STALKER ON THE FENS a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Joy Ellis

  ‘Wait.’ Glen Woodhall frowned hard. ‘I want another word with Kirton. Get uniform to pick him up again. Any excuse, just get him back in.’

  ‘Sure, sir, I’ll do it now.’ As she closed the door, she saw Woodhall still striding back and forth across the empty office.

  * * *

  ‘Carla Duchene’s got a big, beautiful house, ma’am. The elegant sort, you know, the kind of people who have taste as well as money.’

  ‘But nothing stolen, nothing disturbed?’

  ‘It’s like the Marie Celeste, ma’am. She’s vanished into the air.’

  ‘Well, that would indicate that she knew whoever came calling, and either went with him voluntarily, or was stunned and quietly removed. Did the neighbours see anything?’

  Joseph shook his head. ‘Not that kind of road, I’m afraid. It’s all detached houses with lots of trees and high walls. They’d not see a Pickford’s lorry unless they happened to be standing at the bottom of her driveway.’

  ‘And what about her telephones? Any unusual calls?’

  ‘No. The last call on her landline was Dave Harris informing her about the DI, and the mobile hadn’t rung since the night before.’ He leant back against the wall. ‘I brought back her address book, ma’am, and took the most used numbers from her mobile’s call log. One of the team is ringing round now, just in case there’s a logical reason for her disappearance.’

  ‘Did she keep a diary, Joseph?’

  ‘Not as such, but she wrote all her appointments on a big calendar in the kitchen. There was nothing listed for today.’

  Gill’s anxiety shifted up a gear. There was little doubt that they now had two missing women, and one murderer still walking the streets of Greenborough.

  ‘Okay, Joseph. Nothing more you can do there, so I’d like you to check up on someone for me. I was going to do it myself but I need to finish going through Nikki’s reports. I want you to talk to a colleague of Helen Brook. His name is Welland, and he’s a hypnotist at the Willows Clinic. I get the feeling he wasn’t a great fan of Carla Duchene, and I’d like to know why.’

  ‘Fine. Shall I phone him first?’

  Gill smiled darkly. ‘I think not, Sergeant. Try the element of surprise.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  In the murder room, Gill Mercer walked from desk to desk, staring at the monitor screens, the untidy piles of reports and hastily scribbled notes. As she walked she looked into the tired eyes of Nikki’s team. Their haggard faces all showed strain and anxiety. It was as if every officer believed it was their personal duty to find something that would lead them to their missing colleague.

  Worst of all, everyone now knew that Helen Brook had been conscious and restrained while the murderer worked on her, fully aware that she was about to die.

  ‘Has anyone heard from Eric Barnes yet?’

  There was a series of negative replies. Where the hell had he got to? From what he had said earlier, she had believed him to be little more than an hour away, and that was ages ago.

  Jessie held up a receiver. ‘Ma’am! It’s the desk sergeant. Bad news, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Sergeant? What’s the problem?’

  ‘Sorry, DI Mercer, but I’ve just heard that the surveillance car outside Oliver Kirton’s house . . . Eh, it seems that they’ve lost him.’

  ‘What? How the bloody hell did that happen?’

  ‘He tricked them, ma’am. A visitor called, a man who arrived by car, stayed for about ten minutes, then left — or so our officers thought. Turns out he swapped places with Kirton. Kirton wore the man’s coat and hat and took his car. When they got your call to bring him back in, they found a stranger in the house, and Kirton gone.’

  ‘Did they get the license number? And the make of car?’

  ‘We’ve already found it, ma’am. But Kirton was nowhere to be seen. I’ve put out a call to bring him in as soon as he’s spotted. I don’t think he’ll get too far, ma’am.’

  Gill was seething. ‘I wish I shared your optimism, Sergeant. Have you got the other man?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve sent a car for him. He’s an old friend of Kirton’s. Seems Kirton rang him and fed him some cock-and-bull sob story about mistaken identity and how he desperately needed to go out to meet someone. Life and death, he said, and swore he’d be back in an hour or two. We are still watching the house, just in case he actually meant it.’

