Evil Valley (20 page)

‘Well Dan’s with us,’ said Craig, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Dan an extraordinary development this afternoon in the case. And it involves you personally?’

‘That’s right Craig. The man who the police believe abducted Nicola left a series of letters addressed to me. The detectives called me in, to see what I could make of them. We’ve agreed not to show the letters, as they’re being treated as evidence, but I can tell you they say that within them there are coded references to where Nicola is being kept, hence the police’s interest. Now, I’m afraid I didn’t manage to come up with any ideas about where it could be. But another thing the letters make clear is that there is only a limited amount of time in which to find Nicola safely. So if the man who took her is watching this, and if he does want to communicate directly with me, I’d ask that he gets in touch again and gives me some help.’

‘Dan, thank you,’ said Craig. ‘Will you join us again tomorrow please to update us?’

‘Of course,’ he said, not mentioning Lizzie had told him it was non-negotiable, tomorrow and every day until Nicola was found, dead or alive.

Dead or alive …

The short drive home that night felt very long. Because those words wouldn’t leave him.

Dead or alive … dead or alive … dead or alive …

Echoing around his head, spinning in his thoughts, as though they were taunting him that he was responsible for which it would be.

Dead or alive …

Marcus Whiting sat on his hotel bed, the same ten piles of papers around him again, statements, background checks, forensic and ballistic reports. He’d lost count of the hours he’d spent reading them. He was tired and hungry, but he hadn’t yet come to a conclusion and he would before he could allow himself the luxuries of rest or relaxation. It was a question of priority.

He lay back on the bed, closed his eyes, listened to the wind rattling the window. He wondered if there was ever a day in this hotel when the windows didn’t rattle. It was time to be honest. He had made no progress. He had his suspicions, but no case. Circumstance and suspicion did not equate to proof. Was there any other way to proceed?

He shut out the world, retreated into his mind. He let the thoughts run, methodically checking every possible option, rejecting each in turn, his fingers moving by his sides as he ticked them off, one by one. Crouch would have to be reinstated, there was no other choice. There was nothing to justify his continued suspension. So, there was only one option remaining. He had to proceed with the action he had suggested to himself as a last resort. It was all he had.

Was it ethical? Fair? The right thing to do? He was in the grey zone, he knew that, carefully balancing his actions between what was clearly warranted and what was debatable, questionable. Could he justify himself in a court? Perhaps yes, but maybe no. He knew he wasn’t sure. But he didn’t have a choice. If he was to do his duty.

Whiting opened his eyes, stared out at the dark and blustery night, the line of fir trees outside the hotel bowing low, subservient to the wind’s relentless power, the red and white hoops of Smeaton’s tower resistant, unmoving behind them. He felt himself relax.

The decision was made. However unpleasant, dubious and difficult, he had no choice. It was the only option. It would begin tomorrow.

Dan spent that night in exactly the way he’d expected. He lay on the sofa at home, Rutherford at his feet, sipping whisky and watching the autumn clouds racing across the bay window. He seldom watched television, only the odd film and some football, but his fingers flipped the channels, finding nothing to interest him. He even tried a documentary about killer whales. Nothing distracted him. The image of Nicola, bound and gagged, lying helpless as Gibson stood over her, laughing manically with triumph like a Hollywood villain wouldn’t leave his mind.

He had copies of the two letters Gibson had sent, given to him in confidence by Adam in case he could see any clues. They lay on the coffee table by his side, always nagging at the edge of his vision, as if calling to him. He was surprised to find himself frightened to pick them up. But he knew he had no choice.

The first letter was the one which unsettled him most.

“How will all this end?” Gibson had written. “It’ll be determined by you, your bravery and intellect.”

Dan took a deep gulp of whisky, felt it burn a passage down his throat. It was holding the Swamp back, but only just. He noticed his hands were trembling as he held the letter and the vision of Nicola returned, helpless and terrified, her tear-stained face desperately searching for a saviour. Was that really the role Gibson expected him to play? What if he didn’t? Couldn’t?

