Authors: Max China
"It's this one," the taller man said, dipping his head slightly as he stepped through the door.
Brenda struggled to break free, but the swarthy looking man held her easily.
"Get off me!" she yelled. "What are you doing in there - get out of my house!"
"Stop struggling, old woman, we don't want to hurt you."
The tall man re-emerged from Vera's old room and nodded at his accomplice. "I know where she is," he said.
On the way out the taller one stopped by the front door and held his left hand out, hovering where once the water butt had been.
Once they'd gone, a mystified Brenda Flynn walked into Vera's old room. She never changed it at all, dusting round occasionally. Nothing seemed out of place. Except for the bed, it looked as if someone had laid on it.
Why would that be?
She notified the police.
Chapter 139
Tuesday April 10
th
Wind blew through the air with a vengeance, twisting sheets of rain into phantom forms and sweeping the car park, filled it with puddles in seconds. The sunny spirits of the past few days were dampened, replaced by pervasive gloom. Trapped by the weather in the car, Miller and Kennedy waited for the rain to ease.
"By the way, there was a break-in at Dr Ryan's last night. I thought you might like to know," Kennedy said, looking grim.
"Well that's good of you, but what does it have to do with me?"
"They broke into his filing cabinet and took several files. According to the index, one of them was yours."
"Mmm, you say they broke into his filing cabinet. Did they not break into his office?"
"No, they had keys, they left them behind. We ran a couple of checks; Stella Bird still has her keys. We found the name Penny McAllister on the key holder records from a long time back. I think we can be reasonably sure they were hers."
"Reasonably sure - how can you be?" Miller said, perturbed. Kennedy was one of those people he just couldn't read at all.
"Because when we called to talk to her, we found her dead, strangled with one of her own stockings."
Miller whistled, "Jesus, is there any chance you can tell me who the other files were?"
"Patient confidentiality, it wouldn't be right to tell you." Kennedy tapped his nose. "Anyway, why are you so interested?"
"I'm not sure really, just yes or no . . . was one of the missing files that of Vera Flynn, or The Sister or someone like that?"
"Yes," Kennedy said, "it was. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious, I don't suppose you'll tell me which others are missing?"
Kennedy cleared his throat, "No other files were missing."
Miller sat in silent contemplation.
The detective continued, "We have intelligence from a good source that a pseudo-religious group is planning to kidnap her."
"Really . . . and why would they want to do that?"
"I don't know, but something's going on. Her aunt reported a strange incident yesterday. Two men forced their way into her home; they didn't take anything, but according to her, one of them said, after he'd been in Vera Flynn's bedroom:
I know where she is …
and when you take that piece of information, along with the email correspondence found on McAllister's computer . . . I think we can safely say Vera Flynn is in danger." Kennedy brightened. "Hey, look the rain's stopping. Give it another couple of minutes, we can go inside."
Miller looked at Kennedy and shook his head in mock dismay, "You're unreal."
"Before I forget . . . I didn't tell you about Jackie Solomons did I? She was in the cabinet at Dr Ryan's too—"
"Wait a minute; I met her at Ryan's funeral—"
"And?" the detective said.
"Nothing . . . just seems a strange coincidence, that's all."
"Where was I? Oh, yes. Do you know something, Miller? The man that tried to kill her - she said he reeked of tobacco smoke. It stuck in my mind for ages afterwards. It was such a general thing, not much of a clue, but she kept saying it to me back then as if she didn't want to forget . . ."
Miller half-turned towards him in driver's seat, his stomach growling with hunger, he couldn't wait for the rain to stop so they could continue the discussion over breakfast. It was such a cold case; there wasn't any need to worry if someone eavesdropped on them.
"And after the reek of tobacco, it was how big his hands were . . ." his frown deepened as he struggled to recall the details; he was doing well without any notes. "No, not his actual hands, but the knuckles. They were big and scarred, like the knuckles of a boxer or bare fist fighter. She never got a look at his face; he ordered her to look down . . . her friends weren't close enough for a good look, so all we had was three things."
