by Bill Kitson
‘I could do, although Pearce lives much closer to your offices.’ As O’Donnell was speaking, the reason for the request dawned on her. ‘Oh, I get you, and you want me to instruct Clara to ask for you specifically, is that right?’
‘Yes. I have no idea how you’re going to mend fences with Mike, but I hope Clara can show me a way to repair mine.’
Chapter Twenty
‘How are we doing with the search for Wes Stanton and Amy White’s baby?’
Pearce looked up from his computer and stretched. ‘Not very well, Mike. I’m afraid I can’t find any record that is even a close match, either in 1980, or five years either side. I tried searching under the surname Stanton or White. I tried using Wesley as the father, or by listing it as “father unknown,” but got absolutely nothing. It might help if we had a Christian name to go with the surname, or if we knew whether it was a boy or girl. The only other alternative as I see it is that either Amy White had a miscarriage, or the baby was stillborn.’
‘That wouldn’t be right. A stillbirth has to be registered, even when the infant died before birth. Unless, as you say, she had an early miscarriage.’
‘There is one alternative that nobody has mentioned.’ Both men glanced across at Lisa.
‘Enlighten me, Lisa,’ Viv said, gesturing to his computer, ‘because this damned thing won’t help. I feel as if I’ve been welded to it for a week.’
‘What if the baby wasn’t born here? What if he or she was born abroad?’
‘That’s possible, I suppose.’ Nash nudged Pearce. ‘Why didn’t you think of that?’
Pearce opened his mouth to reply, then realized Nash was teasing him. ‘Because that possibility didn’t occur to me,’ he admitted.
‘There is one clue, and quite a big one at that,’ Lisa said, ‘and I’m surprised you of all people didn’t consider it, Viv.’
‘Of course, Stanton’s West Indian ancestry,’ Pearce shook his head. ‘It never dawned on me, but I guess he could have had cousins, aunts and uncles, any number of relatives back in the Caribbean.’
‘That wouldn’t make it easy to trace, though.’ Nash pointed out.
‘Possibly not, but if the child later came to this country they would need a passport,’ Lisa suggested.
Nash stared at her for a moment. ‘You’re sharp today. Did you sleep in the knife box last night?’
‘I thought it was fairly obvious.’
‘Ouch! OK, don’t rub it in. Viv, will you see if you can get any joy via the Passport Office?’
At that moment Clara entered with a tray of coffee. ‘What have I missed? Who needs a passport?’
Viv relayed the conversation she had missed.
‘Why not just try York? That’s where Wes Stanton’s family lived. It’s a lot nearer for weekend visits.’
Viv shook his head, put down his coffee mug and returned to the screen.
‘We’ll leave you to it. Mrs Clever Clogs and I are going back to Bishopton to see if the wandering bookmaker has returned yet.’ Nash saw Pearce frown. ‘Gus Harvey,’ he explained.
* * *
There had been a hard frost overnight, and the trees lining the avenue leading to Harvey’s house were still glistening silvery white. As they walked past the closed garage, Nash touched Clara’s arm. ‘Looks as if he’s back.’
She looked to where Nash was pointing and could see the tread marks from a set of tyres clearly imprinted in the frost. ‘Quite recently, too, I’d say,’ she agreed.
Despite this evidence, they got no response from either the bell or when they banged on the front door.
‘Where on earth is he? We can’t have been mistaken, surely?’
‘Maybe he’s in the shower. He must be back. Either him or his son. Nobody else would be able to operate that fancy electronic mechanism on the garage doors. One of them ought to be in the house somewhere.’
‘What should we do? We can’t break in to find out if he’s OK, can we? There’s no grounds for doing that.’
‘No, there isn’t. You keep up the percussion on the front door and I’ll take a gander round the back.’
Nash took a couple of steps towards the side of the building, then stopped. ‘One thing you could do, if only to give your knuckles a rest. Phone Harvey’s office and see if he’s there, or if he’s been in touch. While you’re speaking to them, ask if he has any meetings scheduled for today. It’s just possible he came home, then got collected by someone, or even took a taxi to a railway station, or the airport.’
