Identity Crisis

Alone in an isolated cottage, a young housewife awaits the arrival of
her sister, Jo. Outside, as storms lash the country, Dr Johana Grey
struggles to reach the house, finding it deserted, and in darkness, when
she eventually arrives. 

With Mike Nash on leave, DS Miranova leads the
investigation, which is complicated by the husband of the missing woman
being unaccounted for. Is he responsible, or has she been abducted by
the sadistic serial killer nicknamed The Cremator? 

Before Nash's
return, a security van disappears along with its two-man crew. Further
violent crimes are reported and, as the detectives try to make sense of
the confusion, it becomes apparent that nothing is as it seems and no
one is quite who they appear to be. This is the sixth title in the
intricately drawn series featuring Mike Nash and the Helmsdale police
force.

So many people are involved with each new Mike Nash book – assisting with advice and patient counselling to ensure the accuracy of my plots – it is impossible to name them all. With Identity Crisis, however, there are certain people who must be mentioned.

Lindsay McKenzie and his wife, Vanda, for their generosity and allowing me take their names in vain.

Steve and Heather Bell, of J M Bell & Sons, and Graham Parkin of Leeds Commercial, for their expert advice on vans and trucks.

My tireless in-house editor, Val, for keeping me on the right lines.

Everyone at Robert Hale Ltd for their continued help, support and patience.

Derek Colligan for yet another superb cover image.

And to my readers, whose names I do not know, whose demand for more Mike Nash thrillers is inspirational.

It was raining. Not warm summer rain, but cold, driving rain. The sort that wets you through to the skin and chills you to the bone. She huddled miserably in the less than adequate protection of the bus shelter. All pleasure at the shopping expedition long gone. This country had its good points. A cold, wet, March night was not one of them, nor was the less than adequate bus service. She had been waiting for the best part of three-quarters of an hour, getting wetter, colder and more miserable, when a passing car stopped. The driver glanced up at the sign over the shelter. ‘Not waiting for that bus are you?’ He indicated the destination board.

She nodded, her mind too numb to form the words.

He shook his head sadly. ‘Not tonight, love,’ he told her, the cruel message not alleviated by his cheery tone. ‘You been reading that?’ He pointed to the schedule in the case alongside the shelter.

She nodded again.

‘Out of date, love. That’s last summer’s schedule. Management,’ his tone took on a sneering contempt, ‘haven’t got themselves off their fat arses to change it yet. Probably hoped to leave it for another month until the summer schedule restarts. Sorry, love. Looks like you’re stranded. Either that, a taxi, or Shanks’s pony.’

Unfamiliar with the expression ‘Shanks’s pony’ she guessed it meant she would have to walk. She hadn’t planned on anything other than the bus ride. The taxi fare lay in carrier bags at her feet. She looked down at them and sighed. Nothing else for it, she told herself. At least the walk will warm you up. And the carriers aren’t too heavy.

She had reached the edge of town when another car pulled up. Normally, she would have ignored it. Particularly in the dark.
Particularly as she was in a lonely spot. But as it coasted to a halt, she recognized the occupant and relaxed. She wasn’t going to have to walk after all. She was cold, wet and tired. The rain had started again. And it wasn’t as if the driver was a stranger, not a total stranger that is. She knew him, had seen him earlier in the day.

Normally, the last thing she’d do was get into a stranger’s car. And it was. The last thing she did.

Ian Waltham stared out of the window. Hoping to see her. Hoping she would come striding up the gravel drive. But knowing it was not going to happen. Where had she gone? And why? He thought he and Sally were happy. What reason had she to leave? Why depart so suddenly without even taking her clothes or her passport? He’d heard of such things happening with women, but not his Sally, surely. His vision blurred with tears and he turned away. It had been over three weeks, three long, weary, sleep-bereft weeks, and still no news. No sightings, no word; not even a phone call or a note. The police had been of little use; clearly, they were more inclined to think of it as domestic disharmony. Or, that he’d done something to her.

Ian was so immersed in his thoughts that he failed to see the postman’s van pull up at the end of the drive. Failed to see the driver or hear him walking up the gravel drive. The clatter of the letterbox startled him. He went to the other door and picked up the envelope, without much thought as to its contents. Even as he opened it, he had no foreboding as to what might be inside.

