by Bill Kitson
Nash was on the phone when Clara entered. He put the receiver down and looked at her as she began, ‘I’ve just been talking to the officer who was on duty when Sarah Kelly vanished. He had to attend a domestic on the Westlea during the early hours of Saturday morning.’ Clara looked down at the sheet of paper in her hand. ‘The row was at Jennings’s house. Apparently Cindy was having a go at him with an assortment of kitchen utensils. The point is the time of the incident. The neighbour who called it in rang 999 fifteen minutes after Sarah Kelly left Club Wolfgang.’
‘So Jennings is out of the frame for Sarah’s abduction,’ Nash nodded. ‘That hardly surprises me. I was never convinced about him anyway, at least not for that crime. The Lizzie Barton murder’s a different matter.
‘That phone call was from SOCO. Their examination of Sarah Kelly’s handbag and the surrounding area has yielded nothing. The only piece of positive news was that they’d found some DNA traces on the handle of the knife that killed Lizzie Barton and have sent these for genetic matching. That might tell us more about whether Jennings is involved.’
Nash thought for a moment. ‘Tell Viv to bring Roland Bailey in for questioning in the morning. His alibi for Friday night’s a lie. Check with Rushton’s first; he may be at work. Then he can start putting the squeeze on him. I’ll have a go at him when we get in.
‘As for the interview, I’ll take the Cummings details home with me tonight, bring myself up to speed. Pick me up at my place about eight o’clock in the morning.’
While they were arranging visits Nash had another phone call; from Monique Canvey. ‘I realize it might make me ill, but I’ll risk doing what you asked. I don’t suppose I’ll feel any better if I don’t try to help. I owe it to Danielle, and if I don’t do it I’d be tormented if the same thing happened to another girl. I also believe if anyone can solve this, you can.’
‘I appreciate that, Ms Canvey and I’ll do my best to make it as stress free as possible,’ Nash reassured her. ‘Just let me know any way I can help.’
Monique hesitated before replying. ‘I thought it would be a good idea to write down bullet points rather than the whole thing. Then we could meet and go through them in depth?’
‘That’s fine. Let me know when you’re ready.’
‘We’ll have to meet up at some point anyway, for me to hand over the keys to Rutland Way.’ She paused before adding a little more cheerfully, ‘If you’re proved creditworthy.’
She put the phone down with a sigh of relief and a feeling that was not quite content, but half way towards it. Although she’d been tempted to refuse his request, she knew that was never an option. Her fear of another migraine attack was outweighed by other considerations. Her duty to Danielle and her desire for closure were the ones she’d mentioned to Nash. The desire to see him again was one she didn’t admit, even to herself.
Sarah woke feeling great. She’d never felt so alive, so terrific. Whatever he’d done to her, whatever he’d been giving her, the result was sublime. Why had no one else ever had this effect on her before? She felt like doing all sorts of wild, uninhibited things. Things she wouldn’t normally have even dreamed of. She felt like running through fields naked, of making love all night and all day, then coming back for more. She wanted to sing and dance and make love again and again. But she’d just said that, or thought it, hadn’t she? She couldn’t quite remember, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered really. She felt strong. That was what mattered. Strong and powerful in the strength of her sexuality. Powerful in a depth she’d never reached before and with the urgent desire to express herself.
Why was she here in this nursery, on this bed? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter, it was nice here. Nothing really mattered, did it? She was sort of confused and excited at the same time. She smiled now when he came into the room because he was nice to her, and spoke to her, and called her a name that wasn’t quite her own, but it didn’t matter, did it? Nothing mattered, and anyway, maybe she’d got it all wrong anyway, so what?
Her mind was in turmoil, everything jumbled from the effects of the drugs. When she tried to remember something she kept forgetting the original thought. She lay giggling and content, waiting for the next time he would come for her. And what’s more, she didn’t care.
chapter eleven
Clara arrived early at Nash’s flat. She parked outside, expecting him to come straight out, but after a few minutes waiting, she sighed and went to ring the doorbell. Nash answered the door. She looked at him and started laughing. He was naked from the waist up, one half of his face covered in shaving soap. ‘Come in and wipe that grin off your face,’ he grumbled.
