’s his latest victim? You’re saying Sarah Kelly’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid that’s exactly what it means.’
Nash felt suddenly weary. This revelation confirmed their worst fears. ‘That’s enough for tonight. You’d better get off home.’
Clara pointed to her empty glass. ‘How much wine have I had?’
Nash looked across into the kitchen at the worktop. Their first bottle was empty; the second was only half full. ‘Oh hell! Three glasses I reckon.’
‘That means I’m well over the limit.’
‘I’ll ring the station and get someone over to drive you home.’
‘Thanks, Mike, but no thanks. The gossips would really love that.’
‘What about a taxi?’
Clara gestured to the stack of files. ‘After what I’ve been reading in there, I don’t fancy getting into a car at this time of night with a stranger. Not even with a taxi sign on the roof. I think I’ll camp out on your lounge sofa, if you don’t mind.’
‘Take the bed in the spare room.’
‘I’d forgotten how big this place is. Are you sure?’
Mike showed her to the bedroom, pausing at the door. ‘There’s a robe on the back of the door if you need it. Good night, Clara.’
‘Good night, Mike.’
He undressed swiftly and climbed into bed. It was only then he remembered he’d not taken his tablets. They were in the kitchen. He put his dressing gown on and went to retrieve them. It was a long time before sleep came. Their discoveries that evening had been disturbing.
‘Hello Mike.’
He stared at her in admiration. ‘God, you look lovely,’ he told her before he could check the words.
She smiled. ‘What, even lovelier than the rather tasty Sergeant with the strange name, asleep next door; probably dreaming of you.’
‘How the hell do you know about Clara?’
She laughed aloud. ‘I know everything about you, Mike.’
She was sitting on the chair in his room. Her lovely tanned legs crossed; one tennis shoe moving gently as she swung that leg. Her long, soft, blonde hair was held back by a headband, the strip of black material contrasting pleasantly with her hair. He stared at her in speechless admiration. ‘I can even read your mind, Mike,’ she told him. ‘Thank you for the compliment. But I don’t think photographs ever do one justice, do you?’
He was dumbfounded. She’d voiced his precise thoughts.
‘Besides which, Mike,’ she told him, her voice low, warm, slightly husky. ‘I wanted to look my best for you.’
She gestured to the white top and tennis skirt. ‘I put these on especially for you. I knew it was how you’d expect me to dress. I did it to please you, Mike, as a reward for not believing the lies about me. I had no one to tell until you came along. That other policeman wasn’t interested in what had happened to me. But I knew you’d be different. You’d believe me. You do believe me, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know what to believe.’
‘Poor Mike. I must have come as such a shock to you, and you’ve so much worry, too. Perhaps this will help convince you,’ she leapt to her feet and crossed the room with swift athletic grace. She bent over him and kissed him lightly on the lips.
Nash woke up suddenly and sat bolt upright in bed. He was panting as if he’d run a marathon. Sweat was streaming down his face and he felt ill. The bedside lamp was on. Had he switched it off after he got into bed or not? He couldn’t be sure. He looked across the room to the chair. It was empty. He laid back down, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. The pillow was soaked in sweat.
A dream, a nightmare? ‘Danielle?’ he whispered half hopefully, half fearfully. ‘Danielle.’
Was his imagination playing tricks? Was his mind becoming unhinged? For a fleeting second he thought he heard a sound, a faint sound. The sound of gently mocking laughter.
Nash wasn’t certain whether he’d slept at all after the nightmare. By 7 a.m. he was wide awake. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He felt drained and exhausted, knew he’d be edgy all day. He threw the covers back. His limbs felt stiff and his joints ached. He paused alongside the chair and stared at it for a long time. He reached the door and stopped, remembering Clara. He looked around and located his dressing gown on the floor. He felt sure he’d dropped it on the chair last night. How had it got on the floor? Had it slipped off? What other explanation could there be? Nash’s subconscious suggested one, but his brain rejected it. He put the robe on and headed for the kitchen.
‘If you’re making coffee, can I have one, please?’ Clara sounded husky with the drowsiness of sleep as she followed him in.
‘Of course.’
‘Give me two minutes to dress and I’ll join you.’
‘Did you sleep alright?’
‘Pretty well, until about 3 a.m. Then I heard you call out and that woke me up. After that I kept dozing off and waking up.’
‘I’m sorry for disturbing you. I had a bad dream.’
‘Was it about this case?’ Clara saw the movement in his face and knew she was right.
‘When did you start having dreams again?’
‘Last night was the first.’
‘Want to tell me?’
He described the vision he’d had of Danielle Canvey and what the girl had said.
Clara looked askance.
Nash smiled. ‘You mean you don’t dream about me?’