He removed a piece of paper and unfolded it. Even when he read the message, he failed to understand it. Then he saw the photograph. Nausea threatened. He swallowed, but hot bile raced into his throat. He reached the kitchen sink and vomited. Eventually, a measure of calm returned. He noticed there was something still inside the envelope. He inverted it and shook it, staring with fresh horror at what fell on to the palm of his hand. Ian groped for the phone, his eyes blurred with tears: the first of
many. After some time he managed to get through to the detective handling Sally’s disappearance. ‘I’ve had a packet delivered,’ he told the man. ‘There’s a message inside it.’ He could feel his voice rising towards hysteria, could do nothing to prevent it.

‘What is the message?’

The detective could barely make out what Waltham said, he had to ask him to repeat it. As if once wasn’t bad enough.

‘“What others created, I cremated”. And,’ he sobbed, ‘there’s a photograph of Sally. Naked on some sort of table. But there was something else. Something far worse. Her wedding ring. I know it’s hers. It has our wedding date engraved in it. The thing is,’ fresh tears flowed as his voice trembled, ‘it’s been sawn in two.’

The final horror came two days later, when more photographs arrived.

Sergeant Jack Binns looked up as the door opened. He was used to all manner of visitors entering the reception area at Helmsdale police station. A small boy, whom Binns guessed would be about five or six-years-old, came through the door first, holding it open for an elderly lady, who was struggling to get a large suitcase through the narrow aperture. Her efforts were hampered by her reliance on a walking stick. Binns hurried from the reception desk to assist. They didn’t fit readily into any of the usual categories.

‘How can I help you?’ he asked once they were inside. His guess was that they were tourists, either seeking directions, or a recommendation for somewhere to stay. Both had happened before, more than once, and it was the height of the tourist season.

‘We would like to see Detective Inspector Nash, please.’

The woman’s request surprised him. Obviously, his guess had been wide of the mark. ‘I’m afraid Mr Nash isn’t here at the moment. Can anyone else help you?’

‘When will he return?’

Binns glanced at the clock. ‘He went through to Netherdale Headquarters for a meeting with the chief constable, so it’s difficult to say. An hour, certainly, maybe more. Are you sure nobody else can assist you? Perhaps if you were to tell me what it is in connection with, that might make it easier.’

‘Thank you, but we have to see Inspector Nash. Is it in order for us to wait?’

The old lady’s English was impeccable, but Binns thought he detected an accent, although he was unable to identify the source.
‘If you wish, although I should warn you those benches are a little uncomfortable.’

The woman smiled and signalled to the boy to sit down. So far, the child hadn’t spoken a single word.

Time passed slowly. Even the normally unruffled sergeant was becoming flustered as Nash still hadn’t appeared long after the hour had come and gone. Binns had made several attempts to engage the visitors in conversation, partly from courtesy, more from curiosity, but without success. He had even tried to get the boy to speak by offering him a drink. Instead, the boy looked at his companion who declined the offer on his behalf.

Eventually the outer door opened and Binns looked up, relief obvious on his face as he saw the new arrival. ‘Mike, visitors for you. They’ve been waiting a long time.’

‘Thanks, Jack.’

Nash turned to inspect the couple. The old lady struggled stiffly to her feet, leaning heavily on her walking stick for support. Nash’s glance went from the woman to the child. Something about him, his blonde hair and blue eyes, the shape of his face, seemed familiar, but Nash couldn’t think why. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Nash. What can I do for you?’

‘May we speak to you in private, please?’

‘Of course, if you prefer.’ Nash glanced over his shoulder. ‘Either of the interview rooms free, Jack?’

‘Both of them are,’ Binns replied. ‘If you leave the suitcase here, I’ll keep an eye on it.’

Once inside the room, they turned to face Nash, ignoring the chairs he offered them. The woman’s free hand, he noticed, was resting protectively on the young boy’s shoulder. The boy was clutching her leg, standing so close he was almost hidden in the folds of her skirt. His eyes were wide and fixed on Nash, his face bore an expression that could have been fearful, but was most certainly apprehensive. ‘What can I do to help you?’ Nash asked.

Forty minutes later, Binns looked up from the desk as Nash walked swiftly across reception and headed for the stairs to the CID suite. ‘What’s it all about, Mike?’

Nash continued up the stairs, ignoring the uniformed officer. Binns stared after him, ‘What have I done?’ he grumbled aloud. ‘Why is nobody talking to me this morning?’

Inside the CID suite, DS Mironova and DC Pearce were struggling with paperwork ensuing from arrests made over the previous weekend. Clara looked up as Nash entered the room. She was about to comment on his timekeeping, when she saw the expression on his face. She stared at him as he went into his office and closed the door. ‘What’s biting him?’ she asked.

Viv Pearce looked up. ‘I didn’t notice. What are you on about?’

