by JJ Marsh
“Five? Ten? Why don’t you park yourself? She’ll be as quick as poss. Sure you don’t want anything? Just get myself an espresso. Back in a flash.”
What a well-chosen expression.
Evidently an insensitive fool who could only converse in txt-spk. One ought not to judge on appearances, but he looked just the type to suffer from foot-in-mouth.
This was altogether a very poor start. Beatrice withdrew her case notes, pulled out a pen and practised variations on a displeased expression. Her eyes scanned the display board to her right, taking in the map, featuring locations of the women who’d reported incidents, and the identikit image of this shadowy lurker which gave them precious little. He looked like ‘some bloke’. Her annoyance diminished and her interest grew.
Who is he? What on earth makes these vile men expose their genitalia to strangers? Why do that to solitary females in darkened pockets of the city? They must know how they frighten their victims, how they instil a fear of the streets in these poor women. Throwing an ugly shadow over their lives, for what? What possible satisfaction could this filthy little toe-rag get from rubbing himself in front of barely-awake cleaners, harassed teachers, foreign students and coffee-shop workers, whose lives were hard enough? Beatrice tried to imagine the sexual frustration behind the act. The man deliberately picks on the vulnerable, those whose resources are low. He knows. None of the recipients of his performance have been strong, confident women who might laugh in his face, give chase or fight back. He is an awkward individual, with a conviction that he must be seen, even if he has to force it. Weak and ignored in his everyday life, he finds another way of raising his profile.
The door burst open, making Beatrice jump. The tall woman reaching for her hand looked completely unfamiliar. Short peroxide spikes, a white shirt-dress and court shoes reminded Beatrice of the 1980s for the second time in a week.
“Beatrice! You’ve been waiting ages. I am so sorry!”
“Virginia Lowe?”
“Yep, that’s me. We have met before. You don’t remember?” she asked, in evident disbelief.
“Of course I remember. But I wouldn’t have recognised you.”
“Oh, the hair! Yes, I had the Veronica Lake stuff hacked off two years ago. Going grey, you see. So bleach and hair gel are back in my bathroom cabinet, after an absence of twenty years. Did no one get you a coffee?”
“Everyone offered, but I’ve had quite enough, thank you.”
Virginia sat opposite and looked directly at Beatrice. She’d aged a little since their last meeting; her face was somewhat fuller and noticeable lines scored her forehead, yet she still made quite an impact. Her blue eyes were sincere.
“Of course. You’ve been waiting half an hour. Apologies. We had an extended briefing this morning. Amongst other things, it looks like our flashing friend has been at it again. Look, Beatrice, this is a shitty way to start and I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Honestly, it wasn’t deliberate. So, let’s waste no more time and get down to business.”
Her open approach spiked Beatrice’s hostile guns. “Fair enough. I know how these things are. But I admit I’m impatient to get started.”
“Me too. As it stands, this is a preventative exercise. There’s a serious danger of it becoming a sex offence if we don’t move quickly. He took one step closer last night ...”
The door opened and the rugby player returned.
“You’re here! Brought you a coffee. DI Stubbs didn’t want anything. Can I do anything else for you, ladies?”
Beatrice watched the transformation in awe. Virginia’s movements became languid and slow and she looked sideways at him. Her voice dropped as she held out her hand for the paper cup with a lip-parted smile. “That’s very sweet of you, Ty. But I think Beatrice and I are just fine for now.”
The look that passed between the beefy suit and his boss made Beatrice thoroughly uncomfortable. She recalled the same feeling in a hotel room once, when flicking through TV channels, she’d stumbled upon something involving moans, slapping flesh and pinkish close-ups.
The lump retreated with an expression just short of a leer. Beatrice’s hackles rose. But after the door closed, Virginia snapped back to business like an elastic band.
