by JJ Marsh
The sound stopped the man for a second, before he tore open his coat and forced Amber’s hand into his groin. Underneath the coat, he wore a sweatshirt and nothing else. Zahra’s pitch went up.
“Oi!”
On the opposite bank, a man’s blond head appeared over a garden wall. Ferret-man jumped, released Amber and ran back in the direction of Green Lanes. The blond man climbed over the wall, shouting to people behind him. Amber collapsed, sobbing, cradling her arm, but holding her hand at a distance.
Zahra was still screaming.
Chapter 9
As she slammed the front door, Beatrice heard Adrian’s voice coming from his flat.
“About time! I was beginning to think you’d forgotten. Now I hope you haven’t eaten, because I’ve done chicken cacciatore and opened a red to die for.” He appeared in the doorway, wearing a Breton-style striped top with black jeans. He rested his hands on his hips and noticed her expression. “Oh Lord. What’s happened now?”
“Some bastard nicked my laptop.”
Adrian clapped his palms to his cheeks and his jaw dropped. All he needed was a bit of white panstick and he could have passed for a French mime.
“Not the one with the photos on it?”
“I only have one laptop. And it’s police property. The infuriating thing is that whoever stole it cannot possibly use it. It has a security lockdown and will destroy all the data before allowing unauthorised entry.”
“But if all you wanted was to get rid of any images that might be on there, that fact wouldn’t bother you. This cannot be coincidence, Beatrice. Someone wanted to make sure any trace of those pictures disappeared.”
“Yes, I had actually realised that much.”
“See, we should have looked at them last night. We’ve lost them now.” His voice was reproachful.
“Wrong. I told you I’d put them on a memory stick to bring down with me tonight. Which I did. I’ll go and fetch it. I’ll be a few minutes, mind, I have to call Matthew to check he’s OK.”
The chicken was sublime. Rich tomato sauce with garlic and oregano, a generous splash of wine and green peppers at the crunchy stage blended perfectly with the delicate meat. Accompanied by a glass of Portuguese Dão, the meal and the company combined to make Beatrice’s noxious mood recede.
“Whoever stole the laptop was determined to destroy those images, you know. Therefore you should count yourself lucky it was just taken from the pub.” Adrian pointed at her with his fork.
“Yes, you’re right. But it’s so bloody embarrassing, on top of everything else.”
“At least he’s convinced that he’s got the pictures now. So he’ll leave you alone.” He topped up her glass.
“Don’t make gender assumptions. Lazy police work. But what I don’t understand is how they knew those photos were on my machine. I can see how they might get my address – all the identification I possess was in my handbag. God knows, they could have taken impressions of my keys and all sorts. Copied my driving licence, noted my address. I must change the locks and use the safety chain. But how did they know I’d already downloaded the pictures?”
“The only person you’ve seen so far was male, so there’s nothing lazy about that assumption. If he was watching the house, waiting for you to go to bed, he could have seen you. It’s the countryside. You can creep up to a house and even from quite a distance, you’d see if someone was looking at a screen.” Adrian shuddered.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “And he followed me all the way to London, to work and to the pub to get those photographs?”
“Looks that way. Is Matthew all right?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t home. I’ll call again in a minute.” She put down her cutlery, her stomach acidic. She felt a powerful urge to go upstairs, to be alone, but couldn’t be so rude.
“Let’s check the pictures.”
As Adrian set up the program, Beatrice looked out of the window and worried. It really was time Matthew got himself a mobile. Stubborn old Luddite. It was no longer charmingly eccentric, it was a bloody nuisance. She would talk to his daughters; Tanya and Marianne could be forcefully persuasive.
“Beatrice? Most of these photos are of some child.”
“That’s Luke, Matthew’s grandson. The beach ones will be at the end.”
“Thank you, I worked that out for myself. But there are only two of you on the beach.”
Beatrice felt a guilty twinge. “I deleted a few. I didn’t look my best.”
“Those were also on the beach?”
“Yes, exactly like the others. I didn’t move, just let Matthew snap away.”
