Identity Crisis (9 page)

As they stepped outside, they heard the sound of a vehicle engine accompanied by an audible reversing alarm. They hurried to the corner of the cottage where they were able to see the orange flashing beacons on the roof of the vehicle cab. It looked, Nash thought, like one of those dustcarts he remembered from his youth. As it drew closer, moving slowly down the narrow lane, he realized his guess had been accurate. The local authority had obviously opted for the style of wagon they had used in years gone by, with curved apertures to place the refuse in situated behind the cab. The light commercial would be ideal for a single operative, which would represent a cost saving to the local authority. Nash wondered briefly if that had been the deciding factor in their choice.

The sight of the council wagon gave Nash an idea. ‘Make a list of all regular visitors to the house,’ he told Clara. ‘Start with the bin-man.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘If this turns out to be an abduction, unless it was totally random we should work on the principal that whoever’s responsible knew Mrs Dawson. That could mean someone at the bank, a supermarket checkout operator or one of the students in her evening classes. It might be a member of the library staff or’ − Nash pointed to the wagon driver, who had emerged from his cab − ‘someone with a valid reason for calling at Mill Cottage regularly, like this guy.’

‘We don’t know Vanda Dawson attended evening classes,’ Mironova objected.

‘Precisely my point. I was using it as an example. We don’t know anything about Vanda Dawson’s life, about her habits, her daily routines, anything. Obviously, the person who could fill in some of the gaps would be her husband. Which brings me back to the question, where the hell is Dawson?’

As he was speaking, Nash approached the driver. He was broad in stature with a mop of thinning fair hair and a ruddy complexion. More like a farmer than a council worker, Nash thought. He looked mildly surprised, no more, when Nash showed his warrant card.

‘Is this your usual round?’ Nash began.

The driver nodded. ‘Has been for the last three years.’

‘It must be hard graft on your own.’

The driver grinned. ‘Tell my bosses that, will you.’ He winked. ‘At least I’ve nobody looking over my shoulder. As long as I get all my collections done in the allotted time, I’m in the clear. I know the area like the back of my hand now so it gives me a bit of leeway for an extended lunch break.’

Nash asked the man’s name, and commented on the fact that he wasn’t wearing an identity badge.

‘My name’s Potter. Vic Potter. We’re not allowed to wear badges. Health and Safety regulations, would you believe? One of our men cut his finger when a bag he was tossing into the wagon snagged on his badge. It went septic and he lost the finger. He was off work for a long time and the council had to fork out a huge sum in compensation. The ink on the cheque hadn’t dried before a directive banning badges came out. There’s a photo ID badge in the cab somewhere, but everyone knows me by now so I’d only need it if someone new moved in. And that doesn’t happen often, the sort of places I collect from.’

‘Do you always collect here on Monday?’

‘Only during the winter months. End of April on, when the summer schedule starts, then it’s a Tuesday. My area extends over past Wintersett to Bishop’s Cross and the villages around Bishopton. That includes those two big caravan parks the other side of Bishopton. It’s no bobby’s job in summer, I can tell you. No offence meant,’ he added with a smile. ‘What’s this about, anyway? Has something happened? I hope nothing’s happened to Mrs Dawson.’

‘You know her, then?’

‘Not very well. She’s usually about when I collect, but I don’t always see her. She makes a point of being in at Christmas
though, and she’s a very generous tipper. Is that it? Has something happened to her?’

‘We’re not sure. She’s been reported missing, but there could be an innocent explanation. Have you noticed anything unusual on your round in the last few weeks? Around here, I mean. Any strange vehicles, anyone without an obvious reason to be here hanging around the place?’

Potter scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Can’t say that I have,’ he said after a while.

‘Have you ever seen anyone visiting the house? They’d have had to use a car to get here, it being so remote.’

Potter shook his head. ‘Sorry, I haven’t seen anyone. And I’d have noticed a vehicle, because there isn’t that much room to manoeuvre my wagon.’

‘Thanks, I’ll let you get on your way. One more thing, though. Don’t collect the rubbish today. It might need checking by our forensic officers. Besides which, it won’t come to any harm leaving it until next week the way the weather is.’

Jo waited for Mironova to lock up at the cottage. ‘I’ve requested a local joiner be arranged to come out today to fix that broken pane in the door,’ Clara told her. ‘We would normally have had someone on watch, but with the weather problems there’s been no one to spare; damned cut-backs! Until it’s secure, and until there’s someone inside the house, it’s very vulnerable out here.’

