'Constable Knots has disappeared.'

'Lazy b.u.g.g.e.r!'

'But he's not, is he? If he was ill he'd call in.'

'When did you last speak to him?'

'Over twenty-four hours ago.'

MacIntyre frowned.

'That is odd, and Cave's complaining about the car. I wonder if he's had an accident somewhere. I'll call Telford and ask them to have a look around, not that they'll have any manpower spare.'

Fenwick started to chew the skin at the side of his thumb, a nervous habit from childhood that he thought he'd broken a long time before.

'What's up?'

'I keep thinking about the patch of blood SOCO found outside the cottage. It may signify nothing, but if Smith didn't take his bike into Telford, how did he get there? He wouldn't have walked all the way, surely?'

'The missing car.' MacIntyre called Cave. Without sounding too sensational, and with laughs Fenwick could tell were forced, he explained their worries. 'It's far-fetched I know but it might be as well to give the car details to patrol, just in case.'

'How would Knotty have found out the address for Smith's cottage?' Fenwick found it hard to believe that a junior constable had beaten him to the knowledge by a day.

'Someone told him.'

'But he only spoke with Miss Wallace and he said nothing to me about it afterwards.'

Just the same, he rang her.

'Really Chief Inspector, you've disturbed my lunch and I have guests.'

'This is important. Did you tell Constable Knots anything about where the Smiths used to go on holiday?'

There was a startled pause.

'Why, yes, Chief Inspector, how very clever of you. It was only a casual remark but I remember he wrote it down in his notebook.' She repeated the information.

Fenwick rang off and covered his face with his hand. 'You idiot, Knotty! Why did you go off on your own like that? Why didn't you tell me?' He stared at MacIntyre, sick to his stomach. 'He went out to the cottage. The teacher told him she'd seen the Smiths by the lake and Smith senior had told her about his holiday home.'

'So Knotty found him.'

'It has to be. Why else has he disappeared? Dear G.o.d,' Fenwick swallowed to keep the sickness from his mouth, 'we have to find him.'

'Smith or Knotty?'

Fenwick looked MacIntyre hard in the face.

'Both.'

CHAPTER THIRTY.

Wendy Smith swallowed two paracetamol with the last of her coffee and winced as the second pill stuck in her throat. She had been off work for three days with the flu and still felt rough. The last thing she wanted to do was drive over to Shropshire but Dave had been insistent. He had called her in one of those moods that told her the only way out without a beating was blind obedience.

The instructions had been precise and succinct: check the letter drop, pick up some cash and drive over to meet him. Even the sound of the destination made her shudder. In a house nearby her childhood had ended. She'd been eleven years old when Cousin Dave had started her 'education', he fourteen and her idol. She had followed him everywhere, his willing slave; covering for him, lying for him and loving him.

So when he had started making her do that for him too, she had taken it as a compliment. It was the most private part of him and he allowed her to touch him there. His reaction the first time had almost scared her away but he had been so kind afterwards, washing her hands and sponging her shirt clean that it had been worth it.

She had grown used to touching him, to the reaction of his body. The fact that it was their secret made her special somehow. Then her periods started, her chest went from flat to embarra.s.sing almost over night and his needs changed. She still woke in a sweat at night from dreaming about the first time that he really explored her. He had hurt her so much that she had squealed with pain for him to stop but he'd carried on and she had almost blacked out.

Afterwards there was new excitement in his eyes. Looking back through years of exploitation, she recognised it as the first time that he had discovered that hurting her made the s.e.x even more exciting. She should have left then, run away, but instead, slowly, he had conditioned her to enjoy his brand of s.e.x and punishment. Sometimes afterwards he would surprise her with a gift, stolen perhaps but she didn't care, and he would kiss and pet her. She would be happy and hope that next time would be different, but the violence the next time would be worse, the degradation absolute. Still Wendy had waited, hoping that in time he would change if only she could love him enough.

