CHAIN REACTION an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist

by Bill Kitson

  ‘Don’t believe in coincidences,’ Binns finished off Nash’s sentence for him.

  After ending his call, Nash asked the victim to go to the police station. ‘Ask for DC Andrews, she’ll take your statement as soon as she’s free. At the moment, she’s dealing with someone else who was victim of what sounds like the same thief. Unfortunately, we have to leave now to attend another incident.’

  ‘What is it this time?’ Clara asked as they made their way through the narrow ginnel to emerge in the market place.

  Nash pointed to his right. ‘The Market Cafe’s been done over, and it sounds like the same couple. At least, the description fits the man, or lack of description I should say, seeing he had the balaclava on again. But I don’t know if the woman was involved. He waited until the owner, whose name is Alison, went into the yard behind the cafe, held a knife to her throat, and demanded all the notes from the till. An ambulance has been called.’

  They hurried along the pavement and after the assistant had unlocked the door, found the owner sitting on a chair, holding a tea towel to her neck and in an obvious state of shock. In her trembling hand was a lit cigarette.

  ‘Sod the smoking ban,’ she said. ‘This is my cafe.’

  The lack of information supplied about her assailant sounded depressingly familiar. It was only later in the interview with the woman and her employees that one or two useful facts emerged. Although the proprietor was unable to describe her attacker, her estimate of his age tallied with that provided by the pet stall owner. ‘I’d say he was in his twenties. Early rather than late. Certainly not thirty,’ Alison told them.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘His voice. It wasn’t as deep as an older man’s. Not high-pitched, but young-sounding. I barely caught what he was saying. It was almost slurred. Or it could have been foreign, I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re holding the left side of your neck. Was he right-handed or left-handed?’

  ‘Right-handed.’

  ‘That tallies. Can you describe the knife?’

  ‘Yes, it was a kitchen knife. I should know. Knives are my business.’

  ‘How much was stolen?’ Clara asked.

  There was a slight hesitation before the cafe owner replied, and when she did so, Nash noticed a look of slight surprise on her assistant’s face. They turned their attention to Carol, and she corroborated her boss’s story in detail.

  ‘I was in the kitchen when Alison called out. When I saw the man holding that knife to Alison’s throat, I ran in here and grabbed the notes from the till like he told me. As soon as he got hold of the money, he pushed Alison towards me. We both fell over, and by the time I got to my feet, he’d slammed the door. I opened it to run after him.’ She saw the look on Nash’s face and explained, ‘I know it was a stupid thing to do, but I wasn’t thinking straight. Anyway, it wouldn’t have done any good. He was too far away for me to have caught up with him, even if he hadn’t shoved the wheelie bin in front of the door.’

  At that moment, the paramedics arrived and checked Alison over. They applied butterfly stitches and a dressing to her neck and, much to her relief, assured her there was no need for a visit to A & E. They suggested she should go home and rest as soon as possible.

  It was the third member of staff who provided the more significant information when Nash spoke to her. ‘You were in the cafe itself while all this was going on, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right, I was wiping tables down.’

  ‘Were there many customers in the cafe at that time?’ Clara asked.

  ‘No, there was an elderly couple who had taken afternoon tea, but they left before the trouble started. It was their table I was clearing. The only other one was the young woman who was taking her time choosing a piece of cake.’

  ‘Did you know the customer?’

  ‘No, I’ve never seen her before. But I would definitely remember her.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Because of her hair.’ The assistant paused, before adding, ‘I’m not sure if it was a very good dye, or whether she was wearing a wig. That shade of hair certainly isn’t the colour she was born with — or anyone else for that matter.’

  ‘What colour was it?’

  ‘Bright crimson.’

  ‘Where was this woman? Was she seated at a table?’

  ‘No, she was by the counter, looking at the stuff in the display cabinet.’

  ‘Apart from the hair, can you describe her?’

  ‘Early twenties and quite pretty. I say quite pretty, but I didn’t get much of a look at her face. Her hair was covering it part of the time, and then, as she was by the counter, she was using her mobile. I thought she was making a call, but she didn’t speak to anyone. I suppose she might have been texting, or surfing the internet.’

