by JJ Marsh
Someone banged into a chair. Unmistakeable! The graunching of wooden leg on tile, followed by an intake of breath. The tiny hairs on her scalp rose in fear and anger, as Matthew charged down the stairs, wielding his torch and bellowing.
“Get out of my house, you bastards!”
As they rounded the corner to the kitchen, a figure fled out of the kitchen door, knocking over a chair. He glanced over his shoulder, revealing himself as a frightened young man, rat-faced with a weak chin and the oddest haircut. Short and dark at the front and long at the back with blonde highlights. He looked ridiculous. Like an 80s pop star.
Matthew lurched into a half-hearted pursuit, but Beatrice grabbed his pyjama top. They stood still, panting, as the sound of running footsteps faded away. Although her hands still trembled from the rush of adrenalin, all Beatrice’s fear had evaporated after that glimpse of the intruder’s face.
Matthew locked the door with a wry look. She’d left the key in the lock. All a burglar needed do was break the glass and he was in. How incredibly stupid of her. She righted the chair and checked for losses as she dialled the police for the second time that day. Her handbag and laptop were safely upstairs; their keys, her Kindle, Matthew’s iPod and his mobile still remained on the kitchen table. But the camera had gone.
“Dyfed-Powys Police?”
“Good morning. I’d like to report a burglary. My name is Detective Inspector Beatrice Stubbs.”
Chapter 3
“Good weekend, Beatrice?”
“Not exactly. How was yours?”
Melanie’s face softened. “Oh, it was lovely! We went to Bluewater on Saturday and looked at bridesmaids’ dresses. On Sunday, we went to my mum’s for lunch and finally worked out the guest list. So I spent Monday designing invitations. I am so excited, it feels real now.”
Beatrice smiled at the team’s admin assistant. Melanie was never anything but perennially delighted. A ray of continual sunshine whose whole life was filled with plans, hopes and happiness. Pollyanna of the Yard.
“I imagine it would. It’s only fourteen months away. Shall we have a cup of coffee and you can tell me all about it before I make a start on my emails?”
“You haven’t got time. Hamilton wants a meeting at nine.” Melanie pointed a decorative nail at the whiteboard.
COOPER, RANGARAJAN, STUBBS, WHITTAKER – MTG TUES 9AM SHARP – REALLOCATION OF RESOURCES
Beatrice didn’t like the look of that.
Dawn Whittaker was the only person in the meeting room. Something to be grateful for. Busy composing a text message, Dawn looked up from her mobile and greeted Beatrice with a sad smile. As always, she looked like an abandoned Labrador. Only a few years younger than Beatrice, but saddled with a plethora of personal problems, Dawn’s face had prematurely aged. Despite her worry lines, she had a gentle air one couldn’t help but trust. Her straight grey bob and smart suit should have been intimidating, but her face radiated kindness and sympathy. Small wonder she had achieved such success in her campaign to encourage rape victims to come forward. Dawn was the closest thing on the force Beatrice had to a friend.
“Hello Beatrice. Did you have a fun weekend?”
The graze and bruises on Beatrice’s hip seemed to flare up as a reminder of her ‘fun’ weekend. “Don’t ask. How about yours?”
“Similar. Any idea what this is about?” She stuffed her phone in her bag as Beatrice sat beside her.
“No clue. I’ve been with Cooper and Ranga for the last few weeks. Maybe you’re the extra pair of hands we need for the knife crime op?” Like every other officer involved, she refused to call it by its formal title.
The door opened and DS Cooper entered, followed by DS Rangarajan. They both raised eyebrows but said nothing – a tacit signal to indicate the presence of an authority figure. Hamilton strode in behind them, closed the door and began the meeting while walking to his seat.
“Good morning everyone, hope you’re all refreshed after the Bank Holiday. Thank you for attending so promptly. Situation is, we need to rearrange personnel. Whittaker, taking you off the missing twins case. You’re to join Operation Sheath.”
Dawn seemed lost for words; a state of affairs Russell Cooper had clearly never experienced. He leant his arm over the back of his chair. “Good news, for a change. Thank you, sir.”
Hamilton fixed Cooper with cold eyes. “You will remain a team of three. Stubbs is coming off the team and joining a special project with British Transport Police.”
