by Bill Kitson
Clyde grimaced; he had half a mind to ring up and cancel, to ask for a later date. On second thoughts, it would be better to face up to it and get the bad news over and done with. Only when he knew how bad it was going to be, only when they gave him the exact prognosis, could he begin to turn his careful planning into action.
He attended the appointment, and the news was as he’d anticipated. He walked away from the hospital, his mind reeling from the shock. He had so little time, and so much to do. It was clearer than ever that what he had in mind could not be achieved alone. He’d been aware of it all along, but luckily he had a partner. Someone who was certainly as keen as Clyde on the project they would share, more so if that was possible. It had been pure chance, plus his observational skills that had brought them together. Their long-dreamed-of plan had now acquired an extra degree of urgency. However, the scheme would require careful thought. Nothing must be left to chance.
The consultant watched him leave, marvelling at the stoicism with which the young man had taken the dreadful news. Many would have been broken by the pronouncement. Even as he’d told him, the specialist had known he was handing Clyde a sentence of death. What the specialist didn’t realize; what he had no way of knowing, was the number of other people he had also condemned to an early demise.
* * *
Georgina awoke with a start and attempted to roll over, to see what time it was. That was when she realized that for some strange reason she was unable to move. It must still be early, she thought, the room was in pitch darkness. As she regained full consciousness, she realized that this was not her own bed. Nor, from the smell of it, was she in her own room. It smelled like — she thought for a moment — like a hospital. But that was absurd. She wasn’t ill. Had she suffered an accident? She tried once more to turn over, and as the knowledge of why she couldn’t move came to her, panic overtook all other emotions.
Her wrists and ankles were tied by something. It felt sticky against her skin. She also had a most uncomfortable feeling as if a foreign object had been placed inside her.
‘She’s waking up.’ The voice, curiously muffled and sexless, came out of the darkness. Any relief she might have felt at not being alone was transitory. Next moment the darkness was gone, replaced by a bright light that shone down from directly above, hurting her eyes. She closed them, only to reopen them when a second voice, also muffled, spoke to her.
‘You have been brought here to make your confession. If you do so freely, I guarantee that you will be free of pain. That is the only assurance I can give.’
Confess? Confess to what? And what did he mean about being free of pain?
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ She tried to scream out, but for some reason she couldn’t get any power into her voice. ‘Why am I tied up?’ There was no response. ‘Let me go!’
Her final demand met with a reply, although it was hardly the one she was seeking.
‘I’m afraid that will not be an option. You have forfeited your right to freedom. All you can do is confess. If you do it freely without the need for encouragement, I promise you, it will be much easier.’
‘You’re mad. I have nothing to confess to. I demand that you let me go, whoever you are.’
‘Demand? I scarcely think you are in a position to demand anything. As to who we are, that is immaterial. What we want, however, is highly important. Vital, you might say.’
‘I don’t understand. What do you want from me?’
Her eyes had at last become accustomed to the light, and she could just make out the form of the man who was speaking to her. Not that it went any way to providing recognition, because he was wearing a surgeon’s mask, cap, and gown.
‘Listen very carefully, and I will explain.’ He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, and with every word he uttered her unease deepened into alarm at the extent of his knowledge. Knowledge of past things she had long tried to forget. Knowledge of things her conscience prevented her from forgetting completely, no matter how hard she tried.
‘To hell with you.’ She spat the words out after he finished speaking. ‘Do your worst, I don’t care. I’m not saying a word.’
‘That is your choice, of course, and I somehow thought with your particular tastes, you might opt for the more difficult route.’
A split second after he finished speaking, pain flooded her body from head to toe. She opened her mouth to scream, but at the same moment a piece of tape was slapped across it, silencing her protest. The pain stretched to every extremity, the tape across her mouth was so tight, she could barely breathe, not even bite her lip. She writhed about, trying to escape her bonds, to free herself from this torment, but, as her torturer had told her, there was no escape. Then, as she was beginning to believe she could take no more, the pain ceased as swiftly as it had begun. She heard a voice — his voice, saying, ‘Loosen the tape.’
In obeying the command, the torturer’s assistant was none too careful, pulling roughly at the gag. She was past caring, and began to sob quietly. ‘What did you do to me? Why me?’
‘You have it wrong. It is not your place to ask questions. You have been brought here to answer them. Now, are you going to tell us what you know? Are you prepared to tell the truth? Are you prepared to admit your part in those dreadful deeds?’
The pain had not long since faded, but it was long enough for her to assemble the last fragments of courage, to make one final show of defiance. ‘No I’m not, damn you! I told you, do your worst. I don’t care.’
‘You will. I promise you, you will.’
Through tear-filled eyes, she saw her tormentor nod to his unseen assistant, and almost immediately the gag was replaced. She tensed, her whole being braced for a further bout of pain, but nothing happened. Any second now, she thought, but she underestimated her captors. She waited, and just as she had convinced herself that they had taken pity on her, the pain started again: stronger this time, as if her torturer had turned a setting control to a higher level.
After what seemed an age, the torment ceased, the gag was removed, and he asked her again. Again she summoned up some form of defiance.
