‘Sounds like a plan,’ he said. ‘Good work, Helen.’
The next morning Helen couldn’t find her phone, despite the fact that it was ringing. She realized she had left it in another room, but which one? She followed the noise, unsure at first if it was coming from upstairs or somewhere towards the back of the house.
‘Your phone’s ringing!’ called Tom from his bedroom.
‘I know!’ she yelled back at him. Did he think she was deaf? She found it in the kitchen next to the kettle. Worried the caller might ring off, she grabbed for the phone, almost dropped it and answered impatiently.
‘Yes?’
‘Helen Norton?’
‘It is.’
‘It’s Dr Hemming.’ Helen was surprised to get the call back, even though he had said he’d phone if he thought of anything. ‘I’ve been thinking about your case, the kidnapper and his victims.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘And I think I might have come up with something.’
‘Great.’
‘Methoxyflurane,’ said the doctor.
‘Come again?’
‘I was contemplating what you said about someone keeping another person drugged and compliant, and I did a bit of research for you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Helen, ‘so what is Meth-oxy–?’
‘Methoxyflurane, otherwise known as Penthrane.’ Helen grabbed a pencil and wrote the words on the side of a cereal box. ‘It’s an anaesthetic. Primarily used on trauma victims by paramedics and the like. It’s an effective way to treat patients suffering severe pain sustained in traffic accidents, for example, but only in small doses. Larger ones would render a person completely unconscious, which might appeal to a kidnapper, and here’s the thing that might interest you: it’s nephrotoxic.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It means that too much of it would cause liver and kidney failure as a side effect, which is why it hasn’t really caught on over here.’
‘You could be on to something there, Doctor. I’m assuming this Methoxyflurane is not available over the counter.’
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t just get it from the chemist’s.’
‘Well, that ought to help narrow down the suspects. So where would I get it from? A hospital?’
‘Nowhere in the UK,’ said the doctor.
‘It’s not available in this country at all?’ Her heart sank.
‘No, it’s banned here now, because of the side effects. They still manufacture and use it in Australia, though,’ he said, as if this might be helpful in some way.
‘I thought we might have made a breakthrough, but I doubt anyone is going to be able to bring drums of that stuff in without someone flagging it up. It’s not normal to ship in quantities of a banned general anaesthetic, is it?’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Oh, well. Nice try, Doctor, and I do appreciate your efforts.’
‘My pleasure. I’m only sorry it’s not what you are looking for. I wish I could have been more help.’
Then a thought struck Helen. ‘How come you’ve heard of this stuff, if it’s banned in the UK and only used in Australia, I mean.’
‘It wasn’t always banned.’
Helen thought about that for a moment. ‘When was it banned, Doctor?’
‘A long time ago.’
‘How long?’
‘Hang on, I’ll get my notes.’ Helen heard him put the phone down while he retrieved them. After a short while he returned. ‘It was 1979, I think.’
‘Thanks, Doctor. Thank you very much indeed.’
There was a lot to discuss at their latest breakfast meeting, where Helen shared her knowledge of the banned anaesthetic, then the subject turned to the list of scrapyards.
‘We may have something,’ Bradshaw told them. ‘I’ve been checking out the owners of the scrapyards to try and narrow them down a bit. Most of them seem normal enough for that line of work, but there are three that stand out.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Tom.
‘The registered owners ring bells,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Sometimes alarm bells.’
‘Go on,’ Helen urged him.
‘The first one is owned by a Mr Keogh. That name ought to be familiar to you.’ He was looking at Tom when he said it.
‘Not the bus people?’
‘The very same. The Keogh family ran half the buses in our area when we were little. Old man Keogh also had money in haulage and some construction projects. I’d say he was one of the wealthiest men in the county back then.’
‘Agreed,’ said Tom. ‘But he can’t still be alive.’
‘He isn’t. This place is owned by one of the sons. He had three, the eldest being the black sheep of the family. He stormed out on his dad when he was a young man and never looked back.’ He snorted in amusement. ‘Until the old fellah died and the will was read.’
‘Did he get anything?’
‘A third. Old man never cut him out of the will. Apparently, the business had to be carved up and sold off to settle everything. According to one of our lads who has worked the area far longer than me, the break-up of the Keogh empire was quite big news twenty years ago. One of the sons kept the bus company, another one the lorries and the eldest took his share in cash and bought the scrapyard.’
‘Seems a strange thing to spend your inheritance on,’ said Tom. ‘It can’t be worth much, flogging bits of old engines and car body parts from wrecked motors. Who else is on your list?’
‘The second owner is interesting,’ said Bradshaw. ‘A former pastor of a non-episcopal church, would you believe.’
‘Why did he leave his church?’ asked Helen.
‘Had to. A prison sentence. Not a long one, though, and it was for good, old-fashioned fraud. Pastor Belasis stole church funds and money destined for charity, though there was also a scandal involving a young girl …’
‘You said there were three sites that made you suspicious?’ said Tom.
‘I’m saving the best til last.’ Bradshaw’s face turned grim. ‘The third scrapyard is owned by a Mr Sean Draycott.’ He looked at them meaningfully and when they did not react he said, ‘The registered owner of that other scrapyard where the burnt girl was found a couple of years back.’