“But sir!” All four voices rose in protest. Cooper, the loudest and deepest, won.
“Sir, with all due respect, if a female detective is required by BTP, why not Whittaker? It makes no sense to replace Stubbs at this stage. No offence, Dawn.”
“None taken. I agree with you. Is there a reason for this, sir?”
Deep creases appeared between Hamilton’s brows and his voice was low and acidic. “What do you think, Whittaker?”
Dawn looked away and shot a sympathetic glance at Beatrice while Hamilton waited for further protests. Beatrice noted his brick-wall expression and accepted defeat. Any arguments would be wasted. Exactly what she needed after a bloody awful weekend.
Ranga hadn’t yet given up. “Sir, although Whittaker is one of our sharpest minds, it will be time-consuming to bring her up to speed. We have made significant progress on this case and arrested three suspects already. It would be quite a blow to lose Stubbs now.”
Hamilton seemed unmoved. “I’m sure you’ll manage. Incidentally, three arrests in six weeks is not what I call significant progress. Now look here, Stubbs is the right person to work on this transport case for two reasons. First, she has a record of successful collaboration with other agencies. And secondly, her counterpart in this investigation will be Virginia Lowe. So, does anyone require any further explanation?”
Ranga, Dawn and Beatrice dropped their heads in an embarrassed silence. Cooper, who had only been promoted to Scotland Yard a year ago, looked from one to the other in confusion.
Bomb dropped, Hamilton rose from his seat and leant forward on his hands. “Thought not. I suggest you brief Whittaker this morning, so she can work alongside you this afternoon, and be ready to take over as of tomorrow. Stubbs, my office after lunch. Shall we say one o’clock?”
One o’clock was after lunch? He who pays the piper calls the tuna sandwich.
“Yes sir.” She knew she sounded like a sulky schoolgirl.
Hamilton fulfilled his part by giving her a headmasterly stare. “You may as well start by updating Cooper. Good day to you.” He picked up his papers and left the room.
Beatrice ached in sympathy for Dawn. How many times would this come back to haunt her?
Cooper looked across the table at the two women, while Ranga shifted awkwardly beside him. Dawn heaved a huge sigh.
“I’m sure the PBA story even reached as far as West Yorkshire.”
Cooper frowned and shook his head. His puzzlement was genuine, Beatrice could see.
Dawn sighed again. “In 2008, the Police Bravery Awards were held in London, at the Dorchester. Chief Superintendent Davenport was on crutches after his knee operation. So he made use of the disabled toilet. As he opened the door, he discovered a man with his pants round his ankles and a woman with her mouth full. The woman was Virginia Lowe. And the man was Ian Whittaker. My husband.”
Cooper winced. “Shit. Sorry.”
Dawn shrugged with her eyebrows. Ranga and Beatrice kept their heads down.
Attempting to recover, Cooper spoke. “Look Dawn, I hadn’t heard about that, but I’m glad you explained. So Hamilton thinks he’s doing you a favour by giving the gig to Stubbs?”
“Doing Lowe a favour, more like. He knows I’d shove her under a Tube.”
Beatrice looked up with a grin. “But you’d make it look like an accident?”
Dawn met her eyes. “Why not? I have the expertise. And so do you, for that matter. Beatrice, we’ve been mates a long time. I can’t exactly offer you
hard cash, but if you could see your way clear to pushing that predatory bitch onto some electric rails, I would consider you a true and loyal friend.”
Ranga laughed and the tension eased. “Shall we get coffee and start the handover? Beatrice, you OK with this?”
“No. But what choice do I have? Hamilton’s right, much as it pains me to say it. And Dawn’s going to be a real asset to you. Will you keep me updated, though? I’ve invested a lot in this operation.”
Dawn patted her shoulder. “Believe me, you’re going to get so much ‘updating’ that you’ll tell me to piss off. By the way, I think you should wear your skirt suit for this assignment.”
“My skirt suit? Why’s that?”
“She’ll have anything in trousers. That’s what they say about Virginia.”
Beatrice grinned and shook her head. “Was ever a woman so unfortunately named?”
