Murdoch stared up impassively, his detective training and instincts telling him to give nothing away to the man standing before him. Yes, he was scared, he would be a fool not to be, but he was determined not to show it. It was, however, a double edged sword; his defiant glare was destined either to intimidate or infuriate and he had a strong suspicion that it would be the latter.
"You know the problem with James, Detective?"
"I do indeed; he's a murderer."
Rupert Gillies laughed cynically at what he perceived to be a comment laced with sarcastic amusement, but was in fact meant with all seriousness.
"Yes, he is, but I imagine you don't really believe that was what I was alluding to."
"I'm sure you're very proud of him," Murdoch replied dryly.
Gillies Senior drew closer until he was standing over Murdoch, looking down with an expression that held an air of superiority. Somewhere between gloating and amusement, malice and disregard, he stared at the helpless detective, enjoying the the feeling of power over the man he had grown to hate despite conferring a certain level of grudging respect on him.
"You don't like my son, do you, Murdoch?" He finally asked.
"Like him?" Murdoch raised puzzled eyes toward Rupert Gillies. Despite what would be a fairly obvious reply, it was a most unexpected question.
"Yes, Murdoch, you did hear correctly. You don't respect him at all?"
"Mr Gillies, your son is a sequential kidnapper and murderer, as, in fact, are you. Why do you believe I would have any respect for that?"
"His flair, skill and imagination must be far beyond what you're used to dealing with. He is brilliant, a genius, in fact. As a fairly intelligent man yourself, surely you respect that?"
Murdoch tried not to show his irritation at the insult on his abilities, masquerading as a compliment. Even as he began his reply, he knew he was taking a chance, but something - indignant pride or anger, possibly even the simple truth - spurred him on.
"One of your assessments is incorrect, Mr Gillies," he raised an eyebrow. "I find it hard to understand how a fairly intelligent man could outsmart a genius," he paused until he saw Gillies about to reply. "Three times."
Gillies Senior took a sharp intake of breath and he drew his lips into a thin line.
"You know, Detective," he began, his expression hardening, "you're really in no position to defend yourself. If you continue in this vein, I will be forced to hurt you."
"Something you could only do because I can't defend myself."
Gillies Senior chuckled; Murdoch was trying to provoke him, possibly into making a mistake. But it would take much more than that to force him to act hastily. He had planned this far too carefully to be tripped up by his own ego.
"But of course, Detective. I have the advantage and I fully intend to keep it."
"What do you want?" Murdoch asked, trying hard to maintain a cool demeanour.
"Want?" Rupert Gillies allowed a light laugh to curl his lips upwards; his reaction suggesting that his reasoning should be obvious.
"Do you believe your son will be released as a ransom for me," Murdoch continued. "Because I assure you, Mr Gillies, that won't happen."
"Detective," Gillies Senior laughed mockingly as he consulted his pocket watch. "By now, my son is already free."
Murdoch's eyes widened at the unexpected announcement as he continued.
"But you? You'll never see the light of day again. You see, Detective, going back to my earlier question, and," he waved a hand casually, "taunting aside, my son's greatest fault is the naivety of youth. He really doesn't appreciate how dangerous and, yes, how intelligent you are. But, you see, I do. I know exactly what you're capable of, Detective and this time, there will be no games, no tests, no experiments."
"And absolutely no fun!" came a voice from the top of the stairs.
"James!" Gillies Senior cried elatedly.
"Hello father, Detective. Ah, now this is what I call a welcome home gift! And so beautifully gift wrapped too," he added with a genuine but menacing grin.
Murdoch gritted his teeth; to all outward appearances Rupert Gillies had seemed a concerned father, worried and shocked by his son's behaviour at each of his trials. Now it appeared as though, not only was Gillies' behaviour consistent with that of his father, but there almost seemed to be a rivalry between them. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was something to be gained from the exploitation of that most unhealthy of traits. There was hope, it was slim, but right now it was all he had.
George Crabtree stared into James Gillies' cell and tried hard not to appear overwhelmed. Whenever he was assisting Detective Murdoch, it seemed he knew exactly what to do, but when having to face the situation alone, he immediately began to doubt himself.
"Anything wrong?" Came the voice of the guard behind him.
"No," he began hesitantly before summoning a more assertive tone. "No, thank you, I'm just observing the cell as a whole before investigating in detail."
"Oh, alright then, I'll leave you to it. Come back to the gate when you're done."
There. He'd found his stride again.
"See, George," he whispered to himself. "It's as Doctor Grace says, you've just got to believe in yourself a bit more. Now then..." He frowned and rubbed his forehead as he realised he'd momentarily lost his train of thought; he just needed to place himself back in the right frame of mind again. "So... Now then, George, what have you?"
