Identity Crisis (6 page)

Mironova returned to the kitchen and stood by the worktop, a puzzled frown on her face. Something was niggling at the back of her mind. Something she should have seen, but hadn’t. As she waited, her own mobile bleeped. At first she thought it was a text message coming in, but one glance at the screen showed her it was a low battery warning. She’d left the phone on the table in her lounge instead of plugging it into her charger, and now she was going to pay the penalty. She was about to curse her stupidity when she stopped. That was it! That was what she’d been trying to remember! Not only was Vanda Dawson’s mobile missing, but Clara had seen no sign of a charger either.

There was no chance to dwell on her discovery as she saw the lights of an approaching vehicle. Clara hurried to the back door in time to see the milkman emerge from the cab of his pickup. She hailed him and walked across the gravel towards him, relieved to find the storm was beginning to abate. In the glare of the headlights, she could see the driver’s puzzled expression. He might have been used to being greeted by a female, but this obviously wasn’t the woman he expected to see.

Clara identified herself and showed the man her warrant card. In response to her question, the milkman confirmed that he had left the two pints the previous morning.

‘Was everything as normal?’ Clara asked.

He scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘As far as I remember. I mean, I’d have noticed if anything was out of the ordinary. What’s the fuss about?’

Clara smiled. ‘I can’t tell you that, not at present. Did you collect any empties?’

‘Ooh, that’s a tricky one. Let me think. I can’t be absolutely sure,’ he said after a moment or two, ‘but I don’t think there were any. Why? What’s the problem?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t say. When did you last see Mrs Dawson?’

‘I waved to her on Thursday morning. Is she all right?’

‘As far as I’m aware, she’s absolutely fine. You might be needed to make a statement at some time. What’s your name?’ Clara waited, biro poised over her notebook.

‘McKenzie,’ he said after a second’s hesitation. ‘Lindsay McKenzie.’

If she hadn’t been waiting to take the name down she might not have noticed it. Natural reluctance, or something else? She wasn’t sure. ‘And your address and phone number?’

This time there was no hesitation. Mironova wrote the details down before looking up. The early morning light was sufficient by now for her to see the man’s expression clearly. It was of concern, no more. ‘Have you had this round long?’

He smiled. ‘Only a couple of years. I moved here from Cumbria. No work there. Most milk deliveries used to be by farmers using milk from their own farm. We even used to make and sell our own cream and cheese. But that’s all changed. Nowadays everything goes to a central depot and then they bring me the bottled product back for delivery. It’s known as progress.’

Clara smiled at the irony. ‘If you don’t agree with it, why not opt out?’

‘Regulations!’ There was no mistaking the disgust in his tone. ‘Health and Safety, Food Hygiene, DEFRA, and that bloody lot in Brussels. They bring in all these fancy rules and regulations without giving a thought about how much they cost to enforce. Talk about a nanny state! How many times have you heard of someone being poisoned with a pint of full-fat milk?’

‘Put like that, I can’t think of one.’

‘Right! You know something? I was talking to a French cheese producer at a conference last year and he was laughing at us. Laughing, because he said we British are the only ones who pay any heed to those EEC Directives. It made my blood boil, I can tell you.’

‘I can see that,’ Clara said soothingly. ‘Thanks for your help, Mr McKenzie. If I need anything else, or if you have to make a statement, I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, if you think of anything else that might be helpful, give me a call at Helmsdale. If you remember any strange vehicles you might have seen in the area for example.’

‘I will that.’ He halted, one hand on the doorframe of his pickup. ‘I hope nothing’s happened to Mrs Dawson. She’s a right nice lady.’

After the milkman left Mironova paused, undecided what to do next. She was reluctant to go back inside the house. Any further intrusion risked contamination of what she was increasingly convinced was a crime scene. She decided to wait in her car and think through what her plan for the day should be. Locating Brian Dawson, putting an alert out for the missing woman, those had to be top of her list. If they could persuade Tom Pratt to come into work rather than play golf that would be immensely helpful. Reluctant though Clara was to admit the thought, she knew she should contact the other forces who had dealt with Cremator cases, to get them to e-mail their files to Helmsdale. If she had those to compare with, she might be able to judge if the serial killer had snatched another victim or if they were dealing with something altogether different.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of a car engine and a tooting horn. Glancing in her rear view mirror, Clara was pleased to see her fiancé’s car pull up behind her. As David got out, she was even happier to see the flask in his hand. ‘Bless you, David,’ she greeted him as he opened her passenger door. ‘That was extremely thoughtful.’

