CHAIN REACTION an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist Read online

  Nash pulled up behind the gaudily coloured vehicles, and he and Clara walked over to a uniformed officer who was standing by the hotel entrance, looking suitably bored. He gave the detectives a nod of greeting and lifted the tape to allow them to enter the building. Inside, another officer was talking to a pair of workers clad in overalls, who Nash guessed were the men who had made the grim discovery.

  As he introduced Nash, the police officer’s opening remark confirmed this. Nash concentrated his attention on the shovel one of the workmen pointed to, which was lying on the dusty reception counter. ‘I picked one of them up because I didn’t believe what I was looking at,’ the labourer told him, ‘but I put it straight back down when I realized what they were. Up to then, I’d thought they were off a dummy, like you see in shop windows.’

  Nash peered at the grisly objects. Although they had attracted a patina of dust, plaster, and fluff from the sweeping process, they looked to be in remarkably good condition, although the skin was atrophied and wizened. Despite not being an expert, Nash guessed that mummification had to be the only logical explanation, but that theory would depend on where they had been kept, and for how long. The pathologist would give the definitive answer, but to assist him, Nash needed to find out what conditions were like in the place they’d been found.

  ‘Can you show me where they were, and how you came to find them?’

  ‘It’s through there, at the far side of the kitchen. There’s a boiler room and storage area. We’re waiting for the plumber to arrive so he can disconnect the boiler.’ The man shook his head. ‘We could have done it, but you know what it’s like, each man to his own trade. Health and safety, they call it. Jobs worth, I call it. So to save time, we’ve removed all the shelving and units. We’d have finished that part of the job by now if we didn’t have to wait on the others. We can’t move on until they do manage to turn up, and once they’ve finished, we’ll have the kitchen installers to deal with. That’ll be another delay.’

  As he was talking, the contractor led Nash through the kitchen to the doorway of the room behind.

  ‘Don’t go back in,’ Nash told the workman. ‘The CSI team will get upset if we trample all over the scene.’

  The man looked at him. ‘More Jobs worth?’

  Nash smiled. ‘Not in these cases. Have you checked to see if there are any other body parts lying around?’ As he asked the question, Nash glanced at the workman, who looked aghast.

  ‘No, I didn’t . . . do you think there might be more?’

  ‘It’s very possible.’ Nash smiled gently at the man’s obvious disbelief, before adding, ‘You don’t imagine they came here by accident, do you?’

  ‘Er . . . no . . . I didn’t like to think about it at all.’ It was the horrified reaction of someone unused to dealing with the macabre side of life.

  ‘OK, why don’t you rejoin your colleague outside while I take a closer look?’ As he was speaking, Nash pulled a pair of overshoes from his jacket pocket — not that they would be of much use in a demolition site. But at least they would keep his shoes clean, he mused.

  Even with the boiler off, the room was warm, so Nash guessed that when it had been operating the enclosed space must have been extremely hot and airless. His inspection of the area didn’t take long, and apart from having to disturb a small pile of debris, which he did using the handle of the sweeping brush, yielded no further unpleasant shocks. He had just finished checking the room and was walking thoughtfully back through to the reception area when the pathologist arrived, along with the CSI team.

  Nash introduced the workmen and waited as Professor Ramirez asked them the same questions about conditions surrounding the discovery, before examining the remains. He removed the fingers from the shovel with a pair of forceps, turning them over to look closely at the nails before placing them into a small lined cardboard box. He looked up and saw Nash’s questioning expression. ‘You must be getting past it, Nash, if the best you can manage is two fingers from an old corpse. These remains have been mummified, so I need to keep them in a dry environment until I’ve examined them at the mortuary. Now show me this room.’

  He confirmed Nash’s theory within seconds. ‘Hot and dry, perfect conditions for the mummification process. At a guess, I’d say her fingers have been there some years, which leads to the other questions: who was she, and where is the rest of her?’

  Nash blinked with surprise. ‘How do you know the fingers belonged to a woman?’

  ‘The shape of the nails, the way they’ve been manicured, and the fact that they contain tiny flecks of nail varnish. Of course, they could be from a drag queen, but I think that’s unlikely in a place such as this.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell from them?’

  ‘Without closer examination, very little, they appear to have been severed with something like a hatchet or similar. The cuts are too clean for a saw to have been the instrument. I doubt whether I’ll be able to obtain a fingerprint, but with luck I might possibly be able to extract DNA, given time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get on. The CSI team are waiting outside to give this room the once-over.’ He glanced at the debris surrounding them. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath for them turning up anything useful. Unless there actually is a body somewhere,’ he added.

  After Nash turned the area over to Forensics, he had a quick word with Clara. ‘Take statements from the guys who found the body parts, and when we get back to Helmsdale, we need to contact the new proprietors of the hotel and obtain employment records for all previous members of staff. We must make sure we get details for the manager and those working in the kitchen. They’re the likeliest sources of information about someone who went missing from this place.’

