by Bill Kitson
Nash was certain that was what had happened. The killer would have his identity hidden behind the anonymity of his costume. Probably something requiring a mask; if he was known to Megan, he’d have to be masked. Perhaps a gorilla costume, or Darth Vader, maybe a cartoon character. He could have loitered close to where Megan lived so he could see how she was dressed. He would watch her emerge from the house, note the clown’s costume, then driven to The Plough. By the time Megan arrived, the killer would have been near the bar, drink in hand, hovering at the edge of a group perhaps, appearing to be part of it. All the time he’d be watching Megan from behind his mask, waiting for the moment she left.
The killer would have left before her, just one more reveller homeward bound. Once she was clear of the town, he’d have been able to carry out the abduction, safe in the knowledge that at that hour on New Year’s Morning, no one would interrupt him. Nash shuddered at the cold-blooded simplicity of it.
He read on. Towards the bottom of the page a dismissive note had been added, presumably by someone from CID. ‘No Facts’ it stated, ‘Nothing to work with.’ ‘I know just how you feel,’ Nash muttered.
Mironova wandered in to tell him she was on her way home. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ Nash told her. ‘Don’t think of me slaving away, trying to solve a multiple murder case, will you?’
‘I won’t give it a thought,’ Mironova replied with a grin. ‘Is there anything you need before I go?’
‘Just let me run this by you. See if you can spot any flaws.’ Nash explained his theory about Megan’s disappearance.
‘Can’t see anything wrong with that. I’m beginning to think you’re right about this character. Maybe he is a perverted genius. Anything else?’
‘I don’t think so. No, hang on. Can you tell me where Deanery Close is in Bishopton?’
Mironova shook her head. ‘Sorry, I don’t know Bishopton well. I’ve just seen the Fire Officer heading into the building. He’ll give you directions.’
‘We might make a detective out of you yet.’
Mironova gave him a gesture which was unladylike, rude and certainly insubordinate. Nash grinned and returned to the report.
Megan had been eighteen when she vanished. She’d left school the previous summer and was unemployed. There was a note on the file, however, to the effect that in the run-up to Christmas she’d been working for a local chain of convenience stores, as a temporary seasonal staff. The report stated she’d been a bright but not exceptional pupil, and was well liked both at school and at the shop. So much so, that she’d have been first to be offered a permanent position when a vacancy arose.
Both parents had reported her missing. Steve Forrest had returned from the Continent late on New Year’s Eve, having been delayed by storms in the Channel. He’d gone to bed as soon as he got home, and it was only when Megan’s mother found her room empty, the bed not slept in, that the couple contacted the police.
Nash closed the file and left it on his desk. Douglas Curran, the Chief Fire Officer, was supervising a shift change, so Nash waited in the fire brigade canteen until he was free. ‘Come through to my office.’
Nash was reminded of his visit to Rushton Engineering. Like their MD, Curran appeared to have a fetish for neatness. Nash thought of the organized chaos of his own desk and sighed wistfully.
‘Now, Mike, what can I do for you? I thought you’d everything under control, you wrapped that murder case up so quickly.’
‘Some of them are easier than others, Doug,’ Nash said with a rueful smile. ‘What I’m after is directions to a property in Bishopton. Do you cover that area from here?’
‘We do, one of the so-called benefits of rationalization. I’m not sure how they thought the policy up. Fires don’t burn slower because we’ve to travel further to tackle them. Why do you want to go to Bishopton? Is it another juicy murder, or can’t you tell me?’
Nash smiled. ‘To be honest, I’ve no hard evidence that a crime has been committed. Just a lot of supposition and guesswork. If I’m right, it’s more than one murder.’
‘How many?’
‘At least seven.’
‘Good God, tell me more!’
Nash outlined the disappearances, commenting on the ease with which the killer had picked up his victims.
