by Joy Ellis
‘Is it true, Sergeant Joe?’
He dragged in a long breath. ‘Yes, Mickey, I’m afraid it is.’
‘Can I help?’
There was a catch in Joseph’s voice. ‘No, son. We are doing all we can. We’ll find her.’
There was a deep sigh on the other end. ‘You must, Joe. You have to. She’s special.’
‘I’ll do my best. You know that.’
‘I know.’ There was a pause, then Mickey said, ‘Listen, I have a message from Archie and Raymond. They have asked me to tell you to concentrate all your efforts on finding Inspector Nik, and to keep away from the Carborough.’
The emphasis on “keep away” was not lost on Joseph. ‘Something is happening?’
‘Joe, can you tell your people to let us alone? Just for one night?’
‘Turn a blind eye to the Carborough Estate? Phew! That’s a big ask.’
‘It would be best for everyone, and you need every rozzer in the county out looking for Nikki, don’t you?’
Joseph understood exactly what was being asked of him, and why. But would anyone listen? ‘I’ll do my best, Mickey.’
‘We expect nothing less, okay? Take care, Joe, and let me know when she’s safe.’ The phone went dead.
Joseph drew himself up, straightened his tie and marched out of his office. He had an ally in the uniformed desk sergeant, who was a big fan of DI Nikki Galena. Joseph would lay it on the line, tell him everything, and hope and pray that uniform would suddenly become far too busy looking for a missing detective to get to some minor disturbance out on the Carborough.
* * *
With some reluctance, Superintendent Woodhall finally picked up the phone and asked to be connected to Superintendent Arthur Kirton. Better to go straight to the top, rather than skulk around trying to ferret out information about Oliver from dubious sources.
The call did not go particularly well, but at least Woodhall found out what he needed to know. Oliver Kirton did not own, rent or use any property. The bottom line was that all his money had gone up his nose, and he was forced to lodge at his aunt’s house. Arthur Kirton had no idea where his nephew was, and his tone said that he cared even less. His young nephew was obviously a significant source of embarrassment to the high-ranking police officer. Woodhall hung up, wondering what his fellow officer was going to think when he heard that there was a warrant out for Oliver’s arrest, on suspicion of murder and abduction.
* * *
Joseph replaced the receiver and stared hard at the worn surface of his desk.
Dave Harris’ deep voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Problem, Sarge?’
Joseph frowned. ‘I’ve just spoken to that nurse at Greenborough Hospital. She remembers Carla Duchene very well. She reckons Carla didn’t just disagree with her mother about going to a complementary healer, she was absolutely furious about it. She doesn’t believe for one moment that Carla would have changed her views in any way.’
‘Not even for her mother’s sake?’ Jessie asked.
‘Her words were, “Not a cat in hell’s chance.”’
Gill Mercer approached, her eyes glinting darkly. ‘Okay, so did this nurse tell you anything else about her?’
‘Yes. She said she was almost obsessive about her mother. She idolised her, apparently.’
‘So? Lots of children love their parents. I know most of the slimeballs that we deal with come from broken homes, but not everyone had a bad childhood.’
‘The nurse said she agreed to support Carla when the old lady refused conventional treatment, but after a while it scared her a bit. She was too intense for it to be healthy.’
Before anyone could say anything further, there was a cry from Cat Cullen. ‘Ma’am! I think you should see this!’ She was taking several sheets of paper from her printer. ‘It’s from Africa, from the group Carla worked with.’
Joseph followed Gill and the others over to see what Cat had found, then he stopped and grasped the inspector’s arm. ‘My God! Ma’am! I’ve just remembered something!’
They stopped and stared at him.
‘At the Duchene house. Her car, a little Peugeot, bright red, 206 model. It was still parked out front in the drive. The engine was cold. I checked the garage, and there was nothing there, but I’ve just realised there was a load of car stuff, you know, oil, screen wash, touch-up sticks, junk like that.’ Gill Mercer began to shuffle impatiently. ‘Ma’am, it was diesel oil. The Peugeot was a petrol model. And the touch-up stick was for a dark blue vehicle. I think she’s got two cars!’ Before he had even finished speaking, Jessie’s fingers were flashing over her computer keyboard. ‘Come on, come on . . . bingo! You’re right, Joseph. Oh shit! The Peugeot was her mother’s. She owns a navy blue Nissan X-Trail.’
