Chosen (6 page)

‘You can't prove it.'

Nash laughed. ‘I don't have to. All I have to do is whisper the magic words in Rawlings's ear and you'll be out on yours. So you'd better talk and talk fast.'

‘I told you. I've nothing to say.'

‘Fine, I don't care one way or the other.' Nash signalled to Pearce.

‘Take him to the station, Viv. Charge him with the attempted theft of a crate of lager. Get the value from Rawlings before you go,' Nash turned away.

‘Hang on a minute. What do you want to know?'

‘I want to know what time you found the body. If you can't remember, check the time of the call on your mobile. I want to know what you saw. In other words, I want the lot.'

‘It'd just happened, I mean literally that second. I went out with the keg, the yard was empty and the gate was shut. I'd already stashed the crate of lager in the Ladies after Rawlings went upstairs. There were no women in the bar, see, and I figured it'd be safe until my mate came along. I came back inside, picked up the crate, put it on top of the stack and that's when I looked round and saw her. Lizzie I mean, lying there with this bloody big knife stuck out of her chest. She wasn't moving. The gate was open, and I got a glimpse of somebody. I didn't see them proper, just a blur.'

‘Then what did you do?'

‘I went to the gate and looked down the alley.'

‘What did you see?' Nash's tone was patience itself.

‘I saw somebody legging it.'

‘Man or woman? Can you describe them?'

‘Could be either. Maybe a bit taller than Rawlings. Wearing jeans and a brown jacket, one of those short ones, a bomber jacket. Not fat, not skinny, dark hair, could have been black.'

‘Is that everything?'

‘That's everything. Honest.'

‘Right, Viv, take him to the station.' The barman began to protest, but Nash raised a hand. ‘Get a formal statement from him. Then I want a list of all the customers who scarpered before we arrived, plus the names of all the regulars he can think of, both male and
female. I'll get Clara to do the same with the landlord, then I want the two of you to visit everyone on the two lists.'

‘You think it was one of the customers?'

‘I reckon so. Only the regulars would have known about the short cut through the alley.'

‘Yes, but this'll scupper our interviews at Rushton's.'

‘I'll attend to them.'

Nash repeated his instructions to Mironova. ‘Remember to keep your eyes open for that jacket.'

Before he left, he updated Pratt, ‘I need to get back to Rushton's to interview the rest of the workers.'

‘Okay, Mike, I'll run the crime scene and we'll meet back at the station.'

The interview session took longer than the earlier one, principally because Nash had to take all his own notes. By the time he'd finished and returned to the station it was past six o'clock. His arrival coincided with that of Tom Pratt. He responded to Nash's question with a despondent shake of the head. ‘I've stood the search teams down for tonight. They'll start again at first light. You had any thoughts about the Barton murder?'

‘My guess would be Lizzie's complex social life was behind it. That reminds me, I should have asked for child welfare officers and a social worker to go to the house and look after the kids, but with everything else that was going on I clean forgot.'

‘Don't worry, I've seen to it. I arranged for Mironova and Pearce to drop in and talk to the kids after they finished checking the addresses the landlord gave them.'

‘Thanks, Tom.'

Their conversation was interrupted by Mironova and Pearce's return.

‘Got anything?' Nash asked.

‘Nothing significant. Certainly nobody with dark hair who owned up to having a brown bomber jacket,' Clara smiled.

‘What's funny?'

‘Viv asked one woman if she'd mind him looking through her wardrobe. She said, “You're welcome, love. You'll not find anything your size but you can get into my knickers any time you like”. He didn't ask again.'

‘She was the only dark haired woman we saw,' Pearce said defensively. ‘Most of them were blonde, brassy blonde at that.'

‘What sort of reaction did you get when you told them why you were there? Was there any hostility towards the victim? From the women in particular?'

Mironova shook her head. ‘None of them seemed against her, and most were shocked at the news. Most of them knew their partner had been with Lizzie at one time or another. One woman said, “At least when he was screwing her, he was leaving me alone”.'

‘How did you get on at the Barton house?'

Clara grimaced. ‘Whatever else she was, there's no doubt she was a good mother. Her eldest is eighteen, the youngest only six, but they obviously all get on well and thought the world of their mum. They were all distraught, that's natural, and it occurred to me the kids and their mother had struck up some sort of bond against whatever life threw at them. The house itself was clean and tidy and so were the kids. None of them knew anything that could help us. I think perhaps Lizzie kept that side of her life from them as much as possible. To be honest, the state they were in, I wasn't prepared to push too hard.'

