CHAPTER SEVEN - 26th DECEMBER

8:00 am.

The digital alarm was set to go off at eight o'clock on Boxing Day morning. Malcolm Smith was already awake but still lying in bed when the radio burst into life. He stretched out an arm and  silenced the noise. Sleepily he cast aside the blankets and stepped out of bed. He had ample time in which to shower, get dressed and take the van to the entrance for nine o'clock. His initial plans were to hand over the vehicle to Jimmy Jones and cross the road to the paper shop to purchase a couple of daily newspapers. After that he would return to the kitchen, cook himself a breakfast and sit down to read. With no news available on Christmas Day he felt it necessary to find out whether the national newspapers had managed to catch up with the unfolding story surrounding the disappearance of two women on the south coast. After that, if all was well, he would proceed to the basement and begin his initial sketches of Mrs. Davina Townsend.
Once washed and fully dressed Malcolm left his room and set off down the corridor. Just as he was passing Mr. McTavish's room the telephone rang.
He went inside and answered: "Hello, Littlesea Amusement Park, Museum and Waxworks,… Malcolm Smith speaking… How can I help you?"
"Hello, My name is Detective Inspector Hawkins of Southern Counties Constabulary,… Can you tell me sir,… were you the gentleman who asked for an abandoned vehicle to be moved from the driveway of Littlesea Amusement Park on the evening of the twenty-fourth of December last?"
"Yes!… Yes, I guess I am!" answered Malcolm tentatively. Suddenly his worst fear had come to haunt him. The police had eventually made contact with him. Quickly he added: "Why?… What's wrong?"
"Nothing serious… I would just like a quick word with you sir," he replied.
"What about?" asked Malcolm.
"Can you tell me your name first sir?" asked the Inspector not answering his question.
"Err… Smith… Malcolm Smith…" he replied.
"And I take it sir that you are employed by the Amusement Park?" came the next question.
"Err.. yes… I am… I'm the caretaker here at present," he told him.
 "Tell me sir, would it be possible for you to come down to the station in Littlesea to make a statement… It shouldn't take too long… We just want details of when you saw the car and exactly when you asked for it to be removed," said the Inspector.
"Err.. I suppose so!… Why what's happened?" asked Malcolm.
"Just routine… Nothing to concern you sir… We just need a statement from you that's all… So can you come and visit us?… Or if you prefer, I could send someone along to meet you instead," offered the Inspector.
"No!… No!… I'll come!.. I'll come and see you," replied Malcolm hastily. The last thing he wanted was for the police to come and visit him.
"Fine sir,… Can you come this morning?" asked the man.
"What?.. Today!" exclaimed Malcolm.
"We would like this matter cleared up as soon as possible sir," responded the Inspector.
"Well I'm without transport today," answered Malcolm realising that he had promised the van to Jimmy Jones, but added quickly to save any further difficulties: "But I can walk there… It's not that far… I know where the police station is."
"So about what time then sir?" asked the Inspector.
Malcolm thought for a second or two. Maybe it was best to just keep on going after he had handed the van over to Jimmy. That way he would get it all over and done with in one go.
"I could make it for about nine-thirty I suppose," he answered.
"Mmmm…" muttered the voice before adding. "You wouldn't mind if we left it a bit later do you sir?" The reason being that he had organised a briefing session with his hastily put together investigation squad between nine o'clock and ten. Which in effect meant that no-one was available to take what he regarded as a simply routine statement and of little significance to the case other than establishing times and locations.
"Err… I suppose so… What time would you like me to arrive then?" asked Malcolm.
"Can we say ten-thirty sir?" suggested the Inspector.
"Yes I can make that time," confirmed Malcolm.
"Very good sir… Just give your name at the reception desk and someone will be along to take your statement. Thank you for your co-operation sir… That will be all… goodbye," said the Inspector ending the conversation.
"Goodbye… see you at half past ten then," added Malcolm.
"Goodbye sir," repeated the Inspector and the line dropped.
Malcolm composed himself. The telephone call, although expected, had still come as a bit of a shock. However, going to the police station instead of them coming to him was an added bonus. He would go, make his statement as brief and uncomplicated as possible, then return to begin, hopefully and without interruption, his main plans for the day.
He looked to his watch. There was just enough time to have a cup of tea before taking the van to the gates.

8:50 am.

Malcolm started the van and drove it out through the roller-shutter doors. Outside the sun was shining brightly and all looked set fair for an extremely pleasant and very mild day. Allowing the engine to tick over and warm up, he alighted the cab and returned to reset the entire first floor security alarms with the exception of the main entrance foyer. This was to be his route in and out of the building for a while. From the front of the building he could take the service lift up to the fourth floor, and in so doing bypass all the corridors and showrooms where the alarms had been set. By doing this, and sealing off the loading bay for good measure, then he could rest assured that all avenues of escape for the two women held in the basement had been firmly cut off. Or at least he would know about it and act accordingly if one of them tried.

8:52 am.

