CHAPTER SIX - SATURDAY 25th DECEMBER

8:00 am.

Malcolm Smith was awakened by the ringing of a bell. At first he thought it to be his bedside alarm going off and had stretched out a hand to silence it. Only when the noise failed to stop did he realise that the ringing was not coming from anything near at hand, but from some other room within the building.
Immediately he sat up and listened hard. This could be a crisis. At least it would be if it were the security system going off. He had silenced the main sirens and the phone dial out to the police, leaving only the small internal bell in the kitchen to go off if intruders were around. If it was the burglar alarm, it probably meant that the woman had worked herself free from her bonds and had broken out of the van. It took a second or two to dismiss the idea. The noise was nothing like the constant ringing that came from the small bell on the kitchen wall. This was something completely different; something more melodic and much nearer to hand.
He looked to his clock radio. The bright red numbers on the digital display told him that it was two minutes past eight o'clock in the morning. He listened hard. The sound appeared to be coming from Mr. McTavish's room. It was only then did he realise that it was a telephone ringing. Quickly he leapt out of bed and made his way at break-neck speed down the narrow corridor to the adjoining bedroom.
Picking up the phone on the desk he answered sheepishly: "Hello! Littlesea Amusement Park, Waxworks and Museum,… Malcolm Smith speaking… How can I help you?"
"Merry Christmas to ye laddie!" boomed a voice on the other end of the line despite the great distance.
"Mr. McTavish!" exclaimed Malcolm more in relief than shock. He had expected the police wanting a statement from him concerning the little incident at the gate the night before. But instead it was his boss speaking.
"Aye t'is I laddie, phoning ye all the wah from wee sunny Australia to wish ye a Merry Christmas and a bonnie wee Hogmanay," greeted the Scotsman.
"And a Merry Christmas to you too Mr. McTavish," said Malcolm returning the compliment. The sound of his boss's voice came as a great relief after the initial shock. Quickly he added: "You got there all right then?"
"Aye.. t'was was a long old flight… I'm still a wee bit stiff… but nothing to complain aboot… Anywah! how'er ye keeping laddie?… Everything fine wi' ye?…" asked Mr. McTavish brightly, then added: "And have ye finished that wee bit o' work I give ye yet?"
"I've got the rack all put together and working, and I've done a few other little jobs," replied Malcolm.
"Auch! That sounds grand laddie," answered Mr. McTavish. "No doubt ye'll be a taking a wee rest today seeing it's Christmas!"
"I think so Mr. McTavish," responded Malcolm.
"Auch, that's grand laddie, now listen here, ye'll find a wee turkey in the freezer and there's that wee present fah ye on top o' ma wardrobe that I told ye about.... Enjoy 'em both.... and I'll wanna see that ye've made good use of what ye got when I get back," continued the Scotsman.
Malcolm felt uncomfortable. He had no idea the turkey was a present for Christmas. He and Katie had already gone ahead and eaten it. Furthermore he had also opened the present from on top of the wardrobe. For a moment he did not know what to say. "Err... err... thank you very much Mr. McTavish,.." he stammered. "I'll... err... get the turkey out of the freezer, and I'll open your present in a bit... Thank you for err... both... thank you..," he stammered awkwardly.
"Auch! It's been nice speaking to ye... Have a merry wee Christmas... and I'll see ye in February... Noo tek good care of ye'self laddie... noo won't ye?... bye,.." answered Mr. McTavish.
"I will.... Goodbye Mr. McTavish," replied Malcolm, then added: "See you in February."
He waited for a further reply, but instead there was a click and the dialling tone returned. Mr. McTavish was never one for making long and expensive telephone calls if he could help it.

8:30 am.

Malcolm showered and dressed, then went down to the kitchen. Hearing Mr. McTavish's voice had cheered him up no end and he moved with a spring to his step. However, despite it being Christmas Day, and he in a boisterous mood, he recognised that there was still a lot of work to do before he could settle down and enjoy the holiday properly. He had to transfer the woman from the van to the basement. Then there were two vehicles to be washed and waxed. The always spotless Jaguar was filthy after his trip to Castle Point. He had cleaned the car for Mr. McTavish only the day before he left for Australia. If it was not spotless on his return then his boss would be very curious as to where all the mud came from. After that there was the little matter of fingerprint and forensic evidence to be tackled. He decided it best to get rid of all the girls' clothing and belongings by incinerating everything that would burn. The rest he would dispose of either into the sea from the end of the jetty or in the council rubbish bins and skips. Items he reckoned that would not incinerate he would gather together in one plastic bag. This would include things such as watches and jewellery. He would even cut buttons off if necessary if he thought that they would not get destroyed in the incinerator. The remaining items he would dump in a number of places all well away from the Amusement Park. After that the little hut at the bottom of the drive needed to be wiped clean. It certainly was going to be a busy day.
On looking out of the window whilst filling the kettle, he observed that the weather had changed dramatically overnight. The ground was soaked from an overnight deluge with great puddles everywhere, but at least the rain had stopped now and the sun was out. For the first time in days he could see the railings and the promenade, and could look out to sea at the choppy waves. His eyes turned to the gates. The abandoned car was no longer there. He assumed that the police or the woman's husband had either got it started or towed it away during the night. He expected them to make contact with him very soon for a statement. For a second or two he pieced together his story. It went something like this: He had walked into town and seen the car parked there at about ten o'clock that morning. Jimmy Jones the chauffeur had told him that it had been there since at least eight o'clock. At six o'clock in the evening he had decided on a chinese take-away but found the entrance still blocked. That was when the police turned up, and they know the story from there on. In the end he did not go out and had remained in the complex ever since.
His story to the police settled in his mind, he turned his attentions to more pressing matters. His first port of call was a trip down to see his prisoner in the basement.