“The only thing in the background is cliff.”
Her mobile rang. Matthew. She sighed into the handset. “Good timing. I called you about half an hour ago and I was just starting to worry. Did you work late?”
“No. Marianne and I attended an exhibition. Queerest thing. This artist friend of hers has some sort of disease and makes pictures out of her own dead skin.”
“How disturbing. Is everything else all right?”
“Absolutely. How’s your hip?” His voice sounded relaxed and believable. But she knew he was practised at disguising his concerns when he didn’t want to worry her.
“Fine. Itches like buggery, which is a sure sign it’s healing. So no problems at your end?” Beatrice was ashamed of her unsubtle probing.
“Nothing to speak of. I just called your flat. Why aren’t you at home? And how was your first day with the Man-Eater?”
“Productive. She’s an interesting individual, but still a complete carnivore. I’m downstairs having dinner with Adrian. Chicken cacciatore with a spectacular Portuguese red.”
“I’m furiously jealous. Mainly because of the wine. Did you thank him for that Toro Termes? What’s his view on the Amarone?”
“Yes, I did. I haven’t asked yet. But all is calm at home?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? Are you all right, Old Thing? You sound a bit off. And you don’t normally call on consecutive nights.”
“No, but neither do we normally get mugged and robbed in one weekend. I’m perfectly well. Just checking up on you. Right, I’d better neglect my host no longer. I shall call you again tomorrow, whether you like it or not.”
“I like it. It’s unusual for you to make a fuss. I adore the attention. Give my best to Adrian and wish him luck with Saturday’s Cowboy Camp. Have a good week, my love.”
“You too. Bye-bye.”
Adrian did not look up from the screen as she joined him.
“Matthew said to thank you for the Spanish red. We had it with marinated kebabs.”
“My pleasure. And when you next speak, do thank him for the Alsace Pinot Blanc. He was right about the asparagus. I’m saving the Amarone for the right occasion.”
“Whilst we’re on the subject, you two can stop sending each other bottles via me. I feel like a wine mule. Have we found anything yet?”
“I’m still refining.” He hesitated. “Beatrice, this is none of my business, but I’d say there was an omission in that conversation.”
“You’re quite right. It is absolutely none of your business.”
“If someone I loved was robbed, especially for the third time in a week, I’d want to know about it.”
Stress levels and insecurities unnaturally high, Beatrice was in no mood to be lectured. Her patience snapped. “Firstly, that’s how you feel. It has no bearing here. Secondly, Matthew lives in Devon. The only thing he can do at that distance is worry. Thirdly, I will tell him next weekend, when I can look him in the eyes and reassure him. And explain to him how, thanks to my protective, concerned and slightly interfering downstairs neighbour, I feel safe as trousers.”
Adrian clicked the mouse and turned to face her. “It’s finished. I’m sorry. Seriously, I am. I really should keep my nose out and I apologise. I think we just had our first row. Perhaps we should have a toast?”
“Hardly a row. Yes, we probably should. Cheers.
I’m very grateful to you.”
“Cheers. I’m happy to help. Makes me feel useful. Shall we look?”
Nothing.
In the background: rocks, cliff, and sand.
In the foreground: Beatrice, looking every bit as grim as she remembered. She replayed the beach scene in her mind. Sunrise, seagulls, rushing waves, sandy toes, wind and wild hair. She shook her head and looked at Adrian.
“I’m being particularly dense. Of course it’s not on the camera. I took a couple of pictures of him from the opposite direction, on my phone.”
Adrian’s eyes widened and he rubbed his hands together. “Come, detective, we have work to do.”
“Yes, you’re right. But do you think we could do all the refining business tomorrow? I’m awfully tired and there’s really no rush.”
“Up to you. At least let me download the pictures so I can make a start.”
Beatrice fetched her handbag. “You see, there’s no way I can deal with this while working the London Transport thing. I need to get back to the Met. What I have to do is get upstairs, boot up my old computer and write a report which will get me off this flasher. Maybe then I can concentrate on suspicious happenings on a Welsh beach. Tomorrow is going to be another difficult day.”
