CHAPTER ELEVEN - THURSDAY 30th DECEMBER

12:30 am

Malcolm Smith approached a T-junction at the end of a long and twisting country lane. He was tired and badly in need of some sleep. He had made up his mind to park up his motorcycle somewhere behind a hedgerow and get his head down as soon as he could find a convenient spot where he could both hide and shelter. He had now gone some twenty-five hours without sleep and that was about his limit. Furthermore the weather was turning foul. It was raining a fine drizzle and a grey mist hung everywhere making visibility poor.
Malcolm pulled up at the junction and pondered over which way he should go next. Through the mist and rain he read the direction sign on the opposite side of the road. Immediately he breathed a deep sigh of relief. For the first time since arriving in this area he saw the name 'Muddleton Morton'. The sign pointing to the left indicated 'Muddlebridge 5 Miles' and to his right 'Muddleton Morton 3 Miles'. Strangely the sign pointing back in the direction he had just come from read 'Muddleham-on-the-Marsh 4 Miles', but for the life of him he could not recall going through a place of that name, or for that matter going through a village at all for the last ten miles of his tortuous twisting journey.
Feeling a little more cheerful now that he had found the illusive village, he set off to the right, heading down what appeared to be an even narrower country lane than the one he had just come from. He had been riding his motorcycle blindly around these lanes for over an hour now and with little success. He was not even sure that he was in the right area.
The only thing that had guided him to this part of 'Rural England' in the first place was a mention of a 'River Muddle' in a book entitled 'An Artists Guide to Great Britain', and taken from his own personal collection of art books back in his bedroom at his mother's house. It was the only reference to the word 'Muddle' that he could find. The 'Muddle Valley' was something Malcolm remembered from his Art History lessons. Apparently a famous British artist once lived in this area, and several paintings of scenes along the Muddle Valley now graced many of the major art galleries around the world. One particular painting entitled 'Muddleford Mill' was perhaps the artist's most famous work, and in his reference book which was printed some while back, the painting had an estimated value of somewhere around fifty-million pounds. So it really was famous.
The village appeared without warning. After rounding another sharp bend a sign told him: 'Welcome to Muddleton Morton' and underneath were written the words: 'Please drive carefully'. He rode on into the village. At first there were just one or two scattered cottages behind tall hedges. Then he passed a church and graveyard before finally entering the village itself. Here there was a village green shaped like the letter 'D', bounded on the straight side by a small river and on the arc around the green there were a number of haphazardly erected red-sandstone dwellings of all shapes and sizes.
Circling the green Malcolm passed a pub called the 'Shoulder of Mutton' which had a sign outside saying: 'Good Fayre Served Here'. A bit further along there was also a single village shop. It was a combined Post Office and General Stores and had a post box and phone booth outside. He rode on slowly trying to keep his revs down and not make too much noise. In a sleepy little village such as this he knew that the slightest thing out of the ordinary would set tongues wagging. It only required someone to be woken up in the middle of the night from the sound of a noisy motorcycle engine and this could quite easily trigger off such an event.
At the end of the village green the road branched off into two directions. Malcolm had a choice; either he could carry on along the same road which apparently from here onwards followed the river; or to pass over a high humped-back stone bridge that scaled the river at this point. A tourist guide sign indicated that 'Muddleford Mill' was somewhere on the other side of the bridge but did not say how far. He opted to take the road following the river. It was not signposted to anywhere but seemed the best option to take. He had in his mind to find a nice sheltered spot somewhere along the riverbank and to get his head down until morning. There was no point looking for 'Cuckoo Cottage' in the dark and rain, and it was impossible for him to ask anyone if they knew where it was. He considered it best to resume his search in the morning.
About a mile out of the village Malcolm suddenly came across a sharp bend in the road. Being very tired the bend had caught him unawares and he braked sharply. The road actually swung a ninety-degree left, crossed over the river via another very narrow hump-backed bridge, then immediately swung right again to follow the river on the other side.
Malcolm continued braking until he came to a halt. On the corner of the bend stood a gate to the driveway of a small isolated cottage. Luckily he had just missed the gate and had come to halt with his headlight shining into a low hedge that ran alongside the lane between the gate and the bridge. He cursed his tiredness. Opening up his rain-splattered visor he rubbed his bloodshot eyes. That was a close shave. He should have been more attentive. He decided that it was time to find somewhere to sleep for a while. Back down the lane he recalled passing a pull-in alongside the riverbank sheltered by trees. He decided to turn round and go back about half a mile down the lane. That was more than enough traumas for one day.
Then suddenly good fortune struck him. As he pushed the motorcycle backwards with his feet away from the hedge and turned his handlebars in order to return in the direction he had just taken, the nameplate on the gate came into the glare of the headlight. The sign was not very clear, but he was sure it read something like 'Cuckoo Cottage'.
