Identity Crisis

by Bill Kitson

  Through the open doorway, they could see the lower half of a body, the legs dangling in mid-air. Nash fumbled to unfasten his seat belt, but David beat him to it. As Nash closed his door, he heard a corresponding click from the driver’s side of the car. He looked across to see Sutton, his jaw set firmly, moving towards the mill. ‘We’ll have to stay outside,’ Nash warned him. ‘If this is what we think, we can’t risk contaminating the evidence.’

  They stopped in the doorway. ‘Mike, I have to check whether he’s still alive. You know that.’

  Nash nodded, it was their duty to check for any sign of life, and he wasn’t in a fit state to manhandle the body if the man was still breathing. ‘Go ahead,’ he agreed, ‘don’t touch anything but the body.’

  As Sutton checked for a pulse, Nash thought he heard a faint sound. He looked at the major, who was staring intently, not at the body, but beyond.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Sutton said in a low voice. ‘I thought I heard a noise. What do you think it was?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They waited, hardly daring to breathe, straining to hear a possible repeat. After a few seconds they heard it again. ‘There!’ they exclaimed in unison.

  ‘What it is, and where it’s coming from, I’ve no idea. Keep listening, will you. I need to organize Mexican Pete and a forensic team.’

  Nash pressed a Short Code on his mobile and waited.

  ‘Ramirez,’ the pathologist sounded angry, ‘is that you, Nash? I thought you were orbiting the sun?’

  ‘I managed to escape before the rocket went off,’ Nash replied. ‘Are you still at Black Fell?’

  He moved the phone away from his ear as the blast of sound came over the speaker. Once Ramirez had cooled off slightly, Nash asked him to repeat what he’d said. ‘This time in English, Professor.’

  He listened with growing astonishment. As the pathologist added a few trenchant comments, Nash had to bite his lip. ‘Oh dear,’ he responded when Ramirez eventually ran out of words, or breath. ‘That is most unfortunate. However, as you’re in the area perhaps you’d call in at Wintersett on your way back and bring the team.’

  Nash explained the circumstances. ‘I’m afraid this one is definitely not a hoax.’

  He rejoined Sutton who was standing in the doorway listening intently. ‘Anything?’ he asked him.

  Sutton shook his head. ‘Whoever you were talking to didn’t help. Even from here, I could hear their voice. Who was it?’

  Nash explained the cause of the pathologist’s anger. The humour of the situation, in stark contrast to their recent grim discovery, didn’t escape Sutton. He laughed aloud as Nash repeated some of Ramirez’ choicer phrases.

  As he finished speaking, they heard the sound again. ‘That’s it,’ Nash said instantly. ‘But where’s it coming from?’

  They stared into the interior of the mill. Apart from the two cars, the corpse and a few odds and ends, the large open space was empty.

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ Sutton said as he took a step forward.

  ‘No, David, we’ve got to wait for the team. Let’s have a look at the outside of the building. Clara searched it, but I haven’t examined it,’ Nash said, leading the way.

  They walked round to the side of the mill. Dimly, Nash remembered that rainy Wednesday afternoon when all his school’s cricket had been cancelled, and they had been forced to listen to their master explaining the workings of water-powered gristmills. After a few minutes, the answer came to him. ‘Of course,’ he breathed, ‘the pit-wheel-housing. The pit-wheel and the wallower.’

  ‘What?’ Sutton was baffled.

  ‘This is how a watermill works. As the water turns the wheel, it revolves an axle running from the centre of the waterwheel into the lowest level of the mill. At the other end of the axle is a large gearwheel called the pit-wheel. That is connected to a smaller gearwheel known as the wallower. This turns the vertical drive-shaft that runs the height of the building and turns the grinding stones.’

  ‘That’s absolutely riveting, but apart from demonstrating the extent of your knowledge on the subject of corn mills, what’s the point?’

  Nash pointed. ‘Look at the way the land here slopes down towards the mill stream. Imagine if the waterwheel was still in place. The top of the wheel would barely reach above where we’re standing. Certainly no more than waist high. Therefore’ − he gestured towards the building − ‘that can’t be the lowest level of the mill. There has to be a space underneath. Usually the pit-wheel room would be accessed via a flight of steps or a ladder, but I certainly saw no sign of one. The access has either been blocked off or concealed.’

