White Lilies

by R. C. Bridgestock

  ‘Come on,’ he growled, his muscles tensing. His lips curled tightly over his clenched teeth. ‘Come on then. Come near me, copper, and I’ll cut her fucking throat.’

  ‘My God,’ Vicky said, her lip trembling and her voice shaking. The reality of the situation had hit home with a force she hadn’t felt before.

  Dylan realised that he was the most senior police officer present and therefore in charge of the scene. The officers in attendance would expect him to take control.

  ‘I need a firearms unit immediately,’ he told a uniformed officer. ‘At least then there’ll be an option of taking him out if he makes a move to use the weapon on her,’ he whispered to Vicky. ‘Get me an ambulance on standby. The poor woman will already be in shock – and who knows who else will need it yet,’ he said. Vicky nodded her head.

  ‘Step further away and try to silence that dog, will you?’ Dylan said quietly to the dog handler. ‘Take a few paces back, lower your batons and put your CS gas away,’ he told the officers with a calm, controlled and quiet voice.

  ‘Give me two full-length riot shields,’ he ordered. Now everything was urgent and Dylan was pleased his commands were being obeyed immediately and without question. Wainstall, Dylan knew, enjoyed using the knife and Dylan was aware that he could do so again at any moment.

  Fortunately, the shields were in the police transit van at the mouth of the subway. Dylan breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the officer carrying them down the tunnel towards him. He didn’t know how long he could hold Wainstall’s attention.

  Taking the two officers with the shields to one side, he told them of his plan, which he tried to keep as near to a well-rehearsed public order training exercise as he could.

  ‘Flatten the armed man against the wall with the shields,’ he said. ‘Ensure the arm holding the weapon is outside the shields so he can be disarmed. Vicky, I want you to look after the victim once we’ve got her released. I’m going to try to negotiate the release of the lady, then you’ll have a chance with the shields to try and contain him – and, if that doesn’t work, well, we’ll have to use the firearms,’ he said. ‘It’s a life and death situation. Try to stay calm at all times.’

  Dylan moved forward, between the two shielded officers, to within a couple of yards of Wainstall and his captive and, with his outstretched hand, he grabbed the wooden pickaxe handle from Vicky.

  ‘How the hell do you negotiate with someone hell-bent on killing?’ he mumbled, giving her a fleeting glance. He needed to try, quickly, for the sake of the poor hostage.

  ‘Frederick, Frederick Wainstall, what’re you doing? Let her go immediately,’ Dylan shouted with an authority that he believed Wainstall would be used to responding to.

  Wainstall had a fixed smile upon his face as he looked towards Dylan.

  ‘What’re you doing? You don’t know this lady, do you? Let go of her now,’ Dylan tried again.

  Wainstall didn’t move, just gripped the knife tighter and raised his arm as though to stab, as opposed to slash, his prey. There was an intake of breath and the woman appeared to moan and flop to the floor. Wainstall’s arm jolted – and if he hadn’t been holding her up by the hair before, he definitely was now.

  Dylan could hear the sound of running footsteps behind him, which he knew would be the instant response firearms team. He knew Vicky would brief them and they would get themselves into a position to be able to fire, if required.

  It wasn’t long before Dylan saw the red dot of the laser sight from a firearm on Wainstall’s forehead. Dylan exhaled – that reassured him. They were not only in position, but he and the other two officers were not blocking their view.

  ‘Wainstall,’ Dylan shouted again, with vigour. ‘Stop this at once. Can I call you Frederick? or would you rather I call you Fred?’ He tried a different approach. At least while he was listening to Dylan, he wasn’t using the knife.

  ‘You can call me Mr Fred,’ Wainstall said, to Dylan’s surprise.

  ‘Mr Fred, could you please let the lady go? You don’t need to hurt her. Look how frightened she is. The poor woman has fainted,’ Dylan said.

  ‘No way. You’ll beat me. When I’ve got a knife, nobody beats me or makes fun of me. Nobody,’ he shouted, his voice rising into a scream.

