Identity Crisis (13 page)

When they eventually left the house, Nash turned to her as soon
as they were out of Dawson’s hearing. ‘I don’t know what the hell to make of that bloke. He seems to have no feelings whatsoever. Certainly not for his wife. Although there is something he’s not happy about. Did you notice? What did you make of him?’

‘I just thought he was unfeeling. He’s so cold he made me shiver. I had to remind myself he was the closest person to the victim. For all the interest he took, he might have been reading about something that had happened to a complete stranger as reported in a newspaper. What do you make of those photos? Fairly conclusive, don’t you agree?’

Nash’s reply surprised her. ‘Actually, I’m not sure what to make of them. I want you to get them across to the forensic guys in Netherdale for testing, together with the envelope. Leave the evidence with them, but bring me a photocopy of all three. I want to examine them and compare them with the others we have on file.’

‘Are you doubting that they show Vanda Dawson is being held by the Cremator?’

‘That’s certainly how it appears on the face of it. But maybe that’s what we’re intended to believe.’

‘You think this might be a copycat? Christ, Mike, it was bad enough with one Cremator roaming the country. Two would make it a nightmare.’

‘I agree. That’s why I want those copies as soon as you can possibly get them to me. Think of it as more urgent than urgent.’

Nash placed the photos and envelope into an evidence bag from his kit in the back of the Range Rover. He sealed and signed it before passing it to Clara, then waited until she had cleared the drive before he drove off. As he was turning the car round, he caught a glimpse of Dawson watching him from the kitchen window. The accountant’s face registered absolutely no emotion.

As he drove slowly up the drive, Nash’s thoughts were all on the missing woman, and the shocking content of the photos. No matter how their examination of the files might have prepared them, the sight of those images was devastating. And if he and Clara had been so affected by them, how had Dawson managed to view them so calmly? It was almost as if the man was
incapable of any emotion. Was that something to do with the state of the marriage? Perhaps even the cause of the decline in the relationship.

Nash was far too deep in thought to notice that his progress along the lane was being observed. Even had he been on the lookout, he would have struggled to spot the watcher concealed in the dense undergrowth close to the entrance to the drive, for the man had plenty of experience in the art of concealment. He waited until Nash’s car was out of sight before pulling his mobile from his pocket.

‘Dawson’s had two visitors this morning, apart from the postman, that is. They’ve just left. One was a bloke who looked to be in his late thirties, early forties at the most, medium height, fair hair. The other was a woman, late twenties, stunning figure, blonde hair and from what I could see, a nice pair of tits. The bloke was driving a Range Rover, the woman was in an Astra.’

‘Why the detailed description? Is there something else about them I should know?’

The watcher grinned to himself; Tony wasn’t slow on the uptake. ‘I thought you’d be interested, or that you might recognize them from the descriptions. Added to the fact that the spotlight lenses on the Astra were blue.’

‘A police car?’

‘Yes, and judging by their appearance I’d say CID, but what would they want with Dawson? Is that why we’re keeping an eye on him?’

‘I don’t think it has anything to do with us at this stage. Jerry said the copper who came to the shop was talking about Dawson’s wife having gone missing. Let’s hope that’s all it is. Nevertheless it shows how important it is to keep our eye on Dawson.’

‘Is there anything else you want me to do?’

His boss knew exactly what the man was suggesting. ‘Not at this stage. I’ll report what’s happened up the line and see what reaction I get. I don’t suppose you happen to have a camera with a telephoto lens on you?’

‘Not in my pocket, but there’s one in the car.’

‘Good, keep it handy. I want photos of any visitors.’

Shortly after he’d ended the conversation and returned from retrieving the camera from his car, the watcher saw Dawson leave the cottage. He cursed, thinking he’d have to make a hurried half-mile dash to his car, assuming that Dawson was going out. He watched closely as the accountant walked over to the old mill. Dawson cast glances to left and right, giving the procedure a furtive air. Once he’d unlocked the door, instead of opening both halves, he vanished inside. The watcher relaxed. Obviously Dawson wasn’t intending to leave. He wasn’t close enough to hear whether Dawson had locked the door and dared not risk discovery by attempting to find out. He settled back in his vantage point and waited.