As Wendy dressed and found her car keys she tried hard not to think about her life. The only time she was happy was when she was at work, caring for people, doing her best to stop them hurting. She could sympathise with their pain and loss of dignity and it made her a good nurse. There was only one ward she avoided, which made her the odd one out among her colleagues. For her, the maternity ward was purgatory. She had been fourteen when she'd had her first abortion. Dave organised it and she had been too terrified to do anything but follow his commands.

The 'doctor' had worked out of an address in a rundown part of Birmingham in a terraced house that reeked of bleach and something organic and disgusting beneath. His breath had smelled of onions but his hands had been clean and he had tried his best not to hurt her. She went home, aching and sore, with a giant sanitary towel between her legs. When she cried off school, her mum had said, 'suit yourself'. For three days she'd stayed at home, until the bleeding and the pain became manageable.

Wendy picked up her bags and locked the flat. She didn't know why she'd been thinking about the past so much recently. Normally it was locked away behind a secure wall of denial but during her flu, scenes from her adolescence had played in her mind continuously.

It was a short drive to pick up the letters and a branch of their bank was two hundred yards away. There were two letters from Wayne waiting. When she tried to withdraw the maximum allowance the machine ate her card so she had to go into the bank and cash a cheque. There was a good as new clothes shop next door and she paused to look in the window. The bright summer sunshine threw her reflection back and she had to peer to make out the dresses.

As she stood back again she noticed the reflection of a woman standing on the opposite side of the road. There was nothing distinguishing about her but something in her att.i.tude made Wendy cautious. Under the pretence of being interested in the window display she studied the woman's reflection, memorising her face and clothes. She walked a few paces down the road slowly, looking in other shop windows. The woman crossed the road and started walking behind her. When Wendy stopped, so did she, bending to tie the shoelace of trainers that were already done up.

Wendy's instincts, refined over years of abuse and survival, were screaming a warning. She'd done nothing wrong but that didn't make her unconcerned. Memory of the Crimewatch programme the previous week about the murder of a girl in London and the e-fit of the man the police were looking for came back to her. If this woman was following her then there had to be a reason and if it wasn't for anything she'd done...she stopped the thought and concentrated on the immediate problem of how to get rid of her.

There was a minimarket on the street close to where she had parked her car. Wendy quickened her pace, glancing at her watch as if she was in a hurry, and made for the store. Inside she walked to the refrigerator at the back and started examining packs of bacon. The woman didn't follow her in but waited on the pavement outside. When she turned away Wendy made her way to the rear exit.

No one stopped her. There was a yard outside with gates leading to the road. She pushed one open and found herself in a street of terraced houses she didn't recognise. Her heart was racing. She was close to panic so forced herself to take deep breaths and concentrate. In her mind, she visualised the shop front, the roads she knew and the location of her car. She should turn right, and then right again.

Her car was where she'd left it, a pale blue, three-door Peugeot that was long past its best. Her hands were trembling so much she had difficulty inserting the key into the ignition. On the third attempt, it slid in and the engine started at once. Aging but reliable, like its owner.

She looked in the rear-view mirror and pulled away. It was only when she had reached the M55 that she realised she could simply have given herself up. It wasn't an expected thought but it was a strangely comforting one. If she'd only gone over to the woman the uncertainty would have soon been over. They would tell her; she would know one way or another whether her fears were the product of an over-active imagination as she kept telling herself, or not. She had written down the telephone number from Crimewatch but all the officers on the programme had looked stern and unforgiving. If a woman had been there maybe she would have used it. Even now, all it would take was one phone call; she could still turn around.

Wendy missed the last exit for Birmingham, not on purpose but it flashed by while she was overtaking a lorry. At the next service station she pulled over and turned on the radio, a local music station. She needed the distraction to keep her thoughts from spinning. The tunes meant nothing to her. She never bought the latest hits because she had no one to share them with.

She was sipping a takeaway coffee when the news came on at the top of the hour. The main item was the murder of a young girl in Telford. Wendy felt the acidity of the coffee jolt her stomach even before she heard his name.