WPC Georgina Watkinson stepped out of bed and slipped on a dressing gown. Today was Boxing Day. Her parents were away in the West County until tomorrow, and for the first time in her life she was alone in the house during a Christmas holiday. She stretched and yawned. What was she going to do with herself all day? She considered going back to sleep since she still felt very tired despite going to bed at eleven o'clock last night. Her other alternative was to put on her police uniform and volunteer for extra duty. But somehow neither option had any great appeal. For her, yesterday had been an excessively gruelling day and an experience not to be repeated. She had walked miles and end-ways around the beach and sand-dunes, most of it by torch-light, assisting in the search for the missing teenager from Castle Point. In the end they had drawn another blank. The assumption at the end of the day was that either, the body had been swept out to sea and could be days before it got washed back up again, or she may possibly have been abducted. At ten o'clock last night the woman police officer had been ready to quit and only too grateful to find her way home and fall into bed.
She moved to the window, drew back the curtains and looked out. It was another bright day with the sun just rising above the roof-tops of the town. She stretched her tired limbs and looked down upon the rear of the Amusement Park's main building complex. It was a fair distance away and needed very sharp eyes to see anything at all, but despite that she could perceive some sort of activity in the courtyard. She picked up her binoculars and focused in. It was that boy again. This time he was in the process of driving the van out from the roller-shutter doors. She watched him stop the vehicle, step out and re-enter the building. A couple of minutes elapsed before he returned into view, to stand in the gaping doorway. Slowly the roller-shutter doors dropped until she could see only his legs and then finally his feet. Then the side door opened and the boy stepped back out into the yard.
What was he up to this time she was thinking? Then she recalled what Detective Inspector Hawkins had written in his diary the day before. He was going to phone the boy at eight-thirty this morning. He would almost certainly have answered the call and be on his way to the police station to make a statement regarding the car blocking his drive on Christmas Eve.
She watched the van disappear around the block and head for the front of the complex. From her bedroom window she could not see the main gates. The view being hampered by the large four-storey building in the foreground. Her eyes dropped to the boundary fence at the bottom of the garden. She thought back to her youth. There was a time when she used to squeeze through a gap in the railings and sneak into the park. One of the bars was loose and she used to lift it up and squash beneath. She guessed that she could still do it now. The gap was surely big enough and she was still lithe and supple.
Off duty WPC Georgina Watkinson returned to sit on the bed and to put on her slippers. The previous evening she had taken the Christmas Eve issue of the local newspaper to bed with her in order to read what was being said about the missing girl from Castle Point. Her mother had purchased the newspaper just before going away to visit her own parents and had left it on the kitchen table along with her presents. She had not had an opportunity to read the newspaper until last night and had taken it up to bed with her. The newspaper lay on the quilt with the headlines staring her in the face: 'MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL OUR READERS'.
She frowned and thought hard. Those headlines? There was something about them that she ought to remember. But what was it? She was certain that she had read them somewhere before? But exactly where? Then it came to her. She had seen them in the beam of her touch. They were showing through the windscreen of the boy's van on Christmas Eve.
For the last twenty-four hours she had been curious as to just what the boy was up to. And the more she thought, the more curious she became. Many unanswered questions remained in her mind. Why did he just happen to be at the gates at that time? Why the continuous cleaning of cars? And why all the billowing black smoke from the incinerators? Could he be trying to get rid of evidence? Especially with all this happening on Christmas Day of all days! Surely nobody, except the police worked on Christmas Day!
The headlines in the newspaper suddenly confirmed her suspicions. The boy had said that he had seen the car parked in the drive at ten o'clock that morning. But after that she was pretty certain that he claimed not to have gone out again until they met at the gate. So how come there was an evening newspaper on the dashboard? The first edition did not come out until three o'clock in the afternoon! She tried to think whether he had said anything about what time he returned. There was always the possibility that he had been out all day and arrived back after three o'clock. But that was certainly not the impression he gave. Should she go and report her suspicions to the Inspector? Or was she just being stupid and paranoid? If only she could get down there and have a look around the place whilst he was out, then surely she must find some piece of evidence that would incriminate him.
She rose pensively and returned to gaze out of the window through her binoculars. Everywhere in the vast complex was totally deserted. The boy and his van had gone, the roller shutter doors that housed the vehicle were closed down. If he had just popped out for a few minutes then surely he would have left them open? She made a snap decision. If the teenager really was on his way to the police station, which seemed the most likely solution, and knowing just how short staffed they were, then it would be at least an hour before he returned. And that was a conservative estimate. Two hours was probably nearer the truth. Right or wrong, a nagging curiosity told her to go and have a quick look around. The place was deserted and it would do no harm to find out for herself exactly what the boy had been up to.
The decision made, she moved quickly to her wardrobe and selected her sexy, black leather, one piece cat-suit that zipped all the way down the front. She had not worn it for such a long time, not since she was a teenager, but it seemed the appropriate thing to wear under such circumstances. Supporting only a skimpy bra and panties beneath, she struggled into it. The soft leather gripped a little tighter than it once did, but was still a comfortable fit despite ten years neglect.
She drew the zip all the way up to her chin and looked to her bedside clock. The time was just after nine o'clock. Whatever happens she would make sure that she was back in the house by ten. Just under one hour, that was all she was going to allow herself. If she found nothing in that time, then no-one would ever know what she had been up to. But if she did come across something suspicious, then it would undoubtedly be a feather in her cap. So what was there to lose? She could see no flaws in her reasoning; so investigate she would.
