by Karina Evans
“No! I didn’t even know those girls.”
“For the benefit of the tape, I am showing Damon Harker exhibit IH/5 — a printout of a CCTV image.”
“Who is this, Damon?”
“Me.”
“And who is this female standing behind you?”
“I don’t know.”
“The female standing behind you in the image is Violet Taylor. CCTV captured this image of the corridor. The camera usually points towards the main door, but on this occasion it had been moved, perhaps by a cleaner, and pointed at an angle down the corridor, capturing your office. You are walking with Violet Taylor to your office. Why is this?”
“I… I… no comment.”
“The problem we have, Damon, is that Violet Taylor is now dead and can’t tell us what happened in your office. Where were you on the 10th of July 2020?”
“Why?”
“Just answer the question, Damon.”
“I was at the supermarket in the day and went to visit my mum at 5 pm.”
“And the evening?”
“At my sister’s”
“Who with?”
“Just my sister. She lives alone.”
“Can she corroborate your story?”
“It’s not a story; it’s a fact — why are you asking me this?”
“Because the 10th of July 2020 is the evening on which an unidentified male attacked a young female. We suspect the Shorestone Killer carried out this attack, and we are, understandably, keen to rule out your involvement.”
“I have attacked no one! Oh my god, you think I’ve attacked… you think I’ve killed those girls... me… you think —”
“Are you saying that you didn’t?”
“Of course I am! Fuck. Of course I am. Ok, I can help you with the drugs. It was me. Yes, I paid the girls with drugs. I accessed the day centre so we could use my office in the daytime, when nobody else was about. I did that, I did, but I did not kill those girls. I did not!”
“His story pans out,” Isobel said to Dominic. “CCTV shows him getting out of his car in the supermarket car park at 4 pm and back in at 5 pm, whereupon he drives east towards his sister’s house. He’s captured on CCTV on his way back down the high street at 10 pm, way after the attack on Millicent. His sister gave us the same times of arrival and departure as he did, and he has had no contact with her since being arrested, so she wouldn’t have known what he’s told us.”
“Is his sister known to us?”
“Nope, clean as a whistle. And, in fact, a neighbour of hers also saw him at 9.30 pm; we knocked on the houses next door just to make sure. He’s not popular with the locals as he often kicks off when he’s there; asking for money from his sister etc… seems she’s scared of him. So the neighbour —” Isobel thumbed through her pocket notebook, “… Mrs. Hardy… she said she saw him as she was putting out her milk bottles before bed. Referred to him as ‘the dickhead’ which made me laugh. So, he’s not the killer, but we knew that, right? He’s just your bog-standard dickhead. Want me to charge the drug offences, bail him for court?”
“Yes, I’m too pissed off to think straight. Despite you telling me it wasn’t him, I still had hope.”
“We’re doing ok, we’ll get there. Ok, we’ll charge him in an hour or so but first let’s speak to April and Fleur again; there’s something outstanding — they looked so afraid. They’re also a link to Violet and Ruby, so we could definitely use this time to speak to them without Damon knowing.”
Isobel phoned the day centre and spoke to the manager in charge, determining that both April and Fleur were currently in the yard and that they could use one of their offices to take a statement. With a little persuasion, Isobel got the go-ahead to use Damon’s office — in her experience as an interviewing officer, familiarity often resulted in disclosure.
Isobel herded them to Damon’s office, flicking on the temperamental strip light. It flickered and buzzed into life before turning off again. April and Fleur sat quietly in the corner, flinching as Isobel swiped at the light in a futile attempt to make it work.
“For fuck’s sake! Fleur, could you grab hold of the bottom of this chair for me? I need to climb on it and don’t want to roll away.” Isobel pulled Damon’s wheeled office chair over and, with Fleur’s help, reached a level at which she could remove the cover of the strip light. The bulb was slightly out of the fixings at one end, and Isobel breathed a sigh of relief as it quickly came back to life. As she went to step off the chair, something caught her eye — there was a small hole in the ceiling next to the strip light. “Is there anything above this room?” April and Fleur shrugged in unison.
