Chosen (17 page)

His preferences were for jewellery and cash. He was particular in the jewellery he targeted. He avoided high value, readily identifiable objects, going instead for lesser value pieces, where the
stones could easily be removed from the settings, rendering them anonymous.

His research led to him choosing Bishopton Hall as his next target. Jimmy was an avid reader of glossy magazines that specialized in printing photographs taken at social occasions attended by the region's major and minor celebrities.

It was in one of these that he'd seen photographs taken at a recent charity ball. Amongst those present were a couple captioned as ‘Sir Ivor Quinn, millionaire industrialist and owner of the filly Cavatina'. Jimmy didn't spare Sir Ivor a second glance. His attention was drawn to Lady Helena, not for her looks, which, Jimmy thought, closely resembled those of Cavatina, but for the jewellery she was wearing. Hence Jimmy's recent observations of the daily routines of the owners at the Hall. And of the staff, who he'd established didn't live in.

An item on the local TV news had provided further valuable information. When Sir Ivor was interviewed about his filly's chances in her next race, he revealed his intention to take a short break immediately following the race meeting. Johnson watched the interview and made his plans. He checked the weather forecast. A dry evening was promised, ideal for the robbery. He'd use his scooter rather than the van. He preferred the scooter, whenever possible. It was manoeuvrable, could go where the van couldn't, and was easier to conceal. With only a small amount of jewellery and his tools to carry, a rucksack would be ample. Tuesday night would be the ideal time to hit Bishopton Hall.

Entering the building was easy. The house was silent, deserted, as he expected. He disabled the ancient excuse for a burglar alarm by disconnecting it at the alarm box. No matter how many beams he crossed, or wires he broke, they'd send their signals to the box in vain. It would remain mute. Jimmy replaced the ladder in the outhouse, and within minutes was heading for Sir Ivor's study.

The painting, of a disagreeable-looking female in Victorian costume, behind the desk, was hinged. Behind it was a wall safe, almost as old as the painting. It was one of the earliest combination models, the code consisting of three letters. ‘Safe by name but not by nature,' Jimmy muttered as he set to work.

It took little more than a quarter of an hour to crack the combination.
The door swung open to his touch. ‘I might have guessed.' To Jimmy's mild irritation there was no cash. He cursed the inventor of the credit card. No one carried cash these days, no matter how well heeled they were.

He reached into the recesses of the safe and found what he was looking for; a large oblong jewel case. If Jimmy had been mildly irritated by his failure to unearth any cash, his feelings on examining the contents of the jewel case were unprintable. The first item he extracted told him the worst even before he examined it. The diamond pendant should have been heavy with the combined carats of the stones added to the ornate gold setting. It wasn't. ‘I don't believe it,' Jimmy said in disgust. He hefted the pendant again to make doubly sure then peered at it carefully. ‘Nothing but a set of bloody pebbles. Cheapskate! It's no wonder you've nothing more than an old tin box to keep your so-called valuables in.'

Jimmy checked the rest. The whole lot was costume jewellery. The combined value, Jimmy reflected bitterly, would scarcely cover the cost of his petrol. His irritation turned to contempt. He tipped the contents of the jewel case on to the desk and left the box alongside. He didn't bother closing the safe. As he left, he turned to secure the outer door then stopped. ‘Ah, you've nothing worth stealing. Why lock the bugger at all.' He strode impatiently to the place he'd concealed his scooter, anger in every step.

 

Neither was paying attention. Neither was concentrating, their minds on other things. It would never have happened otherwise. Each of them blamed themselves, both were wrong. That apart, the outcome was a one-sided contest.

The first thing Nash knew was the impact. He heard the noise, steel on steel. Felt the shock of the collision run up the steering column, through the steering wheel and vibrate on his hands and arms. A split second later, he saw the man's body thrown sideways into the road.

It was fortunate neither was travelling fast. Nash leapt from the car, ashen faced and trembling. The car had dealt the scooter a glancing blow. The machine didn't appear badly damaged and the CID car's front wing had only been slightly dented by the collision. Nash hurried towards the rider, who was lying prone in the road
where the impact had thrown him. The rider groaned, raised himself cautiously into a sitting position, and removed his crash-helmet.