“The file I gave Hamilton contains all the details on incidents so far. But last night, we think he did it again. Apparently, a student at the international school in Lennox Road was approached by a man who told her he’d been mugged. She offered to help and asked what had been stolen. His cue, naturally. ‘They took all my clothes!’ He opened his coat and began masturbating. The girl screamed and her friend, who was still some way behind, took off after him. She didn’t even get close, but it must have given him a fright. Two real concerns result from this. One – this is the first time he’s tried it with more than one person. Bad sign. Two – they were leaving a friend’s place.”
“And why’s that another bad sign?” Beatrice asked.
The white-blonde head bent to check the files. “Their friend, Laure Marchant, was the third person to report an incident. Last night’s victims were visiting her flat – she’s a student at the same school. Or at least she was. After what happened yesterday, she’s decided to go back to France. He seems to be following certain women, exposing himself more than once to the same person, or their friends and relatives. He’s not just a flasher, he’s a stalker, and that leads us to the conclusion that sooner or later, he’ll go that much further.”
“Is that how it works?”
“Not always. But repeat offenders are more likely to assault or attempt to rape. This guy’s following the pattern as if he’s read the manual.”
Beatrice turned and considered the map. “Lennox Road. A hop and a skip from Finsbury Park station, as the stone flies. He’s not too adventurous, is he?”
Virginia shook her head, slugged some coffee and moved to the meeting table and display board.
“No, he’s not. On the mapped area, the red dots signify incidents. Nearly all these happened on the park side of the railway tracks, but Marchant’s experience, and that of her colleagues last night, took place the other side. So I need to add one.”
As she bent over her desk to retrieve her stickers, Beatrice noticed that Virginia’s white shirt-dress was made of linen, rendering her underwear clearly visible through the fabric. So clearly that Beatrice saw she favoured those cut-away pants which looked terribly uncomfortable. Surely she must realise that white knickers would show through her dress. Why hadn’t she chosen flesh-coloured? It would be nothing short of churlish to imagine she had done it on purpose.
Virginia stuck the dot onto the map. “Just here. So this pattern tells us he probably lives somewhere between the park and the reservoirs and definitely close to the Tube.”
“And not once has he appeared on CCTV?”
“Nope, he’s not daft. I’ve got Fitch scanning the Lennox Road data as we speak, but so far this guy’s thought it through and made damn sure he’s not on camera.”
“What about the victims? Is there any connection that might hint at how he selects them?” Beatrice asked.
“I can’t see anything, but maybe two heads are better than one. Want to go through the notes together?”
“I think we should.”
They sat side by side at the table and spread the files. Virginia smelt of flowery perfume, and strong coffee. Her nails were perfectly manicured, with long white tips. Beatrice wondered how she managed to type.
“The likelihood is that we know less than half of it.” Virginia leant her face on her hand as she stared at the paperwork, her expression disconsolate.
“I thought that too. It stands to reason that if the number of unreported rapes is huge, those who simply dismiss a flasher must be far greater.”
“And we’ve all dismissed a flasher, right? I know I have. We’re receiving a noticeable number of reports, which means he’s doing more than a noticeable amount of harassment.”
With a mixture of gratitude and a smal
l sense of exclusion, Beatrice realised she’d never been flashed. She opened the details of the first incident.
“Right, it’s time we put a stop to that.”
The bar was already busy with civil servants and off-duty officers as Beatrice pushed open the door of The Speaker. To her relief, Dawn had bagged a table by the window, where late afternoon sunshine spotlit two large glasses of white wine.
“A sight for sore eyes!” Beatrice said, tucking her laptop bag under the table.
Dawn smiled and handed her a glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Beatrice took a sip. “That hits the spot. Thank you.”
“Thank you for meeting me. I told you I’d be a pain in the arse till I settle in.”
Beatrice maintained the pretence that the rendezvous was work-related. “Not at all. As I said on the phone, you can pick my brains whenever you feel the need.”
Dawn gave her a sheepish look. “Tell the truth, I’m more curious about how you got on, working with that predator.”
“I’d never have guessed,” Beatrice laughed. “Actually, it wasn’t too bad. She’s like a split personality. Focused, intelligent and professional, unless there’s a man in the room. Is there such a condition as a pathological flirt?”