‘No, Mike. It’s you has the nightmares.’
‘Are you going home before we head for the office?’
‘I’ll have to, although it’ll make me late. I need a shower and a clean blouse.’
‘I can manage both, if you want.’ Nash saw Clara’s eyebrows lift questioningly. ‘I’ve still got some of Stella’s clothes in my wardrobe. She was about the same size as you. Help yourself.’
‘Oh! I don’t know. I didn’t realize
you still had any. I thought you might have, you know, sent them to a charity shop or something?’ She paused, uncertain. ‘I could do it for you if you want, if it would make it easier?’
Nash ignored the offer. ‘There are towels in the airing cupboard. The clothes are in the wardrobe next to the window. Will you want some breakfast?’
‘Toast will do me.’
‘Just as well, that’s all there is. It’ll be ready when you’ve showered.’
Over breakfast they discussed how to handle the new information. ‘First we’ve to convince Tom we’re not starting a wild goose chase. We’ll set up a display in the Incident Room with all the girls’ photos on it. Then we’ll have to start digging for background on each case and, wherever possible, re-interviewing the relatives. Right, I’m off into the shower.’
He spent much longer than usual under the hot water, trying to ease some of his aches.
They left the flat a few minutes before 8 a.m. and arrived at Helmsdale police station ten minutes later. The CID suite was empty. Nash headed for the whiteboard that covered the end wall and took down the notices from it. Clara rummaged through the desk drawers until she found the items she was looking for and they set to work.
They’d just finished when Pearce walked in, followed by Pratt and Binns. The newcomers stopped inside the door, their eyes drawn inexorably to the display.
The chatter died away as they stared at Nash and Clara’s handiwork. Pratt was first to recover. ‘What’s this, Mike?’
The tone of Pratt’s voice and the grim cast of his features told Nash the question was all but rhetorical. ‘This is the result of our research into the files Viv dug out,’ he pointed to the photographs. ‘All but one of these young women vanished without trace, from locations throughout northern England. The disappearances cover the last eighteen years. All the girls are, or rather were, blondes, with blue eyes and extremely attractive. They were all between eighteen and twenty-one years of age when they vanished.’
Nash walked over to the wall and pointed to the photograph at the far end of the line. ‘This is the only survivor. Her name’s Monique Canvey. She was beaten and left for dead when her twin sister was abducted. There’s been neither sight nor sound of any of the other girls since they vanished. We must assume all of them were abducted and that Sarah Kelly is the seventh victim. I believe we’re faced with a ruthless and highly efficient serial killer with a penchant for young blondes.’ Nash paused and added the most unacceptable part of the equation. ‘What’s worse is we haven’t a scrap of evidence as to his identity. Apart from the attack on Monique Canvey and the vague, unconfirmed evidence of one elderly man, there’s nothing to show that a crime’s been committed.’
The long silence that followed was broken by Binns. ‘I remember Megan Forrest. That’s the girl I told you about.’
‘That’s right,’ Nash said. ‘You compiled the initial report on her. If you hadn’t mentioned dealing with distraught relatives, I wouldn’t have linked the case with Sarah Kelly. Tell them what you told me.’
‘She lived with her parents somewhere near Bishopton. She vanished on New Year’s Eve, as I recall, just failed to arrive home. It was the next day when her parents came into the station at Netherdale. They’d taken it for granted she’d had too much to drink and stopped with one of her girlfriends. It was only when one of her mates rang they twigged something was wrong.’
‘Can you remember what the parents were like?’
‘They were a decent enough couple. In their mid forties I guess. They had a couple of younger children, I think. The father was a lorry driver or something similar. They’d only recently moved to Bishopton when it happened. Mrs Forrest was a mite on the hysterical side, but given the circumstances I didn’t blame her.’
‘What was CID’s view?’
Binns snorted with derision. ‘That was in Hardman’s day. His only view on anything was through the bottom of an empty glass,’ he paused before adding, ‘and that would only be a fleeting glance before the barman refilled it. Hardman dismissed the whole thing as a young girl meeting a bloke her parents wouldn’t approve of and running off with him. That, according to him, explained why she didn’t get in touch. Simple solution: no work for CID to do. No paperwork to fill in, case closed, what’s next? Nothing? Oh well, let’s go for a pint,’ Binns ended sarcastically.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jack. Give us your thoughts on the Forrest case.’
‘I passed it straight to CID when the girl failed to turn up. After that, I had very little to do with it. Apart from when Mrs Forrest came into the station to see what we were doing. They went to the pub, asked a few questions, routine stuff, but no more. It was pretty upsetting, because she always asked for me. I couldn’t tell her CID were sitting on their fat arses and couldn’t give a toss. I tried to get them to do something, but they weren’t interested. I thought it extremely odd that the daughter hadn’t got in touch. There was nothing dysfunctional about them. I’d say they were a normal, caring unit. But if someone wants to stay hidden badly enough, they can do it.’ Binns pointed to the whiteboard. ‘At the time we’d nothing like that to make us suspect a crime had been committed.’
