Identity Crisis

by Bill Kitson

  It was late morning when Pearce returned from the clothes shop. He’d hardly got through the door when Nash called him through into his office and closed the door behind them. Mironova smiled at this, knowing that Nash would confide in her later. The purpose of the closed door would be to allow Viv to sound off without inhibition.

  ‘OK, Viv. Tell me about your morning.’

  Pearce explained what he’d discovered at the clothes shop. He pointed out the triviality of the offence. Nash looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Doesn’t that make you curious?’ he asked.

  The DC shrugged. ‘I just think it’s pathetic. A worthless bit of junk. Who’d want that, and why?’

  Nash leaned forward in his chair. ‘That’s precisely my point, Viv. And that’s the whole purpose of our job. To find out why. Look at it this way. Unless the burglar is a complete nutcase with a fetish for women who can’t answer back, there has to be a reason for this theft. Our job is to work out what that reason is, and from that we might know who the thief is.’

  ‘Sorry, Mike, I hadn’t looked at it that way.’

  ‘No, you’ve taken the theft in isolation, not unnatural. The interesting part of this incident is what use the person who nicked the model might have for it. Sometimes it’s necessary to think beyond the facts themselves and look for the implications. So tell me, what’s the real problem? Clara tells me you’ve got a new girlfriend. Have you had a row or something?’

  Pearce paused and took a deep breath. ‘Lianne missed her period last month, and she’s late again this month.’

  ‘Pregnant? How do you feel about that?’

  ‘I don’t know, I mean I don’t know if I’m ready for that.’

  ‘I’m sure it will sort itself out. For the record, I think you’re more than ready for it. And if you have any other worries, come and talk to me about it, don’t bottle it up, right?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Now go and make some coffee before Lucrezia Borgia out there gets near the kettle.’

  It wasn’t the best joke Nash had ever cracked, but the fact that it made Pearce smile was sufficient.

  Later that afternoon, Nash, Mironova and Pearce awaited their new superintendent. Under different circumstances they might have been apprehensive about what changes would result from the appointment. Having worked with Jackie Fleming before removed most of those fears.

  They had opted to meet in the main room of the CID suite rather than Nash’s office. Apart from them, the room was empty, Tom Pratt having already vacated his workstation in the corner. Mironova glanced at the clock and repressed a smile as Jackie Fleming entered. It was exactly the time she’d mentioned in her phone call. Punctuality had always been one of her strong points. Nor, Clara thought as she looked at the superintendent, had the years made much difference to her appearance. Clara felt mildly envious that Fleming didn’t appear any older than when they’d last met. Her slender figure and delicate, fine-boned features helped of course. She smiled at their new leader. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee, ma’am?’

  ‘It may say superintendent on my badge, but if I catch any of you calling me that, or ma’am again, I’ll be seriously pissed off. I was Jackie then, and I’m Jackie now. As for the coffee, Mike, has Clara’s coffee-making improved?’

  ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Then I will have one, but on condition Viv makes it. I’ll make the next one.’ She smiled. ‘I haven’t forgotten how the system works, or where the kitchen is. I’m happy to take my turn with the rest, but I’ll need a settling-in period before I subject my system to Clara’s brew. When we’ve got our drinks, perhaps you’ll bring me up to speed with developments. I understand there have been some photos?’

  The meeting lasted over an hour and a half before Jackie Fleming left to return to her base at Netherdale. Later, Mironova paused for a word with Nash. ‘I forgot to mention earlier that when I was at Mill Cottage this morning the postman told me the mail train is an hour and a half earlier on Thursday, so they start deliveries that much sooner.’

  ‘I want to go there first thing anyway,’ Nash told her. ‘I want a word with that milkman, what’s his name?’

  ‘McKenzie, Lindsay McKenzie. Any particular reason for wanting to talk to him? Have I missed something?’

  ‘I’m not sure until I talk to him.’ He saw Clara’s puzzled expression and explained. ‘It depends on McKenzie’s routine. A lot of milkmen call each week to collect their money. Most of them do it in an evening, when they can be sure of catching people at home. If I had to guess, I’d say their favourite day would be Friday, but until I talk to McKenzie I won’t know.’

  ‘I see. I didn’t think to ask him that. How come you worked it out?’

  ‘You could put it down to my detective genius,’ Nash paused, ‘or you could say it was down to the fact that my milkman calls on Fridays.’

  ‘Mike, you’re a dreadful fraud sometimes.’

  The photographs were all he could have hoped for, and more. There was one he was particularly proud of. It portrayed Vanda Dawson, as he liked to remember her. The cold February air had caused her nipples to become erect. On her face was an expression of abject terror as he’d paused at the edge of the shot, poised, about to strike the match. He looked at her face, had he really inspired that look?

  ‘Perfect,’ he breathed. He considered printing an extra copy off, but decided against it. Not at this stage. Later perhaps, when his memories of the moment began to fade. That thought saddened him briefly. He turned his attention back to selecting the photos, to distract himself. He was mildly surprised that he was capable of such emotion.

