Depth of Despair (8 page)

‘That’s another question I can’t answer.’

When Zena had recovered her composure they left the bothy. She looked back at Lamentation Tarn and shivered. ‘I was right. This is an evil place. I wonder how those poor girls finished up
here. I shrink from considering what dreadful stories their ghosts could tell us.’

‘I think there are some things it is better we don’t know. All else apart, I think I’ve had enough nightmares. I certainly don’t want any on that subject.’

‘I think we should forget this case until we’ve slept. Today has been too distressing for me to take any more. Tomorrow we’ll examine the case of the girl who owned the bear. From what the pathologist told you, hers couldn’t be one of bodies. Yet it’s obvious she’s been there at some time. So we’re left with the mystery of what happened to her.’

‘As you suggest, we’ll look into that tomorrow.’

When Nash dropped her back at her hotel, Zena, who had been silent throughout the journey, turned to Nash. ‘This has been a strange day,’ she said. ‘I can’t understand what’s happened.’ She smiled. ‘One thing’s sure, Mikhail. Although I can’t understand it, I’m glad you dreamed of me.’

The intruder worked slowly and methodically; there was no need for haste. He was unlikely to be disturbed. The occupant of the flat wasn’t going to raise the alarm. Wasn’t going to raise anything any more.

He examined the bedroom critically. A sudden bleeping sound startled him. He spun round, eyes searching the room for the source. A red light flashed. It was a pager on the bedside table. His breathing inside the protective mask sounded loud once the bleep stopped. The mask covered his face from nose to chin, the air tube trailing over his shoulder to the tank on his back. When he was sure the room was entirely to his satisfaction he crossed to the gas fire and turned on the gas. He left the bedroom and closed the door firmly. He collected his equipment and replaced it in a large duffel bag. He set aside a length of coiled rope, closed the bag, and tied one end of the rope round its handles.

The next part was the trickiest. Entering the place had been easy. Exiting it so as to give the appearance he’d never been there was totally different. He lowered the holdall out of the window into the garden below. When the tension slackened he tossed out the rope.

He eased himself carefully through the window. A second later he was outside, hanging perilously by one hand as he
endeavoured
to grasp the frame with the other. He achieved a hold and swivelled to face the room he’d left, pausing to regain both composure and breath. Using his right hand he brought the window pane towards the frame. He knew he’d have to remove his glove for the next bit and hoped he’d manage it without leaving a fingerprint.

After several attempts he got the lever to engage against the button on the sill. To all intents and purposes the window was closed. As he wriggled his right hand through the narrow gap his left hand slipped and he was forced to cling on to the frame.

He thought of rubbing the frame to remove the prints but
realized
a patch of clean paintwork would look suspicious. He took a deep breath and launched himself out, down and to his left, dropping fifteen feet with the skill and grace of a trained athlete or paratrooper.

His knees buckled on impact, cushioning the effect of the drop, and his hands went out to further soften his landing. He retrieved the bag, coiled the rope, removed his mask and the tank from his back, placed them inside the bag and zipped it up. He slung the bag over his shoulder and glanced around. He could just make out the outline of shrubs and bushes. The night was cold with no moon. No one had witnessed his arrival. No one would witness his departure. He reached his car, placed the bag inside and closed the door quietly. He started the engine and drove away.

Three hours work, virtually no risk and minimal effort. He thought briefly of his fingerprints on the window frame, but even that failed to trouble him. Hopefully, those investigating the scene would take it at face value.

If his fingerprints were discovered, identification of them would serve only to confuse.

Pearce was detailed to continue the DNA sifting, a laborious process, whilst Mironova, free after giving evidence against a drug dealer, collected Zena from The Golden Bear.

‘How did yesterday’s visit go?’

‘It was a strange and disturbing day. Nash is an unusual person.’

Clara glanced swiftly at her. ‘You’ve noticed. What did he do, or was it something he said?’

‘He told me something that shocked me.’

‘He can be disconcertingly accurate. It must be odd to witness it for the first time. It’s as if he’s read your mind.’

‘I still wonder if I dreamt it.’

‘I’ve seen something like this before. We were investigating a series of apparently unconnected killings a year ago. Mike began
having nightmares. Although he didn’t understand them at the time, when more facts emerged they helped him solve the case.’

Their talk was interrupted by a cordon of flashing lights in the distance. Like all the vehicles in front, they had to take a diversion.

