Chosen (9 page)

Nash signalled to Mironova, with a nod of his head towards the ward entrance. He was about to move away from the bedside, when he turned back. His tone changed. ‘Do you know all the club's members?'

Machin looked wary, obviously suspecting another trap, but eventually answered, ‘Most of them.'

‘I mean by their real names. Not “John Smith”, “Fred Brown”, “Tom Jones” or whatever they sign in as.'

‘I know most of them,' Machin admitted, his wariness compounded by perplexity.

‘Were you working last Friday?'

‘Yes?' Machin was now totally mystified.

‘Do you know Roland Bailey?'

Machin tried to laugh, his bewilderment replaced by scorn. ‘Friend of yours, is he? It figures.'

‘I take it from that, you do know him?'

‘Yes, I know him. He's a complete wanker.'

‘Was Bailey in the club last Friday night?'

‘No, not him. The stuff they were showing was far too soft for Bailey. He likes the real hard stuff. If it's got plenty of S & M in it, so much the better. Sits there in the dark and wanks away, imagines nobody can see him.'

‘I want you to think this over very carefully. I need to be absolutely certain beyond any doubt that Roland Bailey wasn't in the Club at any time last Friday night.'

‘I just said so, didn't I? There were only about a dozen punters all night, and Bailey wasn't one of them. Why, what's he done?'

‘Never mind. If you change your mind and want to tell me who beat you up, call Helmsdale station.'

‘Don't hold your fucking breath,' Machin called after them.

Mironova shook her head in disgust. ‘So Bailey was lying about being at the Gaiety.'

‘Yes, and if he was prepared to use a visit to the Gaiety Club as an alibi, what was he doing?'

‘You mean, what's worse than watching blue movies in a porn house?'

‘Exactly. We're going to have to pull Bailey in and talk to him again. In the meantime, I want to know if we've any news on that
PNC link. I'll phone Tom, remind him we're going to the pub and the night club tonight, see if anyone remembers anything, although I reckon it's a long shot.'

Nash's call to Netherdale took only a few minutes. He put his mobile away and shook his head.

Clara watched him. ‘Not bad news, Mike. I don't need it. Not only that, but I haven't eaten yet.'

‘Sorry. Tom reckons the link won't be repaired until tomorrow. Then we can get Viv back working on it.'

‘What exactly is he going to be looking for? You've never mentioned it. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were being secretive.'

Nash explained the theory behind the search. Clara's eyes widened with shock and astonishment. ‘What made you think of that?'

‘It was something Jack Binns said. When I mentioned the state Mrs Kelly was in. He said it was difficult dealing with bereaved relatives. Something in his voice, the way he said it, suggested he was speaking from experience. It stuck in my mind, and later I tackled him about it. Turns out he'd to deal with another missing girl case a year or two back. A girl called Megan Forrest, I think the name was. So I asked him for details, and right in the middle of what he was saying, he told me how much like Sarah Kelly the other girl was in appearance. That set me thinking. What if there was someone out there, a predator with a taste for a particular type of victim. A killer who selects his targets because of their looks.'

She sat in silence for several moments when he'd finished. When she eventually spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper, ‘Dear God, Mike, I hope you're wrong.'

 

It was almost 7 p.m. when they reached The Red Dragon. The bar was no more than a quarter full. He ordered a round of drinks and joined the others at a table.

‘We're a bit early to start with the photo parade, aren't we?' Pearce glanced around the sparsely populated bar. Nash followed his gaze. The Red Dragon was like many others he'd seen. From the red and blue patterned carpet, the dark wood balustrades separating the dining area from the bar, to the water-colour prints of
Dales' scenery churned out in their thousands by unknown artists with indecipherable signatures. It was all depressingly familiar. Even the beer tasted more chemical than organic.

‘It is a bit. We might as well grab something to eat. We'll not get chance later.' Over the meal they discussed strategy for the evening's work.

‘Right, you two make a start. I'll sit here and watch the customers' reactions. If anyone starts getting fidgety or acting suspiciously we'll pull them over and have a chat.'