“She’s always been that way, apparently. But I heard she turned forty last year, and she recently got married. That’s had no effect?”
“Not so as you’d notice. Colleagues, senior officers, the chap serving pizza in the canteen, she can’t seem to help herself. And they all seem to lap it up.”
“I’m sure they do.” Dawn tore a corner off her beer mat.
An odd need to justify her new colleague prodded Beatrice.
“Maybe it’s her way of coping. We all have strategies for working in a male-dominated environment. Ice queen, one-of-the-lads, ball-breaker, girlie-girl ... Jessica Rabbit could be Virginia’s work persona.”
“I wouldn’t mind betting she’s a rabbit in her free time as well. How about the case?”
“It’s a pre-empt. We have to catch him before he goes any further, which will provide some excellent marketing both for us and them. May even earn us a Tilley Award for crime prevention. ”
Dawn lifted her eyes from the shredded bar mat. “Super. We all know how Virginia enjoys her award ceremonies.”
“You have a grim sense of humour, DI Whittaker. Tell me what happened today on knife crime.”
On her way back from the toilet, Beatrice glanced at her watch. By the time she got home, it would be almost eight and Adrian would be impatient. She ought to get her skates on. She shoved her way through the crowded bar and back to their table. Dawn was gazing out the window with a vague smile.
“What’s tickled you?” Still standing, Beatrice drained her glass.
“Just feeling my age – observing the latest trend in haircuts – what do they think they look like?
“Reminds me, I have a story to tell you. But right now, I must make a move. I’ll buy you a drink on Thursday. Good luck with surveillance tomorrow.” She hooked her handbag onto her shoulder and reached under the table for her laptop case.
“Thanks. It’ll be a long, boring day, full of Cooper’s bullshit and ... Beatrice? What’s the matter?”
“My computer. It’s not here.”
It took a thorough search, an appeal to the bar staff and a check that none of their neighbours had made an innocent mistake before Beatrice faced facts. From the pub well known as the watering-hole of the Metropolitan Police, from under the feet of two senior detectives, someone had stolen her laptop.
Chapter 8
Amber was still talking. Zahra pressed the button on the pelican crossing, hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and listened. It wasn’t as if she had a choice.
“... asks me if I’ll miss her. So I’m like, I guess so. And she says, is that it? So I’m like, yeah, pretty much. And she goes all quiet and walks off. I mean, whatever.”
“She gets like that.” The beeps signalled they were safe to cross. Zahra kept an eye out for speeding cyclists. “She’ll be back to normal by next week.”
Crossing Green Lanes without incident, they headed for the river. Almost home, and tonight Dad was doing a barbeque. Zahra picked up her pace.
Amber was still talking. “Don’t care if she is or she isn’t. I mean, what is she like? Does she want me crying my eyes out and begging her not to go? As if. I mean, yeah, I’ll miss her, but life goes on, and anyway, it’s not like we’re not linked up. We so totally are.”
Turning onto the river path, they left the noise of the traffic behind. Green verges, daisies and dandelions. You could almost imagine it was the countryside. Nearly home. The only cloud on the horizon was Amber. Her friend’s bitching could really ruin a good day.
Zahra switched subjects. “Aren’t you getting nervous about the show? I think I’m the nervousest I’ve ever been about anything in my whole entire life. But it’s the first time in my whole entire life I’ve ever had a solo.”
“When you’ve had a few solos, you don’t get nervous anymore. You know what? Miss Rice told me I shouldn’t be over-confident. She said a few nerves are good for you. And I thought to myself, what would you know? I mean, if she was any good as a dancer, she’d be doing it. Not teaching it. She gets on my nerves, always going on about her performances. Like, living on past glories, know what I mean?”
The sun sank below the houses and long shadows stretched across the river. The water, sparkly and fresh in sunshine, revealed itself as dark and filthy, littered with beer cans, polystyrene and a floating nappy.
