Chosen (4 page)

‘You'll need a break at some stage, Mike. This could be a long haul.'

‘Maybe, but I'm used to doing without sleep.'

‘Now, extra resources. You set up the incident room. I've organized staff to man the phone lines.'

‘I think we should extend the search areas into the countryside. There's a hell of a lot of ground to cover. I suppose that's really always been the most likely place to find her.'

‘What you mean is, that's where we'll find her body,' Pratt agreed sombrely.

It was at 8 p.m. that night when he rang again. ‘Would you believe it, the PNC's gone down for “routine maintenance”. It's been out of action all evening. We can't get anything till tomorrow at the earliest. What do you want to do? As soon as it's up and running, every force in the land will be logging on for info, so it'll take a while, even when we can get through.'

‘In that case, we'll get a decent night's sleep and try again tomorrow.'

 

It had been a dreadful few days for Monique. She'd had them before of course. But this one was more severe than most. Monique knew when the first signs appeared: migraine. It knocked her out. As soon she'd felt the symptoms start, she phoned work. Her boss was understanding, as he'd seen the effects before during the ten years she'd worked there. ‘Come back when you're fit.'

She dug out her medication and filled a flask with cold water. Then she went to bed. The curtains were drawn tight. The phone and doorbell disconnected. Eventually the pain eased. The flashing lights dimmed. She slipped into unconsciousness. Then the visions began. Her brain, its defences weakened, began to replay her ordeal. With it came guilt and the unanswered questions. What had happened?

Then Danielle appeared, pleading for help. Help she was unable to give. How could she when she couldn't remember?

It was another three days before she emerged from her bedroom. Her legs were weak from disuse. Her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes were clear evidence of her ordeal. She set about restoring order. She replaced the telephone cable in its socket, reconnected the doorbell and pondered whether to ring the office.

Charleston's was a busy estate agency. Monique was in charge of the Helmsdale branch. Despite this, she decided not to return yet. Even though she knew the owner was going on holiday, she couldn't face the thought of going to work. Potential clients could wait. Far better to rest, go back fully restored.

Monique couldn't think of food until late the following day. She prepared a bland meal of chicken and pasta and carried it through to the lounge. She needed a comfortable chair and the sound of a human voice, if only the newsreader on TV.

She was midway through her meal, when the bulletin turned to local news. Monique paid scant attention to the first two items. The opening words of the next report focused her mind instantly. ‘Police in Helmsdale have expressed their concern over the whereabouts of nineteen-year-old Sarah Kelly who vanished.…'

Monique stared at the screen, her body frozen into immobility. She listened, heedless of the sauce dripping on to her lap. The newsreader gave out some scant facts. As the incident phone numbers were being given out, the girl's photo appeared on screen. Monique stared at the image, transfixed. She began to shake uncontrollably. She put the tray down and ran to the downstairs cloakroom. She was violently sick.

 

Sarah tried to clear her brain. Consciousness returned slowly. Something was different. Her mouth felt dry, her tongue heavy and wooden, her throat parched. She remembered the injection. Obviously she'd been drugged. Something had changed, but what? In her drowsy state it took her a long time before she could work it out. Several times she felt she was on the point of solving the mystery when she fell asleep again.

She was now tied to a chair. The ropes were still fastened to her wrists and ankles. The hood was still over her head. Her neck hurt. She moved slightly, as much as her bonds would allow. Something rustled. She moved again and heard the same noise, faint but definite. Was that her making the sound? She wasn't wearing anything that rustled. She moved again; again the rustle. She was definitely making the sound, but how?

As Sarah puzzled it over she felt another new sensation. Something was touching the skin of her neck. It felt like a necklace. But she never wore a necklace. She moved again, this time achieving a little more movement. There was something odd about all her clothing. It felt looser, less restrictive than the stretch jeans and tight-fitting top she'd been wearing.

‘So, you've woken up once more, dear Sarah.' She heard the soft voice again and shivered involuntarily. ‘I think it's time for us to meet properly.'

The hood was loosened and slipped off. The bright light dazzled her. Instinctively she lowered her head to avoid the glare. She
gasped in bewilderment. She had been right. She was wearing a full-length evening dress. A string of pearls had been placed round her neck. Long evening gloves and a matching evening bag lay on her lap.