‘I understand that. We preach fire safety whenever we can, but time after time we get called out to fires because some idiot has failed to take the simplest of precautions. It doesn’t make our job any easier, and they look at you as if you’re mad when you bollock them for it. Deep down, you know you’re talking to yourself. From what you said, all those girls were alone, at night, in the dark and for the most part in lonely places. If that’s not inviting trouble, I don’t know what is. I hope you catch the bastard. Now, tell me whereabouts you want to be.’
Nash climbed into the CID car and set out for his destination. He didn’t have to go to Bishopton at all. Nash had been shown the location on a large map. The fire chief pointed out the best route. As Nash pulled out of the yard, he was unaware that Curran was watching him from his office window, a curious expression on his face.
Deanery Close was a terrace of mews cottages that had been renovated, within the last few years Nash guessed. Steve and Tracey Forrest owned the end house, the largest in the block. Steve Forrest, a thickset man in his late forties, answered Nash’s knock and showed him through to the dining kitchen, where Tracey was seated at the table, nursing a mug of coffee. The room was light, airy, scrupulously clean and tidy. The overall effect was ultramodern, a kitchen for the space age, in contrast to the building’s exterior.
Of the mothers he’d met, Tracey was the one most like her daughter. She too had a mane of lustrous blonde hair, and like Megan had the heart-shaped face and high cheekbones that promised a beauty that wouldn’t fade.
They discussed Megan’s disappearance for some time, then Tracey began telling Nash about their other children. Nash listened patiently as she told him about Steve junior, a fifteen-year-old with ambitions to become the next David Beckham. Of Rianne, now nineteen and studying law at Newcastle University, and of Shelley, rising twelve and torn between a desire to become a pop star and an ambition to win the Wimbledon Ladies title.
‘You’ll notice they’re all aiming for better jobs than ours,’ Steve commented ironically. ‘They’ll be able to care for us in our old age. There’s not much money in road haulage these days, even less as a cook.’
‘You don’t seem to be doing badly,’ Nash suggested. ‘This house is lovely.’
Tracey said, ‘It came on the market at the right time. We needed something bigger. It’s too big for a lot of families and there’s the disadvantage of it being so remote. Unless you’ve two cars, a family would be totally isolated out here. That’s why it was for sale longer than the others. We were a bit cheeky with the bid. It surprised us when it was accepted.’ Her face changed abruptly; her eyes filled with tears. ‘At least we thought it was lucky at the time. I wish we’d never moved. If we’d stayed put maybe Megan would still be with us.’
Nash attempted to console her. ‘I don’t think you should look at it that way. If what we suspect is true, I don’t think where you were living enters into it.’
‘Can you explain that?’ Forrest asked. He put a consoling arm around his wife’s shoulder.
Once they’d assimilated the full horror of what he told them, Tracey Forrest was the first to react. ‘Why has no one thought of this before? Why has it taken this monster to attack seven girls before anyone sits up and takes notice?’
‘I can’t answer that. Not satisfactorily, anyway. The other girls are mainly from out of our area and over a long period of time. I wasn’t here when Megan went missing. I worked in London until two years ago. Perhaps it was a fresh pair of eyes, a different approach. Or maybe I’m more used to this sort of crime.’
Steve Forrest had been studying Nash intently. ‘I thought your face looked familiar,’ he exclaimed. ‘You were in the papers back then.
Weren’t you the bloke who was responsible for catching Donald Marston?’
Nash was taken by surprise, he merely nodded.
‘It was in all the tabloids,’ Forrest explained. ‘You read a lot in my job, waiting to be loaded and unloaded, queuing for ferries and the like, or when you’re out of tachograph hours.’ He turned to his wife. ‘If anyone can find out what happened to Megan, Mr Nash is the man. I remember one paper said it was “a brilliant piece of detective work, close to genius”. That’s pretty strong stuff, even for the tabloids.’
The thought of Megan’s fate proved too much for Tracey. She collapsed in tears and it was some time before her husband was able to pacify her. Nash realized he would do no good by staying. ‘I’d best be on my way. Thank you for your time. I only hope we can resolve matters as soon as possible. You’ve suffered long enough.’
Tracey’s look was heart-rending. ‘Mr Nash, if you’re right, we’ll only be swapping one form of suffering for another.’ Nash acknowledged the truth of this.