‘I was thinking about that earlier,’ Jo agreed. ‘I wonder if I ought to move in here for the time being? We’ve no indication when Brian might turn up, and as you say, the place is open to any sort of burglar or tramp unless someone’s in residence.’

Jo fought shy of the implication that Vanda wouldn’t be able to return. By now, all hope that her absence might have an innocent explanation had gone.

‘Are you sure you’d be OK with that? Given what’s happened, a lot of women wouldn’t come near the place.’

Jo didn’t smile, but her expression lightened a little. ‘I’m not claiming to be particularly brave,’ she admitted. ‘But the chances of anything untoward happening a second time are more remote
even than this cottage.’

‘In any case, with luck Dawson might turn up, and it might not be necessary,’ Mironova pointed out.

In the High Street, Pearce followed Clara’s directions. He saw the accountant’s brass plate attached to the brickwork alongside a door that appeared to give access to the upper floor of the terraced property. The ground floor was occupied by a shop; the fascia covered with what appeared to be a brand new sign, TOP RANKING POSTERS. Below the name, in slightly smaller lettering, it declared, ‘The Home of TENNIS GIRL and hundreds of other iconic images’.

The shop window contained a display that included the famous picture of the girl in the tennis dress, plus T-shirts, and on the base, an array of key rings, badges, fobs and other trinkets designed to lure the cash from the pockets of Helmsdale’s stream of tourists.

He smiled at the mildly suggestive message conveyed by two T-shirts that were pinned side by side on a flannelboard. ‘Want it now?’ one asked. The second provided the explanation, ‘On the spot printing at unbeatable prices.’

Pearce tried the accountant’s door. Predictably, it was locked. He paused, irresolute. He wandered up and down the street a few times, before making his mind up. He was unaware that his presence had been noted and was being remarked upon.

Inside the shop, the proprietor watched Pearce walking to and fro. He glanced round. The only customers were a young couple browsing a catalogue of posters. As they turned to leave, he picked up the phone. ‘Tony? It’s Jerry, I have company; a bloke in a blue suit is outside. He seems to be taking an interest in us. Hang on; he’s coming inside. I’ll call you back.’

The shopkeeper smiled at the newcomer. ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’

Pearce produced his warrant card.

‘There’s nothing wrong, I hope?’ The proprietor looked suitably concerned.

Viv smiled reassuringly. It was a natural reaction, one he’d become accustomed to. The most innocent of citizens tended to think the worst when confronted by a detective. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he told the man. ‘I’m trying to locate Mr Dawson, that’s all.’

The shopkeeper frowned. ‘Mr…?’

‘Dawson, Brian Dawson. He owns the accountancy firm. Their offices are upstairs, above the shop,’ Pearce explained.

‘Oh, I see. Sorry to appear so dim, but I only moved in here a few weeks back, and I’m still finding my feet, so to speak. I decided to invest my redundancy in a little business. I’d already been trading on the internet and doing mail order, so when this lease came up I took the plunge. Haven’t made my fortune yet.’ He grimaced. ‘Anyway, I hardly know the neighbours thus far. I’ve seen the chap you mean, or at least I suppose it’s him, but I’ve never spoken to him. Just noticed him going in and out, that’s all.’

‘Can you remember when it was you last saw him?’

The shopkeeper puffed out his cheeks in an effort to think. ‘Early last week maybe; or the back end of the week before. Sorry to be so vague. Has he done something wrong?’

That was the other reaction Pearce had become used to. Once they got over their nervousness, people were intrigued, wanting to learn the latest gossip. A nation of scandalmongers, he thought. He smiled at the man. ‘Not that I’m aware of. We’re anxious to speak to him, that’s all. We did hear he might have gone abroad, but his wife has missed an appointment and her sister’s a little concerned. Nothing too scandalous. Anyway, if you do see him, would you ask him to call me?’ He dug a card out of his wallet and passed it over the counter. ‘Sorry, can I take your name, Mr…?’

‘Freeman, Jerry Freeman.’ The shopkeeper took the card; fingered the corner. ‘I’m thinking of starting to produce these, so if you or any of your colleagues want some printing, let me know. And if I do see Mr Dawson I’ll be sure to give him your message.’

