‘His name is Guy Nelson,’ said Kay. ‘He works at Darren Phillips’ garage.’
Rogers grunted. ‘That’s why I recognise him. Yes, I remember now.’
‘Did you ever see him away from the garage?’
Rogers handed the photograph back to her. ‘Just the once, I think. We had a barbecue a few weeks back, for some of our suppliers.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the car park. ‘It was all very informal. A couple of the lads brought in barbecues from home, and I stumped up the bill for the food.’ He smiled. ‘We had to move the vans out the way because some of them decided they wanted to use the car park for a game of cricket.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘What’s the problem?’
Kay put the photograph back in her bag. ‘I can confirm Neil Abrahams has provided us with alibis, and isn’t a suspect in our enquiries, but it bothers me that, despite your keeping the van keys in your safe here, and Darren Phillips doing the same, someone has been driving around in a County Deliveries courier van. And, I’d very much like to speak to that person in relation to our enquiries concerning Melanie Richards.’
Rogers’ eyebrows shot upwards. ‘But none of our vans have been stolen. So, how is that possible?’
‘Either someone had access to those keys without your knowledge,’ said Kay. ‘Or someone had access to the vans, and managed to duplicate the registration plates for the vehicle Neil Abrahams drives.’
She flicked through her notebook. ‘How long do you keep the vehicles for?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Most of the vehicles out there look quite new. How often do you change them?’
‘Every ninety thousand miles. Or every five years. Whichever occurs first, unless a vehicle is involved in an accident.’ He held up his hand. ‘We haven’t had one of those for quite a while, thank goodness.’
‘How are they disposed of?’
‘If they’re still considered roadworthy, we auction them off. The rest are scrapped.’
‘And the paperwork for these?’
‘All with head office,’ said Bob.
‘When was the last auction held?’ said Barnes.
‘About twelve weeks ago.’
‘Who runs the auction?’
‘A company up near Sheerness. They do all the auctions for post vans, police vehicles, that sort of thing as well.’
‘Have you got a contact name for them?’ said Kay.
She wrote down the name and phone number that Rogers retrieved from a diary next to his phone.
‘How long will it take to get the paperwork from head office for the last auction?’
‘I’ll phone them this afternoon for you. The bloke who runs the department isn’t in the office in the mornings. Once I put the request in, it’ll take a few days.’
Kay rose to her feet. ‘We’ll wait to hear from you.’
KAY SLUNG her bag under the desk, and gratefully took the steaming mug of coffee from Gavin.
‘Right,’ she said, and blew across the surface of the hot liquid. ‘Going on the basis that Neil Abrahams’ van was in for a new water pump, and the possibility that while it was at the garage Guy Nelson replicated the licence plates, I went back to the courier depot with Barnes. Chatting to Bob Rogers, it sounds like our suspect might have managed to get hold of a courier van that was auctioned off. The last auction was about twelve weeks ago.’
‘At least that goes some way to explain the vehicle on the CCTV images,’ said Gavin. ‘Plus, if the suspect bought an auctioned courier van, he wouldn’t have to worry about spraying it or anything to make it look like a real one. And he could easily create decals to go on the side with the logo on.’
‘Exactly.’
Kay leaned over, and wiggled her mouse to wake up the computer. She opened a new website page, typed in a general search screen, and sipped at her coffee while the internet connection began to load the results.
‘Have you got the records from the previous auction?’ Gavin moved around the desk so he could see the screen.
‘No,’ said Kay. ‘Rogers is going to phone his colleague at head office this afternoon and request them for us. We might not get them for a couple of days.’ She checked her watch. ‘We’ve got a few minutes before the afternoon briefing. Let’s take a quick look at something.’
She tapped the sixth name down in the search results. ‘This is the company that auctions the vans for them.’
She clicked on the website address, and moved the mouse back and forth while it connected.
The page loaded eventually, and she scrolled through the home page, skimming over the sales jargon until she found what she was looking for.
‘Here we go. Ex-County Deliveries vans. Let’s see how many they have for sale before the next auction. At least it’ll give us some idea of the numbers before those records turn up.’
She clicked on the link, and then groaned as the page finished loading.
Gavin choked on his coffee. ‘Christ, there must be about fifty vehicles.’
Kay swore under her breath. ‘Nothing’s ever easy, is it?’
THIRTY-FIVE
He loosened his tie and tossed it onto the desk, then strode across to the door and twisted the key in the lock.
He switched off the lights, and pulled the blind down over the glass window set into the door.
His breathing was already heavy as he wandered back to the desk and ran his hand over the top of the laptop.
He reached out and tweaked the cord for the window blinds. He’d checked once, before locking the door, but he knew it paid to be paranoid.
Besides, it was part of the routine – a way to pace himself before savouring the main course.
He snatched the desk phone from its cradle and placed the handset to one side, before he reached into his pocket and checked his mobile phone was switched off.