'Police are asking the public to be on the lookout for David Smith, a white male, age twenty-seven, six feet tall, slim with blue eyes. He may have scratches to his hands and face. If anyone does see him, they are to call Chief Inspector Cave, at Telford Division...'

The voice droned on but Wendy didn't hear it. She was bent double over a wastepaper bin vomiting up bile and drips of coffee.

'You all right love?'

A kindly looking man in his fifties was bending over her.

'Yes,' she drew a shaking hand over her damp face.

'Only you don't look right. Are you sure you should be driving? I can give you a lift.'

'No, really. I'm OK.'

Wendy went back to her car, shaking the man's unwelcome attentions away. He was probably well meaning but she didn't trust him. In fact, she trusted no one. She tried to think. Dave had called her in the middle of the night and told her where to meet him. He had said it was urgent but nothing in his voice had given her reason to think anything was wrong. Now this. The police wanted him in connection with the murder of a young girl. She started to cry, fat tears dropping from her cheeks onto her jeans, but she made no noise. Crying silently was something she had learnt as a child. The last time she had howled was after the second abortion, the one that had gone so horribly wrong.

Her father had given her the strapping of her life when she was finally well enough to return from hospital, scarred and sterile. He had beaten the truth out of her, no mistake, and there had been a terrible row with Dave and his parents. Dad was all for going to the police. She'd been under-age and he wanted his revenge. Her mother had simply poured the drinks. Somehow, Dave's dad had persuaded him not to go. They'd gone into another room and spoken there for ages and when they'd come out there was no more talk of the police. She had gone off to nursing college a year later and hadn't been home since.

Stop it! She beat her closed fists against the sides of her head to prevent her mind from being ambushed by the past. There, she was calm again, almost in control. When she locked the car her hands barely trembled. There were phones banked against the outside wall of the service station. She told herself that if no one was using them it would be a sign that she should call the police. n.o.body was there so she dialled the number for Telford that had just been broadcast. Perhaps local police would be more friendly. The man at the end sounded bored but when she said she might have information about David Smith his tone changed to one of excitement. Hearing it made her scared all over again and she insisted on speaking to a woman.

'The detectives on the case are all out, love, won't I do?'

'No!'

'OK, calm down; hang on a minute.' She heard him put the receiver down and call out in the background. 'Robyn, have you got a sec? A la.s.s on the phone says she has something on Smith but will only talk to a woman.' Footsteps.

'h.e.l.lo? This is Constable Robyn Powell; who's that?'

'My name's not important.' But Wendy had forgotten to disguise her accent that hadn't changed despite the years away.

'Wendy? Is that you, love?' The woman knew her name! 'We've been hoping to speak to you. Don't worry, you'll be quite safe talking to us; there's nothing to concern you. We want to help you.'

Wendy pulled the receiver away from her ear as if it had become red hot and stared at it in horror. There was no way she could provide information if it wasn't anonymous. Robyn was still talking, throwing out meaningless soothing words, offering rea.s.surance and protection. Wendy ignored her and put the receiver back gently. Tears threatened but she sniffed them away angrily. There was no turning back now. No matter what the police said about protection she couldn't trust them. They didn't know Dave. If she betrayed him he would find a way to destroy her.

She walked back to the car and drove away. The radio blared on; some ballad or other and she remembered that she loved Dave as much as she feared him. What had she been thinking of to doubt him? Guilt flooded her. She had to keep faith; the police were crazy to suspect Dave. They were always getting things wrong. Heaven knows how they had linked his name to that poor girl but it meant nothing.

n.o.body appreciated him except her. She was the one special person in his life and some day he would realise that and their life together would get better. She tried to smile but the thin voice that she relegated to the farthest corner of her mind nagged at her. It was a smart alec voice. When something went wrong with Dave it was the voice that told her to leave him. Like when he had 'given' her to his horrible friend, it was the voice that called her a wh.o.r.e. It was the voice that told her now to get away but she decided once again to ignore it. No love came for free. Everything was going to be fine as long as she didn't mess it up.

