by JJ Marsh
“So you were coming home from rehearsals. Do you rehearse every evening, Zahra?”
“Yeah. For our performance.”
“Yes, your performance. What’s the show about?”
“It’s, like, modern dance? Ensemble and solo pieces on the theme of ‘The Elements’. It opens Friday night.”
“I’ll bet you’re getting butterflies! I would be!”
A shy smile. “I am a bit.”
“You and Amber live close to each other, don’t you?”
“Same street. So we always walk home together.”
“When you walked home yesterday, what was different to usual?”
She thought for a moment and shrugged. “Nothing. Amber was moaning, as usual. The river was dirty, as usual. The only different thing was that perve on the path.” The girl’s voice darkened and her fingers fiddled with the woven bracelet on her left wrist.
“OK. That’s great. You’re doing very well, Zahra. I have a feeling you could be a very helpful witness.”
Despite her invisibility, Beatrice nodded in agreement. In the first thirty seconds, she’d already decided the teenager was bright and reliable.
As if Maggie sensed her approval, she continued. “The whole police force is so pleased that you and Amber came forward. Without people like you, we’d have a much harder job to catch him. But with your testimonies, I think we’ve got a better chance.”
The girl looked down, but tried to smile.
Maggie got to the point. “Now, can you tell me, in your own words, exactly what happened from the moment you first saw the man? Take your time, and I’d like you to use these rag dolls to demonstrate. Just to help me understand who was where and so on.”
Beatrice found herself nodding again. By using the harmless-looking dolls, Zahra could avoid using words that might embarrass her. Showing was easier than telling, and Maggie made it sound as if it were for her own benefit. Zahra’s shaky but coherent description of the encounter made Beatrice thoroughly uncomfortable, building a sense of dread. Maggie asked frequent open questions on his accent and appearance, encouraging the girl to make comparisons to celebrities Beatrice had never heard of. When Zahra manipulated the dolls to show exactly what he’d done to Amber, a nauseous disgust washed over Beatrice. Followed by a swell of anger. Her toes and fists clenched, and for the first time, she really wanted this filthy bastard off the streets. Zahra put down the dolls and seemed to curl into herself.
Beatrice wanted to give the child a hug, but Maggie made no move to touch her. Of course not. Exactly the wrong thing under the circumstances. Beatrice’s admiration for Maggie’s professionalism rose still higher. It must be the most distressing work, dealing with these frightened victims of assault and abuse, coaxing details from damaged young people. Although Beatrice knew she could never do such a job, she was grateful for people who could. Softening her voice, Maggie began asking questions about Zahra’s role and costumes for her show. Gradually, she pulled it around to a description of their assailant.
“Sounds gorgeous. I can almost see that dress. You’re very good on details, Zahra, I’ll say that. Something else I meant to ask: you mentioned the man’s ‘skanky trainers’. Can you give me any more details about the sports shoes he was wearing?”
Zahra’s enthusiasm faded, but she gave a nod of comprehension. “They were just old, you know. Grey and skanky-looking. I couldn’t see any logo. I thought it was weird, wearing a big coat and trainers with no socks.”
“No socks?”
“I couldn’t see any. But I didn’t look at him for long, you know.”
“No, of course you didn’t. I always find it amazing, though, how people can take in the smallest details in a quick glance. The human mind is incredible. Younger people tend to have even better recollection, in my experience. OK, Zahra, you spotted the fact that his trainers were old and he wasn’t wearing socks. What about his sweatshirt, can you picture the colour?”
The girl flushed and shook her head. No, that was natural. When he opened his coat, her eyes would be drawn down, not up.
“Fair enough, I understand. Now, last thing, you said he wore a baseball cap. I don’t suppose you’d remember the colour.”
The girl cocked her head to one side, thoughtful. “It was dark, maybe black or navy blue, and it had writing on the peak. Well, not writing you can read, but ...” She tailed off.
“Not writing you can read. Maybe it was in another language?”