Unprofessional, especially as he was on call, but he had a well-prepared excuse should he need it.
He was ready.
He powered up the computer, then selected a program linked to a shortcut displayed on the screen.
A delighted gasp escaped his lips.
There she was – and the picture quality was perfect.
He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and leaned closer, his hand shaking as he tapped a key to activate the zoom.
The lighting at the location cast an iridescent glow over the girl’s skin, but even from here, he could see the effect of the insulin.
Sweat beaded from every pore, and he knew that right now, the girl’s heart rate would be accelerating, pushing the muscle to its limits.
He raised his eyes from the screen, and listened.
Rain continued to pound the roof of the building, and the forecast predicted the deluge wouldn’t relent for at least another two to three days.
The timing was incredible.
He rested his elbow on the desk, and cupped his chin as his gaze returned to the girl.
His finger tapped the keyboard again, and returned the camera lens to its original position.
He frowned at the sight of blood on her shoulder, and clenched his fist.
The rules were that no blood should be seen around the head, neck, or shoulders. It would detract from the viewer’s enjoyment of seeing the terror in her eyes as her predicament become clear.
However, the injury seemed minor.
He’d make a note to mention it, though.
For next time.
The girl shifted her weight, and strained against the bindings at her wrists. The movement was weak, and after she attempted it one more time, she gave up.
He checked his watch. There was no need to worry, he thought. The date rape drug would be working its way out of her system for another hour or so yet.
She’d become feistier as the effects wore off.
He hoped.
He ran a hand lovingly over the keyboard.
The last one had been incredible. Such memories!
He’d seen fire
in her eyes, right up to the moment her heart had given out and she’d slipped from the rung of the ladder, her will to survive almost outwitting her panic.
This one, well – he’d have to wait and see, wouldn’t he?
He reached out, and ran a finger across the image of her shivering body, then sat back in his chair and groaned.
A shadow passed the door of the office, then stopped.
He covered his mouth with his hand, and held his breath.
Had he been heard?
He slapped the laptop closed with his other hand.
He’d never tested his theory that the glow from the screen wouldn’t be seen through the combination of frosted glass and the cloth blind, and now he silently rued the oversight.
The door handle turned, before being released, and the shadow moved on.
He exhaled, and opened the laptop.
The tiny clock in the bottom right-hand corner caught his eye. Of course – the cleaners would be doing their rounds.
His shoulders relaxed once more, and his eyes locked onto the girl on the screen.
He shifted in his seat as the material of his trousers tightened across his groin, and settled in to watch.
THIRTY-SIX
Eli checked his rear view mirror.
The road behind had been empty for the past mile, the soft orange glow of the town receding on the horizon as a steady rainfall began to pelt the windscreen.
He leaned forward, and retuned the radio. He hated the cheery pop music that the local paint-by-numbers station played during the day, and it seemed that their night-time programming featured the same repetitive drivel. Even the presenter had run out of steam over an hour ago and reduced his chatter to small talk, only offering a time check after the obligatory three adverts that played out every twenty minutes.
He found a station playing classical music instead, and sat back in his seat.
He turned his wrist until the luminous dials of his watch were visible. His shift started in four hours, before dawn broke, and he was keen to get a couple of hours’ sleep at least. Bob Rogers had already commented earlier in the week about the state of his sunken eyes so soon after a supposed holiday, and it worried him that his appearance had been noticed in such a way. He did his best to stay out of the way while at the depot, not wanting to draw attention to himself, yet if he wasn’t careful, it would be more than his use of make-up to hide the bruises on his face and arms that gave people an excuse to stare.
He just had to keep going.
Especially now.
He ran the back of his hand under his nose and sniffed.
The new site was perfect.
He’d scoured the internet, tracing the previous structure’s history. Far enough away from the town that kids wouldn’t trespass; the security fencing first put in place around the building by the contractors had remained intact.
Until Eli had taken care of it.
The van rumbled over a series of potholes, and the tools in the back of the van clattered across the metal flooring.
He inched his foot away from the accelerator.
He’d had to improvise, of course. The girl was bigger than the last one; large bones, his mother would say, and he had to be sure she’d be secure during the day.
The mother would have been home by six o’clock; the father stuck at work until at least eight or nine if his pattern reflected that of the previous few weeks. And the girl had a habit of staying out late with friends, often returning after her parents had retired to bed.
Not tonight, though.
A warmth flushed through his lap, and he swallowed as he tried to ignore the sensation.
It had been five days since the girl and her father had died, and the memory excited him.
At first, he had wanted to teach them both a lesson.
Then, when the Richards girl had roused from her drugged slumber to find herself in the hole, tied to the flimsy ladder, and tried to scream through the rag covering her mouth, the terror in her eyes had almost sent him into sexual oblivion, and it was all he could do to turn away and fight the urge to ejaculate.
She’d seen the look in his eyes though, and despite the balaclava that covered his features, he’d sensed that she’d recognised him. She had begun breathing heavily, panting behind the dirty rag as he’d circled the hole, his gaze never leaving hers.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’ he’d asked.