‘We had a word with a few of the neighbours whilst we were there,' Pearce added. ‘They all gang up against the police on that estate anyway, but once they knew the reason, they loosened up a bit. Nobody objected to Lizzie's lifestyle. They all commented about it, but not maliciously and none of them could think of a reason for anyone to harm her.'

‘I reckon that's about it for today,' Pratt suggested. ‘I think we should shut up shop for the night. God knows what tomorrow's going to throw at us.'

Nash agreed. ‘I reckon we're going to have to wait for the SOCO report and the results of the post-mortem before we can do much more. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm famished. I haven't eaten a thing since breakfast, and that feels like it was three days ago. Anyone fancy a quick meal?'

Pratt excused himself, but the others settled on the Italian restaurant in the High Street where they steered clear of the subject of work, Nash's only reference being in response to Mironova's question.
‘No, I haven't had time to look at any of the PNC stuff. I've got the papers in my briefcase. I'll study them later.'

Nash's plans got waylaid. He'd barely got home when the doorbell rang. He was surprised to find Lauren Robbins standing outside. She smiled. ‘I switched shifts today. I'm due back in Cheshire the day after tomorrow and this will be the last chance I have to see you before I go. So I thought I'd better bring you a leaving present.'

‘What's that?'

‘Me.'

She stepped inside the hall and let the door swing to behind her. She reached forward and took his hand. Nash's voice was husky with desire, ‘Let's go unwrap my present.'

 

Sarah started to regain consciousness. She daren't open her eyes. The memory of what she'd seen was too horrible. She was lying down again, stretched out and wasn't tied up at all. What had woken her? She hadn't wanted to wake up. Consciousness brought terror and unspeakable memories. She heard a noise, a pleasant sound, a musical jingling, tuneless yet melodic.

Her clothing had been changed again. She was no longer wearing the evening dress nor had her jeans been returned. The garment she had on was loose fitting, a type of soft brushed cotton she guessed as she felt it against her thigh. She moved slightly and realized that her underwear had been removed. This disturbed her and she shifted uneasily.

She heard his voice, he was addressing her. She had no name for him. What conscious thought she was capable of just labelled him as ‘he'. ‘Sarah dear, would you like something to drink?'

Her mouth and throat were parched. Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. She managed to croak, ‘Yes, please.'

As his arm went round her, she managed to repress a shiver of repugnance. He lifted her gently to a sitting position and supported her. Sarah still dared not open her eyes. She felt the cold rim of a glass touch her lips. ‘Sip it slowly, Sarah, there's a dear.'

She took several sips before the glass was removed. ‘That's enough, dear Sarah. We don't want any little accidents during the night, do we?'

She was lowered back down; her head came into contact with something soft. She heard footsteps then a door closing. Hoping against hope that she was alone she screwed up her courage and opened her eyes. It took a while to focus, even longer for her brain to sort out and identify the images. The first thing she saw was dolphins. Above her head they swam, dived, rose again and bumped together. It was this bumping sound that had woken her and Sarah understood what she was looking at. It was a child's cot mobile. The dolphins had created the gentle cacophony she had heard on waking.

She looked further afield, taking in the room's wallpaper. It was gaily patterned in bright pastel colours dotted here and there with figures she recognized instantly. They were some of her favourite cartoon characters. She turned and looked across the room. She saw a large set of pine drawers, on top of which was an array of stuffed toy animals. Alongside the drawers stood a much larger, far nobler-looking animal. His proud neck was arched, his head carried proudly aloft. A long mane was swept to one side of his dappled grey body; a rocking horse. Sarah realized she was in a child's nursery. But where was the child?

She looked at the single bed on which she lay, with a duvet covered by more figures she remembered from childhood. The garment she was wearing was a flannelette nightdress covered in similar characters. A fresh wave of horror overcame her as Sarah realized
she
was the child!

She was unable to cope with the implications of this. It seemed like too much trouble. It was far easier to lie there, relaxed and content. What she had seen ought to be disturbing, frightening even. But it didn't seem to matter much any more. Her desperate situation didn't seem as alarming. After all, she wasn't being mistreated, really.