9:00 am.

Wendy Bartlett was looking a little brighter when Malcolm arrived. At least some colour had returned to her cheeks. However, her eyes were still dark and sunk in their sockets and her hands were still very much unusable. Also it did not look like she had managed to eat or drink anything from the tray resting by her feet. She remained huddled in the corner of the small cell, her knees drawn up to her chest and head bowed. Once again she averted his gaze, simply staring down at the chains about her ankles and not speaking a word.
For the time being Malcolm was content just to leave her like that.
She would eat something eventually.

9:15 am.

From the dungeon, Malcolm moved to the loading bay where both the Jaguar and the van were housed. He arrived armed with a very sharp knife and Katie's handcuffs. All was quiet in the bay. After disabling the security alarm he opened the back doors to the van and peered inside. Davina Townsend was still there, lying on her side with her back towards him. As the doors opening she attempted to shuffle awkwardly around but managed little more than a few degrees of turn. He grabbed her by an arm and dragged her bodily towards the rear of the van. Then with the knife he sliced through the short length of surgical tape that bound her hands and feet together. Lying face down upon her stomach, the woman's stiffened legs slowly unfolded to settle softly upon the metal floor.
"Sit up!" he ordered.
The woman moaned loudly through the tape about her mouth, but began to move as instructed. Malcolm smiled: Signs of willingness were evident as she struggled to comply with his wishes despite being gagged, blindfolded and having both hands and feet bound tightly together.
"I'm glad to find you so co-operative!" he remarked coldly as she finally righted herself with a little assistance to sit with legs hanging out of the back of the van.
She gurgled something, suggesting she desperately wanted to communicate with her abductor, but made very little sense and he ignored it. With excessive lashings of white tape about white boots, a thick, heavy white raincoat about her body, a white scarf around her neck, and a head almost completely swathed in white surgical bandage, an image of mummified proportions presented itself to the teenager that amused him greatly.
Using the knife, he sliced the tapes that bound together the knee-length boots, then drew down the zips that ran up the insides of the legs. With a fair amount of effort, for the boots were tight, he yanked each away, pulling and jerking at the stubborn legs until they were free.
"Stand up!" he told her when it was done.
With a helping hand she rose to her feet and tottered unsteadily. Malcolm turned her around so as to face the van.
She gurgled something unrecognisable.
Pressing the knife against the middle of her back and told her: "One false move and this knife goes straight through you! Do you understand?" And with that he gave an extra little jab.
The woman jerked instinctively away from the sharp point and uttered yet another incomprehensible statement.
Malcolm thrust the knife forward a little harder. This time to penetrate the coat and cut into the fabric. It may even have drawn a little blood. "Show me you understand?… Nod your head!… Show me you understand?" he hissed.
The woman felt the sting of the point and nodded her head vigorously.
"Good!" he exclaimed on seeing the positive response, then went on to warn her: "I'm going to cut you loose now, so don't go and do anything silly to make me regret it!… Just keep perfectly still… and don't move a muscle!… Is that clear?"
On receiving yet another positive response Malcolm sliced through the surgical tapes that bound her wrists. Once free the woman's numb and lifeless arms dropped slowly to her sides. Immediately she attempted to bring the stiffened limbs round to the front to massage them back to life and ultimately to massage the bumps on the side and back of her head. However the hands were never allowed to get beyond the thighs.
"I told you not to move!… I told you to keep still!… didn't I?" bellowed Malcolm, and to indicate that he was deadly serious he jabbed the blade of the knife once more into the small of the back.
Immediately the woman's body turned rigid.
"Good!.. Now stay like that!… Keep perfectly still!" hissed Malcolm as he unwound the scarf from about her neck and unbuttoned the front of the raincoat.
The buttons were large and easily manageable. In harsh, jerky movements that rocked the body, he peeled the coat away from the shoulders and down the arms until it fell to the ground. With a quick sideways shuffle of the foot he pushed everything away.
The woman was wearing a matching two-piece maroon suit with a white blouse beneath. He recalled what the policeman had said about her helping out in her sister's shop. This fact was now apparent. The woman was dressed in typical shop assistant's regalia, and to emphasise the point, a badge pinned to the left breast told him her name was Davina. He removed the jacket, tossed it away, then undid the skirt fastenings and let it fall to the floor. Finally he unbuttoned the blouse and jerked that too away from the arms.
Malcolm's immediate plan was to take possession of all the woman's clothes and trinkets, then, along with all Wendy Bartlett's belongings, he would set about incinerating all that would burn. With hands upon shoulders he guided her backwards to step away from the skirt and to stand in a space free of clothes. Slowly he circled about her. She was still wearing her bra and panties along with a suspender belt and stockings. There was nothing really fancy or erotic about what she wore. At least he did not think so. However, unlike Wendy Bartlett's poor excuse for matching underwear, a little bit of colour co-ordination did exist on this occasion. At least all items were in white, except for the nylons of course, which were a light brown in colour.
He made a mental picture of what he finally wanted, with the woman stripped completely naked and dangling from the end of the long chain. Unfortunately the face was covered in tape, and the hair was still held back in a ponytail, but the bodily shape and proportions were all that he hoped for. He unclipped the fastener that held the ponytail in place and let the hair fall about the shoulders. Arranging the locks so as they fell in equal proportions to the front and rear, he circled her again. If anything the hair was a bit too long, reaching down beyond the nipples. But the colour and texture were just about perfect: A blonde hue with a certain springiness and bounce to the tresses.
He circled her once again. With the hair rearranged he could picture the scene with a lot more clarity. After much thought he considered that with a little trimmed off the end so as not to conceal the nipples, then Mrs. Davina Townsend would make the ideal subject for what he wanted. He smiled and nodded his head in approval. His biggest wish was to pay back Mr. McTavish for his wonderful present by presenting him with some perfect drawings. He was now in a position to do just that, having both the ideal tools with which to work and the perfect model to stand and pose for him: Or was it hang and pose for him? He was not quite sure how best to phrase it. A wry smile crossed his face. At least he could see the funny side of what was happening.
Felling jovial he returned to the task in hand. Standing to the rear, he unclipped the hooks of the bra, slid the shoulder straps down the arms and pulled the garment away. It felt warm and he held the fabric to a cheek and sniffed within the cups. It was full of womanly smells that reminded him of his mother. Still clutching the bra to his face he moved to the front to make a mental comparison between the picture he wanted and the exposed upper torso of the woman. He brushed the fallen locks away from the breasts. If anything the woman's tits were a fraction bigger and protruding more upwards than the ones he originally envisaged. However he had no objections to what he saw and upgraded his final expectations accordingly.
Reluctantly he dropped the bra to the floor and returned to matters in hand. "Arms behind the back," he told her as he refocused his mind.
With a little assistance she complied and Malcolm locked the handcuffs about the wrists.
In no mood to rush, he gently unfastened the four suspender clips attached to the tops of the nylon stockings. The woman's panties were drawn over the top of the straps. He eased them out slowly, one at a time to let them fall loosely against the thighs. He circled her once more before returning to lovingly unclip two small hooks and unwind the suspender belt from around the waist. Again he felt the warmth of the fabric and sniffed the odour that encompassed it before casting the garment aside.
She muttered something through the surgical tape about her mouth. Malcolm wondered whether it was time to remove the sticking plaster, and to listen to what she had to say, but decided against it. For the time being at least, the strapping would have to remain. It was better that way. There was also another point to consider. He could not sketch an exact likeness of the woman's face. If people recognised her picture in the brochures then he would be in real trouble. The blank white profile with just nose protruding would make an ideal background on which to elaborate his own interpretations on the many pain-racked faces being pulled. Perhaps he would leave the tape on indefinitely. At this stage he had not quite made up his mind.