When they drove away, Clara asked, ‘Where are we heading for, exactly?’
Nash opened the file. ‘We’ve a fair drive ahead of us. Barkston Frome, that’s the name of the village. It’s between Lincoln and Grantham. Unfortunately, the DS who was to have met us left a message on my voicemail. He’s giving evidence this morning, but he’s given the file to their DI and we’re welcome to pop in and look at it.’
They made good time on the journey, called at the local police station, and arrived a few minutes before the scheduled time for their appointment. The road was a cul-de-sac; number 11, a small, neat semi. The garden looked as tidy as the house. Nash was reminded of Joan Kelly’s house. He was looking for similarities in the lifestyle of the missing girls. Here was one, albeit a tiny one.
‘Quick refresher before we go in. Julie Cummings disappeared in November 1991, when she was eighteen. She was a student at Grantham Technical College. In good health, wasn’t in a relationship, nor had she been. Last seen leaving college after an evening class; intending to catch a train back to Barkston Frome. She wasn’t sighted at either station, or on the train. She was never seen again.’
Nash laid the file on his lap as he pondered what he’d just read.
‘Probably the most significant fact is that she wasn’t seen on the train.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Julie was strikingly attractive. Not someone people would miss. The train was at 20.25 and was a local service. It was a wet night, mid November. If the train was a quarter full, I’d be surprised. Passengers would probably have remembered her if the train had been packed, certain to have done so if it was almost empty.’
‘What do you deduce from that?’
‘I very much doubt if Julie got on that train. In fact, I don’t think she even reached Grantham station.’
As Nash was thinking, he saw the bright sunlight of the afternoon fade. He visualized a rainy November night as he waited in the car. The meagre light from a street lamp glistened on the rainsoaked tarmac. Ahead of him a modern, two storey-brick building, functional in design like a hospital, a school, or a college. He let out a sigh. He was sure now, certain of exactly what had happened to Julie Cummings.
‘Mike?’ The single word was sharp with concern. Nash blinked and looked at Mironova. She was staring at him. ‘You alright?’
‘He was waiting for her,’ Nash whispered, ‘waiting in his car, outside the college. He was waiting because he knew she’d be there. He sat there in the street. It was no matter of chance. He knew Julie was inside the building, knew she’d be coming out. He knew she was attending a lecture, knew what time it would end, probably even knew the subject.’
‘Mike!’ Clara protested.
‘When Julie came out of the college, he still waited,’ Nash continued as if he hadn’t heard Mironova. ‘Waited to make sure she was alone. He had to be sure she wouldn’t be being met or picked up. He had to be sure he’d have her all to himself. Then he started his engine and crept after her. He crept along, keeping far enough back so Julie didn’t suspect she was being followed. When he judged the time was right, sure she was alone, when he was sure he could claim her, he pulled the car alongside and wound the window down.’ Nash spoke in a whisper. The menace was louder than a shout. ‘Hello, Julie. I thought it was you. Can I offer you a lift? It’s on my wa
y. It’ll be better than getting colder and wetter. Have you been at college? Jump in then, and when you get home, you’d better take those wet things off straight away. We don’t want you catching your death of cold.’
‘Mike, stop it please.’ Mironova had witnessed this before but was still appalled yet fascinated by Nash’s scenario.
‘Sorry, Clara.’ Nash smiled ruefully.
‘How do you do that? It sounds so realistic. Almost as if you were there. I know that’s impossible, but anyone else would have been convinced.’
‘I have the advantage of knowing the killer must have been acquainted with his victims. Well enough for them to be at ease with him. From there it’s just a small step to imagining how he achieved the abduction.’
‘It might seem a small step to you, but it sounded like a giant leap to me. Do you mean you actually visualized that taking place just now?’
‘Something of the sort.’
‘If it happened as you imagined, like you said, it had to be someone who knew Julie. She wouldn’t have jumped into a stranger’s car?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you think that was the case with all of them?’