Malcolm was dubious at first and rode his motorcycle right up to the gate so as to gain a better look in the full glare of his headlight. Sure enough the sign did say 'Cuckoo Cottage'. Immediately he switched off his engine and killed the light. Through the darkness he looked to see if any lights were on in the cottage. He could not see a thing. It appeared that everywhere was in darkness. He decided to go and investigate.
Pushing his motorcycle through the gate and hiding it behind the hedge, he closed the gate and walked cautiously up the gravel drive towards the cottage. The dwelling was set at an angle facing the bridge, and the approach from the gate showed views of a gable end and chimney on one side, and the front of the cottage on the other.
On reaching the front of the cottage Malcolm peered inside the first window he came across. The curtains were open, but in the darkness he could not make out any detail of what was inside. The cottage itself was quite small, with two windows downstairs at the front and two very small dormer-windows in the eaves directly above. A front door stood between the two downstairs windows.
Malcolm climbed the single step that led to the front door and delved into his pocket for Mr. Mortimer's bunch of keys. In the darkness he fumbled for a key that he thought might fit and tried it in the lock. He attempted to turn it, but nothing happened. This was obviously the wrong key. He tried another one with the same negative result. Third time lucky he was thinking as he tried the next key on the bunch. This time the key turned smoothly and the door opened inwards just a fraction. He smiled as he pushed the door wide open. Hopefully this would be his sanctuary for the next few days.

11:00 am

The doctors at Littlesea General Hospital had just departed after examining all the patients in a small side ward. They had taken their time and given thorough medical examinations to all four girls. Their verdicts being that two of the patients, namely Davina Townsend and Tracy Goodyear, were free to go. It was their considered opinion that these two women's injuries were no-longer life threatening, and what physical scars they did have would heal quite quickly. But as for the mental scars, then the hospital's resident psychiatrist, Dr. Gabriel Lang was better suited to handle that side of the problem, and he was already scheduled to hold sessions with them both individually, and as a group, once all were back in their own homes and reunited with their families.
The final verdict of the doctors therefore was that two of the patients could go and two must stay. The physical injuries to those that remained warranting, in their considered opinion, further medical care and attention.
 Wendy Bartlett thumbs were still very bruised and swollen. They were still bandaged heavily and even simple tasks like drinking from a glass proved difficult. It was expected that she would remain in bed for at least another week.
However things were looking a little better for the fourth patient. Georgina Watkinson had been told that her plaster cast was only a temporary measure and could come off tomorrow. X-rays had revealed that the dislocation of the shoulder had not been as bad as first thought and that the muscle tears were healing quite quickly. However she would still be expected to carry her arm in a sling and not do anything physical with it for at least another two weeks afterwards.
Tracy Goodyear finished dressing herself and crossed the ward floor to the bed were Georgina Watkinson lay. Davina Townsend was also now fully dressed and waiting for her husband to call and collect her. Tracy pulled up a chair alongside Georgina's bed and beckoned Davina over to join them. Davina did so, pulling up and sitting on a chair opposite.
Tracy had a small notebook in her hands and something important to announce. Wendy Bartlett sat up on the bed across the room and cocked an ear. If there was something going on, then she too wanted to get involved.
Tracy Goodyear checked the door to make certain that no-one was about to enter the room. What she had to say was for their ears only.
"I think I know where Malcolm Smith might have got to," she told the others at a whisper.
"What?… Where?" asked Davina immediately but also in a hushed voice.
It was difficult to know whether Wendy could hear properly from a distance.
Georgina called across the room: "We'll fill you in later Wendy… Carry on Tracy… What have you got to say?"
"That suitcase of Richard's,… the clothes inside,… well they weren't mine," she announced softly, then added: "But I know who's they were!"
"What?… Who's were they then?" queried Davina with an impatient whisper.
Tracy tried to explain: "They belonged to the girl Richard was going out with before he met me. Her name was Katie Brown. That was Richard's case all right, but the contents weren't mine, they were hers. I should know I help pack the damn thing just to get rid of her... And I saw her take it away."
"So what are you saying?… That this Katie Brown had the case already,… and that it wasn't stolen from your car after all?" queried the analytical woman police officer.
"That's right Georgina," confirmed Tracy. "Katie Brown took the packed suitcase from Richard's flat, and that was the last time I saw her and the case… But there's something else... When that beast had me on the rack and was saying nasty thing's to me, I'm certain he mentioned Katie Brown by name… I'm almost positive he did… I'm sure he also implied that he was doing it all for her… I think that's why he picked on me... So that Katie Brown could get her own back on me for taking Richard off her."
Both Davina and Georgina recalled the incident Tracy was talking about. They were both present at the time, and everything seemed to make sense.
"You could be right…I think he did mention someone's name… and it was something like Katie Brown… In fact I'm sure it was," confirmed Davina.
Georgina nodded too. She thought Davina could be right. "So we think there's a link between Malcolm Smith and this Katie Brown do we then?… And that's the most probable reason he wanted to capture you then Tracy?… This Katie Brown may very well have put him up to it… for revenge as a possible motive… Is that what you think?… and therefore it wasn't just another random kidnapping like the police are assuming after all?" she hypothesised.
