by BILL KITSON
Dawson nodded. ‘I’ve just about finished here anyway. All you have to do when I’ve tied the last few bits down is follow the instructions I leave.’
When the accountant had gone Tony turned to his colleague. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘I don’t like the sound of it. Dawson’s a shifty bastard. I wouldn’t trust him. Put pressure on him and he might spill the beans. It’s a hell of a risk letting him out of our sight with the police noseying around.’
‘On the other hand we don’t want them to come looking for him. We could hide him all right, but his car’s a real giveaway. And don’t try telling me we’ve hidden a security van, there’s no room for another vehicle in the bunker. Which reminds me, we’ll have to move that soon.’
His colleague grinned. ‘And there was me planning a vehicle hire business. I take your point, but I still think it’s risky.’
‘That’s why I want Dawson followed and watched. When he leaves here, you go after him. Report back on his movements, any visitors he gets, anybody he talks to. I’ll arrange with the others to relieve you, all right?’
‘What if it looks as if the police are going to take him in for questioning?’
Tony slid his forefinger across his throat. ‘I take it you can manage that?’
His colleague smiled. ‘I think I’ll be able to cope.’
The accountant’s whereabouts were uppermost in Nash’s mind as he drove towards Wintersett. Had they leapt to the wrong conclusion about Vanda Dawson’s disappearance? The circumstances surrounding it were so much like those in the Cremator cases that it was natural to assume this was another attack by the notorious serial killer.
On the other hand, perhaps that was what they had been expected to think. Wouldn’t it have been natural, if Dawson had intended to harm his wife, to design her disappearance to look like the work of the Cremator? Police forces in the areas where the maniac had struck were stretched almost to breaking point owing to their total lack of progress. To add to their problems, the media had latched on to the case with a kind of hysterical feeding frenzy.
Nash had to assume that Dawson was an intelligent man who would know that unless he was able to come up with a convincing cover story and alibi for the period since his wife’s disappearance, he would automatically become their prime suspect. With the passage of time, the odds were that Vanda Dawson had come to harm. And Nash knew from experience that after four days, the chances of finding her alive had diminished almost to zero. Sadly, no other explanation fitted the facts. But, if Dawson wasn’t involved where had he vanished to? And, if he wasn’t involved in his wife’s abduction…? That was a road Nash wasn’t prepared to go down: not at this stage. Yet it seemed as if he might be forced along it. It was an odd outcome, that the key to discovering what had happened to Vanda Dawson might lie with her husband’s disappearance.
Nash travelled along Bishopton Road until he reached the turning that was signposted for Wintersett. He pulled the Range Rover on to the verge just before the junction and got out. He inspected the road surface before examining the verges. As far as he could judge, there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary. If anything had happened here, the evidence had been removed without trace.
He got back in the car and started towards Wintersett. From the elevated driving position of the Range Rover he was just able to see one or two of the roofs of the houses in the village. However, his attention was fixed for the most part on the view closer to hand. He was driving so slowly he would have collected a following of irate drivers had he been on a more popular route. The country lane was too narrow to allow for overtaking except in one or two places, but fortunately it was so little frequented that his only spectators were a posse of heavily pregnant ewes.
The heavy rain of the previous week had left the grass verges very soft. Nash had travelled almost half the distance from the junction towards the village when he noticed a spot on the opposite side of the road where the grass had been chewed up, obviously by the wheels of a heavy vehicle. This might have been caused by two large vehicles, say a van and a tractor, meeting at that point and striving to avoid contact. However, there was a designated passing place only a few yards away. Under normal circumstances, Nash might have dismissed the sight as evidence of no more than two drivers either too impatient to wait or too lazy to reverse, but with nothing else by way of evidence to back up his theory as to what had happened, he felt this merited a closer look.