  Having reported the development via phone to Superintendent Jackie Fleming, Nash left the station and headed for home. He reached Smelt Mill Cottage, which was in darkness until the motion of his car activated the PIR light. Inside, the building was cold. With his son Daniel away at school and as Nash was only in the house for a few hours each day, he’d set the central heating to the minimum setting. Even that had seemed excessive the way his workload had been, but Nash was reluctant to admit that the need to spend extra time at work was in part a device to avoid coming home to an empty house. He’d never been bothered about being alone in the past, but recently the silence and lack of someone to interact with had grown oppressive.

  * * *

  Next morning, Nash, Clara, and Viv discussed the macabre discovery at the Boar’s Head.

  ‘Do you think some woman is missing, Mike? Couldn’t it have been an accident? It is a catering kitchen, after all.’

  ‘That’s up to us to find out. We should check with the owners and see if they have records of any mishaps in the kitchen. Or it may be an incident where the Health and Safety Executive got called in. But that being the case, I do believe that ambulances are in the habit of taking all parts of the patient to hospital.’

  ‘What do you suggest we should do?’ Clara looked at Nash for inspiration, but in vain.

  ‘I’ve no other ideas. I’d love some suggestions, because right now I’m fresh out.’

  ‘Why not ask Tom’s advice? He was in charge back then. He might remember something that will help,’ Viv pointed out.

  Nash smiled. ‘Good idea. I’ll give him a ring.’

  Tom Pratt had attained the rank of superintendent before a heart attack cost him his job. But he found retirement boring and had taken up the post of civilian support officer, covering both Helmsdale and Netherdale HQ. As such, he was proving invaluable, not only for the work he did, but because of his almost unrivalled familiarity with the territory. His intimacy with police procedures enabled him to use them, or even circumvent them, for the benefit of the detectives. His fund of knowledge regarding the area they covered, when added to that of his long-time friend Sergeant Jack Binns, was close to indispensable.

  Having heard the background, Pratt suggested they should check their files
for potential victims whose disappearance would fit the timescale provided by the pathologist.

  ‘We’ve already thought of that. There might be a few,’ Nash pointed out. ‘Mexican Pete said those fingers could be anything from ten to fifty years old.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that thousands of people are reported missing each year, and most of them turn up safe and well. If I recall, the latest published statistics suggest the number of incidents is between two hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand a year. Admittedly, most of them are resolved quickly,’ Pratt continued, ‘but some remain unaccounted for.’

  Pratt paused before adding another chilling dimension to the equation. ‘Of course, those figures can never be totally accurate, because they include only the reported cases. There must be considerably more due to foul play that we never get to know about. I dread to think how many victims died unmissed, un-mourned, and unnoticed.’

  After a short silence, Nash replied, ‘Then what we must do is ensure that the woman to whom those fingers belonged doesn’t become one more of that unknown number.’

  He replaced the phone, thought for a moment, and then said to the team, ‘Tom’s checking out the possibility there was a kitchen accident, just to satisfy you, Clara. But he thinks that’s a non-starter. In the meantime, Viv, will you and Clara set about going through every female MISPER file from within a ten-mile radius during the period Mexican Pete mentioned? See if anything stands out. I know that sounds like a lot of work, and maybe it will be futile anyway, but we must make every effort.’

  ‘Why futile?’ Viv asked.

  ‘Because the victim might not be from this area. It is a hotel after all. In which case, our task will be all the more difficult.’

  He stood up and smiled at his colleagues. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got the easy job. I’ve got to go through to HQ for a meeting with Superintendent Fleming.’

  On his return, Nash asked about the progress of their search for information, provoking a groan from Clara. ‘I’m already getting double vision from staring at the computer screen. How Viv manages for hour after hour beats me.’

  ‘Being an expert,’ Viv told her.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you have to be good at something,’ she replied.

  ‘Take regular breaks,’ Nash suggested. ‘That will help both your eye strain and stop you simply reading the page rather than taking in all the facts.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t follow that bit.’

  ‘I remember hearing someone talking on the radio about proof-reading. They said that if they study a manuscript continually, they get involved in the story rather than checking for errors. The same thing could easily apply to our job, where the tiniest detail could have enormous significance.’

  Chapter Two

  Donny Barton was a keen artist; had been almost since he could hold a crayon. When he left school, he had a choice of art colleges, all eager to further his fledgling talent. Five years later, the young artist left college and set off to tour Europe, where his burgeoning reputation was soon enhanced. When his first exhibition drew positive comments from a minor critic, several of his works sold for quite respectable prices. Commissions followed, and he spent the next few years painting successive landscapes of the Greek islands, before moving on to the mainland, and thence to Italy. Eventually, with demand for his work outstripping supply, he instructed his agent not to accept any further commissions for at least twelve months and returned to England.

  ‘I’m tired. I’ve worked every day for the last two years. Christmas Day, Boxing Day, Easter, the lot, and now I need a break. After I’ve had a rest, I want to paint something else apart from cloudless skies, white buildings, and blue seas.’

  His agent protested. ‘But those are the paintings that people are clamouring for. They’ve become your trademark.’