"It wasn't random at all… He was after Tracy right from the start…" called Wendy across the room. Despite the hushed tone of the conversation she had managed to hear all that was being said. "He thought that I was Tracy… He was shocked when he found out it was me… He just went to the wrong house… that was all… We both live at number three's… and he got the wrong address…. and that's how he got me!"
"That explains a lot," answered Tracy thoughtfully, the hushed voice now gone and perhaps replaced with a little venom. "Katie Brown must have had something to do with all this… the bitch!"
Georgina was a little more cautious. "So we assume that there's a link," she said. "So what do we do about it?"
"I know where Katie Brown lives… I've got her address in this… It's Richard's address book…He gave it to me so as I could phone round a few friends and let them know he was in hospital," replied Tracy holding up the small booklet for all to see.
"Where does she live then?" asked Davina eagerly.
"It's somewhere in Lancashire, and I'm sure that's where she went after leaving Richard. She was going back to her parents place for Christmas," said Tracy, then added: "And I reckon that's where Malcolm Smith is heading right this minute. He's off to Lancashire to meet up with this Katie Brown."
"Let me see that address," said Davina holding out her hand across the bed to Tracy.
Tracy passed the notebook across to her.
Davina studied the address for a while, then announced. "Well I'd better get up there and find out," she said. "I'm the only one with a car at present who can drive. So I guess it's got to be me."
"I'm coming with you," Tracy told Davina across the bed.
"No you don't," returned Davina. "Richard's just had an operation and he needs you here. It's best that I go alone."
"Look, I'm the only one here that knows what Katie Brown looks like… So I've got to come with you,…" stated a very adamant Tracy.
The fact that Katie Brown was a fiery redhead and unmistakable from a mile away seemed irrelevant. Tracy was not going to miss out on the action.
Georgina stepped in. Obviously a certain amount of organising was needed and somebody had to think clearly and put a plan together.
"Listen you two nut heads!" she butted in. "We need a plan here. We don't even know whether the police have caught him or not. There's no point rushing off to Lancashire if he's holed up somewhere else, now is there?"
Davina and Tracy conceded.
"What do you suggest then?" asked Davina.
"We wait at least one day, maybe two..." said Georgina revealing her plan. "David will be in to see me tonight... I'll pump him for everything he knows... and what he doesn't know I'll get him to find out… The doctor's say we can have visitor's anytime, so you two come back here tomorrow morning, and if it looks like the police have drawn a blank, then I guess this Katie Brown connection seems like the best lead we have… In the meantime you two had better start thinking up good excuses why you two should suddenly be off to Lancashire together, and so quickly after coming out of hospital… Do you understand what I am saying?.. It must not look suspicious!… So get your act together and get something organised… Perhaps even delay it for another day or two... Just don't look impatient to get up there… Okay?.."
Both Davina and Tracy realised that they had been too hasty and had put little though into the matter. Everything Georgina had said made sense.
"You're right Georgina," conceded Davina. "We'll attack this sensibly. Me and Tracy will put our heads together and have a think about how we're going to explain all this away. Won't  we Tracy?"
Tracy nodded her head. "I've always wanted a trip to Blackpool," she suggested. "I think it would be a nice place to relax and recover, don't you Davina?"
"Now you're talking!" replied Georgina at the suggestion.
But that was all she was able to say. At that point the doors to the ward swung open and in walked a trio of folks. It was Davina's husband and Tracy's parents come to collect their respective patients.

2:00 pm.

 Malcolm finally stirred and stretched his aching limbs. He had slept downstairs on a small settee during the night which was probably a bit too cramped for his tall and lanky frame. However, despite the uncomfortable conditions he did manage to sleep quite well. He looked to his watch as he stretched his arms and sat upright on the settee. The time was two o'clock in the afternoon. He had been out like a light for nearly twelve hours.
He stood up and looked around the small room. He was in the living room of Cuckoo Cottage which was to the right of the front door as you come in. The ceiling was quite low. Malcolm had no trouble reaching upwards and touching it with his fingertips. Against the opposite wall to the door stood an open coal fired fireplace. The grate was empty and never looked like it had ever held a blazing fire. The mantelpiece above had nothing resting on its surface, and the only carpet was a small oval rug placed in front of the hearth. The rest of floor was bare with large red flagstone slabs laid out in a diagonal pattern across the room.
The furniture in the room was also very basic. There was a small two-seater settee and two matching armchairs circling the fireplace. A low coffee table sat at the centre. The only thing of any substance was a large welsh-dresser against the wall behind the door, and that stood completely empty. And that was it basically. There was nothing else in the room. Any luxury goods such as a television, video recorder, hi-fi, or even a radio were missing. In fact the only electrical objects in the room were an electrical storage radiator under a window and a single bare light bulb hanging from a beam in the centre.