Then it began: pain, respite, question. And all the time, her resistance was weakening as the suffering increased. The violent agonizing torture continued, on and on, until time ceased to have any meaning. There was nothing else in the world, in her world, but pain. Eventually, her body could take no more. ‘I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you! Just don’t do that again.’
She began to speak, her voice little more than a whisper as she answered his questions. At times he had to stop her and ask her to repeat her answers. She wondered if he was hard of hearing. The thought that her words, her confession, were being recorded never occurred to her.
When she finished, he thanked her. ‘Now,’ he told her, ‘it is time for you to sleep.’
Sleep? She wondered if he was mad. Sleep was out of the question. The pain itself might have gone, but the discomfort was intense. She heard the second voice. ‘Sharp scratch,’ the person said. At the same moment, she felt a needle prick her right arm.
Almost at once, the light above her head began to dim. They watched as her eyes closed and consciousness left her. ‘Well,’ the one in the surgeon’s gown exclaimed, ‘that took longer than I expected. Now we’d better prepare her.’
* * *
The head librarian liked to get to work early on a Monday morning. It was market day, and there was always a rush in the first hour after the library opened. Added to that, all the returns put through the box over the weekend had to be redistributed along their shelves, and the bulky correspondence dealt with. Besides, his assistant, Miss Drake, had been off sick the previous week, and there was a lot of work to do before they unlocked the door to the public.
He pulled into the car park well before 9 a.m. and was mildly surprised to see Miss Drake’s car wasn’t there. She was always punctual, and it was rare for him to arrive before her. He hoped she had recovered and was only running late. H
e locked his car and strode across towards the staff entrance. Usually, if she arrived first, half of the work would be done by the time he got inside.
Today would be different, although he wasn’t aware of the fact yet.
When he reached the door he found it slightly ajar. If Miss Drake had arrived before him, she would have locked it behind her, even if some new stock had arrived. He knew the regular driver was on holiday, and although his relief wouldn’t be aware of their routine, he wouldn’t have been able to do more than park up and wait. Added to that, Monday wasn’t their normal delivery day.
However, Miss Drake was seated behind the reception desk, staring at the computer screen in front of her. The fleeting thought crossed his mind that perhaps her car had broken down, or she’d taken it in for service. ‘Good morning, Miss Drake. Feeling better? You forgot to lock the door behind you, but seeing nobody has come in, I don’t suppose it matters. Has something happened to your car?’
Miss Drake didn’t reply. He frowned and moved closer. ‘Miss Drake, Georgina, are you all right?’
There was still no reply. He walked round the console until he was facing her. It was only then that he began to realize that something was wrong. Seriously wrong. How serious, he couldn’t imagine.
A few minutes later that began to change.
* * *
DI Mike Nash was at home when he took the call. He glanced at the caller display on the screen and saw it was from the station.
‘Morning, Mike.’ The cheery tone of Sergeant Jack Binns was at variance with the grim nature of his message. ‘I’ve a nice corpse for you to start the week with. A librarian’s body has been found in suspicious circumstances.’ Binns went on to give Nash the details.
‘OK, Jack, I’ll go straight there. When Clara arrives, get to her to come along, will you?’
Thirty-five minutes later, Nash arrived at the scene. A paramedic crew was waiting outside. The senior of them told him, ‘We haven’t disturbed anything, just checked to make sure there was no sign of life.’
A uniformed officer pointed to the main entrance, explaining that the head librarian was waiting for him inside. Nash entered the building, which resembled an old-style village school. A man wearing a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers was sitting on a chair just inside the door in the foyer, looking lost and shocked.
Nash showed him his warrant card. ‘Excuse me; I understand you found the body. Are you OK?’
The man nodded, barely seeming able to concentrate.
‘Would you tell me exactly what happened? Take your time.’
The librarian forced the words out, ‘I arrived a few minutes before nine o’clock. I always like to get in early, with it being market day. There was no sign of Georgina’s car outside, but the building was unlocked, and when I went inside, there she was. I was surprised to see her. Because although she usually arrives before me, I couldn’t work out how she got here from Bishopton, unless her car had broken down and she’d cadged a lift. When I first saw her I thought she was working, catching-up because she’d been off sick, but when I said good morning she didn’t reply, so I thought she might still be ill or something. Then I saw the scarf tied round her eyes, and I knew something was seriously wrong.’
He shuddered. ‘I touched her arm. That was when I knew for certain she was dead. I’d have thought it was a heart attack — but for the scarf.’
‘Would you wait here, please? One of my colleagues will be along shortly to take a statement.’
Nash went to the end of the short hallway and waited for the automatic door to hiss open. Inside, was a long sweeping counter; behind it, a computer was positioned on the shelf. Sitting at the computer was the dead woman.
The rest of the library looked undisturbed. The head-high shelves were all neatly stacked. The computer screens in the area used for internet browsing were all blank. In the children’s section, all the educational toys were neatly placed in their boxes. Nothing to show that this was anything but death from natural causes. Nothing, apart from the scarf, which instead of being worn loosely round the librarian’s neck, had been knotted tightly at the back of her head. It had been folded and positioned with great care. But why? What was the purpose of covering the dead woman’s eyes?