She found the matching knee-length leather boots that she once wore, squeezed into them and hurried to the bottom of the garden. There was no need for a coat or anything. The weather was extremely mild for this time of the year, and the sun shone brightly in an almost cloudless sky. Strangely it took some time to locate the exact bar in the railings that was loose. Something not completely surprising seeing that at least twelve, maybe thirteen years had elapsed since her last little forage into the Amusement Park. Having found it, she raised the bar, prised her way through and re-sealed the gap.
Crossing the grass lawns and picnic area she made her way swiftly towards the comparative cover of the amusement rides. From there she zigzagged her way to the place where she had seen the boy earlier. The area was walled off and only accessible via an opening guarded by a pair of high, solid wooden gates. However these remained open and she simply noted the 'PRIVATE - STAFF ONLY' sign as she raced through the opening into the courtyard beyond.
 She looked around before testing the door from which she had observed the boy coming out of the building some fifteen minutes earlier. As she had suspected, it was locked. She proceeded to creep stealthily along the back wall of the building, past the two roller-shutter doors and to peer in through the first window she came to. It was all very dark inside, but with difficulty she could just about make out the outline of the Jaguar car. Could this be the mysterious dark coloured vehicle reported seeing by the taxi driver? If only she could get inside and take a closer look. Maybe she could pick up a clue or two from there!
She looked around. The small outbuilding that housed the incinerators was stood in the corner of the courtyard. She crossed to the door and tested the latch. The door creaked open and she slipped inside. Again the interior was dark and she cursed herself for not bringing a torch with her. In fact, in her haste to get over here she had brought nothing with her whatsoever; no means of communication, no torch, no handcuffs, and not even a truncheon to protect herself. Still she was not expecting any trouble and would be long gone before anybody latched on to her presence. Stealth was her only asset and she set her mind to remaining as covert as possible.
There were two incinerators inside, and looked just like two big ovens, with large, square cast iron doors that opened outwards. With the amount of rubbish a place like this generated, the complex needed both of them running flat out during the hot Summer months. She tried to recall which side of the double stack she had seen the smoke coming out of. If she remembered correctly it was the one on the right. She opened the big oven door and peered into the darkness. Inside was even blacker than within the room, and unless she had a torch she was not going to find out much at all. She placed her hand inside and shifted around in the remains. There was still a bit of heat there. Signs that these were the remains of something burned quite recently. She stirred the ashes once more. Whatever it was the boy had got rid of, it had left a light flaky residue quite similar to the remains of burnt clothing. There was nothing solid to it at all. The furnaces had done a brilliant job in destroying everything placed inside. She dug down deep and fumbled around the base. A very small object caught a finger and she latched on to it. Withdrawing her hand, she looked to see exactly what she had found. With her eyes growing more accustomed to the gloom she was able to recognise the charred object. It was a small hook. And there was only one place where you would normally find a hook like this, and that was either on a woman's bra or on a suspender belt.
She placed the hook in a hip pocket for safe keeping and closed the oven door. What was the boy doing burning women's clothing? Could it really be the vital clue she was looking for? She felt sure that it was. But on the other hand it could have been just the remains of rubbish left over in the park. The public deposited all sorts of peculiar items in all kinds of weird places. She should know of all people. She was a policewoman and knew what sort of lost property finds got reported. Alternatively the boy himself could quite easily be a practising transsexual and that too was none of her business. She just had to have further evidence. One solitary hook on its own was not proof of anything.
With her eyes seeing within the room a lot better now she spotted a towel hanging over the back of a chair. It was already grubby and she considered an extra wipe or two would make very little difference. With one hand thick with soot she picked it up and set about removing the grime the best she could. As she rubbed away, she noted that there were several other items lying about in the room, and one in particular, namely a rather large lump hammer proved of particular interest to her. She made another snap decision. She had come thus far, and if she were to ever be found out and the boy proven totally innocent, then her career would most certainly be at an end. The Jaguar car held all the clues, she felt certain of it. And what she really needed was to get inside that loading bay and have a good look around. She glanced at her watch. There was about half an hour left. She decided that she would go ahead and do it whatever the circumstances. She would make a forced entrance into the loading bay.
Crossing cautiously back across the courtyard she returned to the door. Raising the hammer she gave the lock a big thwack. That was all that was needed. The door opened a few centimetres and she pushed it in the rest of the way. She looked at the damage. It was minimal with just the bracket on the door frame coming away. She pushed it back in place and tapped back the screws with the end of the hammer. No-one would ever tell the difference she told herself as she closed the door shut.
Placing the hammer on the floor by the door she tiptoed across to the Jaguar. She peered in through the passenger window. The car was absolutely spotless both inside and out. If there was any evidence then it would need a forensic expert to find it. She tested the door. It was locked. She tried the rear door. That too was locked. She tested the other doors and then the boot. The whole car was locked and there was no way she was going to break into it. She felt deflated and decided it best to leave everything as she found it. She had one piece of evidence and that was enough for now. Though exactly how to report her findings without incriminating herself was not quite clear at present. But given time she felt sure that she would come up with something. In the meantime, she would return the borrowed hammer to its proper place, and hope that the broken bracket would hold together long enough so as not to suspect a break in.
 Having collected the hammer and resealed the door successfully she retraced her steps across the yard and re-entered the incinerator building. Remembering how everything looked she wiped the hammer clean of fingerprints, returned it to its rightful position, then refolded the towel and placed it back over the chair where she found it. She cast her eyes about the room. The interior looked just the way she had found it.
Retracing her steps she made her way hastily across the courtyard and out through the open double gates.
And that was just about as far as she got.
From the corner of an eye she caught a fleeting glance of a figure rushing at her from behind the wall. There was something in his hands, a club of some sorts, and it was already arcing its way through the air towards her.
She felt a crack to the back of the head and everything went black.