Helen shuddered at the memory of that gruesome case.
‘And we all know the real owner of that place.’
‘Jimmy McCree,’ said Tom. ‘Jesus Christ, if he’s behind this …’
‘I’m not saying he is. All I’m saying is he owns more than one scrapyard in the North-East and he has made women disappear before. I think we should start with him.’
CHAPTER SIXTY
Finding Draycott’s scrapyard was something of a challenge. It was situated in a dip between steep hills in the Northumbrian countryside. If you wanted to open a business in a quiet spot no one would be likely to stumble upon by accident, then this was the ideal place.
Ian Bradshaw knew it wasn’t right from the very beginning. As soon as he set eyes on it he could tell there was something badly wrong here, besides the fact that no one had ever set eyes on the fictitious owner. The gates were high and wide and held together by a thick chain which seemed designed to ensure nobody could enter the property easily. You couldn’t sell car body parts if your customers were denied access. A single sign advertised the site’s purpose, but it was small and low down, as if trying to avoid eye contact. There was a bell at the front gate, but he had been ringing it repeatedly and, so far, no one had bothered to come and see what he wanted.
Bradshaw had experience of dealing with fronts for organized crime and, at first glance, this scrapyard strongly resembled one. A business like this was very useful, because money could be laundered through it without too many questions being asked. People usually paid cash for bits from an old car and cannibalized parts weren’t subject to much of an inventory or any kind of stringent record-keeping. And there was another reason why owning a scrapyard could be handy for a crime firm. Vehicles used in robberie
s or drive-by shootings against a rival could be taken here and crushed into small pieces and, if there happened to be a body in the boot, too, well, it would save the bother of disposing of it separately.
He was about to give up and come back later, possibly with a warrant, some colleagues and cutting gear for the fence, when he saw a man wander nonchalantly across his line of vision from some way inside the perimeter. The man made no attempt to come towards him and showed no sign of having even noticed Bradshaw.
‘Hey!’ yelled the detective, and the man spun on his heel and stared at Bradshaw as if his presence there was an unexpected inconvenience. Bradshaw waved him over.
The man took his time. ‘We’re closed.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Bradshaw. ‘When are you open, then?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘What we got going on.’
‘So if I was looking to buy the bonnet from a Mk 2 Escort, when should I come back?’
‘Look, don’t bother, all right. Just try somewhere else, eh. There’s a good lad.’
‘And what if I was to ask you about some missing girls?’ Bradshaw reached into his jacket pocket and produced his warrant card. ‘Would you ask me to come back then?’
‘Yeah,’ said the man, who was taking all this completely in his stride. ‘Unless you’ve got a warrant.’ He shrugged. ‘And even then I ain’t got a key for the gate.’
‘Really? How did you get in?’
The man ignored that question. ‘I don’t know nothing about any missing girls.’
‘What about Mr Draycott?’ asked Bradshaw. ‘Would he know anything about them?’
‘Who?’
‘Sean Draycott.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘You’ve never heard of the registered owner of this scrapyard.’
‘Name does ring a bell.’ The man pivoted effortlessly from one lie to the next. ‘But he ain’t my boss.’
‘Who is your boss?’
‘I ain’t really got a boss. I’m my own boss.’
‘Who pays you, then?’
The man shrugged again.
‘What’s your name?’
‘I don’t have to give you my name.’
‘You do if I believe you have committed an offence.’
The man smirked. ‘And what offence do you believe I’ve committed?’
Bradshaw looked at the scrapyard. ‘Money-laundering, false accounting, tax evasion, kidnap, possibly.’
‘David Anderson.’ He conceded it lightly in the end, as if it really didn’t matter.
‘That’s your real name?’
‘ ’Course.’
‘Now then, David Anderson, I’d like to come in, if I may?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I wish to question you about the missing women I mentioned.’
‘You can’t come in. Not unless you get a warrant, and even then it ain’t really down to me. I’m just looking after the place for a friend of a friend.’
‘You’re not being very cooperative, Mr Anderson. That makes me suspicious.’
‘Does it?’
‘It does.’
‘Listen, Copper, I don’t like the law, I don’t trust the law and I don’t help the law, got it? If you want to traipse back to the rock you crawled out from and type up a warrant to search this place, then good luck to you, but you won’t find nothing and you’ll only get a magistrate to approve that warrant if you’ve got evidence that a crime’s been committed. Until then you can just fuck off.’ And with that calm dismissal he turned and sauntered back to his office, seemingly without a care in the world.
At first it appeared that Tom and Helen were going to have even worse luck with the Keogh scrapyard. When they drove to the address, between two isolated County Durham villages, there was no sign of the yard.
‘I assume,’ said Tom, ‘that this is not the place.’ They were standing by the locked rusted gates of an abandoned farmhouse that looked as if it hadn’t seen a tenant in years. ‘You sure you wrote it down right?’
‘Of course I did,’ said Helen. ‘The electoral roll said 115 Magnolia Lane.’ She pointed to a stone marker post not far from the gate which had that same number carved on it.