  ‘But the lady hasn’t made fun of you or beat you, has she?’

  ‘No, but she looks like my aunt – and she did,’ he snarled, pulling her head back so he could see her face. ‘She always beat me, till I got a knife.’

  ‘What about the boy in the street, Mr Fred? He didn’t.’

  ‘Kids do. All kids. They make fun of me, but not when I have a knife,’ he snarled.

  ‘I’m worried. He’s agitated. Be ready to react,’ Dylan whispered to the officers by his side. ‘Pass it back to the firearms team to keep flashing the red dot in his eye. Here goes.’

  ‘Do I make you angry, Frederick?’ Dylan said. Purposely, he didn’t call him Mr Fred, the name he had elected to be called. He could see the red laser dot flashing across Wainstall’s eye and he knew it was annoying him, which was what he was after.

  ‘It’s Mr Fred to you,’ Wainstall screeched.

  ‘But, I don’t want to call you Mr Fred,’ Dylan said.

  ‘You’re fucking annoying me,’ Wainstall shouted, lifting his right arm with the knife above his head once more in a threatening manner.

  ‘I don’t make you angry, you’re just an angry man,’ Dylan shouted back.

  Wainstall’s hair fell over his face and he tossed his head back. He let go of his victim’s hair momentarily to rub his left eye and she fell on her knees to the floor. Wainstall went to grab her.

  ‘Now!’ shouted Dylan at the top of his voice as he surged forward with the two officers who held the shields. Vicky threw herself across the tiled floor to snatch the old lady, dragging her sideways and shielding her as best she could with her body.

  Wainstall was squashed against the subway wall by the shields like a pressed flower. Dylan’s reach with the pickaxe handle landed straight on top of Wainstall’s head. The knife fell from his hand. The push behind the front three officers made Dylan feel like their advance was a rugby scrum. Wainstall had been well and truly taken by surprise.

  The knife was picked up off the floor, out of Wainstall’s reach. Dylan stepped back to take a breath as the officers with the riot shields grappled with him on the floor. Wainstall kicked out like a mule, but he was outnumbered. His wrists were handcuffed and his legs bound. He wriggled with all the strength he could muster, trying to bite the officers who carried him out of the subway.

  His piercing, sadistic laughter echoed through the tunnel and up and out of each exit on the breeze. As he was carried up the steps and into the sunlight Dylan could hear his voice and that of the officer shouting at him fading away.

  All that was left in the tunnel were the whimpering sounds of the poor soul he had petrified. The elderly lady sat with her head bent as far as she could between her knees. She gasped silent sobs. Her back was safely against the subway wall, the contents of the handbag strewn across the floor.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Dylan said gently as he bent down to her. She shook her head and her moan filled the air as she leaned her head back against the cold tiled wall. Vicky sat alongside her and held her tightly.

  ‘Just shocked, I think, boss,’ she said. ‘That was a close call.’ Vicky let out a huge sigh and moved her hand to rub the lady’s back reassuringly as she leaned forward once more. The paramedics arrived and lifted her to her feet. Slowly they walked her to the waiting ambulance. Around them, officers scurried, quietly and efficiently collecting the contents of the lady’s shopping bag.

  ‘Could someone go with her?’ Dylan asked. ‘Ensure her family are contacted, will you? And arrange to take a statement from her,’ he said.

  A paramedic lifted Dylan’s hand. Blood dripped from his fingers.

  ‘Ouch,’ he said, as he pulled it away.

  ‘Nothing broke,’ she smiled
as she wiggled his fingers. ‘But it’s a nasty cut …’ she said. ‘If it still hurts when the swelling’s gone down,’ she told him, ‘then it might need an x-ray.’

  ‘You’ll never hear the end of it from Dennis, boss,’ Vicky said with a relieved laugh.

  ‘You’ve obviously recovered from the shock of it all,’ Dylan said, wincing as the paramedic tied on the bandage.

  The local press had been at the subway entrance taking pictures of Wainstall as he was carried out. They waited patiently to speak to Dylan.