‘A dark four-by-four.’ The colour drained from the DI’s face.
‘It gets worse, ma’am. Listen to this. Carla came home long before her mother was taken ill. She was considered unfit for work. She was unstable, traumatised, burnt out from years working in the field.’
Joseph’s voice didn’t sound like his own as he asked, ‘What did she do? What was her job?’
‘Field hospital theatre sister in the Congo. The war zone.’
‘Perfect!’ Rory Wilkinson strode into the room, his deep voice ringing out. ‘Someone who would know all about drugs, and how to use them out in the field! Oh, yes, and probably specialising in anaesthetics. Dear hearts, I think we had all this back to front, don’t you? Maybe our Ollie deserves an apology.’
Through the haze of his confusion, Joseph heard Gill Mercer barking out orders.
‘Find out if either Carla or the mother owned any other properties! Esther was a professional woman. Did she work from home? Did she have a studio somewhere? A house, a retreat, holiday cottage?’
Jenny Jackson had followed Rory in. ‘I can help there. Esther had two properties that I know of. A cottage on the coast, close to the bird reserve at Flaxton Mere, and one of the two small lighthouses out on the estuary of the River Westland. One is automated and still functions, the other went up for sale a few years back. Esther bought it and converted into a residential property to house her photographic studio and to watch the birds out on the marshes.’
‘How far away are they?’
‘Flaxton Mere. Twenty minutes’ drive, max. The lighthouse is a fraction further.’
Joseph bit his lip. ‘I know the places Jenny mentioned. Both are remote, with few passers-by, except the occasional rambler or bird watcher. DI Galena’s office has the best map of the area. I’ll show you where they’re situated.’
‘Here, and here, ma’am.’ He jabbed his finger at the two locations.
‘Right. Even I couldn’t miss a lighthouse, but that cottage doesn’t look too easy to find. Get me the exact coordinates. We’ll need two armed response units, one for each location.’ She turned to Joseph. ‘We need to split up, Sergeant. You take Cat and Jamie with a large team of uniforms and get out to that cottage, okay? I’ll take Dave, Jessie and a bunch of uniforms over to the lighthouse.’
The DI threw herself into Nikki’s chair and grabbed the phone. ‘I’ll organise the armed back-up, you bring the super up to speed, then get to hell out of here!’ She stopped, then added, ‘Second thoughts. Jessie, you come in here for a moment.’ She hurriedly made her call then turned to the detective, ‘I need you to do something. It’s very important. Look at this, I’ve only just noticed it.’ She showed Jessie a photocopy of the warning note, the one ostensibly pushed into Carla Duchene’s pocket prior to the vigil. ‘Look, compare it to this. It’s a phone number written on a scrap of paper I found sitting here on Nikki’s desk.’
Jessie took the two sheets and compared them. The scrap simply said, Carla Duchene, and a local number. ‘This one’s her writing, guv?’
‘Well, it’s not Nikki’s, so I reckon it has to be. Compare it with the C and the D on the threatening note.’
‘They’re identical! The scheming bitch! She never was in
danger! She sent the note to herself.’
‘Get that straight down to forensics to confirm it. Now I’ve really got to go. I’m leaving you in charge here, Nightingale. Man the phone, and remember, keep Joseph and I posted on anything that happens, anything at all. Understand?’
Jessie nodded furiously. ‘Good luck, ma’am. I know you’ll bring DI Galena back safely.’
As Gill ran from the office she wished she felt as certain. But this was their best lead yet. It might be their only chance.
* * *
Nikki leaned heavily against the door. What should she do next? There was some slight sensation returning to her legs, but she knew it would be hours before they would take her weight. Hours that she didn’t have.
