by Bill Kitson
Although they did not speak, he knew the message they were conveying, the accusation in their dead eyes made it obvious. It was he who was to blame. His failure was their distress. As the final two approached, Nash saw with mounting horror that they were no longer faceless. He tried not to look. They turned when they reached him, turned and looked him straight in the eyes. Now he knew. He screamed in horror as he recognized them. Then, they were gone.
‘Now you know the worst.’ The voice came to him out of the darkness. Was it the darkness of his anguish? He knew the voice, it was unmistakeable. That amused, half-mocking tone could only belong to Danielle. ‘It’s what you feared. There’s still time for them, time for you. But that time is running out. Everything has changed, you must not see me. You would no longer want me, if you saw me now. I will tell you this, then my time with you is over. You already know the answer. Goodbye, Michael.’
He wanted to cry out, to ask her, beg her to stay just a moment longer, if only to explain, tell him what it was he knew. But it was already too late. He could hear the mocking notes of her laughter fading into the far distance.
He sat up in bed, shivering and sweating at the same time. He rolled to one side and glanced at the clock on his bedside cabinet. The two hands were in almost identical positions, 3.15 a.m.
Nash woke feeling tired and stale. He’d slept very little, terrified the horrors would return. He headed for a shower, then wandered into the kitchen and brewed a mug of coffee. The caffeine would do more good than harm in his stressed condition.
He turned to sit at the breakfast bar. He felt some vague thought stirring, as he tried to recall the elusive memory he’d wrestled with for days. He gave up and left for work.
‘How did it go last night? No problems, I take it?’ he asked Clara.
Mironova smiled. ‘We’d a very pleasant evening. I looked out a few times, but there was nothing to see. I slept in the room next to Monique. Just to be on the safe side, we left our bedroom doors open, but there was nothing. In fact,’ Mironova paused, ‘the only thing worth mentioning was a weird experience I had.’
‘What was that?’
‘I had this odd sensation at one point. As if someone was in the room. I actually sat up in bed, switched on the light and looked round.’
‘I take it you didn’t see anything?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ she laughed. ‘Except the clock! 3.15 a.m. and wide awake.’ Mironova saw the colour drain from his face. ‘What’s wrong?’
Nash told her a little uncomfortably about the nightmare. ‘When I looked at my clock the time was exactly 3.15.’
‘That’s strange.’
Nash hadn’t told her everything. Hadn’t told her he’d seen the faces of the two hooded and cloaked figures. Dared not say hers was one of them.
Pearce walked in with news. ‘Mexican Pete was one of the lecturers on my course. Told me he’s hoping to bring you the reports on the Lizzie Barton killing tomorrow. Apparently there are a couple of details he wants to explain.’
Jack Binns appeared at the door, waving the search warrant triumphantly. ‘Are we all ready?’
‘Come with us, Viv, we’re going to visit a friend of yours.’
There was no car on the drive, and the house appeared quiet. Protocol demanded they rang the doorbell, before smashing their way in. There being no response, a member of the squad attacked the door with a door-enforcer. They charged inside, checking every room for the suspect. They found Bailey cowering in a built-in wardrobe in the master bedroom.
Nash stared at the wall in the study. Every inch was covered by photographs, all of Sarah Kelly. All obviously taken without her knowledge. Some were intimate, revealing shots. Skill and patience had resulted in a highly sensual effect. But then, Bailey was an ordered and meticulous man.
During the search, two more items of interest were found. The first, a blue boiler suit covered in dark brown stains, neatly folded, along with a balaclava. It was inside a carrier bag hidden beneath a pile of clothes in a drawer. Later, a baseball bat was recovered from under a pile of timber at the rear of the garage. It too was badly stained.
‘Blood?’ Pearce asked.
‘Looks like it.’
‘Sarah Kelly’s?’ Pearce was becoming animated.
‘Get these to the lab. See if we get a match.’
Bailey was bundled into the car and taken to Helmsdale where Nash explained the interview procedure to the man fidgeting nervously before him. Then he began, ‘Why were you hiding?’
‘I was scared, didn’t know who you were. Bursting into my house like that.’
