should I be looking for Inspector?’
‘That would be anything that shouldn’t be here, George.’
‘Right,’ George replied, concentrating his beam of light just like Yakinchuk.
The basement, a full two storeys below street level, was a vast cavernous area containing huge heating and air conditioning units that vied with each other for space, although from the looks of it, the furnaces were winning. As Yakinchuk explored, the basement opened up to him, revealing rooms of various sizes containing extra furniture, boxes of light bulbs, toilet paper, Christmas decorations; in short, an infinite array of items all consigned to storage.
In the far corner he found another set of stairs; not metal this time but solid concrete. At the top was a steel door fitted with a metal bar which, when pressed down hard would unlock the door from the inside only. Yakinchuk opened the door and found himself in an alley at the side of the hotel.
‘And from here, straight into a waiting car,’ he thought.
George stood holding the door open. ‘I guess that ends our tour Detective unless there’s anything else I can do for you.’
‘Yes George, there is one more thing. Get that panel in the washroom mounted properly.’ George nodded and prepared to retreat back inside when Yakinchuk stopped him. ‘I wanted to ask, where are you from George?’
George smiled, ‘Liverpool of course. Came over with the Beatles I did and never went back. The American girls, they like an English accent you see, so there was a time when I was quite the lad.’
Yakinchuk returned George’s smile which, if anything had broadened as memories were stirred. ‘Thanks for all your help George.’
‘Pleasure mate,’ George replied as he retreated back inside.
Yakinchuk stood in the alley for a few minutes, thinking. So, somehow Sarah had been isolated at the Ball then either taken into that washroom by force or perhaps lured there by someone she trusted. Once inside she was drugged, carried through the open panel, down through the basement and up the other side to the waiting car. Judging from the panel, the whole process was well-practiced. How frequently it was employed even Yakinchuk couldn’t guess but one thing he was now certain of and that was who orchestrated the whole thing – Merhot Capritzo on behalf of Richard Develin.
Yakinchuk worked the scenario further. No doubt the tickets for the Ball were purchased by Capritzo. Once the real Sarah was out of the way, a Sarah look-alike took her place; probably one of Capritzo’s girls from his private collection. Yakinchuk knew that all of his girls were not only beautiful but intelligent, elegant and, of course seductive. David Kendall wouldn’t have stood a chance. No doubt she promised him an all expenses paid trip to the moon. For a young university student, it would be irresistible. Getting him to follow her out of the Fenshaw would have been a piece of cake. She probably led him out with his prick in her hand.
The accident, now that would have taken some planning, and skill. Fill the car with petrol, rig an explosive device and maybe even interfere with the brakes or cause a blow out by using a strip of steel spikes set across the road. The rest would be straight forward timing. Wait for Davie’s car to roll by in just the right place, cause the car to skid then press a button. Boom! The resultant fire would eat up all the evidence, and the bodies.
Murdering, fucking bastards; the pair of you!
The girl that died with Davie, who was she?
And what became of Sarah? If she was abducted on New Year‘s Eve and, allowing for prompt delivered, she would probably be in Ireland the first week in January. Develin’s son William was born in late September.
‘You didn’t give her much time did you, you bastard!’
*****
Yakinchuk arrived home about ten to a dark and empty house. Carol and the kids were away visiting her family which pleased Yakinchuk not only because he enjoyed the peace and quiet but also because right now it worked in with his plans perfectly. He rummaged through the fridge but finally ended up with his standard staple: a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich.
Accompanied by a large glass of scotch, neat, he retreated to the back porch and the fragrant warmth of a late summer evening. It didn’t take long for the porch light to attract an array of flying insects all intent on committing suicide in one form or another. Yakinchuk leaned back against the railing, ate his sandwich, sipped his scotch and watched the carnage.
Like an addict trying desperately to kick the habit, he resisted the impulse; refusing to allow himself the luxury of self-indulgence; the bitter sweet pleasure/pain of it all but, as the last of the scotch slipped away, he conceded.
Already she has ensnared you. If you go to her you will never come back - never.
The photograph of Sarah lay in the palm of his hand like a Communion wafer. As he stared at the image of this beautiful young woman he felt supremely alive again for the first time in years. ‘Have you ensnared me Sarah? Will I really go to you?’
You are Victor; and you will.
He took the stairs two at a time, found his suitcase in the spare bedroom and began to pack.
6
Try as he might Yakinchuk couldn’t sleep. The bedroom seemed to confine him, pressing down on him. The air felt as if most of the oxygen had been taken out of it. He couldn’t breathe properly. He sat up gulping for breath like a diver breaking free at the surface. What is wrong with you?
In a near panic he switched on the light beside the bed and stared at the open suitcase; the clothes neatly folded inside. ‘I must pack a suit,’ he said in a harsh whisper. ‘I will need a suit. She will expect to see me dressed just like …’ What is wrong with you?
He made his way downstairs hoping that a cup of hot chocolate would help. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he noticed the folder; the police report which proclaimed for the whole world to hear, the accidental death of Sarah Winthrope Churchill – a lie, a lie.
Inside the folder, the pages left by Maggie O’Shea. He had forgotten all about them; about her brother and sister and what happened to them all those years ago. He pulled the folder towards him with the tips of his fingers, opened it and reached inside. The kettle began to boil but he ignored it as he stared down at the pages.
If you are going to read that Vic, you are going to need something stronger than a cup of hot chocolate.
Victor poured himself another glass of scotch then retreated to the porch again. He sat at the top of the stairs leading down to the garden, resting his back against a support post. For a few minutes he gazed into the night, sipping his drink and listening to the far-off sound of a world that ought to be asleep, but wasn’t. Slowly, almost tentatively he unfolded the pages and began to read.
JULY, 1939
Drover O'Neill was one of seven children.