Major Sutton grinned. ‘Got to keep the troops happy. First rule of any officer. What’s the latest?’

They had finished their mugs of coffee and David was on the point of asking Clara if she wanted a refill, when Pearce arrived, followed swiftly by the van containing the SOCO team. Mironova explained the situation and instructed Viv to ensure he intercepted any mail that was delivered. ‘I’m going back to the station,’ she told him. ‘If anything comes with what looks like photos
inside put it straight into an evidence bag and make sure you get the postie’s identity, in case we’ve to eliminate his prints. Let me know when the forensic lot are done and I’ll get Binns to send a uniform to stand guard on the house.’

She thought for a moment. ‘Actually, as soon as the boffins allow you in the house, see if the bunch of keys hanging in the kitchen fit the outer doors. If we can secure the place it will save on manpower we don’t have.’

‘In the meantime, I’ll take a wander along the bank of the stream – and hope I don’t find anything,’ he added grimly.

Clara turned to get into her car. Sutton smiled at her across the vehicle’s roof. He was aware that in the last few minutes Clara had completely forgotten he was there. Some men might have felt threatened at being ignored, but David appreciated the single-minded approach she had to her work. It was the sort of attitude he spent a lot of time trying to instil in the men he commanded. ‘Sounds as if you’ve quite a day ahead of you.’

‘You’re not joking! Look, I’m sorry, David. It isn’t quite the relaxing start to your leave we had in mind.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Work comes first, for both of us. We knew this sort of thing was likely to happen. I’ve been thinking whilst you were drilling your troops.’ His light-hearted comment made her smile. ‘It’s market day in Helmsdale, so I reckon if I go shopping this morning I can prepare something for tea, and make sure it’s something that won’t spoil if you’re an hour or two late.’

‘That won’t take too long. Won’t you be bored stiff?’

David shook his head. ‘There’s rugby on TV this afternoon. I’ll be quite happy watching that.’

‘Okay, if you’re sure.’ Clara watched him get into the driving seat when she remembered something. ‘Will you do me a favour? Go to the flat before you do your shopping and pick up the charger for my mobile, then drop it in at the station when you’re in town?’

‘No worries, see you later.’

Sutton had just cleared the drive when Mironova heard the crunch of gravel that announced the arrival of another vehicle. She thought for a moment that David had forgotten something and
returned, but as the vehicle swung round the end of the house, she saw it was a van, not a car. A greengrocery van she recognized. She’d met the owner a few times. Nash’s drinking pal, Jonas Turner, supplied the greengrocer with produce from his allotment. She had been introduced to the man when she’d gone to the pub with Nash. Unlike Jonas Turner, the driver had no trouble getting her name right.

‘Sergeant Mironova, what are you doing out here?’

‘Hello, Eric.’ His surname was Fields, which made the company title
Fresh Fields
an obvious one. She explained the situation in as much detail as she dared.

Fields whistled with dismay. ‘I hope nothing’s happened to her. She’s a lovely woman, Mrs Dawson.’

Another unsolicited testimonial, Clara thought. Mrs Dawson seemed to be popular with all those who knew her. ‘Do you deliver here every Saturday?’

Fields nodded. ‘Summer and winter alike. Mrs Dawson prefers my stuff to what she can get in a supermarket. She says you never know how long they’ve had it in cold store.’

‘And she’s always here when you deliver?’

‘Always. It’s a pleasure coming here, to be honest. Mrs Dawson puts the kettle on as soon as she hears the van. I start by going to the wholesalers at 4 a.m., then pick up from Jonas, and after that it’s non-stop until three o’clock in the afternoon, so a morning cuppa’s a real treat.’ His face clouded over. ‘Of course it’s all different if her husband’s at home.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘If he’s here I don’t get a cup of tea, and hardly get two words out of Mrs D. She dare not say boo-to-a-goose when he’s around.’