9:30 am.

With the van handed over safely to Jimmy Jones, Malcolm returned to the kitchen. He had crossed the road and purchased two daily newspapers before returning. He had just about enough time to read what they had to say and have one more cup of tea before setting off for the police station.
Suddenly the alarm bell above the door went off and immediate panic set in.
One of the women must have escaped!
Quickly he reacted. He had purposefully set aside Katie's handcuffs and a baseball bat for just such a contingency. He grabbed them and ran. Soon he was down four flights of stairs to the ground floor and rushing around the vast exhibition hall. There was not a sole in sight. He carried on running, heading for the basement via the back stairs. He flew to the bottom and across the empty hall. He entered the grotto and kept on running.
On reaching the dungeon he screeched to a halt. Davina Townsend was still there slumped on the end of the long chain. So it was not her. He crossed to the cell. For a moment he stood staring in through the bars. It was not the scrawny little girl either. She was sat with head lowered and sulking in the cage like she always did. Malcolm stood puzzled and confused for moment or two. What had set the alarm going then? There had to be someone around to trigger it off.
He turned and ran, leaving the grotto and racing up the wide public steps to return to the hall above. Again all was quiet. Out into the foyer he ran. Still no signs. All that was left was the loading bay, and he had purposefully bolted the doors on the other side. To get in he needed to go around the outside the building and enter through the back door. He set off again, racing out through the main entrance doors and leaping the steps to the drive below. He looked around. There was absolutely no-one in sight. Round the building he raced, all along the front, then down the side and around the back as far as the gates to the courtyard. He was just about to turn into the entrance when he almost collided with a leather-clad female moving in the opposite direction. Instinct told him to swing the bat and he did so, bringing it crashing down upon her head.
Malcolm dropped the bat to the ground, stooped forward, rested his hands to his knees and tried to draw his breath. Suddenly he realised just how unfit he was.
He looked to his feet. A woman dressed all in black leather was lying face down on the ground. He had struck her hard and there was a trickle of blood oozing from the back of the scalp. Slowly his breathing returned and he tried to think clearly. Who on Earth was she? And what was she doing here? One thing was for certain, she must have been inside the loading bay to trigger off the alarm, and that in itself was a bad thing. With the sole of his shoe he rolled the body over. The woman had a pretty little round face with short cut brown hair. Then it came to him. He had seen this woman once before, and not that long ago either. It had been dark and foggy at the time, but he had no doubt that this was the same person. The hair had been covered by a flat peaked hat, but there was no mistaking that pretty little oval face. This was the policewoman he had talked to through the bars of the gate on Christmas Eve.
Suddenly he did not know what to do. But one thing was for sure, he was not going to leave her lying out in the open. He grabbed her by the feet. Took hold of the boots beneath each elbow and dragged the body across the courtyard to the service door into the loading bay. He fumbled for the key, unlocked the door and pushed it open. At the same time the bracket that held the lock to the frame fell to the floor. Now he knew exactly how she had got in. She had obviously forced the lock. But never mind, it was something to worry about later. Quickly he dragged the unconscious body inside and pushed the door shut.
The woman groaned and showed increasing signs of coming round. Quickly he rolled her over onto her stomach, drew her hands behind her back and set the handcuffs about the wrists. What next? He now had three women to contend with, and furthermore he had to leave for the police station in about fifteen minutes time. What on Earth was he going to do?
There was only one thing for it. The stocks down by the pillory would just have to do. The last time he checked they had been in working order, and he considered them sturdy enough to hold her for a few hours whilst he was away. Quickly he turned the leather-clad body back over and grabbed her under the armpits. Walking backwards he proceeded to drag her in the direction of the basement, resting the body occasionally to unlock doors and reseal them again afterwards.
The woman's heels dropped against every step as he made his way to the bottom, and continued to scrape and drag over the concrete floor as he hoisted her along to the stocks away in the far corner. Exhausted he dropped her down and dragged her into a position such that she was lying on her back with feet almost touching the front edge of the stocks. Quickly he raised up the hinged board then stooped to grab the boots. With one final heave he dragged the body forward and positioned the feet in the slots. He knew that he had positioned her the wrong way round, with the bench on the opposite side to where she lay, but in her comatose condition she was in no fit state to sit anyway. So this seemed the best solution.
He closed the board down on the black leather boots and set the giant padlock on the side. For the first time since the panic began he had time to be more deliberately in everything he did. He tested the boards, the hinges and finally the lock. Then he turned her over on her side just enough as to check the handcuffs were secure behind the back. He let her fall back and breathed a sigh of relief. At last he felt a little more secure. There was absolutely no way the snooping woman could get out of that little lot whilst he was away.
Malcolm looked to his watch. It was time to go. But he would be back shortly, and barring any more unwelcome interruptions he could then set about doing all the things he had planned to do that day.

10:30 am.