  The next photo he selected was equally dramatic. It depicted him holding the petrol can high over her head. Examining it carefully, he could just see the liquid emerging from the spout. That would do, he felt sure Dawson would like that one.

  His final choice was a shot taken when the flames were at their fiercest. When the heat’s ferocity had distorted the image. The longer he looked at all three, the more he thought that final one was his greatest achievement. He gave them one final inspection before sliding them into the envelope he had prepared.

  ‘One good thing,’ he muttered as he looked down at them, ‘at least I don’t have to wear that bloody mask now.’ He picked up his car keys. ‘Must get these into the box before the last collection,’ he muttered again. ‘And then I can ditch these gloves as well. After that, I’m going to make something nice for tea. There’s nothing like a good cremation for giving a man a hearty appetite.’

  As he walked out of the house, he began to whistle, the notes echoing down the long hallway. He felt sure Vanda Dawson would have approved his choice of tune. Come On Baby, Light My Fire.

  Lindsay McKenzie was more than a little surprised when he swung his pickup round the end of Mill Cottage. He didn’t recognize the cars parked on the gravel sweep that covered the area from the rear of the building to the edge of the stream. He certainly wouldn’t have guessed the Range Rover was a police car until after he’d got out of his cab and was approached by the car’s driver. Even then, it was the sight of the detective sergeant who’d interviewed him on Saturday that gave him his first clue, rather than the warrant card the male detective was in the process of producing from his pocket.

  ‘Mr McKenzie? I’m Detective Inspector Nash, Helmsdale CID. I believe you’ve already met DS Mironova?’

  McKenzie nodded. ‘Have you found Mrs Dawson? I heard it on the news that she’s missing.’ There was undoubted eagerness in his voice. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘I’m afraid there hasn’t been any development there. Mrs Dawson is still missing. What I need to do is ask you one or two more questions, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Nash. Although I don’t know there’s anything more I can tell you. Not much goes on at this time of the morning.’

  ‘I understand that, but it’s not this time of the morning I’m keen to ask you about. I understand when you spoke to my sergeant on S
aturday, you told her the last time you saw Mrs Dawson was when you delivered the milk on Thursday, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, just a brief glimpse. She was in the kitchen as I delivered, and I caught sight of her as she opened the blinds. She waved, and I waved back.’

  ‘When did you last speak to her?’

  ‘The last time I saw her to speak to? That would be on Tuesday morning.’

  ‘And how did she seem?’

  ‘She seemed OK to me.’

  ‘Now, when does she pay you? Does she leave the money out in an envelope or something like that, or do you call specially for it?’

  ‘No, I make a point of calling on all my customers. That way, they can tell me about holidays or if there are any variations in their order. And I’m sure to get my money. A year or so back, one of my customers claimed they’d left the money in an envelope, but I never found it. The lady said someone must have stolen it, but I had my doubts. I didn’t say anything because her husband had left her and I think she was struggling to make ends meet. It was only a few pounds, so what the heck.’

  ‘Did you collect Mrs Dawson’s money last week?’

  ‘No, I tried to, but there was nobody in. I collect from half my customers on Thursday evening, and do the rest on Friday night. At least that was the plan, but the weather on Friday was so rotten I decided to leave it a week.’

  ‘Is Mill Cottage on your Thursday list, then?’

  ‘That’s right, it’s my last call. I always finish up here on Thursday night.’

  ‘What sort of time would that be? Last Thursday for instance?’

  McKenzie thought about it for a few minutes. ‘At a guess I’d say it was a touch before eight o’clock.’

  ‘And you say there was nobody in?’

  ‘That’s what I assumed. It was raining heavily by then and the wind was already getting up, so I didn’t get out of the car because the house was all in darkness, so I thought she must have gone out.’

  ‘Had Mrs Dawson ever been out when you called for the money previously?’

  ‘Not that I can remember.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr McKenzie, that’ll be all for now. I believe DS Mironova has your details if I need to ask you any more questions.’ Nash looked across at Clara, who nodded.

  The detectives watched the milkman collect the empty and place a single pint in the crate, guided by the small wheel indicator on the wire basket.

  As McKenzie reversed the pickup, Clara asked, ‘What do you make of that? Interesting that the house was in darkness.’

  ‘I find it more interesting that he failed to mention his Thursday night call when you questioned him on Saturday.’

  ‘Do you think he might be involved?’

  ‘I’m just saying it seems curious. There may be nothing to it, but I think it might be worth checking Mr McKenzie out.’

  ‘Tom’s got him on his list of regular visitors already. Do you think it’s urgent?’

  ‘Not really, McKenzie doesn’t seem the type, and besides …’

  ‘Besides what?’

  ‘I’m still not convinced this is a Cremator case. It doesn’t feel right, somehow.’

  ‘Is this your sixth sense working overtime again?’ She was about to continue when she saw movement beyond Nash’s right shoulder. ‘Looks as if Dawson’s up and about early.

  chapter fifteen

  Despite the hour, the accountant was already fully dressed for the office. Nash took in the dark suit, the crisp white shirt, the highly polished shoes and the sober tie bearing the emblem of some sports club. Nash wondered briefly if it was of his golf club, given the spurious alibi he’d given his wife for his absence the previous week. That reminded him of something.

