CHAPTER EIGHT - 27th DECEMBER

8:00 am.

Malcolm Smith was already out of bed and putting on some clothes when the alarm went off. The eight o'clock news on 'South Coast FM' was just starting. He listened intently to what the broadcaster had to say. Events at the sleepy seaside town were certainly coming to the front. Littlesea was the first news item to be announced. Apparently there were now two woman reportedly missing in the area. The second had been named as Davina Townsend, aged thirty-five, and she had not been seen since leaving her sister's shop on Christmas Eve. The police were looking into any possible connections between the two disappearances, but at present were keeping an open mind on the subject.
He switched off the radio when the announcer turned to events in Europe and the Common Agricultural Policy. Malcolm smiled. The police were no nearer establishing the truth than they were when it all started. He could safely continue with his plans. He wondered what their reaction would be when they discovered that a third woman, who just happened to be a police officer, had also gone walkabouts. He had a little chuckle to himself. They had not got a clue as to what was happening.

9:00 am.

After a light breakfast Malcolm made his way to the basement. He crossed the floor to the stocks. WPC Georgina Watkinson was awake and staring up at him with big brown eyes as he arrived to stand over her. She muttered something incomprehensible. She desperately wanted to communicate but the tape across her mouth prevented her from doing so. Their eyes met only briefly before Malcolm moved away towards the storage cabinet stood against the back wall. Here he selected two face masks, a roll of gauze and a pot of industrial glue. He carried them over to the workbench and laid them out. Placing a mask over his own face, he removed the lid to the pot. He then cut two lengths of gauze, soaked one heavily in the glue and pressed the soggy result into the cup of the second mask. He then covered up the sticky mess with the second piece of dry gauze so as to hide the first layer.
After returning everything to the cupboard he returned to confront the cat-suited policewoman. She saw the mask coming and turned her head away, but was powerless to resist. The elastic strap was around her head and the mask covering her face within seconds. Immediately the fumes began to penetrate her nasal passages and she began to panic. It was like going under at the dentists and she hated it. She tried to shake the mask away by tossing her head violently from side to side and struggling to catch the elastic with the top of her shoulders. But the band was far too tight. She felt herself going under and fought to resist for as long as possible, telling herself to stay conscious whatever happened. She tried to push herself up with her hands, to look around, but in the end the gasses from the glue were just too strong to overcome by willpower alone.
The illusory effect of the fumes gradually took control and a different world appeared before her. She was no longer trapped in a basement with a psychopathic teenager gloating over her. Instead she was in a jungle with wild animals all about her. There were lions, and tigers, and bears, and all sorts of beasts stalking behind the bushes. She tired to shout and scream at them. To try and scare them away. But her mouth was blocked and she could utter not even a whimper. In the end the animals just kept coming closer and closer. Finally a lion pounced and tore at her throat and chest. She could feel the pain all the way down to her lungs. She was going to die. That was the last conscious thought she had before collapsing back to the floor and shutting her eyes to the horrible world about her.
Malcolm watched the convulsions and final throws with deep interest. He had carefully timed everything. From start to finish the entire episode had taken just one minute and thirty-five seconds. His next benchmark was to establish just how long the effects would last by keeping the mask on her face.
Malcolm had thought long and hard before doing this. Unfortunately it was very necessary in preparation for the big event. It was important that the face mask and glue experiment be tested thoroughly. He could not afford any mishaps when it came to the real thing. Everything had to go like clockwork when he tried for a second time to kidnap Tracy Goodyear.
With the policewoman lying motionless, Malcolm unlocked the stocks and raised up the hinge board. Then taking hold of the knees he bent the legs and extracted the boots from the semi-circular notches. Keeping her on her back, he turned her around through ninety degrees and straightened out the legs. The woman now lay peacefully, face upwards, with arms handcuffed behind her back. His next problem was to transfer her to the dungeon. He had already half killed himself dragging her down here and did not want to repeat the episode. This time he had a better solution. He would transport her on one of the small flat-bed trucks that lay scattered in various places about the area. He wheeled one across to her, sat the lifeless body up and with a hold beneath the armpits dragged her onto the trolley. Finally he turned her on her side, bent up the knees and arranged the legs so that she fitted completely on the bed.
He set off.
On reaching the rack he stopped and positioned the trolley alongside. His seven completed drawings were still there, spread across the surface of the bed. He removed them carefully and placed them in his folder. He looked around. Everything was the way he had left it. Mrs. Davina Townsend was still up on the crate. She did not appear to have moved. She looked peaceful enough so he decided to leave her just the way she was. He briefly crossed the floor to peer in through the bars at Miss Wendy Bartlett. She was still sulking in the corner, with head bowed and staring blankly at the chains about her feet. He said nothing and returned to the rack.
The mask was still on WPC Georgina Watkinson's face and doing its work. She had not stirred since being placed on the trolley. His own face too was covered by a mask, but unlike the other, this one was clean inside and protecting him from any stray fumes. Looking at the state of the woman, and knowing just what effects the glue had on people, he guessed that he would have no more trouble from her. This was one really spaced out policewoman. But all the same he would take no chances and decided to retain the mask on her face until he had her safely strapped in place. He took a firm grip of her shoulders and with one mighty heave lifted the lifeless body to its feet and flopped the torso onto the wooden boards of the rack. Then with one last effort he raised up the legs and swung them up and onto the table. Having got her up there, he removed the handcuffs, turned her over on her back and placed her hands by her sides. Finally he positioned the body squarely along the length of the bed and drew down the legs so that the feet came in line with the bottom of table.
The woman was dressed in black leather from neck to toe. Malcolm began by removing the boots. They were quite a struggle and the limp and lifeless body had a will of its own as he pulled and twisted in an effort to get them off. Eventually he won the day and placed the boots on the trolley. He gave a wry smile. All these new women in his life were certainly giving him a lot of extra work. There was more incinerating to do later, and without even inspecting below the cat-suit, he was aware that a long metal zip needed to be disposed of.
Malcolm moved to one side and drew down the offending zip that ran from neck to crutch. He opened out the front of the leather suit. On inspection the woman appeared to be wearing nothing but bra and panties beneath the cat-suit. Neither items were anything special, just plain and ordinary white garments void of any lace or frills, and somehow typical of a policewoman he was thinking. He grabbed a sleeve and tried to pull it down the arm. But nothing moved except the whole of the torso. The leather was tight and hugged the body in every department. He decided that it was best to use the scissors. The cat-suit would have to be cut up later anyway to remove the zip, so what did it matter when he did it?
He tried to think were he had left the scissors. Then he remembered. He had last used them to trim Davina Townsend's hair. He looked around and located them on the floor alongside the crate. He crossed the area, collected them and returned.
