Authors: Michael Wood
He took one step away from the door, while she was saying ‘you’re welcome, and something else, which he interrupted: ‘By the way, I’m just popping into the kitchen to turn the heating thermostat down for the night...would you like a look?’
Come on...come on...come...
‘Are you sure...you won’t get into trouble?’
Got You!
‘I’m not supposed to show anybody around, but...well...you won’t tell anybody will you?’
‘No, of course not.’
He had the front door key ready in his bag. He waited until she got out of the car, left her mobile phone,
good
, left her jacket, picked up her handbag,
didn’t matter
. He climbed the stone steps, opened the door, turned to usher her inside.
He closed the front door, flicked two switches. Wall lights lit up the panelled hall. Behind the door, a monitor screen flickered on and displayed the entrance gates.
‘What’s that?’
‘Security monitor…he’s got them everywhere. That’s the entrance gates you’re looking at.’
He started to walk down the hall, Helen following. Past the dining room, the serving room, to the kitchen, once the gun room. He switched on the lights as he led her in.
‘Wow!’ she said, as she took it all in. The best of everything was on display - appliances, space, luxury. ‘I could enjoy myself in here,’ she said as she walked about, looking and touching.
Eventually: ‘What a waste...just standing here... unused?’
‘Would you like to see the main bathroom...it’s even better?’
‘Yes...I’d love to...if it’s alright.’
‘It’s upstairs,’ he said, and walked out of the kitchen.
She followed him along a corridor, and up a grand, wide staircase of carved oak. Along a narrow landing, past two doors, and through a third door. He switched on the light as he led her in.
This time she didn’t say anything; she just stared, mouth open. The marble floors, walls and columns were in Greek style. A huge sunken bath in the shape of a heart, gold fittings, special lighting effects, ankle deep white rugs, space. It was completely over the top and she didn’t like it.
‘Impressive,’ was all she could manage, eventually.
Hector moved across the bathroom to a second door. ‘This leads to the master bedroom.’ He didn’t ask her if she wanted to see it; he just opened it and walked through. She followed.
He moved slowly around the large, high ceilinged room,
give her time to enjoy, don’t rush, down to studio next, then....
‘Can we go out here?’ She was standing at a large glass door that opened on to a balcony, which overlooked the lake and the surrounding fells.
He hesitated. ‘Yes.
’ Mustn’t rush, keep calm.
He found the key and opened the door for her. She stepped outside…he followed.
‘What a wonderful view,’ she said. ‘You can almost see the whole lake from here. I thought we had a nice view, but this.... Yes...tell your Mr Samson we will definitely buy this when we win the lottery.’
There was a long silence as she slowly scanned up and down the lake and studied the fells opposite, now starting to dim in the evening light. ‘I can see Catbells... Grizedale Pike...Dale Head...Barf, and Lords Seat, and Sale Fell,’ she enthused. ‘We can only see Lords Seat and Sale Fell from the cottage.’
A dramatic sunset was starting to outline the trees on Sale Fell. ‘Are you a fell walker, Ian?’
‘No…not really...I like to photograph them…but I’m not a walker.’ Two sniffs.
‘Photography, eh! That’s an interesting hobby...’
‘Would you like to see some photographs of my wife...she was beautiful.’
You rushed that, slow down; you were going to do the pity thing later.
‘...Yes...that would be nice...’
You’ve still got her, calm down.
‘They’re in the studio downstairs.’
He led her from the balcony, back through the bedroom, down the stairs, along the hallway, to the main lounge.
He moved the rocking chair, and kicked the rug aside, revealing the trapdoor. She started to say something, he interrupted: ‘Promise not to tell anybody.’
‘About what?’
He lifted the trapdoor. ‘This is Jed Samson’s recording studio...not many people know about it...he wanted to keep it secret...’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know...I was told not to ask questions...I have to make sure it stays at a warm temperature to protect all the equipment from condensation and damp.’
‘And your photographs are down there?’
She looks unsure, is she suspicious, be convincing.