‘And this is definitely Magnolia Lane,’ he conceded. ‘Well, the electoral roll must be wrong, because this place is uninhabited and it’s a farmhouse not a scrapyard. I suggest we keep looking.’
They got back in the car, but they didn’t have to drive far. They went down the hill and around the corner then caught their first glimpse of a cottage, and beyond it they could see the piles of wrecked cars that made up the scrapyard. As they drew closer they spotted the number 117. Tom knew Helen well enough to have more faith in her than the records she had lifted the address from, so he had to assume the electoral roll was wrong.
Tom drove into the scrapyard, which was open and seemed to be a functioning business, though there was no office, not even a prefab building or caravan, just the old stone cottage to one side of the yard. They parked, got out of the car and went up to it. There was no bell but there was a metal knocker and Tom banged on the door hard.
They stood silently waiting, then Tom banged again. When no one came they exchanged looks, reluctant to admit defeat, having come this far. Tom tried for a third time and was about to suggest they give up and come back later when they heard a sound from within. Someone was moving about and seemed to be making progress towards the front door. A bolt was drawn back, then a second one, and at last the door was pulled open by a young woman.
‘Miss Keogh?’ Helen asked, since she did not know her first name. This woman was not listed on the electoral roll, though she was certainly well past voting age. Helen made an assumption that she was a family member, but she looked too young to be the wife of a man of Keogh’s age.
‘What do you want?’ she asked them.
Helen explained who they were and why they were there and the woman gawped back at her, seemingly uncomprehendingly. The lights are on, thought Tom, but no one’s home. Even Helen was modifying her explanation to keep it very simple for the dowdy woman in front of them. It was hard to tell her age but she looked well shy of thirty. Her hair was cropped short and she wore a woolly hat that covered most of it, and her figure was obscured by the stained dungarees she wore over a plain white T-shirt.
She didn’t say a single word until Helen finished explaining that they were looking for a particular vehicle then handed the woman a scrap of paper with the registration number on it. Helen told her approximately when this car might have been purchased and the woman frowned.
‘I don’t write things down,’ she offered eventually.
Tiring of her lack of response, Tom asked, ‘Is Mr Keogh in? Can we speak to him about it?’
She blinked at Tom and retreated into the house without a word and he wondered if she had gone to fetch the owner of the yard. He exchanged glances with Helen and decided to follow her inside. The hallway was a long, thin corridor that went right through the house, with rooms on either side of it, but before Tom could decide whether to proceed or to wait for the woman to return, Helen said, ‘Tom, look at this.’
He turned back to the old framed embroidered messages on the walls he hadn’t noticed and read aloud the one Helen was looking at.
Since all is well
Keep it so
Wake not a sleeping wolf.
‘Is that from the Bible?’ he asked.
‘It’s Shakespeare, I think.’
‘But not one of his greatest hits,’ said Tom, who had only a passing knowledge of Shakespeare’s plays. He walked further into the hallway and glanced at the portraits of young women on the walls. They were prints of paintings done in an Impressionist style but Tom could never tell Monet from Manet and he turned back when Helen called him.
‘What about this one?’ she asked, and she read the next embroidered quote aloud ‒ ‘ “Being darkened in their understanding, excluded from the l
ife of God because of the ignorance that is in them, because of the hardness of their heart” ’ ‒ and peered at the smaller print below it. ‘This one is from the Bible. Ephesians, apparently.’
‘Very cheerful,’ he said, and at that moment the woman returned and Tom asked, ‘Church-goer, are you?’
The woman shook her head.
‘Your dad, then?’
He realized she had a newspaper cutting in her hand and she gave it to him to read. It was from the local paper’s obituary column and dated more than a year ago. Here was a death notice listing Keogh Senior’s age, place of birth, date of death and, finally, its cause: a suspected heart attack. The man they had come to see was long gone and certainly died well before the newest group of women had gone missing. They had hit another brick wall.
The woman leaned forward slightly. It looked as if she was about to tell Helen something in confidence. Instead she just said, ‘You smell nice.’
Taken aback, Helen replied, ‘It’s just a body spray.’ And she could see Tom widen his eyes at the strangeness of it all.
‘That was weird,’ said Helen as they drove away.
‘Certainly was,’ said Tom. ‘But then there are a lot weird folk about. Believe me, I’ve interviewed most of them.’
‘Those religious quotes on the walls were a bit eerie.’
‘They weren’t all religious. You said one was Shakespeare.’
‘I think it was,’ she corrected him. ‘What did you make of her?’
‘She was odd, but then I suppose she lives alone in a cottage on a scrapyard, miles from anywhere, so what did we expect?’
‘She hardly said a word,’ continued Helen.
‘I’m guessing she doesn’t get out much.’
‘She didn’t even mention he was dead, just trotted out with that death notice. What was that all about?’
‘Proof, I suppose. You told her we worked with the police. Maybe she thought we wouldn’t believe her unless we saw it with our own eyes. At least we now know it can’t be Keogh, and she doesn’t look like a killer.’
The Chosen Ones Page 23