“What about links with the men you’ve charged with assault?”
“We’re looking.” Drury changes tack. “Emily Martinez isn’t answering her phone and her father didn’t show up at work today. What can you tell me about him?”
“He matches the psychological profile.”
“I can’t base an arrest on a profile.”
“He has the intellect, the experience, the knowledge and the motive.”
“Still not hard evidence.”
“You’ll find it. You’ll match his DNA to the farmhouse or you’ll find his fingerprints.”
The DCI looks rueful. “It’s easy to have faith when you don’t have to wear the failure.”
There’s a knock on the door. DS Casey appears. “Phone call, boss.”
Drury picks up.
“Where?… Who owns the property?… You’re sure? Check again.” Strange bright fragments of possibility are firing in his mind. “Is there a caretaker?… Yeah… OK, contact him… I’m on my way.”
He looks up at me.
“We’ve found where he kept the girls.”
45
On the journey south to Culham we pass through two police checkpoints patrolled by officers in reflective vests, waving motorists to the side of the road. Car boots are searched. Trucks. Trailers. Caravans.
Drury flashes his badge. A glowing wand waves us through. Less than half a mile further on we turn off onto an unmarked road that is guarded by a single-bar gate counterweighted with a metal block, padlocked in place. A wooden notice reads: PRIVATE ROAD — NO ACCESS.
Continuing along a muddy track, weaving between potholes, the road almost disappears in places, surrendering to the undergrowth. Other vehicles have forged a path. We come to a line of parked police cars and a white van. The doors open and two police dogs bound out, sniffing at tires and trees.
Ahead of us, an abandoned factory or warehouse is partially illuminated by headlights. Most of the buildings are single-story although exhaust stacks and flues suggest larger structures might lie below ground. The surrounding chain-link fence has collapsed in places under the weight of dead vines and trees felled by past storms.
The main gate cants drunkenly on wooden posts that have rotted to crumbling stumps. Immediately beyond, the road disappears beneath a mass of tangled brambles and spindly vines, grown to shoulder-height in places. A path has been hacked through the foliage.
Torches swing from building to building, lighting up small sections. Graffiti stains some of the more prominent walls, but the evidence is aged and faded. Windows are boarded up or broken. Doors are sealed or gape blackly open.
“It was abandoned in the eighties,” says Drury. “Before that it was an emergency relocation site for the government-some sort of shelter in case the Ruskies launched a missile strike on the Harwell reactors. There were half a dozen complexes like this one.”
The DCI shines a torch on a wall of rock that rises almost vertically above the compound.
“The whole site was once a quarry. They mined the rock for track ballast when they built the Great Western Railway. The main line is less than a hundred yards to the west of here.”
“Who looks after it now?” I ask.
“It’s administered by the Atomic Energy Authority, which means it’s under the jurisdiction of the CNC.”
“The CNC?”
“The Civil Nuclear Constabulary: it’s a security force that protects nuclear installations. They don’t know if they’re soldiers or make-believe coppers.” Drury motions ahead to a small group of detectives. Among them is a uniformed man, not a police officer, who is trying to look like one of the lads.
“This is Sergeant Moretti,” says Drury. “He has the keys.”
I glance at the surfeit of broken doors, but don’t comment.
Moretti stands to attention, sucking in his stomach. Pale as a plucked chicken, he has the word POLICE stitched into the breast pocket of his waterproof jacket.
“How often is this site patrolled?” asks the DCI.
“It’s not on any regular routes.”
“What does that mean?”
“The place hasn’t been used for thirty years.”
Drury blows air from his nose. “Really?”
White surgical gloves are distributed and the DCI follows Moretti through the first door. Lights are triggered. Most of the bulbs are broken, but enough shine unsteadily to reveal a large room littered with torn fittings and collapsed heating ducts.
“Why is the power still connected?” asks Drury.
“Can’t tell you, sir,” answers Moretti. “Above my pay grade.”
A metal trough along one wall has a sign above it that reads: USE GLOVES AND EYE PROTECTION. Nearby, a control panel has a row of red and green buttons. The wiring has been ripped out.
A rusting staircase turns back on itself and rises to the upper floor, fifteen feet above. Beneath the stairs an old boiler has been wedged sideways, partially concealing a door. Moretti goes first, pulling aside two drums that slosh with unknown liquids.
The second room is smaller, with a table, two chairs, a double bed, a bath and a wood-fired boiler or stove. Someone has doused every hard surface with bleach or some other chemical cleaner. The caustic stench hooks at the back of my throat and tries to scald my lungs.
It’s the same smell I remember from the farmhouse where the Heymans died.
“What’s upstairs?” asks Drury.
“More of the same,” says Moretti.
“Show me.”
The rattling metal staircase pulls more plaster from the walls. I stay behind with DS Casey, walking the room again. The old-fashioned bathtub was lifted into place using a block and tackle. The ropes have left marks on the overhead pipes. A razor rests on the rim of the tub. The nearest shelf holds bottles of toiletries.
The iron-sprung bed has been stripped of bedding and a quarter-inch thick chain is looped around one metal leg. At the opposite end of the chain is a leather cuff, sweat-stained and secured by a padlock. It can be adjusted to fit around a person’s wrist or neck.
Beside the bed there is a wooden trunk with a curved lid. Using a fountain pen, I lever it open. The trunk looks empty at first glance, but then I spy a thin piece of black fabric hooked on the corner of a loose hinge; a g- string with a lace edging.
DS Casey opens a plastic evidence bag and I drop the lingerie inside.
The bedding was thrown into the corner and set on fire. Crouching beside the charred mess, I use the pen to lift a tacky section of the fabric. The remnants include a scorched corner of a pizza box and a foil takeaway container. Something else catches my eye-a small molded plastic figure, less than an inch high. A stationmaster dressed in a blue waistcoat holding a flag.
“I need another evidence bag,” I say.
“What is that?”
“A collector’s piece.”
Straightening up, I gaze around again, bothered by something that I can’t quite quantify. I look across the room. Anyone coming into the main building could easily have found the door beneath the stairs. And this second chamber isn’t particularly secure or soundproof. The bed has only one manacle yet there were two captives. He couldn’t watch both girls constantly. How did he control them?
Natasha had pre-mortem scratches on her hips. Dr. Leece speculated that she might have squeezed through a narrow opening like a window. This place has none.