He pulled himself up from the sofa, walked to the spare bedroom at the front of the flat, peered through the curtains. The policeman was there, a different one this time, stamping back and forth to keep himself warm. Otherwise, the road was quiet. He tried to tell himself he was safe – he knew he was safe, a police guard and Rutherford guaranteed that – but he still felt lonely and vulnerable.

Dan walked back into the lounge, gave the curious dog a pat, had another gulp of whisky. It fired him with some welcome defiance. He picked up Gibson’s letters. You helped solve the Bray case, and the Death Pictures too. You can do something with this one. He’s getting at you in just the way he wants. Don’t let him.

He looked through the first letter, but couldn’t see anything that could be any kind of hint about where Nicola might be. There were no place names, no numbers for grid references, nothing. But it was the shorter letter, almost an introduction. Perhaps the second note contained the real clues?

There was that mention of Romeo and Juliet, but they knew now what that meant. What else was odd in there? The talk of leaving Plymouth and perhaps going to Manchester, and Denton and Hyde was bizarre. Surely Gibson wouldn’t tell them where he planned to go?

Dan found a map of Britain in one of the bookshelves, opened it on Manchester, scanned the area. The city was sprawling, with scores of suburbs. He went through them; Stretford, Failsworth, Eccles, but couldn’t see any that helped. The M60 seemed to form a rough natural boundary, more towns and villages outside, and Gibson had written of visiting somewhere “around” Manchester. Dan looked through the places surrounding the city; Stockport, Oldham, Rochdale, but again none offered any obvious hint about where Nicola might be.

He picked out Denton and Hyde, just to the east of Manchester city centre, at the end of a short motorway, the M67. Again Dan could see nothing which might offer a clue.

He tapped his fingers on the map. What else was a common way of hiding a message? Perhaps it was some kind of anagram?

Dan reached for his notepad and a pen and scribbled the words down, then scrambled the letters. In Manchester he found stream, but nothing else to suggest that could help. What about St? As in abbreviation for street, or a place name, like St Helens? He played around with the remaining letters but found nothing. What about Chester man? Could it be that simple? He didn’t think so but it was worth remembering, just in case something else came up that might make it plausible.

What of Denton and Hyde? He found Tyne in there, but nothing else to link with it. He tried mixing the letters from Manchester in as well, but there were too many, it was confusing and he came up with nothing. He put the notebook down in frustration, lay back and rolled his head around to release some of the constricting tension in his neck.

Rutherford got up and padded over to the lounge door, sat looking at the handle. ‘A hint mate?’ asked Dan, getting up to let the dog out. He cantered round the side of the flat and down the concrete steps to the back garden, the policeman turning to watch him disappear.

‘Evening, sir,’ the man said. ‘All OK in there?’

‘Fine thanks. Having a quiet night. All OK with you?’

‘I’ve been on more challenging guard duty, sir,’ said the officer heavily.

Dan made a cup of tea to cheer him up. Strong, with three sugars he requested, but Dan was familiar with police tastes by now. He hadn’t met a policeman yet who didn’t have at least two.

Rutherford scrabbled back up the steps, Dan let him in, said goodnight to the officer and walked back into the lounge. ‘One more try, dog,’ he sighed, ‘then we’re going to get some sleep. I’m whacked.’

He picked up the copy of the second letter again. That reference to a band of gold didn’t make much sense. What could that be about? A vague memory of some song flitted around the edges of his mind, but he couldn’t bring it home. The “some other shape” reference might mean an anagram. He tried spinning the letters around, but couldn’t make them into anything that might be a clue.

Dan took another gulp of whisky, drained the glass and resolved to have no more. For tonight, at least. Gibson had said all the information he needed to find Nicola was in the letters, if he knew where to look. Did he believe that, or was he just being played with? He didn’t have to answer. He knew he believed it. The man was out to taunt them, everything he’d done so far made that obvious. Giving them clues they couldn’t solve would be an irresistible delight. His imagination could hear Gibson laughing.

Dan groaned and put down the letter. Enough, he was getting nowhere and winding himself up. Enough for tonight. He needed to let it go.

His usual stress release of a run wasn’t an option. His ankle was throbbing worse than ever, despite the hot, soothing bath he’d tried. Dan propped it up on a cushion but it didn’t help.

