Vanish Without Trace (2019 Reissue)

by Bill Kitson

‘You think that’s where the girls are?’

  ‘I do, and that’s where Charleston will be.’

  ‘I’ll call for back-up.’

  ‘Not yet. If we delay and that costs lives, we’d never forgive ourselves. We’re on our own. We’ve got to reach that place as fast as possible.’

  ‘What if we’re too late?’

  The tone of Nash’s reply made Pearce shiver. ‘I’ve broken enough laws tonight; one more won’t make a difference. If he’s killed them, I’ll save the nation the cost of a trial.’

  Johnson secured the back door behind them. They felt relief being outside again. ‘There must be a track. The quarry’s on this side of the house, so the path should start somewhere round here.’ Nash headed across the drive.

  ‘Mr Nash, the garage and the rest of the gardens are on the other side. If you remember from the photo, all there is on this side is more shrubbery.’

  ‘What’s your point, Jimmy?’

  ‘What’s that for, then?’ Johnson’s torch beam picked out a gate, halfway along the interwoven fencing.

  ‘Jimmy, I don’t know where we’d be without you.’

  ‘Probably in one of your own nicks, on a burglary charge.’

  The gate opened easily. Pearce spotted a narrow gap in the bushes, far to their left. It was the beginning of a path.

  The darkness was intensified by the woodland. Their route grew steeper with almost every stride. It was clear they were descending into the quarry. Nash glanced back; the trees and shrubs they’d passed seemed higher, more threatening. He turned hastily to concentrate on the track.

  After ten minutes, the path levelled out. Nash guessed they’d reached the quarry floor. ‘We can’t be far away,’ he whispered.

  Johnson’s torch picked up the outline of a pitched roof, against the cliff face. The track took a serpentine course across the old workings, but eventually led them to the front of the building. They examined it by the light of the torch. The office was much larger than they expected, built of stone and looked well nigh impregnable. The windows had been secured with solid steel shutters. No casual trespasser would have been able to get inside. There was a door at one end of the façade.

  ‘What do you think, Jimmy?’ Nash whispered.

  ‘It’s not going to be easy.’

  Pearce interrupted, ‘Shine your torch over there a minute, beyond the end of the building.’

  The torch beam picked out the distinctive outline of a silver Ford Mondeo, parked close to the end of what Nash guessed was the old quarry road. ‘Charleston must be inside. This is where we’ll find the girls. Let’s get on with it.’

  Johnson inspected the door closely. ‘This is a bit different. See those locks, Mr Nash? They’re going to be tough. The two Yales need to be turned together, after the mortise lock’s been opened. That’s easy enough with keys, almost impossible with picks, not without making a hell of a din. I’m going to need your help, so we don’t attract attention. We call it aiding and abetting,’ he added.

  ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘I want you to hold the picks in the top and bottom locks in the engaged position ’til I’m ready to unlock the third. Then I want us to turn all three together.’

  Five minutes later, Nash and Pearce held the slender picks in position, their fingers trembling slightly with the effort. ‘I’m going to count to three. As soon as I do, turn the picks. Ready. One, two three….’

  chapter nineteen

  ‘My dearest, this is the most pleasant surprise. I never dreamed I’d see you again, let alone be near you. Be with you; together again. It’s nothing short of a miracle.’

  She was trying to remember what had happened. Where was she? What was going on? She listened, heard the gently caressing tones with complete bewilderment. She could make little sense of what he was saying. Who was he? Who did he think she was? She didn’t recognize the voice, couldn’t place the accent. It didn’t help that her head was muzzy. She realized there was some sort of hood over her head. She attempted to move, but could feel the restraints, knew she was tied to a chair.

  The voice came again. ‘Be patient, my dear, for a while. I have things to do before we can be together. My dear, my darling, Sassy, returned to me. You and I, together again as we were always intended to be. In the meantime, you must relax. I have something that will help you.’

  She realized she’d been given an injection. Was this going to be the end? She opened her mouth to scream, but it was too late, consciousness deserted her before she could utter her desperate appeal for help.

