Chosen (10 page)

They'd just finished when Pearce walked in, followed by Pratt and Binns. The newcomers stopped inside the door, their eyes drawn inexorably to the display.

The chatter died away as they stared at Nash and Clara's handiwork. Pratt was first to recover. ‘What's this, Mike?'

The tone of Pratt's voice and the grim cast of his features told Nash the question was all but rhetorical. ‘This is the result of our research into the files Viv dug out,' he pointed to the photographs. ‘All but one of these young women vanished without trace, from locations throughout northern England. The disappearances cover the last eighteen years. All the girls are, or rather were, blondes,
with blue eyes and extremely attractive. They were all between eighteen and twenty-one years of age when they vanished.'

Nash walked over to the wall and pointed to the photograph at the far end of the line. ‘This is the only survivor. Her name's Monique Canvey. She was beaten and left for dead when her twin sister was abducted. There's been neither sight nor sound of any of the other girls since they vanished. We must assume all of them were abducted and that Sarah Kelly is the seventh victim. I believe we're faced with a ruthless and highly efficient serial killer with a penchant for young blondes.' Nash paused and added the most unacceptable part of the equation. ‘What's worse is we haven't a scrap of evidence as to his identity. Apart from the attack on Monique Canvey and the vague, unconfirmed evidence of one elderly man, there's nothing to show that a crime's been committed.'

The long silence that followed was broken by Binns. ‘I remember Megan Forrest. That's the girl I told you about.'

‘That's right,' Nash said. ‘You compiled the initial report on her. If you hadn't mentioned dealing with distraught relatives, I wouldn't have linked the case with Sarah Kelly. Tell them what you told me.'

‘She lived with her parents somewhere near Bishopton. She vanished on New Year's Eve, as I recall, just failed to arrive home. It was the next day when her parents came into the station at Netherdale. They'd taken it for granted she'd had too much to drink and stopped with one of her girlfriends. It was only when one of her mates rang they twigged something was wrong.'

‘Can you remember what the parents were like?'

‘They were a decent enough couple. In their mid forties I guess. They had a couple of younger children, I think. The father was a lorry driver or something similar. They'd only recently moved to Bishopton when it happened. Mrs Forrest was a mite on the hysterical side, but given the circumstances I didn't blame her.'

‘What was CID's view?'

Binns snorted with derision. ‘That was in Hardman's day. His only view on anything was through the bottom of an empty glass,' he paused before adding, ‘and that would only be a fleeting glance before the barman refilled it. Hardman dismissed the whole thing
as a young girl meeting a bloke her parents wouldn't approve of and running off with him. That, according to him, explained why she didn't get in touch. Simple solution: no work for CID to do. No paperwork to fill in, case closed, what's next? Nothing? Oh well, let's go for a pint,' Binns ended sarcastically.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jack. Give us your thoughts on the Forrest case.'

‘I passed it straight to CID when the girl failed to turn up. After that, I had very little to do with it. Apart from when Mrs Forrest came into the station to see what we were doing. They went to the pub, asked a few questions, routine stuff, but no more. It was pretty upsetting, because she always asked for me. I couldn't tell her CID were sitting on their fat arses and couldn't give a toss. I tried to get them to do something, but they weren't interested. I thought it extremely odd that the daughter hadn't got in touch. There was nothing dysfunctional about them. I'd say they were a normal, caring unit. But if someone wants to stay hidden badly enough, they can do it.' Binns pointed to the whiteboard. ‘At the time we'd nothing like that to make us suspect a crime had been committed.'

‘We still don't know for certain,' Pratt interjected. ‘All Mike's done is given us a possible link, nothing stronger,' he held up a hand to still Nash's protest. ‘I'm not saying I'm dismissing the idea. The point I'm making is we've no hard evidence.'

‘That's true,' Nash conceded. ‘I'm well aware of how tenuous the connection is. In a normal murder case, at least you have a body and possible witnesses. We have neither.'

‘Where do we go from here?' Pearce's question was addressed to Nash rather than Tom Pratt.

‘I was about to say I haven't a clue. Which was the case until Tom spoke just now,' Nash confessed. ‘But something he's said has given me the germ of an idea.'

‘Would you like to share it with us?' Pratt asked.