The day was still young, but with everything that had gone on thus far, it seemed more like a life time for poor Malcolm Smith. Marching at a brisk pace he reached Littlesea Police Station dead on time. He entered through the front doors and walked up to the desk. The man in charge was a sergeant. There was no-one else around.
"Err… My name is Malcolm Smith… I was asked to come here and make a statement," he told the officer.
The Sergeant looked to his notes before answering: "Are yes!… You are expected sir… Please take a seat for the moment."
Malcolm sat down on a bench across the room and waited.
Eventually a young man in plain clothes appeared and walked up to him. "Mr. Malcolm Smith?" he asked.
"Yes!" nodded Malcolm.
"My name is Detective Constable Rawlingson… Come this way please sir… This shouldn't take very long," he said.
Malcolm followed the officer. He was a young man with short parted black hair and aged not a lot different to himself. He did not know it, but this was to be the officer's first ever interview. He was actually still in training, but with a total lack of resources whilst the holiday was still on, this was the best Detective Inspector Hawkins could muster up on the day. Thankfully it was just a routine statement of little significance that needed to be taken, otherwise he would have done it himself, but at present he just did not have the time.
They entered a small room with just one table and four chairs inside. On the table was some sort of recording device and a notepad and a couple of pens.
"Sit down please Mr. Smith," said the young detective indicating that they should sit facing one another across the table.
Malcolm took a seat and grinned an uneasy smile.
"Right sir!" began the officer, then continued with what must have been a pre-set standard speech for just such an occasion. "My name is Detective Constable Rawlingson… And I'd like to just ask you a few questions sir… I will take them down in writing… and afterwards read them back to you and ask you to sign them… As I said earlier this should not take much time… So do you understand what you are being asked to do?"
Malcolm nodded and replied a simple: "Yes."
"Right sir, our enquiries are concerning the parking of a vehicle in the main entrance of the Littlesea Amusement Park. You understand all that don't you sir?" asked the young man for starters.
"Yes," responded the boy in a similar manner as before.
"Right, so can I have you full name, date and place of birth please sir?"
Malcolm gave him all the details.
"And your current address please sir,"
"Well at present its here in Littlesea… I'm the temporary caretaker at the Amusement Park… until February that is… that's when my boss gets back… he's away in Australia at present," he explained.
"That will do… Just give me the full address and telephone number of the place you are currently residing… just in case we want to contact you again," said the rookie detective.
Malcolm gave him all the extra details.
The young man straightened up his pad before getting down to the nitty-gritty. "Now sir, we gather that on the evening of the twenty-fourth of December last, you asked for a car to be removed from the gateway of the premises where you work. Is that correct sir?" he asked.
Malcolm thought for a while. He recalled what he had considered to be his best line of approach, and that was to say very little and keep everything as simple as possible. Eventually he just answered: "Yes."
"Who did you make the request to?" asked the man.
Suddenly he was stumped. "Err.. a policewoman… and a very tall policeman… we only talked through the gates… I was trying to get my van out… and they were there looking round the car," he told him.
"Would that be WPC Watkinson and PC Grantford that you met sir?" he asked.
Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. But so as to memorise the woman's name he asked the trainee officer to repeat what he had said. "Who did you say again?" he asked.
"WPC Watkinson and PC Grantford," he replied.
"I don't think names were mentioned. I spoke mainly to the policewoman. I might have heard her first name mentioned. Do you know her first name?" he probed.
"The woman officer's first name!… Now let me see!… Ha!… It's Georgina!.. WPC Georgina Watkinson!" said the young officer looking to his brief.
"Well shouldn't this WPC Georgina Watkinson be doing this interview? I thought that was the way you operated," inquired Malcolm.
"Normally it would be down to her sir, but she's off duty at present. She finished yesterday and has four days off. As you probably gather we're a bit short staffed at present. That's why I've been asked to take your statement. We really need this cleared up today sir, so can we carry on?" apologised the young officer.
Malcolm rubbed his chin and covered his mouth to hide a wry smile. He had gained some valuable information from this interview. He knew the name of the woman in the black leather cat suit, and also established that she was at present off duty. Whatever she was doing snooping around the loading bay she must have been doing it of her own bat. Suddenly he felt a lot safer.
"No, please carry on," he replied after some thought.
"Right sir, can you confirm what time you arrived at your gates?" continued the detective.
"About a quarter to six, or something like that," he replied after some thought.
"So you were on your way out of the premises at sometime around five forty-five in the afternoon of the twenty-fourth when you were confronted at the gate by a car blocking the drive and two police officers stood next to it," asked the detective.
"Yes," confirmed Malcolm. It was not exactly true. He had seen the car arrive. But he guessed it would sound better put this way.
"You then spoke to the officers and requested that they remove the vehicle for you… is that correct sir?" asked the young man trying to speed things along.
"Yes, to the woman police officer. The man went to the car and get on the blower so I didn't speak to him very much," explained Malcolm.
"So what did WPC Watkinson say when you spoke to her?"
"She said that they would contact the owner and get it moved… Look what's all this about… I didn't want to make any fuss… honest… I just wanted to get my van out onto the road," ranted Malcolm.
"Sorry sir, but we can't divulge the nature of our enquiry… but your statement will be of use to us in our on going enquiries," he answered.
"Okay, carry on!" said Malcolm settling down.
"So, did the vehicle get moved?" he asked.
"Yes… well it was gone by the morning!" he answered.
"Did you see it go?" he asked.
"No, I was inside the main building. I didn't go out in the end," replied the boy.
"So it was gone by the morning," said the detective writing it down as he spoke.
"Yes," replied Malcolm again.
The young man seemed to write for ages before looking up. "Right sir, can I read this statement back to you?" he asked finally.
Malcolm looked puzzled. What about him seeing the car parked there in the morning? What about the lights being left on? And what about the flat battery? He was about to point the glaring gaps out to him when he thought better of it. If that was all he wanted to know, then that was all he was going to get.
"Yes read it back to me," he said.
Detective Constable Rawlingson cleared his throat and read the statement he had prepared: "I Malcolm Donald Smith of Littlesea Amusement Park, Waxworks and Museum was proceeding down the driveway to the premises at approximately 5:45 pm. on the evening of the Twenty-fourth of December when I encountered a vehicle parked outside the main entrance. Two police officers were present at the scene and I asked WPC Watkinson to move the car since it was blocking my way. She said that they would see to it so I returned to the building and did not go out again. In the morning the car had gone."
It was all very short and sweet, and Malcolm liked it. If that was supposed to reflect the standard of interrogation they operated in this place then he was perfectly safe.
"That's fine," said Malcolm agreeing to every word.
"Can you just sign here then please, and also confirm the date and time here and here sir," said the young man.
Malcolm signed where indicated, and that was that. The interview was all over and he was free to go.

