by Graham Smith
He untied her limbs one by one and told her to turn over.
She lay still as he refastened her bindings.
When he’d got what he needed from the workbench, her eyes were closed as the powerful sedative did what it was supposed to do.
He laid the plastic squares on her exposed shoulder blades and reached for a scalpel. The more he could do to prepare her for tonight’s offering, the better, as tonight would be spectacular, but risky.
It hadn’t been easy for him to learn how to perform this part of the process, but he’d managed to hone his skills by watching online tutorials and harnessing every scrap of his patience.
That he was removing skin and only a very thin layer of muscle made the actual operation simpler. At most he was cutting through a half inch of muscle before the tip of his scalpel scraped against the tribute’s shoulder blade. He always was careful and precise with his movements, so making exact cuts wasn’t something he found hard.
With the tributes drugged and compliant, their flesh was loose and malleable; it was now a matter of pride to him that the squares were as perfect as they could be.
Once the boundaries had been marked out with scalpel cuts, he’d swap the scalpel for a paring knife and remove the portion of flesh before running a bead of surgical glue along each edge of the cut to reduce the bleeding.
A pair of wings had already been removed from two of the stuffed birds he’d bought online – not from a taxidermist as there were licensing issues, but from auction sites – he’d learned from Caitlin’s tribute that surgical glue took longer to set than he was comfortable with when affixing larger wings to his tributes. He’d spent fifteen nerve-wracking minutes at Lonsdale Castle holding each of the buzzard’s wings until the surgical glue had set enough to support them.
Rather than take that risk again, he planned to use superglue on Sarah and her companion, as she had a pair of mighty wings awaiting her.
He believed his ability to adapt and evolve put him above all others. His project was growing wings of its own as he refined his methods. Petrol had been discarded in favour of gas, but he hadn’t stopped there. With Caitlin he’d tried a new method of fire-making which had worked better than expected. With a slight refinement, the new technique would take his dragons’ fire breathing to a whole new level. Getting the flames right had caused him the most trouble, but he was confident he could now deliver both a flammable substance and oxygen into the mouths and gullets of his tributes. The can of lighter fluid he’d used on Caitlin had been good, but his new idea was so much better.
He knew that if he could continue to refine his methods, he’d create a dragon far more fearsome than his mother had ever been, and that if he truly wanted to pay tribute to the woman who’d given birth to him, he’d find a way to show her that he could make something even mightier. Creating a copy of his mother was never his aim, what he wanted to do was create dragons he could have power and control over.
That two of his dragons had been male was of no consequence to him. They’d fitted the pattern and, as such, he’d selected them.
He lifted his paring knife and again bent over Sarah’s back. The more preparation he could do beforehand, the less time he would be at risk. After all, there was another tribute to be made first.
He’d attach the wings in situ, but for now, he’d done all he could to prepare Sarah.
Seventy-Seven
The Drover’s Rest was a regular haunt of his. Not only did the large country pub have an excellent menu, but the owner was a woman who insisted all her female staff wore skirts.
While a fair percentage of the staff were barely more than schoolgirls working their first job – and therefore out of bounds for his admiration – there was a pair of head waitresses who were pretty and could be considered as angels. They were who he was here to see.
He needed to savour the delights of sexuality and beauty. He’d not been able to watch Sarah today. She hadn’t been at work and although he’d watched her house for most of the day, he’d seen no sign of her. He could only assume that she’d either left early, or spent the day at home.
Whichever it was, he’d missed her and he needed his fix of beauty.
One of the head waitresses came his way. She was a mid-twenties brunette who had long shapely legs and the kind of smile that could melt an iceberg in seconds.
‘Hello, Harry. I haven’t seen you here for a while.’
‘I know. I meant to get back here sooner, but you know how life gets in the way of plans.’
‘I do indeed.’ A short tinkling laugh broke her sentence. ‘Would you like a menu?’
Harry took the offered menu and made some extra small talk. When the waitress left, he watched the way her backside oscillated as she walked away from him.
The early evening passed in an appreciation of good food, nylon clad legs and pretty faces.
By the time he had paid his bill and pressed a generous tip into the head waitress’s hand, his belly was full and his heart was empty.
The two head waitresses were each more beautiful than the average woman, but even combined, they were no match for Sarah, the most beautiful of all the angels.
A pair of police officers walked into the bar as he was leaving but he paid them no heed. He’d done no wrong and the half shandy he’d washed his meal down with wasn’t likely to get him arrested for drink-driving.
But before he got to the door, the taller, bearded PC stepped in front of him and blocked his way.
‘Mr Quirke. I’d appreciate it if you’d come with me.’
Harry’s military training told him everything he needed to know. PC Beard was poised for action. His hands hung loosely at his sides ready to act and he’d shifted his weight to the balls of his feet in case he had to move in a hurry.
‘Of course.’ A thought struck him. ‘Is it my sister? Is she okay?’
‘As far as I know, she’s fine. This is to do with another matter. You’ll find out more when we get you to the station.’
PC Beard was courteous but uninformative, as he escorted Harry towards the police car and guided him into the back seat.