Smith lay under blankets that scratched the sensitive skin on his face and neck. Outside the sky was a flat blue-grey, the traffic heavy. She had picked him up early that morning after he had dared to leave his hastily a.s.sembled cave in the refuse. He had spent much of his long wait for her lying within two extra large garbage sacks, breathing rancid air through a tiny join. He had learnt the trick first at fifteen, during his early years of testing his own boundaries of behaviour.

Apart from his father's prying, he had rarely been questioned, let alone caught but on one occasion the police had been waiting. His knowledge of the alleys and gardens in Telford had saved him and he had then hidden himself in a pile of rubbish sacks behind a block of flats. That day there had been a twist to the usual taunts at school. They had called him 'stink bomb' but he hadn't cared. He'd proved himself smarter than the police and everyone else at that pathetic school, let them call him what they would. Afterwards he had started to carry extra large refuse sacks with him, the black ones preferably because they were less conspicuous. He had practised using them in his bedroom until he'd perfected how to fold them ready for use so that they could be opened with a flick of the wrist and he could be hidden in less than a minute.

When he had run from that house yesterday, concealing b.l.o.o.d.y wounds to his chin and throat with a thick white towel beneath a clean hooded sweatshirt, he had automatically run back to his old haunts. But in the eight years since he had left, the town refuse disposal had been improved. There were wheelie-bins where there had been mounds of sacks and as police sirens gathered in the distance he'd begun to panic.

Then he remembered the munic.i.p.al waste facility he had seen on the outskirts. He ran through a large estate, ignoring the burning pain from his wounds, cut across a by-pa.s.s, along a footpath he thought he remembered and out of an underpa.s.s by a stout chain-link fence that bordered the site. He had been in agony but fear was stronger than pain and he cut through the fence with his wire cutters, commanding his shaking hands to obey. Tracker dogs barked in the far distance sending a shock through him but he told himself that he still had time to do things properly.

His brain worked quickly. If he just cut one opening in the perimeter fence they would search the site until it was cleared. It was huge but that wouldn't stop them. He needed to make them think that he had left the site and throw the dogs off his scent.

The stench in the site was gross. He pushed his way back outside the fence, ran along it for a hundred metres then cut into it again. This time he pulled the flaps of wire outwards, making it look as if he forced his way through. He pulled the towel from around his neck and smeared blood on the wire. Then he ran into the scrub that bordered the site and rubbed more blood on the ground before stepping in his footprints back the way he had come. He ran along the inside of the fence, rubbing the towel on the wire as he went before throwing it far into the scrub on the other side. Opposite the second hole he jumped as far as he could into the mound of rubbish. He landed on a refuse bag that burst open and spilled rancid milk and what looked horribly like the contents of a baby's nappy onto his trainers. Ordinarily he would have been disgusted but today he saw it as a blessing.

He jumped forward again but fell awkwardly. A flash of pain went through his ankle and up his leg. Ignoring it, he ripped open the rubbish bag next to him and spread the contents over the place where he had landed. It wasn't quite as malodorous as the first one but the rotten food should stink enough to confuse the dogs. He straightened up to try one more leap but his ankle was too sore so he hopped forward instead for a distance of about one hundred yards, covering up after himself each time, until the sounds of pursuit became too loud for comfort.

Smith rolled into his own rubbish bags quickly before burrowing into a soft, stinking pile of garbage, as the baying of the dogs reached a peak and they came through the foot tunnel. He heard their noise through the concealing layers of rubbish and the m.u.f.fled shouts from their handlers as they scanned the area. With luck they wouldn't even bother to search the site. He waited, all his senses m.u.f.fled by his concealment. After what seemed an age he heard the rustling of sacks close by him and the unmistakable sound of a dog, sniffing.