‘Mike came in, looking as if he’d seen a ghost, and went straight into his office. That’s most unlike him. He always says hello, if nothing else.’

‘Maybe God gave him a chewing about something.’

‘You shouldn’t refer to the chief constable in such an irreverent way. I don’t think Mike would be worried. Apart from the fact that he’s her blue-eyed boy, our conviction statistics are good. I’ll have a word with Jack. If anyone knows, he will.’

A couple of minutes later, Clara put the phone down. ‘Jack’s as mystified as us. Apparently, Mike has a couple of visitors waiting in one of the interview rooms. An old lady and a small boy.’

Inside his office, Nash dialled Netherdale and asked to speak to the chief constable. ‘Ma’am, something’s cropped up, and I need to take some leave as a matter of urgency.’

‘That’s sudden, why didn’t you mention it at the meeting?’

‘I didn’t know about it then.’

‘When are you thinking of?’

‘Immediately.’

‘Immediately as of tomorrow, or next Monday?’

‘Immediately as of this afternoon.’

‘You’d better explain.’

Nash hesitated, but knew he had no choice. The explanation took some time. When it was over, he put the phone down. His sense of relief was short-lived. Now he had to brief Clara, who would be in charge during his absence. Telling the chief constable had been easy by comparison. He opened the door and called her into his office. As she went in, Clara noticed his serious expression
and wondered what was wrong. Something had clearly upset him.

‘I’ve been speaking to the chief. As of now, I’m on leave. That means you’re in charge. I’ll be away for a month, but if there’s an emergency, and I mean a real emergency, I’ve agreed you can contact me and I’ll come home early.’

‘Come home? From where? Where are you going?’

Nash got to his feet. ‘France. Come with me. I’ve someone I’d very much like you to meet.’

Pearce watched them pass through the CID suite, his curiosity by now thoroughly roused.

Clara glanced at the elderly lady and the small boy waiting in the interview room. She noted the elegance of the woman’s clothes, and was in the process of smiling politely at the boy when Nash began to make the introductions. ‘This is my assistant, Detective Sergeant Mironova. Clara, allow me to introduce Madame Mirabelle Collin. Mirabelle is Monique Canvey’s aunt. And this is her great nephew Daniel. Daniel is my son.’

It was almost half an hour later when Clara returned alone to the CID suite. Viv noticed she looked close to tears.

‘Well, are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ he asked.

Clara looked at him but her gaze wasn’t focused. ‘Do you remember Monique Canvey?’

‘The girl Mike was sweet on. She went to live in France didn’t she? She was nice.’

‘That’s right.’ Clara bit on her lip before she continued, ‘Sadly, Monique died a few months ago. She was working in a hospital and picked up an infection of some description.’ She paused and took a deep breath, emotion threatening to overcome her. ‘Well, I’ve just met Monique’s six-year-old son. The boy’s name is Daniel, and Mike is Daniel’s father.’

Pearce looked at her, startled. ‘Good Heavens! That must have come as a shock and a half.’

‘I think that’s putting it mildly. You should see the boy though, Viv. Daniel is just like a miniature copy of Mike. The same fair hair, blue eyes, shape of face, the lot. Oh, but Viv, I felt so sorry for the poor little mite. He looks so bewildered, and helpless and
frightened. He’s just lost his mother, and now he’s been brought to a strange country, to live with a father he’s never met….’ Clara’s voice tailed off into a fresh bout of tears.

Nash had only been gone a couple of days when DS Mironova had a visitor. She looked up as the door to the CID suite opened, her surprise and delight obvious, as she recognized the familiar figure of former Detective Chief Superintendent Pratt.

‘Tom, great to see you. And looking so well, too. How are you?’

Tom did indeed look well, far more so than before the heart attack that had caused him to take early retirement.

‘I’m as fit as a fiddle.’

‘Have you been on holiday?’

‘The sun tan, you mean? No, that’s down to golf and gardening. I saw the doctor last week. Not because there was a problem, just for the routine MOT. He’s really pleased, reckons I’m fitter than I’ve been for years.’

‘That’s terrific news. Is this a purely social call, or did you have something specific in mind?’

‘A bit of both really. I was hoping to have a word with Mike, but Jack Binns told me he’s away.’

‘That’s right. Did Jack explain why?’

‘No, I think he was about to, when a bloke came in to report an attack of vandalism on Westlea estate.’ Pratt smiled. ‘Nice to see some things don’t change.’

Mironova explained the reason for Nash’s absence. Pratt smiled thoughtfully. ‘How did he take the news that he’s a father?’

