Identity Crisis (3 page)

It was nearing midnight when Jo turned into the lane leading to Vanda’s cottage. The drive meandered for almost half a mile before sweeping round behind the property. Beyond it, the stream that served as a tributary to the Helm ran within fifty feet or so of the house. Jo was crawling forward now, her speedometer registering no more than five miles per hour. She tried to remember if there were trees alongside the drive. She could only recall high hedges, but wasn’t in the mood for taking chances. As she neared the end of the drive she passed the old mill. The business had closed long ago, the mill itself was little used, but the property Vanda and her husband had bought still bore the name Mill Cottage.

As she pulled to a halt at the rear, before she even got out of the car, one glance at the house told her something was wrong. The place was in darkness. Complete, inky-black darkness. Her headlights reflected back from the double-glazed windows, mocking the darkness beyond, taunting her mind to fresh levels of fear and concern. Aware of her impending arrival, Vanda would have left the outside light on. More than that, the kitchen, which stretched over half of the back of the building would have been ablaze with light. Even if the power was out, Jo knew her sister would have lit a collection of candles. Living out in the sticks, they always had a good stock to hand for precisely an event such as this.

She switched the ignition off and got out of the car. Her first impression was of noise. The roaring of the wind through the bank of high trees at the far side of the stream was amplified by the rushing torrent of water over the weir above the mill. Rain splashed spitefully into Jo’s face as she bent against the gale and
forced her way to the dim outline of the large porch at the back of the building.

She knew the approximate position of the doorknob, yet the darkness was so absolute Jo had to fumble for several seconds to locate it. She cursed her stupidity in not leaving her headlights on. The knob moved easily and she stepped into the porch, shutting the outer door with some difficulty against the wind. She groped for a light switch and after a couple of seconds found it. The porch light barely rewarded the effort. The globe above the kitchen door provided little more than a dim glow for a few seconds. This gradually strengthened and Jo realized Vanda must have fitted energy-saving bulbs.

She reached forward and grasped the kitchen door handle. It was then she noticed the first sign of trouble: the glass in the pane next to the handle was missing. Or rather, most of it was. The pane had been smashed. By accident, or something more sinister? Steady, Jo, she told herself, Vanda might have locked herself out, nothing worse than that. The handle turned easily and a second later, she was in the kitchen, blinking in the sudden brightness of the dozen or so ceiling lights. The room was empty, although there were the components of a meal on one of the worktops.

As she moved swiftly across the room, panic gripped her. Whatever straightforward explanations there might have been, had all been dismissed. There was power, therefore, the phone would work. The house was warm and dry, therefore the gales hadn’t brought any trees down on it, nor had the stream flooded the building. With the outer and kitchen doors closed, the sound of the gale was muted to a whisper. Inside, the house was silent. She opened the door into the hall. Apart from reflected light from the kitchen, it too was in darkness.

All the doors leading off the hall were closed. She opted to try the lounge first. As she opened the door, a sudden noise startled her. Jo was weary, her nerves, already stretched. Then she recognized it. She took a deep recuperative breath. It was the sound of a phone ringing. Four times it shrilled before Jo reacted. She started forward, flicking the light on as she passed, hurrying towards the sound. As she did so, it stopped, there was a short silence, then a
voice said, ‘Who are you? Who are you?’

Jo strode forward and yelled at the room’s sole occupant. ‘You bloody stupid idiot! You frightened the shit out of me! Where’s Vanda?’

‘Where’s Vanda? Where’s Vanda?’ he mocked her.

She glared at the speaker, her gaze travelling from the black, razor-sharp beak to the brilliant flash of red on its tail that contrasted with the grey body and wings. ‘Shut up, Coco, you bloody moron.’

The African Grey parrot blinked nervously and shuffled from foot to foot on his perch. Jo looked round. Her gaze dropped to the floor. She looked in horror at the carpet. The biscuit-coloured pile was disfigured with a large stain: a large red stain. Panic overcame her. She turned and bolted back to the kitchen. She snatched the phone off the wall, stuck it against her ear and began to dial 999. It was several seconds before she realized something was wrong. Several more before she worked out what. There was no ringing tone. She jiggled the receiver rest; no dial tone either. She fumbled in her coat pocket and pulled out her mobile phone, her hands shaking so violently she almost dropped it in the process.