Starting at the sleeve he worked his way up the arm, across the shoulder and round the front of the collar to the top of the zip. Leaning over the body he made a second identical cut in reverse, this time starting at the neck and ending at the wrist. Next he cut away the zip. Starting at the top he followed the teeth all the way along one side to the bottom, then repeated the operation down the opposite side. Carefully circling the bottom of the zip afterwards, he managed to remove the zip entirely. When he was done he dropped the zip on the trolley to join the boots. Finally he completed the cutting by slicing down both legs from top to bottom, snipping away from crutch to feet in both instances.
When completed, Malcolm flattened the leather out on the wooden surface in the hope that it would slide out from beneath her. He gave a little tug to see if it would come away, but the woman's body moved with the pull. He decided to leave the remains of the cat-suit where it lay for the time being. Instead his hands moved to concentrate on the next layer of clothing. With a series of lifting and tugging movements he dragged the panties all the way down the legs and extracted them from the feet. Holding up the panties to his face, he pulled down his mask, sniffed at the crutch briefly then dropped them on the trolley. Replacing the mask he promised to indulge himself properly just prior to incinerating all the woman's belongings.
He eyed the prone body up and down. The only thing left to do was remove the woman's bra. He paused briefly to consider the best way of achieving this before setting to work. He decided against using the scissors. Instead he flipped the upper half of the body on its side, unclipped the little hooks, transferred the straps to the front and returned the body to its original position. Finally he eased the garment down two very limp and flailing arms before dropping it on the trolley to join the boots, zip and panties.
Changing position to stand at the bottom of the rack, Malcolm took hold of the woman's legs and spread them to the width of the bench. In no mood to rush, he slowly and systematically buckled the awaiting stout leather straps tightly about the ankles. When he was done he tested the mountings for movement. As far as he could tell the ankles were held rock solid in their moorings.
Satisfied with the anchorage, he moved on. Walking along the length of the bed he positioned the limbs as he went, pushing first the hips one way, then tugging the shoulders another in order to centralise the body properly on the bed. On reaching the top he raised up the arms above the head and placed them back down on the boards. There was a watch on one wrist. He removed it and looked for other items of jewellery. There were neither earrings in her ears nor rings on her fingers. She was just an ordinary plain Jane that had probably never been kissed. He wondered if she was still a virgin? Whilst standing and pondering upon such matters, he noticed the hands for the first time. They were lying flat with palms open upwards. Under the bright spotlights the right hand appeared to be slightly grubbier than the left. He tried to remember what she might have done to achieve such a thing whilst in his presence. He could not think of anything. She had pushed herself up using both hands whilst talking to him in the stocks, but that was about all. So what had she been doing? And where had she been grovelling in order to get one hand in this filthy condition? His immediate thoughts turned to the incinerators. The door to the shed in the corner of the courtyard was never locked so she could quite easily have got in there. He wondered whether she might have been rummaging around in the incinerator ovens? He was curious to find out.
Eventually, after giving the matter much thought, he simply shrugged his shoulders and decided to carry on. After all, there was not a fat lot he could do about it at this precise moment in time. He set to work. Two leather straps awaited the arms. They were attached to two thick hawser ropes of similar diameter to the ropes that divided the aisle from the display area, but with one exception, these were a dirty brown in colour and not glistening white as in the case of the others. Malcolm untangled the ropes so as they lay flat and straight, then buckled the straps to the wrists. When he was done, he tested the strength by pulling on rope and wrist with both hands. Everything seemed solid enough. As far as he could tell nothing on the upper surface of the bench was likely to give way. However, that was not his concern, it was down below where he still retained a few nagging doubts. Would everything simply fall apart at the first hint of pressure? Or would the mechanism hold firm and take the strain? He hoped that the latter would be the case.
Moving around the bench to the opposite side, and to stand next to the wheel, he wound in the rope until the first signs of tension appeared. As the ropes lifted from the surface he stopped and tested them for stiffness. Some slackness remained so he gave the wheel another series of clicks. For the first time the ropes began to creak. On hearing the noise he stopped and tested them again. This time he felt much more satisfied with his findings. There was enough tension there to hold her down without causing two much discomfort. However, just to make certain, he added two more clicks to the wheel before testing again. It was now difficult to bend or even move the ropes away from the straight line they formed. He nodded his head in approval. That would do nicely!
Malcolm looked to his watch. The time was approaching ten o'clock. From start to finish the entire operation had taken about one hour. More importantly, the face mask had worked quite well for at least forty-five minutes. He made a mental note of his findings then set about removing the mask from her face. Quickly he placed the article in a polythene bag and sealed the contents inside. There was no way he was going to get caught out again and he placed it gently on the bed of the trolley alongside all the other items. Finally he returned to peel away the surgical tape from about the mouth. Immediately the woman's jaw dropped and she began to breath heavily through both nose and mouth.
"Pleasant dreams!" he told her.
He stepped back and looked to the fruits of his labour. The sleeping woman was naked from head to toe and firmly anchored at all four points. Beneath her body lay the cut-up remains of the cat-suit. He took a firm hold in both hands and pulled. The woman's tensioned body gripped the material to start with, then began to bounce up and down on the bed in a rhythmic pattern as the soft leather jerked away from beneath the body.
Breathless from his efforts, Malcolm puffed and smiled. Phase one was complete. There was nothing else he could do until she came round. But when she did, he had a lot of questions to put to her, and hopefully he would get some straight answers. If not he guessed he had the right apparatus available for changing her mind. He dropped the sliced-up cat-suit on the trolley and looked to his watch. He had set himself a tight schedule for the day. However things had gone quite smoothly up till now, and there was just enough time left in which to make a pot of tea and grab a bite to eat before embarking on phase two.
"Bye for now!… See you in a short while!… Don't go away will you?" he told her whilst gripping a nipple and giving it a little squeeze.
The woman continued to breath loudly and displayed no reaction to either his touch or comments.
Malcolm turned to move away, but returned to face the rack. He would allow himself just one moment of pleasure before going away. In her drugged up sleep, the strapped down woman would know nothing of any violation to her person. Slowly he traced his hand over her mound and down between her legs. At the mouth of her virgina his fingers stopped and traced a small circle around the pink wet opening. With two fingers he opened out the slit and tried to look inside the dark cavity. How could he tell whether she really was a virgin or not? And what would happen if he inserted his fingers to find out? After long deliberation he decided against doing anything hasty and would leave everything intact for the time being. Reluctantly he retracted his hand and sniffed the moisture collected. With his fingers held against his nose he pondered for a while. Perhaps later on he would be in a better position to mix a bit of pleasure with business? However, he was also aware of a busy schedule ahead of him. With a deep sigh he told himself that he would just have to wait and see how things panned out.