  ‘You think this pit-wheel room might be where the sound was coming from?’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘Do you think the missing woman might be in there? A prisoner?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

  As they returned to the front of the building, they heard the crunching of gravel under tyres, signalling the arrival of the pathologist and the SOCO team. Ramirez looked at the detective. ‘Should you be at work?’ he asked. ‘But I forgot your obsession. You wouldn’t let a little matter like a few broken bones keep you away when there are cadavers to drool over. I’d love to DNA test you. I’m sure you’d prove to have Transylvanian ancestry.’

  Nash explained the situation to the new arrivals. Once the forensic officers were kitted out in their protective clothing, the party moved to the interior of the mill. Sutton helped Nash into a suit before he stood and waited alongside the doorway.

  ‘We’ll move that vinyl sheet and see what’s underneath,’ the SOCO team leader said. ‘If we slide it to the back of the building it won’t cause any contamination.’

  ‘Can you do that before you remove the body?’ Nash asked.

  The man smiled. ‘He’s not going anywhere,’ he replied dryly.

  Removal of the vinyl took only minutes. ‘An inspection pit, by the look of it,’ Nash said.

  ‘You mean like in a garage?’ Ramirez asked.

  ‘Yes, a lot of people used to do their own car repairs, before all these modern computer-controlled vehicles,’ Nash replied.

  As they were speaking, the forensic men were removing some sleepers obscuring the pit. The space below was about eight-feet deep, Nash guessed. He moved inside the building, telling Sutton to remain outside. ‘Can we have quiet for a second?’ he asked.

  All of them stopped and listened. The silence seemed to last for ages. Absolute silence. Nash signalled to two of the officers, who descended into the pit. After a few seconds, one of them called up, ‘There’s what looks like a door here. I’m not sure how to open it though.’

  The two men inspected the far wall of the pit. After what seemed a long delay, one of them spotted a tiny hole in one side of the oblong shape. He took a multi-bladed knife from his pocket and slid one of the narrowest blades into the hole. The door sprang open with a click and the officer shone his torch inside. He took one look and called out, ‘Inspector Nash, I think you’d better get down here, if you can manage it.’

  Supported on either side by two forensics officers, Nash made the descent safely. As he stepped off the final rung, he wondered how he would fare on the return journey. Nash moved towards the opening. It smelt of damp. He peered through the gap, staring in disbelief at the scene inside the small, dank chamber, illuminated by the officer’s torch.

  It was over half an hour later when Nash asked to be excused from the scene at the old mill. As he was helped up the ladder, he paused. He stared across at the corner of the room, beyond where the dead man’s corpse had been lowered on to the sheet spread out by the SOCO team. In the corner, he saw two objects he hadn’t noticed before. Everyday objects, in no way out of place. Their significance here, however, caused Nash a fresh revulsion of horror. He completed his ascent and joined the pathologist.

  ‘There’s nothing more I can do here,’ he told Ramirez. ‘I assume you’ll be presenting this as suicide?’
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br />   ‘It looks like it, on the face of things, but I’ll need to complete the post-mortem first. I think it would be foolish to take anything on face value,’ he said cynically.

  ‘You’ve got a point,’ Nash agreed with a wry smile.

  He climbed into the passenger seat of Sutton’s car.

  ‘Where to now?’

  Nash stared at Clara’s fiancé, noting the grim expression on Sutton’s face, and wondering if it matched his own. ‘If you don’t mind, David, I’d like to go to McKenzie’s farm,’ Nash sighed. ‘I want to hear what he has to say. Then I might get some idea of what the devil is going on.’

  They were within half a mile of the farm when Nash shouted, ‘David, stop the car.’

  Sutton pulled to a halt. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Back up, will you. I’ve just seen something. You know the saying, “seeing is believing”? Well, I’ve seen it, but I don’t believe it.’

  chapter nineteen

  The farmhouse was a two-storey redbrick building typical of many in the area. Fleming guessed there would probably be three bedrooms on the first storey, whilst the ground floor would most likely comprise a lounge, a dining-room and a kitchen. As the team of detectives gathered at the surveillance spot, she issued instructions.