"Three things?"
"That's right. He's a fighter; he smokes, and he left his semen at the scene of the crime, in a manner of speaking," Kennedy said, with an apologetic grin. He looked for a reaction, but Miller remained impassive. He cut a smear with the edge of his palm and peered through the condensation on the windscreen, looking skyward, to see if the rain showed any signs of stopping. Miller settled back into his seat, before finally making a statement.
"No matches, even after all these years . . ." his head shook from side to side, in silent disapproval. "To my way of thinking, there are a number of things to consider—"
Kennedy interrupted him. "There was actually something else she said; it was a really hot day, but he wore a boiler suit. At the time, we guessed he might be a mechanic or something like that . . ."
Miller paused, thought about what Kennedy had just said, and continued, holding up the forefinger of his right hand. "Whether or not it was the first and only time he intended to kill that day, he dressed for it - to avoid cross-contamination between them. He inseminated her so we can conclude he intended to dispose of the body quickly. If her friends hadn't intervened, you wouldn't have found her. I believe he's done this before. This man has never come up on the radar, never had a sample taken." He fixed Kennedy with an intense stare. "Do you know how many young women go missing without a trace every year? This character could have killed many times before."
Kennedy sighed, "We considered all those things and more . . . It's also possible he died before committing another crime, or before we got to him."
Staring up into the dark clouds, Miller didn't hesitate in his response, "He's not dead."
"
You
can't say that, Miller," Kennedy retorted, "not without a shred of evidence." He stared through the misted glass. "I, on the other hand, can. You know, a few weeks ago, I was in a lift with a character, a big, rough looking man. I'd never seen him before. There was only him and me. He was looking down, but I noticed him watching me, caught the devilish glint of them from under his eyebrows. And I noticed the smell of stale tobacco, so strong and overpowering . . . I didn't need to look at his hands. I
knew
what I'd see. Yes, that's right - the hands of a bare-knuckle fighter. My gut told me I was in the presence of the man who had committed that crime. I just knew it. If you could arrest someone on a gut feeling, I'd have arrested him there and then. We made the briefest eye contact. I knew then he was going to attack me, but the lift stopped, and more people got on. He hesitated, and then got off.
"Afterwards, I tried to disregard my instincts, but you know what? I remembered a case in
Gibraltar in the late eighties; the SAS had shadowed some IRA suspects. One of the SAS men exchanged a look with one of the suspects a split second before the shooting began. At the inquest afterwards, the soldier testified there was recognition on both sides of what was about to happen.
He seemed to know . . .
"
It was the same in that lift. The minute I laid eyes on his knuckles, and he saw me looking,
he knew.
Whether he left the lift early because of that, I couldn't say, but I know it was him, and although I curse I missed my chance, I also know he wouldn't have come quietly. It would have been like a ten-year-old trying to arrest a full-grown man. I also got the impression," he paused for reflection, "that he knew me, not from any kind of instinct though. I think he knew my face; I got that feeling as well."
Miller looked sideways at him. "So
you
get a
feeling,
and that's okay?"
"You know, you've just reminded me. It didn't seem so important at the time; I mean we are talking about a lot of years ago now . . ." His eyes looked slightly out of focus; he rubbed them with his knuckles until they were pink and bloodshot. "I was just a rookie detective back then, when Jackie Solomons was attacked. I checked the records to see if there had been any reports of any other incidents around that time, in the few months before. I can remember being in the pub just talking generally, making enquiries . . ."
Miller looked at his watch.
"Am I boring you?"
"No, no," Miller said tapping to show the time on the watch. "But if we don't make a run for it now, we're going to miss breakfast."
Inside the cafe, they located a table in a relatively quiet corner. The place was busy, a sign of good food. Miller placed their orders at the counter. A young girl in a bibbed red and white striped apron brought over the order. Kennedy heaped a spoonful of sugar into his steaming mug.
"Would you like my toast?" Kennedy asked. "It's too heavily buttered for my liking."
"No, what I have is plenty enough, thanks."