  ‘Let me know the moment there’s any news on him.’ Gill almost threw the receiver back at Jessie. ‘Damned incompetents! For God’s sake! Kirton is a fucking murder suspect, not some petty criminal. The super is really going to love this!’

  Before she could move, the phone rang again. ‘Sorry, ma’am, for you again. It’s Professor Rory Wilkinson this time.’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘Have you got anything for us, Rory?’

  The forensic scientist sounded edgy. ‘I’m not sure, but maybe. Is it all right if I bring a friend of mine in to see you? She’s been helping us with the mandala design. She thinks she’s on to something.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake get her here! Time is not on our side right now.’

  ‘On our way. Be with you in fifteen.’ The line went dead. Gill felt a frisson of excitement. Maybe this would be it, the one piece of information that would set the ball rolling. Meantime, she needed to break the news about Kirton to Superintendent Woodhall, and she was not looking forward to that one little bit.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, in Nikki’s office, Rory and Gill stared down at a mass of diagrams and notes, and listened intently to Jenny Jackson.

  ‘So I thought, this is just too weird! But it has to be! I have checked every single patient on Miss Brook’s client list, and everything on this mandala,’ she stabbed her finger on the original design, ‘is relevant to just one person! The birthdate, all the astrological and numerological numbers, Life, Destiny, Expression and Fadic, every one of them is personal to one woman. And that particular person is dead! So that was when I rang Rory, because I really do not understand.’

  Rory took a deep breath. ‘And I phoned you, DI Mercer. I’m afraid we were wrong when we believed that the mandala represented the killer. Now we know what the design is all about, obviously the killer was leaving us a coded clue to who he was really after — and pointing us clearly in the direction of the Duchene family.’

  Gill stared at the complicated design. ‘So all this adds up to just one person?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Esther Duchene, born 1 March 1937, a Pisces. It even explains the central star, Esther, from the Persian for star.’

  ‘Carla Duchene’s mother.’ Gill’s mind was spinning, but Jenny was still talking.

  ‘The Runic signs refer to anger, grief and guilt, which could be associated with the emotions felt after a bereavement, and most of the minerals and crystals used have healing properties pertaining to the areas affected by her particular type of cancer. The others, and the malachite, are found in the Congo. Through my work as an artist I know a bit about Esther, and I know that along with her predecessors, she spent a lot of time in Africa. There is absolutely no doubt that this is a personal chart for Esther Duchene.’

  Rory looked intently at Gill Mercer, raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Much as I don’t wish to try to teach my grandmother to suck eggs, dear Inspector, don’t you think maybe we’d better go pick her daughter up?’

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’

  Rory frowned. ‘Know what?’

  ‘I’m afraid your discovery came an hour or so too late. Carla Duchene is also missing.’

  ‘Oh shit!’

  ‘Exactly.’ She looked apologetically at Jenny Jackson. ‘I’m really sorry, but I have to go and report all this to the super. Can you stay around for a while? He will want a word with you. I’m not sure I’ll be able to explain all this stuff as well as you did.’

  Jenny nodded. ‘No problem, Inspector.’

  ‘Damn it! I really thought we were one step ahead of him.’ Rory ran a hand
through his hair. ‘Still, I suppose if we find Carla Duchene, we also find Nikki?’

  ‘Let’s hope so. My added worry is that we also have a missing suspect.’

  ‘And you think he may have taken both women? Who is he?’

  ‘Oliver Kirton, he’s a—’

  ‘Ollie! You are kidding, aren’t you? Ah, I see you’re not. Well, I hope for everyone’s sake that it’s not dear Oliver, because if he’s messing with his medication, he could be seriously off his head, and very dangerous.’

  Gill froze. ‘You know him?’

  ‘University. Strange man. Long story.’

  ‘Could he have been capable of concocting that mandala?’

  ‘He studied ancient tribes for a long while, but in an academic way. If he invented that design, he did it as a huge joke.’

  ‘But he could have done it?’