  ‘Did she select a cake, or did she leave without buying anything?’

  ‘She bought a couple of vanilla slices to take away.’ She paused. ‘Because she didn’t say very much, only a couple of words, I’m not sure . . . but I’d say she wasn’t English. I thought I detected a strange accent.’

  * * *

  Back at the CID suite, as the detectives compared notes, Lisa Andrews said, ‘They’ve done all right for themselves, haven’t they?’ They had reviewed the statements she’d taken and she had totted up the figures. ‘Less than three hours work for over two thousand pounds is pretty good going by any standards. Except perhaps a bank director,’ she added.

  ‘I think it’s a bit more than that,’ Nash replied.

  Lisa frowned, his expression puzzled. ‘How do you mean, Mike? Have I got my sums wrong?’

  ‘No, going on what they told us, the figures add up correctly. I just don’t believe the stallholder and the cafe owner told us the right amounts. The farmer’s figure has to be accurate, that’s too easy to check up on, but I don’t think either our dog food seller or our bacon butty provider gave us the real total they lost. I think they deliberately understated the figure.’

  ‘Why on earth would they do that?’

  ‘Two reasons that I can think of. I was almost sure the market trader wasn’t telling the full story, and when the cafe owner stated the amount I saw the surprised look on her assistant’s face. At a guess, I’d say one of the reasons is to do with their insurance. If they quote the correct amount when they claim, their premiums will escalate sharply. Either that, or when their policy is reviewed, they might even lose their theft cover altogether.’

  ‘And the other reason?’ Clara asked.

  ‘Your friend and mine: income tax. With both businesses being cash-only, I don’t think for a minute they declare all their earnings week in, week out. If we catch the thieves and the case comes to court, I bet they’d be scared stiff that the publicity will attract the attention of the Inland Revenue and get some nosy tax inspector curious as to the amount they’re actually taking as opposed to what’s on their tax return. All they’d have to do is compare the sum they lost with similar figures for other market days and question the discrepancy. The loss of a few hundred pounds would be chicken feed compared with the extra tax and penalties the Inland Revenue would impose.’

  ‘What made you suspicious?’

  ‘They reduced the amount by too much. If you look at the sums they say were taken, and think of what the market trader has to pay for his stall, and add the wage of his assistant, and the cost of his stock, it wouldn’t be worthwhile for him to drag himself out of bed. The cafe owner has to find business rates, rent, electricity and gas, plus her own wage and two assistants. Ask yourself how either of those businesses makes a profit if the amounts they quoted us represent their takings on one of the two busiest days of the week?’

  ‘What do you suggest we do about it?’

  ‘Clara, I think I’ll leave it to you to suggest tactfully that they might like to revise their first estimate of how much they lost.’ Nash smiled. ‘I’d say something along the lines of, I know you were suffering from shock at the time, bu
t now you’ve had chance to think things over and do a more accurate calculation, perhaps you might be able to give us a more realistic figure. We think it might be considerably more than what you first thought.’ Nash paused before adding, ‘And I’d emphasize the word realistic.’

  ‘And what do we do after I’ve played at diplomats?’ Clara asked.

  ‘The rest will be a much easier task. All we have to do is identify a man wearing a balaclava and who might not be English, and a woman with a foreign accent who might not look at all like her description, both of whom have been acting like a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde.’ Nash paused before adding, ‘One other complication is that they might have faked their accent in the same way as the woman disguised her appearance.’

  ‘Of course, Mike, that makes it much simpler.’ There was no disguising the sarcasm in Lisa’s voice.

  ‘You’re starting to sound like Clara.’

  * * *

  Harry Johnson, the civilian receptionist on duty at Netherdale Police Station, looked across the desk at the man standing in front him. His appearance was scruffy, his hair tousled and his clothes badly in need of a visit to the laundrette. His expression was troubled, probably by the surroundings he was in. He seemed to be the sort who would be less than happy to visit a police station, even when it was voluntary.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Johnson asked. Get someone to help you into a cell, he thought.