‘It's what you said about a possible link,' Nash spoke slowly, gathering his thoughts as he went along, ‘and that's the point. There has to be a connection. Assuming I'm right, the abductions were too well planned and executed for it to be chance. That means the killer identified his target beforehand. Would you agree on that?'

‘It seems reasonable,' Pratt conceded.

‘Then how?'

‘Sorry, I'm not with you,' Pratt was baffled.

‘How did the killer select his victims? Given that they lived in such different places. Some of them hundreds of miles apart. If we find that out, we find the killer, or at least something that will lead to him.'

‘You mean there's something these girls had in common, apart from their looks?' Pearce queried.

‘Exactly, and it could be the least important thing. It could be connected with their school, sports club, work, hobbies, anything. At some point, for whatever reason, their lives crossed that of the killer. It's that crossing point we need to establish. The reports we have are sketchy at best. We have to go back and examine their lives in minute detail.'

‘What about computers?' Viv asked, ‘You know, like chat rooms.'

‘Don't think that's likely eighteen years ago,' Clara said. ‘More like, oh, I don't know, dating agencies?'

There was a long silence as the others thought over what Nash had said. Then Pratt asked, voicing the doubts they all shared, ‘What do you suggest we do? In this case, for example,' he pointed to Julie Cummings's photograph. ‘She vanished eighteen years ago. What are we going to find out about her now that couldn't have been found out at the time?'

‘Good point, but we have one advantage. Two in fact, because we know we're investigating a possible crime. Because of that, we're not looking at Julie's life in isolation; we'll be comparing it with the others. We have seven lives to investigate. Something should provide us with the link.'

After a long while Tom spoke. ‘Okay, I agree. Strictly between these four walls, I'm officially designating this as a murder enquiry. The investigation will be headed by Mike. Anyone have any questions? '

There was another long silence before Pratt continued, ‘Right, Mike, it's all yours. Where do you want to start?'

‘Would you mind supervising the search parties again, Tom?'

‘Do you think it worth continuing, given the new facts?'

‘That's your call, Tom. If we're right, the search will be a waste
of time. The bodies of the other six haven't turned up, and we've no reason to suppose Sarah's will. A search will divert valuable manpower. On the other hand, we'd have some awkward questions to answer if we abandon the search and Sarah's body is discovered. If the media think we're not doing enough, they'll crucify us. Finally, Mrs Kelly has a right to believe we're doing everything possible to find her daughter.'

Pratt sighed heavily, ‘At times like these I regret being a superintendent. Okay, we'll continue the search, if only as window dressing. We've been at it nearly a week now, so I can legitimately scale it down. We'll make better use of the resources interviewing those on the Sex Offenders' Register.'

‘We're due a further press release, aren't we?'

‘I'll attend to it.'

‘How about saying we're following a new line of enquiry, and our concern for Sarah's safety is higher than ever? You never know, our killer might be an avid watcher or reader of his own publicity. Most of them are.'

‘What about the rest of us, Mike?' Mironova asked.

‘I'd like Viv to go through the results from the PNC and the SOR again, see if anyone's missed any likely candidates, someone who's moved area perhaps. Clara, I'd like you to help me contact the forces where the girls lived. We'll need their go-ahead before we speak to the next of kin of the girls. Once we've got that, we need to fix appointments to see them. Which in turn means we've a lot of travelling to do. Where possible, we should arrange to meet up with someone from the local force and go through their file. It might well be that they've more detail than appears on the PNC database. In fact, it might be easier if we can get copies of the original files, rather than relying on the computer info.'

‘In Danielle Canvey's case, there's a note on file that both parents have died, so you'll need to speak to Monique, the twin who survived. The note makes it clear Danielle's mother committed suicide, so be doubly careful.'

‘I still can't believe that nobody's linked these cases before,' Pearce said suddenly. ‘I mean, given that they do prove to be connected, that the girls are all the victims of a serial killer. Why wasn't the similarity spotted?'

‘I know it seems strange to you,' Nash told him. ‘But you have to remember you're looking at these cases today, for the first time. Back when those first girls disappeared, there weren't the sophisticated computer software programmes you're able to use nowadays. The Police National Computer was originally established in 1974, but only as a database for stolen vehicles. Add to that the problem that occurred in 1994, when the Buncefield Oil Terminal blaze destroyed the nearby PNC building. It housed the only server covering the whole of England and Wales. It took ages to retrieve the information. Five years afterwards I attended a seminar. One of the speakers admitted they still weren't certain they'd got all the data back. The PNC had serious shortcomings anyway. Until relatively recently, and I'm talking about within the last five years, it was little more than a data warehouse for recorded crime.'

