Authors: Elizabeth Corley
When the belt finally parted, he and his mother were breathing the last foot of air in the car. The roof had become a very physical presence. His body floated up, away from the seat, as he wriggled free and he tried to open the door. It was closed fast.
At first he had panicked but then he remembered his physics lessons and the rules of atmosphere and pressure. There was too much weight of water against the door. To escape he needed to saturate his body with air, open the window and flood the remainder of the car, then he could float free. Of course his mother would drown. He looked over at her, saw the helpless panic in her eyes and despised her for her weakness. She was always the same, the willing victim. Even when his father slapped her, which wasn’t that often or that hard, she’d turn those long-suffering eyes on them both and then carry on making the supper. She had never shown him enough love, even as a baby, as if blaming him for the injuries they both suffered during his birth. He realised with a sense of liberation that he hated her.
Now she was staring at him, pleading with him to help her. The sensation was extraordinary. He could grant life or death to the most powerful woman in his life, the focus of his phobias and fantasies. She was begging him for life with her eyes. He remembered her spurning his touch and her looks of mistrust. A small, reptile portion of his mind, ancient and without sophistication, calculated the chances of cutting through her seatbelt before the car filled with water. Nil. The same cells in his brain assessed his own chances of survival – possible, probably.
He looked at her one last time, momentarily fixated by her thick black hair floating on the water around her. Then he shook his head, grabbed his rucksack and cranked down the window, bracing himself against the fresh cold water that flooded in. As soon as it was open wide enough he wriggled through, the most extraordinary sense of life propelling him upwards. Behind him, although he knew that it was physically impossible, he heard his mother scream.
‘You all right mate?’
Smith looked up, his face shiny with sweat. A man about his own age had bent down to peer in the car, his beer belly capitulating to gravity.
‘Yes, lost in thought, that’s all.’ He remembered to say thanks and to attempt a smile.
‘Only you looked proper poorly. You was stuck there like that for ages, and what with the bandages I thought your head might be done in.’
The smile was better this time and he saw a look of relief in the man’s face.
‘I’ll be fine. Thanks again.’
‘Rightyoh, you take care now, OK?’ He banged the car roof twice and walked off.
Smith managed to close the door and moved off jerkily. He stuck to the speed limit and drove as if he were taking his driving test. By the time he reached the town with the cyber café he was drenched in sweat. It was almost midday and it was hot. He climbed out of the car gratefully and leaned on the roof with his eyes closed waiting for his shirt to dry. It was the last one he had.
No visitors’ cars were allowed into old Clovelly, a feature that preserved the quaintness of the town and the old-fashioned quality of its steep cobbled streets. Donkeys were still available to take tourists down to the tiny harbour, or a less romantic taxi.
Smith chose to walk. He settled the rucksack containing his worldly goods on his back. The streets were busy. August was the peak of the tourist season and Clovelly one of the ‘must see’ places in Devon. People stared at his bandages even though he had reduced the amount of gauze about this face but they provided a good disguise. His picture was front-page news but they’d used a bad likeness. It made him look like a weasel, eyes too close together, pointed sharp nose and receding chin; no similarity at all. He smiled and put on his sunglasses.
When he saw the photo of Wendy on the front page of the
Sun
he stopped dead and someone behind cannoned into him with a curse. He went into the newsagents and bought the paper. The full story was on page five. The public was asked to be on the look out for Wendy Smith (24), missing from her home in Birmingham since the previous day. The piece mentioned that she might be travelling with her cousin, a man of twenty-seven, six feet tall, and that they might be using assumed names.
Smith felt faint. His head buzzed. He told himself that the reaction was the result of his injuries, not wishing to admit that this feeling was panic. How had the police found out about Wendy? It had to be Griffiths. He must be singing like a canary in exchange for a reduced sentence. Bastard! Well his plan to kill him might have failed when he’d had to leave the poisoned cake behind but he’d make sure he rotted in prison. When he killed the policewoman he would write on the walls in her blood that her execution was on the order of one Wayne Griffiths, currently detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure so he’d never be released.
The thought of revenge calmed him but he remained sensitive to any strange looks he attracted. In the next souvenir shop he bought a baseball cap. When he pulled the brim down the shadow concealed most of his face. More comfortable, he ambled down the hill and slid into the café.
Instead of going straight to a PC he stayed at the zinc counter watching the man serving. Smith prided himself on being a good judge of sexual character, it was one of the reasons he was such a competent seducer. The man’s eyes darted across his customers like a lizard watching for flies, constant rapid flicks of acute attention. He caught Smith staring at him and smiled in a way that was instantly recognisable.