  He was both excited and confused. Confused by what had happened. So excited the need overpowered him, caused him to ignore the sacred ritual. He’d wanted this for so long. Now he was overwhelmed by the prospect. He wanted Sassy, and he wanted her now. His excitement grew, and wouldn’t be denied any longer. His desire was almost out of control.

  His hands trembled, as he measured the liquid into a glass of water. After stirring it, he placed it on the draining board then hurried back to the room behind the kitchen. He went to one of the bound, hooded figures. As he untied the ropes, he removed the hood and carried her through to the nursery, laid her on the bed and undressed her. When she was naked, he savoured every curve, stood looking at her until the ache in his loins grew unbearable.

  He brought the glass, raised her and supported her as she sipped at the drugged liquid. Then he gently lowered her back on to the bed and walked softly from the room. The glass remained unwashed on the sink, as he hurriedly cleaned his teeth, and returned to the nursery. He stood, drinking in her beauty, the beauty that in a few minutes would be his. Then he began to unbutton his shirt, slowly at first, but with increasing haste as excitement threatened to engulf him.

  Something distracted him; it was no more than the faintest whisper of sound, but enough to make him pause. Listening, one hand on the last of his shirt buttons, he heard it again, a soft, scraping sound. He tiptoed back into the kitchen, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Once inside, he heard it again, much louder this time. His desire turned to rage. Someone was trying to break in. At any second the intruder would be inside. His fury was as strong as his frustrated desire. Anger and panic combined. They fuelled his movement, as he raced to the door of his workshop and flung it open.

  ‘Jimmy, get yourself into hiding. Viv, follow me.’

  ‘Ready, Mike.’

  Nash waited until Jimmy had hidden in the bushes; then opened the door slightly; blinking in the sudden brightness. He thrust the door wide and stepped through into a kitchen. There were three doors leading from it. He selected the one at the far end of the room and walked as quietly as he could, then gently turned the handle. It was a child’s nursery. As the door widened, he saw Clara lying on the bed. Her clothing had been removed. Nash thought they were too late. Then he saw the rise and fall of her breasts. She wasn’t dead. Relief flooded through his whole body. He heard a sound behind him, and turned slowly.

  For a split second, the two men faced one another. Hunter and prey, but which was which? Nash saw Charleston’s face distorted by rage. Saw the gun in his hand. Saw the barrel lift and, almost in slow motion, saw the whitening of Charleston’s finger as he squeezed the trigger. He flung himself to one side, as the gun bucked and reared in Charleston’s untutored hand. Shot after shot rang out. One, two, three, four, five, Nash counted the shots. He felt a searing agony in his chest.

  Pearce tore through the outer door, in time to see his boss slump to the floor, blood staining his shirt. Charleston spun round and raised the gun. A click, then silence. The chamber was empty. He flung the weapon aside. Pearce was nearly on him when Charleston raised a lump hammer, and brought it crashing down on Pearce’s skull. He collapsed over Nash’s body.

  Charleston walked forward, unrecognizable from the mild-mannered estate agent. His expression a raging, maniacal fury, as he raised the hammer to finish off the interfering fools.

  He froze. It began as a wa
iling moan: a sound like no other. It grew in volume. The screaming howl of a thousand demented souls, a banshee wail. Whatever the awful thing was, it was coming closer. His rage was gone, replaced by fear, then panic as the sound grew more dreadful with every decibel.

  His nerve broke, he ran from the building. Still, the sound pursued him. Ever louder, ever closer. He dived for the car, and flung himself into the driving seat, desperate to escape that awful thing. It was gaining on him with every second. He fumbled with the ignition key and careered wildly up the quarry road, in his panic to escape.

  Jimmy stepped over the threshold and stared at the two bodies. Hearing a groan he gently eased Pearce to one side. Kneeling, he checked the DC’s pulse and for a moment got no response; then he felt a feeble flicker.

  He turned his attention to Nash. He was in a bad way. A large patch of blood was staining his shirt and the floor alongside him. ‘Mr Nash,’ Johnson wailed. ‘Mr Nash, are ye alive?’

  ‘Jimmy?’ The sound was a mere whisper. ‘Where’s … Charleston?’

  ‘Driven off, like a bat out of hell.’