“And anyway, when you’ve rehearsed as much as we have?” Amber went on. “Like. Every. Single. Day? We should be confident. You know what I mean? I’m full of it, I really am. God, I hope you’re not gonna get stage fright, Zahra. That would be SO embarrassing.”
Her words stung. “Of course I won’t. I am totally going to give my best performance ever. If I do mega well, my parents might just think about letting me go to stage school.”
“Stage school! You’re so funny. Whatever. I’m giving it everything I’ve got in case there are any casting agents in the audience. Most def. I mean, next year I’ll be fourteen, and I need to make choices about my career direction.”
They turned the bend in the path. Halfway along the next stretch, a man crouched, looking at the ground.
“Victoria Beckham went to stage school,” Zahra replied, kicking a stone into the water.
“Victoria Beckham also did every audition going. You don’t get anywhere without ambition, Zahra. What’s that bloke doing?”
Zahra looked up. The man peered at the grass and made little kissy noises. He seemed searching for something, although any kind of animal he hoped to find along the canal was bound to be rank. He wore a big black coat which was well tatty; his legs were bare apart from some even tattier trainers and he had a baseball cap pulled down low. As the girls approached, he stood up.
“Hello, girls. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a ferret along here? I’ve lost Ginny, my little furry friend.”
Zahra didn’t want to speak to the bloke. Amber obviously wasn’t bothered.
“A ferret? No. What are you doing out here with a ferret anyway?”
“She comes with me when I go fishing. She normally sleeps round my neck, but she’s wandered off and I can’t find her. I’m getting a bit worried. It’ll be dark soon.”
His words acted as a trigger for Zahra. “Hope you find her. We have to get home. Bye.”
Amber didn’t move.
“Am-ber!” She spoke through clenched teeth and boggled her eyes.
“Zah-ra!” Amber mimicked her. “Let’s help the guy look for his ferret. We’re doing a good deed.”
“No. Ferrets bite. And I want to go home.”
“This one’s tame, love. Had her four years and not so much as a nip.”
Zahra didn’t look at him. “Amber, I’m going. Come on!”
“Bye then.” Amber put her b
ag on the path and began looking along the verges. The man joined her, making the kissy noises again. Zahra’s frustration built. She should just go. It would teach her a lesson. But she couldn’t and it wouldn’t. Leave her friend by the river, with some weirdo? No way. But she wasn’t helping them look for any crappy ferret.
The smell of a barbeque wafted across from the back gardens on the opposite bank. Zahra heard voices, laughter. She was hungry. She wanted to go home. The ferret-friends moved further away from her. Amber was still talking, firing questions at him about the colour, housing arrangements and eating habits of the animal. Zahra frowned. Why did he need that long black coat? If it was warm enough to wear shorts, why did he need a massive great coat over the top? Where was his fishing stuff? He should have a rod, and bait and that. And what did he expect to catch in New River? A nappy? The man stood up.
“Well, thanks for the help, but I think she’s lost.” He put his hands in his pockets and burst into a laugh. “I don’t believe it! Here she is! She was curled up asleep in my pocket all the time!”
Amber’s face broke into a curious grin. “And you didn’t notice?”
“She’s so light. Put your hand in and you can feel. You can stroke her.” He gestured to his coat. There was something funny about his eyes.
Zahra’s whole body flooded with fear. “No! Amber, no!”
Amber glared back at her. “Zahra! Who died and made you boss of me?” She approached the man, who was smiling and holding open his pocket.
“She’s all warm and furry,” he said. “Come and feel. She won’t bite.”
Amber hesitated. Blood pounded in Zahra’s chest. She rushed forward and snatched at Amber’s arm. “We’re going. Now!”
The man’s voice changed. “I don’t think so.”
Shoving Zahra away, he caught Amber’s wrist and tried to force her hand into his pocket.
In her family, Zahra was known as The Screamer. When she was only eighteen months old, her shrill shriek could force both her brothers to flee the room, hands over their ears. At thirteen, her voice was louder, lasted longer and could shatter glass. Landing on her backside beside the river, she let rip.
