Without Trace Read online

  Praise for Katherine John’s Crime titles:-

  So intriguing . . . cleverly woven together and tensely written – Sunday Times

  John expertly weaves together information about the medical, psychological and procedural strands of this taut story of revenge and retribution - Publishers Weekly

  Excellent chilling drama – Manchester Evening News

  The impending doom starts on the second page and grows in chilling intensity all the way – Liverpool Daily Post

  A chilling case, a fascinating mix of characters, plenty of twists and turns, a compulsive story - South Wales Evening Post

  Rapidly building a reputation as a thriller writer - Wales on Sunday

  WITHOUT TRACE

  Katherine John

  WITHOUT TRACE

  First published by Century 1989

  First paperback edition published by Headline 1990

  This edition revised and updated by the author

  Published by Accent Press 2006

  Copyright © 2006 Katherine John

  ISBN 9781423788645

  The right of Katherine John to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission from the publisher, Accent Press, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6SA

  The publisher acknowledges the financial support of the Welsh Books Council

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To John, Ralph, Sophie and Ross for their continual love and support and for giving me the time to write this book.

  To John Carey for a casual sentence that set me thinking.

  To Sally Collis for typing it.

  To Maria Brawne for reading it (even in the early stages)

  And to Jennifer Price for her unstinting friendship and heroic endeavours to create order out of domestic chaos.

  Thank you.

  To Trevor John

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  THE MOTORWAY WAS DESERTED. A tarnished pewter ribbon streaking across countryside drained grey by the indistinct light of a watery moon. The bushes that marked the boundary between road and farmland moved slightly in the chill night breeze then, as headlights shot across the horizon, a figure moved forward, a darker shade amongst the shadows. It waited patiently at the side of the road, its white-gloved hands raised high as if in supplication. The solitary man behind the wheel of the small saloon car braked in response to the gesture, before slowing the car to a halt.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you but my car went off the road about a mile back. Could you possibly give me a lift to the nearest town?’ The voice that drifted in through the open car window was cultured, polite.

  ‘Of course. Get in.’ The driver made an effort to keep his reply casual, friendly, as though he were frequently flagged down by Pierrots on the motorway at four in the morning. He reached across to the passenger door and unlocked it. ‘Have you been to a fancy dress party?’

  ‘The costume.’ The Pierrot’s laugh was shallow, artificial. ‘I forgot I was wearing it. My appearance must seem bizarre, to say the least.’ The clown was detached, distant, as though the man or woman behind the mask of black and white grease paint was intoning well-rehearsed, yet scarcely understood, lines.

  ‘Did you hurt yourself when your car left the road? Hit your head against the steering wheel perhaps?’ The driver looked the Pierrot over keenly with a professional eye.

  ‘No, there’s no injury. I am perfectly well, thank you.’ The Pierrot stepped into the car and settled himself in the passenger seat. Even under the inadequate courtesy light, his costume appeared perfect. A consummate work of theatrical art and a very different affair to the rough ensembles hastily thrown together for the hospital balls, the driver observed.

  The Pierrot’s black skullcap and loose pyjama suit were of thick dull satin, the front of the hat and the high-necked jacket ornamented by a single row of large white silk pom-poms. The effect was one of expense, yet somehow it also suggested the wealth and luxury of another age. Crepe paper and cheap creased rayon lining would be more today’s standard, even on the stage of the one ailing professional theatre the town could boast. The driver looked up from the costume to the heavily made-up face. Was the Pierrot a Pierrette? The height and build suggested a man, yet the voice was high-pitched, curiously feminine, as though it were an integral part of the disguise.

  ‘I’m driving to the outskirts of town, will that suit you?’ The driver asked, suddenly remembering why he was travelling on the motorway at such an ungodly hour.

  ‘Yes. The outskirts will be fine. I’m sorry to put you to all this trouble.’ The clown crossed his arms and slipped his hands into the wide sleeves of his suit like a pantomime Chinese.

  The driver turned the ignition key and reached for the gear stick, but the car didn’t move. A flash of cold steel darted upwards from the Pierrot’s hands. The driver stared in disbelief at the blade. He watched, transfixed, as it moved slowly, inexorably towards him. He winced involuntarily as the sharp tip of the knife penetrated the soft skin of his throat just below his left ear. Then realisation dawned. This was no dream. This was happening. Happening now.

  His hands flew upwards in a desperate attempt to wrest the weapon from the Pierrot’s hands, but the defence was too weak, too late. Before the driver’s fingers touched the knife, they fell limply, landing with a dull thud on the leather-gloved steering wheel.

  The Pierrot sat quietly for a moment watching the steady flow of blood pump out of the severed throat on to the dead man’s chest. Finally, he withdrew his knife. It came easily. Wiping the blade clean between the gloved fingers of his left hand, he returned it to the sheath concealed beneath his sleeve.

  He turned away from the rattling body, opened the car door and stepped on to the gravelled surface of the hard shoulder. Animal-like, he stood poised on tip-toe, his muscles stretched, his face upturned, sniffing the air as though he were searching for an alien scent. All was quiet, peaceful.