He watched Pearce leave the shop before strolling casually to the window. When he was certain the detective was out of sight, he returned to the counter and picked up the phone again. ‘It was Dawson they were after,’ he told the person on the other end of the line. ‘No, not according to this guy’ − he glanced down − ‘name’s DC Pearce. Said something about Dawson’s wife going AWOL, so on the face of it nothing to do with us. What do you want me to do?’

He listened for a few minutes. ‘I agree, Tony, no point in panicking. I’ll check things out upstairs, though.’

The shopkeeper put the phone down and returned to the front of the shop. After five minutes inspecting the High Street, he was satisfied. When he was sure such activity as there was, held no threat, he took a bunch of keys from his pocket and went out in to the street. He looked to the left, then to the right, before opening the adjacent door; closed it behind him and sprinted upstairs. He wanted this task over with so he could get back in the shop unnoticed. He wasn’t at all worried about leaving the shop unattended. The till had only a few pounds in it, and such display stock as there was didn’t amount to much either. What he was after here, however, was worth a whole lot more.

Only a few miles from where Vanda Dawson was being held, Tony pondered the police activity. He stood up from his desk and walked across the small office he was using and opened the door. ‘Get Dawson in here,’ he told the man waiting outside.

When the accountant appeared a few minutes later, Dawson was surprised by the man’s opening question.

‘Why are the police at your office?’

Dawson blinked. ‘What?’

‘The police were at Jerry’s shop a few minutes ago asking questions about you. Something to do with your wife, or at least that’s what they said. What’s going on?’ As he spoke, Tony was watching Dawson closely and saw the colour drain from his face.

‘I don’t know. I’ve no idea. What did they say?’

Tony repeated what he’d been told. ‘Has your wife buggered off? Or is it something worse?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘Did you make any excuses for why you’d be away?’

‘I told her I was going to Spain on a golfing trip.’

‘They obviously don’t think you’re there, otherwise they wouldn’t be checking up on you at your office. I think you’d better get this sorted out. Have you an alternative cover story? One they’ll believe?’

Dawson nodded. ‘I’ve just about finished here anyway. All you have to do when I’ve tied the last few bits down is follow the instructions I leave.’

When the accountant had gone Tony turned to his colleague. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘I don’t like the sound of it. Dawson’s a shifty bastard. I wouldn’t trust him. Put pressure on him and he might spill the beans. It’s a hell of a risk letting him out of our sight with the police noseying around.’

‘On the other hand we don’t want them to come looking for him. We could hide him all right, but his car’s a real giveaway. And don’t try telling me we’ve hidden a security van, there’s no room for another vehicle in the bunker. Which reminds me, we’ll have to move that soon.’

His colleague grinned. ‘And there was me planning a vehicle hire business. I take your point, but I still think it’s risky.’

‘That’s why I want Dawson followed and watched. When he leaves here, you go after him. Report back on his movements, any visitors he gets, anybody he talks to. I’ll arrange with the others to relieve you, all right?’

‘What if it looks as if the police are going to take him in for questioning?’

Tony slid his forefinger across his throat. ‘I take it you can manage that?’

His colleague smiled. ‘I think I’ll be able to cope.’

The accountant’s whereabouts were uppermost in Nash’s mind as he drove towards Wintersett. Had they leapt to the wrong conclusion about Vanda Dawson’s disappearance? The circumstances surrounding it were so much like those in the Cremator cases that
it was natural to assume this was another attack by the notorious serial killer.

On the other hand, perhaps that was what they had been expected to think. Wouldn’t it have been natural, if Dawson had intended to harm his wife, to design her disappearance to look like the work of the Cremator? Police forces in the areas where the maniac had struck were stretched almost to breaking point owing to their total lack of progress. To add to their problems, the media had latched on to the case with a kind of hysterical feeding frenzy.

Nash had to assume that Dawson was an intelligent man who would know that unless he was able to come up with a convincing cover story and alibi for the period since his wife’s disappearance, he would automatically become their prime suspect. With the passage of time, the odds were that Vanda Dawson had come to harm. And Nash knew from experience that after four days, the chances of finding her alive had diminished almost to zero. Sadly, no other explanation fitted the facts. But, if Dawson wasn’t involved where had he vanished to? And, if he wasn’t involved in his wife’s abduction…? That was a road Nash wasn’t prepared to go down: not at this stage. Yet it seemed as if he might be forced along it. It was an odd outcome, that the key to discovering what had happened to Vanda Dawson might lie with her husband’s disappearance.