The weather had improved and it was now a bright, sunny day, although one that promised frost later. The low winter sun came to Nash’s assistance as he climbed out of the car. Almost immediately, he noticed that the rays had picked up something that sparkled, reflecting the brightness. It looked as if the reflection was being caused by a small piece of glass or plastic that was lying in the mud at the edge of the road on the nearside of his car. Nash walked over and peered at the spot.
Sure enough, the sun was catching a small piece of broken glass, one of several strewn there. Obviously, they had not been there long, certainly not before the rain, which would have covered them in mud reducing their brightness. Nash took a pen from his pocket. Uttering a silent plea for forgiveness to the Sheaffer pen company, he used it to turn the largest piece of glass over. It was just big enough for him to see the pattern on the reverse. Obviously, what he was looking at was a broken lens from a vehicle headlight or spotlight. Nash wondered if the chunk was enough for the forensic people to identify the type of vehicle that had shed it.
From his stooping position, he was able to get a better view of the road surface than would have been possible from standing. As he looked along the lane, he could see a faint discolouration in the grey tarmac and what looked like scratch marks. Whether he would have noticed these had he been upright, he wasn’t sure. He moved closer and was able to confirm his first impression. Something had either slid or been pulled along the road surface, something heavy and solid enough to scratch the surface and leave what looked to be red paint.
These two scraps of evidence might have absolutely nothing to do with the hijacking of the security van, but as Nash looked further along the road, he saw another, larger stain. This had dried to a dark brown. With his experience in such matters, Nash had a fair idea what substance had been spilt at this point. Blood.
Here again, this might have been caused by nothing more sinister than road-kill, or a fox dragging his supper towards his lair. However, the hungriest carrion would have left fur, feather or bones, as would even the most voracious fox. Putting all three together, Nash reckoned he had come across the most likely position for the van to be ambushed. He looked round at the surrounding countryside. It was almost perfect for the purpose. He had been on the road for over twenty-five minutes. It was early afternoon. During that time, he hadn’t seen another vehicle coming from either direction. In addition, the road here dipped into a hollow concealing whatever might have happened from anyone except those close to the action. There were no houses, not even a farmhouse, within sight. Even the highest roofs of Wintersett village were no longer visible.
He might be summoning a forensic officer to a wild goose chase, but Nash couldn’t afford to do otherwise. At least, he thought with a smile as he returned to the car to retrieve his mobile, they were in the right sort of terrain for such a chase. He phoned Helmsdale station and explained to Mironova what he wanted.
She rang back a few minutes later to tell him an officer was en route; then passed him over to Pearce. Viv related his lack of success at Dawson’s office before ending the call. Nash looked at the dashboard clock. He reckoned it would be at least half an hour before the officer arrived. He leaned back in the driver’s seat and pondered the two cases that had hit their tiny force over the weekend, striving to find something he could use as a starting point for his investigation. With the abduction, the answer might be with the missing woman’s husband. As far as the security van robbery was concerned, all they had was the possible evidence on the road in front of
him. Where the van and its crew had vanished to remained a mystery. Although this road was little used, the gang who hijacked it couldn’t have been sure they wouldn’t be spotted. How had they prepared for that? What had they planned to ensure the security van disappeared?
His daydream ended when he saw a vehicle approaching him from the direction of Helmsdale. It proved to be the forensic officer, the tell-tale blue, yellow and white livery of the CSI van being distinguishable even at a long distance. Nash smiled, remembering someone describing it as looking like an explosion in a paint factory. He got out to greet his colleague and explained the situation. He pointed out the various scraps of possible evidence and waited as the man retrieved his kit from the back of the van.
As he did so, Nash heard the sound of another vehicle approaching, this time from the direction of Wintersett. He watched with increasing concern as a Range Rover similar to his own hurtled over the brow of the hill. The car was being driven with all the determination, but none of the skill, of a Formula 1 competitor.