12:30 pm.

Back in the complex, Malcolm descended the back stairs to the basement and looked across the room. Away in the far corner he could see WPC Georgina Watkinson lying on her back with feet raised and secured within the stocks. Her head moved and turned to look in his direction. Malcolm felt a touch of relief. At least she had recovered from the stunning blow to the head. He considered whether to walk across to her or not. In truth he did not really want to speak to her. She was just an added complication to an already entangled situation. But he felt that he ought to establish a few facts about his un-welcomed guest before moving on to do other more important things. He placed his sketch pad and materials on the pillory platform and crossed the floor.
On seeing her captor's approach, the policewoman pushed herself up to sit with handcuffed hands pressed against the floor behind her back. It looked an uncomfortable stance, but she seemed content to remain in that position and wait for the boy's arrival.
Malcolm crossed the room to stand by her side and look down upon the seated figure. She looked fine with no side effects from the blow to the head. He gave a little smile. "How's the headache?" he asked.
She did not answer his question, instead she informed him of her occupation and the dire consequences of his actions. "You know me! I'm the police officer you met at the gates," she informed him. "Assaulting a police officer is a very serious offence. You're already in deep trouble. The best thing you can do now is let me go before anything more serious happens."
Malcolm shook his head. "I know exactly who you are!… You're WPC Georgina Watkinson, and I also know that you're an off duty policewoman at present. Furthermore you're nothing but a common criminal yourself. I found you trespassing on private property and took appropriate action. If anything you're the one in serious trouble not me," he explained.
The reply stunned the woman. How did the teenager know this much about her? And what else had he found out? She had thought hard and long as to the best way to approach the boy when he turned up. It seemed that she was wrong to threaten him. She decided to try and calm the situation down and not antagonise her captor any further.
"Look let me go and I'm sure we can come to some amicable agreement over this," she told him.
"I don't think I can do that," replied Malcolm. "Not until I know exactly what you were doing here in the first place?"
"Nothing! Just looking around!" she replied as if it did not really matter.
"Just looking around? Why would you want to do that?" he asked curiously.
She tried to make up a plausible excuse, and at the same time sound nonplus about the entire episode. "I was only looking around for old times sake," she tried to explain. "I live in one of those big houses at the back. I've done so all my life. When I was young I used to sneak in here during the closed season. The other night, when I met you at the gates it brought it all back to me. I thought I'd love to go back again and see what changes have been made. My parents are away on holiday. I was alone in the house with nothing much to do, so I just felt that it would be nice to sneak in again, that's all. That's why I was here. I didn't mean to offend anyone. I just did it on impulse."
Malcolm noted her comments with interest. He guessed she was telling a complete pack of lies. But the news about her parents being away and living alone in the house had a ring of truth about it. His one fear was that someone knew where she had gone and would report it to the police if she failed to return.
"No-one knows you're here then? You were just being a big kid again?" he asked.
The policewoman knew that she had made a mistake the moment she mentioned being alone. But if she told him something different after making that statement then she would only alienate the boy further. She decided it best to agree. At least it was true, and she decided to stick with her version of events.
"I told you I was alone and bored. I came here on impulse," she told him.
"Does impulse also mean breaking and entering?" he asked.
She thought hard before answering. Hopefully the door catch had held and there was no physical signs of a break in. She decided to call his bluff.
"I've not broken into anything," she told him. "I've done no criminal damage."
"What about the lock on the door to the loading bay?" he asked.
"What lock on what loading bay?" she retorted.
"The one you broke!" he stated.
"I did not enter any building or break anything," she lied, but at the same time realising that she was losing the argument rapidly.
"Please yourself! You're not only a bungling detective, but you're a compulsive liar as well," he informed her.
She was stumped for words. The boy had an answer for everything.
"Look just let me go and we can sort this little matter out afterwards," she said changing the subject back to one of release.
"Afraid I can't do that," he said whilst extracting a roll of surgical tape from a pocket.
"You're going to be in serious trouble if you don't," she continued to protest.
Malcolm unravelled a length of tape and held it to her mouth. "I'm sorry, but I've heard enough," he told her.
She turned her head away. Malcolm decided that enough was enough and got violent with her. He kicked her arms against her body and she collapsed on her back. Quickly he dropped to her side and placed a knee across her chest. In that pinned down position he stuck the tape firmly across the mouth then sliced the roll away with a pair of scissors. Then to make doubly sure he added another length over the first. This piece was much bigger and covered the face from ear to ear.
Still pinned down by the knee he told her: "Little Miss Copper, I wish I knew what to do with you? I honestly do? All I can do for now is keep you here until I've worked something out! You're a problem I could really do without. You really are!"
Malcolm rose to his feet, gave her one last smile and walked away. He did not know what to do for the best. She really was a problem he could well do without. Not looking back he re-crossed the floor, collected his drawing materials and made for the grotto. For the time being he had something much more important to occupy his mind. It was time to make those initial sketches of Mrs. Davina Townsend.