Forrest turned once again to his wife. ‘But at least we’ll know, love. I’ll show you to the door, Inspector.’ He paused in the hall, one hand on the doorknob, before letting Nash out. ‘Do you really think Megan and the others might have finished up like Marston’s victims?’
Nash caught the note of pleading; the need for reassurance behind the big man’s words.
‘That’s impossible to answer. I don’t want to cause mass hysteria but I’m not going to pretend it isn’t a possibility.’
‘At least that’s honest,’ Forrest conceded. ‘Even if it does take away our last bit of hope.’
‘Is it hope, or wishful thinking? I’ve met relatives of all the girls, as you know. Their families were closely knit like yours. None of the girls was the type to go swanning off without explanation. From the moment you knew Megan was missing, you must have guessed something like this had happened.’
Forrest nodded reluctant agreement. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he admitted. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it? We didn’t like to allow the possibility, even between ourselves, because we thought that might be letting Megan down. As if by thinking the worst, we’d make it happen. We should have realized it already had. One thing, though, Mr Nash. Try to get it over with as fast as you can. We need closure.’
Jimmy Johnson was a burglar. A careful burglar, cunning and keen witted. One of a brood of six, born to a single mother in Glasgow, Jimmy had overcome this handicap and now earned a comfortable living. During his career he’d suffered two set-backs, each providing him with a valuable lesson. The first: never work with a partner. Partners meant halving the profit, doubling the risk, and they could be less than trustworthy. Second: research your objective thoroughly. Both lessons had resulted in Johnson being a resident in one of Her Majesty’s Prisons.
Few people would have guessed the occupation of the mild-mannered little man with the Glaswegian accent. A family man, whose wife worked at the local supermarket and with two young school aged boys. Neighbours assumed that he worked a night shift somewhere, which wasn’t far from the truth.
His preferences were for jewellery and cash. He was particular in the jewellery he targeted. He avoided high value, readily identifiable objects, going instead for lesser value pieces, where the stones could easily be removed from the settings, rendering them anonymous.
His research led to him choosing Bishopton Hall as his next target. Jimmy was an avid reader of glossy magazines that specialized in printing photographs taken at social occasions attended by the region’s major and minor celebrities.
It was in one of these that he’d seen photographs taken at a recent charity ball. Amongst those present were a couple captioned as ‘Sir Ivor Quinn, millionaire industrialist and owner of the filly Cavatina’. Jimmy didn’t spare Sir Ivor a second glance. His attention was drawn to Lady Helena, not for her looks, which, Jimmy thought, closely resembled those of Cavatina, but for the jewellery she was wearing. Hence Jimmy’s recent observations of the daily routines of the owners at the Hall. And of the staff, who he’d established didn’t live in.
An item on the local TV news had provided further valuable information. When Sir Ivor was interviewed about his filly’s chances in her next race, he revealed his intention to take a short break immediately following the race meeting. Johnson watched the interview and made his plans. He checked the weather forecast. A dry evening was promised, ideal for the robbery. He’d use his scooter rather than the van. He preferred the scooter, whenever possible. It was manoeuvrable, could go where the van couldn’t, and was easier to conceal. With only a small amount of jewellery and his tools to carry, a rucksack would be ample. Tuesday night would be the ideal time to hit Bishopton Hall.
Entering the building was easy. The house was silent, deserted, as he expected. He disabled the ancient excuse for a burglar alarm by disconnecting it at the alarm box. No matter how many beams he crossed, or wires he broke, they’d send their signals to the box in vain. It would remain mute. Jimmy replaced the ladder in the outhouse, and within minutes was heading for Sir Ivor’s study.
The painting, of a disagreeable-looking female in Victorian costume, behind the desk, was hinged. Behind it was a wall safe, almost as old as the painting. It was one of the earliest combination models, the code consisting of three letters. ‘Safe by name but not by nature,’ Jimmy muttered as he set to work.