Once again he realised that his thoughts were drifting and he immediately set about rolling a stocking down the leg as far as the ankles.
"Up!" he said tapping a knee.
She raised the leg and began to rock to-and-fro. He steadied her with one arm and removed the nylon with the other. Whilst fingering the delicate, sheer material, he allowed time for the foot to return to the ground and for her to regain her own balance before continuing. Only when she looked stable did he delicately roll down the other stocking as far as it would go.
He tapped the other knee. "Foot up again!" he said.
She complied by raising the leg and bending the knee. Malcolm extracted the stocking, rolled the two up together and tossed them away.
Once again he walked a complete circle about the woman. On this occasion to observe the legs. He considered that they were just about perfect. They were sturdy yet shapely, and nothing like the scrawny pins that belonged to Miss Wendy Bartlett. Taking everything into account, this woman's overall posture and physique compared favourably with his original concepts. He nodded his approval: Mrs. Davina Townsend would do nicely, thank you very much!
Realising that he was taking up far too much time studying his subject, he returned to the task in hand. All that remained to take off were the woman's panties and a few items of jewellery. He had already decided to leave the panties on till the very end. Exactly why he did not know? Perhaps out of courtesy, but more likely for his own sexual desires. He had something special in mind and did not want to unwrap the goods until he had her safely chained away in the dungeon.
With his thoughts drifting even more than ever, he absently removed all the additional trappings; namely a wristwatch, a gold bracelet, a pair of earrings, four rings, two from each hand, and placed them in a polythene bag.
When he was done, he took her by the arm. "Right, this way!" he said, and set about leading her away.
The woman offered no resistance and tentatively walked alongside her captor not knowing what fate awaited her. She was in fear of her life but realised that to antagonise the boy would only make matters worse. Her hopes rested on having the tapes across her eyes and mouth removed and be in a position to plead and negotiate with him. Malcolm however had very different ideas as he led the woman to the basement.
"Stop! Wait here!" he told her upon arrival.
She did as she was told not knowing that a long chain hung down before her face.
Malcolm did not want to repeat the fiasco with Wendy Bartlett. He reasoned that his drawings would depict a point in time immediately after the whipping but prior to having the stool kicked away. It was therefore not necessary to introduce the stool and thumbscrews until after the flogging. As long as the woman was positioned with her arms above her head when he administered the lashes then the welts would appear to have been applied naturally. The stool in effect need only come into play at a much later stage to finalise his sketches. On this premise Malcolm set to work.
Removing the handcuffs, he reminded her: "Don't move a muscle!... Stay exactly as you are!"
She did as she was told and retained her hands behind her back.
Malcolm collected a pair of manacles held together by a short chain of a mere five links in length.
He stood before her and said: "Give me your hands,… and hold them out towards me."
Again she complied, bringing her arms to the front and raising them up to about waist height.
Malcolm locked the manacles about the wrists. They were heavier than the handcuffs and the arms dropped to meet the thighs immediately on release. He took hold again and raised up the arms to breast height.
"Keep them up like that," he told her.
Once more the woman complied with his wishes. Immediately in front her outstretched wrists hung a long chain. Malcolm for the time being had removed the thumb-lock device, and the end of the chain now terminated in nothing more than a large iron ring. With a padlock he locked the ring to the central link of the manacles. The additional weight of an oversized padlock proved too much for the woman and her arms dropped to the length of the chain.
Malcolm crossed the floor to the winding gear. "Don't move!" he called and proceeded to turn the handle.
The woman's arms crept slowly upwards as the chain wound around the pulley affixed to the apex of the great arched and vaulted ceiling. At the point when her heals looked like lifting from the floor, he stopped and locked the winding gear in place.
Stepping away, Malcolm mentally attuned his thoughts to the harrowing task at hand. After a few minutes concentration he considered himself ready for his first big test. He cast his mind back to an event a few nights ago, to the time when Katie had been fooling around in the pillory. He remembered her desperate struggles to break free and his wanton urge to take up a cane and tan her backside. He also recalled the passionate arousal the compromising situation stirred within his loins. On that occasion all had been wishful thinking on his part, but now circumstances demanded that the act be performed for real. There was conflict in his mind. He told himself that the reasons for doing this were not for his own personal gratification, but for the enjoyment of Mr. McTavish and a successful Summer Exhibition. With a deep feeling of commitment rather than anything erotic or sexually devious, he set to work.
Malcolm returned to stand directly behind the woman and to place his hands upon her hips. Slowly he hooked his fingers beneath the waist elastic of the panties and dragged them down as far as the ankles.
He took one final deep breath and tried to relax. He told himself that he was ready now.
By his feet lay a cane. He collected it from the floor. Standing to one side, and to the woman's left, Malcolm tapped her buttocks lightly with the rod and adjusted his stance. Slowly he withdrew the stick and held it high. The cane hovered for a second then whistled down through the air to crack loudly against the naked and unprotected cheeks of the woman's backside.
Despite the surgical tape about her mouth, the woman managed to make a fair amount of noise, and for a while the scream resonated about the chamber.
"One!" said Malcolm flexing the rod and waiting for the echo to die away.
As the initial shock faded, in an effort to ease the pain, the woman began to step with her feet, raising first one foot off the floor, then the other. For a while the panties about her ankles moved in rhythm with the steps until they eventually became entangled with the toes and came away.
Malcolm raised the rod and struck again whilst she still shuffled uneasily.
"Two!" he counted.
 Once more the blow was greeted with the same muffled calls and a similar ceremonial dance, but if anything, delivered with a little more passion and feeling.
Malcolm lifted up the cane and waited for her to settle.
"Three!" he said as he brought the cane down once again.
The dying muffled sounds from the second stroke merged unabated with the third, and the tempo of the dance turned into a little jig.
"Four!" he called as the next blow struck home.
She began running on the spot and trampling her panties underfoot.
"Five!" he sang a semitone higher. The pitch of his voice keeping pace with the ever increasing ferocity of the woman's movements.
No longer waiting for her to settle between strokes, he released his ultimate stroke with a force and passion that exceeded all the rest by a factor of ten.
"Six!" he yelled finally and stepped away to see exactly what he had achieved.
The entire chain from hands to pulley was rocking and swinging with the movement of the woman's feet. She had also resorted to breathing heavily and making loud snorting noises through the nostrils.
Malcolm smiled. The results were pleasing and much better than expected. The ordeal had been a massive test for him. He had to know that he could inflict pain and feel unemotional about it. In a few hours time he would be obliged to act the role of Dungeon Master. In doing so he would have to apply atrocities many times more severe than this and feel no pity from his actions. Unfortunately for the woman it was just something that had to be done in order to obtain those perfect sketches he so desperately craved.
The woman's panties lay trampled on the floor. Malcolm bent down and extracted them from beneath her still shuffling feet. Putting them to his nose, he sniffed. They felt warm and moist with a rather pleasant odour to them. Reluctantly he tucked them away in a pocket. It was time to go.
As Malcolm ambled slowly along the long grotto cave towards the exit, his mood was one of deep pensive thought. He would return later that evening when Mrs. Davina Townsend's mock trial and subsequent punishment would begin in earnest. But for the time being he would leave her to her thoughts. Right now he had a busy schedule ahead of him. There were cars to be cleaned and a great pile of clothes to be got rid of.

