When Shannon turned right onto Kent Road, Croft could see the tiny clutch of cars, two plain saloons, and a gaudy, red, green and white striped patrol car, but it was the presence of the plain white, Scientific Support van that worried him most. What had the forensic team found? Across the road, a small crowd of people, some of them children, had gathered to watch events and Thurrock, who must have got there only minutes earlier, was trying to persuade them to move on.
Shannon brought the car to a skidding halt, he and Fletcher leapt out leaving Croft in the rear. He tried the doors, but couldn’t open them. He recalled with some irritation that the rear doors had secure locks and could only be opened from the outside. Shannon and Fletcher had already disappeared into the garage. Croft leapt over the seats and let himself out of the driver’s door, and rushed to the garage. Fletcher tried to stop him, but he shrugged the CID man off and peered in.
Relief flooded him. No body. Only a car, a silver-grey Ford Fiesta with a 1989 registration plate, a dirty tarpaulin thrown off to one side.
He was about to step in when Fletcher grabbed his arm again. “You can’t go in there. Forensic.”
“Trish. The car –”
“She’s not in the car,” Fletcher interrupted pressing Croft back, away from the garage. “There’s nothing in the car but a pile of clothing, some of it Rehana’s, a typewriter and two mobile phones. We’re certain one of them is Ms Sinclair’s and the other is Rehana’s. Come away, Mr Croft, and leave it to us.”
Croft did as he was asked and suffered the frustration welling in him. Where the hell was she? Intuition, something he could never professionally acknowledge, told him she was still alive. He had already forgotten the anticipatory grief that had engulfed him on the anxious drive here. He looked around at the dishevelled houses. She was here. Close by. He knew it. It was almost as if she were calling to him, telepathically, pleading for him to find and rescue her. Where? Where?
“Hello Felix.”
As if waking from a daze, Croft found the tall, slender figure of Gerald Humphries stood alongside him, a brown leather shopping bag in his hands.
“Oh hello, Gerry.” There was no enthusiasm in his voice.
“What’s going on here?” Humphries wanted to know. “Is it to do with that business with the Lumbs?”
“What?” Croft was confused. “Oh. No. Well, possibly, but not directly.”
“Oh.” Humphries put on a sympathetic face. “Listen, I’m terribly sorry to hear about Ms Sinclair. I do hope they find her soon.”
Croft smiled grimly. “No problem, Gerry.”
Humphries returned the smile. “Well, I’m, er, sorry anyway. I hope she’s all right.”
Croft’s lip curled contemptuously as he watched Humphries wander off. The biggest source of gossip on Winridge. Like an old woman.
Shannon came to him. “Sorry, Croft, but she’s not here. It, er, it doesn’t look too promising, I’m afraid. We’ve found what we believe to be Rehana Begum’s uniform in the car as well as clothing matching that worn by Victoria Reid, Susan Edwards and other Handshaker victims, and there’s some we haven’t identified. I don’t suppose you’d know what Ms Sinclair was wearing the morning she disappeared?”
Croft shrugged worriedly. “Plain blouse, dark skirt. She’s a barrister, remember.”
Shannon held up a transparent, polythene bag in which the garments had already been packed.
Croft studied them. “They look like hers. I can’t be sure but I’ll tell you who will know. Christine Hitchins, my daily. She sees to our laundry and she’ll tell you in an instant.”
Shannon nodded. “Forensic need to go over it all, but I can take you home now, and take it with us.” He looked pityingly on Croft. “You need to get yourself home and try to get some sleep.”
“How?” Croft yelped. “How am I supposed to sleep while she’s out there, out here? I won’t rest, Shannon, until I find her.”
November 20th
54
The sun burned onto Trish’s back as she patted sand into her bucket, turned it upside down and gently removed it, revealing a small, round turret. She looked back at Mum and Dad. Mum was asleep and Dad was reading the Daily Mirror. He beamed a generous smile on her.
“Castles on the ground, lass? Better than castles in the air.”