“An attic, maybe?” April replied. “I’ve never been up there.”
“Hmm. Ok.” Isobel peered into the hole. “There’s a light flashing up there. Looks like some sort of recording device. Tell me what went on in this office, please.” Isobel dismounted the chair, sending a quick text to Dominic to request he came over with an officer to investigate the upstairs of the building.
April and Fleur looked at each other, both taking deep, wobbly breaths before Fleur spoke up. “Ok, so how much trouble will we get into for, you know, the drugs and that? The prostitution?”
“None. I have clearance. I’m here to protect you. Now, please tell me everything that has happened in this room.”
April stood up, pointing to a stained carpet tile. “That’s from the time he punched me and broke my nose. The stain is my blood.” She walked to the desk. “Those scratch marks on his desk? My fingernails. Every time he forced me to bend over and take what’s coming, I scratched the desk. I was hoping to scratch my name in it, eventually. Leave some kind of reminder for him.”
“Ok, so I’m a little confused. Am I right you are both sex workers? No judgement, I just need to clarify a few things.”
“That’s right. But that doesn’t mean we want to have sex with everyone, does it? And he wants it without a condom and I can’t stand him, I really can’t.” April shudders. “We have the right to say no, just like everyone else. But he either forces us to, then gives us drugs or, when we’re withdrawing, he’ll offer us drugs, bring us to this room and lock them in the drawer until we’ve done what he wants us to. Fleur, you’ve got to tell her what he did to you.”
Fleur looked down at the floor.
“Fleur, please. She can’t help us if you don’t.”
“I’m ashamed. I’ve never felt so ashamed. You promised it would be a secret.”
“A secret will not get the pervert sent down, is it?”
“One day,” Fleur began, lifting her hands to show they were visibly shaking. “One day, I was withdrawing so bad. It was awful. I was so sick and had the runs and was sitting in the day centre, running to the toilet every ten minutes. I was shaking, sweating. I couldn’t see properly and he grabbed my hand and said he’d fix me, and so I followed. I knew he’d want sex and that he was rough, but nothing could have made me feel more ill than I did already and so, you know, I followed. We went to his office, and he got the drugs out from under the floorboard with the new carpet tile on top, and he showed me them and I was crying, I was so desperate. And he locked them in his drawer and he showed me the key —”
“Go on.”
“I had terrible cramps, I was going to be sick and shit myself and he got a carrier bag out of the cupboard and I puked in it and then I asked to leave to go to the toilet and he laughed.” Fleur swallowed hard. “So I was bent over doubled up in pain and he locked the door and stood behind me and pulled my skirt up and he… he… pushed me to the desk so I was kind of bent over it and he… he was having sex with me, and I was crying and… that’s not even the worst bit. I can’t.”
“You can. We can use this to get him sent to prison, Fleur. He will be out of your life for good.”
“I was still over the desk and he grabbed my hands and tied them behind me and he pulled me up so I was standing and put his hands round my throat and he squeezed hard, whispering that if
I needed drugs he would give me drugs and all I had to do was nod. I wanted it to be over so I nodded and that’s when he dropped the key in the bag of sick, did his trousers up and told me to find the key. He locked me in the room for about an hour and I had to dig for the key with my tongue and teeth in my own puke.”
“What happened then?”
“When he came back I had the key in my mouth. I couldn’t open the drawer as he’d tied my hands, so he took the key and got the drugs out, calling me a good girl as though I was a dog and then he untied me so I could take them. I was covered in sick and shit and he has brought some wipes back with him and he cleaned me up. I don’t remember much, but he was gentle, as though he cared. Then he sent me back to the day centre, and I tried to forget it had ever happened. It was only when April told me about her nose and the desk that I admitted what he had done to me. I need him gone. I just can’t be alive all the time he can do that shit to me; I’d rather die than see him again.”