‘I take it you don’t like him?’

Fields grinned. ‘That obvious is it? I’m not saying there’s owt wrong with him, he’s just not my type.’

When Mironova entered the police station, she saw Tom Pratt standing by reception talking to Jack Binns. Clara smiled in appreciation of the ex-superintendent, now civilian support worker’s, sacrifice. ‘Good of you to forego your round of golf, Tom,’ she greeted him.

Binns laughed. ‘That wasn’t hard. The course is closed because of the floods, so don’t let him fool you. All Tom had to look forward to was several hours of supermarket shopping.’

‘Nevertheless, not many civilian officers would be prepared to give up the weekend.’

‘That’s habit, I suppose,’ Pratt admitted ruefully. ‘Once a copper, always a copper even after you’ve retired.’

Clara turned to Jack Binns. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home now? All tucked up with your cocoa.’

‘I thought you might want me to stay on, with Mike being away and all that.’

‘If I need you, I know where to find you, OK? Now, home!’

‘Yes, boss.’ Binns gave Clara a reassuring smile as he headed for the locker room.

When they reached the CID suite, Tom Pratt headed for the small desk in the corner of the outer office that Nash had allocated him. Tom had always been a good administrator, and despite the fact that he handled all the unit’s paperwork, his desk was commendably neat, especially compared to the untidiness of the trio of detectives. Tom pointed to the computer monitor. ‘I’ve typed up the text for a flyer and a bulletin regarding the missing woman from the details Jack gave me. Hopefully, it might not be needed but I thought it would save time later on. I could do with a
photo and a description, though.’

‘We might have to rely on the missing woman’s sister, Dr Grey, for those,’ Clara told him. ‘She should be coming in here sometime this morning.’

‘I’ve also started compiling a missing person form in case that’s needed. That was about all I could do until I spoke to you and found out what you need me for.’

‘Thanks, Tom. It saves me having to think of these things when you’re about. The main objective today is to locate the missing woman’s husband. His name is Brian Dawson, and he went to Spain sometime last week on a golfing holiday, so I’m open to any bright ideas about how we trace him.’

‘It could be dead easy,’ Pratt told her. ‘If it was a trip organized by his golf club, which a lot of them are, someone at the clubhouse will know where they’re staying, how long they went for, that sort of thing. If it was a privately organized trip it could be a bit more difficult, but it should still be possible. The airlines will know who they’ve taken that had golf clubs in their luggage, as they are subject to special regulations these days. I assume Dawson is a member at Netherdale?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘I’ll start with them. I play there, and although I don’t know Dawson, the club secretary should. Failing that I’ll try the other clubs in the area.’

‘One other thing, I know it’s hardly likely to give us anything meaningful, but check Dawson out on the computer, see if he’s got form.’

It was sometime later after SOCO had left and Pearce was about to lock the doors, when he heard the sound of a vehicle. He saw the logo and the sign on the panels. Good Buys Online was the internet-shopping arm of the local supermarket chain. Pearce showed the driver his warrant card, a man he recognized vaguely, but couldn’t place.

‘I’ve a delivery for Mrs Dawson,’ the man, whose badge proclaimed him to be Chris Willis, told Pearce.

‘I’m afraid she isn’t here.’ Viv opted not to explain. He pointed
to the paperwork the man was clutching. ‘Can you tell from that when Mrs Dawson placed the order?’

‘Should be able to,’ Willis scanned the document. ‘According to this, the order was received at 11.33 a.m. on Thursday.’

‘Hang on a sec.’ Pearce thought rapidly. From what Clara had told him, there was no sign of a computer in the house. ‘Is it possible to tell how the order was placed?’

Willis frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you?’

‘I mean, was it phoned in, or sent via e-mail or via your web pages?’

‘Oh, I see. I’m not sure if it gives that info. Let me have a look.’

It took a couple of minutes of intense concentration before the driver found it. ‘Here it is. The order was placed by Vanda Dawson, customer account number 75285 via a PDA using a Google Android platform, whatever the hell that means. Is that what you need to know?’

‘It’s a mobile phone with computer capabilities,’ Pearce explained. ‘Do you visit here regularly?’