11:30 am.

Malcolm left the kitchen and returned to the basement with the sole intention of starting his eighth and final drawing. Once having raised her back upon her toes, Mrs. Davina Townsend remained the perfect model. Not once did she protest, moan or shuffle about needlessly. His other incumbent on the rack however showed signs of coming round. She still had her eyes closed but occasionally a little grown and whimper would break the silence.
With pad on lap and pencil poised Malcolm sat down on the little stool. He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths and tried to relax. He told himself to forget all about WPC Georgina Townsend and concentrate fully on putting what he saw before him down on paper. He likened the situation to being at art class and tried to recall a typical session. He would be sat there along with all the other students in a circle around the model. His teacher would give them a few choice final words before letting them begin. He would tell them to ignore everything about them and focus entirely on the matter in hand.
In deep concentration he set to work.

12:30 pm.

The sketch took about an hour to complete. A lot longer than any of the others. The perspective being taken from the front and at a quarter angle to the body. Because he had taken more time and care he liked the finished result. The outline drawing depicted a frontal view of the woman's breasts whilst at the same time added the curvature of the whip as the tip rounded the body to scar beneath the armpit. Malcolm was studying the drawing in detail when the woman on the rack let out a yell to break the silence. He looked around. She had finally woken up only to discover her new situation. He put the drawing away to join the others in a folder and walked over to the rack. On arrival he looked to the time on his watch. The snooping policewoman had slept for a further two and a half hours since the removal of the mask. He made mental note of the fact before positioning himself at the wheel and leaning forward to greet her.
"Welcome back to the land of the living!" he told her with a cheerful smile to his face.
She looked up at him and spluttered through a dry mouth: "Water?… A drink please?"
Malcolm looked towards the occupied cell. Wendy Bartlett had not touched a thing on her tray. He walked over, collected a glass of stale orange juice from between the bars and returned. Raising the head slightly he held the glass to the woman's lips and said: "Here, drink this."
She took a sip, initially choked but quickly cleared her throat and took a big gulp. Malcolm held both the back of her head and glass until she had downed about three quarters of the contents.
"How's that?… Feel better now?" he asked and sounding concerned.
She looked up at the boy in bewilderment. Why was he being so nice to her? She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight in an effort to concentrate. Her head was splitting and her focus remained blurred.
"Where am I?" she eventually asked.
All she could make out was a distorted vision of the boy's face and the high vaulted ceiling beyond. She was also aware, that despite all her efforts, she was unable to move a solitary muscle.
"You're in my dungeon," he informed her.
"Your what?" she replied as if failing to hear correctly.
"I said you're in my dungeon… I've brought you here in the hope that we can establish a few truths," he elaborated.
"What truths?" she snapped.
"Oh! Little things like what were you doing on my property in the first place? And whether you found anything you shouldn't have whilst mooching around in the incinerators and loading bay?" he told her straight.
WPC Watkinson failed to absorb most of the boy's reply. Really powerful stabbing pains had returned to her head. She squeezed her eyes tightly and waited for the spasms to go away before concentrating further. Even just to listen was getting too much of an effort. Perhaps it was better if she went back to sleep!
Malcolm saw the relapse and slapped her lightly on the cheeks.
"Come on! Wake up! Don't go to sleep on me again!" he said encouraging her to stay awake.
The woman's eyes opened, flickered briefly then closed again.
Malcolm could see that the effects of the glue had still not worn off properly so he left her to sleep. It was time to have lunch anyway. He also wanted to go across the road and buy a couple of daily newspapers. Perhaps in an hour or two's time she would be in a better position to start answering his questions.

1:00 pm.