"I hope you don't mind if I slip out of my detective's overcoat and talk to you as a friend," Kennedy said. "It just
might
be easier to forget I ever was a detective and listen to the story I'm about to tell you."
Well, this is a new one,
thought Miller. Inside, the cafe was steamier than it had been in the car. The windows had previously served as a shop front. With too much cold glass, they ran with condensation.
"You know, I'm going to try to tell it as a bystander from back then, if you'll indulge me." Kennedy's eyes appeared grey, devoid of any depth.
Miller checked his watch; he had time. "Well, why not…"
Kennedy nodded and began his story. "So, as I was saying. I was in this pub; not much bigger than someone's front room. I was off duty, but I got talking to one of the locals there. Vince, his name was, and the youngest in there apart from me. Anyway, he'd seen me around, and he knew I was a detective. I told him I was investigating the rape of a young girl. 'I heard about that', he said. I asked him eventually if he'd heard about anyone acting suspiciously anywhere around. He looked at me thoughtfully. 'Are you talking about the area around Devils Pond? If you are, it wouldn't have been anyone from round here.'" Kennedy blew at his tea.
"When I asked him why, the whole room went quiet. It seemed they were looking at each other, deciding whether or not he should tell me . . ." He stirred more sugar into his mug.
Miller sat forward attentively. "Come on, John, get to the point."
"Well, he told me no one goes there anymore because the place has a jinx."
"
Jinxed
-
is that all you got, you gave me the impression there was more."
"Patience, Miller, there's more. You know; Vince was a caver, been all round the whole of Devon,
Cornwall, Somerset, potholing, exploring old mines and caves. He told me he would never have gone anywhere near the place. From a caver's point of view, it was just too dangerous. Unstable . . . water that rises out of nowhere, underground collapses . . . Not to mention gas pockets. You know, Miller; I was there, waist deep in my imagination, as Vince continued…
'I'll tell you what, John, it was John wasn't it? Well anyway, a little team of us gathered there once. I've been in some creepy caves, and mines so dark, the imagination can take hold and spook you out, the unexpected sound of dripping in an enclosed space, shadows that seem to come and go, and your headlamp only makes it worse. The eerie atmosphere outside this place was enough to put us off, but then the gas detector was picking up methane, hydrogen sulphide gases, all kinds . . . We decided not to go any further. Afterwards, we heard that at least two explorers who'd been there before had died, succumbed to the gas. Round here, it has a reputation for people disappearing, so yes, the only people that would go there would be outsiders; I'd say that quite definitely'.
"Then Vince pointed to a little alcove in the corner, 'Cyril's Corner, he told me. Cyril must have been around ninety years old. Vince said, 'What's your name again?' I repeated it, and he took me over to meet him. 'Cyril, this is John. He wants to know about the Devils Pond.' The old man looked at me; one of his eyes was withered and cloudy, and the other bore right into me. 'That pond is cursed; the whole place down there is - always has been. My grandfather died there in the mine; they reckon he was swept away underground . . . they never found his body, most of them drowned, or crushed. Twenty-three souls were taken in one go. All that rain and water finding its way into subterranean channels, did something to the ground. The following morning, Devils Pond, appeared. Kids kept drowning in that pool, I don't think they found them all. Too deep, too dark . . . only one person goes there now from round these parts.' I asked him who it was, and he said, 'Whoever it is that marks the old Whitethorn tree with clooties.' He noticed my puzzled look, and explained, 'They are offerings to the spirit that lives there, wiped with the pain of the sufferer, with the hope the spirit will take it away.' He turned the handle of his empty mug towards me. 'Used to think it was one for every soul that perished there.' He leaned in and beckoned me closer. 'When I was a kid I went down there for a dare one night in July, they say the people that died in the mine all those years ago, walk again on that night.' Did you go? The old man nodded solemnly. What happened? I asked. The old man paused to sip from his mug, and with some theatrics, showed me it was empty. He sat there with his arms crossed, and made it clear he'd say no more until he got another drink.