Casting a careful glance around the room, one thing stood out to him immediately: the absence of blood. Without a body or coroner's report to go on, it made it virtually impossible for him to know what to look for and what to discount. Nevertheless, this was all he had and he was not about to let anyone down by missing something crucial. Drawing his notebook from his pocket, he began to think aloud whilst writing.
"So... No blood. What could that mean? Well, he could only have been killed here so it must have been poisoning, strangling or a knife of some sort. So, which one?"
Crabtree propped his right elbow on his left hand, tucked close to and across his waist. Finally resting his chin in his hand, he pondered the problem.
"Poisoning...?" He allowed himself a few moments to look around the cell. The only liquid was a small wooden mug of water and Crabtree made a mental note to take a sample of the water back to Dr Grace to analyse. "Right, strangulation."
Crabtree almost rolled his eyes; there seemed to be almost too many possibilities for this. Perhaps something the priest brought with him, a simple shoelace or a torn sheet would do the job effectively. There was only one option and that was to look for possible discarded objects and await Dr Grace's report. There was, of course one thing he could check - were the sheets and blankets on the bed still intact? Pulling back the coarse grey blanket rendered the strangulation theory irrelevant. Arterial spray and further profuse bleeding had caused the greying sheet and the thin lumpy mattress to be literally soaked through with a large quantity of blood, still a vivid bright red. Crabtree sucked air through his teeth. The priest had been stabbed all right, and so viciously there wouldn't have been time even for him to shout before dying. From the angle of the spray and the fact that there was no other blood in the room, Crabtree concluded that he must have been kneeling at the side of the bed, possibly in prayer when Gillies attacked him. It sickened and shocked him to think about the callousness of the attack. He swallowed hard as he thought about Detective Murdoch, once again in this man's hands.
"Concentrate, George," he admonished himself after a wave of concern threatened to overshadow his thoughts.
Okay, he nodded to himself, satisfied he had discovered how it had happened - but what else?
Lying in the bed and also on the floor, were small snippets of hair, confirming Chief Constable Giles' assertion that he had used the priest's hair to fashion a moustache.
So, that covered where he died, roughly how he died and what happened next was under no dispute, but how had he come to be there in the first place? Had Gillies called for him? Had he specifically asked for that priest? Was there a basic likeness between them? If so, how did he know? It was time to visit the prison Warden.
"Doctor Grace?" Doctor Ogden spoke clearly, with only the slightest of uncertainty in her voice. "I wondered if I may assist you?"
"Doctor Ogden," she replied, courteously but with empathy and concern in her tone. "I would be grateful if you did, I wouldn't want to miss anything crucial."
"Thank you, Doctor Grace, but I'm certain you wouldn't. I just want to make myself useful."
"Well, Doctor, I wondered... Perhaps... Perhaps you could consider using your psychiatric skills to form a profile."
"A profile? But we know who has him."
"Yes, but..."
"Oh course!" A broad smile stretched across her face. "You mean use the profile to discover where he may be or what he might do?"
"That's right, doctor, it could very possibly bring the investigation to a speedy conclusion."
"It is an untried science, Doctor Grace, I don't know a soul who has even given it any thought."
"Then you will be the first!" Doctor Grace replied enthusiastically.
"You don't think it a waste of resource? If I'm wrong... William... He..."
"You won't be wrong," Doctor Grace replied steadfastly and with absolute certainty. "I'm certain. You know him... Gillies. You have a much better understanding of him than any of us."
"He has such a cold, calculating mind. I don't believe there is anyone who could truly claim to know him, but I'll begin right away." She smiled, now assured of at least feeling as though she was helping. "May I use your office."
"Of course, doctor. Please, make yourself at hime, little has changed since you left."
"Thank you." She smiled, hopeful that their idea would be fruitful.
Taking a seat at Higgins' desk, Amy Fairchild seemed fascinated by the reasoning and procedures.
"Constable Higgins, what do you believe I witnessed? You said it may be a crime. How do you know? To me it just appeared that a passing doctor took an injured man to York General. Or is that not what you're referring to?"
"It is indeed, miss. I've had another constable check with York General and no victims of accidents as you describe were admitted today."
"I'm certain he said York General, Constable Higgins, I asked him specifically."
"We've checked all the hospitals, Miss Fairchild."
"But you thought it was a crime before you knew that?
Higgins didn't want to go into any more detail. The less information was public, the better it might be for Detective Murdoch. Ignoring her question, he continued:
"Did you get a good look at this man claiming to be a doctor, miss? Could you describe him?"
"Oh yes, a very clear look, I remember him distinctly. And there's the carriage, too, of course."
"The carriage?" Higgins looked up, his pencil poised in mid air.
