Authors: Michael Wood
Ben started to read:
‘Investigations into the Filipino ‘slave’ case have moved to the tiny community of Strathy Point in Sutherland where Vilma Tapales was last seen, four years ago, at the funerals of her best friend, Mrs Leni Snodd, and Mrs Snodd’s five year old daughter, Grace.
After the funerals, she is known to have stayed for a few days with Mrs Snodd’s husband, Hector, in his isolated croft house. When questioned by police, four years ago, about her non-arrival back in the Philippines, Mr Snodd is reported to have said that she left his house to catch her return flight, and that was the last he saw of her.
In response to continued pressure from Ms Tapales’s parents since that time, police had carried out further investigations throughout the country without success, and she had remained on their ‘missing persons’ list, until the recent discovery of her chained body on the A591 in Cumbria.
Police are now anxious to trace the whereabouts of Mr Snodd, who subsequently left the area a few months after his wife and child’s death. Snodd, 33, who worked as a concrete laboratory technician at the nearby Dounreay nuclear plant, is reported to be 5’ 5’ tall, of slim
build, with thinning, sandy coloured hair. Local police said he was known to have suffered depressive episodes after being made redundant, and he was charged with causing the death of his wife and child due to dangerous driving while under the influence of alcohol. For that offence, he was given a two years suspended jail sentence, and banned from driving for five years, the judge in the case stating that the sentence was lenient because Snodd had ‘already suffered irreparable loss.’
Ben was so busy methodically extracting the facts to his notebook, that he almost missed the significance of what he was reading. Then it suddenly hit him. ‘JESUS CHRIST!’ he whispered. ‘IT COULD BE HIM’
He stared, unbelievingly, at the paper. ‘What were the chances of that? None! It had to be the vibrations.
Thank God for the vibrations.’
He held his breath as he re-read the paragraph. It was all there - the unstable character, the right location, the right industry, the job loss, the move from the area, the Tapales link to the Lake District. Even his job was definitive - a concrete laboratory technician; there had to be chemicals involved - the source of the sniff.
He paused, waiting for the inevitable doubts to appear. They had shown up so many times in the past, like unwelcome relatives, he awaited them with certainty, and foreboding. And sure enough, with the adrenalin flash calming, they pushed their way in.
He still had nothing to link the A591 Tapales incident to the rest of the killings. If it was murder, and had been committed by Snodd, then it was totally different from all the others, and therefore didn’t fit the usual ‘signature’ pattern of a serial killer. If it wasn’t murder, and just an accident, then her link to him and the Lake District could be pure coincidence. The whole ‘bondage’ aspect of it didn’t seem to fit anything at all.
That was it - no more doubts emerged. He felt enormous relief. They were all just doubts after all; doubts that, he hoped, could eventually be explained away. They weren’t the usual hard facts coming to knock his house of evidence down again. This time the evidence was compelling. This time he felt he had won.
He sat back in his armchair, and drew a deep, trembling, breath. His long journey was almost over. He had probably named his man. ‘Hector Snodd,’ he said out loud. It felt strange to have a name to deal with. Somehow it brought the terrifying reality closer. He was no longer looking for an anonymous killer, someone who existed in the distance. Now he had a name, he could see him, hiding in the forest, looming on the fell, standing outside his window.
And now he had to find him before he drenched the fells with blood again. Where was he...? Instinctively, he looked out of the conservatory window and searched the distant fells for an answer. A dark evening sky had started to blur them. Helen was late.
Chapter 34
The multi-coloured ball arched through the air and landed at his feet. ‘Throw the ball back, skinny,’ the podgy, shaven-headed boy shouted, while treading water.
Hector slowly bent down to pick it up. He needed to move slowly to control the anger, couldn’t stand being called names. He wanted to hold that shaven head under the water, feel the struggle, watch the eyes bulge.
He threw the ball back hard and hit the boy on the head before he had time to get his hands into a catching position. That would have to do. The boy was about to protest, but caught the look in Hector’s eyes, and quietly swam away.
Hector turned and caught sight of himself in the reflecting windows that surrounded the pool. He did look skinny in the baggy uniform. The red shorts and bright yellow shirt of the Royal Life Saving Society were too big for him, even though they were the smallest the supervisor could find. It didn’t matter - the bigger they were, the better his chance of success.
The plan had gone well so far. Three days ago he had followed his target from home to work, arriving at 8.30 a.m. Inside the leisure centre, he had watched her pass through a door marked ‘manager’, and saw her sitting at a desk, through the window overlooking the swimming pool.