1:00 pm.

WPC Georgina Watkinson looked out of her bedroom window at the Amusement Park and the view beyond the high fence at the bottom of her garden. The sun was out and the temperature well up on what it had been over the past several days.
Movement to the rear of the main building caught her eye. Some sort of activity was going on. She picked up a pair of binoculars that she always kept next to the window and focused in on the scene. The boy she had talked to through the railings yesterday evening was outside in the courtyard busily sponging and washing down two vehicles. One was the van which she had seen at the front gates. The other was a dark coloured Jaguar saloon. There was also a plume of black smoke coming from a short stack on a small building adjoining the main complex. It was not the first time she had seen the boy cleaning the two vehicles. In fact not so long ago, the day before the severe frost if her memory served her correct, she had looked out with her binoculars and seen the same event happening. She wondered why on Christmas Day of all days he would be doing this again? Perhaps it was the sunshine that had brought him out! Still, it was none of her business what he did and it was wrong of her to pry. Her attention strayed and she re-focused beyond the grounds to the sea and the distance horizon. There were a couple of little sailing yachts out there enjoying what was already proving to be a truly beautiful spring-like day.
She returned to sit at her dressing table. Inside her was a feeling of deep pride. For last night she had done her public duty to the boy in the courtyard. The car blocking the front gates had been taken away. The owner's husband had turned up along with a neighbour for assistance. They had jump started the engine and driven the car away. There was one sour point however, the man's wife had still not shown her face by the time she had come off duty. It was suggested by the rather irate husband that she had gone to do her own last minute shopping and would turn up later. Anyway, the situation at ten o'clock last night was that nothing official had been reported.
Due back at the station at two o'clock, she was just getting herself ready. It was not her wish to work on Christmas Day. But the rota had been agreed a long time ago and it was not as if it had come as a shock or anything. Today was her last day at work. She would finish at ten o'clock that evening. After that she had four days all to herself. Her only regret was that her parents had gone down to the West Country to visit her grandparents, thus leaving her alone in the house to fend for herself. Anyway, she was a big girl now; twenty-seven years of age and quite capable of looking after herself.