  ‘He’s an extremely violent man who didn’t want to be arrested. I’ll update you later,’ he said. ‘Yes, before you go to print,’ he promised.

  Dylan walked towards the team who were gathered beside the marked cars. ‘Thank you,’ he said, to the staff who had held the shields for him, and the firearms team.

  There was a female towards the front who looked too young to be a police officer, let alone carrying a firearm. He was getting old, he conceded for the umpteenth time lately. He had nothing but respect for them. The intense training they undertook, the individual and team restraint they showed in life-threatening situations such as this was admirable.

  Dylan considered himself quite a calm individual but with a firearm in his hand he could think of many occasions in his career when he would have used it.

  ‘Vicky,’ he shouted. She looked toward him as she stood at the open ambulance doors. ‘Back to the nick, please. I think we deserve a strong cup of coffee,’ Dylan said as he climbed into his car.

  ‘If he’d gone to stab her, boss, do you think firearms would have shot him?’ asked Vicky, as she unceremoniously hurled herself into the passenger seat. ‘Hey, you okay to drive?’ she continued, without waiting for an answer.

  Dylan shook his head. ‘Of course. That’s what they’re there for, Vicky, and I wouldn’t have expected much of his head left if they had.’

  ‘Urgh,’ she shuddered. ‘That’s gross. Can’t you just take me on a nice quiet enquiry next time?’ she asked.

  ‘If you want quiet, I suggest you’re in the wrong job,’ he said. He was silent as they drove into the station yard.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Vicky said. Dylan looked across at his passenger with a raised eyebrow. ‘It’s gonna be fun interviewing him though, in’t it?’ she said.

  ‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ said Dylan.

  ‘Well, you better. He’s like Mr Evil, never mind Mr Fred,’ she said. ‘He puts the willies up me.’

  Dylan looked at her with both eyebrows raised this time as he put the car into reverse and negotiated his way into his parking space.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she chuckled, slapping his arm playfully.

  ‘Hey, look out – I’m injured,’ he wailed.

  ‘Serves you right.’

  ‘What? I never said anything?’ he said.

  ‘Maybe not, but you blokes are all alike. I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘We’re not all the same – far from it. Look at Mr Fred.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s sorted now.’

  ‘Not quite, and think how many lives he’s ruined in his life so far? Fortunately, the subway arrest worked out well, otherwise we could have had more bodies to deal with,’ Dylan said.

  ‘Not with you in charge, boss,’ she smiled.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who’s in charge, Vicky. When the negotiation technique works, everything is fine; when it doesn’t, the proverbial shit hits the fan, no matter what.’

  ‘I can think of some bosses who would still be considering whether or not to send anyone into the subway. Believe me, there’s nothing worse than being stood around in a group waiting for a decision to be made,’ said Vicky.

  ‘If you don’t like it, you know what to do.’

  ‘I know, take my bloody sergeant’s exam.’

  ‘Yes, and then you can make those decisions. You don’t have to be in uniform long before you can come back into CID.’

  ‘You’re right, boss, as usual.’

  A knock came at the window. Dylan wound it down. ‘John and Taylor are in interview with Stevenson, sir,’ said Lisa. ‘The monitor in your office is on for you to watch.’

  ‘Be right with you,’ Dylan said, hurriedly getting out of the car.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Dylan headed straight to his office. If he’d still been a smoker then the trail he’d have left in his wake would have resembled a chimney. As it was, he had to be satisfied with a mouthful of chewing gum.

  He knew how fortunate the woman in the tunnel had been. He didn’t know how he would have felt if Wainstall had slashed her throat or the firearms team had taken off his head. Would he have felt like a failure? Would an investigation into the events have blamed him? Would the scenario have been used as an example at training schools nationwide of how not to negotiate with a man with a knife? He shook his head to clear the paranoid, spiralling thoughts.

  Stevenson sat in the interview room with his back to his interviewers.