In the next room her captor carefully washed the glass, dried it methodically on a tea towel and replaced it in the cupboard. He brushed his teeth in a well-established routine, counting each stroke. He dried the toothbrush and placed it precisely on the shelf above the basin. He dried his hands and looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed, ample time for the drug to take effect. He glanced in the mirror, smiling slightly at his excited reflection.

He returned to the room and looked at the girl. ‘Not asleep yet, Sarah dear? Never mind. Now let me put the duvet over you. We don't want you catching cold, do we?'

He crossed to the bed and deftly slid the duvet from beneath Sarah's body. She stared at him throughout, her expression one of puzzlement rather than fear. A sure sign the drug had worked. He touched her cheek. ‘My word, you are cold, dear. Never mind, we'll soon have you warm.'

Moving the duvet to one side he stared at the curves of her body. He smiled gently, longingly. He continued to gaze at her as he began to unfasten his shirt.

Nash walked the short distance through Helmsdale towards the police station. His thoughts were on Lauren. Fun to be with, demanding no commitment. He'd miss her. Suddenly his mind crowded with memories of Stella: Stella laughing, Stella in his arms, Stella's beautiful smile. He shook his head to dismiss them. Guilt pricked his conscience. For the moment, however, he'd a case to solve. One he knew would test him to the limit. It was as well Lauren was going back to Cheshire. More guilt; he still hadn't got round to reading the PNC information. Fortunately, the details couldn't have prevented the crime, couldn't have avoided whatever had happened to the missing girl.

By mid morning Nash had caught up with some of his delayed reading. It yielded a surprisingly large number of offenders whose profile fitted the search parameters, although there was none who seemed likely to be the suspected abductor. He called Mironova and Pearce into his office. He was about to start when Tom Pratt wandered in. ‘I've left the search parties to it. I'm not built for scrambling through undergrowth. Not interrupting anything, am I?'

‘Certainly not, Tom. We're about to run through what we've got on the two cases.' Nash turned to his colleagues. ‘Unless something breaks soon this looks likely to be a long haul. We can start by eliminating those possible suspects we have. I'm talking about Bailey and one or two candidates from that list.' He waved a hand towards the PNC documents, ‘Plus the man Sarah spoke to in Club Wolfgang shortly before she vanished. We've also got the Lizzie Barton murder. At least we're certain that's a crime that has actually been committed.'

‘I thought you were convinced Sarah Kelly had been abducted?'

‘I may be, Clara, but that wouldn't stand up as evidence. All we've got at present is supposition, based on meagre facts. Yes, we found her handbag, but she could have dropped that because she was under the influence. Or she could have lost it whilst she was having a knee trembler in the alley.'

He stilled Pearce's protest with an upraised hand. ‘I'm not saying either of those happened. The only fact we have is that her disappearance is completely out of character.'

‘What do you suggest we do?'

‘Keep asking questions; check some of these characters out.' Nash tapped the PNC reports, ‘And keep on searching all the likely places she could be.'

‘Do you mean where her body is likely to have been dumped?'

‘Yes, Viv, I'm afraid that's exactly what I mean.'

‘Which case gets priority?'

‘We've got to concentrate on the murder. It goes against the grain to push the Sarah Kelly case into the background, but we have to.' Nash turned to his boss. ‘Anything to add, Tom?'

‘No. I think you've summed it up as well as you can. Depressing I know, but our job's like that.'

When Pratt had gone back to receive the reports from the search teams, and Viv had been sent on coffee-making duty, Clara looked at her boss. ‘You okay, Mike? You look tired. Is the case getting to you? Not starting with nightmares again, are you?'

He shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. I didn't get much sleep last night,' he confessed ruefully. ‘That'll change though. Lauren's going back to Cheshire tomorrow.'

‘Have you ever thought of settling down? Living a more normal lifestyle, I mean?'

Nash's expression changed. ‘Once maybe, not now.'

‘Sorry, Mike, I wasn't thinking. Perhaps you could do with a change. That place of yours is too big, too many memories. Get a smaller flat or something.'

Nash sighed, ‘You may be right.'

‘Why not try Helmsdale Properties? The woman we met there, Helen Tate was it, remember her? She'll be happy to find somewhere
for you to lay your head. I'm sure she'd be more than pleased to show you what she's got on offer.'

‘You never miss a chance to have a go at me, do you?'

Clara smiled. ‘I've got to get my fun where I can. Seriously though, as well as Helmsdale Properties, have you thought of trying Charleston's? They're a big outfit, with branches all over the place. They'll even help you move home.'