Nash pointed behind him to the photos on the wall. ‘And these girls weren't considered to be the victims of crime. They were simply “missing persons”. Over 200,000 people are reported missing in Britain every year. It's hardly surprising a few get missed. To complicate matters further, almost all the girls lived in areas covered by different police forces. We all know of notorious examples where the failure to pass vital information from region to region has led to tragic results. That's usually between two forces. How much harder would it be to correlate information spread between five police authorities?'

‘How are you getting on contacting the local police and the parents?'

Nash hadn't noticed Pratt enter his office. ‘Sorry, Tom, I was miles away. I've just spoken to Mrs Kelly. She's in a right mess. I suggested she appear again in the next TV appeal. She needs to feel she's doing something. I said I'd get back to her later. The WPC who's staying there is very worried, so I suggested getting the family doctor to give Mrs Kelly a sedative. Clara and I've contacted all the regional forces. They're more than happy for us to handle things for the time being. They'll cooperate fully and get involved if, and when, there's something meaningful to do. Clara's tried contacting the other next of kin. So far, she's only managed to arrange two for tomorrow. We got through to a couple of voice-mails but we thought it best not to leave a message.'

Pratt nodded his approval. ‘People could be anywhere on Sundays. It may be more productive to ring in the evening.'

After Pratt left, Mironova came back in to be told, ‘Tom's just handed us another late finish, I'm afraid. We'll have to use this evening to try and get hold of those other parents.'

‘Whatever you say.'

There was a knock at the door and Pearce walked in. ‘I've finished that computer search. I got six more hits from the SOR but I've discounted two because of their sexual preference. I'm about to start rechecking the PNC results, but I need to know how specific you want to be. Do you want every offender interviewed, no matter how trivial the crime?'

‘I don't want anyone leaving out, no matter how irrelevant the
offence might seem. We can't afford to miss our man because we've made the criteria too restricted. Include everyone. From rapists, to a bloke who's displayed his todger in public, or played doctors and nurses behind the school bike sheds. There's no reason to suppose our man hasn't offended before, and moved on to worse crimes. I want them all interviewed. I'll prepare a list of questions. I'd like you to start as soon as you can on the locals. If needs be, we'll have to convince the other forces this is a worthwhile exercise. For the moment, you concentrate on the Sarah Kelly case. Take a break first then try later.'

‘Will I get any help?'

‘Tom's sending some men over to lighten the load. Unfortunately, Clara and I will be tied up on the phones. We'll all need a break if we're going to be working late. I want to try some more estate agents as well, so I'm going to take a walk before they close. They're only open for a couple of hours.'

Nash arrived back at the station as Clara was brewing coffee. He was carrying a sheaf of papers. ‘I take it you've had some success?'

‘Two of them had nothing, but Charleston's, that you recommended, have a couple of places worth looking at. Unfortunately, the woman who deals with tenancies was out. I left my number with the receptionist. I had to use my charm. She said I might be able to have a look at them tomorrow, but I explained that might be difficult as I was only available today.'

‘Cheeky devil,' Clara said as she passed him a mug.

‘The thing is,' Nash paused, ‘the receptionist told me she doesn't do unaccompanied viewings, so I said I'd bring a female colleague along with me. I hope you don't mind. It would give you a break from this place?'

‘No problem. I don't suppose you could ask Helen Tate to go with you, in view of the nature of the appointment.'

‘I don't think I'd want Helen along anyway. If I suggested we go looking at flats she'd get the wrong idea.'

 

Nash had barely finished his lunch when Ramirez phoned, wanting to check some facts regarding the Lizzie Barton murder scene, and complaining he was having to work weekends to catch up on his paperwork. Halfway through giving him the information
he needed, the building's fire alarm sounded. ‘Sorry, Professor, I'll have to call you back.'

As the occupants assembled at their drill stations, Nash was approached by the officer who'd been on the reception desk. ‘I took a message for you just before the alarm went off,' the man told him. It was the receptionist from Charleston's, the estate agents.' He handed Nash a piece of paper. ‘You can visit the High Street property at 2 p.m. Then you can see Rutland Way after that. She stressed that you had to have a female with you.'