Nash helped to ease the rucksack off his shoulders. As he set it down, something clattered on to the tarmac. Without thinking, Nash bent to pick up the small bundle that had fallen out and went to replace it. His hand stopped in mid air. He stared at the tools in the open canvas pouch. ‘Well, well, well,' Nash murmured, ‘what have we here?'

Jimmy Johnson groaned once more as the road swam in front of his eyes then returned to focus. ‘What happened?'

‘You've been in an accident. You were thrown off your scooter,' Nash told him abstractedly, as he rummaged within the rucksack. Apart from the tool kit it was empty. ‘How do you feel?'

‘As if I've been in an accident and got thrown off my scooter,' Johnson replied, then noticed Nash's activities. ‘Hey, what d' you think you're doing?'

‘Would you mind explaining these?' Nash held up the tools.

Johnson glared at him. ‘That's my tool kit,' he said defensively.

‘I know. Unfortunately, I also know what they're used for, and it has nothing to do with scooter maintenance. Before you start thinking of a plausible explanation, I should tell you I'm a police officer.'

‘You're kidding,' Johnson looked at Nash's face. ‘You're not kidding, are you? I should have stayed home tonight. It's been nothing short of a bloody disaster.'

‘Never mind that. Are you hurt?'

Johnson shook his head.

‘Can you get up if I help you?'

‘I'll try.'

Nash supported Jimmy, as he got painfully to his feet. He stood for a moment, swaying as he waited for the road to refocus.

When the dizziness passed, Johnson let go of Nash's arm. ‘It's okay, I'm all right now. I'll just be away home.'

‘You're going nowhere. Not in your condition, and not on that scooter. What you're going to do is sit quietly in the passenger seat of the CID car whilst I wheel your machine off the road. I'll send someone to pick it up later. Then I'm going to drive you home.
Unless you'd prefer to go to the hospital? On the way we can have a little chat about this interesting tool kit of yours.'

Johnson was emphatic, ‘I don't need the hospital.'

The first part of the journey was conducted in silence, before Nash said, ‘What's your name?'

‘Jimmy,' Johnson replied cautiously.

‘That's hardly original. What goes with it?'

‘Johnson, Jimmy Johnson.'

‘Now we're making progress. I'm Mike Nash; rank of Detective Inspector. Now, you know as much about me as I do about you. Let's see, your name's Jimmy Johnson, you're a professional burglar. Tonight you were in the process of burgling Bishopton Hall, but for some reason you left empty handed. Why might that be, I wonder? Were you disturbed, or was the security too tough for you? Do tell me, Jimmy. I'm really interested.'

For a few seconds, Nash was worried the bump on the head had made his passenger hysterical. Eventually, Jimmy's laughter died away. ‘Security, what a bloody joke. They've no security. Why would that bunch of cheapskates need security?'

Nash was beginning to find the droll little Scotsman amusing. ‘Don't tell me, they've nothing worth nicking?'

‘Not a bloody thing. I spent more on bloody petrol than the stuff was worth. The night's been a bloody disaster. Apart from anything, I'll have to move on now, now I've bumped into you. It's a bloody shame. I was getting settled.'

‘Tell me about it.'

Johnson eyed Nash suspiciously, muttered ‘Oh what the Hell,' and began explaining about his speciality, and how it was becoming more difficult to earn a dishonest penny. Nash had no respect for violent criminals, but couldn't help liking the gentle Scot and listened with sympathy.

‘Have you ever thought of quitting?'

‘What would I do? I've a wife, in a job she likes, and two bairns. They need to be fed and clothed. What else do I know, apart from robbing?'

‘You said yourself, things are changing. Fewer people keep cash about the house any more. The plastic revolution, I think they call it. And there's a lot less decent tackle for you to half-inch. It seems
to me you're in a losing game, and it's bound to get worse. Why not look around, see if your specialist skills could be put to other uses. Go straight?'

‘What?' Johnson spluttered in disbelief.

‘You said you'd have to move on now that I've rumbled you. If your kids are at school and your wife's working, that's going to mean a real upheaval. It seems unnecessary. I reckon it'd be far better looking for a proper job and staying put.'

‘I'd get less earache at home, that's for sure,' Jimmy admitted, ‘but that's beside the point. You'll be charging me with “going equipped”.'

Nash thought about it. He felt some responsibility for the accident that would cost Jimmy dearly, and didn't want that guilt. ‘I take it you've got form?'

‘Aye, I've done a three and a five.'