He pinched the edges of his two sacks close together. The sound of his blood pumping in his ears was so loud that he was sure it would be audible to the dog's sensitive hearing. He willed it to slow down and suppressed his breathing so that it was silent.

There was a sudden rustling next to him and he froze. It was close enough for the pile of rubbish above him to tremble. The noise grew louder and there was a sense of weight close to him. He could hardly breathe. The air in his sacks was almost gone, his chest constricted and his nose pressed against the plastic, damp with condensation. The claustrophobia that had terrified him since childhood threatened to overwhelm him and he had to fight the urge to rear up and out into the open.

There was a distant cry and the presence above him moved away. They must have found the towel or baseball cap he'd thrown into the undergrowth. He counted to thirty then cracked the sack open so that he could breathe. His face was suddenly wet and he couldn't tell whether it was from blood, sweat or tears. He licked the salty taste from his lips and stifled a sob of relief.

He lay there a long time, exhausted and bruised from inside out. At some point he must have slept because he awoke disoriented and terrified from a dream in which he had been buried alive. Fear was a new sensation for him and its power to enfeeble was an unwelcome shock. In the stinking darkness of the dump he felt for his rucksack and the bottle of water it contained. In swinging it from his shoulders a strap rubbed his neck causing him to cry out in pain. He reached up and touched his injured skin delicately. It felt hot and scabby in some places, still sticky in others. When he sniffed his fingers there was a taint that worried him. He had never been injured before.

The water and sleep revived him and his survival instincts started to rea.s.sert themselves. He needed to get away from here. When they failed to find him in a wider search they would return to his trail again. There was silence in the dump so he risked pushing upwards until he could see the sky. He checked his watch, almost nine o'clock; barely five hours since he'd killed her. It wasn't yet fully dark but he couldn't wait in case they came back.

Cautiously he opened the sacks, paused, listened and stepped out in a crouch. In the distance against the perimeter fence, two people in white suits were searching the ground on hands and knees. They were completely preoccupied. It amused him to see bright police tape marking the lines of his false trail. His decoy had worked on more than the dogs. Never once taking his eyes from the suited figures he backed away to the far side of the dump. There was an entrance with a pole across and gates, deserted now that the site was closed. His cutters made short work of the flimsy padlock and he was out on the road. From memory he had less than a mile to travel in the open until he came to a footpath that would take him across country.

He tried to jog but the pain in his ankle and the jarring along his neck were too painful and he had to slow to a hobbling walk. Two cars pa.s.sed him but neither slowed. His rucksack and sensible shoes still made him look like a rambler in the dusk. The hooded sweatshirt that he'd put on to cover the worst of his injuries looked warm for a summer's evening but apart from that there was nothing to distinguish him from any other walker.

A plan began to form in his mind. He would make his way back to the cottage, clean himself up then take the bike and go down to Devon where he would kill the b.i.t.c.h policewoman and leave the country. He had an escape route worked out; fly to the Channel Islands, which wouldn't require a pa.s.sport then take a day trip across to France and a train to northern Spain. He remembered reading at school that the mountains on the border between France and Spain were wild and untamed. Hiding would be easy.

Thoughts of the life waiting the other side of his next killing kept him going despite pain and hunger but he moved slowly. It was well past midnight when he reached the forest bordering the hills where the cottage lay. The night was dark except when the cloud was blown away by the increasing wind to reveal a full moon. As he trudged through the trees he heard the sound of a motor in the distance. He paused, trying to identify the engine. Whatever it was, it was travelling fast and in his direction. He froze in the shadow of a leafy birch. The regular whump whump of rotor blades slicing the air could only mean one thing.

An intense spotlight illuminated the valley he had just left and flickered through the trees. He waited for it to pa.s.s then ran for the next dense patch of cover, forgetting his pains as adrenaline anaesthetised him. The helicopter swept back and he pressed himself up against the trunk of a larch, hoping that he would blend in.

