by BILL KITSON
He walked across the paved patio area in front of the cottage and climbed the four shallow steps that led up to the long front lawn. This was flanked on three sides by rustic fences to which the stems of roses, bare at this time of the year, were clinging. This would be a beautiful garden in summer, Nash thought. He turned to view the rest of the grounds. The different angle showed him how steeply the land fell towards the stream, a fact that wasn’t apparent from the rear of the building. Ideal, Nash thought, remembering that history lesson, for the construction of a corn mill.
A flash of movement to the left of his peripheral vision announced the arrival of Mironova and Dr Grey. Nash strolled round the end of the house to meet them. He looked in appreciation at the doctor’s attractive features and shapely figure, a fact that didn’t escape his sergeant.
Clara introduced Nash to the missing woman’s sister. ‘This is a bad business,’ Nash told her as they shook hands. ‘Hardly the weekend you were hoping for, I’m afraid.’
‘There’s still no news, I take it? Sergeant Mironova said there hadn’t been any developments.’
‘That’s true, but it isn’t necessarily a bad thing.’ Which wasn’t accurate, because Nash knew that in cases such as this the first few hours were critical; and at least three days had passed without any activity.
‘Have you managed to locate Brian yet?’
Nash shook his head. ‘It would help if we had a mobile phone number for him. Do you know if he has one?’
‘I’m sure he does, but I’ve no idea what the number is.’ She smiled faintly. ‘We were never that close. I told Sergeant Mironova he has an office, but it isn’t in his own name.’ Jo frowned, trying to remember. ‘Vanda did tell me the name once. He took over an old-established practice, one that had a settled clientele and he thought it would be better if he kept the name, which was well known locally. It’s somewhere on Helmsdale High Street, I think. I believe …’ she frowned as she tried to remember, ‘Vanda told me it was next door to a place where the owner got in some sort of trouble, but I can’t remember what she said.’
Nash glanced at Mironova. ‘I’ve already given Viv the directions,’ Clara told him.
‘Did anyone think to check the stream on Saturday?’
Clara nodded. ‘Viv did it whilst he was waiting for forensics to finish. He walked a mile or so downstream, but couldn’t find anything.’
‘Have you got the keys? I want to take a look inside.’
As soon as he was inside the building, Nash walked through to the hall and picked up the morning’s post.
Jo eyed the bundle of envelopes he was holding, her expression apprehensive. She had read the news reports, worked out the similarity between her sister’s disappearance and other cases and knew the significance of the detective’s action. ‘Is there anything in those?’ she asked fearfully.
‘Nothing to interest us,’ Nash reassured her.
There was nothing threatening, unless the council tax bill sent by Netherdale District Council could be construed as a threat. Apart from that, the mail was typical of a Monday morning delivery. Flyers from Good Buys supermarket, a leaflet advertising a satellite TV and broadband package, and a warning that a furniture company’s sale was due to end soon. Nash sniffed in disbelief at that statement.
Nash’s tour of inspection didn’t take long. He withstood the parrot’s shock greeting, and the phone imitation which immediately preceded it, having been forewarned about the bird by Mironova’s report. He listened to the African Grey’s repetitive questioning for a few moments. ‘Who are you?’ the bird asked, time after time.
‘You’ve both heard that before,’ Nash turned to Clara and Jo in turn. ‘Notice anything about it?’
‘Such as?’ Clara asked.
‘The bird doesn’t understand the meaning of the words. All he can do is mimic sounds he’s heard and stored in his memory.’
‘What’s your point, Mike?’
‘The ringing phone stops abruptly, as if it’s either been answered, or—’
‘Or the line’s been cut?’
‘Exactly. And the way the bird says, “Who are you?” That sounds almost as if he’s scared, but look at him.’
They stared at the African Grey, who was preening his feathers, whilst continuing the refrain.
‘What you’re saying is, whoever the bird picked that expression up from was afraid?’
‘I think we need to check the phone theory out. Clara, will you get on to the phone company and find out if there was an incoming call to this number at about the time you guessed Mrs Dawson was abducted, a call that wasn’t answered, because, I guess, the line was cut by the kidnapper.’
‘I’ll get on it as soon as we’re back in Helmsdale.’
Before they left, Dr Grey fed the parrot and replenished its water bowl. Nash watched approvingly. ‘I don’t want our only potential witness to keel over from neglect.’
As Jo returned to the kitchen to replace the bird food, Nash told Clara, ‘I’m going to see if I can find anything that might prove or disprove my theory about the van hijack. I’ll meet you back at the office, unless I find anything interesting on the Wintersett road.’
As they stepped outside, they heard the sound of a vehicle engine accompanied by an audible reversing alarm. They hurried to the corner of the cottage where they were able to see the orange flashing beacons on the roof of the vehicle cab. It looked, Nash thought, like one of those dustcarts he remembered from his youth. As it drew closer, moving slowly down the narrow lane, he realized his guess had been accurate. The local authority had obviously opted for the style of wagon they had used in years gone by, with curved apertures to place the refuse in situated behind the cab. The light commercial would be ideal for a single operative, which would represent a cost saving to the local authority. Nash wondered briefly if that had been the deciding factor in their choice.