‘And you really didn't take anything from the Hall?'

‘I felt I ought to be taking something in. Not pinching it.'

‘Is it such a joke?'

‘Och aye, the alarm's been in fifty years or more. Belongs on the Antiques Roadshow, together with the tin box they call a safe. It took me twenty minutes to disable the alarm, get inside and open the safe. And that was twenty minutes wasted,' Johnson ended bitterly.

Nash studied for a while. They'd almost reached the outskirts of Helmsdale before he spoke again. ‘Can I trust you, if you make me a promise?'

‘I've never broken a promise since I was eight years old. I got a real skelping for it then. My mother told me I was never to give my word if I couldn't keep it.'

‘Okay, I'll do a deal. You promise to find a job. One that doesn't involve breaking the law. Then I won't charge you over tonight's little escapade.'

Jimmy stared at Nash, his mouth agape with astonishment. ‘Are you really a copper? Because you're like no other copper I've ever met.'

Nash smiled. ‘Want to see my warrant card? Maybe I don't work like other coppers. Now what about it?'

Jimmy had little alternative. Above all else, he didn't want to
face Maggie or his young sons with the news of another move. ‘If you really mean it, Mr Nash, I promise.' He thought for a moment, ‘Nash. I thought your name rang a bell. Last time I was inside, I was in Full Sutton. You're a hero there. You put Marston away.'

‘That's right,' Nash was shocked that he'd been recognized twice within a few hours. ‘Why does that make me a hero in the nick?'

‘All the decent blokes inside hate perverts like that. They wanted to have a go at him for what he did to those wee laddies. What were you doing out there, Mr Nash, if you weren't after me?'

Despite his better judgement, Nash found himself telling Johnson brief details of the reason for his visit to Bishopton, about the missing girls. Johnson listened with growing revulsion. By the time Nash finished his tale, they were parked outside Johnson's house. ‘It sounds like you've another sick bastard to catch, Mr Nash. I hope you do it before some other poor lassie gets hurt. I just wish I could help.'

‘Thanks, Jimmy, you stay out of trouble. Keep your promise and I'll keep mine.'

Monique ate her solitary meal with scant pleasure. The food was tasty, but she missed Nash sitting across the table, watching his enjoyment. As she'd told him, cooking for one is a chore.

After clearing away, she glanced at the kitchen clock. It wasn't quite nine o'clock. She felt restless, unable to settle, but couldn't pinpoint the cause. She decided to start the book she'd taken from the library.

She walked through to the lounge, switched on the standard lamp and settled in her favourite armchair. It was a warm evening, and after a few minutes, her eyelids began to droop and she dozed off.

It was after eleven o'clock when she was awakened by a soft thud. She sprang to her feet in panic then realized the library book had slipped from her lap. She scoffed at her fear, but the incident unnerved her. She hurried across the room to draw the curtains. As she was closing the second one she saw, or thought she saw, a small movement in her peripheral vision.

Monique crossed to the chair in three swift strides, collected her book and switched off the lamp. Now in the hall, her heart was beating faster than normal. She checked the front door was safely locked and bolted, the chain in position, then raced through to the kitchen to make sure the back door was also secure. Taking the steps two at a time, she dashed upstairs to her darkened bedroom and walked swiftly to the window. As she was about to pull the curtains together, a car passed on its way to Helmsdale. The headlights picked out another vehicle, a large, silver-coloured saloon car, parked no more than thirty yards down the
road. She was almost convinced someone was sitting in the driver's seat. While she continued watching, she moved instinctively behind the curtain. It was almost twenty minutes before another vehicle passed.

Forewarned by the approaching headlights, Monique focused on the point where she'd seen the parked car. This time there was no doubt. Someone was sitting in the stationary vehicle. It might have been a courting couple, but she'd sufficient time to see that the passenger seat was empty.

By now, she was in a frenzy of panic. She crossed to the bedside phone and dialled Helmsdale police station. A recorded announcement told her the call was being diverted. The wait seemed endless before a voice answered. After some effort, she persuaded the duty officer to send a message to Nash.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Not daring to move. Every sense strained for the slightest sound. The silent, motionless night seemed to mock her fear. When the phone rang, it startled her so much she almost dropped the receiver.

‘Monique, are you alright? I got a message. The officer said you sounded upset. What is it?'