‘Come off it, Mr Bailey, you knew perfectly well who we were. Why did you leave the police station on Monday?’
‘I got tired of waiting, had things to do.’
‘Did these “things” involve Sarah Kelly?’
Bailey stared at the floor.
‘When I spoke to you before, you denied ever noticing her. That was a lie. Of course you’ve noticed her. You admire her. So much so, you’ve taken enough photographs to start your own gallery. Now, we know you watch out for her. Every time she goes out or comes home, she has to pass your house. You must watch for her, otherwise you wouldn’t have that huge collection of photographs. Did you think perhaps because she’d had a drink, she’d come into your house, might let you take some more? You watch Sarah sunbathing, so you must think she’s very attractive, isn’t that so, Mr Bailey?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘She got you excited, is that it? You saw her, and got aroused? Did you get fed up with just her photos? Did you get her into your house? Did she resist you? You couldn’t stand that, could you? The rejection would be too much. Are those her bloodstains on your boiler suit? Did you get angry? She wouldn’t play, is that it? Is that why you beat her with your baseball bat?’
‘You made that up.’ For the first time there was a degree of emotion in Bailey’s voice. Was it anger, or fear?
‘But you obviously fancy her, Mr Bailey. And you did watch out for her?’
‘What if I did, it’s not a crime is it?’ Bailey raised his voice in a pathetic attempt at defiance.
‘You work at the same place, live two doors away, take candid photographs of her and yet claim never to speak to her. I find that very strange. Can you explain it?’
Again he remained silent.
‘And then, of course, there’s your car. Where were you on Thursday night?’
‘At home.’
‘No, you weren’t, Mr Bailey. We know that, because we’ve been looking for you. Where were you?’ Nash paused as there was a knock at the door.
‘For the benefit of the tape, Sergeant Binns has entered the room.’ Jack looked Nash directly in the eye as he handed him a slip of paper. Nash read it and sighed heavily.
‘Okay, that’s everything for now. Detective Constable Pearce will take your statement and arrange bail. Then you can go.’ Rising to leave, Nash leant forward towards Bailey, menace in every word. ‘But believe me; I’m not finished with you yet.’
Nash left the room, anger in every step.
Binns was waiting in the corridor. ‘Sorry, Mike, I thought you’d want to know at once.’
‘Not your fault, Jack. We weren’t to know it wasn’t Sarah’s blood.’
‘No, but it begs the question, whose is it?’
‘I want us all here at eight sharp tomorrow. We’ve wasted a day, so the earlier we get moving the better.’ He turned to Mironova. ‘It’ll mean leaving Monique early, but this takes priority.’
Nash arrived at the CID office by 7.45. Pearce was already in the office, but there was no sign of Mironova. Eight o’clock came and went, without any sign of her. By 8.15, Nash was becoming annoyed. ‘Where the hell’s Clara got to? Ring her mobile. Try her radio as well. She knows we’ve got an early start.’
Pearce came back a few minutes later. ‘She’s not answering; either her mobile or radio.’
‘Keep trying. I’ll phone Monique Canvey
’s house, see if she’s set off.’ Nash dialled, there was no answer. He let it ring for five minutes, then disconnected. He glanced at his watch, it was almost 8.30. Pearce came back into the room and shook his head. ‘The estate agency doesn’t open until eleven on Sundays. So there’s no point trying there.’
Nash looked up and Pearce saw the anxiety in his eyes. ‘I don’t like this at all. Go round to Monique’s house and see what’s going on.’
Nash rang Tom Pratt at home. ‘Mironova’s not turned up for work. I can’t get any reply from the house, nor can we raise Clara on her radio or mobile. I’ve sent Pearce to the house. I’m beginning to get a bad feeling.’
‘I’ll be right there,’ Tom assured him.
Nash had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang. It was Pearce, his voice tight and urgent with stress. ‘Mike, I think you should get here, pronto. The front door was closed but unlocked. There was no sign of either of them. The CID car’s in the drive. Clara’s radio and mobile are on the kitchen table, along with the car keys. I went upstairs and checked all the rooms. None of the beds has been slept in. I checked the sheets for warmth. The bath, the shower, the washbasin and the towels are all bone dry, and so is the soap.’