 There were windows at either end of the oblong room. Malcolm moved to the window overlooking the garden to the back of the cottage. The weather was grey and overcast, but at least the fine drizzle had stopped.
Looking out he could see a small neatly laid out garden with a flat, square-shaped lawn and an ornamental Cotswold stone wishing-well at its centre. Around the edges of the lawn grew shrubs and trees. The lawn and the wishing-well looked new and probably done by professional landscape gardeners during the past six months. It was all very picturesque, and perhaps the designers had meant well,  but somehow the layout looked sadly out of place. Even though the natural terrain sloped heavily from right to left, dropping sharply from the top of a small rise downwards towards the banks of the river, the lawn itself had been levelled as if in readiness for a tennis court. But then for some reason afterwards someone had gone and put an ornate wishing-well at the centre, complete with bucket, winding handle and a small tiled roof over the top. It just looked odd and out of place to Malcolm. But then he was an aspiring artist and could see this sort of thing. It was a pity the previous owner could not see what a mess the contractors had made of what was probably once a very beautiful English country garden.
Malcolm shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Exiting the sitting room he entered the small hallway. There was not enough room to swing a cat in here. There were just three doors and a flight of stairs going upwards.
He crossed the hall and entered the room opposite. This was the kitchen with a large white stone sink under the far window. Again everything appeared to be pretty much very basic. He could see however at least four electrical kitchen appliances. There was an electric cooker with a stove: (Malcolm guessed that they did not have gas out here); an upright fridge-freezer; and on a work surface next to the sink rested both an electric kettle and a toaster. In the centre stood a small kitchen table with four chairs. Other than that the floor was laid with the same red flagstones and was lit by one solitary light-bulb in the centre of the room.
Malcolm crossed the room to the sink and turned the single tap. There was apparently no hot water. Cold water under quite a bit of pressure gushed out.
He returned to the fridge-freezer and opened the door at the top. There was a tub of margarine and a bottle of salad cream on the shelves inside, and in the door compartment where the milk tub usually went, there was a three-quarters full bottle of cooking sherry. But that was all. He closed up the door and opened out the freezer section below. There were three large drawers down here. He pulled open the first one to find it full with frozen food. There were sausages, beef burgers, fish fingers, pork chops and many more such items. He pulled open the next drawer down. Here he found bags of frozen peas, carrots, sprouts and all kinds of vegetables. He closed it up and tried the bottom drawer. This one contained four frozen medium sliced loaves and a tub of soft-scoop ice cream. He closed everything up and smiled. At least he could eat properly whilst he waited for the heat to die down a bit. He estimated that this little lot would probably keep him going for at least a month, maybe more.
Malcolm closed everything up and crossed the room to the work surface next to the sink. There were two drawers at the top and two cupboards below. The first draw held knives and forks, the second contained a tin-opener, a fish-slice and a few other cooking implements. He bent down and opened out one of the cupboards. There were tins of food in here, including several tins of baked beans. He smiled again at his good fortune. At least now he had all the ingredients to make himself some beans on toast. Better still there were another couple of items that caught his eye. There were tea bags and a full tub of powdered milk inside. He smiled again. At least he could make himself a cup of tea of sorts. So what more could he ask for?
He moved on. He had not finished exploring yet. The second cupboard contained a frying-pan, some saucepans and all the plates, cups and dishes one would associate with a kitchen.
Malcolm closed everything up and moved to the back door that opened out into the garden. It was locked by a large key and also bolted top and bottom. He undid all three and opened the door.
He took one step outside. From here he could see that horrible flat lawn and wishing-well again. A small terrace also ran along the back of the house. This too had been newly laid using the same out of character yellow Cotswold stone as the wishing-well. He tutted his disgust. The cottage itself had been erected many years ago out of local red sandstone blocks. Even the tiles on the roof were red. The natural building material for this area was red sandstone, and these horrible yellow things contrasted badly and spoilt the natural character of what was essentially a very beautiful country cottage.
The terrace itself sloped with total disregard to the contours of the cottage and lawn, so that to get onto the lawn one had to scale a bank on one side or descend a slope on the other. The actual contours of the two surfaces meeting somewhere near the centre. At about this point stood another small door at the rear of the house positioned directly between the two windows. He crossed the terrace, opened out the door and peered inside. This was a small coal-house positioned under the stairs of the house. There was not much to it and not very big, but somebody had gone to the trouble of filling it full of coal. Strange he thought! A coal-house full of coal yet a fire grate that had never been used? He wondered why the previous owner had gone to so much trouble?
Malcolm closed the coal house door and went back into the kitchen. Although everything he had seen was all very basic, there was one thing missing which he considered essential for living so far out in the countryside. Nowhere in the cottage had he come across a telephone. He checked everywhere again in the two downstairs rooms before deciding that there definitely was no telephone in the building.