  He walked around to the driver’s side of the car and wrenched open the door. The body slumped sideways on to the road, landing awkwardly on its head. The Pierrot linked his arms around the torso of the dead man and dragged him backwards, pushing the lolling head down on to the blood-soaked chest as though he were a child trying to mend a broken toy.

  Panting with exertion, he laboriously heaved his burden off the road into the thick undergrowth of the tangled hedgerow. Soon, his movements were lost among the wind-whispers of the bushes. The moon disappeared behind a bank of cloud. On the eastern horizon a faint, lighter tinge to the sky heralded dawn, and the advent of a new day.

  * * *

  The light grew stronger, turning to silver, then gol
d, before the Pierrot emerged from the hedge. He waded stiffly through the overgrown weeds back up the bank to the parked car. His breath jerked spasmodically in quick short gasps, and his hands trembled as they clutched a bundle that he had made from the dead man’s jacket. He set his burden gently on the passenger seat of the car, slamming the door shut before walking around the bonnet to the driver’s side.

  From nearby woods came the first tentative notes of morning birdsong. They mingled with the quiet purr of the engine as the car slid off the hard shoulder on to the empty motorway. Within minutes it was no more than an insignificant speck on the horizon.

  The landscape behind remained unchanged except for a darkly wet slick of gore that slimed off the road into the undergrowth. The gleam of gold on the eastern horizon intensified, lightening the sky to a translucent shade of opal. Rain began to fall. Slight at first, it became a downpour as the morning progressed. A heavy cleansing rain that washed away the traces of blood and flesh, diluting the red stain to a mark that might have been caused by anything. Cars sped past in the traffic lanes. Intermittent at first, they became a steady trickle that roared into a torrent with the advent of the rush hour.

  The travellers who glanced casually out of their car windows didn’t wonder at the stain that marred the hard shoulder. But then they were the lucky ones. For them journey’s end was not yet in sight.

  Chapter One

  THE TELEPHONE RANG SHRILLY, shattering the still atmosphere of the darkened bedroom. A tired hand groped its way out of the tangle of bedcover and duvet and fumbled in the direction of the side table. There was a melodic crash, closely followed by muttered curses.

  ‘Dr Sherringham?’

  ‘Which one?’ Daisy mumbled sleepily.

  ‘Dr Tim Sherringham.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’ll get him,’ Daisy snapped. It was bad enough to be woken from a deep and blissful sleep without having to cope with a humourless telephone operator. ‘Tim.’ Daisy poked the huddle of bedclothes beside her.

  ‘No, not tonight. Please not tonight.’ Tim buried his head beneath the pillow. ‘They promised they wouldn’t do it to me. Not tonight.’

  Ignoring his protests, Daisy scrabbled beneath the bedclothes until she found his hand. Wrapping his fingers around the receiver she left the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, to the accompaniment of Tim’s muffled pleas.

  ‘Tell the hospital I’m ill. Dead. Not here. Anything. Daisy. Daisy!’

  ‘Why oh why do I always do it?’ Daisy asked herself. She was incredibly thirsty, dehydrated from the wine and vodka she had drunk earlier. She filled her tooth glass with water from the cold tap before studying her reflection in the mirror. Her long dark hair was dull, stiff with the setting lotion she only wore on what Tim sardonically referred to as “state occasions”. It would be hell to brush out in the morning she thought miserably, wondering just how many, or rather few, hours away her morning was.

  She stood on tip-toe and peered at her eyes. They were bloodshot, and there were dark smudges underlining her lower lashes that had nothing to do with left-over mascara. She looked as exhausted as she felt. And she was operating at nine sharp. Assisting the hospital dragon – the one female consultant, who devoured housemen like most consultants devoured whisky.

  ‘Damn!’ She jerked the cord that switched off the bathroom light, and wandered back into the bedroom.

  ‘I’ll second that.’ Tim was out of bed and pulling on the white evening shirt he had tossed on to the bedroom floor only an hour earlier.

  ‘If you undid the buttons when you undressed you wouldn’t have to do that.’

  ‘Do what?’ Tim enquired mechanically.

  ‘Pull your shirt over your head.’ Daisy looked across at her husband, curiously detached for a moment. They were married. Had been for nearly six months, and still she couldn’t get used to the fact.

  What was it Judy had once said about Tim? – he was too good to be true. Good-looking and good natured. Still the clean living all-American boy, even though he hadn’t set foot in the States for nearly twenty years. He even looked like the archetypal movie star hero, six foot six inch frame, slim build, curling dark hair and devastatingly blue eyes…

  ‘Stop looking at me like that.’

  ‘Like what?’ Daisy smiled.

  ‘Like you want to get back into bed.’

  ‘But I do. I really do.’ She flung herself headlong on the dishevelled duvet.

  ‘I get the distinct impression you couldn’t give a damn whether I get in with you or not.’

  ‘I would care,’ Daisy answered. ‘If I wasn’t so very, very tired. Why do I always find your brother’s parties so exhausting?’