Trish didn’t understand. She looked to the sea lapping the shore, where her brothers splashed in the calm, shallow water. Then she stared out at the sea, which stretched for miles and miles.
“Dad, what’s on the other side of the sea?”
“Another land, chicken. A land where the workers don’t get sent away from their little girls just because they have an argument with the boss.”
“Will you take me to that other land?”
“One day, my love. One day.”
***
She lay in a darkness broken only by a crack of light from under the door.
What little remained of her sanity bordered on extinction. Three times during the day and evening he had taken her and each time, aside from the mental anguish, the all-consuming rage at this violation of her body, was the physical pain of her bindings. She could not recall how long she had been strapped to this bed, force fed soup, her only release those few times when he took her to the toilet. After the last time, earlier today, he could not be bothered to tie her arms to the bedrails, so he bound them at her back and lay her down on them. They were skewed so far back that there had been no sensation in them for hours. Her legs were stretched apart and bound so tightly that the circulation was all but gone, and across her waist, he had secured her with rope which chafed the soft skin of her abdomen. She was slowly dying and the only thoughts distracting her from this agonising knowledge were of the other women he had tortured in this manner before taking them away and murdering them.
She had no notion of the hour. The only thing that marked the passage of time was the coming of diffused daylight through the thick curtains, followed by night. She suffered painful pangs of hunger and thirst, and this monster had only permitted her use of the lavatory when he believed she needed it. She had wet the bed more than once and now her bowels were threatening to move.
Even so there was still that tiny spark of hope. The longer he kept her here, the greater the chance of Croft making the final connection and finding her.
The end, she knew, could not be far away. In the early hours of the morning, he had come into the room and taken away a typewriter and a pile of clothing. It could only mean one thing. The Handshaker was about to leave Scarbeck, disposing of all traces. Trish could only hope that he would kill her before he left. The thought of being allowed to starve to death in this dingy room frightened her more than the prospect of extinction.
The door suddenly opened, flooding the room with light from the landing, silhouetting him as he entered.
He looked down upon her nudity and smiled greedily. “You’re very tasty, Sinclair, and you’re the first barrister I’ve had … as far as I can remember.”
Trish closed her mind to his words. They served only to enrage her further and that rage was impotent, mind-consuming, removing her capacity for logical thought and the possibility of escape.
“It’s almost two in the morning,” he told her, “and it’s your time. I’ll take my pleasure one last time, and then we’re on the move. Most of the town will be in bed or out clubbing, and we can make our way down there without arousing suspicion.”
He stripped off his shirt, ran a hand along her leg and she cringed.
“It’s been fun, you know, but it’s time The Handshaker made his way from Scarbeck to new pastures. Naturally, you won’t be going with me, but in one sense you’re luckier than the others. I hung them. Wanked off while I watched them die, but I won’t be killing you and I won’t be stopping to toss myself off while you die. Not that it’ll make much difference to you. You’ll die anyway … and your boyfriend will be going with you.” He laughed. “They haven’t announced it on the news, but I know they got him and
they’ve let him go. I saw him.”
He let his trousers down and displayed a proud erection. “You’re cold,” he said as he lowered himself onto and into her. He laughed and thrust hard. “Don’t worry. You’ll be a bloody sight colder before the night’s over.”
She switched her mind off to the terrible reality. Instead she drifted way to that hot summer, building sandcastles on the beach at Bridlington while her mother and father took their ease in deck chairs and her brothers played in the sea.
During the two months that her father had been in prison, she had pined for him. When he came out, she made him promise that he would never go away again. Every day, she would sit by the windows and watch for him coming home from work, and when they went to the seaside, she stayed near him, frightened that if she went to play in the sea, like her brothers, he would disappear and never come back.
A few months ago, he did go away forever, the victim of a brain tumour. The older Trish was no better able to deal with it than the child, but in his passing, he had allowed her to fall into this terrible man’s clutches. Now she needed her father, or another hero.