She could tell she was no longer wearing her flat shoes, replaced by what she knew to be heeled shoes. Sarah squirmed slightly at the strangeness of it all and was shocked to find that even her underwear had been changed. The bra felt strange, new and unworn.

Her eyes had adjusted sufficiently, she looked up, her eyes widened, her brain reeled. Was she in the middle of some dreadful nightmare? Suddenly she knew it was only too real and the realization of what she was looking at came to her. Hot bile rose in her throat, threatening to choke her as she stared in horror at the nauseating sight before her. She had gone far beyond fear, into a realm of terror she could never have imagined. Sarah began to scream. She screamed until eventually her brain was no longer able to cope with the level of disgust and revulsion, and shut down. Sarah lapsed into merciful unconsciousness.

Rushton Engineering was on the outskirts of Helmsdale, where the red-brick town merged into the countryside. Every attempt had been made by the management to soften the ugly outlines of the factory. The depot was a small, specialist unit, with a workforce of no more than sixty. A large open area in front of the building had been planted with trees and shrubs, hiding the car park. This was where Nash found Mironova waiting.

As they crossed the yard to the company's offices, Mike noticed they received one or two curious looks from passing members of the workforce. He cast a sideways glance at his companion. For the first time, he realized that Clara, with her height, good figure and striking looks, was sufficiently like Sarah to merit a second glance. Her long blonde hair emphasised the similarity.

The Managing Director was eager to help. ‘Sarah's very popular. She's a good, efficient secretary, careful but quick. If you give her a job to do, you know it'll get done. She's cheerful, and gets on with staff and customers alike and she's not frightened of hard work. If there's a job to be done, Sarah stays until it's finished, even if it means working late. Our business is either famine or feast. We're either laying people off, or we're rushed off our feet, running three shifts 24/7.'

‘What's it like at present?'

‘We're fairly busy, about to get busier. We've a couple of contracts due for signing.'

‘In that case, we'll try not to get in the way, but we need to speak to every employee.'

‘No problem. There are some things more important than
making money. Just don't tell my shareholders I said that. There's a small dining suite at the end of the canteen where we entertain clients. You'll be able to talk to people there. I've left instructions with the departmental managers to send their workers for the mid-shift break in relays, and for the men to report to you first. It'll start in about ten minutes, so by 11.00 you'll have had chance to talk to everyone on this shift. If you come back later this afternoon, you can do the same with the other shift. We're only running two at the moment. I'm putting it up to three in a couple of weeks, but for now that should get everyone in front of you. The office workers take their lunch break in rotation anyway, so that'll follow on nicely.'

‘That sounds ideal.'

‘Planning and neatness: always been essential to me. Part of my nature, if you like, although my wife says it's an obsession.'

Nash glanced round the man's office. The desk had only a telephone and blotter on it. Elsewhere everything looked neat, spartan. Not a file or piece of paper out of place. Almost like a showroom display, Nash thought.

They'd spoken to more than half the shift when Clara nudged Nash. He looked up at the approaching man. His clothing marked him out from the rest of the workforce. Whereas they all wore boiler suits, this man was in street clothes.

He walked hesitantly forward, every step reluctant. His gait, a sort of shuffle, added to the furtive air. He was wearing a fawn zip-up jacket and equally bland slacks that failed to match. His shoes, old-fashioned brown lace-ups were dull, unpolished. Nash studied him keenly. Everything about his appearance and demeanour was nondescript. He peered from behind a pair of round, black-rimmed glasses whose high degree of magnification gave him a wide-eyed, mildly manic stare. He had a salt-and-pepper thatch of hair, of a style that defied description.

Nash gestured to the chair then noticed that the man wasn't looking at him. He was staring at Mironova, who shifted uneasily in her seat. ‘Sit down,' Nash's tone was sharp.

He sat down, his gaze still on Clara. ‘I've seen you before. I remember you.' Each word in the statement was innocuous; the whole conveyed a slightly sinister overtone.

‘That's correct, Mr Bailey,' Mironova told him coldly. ‘This is Detective Inspector Nash.' She turned to Nash. ‘This is Mr Roland Bailey, one of Sarah's neighbours.' Her eyes conveyed her message.

Bailey looked fleetingly at Nash and dropped his gaze to the table.

‘Why are you dressed differently?'

Bailey looked puzzled by the question. ‘I'm in the stores.' He spoke so softly they'd to strain to hear him.