As they hurtled through the countryside, Harry sat in the back and tried to work out why he’d been lifted. He’d done no wrong that he knew of and he’d not witnessed any crime.
Again, his army training kicked in and he relaxed into the seat. As a sniper’s spotter, he’d become accustomed to great periods of boredom followed by a few moments of frantic action.
Seventy-Eight
Beth could feel the rage emanating from O’Dowd as she took a seat beside her. Harry Quirke was sitting across the table from them and he carried the calm air of someone who was intrigued at the goings on.
They hadn’t yet arrested him, but Beth knew it was a possible outcome of the interview. Like every other lead in this case, the link was tenuous and they had no evidence to back up their suspicions, but with no better leads to pursue, they had to follow those they had.
When O’Dowd went through the formalities Quirke’s expression never changed. He just sat there with his fingers interlocked over his belly. To all intents and purposes, it was the behaviour of an innocent man.
His posture made her doubt herself and wonder if she’d got it wrong. If that was the case, not only had she wasted a large portion of a day when she should have been apprehending the Dragon Master, she’d put herself in O’Dowd’s sights. The only thing that restored her faith in her theory was that Sarah’s phone had been traced to the middle of nowhere and she still hadn’t been found.
From what Thompson had told her, she understood that today’s press conference had made the previous one seem like a summer picnic beside a babbling brook.
O’Dowd placed her hands on the table. ‘Right then. Mr Quirke, do you know a Sarah Hardy?’
‘I do, yes. I almost bought a car from her. Sadly when I checked my finances, I found I couldn’t stretch my budget quite far enough.’
‘What did you think of her?’
‘I thought she was a very pleasant and good-looking young woman.’
‘Good-looking you say.’ O’Dowd was on the statement at once. ‘Are you saying you fancied her?’
‘I presume that if you’re asking me questions about her, you’ll already know that she is a strikingly beautiful woman. I cannot deny that I appreciate her beauty, but I wouldn’t say that I fancy her. She is less than half my age and I felt no greater attraction to her than I do towards the lovely DC sitting beside you. She too is a gorgeous specimen despite the ugly scar on her cheek.’
‘I’ll beg your pardon, Mr Quirke, not to speak about one of my team like that.’
Quirke raised his hands from the table. ‘If I’ve caused any offence, I apologise. All I was trying to do was pay her a compliment. She has enough beauty about her to compensate for the scar.’
‘MR QUIRKE!’
As O’Dowd was staring Quirke down, Beth was digging into the psyche fuelling his words. Yes the guy creeped her out with his lingering assessments of her and the way he was talking about her scar. That he was having a conversation about a part of her that she didn’t discuss was both surreal and invasive.
Yet at the same time, he wasn’t showing any signs of lust and his voice was calm. It was as if he was discussing a painting or some other work of art rather than a human being.
Beth laid a hand on O’Dowd’s arm. While she appreciated the DI coming to her defence, she didn’t need protecting, and she wasn’t offended by Quirke’s words. She also wanted to play good cop to O’Dowd’s bad cop.
‘Mr Quirke, if you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look to be a young man. What do you do with your days?’
‘I’m retired. I was invalided out of the army a good few years ago.’
‘You didn’t answer my question. What do you do with your days?’
Quirke gave a helpless gesture. ‘I potter about in my garden and I read.’
‘What else do you do?’ Beth put a smile on her face as she spoke. ‘You were at The Drover’s Rest tonight. Do you eat out often?’
‘As I told you the other day, I eat out most lunch and dinner times. I live alone and I’m a rotten cook. To stave off the boredom, I dine out. There isn’t a crime in that, is there?’
‘That very much depends on how you behave. When DI O’Dowd was asking you about Sarah Hardy you seemed a fraction less relaxed. A colleague of hers told us that you “creeped Sarah out” with your behaviour. That she believed you wasted her time just so you could ogle her. You’ve also commented on my looks. I find that strange.’ Beth turned to face O’Dowd. ‘Boss, you’ve interviewed a lot more people than I have, let’s face it, we’re often called an ugly so and so, but how many times have you known suspects to positively comment on a police officer’s looks?’
O’Dowd looked straight at Quirke. ‘Never.’
Before he could speak, Beth pounced on the cue. ‘That’s what I thought. Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr Quirke, but I think you’re a half step away from being a full-blown stalker. You have commented on Sarah Hardy’s looks more than her personality. I want to know your movements today. Where you’ve been and who you’ve spoken to, because I’m now wondering if you’ve moved on from stalking to abduction and murder.’
‘Why? Has something happened to Sarah?’
‘That’s what we want you to tell us.’
Quirke looked at both O’Dowd and Beth before putting his head in his hands. When he lifted his head, Beth saw the first traces of fear. She was tempted to add further pressure, but, as O’Dowd was silent, she followed her lead.
After the uncomfortable silence had dragged on for a full five minutes, Quirke opened his mouth to speak. ‘You’ve brought me in here and you’re asking me about Sarah Hardy, therefore something has happened to her and you think I’m involved, but you don’t have any evidence that proves my guilt.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘The reason you don’t have any evidence is that there isn’t any. I’ve done nothing wrong. However, I found Miss Hardy to be a very pleasant young lady and I’m keen to help. What do you want to know?’