2:15 pm.

WPC Watkinson found herself summonsed to Detective Inspector Hawkins' office soon after arriving for duty at Littlesea Police Station.
"Ha!… Watkinson!… Take a seat," greeted the Inspector as the woman officer entered the room.
She sat down in front of his desk.
Detective Inspector Hawkins was a man in his fifties with balding hair and a habit to continually chain smoke. He stubbed out the one he had just finished and lit up another. He was not in a very good mood. He was a family man and wanted to be at home for Christmas. But first the disappearance of the teenager from Castle Point and now the reporting of a second missing person had dictated that he should come in for at least a few hours today.
 The detective looked at his notes. "You've heard that we've got another missing persons on our hands?" he asked.
"Yes sir," answered the woman officer. It was the first thing she had heard when she walked through the door. From what was originally a sorry tale of a girl going missing on the cliffs, with not a lot to get excited about, suddenly there was a buzz about the station. Perhaps after all there was something really mysterious going on in this sleepy little seaside town.
"You and PC Grantford had the woman's car moved last night I believe?" he stated. He was going to say evidence and not car, but thought it better put this way.
"Yes sir. It was blocking a private driveway. We had a request to move it, so we informed the woman's husband and he took it away himself," she explained.
Hawkins had already had a word with the woman officer's patrol partner so this interview was really just going over what he already knew.
"The request to move the car was made by someone from the Amusement Park, was it not?" he asked.
"That's true sir. He was wanting to get his van out but the woman's car was blocking the drive," she explained.
"The car had been there all day, and the battery had gone flat?" he said reading from his notes.
"The battery was flat sir. The husband started it with a set of jump leads," she replied.
"So the car is now where? Back at the house were she lives I presume?" asked the detective, then answering his own question.
"That was where he said he was taking it sir," WPC Watkinson confirmed.
Hawkins made a note to get Forensic to look it over before anybody else got to it.
"Right! Well we know that she was at work all day and left the shop where she  worked sometime around five-thirty. What time did you speak to this person from the Amusement Park?" he asked.
She took out her personal note book from her top pocket of her uniform "About five-fifty sir," she confirmed after consulting her notes.
"Twenty minutes from shop to car… How long does it take to walk from the centre of town to the pleasure park?" he asked next.
"Ten minutes… Fifteen at most… It's not that far sir," she answered. She ought to know, she had walked it often enough.
"So the missing person could have made it to the car… Just!… Found the battery flat and gone for help?" reasoned Hawkins.
"That's a possibility sir… but the husband did suggest that she had gone elsewhere… to do a little last minute shopping for herself. That's why nothing got reported until this morning," she said passing on her own personal thoughts for what they were.
The Inspector, for what it was worth, tended to agree with the female officer's analysis but did not pass it on. Instead he scanned through his notes once more before addressing the next question: "For the records I want a statement from the person at the Amusement Park… What was his name?" he asked.
For the first time the woman officer felt slightly embarrassed. "I'm sorry sir, we only spoke to the gentleman through the railings. We did not get his name," she said apologetically.
"Well I shall need a statement from him?" he informed her, then added: "What are your duties today Watkinson?"
"I've been assigned to assist in the cliff and dune searches out at Castle Point sir," she informed him.
The detective thought for a moment. It was better that she helped with the search. They were such short staffed at the moment it was ridiculous. He decided to organise the statement himself.
"You'd better carry on with the search. We need every person we can get out there today now that the fog's gone," he told her.
"Yes sir," she answered showing no emotion. Though personally she felt a little downbeat. She would much rather be doing a little detective work of her own than trampling the cliff tops knee deep in mud. At that point she made a connection between the ruined castle and the poster on the railings outside the Amusement Park. A sort of third sense if you like. It was a weird sensation that she could not describe. She wondered whether the boy had anything to do with the disappearances? She shrugged her shoulders. She was being silly!  The two items had to be unconnected.
"This person you spoke to through the railings works at the Amusement Park I take it?" he asked. The question bringing her quickly back to the matters at hand.
"Yes sir,… I think he's the caretaker there," she informed her superior officer.
"How can I contact him then?" he inquired.
"The place is all locked up at this time of the year sir… I would think the telephone would be the best way of getting in touch," she suggested.
Inspector Hawkins lifted the local telephone directory out of his top drawer, flopped it down heavily on his desk and flicked though the pages.
"What's this place called?" he asked.
"LAPWAM sir. That's short for Littlesea Amusement Park, Waxworks and Museum," she informed him. She had written the initials on the van down in her notes even though she knew it anyway.
The Inspector  found the address he was looking for and dialled the number.
After a couple of minutes ringing he looked up and said: "No answer!"
"I think he's outside sir… cleaning his cars," she told him.
The Inspector put the receiver down. He was just wasting his time being side-tracked in this way. There were much more fruitful lines of investigation to have a go at. For starters he had a list of some four dozen known sexual perverts residing in the area, and they all had to be checked out first. But even that list could wait until tomorrow when he was in a position to put together a team of sorts. Why did it have to happen on Christmas Day of all days? Sod it! He was going home to his family.
"I'll handle it myself,… I'll call this person first thing in the morning,… I'll get him to come here and make a statement,… I think that will be best… That will be all for now Watkinson… You may return to your normal duties," he said dismissing her.
WPC Watkinson rose and watched him write in his diary: '8:30 contact Amusement Park'.
She left the room not too happy at being sidelined, but on the other hand she understood the mounting pressures the detective was under. Perhaps now that the fog had lifted they would find the first missing girl's body and at least solve one of the crimes for him.