‘Sorry, I'm not with you.'

‘They've all sorts of additional services to offer. Not the sort Helen Tate has in mind for you,' Clara added with a wicked grin, ‘but equally useful. Charleston's have a removal company, a firm of solicitors, mortgage brokers, the lot. They even own the firm that puts up the FOR SALE signs. They'd be my first port of call. But then, I don't fancy Helen Tate.'

 

The Home Office didn't consider their part of North Yorkshire warranted a full-time pathology department, so post-mortem examinations in the area were carried out by Pedro Ramirez, Professor of Pathology from York University. At some stage, an officer with a better than nodding acquaintance with
The Ballad of Eskimo Nell
had nicknamed him ‘Mexican Pete'. Despite the fact that he hailed from Madrid!

Nash got a call regarding the post-mortem. The conversation was brief to the point of curtness: ‘I viewed the body yesterday. I have lectures all day. Be at Netherdale Hospital at 6 p.m.' Before Nash could reply the line went dead. He stared at the phone for a bemused second.

Mironova was watching, a smile on her face. ‘Mexican Pete?'

Nash nodded.

‘Talkative was he?'

‘As ever,' Nash agreed.

‘He's a damned good pathologist, even though he is a pervert. He tries to feel my backside every time he sees me.'

‘That's not perverted. That's good taste. I'm off to see Rawlings again. Want to come?'

 

Predictably, Rawlings was studying the morning's racing paper. He was sitting on a bar stool, a mug of coffee and an overflowing
ashtray in front of him. He looked up as they entered. ‘What is it this time?' His tone was resigned, but Nash guessed this was more habit than genuine resentment.

‘Some questions, I'm afraid.'

‘As long as you're quick. It's the barman's day off and I want to phone the bookies before the pub gets busy.'

‘We'll keep it as short as we can.'

‘Fire away then,' Rawlings lit another cigarette and looked at them directly for the first time. ‘What do you want to know?'

‘The lists of customers that were in the bar yesterday lunchtime. Was there anyone on, or not on them for that matter, that Lizzie might have been seeing on a regular basis over, say, the last year?'

Rawlings thought about it. ‘Not to my knowledge, not the last twelve months, and I reckon I'd know.'

‘How, Mr Rawlings?' Clara asked.

He gave her an amused smile. ‘It's a landlord's business to notice things like that. Comes in very handy: especially in a place like this. Knowing who to keep apart, stop a fight breaking out.'

Nash persisted. ‘The way you said it, sounded as if you knew something outside that time limit.'

Rawlings grunted. ‘You don't miss much, do you? Lizzie and Alec Jennings were going at it hammer and tongs a while back. Alec wasn't in yesterday; that's why he's not on your lists. I teased Lizzie about toy boys, because Alec's ten years younger.'

‘How'd you find out about it?'

‘Usual way,' Rawlings grinned. ‘Caught them at it. Had to change a barrel one night and when I took the empty outside, I found him giving her a knee trembler in the yard. His girlfriend had just walked out, so I suppose it was a case of any port in a storm. Anyway, I said, “Don't mind me, carry on”, and you know what, they did. It went on for a few months, then fizzled out about a year back when Cindy, that's Alec's girlfriend, moved back in. Alec didn't waste any time, maybe he wasn't prepared to risk her taking off again. He put Cindy up the spout almost immediately. She must be five or six months gone by now.'

‘There's no one else you can think of? Nobody more recent?'

Rawlings shook his head. ‘No, that's it.'

‘One more thing; where does Alec Jennings live?'

‘Westlea estate, like most of my punters. This pub would have gone bust long ago if the Westlea hadn't been built.'

As they walked back to the car, Nash turned to Mironova. ‘I've just remembered. That old soak Turner was supposed to have been in to make his statement. Give the station a bell and find out whether he's made it. If not, we'll go round via his house and drag him in.'

‘Okay, but we might be better off going straight to the Horse and Jockey,' Mironova replied.

Turner hadn't made it to the station, nor was he at home or at the Horse and Jockey. Their informant was Mrs Turner.

Nash rang the bell of the small terrace cottage without response, so he knocked loudly on the door. As he was about to knock again, the door opened a few inches on its chain. One eye peered suspiciously out. ‘Yes?'

‘Mrs Turner?' Nash produced his warrant card. ‘Is your husband at home?'

