VANISH WITHOUT TRACE an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist (Detective Mike Nash Thriller Book 2)

by BILL KITSON

  ‘How did it go last night?’ Mironova asked.

  Nash told her the details of his meeting with Megan’s parents, and of Monique’s prowler, omitting to mention his encounter with Jimmy Johnson. ‘So you stayed the night with her?’ Clara’s voice was expressionless, the inference pointed.

  ‘I slept in Danielle’s room,’ Nash said defensively.

  ‘And you didn’t get any late-night prowlers?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘I meant, did the mystery man reappear.’

  ‘Oh, I see. No, nothing happened.’

  ‘You mean you slept undisturbed?’

  He was studying the screen, his reply came too late to be convincing. ‘Yes, we did.

  ‘Clara, look at this, we never checked. The DVLA shows Roland Bailey has a current valid driving licence. He’s also the registered keeper of a Ford Mondeo five-door saloon car, listed as being Stardust Silver Metallic. This puts a whole different complexion on things. We need to put a trace out for the Mondeo. I’ve also an idea I’d like you to consider.’

  Monique was on edge from the moment Nash left her. She was immeasurably relieved when the receptionist told her Mike was on the line, or, as she put it, ‘That copper who fancies you wants a word. If it’s a dirty weekend in Scarborough he’s after, I’ll go if you don’t.’

  The sound of Nash’s voice was reassuring. ‘Hello, Monique. I’ve been talking to Sergeant Mironova. You remember, you met her when I was viewing flats?’

  ‘Yes, she was very kind.’

  ‘In view of last night’s events, Clara’s agreed to stay with you. She’ll meet you from work, drive you home, check the house over and stay. Next morning, she’ll drive you to work. She’ll continue until we’ve got things settled. How does that sound?’

  ‘Oh, er, all right, I suppose,’ Monique realized immediately how churlish that sounded. ‘Yes, please,’ she continued, ‘tell her I’m really grateful, will you?’

  Although Monique wouldn’t admit it, her mild disappointment was due to it being Clara rather than Nash who would be staying with her.

  ‘Clara, before we go off half-cocked, I’d like you to do one more thing. Give each of the parents a ring. Ask them if they can remember anyone connected with their school that showed a particular interest in their daughter. Not an unhealthy interest specifically. Keep your question open, vague almost. Don’t mention Bailey by name whatever you do, don’t even mention what his role was. Okay?’

  Although none of the parents could recall immediately, Tracey Forrest phoned back a little later. Nash took the call. ‘Something your sergeant said set me thinking. Megan did mention someone who worked at her school, who she thought might be a dirty old man. She said it was the way he looked at girls, when he thought no one was watching. It wasn’t one of the teaching staff, I’m certain. I think he might have been a gardener. Is that any help?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Forrest. It could be most helpful.’

  He told Mironova the gist of Tracey Forrest’s remarks. ‘It’s all starting to point towards Bailey. He lived close to Sarah Kelly, he works for the same company, and before that he’d worked at schools the girls attended, or where their mothers worked. Then there’s his membership of that dodgy club in Netherdale. That shows he’s the right type. His car fits the description of the one Monique’s prowler used, and your friend Turner’s statement also said the car he saw was silver. Then he vanished when we were about to question him about Sarah Kelly. That looks very much like the action of a guilty man. I didn’t buy into it when Pearce suggested it but I admit it’s beginning to look more of a possibility. I think we’ve enough now to request a search warrant for Bailey’s house. Organize it, will you, we’ll go in first thing tomorrow. I’ll get Jack to sort out some uniforms to go with us. Despite everything, I’m still not convinced Bailey’s the man we’re after.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s more of a feeling than anything. All we’ve found out makes Bailey a prime suspect. I know we should assume the worst from the fact he bolted, but that doesn’t fit with what we know about the killer. Everything so far has been carefully planned to avoid leaving the slightest clue.’

  ‘You don’t think Bailey fits that description?’