3:00 pm.

The telephone rang. Malcolm Smith, who just that minute had returned from cleaning the vehicles, feared the worst. It had to be the police this time. The boy lifted up the receiver on the kitchen extension and answered tentatively: "Hello, Littlesea Amusement Park, Waxworks and Museum… Malcolm Smith speaking… How can I help you?"
"Hello Malcolm! It's Jimmy Jones here," stated the caller.
"Jimmy!" he exclaimed on recognising exactly who it was. Gradually the tension eased.
"Hi! Merry Christmas Malcolm," greeted the chauffeur.
"And a Merry Christmas to you too ," replied the teenager.
"Malcolm, I was wondering if you could do me one big favour?" asked Jimmy.
"What's that?" asked Malcolm.
"I was wondering if I could borrow the van tomorrow?" he asked.
"What for?" questioned the boy.
"My sister's got two teenage boys and they've both had mountain bikes for Christmas. She want's me to take them with us to our mother's in Broadbeach tomorrow. We always go on there Boxing day. A sort of family tradition. I usually take the car. But if the bikes are to go as well I shall need something bigger," he explained.
Malcolm thought for a second. Jimmy was one of the safest drivers around and he had already done his boss a big favour by taking him to the airport. He could see no reason why he should not let Jimmy have the van for a day. In fact he was only too delighted to say yes, and he knew that Mr. McTavish would have done exactly the same thing.
"Yeh!… Sure Jimmy!… You can have it,… no problem… What you want to do?… How do you want to collect it?" he said.
"Thanks Malcolm…. The next dozen cups of tea are on me… I'd like to pick it up in the morning if that's all right by you… I can get a lift there… and be at the gates at about nine o'clock,… I should be back for about six o'clock at night, and I'll pay for all the diesel… don't worry about the cost…" Jimmy thanked and assured him.
"That's fine with me Jimmy… And it doesn't matter about the fuel… I'll be outside the gates with the van at nine then… It's my pleasure," Malcolm told him.
"Smashing!… I'll go and tell my sister and her kids the good news… I'll see you tomorrow then, at nine o'clock sharp,… and thanks once again, you're a good 'un," praised Jimmy.
 "See you in the morning, then," said Malcolm.
"No problem,… nine o'clock in the morning,… I'll see you then," repeated Jimmy.
"Bye," said Malcolm.
"Bye," echoed Jimmy and the phone went dead.

4:00 pm.