‘We still don’t know for certain,’ Pratt interjected. ‘All Mike’s done is given us a possible link, nothing stronger,’ he held up a hand to still Nash’s protest. ‘I’m not saying I’m dismissing the idea. The point I’m making is we’ve no hard evidence.’
‘That’s true,’ Nash conceded. ‘I’m well aware of how tenuous the connection is. In a normal murder case, at least you have a body and possible witnesses. We have neither.’
‘Where do we go from here?’ Pearce’s question was addressed to Nash rather than Tom Pratt.
‘I was about to say I haven’t a clue. Which was the case until Tom spoke just now,’ Nash confessed. ‘But something he’s said has given me the germ of an idea.’
‘Would you like to share it with us?’ Pratt asked.
‘It’s what you said about a possible link,’ Nash spoke slowly, gathering his thoughts as he went along, ‘and that’s the point. There has to be a connection. Assuming I’m right, the abductions were too well planned and executed for it to be chance. That means the killer identified his target beforehand. Would you agree on that?’
‘It seems reasonable,’ Pratt conceded.
‘Then how?’
‘Sorry, I’m not with you,’ Pratt was baffled.
‘How did the killer select his victims? Given that they lived in such different places. Some of them hundreds of miles apart. If we find that out, we find the killer, or at least something that will lead to him.’
‘You mean there’s something these girls had in common, apart from their looks?’ Pearce queried.
‘Exactly, and it could be the least important thing. It could be connected with their school, sports club, work, hobbies, anything. At some point, for whatever reason, their lives crossed that of the killer. It’s that crossing point we need to establish. The reports we have are sketchy at best. We have to go back and examine their lives in minute detail.’
‘What about computers?’ Viv asked, ‘You know, like chat rooms.’
‘Don’t think that’s likely eighteen years ago,’ Clara said. ‘More like, oh, I don’t know, dating agencies?’
There was a long silence as the others thought over what Nash had said. Then Pratt asked, voicing the doubts they all shared, ‘What do you suggest we do? In this case, for example,’ he pointed to Julie Cummings’s photograph. ‘She vanished eighteen years ago. What are we going to find out about her now that couldn’t have been found out at the time?’
‘Good point, but we have one advantage. Two in fact, because we know we’re investigating a possible crime. Because of that, we’re not looking at Julie’s life in isolation; we’ll be comparing it with the others. We have seven lives to investigate. Something should provide us with the link.’
After a long while Tom spoke. ‘Okay, I agree. Stri
ctly between these four walls, I’m officially designating this as a murder enquiry. The investigation will be headed by Mike. Anyone have any questions?’
There was another long silence before Pratt continued, ‘Right, Mike, it’s all yours. Where do you want to start?’
‘Would you mind supervising the search parties again, Tom?’
‘Do you think it worth continuing, given the new facts?’
‘That’s your call, Tom. If we’re right, the search will be a waste of time. The bodies of the other six haven’t turned up, and we’ve no reason to suppose Sarah’s will. A search will divert valuable manpower. On the other hand, we’d have some awkward questions to answer if we abandon the search and Sarah’s body is discovered. If the media think we’re not doing enough, they’ll crucify us. Finally, Mrs Kelly has a right to believe we’re doing everything possible to find her daughter.’
Pratt sighed heavily, ‘At times like these I regret being a superintendent. Okay, we’ll continue the search, if only as window dressing. We’ve been at it nearly a week now, so I can legitimately scale it down. We’ll make better use of the resources interviewing those on the Sex Offenders’ Register.’
‘We’re due a further press release, aren’t we?’
‘I’ll attend to it.’
‘How about saying we’re following a new line of enquiry, and our concern for Sarah’s safety is higher than ever? You never know, our killer might be an avid watcher or reader of his own publicity. Most of them are.’
‘What about the rest of us, Mike?’ Mironova asked.
‘I’d like Viv to go through the results from the PNC and the SOR again, see if anyone’s missed any likely candidates, someone who’s moved area perhaps. Clara, I’d like you to help me contact the forces where the girls lived. We’ll need their go-ahead before we speak to the next of kin of the girls. Once we’ve got that, we need to fix appointments to see them. Which in turn means we’ve a lot of travelling to do. Where possible, we should arrange to meet up with someone from the local force and go through their file. It might well be that they’ve more detail than appears on the PNC database. In fact, it might be easier if we can get copies of the original files, rather than relying on the computer info.’