She took a deep steadying breath. If she had dropped the phone on the tiled floor, it would have smashed. That would have been the last straw. She took several more deep breaths. Only when she was calmer did she start to dial once more.

After several fumbling attempts, she heard the ringing tone, and waited for the emergency operator. It seemed an age before the call was answered. She asked to be put through to the police and explained the nature of the emergency. After some intensive questioning, which Jo guessed hid their reluctance over what was likely to prove a false alarm, she was asked to hold whilst they connected her to Netherdale police station. Why not Helmsdale, Jo wondered? Then she realized, a small town station would probably be closed at night.

The early hours of the morning were agreed upon as the best time to send and receive messages. As part of the terms of his
incarceration, the prisoner was kept in solitary confinement. That suited him fine, for he was not in the slightest bit anxious to fraternize with other inmates. Not only that, but with the acquisition of the mobile delivered by Eddie Michaels, he was able to communicate with his lieutenant as freely as the prison service would allow. The pre-arranged time for receipt of texts was 1 a.m. It was a couple of minutes after that on the Saturday morning when the message arrived. The prisoner studied it with subdued excitement. The plan was to be carried out that evening. The lieutenant promised to report again on Monday night. The prisoner smiled in anticipation. It looked like his men were in for a busy weekend.

DS Mironova wasn’t sure what had woken her. She could hear the gentle breathing of her companion. Her fiancé David, usually the lightest of sleepers, a habit that stemmed from his military background, had not been disturbed. Then she heard a muted throbbing sound. She frowned, trying to work out where it was coming from. Not the central heating. She glanced at the clock, no, definitely not the heating. The sound stopped, then started again. She sat upright and thrust the duvet back. Alongside her, David mumbled a protest in his sleep.

Clara got out of bed and switched the bedside lamp on. She’d not rest until she located the source. She dragged her dressing room from the chair, wrapped it round her and opened the bedroom door.

Behind her, David sat up. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, more curiosity than alarm.

‘I heard a noise. Can’t work out what it is. I’m going to find out.’

He yawned. ‘Probably a couple of cats fornicating in the street.’

‘Men! One track bloody minds, the lot of you.’

As soon as she entered her sitting room, she located the source of her disturbance. She’d left her mobile on the table by her armchair. Although the phone was set to silent, she’d put it into vibrate mode when they’d got to the restaurant. One of the penalties of being on call. After the meal she’d forgotten to change the setting back. As she approached it, the phone lit up and began
to dance around the circular tabletop. Clara seized it before it nose-dived on to the carpet and pressed receive. ‘Mironova,’ she grunted.

‘Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, not that you need it.’

She recognized Sergeant Binns’ voice. ‘What’s the problem, Jack?’

‘I’ve been trying to reach you for twenty minutes. Your landline’s dead.’ The reproach was mild. ‘What’s matter, wouldn’t the gallant major let you answer your mobile?’

‘The gales brought a whacking great tree down two doors away, so that’s probably knocked out the phones. I had the mobile on silent,’ Clara explained.

‘I’ve had a call from a Dr Johana Grey. She used to work at Netherdale Hospital, but now she’s based in Cornwall. She’s come back north for the weekend, visiting her sister. Or rather, that was the plan. She arrived at the house this evening, late on. The place was in darkness. The back door was open, one of its panes smashed. No sign of her sister − name of Mrs Vanda Dawson. She was on her own, husband in Spain on a golfing holiday. Dr Grey couldn’t find any trace of her, but there was what looked like a large bloodstain on the lounge carpet. I’ve checked with Netherdale General and the ambulance service. No record of Mrs Dawson at the hospital or any call out by an ambulance to Wintersett, which is where she lives. With it being a doctor who phoned it in, and by the sound of her, not the sort to panic, I thought we should treat it as urgent, and you were my last resort, if you get my meaning. What do you reckon?’

Clara thought for a moment. She was aware that Binns had more on his mind than he’d said. ‘It doesn’t sound good,’ she ventured.

