Chosen (14 page)

Nash fell silent. Mironova needed to concentrate on the road ahead and couldn't look at him for a while. When she risked a sideways glance she saw he was deep in thought. She waited in silence.

‘I wonder how he managed it?' he asked eventually, to himself as much as to Mironova.

‘Sorry, you're talking in riddles. Wonder how who managed what?'

‘Accepting that he knew each of the girls, or he'd studied them carefully, how did he persuade Louise into his car? He must have done that. How else do you abduct a fully grown woman in a town centre, even late at night? Think about it, Clara. Even at midnight there are people about in Helmsdale. We have to assume Horton's similar. He'd be taking a hell of a chance, and one thing we do know about him is he's no gambler.'

‘Perhaps his lust became too strong and overruled his caution?'

Nash shook his head. ‘He doesn't work like that. He's much too clever to leave anything to chance. He keeps his feelings in check as he stalks them, watching the pattern of their movements for weeks,
perhaps months in advance. He's prepared to wait. To be patient, plan each abduction to eliminate risk. Clara, this man is close to being a genius.'

‘A genius? Mike, you must be joking. He's a crazy, sick, perverted bastard.'

‘They reckon genius and madness are only a hair's breadth apart. Think of it this way, he's done it seven times that we know of. The only evidence we have is Sarah's handbag, which tells us nothing, and one surviving witness who can't tell us anything either.'

Clara was chilled by the phrase, ‘seven times that we know of'. ‘Dear God, how many more are there that we don't know about?'

‘I dread to think.'

Nash fell silent again and let his mind wander. It was night time and the street lighting was augmented by festive decorations. Christmas was approaching. It was the season for office parties, works ‘do's' and any other number of excuses to drink too much. The police would be on the lookout for drunk drivers. There would have been a campaign to persuade revellers to leave the car at home and use public transport. It would be a holiday time for most, a bonanza for one sector of the working population.

‘Of course,' Nash breathed, ‘how clever, how bloody clever. The cunning bastard.'

‘What is it, Mike?'

‘Picture the scene. It's less than a fortnight before Christmas, right. It's around midnight Friday, the pubs are closing. People are either on their way home, or going on to a nightclub. There's folk going here and there through the centre of the town. In addition, our lot are buzzing round, breaking up fights and looking for someone to breathalyze. If you've any sense you've left the car at home. So what vehicle's going to pass unnoticed, even if it's picking a young girl up?'

‘A taxi?'

‘Even if a dozen, two dozen people saw it, they'd think nothing of it. Probably wouldn't even remember. Let me ask you a silly question. You're a police officer; you've been trained to be observant. You're in and out of my office all the time. Tell me the subject of the painting behind my desk?'

Mironova thought about it. She knew there was one; she saw it every time she opened his door. She struggled and eventually guessed. ‘Is it a castle? I think it is. I can't honestly remember.'

Nash grinned. ‘The Archbishop might be annoyed. It's York Minster. The point is, you see it but you don't notice it, because you expect it to be there. However, if I took the painting down, or changed it for a Hockney or a Magritte you'd notice straight away. You'd probably comment on it. You'd certainly remember it, even if you couldn't be sure which way up a Magritte should be.'

‘Okay, you've made your point. No need to rub it in. People wouldn't take notice of a taxi. I grant you it's a possibility, but what happens once she's inside the car. Surely she's going to kick up a fuss when she realizes he isn't taking her where she wants?'

Nash shrugged. ‘It doesn't matter. He drives her out on the Horton road, which is what she'd expect, until it's safe to stop the car. He's already selected a quiet spot. That would be the first indication Louise had that she was in trouble. By then it'd have been way too late. He'd have prepared some way of overpowering her. Game, set and match.'

Mironova shuddered. ‘It sounds horribly real. I don't want to believe your theory, but I can't think of an alternative. Mike, this man's a sick monster. Once or twice I could almost understand. But seven times, seven different girls?'

‘No, you're wrong,' Nash corrected her. ‘He's done it on seven separate occasions, but not to seven different girls.'