The sight of the council wagon gave Nash an idea. ‘Make a list of all regular visitors to the house,’ he told Clara. ‘Start with the bin-man.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘If this turns out to be an abduction, unless it was totally random we should work on the principal that whoever’s responsible knew Mrs Dawson. That could mean someone at the bank, a supermarket checkout operator or one of the students in her evening classes. It might be a member of the library staff or’ − Nash pointed to the wagon driver, who had emerged from his cab − ‘someone with a valid reason for calling at Mill Cottage regularly, like this guy.’
‘We don’t know Vanda Dawson attended evening classes,’ Mironova objected.
‘Precisely my point. I was using it as an example. We don’t know anything about Vanda Dawson’s life, about her habits, her daily routines, anything. Obviously, the person who could fill in some of the gaps would be her husband. Which brings me back to the question, where the hell is Dawson?’
As he was speaking, Nash approached the driver. He was broad in stature with a mop of thinning fair hair and a ruddy complexion. More like a farmer than a council worker, Nash thought. He looked mildly surprised, no more, when Nash showed his warrant card.
‘Is this your usual round?’ Nash began.
The driver nodded. ‘Has been for the last three years.’
‘It must be hard graft on your own.’
The driver grinned. ‘Tell my bosses that, will you.’ He winked. ‘At least I’ve nobody looking over my shoulder. As long as I get all my collections done in the allotted time, I’m in the clear. I know the area like the back of my hand now so it gives me a bit of leeway for an extended lunch break.’
Nash asked the man’s name, and commented on the fact that he wasn’t wearing an identity badge.
‘My name’s Potter. Vic Potter. We’re not allowed to wear badges. Health and Safety regulations, would you believe? One of our men cut his finger when a bag he was tossing into the wagon snagged on his badge. It went septic and he lost the finger. He was off work for a long time and the council ha
d to fork out a huge sum in compensation. The ink on the cheque hadn’t dried before a directive banning badges came out. There’s a photo ID badge in the cab somewhere, but everyone knows me by now so I’d only need it if someone new moved in. And that doesn’t happen often, the sort of places I collect from.’
‘Do you always collect here on Monday?’
‘Only during the winter months. End of April on, when the summer schedule starts, then it’s a Tuesday. My area extends over past Wintersett to Bishop’s Cross and the villages around Bishopton. That includes those two big caravan parks the other side of Bishopton. It’s no bobby’s job in summer, I can tell you. No offence meant,’ he added with a smile. ‘What’s this about, anyway? Has something happened? I hope nothing’s happened to Mrs Dawson.’
‘You know her, then?’
‘Not very well. She’s usually about when I collect, but I don’t always see her. She makes a point of being in at Christmas though, and she’s a very generous tipper. Is that it? Has something happened to her?’
‘We’re not sure. She’s been reported missing, but there could be an innocent explanation. Have you noticed anything unusual on your round in the last few weeks? Around here, I mean. Any strange vehicles, anyone without an obvious reason to be here hanging around the place?’
Potter scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Can’t say that I have,’ he said after a while.
‘Have you ever seen anyone visiting the house? They’d have had to use a car to get here, it being so remote.’
Potter shook his head. ‘Sorry, I haven’t seen anyone. And I’d have noticed a vehicle, because there isn’t that much room to manoeuvre my wagon.’
‘Thanks, I’ll let you get on your way. One more thing, though. Don’t collect the rubbish today. It might need checking by our forensic officers. Besides which, it won’t come to any harm leaving it until next week the way the weather is.’
Jo waited for Mironova to lock up at the cottage. ‘I’ve requested a local joiner be arranged to come out today to fix that broken pane in the door,’ Clara told her. ‘We would normally have had someone on watch, but with the weather problems there’s been no one to spare; damned cut-backs! Until it’s secure, and until there’s someone inside the house, it’s very vulnerable out here.’
‘I was thinking about that earlier,’ Jo agreed. ‘I wonder if I ought to move in here for the time being? We’ve no indication when Brian might turn up, and as you say, the place is open to any sort of burglar or tramp unless someone’s in residence.’
Jo fought shy of the implication that Vanda wouldn’t be able to return. By now, all hope that her absence might have an innocent explanation had gone.
‘Are you sure you’d be OK with that? Given what’s happened, a lot of women wouldn’t come near the place.’
Jo didn’t smile, but her expression lightened a little. ‘I’m not claiming to be particularly brave,’ she admitted. ‘But the chances of anything untoward happening a second time are more remote even than this cottage.’
‘In any case, with luck Dawson might turn up, and it might not be necessary,’ Mironova pointed out.
Chapter Nine
In the High Street, Pearce followed Clara’s directions. He saw the accountant’s brass plate attached to the brickwork alongside a door that appeared to give access to the upper floor of the terraced property. The ground floor was occupied by a shop; the fascia covered with what appeared to be a brand new sign, TOP RANKING POSTERS. Below the name, in slightly smaller lettering, it declared, ‘The Home of TENNIS GIRL and hundreds of other iconic images’.