  ‘We can’t wait for Viv. I want Clara alongside me when the ARU have opened the door. Lisa, you stay further back. Don’t forget, this man is the most dangerous, violent and sadistic killer in the country. We take no chances. This operation must be quick, clean and efficient. If we come away with McKenzie under arrest, it’ll be our best day’s work in a long time. Lisa, will you and one of the officers check the outbuildings? I want you to look particularly hard for the place where the rape was committed. You’ve seen the photos. Clara has a copy for comparison purposes.’ She watched Mironova pass the photo across.

  Silently they crept round to the farmyard. The ARU leader stepped up to the door, raising his ram as he did so. Before he could strike, the door opened. Looking over Fleming’s shoulder, Clara stared at McKenzie. The man standing in the doorway appeared no different to when she had spoken to him earlier in the week. To all intents and purposes, the same well-mannered character she had interviewed outside the Dawson house.

  ‘What’s going on? What can I do for you?’ McKenzie’s gaze travelled beyond the officers. ‘Sergeant Mironova?’

  Fleming stepped forward, brandishing the search warrant. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Fleming. We have a warrant to search these premises in connection with the murder of Mrs Vanda Dawson.’ She produced her warrant card.

  McKenzie’s smile widened if anything. He didn’t look at either her credentials or the warrant. ‘You can search to your heart’s content. I think you’ll have difficulty finding anything to link me to any murders, particularly Vanda’s.’

  Either they had got it badly wrong, Fleming thought in a moment of doubt, or McKenzie was a brilliant actor. She noted with interest the use of Mrs Dawson’s Christian name. She pressed on, ignoring McKenzie’s denial of guilt. As she was about to instruct McKenzie to allow them entry to the house, Fleming was further surprised to see that the milkman had already opened the door wide and was standing to one side, ready to usher them in. He’s treating us like guests at a ruddy coffee morning, she thought. She stepped inside, motioning Clara to follow, sandwiching McKenzie between them.

  The hall was bare of furniture, the carpet worn, but far from shabby. ‘Take the first door on your left,’ McKenzie told her. Fleming walked into the lounge, which was similarly lacking in furniture. There were two armchairs and a TV set, no cushions or personal touches to signify comfort. Mironova followed close on the milkman’s heels, an armed officer behind her. Although she was still alert for signs of trouble, even her guard was lowered somewhat by his relaxed attitude to the incursion. Once inside the room, McKenzie turned to face the detectives. ‘Now, what do you need to know?’ He looked genuinely interested, seemingly trying to be helpful.

  Fleming rounded on the milkman. ‘Enough tricks,’ she snarled. ‘We’ve found Mrs Dawson’s body. On Black Fell, where you took her after you raped her. On Black Fell, out in that wilderness where you burned her to death. Admit it why don’t you, so I can charge you with her rape and murder, and the rape and murder of all your other victims.’

  At that moment Andrews entered the lounge. ‘Ma’am,’ her voice quivered with excitement. ‘We’ve found a barn that looks like the place where the rape was photographed. The one in the latest photos. But there was nowhere like the location in the earlier ones.’

  ‘That seems conclusive.’ Fleming turned back to McKenzie. ‘I think once our forensic officers have been through the place, we’ll have all the evidence we need to charge you. Other charges will probably follow.’

  As Fleming was speaking, Clara, who was facing the door, saw Nash walking into the room. He was flanked by two people. Clara recognized her fiancé immediately. She did a double-take when she saw Nash’s other companion.

  ‘I think you’d find murder a bit difficult to prove,’ Nash told Fleming gently.

  As Fleming turned, she saw a slim, petite and attractive woman standing, framed by the doorway. She appeared well fed and content. She didn’t look at all like the terrified rape victim portrayed in the photos, or the burnt-up corpse of a Cremator victim. But she did look remarkably like Vanda Dawson.

  They all stared at the woman in open-mouthed astonishment. It was several seconds before Fleming spoke. ‘Mrs Dawson! Are you all right? Have you been harmed? Has this man hurt you in any way? And could somebody please tell me where she came from, and exactly what is going on?’

  ‘We were on our way here,’ Nash said gently, ‘when we saw Mrs Dawson. She’d been for a walk. She was returning here.’

  ‘Then whose body is on Black Fell? And why didn’t anyone report any of this in to me?’ Fleming demanded.

  ‘We tried, but I think you’ll find all the mobiles are switched off.’

  Momentarily, Fleming looked nonplussed. ‘Yes, they are. As per my instructions.’