Mr. and Mrs. George Watkinson arrived home from their short stay in the West Country. Their daughter's small white car was in the drive, the lights were on in the hallway and kitchen, and the back door was unlocked. The couple unloaded their car and put the kettle on. But where was their daughter to greet them? They had unopened Christmas presents for her from her grandparents.
"Georgina, we're home," called Mrs. Margaret Watkinson up the stairs.
There was no answer.
She called again: "Georgina, we're home!"
Still no answer.
Margaret Watkinson furrowed her brow. Perhaps her daughter was asleep, but that was most unlike her. She climbed the stairs and peered into Georgina's bedroom. The bed was not made, the wardrobe doors were wide open and her police uniform lay spread out over a chair. She closed the door and tried the bathroom. That too was empty. She looked in all the other rooms. Still no signs of her daughter.
She returned to the kitchen. "Where do you think Georgina is?" she asked her husband.
"Why? She not upstairs?" he replied and feeling a bit surprised at the news.
His wife shook her head. "Do you think she's gone a walk?" she suggested.
"Probably! She couldn't have gone far though, she left the back door open," George Watkinson pointed out.
"I guess she'll be back soon then," supposed his wife, but showing concern.
George Watkinson looked out of the window. The weather was not too bad. At least it was not raining and the temperature was above freezing. They had made an early start and arrived back sooner than expected. He guessed that by about three o'clock their daughter would turn up.
Margaret Watkinson's thoughts were a lot different however. She knew her daughter well. This was most unlike her. Especially to go out and leave the lights on and the back door open. There was one possibility that she may be at work. She made her way into the hall and dialled Littlesea Police Station on a direct number her daughter had given her for such emergencies.
"Hello, could you tell me if WPC Watkinson is there? This is her mother speaking and I'd like to get a message to her if I may," she asked once getting through to someone.
"Can you hold the line please. I'll make some enquiries," replied the male officer who had answered the call.
There was a long wait.
"I'm sorry but WPC Watkinson is not here. She's not on duty today," the officer told her.
"Oh isn't she? Well thank you. Sorry to have bothered you," she apologised and put the phone down.
She wondered what best to do? The papers were full of stories covering the disappearance of two girls in the area. So on that count she had to worry slightly. But she told herself that Georgina would never get involved with anything like that. She was a police officer after all! Perhaps her husband was right and their daughter had just gone for a walk. She decided to wait a couple of hours before getting concerned.
 
1:15 pm.

Malcolm left the complex and made for the row of little shops across the road. He purchased two daily newspapers. Their were no signs of Jimmy Jones being around so he returned to the building. He would only have popped into Alf's Café if the chauffeur's car had been parked outside so as to catch up on all the latest gossip.
On his return Malcolm made his way to the back of the main building. After passing through the gates he crossed the courtyard and entered the incinerator house. He put the lights on and looked around. There were no obvious signs of anyone being there to disturb things.
Moving to the nearest oven he opened the cast-iron door and peered inside. The ashes looked like they had been disturbed. He had left everything to burn and had expected the remains to be lying flat. Suddenly he was curious and inspected the door closely. There were dark finger marks there. Someone had put their hand inside then closed the door. He smiled. Now he was getting somewhere. But the woman's hands were not that filthy, so she must have wiped them somewhere. But on what? He looked around and saw the towel hanging over the back of the chair. He walked over and opened it out. It was quite grubby. He had used the towel for the same purpose, but by the state of it, this had been used more than once.
Malcolm started to fit the pieces together. So she had come in, rummaged around in the oven then wiped her hands clean on the towel. What next? He looked around. A lump hammer lay on the floor against the back wall. He walked across and picked it up. Swinging it around to test the weight he considered a possible use. The door to the loading bay had been forced by someone striking the lock and bursting the bracket away from the frame. When caught the woman carried nothing with her, but this hammer would most certainly have accomplished the task. He replaced the hammer guessing that he was close to the truth. So what next? Obviously she must have crossed the yard to the door of the loading bay and given it a good bash.
Tracing what he thought must have been her moves, Malcolm switched off the lights and closed the door behind him. He walked to the door of the loading bay and re-investigated the marks around the lock. He had repaired the bracket on the same day as discovering it broken, but had taken very little notice at the time. He now inspected the lock closely and could see that it had been hit by some heavy object that left a square indent in the wood. It must have been the lump hammer that did it.
Entering the bay using his keys, Malcolm looked around. Both the van and Mr. McTavish's car were inside. On the day only the Jaguar would have been present. Jimmy Jones was using the van. He walked across to the luxury saloon and checked that all the doors were locked. There was no evidence to suggest any signs of a break in. He stopped to think. Did she go anywhere else in the building? He doubted it. The door from the loading bay to the corridor beyond was both locked and bolted at the time. He recalled having to undo both when he dragged the lifeless body through to the basement.
Malcolm considered what he had learnt thus far. If the snooping policewoman had remained in the loading bay, then could she have possibly found anything? He had stripped Davina Townsend of her clothes in here, and Wendy Bartlett had spilled her handbag all over the floor. But he thought that he had collected up everything and destroyed all the evidence. Perhaps she found nothing and decided it was a waste of time? She would have then mended the broken catch and returned the hammer to the incinerator house. After that, she would just be sneaking away when he caught her. The time from hearing the alarm going off and his arrival would just about match those actions.
The teenager returned to the kitchen still pondering on all he had found. He could be one-hundred percent wrong in his suppositions, but he doubted it. Anyway he had a chance to find out after lunch.
Malcolm inwardly glowed at the prospect of interrogating the woman. The grilling was certainly going to be a very interesting affair indeed and something he was very much looking forward to. He pictured the scene of him standing over her and turning the wheel. He would also grab those big red rosy nipples and pull and twist as hard as he could in order to gain the truth from her. He likened what he envisaged to those nightmarish scenes experienced in his drugged up trance, and a humorous thought came to him that made him chuckle. Why not add a bit of theatrics to the ceremony he was thinking? Somewhere in one of the many storerooms he was sure that he would find a suitable hood and cape. So why not confront the policewoman dressed as a true inquisitor? He began to laugh loudly. What an excellent idea it truly was.

2:00 pm.