‘Yes...I hang them around the studio walls...it’s all wood panelling...it’s ideal...I can remove them quickly if ever he came here...’
she’s looking at her watch.
‘It’s getting late, Ian. Maybe I could come back another day...’
She’s backing out, she’s worried, do something or you’ll have to hurt her, you don’t want to do that.
‘It won’t take a minute...I can show you my little girl as well...she died with her mother...she was beautiful as well...’
The pity thing again, good move,
they can’t resist the pity thing.
‘Alright, but I can’t stay long. My husband will be wondering where I’ve got to.’
He led her down the steps, switching a light on as he went, along a passage, into a larger space, stopping at a large door. To the left, the paraphernalia of the control room, idle, beneath a window looking into the studio, dark.
With a key, he opened the first of the three-inch-thick insulated doors, pulling it towards him. He pushed the second of the three-inch-thick doors inwards and followed it in, into the dark room. He stood holding it and invited Helen to step forward into the avenue of light cast on the floor by the open door.
Helen stepped forward and he walked behind her and walked out, closing the door behind him. He closed the second door and turned the key in a hurry, just in case she screamed. He didn’t want to hear her scream.
He switched on the studio lights, moved to the swivelling chair in the Control Room to watch her through the window.
There she was...goldfish in a bowl...looking at the photographs...laughing or screaming...mouth opening… closing...eyes wide...arms swimming... his…forever... waving...banging on the window...hope she doesn’t hurt herself...nice to look after...nice face…better than Vilma...I’m going to shit myself…the excitement.
He switched on the interconnecting microphone. ‘Helen...excuse me, but I have to go to the toilet.’
Her hands went to her ears; he liked it loud.
‘If you want to go...there’s a bucket. Rest on the mattress, and put that clamp around your ankle...I’ll tighten it up when I get back...put your car keys on the floor...be good...I don’t want to hurt you...I want to love you...I’ll bring you some food.’
He swivelled the chair to leave, then remembered something, and swivelled back. He pressed one of a multitude of switches to his left, and heard the love duet from Madame Butterfly start up.
That’s better...everything back to normal now.
He celebrated with a full swivel before he left the room.
Chapter 35
Helen’s failure to return from work did not worry Ben. Occasionally, when she worked late, and needed an early start the next morning, she would stay overnight at a nearby hotel or guesthouse, to save time spent on the car journey. No doubt, she would phone after her evening meal and let him know where she was.
He spent the evening re-reading ‘The Serial Killers’. He recalled having read something about bondage on the first reading, but hadn’t made notes, because, at the time, it didn’t seem relevant to the type of killings he was dealing with.
Now, he was looking for something to explain the connection between one chained body found on a road, and many unchained bodies found on the fells all having the regular ‘signature’ pattern of killing. Were there any precedents for this?
In the chapter ‘The Power Syndrome’, he read that some serial killers have a propensity for enslavement of women. Numerous cases were cited. All were carried out by shy, inadequate, unattractive men who had a craving for recognition. The enslavements were motivated by the desire for power rather than sex, to relieve their sense of inferiority and replace it with a sense of being
master.
The period of captivity ranged from a few days to seven years. The women were usually, but not always, abused during captivity, and then killed.
From all the evidence at Ben’s disposal, it looked as though poor Vilma Tapales had been kept prisoner by Hector Snodd for close to four years. Why? He didn’t sound inadequate; he had held down a reasonable job; he’d had a wife and child. But so had some of the killers in the book. It was how they perceived themselves that was crucial, not how others perceived them.
The question of
why
could be left for later.
Where
, was the important question. Vilma had been found about a mile from his cottage. After four years of confinement, she could not have been fit. She was carrying a heavy chain and a chunk of concrete. She was naked. She could not have walked far with bare feet. Therefore, her place of captivity had to be close to where she was found.
Ben glanced at his watch: 11.00 p.m, and no call from Helen. This wasn’t like her; she always rang. As the evening progressed he grew increasingly anxious. At midnight he tried her mobile. It rang out, but she didn’t answer.
He phoned the leisure centre, in case she was still there for some reason - maybe a boiler had blown up, or some other kind of accident. He got the routine answering machine message.