Having decided that there was no phone, Malcolm climbed the short but steep flight of stairs. There was a small square landing and three doors at the top. He tried the one facing the stairs first. This was the bathroom going off to the left once inside the door. There was a toilet, sink and shower in here, but no bath, but it did have an unusually large full length mirror screwed to the wall behind the door. He checked on the shower. It was electrically heated and presumably ready to use at the pull of a cord next to the shower.
Malcolm closed the bathroom door and opened the door to the left. This one had two single beds inside with one small bedside cabinet squeezed between them. But that was all apart from another storage radiator beneath the small window. The bathroom shared this side of the house with the bedroom, which was effectively the area above the kitchen, thus the reason for the cramped conditions.
Malcolm closed the door and turned around to enter the second bedroom. At least there was a double bed in here along with a chest of drawers, wardrobe and bedside cabinet. On the chest of drawers rested a large porcelain vase. It reminding him of the vases back at Vicky's. However this was not Chinese, but instead something very English with flowers painted on the side. He guessed that the value would be a whole lot different too. He moved into the room and tested the bed. It felt solid enough and quite comfortable. It would do him for the time being at least. He looked around. Like the sitting room below there were two windows to this room. He rose from the bed and moved to the window facing the rear of the cottage.
Standing by the window and glancing to his left inside the room, Malcolm saw the reason for the full length mirror behind the bathroom door. It was a two-way mirror and he could see everything that was going on in the bathroom on the other side. There was also something else that interested him. He noticed a small latch on one side of the mirror. He lifted it up and pushed the mirror forward into the bathroom. Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. Mr. Mortimer, whoever he was, must have been into an awful lot of kinky activities. But then what did it matter? At least he had discovered another way into the bathroom, and perhaps it could prove useful occasionally. At least now he had a quick way of getting to the toilet in the middle of the night.
With a smile he returned to the kitchen to put the kettle on and sit down to a nice cup of tea. Afterwards he would make himself something to eat. He was not quite sure what at the moment, but he was sure that he could rustle up something that did not include toast and beans.

3:00 pm

Sitting at the kitchen table and sipping yet another cup of tea, and after consuming baked beans on toast after all, Malcolm began to mull over all the things that had happened to him over the past two days. This was the first time he had really had time to think. To say that his escape from the clutches of the police had been an ordeal was one thing, but the traumas of coming home and finding of his mother lying naked and handcuffed to the bed, and with a dead man in the room, had proved to be utterly nerve-shattering.
What a stupid mother she was. Of course Malcolm had known what was going on in the house for a long time. To put it plainly and simply, his mother was a part-time prostitute, and so what if she was? It was of little consequence. It earned her a bit of pin-money on the side. But never for one second did he suspect that she was into this BDSM lark: And in such a big way too. Just look at those sordid photos of her in the dungeon? They were disgusting! What on Earth did she think she was playing at?
Then a thought occurred him. What dungeon? There was no dungeon here! At least he had not seen one! That was strange? His mother had definitely said that Mr. Mortimer had driven her here for one of his private sessions. He was certain of that. So had he come to the wrong Cuckoo Cottage by mistake? That was a horrible thought. No, surely not! Suddenly images of the real owner turning up to find a stranger in his home flashed through his mind. But then he thought about the keys. One of them had fitted the front door with no problem. He was confused. There just had to be a dungeon somewhere around here. But where?
Malcolm channelled all his efforts into locating this elusive dungeon. It had to be around here somewhere. The easiest solution was to ring his mother, but alas no telephone, and then there was always the possibility that the call could be traced. He thought about there being a cellar under the cottage, but the downstairs floors were set in flagstones and cellars usually had floorboards above them.
In his mind Malcolm went over the few things he knew for definite. His mother had clearly stated that Mr. Mortimer had brought her to a Cuckoo Cottage at Muddleton Morton on at least one occasion. There was no mistaking the name of the cottage nor the name of the village, and besides, he himself had seen the name Cuckoo Cottage typed on the top of one of the scripts. So all the facts pointed to the presence of a dungeon somewhere around this place! But where? There had to be a clue somewhere.
Then it suddenly occurred to him. "Of course!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't I think of that before?"
Quickly he rose from the table and moved into the sitting room. He had deposited Mr. Mortimer's case in here on one of the chairs. Opening up the case he grovelled to the bottom and found the script marked: 'A day at Cuckoo Cottage'.
He began to read it through item by item.

It started:

1). Prepare chloroform rag and wait in bedroom. Watch through bathroom mirror until girl is in the shower. She has her back to the mirror. Creep into bathroom, sneak up behind and apply rag to face.

2). Drag body down stairs and into the sitting room. Open up secret passage behind welsh-dresser and continue to drag body down steps and along passageway to dungeon. Apply shackles to hands and feet and lock in cell.
.