  ‘The … girls?’ Nash coughed, and flecks of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  Johnson scrambled to his feet and crossed to the nearest open door. A naked girl lay on a bed. Johnson saw her chest move. Without thinking, he gently placed the duvet over her. He opened another door and noticed the cloying, powerful stench of formaldehyde. Inside the room the sight was appalling. He felt his stomach churn with nausea; hot bile raced upward to his throat.

  The room had eight occupants. All but one stared at him with dead eyes, in impassive silence. It seemed a lifetime before Jimmy recovered enough to move. He began to walk slowly forward, with the reverence of someone inside a church. He glanced fearfully about him as he approached a hooded figure lashed to a chair.

  He removed her hood, untied the ropes at her wrists and ankles and gently laid her on the floor. She was breathing, but Jimmy was unable to rouse her. He hurried back to Nash, glancing fearfully over his shoulder as he went.

  The detective’s face was distorted by pain.

  ‘I’ve found them,’ Jimmy gulped. His voice trembled as he continued, ‘All of them. Two alive, but I can’t wake them. I think they’ve been drugged. The others,’ Johnson paused, ‘they’re all dead. All dead, Mr Nash,’ he repeated, his voice tinged with hysteria. ‘But they’re sitting round a big table like guests at a bloody dollies’ tea party.’

  ‘Viv? What … about—?’

  Jimmy looked back at Pearce. ‘I think he’s dead. He was hit on the head.’

  Nash’s voice strengthened with anger and grief. ‘No, no!’ The fearsome pain in Nash’s chest was worsening. He winced as he spoke, a fresh wave of pain threatening to engulf him. ‘Mobile … pocket. Super …’ he gasped and fought to continue, ‘… Pratt … tell him … get … Mexican … he’ll know—’

  ‘You lie still. Whatever you do, don’t try to move or speak anymore. Leave it to me. Call it part of my promise.’

  He retrieved Nash’s mobile phone and keyed in 999. There was no response, no tone. He checked the screen, ‘no network coverage’. He looked round for a telephone, there was none.

  Jimmy swore under his breath. ‘I’m going to have to leave you. I can’t get a signal. I’ll have to get out of this quarry.’

  ‘Careful,’ Nash warned; his voice noticeably weaker.

  Johnson stumbled from the building, his torch illuminating the narrow track as he dashed back in the direction of the house. He barely noticed the branches that whipped against his face, his arms, his legs as he ran. He paused to try to phone again. The same error message came up. Jimmy realized Bishop’s Cross was outside the range of the nearest cell. He’d no alternative. To get help, he’d have to go back into the house and use the landline.

  His fear increased sharply, the instant he opened the gate. The house that had been in darkness when they left was now ablaze with light. At the far side of the building, Jimmy could see Charleston’s silver Mondeo next to the double garage. Johnson was no coward, but there was no way he was going to enter that building with an armed maniac inside. He’d already witnessed what Charleston was capable of. Yet he had to reach that phone. A thought struck him. ‘Why not?’ he muttered.

  Jimmy watched Charleston dive into his car and reverse at breakneck speed towards the front of the house. He swung the car round and went hurtling down the drive. Jimmy waited for it to slow down, he’s travelling too fast, Jimmy thought. But as the car approached the gates they began to open. Charleston obviously had a remote control.

  The headlight beam shot first skyward then traversed an arc back towards the ground. Totally out of control, the vehicle plunged across the road, first on one side, then its roof, then the other side. There was a loud crash; then a few seconds silence before an enormous bang was followed by a leaping, dancing sheet of flame that engulfed the car instantly.

  Jimmy ran to the house. The back door was wide open. He summoned the ambulance, then spoke to an incredulous Superintendent Pratt. As soon as he rang off, Jimmy raced back to the quarry.

  Nash was barely conscious. ‘Let me try to help you, Mr Nash. I’m going to try to stop you bleeding so much. Here, I’ll use this clean towel. You’ll feel a mite pressure on your chest. The ambulance is on its way and I’ve spoken to your boss.’ Jimmy rambled on, trying to stop Nash lapsing into unconsciousness, beginning to feel the effects of the shock. ‘I think Charleston’s dead. He panicked, drove out of control. The car caught fire after it crashed. Unless he got out of the car, he’ll be barbecued.’