Having completed operation tidy-up, eaten a little and downed a welcoming cup of tea, Malcolm returned to the basement at sometime around four o'clock. On arrival he looked in on the cell to check firstly on Wendy Bartlett. She was sobbing lightly.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked scornfully as he peered in through the bars.
She did not answer him.
"I said what's the matter with you? Are you deaf?" he repeated harshly.
She sniffled and continued to stare at the floor between her manacled legs.
"Sulk then!" he hissed and walked away.
He had more important things upon his mind than to worry about a moody little office girl.
Malcolm crossed the floor to Mrs. Davina Townsend. She was silent and unmoving with head sunk forward between raised arms. Her naked body perspired from the effects of the spotlights and her backside had turned blue from the earlier tanning. He circled her one complete turn before standing before her.
"I'm going to take the tapes off your face now," he told her. "You are not to speak until I say so. Is that understood?"
The woman mumbled something from beneath the surgical tape.
"Nod your head… Tell me you understand… You promise to remain silent otherwise I'll stick the tapes back on," her warned her.
She nodded.
Malcolm tore the tapes away.
Suddenly she could breath again and gulped the air. There was also light and her eyes fluttered wildly as she tried to adjust from the darkness.
"Right Mrs. Davina Townsend," Malcolm began. "You are now on trial… Do you understand what I am saying?… You may answer yes or no!"
"Why?… Why me?… Why are you doing this to me?" she asked between gasps for air.
Malcolm picked up the rod he had used earlier. Holding like a sword, he thrust the end to her mouth and curled up a lip.
"If you refuse to answer me properly then the tapes go back on permanently," he told her. "Now, I said: You are now on trial… Do you understand what I am saying?"
"Y...yes!" she said spluttering against the tip of the cane.
"Good!… That's much better," he informed her and withdrew the rod.
The woman's eyes were better adjusted now and she stared wildly at the spotty teenager that dared do all this to her. But like a fighter she adapted quickly and decided to play the game by the boy's rules. Whatever they were supposed to be!
"Parking on private property is a crime!… Do you agree with me?… Answer me yes or no!" he said.
"Yes," she agreed and started to elaborate: "But!…"
"Just answer the question yes or no!" interrupted Malcolm before she could get any further.
 "Yes!" she repeated and left it at that.
"Good!" he continued. "Now you Mrs. Davina Townsend are accused of illegal parking on property belonging to Littlesea Amusement Park, Waxworks and Museum on the twenty-fourth of December last… I want you to plead either guilty or not guilty to the charge... So tell me, how do you plead?… Guilty or not guilty?"
The woman was bemused. Could the boy be really serious? Surely Not! And all because she had left her car in his driveway? Her own logic and instinct for survival told her to go along with whatever insane questions the boy was putting to her.
"Guilty!" she replied in the hope of appeasing him.
Malcolm raised an eyebrow. He had expected different, anticipating the woman to protest her innocence. But never mind, at least it made things a lot less complicated.
"What time did you park the car?" he asked.
Davina Townsend was thinking how silly this all was. Why did he want to know the time anyway? And did it really matter? She continued to go along with his little game.
"From the morning... About eight o'clock… Look I'm sorry!… I didn't mean it!… There was no where else to park," she answered with an added apology.
Malcolm however did not mind the plea for clemency. She had admitted her guilt, so all he had to do now was pass sentence.
He did a simple calculation for her. "So you admit to being illegally parked from about eight o'clock in the morning to something like six o'clock at night," he suggested. "Is that correct?"
The woman shook her head in puzzlement. Why was this boy asking such petty questions? She was living a nightmare. Here she was stood embarrassingly naked before him, manacled to a chain above her head, unable to nurse a throbbing head and stinging backside, and all the lunatic could talk about was illegal parking.
"Yes," she answered. It was not worth getting into an argument about.
"Ten hours then?" proposed Malcolm. "You were illegally parked for ten hours. Do you agree with that?"
"Your mathematics are perfect!" she answered sarcastically.
"Good! Then if you accept that you did park illegally for the duration of ten hours, and plead guilty to the charge, then there is little left for me to do but pass sentence," he told her, then after a thoughtful pause added: "But before I do, have you anything to say in your defence?"
She shook her head in disbelief. This was getting beyond a joke. What was he leading up to? Pay a fine or something and then let her go? Somehow she doubted it!
"I admit it! I'm guilty! I parked illegally for ten hours on your property," she confessed. "Now tell me how much I have to pay and let me go!"
"I'm afraid it's not as easy as that!" retorted Malcolm. "What I failed to mention is that this is meant to be the thirteenth century trial, and people didn't get away with just paying fines in those days."
The woman stared back in disbelief. Cars? Parking? In the thirteenth century! Now she knew that the boy was completely deranged! Why had she been such a fool as to fall so easily into his trap? If only she had remembered to switch the car headlights off then all this would not have happened.
"Look! This is just nonsense! I've owned up and apologised. Now let me go!" she told him.
Malcolm just smiled. It was time to pass sentence. "Mrs. Davina Townsend," he started. "You have admitted your guilt to the charges laid before you. I therefore have no alternative but to pass sentence accordingly. This court sentences you to ten lashes of the whip. One lash for every hour illegally parked. After that you are to be suspended by the thumbs for ten minutes. Again one minute for every hour. Think yourself lucky you've got away so lightly. If you had pleaded not guilty then the sentence would have far more severe."
The woman listened to every word in disbelief. "You're insane," she told him and shook her head from side to side.
Malcolm stepped forward and replaced the tape before her eyes. He considered it best for her own sake that she did not see what was going on.
Picking up a short but rather stout bullwhip from the floor, the boy took up a stance in a similar position to the spot from which he administered the cane. He drew the whip back and held it there.
"Is there anything you would like to say before sentence is carried out?" he asked the woman.
"You're mad! Totally insane!" she retorted. To be quite honest she was beyond caring.
The insults fired up the boy and he let loose the first stroke.
"One," he said as the leather ripped across the woman's naked back.
She screamed and began to shudder in convulsions. A wave motion in the chain above her head snapped against the pulley in the ceiling and returned to meet her wrists. Malcolm looked at the result. A diagonal red line crossed her back from right shoulder blade to bottom of the left ribcage. It looked good.
He drew back his arm and swung again.
"Two," he counted immediately the blow struck home.
The woman gulped down a lung full of air then exhaled. The noise that followed was ear splitting. But she did not care. She had started to scream and she would continue doing so until it was all over. The boy was putting her through hell and she would damn well let him know about it.
Malcolm inspected the latest red line. The angle of the stroke had not been so steep and had formed a cross with the first. He nodded his approval. At last he was getting the natural pattern he wanted.
He raised his arm and swung again.
"Three," he informed her.
The woman shrieked and shook violently as the pain intensified.
He struck again.
"Four," counted Malcolm as the blow landed.
She screamed even louder.
He waited for her to settle down then cracked the whip once more.
"Five," counted Malcolm as the leather sliced deep into the skin.
The woman now danced, rocked and screamed.
He decided to give her a short rest.
Having passed sentence of only ten lashes, then five strokes were all he could afford across the back. The remainder had to be saved for the chest. He had originally planned for more, but her plea of guilty had mitigated the circumstances somewhat. However now that the deed was done, and after inspecting her back more closely, then perhaps five was ample anyway. He had the natural pattern he wanted. The five criss-crossed lines were just about perfect. And besides, if he wanted to add more then he could do so in his sketches afterwards. More importantly were the breasts and the way the whip made contact with a non-flat surface. This is the area where he had gone wrong before and he needed to know exactly how the whip marks would fall.
Malcolm moved round to the woman's front and took up a fresh stance. He drew back the whip and took careful aim for the breasts. He swung his arm and the leather cracked home.
"Six," he called.
The woman screamed and shook as the blow raked across her breasts. The whip catching her just above the nipple of her left breast and a fraction below the right. Malcolm smiled. This was what he did not have with Wendy Bartlett. The lash had left two distinct marks: One upon either breast, with a gap between.
More eager than ever to see the finished results, he let fly again.
"Seven," he called as the blow struck.
This time the whip caught a nipple and the woman reacted violently. Again two separate red marks appeared along with an oozing of blood.
He struck again.
"Eight," called Malcolm as he continued with the sentence.
Now there were three marks across the woman's breasts and all very close to one another.
He aimed lower and cracked the whip.
"Nine," he called as the penultimate blow struck home.
The lash caught her just below the breasts and raked across the ribs. Immediately a horizontal red line appeared where the leather had struck.
Malcolm withdrew his arm for the final time and waited.
He looked to the pattern already formed and aimed for the expanse of unmarked flesh just above the breasts. On the final stroke he let fly with all the energy he could muster. The blow caught her just where he had aimed with the end of the whip curling round beneath the armpit on the far side.
"Ten!" he called, and adding: "Sentence is complete."
However the woman did not appear to appreciate that the torment was over, and continued to scream and shake with intensity.
For a few seconds he waited to regain his breath before taking a good look at the results. This was just about perfect. He had set out to establish the correct welt patterns laid down during flogging. He now had everything he wanted to create perfect sketches for Mr. McTavish.