She made the phone call, then recommenced her attempt to get someone to answer the door, alternating this with walking to and fro, swinging her arms and stamping her feet to keep her circulation going against the piercing cold. Eventually, Nash returned, but his report was almost totally negative. ‘The house is all secure, and I tried squinting through the ground-floor windows, but couldn’t see anything untoward. Let’s see if there’s a window in the garage.’
He led the way to the path alongside the garage and was confronted by a walled flowerbed, which obstructed their access to the side window.
‘Now what?’
Nash thought for a moment. ‘I’ll give you a boost up onto the wall and you can lean forward to look through the window.’
‘Oh, thank you. Why is it always me?’ Clara muttered to herself as she scrambled to her feet, with Nash’s hand strategically placed to stop her falling off. ‘Thank God, I’m not wearing a skirt,’ she said aloud.
‘Spoilsport!’
It was the first sign of Nash’s humour that Clara had witnessed for some time, but she was in no mood to appreciate it.
‘What can you see?’
‘Nothing, I’ll have to stretch out. Hold me steady. I could do with a torch,’ she reported, ‘It’s too dark inside.’
‘Haven’t you got one on your mobile?’
‘I never thought of that. Hang on.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
She swayed slightly as she removed her phone, then shone the beam inside. ‘Mike,’ her voice changed, reflecting her agitation. ‘I think there’s somebody inside one of the cars. I may be wrong, but I think they’re naked.’
‘Better come down and we’ll call for assistance. We can’t do anything on our own. We need someone to get those doors open.’
‘What about the person in the car?’
‘Good point, Clara. They won’t last long in this temperature, even if they’re still alive. Pass me that gnome.’ As he spoke, Nash scrambled onto the wall.
‘What?’
‘The gnome, I need it to smash the glass. We don’t have time to wait for backup.’ He threw his car keys to her. ‘There’s a rug in the back of the car. Get me some gloves and overshoes from the boot as well.’
Moments later, Nash had cleared the broken glass and, with the blanket laid across the jagged frame, lowered himself into the garage. He could see at once that Clara had been correct. He tried the door of the Mercedes, which resisted his attempt to open it. He cupped his hand, and using the light from his mobile, looked through the rear window.
After a few seconds, he backed away and shouted to Clara. ‘Ring Mexican Pete and tell him we’ve another customer for him. Ask him to bring the rest of his team. I’ll try and find the switch for this roller-door so I can get out of here.’
‘Is it Gus Harvey?’
‘Not unless he’s either grown hair rapidly or is wearing a wig. I’d say this is, or rather was, someone much younger. It might be Dale Harvey, I suppose. It’s difficult to tell. The body is laid face down, and there looks to be something or somebody underneath it.’
As Nash ducked under the opening door of the garage, a patrol car drew to a halt. Nash instructed the officers to begin taping the area to preserve the scene.
He and Clara returned to Nash’s car to await the arrival of the pathologist. When Ramirez arrived, they accompanied him into the garage, where a couple of the newly arrived forensic officers were standing close to the vehicle
which they had now unlocked. Both of them were grinning, which Nash found bizarre in the circumstances. It was only after Ramirez conducted a preliminary examination that the explanation came.
‘The young man’s chest shows an operation scar similar to the other victims.’
‘What was that underneath the body? It looked almost like another one.’
‘It was a female figure.’ The pathologist saw their look of horror. ‘Relax, it isn’t human.’
Clara frowned. ‘Not an animal, surely?’
‘No, it appears to be a sex toy. An inflatable one.’
As he was speaking, Nash took the opportunity to look closer at the victim. ‘I may be wrong, but I think this is Chad Wilkinson,’ he told Mironova. ‘I’d better ring Fleming. No doubt I’ll get the blame for this.’
He went outside to make the call. Ramirez watched him go. ‘He doesn’t seem his normal cheery self. What’s wrong with him?’
‘I shouldn’t really tell you, but it’s fairly common knowledge.’ Clara explained about the row over the newspaper article.