  ‘I’m sure Viv will explain his findings when he gets here,’ Nash replied cryptically.

  At that moment, Viv Pearce appeared breathlessly at the door. ‘Sorry, ma’am. I couldn’t get away any sooner.’

  Nash wasn’t sure if the scowl Jackie Fleming gave him was related to his timing or being called, ‘ma’am’.

  ‘Why don’t we go into the kitchen,’ Vanda Dawson suggested. Her voice was calm and level, with no trace of the trauma they’d been led to believe she’d suffered. ‘We’ll be more comfortable there.’

  She looked across and smiled at McKenzie. ‘Lindsay hasn’t done much in the way of furnishing this place, I’m afraid. But then, he’s had other things on his mind, far more important things.’

  ‘As long as someone gives us an explanation, I don’t mind if I’ve to sit in the attic.’ Fleming turned to the leader of the ARU. ‘It doesn’t look as though we’ll be requiring your services after all.’

  The kitchen, by comparison with the other parts of the house they’d seen, was lavishly furnished. Although DC Andrews and David Sutton had to lean against the worktops, the others sat at the large kitchen table. ‘Right,’ Nash told McKenzie when they were settled, ‘time for some explanations, I think.’

  McKenzie took a deep breath. ‘It began with Ninette. She was the first. The only one not to have been identified. The first of the Cremator’s victims.’

  Clara was struck by the curious use of words. McKenzie had said ‘the Cremator’s victims’ not ‘my victims’. Was that some strange schizophrenic way of looking at his crimes, ascribing them to another part of his personality?

  McKenzie sat back in his chair, apparently at ease, showing no sign of remorse, or any other emotion. If Clara was puzzled by the man’s opening words, what followed had her increasingly baffled.

  ‘I met Ninette in Prague. That wasn’t her home; where she came from originally I have no idea
. She was on the run then, but from what I didn’t find out until later. All she wanted was a lift. Well, more than that, someone to smuggle her across a couple of borders until she reached Western Europe. She told me she had no money, nothing to pay me. I would be doing it out of charity. I was driving an artic in those days. I’d no family, no home ties and the money was good.’ McKenzie paused, unscrewed the cap from the bottle of water in the middle of the table and took a sip.

  ‘I agreed. I knew what I was doing; what I was risking, but I didn’t care. I was alone, a long way from home, and I suppose I thought I’d get my leg over, if nothing else. What I wasn’t prepared for is what actually happened. We set off and as I drove, we talked. Her English was very good, and she had a lively mind. I suddenly realized how lonely my life was, how nice it was having a woman in the wagon alongside me. When the heater got the cab warmed up, I could smell her perfume and that musky woman’s smell. She was as attractive as she was intelligent, and I knew before long that I didn’t want to lose her. I suppose it was love at first sight, but I didn’t know what that was, so I didn’t recognize it. I offered her the chance to come all the way to England. She was worried about how she’d cope here, without money, papers or anywhere to live, so I offered her a job as my housekeeper.’

  McKenzie smiled. ‘Of course there was no such job. I made it up because I didn’t want to lose her. I thought if she came to England without identification or money she’d be dependent on me and that way she’d have to stay. So that’s what happened. I brought her here. And then I killed her.’

  Fleming sat forward in her chair. McKenzie was about to confess. The milkman looked up and his eyes met those of the detectives. He smiled. ‘That was what you wanted to hear, wasn’t it? That’s what you’ve been waiting for me to say?’

  Jackie frowned. McKenzie’s interpretation of her thoughts was uncanny. If what they’d heard before was unexpected, what followed was completely off the radar.

  ‘I killed her because I brought her here within range of a perverted, evil bastard who raped, tortured and slaughtered her and then set fire to her poor abused body. He destroyed the only thing of beauty in my life. The man they so glibly refer to in the media as the Cremator. The man I’ve been trying for years to find. The man you’re going to arrest and put away where he can’t harm any more defenceless women. Because I’ll tell you something, if you don’t get the law to punish him, I’ll have to take the law into my own hands. Then you really will have something to arrest me for. Because I shall take him and put him on an altar, same as he did to those poor women; then I shall set fire to the bastard and watch him burn. And I’ll dance round listening to his screams and I’ll feel good. For the first time in years, I’ll feel happy.’