  ‘Roland Bailey is high profile. The killer takes every precaution to ensure he remains low profile. I’m willing to bet that after each incident, he returns to what might be seen as a normal life. This man is like no other serial killer I’ve ever come across.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Talk to prison officers and psychiatrists who come in contact with serial killers. They’ll all tell you the same. After I caught Marston, I experienced it. They enjoy telling people exactly what they’ve done, revelling in the gory details. That’s part of their desire for attention, part of the need to show how clever they are. Psychiatrists say serial killers actually want to get caught, so they can enjoy the limelight of their own notoriety. This one’s different. This one doesn’t want to get caught. He wants to remain hidden. He’s secretive in the extreme. That’s part of the reason none of his victims’ bodies have ever been found.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  ‘I’m not absolutely sure, but I’m beginning to get the idea. You’ve heard of people who commission high-value art thefts?’

  Mironova nodded, bewildered by this change of tack.

  ‘They do that, because they know that although they might gain possession of a Van Gogh or a Renoir, they’ll never be able to share it with anyone. They don’t want to share it. They don’t want anyone else to see it. They put it into a private collection, for no one else to look at but themselves. I don’t know the psychology behind that, but I reckon our killer’s got a similar outlook. It’s fairly common for serial killers to get in touch with the police or the press. Sometimes they send cryptic messages. Sometimes even souvenirs. They want to show how much cleverer they are than those trying to catch them. This one’s not at all like that. He wants these girls as a work of art, a painting, a sculpture or a Ming vase, whatever. He wants them all to himself, a sort collection for no one else to see. That’s what he is; a collector, a connoisseur.’

  ‘But a body doesn’t keep like an oil painting.’

  ‘I know, maybe that’s why he has to keep on getting a new subject for his adoration. What I can’t understand is the long gap between abductions. All the textbooks say the perversion takes over to such an extent that the rate at which the killer commits the crimes increases, he becomes out of control.’

  ‘I know, and I can’t understand that either. Have you any ideas about what sort of man we’re looking for?’

  Nash considered the question. ‘He lives alone. Possibly somewhere remote, certainly not overlooked. It’s highly likely that’s where he’ll take the girls, although what he does with the bodies later I’ve no idea. He’s middle-aged, meticulous to the point of obsession. Everything about his life will be ordered. He travels a lot, with a genuine reason for moving from place to place. His job involves him coming into contact with the public on a regular basis.

  ‘Although he’s comfortable amongst other people, by nature he’s a solitary person, possibly self-employed. Certainly not in a regular nine to five, clocking on and off, sort of job. Not one where he has to report to someone else on a regular daily basis.’

  ‘How are we going to spot him?’

  ‘That’s a tricky one. The reason I say that is this man has made being unobtrusive into a fine art. You could meet him at a party, pass him in the street, or sit next to him on a bus, and five minutes later you’d struggle to remember much about him. Give yourself another day and you wouldn’t be able to describe him with any degree of accuracy. Another week and you wouldn’t be sure if he’d been at that party, or if there’d been anyone walking down that street, or a passenger sitting in that seat.’

  ‘That’s going to make our job well nigh impossible.’

  ‘On the face of it, yes. B
ut it emphasises what I said earlier about the importance of establishing a link between the victims. If we can’t find the man, we must find the link, and hope that the link will lead us to the man.’

  ‘If you’re right about the job and the man, I can understand your doubts about Bailey. So what next?’

  ‘We have to trace Bailey. We still have to assume he’s guilty and go after him full tilt. If we do that, we can at least eliminate him from our enquiries.’

  Later, as Clara was leaving, Nash promised to phone her that evening. ‘What happened last night was serious. Monique was certainly spooked by it.’

  ‘You don’t think she might have imagined it, or exaggerated it? Or even made it up for your benefit?’

  Nash stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Put it this way, Mike. You’ve had one or two “romantic” dinners together. I don’t want to pry, but did you really sleep in Danielle’s bed last night, or was it Monique’s? The way you looked this morning, I’d be more inclined to believe you were screwing Monique all night.’