“And tomorrow is going to be another exciting evening. I’ll have everything ready for you and by bedtime we’ll have hammered out a theory. I’ll cook.”
“No, you won’t. And nor will I. But I’ll pick up something suitably sophisticated for us on the way home.”
Adrian raised his eyebrows. “I know your definition of sophisticated. But what the hell, it’s been ages since I had fish and chips. Please may I have your mobile now?”
Beatrice sighed and handed it over. “You have all the qualities of an excellent police officer. Tenacity, enthusiasm and bloody-mindedness. Have you never thought about joining the force?”
Adrian was busy umbilically attaching the phone to the computer, but gave her a superior smile.
“I know it’s a gay cliché to fancy men in uniform, but it’s just not me. The outfit puts me right off, especially with all those accessories. Do you want to check there are no embarrassing shots before I download?”
“No, go ahead. When taking embarrassing shots, I prefer a camera. What do you mean by accessories?”
“Hmm? Oh, you know, handcuffs, truncheons, great ugly walkie-talkies. I couldn’t be seen in public dressed like that. Imagine if someone saw me! I’d feel like a low-rent strip-o-gram and never go out again. There! All done.”
Shaking her head and smiling, Beatrice took her phone, thanked him for dinner and trudged up the stairs, humming Dedicated Follower of Fashion. As she unlocked the front door, her mobile rang.
“Hello Virginia?”
“Hi Beatrice, sorry to disturb you so late, but I thought you’d like to know. He’s done it again.”
Adrian sipped at his Dão and brought the screen back to life with a touch of the mouse. Matthew’s hair looked absurd. But much more importantly, the background contained more than beach, cliffs and gulls. A boat.
He zoomed in. Despite the poor definition, he could determine that the boat was dark blue, and the two figures heading up the beach were dressed in black. Both carried some sort of package. It reminded him of something. He zoomed again, but the quality was too poor to make anything out. He clicked on the second shot.
The detail behind Matthew’s clownish coiffure revealed the two disembarkers heading towards a solitary figure, standing up the beach. The wind had messed with her hair too, whipping it into a streamer behind her. No features were discernible, but it was unquestionably a female. This was evidence!
Adrian clasped his hands together and glanced at the phone. Beatrice had been fidgety, stressed and tense all evening. Instinct told him she would not be pleased to have him disturb her now, while she was working and he was full of excitement. It could wait till tomorrow night.
He studied the photographs again. No doubt about it. Something was definitely going on and Beatrice had visual proof. He wondered if they would ever have noticed the backdrop to Matthew’s comedy hair pictures if these shady characters hadn’t been so hell-bent on getting rid of the images. He sat back with a satisfied smile. Fabulous! Detecting was so much more fun than watching Grand Designs.
Chapter 10
“Stubbs, you are deliberately wasting my time. This is not a football match in which I can substitute players at will.” Hamilton’s frown deepened to such an extent one could have played noughts and crosses on his forehead. “I cannot change personnel one day and reverse my decision the next without making either or both of us appear a total arse.”
“My point, sir, is an extension of your decision. You sent a senior detective to assess the importance of the case. I delivered a report to you, indicating my view. Which is ...”
“I heard you the first time. And I’ve read your report. My answer remains unchanged. I thought I had made it clear at your first briefing – this case is about much more than getting a dirty old man off the streets. It’s vital proactive police cooperation to promote a positive image of the force, in the face of media hostility. Following up claims of harassment is insufficient. Taking rape victims seriously is not enough. The IPCC’s accusation of sustained failure regarding serial sex offenders can only be countered by an exercise such as this.”
“But if someone else investigates the indecent exposures, such as Detective Sergeant Reynolds, we can achieve a double media coup with knife crime. All I am asking ...”
“We’re failing women, Stubbs. And if you, as one of the party, will not stump up by putting personal concerns aside, my belief is beggared. Frankly, after yesterday’s events, rather than trying to persuade me to send someone junior, you need to change up a gear with your sexual harasser.”