As the vehicle neared them, Nash noticed that his colleague had stopped what he was doing and was watching with even more apprehension. That would be because he was nearer. At that moment, the vehicle’s brakes were applied with such ferocity that the car rocked on its axles. Despite its weight, Nash was worried it might go over. Seconds later, it juddered to a halt, emitting clouds of smoke from under the wheel arches. The vehicle had barely stopped its forward motion and was still shivering to a standstill when the driver emerged. For a second, Nash wondered if the car had been fitted with a James Bond style ejector seat. As he darted forward, Nash saw that the driver was in late middle age, and that his face was a shade best described as apoplectic purple.
‘You’re the police?’
Nash nodded, uncertain whether this was a question or a statement.
‘Good! Saved me a journey! Want to report a crime! Serious one! Bloody vandals! What name?’
It appeared as if the man spoke much as he drove. Nash pieced the fractured sentences together and responded. ‘Detective Inspector Nash. What’s the problem?’
‘Problem! More than a problem! Bloody outrage! Some bastard’s wrecked one of my wagons! Joyriders, I expect! Damned scoundrels! Should be horsewhipped!’
Nash was intrigued. He had some difficulty in masking a smile. He hadn’t heard the words ‘scoundrel’ or ‘horsewhipped’ for a long time. ‘Sorry,’ he said, his tone placating, ‘what’s your name?’
‘What? Oh, yes. Cryer. Archie Cryer. I farm over there.’ Cryer waved a hand in a gesture that appeared to include a large chunk of the county plus substantial bits of Lancashire and Cumbria. ‘I also transport livestock.’
‘Right, when you say someone vandalized one of your wagons, exactly what have they done to it?’
‘We’ve been away. Only time of the year to take a break. Had nobody wanting beasts moved so we slipped off to Spain for a week. Got back first thing this morning. Noticed immediately the wagon had been moved. Opened it up and looked inside. The buggers only dismantled all the partitions. Why the hell they’ve done that, can’t begin to imagine.’
‘You’re certain the vehicle was moved?’
‘Damned right I am. Left it parked in the corner of the yard. Always do. Thing was ten feet at least from where I left it.’
‘How did they get it started?’
The farmer’s expression changed from outrage to mild embarrassment. ‘Ah, well, thing is,’ he cleared his throat. ‘We always leave the keys hanging in the porch. Farm’s so remote we’ve never had any bother. Until now, that is.’
‘Have you any idea when this happened?’
‘No, they could have done it any time after we left. So that gave them eight days. Thing is, it would have taken more than one person. Those units are bloody strong. Have to be to cope with the beasts we carry.’
‘Who knew you’d be away?’
‘Half the ruddy county, I expect. There was a big article about me in the Netherdale Gazette a few weeks back. It mentioned that we were going away. What you going to do about it, eh?’
‘As soon as we’ve finished here, I’ll bring our forensic man along and we’ll give your wagon a good once-over. Please don’t touch anything until we’ve checked it out.’
Nash watched the farmer reverse into a nearby gateway before returning towards Wintersett. The short conversation seemed to have calmed his fury, judging by the less violent style of driving. Although Nash hadn’t told Cryer so, he had a shrewd idea why the vandals had damaged the wagon. The accuracy of his guess would be confirmed once he saw the vehicle.
As he waited for the forensic man to complete his work, Nash pondered the way the robbery of the security van had been conducted. The cash element intrigued him. It was a large amount, large enough to be conspicuous. Many of the thieves who had stolen large sums in the past had been caught. Not by any clues left at the scene or identification by eyewitnesses, most of them had been given up by informers tempted by the large rewards offered by insurance companies, or by conspicuous changes in their spending habits.
Much was made about the activities of money-laundering rings, who were experts at disguising the source of the money they handled. However, their services didn’t come cheap, and Nash didn’t believe the gang would use them. The robbery had been such a professional operation that he felt sure they would have the means of disposing of the money already worked out. Either, they already had their own way of cleansing the money or they intended to sit on it and release it slowly. He shook himself mentally. He was getting ahead of himself. No point in thinking about money-laundering until they had some clue as to who had committed the crime.