Nash tried to calm Pearce. Although he felt far from calm himself. ‘I’m on my way, Viv. Tom’s setting off from Netherdale. I’ll redirect him and come straight out. Just to be on the safe side, I’ll order SOCO.’
Nash stared round Monique’s kitchen. It looked as neat as always. He looked longest at the draining board, taking in the washing-up, neatly stacked to drain. Apart from the pans and cooking utensils, there were two dinner plates, two side plates and two sets of cutlery. It was obvious they’d eaten their meal last night. Everything looked normal. Nash was about to turn away when something caused him to look again.
He stared at the objects, as Pratt walked in. ‘What is it, Mike? Found something?’
‘It may be nothing. The dinner pots are all neatly washed up, two sets of everything. That tells us the two girls ate dinner, okay?’
Pratt nodded.
‘So why are there three coffee mugs?’
‘It might mean one of the girls was thirstier than the other.’
‘I know,’ Nash agreed wearily. ‘I’m probably clutching at straws.’
As he moved away, Pearce opened the front door to admit The SOCO team. The slight draught conveyed a faint aroma to Nash. He paused and sniffed. There was a hint of some familiar chemical smell, one he’d smelt quite recently. But he couldn’t place it.
Pearce showed his warrant card to the neighbour. ‘Zak, shut up, you noisy bugger,’ the man said with mild irritation. ‘Sorry,’ he turned to Pearce. ‘I just can’t keep the little sod quiet. It goes with the breed, I’m afraid.’
Pearce glanced down at the pair of beady eyes glaring venomously round the edge of the door. ‘I’m glad he’s only a Jack Russell.’
‘Don’t tell him that,’ Zak’s owner grinned, ‘he thinks he’s a Rottweiler. What can I do for you?’
‘We’re anxious to find out if you saw or heard anything suspicious last night or this morning. In particular, we’re concentrating on Ms Canvey’s house, number 3.’
‘Is she all right? Has something happened?’
‘I can’t tell you at the moment. We’re not sure ourselves. But we do need to know if you’ve seen or heard anything, and we’re treating it as urgent.’
Zak’s owner thought for a moment. ‘I did see something. Last night, when I was walking Mr Noisy, there was a car parked outside number 3. Zak pissed on one of the tyres,’ he added inconsequentially.
‘Did you notice what make or model it was?’
‘That was dead easy. I’ve got one myself.’ He pointed to the car on his drive.
Pearce fought to control his excitement. ‘Can you remember the colour?’
‘Silver, of course. Aren’t they all?’
‘What time was this?’
‘I can’t be precise. Somewhere between 9.30 and 9.45. I know that because when we got back the programme I wanted to watch was starting.’
Pearce thanked him and started to walk down the drive, to the accompaniment of Zak’s farewell fusillade of barking. The Jack Russell’s owner noticed he was already on his mobile before he reached the gate.
News that a car similar to Bailey’s had been seen outside Monique Canvey’s house caused a stir. Tom Pratt was becoming tense. ‘What next?’
‘Just because we couldn’t match the blood to Sarah Kelly, doesn’t mean he’s not involved. Will you sort out an arrest warrant? Let’s have him in again.’
‘Get something that’ll make it stick this time.’
The discussion was broken up by Nash’s mobile, it was the duty officer. ‘I’ve Professor Ramirez waiting. He’s very insistent.’
‘He would be,’ Nash said. ‘Show him to my office. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
Ramirez was seated by Nash’s desk, talking on his phone. He waved a greeting. As Nash passed behind the pathologist, he noticed an aroma. He stopped dead and sniffed. It was similar to the scent he’d smelt in Monique’s kitchen, far stronger but definitely similar.
As they shook hands, Nash said, ‘Please don’t take this personally Professor, but what’s that smell?’
Ramirez smiled. ‘One of the drawbacks to my profession; it takes days to get rid of. It clings to everything, clothes, hands, hair. It gets on me every time I’m doing practical anatomy demonstrations. It’s formaldehyde. We use it for preserving specimens.’
