Читать книгу The Taken Girls - G.D. Sanders - Страница 6

Who should it be? A 17-year-old, one who kept herself to herself, not shy but perhaps a little old-fashioned; such a girl would be perfect.

He’d studied several and chosen Teresa. Hers was an ordered life: school, church and home. On Fridays, she left her Bible study class at half past five and returned to her parents’ house on the southern edge of Canterbury, in an affluent neighbourhood well away from the tourist-packed city centre. There, beyond the Kent County Cricket Ground, the Nackington Road footpath was overhung by trees and poorly lit. It was a good spot and only five minutes’ drive to the building in the woods, where, behind a chain-link partition, the bed, handcuffs and buckets were prepared for the girl’s arrival. Later he would buy chiffon scarves. Already stored out of sight were the drugs and equipment he’d need when she was ready.

He’d chosen the girl, the place and the time. On Friday, 8 March 2002, the sun was due to set at 5.40 p.m. Teresa should arrive just before six. He would be waiting.

The last of the daylight was disappearing in the west as he coasted the van to a stop between two street lamps. Spring was still 12 days away and the nights were cold. In order to move more freely, he’d left his heavy winter coat on the passenger seat. Shivering in the evening chill, he leant against the warmth of the engine, waiting until he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. A glance at his watch and he was sure they were Teresa’s. One more bend in the road and she’d see the lamps at the entrance to her home. As he soaked the pad and returned the bottle to his pocket, an image of his mother entered his head and he felt sick, hit by a wave of revulsion, which subsided to a lingering apprehension. He steeled himself. It had to be done. Focus. Teresa was a schoolgirl. It would be a young body against his own.

He grabbed her from behind. One arm encircled her waist while the other clamped the pad over her nose and mouth. Teresa was off guard and off balance. There was no time for her to register individual events before she was overwhelmed and he felt her legs buckle beneath her. Supporting the weight of her unconscious body, he walked her to the side door of the van and placed her gently on the floor inside.

It was done. He’d held his nerve.

The van swayed and bumped on the rough track through the woods. At the building, he parked under cover in the adjacent shed. Six minutes later, Teresa was behind the wire partition, handcuffed and chained to the wall. He sat in the armchair waiting for the effects of the ether to wear off. He could relax. He was in control. No element of chance stood between him and success.

Sunday morning. The first tolling of the bell for Holy Communion was followed by brief cawing and a flurry of wings as four black crows rose from their overnight perch and circled the tower of St Mary’s. Mrs Siddenham, the last of the small congregation to arrive, paused in the church porch to adjust her hat, a much-prized copy of the one the Queen had worn several weeks ago at the funeral of her sister, Princess Margaret. Satisfied all was well, Mrs Siddenham pushed open the heavy oak door and joined her fellow communicants in the musty pews.

The small congregation began the Prayer of Preparation. ‘Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid …’ Later, having dispensed the body and blood, the vicar drew the service to a close by completing the Prayer of Dismissal: ‘… and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be among you and remain with you always.’

‘Amen.’

‘Go in the peace of Christ.’

‘Thanks be to God.’

As the final words of the ceremony were exchanged, Mrs Siddenham reached for her handbag and, excusing herself to her neighbour, hurried away down the nave. There was the sound of her lifting the latch, a moment of silence and then her scream, cut short by the oak door slamming shut behind her.

The vicar was the first to respond. He ran down a side aisle and wrenched open the heavy door. Outside, Mrs Siddenham, hat askew, was staring at the sun-bleached wooden bench on the far side of the porch. Propped in the corner was the body of a teenage girl, head slumped forward with dark hair obscuring her face. The vicar knelt, moved the girl’s hair aside, and placed two fingers to her neck.

‘It’s the missing girl, Teresa Mulholland. She still has a pulse. Call 999!’

When paramedics had lifted Teresa into an ambulance and driven away, the older of two detectives questioned the vicar.

‘You identified the girl?’

‘Yes, Teresa Mulholland, the schoolgirl who disappeared. She didn’t seem hurt but she’s been missing for 30 days, yet her school uniform was clean and neatly pressed. How could that—’

The detective raised a hand, cutting the vicar short.

‘Where are the Mulhollands, her parents?’

‘Oh … at home, I should think. They attend our morning—’

‘We’ll drive out to see them. If we need to speak again, someone will contact you.’

Later, the vicar was approached by a local reporter who was particularly interested in what the girl looked like and the state of her clothes. However, the next edition of The Canterbury Chronicle carried only a brief report buried on page two. There was no mention of the surprising state of her clothes.

Weeks went by with no contact from the police and no further articles in the press. It was as if the incident had never happened.

For ten years the silence was absolute.