He didn’t know which of the hundreds of hotels and guesthouses in Windermere she had gone to. There were too many to phone, particularly at that time of night. He thought of phoning other members of staff, but it was late, and they might think that Helen and him didn’t communicate. It would be embarrassing for her when she turned up at work the next morning.
There had to be a simple explanation. She had probably had a really hard day, and fallen asleep after the evening meal and a couple of drinks. He shouldn’t worry. She was nothing if not worldly wise. She knew how to look after herself
His head hit the pillow at 12.35 a.m. At 1.15, he was still awake, worrying. He finally got to sleep about 4.00, and woke up suddenly at 8.47. Helen would be at work by now.
He picked up the bedside phone and punched the Leisure Centre number. He recognised the receptionist’s voice. ‘Good morning, Maria, could you put me through to Helen please...it’s Ben.’
‘I’m not sure she’s in yet, Ben. I’ll just check.’ A long, hope filled, pause. ‘No....nobody has seen her yet, this morning.’
‘Do you know what time she left last night?’
‘No…I don’t. She was still here when I left at 5. You’d need to ask one of the late shift supervisors…they’ll be in at 2 this afternoon. Is anything wrong?’
‘No....no… She stayed in Windermere last night. I was just checking to see if she’d had plenty of sleep...you know what she’s like…’
‘We know...we’re always telling her she works too hard. She’ll be putting a bed in her office one of these days. Maybe she’s slept in for a change...do her good. As soon as she comes in, Ben, I’ll get her to ring you, okay?’
‘Yes...right...thanks, Maria.’
He tried her mobile again. No reply.
He showered, dressed and had breakfast in an expectant, but uninterrupted hour. He went outside and fed the wildlife, leaving the conservatory door open. He trundled the wheelie bin to its collection point, leaving the front door open. The phone didn’t ring. He tidied up and washed the dishes. The phone didn’t ring.
Using yellow pages, he rang the four hotels closest to the leisure centre. She hadn’t stayed with any of them.
It was 11.30 a.m. Something was wrong. He rang Maria again.
‘No…we haven’t seen her yet. We were going to ring you to see if she had turned up at home. Apparently she’s missed two appointments already...it’s not like her....’
‘Thanks, Maria.’
He rang Helen’s sister who lived 30 miles away. They were close; maybe there was a family problem he knew nothing about; maybe Helen had a problem she could only discuss with her sister. She wasn’t there. He made a lame excuse for the call.
He tried to stay calm, think logically, in spite of his churning stomach. Who had last spoken to her? How had she appeared to them? He needed to go to the leisure centre, talk to the afternoon shift.
He drove fast on the road to Windermere, tried to ignore the pervasive beauty.
At 1.30 p.m, he was reading the papers on her desk, looking for notes, messages, anything, finding nothing. By 1.55 p.m, he had spoken to the morning shift supervisors. Nothing unusual to report, she had seemed fine, been her usual, cheerful self.
At 2.00 p.m, he waited in the reception area as the afternoon shift supervisors took over from the morning supervisors, exchanging information, messages.
They came to see him, having got the message about Helen’s non-appearance. He had met them once or twice before. Paul was the pool supervisor. Brian looked after the dry side.
‘I saw her twice yesterday,’ Brian said, in answer to Ben’s question. ‘We had a chat in her office at the start of my shift, about 2 o’clock. She seemed fine. Then she came to see me in the sports hall at about 7 o’clock last night. She seemed okay...maybe a bit tired...’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘What about you, Paul? When did you last see her? Did she seem okay to you?’
‘Yes, she was fine all day. I see her all the time through the pool window....’
‘Did you see her leave?’
‘Yes...she went about 8 o’clock...’
‘Was she on her own?’
‘Yes…she waved goodnight...’
‘Did you see her get into her car?’
‘I did actually. After she’d gone, I came out to the reception area, looking for a member of staff who’d disappeared. I looked outside the front door to see if he was sneaking a smoke in the car park. I didn’t see him, but I saw Helen get in her car and drive away.’