“Sir, if I can simply explain my reasoning ...”
“I have heard more than enough. And can I remind you, this is supposed to be a preventative exercise, id est, catching the man before he goes too far. As far as I am concerned, what he did to those little girls yesterday means he already has. Pull your finger out, Stubbs. Have your phone routed to BTP HQ and make sure the loss of your machine is properly reported. Data protection, and so on. Good day to you.”
Kicking cabinets in the ladies’ toilet at Transport for London did little to calm Beatrice’s anger, and merely hurt her foot. She leant against the sink and steamed, cursing Hamilton with every malign expression she could conjure. The door opened.
“Back already? I thought we wouldn’t see you till coffee break.” Virginia wore a pale blue dress, modestly cut below the knee, with a matching jacket. The duck-egg shade accentuated the colour of her eyes. Her heels were low and her legs were tanned and bare. She looked lovely, which irritated Beatrice still further.
“I overestimated my reporting time back at Scotland Yard. But I’m here now. Do you want to get some coffee and discuss the latest incident?”
“We can do better than that. I’ve spoken to the Family Centre and got permission to observe the interviews with those two girls this morning. Facilitators are going to chat to them and elicit statements, while we watch and see if we can glean anything from their stories. If we get over there now, we can brief the facilitators first. Are you fit? Or do you want a bit more time to abuse the furniture?”
Beatrice spotted the dark smudges against the cupboard door. “Come on, let’s go. But I’d better come back later. I’m not leaving that for the cleaners.”
Virginia gave an understanding smile. “Believe me, it won’t be the first time they’ve removed shoe leather from those cabinets. I once fractured a toe.”
The Family Centre on Piccadilly reminded Beatrice of a doctor’s surgery. Cheerful, welcoming entrance, all pastel colours, pine and glass. After announcing themselves at reception, they waited in the vestibule. Neither of them wished to join the pale faces and hollow eyes in the waiting-room. A woman strode towards them, with tumbling red hair, je
ans and an outstretched hand. A face familiar with smiles.
“Hello, I’m Doctor Maggie Howard, sorry to keep you. Who’s low?”
Beatrice stared. “Sorry?”
The redhead gurgled with laughter.
“That didn’t come out right. I’m meeting a Detective Stubbs and a Detective Lowe. I just wondered which was which.”
Virginia offered her hand. “I’m Virginia Lowe, of British Transport Police. My colleague is Beatrice Stubbs, from the Met. Pleased to meet you, Doctor Howard.”
Beatrice noted Virginia’s use of first names and the fact she didn’t correct the doctor’s omission of the word ‘inspector’ in their titles. She understood. In such an environment, a friendly atmosphere took precedence over protocol. The doctor shook their hands. Her grip was firm, but her skin was soft and she smelt vaguely of aniseed. “Likewise. And please call me Maggie. We have time for a chat before our interviewees arrive. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
Beatrice chose to observe the interview with Zahra Esfahani, while Virginia opted to watch Amber Clarke, who had suffered the physical assault. Sitting in the darkness, behind the one-way mirror, Beatrice had the impression she was almost in the room with Maggie and Zahra. They sat in two adjacent armchairs, as if it were a cosy lounge, thus lessening the pressure of eye contact. Magazines, toys and games were scattered over the coffee table in front of them. The girl had the typical coltish proportions of a thirteen-year-old. Skinny denim-clad legs, a purple T-shirt with a Pineapple Dance logo across the front and white leather ballet flats. She wore her hair in a high ponytail. Her bone structure would serve her well in the future, as would her large black-brown eyes, which she occasionally flicked upward from the floor.
Maggie Howard’s technique was awe-inspiring. She managed to create an atmosphere of near-complicity in their first few exchanges, like a favourite aunt. Fascinated by the delicate process of gaining reliable testimony from a child, Beatrice noted the pattern. Closed question, open question, sympathetic comment, closed question, subjective question, positive reinforcement, expression of validation.