The news that Felix had been released sparked her hope once more. She knew that he would be out there looking for her, trying his damndest to put together the pieces of this puzzle and locate her. She sent out mental messages, psychic nonsense telling him exactly where she was.
***
It was over. The Handshaker had spent himself yet again. He climbed off and began to dress. There was no pity in his eyes, no compassion, only evil.
Once attired he gazed fondly down upon her. “It’s time.”
He took the knife and cut her feet free. Trish ordered her leg muscles to kick, but nothing happened. They had been rigid for so long that they had all but seized. He tied her feet together, leaving a length of rope about two feet long between them.
“We’re going for a little ride. Try anything silly and I’ll cut your throat. Be good and you have a few hours left yet.” He smiled false encouragement. “You never know, your boyfriend might actually save you.” Now he chuckled with childish glee. “I don’t think so, but you never know.”
He unfastened the strap across her waist and jerked her to a standing position. Her insensate legs folded and she collapsed in a heap on the floor. He yanked her upright, his hands pushed through her armpits, cupping her breasts.
“Nice tits,” he slavered.
For several minutes he forced her to walk around the tiny room to bring the circulation back to her legs and then, when she was ready, he guided her down the stairs, out through the back door to his Peugeot, and thrust her into the back seat, throwing his old anorak over her.
Movement was not an option. With her hands tied so tightly, even though her legs had some freedom, Trish doubted that she would get twenty yards under her own steam and even if she could move, what would she do? Kick the door open and throw herself out onto the road while they drove along?
It was a journey of less than ten minutes. He stopped briefly, removed the car keys and she heard a set of metal gates opening. He drove the car through, then climbed out again to close them. He drove on a short way, stopped again and this time dragged her out, confronting her with the view from Scarbeck Point. For the first time in a week, the skies had cleared, and the stars shone, but a chill wind bit at her naked skin. It would probably freeze before daybreak.
He forced her down the hill, pushed her ahead of him across the rough grass, down the hill towards the rear of Cromford Mill.
Without footwear, by the time they reached the inner security fence and his access, her feet were sore and bleeding. Crossing the concrete yard, tramping through brick dust, shards of glass and stones, added to the agony and by the time they made the door, she was limping badly on both feet.
“Won’t be long now.” He chuckled as he fumbled into his pockets for a flashlight.
Pushing her into the crumbling building, he moved her up a short flight of concrete steps and stopped. The wooden floor of the disused room felt icy cold to her feet.
He looked into her frightened eyes. “I want you to see this, Sinclair. I want you to see the hopelessness of your situation before I leave you to your fate.”
He turned her round and beamed his flashlight up.
If it were not for the gag in her mouth, Trish would have thrown up. Hanging from a beam on the floor above, a body had begun to decompose and even from this distance, the pitiful whites of her eyes showed. Trish searched what little was left of her memory. WPC Rehana Begum.
“As I said earlier, it’s not for you,” he chattered. “But I’m sure you want to know why you’re dying. I can’t be bothered telling you it all, but I can tell you this much. It isn’t you. It’s Croft and his family. They murdered my father. As for the victims, well they all came to me via nurses and counsellors, or by chance, but you all had one thing in common. You were hypnotised by a master. Not an amateur, like your boyfriend, but a true master – me. Just remember, Sinclair, before you die, Croft, is behind The Handshaker killings. All this,” he waved another languid hand in the direction of the dead woman, “is his doing.”
Trish forced her muscles to work. She wriggled from his grasp and hobbled back to the door, hell bent on getting away. He caught her in a second, spun her round and slapped her across the face.
“Bitch. Don’t you get it yet? You’re going to die, and it’s all thanks to your fucking hero, Croft.”
Gripping her below the waist, he bent, heaved her onto his shoulder and lit his way back down the stairs, to the entrance and past it, down another flight into the basement.
Once there, kicking rats away from his feet, he carried her into the darkest corner and planted her on her backside, on the filthy concrete floor. Taking more twine from his pocket, he anchored her to a girder and stood back, shining the light in her frightened face.