One o’clock was an absurd time for a briefing. Instead of lunching with her colleagues in the canteen, she grabbed a sandwich and returned to her desk to complete her paperwork. She hated eating at her desk. So uncivilised. And messy. At one minute to one, she knocked on his open office door. Hamilton gestured to a chair and commenced without pleasantries.
“Yes, awkward business really. Wouldn’t pull you off Operation Sheath otherwise.”
Beatrice knew that was as close as he was likely to get to contrition.
“Fair enough, sir. Needs must. The British Transport Police case?”
Hamilton cleared his throat and shuffled some papers. He looked most uncomfortable. Whatever was the matter with the man?
“Yes, well, it’s all rather unpleasant. Have you heard anything at all in the media about the Finsbury Park Flasher?”
Beatrice gritted her teeth. He was pulling her off a major case involving serious weapons for a dirty old man? “Can’t say I have, sir.”
“Thing is, this chap does a bit more than just exposing himself. He seems to be targeting his victims quite carefully and sometimes threatens or even gives a repeat performance. Psychological profiler fellow says a pattern is emerging. Looks like this man is growing more confident and is highly likely to commit a sexual assault. We have agreed to collaborate with BTP on a preventative exercise. See, Stubbs, this is political. After the Reid case, not to mention that taxi driver, this one needs to be handled correctly. Whittaker would have been the obvious choice. Used to working with victims of sexual aggression, but under the circumstances ...”
“You don’t think this is simply a matter of surveillance, sir?”
“You don’t think this is a matter of Bloody-Stupid-Questions, Stubbs? Would I pull a senior detective off a crucial, not to mention media-friendly, case if it were? No, I do not think it is a matter of surveillance. It is a case for experienced, intelligent minds to analyse and resolve. Hence yourself. Now, please take the case file and study it well. A meeting has been arranged up the road, BTP HQ, tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp. DI Lowe will give you the background.”
“Yes, sir. Am I to be based there?”
“That will be something for you and DI Lowe to decide. This is a joint effort, so should you wish to work here, that is acceptable. Now look here, Stubbs, I hope you will not allow personal feelings to cloud this case. We all make mistakes, and DI Lowe has atoned for her transgression.”
Heat rose to Beatrice’s cheeks. “An official reprimand and missing out on a promotion? Sorry, but I don’t see that as atonement, sir. Not only was DI Whittaker’s marriage wrecked, but she has had to live with the humiliation ever since. She was forced to rehash it again today, for example.”
“Dispense with the dramatics, Stubbs. Whittaker is not on this case. You are. Do you think you will be able to remain impartial?”
“Yes, sir. My professional opinion will not be influenced by my personal view of that woman.”
Hamilton studied her for a moment, exhaled and shook his head. “The case file, if you would. And you’re meeting that woman at nine am sharp tomorrow. Good day to you.”
Beatrice returned the wishes, picked up the file and headed back to her desk. Bloody Hamilton. Bloody flasher. And bloody Virginia bloody Lowe.
Chapter 4
After a long weekend with Matthew, the first few evenings at home always held the lurking chance of an emotional trough. Today was no different. The flat seemed empty, work looked bleak and uninspiring, and she still felt cheated of her relaxing Bank Holiday by the bag-snatching and burglary. Life could be very unfair at times.
In an effort to prevent a self-pitying spiral, she took a trip to Marks and Spencer’s, where she bought far too much food and a bottle of decent Chardonnay. After performing the minimum of household obligations, Beatrice prepared her meal and listened to The Archers while enjoying pasta puttanesca. She was reluctantly dragging out her paperwork when the doorbell rang. She leapt up with relief. Anything to delay the flasher file.
“Hel-lo?”
Adrian’s familiar voice crackled through the intercom. “It’s me. Has The Archers finished?”
“Hello you. Yes, it has. But I have work to do.”
“Can I come up for half an hour? I’ve brought you some wine to replace what I tucked away last night, and also, I’ve had a thought.”
Beatrice beamed and pressed the buzzer. Adrian was a godsend. Yesterday evening, the poor boy had happily listened to her letting off steam about her spoilt weekend, so long as she kept his glass filled. He offered sympathy and outrage as required, invariably on her side.