Malcolm left the kitchen having taken lunch and absorbed everything the newspapers had to say on the subject of two missing women from the Littlesea area. From everything that was written it appeared that the police were baffled and did not have very much to go on. All this had put him in a very good frame of mind. On his way down he visited a third floor storeroom.
WPC Watkinson's eyes were closed when Malcolm arrived. The effects of the glue had worn off and she now slept lightly and peacefully. He leaned over the wheel and peered down at the stretched out naked body on the rack. For a policewoman he had to admit that she was quite shapely and rather pretty looking beneath her uniform. He realised that his mind was straying from the main objective and switched his thoughts to consider the scene from purely an artistic standpoint. Part of his scheming included an alternative contingency plan to sketch this woman if his attempts to snatch Tracy Goodyear failed. From that viewpoint he liked everything he saw. She would do just as nicely if all else came apart. But in the meantime he had some serious questions to put to her. Leaning forward he took a firm grip of the nearest nipple and gave a sharp squeeze.
"It's about time you woke up! Lazy bones!" he called down at her.
The woman's eyes opened immediately. She was startled from her sleep and raised up her head.
"Ouch!" she yelped and tried to focus on the cause of the pain.
She saw fingers gripping a nipple and looked up to see who's hand it was. Despite the hideous hood that covered his nose and eyes, and the black cape about his shoulders she recognised the owner immediately. That horrible boy had returned to torment her.
"Hello again… I thought you'd never wake up!" remarked Malcolm withdrawing his arm.
WPC Watkinson was in no mood for sarcasm. "Isn't it about time you let me go?… The jokes over… I'm sorry… I won't trespass again, I promise," she told him.
"Let you go?… Just like that?… Without knowing the exact reason why you were snooping around in my courtyard?… I don't think so, not yet anyway!" he informed her.
"I told you before, I was reliving my childhood. It was just something I did on impulse. I meant no harm to you or anyone," she explained by repeating her version of events.
"I think you're lying!" he told her. "I think you were snooping and trying to find something or someone. Perhaps the woman over there might be that someone?… Tell me what you think?"
Malcolm placed a hand beneath her head, raised it up and turned the neck so as to look beyond where he stood. He moved to one side in the hope that from where she lay she could see the suspended body of Davina Townsend.
"Look!… Can you see?" he said holding her head up high and pointing across the floor.
The woman strained her eyes to look in the direction indicated. Strapped down the way she was made any movement very difficult, and her head did not want to move much anyway. Above her own up-stretched arm, and through a small gap between the edge of a wheel and the boy's body, she could make out something glowing white against a background of grey. Traces of the glue were still in her system but she was conscious enough to know that the boy really wanted her to see something important. She brought the object into focus and absorbed with both shock and horror the sight that greeted her. She was looking at the body of a naked woman. She was suspended from a chain with arms held high above her head. It was difficult to tell but it looked like she had red stripes across her breasts. The policewoman shut her eyes. At least she had been right about the boy. It was him all along. But knowing that now was not going to earn her any medals. She really was in deep trouble.
"Who is she?" she asked as the boy returned her head to the boards.
"That is the owner of the car you so kindly moved for me!… That is the one and only Mrs. Davina Townsend… and I presume the person you came snooping to find?" he explained with a snigger.
"What about the other girl? The one from up by the old castle? You took her as well, didn't you?" she said putting the point to him directly.
Malcolm nodded. "I don't suppose you can see behind you. But she's back there, sulking in her cell as usual," he informed her.
"God! You're evil," she told him and closed her eyes.
"You really think so?… Well you haven't seen anything yet!" he sniggered.
She turned her head away. She had no wish to talk to the boy anymore. He was totally insane.
Malcolm turned the wheel two clicks in order to regain her attention.
"Oooh!" she whimpered as the increased tension pulled the leather of the straps into the flesh of her wrists and gripped more tightly about the ankles. She turned her head to look back up at the hooded face. She was lying comfortably before. Now she was starting to hurt at all four anchorage points.
"Hello again!" he said on seeing her head turn back to face him. "Now would you mind answering me a few questions?"
"I've got nothing to say to you!" she replied bluntly. "You're in serious trouble and when the police get you, you'll be put away for years."
"You managed to louse it up! So why should the rest of them do a better job?" he sneered.
"Oh they will! I found out it was you! They'll find out just the same! They'll get you! Don't worry yourself on that score!" she spat in defiance.
"Ah! We're coming down to the nitty-gritty now are we?" he responded. "It wasn't a childhood dream after all. You were snooping for clues weren't you? And what did you find? You said they'll find you out just the same… The same as what?… What did you discover?… I want to know!… And I intend to find out!"
Suddenly she realised that she had spoken out of turn again. She decided not to tell him anything that mattered, and certainly nothing about the small hook she found. She was a realist and assumed the worst. Even if the boy killed and disposed of all three of them, then the forensic team would most certainly find another hook amongst the ashes. She shut her eyes and turned her head away.
Malcolm was getting angry and he spun the wheel a good many clicks. He did not bother to count, but it must have been more than a dozen. Suddenly the leather began to cut into the skin at all four points of anchorage. She could feel both her hands and feet going numb from the break in circulation. There was also intense pain spreading to every quarter of her body. All her muscles hurt badly and the sockets of her joints felt like they were being torn apart. Suddenly she found herself screaming. She could not help it, it was just something she had to do to release the pain.
Malcolm waited patiently for the hysterical outburst to subside.
"Let's start from the beginning shall we?" he said after things had quietened down a little bit. "Firstly I want to know why you came into the grounds?… Something led you to me!… What was it?… I need to know!… And please, I want proper answers this time, not more trumped up stories."
She looked him in the face and glared an icy stare. "Get stuffed!" she spat through gritted teeth.
Malcolm turned the wheel two more clicks then took hold of both nipples. Squeezing the flesh as hard as possible, he asked again: "What led you to me?"
The woman squeezed her eyes tight, and through a wide open mouth gulped down great volumes of air. The boy was really hurting her, adding more pain on top of the agony she already bore.
"I'm waiting for an answer!" urged Malcolm as he continued to twist and distort the flesh to its limits.
She needed the boy to stop just to have time to think, but she knew deep down there would be no respite. The only way to make him halt the torment was to start talking. The boy released his grip on her nipples for a while, but it was only to add more tension to the ropes. She could hear the ratchets clunking and the ropes groaning. She lost count of the clicks. Suddenly the ligaments in her shoulders creaked and tore. She panicked knowing that anymore and the balls would come out of their sockets.
"Stop!…" she screamed. "Stop!…"
Whatever she said worked. The cranking ceased. But the relief was very short lived. The boy's hands returned to grasp her nipples. Desperate for him to stop, she conceded to his demands. Between deep gasps for breath she called up to her tormentor: "Stop!… Stop!… Please stop!… I'll talk!… I'll talk…"
Malcolm released his grip and stood holding the wheel. "I'm all ears!" he told her.
She tried to think what the question was. With all the pain it was very difficult to concentrate on anything at all.
"What led you to me?… I'm waiting!" demanded the impatient boy.
The re-stating of the question reminded her of what she was going to say. She formed her mouth to utter something, but it was too difficult to speak. The pain was just too much to bear. "Please… slacken off… I'll talk… I'll talk… Just slacken off… first please,…" she stammered.
"Not a chance!" snapped Malcolm. "Not until I've heard everything."
She saw the look in the boy's eyes and realised that unless she said something quickly the torment would only get worse. She tried to concentrate but had forgotten the question again. What was it? Something about the start? He wanted to know how she had found out it was him? She began to piece together some sort of story. Whether it made any sense or not, she did not know and did not care. But to survive, as long as she kept talking then he was not turning that wretched wheel by her side.
She began to explain in stuttering sentences and single words: "Castle… dungeon… on the gate… poster… the girl… cottage… next to… castle… too much… coincidence… you.. must have… took her!"
Malcolm saw the irony. Two separate and totally unrelated facts had pointed a finger at him. It was only by pure coincidence that Tracy Goodyear happened to live out at Castle Point. That was what took him there in the first place. The abduction of the wrong girl afterwards had only led to further confusion. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, but refrained from doing so.
"Is that all?" he asked, thinking that the link was a bit tenuous to say the least.