‘I’m looking for a girl,’ he said, pretending not to see the flash of disappointment in the other man’s face. ‘Maybe you’ve seen her? She’s my sister and my parents are worried sick about her.’
He slid an old newspaper cutting out of his wallet and smiled at the server in a way that was more than friendly. Sure enough the man sat down and extended a hand.
‘I’m Frank.’
Smith took the offered palm and shook it, squeezing the fingers slightly, just once.
‘Danny, have you seen her?’
Frank took the picture and unfolded it. It was obvious that he recognised her.
‘She’s been in here a few times. You close?’
‘No! She’s my half-sister and I wouldn’t be here if my mum wasn’t worried. We never got along. She borrowed money from me, never repaid it, that sort of thing. Typical woman. You can’t trust them can you?’
‘Tell me about it. Your sister’s a class act: stuck-up, superior – wouldn’t give me the time of day. She was in here earlier this morning as a matter of fact.’
‘Any idea where she’s staying?’ He tried to sound calm.
‘Nah. I didn’t talk to her. No offence but she’s not my type.’
Smith looked at him and smiled.
‘Really? Men are usually all over her.’
‘Not this man, Danny.’ Frank held his eyes for too long and they smiled at each other.
‘Pleased to hear it. Do you think she’s staying in the town?’
‘Check in the pub. She might be more talkative with a drink inside her. Are you thinking of waiting around for her? She doesn’t come in every day. You might be here some time.’
‘Oh, I’m a patient man. And I’m sure there must be something interesting to do around here. I’d best be on my way, Frank, but I might stop by later if that’s all right with you.’ He pursed his lips and Frank smiled back.
The pub was packed with lunching tourists so he decided to try it later. He pulled out the Ordnance Survey map of the area that Wendy had bought that morning and decided to find a quiet place in the country to snooze and regain more of his strength.
He woke automatically at six o’clock and walked back into the village, his legs moving easily as the blood flowed through them. But the motion sent a burning sensation along his jaw, which was ominous. He bought ointment and fresh dressings and ducked into the Gents at the pub to unwrap his wound and inspect the damage. As he’d feared, the long jagged lines were inflamed and weeping pus. He dabbed the ointment along the cuts and pressed fresh lint against them before sticking plasters over the top. Someone came in as he was finishing and gave him a strange look but he ignored them.
He had become more relaxed about being a wanted man during the day. Despite his likeness being in millions of newspapers and on TV, no one had accosted him and he remained a free man. The more hours that passed the more confident he became that it would be easy to complete his plan. If necessary he would stay with Frank overnight and wait for the woman to show up again in the village. Then he would kill her, leave the country and start over again.
In the public bar he ordered a pint of best and a cheese ploughmans. He swallowed two more antibiotics and then sipped the rest of the beer slowly, watching the customers in the pub for any signs of interest. He was ignored and he relaxed a little, staying at the bar, half hidden by an upright oak beam. It was almost seven o’clock and the evening rush was starting. When the barman paused to wash and wipe glasses he looked up at Smith eating his crusty bread and cheese with care.
‘On holiday?’
‘No, more’s the pity; probably here on a fool’s errand.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m looking for someone. A woman who, let’s say, borrowed from me and inadvertently forgot to pay me back.’
‘Oh, aye. You can get ’em like that. Bad luck.’ He went back to polishing, his eyes intent on the glass not Smith’s face.
‘Maybe you’ve seen her. Tall, dark haired, some would call her striking. Not from around here.’
‘We get dozens like that, mister. If you’ve got a picture it might help.’
‘Sure,’ he pulled out his wallet and unfolded the press cutting.
The barman took it and stiffened. Smith tried to maintain his look of mild irritation but it was hard swallowing the mouthful of pulp he found he was chewing.
‘Know her?’
‘Could be. Hair’s longer now but there’s not mistaking the face. She came in here once, about a month or so ago.’
‘And you remember her.’
The barman was slow to reply. Smith wanted to shout and scream at him but he took a small sip of beer instead.
‘Who wouldn’t around here?’
‘What’s she done?’
‘Not her, the Nightingales. Fine name, pity about the family.’
The barman paused, obviously feeling that he had said enough. Smith shrugged, hoping that his apparent indifference would be sufficient encourage-ment. It worked; eventually the publican was compelled to add.
‘The Nightingales have been around here for generations. Owned land, ran the mill but they went downhill. In the seventies there were tales of all sorts happening, sort of stuff you wouldn’t want your mother to hear.’