  ‘Because my brother is exhausting.’ Tim ran his fingers through his hair and looked around the room. ‘But exhausting or not, at this time in the morning I have to agree, big brother’s got a point.’

  ‘What point?’ Daisy enquired sleepily.

  ‘A point about having to get up in the middle of the night,’ Tim snapped. ‘It’s downright uncivilised. Daisy, where are my pants?’

  ‘Your trousers,’ she corrected, ‘are where you flung them, on my side of the bed.’

  He shook the bedcover and his evening suit fell to the floor.

  ‘Do you know what Richard said to me tonight?’

  ‘No.’ Daisy was drifting hazily in that pleasantly comfortable grey world that hovers between waking and sleeping.

  ‘He said he has only left his bed in the small hours once in the last ten years. And that was the night Joanna’s father had his heart attack…’

  Daisy groped her way back to consciousness. ‘He offered you a job again, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did, and from where I’m standing right now, it looks just the ticket,’ he asserted defiantly.

  ‘Taking rich men’s blood pressure. Spending each and every day listening to imaginary ills, just because the patient’s wealthy enough to foot the bill in that crassly decorated clinic your brother owns.’

  ‘It’s not at all like that, you little Marxist.’

  ‘I know exactly what it’s like,’ she retorted heatedly. ‘Do what you want with your life, but leave me out of it. You’re not going to turn me into your dogsbody as Richard’s done to Joanna. I have no intention of wasting my life hosting parties, and supervising meaningless research for a cosmetic company on the top floor of the clinic. I’m staying right where I am…’

  ‘A houseman for ever?’ Tim enquired mildly.

  ‘No, not a houseman for ever!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I love you when you’re angry,’ he whispered softly, taking the bitterness out of their argument. ‘Your eyes blaze so beautifully.’ Pressing her back against the pillows he kissed her. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’ He glanced at his watch ‘… Today… oh blast it, another time, when we’re not so tired.’ He moved away from her.

  ‘If we wait till then we’ll never talk.’ She smiled despite the anger that still scalded inside her.

  ‘You never know, one day we may both be given the same day off.’

  ‘Is that going to be the same day all geriatric consultants retire and we get promoted?’ She knelt on the bed and locked her arms around his neck, pulling him back down next to her. ‘Headache gone?’ she asked. He nodded. ‘Quite gone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case, as we have only just made up, must you go? Right now? Right this minute?’

  ‘Right now, right this minute.’ He disentangled himself from her arms. ‘Yesterday I pleaded with Bassett. “Put Mrs Hawkins on the theatre list,” I begged. “We can do a Caesarean this afternoon. A nice, quiet, calm operation.” And what did the great man say? “No. Leave it until Monday.” And now I have to get up,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘at three-forty in the morning after a night on the tiles and go and operate.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re in a fit state to drive?’ Daisy crawled back under the bedclothes. r />
  ‘I didn’t indulge as much as you, darling. Besides, fit state or not, by the sound of it Hawkins junior won’t wait any longer than it’s going to take me to get to the hospital.’ He wrapped the duvet around her relaxing form. ‘Breakfast at eight in the canteen?’

  ‘You take me to such nice places.’

  ‘Don’t I just.’ He paused for a second in the open doorway. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’ The temptation to return to sleep was overwhelming. Daisy’s eyelids drooped and she slid sweetly, effortlessly downwards, sensing rather than actually hearing Tim leave the room. Her final thoughts were of doctors and night calls.

  Why hadn’t they taken up farming or train driving? No. Train drivers had to work at night too, and so did farmers when their animals were sick. Their lives would be no different. Her mind drifted aimlessly, incoherently, for a few seconds, then there was only a dreamless sleep that obliterated everything. Even Tim’s absence in the bed beside her.

  The alarm woke Daisy. It was buzzing angrily on the floor beside the bed. She hadn’t bothered to pick it up after she’d knocked it over during the night. Resisting the fatal temptation to bury herself under the duvet for an extra minute, she sat up, opened her eyes wide and threw back the bedclothes.

  Tim’s maroon velvet bow tie lay on her dressing table next to a glittering bundle of her costume jewellery. Why was it too much effort to put things away at night? She stepped over her black taffeta evening dress on the way to the bathroom. Next time she’d find the energy. She really would. The sparkle and glamour of the evening inevitably looked cheap and tawdry in the cold light of morning. Like a hangover it tainted the beginning of the new day.

  Turning the shower to tepid she braced her muscles for the sensation of cool water. Her body as well as her mind was still numbed by sleep. If her life could consist only of evenings and nights, the world would be perfect. She’d glide through beautifully quiet private times with Tim. But perhaps even perfection would grow tedious. They’d stir themselves now and again to do the odd afternoon of work. Just one or two a week, preceded by long lazy mornings spent drinking coffee and reading the newspapers. Like Sundays in the old days, before patients, responsibilities and duty rosters had taken whole chunks out of their lives. But dreams were dreams – and reality was this ghastly never-ending effort. Shivering, she switched the shower off and reached for the towel to dry herself.