He glanced at his watch as Dawson emerged. Twenty-five minutes had elapsed since he’d gone inside. He hadn’t taken anything into the building, nor had he brought anything out. So, what had he been doing in there? The watcher scratched his head. It was a puzzle. Of course, Dawson might have been tinkering with his car, but somehow the man didn’t seem the type. Besides which, the usual process was to run the engine when you’d finished, which would need the doors to be open. He reported the incident in another short phone call, but his boss could offer no explanation for Dawson’s actions either.

Nash found a fax on his desk from Lancashire Constabulary containing the statements of the security guards. Attached to it was a note commenting on their health and the state the men were in. The conclusion had been made that they were extremely unlikely to have been involved in the hijack. Nash filed the report and turned his attention to the Cremator photos.

He took them from the files and spread them out on the table in the CID room. When Mironova returned from Netherdale, he and Viv were studying them. She passed him the envelope she was carrying. ‘These are copies. They dusted the originals for prints before I left. There were none.’

‘I didn’t expect any, to be honest. Our man’s far too careful for that. Before we start, I have news for you.’ Nash told them about the chief constable’s conversation of the previous day, holding the name of their new boss back until the very end. When he eventually mentioned Jackie Fleming’s name, Clara let out a long whistle. Nash eyed her suspiciously. ‘What was that for?’

‘I was just thinking that Jackie Fleming’s done really well for herself. Reaching the rank she has, at such an early age. She’s not exactly bad looking, either, as I remember. Do you think you’ll be able to keep your mind on the job?’

Nash scowled furiously at her, his mood not helped by the sight of Viv trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin. ‘Jackie Fleming was someone I, in fact
we
, worked with on one case, that’s all.’

If Clara was intimidated by his tone or ferocious expression, it didn’t show. ‘I wonder if that will change, now you have to obey her every command.’

‘On the subject of work, do you think you might be willing
to do a spot? The chief constable’s budget doesn’t run to a gossip columnist, so I’m afraid you’ll just have to stick to the job you were appointed to do. In case that’s slipped your mind, it’s called detective work. Now, if you’re quite ready, let’s see what we’ve got.’

Clara grinned unrepentantly and winked at Pearce.

Nash slid the new photos out of the envelope and set them down alongside the others. All three bent over the table, inspecting the images. ‘They’re different,’ Clara and Viv exclaimed almost in unison.

‘The man in the Vanda Dawson photo. He’s wearing a mask but not a hood, like in the other photos,’ Clara pointed out. ‘And in the photo that shows him attacking her, he’s naked. In the others, he’s still clothed, even during the rape,’ she added.

‘Anything else?’

This time it was Viv who answered. ‘The petrol can is different. It’s not the same size or shape as the others.’

‘I agree.’ Nash smiled; listening to his team pooling ideas was something he enjoyed.

They scrutinized the images once more. ‘The funnel!’ Clara exclaimed triumphantly. ‘All the old photos show a funnel alongside the petrol can. It’s not there in the Vanda Dawson photo. Why is that, do you think?’

‘Could be any number of reasons,’ Viv suggested. ‘He might simply have forgotten it. Or it could have been put down outside the camera shot. What puzzles me is why the need for a funnel?’

‘You don’t want to know, Viv,’ Nash said quietly.

Pearce and Mironova stared at him in horror. ‘You don’t mean he pours petrol down their throats when he sets fire to them?’ Viv asked.

Nash shook his head. ‘Remember, part of the reason for the fire, in fact I’d suggest the main reason for it, is to cover up the evidence of the rape, because that would yield DNA which could trap him. If you check out the description of the bodies in those files’ – Nash pointed to the stack on the corner of the table – ‘you’ll see that the fire damage is worst around the groin area. This isn’t only the most sadistic and perverted killer I’ve ever
heard of, he’s as cunning and careful, as he is cruel. He takes no chances whatsoever. That’s part of the reason he’s still at large. If it wasn’t for the photographs he sends to his victims’ relatives, we wouldn’t even know for sure what ordeals he puts those poor women through.’

Clara heard Viv ask, ‘Is there another reason you think the funnel might be missing, Mike?’

She replied before Nash had chance. ‘It might be because the photographer wasn’t aware all the previous photos had a funnel in them.’