Smith thought about his dead mother and smiled in agreement.
‘Anyroad, when Mr and Mrs Nightingale senior left, their son and daughter lived on at the farm, afore he married. Right goings on. They attracted the wrong sort.’
Smith couldn’t wait any longer.
‘And this woman?’
‘Daughter of one of Nightingale’s liaisons. S’obvious. She uses his name but she’s the spit of that wanton of a mother of hers. Alike as two peas save for she’s tall and ’er mum was a tiny thing.’
Smith discarded this news; all he needed was an address.
‘And you say they lived at a farm. Nearby?’
‘Six–eight miles or so from here. Was flourishing once but the old woman let it go, afore she killed herself.’ He bent forward conspiratorially. ‘Though they persuaded the priest that it was an accident.’ He paused and would have spat if he hadn’t been in his own bar. ‘Bollocks.’
Over a second pint, Smith extracted details of the location of Mill Farm. He drank slowly, conscious of the need to remain alert. He decided to wait until dark and then walk there. From the directions he’d been given, a car would take almost as long and anyway he didn’t think he could face driving again. It would take him a couple of hours, maybe three. And then she would die.
Mrs Ironstrong ran an orderly house and that included guests arriving on time for their meals. She had been prepared to make allowances for the young couple because he’d been in an accident but by the evening some of her patience had run out. He might be an invalid as his ‘wife’ had said and his face was messy enough to believe it but he’d been spry this morning when he left the house. Even the limp had looked forced.
It was half past seven. Dinner ran from six-thirty to eight but as the dining room closed at eight-thirty sharp there was a tacit understanding among her guests that ‘last orders’ were best made before eight o’clock. All the others were sitting at their gingham-covered tables, obedient and appreciative. Except for ‘Mr and Mrs’ Wilmslow. She drew a deep breath, puffed out her ample chest and stalked along the corridor to the back bedroom. Her short rap on the door drew no response, not even the second time.
The master key opened every lock and she used it to peer inside. The room was the same as it had been that morning when she had double-checked the housemaid’s cleaning. If it hadn’t been for a case under the sink and the coat hanging on the back of the door, she would have suspected them of having skipped without paying. The room was stuffy with late afternoon heat. A solitary fly was buzzing around frantically. She hesitated, then went over to the sash window and opened it a crack to let in some fresh evening air. With a shrug, she left the room and relocked the door.
Well after nine o’clock she closed the front door in a huff, leaving all her guests in the TV room apart from the two unaccounted for, and joined her husband in their private sitting room. Sensing her mood, he shrank down in his armchair and edged the volume up a notch on the television. It was always soft anyway as he wasn’t allowed to have it loud in case it disturbed their guests. He was watching the news.
‘They’re not back. I think they’ve gone.’
‘Oh dear.’
It happened once in a while. At least this time their few remaining items of silver were untouched.
‘It makes me mad, Courtney.’
‘Yes dear, of course it does.’
‘What is the world coming to? I mean, look at that there,’ she pointed to a photograph of a young girl that had flashed onto the screen. Ginny’s smiling face held their gaze for a moment before Mrs Ironstrong gathered her wind. ‘I mean, who knows who’s out there. We could be murdered in our beds one day. And what would you do about that! A helpless woman like me.’
Mr Ironstrong winced at this but fortunately it went unnoticed.
‘Helpless. I could be raped! What would you do?’
‘Defend you of course, dear.’
‘Oh really!’ She flounced away, heading for the globe cocktail cabinet. She concentrated on mixing a stiff G&T and didn’t see her husband suddenly sit upright in his chair and punch the volume higher.
‘Ah Irene, I think you need to see this.’
‘Not safe anywhere.’
‘Could you just look Irene, I mean I think that’s…’
‘What are you going on about?’ She spun round taking a long swallow of her drink.
‘Damn, the picture’s gone. I was trying to tell you. They had a photograph that looked like Mrs Wilmslow. It was taken from one of those video cameras so it wasn’t clear but I’m fairly sure it was her.’
‘Why didn’t you say so sooner? What’s she done?’
‘I don’t know. The police want to talk to her.’
‘What about?’ There was a touch of hysteria in her tone.
‘I don’t know you were talking too much. I couldn’t hear.’
Such rebellion was bound to cause an argument but Mrs Ironstrong was silenced immediately by a photograph of a man on the screen. She took charge of the control and turned the volume up full.
‘…is extremely dangerous and not to be approached by members of the public under any circumstances.’
‘He was bandaged. It might not have been him…’
‘Ssh!’ Most unusually she shut up at once.