‘No.' The door started to close, but Nash put his hand on it. ‘Can you tell us where to find him?'

‘What do you want him for? He's just a harmless old drunk.'

‘If you open the door, I'll explain.'

There was a pause, then the chain rattled and the door swung half open. ‘Well?'

Mrs Turner was angular with a thin, scrawny body, pointed face, hair greying into a dirty off-white. Her mouth was a thin, tightly compressed line, turned down in the corners into an expression of permanent disapproval. The brown frames of her glasses housed lenses liberally smeared with grease.

She was wearing a white, lace-edged blouse buttoned tightly up to the neck, over which was a hand-knitted cardigan of vivid blue, the buttons of which had been pushed through the wrong buttonholes. That, and the cardigan being two sizes too big, gave her a lop-sided appearance. A skirt of startling floral pattern hung below her knees. Her matchstick-thin legs were encased in thick lisle stockings and her feet in tartan carpet slippers.

As she spoke, Mironova was fascinated to see the cigarette in the corner of Mrs Turner's mouth bobbing up and down in time
with the words, like a conductor's baton. ‘What do the police want with Turner?'

Nash explained.

Mrs Turner sniffed derisively. ‘It'll be the first time in living memory he's done owt useful. If he's not in T'Horse and Jockey pissing his pension against the wall, he'll be up at his allotment pretending to be gardening. Gardening,' the repeat was a snort. ‘That means knocking back cans of ale.'

She was about to close the door, when Nash asked, ‘Where is his allotment?'

‘Is it up by Westlea estate?' Mironova asked.

‘Yes, you'll find him up there with all his boozing cronies. Much good it'll do you.' The door slammed shut.

‘I'll tell you what, Mike, I'm no advocate of people drinking, but you can understand why Turner does.'

Nash nodded, his face straight. ‘That's true. It also goes a long way to explaining why he fancies you.'

 

The allotment came as something of a surprise. Nash parked at the end of the broad track leading through the middle of the gardens. An old man was sitting by a shed at the front of the second plot smoking a pipe and reading the morning paper.

‘Excuse me,' Nash called out. ‘Do you know which allotment Mr Turner has?'

The old man lowered the tabloid and considered the matter. He took his pipe from his mouth and replied, ‘Aye, I do.'

Nash smiled at the old man's little jest. ‘Would you mind sharing that information with us?'

The ancient relented. He'd had his bit of fun. ‘Last one on this side, you can't miss it. It's the biggest. Jonas might be in his shed, potting on tomato plants. Be careful though, I'd call out for him before you go rushing in if I was you,' he ended cryptically.

They walked down the row of neatly tended gardens. As the old man had predicted, there was no sign of Turner. They stared at the allotment in silence. They'd expected a wilderness with Turner sitting by the shed surrounded by empty cans.

Instead, there were neat rows of potato plants, carefully earthed up. Symmetrical square patches containing onion sets, young
cabbage and cauliflower plants, rows of carrots and parsnips as straight as a line of guardsmen, and canes supporting scarlet and white runner beans.

Mironova read the sign on the gate, ‘Beware of the goose' and frowned. ‘What do you think that is, Turner's idea of a joke?'

She opened it and stepped through. There was a sudden flurry of movement, a hissing, a flapping sound, and a yelp of pain from Clara. She leapt back through the gate and slammed it behind her.

A bright beady eye regarded her balefully through the mesh fence. The goose had emerged from the protective cover of a rhubarb patch alongside the gate. ‘Now you know,' Nash said, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face.

‘It's not funny, it damned well hurt.' She examined the wound. ‘Look, the sodding thing's drawn blood.' She cast a venomous glance at the goose and hissed, ‘Christmas dinner.' The noise had alerted Turner, who emerged from his shed and was walking down the path. ‘Did you know there's a law against keeping dangerous animals?' Clara snarled spitefully.

‘Aye, and did you know there's a law against trespassing,' Turner smiled dourly. He pointed to the gate and added sarcastically, ‘You must tell me which part of the notice you didn't understand.'

Nash was intrigued. It was clear from both Turner's speech and demeanour that he was stone cold sober. Everything about him was at odds with Mrs Turner's portrayal. Nash gestured to the allotment. ‘This is a bit different from what we expected, especially after what your wife told us.'

All trace of humour vanished from Turner's face. ‘Oh, you've met the old b … you've met her, have you?'

‘She seemed to think you'd be sprawled out legless by this time.'