  ‘Of course I slept in Danielle’s room. You’ve got a very dirty mind, Sergeant.’

  ‘Maybe. I just wondered if Monique wanted more from you than just a dinner companion.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re being very fair. When I got there, Monique was close to breakdown. Put yourself in her place. The assault left her with a phobia against leaving the house after dark. She suffers dreadful nightmares, migraine attacks and has a severe lack of confidence. Despite all that, she lives alone in that house, with only the memory of Danielle and her parents for company. You mustn’t forget, it was there that Monique’s mother committed suicide.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Clara held up a hand in surrender. ‘I was out of order. I’d better be off. I’ll go collect my things and act as guardian cum nursemaid. You don’t want me to put in a good word for you, then?’ She added wickedly.

  ‘Get out of here.’

  He’d been lucky last night. Now, as he recalled the narrowness of his escape from being discovered he trembled with fear. There’d been no sign of life from within Monique Canvey’s house for so long, he’d assumed she’d gone to bed and decided to give up his observation.

  He’d driven to the end of the road without lights. At the junction he’d switched them on and driven no more than fifty yards when a police car had passed him going in the opposite direction. There’d been no sirens, no flashing red and blue lights, but the high speed suggested urgency, possibly emergency.

  He’d watched in horror through his rear view mirror as the police car turned into Monique Canvey’s road. He’d no reason to suppose the car was there because of him, but the police would have been highly suspicious of a man sitting alone in a darkened car at that time of night.

  It’d been a narrow escape. One he couldn’t risk happening again. He’d had the chance of this girl once, but had taken her sister instead. Now the urge demanded this one.

  His plans were almost laid. There must be no margin for error. He needed a safe vantage point. He remembered something he’d seen a few days earlier. He wouldn’t need long; then the girl would be added to his collection. She’d become his prize specimen. The very thought of it was unbearably exciting.

  Rochester Way was a cul-de-sac of detached houses. Almost all the occupants, in keeping with their perceived status and the need for privacy, had planted Leylandii along their boundaries. Over the years, the shrubs had matured into dense hedges that achieved the required effect admirably.

  Number six had been unoccupied for two months. None of the residents saw the silver-grey saloon car glide to a halt in front of the garage. Although it was virtually dusk when the car came to a stop, it displayed neither headlights nor sidelights. When the door opened a few minutes later, the courtesy light did not come on. The door closed with a barely audible click.

  The driver stood silent and motionless for several minutes. Once satisfied his arrival had gone unnoticed, he walked slowly round the garage and down the lawn.

  There was yet more protection to the rear of the gardens. A variety of shrubs provided screens that would have defied any Peeping Tom. He stepped carefully over the flower bed and wriggled his way through the shrubs until he reached the boundary fence. From there he had an uninterrupted view to the house in the next street. He could see all the rear of the building opposite, in particular the kitchen and dining room.

  His fingers trembled with anticipation as he lifted his binoculars. He was immediately rewarded. Monique Canvey was standing in front of what he guessed to be the cooker. She appeared to be talking to someone outside of his field of vision. Was this the man she’d been kissing? A jealous rage made his gut churn, but then the second occupant of the room came into view.

  He caught a glimpse of her, before she moved beyond his line of sight. Enough for him to see her face, enough time for him to recognize her. It wasn’t possible! It couldn’t have been her. He’d convinced himself he was mistaken, when she moved back into view. This time there was no doubt. It was her. But how? How could she be there? Why should she be in Monique Canvey’s house? What he was seeing was impossible. Yet it was happening. There she was, alive and well, drinking red wine. Behaving like a perfectly normal house guest. Suddenly, as if sensing his presence, she turned and stared out of the window towards him. It really was her. No one else looked quite like that, no trick of the light could have hidden her identity. Not from him. The moment passed. She turned away, leaving the watcher with a sense of loss. His excitement became an arousal almost too painful to bear, at the thought of what he’d seen. At the possibilities it raised. He’d need to rethink his plans. He blundered his way back through the shrubbery; joy and excitement mingled with shock and disbelief.

  chapter seventeen

  Nash rang Monique shortly after 10 p.m. He spoke to both her and Clara, who assured him all was well. There’d been no sign of a prowler, no strange vehicles in the street, but they’d enjoyed a superb dinner, one or two glasses of red wine, and were getting on famously. Mironova told him, ‘If I’m getting overtime for this, I can continue as long as you want.’