‘Police advise that Smith may show signs of a recent injury, which they believe was sustained during his latest crime.’
‘What’s he done?’
As if answering her, the newscaster moved into the recap of his main story.
‘So if anyone sees either Wendy Smith of Birmingham [photograph] or David Smith, [photograph] they are to alert the police immediately. They are wanted for questioning in connection with the murder on Monday of Virginia Matthews, the eighteen-year-old killed in her own home in Telford. Under no circumstances should they be approached.’
A telephone number flashed up on the screen and Mr Ironstrong reached for the receiver.
‘Wait. We need to be sure. If we were wrong the embarrassment would be terrible. Her bag’s in the room – lets check that first.’
‘But supposing they come back?’ His voice had dropped to a whisper.
She replied in kind.
‘I’ve bolted the front door. Come on. We have to be sure.’
They crept out of their room and along to the rear of the house. Above them their guests were happily watching TV. Mrs Ironstrong removed her master key and opened the bedroom door again.
‘It stinks in here!’ Her husband wrinkled his nose. ‘Have they left a takeaway in the sun somewhere. I thought you didn’t allow food in the rooms.’
‘Never mind that, Courtney. Go and look in her bag.’
As his wife hovered by the door, her diminutive husband circumnavigated the double bed that dominated the room and picked through the vanity case with the tips of his fingers.
‘Nothing,’ he whispered and came back to her.
‘They must have another bag, try under the bed.’
Shaking his head he bent down on his knees and lifted the valance. A woman’s white hand was curled delicately on top of the fur balls.
‘Oh my God.’
‘What is it, Courtney? What have you found?’ Irene eased her large body around the bed and crouched down beside him, knees creaking. ‘Move over. You’re in my way.’
‘I don’t think you should, Irene.’
‘Nonsense.’ She angled her ample chest towards the floor. ‘I’ve seen enough goings on this house over the years. What sort of mess have they left this time?’
Courtney held his hand protectively over the floral sprigged valance but she brushed it away. He moved to one side with a muttered ‘very well’, giving his wife more room.
‘I can’t see anything. Oh hang on, yes I can, it’s a…’ she jerked back, stared him blankly in the face, and rose to her feet ‘…body.’
The remaining rebellious streak in Courtney’s ego noted with satisfaction the protest of the mattress springs as she fell heavily onto the bed in a faint, and then he went to call the police.
The helicopter ride was a short one. By the time Fenwick arrived at the boarding house, drawn there by the reported sighting of Smith and the discovery of a young woman’s body, he knew that it wasn’t Nightingale. But for sixty agonising minutes, from the first phone call to the rendezvous with MacIntyre he had feared the worst. The horror he had felt then returned momentarily as he entered the cramped bedroom.
The bed had been turned on its side to expose the body, which at MacIntyre’s request, had been left in situ. In the warm night the odour of death permeated the room despite the open window. Local detectives allowed the two men from London scrutiny of the corpse and waited to brief them. As MacIntyre and Fenwick moved to the front room and sat at the table already laid for breakfast Wendy’s body was at last bagged and removed.
MacIntyre read out loud from a summary the locals had prepared for them.
‘The pathologist estimates time of death at not more than twenty-four and not less than fifteen hours ago but we have witness statements that can pinpoint it more accurately than that, assuming Smith’s the killer.
‘She was last seen alive just after ten o’clock as breakfast was finishing and the bandaged man calling himself her husband left before eleven.’
‘Have we had confirmation of matching prints from the room and his cottage yet?’
‘Why the urgency?’
‘Because if it’s him he’s here for a reason. It must be Nightingale.’
MacIntyre opened his mouth to disagree but then contented himself with a shake of his head. Fenwick had been more right than wrong so far but nothing they’d found at Smith’s cottage backed up his concern for his former colleague.
John Oakham, the local SIO, joined them and sat opposite MacIntyre, smoothing the red checked cloth straight.
‘Any idea where he might have gone, John?’
‘No. We have a witness statement that says he was driving a blue Peugeot but that’s all. We think it was Wendy Smith’s car and I’m expecting the registration number any moment. I couldn’t help overhearing some of your earlier conversation. Do you think he had a plan in coming here?’ Oakham directed the question to Fenwick.
‘Yes. I don’t think this area is a random choice. Did you find anything in his room that might help us?’
‘I’ll have it bought in.’