They worked methodically, starting with the drinkers before moving on to the diners in the alcoves and finally speaking to any newcomers who drifted in. By the end of the operation it was almost closing time. Although a few of the pub's clientele recognized Sarah's photo and a couple of them even remembered seeing her the previous week, the task yielded no fresh information.

They moved on to Club Wolfgang which was in the first storey of a building whose ground floor consisted of three shop units. Entrance to the club was via a door at the end of the building. As they climbed the stairs Nash paused. ‘Have either of you checked the employees out on the PNC?'

‘Yes, they're clear. We checked the pub staff and landlord as well,' Clara told him.

In a small reception area, the manager was acting as receptionist. The regular girl had flown to Majorca at teatime. Alongside the reception was one of the club's two bouncers. Nash explained the purpose of their visit and the manager promised to cooperate in whatever way he could.

Club Wolfgang would never class as a venue for a big night out. The club comprised one room, scarcely bigger than the bar they had just left. Into that space was crammed a DJ console, seating area with nine tables, tiny dance floor, and a bar about ten feet in length. The cramped, mildly claustrophobic effect was compounded by the low ceiling. Across this was strung a wide-meshed net interwoven with tiny, white, fairy lights that flashed on and off in a chaser pattern. Helmsdale itself was small scale, no reason to expect its solitary ‘nightspot' to be any different. Nash stationed himself at one end of the bar whilst the other two prepared to adopt the same procedure as in the pub. The plan was amended, however, when the
club's DJ suggested a halt in proceedings to explain to the punters what they needed. This ensured they didn't miss anyone and stopped them getting twitchy.

They were no more successful than they'd been at the pub. Pearce was left in the reception area to intercept any latecomers. ‘Get away as soon as you can, Viv. Come in a bit later in the morning. Hopefully we'll be back on-line by then.'

 

Nash and Clara spent most of Saturday morning reviewing paperwork. Pearce came in to report progress, or lack of it. ‘We've hit a few snags. To be honest, it's a right bloody mess. It'll be much later before we're through. What do you want me to do when I've finished?'

Nash looked at Clara. ‘We've got to do it, Mike. What's more, we've got to work on that information the minute it's available. Whatever time of day or night that is. You know that, as well as I do.'

‘What time do you think you'll be done, Viv?'

‘Seven?' he shrugged. ‘Eight o'clock maybe. The problem is—'

‘Go on.'

‘Well, I've promised to go out tonight, and I don't want to call off at the last minute.'

‘Who is she?' Clara asked.

Pearce tapped the end of his nose.

‘Okay, so I was being nosey. But who wouldn't be, with all my colleagues acting like tom cats on the prowl.'

‘So, it'll be up to us, Clara,' Nash interjected hastily. ‘I've an idea. If I nip off home early and cook us a meal, you can bring the computer printouts over when Viv's compiled them. That way we get something to eat before we start on them, and he can go meet his queen. That is, if you're alright with that arrangement.'

‘Why not? Did you think it'd damage my reputation, being seen going into your place at night?'

‘Sort of,' Nash admitted.

‘I don't think people worry much about that sort of thing any more. Tell Romeo here to get a move on though. I don't fancy eating after midnight.' She noticed Nash masking a grin. ‘What is it?'

‘I was only thinking it might not damage your reputation but it would do mine the world of good.'

‘Mike, the best advertising agency in the world couldn't do anything for your reputation.'

 

It was a few minutes after 9 p.m. when Nash's doorbell rang. She walked past him without a word and placed a document box on the chair. ‘There are fourteen cases,' she stated flatly. ‘I haven't looked at them. I thought that could wait. I'm starving. What have you got for me?'

‘Chicken risotto.' He held up a bottle. ‘Glass of wine?'

‘Just one, I'm driving.' They ate in silence, aware of the task that lay ahead. When she'd finished, Clara pushed her plate away. ‘If you ever get kicked out of the police force you could make a living as a chef.'