‘Yes, I think so. All we have to do is find the one person all the girls knew, and we’ve the identity of their killer. Couldn’t be simpler.’
‘Of course not: dead easy.’ Mironova’s tone matched the sarcasm in Nash’s. She had another thought. ‘Have you had any other “visualizations” about this case?’
‘I had one last Sunday, near the alley where Sarah was abducted. That’s how I felt certain the CCTV camera and the street light had been damaged. And I told you about the dream.’
Clara nodded. ‘About Danielle? I don’t suppose that nightmare had anything to do with the case?’
‘I don’t know whether it meant anything. More likely the result of something I’d eaten.’
‘Or drunk, more like,’ Clara remembered the amount of wine they’d had. She smiled at him. ‘I’m glad you told me anyway.’
*
Nash’s first impression of Margaret Cummings was of a doll. She was petite with tiny hands and feet. Her hair, once golden he guessed, was now snowy white. Her eyes were china blue, her cheeks porcelain pink. Then he saw the expression in her eyes and the doll-like impression vanished. They were like the eyes of a woman for whom life had already ended.
‘Mrs Cummings? I’m Mike Nash. This is my colleague, Clara Mironova; she’s the one who spoke to you on the phone.’
Mrs Cummings didn’t acknowledge either of them, nor did she offer to shake hands. She merely gestured towards the sitting room. ‘Come in.’
The interior of the house reflected the neatness outside. Everything was orderly, precise, almost unlived in. ‘Please, sit down.’
‘I’d better explain why we’re here,’ Nash began.
He was about to continue when Mrs Cummings interrupted. ‘I imagine you’re here about Julie. I can’t think of any other reason. If you’re not, you can leave right now. Nothing else interests me.’
If Nash was taken aback by the hostility in Mrs Cummings’ tone, it didn’t show. ‘That’s quite understandable, Mrs Cummings,’ he reassured her. ‘Of course you’re right. It is about Julie. And I should explain, we’re not with the local force. We’re from North Yorkshire. We’re currently investigating a case that may be linked to your daughter’s disappearance.’
Nash considered the woman carefully before continuing. ‘This may seem strange after such a long time, but we’ve a special reason to look at Julie’s disappearance again, and we need to go over a lot of old ground, I’m afraid.’
He took a deep breath. ‘The “special reason” is that as the result of another girl disappearing in North Yorkshire, we’ve had occasion to re-examine cases of other girls who vanished over the years without explanation and we’ve found some disturbing similarities.’
Mironova added, ‘What Inspector Nash means is that he checked old files and made the connection we believe exists between the disappearance of your daughter and the other girls. It’s through his intuition that we’re at last coming to understand what might have happened to them.’
‘Sarah Kelly,’ Margaret Cummings whispered the name. ‘I saw her photo in the paper. That’s the girl you’re talking about. I remember looking at the photo and thinking how much like my Julie she was.’
‘That was the first thing I noticed. That all the girls looked alike. Like one another, or like someone else. That was the first link I spotted.’
‘All the girls? How many are there?’ Her expression turned to alarm.
Nash hesitated, dubious about revealing the information. ‘Seven, we think.’
‘Oh, dear God!’ Margaret Cummings looked from Nash to Mironova and back again. ‘You realize what you’ve told me, don’t you? You must realize what conclusion I have to draw from it?’ Nash nodded, unable to phrase a reply gently enough. Mrs Cummings said it for him. ‘You’re telling me they’re all dead. That my Julie is dead. That they were all taken and killed by some monster.’
‘We don’t know for sure. I’m only confirming what you already suspected, a suspicion you’ve had to live with for eighteen years.’
‘Since the day she didn’t come home,’ the mask of defiance slipped, revealing the desolation behind. ‘That’s what I’ve suspected.’
She spoke slowly, each word a burden. ‘There’s always doubt and a little seed of hope: a prayer for a miracle. It refuses to go away. You don’t fool anyone, not even yourself. Logic butts in and says “don’t be stupid”. But you can’t shake off that doubt. Now you’ve removed it. So what do you want from me?’