  Donny was adamant. ‘They’ll have to wait. OK, I might return to them one day, but for now, I want to paint woods and meadows, streams and hills. And clouds, clouds filled with rain — or snow. Sun dappling the mountainsides as the summer greenery begins to turn to autumn gold, and following that, the rich dark colours of a British winter bathed in that soft afternoon light that you only get here.’

  The agent warmed to the idea, sensing another collection on the horizon. ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Somewhere I can’t be reached — by anyone,’ he told him pointedly. ‘Somewhere without phones: no computers, no email, text messages or radio and TV. I’ve found a little cottage in Cornwall that suits the purpose admirably.’

  The agent had to be content with that, but extracted a promise for Donny to contact him as soon as he returned to London. As he watched the agent leave, the artist smiled at the thought of the man searching Cornwall for him. He removed the magazine from his desk drawer and read once more the article that had attracted him. It was a monthly periodical that specialized in glossy depictions of country living, a hymn to the idyll of rural bliss. It had been on a routine visit to his dentist that Donny had thumbed idly through the pages, until he stopped at an article about a North Yorkshire country hotel and the estate to which it belonged. Although the reporter had been diplomatic in her choice of words, reading between the lines it seemed that the estate, like many others with grand houses to maintain, was strapped for cash. The owners had therefore decided to turn several of their outlying cottages, disused since mechanization had reduced their workforce, into holiday lets. This campaign to raise funds wasn’t scheduled to begin until renovation of the properties was complete, which would be more than a year hence. Donny hoped to persuade the estate manager to allow him the use of a cottage out of season, if he offered a good enough incentive.

  He dialled the number and after a short period of haggling, arrangements were completed, but with suitable provisos.

  ‘The only property that is furnished and habitable is one that we won’t be putting out as a holiday let until May of next year. However, I should warn you that the cottage is in a very remote location.’

  ‘Actually, that suits me fine. The more secluded and private the better,’ Donny responded eagerly.

  Several minutes later the deal was done, and Barton promised to send a cheque for the whole sum by first class post that day, in return for which, he would become the tenant of Track End Cottage, Thornscarr, from the beginning of October until the end of the following April.

  ‘I’ll arrange for the keys to be left at Newton-on Helm village shop. That’s the nearest village to Thornscarr, and the closest town is Helmsdale. The shop doubles as a post office and sells most of life’s necessities, so you should be well catered for. I look forward to receiving your cheque.’

  Donny repeated the lie about Cornwall to his parents, confident that he would be able to work completely untroubled in the depths of North Yorkshire as everyone imagined him to be at the other end of the country. Then he booked a train ticket to York for the first week in October. He didn’t own a car — hadn’t even a driving licence, but was happy enough to rely on public transport to get him to his destination. Once there, he felt certain further travel would be the last thing on his mind. He had dispatched his artistic requirements and the bulk of his luggage via courier to arrive at the cottage after him.

  Having collected the keys at the shop, he’d sought directions and was shown the road leading to Thornscarr. He was mildly surprised to find that the property wasn’t actually in the hamlet. His instructions were to turn off alongside the hotel, apparently camouflaged by scaffolding, and then follow the unmade road, little more than a lane, for half a mile until he reached the edge of the woods. He did so, noting that the hostelry was closed for renovations, so that meant he couldn’t be tempted away from his work.

  Thornscarr was all that the artist could have hoped for. The fact that the place was more or less deserted apart from the hotel, and that the only pub he had spotted and the shop were almost two miles down the dale also failed to disturb Donny. He wasn’t a drinker, and he didn’t want to send any m
ail, knowing he definitely wouldn’t be receiving any. The only mild inconvenience being the need to walk some distance to keep his food supplies topped up.

  At the shop, he’d bought enough provisions for his immediate needs and had taken the opportunity to check the contents of their twin freezers. They proved to be ideal for his requirements, offering a variety of quick, convenient, ready meals that needed nothing more than unwrapping and popping into the microwave; just the thing for someone who wanted to devote as much time as possible to painting.

  Equipped with warm clothing, including thermal underwear ideal for someone intending to pass much of the time outdoors during a North Yorkshire winter, he devoted the daylight hours of the first four days of his stay walking around the narrow, twisting lanes in the surrounding countryside. He was able to identify several superb locations that he knew would provide ideal settings for landscapes and was confident they would command good prices at exhibition. One such scene was a point where the River Helm plunged over Simeon Falls, a spectacular waterfall. Further from the village, the brooding presence of Black Fell and the even more impressive Stark Ghyll would give him ample opportunity to portray their rugged splendour.

  As he walked, Donny made copious notes of each of the sites he had found, notes that described the scenes, the light values, time of day, and any elements that he was particularly keen to replicate.

  On his return to the cottage on the fourth evening, he dined on lasagne. His concentration was not on the pasta, but on his notebook, and the meal was almost cold by the time he reached the last forkful. His walks had thus far provided almost all he needed to complete what he believed would be an impressive portfolio. But he was lacking an image that he had already formed in his own mind. He needed a setting where a meadow was fringed by a copse of trees, their branches stripped of foliage in preparation for the cold months ahead. If it could include dry stone walls, sheep grazing, a hillside, and a river, that would be even better.