“No, not another language, but more like symbols.” She closed her eyes and thought. “Like three stripes horizontal, three vertical and so on. A bit like a floor, you know?”
“Hmm. If you saw this man again, Zahra, do you think you’d recognise him?”
“Too right. Weird eyes.” Her face paled. “I won’t have to, will I? You won’t make us identify him in a line-up or something?”
“No. As I explained on the way in, you don’t have to do anything. We asked for your help and you’ve given it. When we get this man under arrest, we may ask you to confirm from a photograph. That’s all. Now, I think we should get something to drink and see if Amber has finished. While I pop out, would you do me a favour and see if you can draw those baseball cap symbols for me? Coke, juice, water ...?”
“Water, please.”
Seconds after Maggie closed the door behind her, she entered Beatrice’s observation room with a quick smile.
“She’s good, isn’t she? Just wanted to check before I wrap it up – anything else you need me to ask?”
“I don’t think so. You’ve covered age, accent, physical description and clothes. I just wondered, could you ask her to go further on the ‘weird eyes’?”
“No problem.”
Maggie ducked out and Beatrice stood up to peer at what Zahra was drawing. She could see what the girl meant. It looked like parquet flooring; tiles of three grooves, one horizontal, the next vertical. She went on to sketch the baseball cap, thereby indicating exactly where the symbols were, and made a note on colour, before Maggie returned with two tumblers.
“That’s fantastic, Zahra, thanks. Here’s your water. What happens next is I’m going to write up our chat from the recording. Then I’d like you to check it, make sure I didn’t get anything wrong, before we give it to the police. Now, do you have any questions you’d like to ask about all this?”
Zahra didn’t drink but lifted her eyes to Maggie. “Do you think they’ll catch him soon? The papers say he often comes back again.”
“That’s an exaggeration. You know what the papers are like. Plus we’ve asked your area community officers and neighbourhood watch to be particularly attentive for the next few weeks. The police will catch him, yes, and it won’t be long. I can’t make you any promises, but believe me when I say everyone wants to stop him as fast as possible. And you’ve given us a lot to go on.”
The girl nodded. She didn’t look entirely reassured, but it was clear she trusted Maggie to tell her the truth.
“Before we finish up, Zahra, can I ask you one more thing? You said the man on the path had ‘weird eyes’. How do you mean?”
Zahra picked at her bracelet. “I don’t know. Weird. Like, really black, sort of shining. Scary.”
“Right. I see. You’ve been a great help. Thank you. I’d like to talk to your mum and dad now, so shall we go find them?”
Zé’s came out top as the preferred lunch venue. By the time Beatrice paid for her soup and sandwich, Virginia had already plonked her tray outside in the sunshine, slipped off her jacket and was making eye contact with the suit sitting on the adjacent table. Beatrice joined her, with a sigh of release. The tension of the past two hours, extreme concentration and no natural light had affected her mood. She sat back and tilted her face to the sun. Tourists and office workers swarmed along the street, enjoying lunch alfresco.
“The only trouble with this place is they lay the mayo on so thick.” Virginia scraped white goo from her baguette onto a napkin.
“How odd.
That’s one of the reasons I like it.” Beatrice heard the chair behind her scrape back and watched Virginia’s eyes follow the departing suit. She caught Beatrice’s scrutiny and went on the offensive.
“Good. He’s gone. So now we can talk. I’m not sure whether that Clarke girl was any use, to be honest. Little drama queen. Half the time I wasn’t sure if she was acting or seriously distressed.” Virginia took a bite of her undressed sandwich.
“Seeing as she was sexually assaulted yesterday afternoon, I’d lean to the latter,” said Beatrice.
Virginia stopped chewing. “OK. That probably sounded unfair. But the facilitator agreed with me. Plenty of theatrics. I’m guessing your Esfahani was more genuine.”
“Yes. What she witnessed left Zahra deeply shaken. And hearing about it did something to me, too.” Beatrice stirred her soup.