Isobel and Dominic walked April and Fleur back to the day centre, asking one of the staff members to monitor them.
Dominic shook his head in disbelief. “Wow, I think I’ve heard it all now.”
“We need to get Damon charged with assault. Let’s give the guys a call, see what they found in the roof space.”
“They found a camera in the roof space,” Isobel reported back to Dominic. “It’s a decent one with a Wi-Fi connection to an unknown device, so we’re going to need to head back to custody to grab the drawer key from Damon’s possessions and spin his office for the device.”
“Let’s do it.”
Isobel headed down to custody, relieved to see Sergeant Robbins on duty — she was becoming tired of explaining herself to everyone, and his familiarity was a welcome break from this. The sergeant nodded as Isobel told him what she needed and deftly removed the tag from Damon’s property bag, handing Isobel a bunch of keys.
“How you getting on, then?” he asked as she logged into the computer next to him to record that she was removing property from a locker.
Isobel shrugged. “Ok, I suppose. Just getting a warrant to nail down a couple offences, but he’s not our murderer.”
“Has Shorestone been kind to you? I know the town can be twitchy when something big happens, and you have definitely set a few tongues wagging.”
Isobel looked up. “I seem to get that reaction, but really my life isn’t at all interesting. Tell the gossips to mind their own business.”
Sergeant Robbins looked fondly over at Isobel. “I always do.”
Isobel thanked the sergeant and ran back up the stairs to find Dominic. He was proudly clutching a new warrant that gave them permission to search Damon's entire office, including cupboards, so they called the instructions through to the officers, who were told to pull up the flooring in the office, leaving the desk for when Dominic and Isobel returned.
Dominic pulled an iPad from the top drawer, holding it triumphantly above his head. “Give it here,” said Isobel, grabbing it and punching in the same passcode Damon had earlier given to the custody sergeant to allow access to his phone. “Bingo. He uses the same code for all his devices,” Isobel said as the screen unlocked. She scrolled down, clicking on a SurveyCamera app, which presented her with files and folders spanning back twelve months. Sighing, she began the laborious task of scrolling through the contents, pausing when she saw a folder with a familiar date. Her stomach flipped as she flicked through the hours until she saw movement — it was 3 pm, a time at which there was no need for Damon to be in work and yet there he was, walking into the office, taking off his coat, feeling under the desk drawer for the key and putting it in his pocket. He then left the office, and Isobel forwarded through the footage until the door reopened. This time, he had a female with him who looked remarkably like Violet Taylor. On this date, the shelter’s records had shown that both Violet and Damon were present in the centre, and this was soon confirmed when Violet looked up and around, her face in unobstructed view of the camera. “Such great quality images,” Isobel muttered. “Damon is going to regret buying such a decent camera.”
Nothing could prepare Isobel for what happened next. Damon, holding what was clearly a baggie of drugs above his head, pushing hard on the top of Violet’s head until she fell to her knees. She was looking up towards him in desperation while he motioned for her to beg, holding the bag lower as she panted with her tongue out. Damon then slapped and punched her face, kicking her hard in the ribs and stomach, forcing her to double over. “That explains her injuries,” Isobel said out loud. “Dominic, come and look at this. Remember those injuries found during Violet’s PM? Partially healed breaks in her ribs and nose, old bruising?”
Dominic walked over to the desk, leaning over Isobel’s shoulder to get a view of the iPad. She swiped the footage back thirty-seconds to show Dominic the assault.
He squeezed Isobel’s shoulder. “Nice work. That all adds up perfectly.”
They continued watching the footage for another minute, observing Damon as he took the baggie and put it back in his drawer, gesturing for Violet, who was clutching her ribs, to follow him over to the desk. Isobel clicked off the iPad — she had seen enough and would pass the device over to forensics who could pull what they needed for prosecution.