It was a few seconds before the significance of her words struck home. ‘You don’t think this is the same attacker? You think this is a copycat?’

Viv’s question raised another in Clara’s mind. ‘If he’s shown actually raping Vanda Dawson; that must mean someone else was present to take the photo.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Nash pointed to the photo in question. ‘That could have been taken with a delay timer with the camera on a tripod. Alternatively, the photo could have been taken by a third party. Which would mean it isn’t a copycat. It would mean the Cremator has an apprentice. But there are a couple of other differences that tend to suggest Clara’s copycat theory might be the right one.’

‘I thought we’d got them all,’ Viv stared at the photos again. ‘Go on, tell us your thoughts.’

‘First, the cloth covering what might be called the altar. It’s a different colour to the one used in the other photos.’ Nash pointed to the part of the photograph, ‘Look, the shade is completely different, and the pattern too.’

‘The room is different as well.’ Clara was looking at the other photo. ‘In fact this set of photos shows two different rooms. One’s a bedroom, the other a sort of barn. In all the others, it’s the same room in each, but much smaller, more like a cellar.’

‘Good point, Clara.’ Nash turned to Pearce. ‘You didn’t see it, but the envelope the Vanda Dawson photos came in was white. All the ones in those files are described as buff. Of course, you could argue the Cremator ran out of buff envelopes and had to
switch to white, but somehow I don’t believe that’s the case. For one thing, he’s too organized. Take it together with all the other differences and I think we might be talking about a different perpetrator. The final and most important difference is the evidence we don’t have.’

‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’

Nash looked at Pearce. ‘If you exclude the first of the Cremator’s victims, all the other women were known to be married. When the killer sent those gruesome photographs, he also included their wedding ring, sawn in two. This fact has never been made public. Only the victims’ partners and the detectives involved in the investigation knew that. Which suggests that Vanda Dawson’s abductor didn’t know either.’

‘All of which doesn’t make our job any simpler, even if we’re right,’ Clara pointed out.

‘And it doesn’t make the chances of finding Vanda Dawson alive any better,’ Nash added grimly. ‘In fact, I’m afraid there’s little else we can do at the moment, except to keep searching and hope we get lucky, or until we get a phone call from someone to report the finding of a body.’ He reflected for a moment. ‘I’ll have to face Dr Grey and tell her about these’ − he indicated the photos − ‘it’s only fair she should know and be prepared for what might happen.’

‘Do you want me to tell her?’ Clara offered. ‘I could pop into her hotel on my way home.’

‘I think that would be best,’ Nash said thoughtfully. ‘I spoke to her last night, but at present she doesn’t think much of me.’

Nash was about to leave, but remembered something. ‘About tomorrow. One of us ought to go back to Mill Cottage first thing. Will you attend to that?’

Even at night, even in solitary, there is always sound. Always the noise that accompanies human occupation of an enclosed space. There is always movement too, movement and light. Illumination is necessary at all times, to keep an eye on those under guard. This is particularly so for those prisoners regarded as posing a threat to others, or of being in danger themselves.

Thus, the prisoner’s cell was constantly illuminated. He was a man the authorities felt merited close attention at all times. He was classified as the most dangerous inmate in a prison block filled with dangerous inmates. A man trained to kill, and one who had killed and killed again, whether directly, or by ordering executions carried out by others.

In this instance, the precautions put in place by those charged with guarding him actually worked in his favour. His cell was lit both day and night. Had he been afraid of the dark, he would have been able to sleep soundly. The fact that he didn’t sleep well had nothing to do with either the light or a guilty conscience. It was due to the ever-present pain from his leg, the one that had been smashed when he was arrested and had never mended properly. The benefit his disturbed sleep patterns gave him, arose from his ability to send and receive text messages on the smuggled mobile phone.

The text he received contained disturbing information. It read; ‘potential problem with D. Blues are sniffing at his office. Wife disappeared. Have him under 24h ob. Blues turned up at house this am. Advise. T.’

His reply contained only two words, and was somewhat less than grammatically correct. ‘What cops?’

It was only minutes later when his screen lit up again. If a prison officer had passed at that moment they would have wondered at the cause of the fury evident in his face as he read the contents. ‘No name. Male, med height & build, fair, 40ish. Plus blonde female, well stacked, nice legs.’