Monique stammered an explanation. ‘There's someone sitting outside in a parked car, in total darkness. I think someone was hiding in the bushes near the gate earlier. I was closing the curtains, and I'm sure I saw a movement.'

‘I'll get a patrol car to drive past, and I'll come along as well. Wait till you see both cars outside before you move or show yourself. Don't put any lights on, or give any indication you're not in bed.'

It seemed an age before Monique saw the welcome sight of car headlights reflected in the bedroom window. She sprang to her feet, and peered cautiously round the curtain. To her immense relief, she saw a pair of cars parked outside her drive. The first she recognized as the one Nash used, the other had distinctive yellow and blue panels, that Monique thought resembled the aftermath of an explosion in a paint factory. She blessed the designer who'd thought up the lurid colour scheme.

Both cars had their headlights on, and Monique saw Nash walk over to the police car and bend to talk to the driver. She switched
the bedroom light on and returned to her vantage point. Nash waved and pointed towards her front door. Monique hurried downstairs to let him in.

She smiled nervously. ‘Did you see anything?'

Nash shook his head. ‘There was no parked car when we arrived. Did you see a car pull away while you were waiting for us?'

‘No,' Monique replied instantly. ‘I thought I'd heard the sound of an engine, but when I saw no headlights I thought I must have been mistaken.'

‘I don't like the sound of that. Why would someone risk driving without lights if their actions were innocent? I've asked the guys in the patrol car to drive past every couple of hours. Is your sofa comfortable?'

‘Very comfortable,' she echoed, mystified. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘If you can supply a blanket and pillow, I'll curl up on your sofa if it will make you feel any easier. It might help you get some sleep.'

‘That's very kind, but you don't have to use the sofa. I'll make up the bed in Danny's room. I'll feel safer if you're close by. Whilst I'm doing that, let me pour you a nightcap.'

She handed him a well-filled whisky glass and went to make up the bed. Nash dug into his pocket and removed the pill box he kept for emergencies. He swallowed two tablets and washed them down with the whisky. He smiled at the thought that there are worse ways of taking medicine than with a single malt. When she'd prepared the room, Monique returned. ‘If you fancy another drink I think I'll join you.' She fetched another glass and the decanter.

‘It's not normally considered a woman's drink,' Nash commented.

‘No, but I've already told you I'm not normal.' A stray memory crossed Monique's mind. Her face darkened with remembered anger. ‘Certainly your colleague who did the initial investigation didn't think I was normal. Trying to make out Danny and I fought over me stealing one of her boyfriends. I tried telling him Danny had finished with the guy before I went out with him. But it didn't fit his theory, so he wasn't interested.'

‘Why did she finish with him?'

‘I'm not totally sure. She said he was a lousy lover. At the time I
thought that was an excuse, because she'd found someone else.' Monique thought for a moment. ‘However, I found out later he was useless in bed, so perhaps Danny was telling the truth.'

‘Poor guy. What a dreadful reputation to live down. What happened to him?'

‘He emigrated. I remember bumping into him just before he left and he was full of the excitement of it. You know, a new life, a new continent, etcetera, etcetera.'

‘Whereabouts did he go?'

‘America. He'd got a job offer in Seattle. I remember watching the film
Sleepless in Seattle
and hearing the statistic about it raining there nine months in every year, and thinking how appropriate.'

When they went upstairs, Nash looked round; everything about the room was feminine. Monique stood watching from the doorway. ‘I hope you'll be comfortable.'

‘I'm sure I will, thanks.'

She pointed to a door on the far side of the room. ‘There's an en suite. I've put towels out, for if you want a shower in the morning.'

‘That's kind. Let's hope for an undisturbed night.'

‘Goodnight, Mike, and thanks again for staying.'

When he was alone Nash remembered the stray impression that was still niggling him. He needed something to jolt his memory. Another visit from Danielle perhaps? After all, where would she most likely be? This is nonsense; he tried to dismiss his thoughts. Fantasizing about the ghosts of dead girls really is madness, he was ridiculing himself as he fell asleep.

 

First he heard the sound as if from a great distance. As it persisted, the sound became clearer. He recognized the noise. It was the sound of someone moving, breathing. The footsteps were light, the breathing little more than a whisper, yet he knew it was inside the room. Had he heard the sounds? He couldn't have been mistaken, could he? ‘Monique,' he called softly. ‘Are you there, Monique?'