Helmsdale police station yard was deserted. They shared the premises with the fire brigade and ambulance service. Inside the building the ‘Marie Celeste’ atmosphere prevailed. It was with some relief that they spotted a harassed young constable in a ground floor office attempting to answer three phones at once. ‘What’s going on?’ Mironova demanded when he eventually finished.

‘You name it, it’s happened. There’s been a major RTA between here and Netherdale. An oil tanker overturned on black ice and cleaned up three cars. That took almost everyone we had available plus two fire engines and all the ambulances. That road’s going to be shut all day. My sergeant and Mr Nash have gone to answer a sudden death call in Garstang Avenue. They were the only ones left. Mr Nash said you’d to join him there to allow my sergeant to return.’

As if to emphasize the point, two phones began to ring. The constable cast a glance heavenward and moved off to answer them.

The fire crew were about to depart, leaving the uniformed officer and two civilians outside the front door. Of Nash there was no sign.

Clara nodded to the sergeant, ‘What’s happened?’

The sergeant looked harassed. ‘Looks like another case of those bloody ancient gas fires. They should be melted down for scrap if you ask me; carbon monoxide poisoning. Your governor came along because there was no one else available. He’s given the flat the once-over and there’s something he’s not happy about. He’s outside, round the back.’

The women rounded the building to find Nash crouching by a flower bed, ‘Morning, Mike. Taken up gardening?’

Nash looked up and smiled, the warmth of which increased when his gaze took in Zena.

‘Come and have a look. Walk on the lawn. Don’t disturb the soil.’

They followed the direction of his pointing finger. In the middle of the soft earth about eighteen inches apart were two deep
indentations
, forming the unmistakeable impression of feet.

‘It looks as if someone was standing in the middle of the flower bed.’

‘That’s what I thought to begin with. But look, there and there.’ Nash indicated a series of smaller, shallower impressions on either side of the footprints. ‘What do you think those might be?’

Neither of them could make any sense of the marks but Zena said, ‘Whoever stood here must be very heavy to make such a deep imprint.’

‘That’s what I thought. I was about to conduct an experiment when you arrived. Follow me.’ He walked ten yards to his right.

‘I weigh about fourteen stones, that’s about 89 kilos.’ He looked down, ‘The soil here looks similar to further along so let’s see what happens.’

He stepped forward on to the flower bed, waited a few seconds then stepped back on to the lawn. They could just make out the outline of where his feet had been. ‘As you said, he must have been very heavy to leave such deep prints, unless …’ Nash jumped forward on to the bed.

This time the impression was more pronounced, although still not as deep as the marks further along. ‘What are you suggesting?’ Zena asked, ‘That someone jumped across on to the flower bed?’

‘Not across,’ Nash corrected her, ‘down.’ He pointed upwards. ‘The window on the first floor was on the latch. That’s inside the flat where the body was found. I think someone jumped down from there. I think those smaller marks are where the intruder braced himself from the shock of the fall using his hands.’

‘I thought this was an accidental death?’ Mironova protested.

‘So did I at first. I think we were intended to believe that. Come on, I’ve more to show you.’

Nash nodded to the two men waiting with the sergeant. ‘I think we can let these people go about their business. We’ll need a
statement
from both of you at some stage.’

As he led the way upstairs Nash explained. ‘The dead man is a junior doctor at Netherdale General, James Stevens, aged 27. He wasn’t supposed to be on duty until after lunch but with the RTA they bleeped him to come in early, got no response. They paged his colleague, the man you saw downstairs. He lives nearby and if they’re on the same shift they car-share. He came round and
couldn’t raise Stevens, knew he was inside because his car’s out front. The landlord lives on the ground floor. He also knew Stevens was in because he heard someone moving about in the early hours. He suffers from insomnia and said he thought Stevens might have “had company” because around 5 a.m. he heard a car start. He has a key to all the flats so they opened the door and found Stevens’s body. They couldn’t resuscitate him so they called us.’

Nash paused to remove his shoes which had soil from the flower bed attached. He pointed to the door. ‘Look there. See what you make of that. Concentrate on the lock.’

The brass surface tarnished with age, had three bright scratches across it. ‘This lock’s been picked,’ Clara commented.

‘Agreed, but we haven’t had reports of a burglary either in this flat or the others. If the motive for the break-in was theft why stop at Stevens’s flat; why not try the rest?’

They followed him to the bedroom. The dead man lay on his side in the recovery position. ‘They moved him when they were trying to revive him but that can’t be helped.’