She’d shaken her head.
‘You will,’ he’d said.
Her eyes had widened with hope as he’d bent down and removed the coarse rag from her lips, but then he had straightened and wrapped his fingers around the drain cover, and she’d begun to strain at the bindings that secured her ankles and wrists to the ladder.
She’d tried to plead with him as he’d dragged the heavy, steel grille across the hole, and babbled words that he couldn’t make out, nor needed to.
Then, as the grille fell into place and his footsteps receded to the door, her muffled screams had reached his ears, and a smile twitched at his mouth before he’d flicked the lights off.
He’d camped at the site of the old animal testing laboratory, safe in the knowledge that the soundproofed walls that once camouflaged those poor souls’ screeches of pain masked his captive’s pitiful attempts to communicate with him.
Eli only had to wait another forty-eight hours before the girl’s parents returned from holiday.
He was driving along the road towards the house as a taxi had pulled into their driveway, and he’d slowed to a stop halfway up the lane to watch them exit the vehicle, already arguing as they paid the driver and pulled their suitcases over the doorstep.
He’d waited until the taxi had disappeared from sight before putting the van into gear and gliding past the house, sweat on his palms, his heart racing.
He’d made his way back to the industrial park as fast as possible, his eyes flickering between the road and the dashboard, terrified he’d be pulled over for speeding.
On reaching the disused laboratory an hour later, he’d paced back and forth in the atrium, trying to fight down the adrenalin that was coursing through his system.
Eventually, he’d pulled the balaclava over his face, strode across to the steel door to the chamber, wrenched open the door, and crouched next to the steel grille.
She stank.
She’d been in the hole for nearly three days by then, and a fetid stink of faeces and fear emanated from below ground.
At first, he’d recoiled, before reaching out and lifting the grille from its housing.
She’d blinked in the light, her voice rasping.
‘Please. Let me go.’
He’d ignored her, and pulled a small knife from the back pocket of his jeans.
She’d opened her mouth to scream, and then clamped her lips shut as he reached out and sawed through the bindings that held her right hand.
‘Your parents are back. We’re going to make a phone call.’
Tears had welled in her eyes, pooling before streaking over her dirty cheeks.
He’d held out a pay-as-you-go mobile phone. ‘Dial your dad’s mobile number.’
A shaking hand snaked out from the hole, and then she’d dabbed at the screen with her index finger.
He’d held a finger to his lips. ‘Not a word. I’ll be the only one who speaks. You understand?’
She’d nodded, her face eager. ‘Yes.’
‘If you try anything, you’ll never see your parents again.’
She’d paled, but nodded once more.
He’d straightened, and connected the call, leaving it on speakerphone.
It rang four times before a breathless man answered.
‘Mel? We’re home. Where are you?’
‘Mel’s with me,’ said Eli.
A silence followed for a moment, then—
‘Who is this?’
‘No more questions. Do exactly as I say and you’ll get her back alive.’
‘Please,’ said the
father. ‘Don’t hurt her.’
Eli had heard another voice in the background, female, and realised the mother was asking the man who he was talking to. ‘Shut her up. I won’t repeat myself.’
He’d given the father the instructions about the money, where to drop it off, and not to go to the police.
The man had agreed, fear in the grunted acknowledgement of the instructions.
During the second phone call, however, a struggle had ensued at the other end of the line before the woman’s voice cut through the air.
‘What have you done with my daughter, you bloody animal?’
His lips had thinned. ‘You were told to be quiet. Maybe you need a stronger message.’
He’d bent over and placed the phone on the tiled floor, then straightened and moved closer to the hole. He’d flicked the knife up. ‘Give me your hand.’
The girl whimpered, and shook her head, trying to twist away from him.
His hand had shot out, wrapped around her right wrist, and raised it until it was above her head.
Behind him, he could hear the parents’ voices, shouting, pleading with him to pick up the phone.
He’d ignored them and raised the knife.
The girl’s screams echoed off the tiled walls as he sliced through her little finger, before he tossed it down the hole.
Blood spurted from the open wound, splashing across the floor.
He’d turned his back on her and picked up the phone.
‘You’ve got your instructions. Make sure you obey them.’
His fingers clenched the steering wheel as the memory washed over him.
The parents had been hysterical by the time he’d ended the call, and it had taken the next hour to first bandage the girl’s finger and then swab the floor clean.
He’d acted on impulse, but the instructions were always clear.
No blood.
He’d apologised of course, an awkward phone conversation that had made him cringe. After that, he’d phoned Guy Nelson with confirmation about the ransom money, and where it would be found.
Since that day, he’d watched a replay of the video on the laptop he’d taken from Nelson, but it wasn’t the same – he knew exactly how the final moments of her life ended.
He needed fresh footage.
Scared to Death (A Detective Kay Hunter novel) Page 14