1:00 pm.

After a slight re-adjustment of the spotlighting and the preparation of his drawing materials, Malcolm was finally ready to concentrate on Mrs. Davina Townsend. He walked up to stand directly in front of her. She was silent and hanging limply from the chain. Surgical tape concealed her eyes, but he guessed that she was unconscious. His own eyes dropped to her breasts. The whip marks had come up a treat and stood proud in ridges of scab and caked blood. All the scars were clear and well defined and could be sketched exactly as they appeared. He walked around the naked body to stand to the rear. The red welts across the back stood out in sharp contrast against the white of the flesh. This was just fantastic! By doing it for real he had achieved a completely natural look he could not have contrived merely with the use of paints. His eye's moved down the body. The woman's backside was criss-crossed with blue lines from bruising. They looked good and were obviously natural, but he decided to leave judgement on their inclusion until later. He may add them, he may not.
Malcolm turned his thoughts to the thumbscrews. After long deliberation he decided to leave them off for the time being. By omitting them at this stage, then hopefully the woman would remain still and silent, and not start squirming and complaining like a certain Miss Wendy Bartlett. He could quite easily sketch everything as far as the wrists then add the hands in afterwards, perhaps on a second sitting tomorrow. But first he had to raise her up onto something. He needed a slight upward angle on the pose, and this was something he could not achieve if they were both standing at ground level. He had considered the stool, but after the Wendy Bartlett fiasco he was looking for something a little more stable. After serious consideration he opted to place a crate beneath her feet. At least this would prove to be a whole lot safer if he had to go away suddenly at anytime. It also meant that the stool would be available for him to sit on whilst making his studies. In fact the more he thought about it the more he liked it. The solution was absolutely perfect.
Stepping away to the winding gear, Malcolm proceeded to slowly turn the handle. The woman's feet lifted from the floor and continued to edge upwards in slow jerking movements. At no time did she protest or indeed make a noise, she just hung there with her arms stretched high above her head and her naked body spinning gently around on the end of the long chain. Higher and higher she rose until he considered there to be a big enough gap beneath her feet to slide in a crate. At this point he locked the mechanism and crossed the floor to a nearby crate. With a great heave he set the large wooden box in motion. The container was extremely heavy, being half filled with manacles and chains, and to move the crate even a small distance took all his strength. But eventually he managed to manoeuvre it into the right position.
When he was done, Malcolm stepped back and put his hands to his knees. He was gasping for breath. However he considered the extra effort well worth while. At least the woman now had a stable platform on which to stand. But more importantly he had removed any fear of her tumbling and harming herself whilst he was away. He considered all possible pitfalls and dangers, and could not think of anything. He had even gone to the trouble of screwing down the lid to ensure it would not come off and cause injury in any way.
After taking time out to ponder over the situation and more importantly regain his breath, Malcolm returned to the winding gear. Slowly he lowered the chain until the woman's toes just made contact with the surface. At this point he re-locked the winding mechanism and returned to walk around the crate. He smiled and rubbed his chin. Everything looked just about perfect except maybe for the hair. It was a little bit too long and far too neat. But this was minor. A little trimming and roughing up would put all that right. So, as far as he could tell, apart from a few minor details, then everything else was just about how he had envisaged the scene would look. In fact when he thought about it a little more, this was just about perfect.
Returning to the crate, he took out scissors from his pocket and snipped the blonde locks to a length just above the nipples. Afterwards he teased the tresses to present a more natural but somewhat bedraggled look. From a lay person's standpoint the finished result did not look a lot different from when he started, but the artistic flare within him told him something different. The pose was ideal and more than matched his high expectations.
Malcolm was now ready to start his drawings. He had eight sketches in mind, all to be taken from different angles about the body. Afterwards he would select the best two or three, add background details and colour, then present the finished articles to Mr. McTavish on his return from Australia.

5:30 pm.