  Rory gave a little shrug. ‘There’s nothing that Oliver could not do if he set his mind to it. Except stay clean for any length of time, that is.’

  ‘And he had been in Helen’s flat for treatment sessions, so he could have stolen a key! Oh God, this is looking really bad.’

  Gill left the office and almost ran to the murder room. ‘Okay, all of you! Listen up! I want to know everything there is to know about Carla and Esther Duchene, and I want it fast.’ She looked at the mass of worried faces and added almost gently, ‘And I know I don’t have to remind you of this, but DI Galena’s life depends on it.’

  She stopped for a moment at the door of the superintendent’s room before entering. Something was worrying her, but she was damned if she knew what it was. Oh hell! It’d have to wait. The super needed to know what Rory and his friend had discovered, and what Rory had said about Oliver Kirton.

  * * *

  Nikki awoke, and for a moment wondered where she was. Then reality crashed in on her, and she began to shiver. How long had she been asleep? She had lost precious time. Suddenly she saw the elfin features of Helen Brook. Her eyes looked down sadly and her arms were held out in front of her, palms upwards. “You promised to help me.” Somehow this calmed Nikki. Yes, she had promised, and she always kept her promises. Somehow she had to find a way out of this terrible situation and catch Helen’s killer.

  She knew that they were hunting for her. Any moment they could be here — Joseph, Cat, Dave, Jessie, Niall, Yvonne, Greg Woodhall, Rory. They would find her, but would they be in time? She imagined them, all rushing through the door to save her.

  Nikki gathered herself together and gritted her teeth. Sentimental thoughts would not help her now. What she needed was her competent and logical detective’s brain. She had to find out who had taken her, and who had killed her friend. And to do that, she had to get out of this bloody place, wherever it was.

  Nikki eased herself into a sitting position, started to massage her numb legs and forced herself to think of what she knew best, her police training. First, try to evaluate your situation. Okay, well, she wasn’t restrained in any way, good so far. What worked and what didn’t? She tested her arms, neck and legs. Two out of three was better than nothing, but the legs were a problem. She had to have been given some kind of epidural, but surely that should have worn off by now? It was hard to tell because she had no idea how long she had been incarcerated. When her eyes had got used to the darkness, shadows had appeared and she knew that she was in some sort of windowless basement room. It wasn’t a cellar, because it wasn’t freezing cold and it didn’t smell musty or bad. Nikki screwed up her nose. In fact, there was something about the smell of the place that was vaguely familiar. She had always had a heightened sense of smell, a trait that she recently found out was inherited from her mother. So where the hell was she? She could still hear the distinct sounds of seabirds outside, and somewhere some way away, the muffled hum of an engine. So, legs or no legs, she needed to do a recce of the room, and to do that she had to get off the bed.

  Her head was still hammering after the incident at the vigil, but her memory was gradually clearing. She now remembered that she had waded in to a group of yobs and got clobbered with a placard, and then, strangely, Eric Barnes had helped her. Right now she wished she had let him call for the medics. She would certainly not be lying on a tatty old bed massaging her dead legs.

  Oh well, here goes nothing. Nikki moved her legs over the edge of the bed, positioned them directly in front of her, then, hanging onto the mattress, pushed off.

  She crashed to the floor, jarring her spine and making her aching head feel like lightning had struck her. ‘Well, that went well,’ she muttered aloud. She sat and gathered her breath, then tipped onto her side and began dragging herself across the room.

  The bed had been set against one wall, so by the time she reached the opposite wall she reckoned the room to be about fifteen feet long. Now she needed a door. She pulled herself around the perimeter of the room, and found it.

  Excellent! Now, if only . . . she froze. There was a noise. It was different to the sounds she had been hearing, and it was coming from within the building. Her parched throat almost closed. She was listening to footsteps. They were soft, deliberate, unhurried.

  Nikki was certain that whoever was out there would hear her heart beating, and she tried to calm it. There was no way she would be able to get back onto the bed, so she stayed where she was, leaning back against the door, and prayed that whoever was on the other side didn’t want to enter.

