Identity Crisis (5 page)

‘Is that it?’

‘As far as I can see. My only question, is what did the parrot see? Was the bird repeating something he’d been taught,’ Clara paused and added grimly, ‘or something he heard for the first time on Thursday night.’

By comparison, the dining room looked untouched. Mironova turned to Jo. ‘I want you to sit in here whilst Sergeant Binns and I look round upstairs. Are you all right with that? It’s just that if there is anything to find, I don’t want to risk contaminating any evidence.’

‘I suppose so,’ Jo hesitated, ‘but you won’t be too long, will you?’

‘We’ll be as quick as possible, I promise.’

When Binns was sure they were out of earshot of the dining room, he said, ‘That was very impressive. In the lounge, I mean. Just like Nash at his best.’ He paused and looked round before asking, ‘What do you think about all this, Clara?’

Mironova had reached the landing; she turned. ‘It doesn’t look good,’ she admitted cautiously.

‘I think you know what I mean,’ Binns persisted. ‘It’s all getting to sound too familiar. From what I’ve read, that is.’

‘The Cremator?’

Binns nodded.

‘I’m trying hard not to think that way.’ Clara shuddered inwardly as she spoke. It was one of her abiding fears that she’d have to investigate a Cremator incident. The serial killer had struck four, or was it five times over several years? Clara couldn’t remember and at the moment it didn’t matter. Other serial killers had been more prolific, but the man dubbed the Cremator by the tabloid press was deemed to be one of the most sadistic in recent times.

The Cremator’s nickname arose from his practice of placing his victims on an altar-like rock, pouring petrol over them and setting fire to them. All this he duly photographed. Those photographs, which had been studied by detectives time after time,
revealed a man who hid his identity behind a mask and cloak, and who placed a series of black magic symbols around the site of the funeral pyre.

Other, yet more horrifying details of his crimes were less well known, although some journalists had broken them to their horrified readership. The fact that he sent the victims’ partners a photo showing him raping their loved one, then a further one showing the actual murder, had been leaked to the media. Although, the fact revealed by pathologists that at least three of his victims had been alive when he set fire to them, was known only to the investigating officers.

‘We don’t want to have to face that, not yet at least,’ Clara said firmly.

‘You have to admit it’s a possibility though. A woman on her own in a rural location taken at night. Everything about this bears the hallmarks of the Cremator’s other abductions.’

‘I know that, Jack. I just don’t want to go there. Not until I’ve eliminated every other explanation.’

‘There can’t be many of them.’

‘I know that, and with every fresh discovery the alternatives get fewer and fewer. If you’re right, we’ve only got a limited period of time.’

‘Before we get called to a dumpsite, you mean?’

‘Exactly, although with our force not having been involved, I can’t remember the precise details.’

‘I suppose we should think ourselves lucky we’ve escaped.’

‘Yes, and I’m hoping our luck hasn’t just run out.’

Mironova took the main bedroom first. There was nothing out of place. So much so that it barely looked lived in, more like a display unit in a furniture store. She walked carefully across to the large wardrobe on the wall furthest from the door. She opened the twin doors and stared at the clothing. There were seven suits, neatly stored in transparent suit protectors hanging from the top rail. Clara noticed that they appeared to be sorted by colour, from lovat green on the left, through brown to charcoal grey on the right. Alongside them, a further set of protectors contained a blazer and
flannels, a dress suit and a sports coat.

Below these was a series of business shirts, again neatly organized. The shelves at the right-hand side of the unit contained casual shirts, an array of knitwear, underwear, handkerchiefs and socks. Looking at the base of the wardrobe, Mironova saw a collection of shoes on a rail. All were highly polished. ‘That’s curious,’ she said, more to herself than Binns.

‘What is?’

She turned on her heel. ‘Follow me.’

Clara opened the door into the second double bedroom. The story there was completely different. On the chair by the window was a motley collection of discarded clothing. A denim skirt, a pair of jeans and a couple of tops, all accompanied by an assortment of knickers, three bras and a jumbled heap of tights. Mironova looked across at the bedside cabinet. She picked up the book that was lying on it. The author was a lady who had made an excellent living from writing a string of romantic novels. She looked across at Binns. ‘Any thoughts?’

‘Only to wonder what you’re thinking,’ Binns responded.