"Yes, they placed him inside the carriage to take him to the hospital."
"They?" He queried. "He had others with him?"
"No, he asked for help, but I remember they were both dressed the same. I got the feeling they worked for the same company. A sort of uniform, perhaps."
"And you can describe them, too?" Higgins smiled hopefully.
"I'm sorry, constable, I can only really tell you what they wore, I didn't look too closely."
"Of course," Higgins tried hard not to sound too deflated by the response. Still, if their clothes were distinctive, then perhaps he could track them down.
"And I can tell you a little about the driver, too."
"Miss Fairchild, you are extremely observant, if you don't mind me saying."
"Not at all, constable." She offered a shy smile. "I will certainly do my best."
"So, Inspector," Giles began as he took a seat opposite Brackenreid's desk, "what do we have so far?"
Inspector Brackenreid's brow furrowed deeply; they had literally just returned from the court house. What they knew of the situation was already shared between them. Perhaps all Giles was really after was a plan of action?
"Of course," he nodded with more assurance than he felt. "I'll send a couple of men around to Murdoch's boarding room..."
"No," Giles interrupted.
"No?" Brackenreid objected in a gruff tone, before adding: "Sir?"
"You and I will go. We have the most experience and are more likely to find something that may help. I'm not in any way doubting your men, Inspector, but you must admit, it's in Murdoch's interests to use experience over concern."
"Yes, sir. Thank you." Brackenreid was so taken aback by the offer, he almost posed his thanks as a question.
"Brackenreid, a very senior and capable detective is missing. I will do what I can to assist. Consider me at your disposal."
"Thank you, sir," Brackenreid replied, still grateful but genuinely surprised at the response.
"Now then, I think it's time we appraised the men of the situation, don't you?"
"Yes, sir," Brackenreid replied confidently and rising from behind his desk. "I'm sure there's not a man jack of them that will rest until he's found."
Heading out of his office with Chief Constable Giles walking behind him, Brackenreid didn't notice Amy Fairchild at Higgins's desk as he shouted for everyone's attention.
"Right then lads. Some of you may have heard by now that Detective Murdoch is missing. He was due at the court house this morning by eight for Gillies' trial and never arrived. Now I know you're all..."
"Sir!" Higgins piped up.
"This had better be important, Higgins!" Brackenreid growled, annoyed at having been interrupted.
"Yes, sir," he replied with hesitant enthusiasm. It all fit, the tampered with bicycle, the phoney doctor, the staged accident. "Sir, I believe Detective Murdoch has been abducted, sir. Miss Fairchild here, witnessed it all."
"That's what I saw?" She gasped in amazement.
"She doesn't seem so sure, constable," Giles commented.
"Sirs, Miss Fairchild called us to the scene of what appeared to be an accident, but we discovered Detective Murdoch's bicycle. It seemed to have been tampered with."
"Tampered with?" Giles pressed.
"Yes, sir, there was a spike with some sort of sleeping draught on it and..."
"Bloody hell, man! At what point were you planning on sharing this information?" Brackenreid roared, embarrassed that one on the men he had just been praising could have made such an error of judgement.
"But, sir you just got back and Chief Constable Giles was with you." Higgins' brow creased under the effort of the explanation. "And we only..."
"I've been helping Constable Higgins with details of the men who took your detective." Miss Fairchild interjected. "Surely that's vital to your case?"
Brackenreid took a calming deep breath. Yes, it was vital, but some knowledge it was happening would have left him feeling less of a fool in front of Giles.
"Get all the information you can from Miss...?"
"Fairchild," she replied with a nod and a smile.
"Miss," Brackenreid nodded politely. "From Miss Fairchild, make your report and then find Crabtree. Where's Worseley?"
"In the hospital, sir," Higgins replied, certain he would get bawled out again. "He found the sleeping draught the hard way."
Brackenreid rolled his eyes.
"Make your report, Higgins, I'll speak to you later." Taking a deep breath, he turned toward Giles. "Sir?"
"We're going to Murdoch's accommodation, if there are any developments, we wish to be advised immediately. Does everybody understand?"
Nobody wanted to cross the Chief Constable, but equally no one wanted to speak first. It was Higgins who found the courage. Having already been shouted at by the inspector it seemed less painful to risk taking another earful. Beginning the chorus of 'Yes, sirs' he couldn't quite summon the nerve to raise his eyes.
Chief Constable Giles left first and as Brackenreid passed by Higgins' desk he patted the young constable on the shoulder by way of a comforting and supportive gesture. They were all on edge, and they would work best knowing they all had each other's backs, despite flared tempers. Higgins managed a smile as the Inspector nodded.
"Don't worry, lads," he added. "We'll find him"