The shop window contained a display that included the famous picture of the girl in the tennis dress, plus T-shirts, and on the base, an array of key rings, badges, fobs and other trinkets designed to lure the cash from the pockets of Helmsdale’s stream of tourists.
He smiled at the mildly suggestive message conveyed by two T-shirts that were pinned side by side on a flannelboard. ‘Want it now?’ one asked. The second provided the explanation, ‘On the spot printing at unbeatable prices.’
Pearce tried the accountant’s door. Predictably, it was locked. He paused, irresolute. He wandered up and down the street a few times, before making his mind up. He was unaware that his presence had been noted and was being remarked upon.
Inside the shop, the proprietor watched Pearce walking to and fro. He glanced round. The only customers were a young couple browsing a catalogue of posters. As they turned to leave, he picked up the phone. ‘Tony? It’s Jerry, I have company; a bloke in a blue suit is outside. He seems to be taking an interest in us. Hang on; he’s coming inside. I’ll call you back.’
The shopkeeper smiled at the newcomer. ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’
Pearce produced his warrant card.
‘There’s nothing wrong, I hope?’ The proprietor looked suitably concerned.
Viv smiled reassuringly. It was a natural reaction, one he’d become accustomed to. The most innocent of citizens tended to think the worst when confronted by a detective. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he told the man. ‘I’m trying to locate Mr Dawson, that’s all.’
The shopkeeper frowned. ‘Mr…?’
‘Dawson, Brian Dawson. He owns the accountancy firm. Their offices are upstairs, above the shop,’ Pearce explained.
‘Oh, I see. Sorry to appear so dim, but I only moved in here a few weeks back, and I’m still finding my feet, so to speak. I decided to invest my redundancy in a little business. I’d already been trading on the internet and doing mail order, so when this lease came up I took the plunge. Haven’t made my fortune yet.’ He grimaced. ‘Anyway, I hardly know the neighbours thus far. I’ve seen the chap you mean, or at least I suppose it’s him, but I’ve never spoken to him. Just noticed him going in and out, that’s all.’
‘Can you remember when it was you last saw him?’
The shopkeeper puffed out his cheeks in an effort to think. ‘Early last week maybe; or the back end of the week before. Sorry to be so vague. Has he done something wrong?’
That was the other reaction Pearce had become used to. Once they got over their nervousness, people were intrigued, wanting to learn the latest gossip. A nation of scandalmongers, he thought. He smiled at the man. ‘Not that I’m aware of. We’re anxious to speak to him, that’s all. We did hear he might have gone abroad, but his wife has missed an appointment and her sister’s a little concerned. Nothing too scandalous. Anyway, if you do see him, would you ask him to call me?’ He dug a card out of his wallet and passed it over the counter. ‘Sorry, can I take your name, Mr…?’
‘Freeman, Jerry Freeman.’ The shopkeeper took the card; fingered the corner. ‘I’m thinking of starting to produce these, so if you or any of your colleagues want some printing, let me know. And if I do see Mr Dawson I’ll be sure to give him your message.’
He watched Pearce leave the shop before strolling casually to the window. When he was certain the detective was out of sight, he returned to the counter and picked up the phone again. ‘It was Dawson they were after,’ he told the person on the other end of the line. ‘No, not according to this guy’ − he glanced down − ‘name’s DC Pearce. Said something about Dawson’s wife going AWOL, so on the face of it nothing to do with us. What do you want me to do?’
He listened for a few minutes. ‘I agree, Tony, no point in panicking. I’ll check things out upstairs, though.’
The shopkeeper put the phone down and returned to the front of the shop. After five minutes inspecting the High Street, he was satisfied. When he was sure such activity as there was, held no threat, he took a bunch of keys from his pocket and went out in to the street. He looked to the left, then to the right, before opening the adjacent door; closed it behind him and sprinted upstairs. He wanted this task over with so he could get back in the shop unnoticed. He wasn’t at all worried about leaving the shop unattended. The till had only a few pounds in it, and such display stock as there was didn’t amount to much either. What he was after here
, however, was worth a whole lot more.
Only a few miles from where Vanda Dawson was being held, Tony pondered the police activity. He stood up from his desk and walked across the small office he was using and opened the door. ‘Get Dawson in here,’ he told the man waiting outside.
When the accountant appeared a few minutes later, Dawson was surprised by the man’s opening question.
‘Why are the police at your office?’
Dawson blinked. ‘What?’
‘The police were at Jerry’s shop a few minutes ago asking questions about you. Something to do with your wife, or at least that’s what they said. What’s going on?’ As he spoke, Tony was watching Dawson closely and saw the colour drain from his face.
‘I don’t know. I’ve no idea. What did they say?’
Tony repeated what he’d been told. ‘Has your wife buggered off? Or is it something worse?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘Did you make any excuses for why you’d be away?’
‘I told her I was going to Spain on a golfing trip.’
‘They obviously don’t think you’re there, otherwise they wouldn’t be checking up on you at your office. I think you’d better get this sorted out. Have you an alternative cover story? One they’ll believe?’