‘I don't follow you?'

‘All the girls are blonde, blue-eyed and extremely pretty. Line them up and they could be sisters. Lower the lighting and they could all be the same girl.'

‘Yes, I understand that. He has a perverted fetish for blue-eyed blondes.'

‘I don't think it's as simple as that. I think our man has one particular girl in mind. From his own past maybe? A girl he perhaps loved; possibly one who rejected him? I think that they all became Melanie.'

‘Melanie?' Clara asked in surprise. ‘Who's Melanie?'

‘Well, whatever his dream girl was called.'

‘I still think he's a sick perverted bastard, who ought to be locked up and the key thrown away.'

‘Of course he is, but I'm sure he doesn't think of himself that way. To him, everything he does is perfectly normal, absolutely rational.'

‘Normal,' Mironova spluttered. ‘What's either normal or rational about him?'

‘Nothing, to you and me. Like I said, we know he's far from normal. I'm just stating it as he sees it.'

‘Do you think Bailey's the man we're after?'

‘He's the best suspect we've got. In fact, he's the only suspect we've got. What's more, every bit of information we uncover seems to point to him. But I haven't discounted anyone. I think that would be dangerous at this stage.'

 

Matthew and Linda Harland appeared rather more prosperous than the other parents they'd met. Keepers Cottage was a cottage in name only. The large double-fronted grey stone house was a solid, detached family residence with extensive gardens, standing on a hill at the northern edge of Horton.

Nash stared admiringly at the view. The front aspect overlooked Horton Village. Pretty stone cottages grouped round the village green. The patchwork quilt of countryside, arable fields and pastures stretched down the valley, framed by the backcloth of the moors on the horizon.

‘What magnificent scenery,' he said. ‘You've a lovely place here.'

‘Yes,' Linda Harland agreed. ‘We were ever so lucky to get this house. When we were trying to buy it, there were four other couples competing with us. It was only through Matthew's contacts that we beat them to it. Now I wish we'd lost out,' she ended pathetically, her face twisted with anguish.

‘Now, now, Lin, don't go upsetting yourself,' her husband said quietly.

Linda Harland twisted a tiny handkerchief between her fingers. Nash guessed she'd been crying before they arrived. She didn't seem far from tears now.

‘I'm sorry. I realize how distressing this must be. We wouldn't put you through such pain unless we thought it absolutely
necessary. I believe my sergeant explained on the phone why we had to talk to you?'

Matthew Harland had his arm comfortingly round his wife's shoulders. ‘She said something about another girl who'd gone missing. Is that correct?'

Nash explained the extent of their enquiry. The couple listened in increasing horror. They cooperated as best they could, but when Nash and Mironova left they were little wiser than when they'd arrived. Sadder certainly, but no wiser. Nash's abiding memory of the visit had nothing to do with the splendour of the view. It was of the torment in Linda Harland's eyes. Reflecting the agony of knowing her beloved daughter was probably dead. That she'd lost her child, without the chance to mourn her.

When they reached Helmsdale, Clara dropped Mike at the police station car park. ‘Take tomorrow off, Clara. We don't have any families to see, and you need a break.'

‘What about you? You're as knackered as I am.'

‘I'll manage. Let's be fair, Clara. You've had to drive hundreds of miles these last few days. That's bound to catch up with you, particularly given the type of roads we've been on. Add that to the stress of running two murder investigations. No, you need the break far more than I do.'

‘If you're sure. David's home, so it would be nice to see him.'

‘Have fun with the army, and watch out for secret manoeuvres.'

 

It was the faintest of movements. So small, he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it. He watched for a repetition. It was several long agonizing minutes, minutes in which part of him hoped he'd been mistaken. When he'd persuaded himself he was wrong, there it was again.

It was no more than a fractional muscle spasm, not even a twitch, but it was enough. Enough to tell him it was about to happen. Each time he wondered if it would be different, but it never was. If he'd thought it over rationally he'd have realized the inevitability, but he was no longer capable of rational thought.