‘Was she definitely on her own?’
‘Yes...as far as I could see. She passed pretty close to me, and waved again...I didn’t see anybody else in the car.’
‘Did she mention to either of you that she was staying overnight in Windermere?’
Both heads shook. ‘No…no,’ Paul added: ‘I’m pretty sure she was going home. Whenever she stays in Windermere she lets us know, so we know where to contact her in an emergency...its routine.’
‘God, this is hopeless!’ Ben snapped. ‘Where the hell is she?’
The two supervisors stared, uncomfortably, at the floor.
‘Did anything at all unusual happen yesterday..
.
anything
? Even if it had nothing to do with Helen.’
‘Paul paid for the...coffee.’ Brian’s joke died in his mouth.
Paul frowned fiercely at him.
‘Sorry,’ Brian sighed.
‘Anything, other than that?’ Ben said, cuttingly.
Brian shuffled his feet, and looked at the ceiling. ‘No…I really don’t think so. I had a routine sort of day.’
Ben turned to Paul.
Paul stood, concentrating, gently shaking his head, as he ran the day back through his mind.
‘Anything,’
Ben reminded him.
‘The only thing...but I can’t see any relevance...was we had a bloke walk off the job before his shift was over. That’s who I was looking for when I saw Helen in the…car....’
They realised it together. ‘Who is he?’ Ben demanded.
‘A new bloke,’ Paul stuttered. ‘A new casual; he’s only been with us a couple of days.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Ben’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t allow himself to believe anything yet - he wouldn’t function. ‘Name...address?’ he asked, deliberately.
‘Ian something,’ Paul stammered. ‘It’s in the office.’ He walked away quickly. Ben followed. Brian looked lost.
In the staff office, Paul opened a filing cabinet and produced a grey file. He lifted a form from it. ‘Ian Thomson,’ he announced. 12, Bank Street, Keswick. Telephone number 017687 76413. National Insurance number....’
Ben grabbed the form. ‘I’ll borrow that...’
‘You can’t,’ Paul protested. ‘I shouldn’t even have read it to you...it’s all protected information under the Data Protection Act.
‘Fuck the Data Protection Act. What did this bloke look like? Was he tall, short, thin, fat...?’
‘He was small, about 5 foot 6, very thin…gingerish... sandy hair...’
‘Accent?’
‘Hard to tell...a bit Scottish I think.’
‘Did he sniff?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Did he sniff…you know...up his nose.’ Ben gave a demonstration.
‘Yes...he...’
Ben turned, knocked over a chair, sprinted through the office doorway, across the reception area, fought with the main door, fought with his mind, it can’t be happening, there has to be another explanation.
He drove, dangerously fast, on the road back to Keswick. The beauty didn’t exist. His mind was trapped in a surreal world, swimming between reality and unreality. Was this real? Was it happening to somebody else? Terrible things only happened to other people. Not to people like Helen, like him. Half of him wanted to let it go, pretend it wasn’t happening. The other half shouted FOCUS - STAY FOCUSSED – IT’S REAL – IT’S UP TO YOU.
He wasn’t sure who was winning when he jarred to a halt in Bank Street, Keswick. It was in the town centre, a right angle offshoot from the main shopping street, the shops in it suffering poor income in comparison.
Ben ran along the short street and soon found number 12. By the sound of the name above the shop window, it had once been a ladies dress shop. Now it was up for sale, boarded up, rusting nails, flapping notices, graffiti.
Ben felt equally empty and desolate. Up to this point, other scenarios had been possible. Not now.
He went through the motions of crossing the road to a telephone booth and trying the number on the form. It was, of course, not recognised.
He stood in a quiet street and stared into space. He didn’t know what to do.
A few minutes later, he was approaching the cottage. The sight of the cottage, nestling in its beautiful surroundings, lifted him. It always did; it was home, and Helen, and contentment. He would walk in and she would be there, apologising for not contacting him, explaining her disappearance. He wouldn’t listen. It didn’t matter. He would hold her so tight they might fuse. He would hold her till the trembling stopped.