  ‘Who do I talk to about a missing person?’

  ‘You talk to me in the first instance, whether it’s about a missing person, a missing dog or cat, or your missing lottery ticket with the jackpot winning numbers on it.’

  Sarcasm was wasted on the visitor. In fact, Johnson wondered how much of what he’d said had been taken in. Although it was morning, the visitor looked to be worse for wear.

  However, when he spoke, the man proved him wrong. ‘All right, no need to be sniffy. I’m only trying to help. It’s my duty as a citizen, ain’t it?’

  The receptionist sighed and pulled a pad out from under the counter. ‘A missing person, you said. Care to give me some details?’

  He was anxious to get rid of the man, less because of his scruffy, unshaven, and generally seedy appearance — more because as his body adjusted to the warmth of the room, he was beginning to give off a strong and unpleasant body odour.

  ‘Her name’s Janet, Janet Wilson. I haven’t seen her for a couple of days. I asked around, and nobody’s seen her.’

  ‘What can you tell me about her? How old is she? Where does she live, and where does she work? And what exactly is your relationship with her?’

  As Johnson asked the questions, he was fairly sure he knew at least some of the answers. If his memory was correct, Janet Wilson had been arrested several times for soliciting.

  ‘Don’t know her age. Not exact. Mid-twenties maybe. She lives in Hawthorn Street. Number seventeen. I’m her landlord.’

  He didn’t have the appearance of a landlord, even of a rat-hole like Hawthorn Street, or of anything bigger than a dog kennel. The support officer doubted the description. Pimp, more likely. ‘And your name is . . . ?’

  ‘Shane Barry.’ The name was issued with great reluctance.

  ‘Thank you. Now, Mr Barry, can you tell me when you last saw Miss Wilson?’

  As he continued questioning the man, he wondered if this would prove to be a wild goose chase, a considerable number of those reported missing were never traced, simply because they didn’t want to be found.

  Would Janet Wilson turn out to be one of these? Had she made a desperate bid for freedom? Was her disappearance an attempt to escape the clutches of this man and others like him? Harry Johnson didn’t care to hazard a guess; in fact, he was more than a little disinterested in the welfare of a tart whose pimp was concerned by a drop in his income.

  As he took Barry’s contact details, which comprised a mobile phone number and, unsurprisingly, the same address as that of the missing woman, Johnson speculated as to what percentage of the police routine had been spent dealing with false alarms. Still, he shouldn’t grumble. That was part of what he was paid for, and as long as he went through the motions, he could soon forget about this unwanted intrusion into his working day. He filled the report form in and promptly filed it. He wasn’t prepared to utilize his time and that of officers on what would no doubt turn out to be wasted effort.

  His action — or lack of it — owed nothing to police procedure, but rather to Johnson’s own prejudices, formed from tragic personal experience. All of which did nothing to help Janet Wilson. Even the fact that he had now been informed of two missing women, both prostitutes, failed to trouble him. As far as he was concerned, if anything bad happened to a woman who chose that way of life, it was her own fault.

  Chapter Seven

  The morning following the market place robberies, DC Lisa Andrews woke early, far earlier than usual. It was still dark outside, and she knew she ought to turn over and try to get back to sleep. However, her mind was troubled by a thought that refused to go away. The thought that there was something she, Clara, and Nash ought to have done the previous day, something that had been missed in the maelstrom of events.

  Alongside Lisa, Alan Marshall, her long-term partner, was snoring gently. She pondered the idea of getting up and making herself a cup of camomile tea. That often helped her to sleep. She glanced at the bedside clock and decided to forego the tea. It was almost daybreak, and elsewhere, for a lot of people, the working day had already begun. In Helmsdale, for instance, the council workmen would already be starting to . . .

  Lisa sat bolt upright. That was it! That was what they had missed. And if she didn’t get over to Helmsdale quickly, it would be too late to rectify the omission. She got out of bed, switched on the bedside light, and ignoring Alan’s sleepy protest, dressed hurriedly. She bent over and kissed him lightly on the forehead. ‘Sorry for disturbing you, love, but I’ve got to go check some wheelie bins.’