‘I’m trying to work out what significance there is, if any, in the fact that Mr and Mrs Dawson don’t share the same bedroom, and haven’t done so for some time to judge by the evidence. And, how significant it might be that his room is spotless and dust-free whilst his wife’s has a bit of dust on every surface. She keeps his room cleaner than her own, even when he’s away. Is that out of love, I wonder, or fear? He’s obviously obsessively neat and tidy, almost anal-retentive, you’ve only to see the way he has his suits filed to tell that. Vanda’s bedroom is far more normal. I think a word with Dr Grey about the state of the Dawson marriage might prove enlightening. Whether it has anything to do with her sister’s disappearance is another matter altogether.’

Consciousness returned. What had happened? She opened her eyes. It had no effect. Darkness was absolute. Her head felt muzzy, her mouth dry. She tried to remember. She’d been at home. The storm: was that what had happened? Had the storm caused some sort of a blackout? She was lying down now. But where had she been before? The lounge – that was the last thing she remembered – being in the lounge. Had she suffered some sort of an accident? Why was it so dark? And why was she lying like this? She wasn’t at all comfortable. Her arms were stretched above her head and outwards, diagonally. Her legs too were stretched apart. Why? She could feel some sort of cover over her and a soft surface below her body, could feel the soft material against her skin.

Shock gripped her. She was naked. But she was never naked. Not even in bed. Not even with her husband. Not that he’d have noticed. Hadn’t noticed for years. The thought of her nudity, the alarm it caused made her move. Or try to. It was then she felt the restraints. Shock changed gear. Moved up to panic.

She tried to work some saliva into the arid wasteland of her mouth. Tried to call out. Partial success: the loud cry came out as a muted croak. It was enough. She heard the rustle of movement. Another level of shock. Someone was there in the room with her. But who? And what room was this? As if in answer to the questions that were racing through her brain, a light came on directly overhead, hurting her eyes. She moved her head to avoid the beam. Blinking; trying to focus. It was then she saw the room’s other occupant. Dressed from head to toe in black, only the glitter of his eyes behind the slits in the mask showed he
was looking at her. Him? There was no way she could be sure her captor was male.

The blanks in her memory filled in. She had been watching TV, had heard sounds. Had started to get up from the chair: to investigate. Then seen the door handle turning. Then he’d opened the door. Then she’d seen him: dressed as he was now. Masked, like now. Terrifying, like now. Then she’d screamed. Screamed, although there was no one to hear – except him. Screamed for help she knew wouldn’t come. Screamed until he placed a pad over her mouth, her nose. She’d smelled something odd. That was her last memory. A chemical smell, she remembered thinking that before memory ceased. And that was all, until now. Until the terror returned.

Again, she tried to scream, to call out. No better than before. She took a deep breath; tried to moisten her lips. Her tongue felt wooden. Her lips parched and cracked. Tried to speak instead. ‘Who are you? What have you done to me? Why am I here? What do you want from me?’

The mask moved fractionally. He tilted his head to one side, as if considering her questions. She wasn’t sure he’d understood them; wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answers. She waited, trembling now. After a long moment, he moved forward. She shrank back as much as her restraints would allow. Looked wildly right and left; anything rather than look directly at him. It was then she realized she was lying on a bed. Her wrists and ankles secured to the metal frame of the bedstead.

She opened her mouth to scream again. Saw him shake his head and she stopped. Disobedience wasn’t an option. He pulled the duvet back. Stared down at her body. She squirmed, part embarrassment, mostly fear. He continued to stare. Despite the mask, she could tell his gaze was moving, shifting from one area to another, examining every inch of her. With her legs apart and her arms tied above her head, her whole self was exposed to his inspection. Somewhere deep within her, something curled-up in mortification.

He nodded. Was that approval, admiration even? But she didn’t
want his approval. Didn’t want his admiration. Didn’t want him near her. Didn’t want him looking at her. Didn’t want to be here. Because any doubts about why she was here were long gone. But she’d known that. Known it from the moment she woke up. Known it, but didn’t want to admit it, even to herself. She knew he was going to rape her. And worse. She was in the power of a sex maniac, alone and helpless with probably only a short while to live. Because she knew that was what they did. Once they’d taken all they wanted, once the thrill was over the victim had to be silenced. She had read so many cases and felt that easy sympathy for the victims that distance allows.