He studied the paper. ‘Does this woman have a name, by any chance?'

The officer smiled ruefully. ‘I was about to ask for it when the alarm went off. I'd to ditch the call.'

‘No matter,' Nash said.

‘You can go back in now.' Doug Curran, Chief Fire Officer, was standing only a few yards away. He smiled at Nash. ‘That was a very successful test.'

‘You mean that was all it was? Why didn't we know there was going to be a fire drill?'

‘Because if you'd known you wouldn't have treated it with the urgency you should have done.' Nash frowned but there was no arguing the logic.

‘We can see the first of those properties at two o'clock,' he told Clara.

She looked round. ‘How did you find that out? I didn't see a pigeon land.'

 

Monique felt nervous as she unlocked the door of the High Street flat. It angered her, this fear she'd lived with since the assault. Why should that one incident ruin her life? Why had she to live with this permanent reminder of the past?

She wandered around the flat, trying to calm herself. When the doorbell rang her heart missed a few beats, then raced to catch up. She stepped reluctantly into the hall and opened the door.

There was something oddly familiar about the couple standing on the doorstep. It was the woman Monique noticed first, a tall, blonde, strikingly pretty girl in her late twenties. She resembled someone, but Monique couldn't think who. The girl's companion
spoke and Monique transferred her attention to him. ‘Good afternoon, I'm Mike Nash. This is Clara. I spoke with your receptionist. I'm sorry, I didn't get your name.'

As he spoke, Nash was racking his brain. He was convinced he knew this woman, had been from the second the door opened. Either that or he'd seen her recently.

‘I'm Monique Canvey, manager of Charleston's Estate Agents. Please come in.'

Monique stepped to one side. She raised her hand for them to shake it, then allowed it to drop back by her side as they stood stock still, their faces registering complete astonishment. ‘Is something wrong?'

Nash recovered his wits. ‘I'm sorry,' he said, ‘did you say Monique Canvey?'

‘Yes, of course, why?' Monique felt puzzled, vaguely alarmed.

Mike gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head as he glanced at Clara. ‘No, no, absolutely nothing. Shall we have a look at the flat?'

Monique led the way. The flat didn't meet Nash's requirements in several ways, mainly because there was nowhere to keep his motorbike. Ten minutes later Monique was locking the flat door. Her client had already left and would wait for her outside the Rutland Way property.

‘Why didn't you mention we've been trying to contact her?' Mironova asked as they drove across town.

‘Didn't you notice the state she was in? She was trembling. I reckon it must be quite an ordeal for her meeting strangers, after what she went through. If we'd told her up front we were police officers she'd have been a gibbering wreck. I'll wait until she's got used to us before I spring that on her.'

It didn't take Nash long to discover the next property was exactly what he was looking for. Little longer in fact than it had taken to decide the other flat was unsuitable. Rutland Way was a smart, modern, ground-floor flat. It was tastefully decorated with a kitchen large enough for dining. The accommodation was light and spacious, complete with an integral garage where he could house the Road Rocket in perfect safety.

‘This is exactly what I'm after. I'll take it, if that's okay.'

Monique blinked in surprise. The level of rent had proved a stumbling block to several potential tenants. Monique had anticipated a tough haggling session, even if the flat was suitable. ‘Perfectly,' she responded, ‘I've got the forms here if you want to fill them in now. Alternatively, if you want to discuss it with your wife, we can leave it until another day. I promise nobody else will jump in ahead of you.'

Nash smiled, sadly she thought. ‘There is no wife.'

Monique cast a glance at Clara.

Clara smiled. ‘No, Miss Canvey, we just work together, that's all.'

‘I'm sorry, I automatically assumed—'

‘That's alright,' Nash assured her. ‘Anyway, I don't need time to think it over. I've decided this is the property I want, so let's get on with it.'

Monique took the tenancy agreement out of her briefcase. After completing the financial information, she turned to the section reserved for personal details. After he'd given his full name and date of birth she asked, ‘What's your occupation?' The pause after she asked was long enough for her to glance up.

‘Police officer, rank: Detective Inspector.' Every vestige of colour drained from her face. It took a few seconds before she recovered. ‘A policeman?'