  Dylan could tell by DS Taylor Spiers and DS John Benjamin’s faces that they weren’t fazed by Brian Stevenson’s actions and, after the formal introductions, they followed the structured interview plan. Systematically, they went through each item they had seized from his hotel room. This needed to be done to show the court at a later date that they had given him every opportunity to give an explanation as to how the jewellery had come into his possession.

  ‘Are one or more of these rings Mildred’s?’ asked Taylor.

  Stevenson stared at the blank wall.

  ‘Is that why she wasn’t wearing any rings when her body was found?’ asked John.

  Stevenson looked mannequin-like as he sat perfectly still and made no comment.

  ‘Was she sat with her back to you when you smashed her skull in? Is that what you do when the people you prey on no longer have anything to give?’ John said.

  Stevenson made no comment but his shoulders rose and then dropped as he sighed, as if he was bored.

  ‘Are you sat with your back to us as a protest against the interview or is it simply that you don’t like to face up to what you’ve done?’ Taylor said, with venom in her voice.

  Stevenson swiftly turned, which made Taylor flinch. His eyes were bright and Dylan saw he took confidence from her reaction to his movement.

  ‘If you’ve got all the answers, why don’t you charge me?’ he said with a sneer.

  ‘Hardly the response of an innocent man, is it?’ John said.

  He turned away from them very slowly and was silent.

  ‘Damn,’ Dylan said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Never been married, have you?’ said Taylor.

  He didn’t respond. Dylan could see the muscles in his neck tense. She continued the line of questioning.

  ‘Do you have some sort of fetish for elderly women, Mr Stevenson?’

  Stevenson took a deep breath. Dylan saw Taylor steel herself for a reaction that never came.

  ‘I don’t see many men’s names on the list of your clients. Neither are there any men’s rings in this hoard of jewellery. Is there a sexual motive to your crimes? Is the theft of property to hide a more deviant side of your nature, Mr Stevenson?’

  The room was quiet. Neither interviewer spoke for at least a minute.

  ‘I’m sure an innocent man would be protesting,’ John said at last.

  Dylan could see Stevenson hunch his shoulders and it reminded him of a cat that was ready to pounce.

  ‘Steady now, steady … wait for his reaction,’ Dylan mumbled.

  ‘Was Mildred’s murder sexual, Mr Stevenson?’ Taylor said quickly.

  The questions were like darts piercing Stevenson’s back and Dylan could tell he was feeling every single one.

  He turned to face the officers. ‘One last time. She fell. She just fell. How many times do I have to tell you?’

  ‘Right, she fell,’ said John.

  There was another pause, ‘I admit I stole some bits from her, but I found
her dead at the bottom of the stairs. I never touched her.’

  Dylan’s skin tingled and he could feel his blood pumping through his veins. It was the breakthrough they were waiting for. The detectives never once let their professional mask slip.

  ‘You know that’s not true, Mr Stevenson. Her injuries are not consistent with a fall. Why are you avoiding the question of sex?’ Taylor said, pushing the boundaries.

  ‘I have to challenge your line of questioning, officer. There has been no disclosure of any sexual assault or any suggestion of such to me,’ said the solicitor, Lin Perfect.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I’m simply trying to understand why the majority of Mr Stevenson’s clients are female and elderly,’ responded Taylor contritely.

  ‘Don’t make me out to be a pervert,’ Brian Stevenson said. ‘You have no proof of that and I have nothing else to say,’ he said with a newfound authority in his voice.

  Taylor and John tried to question him further but it was obvious that he was not going to speak to them anymore. Dylan ran a hand through his hair, sat back in his chair and forced the expelling air out of his lungs. The interview was terminated and Brian Stevenson could be seen on Dylan’s monitor being escorted out of the interview room on his way back to the custody suite to be charged. He made no comment.

  ‘There’s no way he’s gonna make our job easy, is there?’ John mumbled to Taylor as they walked into Dylan’s office.

  ‘No, and I’m sure Mildred isn’t his only victim,’ Dylan said. ‘At least we have him in custody, we just need to prove the charge now and focus on the file for the murder of Mildred Sykes to get him convicted and sentenced to life. He can always be brought back before the court if there are other charges proved afterwards.’