Another sound, a door opening. Nash glanced to his left. She was standing in the bathroom doorway. Her smile was enigmatic. ‘Are you sure it's her you want? Wouldn't you rather have me?'

He stared speechlessly. She was wearing a close fitting coat that
emphasised her superb figure. Then she spoke, ‘This isn't a very good time. What do you want?'

He stared in astonishment. ‘How do you mean, not a good time?'

‘I still have feelings, you know. That's about all I do have. Feelings of sadness and happiness. Feelings of pain and pleasure. This is a very sad time. What do you want?'

‘What do I want?' he echoed.

‘You asked me to come here, so what's it about? Is it to do with finding out what's going on or is there another reason?'

As she spoke she moved slightly. He was transfixed by her loveliness. The movement caused the coat to part slightly and he could see she was wearing nothing underneath.

‘I thought so,' she stood and faced him. ‘Don't ask the question, it isn't permitted. I'll tell you instead. What you must do is work out the meaning of your dream.'

‘What dream, this dream?'

‘You'll know when you dream it. Do you understand?' He nodded, unable to speak. ‘Then think about the message within it. Work the rest out yourself. Now,' she moved across the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Her hand strayed to the belt of the coat, ‘about the other reason you wanted me.'

His eyes devoured her. He was totally at a loss for words, for thoughts and for a moment for the power of action. Then with just the slightest movement she unleashed the belt, the coat fell further open. A small shrug of her shoulders and the coat dropped to the floor.

She seemed to melt into his arms and in an instant they were joined. He had no part in leading the encounter; he was merely a slave to her demands. Again and again she came for him. Again and again she took her toll of him until he was completely spent. She caressed his cheek. ‘I have to go.'

 

He woke up. Was it seconds or hours later? He was alone. He turned over in bed. As he moved, the sheet felt damp under his hand. His mind was a whirl. Was it a dream, or had Danielle visited him? Was he going mad? Had it been Monique who had come for him? In which case, why had she left? It must be madness to dream of talking, or making love to or falling in love with a ghost.

He glanced at his watch. It was five o'clock. He fell back on the
bed groaning with disappointment, and as if from a great distance he thought he heard, faint but distinct, the sound of laughter: her laughter.

 

It was a clear, bright morning. Monique woke refreshed and relaxed. She lay for a few moments in contented ease. She thought of Mike, so close, so strong and comforting. She smiled a little smugly and stretched. She rolled on her side and looked at the bedside clock. It was almost 7.30. She felt sure Mike would be hungry. She'd make breakfast for him. It was the least she could do.

She looked out, and was surprised to see Nash bending over the bushes by the front gate. He looked like a sleuth from a detective story. Monique stifled a giggle as she opened the window and called, ‘Shouldn't you be wearing a deerstalker, smoking a pipe and peering through a magnifying glass?'

Nash straightened and looked back at the house. ‘The deerstalker blew away in the wind, the Hound of the Baskervilles sat on the magnifying glass and the fire brigade confiscated the pipe as a fire hazard.'

‘How about breakfast, Sherlock?'

‘Sounds good. Detective work's hard on an empty stomach.'

‘Did you find anything?'

They were in the kitchen. ‘I'm sure you were right about your prowler,' he told her. ‘That might be cold comfort, but at least our arrival scared him off. The lower branches of a couple of shrubs have been snapped. The earth below compressed, as if someone was standing there for a while. Unfortunately,' Nash concluded, ‘the ground's too hard to get a footprint, but I suppose that would have been too much to hope for.'

‘You were right when you said it wouldn't be a comfort. You're scaring me silly.'

‘I understand that, but now we know about it, we can take precautions. I'll give some thought as to the best way of protecting you. Did you sleep alright, after your scare?'

Monique gave him a secretive smile. ‘It was the best night I've had in ages,' she replied cryptically. ‘Did you sleep? Nothing disturbed you?'

He glanced suspiciously at her, but her face was a mask of innocence.

Nash dropped Monique outside her office. ‘I'll be in touch later this morning.' He watched her unlock the street door, then drove home to shave and change. On his way to the station he had an idea, one he cursed himself for not thinking of earlier. As soon as he reached his office he rang Netherdale and told Pratt what he wanted. He was on the computer when Clara strolled into his office. Nash signalled to her to stay.

‘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.'