He had entered her home easily. Now, tied up, naked and defenceless, it seemed he would be able to enter her with equal ease. To do whatever his filthy, perverted mind could think up. As the thoughts whirled around in her head, one overriding fear came to the fore. Something she had read in the papers. Other women like her. Housewives; snatched from the safety of their homes only to turn up with their bodies burned almost beyond recognition. Her terror became absolute as she realized she was probably being held captive by the man the papers had nicknamed ‘the Cremator’.

Such was the state of Johana Grey’s nerves that she flinched when the door opened, even though she had heard the officers returning downstairs. ‘I’m going to call in a forensics team,’ Mironova told her, ‘even though technically this isn’t a crime scene. We’ve no evidence your sister was abducted, however the circumstances are such that I think it better not to take any chances.’

She saw Dr Grey was about to object and added, ‘I know what you’re going to say, the broken pane in the kitchen door does tend to suggest that something has happened to Mrs Dawson, but it is only circumstantial. There have been cases where women have vanished, where all the evidence pointed to an abduction, only for them to turn up safe and well with an innocent explanation. As yet, we simply don’t know enough to be sure, but we’ll get SOCO to do a sweep of the house just to be on the safe side. Sergeant Binns has gone to phone for a team to come out.
Meanwhile I need to ask you some questions. I’d prefer to do it here, but if you’d rather to be out of this house we can go back to Netherdale.’

Jo looked around. It was obvious to Mironova that she wasn’t easy in these surroundings, but she nodded agreement.

‘First off, can you tell me if your sister has a mobile phone? And if she has, I’d like the number.’

‘Yes, she does; won’t go anywhere without it. She uses it as a diary, an address book, a camera, the works. I have the number in my phone memory. It’s in my bag in the car.’

‘Don’t worry just now. I’ll get it from you when we’ve finished. I take it she doesn’t use a traditional diary?’

There was the briefest flicker of a smile before Jo answered. ‘Actually, she does. I teased her about it. She has a filofax, although why she needs both I’ve no idea. She told me it was in case her mobile packed-in or got stolen, or she was in a bad reception area. I said she was getting as freaky as Brian.’

‘Her husband?’

Jo nodded.

‘Freaky? In what way freaky?’

‘I meant the attention to detail. With Brian, it’s like obsessive-compulsive disorder. I put it down to his being an accountant at first, but now I’m sure it’s more than that.’

Mironova nodded, trying to gain empathy. ‘I’ll have a look round for Mrs Dawson’s mobile and filofax later; they may be in a drawer somewhere. Now, what can you tell me about the state of their marriage? Are she and her husband happy?’

Clara knew the answer long before Jo replied. Knew by her expression.

‘No, not really,’ Jo said reluctantly. It was almost as if she felt she was being disloyal saying such a thing in the circumstances, and in the couple’s own home. ‘To be honest, sometimes I wonder what it is that holds the marriage together. I’m surprised one or the other of them hasn’t waltzed off with someone else long ago.’

‘Any specific reason to say that?’

Again, the hesitation. ‘Vanda’s never confided in me, not that way. In fact whenever I try to broach it, she changes the subject.’

‘Has it been like this for a long time, or has there been a sudden deterioration?’

Jo looked embarrassed and thought for a few seconds. ‘Things changed not long after they married, Brian has, shall we say, a different agenda to Vanda. I only come here when he’s away.’

‘Why is that? Because you don’t like him?’

‘You could say that. And partly because there isn’t room anymore. The fact is that Brian and Vanda no longer sleep together.’

‘And you’ve no idea what caused this?’

‘I have my suspicions,’ Jo replied cryptically.

Clara raised an eyebrow. Failing to gain a response, she encouraged her. ‘Anything you can tell us, even if it’s only your opinion, might be helpful.’

‘Brian started spending more time away from home. Business trips, visiting clients, golfing holidays, that sort of thing. Trips where Vanda wasn’t invited. It made me wonder if he was seeing another woman.’

‘Was that purely your suspicion, or did your sister think it as well?’

‘I don’t … I’m not sure,’ Jo ended lamely.

Clara had a flash of inspiration, the sort she felt Nash would have been proud of. ‘Or was it that you suspected it was Vanda who was seeing someone else, not her husband? Is that it? Was your sister having an affair?’

There was a long silence before Jo replied. Getting her story right? Clara wondered cynically.

‘Yes, I did think that,’ she said eventually. ‘I didn’t have the nerve to challenge her about it, though. I’d never do that, not unless she volunteered the information.’