“Aha. I think I can guess what.” Virginia put down her sandwich and wiped her fingers. “She’s the first victim you’ve met. This case became personal for me after interviewing the French girl. You know what I felt? Shame. I was embarrassed and ashamed that this lovely girl couldn’t stay here, learn our language and quietly earn her living without some dirty deviant putting the fear of London into her. And that’s why when I see a ‘performance’ of traumatised, compared to the real thing, it gets on my tits.”
“Fair enough. I didn’t meet Amber Clarke. But as a matter of fact, you’re right. I was going through the motions before, if I’m honest. Now, I want to grab this ugly little bastard and put him away.”
Virginia nodded with enthusiasm. “I want this fucker so badly I’m losing sleep. He’s already preparing his next victim, Beatrice. If he gets that far, we’ve let her down. For all kinds of reasons; professional, political and just from the gender standpoint, we’ve got to nail him. And I reckon we’ll be more efficient if we’re on the same side.”
Her cool blue eyes were intense. Beatrice put down her spoon and held out her hand.
“We’re on the same side.”
They shook, exchanged a smile and returned to their lunch.
Virginia took a sip of juice. “I thought we could prepare tomorrow’s briefing when we get back. I really want to whack them with how important this is. I’m bringing in that psychological profiler.”
“Good idea, but I have a medical appointment at two, so I may not be back till around four.” Beatrice kept her expression open.
“Oh. Sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope?”
“No, no. Just a check-up. Shall we say four o’clock and bash out a plan?”
“Fine. I’ll add the data from the girls’ interviews and crosscheck. Did yours give us much?”
Beatrice felt a dual pull of relief and guilt at Virginia’s blithe acceptance, but pressed on. Mind on the job.
“Zahra said he had ‘weird eyes; black, shining and scary’. I’m thinking drugs.”
Virginia tore off a piece of baguette and considered. “Could be. But in my experience, drug users are sloppy. This guy seems meticulous. I suppose it could be poppers, to elevate the sexual high.”
“Did you get anything useful from Amber at all?”
“Not exactly. She said he smelt. Bad B.O. apparently. But as for description, useless.”
Beatrice tilted her head. “That’s got potential. We should put that in the profile mix. I got lots of detail on appearance and a picture of a logo he had on his hat.” Beatrice reached into her pocket for Zahra’s drawing. Since the robbery at The Speaker, she kept things close.
Virginia pursed her lips. “Don’t recognise it. But we can run some checks. How’s your soup?”
“Cold,” Beatrice said, taking a spoonful.
“Sorry. We should eat first and talk later.”
“No, it’s supposed to be.”
“Cold soup?”
“Gazpacho.”
“Bless you!”
Beatrice let out a belly-laugh, attracting amused attention from passers-by. Despite all her best efforts, she rather liked Virginia Lowe.
Chapter 11
“James, I’m sorry I’m late. Bloody hold-up on the Piccadilly line.”
“No need for apologies. That is London transport. But we will still have to finish on time, I hope you understand?”
“Of course.” Beatrice flopped into the armchair and dragged a bottle of water from her bag.” I don’t think we’ll need the full hour today, anyway. Not much to tell.”
“Well, let’s wait and see. Shall we begin with practicalities, or is there a particular issue you would like to work on?”
He gave a faint smile, as James often did, lulling one into a feeling of unconditional support. His short grey hair shone blond in the sunlight and his skin had a post-holiday glow. White gauze curtains softened the view of the opposite office block, the parquet floor and cream rugs gave an impression of cleanliness and peace. The room’s air-conditioned coolness and calm atmosphere began working on Beatrice instantly.
“No, there’s nothing ... Well, I’m lying to Matthew.” It blurted its way out before she had even formulated the thought.
James’s head lifted in enquiry.
“Not lying exactly. Just being economical with the truth. My laptop got stolen and I haven’t told him. The thing is ...”