‘I’m convinced that somewhere in the lives of the girls and their families there’s a common factor. These weren’t random, spur-of-the-moment abductions. They were carefully planned, which means prior knowledge. I aim to talk to all the relatives, and hope we can spot the connection. Short of actually catching the killer attempting an abduction, I can’t see any other way to trap him.’
It was over an hour later when they left. ‘We now have another connection between Julie Cummings and Sarah Kelly,’ Nash said as they got into the car. ‘They both lived with their mother and the fathers lived a long distance away.’
‘Yes, but all the rest had both parents at home,’ Clara pointed out.
‘True,’ Nash conceded. ‘I suppose it was never going to be that easy.’
When they reached the office, it seemed fortune was working against them. Pearce met Nash with a message, ‘I took a phone call from a Mrs Forrest. Her husband’s going to be away. He’s a lorry driver on European routes and he’s been sent to Italy. Won’t be back until the end of the week. I’ve provisionally rearranged the meeting for Saturday.’
‘Damn, I just hope nothing else happens before then. Clara, come into my office, will you.’
Mironova followed him. As she did, he turned back.
‘I asked Pearce to pick Roland Bailey up this morning. Find out what’s happening there, will you?’
Five minutes later she returned. Nash was replacing the phone handset, frowning slightly. He glanced up at Clara; she looked nervous.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Viv hasn’t been for Bailey yet. He said he’s been finishing off those SOR interviews.’
‘Then I’d better have a word with him.’
‘We have dumped a lot of work on him,’ Clara said in his defence.
‘Just ask him to come in, will you,’ Nash said flatly.
Pearce strolled into Nash’s office a few minutes later and moved one of the chairs by the desk preparatory to sitting down. Nash looked at his DC. ‘Don’t bother,’ he said sharply. ‘You don’t have time to stay. I gave an instruction for you to pick Bailey up. You haven’t done that. Why?’
‘I was still finishing off interviewing people on the sex offenders register,’ Pearce’s tone was defensive.
‘You’ve been allocated officers to assist with that. So
now it looks to me as if you’ve deliberately ignored my orders. That means the prime suspect in the Sarah Kelly case is still at large when he should be in an interview room. Now you’re going to tell me why. I’ll be fascinated to know the reason.’ There was a long painful silence. Pearce looked down, unwilling to meet Nash’s gaze.
‘Apparently you haven’t a reason to offer. In that case, get your arse into gear and bring Bailey in now. You’ve got half an hour to report back with Bailey in tow. If you’re not back by then, I suggest you go home and get your uniform out of the wardrobe and check it still fits because you’ll be wearing it tomorrow. Now get out of here.’
Viv turned and left. Clara was heading across the CID room for Nash’s office carrying two mugs of coffee. Viv drew a deep breath. ‘What’s eating him? He’s just bitten my head off.’
Clara chewed her bottom lip. ‘We did expect something like this. Forget it, Viv, you know he doesn’t mean it.’
Clara brought Nash’s coffee in. ‘What did you say to Viv? He had a face like a slapped backside when he came out of your office.’
‘That’s between him and me. The problem is, we’ve wasted half a day when we should have had Bailey here. He remains favourite for involvement in Sarah’s disappearance. Now we’ll have to wait until later before we get chance to speak to him. We’ve another meeting soon, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, Caroline Barnes’s parents.’
‘We’ll have this coffee and give Pearce time to get back before we leave. Meanwhile, take another look at the Lizzie Barton file; see if anything strikes you.’
Clara began leafing through. ‘I can see the relevance in what Mexican Pete told you. I mean, I can see how Lizzie being infected with the HIV virus might provide a motive for someone to kill her, especially if she’d passed on the infection. What I can’t work out is how someone could have found out she was HIV positive. It’s not the sort of thing you go bragging about over a pint. If it had been common knowledge, I’m certain someone from The Cock and Bottle would have mentioned it. If Lizzie didn’t say anything and there was no evidence of the disease in her face, how did anybody find out? What exactly did Mexican Pete say?’