That was all the information he needed. Malcolm turned to face the high welsh-dresser behind the door. He had not noticed it before, but on the flagstones below he could see a faint circular scratch mark arcing across the floor away from one of the corners of the dresser. He placed his fingers behind the high wooden back and pulled. The dresser rolled steadily into the room to reveal a hidden opening in the wall behind. It was not the size of a full door, the gap being something like four feet in height and about three feet wide. But it was ample enough for a person to pass through.
Malcolm ducked down and peered inside the opening to discover a set of very steep concrete steps descending into the darkness below. He could see what they had done now. Beneath the stairs, and sandwiched between the kitchen, sitting room and coal house, there was just enough space to hide a secret passage to somewhere. But where?
There was a light switch in a prominent position just inside. Malcolm switched it on and the passageway lit up. With his head just inside the opening he peered down the steps to the distant floor below. It was a long way down and the descent very steep, but now he could see what was happening. The steps dropped quickly down below the coal house to end up somewhere beneath the terrace outside. Cautiously he bent down and entered the opening. He needed to crouch at first, but after dropping a couple of steps it was possible to stand upright and descend normally for the rest of the way down.
At the bottom the passageway continued for a short distance before reaching a steel door. It was bolted top and bottom but had no lock. In the middle of the door, at about head height, was a small hatch. Malcolm opened it up and peered inside. There was not much to see. It was pitch black on the other side.
On the wall beside the door there was a light switch with three switches on it. Malcolm switched them all on. Returning to the hatch he peered though the opening to find himself staring into a large underground chamber. He recognised the room immediately. He had seen it before. This was without doubt the place where those photographs of his mother were taken.
Malcolm gave a little low whistle and an approving nod of the head. Now he understood everything. Mr. Mortimer's secret dungeon was not under the cottage at all, but lay directly beneath the lawn at the back of the property. What they had done was excavate a big hole in the garden, construct the dungeon inside, then landscape the whole lot over with a new lawn and terrace. He was amazed at the ingenuity of it all and gave a little nod of approval.
Unbolting the steel door Malcolm entered into the chamber. The ceiling was about ten feet in height and the room slightly longer than it was wide. He estimated something like twenty-five feet by twenty at a guess.
Malcolm looked around the chamber. Everything he had seen in the photographs were here. The X-frame stood against the left hand wall, the chair against the right, and attached to the far wall he could see four chains and leather straps affixed to the wall by four eye-bolts. In the centre of the room hung a horizontal bar suspended from a hoist and cable. Two wide leather straps attached to two short chains hung from opposite ends of the bar. The cable to the hoist disappeared into a circular hole cut into the middle of the roof, whilst the ceiling itself had several large rings set into the concrete beams at various intervals.
These four objects of restraint spread about the room covered five of the photographs, since two of the photographs were taken using the X-frame. So only the cell was missing from the list. Malcolm looked behind him and smiled. To the right of the steel door, and sunk into the wall was an alcove with a grilled door across the entrance. He looked inside. If anything it reminded him of the small cells against the back wall of the dungeon at Littlesea Amusement Park. Though this one was somewhat larger, with more width, depth and headroom, and with the added luxury of a small toilet inside and a mattress on the floor.
The cell door was locked by a large key found hanging on a hook on the wall close by. He checked the distance. The key was far enough away to be tantalisingly close but unfortunately just those few inches out of reach. Once again Malcolm could see exactly what the workmen had done. The cell was positioned below the terrace, probably just beneath the back window to the sitting room, and would have been constructed all at the same time. It also explained the unnatural slope to the terrace. It was obviously needed to clear the height of the cell roof.
Malcolm walked around the room moving in an anticlockwise direction. On the wall about halfway between the cell and the chair stood two electrical switches. One was labelled 'hoist' the other said 'fan'. He switched on the fan and heard a low humming noise start up. It was coming from the hole in the ceiling at the centre of the room. He moved across the room to stand directly beneath and looked up. Again one more piece of the jigsaw fell into place. The wishing-well in the centre of the lawn stood directly above this point. What the builders had managed to do was disguise the extractor fans by constructing a well around it. Then to be even more clever they had also managed to house the hoist motor in the same space. He nodded his approval. It was a brilliant piece of civil engineering, and he gave them full marks for their ingenuity and initiative.
Walking back to the wall Malcolm switched off the fan and examined the switch labelled 'hoist'. This one had two buttons on it, one marked with an upward arrow and the other with an arrow pointing downwards. He pressed the top button. Immediately the cable and suspension-bar in the centre of the chamber moved upwards towards the hole in the ceiling and continued doing so until he removed his thumb. He pressed the other button and let the hoist return to its original position before releasing his hold.
Having established what the switches were for, Malcolm continued his tour. The chair, constructed entirely from wood and stained in light mahogany, had a high back and wide arms. There were leather straps attached at several points including two high up on the back. This arrangement made it possible to strap the victim into the chair with either their forearms resting on the arms of the chair, or alternatively held high above their head. As well as those already mentioned, the strap arrangement at the back included further wide ones positioned for the upper body and waist. Affixed to the rest of the chair were further straps for the arms and others for the legs. There were even a couple of straps on the insides of the arms of the chair suitably positioned to hold the knees apart.
Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. He could not see much use for the chair. It looked far too comfortable for one thing. Perhaps if the victim was someone he did not want to hurt, like Katie for instance, then he would strap that person in here, but otherwise forget it! He would much prefer to use any one of the other restraining methods available in this chamber.
With another shrug of the shoulders Malcolm moved on to investigate the back wall. He checked the chains by giving each a little tug. The four eyebolts were firmly fixed into the wall and did not budge. Attached to each eyebolt was a short length of chain, and on each end there were stout leather straps. As an experiment he stood with his back to the wall and spread his arms and legs. For a person of his size and stature the four anchorage points were just about reachable standing like this. However for a woman with a smaller frame it would prove to be quite a stretch.
Malcolm stepped away and moved on. Continuing around the perimeter he sauntered across to the X-frame. Like the chair it was constructed of wood but this time painted a gloss black. There were leather straps for the wrists and ankles, further straps for the upper arms and thighs, and a much wider one that went around the waist.
Stepping back Malcolm rubbed his chin and considered the X-frame's usefulness. This was more like it. This was a much more practical restraining device and did a lot more for him. Unlike the chair this piece of equipment held great possibilities and could quite easily stimulate his vivid imagination. If he had Mr. McTavish's drawing compendium with him and a suitable subject, he could create a work of art around this piece of equipment that would be second to none.
Malcolm stood back a further pace and pictured the scene. The girl strapped to the X-frame was anonymous, she had to be, and so as not to confuse the scene with images of his mother or Katie he chose the subject to be someone a little younger. Perhaps just nineteen or twenty years of age with jet black hair and light complexion. He might even have her blindfolded and gagged to obscure most of the face. That would really make her anonymous. But he was not too sure about this. However, this was the sort of study he had in mind, and it was not particularly the face he was interested in. The artistic flare within him wanted the girl's pubic region to contrast sharply with the pale complexion of the body so as to highlight her womanhood to the best possible advantage. A thick matt of dark curly black hair was what was required.
Suddenly Malcolm realised that he was day dreaming again. This was the sort of thinking that got him into trouble in the first place. He shook his head and moved back towards the steel door. However he remained deep in thought. Maybe, he was thinking, when his infamous exploits in Littlesea were long dusted and forgotten he would take up drawing this type of subject again, but this time using consenting adults that allowed themselves to be restrained and then sketched by him. It was safer that way, and he would still get the tremendous pleasure he gained from capturing these kind of scenes on canvas. But none of that was relevant right now. All that was perhaps something for the distance future and for the time being just had to wait. Right now he needed to get his current little difficulties sorted out first.
Malcolm, having completed his circular tour, turned his attention to a cupboard set against the wall on the opposite side of the door to the prison cell.
Walking up to the cupboard he noticed a great pile of weights stacked on the floor in a gap between the side of the cupboard and the corner of the chamber. They were all fairly large weights, a sort of tapering cube in shape with an iron ring on the top for carrying about. He lifted one up and observed the value cast into the side. This was a ten pounds weight and he quickly put it down again. He counted how many there were. Altogether there were a dozen stacked in the corner and all were of the same weight.
Malcolm rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Why on Earth would Mr. Mortimer want all these? Stumped for an answer he moved on to investigate the contents of the cupboard. It was nothing elaborate or expensive. It was made from cheap flat-pack chipboard and was about six feet high by three feet wide. He opened up the double doors and looked inside. Here he found a whole heap of bondage equipment resting on three shelves. On the top shelf there were about half a dozen bottles of chloroform, several packets of those gauze rags and a great pile of unused Polaroid films. There was also a large cash box pushed to the back and resting in a corner. On the next shelf down there were handcuffs, ball-gags, blindfolds and whips, and on the bottom lay coils of chains, ropes, fetters, manacles, a couple of spreader-bars, and a whole lot more items of dubious practicality. Nothing in the cupboard had been put away neatly. Instead all the items appeared to have just been tossed in and left.
Fumbling through some of the items on the middle shelf he came across several weights attached to small chains and crocodile clips. These were the type of things he had seen in pornographic photographs attached to women's nipples and labia lips. He gave a wry smile and pictured his mother wearing these. He wondered if she had? He had seen no evidence on the snapshots taken of her. But whether she had or not, what a silly woman she had been! He picked one up and inspected the pear-shaped weight. It was rather large and made of lead and not surprisingly felt quite heavy. The springs on the clips were strong too, and he winced at the thought of them being applied to anywhere on the body. He tested one by gripping it to his finger, and it hurt. He tossed the weight back onto the shelf and shrugged his shoulders. This Mr. Mortimer must have been one really big kinky fellow when he was alive.