She tried to think what came next. If only the pain would go away then maybe she could recall some of the events prior to being caught. She remembered looking out of the window with her binoculars at him cleaning the cars. But that was not it! What was it? The newspaper! That was it! The headlines! On the bed!
"Is that all?" snapped an impatient Malcolm.
"Newspaper!…" she gasped. "Newspaper in van… Evening paper… had to have… just bought it… you… not been out… since morning… had to be… a lie!"
Malcolm considered the stuttering statement and tried to recall the event she was talking about. It had to be the first moment they met. He had just been over the road and bought the evening newspaper. He had put it on the dashboard of the van just before the police arrived. He remembered the beam of the policewoman's torch travelling from poster to the van before ending up in his face. She was right! To have the newspaper in his possession, he would have had to have been to the shops in the afternoon.
"Very good!" he applauded her. "A brilliant piece of deduction."
She was more concerned about herself however than be heaped with praise. "Let me go… now… please… I've told you… everything!" she gasped.
"Not quite yet!" responded Malcolm. "I want to hear a lot more before I do anything as silly as let you go!"
"Please!… No more!…" she begged meekly.
"Answer me this, then I might think about it," he teased before putting the question: "How did you get into the grounds?"
She tried to concentrate on the question. She knew the answer, but once again could not form the words. "Bottom of garden… loose rail," she told him eventually after gathering all her strength.
"That's how you used to get in as a child I suppose?" quizzed Malcolm.
"Yes… as a child…" she confirmed.
Malcolm smiled. The rack had loosened her tongue a treat. She was a right little chatterbox now. But better still the mechanism was holding together. He decided to test it just a few more clicks before ending the session. He hoped that some of the trickier questions to come would give cause to do it without being sadistic for no good reason.
"Right next question," said Malcolm. "You got in here through the railings then presumably made for the courtyard… So what did you do when you got there?"
She tried to recall what it was she must not tell him, but her mind had gone blank once more. However she was alert enough to realise that if she failed to say anything the boy would turn the wheel again. For that reason alone she had to stop him. She was desperate to prevent any more winding. If she tried to move just a fraction she could feel the bones in her shoulders grating in their sockets. Her arms were stretched to their limit. Just another few clicks would be the end. She needed to say something straightaway. But what was the question again? It was stupid, but she had forgotten!
"What did you do in the courtyard?… Tell me!…" snapped Malcolm angrily.
 The courtyard, that was it! She tried to recall what she did. Then she remembered the small hook. The boy was not to find out about the hook in the ashes. Therefore to mention incinerator would be fatal. She decided to deny everything. It seemed better that way and she did not have to think.
"Nothing!… Nothing!…" she stuttered and closed her eyes.
She knew it was going to happen. She heard a solitary click and felt the balls in her sockets move. Her shoulders were the weak points and would go first, she realised this fact but was powerless to stop it happening. With the onset of the extra pain she screamed.
Malcolm took hold of the nipples and squeezed hard before asking again: "What did you do in the courtyard?… Come on, I'm waiting!…"
She had to say something. "Smashed… door… down,…" she gasped.
"Good!… You broke the catch on the lock… But what with?…" urged Malcolm sensing that he was now getting somewhere.
"Hammer!…" she gulped, then remembered where she had found it. She had spoken out of turn once more. It was the pain that was doing it. It was so hard to concentrate, especially with her nipples being stretched and pulled at the same time.
"A hammer?… I see!… So where did this hammer come from?" he pressed her further.
She tried to concentrate. If she did not mention the ovens then perhaps it was safe to answer. She was so confused. The pain coupled with the continuous questions being fired at her made it almost impossible to think anything clearly.
"Shed!… In a shed!…" she panted.
"What shed?" snapped back Malcolm immediately, whilst at the same time twisting both nipples to their limits.
"Corner!… Please stop!… Please!…" she begged.
But Malcolm was almost there. To relent now would give her time to recuperate. He had to continue applying the pressure.
"The shed in the corner?… The incinerator block?… You went inside there?… Is that what you are saying?" said Malcolm firing off a series of rapid questions.
"Yes!… Yes!… Now stop!… Please!… Please!…" she stammered.
But there was to be no let up.
"What else did you do in there?" urged her tormentor.
"Nothing!… Nothing!…" she cried back in agony.
She gritted her teeth and tried to concentrate her mind above the pain. Whatever happens she must not mention the hook. She began to repeat the phrase over and over in her mind.
Malcolm's hands returned to the wheel and wound the mechanism on a further two clicks. He had heard the word 'nothing' from her before. He was starting to get a good feel for this interrogation lark. On each occasion she had said the word he knew her to be lying.
"You're holding something back?… So what is it?" he demanded.
The ligaments in her shoulders tore a little bit further under the increased pressure. She felt them go. It was also the turn of the some other joints to give way under the pressure. She sensed a sinew snap in a knee and something else give in an elbow.
"Stop!… Stop!… Stop!… Please!… No more!…" she screamed.
"Not good enough!… I need answers," responded Malcolm.
The boy's hands were still on the wheel. Just one more click and she knew that something would pop. This was now a fight for survival.
She saw his hand move and called straightaway to stop him: "No please!… I'll talk!… Please!… No more!"
"Talk then," said Malcolm harshly. "What are you holding back? You grubbed around in the oven didn't you?"
"Oven… Yes…" she replied with eyes squeezed tightly together. The pain was getting unbearable and she was drifting in and out of consciousness.
"And what did you find?" continued Malcolm.
"Nothing!… Nothing!…" she gasped almost straightaway.
Malcolm froze. Instinct told him she was lying again. He just knew it! If her previous answers were anything to go by, then two 'nothings' had to mean she was holding something from him. But what exactly? He had painstakingly cut off every button and zip. Everything that went into the incinerator was combustible. He had made certain of that. Or had he? It was now imperative that he found out.
"You're lying! What did you find? You'd better tell me," he called frantically.
In the woman's mind the interrogation had come face to face with her forced mental block. She could not think anymore, just resist with every ounce of strength left in her.
"Nothing!… Nothing!…" she repeated in defiance.
Malcolm added one more click and shouted viciously: "What did you find? You're holding something back aren't you? Tell me what you found?"
The woman screamed loudly and ignored her tormentor. This time something did give. She sensed something tear in a shoulder. But the pain was everywhere, and it hurt no more than the rest of her body. She steeled her mind. Surely he could not hurt her more than it already did? The interrogation had turned into a massive battle of wills.
The mechanism clicked once more and another ligament tore.
"What did you find?" growled the angry boy at the hysterically screaming woman.
"Nothing!… Nothing!…" she bellowed between screeches of agony.
Another click quickly followed the denial, and that was about the end. Something popped. It might have been a ball coming from its socket, or it could have been a ligament. But with all the pain it was impossible to tell. Suddenly a red mist descended upon her eyes and she could feel herself drifting away. Whatever was happening to her was so pleasant. She could feel the pain ebbing further and further away. Then the red turned to black and the darkness engulfed her. A voice was telling her that she had won. The secret was still safe with her. She felt her body start to float away. He could not touch her now, and wherever she was going the boy could not hurt her anymore.
  Malcolm stopped the moment the silence descended upon the chamber. The woman had fallen into unconsciousness. He tried to think. If she did find something it had to be small. She was not carrying anything when he caught her. So where would she have put it? He looked to the remains of her cat-suit lying on the trolley beside the rack. In a pocket maybe?
He circled the rack and retrieved the piece of cut-up leather. He inspected both the inside and outside of the garment for pockets. As far as he could make out there were only two small hip pockets in the whole of the suit. He put his hand in one and fumbled about. He could feel nothing inside so he checked the second. That too appeared to be empty except for a little bit of grit or something wedged right in a corner. He turned the lining inside out and extracted the offending item. Suddenly a big grin crossed his face as he recognised just exactly what he had discovered. In the palm of his hand lay a small blackened hook. He rubbed it clean. This little charred piece of metal could only have come from either a bra strap or suspender belt. He began to laugh. This could have been a disaster. If he had not caught the woman snooping then the police would have been swarming all over him within hours.
The boy, now in a pensive mood, circled the rack and released the ratchet that held the ropes in tension. She could lie there for a while. He needed time to think. After removing his hood and cloak he decided the best thing to do was to return to the kitchen and make himself a nice cup of tea.