‘Sorry, Rutherford,’ he said. ‘I think you’re going to have to content yourself with running around the garden for a few days.’ The dog opened a slow eye, then closed it again. ‘You’ve had enough of the world today too then, eh?’

The Swamp was gathering its strength, he could feel it encroaching further on his consciousness, growing bolder. He searched for some consolation, something to hang on to, to help fend it off. The highlight of the evening had been that brief text from Claire.

“Sorry can’t talk, busy with marksman stuff. All OK and some interesting progress. Heard about your appeal in Nicola case. Be careful! I still need you.. x”

A fatherly talking to from Nigel, now this. Two warnings from two of the people closest to me. I’m not the only one who senses danger. He hadn’t stopped wondering what he’d got himself into, making that appeal. How would Gibson react? Who could predict the mind of a psychopath? Dan couldn’t help but think they’d find out soon enough.

And what was Adam up to? He’d spent half an hour at the Wessex Tonight studios with a couple of his technical people, talking to some of the company’s computer experts. He’d seemed animated by whatever it was, but wouldn’t say. Dan lay back on the sofa, cursed his aching ankle and resigned himself to having to wait on that too.

‘It looks like a waiting game all round, mate,’ he told the prone dog. ‘And you know how much I hate waiting.’

This time, Rutherford didn’t even bother to open an eye.

The building was free until Friday evening, plenty of time. He’d checked on the internet before he put the final stage of the first part of his plan into effect. There was just the chance a group might have booked in at the last minute, but no, all was well. It was his.

The quad bike had been a stroke of genius, he had to hand it to himself. The whole plan was brilliant in fact, but transport was the part that had caused him the most concern. He knew Nicola’s friends would manage a reasonable description of the car and he’d probably only have half an hour’s head start, so it would have to be abandoned quickly. But that daunting problem. Where to hide it?

It had taken some work. He’d thought about dumping it, in some woods, running it into a valley somewhere, but they sounded too dramatic, too full of risks. It had to be something quiet and simple and in roughly the area he needed. In the end he’d come up with his little masterstroke. Where better to hide a tree than in a forest? It wouldn’t be noticed for a day or two at least, more than enough time for his purposes.

Then it was the quad bike, the most vulnerable point of the plan. He’d been nervous again, almost as much as when he took her. If anything was going to go wrong, surely it was the ride on the bike. But people had behaved exactly as they did when he’d carried out the trial runs. They’d looked, then carried on.

Quad bikes were unusual enough to attract a passing notice, but not so rare as to make them memorable. Perfect. And if there was a bundle on the back, along with some straw, what could that be apart from a farmer going about his business? No one would abduct a child on a quad bike, would they?

And this building, just perfect for his needs. Easy to break into, secluded, quiet, hidden away and in just the right place. A little shed to store the bike, out of sight of anyone who might be passing. He couldn’t risk it attracting unwelcome attention.

Inside, he’d expected to have to work in the dark, didn’t want to risk showing a light, but the building had a windowless storeroom where he could tune in the little portable TV and radio he’d brought. Luck was on his side.

He’d watched Wessex Tonight and Dan’s report on the flickering screen, smiled to himself.

‘You’re not telling your viewers the whole truth, are you my friend?’ he asked the television. ‘Where’s your journalist’s integrity now? And I’m disappointed in you. Again. Surely you’re not giving up on my little puzzle so soon? Well, if you need another clue, I’ll give you one. It’s good to keep in touch after all, now we’re such fine friends.’

He took out a notebook and pencil and began writing. It would have to be a telephone call, he could hardly use a post box. That would leave a trail. But he’d anticipated he might need to make a call and the pay-as-you-go mobile worked fine up here. He’d checked that in one of his reconnaissance missions. He knew just when to ring and how to make the call anonymous and untraceable. Perfect.

He began writing. “My Dear Dan …’

Should he give them a clue now? Why not, it wasn’t a great hint. It would only tell them he was probably in the Wessex Tonight broadcast area. He could have watched the programme on the internet from anywhere, couldn’t he? He carried on writing.