4:45 pm.

Malcolm looked to his watch. The time was approaching a quarter to five. The complete trial and punishment had taken no more than forty-five minutes at most. He decided to leave the woman to recover until morning when he would return and begin his initial sketches.
As the boy entered the long exit cave to the grotto, he turned his mind to other things. His thoughts for most of the afternoon whilst cleaning the cars had been focused entirely upon fresh ways of abducting Tracy Goodyear. This refocused his concentration on the challenge. His conundrum was, that he had two people to satisfy. One was Mr. McTavish who he dearly wanted to present with some brilliant drawings on his return from Australia, and the other was his beloved Katie. Her parting wish had been to return and find Miss Tracy Goodyear stretched out on the rack. She would love him for ever and a day if he did that for him. Those were her exact words and he did not want to disappoint her. He had tried once before and failed, but there was no reason why he should not succeed the next time.
So with his mind turned to other matters he walked the grotto passageway. Soon an exciting new master plan was beginning to take shape. Ever since coming across Katie's keys on the bedroom floor, a second kidnap attempt had become a distinct possibility. From the very start he had recognised that any visit to Katie's old flat would hold a high degree of risk. There were three other apartments there creating a strong possibility of being seen. So almost from the beginning he had channelled his thoughts towards an abduction in the car instead. The keys offered a far better chance of success, especially if the car was somewhere away from the flat. He knew that she was driving the vehicle in its owner's absence. He had seen her. So perhaps this was his best bet. But how? As he reached the spacious exhibition hall a detailed plan of sorts had formulated in his brain. But to finalise everything a visit to the car park of the local Hospital was necessary. It was well away from the Amusement Park and promenade, and held a fair probability that a certain dark blue Ford estate car would be there during visiting hours. He looked to his watch. He did not know for sure, but visiting times at hospital were usually around seven o'clock at night. There was still plenty of  time left to have a meal and then pop over to the other side of town and take a quick look around.

7:30 pm.

Driving the van, Malcolm pulled out of the complex via the main gates and headed to the far side of town. The rain had started again but the journey to the hospital was short and took no more that ten minutes.
On entering the hospital gates he looked about him. It had been a long time since he had visited a hospital, and never to this one. Slowly and cautiously he followed the signs and arrows that directed him into the car park. It was a huge expanse of tarmac, sectioned off by neat rows of central reservations planted out with scrawny shrubs and untidy bushes. The area itself was well illuminated by bright orange lights atop towering posts dotted at intervals between the rows. Strangely the car park was nowhere near full. He had expected trouble in finding a spot, but instead found himself spoilt for choice. In the end he opted for a space as far away from the buildings as possible, backing up against some very larger bushes on the extreme edge of the car park. From this distance he felt it safe enough to get out and have a quick reconnoitre.
Stepping out of the van he pulled up the hood of his anorak and looked around. Immediately a dark blue Ford estate parked just a little further down the same row caught his eye. It too was backed up against the bushes. The colour and shape looked very familiar and he stepped closer to confirm the number plate. He smiled as he recognised the registration. It was Richard Davies's car all right, there was no doubt about it, and he guessed that Tracy Goodyear would have driven it here.
Nonchalantly he walked away in the opposite direction to collect a parking ticket from a machine. He was shocked at the price and was reluctant to pay, but the threat of wheel clamping if he did not display a ticket forced him to comply. He returned to the van, stuck the ticket on the inside of the window, then set off to the main reception area of the hospital. He needed to confirm the visiting hours. Since nobody was about in the car park. He had only seen two cars come and go in ten minutes. He guessed something like seven till eight-thirty was in order, and that everybody was inside.
On entering the brightly lit foyer he was pleasantly surprised to find the whole place looking more like a shopping mall than a hospital. There was a shop that sold practically everything from newspapers and crisps to bottles of Lucazade and bunches of grapes. There was also a flower shop, a snack bar, and a charity shop; and all were open despite it being nearly eight o'clock in the evening on Christmas Day.
Beyond the shops he could see the reception area in the distance. He considered going up to the desk and asking about visiting hours but decided against it. It was too risky. In fact, being there at all, stood in the middle of the brightly lit entrance hall, was not really the place he should be. In the end he simply turned around and walked back into the cold drizzle of the night.
As he drove away he considered that he had seen enough, and a plot began to hatch. If Tracy Goodyear was in the habit of visiting every night, then maybe he could achieve something. But she had to be alone, and it all needed a whole lot of very careful planning. But he had to decide on something very soon, and he had just five days left to do it all in.

8:30 pm.

On his return Malcolm stopped to park the van in a spot along the promenade. At half past eight on Christmas Day there was hardly anyone around. He stepped out of the van and walked the sea front past the little harbour full of yachts and fishing vessels and onto the jetty. Leaning over the railings at the very end he casually opened up a plastic bag and spilled the contents into the sea. There was an expensive ladies watch amongst the items, along with some pieces of jewellery, lipstick and make-up, and an assortment of buttons, buckles and zips. When the bag was empty he screwed it up into a ball and placed it in a litter bin attached to the railings.
It was time to go home, to cook himself something to eat, and then go to bed. Looking back, this had been the longest and hardest Christmas Day in his life and he considered that he deserved a good rest.

End of Chapter Six