3:00 pm.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Watkinson were becoming concerned. Their daughter Georgina had not returned from her supposed walk. They were beginning to fear the worst.
"I think you'd better phone the station again," said George Watkinson to his wife.
"Yes, I think we ought," she agreed and moved to the hallway.
She dialled the same number as before and waited.
"Hello, Littlesea Police Station," answered the caller.
This time she recognised the voice. It sounded like Georgina's partner PC Grantford on the other end of the line.
"David?" she asked. "Is that David Grantford speaking?"
"Yes! Is that Mrs. Watkinson?" he responded and thinking that he too recognised the voice on the other end of the line.
"Yes it's me David. Look George and myself are getting a bit worried. We can't find Georgina. She's definitely not with you is she?" she asked and sounding concerned.
"Georgina? No Mrs. Watkinson, she's off duty at present. Why? What's happened?" replied the police officer.
"She's just not here! We arrived back about one o'clock expecting her to be here, but the house was empty. We thought maybe she'd gone a walk so we've waited a bit, but she's still not turned up. I thought I'd just phone you and see what's best," explained Mrs. Watkinson.
"Sounds strange!" replied the PC Grantford. "It seems most unlike her! And I know she was expecting you back today. She told me so the last time we were on duty together. Didn't she leave a message or anything?"
"No, nothing! But her car's still here, and when we came back the lights were left on  in the house and the back door was unlocked. So we're a little concerned. I was hoping somebody at the station would know where she was," she explained.
"Look Mrs. Watkinson, just stay where you are. Inspector Hawkins is in his office. I'll have a word with him and see what he thinks. I know Georgina well, and it's most unlike her to do anything without leaving a message or something. Just stay there and I'll be along as soon as I've seen the Inspector," said PC Grantford.
"Thank you David. Oh I do hope nothing's happened," replied a very worried mother.
"Okay, stay right where you are and I'll be over as soon as I can," said the policeman putting down the phone.
Mrs. Watkinson put down the receiver and turned to her husband standing alongside.
"David's going to see the Inspector, then he's coming here," she told him.
"Good! Let's hope they're able to find something out!" replied George Watkinson.
"Oh I do hope so!" responded Margaret Watkinson. "I do hope so!"