The pathologist shook his head. ‘That sounds like someone making a hasty judgement call without taking Nash’s personality into account. Still, I’m sure he’ll get over it. Nash isn’t the type to hold a grudge.’
Nash got hold of Fleming, but far from blaming him, she seemed anxious to let him know she thought there was nothing he could have done to prevent this incident. She asked if there was anything she could do to help, or if extra personnel would be required.
‘I don’t think so, unless you can supply someone to deflect Mexican Pete’s jokes. Since he developed a sense of humour, he’s becoming unbearable.’
It was the forensic officers rather, than the pathologist, whose idea of gallows humour was smutty innuendo that made the detectives wince. When one of them made a highly risqué comment about the beneficial effect of rigor mortis, Nash was forced to ask their leader to order them to stop. As soon as they were able, the detectives entered the house. Nash pointed out that as the garage was attached to the main building with internal access, it was all technically part of a crime scene. Clara wondered if this pretext would hold up against a legal challenge, but was soon too busy to reflect on it for long.
Before they entered, Nash cautioned the CSI team about their terms of reference. ‘Remember, we are only looking for evidence relating to the death of the man in the garage, plus some clues as to the whereabouts of the house owner and his son. Anything else we might find, no matter how incriminating, must be ignored unless it relates to this specific incident.’
The search took over two hours, but proved fruitless. As they were about to leave, Nash reminded the CSI team leader to ensure the property was secure. They waited before walking back down the drive for the recovery vehicle to reverse up to the garage. ‘We’re going to load the Mercedes and take it back to the police garage for detailed examination,’ the forensic officer told them.
‘That leaves one huge unanswered question,’ Nash told Clara as they drove back to Helmsdale.
‘Apart from the identity of the killer, you mean?’
Nash smiled slightly, ‘OK,’ he conceded, ‘one more unanswered question.’
‘OK, I give in. What is it?’
‘Gus Harvey’s Mercedes might be back, but where the heck is he?’
It was a question they were to ask themselves several times over the following days, but without getting an answer.
* * *
It had been a tiring, frustrating day, and as he was driving home, Nash remembered that he had promised to try and go to the pub that evening, where the annual Christmas domino knockout was being held. Everyone entering the competition would pay a fee, in return for which there was a cash prize, plus some runner-up awards. A buffet supper was being provided for everyone.
The bar was brightly lit, the seasonal decorations lending a festive atmosphere to the event. Although the event wasn’t scheduled to start for another half hour, the room was already busy. Nash joined Jonas Turner in the corner, having first put his name down as an entrant, and paid the fee. ‘Ay up, Mr Nash, Ah didn’t ‘ave you down as a fives-and-threes expert,’ Turner greeted him.
‘I’m not, Jonas. I’m only here to make up the numbers.’
‘That’s as mebbe, but in a show like this, you stand as much chance as any o’ this lot.’
It must have been his lucky night, for much to his own surprise he reached the final, only to be defeated for the top prize. It was approaching midnight when he left the pub, accompanied by his trophy, a large teddy bear.
Chapter Twenty-one
Nash slept well, but was awakened early. He reached over and grabbed the phone. ‘Nash,’ he mumbled.
‘Mike, it’s Jack Binns.’
As the sergeant spoke, Nash squinted at the luminous display on his bedside clock. It was 6.15 a.m. He groaned silently. ‘Yes, Jack, what are you doing up at this hour?’
‘I’m covering the early shift at Netherdale. Some rotten beggar’s decided to take a duvet day. So who gets the call? Me! Anyway, better get across to Bishopton, sharp. There’s been a body found tied to the memorial clock in the market place.’
‘A body? Who is it?’
‘No idea, but paramedics are en route. The officer attending says he’s alive, but he can’t rouse him. He said the pulse was very weak. Oh, there is one other thing. He’s naked. The victim, I mean, not the officer.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Nash was out of bed and switched the light on as he replaced the receiver. He wondered how Binns managed to sound so cheerful at this unearthly hour. But then, Jack didn’t have to attend the crime scene.