He rummaged on further, curious as to the exact identity of a largish leather item on the middle shelf. On inspection he found it to be a hood that would cover the head completely. There was a zip across the mouth and flaps that covered the eyes. The flaps were actually locked down by two small padlocks, as was the zip in the pulled closed position. There was also a further padlock at the back that obviously locked around the neck to prevent the hood from being removed. A small key was still inside one of the locks. He turned it and the padlock opened. He tested the key in all the others. The same key fitted the lot.
With his inspection of the all the items in the cupboard seemingly complete, he tossed the hood back down and shrugged his shoulders. This was simply further evidence that Mr. Mortimer must have been one very sick person indeed.
Malcolm eyed the contents of the cupboard up and down for one last time before closing the doors. There remained one more item to have a quick look at. His eyes had returned to the top shelf and to the cash box in particular. He took it down and examined the lock. He was certain that he had seen a key on Mr. Mortimer's ring that would open this. The keys were in his pocket and he found the one he was looking for. Clearing a space on the middle shelf he placed the box down and inserted the key. He had assumed right. The key did fit.
Malcolm opened up the lid to the cash box and immediately whistled. The box was crammed full of money. The cash was all stacked together neatly in bundles of twenty pound notes. He took out one bundle and assessed the thickness. He had recently seen and counted one thousand pounds. In fact he still had that amount in his back pocket, so he estimated that these wads were in bundles of five thousand pounds each. He counted the bundles, there were fifteen in all. That added up to a staggering seventy-five thousand pounds in total. Suddenly he had struck it rich and he wondered what he ought to do with it all.
With a lot more on his mind than he had bargained for, Malcolm replaced the cash box and closed up the cupboard doors. Deep in thought he departed the dungeon. Absently he bolted the steel door behind him and switched off the lights. Now he had even more on his mind.
As he ascended the steep concrete steps to the sitting room above, Malcolm's thoughts were divided between two things. One, was what to do with all that money? And two, what practical use he could make of the dungeon? On reflection, apart from making sketches, he could think of no other practical use for the chamber other than a possible hideaway if the police came knocking on the door. But as for the money? Well that opened up a whole new realm of possibilities. He could even ask Katie to marry him.
He decided that it was time to return to the kitchen and make himself another cup of tea. He could then have a really good think about his future and maybe come up with something that included Katie in his long term plans.

3:00 pm

Inspector Hawkins stopped the video player and rewound the tape. It was not a very long recording but it did show enough encouragement to make him watch it again. He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit up another. He was in his office at Littlesea Police Station.
The recording was taken from a closed-circuit camera positioned overlooking a street in south London. The London Police Force had been quick to co-operate, and just as quick at locating the blue Ford Sierra estate.
The picture was in black and white and not of very good quality. CCTV pictures always were rubbish. But as he played the short recording once again it was clear who the subject was.
He watched as Malcolm Smith got out of the car, locked the doors, then went to the meter alongside. The youth then put several coins in the slot before setting off up the road. After passing the next two parked cars it was noticeable that he dropped something down a drain in the gutter. Just after that the youth passed out of camera range.
The Inspector switched off the video. The estate car was now in a police compound and being tested for fingerprints, and the drain sealed off and being searched. He doubted whether they would find anything of interest in the drain. It looked like the keys to car had been dropped down it. But never mind it was something that had to be done.
There was one interesting aspect to the tape however. Malcolm Smith was wearing only a shirt and trousers when he got out of the car. The Inspector  concluded that Malcolm Smith must have been feeling the cold and probably opted for the underground to keep warm. And if he had travelled on the tube then he would have been picked up on the CCTV cameras positioned at all the station entrances and platforms. He smiled. It seemed an easy task for the London Police to come up with further video evidence of the youth's progress around London. At this time of year anyone dressed like that should be easily recognisable.
But that was not his only line of attack. He had also set two other lines of enquiry into motion. One, the Inspector was assuming Malcolm Smith to be heading for someplace he knew well. Perhaps the area where he lived and grew up in. He had made enquiries as to his home address, but as yet the exact location had not been established. And two, he had put out a bulletin to all Police Forces throughout the country to report on any missing girls. It was a long shot, but there was an outside chance that Malcolm Smith might abduct someone else. This was sometimes the case with serial offenders. Once a pattern had started it was difficult sometimes for that person to cease what he was doing.
Inspector Hawkins smartened himself up and straightened his tie. He was not looking forward to the press conference he was about to hold. He knew that he would be in for much criticism following the escape of his prisoner. But at least the story would be out and in the newspapers tomorrow. Hopefully it would also be headline news, but that was something out of his control. It all depended on what else was going on in the world.
Just look what happened today for example!
He had hoped for something to be printed in the papers this morning and to appear on the hourly television bulletins issued throughout the day. A brief statement from the police had been released to the press last night saying that the four missing girls from the Littlesea area had been found alive and well, and that the police were looking for a suspect. But obviously nothing had been picked up on. Instead all he could read and hear about on the news was that some stupid top ranking judge had been found dead outside a brothel in central London.
Would the press ever get their priorities right?
He doubted it.
 

cont.