‘Shall we start?' Nash cleared the dining table whilst Clara fetched the box.

‘What are we looking for exactly?' She dug out the stack of Missing Persons documents, printed off and placed neatly in individual files by Viv.

‘Anybody with no possible reason for going missing. Any similarities to the Sarah Kelly case, no matter how small.' Before he sat down, Nash refilled their glasses. Clara was already engrossed in the first file and didn't notice.

Pearce had arranged the folders chronologically. The first file Nash opened was dated 1991, eighteen years previously. He read the two-page report on Julie Cummings. The information was sparse, but contained some similarities. Julie was about the same age when she vanished. The home circumstances were similar, with a divorced father living a long distance away. There was no apparent reason for either girl to abscond. He turned to the photograph and, although the quality of the print wasn't brilliant, he saw she was blonde.

Thoughtfully, Mike turned to Clara. He gave brief details of the file he'd read. ‘That was in Lincolnshire, though. What have you got?'

‘This one's dated 1994 and it's from Northumberland. The name on the folder is Sue Blatchford. There's not a lot of hard information in here. The disappearance isn't explained.'

Nash opened another file, that regarding the disappearance of Danielle Canvey in 1998. This was an original file, much bulkier, and contained a far more detailed report. ‘This one's local. Viv's
obviously thought to dig it out from the records,' he told her. ‘Listen to this, Clara. Danielle Canvey was walking home from the tennis club after a game of doubles with her twin sister Monique. The following morning a man exercising his dog discovered the unconscious body of Monique Canvey lying on the path near the cricket field. Monique had suffered severe head injuries, the result of a savage assault with some form of blunt instrument, most probably a lump hammer. Although she survived the attack, she spent several weeks in a coma. There's a note added much later that says she suffered complete amnesia covering the forty-eight hours prior to the assault and, following her recovery, her physical health was frail and her nerves equally fragile.'

Nash looked across the table. ‘This is what the officer leading the enquiry wrote. “The sisters quarrelled bitterly in the weeks leading up to the incident. The cause was Danielle's accusation that Monique had stolen her boyfriend”.' Nash slammed his palm on to the table. ‘From that, the bloke deduced, without the slightest amount of circumstantial evidence, that Danielle attacked her twin sister. That she ran away through guilt and fear of the consequences of her act.'

Nash shook his head in anger and disbelief at such shoddy police work, at the sheer bungling incompetence surrounding the enquiry. ‘Where did he think she went? There's a note to the effect that French police had been asked to check with Danielle's grandparents to see if the girl had turned up at her maternal family home. How the hell did he think she was going to get there?' Nash muttered. ‘Dressed in tennis gear and without a passport? Not only that, but who takes a lump hammer to a tennis match?'

‘Hang on a minute. Didn't Mrs Kelly say Sarah played tennis?'

‘Yes, another link?' He put the file aside in disgust. ‘I wish I'd been in Helmsdale then.'

‘But these files are from long before you came. And in any case, most of them aren't even from around here. I'm still not certain why we're looking at them. There seems to be little to connect them.'

It was slow going but by now they each had a pile of files they felt had some slight connection. ‘Tell me what you've got,' he pointed to the folder in front of Clara.

Clara turned to her file. ‘This one's dated 2001.' As she picked the file up the page containing the photograph slid on to the table top.

Nash picked it up and glanced at it. ‘That's come out of the Sue Blatchford file, I think.'

‘No, it hasn't. The name's printed below it. It's Louise Harland, she lived in The Lake District. It's the one I'm about to read.'

Nash and Clara looked at one another. ‘Get all the photos out of the files we think have similarities,' Nash instructed her, ‘then put them alongside one another.'

Clara assembled all the photos, including one of the attack victim, Monique Canvey. Nash brought a picture of Sarah Kelly from his briefcase and laid it alongside. They studied the collection: eight photographs. Nash was breathing heavily as if he'd been running. Clara was almost hiccupping with distress.