He completed the short journey to Bishopton in record time. The scene was brightly lit, the headlights and beacons of the emergency vehicles replacing the festive decorations, complemented by the incident tape surrounding the village green, like tinsel on a Christmas tree. He wondered briefly why a fire engine was in attendance, but the explanation was soon provided by the police officer who had been first to arrive at the scene.
‘The victim’s chained up, and the chain is secured with at least four padlocks. The simplest way I could think of releasing him was to get the fire brigade.’
‘Good thinking. I’d better have a look at the victim.’ Nash ducked under the tape and walked across. The body was shrouded in thermal blankets, with a blood pressure monitor protruding from the depths. One of the paramedics, wearing surgical gloves, held up an oblong piece of cardboard for Nash to read. ‘That was tied around his genitals.’
There was only one word scrawled in felt tip on the card. ‘RAPIST’.
‘This looks like a revenge attack. Mind if I take a dekko and see if I recognize him? I’ll get an evidence bag for that in a moment.’
‘Help yourself. There’s not much we can do until he’s been freed.’
One look at the victim’s face was sufficient. ‘His name’s Dale Harvey,’ he told the paramedic. ‘I’ll give you the full details later.’
Having collected the sign, he returned to the police officer. ‘How did you get to know about this?’
‘We got a treble nine call from the milkman who delivers in town. He discovered it when he was offloading at the cafe across there. I let him continue his deliveries, but I’ve got his details for a statement, or if you want a word.’
Nash glanced round and noticed that in spite of the early hour, the activity had attracted a small group of onlookers. Some were quite blatantly recording the scene on mobile phones while other officers were trying to shepherd them away. ‘How long has that lot been here?’
‘I don’t know. Some of them were already hanging around when I arrived.’
‘OK, as soon as some of my officers arrive you can be on your way. Until then, tell them to stop recording this. If they want to see a film, tell them to go to the cinema.’
As he waited for Mironova to answer, he wondered what reaction he’d get from waking her as early as this.
He glanced at the memorial clock, whose plinth still held Dale Harvey captive, but it was still too dark to show him the time. He looked at his watch instead, and the bright luminosity of the Omega face illustrated the lack of natural light. No wonder, he thought; it was only 6.30 a.m.
‘I’m not on call. What do you want?’ The words came out as a sleepy grumble.
Nash grinned. ‘Good morning, Clara, and how are you this fine day?’
‘Have you been drinking? Waking me at this unearthly hour. Or is there a reason for the call? A good reason.’ She emphasized the last two words.
‘Knowing the pleasure you get from staring at naked men, I thought you might enjoy a trip out to Bishopton. You’d better hurry, though, because before long the fire brigade and paramedics will probably have freed him and whisked him off to hospital, so you’ll have missed your chance.’
‘You have been drinking.’
‘Wrong, but I have been called out because the local milkman has found Dale Harvey. Alive, stark naked, and chained to the town clock.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Don’t rush; he’s covered in blankets now.’
Nash grinned as he replaced the mobile in his pocket. The word Mironova had used to end the call definitely wasn’t “goodbye.” He signalled the patrolman. ‘Do me a favour; get your colleagues to ask any of the onlookers if they noticed anything unusual — a strange vehicle, possibly a van or similar. Concentrate on those who got here before you — and get their details,’ he added.
The senior paramedic walked over to where Nash was standing. ‘The firemen should have him free in a couple of minutes, then we’ll get him out of here.’
‘It’s taking a while. Is there a problem?’
‘The chains are all entangled into a right cat’s cradle, and the padlocks are threaded through different strands. They keep thinking they have it sorted, but then they come up with another snag. Now they’re setting up the hydraulic cutter because the chain is too strong for the bolt cutters. They’ll have him out in seconds with that.’
‘What about Harvey?’
‘He’s warming up a bit and his pulse is a little stronger, but he’s very heavily sedated. The problem is, he might not remember much about what happened, or who did this to him. There is one other thing. When we were wrapping him in the thermal blankets, one of my chaps noted some unusual burn marks on his body.’