‘We usually get a large order every few weeks or so.’

‘And is it always you who delivers?’

Willis grinned. ‘Unless I’m on holiday, then the manager has to get off his fat backside and do some work for a change.’

‘How long have you been doing the job?’

‘Ever since the company set up the service − about three years ago.’

The moment she woke up, she was aware something had changed. The bed; this surface felt harder. She opened her eyes. The lights; they were different too. Further away, at the other end of the room. No longer directly overhead. No longer hurting her eyes.

Only, it wasn’t a room. It was much bigger, and colder. That much she could tell without moving. And the ceiling; it was no longer a plaster ceiling. This place had what looked like metal sheets over a framework. What was it they were called? Corrugated. So, what was this place?

Curiosity made her try to sit up, to look round. But she couldn’t.
Her wrists and ankles were still tied. That hadn’t changed. She moved as much as her bonds would allow. She could see there was some sort of structure running down one wall of the building. It looked like…? She frowned, concentrating, trying to think – stalls. Like they kept animals in. She sniffed the air, certain she was right. The building smelled of animals. She was in a barn. The straps securing her wrists were looped round iron rings attached to the walls. She wriggled slightly, trying to see how her ankles were tied.

That was when she realized why the room felt colder. She was no longer covered. Strangely, though, she could feel material beneath her shoulders. So the table, or whatever she was lying on, had been covered, but she hadn’t. She wondered why that was then swiftly dismissed the thought. Not one she was keen to dwell on. The material felt soft, plush even. Not like a linen tablecloth at all. She squinted downwards and to one side. She could just see one edge of the fabric. It was the wrong colour for a tablecloth as well. Nobody used that shade of rich purple to cover tables − not since Victorian times. It was more like – her brain baulked at the final word, frozen with terror at the implication – an altar. Like the one used by the serial killer she had read so much about. He placed his victims on an altar surrounded by satanic symbols, before setting fire to them.

She hadn’t spoken the word aloud, yet it was as if she’d given him his entrance cue. She heard a door open and close. Heard the sound of approaching footsteps. She dared not look. Not at first. After a few seconds, she had to. Just a quick glance. He might not notice that. Might not see she was awake. She turned her head towards where she guessed he’d be. Ever so slowly, ever so gradually. Opened her eyes a fraction. Looking from beneath her eyelids. Then wished she hadn’t.

He was standing close to her, no more than six feet away. Still masked, but wearing some sort of loose-fitting robe. He was aware she was watching him. He stooped and set the object he was carrying on the ground. An object she recognized immediately. An object that raised her terror to even higher levels. Two feet high, four inches wide, painted drab green. A can that would
hold five gallons of liquid: usually petrol.

She looked away, unable to stand the sight of it, of him, unwilling to let him see how afraid she was. After several seconds’ silence, she heard a rustle of movement. Had to look. Didn’t want to, but had to. Turned her head, wished she hadn’t.

The sound had been him; removing the robe. Apart from the mask, he was as naked as she was. She couldn’t bear to look, dared not look away. He stepped forward. Stood alongside her. Looking. Then he turned slightly and bent his head. What was he doing? Praying? She looked down. Another mistake. He certainly wasn’t praying.

She looked hurriedly away, her heart thumping violently. He was preparing himself and she knew exactly what for. She heard another movement and looked again. As she did, he waved one hand in a strange sort of gesture. Was this part of some strange, sick ritual? Before she knew it he moved again, quickly, mounted the altar and straddled her. He was close now, almost close enough for his body to touch hers. She shrank back as far as she could. He moved closer. She could feel the warmth of his body against hers, smelt his masculine scent. Saw the glitter in the eyes half hidden by the mask. Then he was on her.

How long he lay there, she couldn’t tell. Eventually he raised himself from her, and climbed off the altar. He stood beside her and waved his hand again, in that same curious gesture. She saw him walk away. Saw him pick up the can.

