Chosen (19 page)

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.'

‘But now we've only got a suspicion based on what the parents said and your sense of smell. We've no proof,' Pearce pointed out.

‘I know, but suppose I'm right. Do a DVLA check and go through the Sex Offenders Register again. I want the details of any silver Ford Mondeo registered in the Bishopton area. And see if any of the addresses tally with someone on the SOR. Whilst you're waiting, ring Charleston's. I want the name and address of their sign erector, plus any other members of their staff who live in the Bishopton area. Whilst you're on with them, give them the list of towns where the victims lived. Ask if they've branches in those towns.'

Nash paced the floor whilst he waited.

Viv came back, almost at a run. ‘You were right, Mike. They've got branches at each of those towns. I got a hit from the DVLA too. There's only one silver Mondeo registered in the Bishopton area.'

‘Let me guess, the registered keeper is Les Franklin.'

Pearce stared at him. ‘No, here, look.' He thrust a piece of paper into Nash's hand.

‘Good God!'

‘Now what do we do?'

‘The only thing we can do. Get round there, and quick.'

‘We won't get a warrant on this alone,' Pearce objected.

‘We can't wait. And I daren't go through official channels. It'd take too long.'

‘You're not going to involve Superintendent Pratt?' Viv was aghast.

‘He'd want things doing properly and we don't have time. We can't afford a delay. Anything could happen. We may be too late already.'

‘All through this you've said how careful this man is. How everything he does is planned to avoid detection. How are you going to get proof, without tipping him off? He'll probably be up to his armpits in security. If he's got alarms, CCTV, etcetera, how will you get past them? By the time you get to the girls he'd be long gone. He'd sacrifice Clara and Monique. You haven't a hope. You'd never be able to bypass that sort of security.'

Nash stared at him for a moment. ‘You're right, but I know a man who can. All I've got to do is persuade him to break a promise. Are you with me or not?'

Maggie Johnson answered the phone, then held out the receiver for Jimmy. ‘It's for you. He says it's extremely urgent.'

Jimmy listened for a while. ‘Okay. How long? Oh, I'll be right out. You got my tools?'

He turned to Maggie. ‘I'll likely be late home so don't wait up for me, hen.' He picked up his torch from the hall table.

‘Here, you'll need these.' Maggie passed over a set of door keys. ‘I'm not having you locking yourself out. Not that you need them.' It didn't really matter that they were her set. He grinned, gave her a quick peck on the cheek and was gone.

The car was waiting. Jimmy climbed in the back and sat forward as the car moved off, listening to Nash's attempts to dissuade Pearce from joining in the venture.

Nash had calmed down slightly. The risks were now becoming apparent. ‘There's no reason for you to be part of this, Viv. What we're going to do is totally illegal. We've no evidence, just guesswork. If we're caught, it'd mean the end of your career.'

‘What about your career? You've more to lose than I have.'

‘That doesn't matter. I've gone as far as I want to in the job. I came back to Yorkshire for a quiet life. If I've to leave the force, it wouldn't worry me, but you've a great future in the police. Why risk it?'

‘I can't stand aside and do nothing.'

‘You can stay with the car and act as back-up.'

‘If I do nothing, I'd never be able to look Clara in the eye again.'

Mike gave up flogging a horse that was obviously dead.

‘I need to know what sort of customer we're dealing with,'
Johnson said. ‘It's useful to know what sort of precautions he'd take.'

‘He's a very clever planner, ultracautious. He leaves no trace, no evidence.'

‘How long's he been at it?'

‘Eighteen years to our knowledge.'

Johnson whistled. ‘How did he pick the lassies, what made him choose them?'

‘They look alike, Jimmy. All extremely pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes.'

‘Like dollies, then?'

‘Bloody hell,' Nash exclaimed. ‘That's it. Why didn't I think of that?'

‘What?' Pearce asked.

‘Don't you see? What Jimmy said, it all makes sense. They're not dead; at least not to him. He thinks of them as dolls, to keep and play with.'

‘But he couldn't, not for long anyway. I mean, well, to be blunt they'd start to smell after a while wouldn't they?'

‘Think about it. When Mexican Pete came to see me, he stank of formaldehyde. I smelt it earlier too, only I couldn't recall what it was, thought it was some chemical they use on the FOR SALE signs. When I smelt it in Monique's kitchen I thought that's what it was. But I was wrong. Formaldehyde clings to you for days, and to everyone round you. It takes some shifting, no matter how often you wash or change your clothing.'