‘Oh no!' Nash could hardly speak.

‘Mike, they're all.…' Clara's sentence tailed off into incredulous silence. Viewed together, the likeness between them was startling. They stared at the photos for a long time, trying to control their agitated emotions. When Nash was somewhat calmer, he pulled an A4 pad from his briefcase. Slowly, methodically, he began dictating a precis of the information in each of the files, which Clara wrote on the pad. Then he included the details of Sarah Kelly. It was a slow, laborious process, but at the end of it they knew they hadn't been mistaken.

As he stared at the photographs and their analysis, Nash felt he was once again seated in that car, in the alleyway, waiting. Then outside a pub, a nightclub, a railway station, a tennis club. Waiting for a girl to appear. Not just any girl, but the girl. The girl he'd selected.

Nash was in no doubt. ‘I'm sorry to say it, but it looks as if I'm right. There is a predator on the loose, Clara. A ruthless predator with an insatiable lust for a particular type of young woman. A killer with the capacity to plan, and execute, each abduction with meticulous care. A killer who leaves no evidence behind, not even a clue that the girls have been taken.'

‘But they're all from such different locations, Mike. I don't see how it could have happened. How would he pick them? If these
are all abductions, they surely can't have been opportunist crimes.'

‘No, they were obviously all carefully planned, by someone who knew the victims' movements, knew their habits intimately. But as to how he knew that, I've no idea. I think we're only beginning to scratch the surface of this case.'

‘Another thing I don't understand. What you're saying, what we've got to deduce from these files, is that the man we're after is a sex killer. A pervert with an uncontrollable lust. If that's the case, why is there such a gap between each of these cases? I don't believe he'd be able to contain his desire for so long.'

‘No, I admit that has me baffled too.'

‘And what you're saying, Mike,' Clara paused, ‘what we've found out from these files means Sarah Kelly's his latest victim? You're saying Sarah Kelly's dead?'

‘I'm afraid that's exactly what it means.'

Nash felt suddenly weary. This revelation confirmed their worst fears. ‘That's enough for tonight. You'd better get off home.'

Clara pointed to her empty glass. ‘How much wine have I had?'

Nash looked across into the kitchen at the worktop. Their first bottle was empty; the second was only half full. ‘Oh hell! Three glasses I reckon.'

‘That means I'm well over the limit.'

‘I'll ring the station and get someone over to drive you home.'

‘Thanks, Mike, but no thanks. The gossips would really love that.'

‘What about a taxi?'

Clara gestured to the stack of files. ‘After what I've been reading in there, I don't fancy getting into a car at this time of night with a stranger. Not even with a taxi sign on the roof. I think I'll camp out on your lounge sofa, if you don't mind.'

‘Take the bed in the spare room.'

‘I'd forgotten how big this place is. Are you sure?'

Mike showed her to the bedroom, pausing at the door. ‘There's a robe on the back of the door if you need it. Good night, Clara.'

‘Good night, Mike.'

He undressed swiftly and climbed into bed. It was only then he remembered he'd not taken his tablets. They were in the kitchen.
He put his dressing gown on and went to retrieve them. It was a long time before sleep came. Their discoveries that evening had been disturbing.

 

‘Hello Mike.'

He stared at her in admiration. ‘God, you look lovely,' he told her before he could check the words.

She smiled. ‘What, even lovelier than the rather tasty Sergeant with the strange name, asleep next door; probably dreaming of you.'

‘How the hell do you know about Clara?'

She laughed aloud. ‘I know everything about you, Mike.'

She was sitting on the chair in his room. Her lovely tanned legs crossed; one tennis shoe moving gently as she swung that leg. Her long, soft, blonde hair was held back by a headband, the strip of black material contrasting pleasantly with her hair. He stared at her in speechless admiration. ‘I can even read your mind, Mike,' she told him. ‘Thank you for the compliment. But I don't think photographs ever do one justice, do you?'

He was dumbfounded. She'd voiced his precise thoughts.