He stopped, his back towards her and fiddled with something. Then he turned and she saw he had a carrier bag in his hand. He collected his robe and put it on. Her relief was beyond measure. He hadn’t been able to do it. Was that because of her? Did she fail to satisfy his libido in some way? At that moment the reason didn’t matter. The violation she’d dreaded, the assault she’d been expecting hadn’t taken place. In fact, what had happened had been more like a simulated sex act. Her relief was short-lived. As he walked away he stopped and bent down and picked up the can again. She watched, bewilderment and terror mingled. Seconds later, she heard the door open and close.

She waited in silence, wondering what was going to happen
next. She didn’t want to speculate but there were few alternatives to distract her. The respite was temporary. Within minutes, he was back. Dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and wearing a sweater over it. That was a relief. He was no longer carrying the petrol can, for which she was more than thankful. He was still wearing the mask, though. That puzzled her. Why was he wearing it? If he was going to kill her, why hide his face? Was it because he knew she would recognize him? But, if he was who she thought he was, he was going to torture her and burn her alive, so what did it matter?

She had no leisure for further speculation. He reached behind her and unfastened the straps securing her to the wall, then moved to the other end of the table and untied her ankles. He put one arm behind her knees, the other round her shoulders and swivelled her until she was sitting on the edge of the altar. Only it wasn’t an altar, merely a sturdy trestle table with a piece of material thrown over it. Her captor bent down and picked up a small bundle of clothes. Her clothes. He passed them to her. ‘Dress.’

Vanda realized with some surprise that this was only the second word he had spoken since he’d taken her prisoner. Again, she wondered if that was because he was afraid she might recognize his voice. She needed no encouragement to obey his command. She was acutely aware that he was watching her closely throughout the process, which took far longer than usual because her fingers were numb from the straps and her hands were trembling violently. She donned her trainers, all the time trying to avoid the question that burned in her mind, the question she could not dismiss no matter how hard she tried. ‘What next?’ It was so overwhelming she almost believed she had given voice to it.

‘Drink.’

She looked up. He was holding out a small bottle with the cap removed; just as well, she was sure she wouldn’t have been able to manage it on her own. She took it, sipping cautiously at the cold water; then swallowing deeper draughts as her thirst took over, until the bottle was almost empty.

He watched approvingly. He was just in time to take the bottle from her hands before she dropped it, just in time to catch her when she slipped sideways off the table, as the sedative again took effect.

The forensic report from Mill Cottage had been both negative and puzzling. The officer in charge told Mironova they’d failed to find any fingerprints on the surfaces in the kitchen, hall and lounge, apart from those of Dr Grey. What they had found were several specks of white fibre clinging to the kitchen units, door handles and lounge furniture. They had tested the fibres, which they found to be impregnated with some sort of chemical. ‘We haven’t identified the chemical yet, and the samples are so small we might not be able to, but my best guess would be they’re from some of those sanitised wipes used in kitchens nowadays. And I’d say they’ve been used specifically to eradicate any fingerprints.’

‘That doesn’t sound good. Not good at all,’ Clara commented.

‘No it doesn’t,’ the officer agreed. ‘And what makes it worse is that we failed to find any material matching those fibres in the house. If they were used as we suspect, someone brought them into the house.’

His report decided Mironova to step the investigation up into a full-blown missing person’s enquiry, even though the time-line set out in her guidance notes hadn’t expired. When Dr Grey arrived later to make her statement, Clara managed to obtain a photo of the missing woman from her mobile phone. As she was providing this via a Bluetooth message, Clara was struck by a stray thought. During the time she’d spent examining the interior of Mill Cottage, she hadn’t seen any photos of either Vanda Dawson, her husband, or the pair of them together. She was about to question Dr Grey about this strange fact, but in view of her distress, decided to leave the matter for the time being, merely making a note to mention it in her report.

Later that afternoon, Pearce returned and was deputed to assist Pratt in the hunt for Brian Dawson. Viv had already told Clara that the postman had delivered nothing more meaningful than a couple of items of junk mail, one from a power supply
company, the other from a charity trying to flog raffle tickets. ‘He got there just after you left.’ He detailed the chat he’d had with the man. ‘I asked him if it was his regular round, which it is. He’s been on it a couple of years or so. His name….’ Pearce consulted his notebook, ‘is Glen Clarke, spelt with an E. He was very fussy about that. He lives in Helmsdale.’