It was a meagre collection, printed and bagged: there was a cheap plastic vanity case with a lipstick, nightdress and an empty purse, with not even a penny in to keep the Devil out, as Fenwick’s mother would have said; the contents of the wastepaper bin including a used Kleenex, part of the wrapping from a tube of mints, an empty paper bag and a till receipt dated the previous day and timed at 9.03 a.m.
‘What did she buy?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The receipt. What was it for? It’s from a local shop, the name’s here.’
‘The mints, perhaps a newspaper that Smith took with him for cover.’
‘It’s for three items, none of them now in the room. She went out, bought something and was then killed. What had Smith asked her to get? We need to find out now.’
John Oldham laughed pleasantly at Fenwick’s terse instruction and looked at MacIntyre who shrugged and then nodded. After the local detective had gone the Superintendent said quietly.
‘Don’t push it, Andrew. They’re bending over backwards to be helpful.’
‘We need to find him. I’m calling Harlden again to see if they have any news.’
He took his mobile into the relative privacy of the hall and dialled Cooper’s home number.
‘Bob, it’s me. Sorry to trouble you at home at this hour. No, it’s not Nightingale but we’re only hours behind the man I think is after her. I’m in Devon. Is there anything you’ve found out from your search that might help me?’
There was a brief pause in which MacIntyre stared at Fenwick trying to work out whether to be amused, indifferent or annoyed.
‘A supermarket where?’ Fenwick called out to Oldham. ‘Barnstable. Is that near here?’
Oldham nodded, suddenly attentive.
‘And she bought groceries there five days ago; you’re sure…? And she’s called the station today. Thanks, Bob. Call me if you hear anything else at all.’
Fenwick rang his messaging service immediately, his face tightening as he listened.
‘She left me a message, this afternoon, with a contact number.’ His mouth was dry as he dialled, then he shook his head in disappointment and mouthed ‘answer service’ before speaking into his phone.
‘Nightingale, ah Louise. It’s Andrew Fenwick. Please call me on my mobile urgently, any time day or night. I’m in Devon. The time is eleven-forty p.m. If you’re in the area and pick up this message, get in your car, lock the doors and make your way to the nearest Police Station. Stop for no one.’
Oldham sat down opposite Fenwick.
‘I’ve someone calling at the local shop now to find out what Wendy Smith bought.’
‘I’m missing something.’ Fenwick shook his head. ‘I’m sure there’s more I could be doing.’ He paced the small room, circling the breakfast tables. ‘Her brother.’
‘But you’ve spoken to him.’ MacIntrye argued reasonably. ‘He had no idea where she is.’
‘I know but we have an identified area now.’
Oldham’s officer returned from the shop and reported to his boss while Fenwick waited to be put through to Simon’s home.
‘The shopkeeper remembers her well. He says that she was in a right state. She bought a map, took her a while to find the right one and he had to help her. She said that it had to be of the area around Clovelly and be to the largest scale they had. I borrowed one just like it.’
Fenwick watched them spread it out on the table as he reached Simon Nightingale. He explained where he was and asked whether there was any reason that his sister might be nearby. The colour drained from his face as he listened to the response. Oakham and MacIntyre sensed his intensity and waited for him to finish his call in silence
‘Her aunt had a farm in these parts. Her brother didn’t think she’d be there because it’s a semi-ruin now. He hardly ever went there and his directions are really vague but he said that it’s somewhere near Clovelly.’
‘Wendy Smith bought a map of the area at nine this morning.’ MacIntyre said, not meeting Fenwick’s eye.
‘How did Smith know where to find her?’ Fenwick answered his own question with a brusque shake of the head. ‘That’s irrelevant. We need to find him before he finds her.’
Oakham looked worried.
‘We’re not a big force out here. I’ll get on to Operations right away but if she’s in the wilds somewhere up a private road, we’d have better odds finding the proverbial needle tonight.’
MacIntryre, in contrast, had a determined grin on his face.
‘You get your team moving as quickly as you can, John, and leave the rest to me. You could say that this is one of my specialities.’
He was humming the theme tune from
Mission Impossible
as he picked up the phone.
Twelve-fifteen and the cliff-top car park held more cars than Fenwick would have expected until a local bobby explained that tourists were not allowed to drive down the precipitous slope into the village. The blue Peugeot was badly parked beneath a rowan tree, heavy with berries. It was empty, with not even a sweet wrapper in the ash tray.
Fenwick looked around in case Nightingale’s car was nearby but there was no sign of it.
‘That means she’s not staying in the village,’ he said to MacIntyre.
‘Smith might be. We should wait here until we have more resources. If we alert him with a half-hearted house-to-house he could disappear into the night without our even knowing he’s gone.’