Four and a half hours later, Malcolm had completed seven of his proposed eight sketches. He looked to his watch. The time had gone very quickly. It was now half past five. Jimmy Jones was due to return the van at six o'clock. He decided it was best to take a break now, collect the vehicle in half an hours time, then visit the kitchen for a bite to eat before returning to start his eighth and final drawing.
In the meantime he decided to give the woman a well earned rest. She had been very good. Not once had she moaned or protested throughout the entire session. Moving to the winding gear he turned the handle enough to lower her feet flat upon the lid of the crate.
"You can take a little rest now," he told her as he re-locked the mechanism.
The woman did not answer.
Malcolm considered taking the seven drawings with him to mull over upstairs whilst he took a break, but decided against it. He would wait until all eight were finished before comparing the results. He wondered what best to do in the mean time. He had about fifteen minutes to kill before going outside. He decided that for the time being he would spread the drawings out somewhere in the dungeon and inspect all he had done thus far. He cast his eyes about the vast chamber. The bed of the rack would make a perfect table on which to lay his work and compare the results. He walked across and placed all seven sketches in a row along the full length of the raised wooden bed.
With pencil in hand Malcolm walked the row, adding a touch here, a line there as he studied each drawing in detail. Having done all he could, he placed the pencil down only to see it roll off the edge and onto the floor. Cursing lightly he stooped down to pick it up. The pencil, with a mind of its own, had rolled beneath the bench. He stretched out to reach it and in so doing his hand made contact with a small cardboard box. He knew precisely what the object was and showed no concern. There were several more boxes just like this one stacked along with some much bigger boxes up against a side wall of the cavern. The box had come with the parts to the winding gear and once contained a number of handmade nuts and bolts. Since everything was assembled this was just another empty box to be thrown away. Or so he thought! For as soon as he picked it up he found that it rattled. He looked inside. The box contained one solitary nut and bolt. He stood in bewilderment for a moment. Nothing should be left over! So where did this one go? He bent down and looked at the mechanism beneath the table. Strange he thought! Nothing appeared to be out of place or missing. As far as he could tell he had done everything according to the instructions. This nut and bolt must have been spares. The French much have packed too many. Or had they? These were special handmade replicas of the real thing, and not the sort of nuts and bolts one would find in a shop. Did they manufacture one too many just in case? Was this a spare? Or had he missed one? He could not quite make up his mind. He was confused, but there was no time to consider right at that moment. He had to go and collect the van from the gates.

6:00 pm.

Malcolm arrived at the gates to find Jimmy and the van already waiting. It was parked right up to the gates with the engine running and headlights shining through the bars. The chauffeur stepped out of the cab the moment he saw the teenager appear in the beams.
"Been waiting long?" asked Malcolm through the bars of the swinging gate.
"About five minutes, that's all," replied Jimmy.
"Have you got a lift back?" inquired the boy on seeing no-one else was with him.
"My sister's waiting for me across the road," responded the chauffeur and pointing to a small town car parked in front of Alf's café with the sidelights on.
"Did you have a good journey to your mother's then?" asked Malcolm.
"No problem at all Malcolm. We had a great day out, and my sister's kids enjoyed their bike rides. So thanks again. And remember, the next dozen or so cups of tea are on me," thanked Jimmy kindly.
"Any more news on our Katie's boyfriend?" asked Malcolm as he moved to the van door.
"Not a lot," replied Jimmy, but adding: "Won't get to see anybody until we're all back at work. But it's confirmed that he's got to stay in hospital until at least the New Year, and maybe a lot longer. Our Katie must have caught him a real corker!"
"What about the Big Bouncer?" continued Malcolm.
"Oh she's visiting him every night. It must be love! I can't see our Katie getting back together with him after this. But who knows? Funnier things have happened," surmised Jimmy thoughtfully.
Malcolm jumped up into the cab, and holding the door half open asked: "Is Alf's open in the morning?"
"I think so," replied Jimmy. "He did say that he would only be shutting for Christmas Day and Boxing Day."
"Will you be there?" asked Malcolm.
"Mmmm…," thought Jimmy. "Maybe! Maybe not! Hard to tell at the moment. Why are you planning to pop across the road?"
"Like you Jimmy. I'll wait and see what the morning brings," replied Malcolm.
"Well see you around sometime," said Jimmy.
"Yeh! See you around," echoed Malcolm pulling the door shut.
"Well happy New Year if I don't see you before," said Jimmy stepping away and raising a hand.
Malcolm gave a little wave back and moved the van to the other side of the gates. As he got out to re-lock them he heard Jimmy call from halfway across the road: "Thanks once again Malcolm. You're a great kid."
"It was nothing," he called back just as Jimmy was getting into the car opposite.
Malcolm watched the car move off before locking the gates and returning to the van.
He smiled. At least he had gained a little more knowledge. Richard Davies was still in hospital and Tracy Goodyear was visiting him every night. Jimmy Jones was seldom wrong on such matters.

6:30 pm

Malcolm was seated at the kitchen table and drinking a cup of tea. He also had the draughtsman's drawings of the rack spread out before him. After working so hard all afternoon and achieving such great results, he should have been feeling relaxed and proud of himself, but instead his mind was racing on a multitude of items.
As far as he could tell the rack was fully assembled and in complete working order. But on the other hand nothing had been tested. What would happen if the mechanism should fall apart the first time any pressure was applied to the winding gear? The whole idea was unthinkable. It was something he just could not risk if he were to have Miss Tracy Goodyear on there, with Katie looking on, and the first time he turned the wheel it all fell to pieces.
He began to think of what best to do. Should he test the mechanism on someone else before even thinking of abducting the Goodyear girl? The policewoman perhaps? Or should he just leave it and hope for the best? He had advanced plans already figured out as to how best to go about the kidnapping. Part of that plan was to revisit the hospital again tonight for a final look around. But even that seemed to be not on the cards anymore with one more drawing left to do. But the days were ticking away fast. It was now the twenty-sixth of December, and Katie was due to return on the twenty-ninth. If he was still intent on snatching the girl, then it would have to be done either tomorrow or the day after. It was all cutting things a bit too fine! So what was he going to do? He had to make some swift and positive decisions concerning a whole range of items. He began to formulate a plan.

11:30 pm.

Malcolm retired to bed at eleven thirty that night. He had remained in the kitchen all evening supping cups of tea. As a result the rack remained unchecked, the eighth drawing never started, and the hospital never visited. But all the same he had been very busy.
He set the alarm for eight o'clock and switched off the light.
The next forty-eight hours were going to be very interesting indeed.

End of Chapter Seven