‘She’s disappeared. We want to know where she is and we think you can answer that question. In fact we think you’re the only person who can tell us where she is.’
‘I don’t know where she is.’ Quirke hesitated as if weighing up how much to say. A look of fear crossed his face before he spoke again. ‘But I might have an idea who does.’
‘Who?’ Beth and O’Dowd asked the question at the same time.
Again Quirke lifted his hands in a surrender gesture. ‘Please don’t think ill of me. I’m only telling you this because I want to help Sarah.’
Beth planted her hands on the table and leaned over to address Quirke. ‘Mr Quirke, we’re investigating multiple murders and we think Miss Hardy might be the next to fall into the killer’s hands. Right now, it’s looking very much like you’re the person who’s abducted Miss Hardy, that you’re the killer the press has called the Dragon Master. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that just because you’ve not been arrested yet that it can’t happen at any moment.’
Quirke squirmed in his seat and looked to O’Dowd for support. When he got none his mouth flapped a couple of times before he started gabbling a defence. ‘Please, you don’t understand. I’m not the Dragon Master. I’m not. You don’t understand.’
‘Then explain it to us.’ Beth eased herself back into the plastic chair.
‘When I got invalided out of the army, it was because I took a bullet. To my groin. I lost everything, and by everything I mean everything. Including my sexual desire. What I now have is an appreciation of beauty. I see beautiful women and I become captivated by them. I feel no desire for them. I just have a need to worship them. When I saw Sarah, I was entranced. After not being able to afford the car, I started watching her at work. Last night I followed her home. At seven o’clock she was picked up by a man. He was driving a big Range Rover. It might be innocent, but at the same time, he may know more about her whereabouts than me.’
‘Did you get the licence plate of the Range Rover?’
Beth was amazed that she’d managed to keep the contempt she felt for Quirke from her voice. He was admitting that he was a stalker as if it was something as trivial as admitting he was a man, or that he lived in Carlisle. It would be O’Dowd’s call, but she knew if it was her decision, she wouldn’t just throw the book at him, she’d empty every shelf in the library.
When he scribbled the licence number down on her notepad, she went through to the main desk and fed it into the DVLA database. The car was registered to a Kevin Ingersoll. Ingersoll’s address was in an area that she didn’t know, so she googled it. There was nothing in the area but a solitary cottage. By the look of the cottage on Street View, it didn’t sit with the image of someone who drove a Range Rover. She knew that some people would prefer to have a flash car than a nice home, but rather than jump to conclusions, she ran a few more searches for Ingersoll. All came back blank. It was as if the man was totally off the grid.
Instinct told her she’d missed a link. She just couldn’t work out what.
Whatever the thing was, Beth knew it could be crucial.
At this moment in time, though, the priority had to be bringing in Kevin Ingersoll. Whoever he was.
Seventy-Nine
Beth sloshed some more wine into her glass and gave a dozen silent curses. Along with O’Dowd and the rest of the team, she’d run Ingersoll’s name through every database and program they had.
The only hit they’d registered was when they’d checked the General Register Office and fed in his date of birth. According to their records, Kevin Ingersoll had died at the age of six.
This suggested that the Kevin Ingersoll they were looking for was an alias created from a gravestone that matched the imposter’s age. People who created aliases almost only ever did so for nefarious reasons. Every member of the team agreed on this, a theory added to when Thompson and Unthank had visit
ed his cottage, and they’d found it deserted.
When morning came around, they could get in touch with banks and other services, but until then, their investigation had ground to a halt.
They’d also press harder at Harry Quirke. O’Dowd formally charged him with stalking and harassment and had kept him in the cells at Penrith station overnight. As much as Ingersoll seemed to be a more promising candidate, the DI wasn’t taking any chances.
Everyone’s frustrations had boiled over and they’d ended up in a four-way shouting match until all of them saw the futility of arguing among themselves, calmed down and took themselves home.
Beth got up to go to the toilet and tottered as she went up the stairs. She was drunker than she’d planned, but she wasn’t ready to stop drinking yet. Regardless of what Dr Hewson might think, alcohol wasn’t her crutch. Today had ended in the worst way. They’d been so close to making a serious breakthrough, and then their investigation had once again ground to a shuddering halt.
When Beth got back downstairs she picked up the remote control and flicked through the channels without finding anything that grabbed her interest. Reality TV bored her and the dramas she usually watched were too heavy after the day she’d had.
Instead of the TV, she picked up a magazine and read non-stories about celebrities she didn’t know, until the bottle of wine was empty and her eyelids were heavier than her mother’s suet pudding.
Despite her best attempts to remove the case from her mind, it was still there when she ascended the stairs. Even with her vision slightly blurry from wine and exhaustion, she could still recount the details of her spreadsheet.
As she clambered into bed, Beth was mentally going through the list of places Rachel had worked when she hit on the connection. Rachel had worked for six months at a sister hotel to the one where they’d spoken to Lawrence Eversham; a hotel he must have at least partly owned. She could remember the Lake Windermere hotel’s reception, see the overly made-up receptionist and the painting on the wall: a watercolour of the Lake District.