Damon Harker would go down for a long time, but there was still a killer to catch. Isobel rubbed her eyes and laid her head on her desk, Dominic standing close by.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Shorestone Trader Inn was almost exactly the same as Isobel remembered from her last visit, over two decades ago. The red patterned carpet that swirled its intricate details halfway up the wall, the painted radiators, the dark wood bar, even the locals, standing in the places they had stood twenty years ago, frozen in time and habit.
Isobel stood at the doorway, trying to locate a member of bar staff she didn’t recognise from the old days, too tired to answer questions or indulge in a superficial conversation. She caught the eye of a young girl, perhaps 18-years-old, probably related to Mark Shepherd, the landlord of the pub. Isobel approached the girl. “Large vodka and coke, please.”
“Sure, ice?”
“Yes, are you Mark’s daughter?”
“I am,” the girl replied pleasantly. “Who’s asking?”
“Isobel Hester.”
“Oh.” She handed Isobel her drink and turned away, seemingly unable to continue the conversation.
She took her drink and sat in the corner of the pub, which felt comfortingly dark and anonymous. There were photographs of the locals on the walls, always smiling, always holding a pint and a dart. Isobel reached up and traced the contour lines of a face she recognised. “Archie,” she whispered, taking in the angular jaw, the wide eyes, the excitement in her nine-year-old brother’s face, standing proudly next to her father, who was holding a trophy aloft having just won the pub darts championship. “I miss you, Arch.”
She turned her attention back to her vodka and coke, tuning her ears into the low hum of voices around her. She felt lucky to have so far remained unrecognised, but as she sipped her drink, caught a snippet of conversation between two women on a table close by.
“… brother died… dealer… heroin —”
Isobel leaned a little over to the left and strained her ears, hoping to hear more of the conversation between the two women.
“Hester, that’s her name. Isobel Hester. Caused a riot when she left; fucked half the town and abandoned her newborn kid. I think it was Ollie who dealt the heroin, you know. Ollie, weird kid?”
“Ollie? Seriously? Yeah, a weird one, that’s for sure. Sorted out now though, right? Job, steady income? A bit of a loner, by all accounts, but then so would I be if I’d killed a kid.”
“Mind you, Ollie wasn’t to know the kid would take it all at once, right? It’s not like there’s a duty of care amongst dealers and users.”
They both snorted with laughter.
“Ha, yeah. Funny, isn’t it? Anyway, you off to b
ingo tomorrow? Biggest jackpot yet and I’ve paid off the washing machine so can get us both an extra card.”
Isobel stood up and headed over to the two women to interrupt their gossiping, but felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Iz?”
Isobel spun round to face Mark. He looked like an old man now; the passing years combined with too much booze and a few too many cigars had taken their toll on him, the highly esteemed landlord of the local pub, totally, inexplicably and practically illegally in love with sixteen-year-old Isobel all those years ago. Isobel shuddered at the memory. But she was here to get details and not in a position to confront Mark about his past behaviour.
“Want to come through? Ellie, my daughter, can hold the bar.”
Isobel nodded, breathing deeply to calm herself, following Mark as he picked up a bottle of whisky and headed out to the back room of the pub. The room was barely used unless an event was on, usually a wedding reception or wake, both carrying the same drunken vibe and almost indistinguishable from the other, except for the genre of music playlist. The room smelled musty and stagnant, as though nobody had moved within it for decades, and Isobel resisted the urge to waft her arms through the stale air to get it moving, instead perching on a high, wobbly bar stool. Still breathing deeply, her heart thumping as though she had run a 20K, she turned to Mark.
“Who are those women?”
Mark rubbed his temples as though deeply considering how his next words could shape the future. “They are gossips, nothing more, nothing less. Don’t mind a word they say, love. What brings you back here, anyway? I thought Shorestone had seen the back of you.”