‘What is it, this formaldehyde?' Jimmy asked.

‘It's a very strong chemical. Scientists use it to preserve anatomical specimens. It's also the main ingredient in the embalming process. That's how our man would be able to keep his victims. He embalms them. That explains the length of time between the abductions. He didn't need a new victim to gratify his lust.'

‘Jesus, what sort of maniac is he?' Jimmy muttered.

‘They call it necrophilia, Jimmy, having intercourse with the dead.'

Jimmy shuddered. ‘How did he find these lassies?'

‘He didn't, they found him; or rather their parents did. They'd all bought houses via Charleston's Estate Agents, and the
purchase of each of those houses was handled personally by Peter Charleston. That's highly significant, because Charleston doesn't have time to handle individual sales. So why did he get involved in those deals? The answer is because he was lining up another victim.'

As Nash was talking, they swung off the main road, following the signpost marked ‘Bishop's Cross; Village Only'. The road narrowed, and just before they reached the outskirts, a pair of large stone gate posts was set at right angles to the lane. On one of these was the inscription ‘Quarry House'.

Pearce swung the car into the opening, confronting the wrought iron gates, now brightly lit by the headlights. Johnson scanned the scene, his voice urgent. ‘Either reverse the car, or start kissing each other. Do it now.' Johnson had assumed command.

‘I'll move the car,' Pearce muttered, engaging reverse gear and continuing along the lane.

‘What's wrong?'

‘Sorry, Mike; not in my job description.'

‘No, I mean what's up, Jimmy?'

‘Bloody great CCTV cameras, on top of the gate post. Now, just drive slowly,' he instructed Pearce.

‘What was it about kissing?'

‘There'd be only two innocent reasons to stop at the gate, well three. Either a courting couple, someone taking a piss or somebody lost. To take a piss'd mean getting out and chance being recognized, so it had to be one of the others. Slow down. You're supposed to be lost, remember.'

Nash grinned in the darkness. ‘I still think you should have kissed me.'

‘There's a limit to what I'll do, even for Clara,' Pearce replied.

Jimmy exclaimed in disgust. ‘You'll not go far in the police,' he told Pearce. ‘Mind you, it's the other end you have to kiss, as a rule.'

The grounds of Quarry House were protected by a high stone wall. Johnson scanned the wall and the area round it. After a few hundred yards he grunted, ‘He may be a cunning and perverted killer, but he's also as big a con man as any estate agent.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘So far, I've counted fourteen CCTV cameras, all very obvious, mounted on posts over the wall. The reason they're easy to spot is because they're only for show. Unless he's got a team of security guards watching monitors, they'd be no use. Nobody could watch that many screens at once. They're like the speed cameras you lot put inside bright yellow boxes by the roadside. You know, the ones with no film in? Just there to slow people down, or in this case to frighten them off.'

‘You mean this boundary isn't protected?'

‘I wouldn't say that,' Johnson disagreed. ‘My guess is the camera at the gates works, and the gates probably have a photo-electric cell across them. The wall should be no problem, once I find the best place to climb it.'

They'd travelled another two hundred yards, when Jimmy commanded, ‘Stop the car. This looks okay.'

‘Shall I get the big torch from the boot?' Pearce asked.

‘No need,' Jimmy told him.

The topmost three courses of stone were missing, reducing the height of the wall to less than five feet. They got out of the car, closing the doors as quietly as possible. The night was cloudy, and without the headlights they were in total darkness, until a strong torch beam lit up the wall in front of them. ‘Nobody should leave home at night without a Maglite,' Johnson explained.

Climbing the wall was easy. The next part presented a far sterner challenge. The torch picked out a tangle of bracken, shrubs, briars and brambles.

‘Keep to the wall side; it's not as dense there. Walk along till we find a better place to get through.'

After a few minutes, they found a less overgrown patch. They forced their way through and emerged, at the cost of no more than a few scratches. They were standing on the edge of a large lawn. It sloped gently up towards the house, which they could just make out against the night sky.

‘This is where it gets trickier,' Johnson told them. ‘Follow me, and don't wander about. Walk exactly where I do.'

They moved slowly across the grass in single file, the detectives relying on Johnson's instinct. ‘I can't use the torch. We're too exposed,' he whispered.

It seemed an age before they reached the front of the building. ‘What now?' Nash's whisper sounded like a shout.