‘I agree, it doesn’t sound as if there’s an innocent explanation.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

‘What do you want me to do? Bear in mind I’m not overwhelmed with men waiting for something to do.’

‘Can you spare someone in a patrol car? It might calm Dr Grey a bit until I get there.’

‘I’ve nobody free, but I can leave one man in charge here, and I’ll
nip through and keep Dr Grey company until you arrive. Will that do?’

‘That’s brilliant, Jack. Right, let’s have some directions.’

As she was taking the details down, Clara saw movement out of the corner of her eye, David, sleepy-eyed and yawning, was leaning on the bedroom doorpost. She put the phone down and explained.

‘Do you want me to ride out there with you?’ He yawned as he was speaking.

‘No, there’s no point both of us losing sleep. I’m just sorry it’s happened this weekend, right at the start of your leave. If only Mike hadn’t buggered off to France.’

‘You can’t blame him for taking leave. He’s stood in for you lots of times when I’ve been home,’ David pointed out.

‘True, and to be honest, until Daniel came to live with him I can’t remember the last time he took a break. Forget it; I’m just grumpy at being woken up in the middle of the night.’ She sighed. ‘Better get cracking. The problem is I don’t know how long this will take.’

The house was silent. Jo waited, leaning against the kitchen unit. ‘Wait where you are,’ the officer had told her. ‘Don’t go anywhere, try to avoid touching any surfaces, just to be on the safe side. As soon as I’ve contacted someone, I’ll ring you back.’

The call took her by surprise, even though she was expecting it. By now, the combination of tiredness and shock had caused her nerves to be stretched almost beyond endurance. ‘Sorry for the delay,’ he apologized. ‘Detective Sergeant Mironova has asked me to pop out until she gets there. In the meantime, she wants you to go back to your car and be careful what you touch. Leave the house exactly as you found it.’

‘I’ve turned most of the lights on, should I go back and turn them off?’

‘Best not. Sergeant Mironova gave me some instructions for you. Are you ready?’

Jo obeyed Binns’ instructions to the letter. She looked round the kitchen and picked up a tea towel. She draped it round her
hand and opened the kitchen door then paused in the porch, delving into her pocket for the Mercedes keys. She could hear the wind-driven rain lashing against the window, could hear the gale howling through the trees. She gave an involuntary shudder. Despite the short time she’d been inside the house, she’d all but forgotten the atrocious weather. She braced herself for what the elements would throw at her and reached for the outer door handle.

Outside, the force of the blast made her stagger. She crouched low and thrust her way towards her car. Once inside, Jo remembered what Binns had told her. She needed little encouragement to switch the ignition on, turn the heater to full blast and tune in the radio. For good measure, she flicked the headlights switch and activated the central locking system.

The combination of light, heat and sound comforted her, much as Binns had hoped it would. The extra degree of security from the locked doors helped. Jo reached across to the back seat and took a pad and biro from her briefcase. Before she started to list her actions within the house, she glanced at the dashboard clock. She stared at the digital display in momentary disbelief. She’d left Cornwall midway through Friday morning. It was now into Saturday morning. During that time, Jo had been without food or rest. Despite this, she didn’t feel the slightest bit hungry, and the weariness that had all but overcome her earlier had vanished. Adrenalin, she supposed. She shook her head and began to write.

She checked her notes, trying to recall if she had left anything out of her account. There was something … something in the kitchen. Then she remembered; she had tried to use the landline but couldn’t get a dialling tone. She added that to her list.

Her task done, she wondered how long it was since she had spoken to the police. She could check her mobile, she supposed. That reminded her. He wanted her to write down the times of her abortive calls to Vanda. She took the details from the mobile phone memory, noting in passing that she had been waiting over an hour. Where was he? Why had no one arrived?

The music and the sound of the presenter’s voice on the radio had soothed her to begin with. Now, they were becoming
an irritant. She switched it off. Now, all she could hear above the low hum of the engine was the sound of the wind and rain. She hastily switched the radio back on. As she waited, she got a measure of the strength of the gale, as even the sturdy, low-slung Mercedes rocked slightly on its suspension.