The sweep finished and he ran on. For half an hour the pattern repeated itself as the helicopter searched the area in a tight grid. Eventually it moved on but the encounter had been another blow to his confidence. His cottage was less than a mile away but it was no longer a place of refuge; if they were hunting he needed to keep on the move. As he limped on he saw a sweep of headlights down the unmade road that led to the cl.u.s.ter of cottages by the lake. He crept to the edge of the woodland and looked back up the road. He could see two other cars blocking access, one of them with a distinctive blue and white pattern down the side. The sight rocked him back on his heels and he sat down, head in hands.

How could they have found him? His first thought was to blame Wendy but the idea was too far-fetched. Wayne then. The little snake had gra.s.sed after all, despite his promise of undying loyalty. Until he'd been locked up because of that b.i.t.c.h, his control of him had been absolute. She was the cause of all his problems; this was all her fault. Thinking of the policewoman reminded him that he needed the information he had hidden in the bike.

He trod silently on leaf mould, aware of the stillness around him and the searchers so close by. The bike was where he had left it, the panniers full and ready for his departure. He contemplated wheeling it through the woods but it would be impossible without making noise so he decided he had no choice but to leave it behind and trust his legs for a few more miles. He unlocked the panniers and pulled out one of the bags.

The air was cool on his bare skin as he stripped off his stinking clothes and changed. He folded a couple of clean shirts, underwear and some jogging pants into his rucksack, then put his razor and the computer printouts on top. There wasn't room for anything else.

He walked back down the rise away from the cottage. When he was far enough from the police, he called her number from his mobile phone. It was past two in the morning and he could tell that he'd woken her. Her voice was thick with a cold and he shuddered with distaste. He hated snot, hers in particular, but he set that thought to one side and issued instructions in a low voice.

Call made, he calculated how long he would have to wait and where to hide. He decided to make his way straight to the pick-up point he had given her. There was a stream on the way he could drink from and his hunger could wait a few more hours. Ignoring his fatigue, the fire at his neck and the sharp ache in his ankle, he settled his rucksack more comfortably between his shoulder blades and turned south.

The birds were just starting to sing and there was a line of colourless light along the eastern horizon when he neared the rendezvous. The sound of male voices brought him up with a start and he crawled forward until he could pick out words above the sound of splattering as someone relieved themselves.

'...one hour then home and bed.'

'You don't want the overtime?'

'The wife'll kill me. If I have a choice I'm saying no but I've got money on it that they'll cancel all leave and make the extra time compulsory.'

'That's crazy. He'll be miles away by now. Let some other division have the pleasure of finding him.'

'Maybe, but you know Cave. He's a belt 'n' braces man. He'll have roadblocks up for at least another twenty-four hours. You got any of that coffee left?'

'Half a cup. You're welcome to it. Any more caffeine and I'll be awake 'til Sunday.'

As the two men went back to their car, Smith inched forward until he had the height of the hedge between himself and their eyeline then crept on soundlessly. Two fields away he pulled out his map, pleased with himself for keeping it. There was no way that the police would be able to cover all the back roads in this part of the county. He selected an unnamed single-track road and called her again with the change of pick-up location, plus a demand for blankets, her medical kit, food and drink.

She wouldn't be able to check for letters until eight-thirty, which meant she should be with him by ten-fifteen at the latest. When he reached the track he'd chosen, he was pleased to see it was clear of police and he settled down to wait. At ten-thirty he'd rung her to find out that she was still ten miles away. He started to curse her slowness then remembered that she was his only lifeline for now. The sense of dependency was unwelcome and he decided that as soon as she'd done what was needed, she'd have to go. As he waited he worked through his ideas of how to rid himself of her. It was an amusing diversion and he was smiling when she arrived.

There was a new look of fear on her face that he put down at first to her guilt for being late but when she couldn't look him in the eye he'd begun to suspect another reason. As he travelled concealed in the tiny boot of the Peugeot his phobia of cars warred with a terror that she was going to turn him in. By the time they'd stopped somewhere near Hay, away from the motorway, he had been sick with nerves.