It looked like they would need the full hour after all. James sat absolutely still, listening to her complex explanation.
“So I want to investigate this, without Hamilton, without Matthew and without that inverted snob Howells. I want to show them this is not hysteria, or paranoia or even a whole new dementia. There is something untoward going on in Wales and I want to prove it. Hamilton thinks it’s personal, Matthew thinks I should stay home and concentrate on what I’m good at and Howells thinks I’m trying to teach him to suck eggs.”
“You seem very sure of what all these people are thinking. I’m going to ask some questions and I want you to answer honestly. If you’d rather think about it before doing so, that’s fine. Is it possible that you’re building a wall of hostile men from a series of disconnected resentments?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”
James paused to look at his notes. “Might each man have his own agenda, unrelated to personal perceptions of you?”
“That is exactly my point. They’re trying to keep me in my place, slap me down, hold me back. The little woman who belongs in the kitchen, but not in the workplace. Well, not Matthew so much, but he doesn’t want me to rock the boat either. He’d rather I did découpage than detective work. They all want to chain me to my own little groove and stick to the script.”
“Your tone seems unusually defensive. And, if I may observe, full of 1970’s feminist rhetoric and mixed metaphors. What chance is there that your own insecurities in each case are projected onto these individuals?”
“James, you know perfectly well how hard I fight to be taken seriously in the professional sphere.”
“Fight? I think I could accept ‘fought’, but I ask myself how that is relevant. I also wonder if you’re feeling a little victimised for no reason.”
Beatrice felt a flare of annoyance at James’s deliberate deflation of her righteousness. Fanned by the awareness that he had a point.
“Howells may well have rubbed me up the wrong way, that’s true.”
“And perhaps vice versa?”
James was exactly like a dentist of the mind, invariably prodding at the painful bits.
“Fair point. But Hamilton still regards me as a loose cannon and Matthew clearly wants me to settle for an easy life, calm down and stop looking for trouble.”
“Let’s deal with one thing at a time. Hamilton. Entrusting a person with a vital case for the force’s image is not where most people place a loose cannon.”
Beatrice huffed through her nostrils, but James didn’t push it. He didn’t have to, the seed was planted.
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t feel it’s a conspiracy to undermine me. That each man has belittled me and made me fe
el inadequate for the sake of their own egos.”
“You began this session by telling me you were lying to Matthew. So in your view, which of the two of you is showing least respect for the other?”
Beatrice looked at the floor, her mind whirling back forty years to the headmaster’s study, to the day she was carpeted for starting a fight in the cloakrooms.
James wasn’t going to give up drilling. “Howells, you claim, is defensive and resistant to what you described as ‘interference from the big boys’. Thus your depiction of a patriarchal bully rings hollow. Do you see where I’m going?”
Beatrice rested her forehead on her hands. “Yes. I think so. I’ve painted black hats onto the good guys.” She inhaled deeply. “As a victim without a perpetrator, I feel frustrated. I’m laying blame so I can feel hard done by.”
James’s voice softened. “You know yourself very well, Beatrice. Now let’s return to your original worry. If you intend to tell Matthew about the loss of your computer soon, what exactly is your reason for feeling guilty? Waiting for the right time to tell someone is not the same as lying. And you’ve stated that you’re going to tell him at the weekend.”
“Yes, I have. And I will.” She shifted awkwardly in her seat, unable to envisage that conversation.
“Beatrice, forgive my pushing, but I wonder if there could be another reason for your feelings of guilt, or disloyalty.”
“No, there’s nothing more than that, really.”
“When you have found someone you trust, like Matthew, that trust becomes precious. As time goes by, if you are truthful, open and believe in each other’s honesty, a bond grows. A precious bond, like a gold chain. It’s strong, forged from two people’s love and loyalty. It can withstand immense external onslaughts. Almost nothing can break it, except for a moment of dishonesty from within. Being deceptive, in any form, has the potential to crack a link of that chain. The relationship between you and Matthew is based on truth.”