The prisoner’s breath hissed through his teeth. ‘Nash!’ he whispered. ‘Nash and Mironova.’

It was several minutes before he trusted himself to reply. Even then, even when he felt calmer, he noticed that his hands were still trembling slightly. He began to type, slowly, carefully, glancing occasionally across the cell at the peephole in the door. ‘Cop is Nash. V. Dangerous. His sidekick, Mironova. Also dangerous. Eliminate Nash if chance. If D poses a threat, take him out.’

He paused for a few seconds, considering the words, before adding, ‘Deal with Mironova too.’

The recipient stared at the last text message. It was about what he’d expected. He picked up the phone. Although it was the early hours of the morning, he knew his team would be hard at work. ‘Jerry, it’s Tony. We need a meeting. I’ve had instructions.’

‘When do you suggest?’

‘As soon as possible. The situation is urgent, could become critical. Tomorrow is half-day closing; that would be ideal. Say three o’clock at my place?’

‘I’ll get on to it.’

Henrietta’s Costumes was in the centre of a terrace on the west of Helmsdale market place. The shop sold a wide range of chain store and mail order goods, mainly end of line items and some seconds. Offering these at a fraction of the original ticket price had established a niche market, attracting the thrifty, budget-conscious local residents and tourists alike.

The owner, whose name was Julie, not Henrietta, was always first to arrive in the morning, although her two assistants were never far behind. She parked in the small courtyard to the rear of the shop and lifted her briefcase from the car. It was heavy, carrying the floats she made up daily for the two tills. Julie was concentrating on the mental list of jobs she had to complete or delegate prior to her departure the following Monday on her buying trip for the shop’s autumn collection.

Her attention was so distracted that she reached the back door and was fumbling with the shop keys before she noticed that all was not as it should be. The door had been forced, and none too professionally by the look of it. A long strip of bare splintered wood contrasted starkly with the dark green paint. ‘Oh Shit!’ Julie breathed, language her customers would have been shocked to hear from her. She paused for a moment, listening intently, whilst trying to block out the sound of traffic on the road behind her.

The small room directly inside the back door was used purely for the storage of low value items necessary for the smooth running of the shop. Items such as mobile hanging rails, clothes hangers, display dummies and carrier bags in varying sizes, along with advertising signage. All were necessary, but of little
intrinsic worth to anyone but those employed in the business.

As such, the room was the only part of the premises not covered by the alarm system. Thieves might not necessarily be aware of the fact. After several minutes without hearing the strident tones of the alarm, Julie relaxed slightly. What had happened looked like an inconvenience rather than a disaster. Her stock level fluctuated, and could be worth anything from thirty to fifty-thousand pounds dependent on the time of year.

The loss of stock would have reclassified the incident as a disaster, with the inevitable knock-on effect on her insurance premiums. Margins in the business were tight enough, without having to cope with avoidable increases in overheads. Nevertheless, dealing with this was an unwelcome addition to the list of jobs she had been compiling. Instead of opening the door, Julie took out her mobile and dialled 999, something she had never done before.

DC Pearce wasn’t particularly happy. This was an unusual state of affairs, for Viv was usually easy-going and relaxed about life. His dissatisfaction was partly because he felt he had been marginalized in the current enquiries. He wasn’t sure why, or whom to blame, which made his sense of injustice difficult to cope with. Lacking the opportunity to clear the air, his grievance festered.

This morning had seemed like the last straw. With the probability of a sadistic serial killer on the loose, he had been handed the task of investigating a break-in at a clothes shop where the informant had already indicated that nothing of value had been taken. The trivial nature of the crime stoked the fire of dissatisfaction within him; he wondered why a uniformed officer had not been detailed to attend. He turned and walked out of the CID suite without a word to Nash. Mironova was on her way into the suite, having been to Mill Cottage to intercept the post. As Pearce brushed past her, Clara’s cheerful greeting got no response.

She looked across at Nash, who was watching the DC stride briskly down the corridor, his gait reflecting the anger within him. ‘What’s Viv seen his arse about?’ she asked.

Nash shook his head. ‘I think he regards the job I’ve just given
him as beneath his dignity. I’ll have a word with him later and explain that we don’t investigate the crimes we want to, we investigate those we have to.’