‘I am indeed. But I also want to rent this property. There's no sinister motive behind this meeting,' Nash glanced at Clara. ‘But by the weirdest coincidence, Clara has been trying to contact you. Shall we get this document finished then I suggest we go for a coffee somewhere and I'll explain.'

Monique looked aghast at the idea.

‘I'm sorry. Of course Clara will come with us. Is that okay?'

He led the way across the Market Place to the Helm Tea Room, a superior café where customers were served by a waitress wearing traditional black and white livery. The tea and coffee pots were of heavy silver plate, the crockery was bone china and the tablecloths and napkins were linen; Nash's favourite café. They secured a quiet corner table. The trolley which was wheeled to their table contained an appetizing array of cakes and gateaux, bulging with calories.

When the waitress had retired, Nash cleared his throat. ‘Let me explain. I've been in a property in Helmsdale since I was transferred from London. I took it because I needed somewhere in a hurry. Now I want somewhere more suitable.

‘Sergeant Mironova was trying to get hold of you on a completely separate matter. You may have seen it on TV, or read about it in the papers. About a girl who disappeared a week ago. I'm in charge of the case and, to be frank, I'm not happy that there's an innocent explanation.'

Nash paused and looked searchingly at Monique, his eyes holding hers as he continued, his tone gentle, soothing. ‘I'm looking at the disappearance of several other young women, your sister Danielle being one of them. I've read the reports and I'm far from happy about how that investigation was conducted. I'm being blunt because I feel you should know the truth. I want to talk with the relatives of the girls who've disappeared and see if I can establish a link between them.'

‘I thought you looked familiar. I saw you on TV with that poor woman, appealing for information.'

Nash nodded. He leaned forward, his voice urgent. ‘By the time I gave that interview we were very concerned about Sarah's safety and the motive behind her disappearance. That concern hasn't abated. In fact, it's intensified.'

Monique's face was troubled, her body language defensive. ‘What do you want from me? What can I tell you now that I was unable to tell the police when it happened?'

‘I'm not sure. Half the problem is I don't know what I'm looking for. Apart from the assault on you, there isn't one scrap of concrete evidence to point to any crime. Nevertheless, I'm convinced the cases are linked. To make any progress I have to find that connection. '

‘How many are you talking about?'

‘This is highly confidential information. Including your sister, I'm looking into seven disappearances.'

‘Seven?' Monique looked horrified.

‘Yes, but that's over a number of years and from different regions.'

‘What convinces you they're connected? I mean, if there's no evidence?'

‘The first thing was the complete lack of evidence in itself. No sightings, no attempts at contact. As if they'd been abducted by aliens. Then I looked at the girls' photos. Any of them could have been mistaken for Danielle,' Nash paused before adding, ‘or you, for that matter. That convinced me.'

‘You know the police had a theory at the time about the assault on me?'

‘You mean that nonsense about Danielle attacking you because of some row over a boyfriend? I thought it was a load of rubbish.'

Monique's eyes were hot with anger. ‘Danielle would never have harmed me. Just as I would never have hurt her. They didn't understand that, didn't understand what it means being a twin. Harming me would be like injuring herself.'

‘You were identical? So by looking at you we can guess what Danielle would have looked like now if she'd survived.'

‘More or less.'

‘Okay, here's what I suggest. I'd like you to write down as much as you can recall about every aspect of your life and Danielle's prior to the time she went missing. Don't leave anything out, no matter how trivial or irrelevant it seems. Give me a call when you've finished and we'll get together. I'm certain somewhere in your past there's a clue as to what happened to Danielle, a link to all the other girls. Could you do that?'

There was a long pause, Clara fiddled anxiously with her coffee spoon, then folded her napkin neatly and laid it on the table. She stared at Nash, signalling him to be careful.

When Monique eventually replied, her voice was low, sharp with annoyance. Her tightly clenched hands were resting on the edge of the table. ‘Ever since I was attacked, I've suffered the most horrendous migraines. I was off work last week. Thinking about the past, about the attack on me, wondering what had happened to Danielle can trigger one of those migraines. I've trained myself over the years to steer clear of the subject. Now you're asking me to spend time and effort on the one thing that's virtually guaranteed to cause me illness and pain. I'll have to think it over. I'm afraid of what will happen if I go over it all again.'