It was tempting to call out. She was convinced that the killer had brought another victim to this place. If they could communicate, maybe they could hatch some kind of escape plan. But if it wasn’t another victim, who or what was it? And where was the killer?
As she thought, she heard the far door being opened again. Again, a cool draught of air, and with it . . . ? Nikki tensed. She was too anxious to stop and think about it. What was the person outside the door doing? Nikki shuddered. Well, she would go down fighting. Her legs were useless, but her hands and teeth were just fine.
A loud groan came from outside the room. This was followed by low curses and the sound of a scuffle. What was happening? Nikki eased herself down so that her ear was close to the gap at the bottom of the door, and strained to make out what was going on.
There was a scraping noise, then something heavy fell to the floor. The voices continued, swearing, muttering, growling.
There was a shout, and then Nikki knew exactly who was outside that door. From her position on the floor she had detected a hint of perfume on the draught that blew across her face. She had smelt that expensive oriental perfume on at least three occasions before. Each time she had been talking to Carla Duchene.
And the voice? She’d know that educated tone anywhere. It was Oliver Kirton! So he had not only abducted her, he had taken Carla as well.
Nikki tried to make sense of what was happening. He must have drugged her and dragged her in here, but she wasn’t as far gone as he had believed, and now the poor woman was fighting for her life!
She had to do something! Surely any distraction could help Carla? Nikki took a deep breath and yelled.
* * *
In the murder room at Greenborough, Jessie Nightingale passed on her latest message from Joseph. ‘Sergeant Easter’s area is clear, ma’am. The Flaxton Mere cottage and all the outbuildings are empty. Joseph and his team are on their way to meet you at the lighthouse.’
‘Thanks, Jessie. We’re about four minutes away.’
‘And ma’am, Eric Barnes rang in. He was in an accident on the A16. He’s been taken to Peterborough hospital. Nothing too serious but he needs x-rays. He said he’s sorry and he’ll get a cab back here when they discharge him.’
Jessie heard the DI grunt with impatience. ‘Okay, we’ll worry about him later. Anything else?’
‘Yes, I have managed to track down Carla Duchene’s private doctor. He sent me a report on her condition when she first returned from abroad. It makes scary reading, ma’am. Go very careful with her. It sounds as if she’s capable of anything.’
‘Rest assured, Jessie, I will. Over and out.’
* * *
Evening was settling across the bleak fenland. All day a keen wind had blown in from the cold grey waters of the North Sea, and the officers that drove towards the lighthouse were chilled to the bone. Rory Wilkinson, who had insisted on accompanying the team, knew that the numbing cold he felt had nothing to do with the climatic conditions. As they drove, he asked DI Gill Mercer what they could expect.
‘We’re trying a silent approach. No sirens, no blue lights, no announcement of our arrival. If we’ve got the right place, we have to use the element of surprise in order to save her.’
‘Will you use heat-seeking equipment to detect who’s inside?’
‘No time to wait for it, and I dare not send the helicopter up. The killer would know immediately what we’re up to.’
She tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Can’t this bloody thing go any faster?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Nikki slammed her shoulder against the door, hammered at it with her fists, and screamed her head off. She cursed Oliver Kirton with every name she could think of. She didn’t expect a reaction, but at least she was doing something.
Suddenly a key turned in the lock. When the door swung back, and Nikki saw the scene before her, she finally realised that she had been wrong all along.
No longer Byronic and elegant, Oliver Kirton was crawling almost blindly towards the entrance door. He managed to swing round and look at her for one moment.
‘Got it wrong, Detective,’ he croaked. ‘We both did.’ Then he pitched forward, face down, and lay still.
‘Carla?’
‘Yes, Detective Inspector, Carla Duchene. Poor, helpless Carla, needing the police to babysit her all through the vigil.’ She gave a harsh cackle.
Nikki saw the syringe in her hand and understood how she had managed to overpower Oliver Kirton. A flood of emotions swept through Nikki, to be followed by a feeling of hopelessness. She knew that no one was coming to save her now. None of them had even considered this woman as a possible suspect. Why would they? End of story.