It took little more than a quarter of an hour to crack the combination. nation. The door swung open to his touch. ‘I might have guessed.’ To Jimmy’s mild irritation there was no cash. He cursed the inventor of the credit card. No one carried cash these days, no matter how well-heeled they were.
He reached into the recesses of the safe and found what he was looking for; a large oblong jewel case. If Jimmy had been mildly irritated by his failure to unearth any cash, his feelings on examining the contents of the jewel case were unprintable. The first item he extracted told him the worst even before he examined it. The diamond pendant should have been heavy with the combined carats of the stones added to the ornate gold setting. It wasn’t. ‘I don’t believe it,’ Jimmy said in disgust. He hefted the pendant again to make doubly sure then peered at it carefully. ‘Nothing but a set of bloody pebbles. Cheapskate! It’s no wonder you’ve nothing more than an old tin box to keep your so-called valuables in.’
Jimmy checked the rest. The whole lot was costume jewellery. The combined value, Jimmy reflected bitterly, would scarcely cover the cost of his petrol. His irritation turned to contempt. He tipped the contents of the jewel case on to the desk and left the box alongside. He didn’t bother closing the safe. As he left, he turned to secure the outer door then stopped. ‘Ah, you’ve nothing worth stealing. Why lock the bugger at all.’ He strode impatiently to the place he’d concealed his scooter, anger in every step.
Neither was paying attention. Neither was concentrating, their minds on other things. It would never have happened otherwise. Each of them blamed themselves, both were wrong. That apart, the outcome was a one-sided contest.
The first thing Nash knew was the impact. He heard the noise, steel on steel. Felt the shock of the collision run up the steering column, through the steering wheel and vibrate on his hands and arms. A split second later, he saw the man’s body thrown sideways into the road.
It was fortunate neither was travelling fast. Nash leapt from the car, ashen faced and trembling. The car had dealt the scooter a glancing blow. The machine didn’t appear badly damaged and the CID car’s front wing had only been slightly dented by the collision. Nash hurried towards the rider, who was lying prone in the road where the impact had thrown him. The rider groaned, raised himself cautiously into a sitting position, and removed his crash-helmet.
Nash helped to ease the rucksack off his shoulders. As he set it down, something clattered on to the tarmac. Without thinking, Nash bent to pick up the small bundle that had fallen out and went to replace it. His hand stopped in mid air. He stared at the tools in the open canvas pouc
h. ‘Well, well, well,’ Nash murmured, ‘what have we here?’
Jimmy Johnson groaned once more as the road swam in front of his eyes then returned to focus. ‘What happened?’
‘You’ve been in an accident. You were thrown off your scooter,’ Nash told him abstractedly, as he rummaged within the rucksack. Apart from the tool kit it was empty. ‘How do you feel?’
‘As if I’ve been in an accident and got thrown off my scooter,’ Johnson replied, then noticed Nash’s activities. ‘Hey, what d’ you think you’re doing?’
‘Would you mind explaining these?’ Nash held up the tools.
Johnson glared at him. ‘That’s my tool kit,’ he said defensively.
‘I know. Unfortunately, I also know what they’re used for, and it has nothing to do with scooter maintenance. Before you start thinking of a plausible explanation, I should tell you I’m a police officer.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Johnson looked at Nash’s face. ‘You’re not kidding, are you? I should have stayed home tonight. It’s been nothing short of a bloody disaster.’
‘Never mind that. Are you hurt?’
Johnson shook his head.
‘Can you get up if I help you?’
‘I’ll try.’
Nash supported Jimmy, as he got painfully to his feet. He stood for a moment, swaying as he waited for the road to refocus.
When the dizziness passed, Johnson let go of Nash’s arm. ‘It’s okay, I’m all right now. I’ll just be away home.’
‘You’re going nowhere. Not in your condition, and not on that scooter. What you’re going to do is sit quietly in the passenger seat of the CID car whilst I wheel your machine off the road. I’ll send someone to pick it up later. Then I’m going to drive you home. Unless you’d prefer to go to the hospital? On the way we can have a little chat about this interesting tool kit of yours.’