  ‘Clara, did we get confirmation from Dawson’s clients?’

  ‘Viv’s following it up this morning.’

  Nash watched Dawson approach. ‘What are you doing here at this hour?’ the accountant demanded. He sounded less than pleased by their presence.

  ‘We needed to speak to the milkman and we were told the post arrives earlier than usual this morning, so we decided to combine the two.’

  ‘Right, well, I don’t suppose I can stop you.’ Dawson turned on his heel, collected the milk from the crate and went back inside. The door slammed behind him.

  ‘Bloody charming!’ Clara muttered. ‘He could at least have offered us a coffee. I’m gagging.’

  ‘Me too,’ Nash agreed. ‘I’d even settle for one of yours, which shows how desperate I am.’

  They hadn’t long to wait for the postman who walked straight towards them rather than heading for the letterbox. ‘Still intercepting the post?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Nash donned gloves and accepted the proffered pile. He waited until the postman had driven away before sifting through the bundle. The top items were bulky, a newsletter from the county council and a host of the usual assorted junk mail. For a moment he relaxed, then saw a familiar envelope. Nash’s heart sank. Following the trend of previous incidents, this could only mean one thing. The Cremator was announcing that he had tortured and murdered Vanda Dawson. He felt rather than saw Mironova close behind him, before she spoke.’

  ‘Dear God, no! The sick bastard. I don’t believe anyone can be so cruel.’

  ‘He’s had plenty of practice,’ Nash observed grimly. As he was speaking, the door of the cottage opened.

  Dawson looked from Nash to the envelope the detective was holding. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ His voice might just have held a note of concern, but if it did, it was minimal, Clara thought. If he was concerned, it was only echoed in his voice, for his face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. A few seconds ago, she had wondered how the killer could be so cruel, now she couldn’t believe that Dawson could remain so calm.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Nash replied. ‘But once again you must allow me to open it. If there are fingerprints or DNA on either the envelope or contents, I can’t risk them being contaminated. Also, in view of what the contents might be, I suggest you don’t look at them.’

  Dawson’s expression was evident now, it was one of arrogance. ‘Allow me to be the judge of that. I will see what is in that envelope. You can’t stop me. You don’t have a warrant, and you’re interfering with my mail without one, which is against the law. However, I will allow you to take the envelope and contents away, but only on condition that I see what’s inside first.’

  Nash hesitated, looking at the accountant for a few moments before giving a reluctant nod. ‘Very well, but I ought to warn you that I’ve seen the other files, and these photos could be extremely distressing.’

  He got no response, so he gently slit the end of the envelope and retrieved the contents. He looked at the first photo, hearing Clara’s gasp of horror as she peered over his shoulder.

  ‘Let me see,’ Dawson insisted.

  Nash held it up, his eyes fixed on the accountant’s face as the man stared at the image of his wife, bound hand and foot, stark naked, on an improvised altar. The background was woodland, and the photo taken to give no view of the terrain beyond the immediate vicinity of the woman’s body. She was obviously alive at that point − the look of terror on her face showed that − her expression also demonstrated that she knew exactly what was about to happen to her. If there was anything other than surprise on Dawson’s face, Nash couldn’t detect it.

  The second image reinforced the Cremator’s intentions; he was on the point of dousing his victim with petrol. Nash showed it to Dawson without comment. At last, there was a reaction, albeit a small one, from the victim’s husband. He recoiled slightly, and muttered, ‘I don’t believe this. It’s all wrong.’

  The final photo was by far the worst. The flames licking round the body were horribly graphic. The shimmering air that distorted the camera’s focus was a clear indication of the intense heat. There was no doubt in Nash’s mind that Vanda Dawson had perished, and little doubt that the poor woman had died in the most dreadful agony.

 
He looked round at Mironova. She was pale and looked as if she was about to be sick. He turned back and with the utmost reluctance held the photo up for Dawson to see. Once again, the accountant shook his head in plain denial of what was too graphically obvious to the detectives.

  ‘No,’ Dawson said after a moment. ‘No, this isn’t right. I don’t believe this, any of it.’

  Nash knew such rejection of the most terrible news was not uncommon, but there seemed more than that in Dawson’s attitude. Despite his obvious shock, the man had his emotions well under control. ‘Mr Nash, you will find out who did this, won’t you? You will find out who is behind this sick practical joke. And find out what has really happened to my wife. I will leave it to you. Please inform me when you have something definite to report.’

  To Nash’s complete astonishment, Dawson turned as if to re-enter the cottage. Nash detained him with a hand on his arm. He pleaded with Dawson to allow him to call for a family liaison officer to come and stay with him, but in vain.

  ‘I just want to be left in peace, can’t you understand that,’ was the nearest Nash got to eliciting some emotion from him.

  The detectives walked back to their cars, both deep in thought. Nash placed the envelope and photos in an evidence bag. ‘I want you to send Viv straight to Netherdale to deliver these. Whilst he’s waiting he can tell Jackie what’s happened.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’