Resignation descended over her like a damp, cold sheet. ‘Okay, before you finish this, would you tell me why you murdered my friend?’
‘Oh I intend to.’
Carla’s face was utterly devoid of all trace of humanity.
‘But first, I seem to have given you far too much freedom.’
‘I’m hardly likely to bloody well leg it, am I?’ Nikki pointed to her useless legs.
‘Even like that, you are a dangerous woman, DI Galena.’
Nikki spread her hands. ‘I won’t try anything. I just really need to know.’
‘Move back to the wall, and sit still. One move,’ Carla gestured with the syringe, ‘and you won’t ever wake up again. Understood?’
‘Just tell me.’ Nikki dragged herself to the wall and leaned heavily against it.
‘You never met my mother, did you? She was a brilliant photographer, passionate about the countryside and everything in it. She was an angel, a perfect angel. And your friend Helen Brook killed her.’ She tapped the syringe with a finger. ‘She killed my mother slowly. If it hadn’t been for your friend and her phony cures, I would still have my dear mother with me now. With scientific medical treatment the tumours would eventually have been overcome. But Helen Brook stole her from me. Her silver tongue confused and beguiled my poor, ill mother. So you see now why she had to die.’
Nikki knew that this woman was beyond reason.
Carla was still talking. ‘Using Helen’s treatment table was perfect, terribly fitting, don’t you think? It was right that she should die on the very table where she filled my mother’s head with her mumbo-jumbo. God! I saw enough mumbo-jumbo in Africa!’
Nikki understood well enough why poor Helen had been targeted, but she was not sure what she herself had done to upset this mad woman so badly. What was all that about Africa? ‘And am I to suffer the same fate? Have you got some arty-farty graffiti lined up for my bellybutton?’
The eyes burnt into her. ‘Don’t belittle my mother’s beautiful epitaph! No, you are not worth the time and trouble. You will simply die, and then I shall place your dead body on the marsh edge and let the tide take you out for fish food.’
‘Why me? What is it, guilt by association?’
‘The vigil, Inspector! Think about it. It was you who allowed it. You who turned that evil fraud of a woman into a martyr! You ruined everything I’d set out to achieve. I’d avenged my mother’s death, and you turned it into a farce. You had one chance to stop it, when I showed you that warning note. But you ignored it, and in doing so you sea
led your own fate. You are to blame, Detective Inspector Nikki Galena, you and no one else.’
Nikki opened her mouth to speak, then she noticed a slight movement behind her. Years of drug abuse must have given Oliver Kirton a pretty high tolerance of chemicals. Now he was back in the land of the living, and silently holding a finger to his lips.
She needed to keep Carla Duchene’s attention. ‘How did you get into Helen’s flat? Did she let you in herself?’
Carla tilted her head to one side, then she frowned. ‘I was down in the treatment room, waiting for my mother to have one of her ridiculous “sessions.” There were several keys on the conservatory keyring, so I stole the spare and had a copy made. I replaced it the next time I took Mother for another “treatment.”’
‘Lucky for you they were the only locks that poor Andrew didn’t have changed.’ Nikki tried to keep talking. She could see that Oliver was almost upright, though he was moving with agonising slowness.
‘Even now the detective in me wants to get things clear, so one last question, Carla. Helen was being watched by the young man who was caught up in the Blackmoor Cross accident with her. Did you know about that?’
Carla gave another bark of laughter. ‘Oh yes! Dear Helen was kind enough to share all her fears about her stalker with my mother. And Mother told me. Fortuitous wasn’t it? I timed her death perfectly so as to throw suspicion onto the peeping Tom.’
Nikki had almost run out of things to say, and Carla Duchene was inching closer to her.
‘I suppose—’
There was a loud crash, then the sound of running and shouting. Nikki had been on enough busts to instantly recognise the noise and mayhem created by a dozen hyped-up coppers.
‘Police! Down on the floor! Now! On the floor!’ A black-garbed marksman grabbed Oliver Kirton and threw him down, pulling his arms up behind him and jamming the snout of an automatic weapon between his shoulder blades. ‘Don’t move a muscle!’