Nash frowned. Something about the hair didn’t look right. He spotted a box of tissues beneath the counter, and, with his gloved hand, he removed one and touched her hair with it. The tissue was damp. And yet there had been no rain. He sniffed at the tissue; there was a vaguely familiar chemical smell that he couldn’t, for the moment, place.
He walked round the desk. It was only when he reached the far side that he noticed her hands. The left was positioned over the computer mouse, while the right held the date stamp used to check books in and out of the library.
Nash was already convinced he was looking at a murder victim. The hair puzzled him. It wasn’t just damp, as if she’d showered, and had been late for work. On the contrary, she’d been early. He leaned over again and with the tissue checked the lightweight pink cardigan she was wearing over her white blouse. No, that was dry enough. As his hand came away the edge of the cardigan moved slightly and Nash caught a glimpse of something at the neckline of the blouse. He took his pen from his pocket, and with the tip of the Sheaffer, gently lifted the edge of the blouse away from her body. It was then that he noticed the neat line of stitches running vertically down the woman’s upper torso. ‘What the hell’s that?’ Nash wondered aloud.
He returned outside and greeted Clara Mironova, his detective sergeant. ‘To be fair, I don’t think there’s an awful lot we can do here,’ he commented, ‘certainly not until CSI and Mexican Pete have finished. The big unanswered question I have is how she got here.’ He saw Clara looking puzzled. ‘She lives in Bishopton,’ he explained, ‘but her car isn’t here.’
Nash went on to describe what he’d seen inside the library, and added, ‘Will you be able to cover the post-mortem if it’s tomorrow?’
Clara looked at him in surprise. ‘I thought you’d want to do that.’
‘I would normally, but it’s my day off. I told you I was taking Tuesday off.’
‘Are you doing anything special? It’s just that you usually like to attend post-mortems yourself.’
Nash frowned. ‘I think I’m due a day off. I haven’t had one for over three weeks. Every weekend it seems both you and Viv Pearce manage to find something to do rather than be on call. Or had the fact that I’ve covered the last four weekends slipped your otherwise retentive memory?’
Clara winced at the biting sarcasm. Such a reaction was unusual. Obviously she’d touched a raw nerve, but it was unlike Nash to be so sensitive. She wondered if there was more to it than merely annoyance at having had so little time off. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, attempting to placate him. ‘I’ll attend the post-mortem if necessary. And I’ll make sure either Viv or I cover the next few weekends. Is that all right?’
Nash nodded, but if he was going to say anything, his attention was distracted at that moment by a car that swung into the car park entrance at high speed. The detectives moved rapidly to one side to avoid being mown down by the vehicle as it careered towards the last available parking bay. As it flashed by, Mironova recognized the driver. ‘Mexican Pete thinks he’s Ayrton Senna,’ she muttered.
Nash turned to greet their pathologist, Professor Pedro Ramirez, who, owing to his name, was known to one and all in the force as Mexican Pete, a character in the Ballad of Eskimo Nell. ‘Good morning, Professor. The way you were driving just now, anyone would think you were short of work.’
‘Fat chance of that with you around,’ Ramirez retorted. ‘The message I got said a lady librarian had been found dead. What do you think? Was she murdered or simply overdue? Will there be a fine to pay?’
Nash groaned. ‘You really ought to look for another gag writer. I hope you can tell us more definitely, but I’d say she was murdered.’
‘OK, I’ll get my gear on and take a look.’
Shortly after, the crime scene had been turned over to Ramirez and the forensic officers, Viv Pearce, the tall Antiguan-born detective constable, had arrived to act as liaison.
Nash told him, ‘I’ve arranged with HQ to detail officers for a door to door on the houses opposite. There isn’t much more we can do here, so I’ll take Clara to Miss Drake’s flat and see what we can find there. It’s obvious the murder didn’t take place in the library.’
‘It sounds like a game of Cluedo when you put it that way,’ Clara commented.
‘If we find Colonel Mustard there, you’ll know it is.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Mitre Avenue, in Bishopton.’
Nash had taken the precaution of getting a forensic officer to test the woman’s keys. Finding no trace evidence, he had handed back the bunch containing keys for her car, the library, and her flat.
Chapter Five
The building in Mitre Avenue was one of a terrace of old stone houses converted to flats. Nash pointed to a car parked outside that matched the description of Miss Drake’s. ‘Check that out on the ANPR, would you, Clara, see if it belongs to the dead woman?’
He opened the outer door of the building, then, as they were about to enter, they were hailed by a female’s voice in defined Welsh tones. The detectives looked round to see a woman in her late twenties standing on the pavement. She had shopping bags in both hands.
‘Can I help you?’ The woman looked nervous, obviously wondering if she was confronting a pair of housebreakers. Nash strolled down the four steps in front of the door and smiled reassuringly. He produced his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Nash. My colleague there is Detective Sergeant Mironova.’ He gestured towards Clara. ‘Do you live in this building?’
‘Yes, I’ve got the ground floor. What’s wrong? Has there been a burglary or something?’