‘Besides which, Mike,' she told him, her voice low, warm, slightly husky. ‘I wanted to look my best for you.'

She gestured to the white top and tennis skirt. ‘I put these on especially for you. I knew it was how you'd expect me to dress. I did it to please you, Mike, as a reward for not believing the lies about me. I had no one to tell until you came along. That other policeman wasn't interested in what had happened to me. But I knew you'd be different. You'd believe me. You do believe me, don't you?'

‘I don't know what to believe.'

‘Poor Mike. I must have come as such a shock to you, and you've so much worry, too. Perhaps this will help convince you,' she leapt to her feet and crossed the room with swift athletic grace. She bent over him and kissed him lightly on the lips.

 

Nash woke up suddenly and sat bolt upright in bed. He was panting as if he'd run a marathon. Sweat was streaming down his face and he felt ill. The bedside lamp was on. Had he switched it off after he got into bed or not? He couldn't be sure. He looked across the room to the chair. It was empty. He laid back down, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. The pillow was soaked in sweat.

A dream, a nightmare? ‘Danielle?' he whispered half hopefully, half fearfully. ‘Danielle.'

Was his imagination playing tricks? Was his mind becoming unhinged? For a fleeting second he thought he heard a sound, a faint sound. The sound of gently mocking laughter.

 

Nash wasn't certain whether he'd slept at all after the nightmare. By 7 a.m. he was wide awake. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He felt drained and exhausted, knew he'd be edgy all day. He threw the covers back. His limbs felt stiff and his joints ached. He paused alongside the chair and stared at it for a long time. He reached the door and stopped, remembering Clara. He looked around and located his dressing gown on the floor. He felt sure he'd dropped it on the chair last night. How had it got on the floor? Had it slipped off? What other explanation could there be? Nash's subconscious suggested one, but his brain rejected it. He put the robe on and headed for the kitchen.

‘If you're making coffee, can I have one, please?' Clara sounded husky with the drowsiness of sleep as she followed him in.

‘Of course.'

‘Give me two minutes to dress and I'll join you.'

‘Did you sleep alright?'

‘Pretty well, until about 3 a.m. Then I heard you call out and that woke me up. After that I kept dozing off and waking up.'

‘I'm sorry for disturbing you. I had a bad dream.'

‘Was it about this case?' Clara saw the movement in his face and knew she was right.

‘When did you start having dreams again?'

‘Last night was the first.'

‘Want to tell me?'

He described the vision he'd had of Danielle Canvey and what the girl had said.

Clara looked askance.

Nash smiled. ‘You mean you don't dream about me?'

‘No, Mike. It's you has the nightmares.'

‘Are you going home before we head for the office?'

‘I'll have to, although it'll make me late. I need a shower and a clean blouse.'

‘I can manage both, if you want.' Nash saw Clara's eyebrows lift questioningly. ‘I've still got some of Stella's clothes in my wardrobe. She was about the same size as you. Help yourself.'

‘Oh! I don't know. I didn't realize you still had any. I thought you might have, you know, sent them to a charity shop or something?' She paused, uncertain. ‘I could do it for you if you want, if it would make it easier?'

Nash ignored the offer. ‘There are towels in the airing cupboard. The clothes are in the wardrobe next to the window. Will you want some breakfast?'

‘Toast will do me.'

‘Just as well, that's all there is. It'll be ready when you've showered. '

Over breakfast they discussed how to handle the new information. ‘First we've to convince Tom we're not starting a wild goose chase. We'll set up a display in the Incident Room with all the girls' photos on it. Then we'll have to start digging for background on each case and, wherever possible, re-interviewing the relatives. Right, I'm off into the shower.'

He spent much longer than usual under the hot water, trying to ease some of his aches.

They left the flat a few minutes before 8 a.m. and arrived at Helmsdale police station ten minutes later. The CID suite was empty. Nash headed for the whiteboard that covered the end wall and took down the notices from it. Clara rummaged through the desk drawers until she found the items she was looking for and they set to work.