  The noises changed. The feet moved away, then returned, but there was another noise now, a grunting, groaning sound, followed by a sort of scraping and shushing.

  She became aware of a draught of cool air underneath the ill-fitting door, and then there was a bang and the jingling, metallic sound of keys. The outer door had been closed and locked.

  Nikki exhaled, breathed deeply and tried to make sense of what she had just heard. Someone had opened an outer door, gone in, then retraced their footsteps and returned dragging something heavy across the floor before leaving. She nibbled anxiously on her bottom lip. What was it that had been dragged into the room? What — or who? Nikki let out a slow breath. Maybe she was no longer alone.

  * * *

  ‘Ma’am! I’ve spoken to the Duchene family solicitor. Esther Duchene left a fortune to her daughter, but most of it is tied up in trusts and funds and property abroad. He said it’s so complicated it will probably take years to sort out.’ Cat glanced at her pocket book. ‘And Carla is well off in her own right. Her father left her a tidy bequest that she came into when she was twenty-five.’

  ‘But she’s been living at home with Mummy?’ Gill looked somewhat bemused.

  ‘Only since Esther became ill. The solicitor said she worked abroad prior to her mother’s diagnosis.’

  ‘Abroad where? And doing what?’

  ‘Africa. She worked for some charity organisation out there.’

  Jessie looked across from her desk and frowned. ‘An aid worker! Blimey! Appearances can really be deceptive! She sure didn’t give that impression, did she, Niall?’

  Niall Farrow shook his head. ‘No way! She didn’t look as if she’d done a day’s work in her life, apart from maybe as something like a fashion editor.’

  Cat shrugged. ‘Well, that’s what he said. And she didn’t have to have been striding barefoot across the desert with a water container balanced on her head.’

  ‘Okay, cut the clever stuff and concentrate. Where did she live when she wasn’t with her mother?’

  ‘She had a snobby apartment on the Old Granary Wharf, overlooking the river, but she sold it when she moved home to care for Esther.’

  ‘Friends? She must have had some.’

  Cat grimaced. ‘None that we can trace, ma’am. Not a single one. She’s been a real loner since she came back.’

  ‘Jesus! There must be someone we can talk to about her! And I have to know if she knew Oliver Kirton.’

  ‘Ma’am?’ Joseph pushed open the murder room door and dropped down into a spare chair. ‘Any news while I’ve been
out?’

  Gill Mercer filled him in on what Jenny Jackson had discovered from the mandala. ‘So what’s the story regarding Dr Welland and Carla Duchene?’

  Joseph shook his head dispiritedly. ‘Nothing that leads me to believe he’s our kidnapper. He doesn’t like Carla because she was pretty much against her mother attending his “quack clinic,” as she called it initially. Carla believed that the old lady should stick with the chemotherapy and radiotherapy. Esther felt differently, and after she met Helen Brooks, she became a regular at the Willows. After a while, Carla came around to her mother’s way of thinking, end of story. Dr Welland says he simply never warmed to Carla. She was a very different sort of person to her mother.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘“A cold fish, with no spirit,” was Sam Welland’s description. The mother was well-known and well-loved, a warm, kind-hearted soul with a great love of nature and the more spiritual side of life. A true artist. He found Carla too pragmatic, too earthbound. He reckoned she looked to science and no further for all her answers.’

  ‘And that’s all? A difference of views?’

  ‘More or less, although he did give me a name. Worth following up under the circumstances, I suppose. It’s a nurse who was looking after Esther in the oncology suite at Greenborough Hospital. She was a bit of an ally of Carla’s when Esther decided to abandon her treatment there. Carla spent a lot of time with her apparently, so she might know something that could help.’ He sat down at his desk and picked up the phone.

  Gill turned back to Cat Cullen. ‘Get some details of exactly what Carla did in Africa. Who she worked for, and if she had anyone close to her — a friend, a lover, a close work colleague. We have to know more about her. Someone was with her when she left her mother’s house, either a captor, or a friend. And it could have been Oliver Kirton. We must find her, and not just for her sake. If we find Carla, I’m certain we’ll find Nikki.’