“It’s almost three. You’ve about five hours to wait and then it’ll be all over. You may just freeze to death before then, but you’re young and fit,” he bent and fondled her breast for the last time, “and healthy, so I should think you’ll last out to the bitter end. Goodbye, Sinclair. The pleasure was all mine.”
55
Croft awoke suddenly.
He glanced sideways at the green LED display of his alarm clock and read 6:45. What had woken him? With a shock, he knew. The empty bed beside him.
In the dark days, immediately after he and his wife separated, notwithstanding the growing relationship between himself and Trish, he would lie in a double bed alone, wishing he could turn back the clock, resist the temptations that had led him to that position, make a better marriage with Janet. Now he was going through it again, but this time it was worse. This time, he had not been unfaithful.
Not been unfaithful? The words echoed through his tired brain. What about Millie? Rolling out of bed, he quickly rationalised the interlude with the detective inspector as nothing more than an encounter forged in desperation. He wasn’t unfaithful, only unhappy, taking solace from Millie’s demanding urgency.
Saturday had been a nightmare. He and Shannon called first at Mrs Hitchins’ place in the village – she did not work weekends – where she positively identified the clothing as Trish’s.
“It could be anybody’s, Mr Croft, sir,” she said of the skirt, blouse and bra, “but the sizes are correct, and finding all three items together means it has to be hers.”
From there Shannon dropped him at Oaklands and he spent the entire day waiting, waiting and waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring with news, hoping that the car would provide the one piece of evidence that would identify The Handshaker or pinpoint his location. But like every other scene of crime, although the forensic people turned up a welter of evidence, there was nothing conclusive, nothing that pointed at any individual.
As the evening drew in, he finally began work on the last Handshaker message, but made no progress. He struggled with the anagrams, his brain constantly harping back to and pining for Tr
ish, holding back his progress.
He was convinced that she was still alive. The alternative was not only unpalatable, unthinkable, but it would not serve The Handshaker’s purpose. What would be the point of taunting Croft if the woman he used as an instrument of torture was already dead? Trish was alive. If she were not, The Handshaker would have let him know, and although Croft checked the Internet message boards several times during the day and evening, there were no new posts.
Millie rang at midnight. “Just thought I’d see how you are.”
“Agitated,” he confessed. “Unable to concentrate. Pining, worrying, on the verge of a breakdown probably. What’s the word from the police station?”
“Grim. They have absolutely no clue who they’re looking for and Evelyn Kearns’ records have provided no further clues. Tomorrow morning they have to turn out in force for the big bang at Cromford Mill.”
Croft was puzzled. “Sorry?”
“Cromford Mill,” she reminded him. “It’s to be demolished tomorrow morning. Remember?”
Croft did remember. It was one of those trivial events from the real world, one that Millie had mentioned before but which had slipped by in the insanity of the last few days.
“And that suspends the search for Trish and The Handshaker, does it?” he wanted to know.
“Backroom boys will be hard at it,” Millie explained, “but Shannon, as the station commander will have to put in an appearance.” There was a pause. “You need company?”
Croft declined. Sex was not the solution. “I should get to work on these anagrams. If I don’t crack them, it may cost Trish her life.”
Putting the phone down, he returned to the work, but eventually, at one in the morning, on the point of exhaustion, he went to bed.
And now, here he was, up and about again, less than six hours later. Five days without proper rest, and he was still wide-awake.
He stared at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Where was it? Where had it gone? That confidence.
The son of a High Court Judge, a member of a legal dynasty that could trace its ancestry back almost 200 years, confidence came as part of the package. All his life, people had criticised him for his overweening reliance upon himself, his sense of self-importance and often supercilious arrogance, but they were the very factors that made him a winner. Even his father, with whom he had had many a bitter argument, insisted that while he disapproved of Croft’s chosen career path, he would nevertheless succeed as a hypnotist because success was a part of the Croft gene.
The Handshaker Page 29