‘So, Mr Bailey, not only are you one of Sarah's neighbours, but you also work in the same place.'

The statement sounded like an accusation.

‘Yes,' the monosyllable was no more than a mutter.

‘Then I expect you saw more of her than any of your colleagues. You walked the same way to and from work. You ever walk with her, Mr Bailey?'

‘Never.'

‘Sure about that? Not once? I mean, Sarah's a very attractive girl? It would be only natural to want to walk with her, talk to her. That would be neighbourly, surely?'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘But you see her all you want at Ash Grove, at home, in the garden, don't you? You ever see her sunbathing? Ever watch her? She's a nice looking girl, isn't she?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Come off it, you can't expect us to believe that. Living near a pretty girl and you reckon you've never noticed. She got you excited, did she, and now you're ashamed to admit it? Or don't you like women, Mr Bailey? Do your preferences lie elsewhere?'

Mironova, observing quietly, noticed that Nash's insinuations were beginning to needle Bailey. A fine bead of sweat gathered above his top lip, another on his brow.

‘No, they don't.' There was real emotion in his voice, this time disgust.

Nash tried again. ‘When did you last see Sarah?'

‘I don't remember, last week sometime.'

‘Was it Friday? Did you follow her home from work? Admiring her figure? Walking behind her? Getting excited, aroused even? Is that what happened?'

‘No, it wasn't! I didn't see her on Friday at all, definitely not on Friday.' This time there was alarm.

‘You'd see her on Friday evening as she went out. She'd have to pass your house on her way down Ash Grove, wouldn't she?'

‘I suppose so. But I didn't see her.'

‘Why was that? I don't think you'd miss the chance to look out for her.'

‘I didn't see her, I tell you. I wasn't home on Friday night.' The admission was torn from him. For a moment Nash thought Bailey was about to add more.

‘Where were you?'

The question remained unanswered so long Nash was about to repeat it, when Bailey said, ‘Netherdale.'

‘Whereabouts?'

‘I went to the pictures.' The words were no more than a mumble.

‘You're going to have to speak up. Where did you say?'

There was definite colour in his face as Bailey snapped, ‘At the pictures.'

Mironova spoke for the first time. ‘But the Netherdale cinema's closed for renovation, Mr Bailey.'

The glance Bailey shot Clara reminded Nash of a rabbit confronted by a fox. ‘So, where did you go?' Nash asked.

‘I went to a club.' All trace of colour had gone. Now he looked ashen.

‘The Gaiety Club, by any chance?' Mironova asked.

Bailey returned to monosyllables. ‘Yes.'

Nash pressed him. ‘What was the title of the film?'

‘I don't remember.' The unspoken message was clear.

‘Perhaps it's one you'd prefer not to say in front of my sergeant?' The riot of colour in Bailey's cheeks spoke volumes. ‘Is that the case?'

‘Yes, I suppose so.'

‘Could anyone vouch for you being there? Another member? Someone who works there?'

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘What time did you leave? In time to see Sarah on her way home? Get a bit confused by what you'd just been watching? Wonder if Sarah might do the sort of things the girls in the movie did? Try to get her to do the same with you?'

‘I've told you. I never saw her. Not on Friday. I didn't, I swear it. I was in Netherdale all night.'

Bailey's tone was a mixture of nervousness bordering on alarm, but with something added. Something Nash could not pinpoint. All he could be certain of was that somewhere in Bailey's vehement denial there was a lie.

The interview had taken far longer than the others and Nash judged it time to bring it to a close, before Bailey became cause for gossip. ‘That's all for now. I may want to speak to you again. Send the next man in.'

Bailey rose shakily and walked towards the door. He looked back. Nash saw him stare, not at him but at Clara. The expression on his face was fleeting, but it made Nash shudder.

Their interviews were concluded by one o'clock. During the short drive to Helmsdale police station, Clara asked Mike his opinion of Bailey. ‘He's everything you said and a lot more besides. For my money, if anything's happened to Sarah, Bailey has to be the prime candidate. The Gaiety Club's a porn house, isn't it?'

‘Yes. They show some of the hardest stuff on the market. They were raided by Vice a couple of years back, just before you arrived here. It was rumoured they were showing snuff movies, but they didn't find anything. The only reason they get away with it is because it's a members-only club.'