Nash’s deliberations were interrupted by his colleague. ‘That patch in the middle of the road is definitely blood,’ he confirmed. ‘We’ll have to wait for the test results from the lab to see if it’s human or not.’
Nash couldn’t resist the chance of teasing the expert. ‘I watch CSI on TV regularly. They can tell immediately.’
The officer sighed with weary patience. ‘My name’s Robson, not Grissom. And shows like CSI make my job much harder.’
Nash sighed. ‘It seems such a waste having to wait a week only to find we’ve been testing the result of a Charlie dragging his dinner home.’
‘Unlikely that it’ll take so long. A couple of days, more like. I think you can discount Charlie Fox as the culprit, though, there’s nothing tidy about the way a fox kills his prey. Like a lot of murder scenes, it’s usually a bloody mess, literally.’
Chapter Ten
Although Cryer hadn’t given them directions to the farm, they found it easily enough. The large sign outside the gate advertising Cryer Transport was sufficient to guide them. Cryer was waiting in the yard. Nash looked at the vehicle. It was a large Scania rigid. A few years old but still in excellent condition − on the outside at least.
It needed Nash’s restraining hand to stop the farmer climbing inside to demonstrate the extent of the damage. After Nash explained about possible contamination of evidence, Cryer obeyed with reluctance and departed for the house muttering something about coffee. Nash could have murdered some, but he doubted if either he or his colleague were included in the round. ‘Check out the cab first and let me know if you find anything of interest. I want to have a look inside the animal compartment.’
Despite the brightness of the day, the interior of the wagon was quite gloomy. Nash reached for the torch he kept in the glove compartment of the car. He shone the beam on the floor and was immediately rewarded. There was a large, irregular stain in the middle of the wooden boards. He reached over and banged his fist on the bulkhead separating the box from the cab to summon his colleague. ‘What do you reckon that is?’ He directed the beam towards the stain once more.
‘Given the usual occupants of this place, I dread to think,’ the man replied.
Nash grinned. ‘Normally, I’d agree, but in this case I think we’d both be wrong. Pass me a glove.’
He bent down and rubbed the middle of the patch with one finger. It wasn’t wet, only moist, and slightly greasy. He looked at his stained glove before sniffing tentatively at it.
‘I thought so. I don’t think whatever produced this had the sort of horsepower you were suggesting. Not unless someone feeds their animals on engine oil.’
‘Where’s that come from?’
‘At a guess, I’d say it came out of the leaking sump of the engine of a security van that vanished so mysteriously, wouldn’t you? That’s the reason the partitions were removed, to create a large enough space to fit the van inside. All they had to do was drive the van up the ramp, disable the GPS tracker, and the vehicle disappears. Anyone who saw the wagon would have assumed it contained nothing more sinister than a few dozen sheep. Valuable, I agree, given the price of lamb these days, but hardly comparable to over six-hundred-thousand pounds in cash.’
‘The only flaw in your reasoning that I can see is the strength of the tailboard of the wagon,’ the officer pointed out. ‘Would it stand the weight? Those vans weigh a hell of a lot, that’s why they use so much fuel.’
‘True, but the tailboard is designed to cope with heavy weights.’
Nash called to Cryer, who was now loitering near the back of the vehicle. ‘How much do the beasts you carry weigh?’
‘Anything up to five-hundred kilos each.’
The forensic officer whistled. ‘Blimey, that’s a hell of a lot of steak.’
‘Just out of curiosity, would your wagon be capable of taking the weight of something like a Transit van?’
‘I’m sure it would. I’ve had a digger in that one,’ he pointed to where the officers were standing. ‘Had to lower the bucket of course, but a Transit wouldn’t be a problem. Why do you ask? Is that what they did with it?’
‘Can you tell if the wagon has been taken out of your yard whilst you were away?’
Cryer thought for a moment. ‘Depends how far it was driven. We get our diesel on account at a garage in Helmsdale. They always record the mileage. Then there’s the tachograph. Bloody things,’ he added sourly. ‘Unless they disabled it.’