‘Of course, I should have recognized it.’ Nash’s mind was racing. Had he smelt it in Monique’s kitchen? ‘Was DC Pearce present when you were doing the anatomy demonstrations?’
Ramirez shook his head. ‘No, Pearce wasn’t even in the same building. Today was the first anatomy class I’ve taken for a couple of weeks. Pearce only attended the DNA profiling lecture I gave.’
If Pearce hadn’t been the source of the smell in Monique’s kitchen, where had it come from? Somewhere, he’d caught a whiff of that aroma before, but where? He needed time to think, time on his own. He ran through the report findings with Ramirez, and thanked him for bringing it. He watched him leave and turned to go back into the CID room.
‘I’m going back to Monique Canvey’s house. I take it the door’s still unlocked?’
‘Yes, we’ve got a uniformed man standing guard and SOCO will still be on site,’ Pearce told him.
‘Viv, I want you to stay here as a point of contact. Tom,’ Nash turned to the Superintendent. ‘You’ll be on call if I need you?’
‘Of course.’
Incident tape had been stretched across Monique’s drive and front path. Nash nodded to the officer standing in the porch.
He walked slowly from room to room. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but hoped being in the house might help his thought processes. He spent longest in the kitchen, but still no inspiration came to him. He climbed the stairs and went into each of the bedrooms in turn. He sat on Danielle’s bed, then on Monique’s but was still no nearer a solution when he returned downstairs. The house is too big for one person, he thought. It must be difficult for Monique, living here alone with those bitter memories, and the ghosts of her family for company. He remembered her words. ‘Sometimes, I wish we’d never moved here’.
Realization came like a physical blow. He sat down, as the implication of Monique’s remark came to him. Then he remembered. He’d heard it said by someone else. Then he knew where he’d smelt that chemical odour before. His and Monique’s words came back to him in a series of flashbacks.
“I’ve met him. His name’s Franklin, isn’t it? I met him with Mr Charleston. One or other of them smelt funny.
“That’d be Les. Well, not Les, but the chemical he uses on the signs.
“He travels all over the north. Lincolnshire, Northumberland, the Lake District.
“Doesn’t his wife object?
“He isn’t married. A bit of a
loner. Lives out Bishopton way. Been with the company ever since Mr Charleston took over.”
Nash gasped at the significance. Bishopton, where Megan Forrest lived. He’d been in the pub. Bishopton, where she’d been abducted. And at least three of the missing girls’ relatives had told him they’d moved house. What if Charleston’s had handled all the transactions and used their one stop service. Including erecting FOR SALE boards?
He rang Pearce. ‘Viv, I’m on my way back. I want you to do something.’
He looked round the kitchen again. He visualized Monique and Clara, their evening meal over, sitting drinking coffee. Their companion smiling, and chatting, as he waited for the drug in their drinks to take effect. He pictured him: watching them fall into unconsciousness, and carrying them out to his car. It must have been so simple.
He was in a fever of impatience when he reached the CID office. ‘Well?’ he demanded as he burst through the door.
Pearce nodded. ‘I’ve spoken to five of them. They all confirm exactly what you asked. How did you know?’
‘Something Monique said. Allied with a statement Tracey Forrest made when I went to see her. They both told me they wished they’d never moved house.’
‘But what about Bailey’s car being seen outside Monique Canvey’s house last night?’ Pearce objected.
‘Correction, Viv. A silver Ford Mondeo was seen outside Monique’s house. Remember the old joke? What’s the difference between a father and a Mondeo?’ Pearce shook his head. ‘Every bastard’s got a Mondeo. You told me the neighbour said, “aren’t they all silver these days”.’
‘What about the bloodstains at Bailey’s house?’
‘I’m sure they’ll prove he’s committed a crime. Just not the crime we thought. I think we’ll get a match to Lee Machin’s blood. Bailey gave a false alibi for the night Sarah vanished. I reckon it’s because he was meeting some of his mates from the Gaiety. I bet he was paid to administer a beating to Machin. That’s why he ran. He thought we were about to charge him with assault or attempted murder.’
