The workman then began to turn the wheel within the cupboard, at first with no apparent result. He tried again. There was a grinding noise, followed by a shuffling sound, which came from the foot of the inspection pit. Vogel swung round, lurched towards the edge of the pit and lowered himself down in one clumsy but effective motion.
Part of the base of the pit was moving; a section of concrete was sliding slowly to one side. But the giant plug, as he had rather aptly described it, was moving too slowly for Vogel. As soon as a big enough gap had been created he leaned through it, hanging on precariously in a crab-like position, with one arm and one leg still on the stationary part of the pit’s base.
As soon as he got his head through the gap, he could tell there was a considerable space beneath him. But it was very nearly pitch black, barely illuminated at all by the light behind him. He yelled for a torch which was thrown down by a CSI. He shone it into the space.
Dawn Saslow was just a few feet away, sprawled on the floor and chained to a wall, the way Willis must have left her. Even in the dim light of the torch, it was immediately apparent that she had been badly beaten. Her face and clothes were covered in blood. One cheek was little more than a swollen, black mass. Vogel could also smell the sweet stench of human excrement. Oh my God, he thought, were they too late? Then Dawn lifted one arm, just a little, almost like a weak wave of greeting.
She was alive.
‘It’s all right, Dawn, it’s all right now, we’re here,’ he shouted.
She seemed unable to speak. He couldn’t tell yet how bad her injuries were. But Dawn Saslow was alive. The massive block of concrete continued to shift. Vogel let himself drop to the lower ground level. He ran to Dawn, scrabbling hopelessly at the cuffs around her legs and the chain which restrained her. PC Jenkins followed Vogel down through the inspection pit and was quickly beside him.
‘Sir, gently, sir, you could hurt her,’ she said.
She let her fingers brush lightly against Dawn Saslow’s good cheek.
‘Hang on in there, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘We’ve got you now and we’ll have you free in a jiff.’
It was probably the gentle touch and the kind words which caused the tears that began to run freely down Saslow’s damaged face.
The workmen had come well prepared. On cue, one of them jumped down wielding a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters. Vogel gestured him forwards and he began at once to cut through the cuffs and the chain restraining Saslow. She grunted with pain as the man attacked the cuffs around her ankles, which had bitten deeply into her flesh, but, although clearly shocked to the core, he was admirably quick and efficient.
Once Dawn was free Vogel wrapped his arms around her and held her close.
‘It’s all right, baby,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’
He could feel the young woman’s body heaving, her sobbing now quite out of control. But she was alive, bless her, she was alive. Vogel felt relief flowing through every vein in his body. Eventually Dawn’s sobbing began to subside, then she spoke. Her voice was weak, little more than a croak, but the message was clear enough.
‘Just get the bastard, boss,’ she said.
The paramedic team were still checking out Dawn Saslow, before carrying her from the prison that had nearly become her grave, when Hemmings called Vogel’s mobile. He said that Willis/Aeolus had been duly tracked up the M4 and spotted swinging off towards Heathrow.
A simple check of flight information had already revealed that he’d booked himself on a flight to Moscow under the name of Richard Perry, whose passport and driving licence he presumably had with him.
Well, he didn’t think he had anything to fear, did he?
After all, he’d been quite confident that Dawn Saslow would not be found, unless he chose for her to be.
The airport police, a branch of the Met since the 70s when airport security concerns had begun to seriously escalate, had been alerted. Yet, so far, they had been told to keep only a watching brief. They, and just about every cop in the country, had been informed of DC Saslow being missing and instructed that her recovery was first priority. Now she was safe, their priorities had shifted. Heathrow’s highly trained specialist police unit were fully armed and programmed to handle major terrorist situations. Vogel thought they were just the boys to deal with bloody Aeolus.
‘Dawn’s safe, boss,’ he said. ‘We’ve just found her and she’s alive. You can tell the Heathrow lads to move in on Willis, or whatever he’s calling himself today. And they can move just as hard as they like.’
The relief was clear in Hemmings voice when he spoke again.
‘Thank God,’ said the DCI.
‘But please boss, can you make sure I’m the one to talk to Willis first?’ asked Vogel.
‘He’s yours, David,’ said the DCI.
Thirty-Three
Willis was arrested on suspicion of three counts of murder and brought straight back to Bristol, where he was processed at Patchway and held in a police cell.
Within four hours of Dawn Saslow being found, Vogel — backed up by Polly Jenkins — was ready to conduct the first interview. Freda Heath, whose expert opinion was much-needed, had dropped everything to make the journey from London as soon as Vogel contacted her. She might be NHS and overworked, but she wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.
‘You do realise this is psychiatric history in the making,’ she told Vogel excitedly.
‘It wasn’t my first thought,’ responded Vogel drily.
DS Nobby Clark travelled to Bristol with the professor. After all, the extraordinary suspect now in custody had murdered on her patch too.
Willis was already sitting in an interview room, when the four entered. Vogel studied him carefully while PC Jenkins made the usual formal pronouncement of date, time and those present, for the video record.
Willis looked like, well, he looked like Willis, thought Vogel. Nothing more or less. Albeit Willis in a custody suit. Other than that he looked pretty much as usual.
It was Willis who spoke first and it really was Willis, or as near to Willis as was ever likely to be seen or heard again. Willis’s voice with more than a hint of Lancastrian.
‘I don’t understand boss, what’s all this about?’ he asked, as he straightened the sleeves of his suit and turned them back so that they formed neat cuffs of equal size. ‘I was heading off with Saslow, to see that walk-in at Avonmouth, and the next thing I knew I’d been arrested.’
‘Is that really your only memory of today, Willis?’ asked Vogel.
‘Yes, boss. Of course it is.’
‘Do you remember where you were arrested.’
‘Course I do. I was in my car. A load of armed heavies pulled me over. They were none too gentle, either.’
‘Yes. But do you remember the location of your car at the time you were pulled over?’
Something flitted across Willis’s eyes. One of those involuntary events Freda Heath had described to the DI, perhaps.
‘Uh no. Not exactly.’ Willis suddenly seemed confused. Unsure.
Vogel glanced towards Freda Heath. He’d already asked her to intervene and indeed to take over the questioning, if she felt he were muddying psychiatric waters. She shook her head very slightly and gestured for him to continue.
‘Do you remember if anyone was with you in the car?’
Willis frowned. He seemed to be really concentrating, making an effort to answer truthfully.
‘I’m not sure. Uh, yes. Dawn Saslow was with me, wasn’t she? But…’
Was there a kind of panic in Willis’s eyes. Vogel couldn’t tell for certain.
‘But… she wasn’t there when I was pulled over.’ Willis clenched both his fists and held them briefly in front of his mouth, before lowering his hands and placing them on the table before him.