3:15 pm.

Seated at the kitchen table Malcolm wrote down on a piece of paper the three remaining tasks he had set himself for today. Item one was to select the best two pictures from his eight sketches. The second was to incinerate the policewoman's clothing, and the third was to revisit the hospital for a final look over. After looking at the time and at the increasing gloom outside he changed the order of things. He would destroy the clothes first. The three zips, one from the cat-suit and two off the boots, plus a wristwatch and several small hooks he proposed to dump in the sea. This he would do on his way back from the hospital.
Malcolm swigged back his tea and set off for the basement. He reckoned the whole operation would take him about three quarters of an hour.

4:00 pm.

Inspector Hawkins climbed the stairs and entered Georgina Watkinson's bedroom. Her mother, father and PC Grantford followed close behind.
"Try not to disturb anything," the Inspector told them as they entered the room.
He looked around. The bed was unmade, there were clothes on a chair and the wardrobe doors were open. "And this is just as you found it?" he asked Mrs. Watkinson.
She nodded. "Yes, I've not touched anything," she confirmed.
A frilly nightdress and an evening newspaper lay on the top of the bed. He flipped the paper over and read the date.
"Christmas Eve," he stated, and added what amounted to a further statement: "At present the last sighting of your daughter was at ten o'clock on Christmas Day when she signed off from duty."
The Inspector, not expecting an answer, walked across to the window. There were a pair of binoculars on the windowsill. He picked them. "Are these always here?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Watkinson. "Georgina's had them a long time. She likes to look out at sea at the yachts and big boats that go past."
Inspector Hawkins raised the binoculars to his eyes and looked out to sea. They were badly out of focus so he adjusted them in order to see more clearly. Dusk was rapidly falling and it would be dark in half an hour or so. There was a large ship on the horizon already with its lights on. Keeping the binoculars to his eyes he dropped his vision to the large building in the foreground. There were lights on down there too, and smoke coming from a small chimney. He re-adjusted the focus back to as they were. He caught sight of a boy walking across a courtyard. He watched him disappear through a door into the main building before returning the glasses to sill.
He looked around the room. He was trying to think of some reason why WPC Watkinson would have gone out leaving the lights on and the back door unlocked. There was nothing to indicate a struggle anywhere in the house, so she must have left of her own free will, and by the look of it, somewhat in a hurry. But why rush off somewhere and where did she go? He moved to the open wardrobe. There was a row of coats and dresses on hangers and plenty of shoes stacked on the floor.
The Inspector turned to Mrs. Watkinson and asked: "Do you know what's been taken? What would your daughter be wearing?"
Mrs. Watkinson looked inside the wardrobe and tried to remember what was in there. It was difficult to tell just by looking, and certainly a cat-suit last worn some twelve years ago never came to mind. She shook her head. "I'm not sure!" she said honestly.
"What about a coat? An anorak or something?" asked the Inspector.
"They're kept down in the hall," she replied.
"Let's go and have a look then," he told her.
At the bottom of the stairs Mrs. Watkinson removed an anorak from a hook. "This is Georgina's," she told the Inspector. "It doesn't look like she went out wearing a coat!"
Inspector Hawkins thought for a while. No coat and no physical signs of violence. "Could somebody have called for her in a car? Perhaps she went off in a rush? What do you think?" he asked.
 Mr. and Mrs. Watkinson conferred. "It's possible," said George Watkinson afterwards. "But whom that would be we're not sure. Most of her friends are in the police force. She made it her career, though she still maintains contact with a few old school friends, but most are married and out of the area now."
"So it could be possible that an old school chum turned up and they had to rush away for some reason. Maybe an accident or one of them was having a baby and she's gone to see it?" suggested the Inspector.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Watkinson nodded their heads. Of course that was a possibility.
The Inspector turned to PC Grantford. "Constable, get the station to contact the local hospital and find out if there's been, one, any accidents, and two, any births. If so get all the names and try to find out if anyone is staying there with them. While you're doing that I'll have a chat with the neighbours and see if they've seen anything suspicious going on around here." he told him.
The constable replied: "Yes sir," and made for the radio in the patrol car parked outside.
Inspector Hawkins turned to the anxious couple standing in the hallway. "Don't worry! We'll start our enquiries straightaway," he assured them. "We'll run a check on the hospital and some other establishments and hopefully we can come up with something. In the meantime, please sit tight and let's hope she returns. If she's not back by this evening I'll get forensics in here and see what they come up with. So please keep out of her room and don't touch anything that may belong to your daughter. Is that clear?"
Mr. and Mrs. Watkinson nodded their heads. They would not touch a thing.
"Look don't worry," he told the couple. "Your daughter is a capable policewoman and is not going to get into any trouble if she can help it. I'm sure there's a logical explanation for all this and at the moment I think we should treat this as an isolated incident and not connected with any of the other goings on around here at present."
"I hope your right Inspector," replied George Watkinson.
Mrs. Watkinson clung to her husband and said: "Our Georgina's a sensible girl isn't she dear? She wouldn't get herself mixed up with anything silly would she?"
"No she wouldn't," replied Mr. Watkinson patting her lightly.
Inspector Hawkins left hoping the same thing, but thinking other things. Could it be possible that he now had three mysterious disappearances on his hands. He hoped not. As he stepped out into the drive he lit up a cigarette. He was gasping having not smoked in the house out of courtesy. He looked around at the tree-lined avenue full of old Victorian buildings and thought what a nice quite part of the town this was. What a pity the houses on this side of the street backed on to the Amusement Park. In Summer the noise must be appalling.
 
 

cont.