  Nash still felt slightly uneasy. He’d no reason, but the doubt remained. He finished his own wine, took his tablets and went to bed. Sleep didn’t come easily. Although he didn’t realize it, a part of him was longing for a repeat of the previous night’s encounter.

  He switched the bedside light off at 10.30, but an hour later he was still awake. When eventually he fell asleep, he was immediately plunged into a strange and terrible dream that rapidly became a nightmare.

  Nash was lying on Mexican Pete’s dissection table. The pathologist was preparing to cut him open and conduct a post-mortem, apparently deaf to Nash’s protestations that he wasn’t dead, merely sleeping.

  The scene changed, and Nash was packing prior to moving home. The house was like no other Nash had ever seen, let alone lived in. When he was working in the front part of the house everything seemed absolutely normal. Nevertheless, he felt a terrible sense of unease. The house held an unidentifiable but unmistakeable aura of menace.

  The rear of the property was like a large warehouse, cavernous and poorly lit. He could see little of his surroundings, or the shadowy companion who was helping him pack the seemingly endless stacks of belongings.

  The feeling of unease intensified. Something evil was about to happen; something beyond his power to prevent. He worked on and on, but this unknown terror was growing.

  Some agency, stronger than he, was in control now. He looked across the strange building, seeing for the first time the steel support pillars, the dusty grey concrete floor. Reluctantly, although everything within him cried out in protest, he looked upwards. In the farthest, darkest corner, a flight of steps led to a mezzanine floor.

  He could just discern a line of figures pacing, with slow, measured strides along the mezzanine and back. Each of them clad from head to toe in black, hooded and cloaked.

  He counted the figure
s. There were nine. He cried out in alarm. He knew this to be wrong; there should only be seven. ‘It’s too many,’ he shouted. ‘There are too many.’

  Louder and louder he shouted, until the figures ceased pacing and turned towards him. This caused his panic to rise to alarming heights. The fear became dread. The dread turned to horror and Nash began to scream, ‘Go away; get out of here.’

  Slowly, one by one, the figures began to descend the flight of steps, towards where Nash was standing transfixed. ‘Go away, leave us alone. Get away from us. No, no, you can’t do this,’ but they paid him no heed. Desperation and fear overcame him, and he began to weep, a loud keening wail of utter misery.

  Slowly, the line of figures passed him and Nash was able to see their faces. His horror mounted, as he saw their identical eyes, identical hair, identical features. They were one and the same. They were all Sarah Kelly, but then again they weren’t. Five of them had passed, and Nash knew the seventh was Sarah. Sarah was flanked by two more, the two that didn’t belong. They turned towards him and Nash felt a crescendo of terror. They were faceless.

  ‘No, no, please, no,’ Nash shouted again, but was silenced by a touch on his arm. An unseen hand gently persuaded him to turn, but Nash was too afraid to look. The hand was placed under his chin, gently forcing his head up. ‘It’s all right, Mike.’

  It was Danielle. ‘It’s not you. They don’t want you.’

  ‘Please, don’t let them do this,’ he begged her.

  ‘I can’t stop them, Mike,’ she told him sadly. ‘No one can.’

  *

  Nash woke up. He grabbed for the light and looked round. The room was empty. He was sweating profusely, yet he was cold. He tried to dismiss the nightmare from his thoughts. He needed to rest, but was afraid to go to sleep. The clock radio on the bedside cabinet showed it was 2 a.m. Morning seemed an eternity away.