He had spotted the advertisement on the notice board seeking to recruit part-time pool attendants and, over a coffee in the cafeteria, eyes taking in the exits, his plan had formed.
Outside the building, he found the nearest bus stop, and noted that he could walk from it to the leisure centre without being seen from the centre, by taking the path around the car park, which was protected by a high privet hedge. He had watched her leave at 6.15 p.m.
Two days ago he had returned to the pool with towel and swimming shorts. He had taken a swim, and noted again that he could see her at her desk through the window overlooking the pool. He had also noted the position of the staff changing room, close to the emergency exit, at the end of the pool opposite the manager’s office. He had surreptitiously opened the emergency exit door and been pleased to find that it led directly to the path outside of the building.
While still in the pool, he had spoken to the pool supervisor about applying for a part-time attendant’s job. He had passed the basic swimming test given to him there and then, and agreed to attend a course to become a fully qualified lifeguard. The supervisor had given him a form to fill in, stating his name, address, telephone number, and national insurance number, and asked him to start the next day. He had negotiated hours from 5.00 p.m to 8.00 p.m.
Yesterday, he had handed in the completed form, and gone through the staff induction procedures, during which he had been given his bright red and yellow uniform, and copies of the ‘Normal Operating Procedures’ and ‘Emergency Action Plans’ to study at home.
The supervisor had taken him through some health and safety drills, fire drills, drowning incident drills, gas escape drills, and some admin procedures. He was then taken through the rules of the pool, in which he learned about zoning, the area of surveillance, station rotation, and what to watch out for.
Finally, he was given a daily job list, which, as well as observing the pool, included cleaning the changing rooms, filling the vending machines, and testing the water for chlorine content and calcium hardness.
He hadn’t anticipated these off-pool duties, and was concerned that he might not be in a position to see her when she left for home. At 6.30 p.m, the supervisor had taken him to meet her in her office. She had been as nice as he had expected. Her hand had been warm and soft against his, her smile had been even better close up; her voice had been gentle and welcoming.
When he watched his new companion leave at 7.04 p.m, still smiling, he knew he had made the right choice.
*
Now he was on poolside duty, patrolling near the emergency exit, watching her through the office window. His clothes were in his sports bag in the nearby staff changing room, tracksuit bottom on top, ready.
At 6.46 p.m, she stood up from her desk and moved away from it. He tensed ready. She came out of the office without her briefcase, and disappeared down a corridor leading to the sports hall and squash courts. He relaxed.
At 7.00 p.m, the supervisor asked him to hose out the men’s changing room while there was nobody in it. She hadn’t returned; he might miss her. He dashed to the changing room, turned the water on full pressure and blasted the seating and floor, as instructed. It took him 14 minutes.
Back on the poolside, her office was still empty. Was she still in the building, or had she gone home? His stomach leaked acid. It had to be tonight; the information on the forms was all false; he couldn’t come back tomorrow.
He marched up and down, grinding his teeth, ignoring his job, the screams of delighted children. She was back. Slow down, stay calm.
The supervisor was watching him. He looked at the children, walked slowly up and down, looked at her, looked at the supervisor, time was getting on.
At 7.30 p.m, she was still at her desk. He was off duty at 8.00; if she left later than 8.30 she might not see him in the dark. He willed her to move, the acid returned.
At 7.40 p.m, she stood up, lifted her briefcase on to the desk, and started to load it. Hector walked quickly to the staff changing room. He pulled his tracksuit bottom on over his shorts, grabbed his bag, and poked his head out of the room. When the supervisor wasn’t looking his way, he walked straight to the emergency exit, opened the door, left the building, closed the door.
He ran along the path, beside the privet hedge. At a pedestrian gap in the hedge he stopped and looked into the car park. His heart pounded in his ears as he watched and waited. Here she came, out of the building, walking to her car. He ran the short distance to the bus stop, and stood on the edge of the kerb. Now the bright yellow shirt had to do its job.
He saw her distinctive old Saab come out of the car park and turn towards him. He turned his back and looked the other way. She had to see the shirt. And if she was as nice as she seemed, she had to stop.
He heard the car approach. He stopped breathing. The engine was building up power; she was going to pass him. The car was level with him when it screeched to a halt. She was waving at him.
He approached the car. She leaned over and opened the passenger door. ‘It’s Ian isn’t it?’ she smiled through tired eyes.
‘Yes’.
‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘Yes...please.’ He lowered himself into the seat, noticed her jacket hanging in the back, handbag and briefcase on the back seat, mobile phone in the centre console. He put his bag on the floor, between his legs. ‘Thanks, Mrs Foxley.’
‘Call me Helen, please. How’s your first day been?’ she asked, as she pulled away.
‘Fine...yes...good.’
‘You’ll soon get into the swing of things...you’ve got a good bunch to work with.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going as far as Bassenthwaite. Where can I drop you?’
‘Same place.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I live near Bassenthwaite as well.’
‘Really...whereabouts?’
‘Do you know the big house overlooking the lake...Scarness Manor?’
‘Yes...Jed Samson’s place.’
‘I’m the caretaker there.’ He was glad she had heard of Jed Samson.
‘Good heavens! We’re neighbours, and we’ve never met. I live at Scarness Cottage, just outside the Manor grounds. Did you know?’
‘No.’
‘Have you been at the Manor long? It’s a wonder we haven’t bumped into each other along the lane or in the village?’
‘Just a few weeks.’ He sniffed twice; he usually did when he lied.
‘And is your wife with you? Maybe she...’
‘She died.’
Better say more; act natural.
‘It’s a bit lonely on your own in that big house. So that’s why I’ve come to work at the pool...to be among people.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Ian.’ She left it at that; she didn’t pry.
Later, as the car passed through Ambleside’s narrow streets, she said: ‘I take it you can you manage the two jobs. We need people we can rely on.’
‘Its no problem…I do all my caretaker work during the day...it’s mostly gardening. I was just watching television in the evening anyway...I was bored.’
‘Good for you…I wish we could find more like you.’
He wanted to kiss her on the cheek for saying nice things; he hoped she would always say nice things when she was his companion.
Not long now, don’t rush things, let her do all the leading, she’ll ask the right questions, women are inquisitive, be patient.
Silence followed as she drove slowly around the bounds of Grasmere lake, past Dove Cottage where Wordsworth lived, where sylvan beauty stopped conversations.
Then, out of the valley and up the hill, to bleak Dunmail Raise where Dunmail, the last king of Cumberland, was buried in 945 AD.
‘Does Jed Samson ever use the Manor? We’ve lived at Scarness for nearly four years now, and we’ve never seen him.’
She was taking the bait.
‘The agent told me he hasn’t used it for years. I’ve never met him, or spoken to him. I just work for the agent.’
‘Is it all still furnished? I mean, if he turned up tomorrow with his latest family, would everything be ready for them?’
‘Just about...there’s a typed list of things to do on the kitchen notice board...his wife would love the kitchen...I could have everything ready in a couple of hours.’
‘The kitchen’s a bit special is it?’
‘Terrific. Everything’s old except the kitchen and main bathroom. He must have had them rebuilt. They’re like you see in them posh magazines...like film star’s places.’
Don’t overdo it!
‘It sounds lovely. But it’s all just sitting there, unused. Doesn’t seem right somehow. Tell him, if ever we win the lottery, we’ll buy it off him. I could do with a bigger kitchen.’
‘Will do.’
The seed was planted. Now he had to make sure she took him right up to the Manor, didn’t just drop him off at the entrance gate.
He found the seat adjustment lever and pulled it. The seat’s back went down and him with it. ‘Didn’t get much sleep last night,’ he yawned, and closed his eyes.
Ten minutes seemed a long time, mind racing behind closed eyes, planning ahead,
her blouse smelt nice
, she must not take the phone in.
He felt the car turn sharp left, down a steep slope, into their lane,
not long now
. Another mile and she stopped the car. He knew they were at the Manor gates, where she would want to drop him. He didn’t move.
A pause, and they were moving again. Into the Manor grounds, along the dual carriageway, then the unmade bit, then the gravel outside the front door. He didn’t move.
‘Ian.’ She was shaking his shoulder; he wanted to touch her hand. He pretended to wake up, blinking, yawning.
‘We’re here.’
He pulled the seat upright, and looked around. ‘Oh, sorry...you should have woken me at the gate...I could have walked the rest.’
He picked his bag off the floor.
‘Big place,’ she said, looking at the imposing entrance. ‘Which part of it do you live in?’
He pointed. ‘That bit sticking out over there...its a separate cottage.’
He opened the car door, and got out.
She wasn’t biting, she wasn’t asking, plan B
. ‘Thanks again, Mrs Foxley...I’ll see you tomorrow.’