There was still a strong smell of carbon monoxide in the room. Nash pointed to a small heap of screwed up newspaper on the floor. ‘Those had been pushed up the chimney blocking the flue. The firemen said it was carelessness. I don’t think so for one minute. Take a close look.’

‘It’s a fairly common thing to do. People stuff paper up the chimney to stop birds coming down,’ Clara objected.

‘Maybe, but when would that be? I’d suggest Spring or early Summer when the birds are nesting and there are fledglings about.’

‘That’s logical.’

‘Why do it at this time of the year, when there are few birds about? Those newspapers are only three days old. Not only that, look at the edition. According to his colleague, Stevens has been working all week. Where did he get a copy of a Manchester evening paper? They certainly aren’t on sale in this area.’

Nash moved to the wall, closest to the bed and waved them over. ‘I noticed that,’ he pointed to a small circular hole in the wall. ‘I couldn’t make out what purpose it served until I got all the other scraps of evidence. Suppose someone fitted a pipe through that hole and fixed a machine to it, one that manufactured
carbon monoxide. It wouldn’t take much to fill a room as small as this.’

‘I’ve never heard of such a device.’ Clara said.

Nash laughed, ‘Of course you have. Every internal combustion engine produces carbon monoxide. All you’d need is a small motor. Maybe the landlord was confused when he said he heard a car start. Perhaps what he heard was this motor.’

‘Why didn’t Dr Stevens hear it?’

‘Maybe because he was already unconscious.’

Nash ushered them into the living area. On the wall nearest the bedroom was a sideboard. This had obviously been moved recently and replaced, but not quite in the same position. The indentations made by the legs prior to the move could still be seen. ‘They must have had to move that to get to the hole they’d drilled. To get close enough to where Stevens was lying and make sure he ingested a big enough dose to kill him,’ he explained.

‘Have you ordered SOCO?’ Clara asked.

‘I was about to do that when you arrived. Attend to it, would you? You haven’t said much, Zena. What do you think?’

‘I’m puzzled, Mikhail. If someone picked the lock to get in why not walk out the same way?’

‘Good question. I believe he wanted to make sure we thought the death was accidental, so he double-locked the door. He hoped we’d overlook his real exit route, which I would have if I hadn’t been curious about the paper up the chimney.’

‘I think the killer was unlucky you were here. It looks like the work of a professional. So what could the motive be? I’m sure it costs a lot of money to hire a hitman, am I right?’

‘As much as £50,000, I believe.’

‘Ah Mikhail, such inflated prices in Britain,’ Zena teased him. ‘The cost of dying in Russia is much lower. So why would someone pay such a huge amount to get rid of a junior doctor?’

Once SOCO arrived, the three returned to the station.

‘Okay, Zena,’ Nash prompted. ‘Tell us about the bear’s owner. I suspect this might vary from the rest of the crimes you’ve talked about.’

Zena nodded. ‘It is different. It illustrates the scope of the
criminals’ 
depravity. The bear belongs to a girl named Katerina Svetlova. Katerina’s background is unlike most of those who fall into the clutches of traffickers.

‘Katerina is known as Katya. She’s the daughter of Sergei Svetlov, a prominent figure in the Moscow government. His wife Anna is a well-known stage and film actress. By Russian standards, they are affluent. Katya wanted for very little. I’m not suggesting she was spoilt, but shall we say she was indulged.

‘Five years ago Katya’s parents bought her a computer, one with internet connectivity. I’m awarding no prizes for guessing the outcome. Russian children are innocent when it comes to the dangers of the internet. They know nothing of paedophile tactics of grooming youngsters to corrupt them.

‘Katya made acquaintance in a chat room with a boy of similar age. He was very cunning. I have copies of their e-mails. If I’d not been suspicious I’d be convinced he was a young boy. He told Katya all about himself. Of his home in St Petersburg, his family, his school life and friends. Complete fiction, but cleverly put together.

‘They’d corresponded for several months when he told Katya he and his parents are coming to Moscow. Something about a business trip his father was making and wouldn’t it be wonderful if they could meet. To make it more exciting why not meet secretly?’

Zena’s expression grew bleaker. ‘Katya agreed. She told him she’d introduce him to her new friend Mitya. This must have alarmed him because Katya got a short message demanding she came alone. This was the only false note in the whole charade. Katya possibly thought he was jealous. It may even have pleased her vanity, because she teased him, telling him Mitya was only a teddy bear.