She would die soon. The muscle spasm was the first sign. There would be no escaping it. She would leave him, as she'd left him so
often before. She would leave and he'd be alone again. That was the way it was. He was powerless to prevent it.

Already the spasm had become more noticeable. Soon the twitching would increase. Then the convulsions would start. She was beyond help, in a world of her own, a world he could not enter. The last stage would be the vomiting and the coma, the slow decline in her breathing as she sank towards death. It wouldn't be prolonged once she entered the comatose state between worlds. It would be a peaceful transition.

When she went away, she fulfilled the destiny that had been hers for more years than he could remember. She had to die. There was no alternative.

He walked from the nursery, through the kitchen to the room beyond. He unlocked the door and stepped inside the place he thought of as his workshop. Turning on the light, he looked round at the familiar surroundings. He was at home here, knew every inch, every detail of the contents. He began checking his equipment, the machines and specialist tools he'd need. Once everything was as he wanted, his final act was to test the extractor fans. They were in order, but he checked them twice, for that was his way, his obsession for scrupulous attention to detail and neatness. Returning to resume his vigil in the nursery, he took a rubber sheet from the chest of drawers and slid it beneath her. Only then was he content that the end would be perfect. Nothing less than perfection would be good enough for her.

He stared down at the girl lying so still, so peaceful, she might have been asleep. Only he knew she wasn't sleeping. ‘Sassy,' his voice was a whisper, a caress. ‘Sassy, you've left me. You've left me alone. Why does it always have to end this way?'

He asked, but he knew the answer. It would always end this way. If it didn't, it made what had happened to Sassy pointless. Her sacrifice would be devalued, and that he couldn't allow. He had recreated her glory; he had to repeat her sacrifice.

He was unaware of the passage of time as he stood watching the girl's motionless form. Eventually, when his emotions were under control, he carried her through to his workshop and gently laid her on the table. He began to remove her clothing. Once she was completely naked, he paused to admire every inch of her lovely
figure. He reached out, and absent-mindedly caressed the smooth flesh at the curve of her breast. She was already beginning to cool down. He would have to begin soon.

He reached for the disinfectant spray, and using a succession of soft cloths, began to cleanse her skin, her eyes, her mouth, and every one of her body's orifices. He worked slowly, methodically, patiently. It was vitally important to be thorough.

When he was satisfied, he peeled off the pair of surgical gloves he'd been wearing, dropping them with the cloths into a bin. He pressed a switch on the wall, and the extractor fans began their gentle whirring sound. He put on a fresh pair of gloves to avoid contamination. He was scrupulous; had to be for her sake. He gently closed her eyes. Then he began to operate.

He worked patiently and painstakingly. He began with the needle injector gun. Then he took a scalpel and made a tiny incision under the right collar bone. He picked up the aneurysm hook and carefully separated the tissue, before probing for the artery. When he'd found and raised this, he'd be ready to insert the tube.

He checked it was securely in place, before lowering the other end into the container below the table. He waited, during which time he checked the machine settings before he flicked the power switch on. The faint humming sound told him it was beginning to work. He watched carefully to make sure this, the most critical stage of the procedure, ran absolutely smoothly. After an agonizing delay, the clear plastic tube turned darker.

When it was done, he connected the trocar to the hydro-aspirator. He made the abdominal incision with the sharp blades on the end of the trocar, and guided it towards the internal organs, piercing and draining, piercing and draining. Then he disconnected the hose from the aspirator, and screwed it on to the cap of the cavity fluid bottle.

He waited until the bottle was empty, then removed the trocar with painstaking care before screwing a trocar button into the hole in the abdomen. Connecting the shower adaptor to the taps in the adjacent sink, he began washing the body and hair. When he was satisfied all traces of extraneous matter had been removed, he dried every millimetre with scrupulous care. He stepped back to look at her. He felt his arousal grow once more. He took a glass from the
nearby shelf and filled it from the tap on the container. He raised it, toasting her. ‘Now we'll be one, forever.' He drained the warm, ruby-red liquid.