Nash travelled along Bishopton Road until he reached the turning that was signposted for Wintersett. He pulled the Range Rover on to the verge just before the junction and got out. He inspected the road surface before examining the verges. As far as he could judge, there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary. If anything had happened here, the evidence had been removed without trace.

He got back in the car and started towards Wintersett. From the elevated driving position of the Range Rover he was just able to see one or two of the roofs of the houses in the village. However, his attention was fixed for the most part on the view closer to hand. He was driving so slowly he would have collected a following of irate drivers had he been on a more popular route. The country
lane was too narrow to allow for overtaking except in one or two places, but fortunately it was so little frequented that his only spectators were a posse of heavily pregnant ewes.

The heavy rain of the previous week had left the grass verges very soft. Nash had travelled almost half the distance from the junction towards the village when he noticed a spot on the opposite side of the road where the grass had been chewed up, obviously by the wheels of a heavy vehicle. This might have been caused by two large vehicles, say a van and a tractor, meeting at that point and striving to avoid contact. However, there was a designated passing place only a few yards away. Under normal circumstances, Nash might have dismissed the sight as evidence of no more than two drivers either too impatient to wait or too lazy to reverse, but with nothing else by way of evidence to back up his theory as to what had happened, he felt this merited a closer look.

The weather had improved and it was now a bright, sunny day, although one that promised frost later. The low winter sun came to Nash’s assistance as he climbed out of the car. Almost immediately, he noticed that the rays had picked up something that sparkled, reflecting the brightness. It looked as if the reflection was being caused by a small piece of glass or plastic that was lying in the mud at the edge of the road on the nearside of his car. Nash walked over and peered at the spot.

Sure enough, the sun was catching a small piece of broken glass, one of several strewn there. Obviously, they had not been there long, certainly not before the rain, which would have covered them in mud reducing their brightness. Nash took a pen from his pocket. Uttering a silent plea for forgiveness to the Sheaffer pen company, he used it to turn the largest piece of glass over. It was just big enough for him to see the pattern on the reverse. Obviously, what he was looking at was a broken lens from a vehicle headlight or spotlight. Nash wondered if the chunk was enough for the forensic people to identify the type of vehicle that had shed it.

From his stooping position, he was able to get a better view of the road surface than would have been possible from standing.
As he looked along the lane, he could see a faint discolouration in the grey tarmac and what looked like scratch marks. Whether he would have noticed these had he been upright, he wasn’t sure. He moved closer and was able to confirm his first impression. Something had either slid or been pulled along the road surface, something heavy and solid enough to scratch the surface and leave what looked to be red paint.

These two scraps of evidence might have absolutely nothing to do with the hijacking of the security van, but as Nash looked further along the road, he saw another, larger stain. This had dried to a dark brown. With his experience in such matters, Nash had a fair idea what substance had been spilt at this point. Blood.

Here again, this might have been caused by nothing more sinister than road-kill, or a fox dragging his supper towards his lair. However, the hungriest carrion would have left fur, feather or bones, as would even the most voracious fox. Putting all three together, Nash reckoned he had come across the most likely position for the van to be ambushed. He looked round at the surrounding countryside. It was almost perfect for the purpose. He had been on the road for over twenty-five minutes. It was early afternoon. During that time, he hadn’t seen another vehicle coming from either direction. In addition, the road here dipped into a hollow concealing whatever might have happened from anyone except those close to the action. There were no houses, not even a farmhouse, within sight. Even the highest roofs of Wintersett village were no longer visible.

He might be summoning a forensic officer to a wild goose chase, but Nash couldn’t afford to do otherwise. At least, he thought with a smile as he returned to the car to retrieve his mobile, they were in the right sort of terrain for such a chase. He phoned Helmsdale station and explained to Mironova what he wanted.

She rang back a few minutes later to tell him an officer was en route; then passed him over to Pearce. Viv related his lack of success at Dawson’s office before ending the call. Nash looked at the dashboard clock. He reckoned it would be at least half an hour before the officer arrived. He leaned back in the driver’s seat
and pondered the two cases that had hit their tiny force over the weekend, striving to find something he could use as a starting point for his investigation. With the abduction, the answer might be with the missing woman’s husband. As far as the security van robbery was concerned, all they had was the possible evidence on the road in front of him. Where the van and its crew had vanished to remained a mystery. Although this road was little used, the gang who hijacked it couldn’t have been sure they wouldn’t be spotted. How had they prepared for that? What had they planned to ensure the security van disappeared?