‘And she didn’t?’

‘No, Vanda’s always been a bit secretive. Vanda wasn’t the type who…. Well, she liked attention, especially male company. Before she was married, I mean. She was never short of boyfriends before she met Brian, and she was fairly keen on, well, the physical side of her relationships, if you get my point. That was why I couldn’t understand it when they stopped sharing the
same bed. Along with that, she became more timid, subservient. Almost as if she’d done something wrong and was nursing a guilty secret, or that Brian had found out something and she was trying to make amends. But the clothing, that was very unlike her.’

Mironova frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Ever since things started to go downhill Vanda stopped caring about her appearance. Wearing jeans to go shopping, not bothering to get her hair done as often. Little things like that. Almost as if she wanted to avoid making herself look attractive.’

‘Do you think her husband cared about her?’

There was a flash of anger in Jo’s eyes as she replied, ‘That’s impossible to say.’

‘OK, that’ll do for now. What I’d like you to do is go back to Helmsdale. You must be exhausted. If you don’t feel up to driving, I’ll get Sergeant Binns to take you. You can collect your car later. I’ll get him to ring one of the hotels, they’re sure to have rooms available at this time of year. You might not get much sleep, but you need the rest. Then you can come into the station in the morning to give your formal written statement, unless we’ve news for you before then, in which case I’ll let you know straightaway.’

Jo refused the offer of a lift and set off for Helmsdale in the Mercedes. Once the tail lights of the sports car disappeared round the bend in the drive, Mironova turned to Binns. ‘What’s the form on SOCO?’

‘They’ll be here as soon as they can, that’s all they said. They’ve to come from York. The Netherdale team is tied up with a domestic; Lisa Andrews is handling. Apparently, the couple had been arguing and he decided he ought to bury the hatchet. Unfortunately, he chose to bury it in his wife’s head. It could be an hour or two before they get here. What do you want to do in the meantime? I could get a uniformed man to stand guard duty if you want? I really ought to head back.’

‘I will want a uniform on duty, but not just yet. I’ll remain here at least until SOCO arrive. I want to have a word with the milkman, if he delivers today. I also want to see what the postman brings.’

‘Milkman?’

Clara pointed to the small crate by the back door. Binns noticed the two full bottles for the first time. ‘I want to know when he left those,’ Clara told him. ‘If he delivers here every day; that means Vanda Dawson could have been missing since before Friday morning.’

‘Unless she’s having it off somewhere with her fancy man whilst her husband is playing golf in Spain.’

‘She’d have to be a raving nymphomaniac or have the worst memory in history to be doing that when her sister is due to arrive for the weekend.’

‘What you said about waiting for the postman, why do that?’

‘Photographs,’ she replied pointedly.

‘I see. You think that might be the case?’

‘I don’t think we can afford to overlook it.’

‘I’m not comfortable about leaving you here alone.’

‘Thanks, Jack, but I won’t be alone. Not for long anyway.’

Binns looked at her enquiringly.

‘I’m about to make a phone call. I’ll dig Major Sutton out of his bed: my bed, actually. He can come out and keep me company until the forensics lads arrive. When you get back I think you’d better phone Pearce and get him to go to the station.’ Clara thought for a moment. ‘No, on second thoughts, ask Viv to come straight here, he’s big enough to take care of himself. I should be at Helmsdale to coordinate things. It would be useful if Tom was able to come into work today as well, but you’d better leave that until a less anti-social hour.’

When Binns had left, Clara phoned David’s mobile. It took a few rings before he answered, his voice heavy with sleep. She explained the situation and gave him directions. ‘Sound your horn when you arrive. I’ll come out to you. I can’t let anyone else into the house until the scene of crime people have been through it.’

Knowing he was on his way cheered Clara up. She wasn’t scared, but would feel more comfortable when he arrived. Until then, she decided to try and find Vanda Dawson’s filofax or her mobile phone. She met with partial success. In one of the kitchen
drawers she found the filofax. Mironova took out a plastic evidence bag from her pocket and dropped the diary inside. She sealed the bag and laid it on the worktop before continuing her search. Following her original pathway, she looked through the house, opening drawers, cupboards and every imaginable storage space. Hanging beneath a coat in the hall, she found a well used handbag containing car keys and a purse with bank cards and cash. Despite her extensive hunt, she found no trace of the missing phone.