  ‘That … awful … noise?’ Nash struggled to speak.

  ‘Spooky, wasn’t it? I set it off. Maggie gave me her house keys by mistake. It’s her personal attack alarm. When I heard the shots, I pulled the pin. Worked a treat. Charleston bolted as if the hounds of hell were after him.’

  Jimmy watched, as Mike’s eyes began to flicker then closed. ‘Mr Nash, Mr Nash.’

  chapter twenty

  The strange building had changed. The figures within it had also changed. Before, the building had been dark. That had puzzled him, for if it was dark how had he seen the figures inside when they’d all been clad in black?

  Now, the room was white. A pure, arctic white. The figures inside were no longer dressed in black, hooded, sinister cloaks. They were all in white now. Were they angels? Was he dead? Was he in some other place, beyond life? He couldn’t make out their faces.

  Occasionally, one figure appeared whose face was visible. He should recognize her. He knew this, knew he ought to say her name, but by the time he remembered, she’d gone. She’d been troubled by something. What was it? Now, she was smiling. He liked that. He loved her smile, that same secret smile that had attracted him.

  Was this a dream? Did she exist? He was sure she did. There was something he had to tell her, something important, something he couldn’t quite recall. The effort was tiring. He always seemed tired. Why was that? He’d go back to sleep until he could remember.

  Every visiting time, the staff nurse had looked with mild envy at their blonde, blue-eyed good looks. The girls looked alike enough to be sisters, close relatives surely. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Is one of you called Stella?’

  ‘No,’ the older one replied. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘The patient you’re visiting, it’s Mr Nash, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ it was the older one again. ‘But I’m called Monique and her name’s Clara.’

  ‘Then who’s Stella? Mr Nash keeps asking for someone called Stella.’

  The younger woman spoke for the first time. ‘Stella was a girlfriend of Mr Nash.’

  Monique glanced at Clara, a puzzled expression on her face.

  The nurse continued, ‘I think you should ask her to visit Mr Nash, if it’s possible. He seems to have something very important to say to her. I’m sure it will do him good.’

  Clara’s lip trembled; she was on the verge of tears. ‘That
won’t be possible,’ she told the nurse quietly. ‘I’m afraid Stella’s dead.’

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry,’ the nurse was flummoxed by her gaffe.

  Monique put her arm around Clara. ‘Can you tell us how Mr Nash is, before we go in?’ She asked, both of them dreading the answer. For over three weeks, Mike Nash’s life had hung in the balance and it seemed the balance was tipping the wrong way. The shock of the bullet wound had almost killed him. The post-operative shock had almost succeeded where Charleston had failed.

  The staff nurse was more forthcoming than usual. ‘He seems a little stronger today. The specialist saw him this morning. After the operation, he rated Mr Nash’s chances as no better than 80/20 against. Now he puts them at 60/40 in favour.’

  Nash’s third visitor joined them. ‘What’s the news today?’

  ‘We may have to cancel the wreath,’ Clara remarked as her composure returned.

  They moved into the ICU and ranged themselves alongside the bed, Monique taking the side nearest the bank of monitoring equipment. The other two stood on the opposite side. Monique and Clara gently took hold of Mike’s hands.

  Mike looked old, old and frail, Clara thought sadly. For the first time in all their visits, his eyes flickered, flickered then opened. He looked at Monique. He smiled, no more than a slight twist of the lips, ‘Hello,’ he said in a pitifully weak whisper. ‘You okay?’

  She nodded, close to tears. ‘Yes, Mike, thanks to you. How are you?’

  ‘Bloody awful,’ he whispered. ‘What do you mean, “thanks to me”?’

  ‘You saved our lives, mine and Clara’s. You were only just in time.’

  ‘Clara, she’s okay?’

  Monique laughed. ‘Who do you think’s holding your other hand? See for yourself. She’s at the other side of the bed.’

  Nash’s memory returned slowly. He didn’t move his head but stared at Monique. His face contorted with grief, ‘Viv,’ he said, in a whisper so quiet they nearly missed it.