Nash grinned. ‘Your choice of words could be better, but I get the point. I'm willing to place a small bet with you that Bailey's name appears on the Sex Offenders Register when we eventually get it.'

‘That's a bet I'm not prepared to take.'

‘If he's not, then it's only a matter of time. I reckon he's capable of almost anything evil. Unfortunately, we can't arrest someone for the look in their eyes.'

‘If I never see him again, I'll not lose sleep over it.'

‘There's another thing about Roland Bailey that worries me. For all he got a bit agitated, beneath it he was well in control of himself. That may be down to a clear conscience. Then again, it might be because he has no conscience.'

‘What do we do next?'

‘We'll see what the search parties have found, if anything. I suspect the answer's nothing, because your squawk-box hasn't
gone off. Then I want to look through the evidence we have so far. I'm going to let you and Pearce come back here and interview the workers on the other shift. After that, I'd like you to call on Mrs Kelly and update her. It's going to be a long day, but we should get a bit of relief tomorrow.'

Nash swung the car into the police station car park. ‘We might as well see if they've had any results at the desk.'

Mironova frowned. ‘You're not expecting much, I hope. It's usually a collection of nutters, cranks and well intentioned no-hopers. '

‘You never know your luck in a big city.'

Inside reception, it seemed Mironova was going to be proved right. A young, harassed-looking constable was attempting to placate an elderly man intent on telling his story to ‘someone in charge'.

The visitor was in that condition referred to locally as ‘market fresh'.

‘Listen,' the man demanded, with only the slightest slur in his voice, ‘I've got news. Summat important to tell. Might be very important.'

‘Yes, Mr Turner, you've told me that already. Several times, in fact. Why not tell me what this important information is?'

He wasn't about to divulge so priceless a pearl to just anyone. ‘Wouldn't you like to know,' he told the constable, wagging a finger at him. ‘Bur 'am not tellin'. Not tellin' you. I'm only tellin' someone important, in charge like! Somebody who's in charge of all this.' He gestured round the room.

‘That'll be me then,' Nash said from behind him. ‘How can I help?'

The constable looked up, his relief obvious.

Startled by this unexpected assault from the rear, Turner wheeled round, with near calamitous results. They watched in amusement as he staggered in a Zorba-like dance down the length of the room. He steadied himself, grinned a trifle sheepishly, and walked with elaborately cautious steps back. ‘Who're you?'

Nash took an involuntary half pace backwards. He liked Theakston's bitter but not second-hand. ‘I'm Detective Inspector Nash; I'm leading this enquiry. Is that important enough?'

‘An' who's this,' he leered at Clara. ‘She yer girl friend then?'

‘This is Detective Sergeant Mironova. She's also involved in the investigation,' Mike's severe tone disguised his desire to burst out laughing.

Turner inspected Mironova. ‘Well, say what y' like, I reckon yer a bit of alright, lass. Y'can lock me up any time you like, day or night.'

‘Thank you. That's very kind,' Clara told him politely.

‘So what is it you have to tell us?'

‘What? Oh yes, 'ave summat to tell yer. How the devil did you find out? You must be a bloody good detective.'

‘You told us so, Mr Turner,' Nash reminded him patiently.

‘Did I? Well, after all, that's why 'am 'ere. Well now we've got that settled, I'll be off. Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Min … in … Mini … Miniver.'

‘Mironova,' Clara corrected him.

‘You still haven't said why you're here, Mr Turner,' Nash reminded him.

‘What? Oh no, yer right, silly me. Well, it were like this, see. Last Friday, Friday night, I went fer a pint or two at T' Horse and Jockey, at end of High Street, tha' knows. Ah were there until Barry told me it were time to bugger off home to t' wife,' Turner paused and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I told him, it's nivver time to go home to her, but he insisted. So ah had to walk home.'

‘What time was this?' Nash asked.

Turner's frown deepened. ‘Now that's a bloody good question. Ah'm not sure. Barry might remember. I'd 'ad a few by then,' he added defensively.

‘You set off to walk home,' Nash prompted him.

‘Aye, you're right, ah did, but ah 'ad to stop for a Jimmy. Barry threw me out before I'd a chance. So ah walked round the relief road,' Turner giggled. ‘Looking for somewhere to relieve myself. That's when I saw it,' he told them triumphantly.