She opened the door as he arrived on the landing. He bent to kiss her cheek and she felt the lightest graze of stubble, accompanied by a whiff of something fresh and lemony.
“I really will only stay a half hour. I’ve got choir practice at eight-thirty and I need to shower before I go. Here.”
He thrust an Oddbins bag at her.
“Ooh, two bottles. Thank you.”
Adrian hung up his coat. “Don’t just say ‘two bottles’ – look at the label.”
“Sorry. Ooh, two bottles of Chablis Premier Cru Beauroy. Lovely.”
“It is lovely. Very fresh, with complex layers. I want you to save at least one bottle to drink with Matthew. Accompany it with seafood, or cheese. How was work?”
“Vile. Let’s not talk about it. Thank you for the wine. How was your day?”
“Good. Bank Holiday weekends are always a boost for trade. But I spent most of the day pondering your adventure.” He arranged himself on the sofa and looked at her expectantly.
“What? Oh. Would you like a glass of wine, Adrian?”
“Why, that would be marvellous, Beatrice. Thank you. Don’t open the Chablis. You’re bound to have some supermarket tat in the fridge, so I’ll suffer a glass of that.”
Beatrice laughed as she poured him a Chardonnay, already anticipating his wrinkled nose and pained expression. He was awfully handy to know, not just because he ran the local Oddbins, but as a kind, entertaining neighbour. He’d moved in downstairs six years ago and they’d never had a cross word. She returned to the living-room, handed him his glass and settled in the armchair opposite.
“You said you’d had a thought,” she prompted.
He sipped, but did not grimace. “Where is this from?”
“M and S. Don’t start.”
“I’m not. It’s actually drinkable. Unlike that foul brew you plied me with last night. No wonder my head was mush until lunchtime.”
“That may have been more to do with quantity than quality. Now, what did you want to tell me?”
“Yes. You see, I was thinking.” He hitched up his grey trousers and leant forward. Adrian always dressed beautifully. It helped that he was tall, lean and catalogue-man handsome, but he also possessed natural style. His suit today was marl-grey and the black polo-neck beneath framed his strong jaw. He reminded Beatrice of a Crufts champion. Pleasing to the eye, yet highly impractical.
“The maniac who stole your bag. The one who broke in and half-inched the camera.”
“I’m quite sure it was the same man. And I think he was looking for something. Listen, the mugging was just after dawn. What was he doing hanging around at that hour? Hmm? Let’s work backwards. You and Matthew arrive on the beach, take some photographs and climb back up the cliffs. A man suddenly appears from nowhere and races off with your handbag. Why would he do that?”
The same thoughts had occurred to her, and to Matthew, and to the Dyfed Powys police force. But she played Devil’s Advocate, just to see what conclusions Adrian would reach.
“You’re making too much of it. I don’t know what he was doing, but I’m pretty sure the mugging was opportunism.”
Adrian exhaled a scornful huff. “You disappoint me, Detective Inspector Stubbs. Think about it. What were you doing before that punk assaulted you?”
Beatrice smiled at his hardboiled tone. “We were watching the sunrise. Taking photos and nothing else.”
“Exactly. So you take some photographs on the beach. Then, just after the sun comes up, a car happens to drive along the top of the cliff, stopping at the end of the same path you are following. They drop off a hit-man, who steals your bag and tries to push you off the steps. He runs down to the beach with his booty, meets his accomplice in a cave and they search your handbag. But the search is fruitless.” Adrian took a sip of wine and looked intently at Beatrice. His dark eyes were full of drama. “And they still haven’t found what they’re looking for.”
“Adrian ...”
“Wait, I haven’t finished. Despite almost killing an innocent woman, these people refuse to give up and they come back, in the dead of night. Ruthlessly, one of them breaks into your cottage, terrifying the poor woman inside – that’s you – and snatches his prize. At last, he succeeds in obtaining the camera. The evidence.”
She adopted the same cynical tone Matthew always used when she got carried away. “What on earth have you been reading? Firstly, I suffered nothing more than a slight graze. Secondly, I was not terrified. Thirdly, I have no reason to think the burglar was the same man. And even if he was, why would he want Matthew’s camera? It’s nothing special.”