‘Well, obviously it came as a heck of a shock, but once he got over that, I think he was secretly rather thrilled at the prospect. But you should have seen the lad, Tom. He looked so lost and helpless, it was all I could do not to pick him up and comfort him. He’s the spit and image of Mike, too.’

‘It’s going to be hard for them both,’ Pratt agreed. ‘Mind you, it’ll curb Mike’s hyperactive social life.’

‘So, what was it you wanted Mike for, or is it personal?’

‘Not really. The thing is, I’m bored. I’ve got my golf handicap down as far as I can, and there isn’t a weed dare show its face in
the garden. Plus I’ve decorated every room in the house, and now I reckon I’m starting to get on the wife’s nerves. Jack told me there was a vacancy for a part-time civilian clerical officer, and when I saw my doctor, he agreed I was fit enough to put in for it. What do you think?’

‘Are you sure about this? I mean, from our point of view, you’d be ideal. We wouldn’t have to train you, you’ve forgotten more about admin than most of us will ever know. You’d be great at preparing paperwork for CPS and so forth. However, I can see all sorts of snags. You’d need to take a medical, and there would be the question of insurance, and how it would affect your pension, and more besides, I expect. Plus, how would you feel about taking orders from us, when you’ve been the one in charge?’

‘That wouldn’t be a problem. Nor would the medical, for that matter, and I’m sure we can sort things like the pension out.’

‘Then why don’t you fill in an application form and I’ll give it to the chief constable. I’m due to see her the day after tomorrow, and I could sound her out then.’

Pratt smiled. ‘I anticipated that.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and produced an envelope. ‘I picked up a form at Netherdale this morning.’

At Felling prison, the visitor looked round the depressing room and greeted the prisoner respectfully. ‘This is bad’ – he indicated their surroundings – ‘seeing you in a place like this, amongst people such as this.’ His gaze strayed to the next table, where a prisoner was being harangued by a raddled-looking blonde woman. The man on the receiving end of the tongue-lashing was big in every direction. His height couldn’t be disguised, even seated. His girth was even more obvious. He overflowed from the chair, more with muscle than fat. Despite his awesome appearance, he had obviously taken on one or two superior opponents in his time. Several jagged scars bore witness to the fact. He was all but hairless, the skin on the top of his head being the only visible part of his anatomy that wasn’t adorned by tattoos. ‘It seems all wrong, you being in here. It must be hell.’

The prisoner’s smile was bitter with irony. ‘You should try it
from this side of the table, Tony. On the other hand, I’m learning all sorts of useful skills and you never know when the ability to hide a packet of drugs in a condom and then swallow it might come in handy. However, I’m hopeful that you’re about to set the ball rolling to end all that for me. It might take a while, a long, long while, but not as long as the sentence they gave me.’

‘What have you got in mind?’

‘I understand that you’re a free agent at the moment?’

‘If that’s a polite way of saying I’m out of work, you’re right.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘I was working for a private security company. We’d been given the job of ferrying this lot’– he indicated the prisoners who were receiving visitors – ‘to and from court. One of them tried to escape and the management felt I was a little over-enthusiastic in the way I dealt with him. That was it. In these days of political correctness’ – Tony sneered as he delivered the phrase – ‘the prisoner’s rights come before those of the general public. So I’m now being paid a pittance by the government for doing nothing.’

‘It must be tricky making ends meet on what they dole out? How on earth they expect you to manage on the paltry sum, especially when you’ve kids to support, is beyond me.’

‘Tell me about it! But you didn’t bring me all this way to listen to your impersonation of my wife, did you?’

‘Hardly, that was a bonus for you. Listen carefully and I’ll tell you why I did ask you to come.’

The prisoner leaned forward, his voice dropped to little more than a whisper as he recounted what he’d been planning. He spoke quickly, the urgency of what he had to say somehow emphasised by the quiet tone. Although he was only conveying the outline, it was some considerable time before he sat back in his chair and asked, ‘Any questions? Anything you reckon I might have left out or got wrong?’

The temptation was to give a knee-jerk response, but that wasn’t Tony’s way. He thought about what he’d been told for several moments, running through the practical elements of what he would have to do. ‘Recruitment is going to be the big thing. I don’t need numbers, but getting the right calibre of men is the tricky bit.
That might take as long as the rest of it.’

‘Maybe, but it’s crucial to get it right. More important than rushing it. It’s a long time until Christmas, but I’m rather hoping it will be the last one I spend in this place, so I need you to succeed in order to stand a chance of getting out.’