  An hour later, when Marshall woke up again, he wondered if he’d been dreaming. Had Lisa actually woken him and told him she was going to check some wheelie bins? He dismissed the weird idea. He must have been dreaming; it was far too absurd to be true.

  * * *

  Although Nash was usually the first of the detectives to arrive at the station, he noticed Lisa’s car was already there. Once inside the building, he paused for a quick word with Sergeant Binns before going upstairs to the CID suite. When he entered, Lisa was sitting at Pearce’s desk, cradling a mug of coffee.

  ‘Morning, Lisa, what’s wrong? Alan kicked you out of your rural love nest?’

  Lisa grinned triumphantly, if a little wearily. ‘No, I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep. I was sure there was something we ought to have done yesterday evening, but with everything else that was going on, we didn’t think of it. So I had to go check up before we missed our chance, and I was only just in time.’

  ‘Go on. What did we forget?’

  Andrews reached over and held up a clear plastic evidence bag. ‘I found this in one of the wheelie bins on Daleside Avenue, close to the alley at the back of the cafe. I remembered it was collection day today. They always empty the bins following market day, and a lot of people put theirs out ready the previous afternoon or evening. I thought if I got there before the council, I might find something the thieves had discarded, the balaclava, for instance. I was lucky. I got there with ten minutes to spare.’

  Nash stared at the long red wig curled up inside the evidence bag; then at Lisa. ‘How about if you swap places with me?’ he suggested. ‘Because I reckon you might be better at this job. I should have thought of the bins.’

  ‘No thanks, Mike. The huge salary you’re on would be welcome, but I couldn’t stand the responsibility.’ She grinned and added, ‘Besides which, I don’t think swapping places would work at home, because, I’m sorry to say, you’re not Alan’s type.’

  ‘Better get that wig across to Forensics and ask them to check it for DNA.
I feel sure the wearer will have left some trace. Wearing that thing must surely make your head sweat. If we arrest a suspect, this will provide a good match.’

  Nash was about to go into his office, but then paused. ‘I suppose we ought to change the description of the accomplice we circulated, and strike out the part about her red hair. She is certainly not going to put a red wig on over red hair. We’re going to have to concentrate on her, because the description of the man is far too vague to be of any use.’

  Nash sat down behind his desk. Missing the bins had been a basic error, he reflected ruefully. It was extremely fortunate that Lisa had been able to put it right.

  * * *

  It was a couple of days later before they received news on the cases that were baffling them, and to begin with, all the developments provided was further frustration.

  ‘Forensics has reported on the wig,’ Lisa told Nash. ‘They said there is no DNA trace, nothing to suggest it has ever been worn. They speculated that if it is the one used in the robberies, the wearer must have had some sort of skull cap between the wig and her own hair or scalp. They also told me the wig is a fairly cheap one, the sort that can be bought fairly easily anywhere online or on the High Street.’

  ‘That suggests the villains are professionals. Anyone who goes to that much trouble to avoid detection must be really determined not to get caught. If that’s the case, it stands to reason that they must have done this sort of thing before, probably lots of times. Ring Tom and ask him to run their MO through the computer and see if he comes up with anything.’

  ‘OK, but if we draw a blank with that, we’re no further forward,’ Lisa said.

  Nash looked round the room. ‘Any other bright ideas?’

  ‘Actually, I have had an idea,’ Clara said. ‘I began by wondering how the thieves picked that particular farmer to target. If you remember the statements his cronies and the landlord gave, they said the woman with the red wig made a phone call and then left the bar. To me, it seems obvious that she was telling her accomplice that the victim was about to become separated from his mates, and therefore ready to be mugged. However, she could easily have done that when one of the others went to the loo. Of course, they might have just dropped lucky, but they sound to me too professional to rely on chance. Therefore, they must have known that their victim was the one carrying a wad of cash, and the only way they’d know that would be by watching the activity at the auction mart earlier.’