‘Round the back, it's never as well protected,' Johnson instructed them, his voice barely carrying.

When they reached the corner of the building, Johnson flicked his torch on. ‘Concrete,' Johnson muttered with a trace of contempt. ‘An amateur, just as I told you. If he'd been serious he'd have put gravel down. You can't walk quietly on gravel.'

They rounded the next corner, and the torch was lit again. The beam played over the back door, up the back wall and across the flagged patio area. After a quick glance round, Johnson directed the beam up the wall to an alarm box. He chuckled quietly, then redirected the light back on to the patio, illuminating the heavy mahogany table and chairs. ‘Bring that table over here and set it down against the wall, then bring two chairs. Put one of them alongside it, the other on top.'

He took a small, slim canister from his tool kit, turning to Pearce. ‘You're the tallest. Get on the table and brace yourself against the wall and steady me. Mr Nash, I want you to keep watch.'

Seconds later, he was balanced precariously on the chair. The detectives heard a hissing sound. ‘Okay, help me down. Now we've to wait five minutes.'

Pearce asked, ‘What did you do?'

‘It's a kind of foam. I sprayed it through the louvers on the front of the box. It expands and sets like concrete. If we trigger the alarm, it sends a signal to the box and the bell will sound. Only it won't 'cos I've muffled it.'

Five minutes later Johnson tackled the door. Less than a minute later, he turned the handle and opened it. ‘Said he was an amateur. He should have bolted the door.'

‘It's like watching a magician,' Pearce muttered.

‘Would bolts have been a showstopper?' Nash asked.

‘No, it'd have just taken longer.'

The house was as dark and silent inside as it had appeared from the outside. They entered through the kitchen, and moved into the dining room, then out via a solid-looking door to the hall. Apart from the brief flashes of illumination provided by Johnson's torch, there wasn't a glimmer of light to be seen. Not a breath of air
moved. Nash shivered. The place felt like a grave, dark, cold and airless. ‘I don't like this place,' Johnson whispered. ‘It reeks o' death.'

Nash sniffed. ‘You're right, Jimmy. What you can smell is formaldehyde. Charleston may not be here now, but he's not long gone, either that or he stores the stuff here.'

Fear was contagious. ‘Let's get on with it, Mike,' Pearce said in an urgent whisper.

The sitting room yielded nothing of interest, but the door in the far corner led to a study. Johnson's torch swept round and settled on the desk. Nash strode across and looked at the open file resting on the blotter. ‘Look at this.'

Pearce and Johnson looked at the papers. ‘Who's Monique Canvey?' Jimmy asked.

‘One of the two abducted last night. Charleston abducted her twin sister a few years ago.'

‘Mike, look there,' Pearce pointed across the room.

The wall behind the desk contained three photographs of the same subject, a young teenage girl.

‘It's Clara,' Pearce breathed incredulously.

Nash crossed to the wall. ‘Bring the torch closer, Jimmy. No, it isn't Clara. But it's a damned good likeness. Look at the clothing, it's years out of date. When Clara was this age it would have all been nineties fashion. This is more like they wore in the sixties and seventies.'

‘If it isn't Clara, who is it?'

Nash pointed to the top photo. ‘Shine your torch here. There's an inscription in the corner. It's faded a bit, but it says To Charlie, With All My Heart, Sassy.'

‘Wow, that's a bit steamy for a kid to write,' Pearce suggested. ‘But who was Sassy, and for that matter who's Charlie?'

‘There's a filing cabinet in the corner,' Johnson pointed out. ‘That might give you some clues.'

Nash tried the handle. It was locked. ‘Jimmy?'

‘Ten seconds, Mr Nash.'

Inside the cabinet, they found files relating to each of Charleston's victims. Another set of folders, they guessed might be potential targets. The horror these files revealed paled, when Nash
discovered another in the bottom drawer. As he read the contents, Nash realized who Sassy was, and Charleston's true identity. Then he discovered the reason for Charleston's fixation. The final piece of information Nash read, revealed the full extent of Charleston's depraved insanity. He handed them a newspaper cutting.

Nash turned to the last item, a sheet of writing paper. ‘This is a letter from the dead girl to her lover, the father of her child. He vanished a few days after she died. Charleston was her lover, the father of the child she was carrying. Only he wasn't called
Charleston then. His real name is Charles Peterson. Samantha, the mother of his child, was his sister.'