Peter sat next to Ed, one leg crossed over the other, pen hovering over the little black notebook, and listened as Sam brought him up to speed on the attack on Danielle Banks.
‘Finally, our appeal should seek any witnesses who saw anything suspicious at the time Danielle was attacked, anyone who lives on those estates and has had a window broken in the last six months,’ Sam stressed. ‘We want anyone who has any information about either attack, anyone who has any suspicions of male family members, friends or neighbours. We should also remind people to keep windows and doors locked and not to leave the door keys in the locks.’
‘Are you going to say you believe the assaults have been committed by the same man?’ Peter asked.
‘No. If that’s raised directly, which I am sure it will be, I can only say we are investigating both attacks, but that doesn’t mean there’s only one offender. I’ll tell them we have to keep an open mind. Let’s be right, Peter. If there is more than one rapist, and I say that there’s only one, I’ll look a fool.’
‘Do you think it is one person?’
‘One hundred percent.’
‘You do realise asking people to report their suspicions might lead to an avalanche of names,’ Peter said, looking up from his shorthand notes, staring at Sam.
‘I do. But to be fair, I’d rather be worrying about setting some parameters around elimination, having been given loads of names, than have no names as I do at the minute.’
‘Okay. I’ll write something up. Can I log on to one of these terminals?’
‘Course you can,’ said Ed.
Peter was soon busily typing, but not in the double-digit way of most detectives.
The team would soon be arriving. Ed decided to fill the kettle. Plentiful amounts of tea and coffee were going to be drunk while the detectives waited for their briefing, the room would be filled with conversations about football, soaps, topical news, and police gossip. Everyone would be eager to learn about the new investigation but they were all experienced enough to understand how these things worked. They were used to waiting.
Chapter Thirteen
As the Assistant Chief Constable’s personal assistant showed them in, Sam and Ed saw that Detective Chief Superintendent Chris Shaw, the Head of Crime, was already there with Trevor Stewart.
The office had a plush, high-quality blue carpet, the type your shoes sank into. The same carpet was fitted in the corridor outside, a silent but powerful psychological indicator of who was occupying the offices in this part of HQ: two Assistant Chief Constables, a Deputy Chief Constable and the Chief Constable. Everywhere else in the building, the corridors were fitted with linoleum.
The ACC, sitting behind his impressive desk, was on the telephone. A long table with four seats either side was pushed up against the desk. Chris Shaw was on one side of the table. Opposite Chris and next to Ed, Sam’s eyes scanned the numerous photographs and certificates adorning the walls, and the usual collection of memorabilia from other police forces, both national and international. There were police caps, plaques with police crests on them, and other items, all reminders of past encounters. More souvenirs, Sam thought.
Replacing the receiver, Trevor Stewart smiled and said: ‘Morning guys. Thanks for coming. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’
Sam and Ed declined.
‘Okay,’ Stewart continued. ‘Tell me what we’ve got, and what your thoughts are. I did say he would attack again. I just didn’t think when I said it he would do it the next night. I hope we haven’t missed any opportunities to get him in custody before this latest attack. The Press will have a field day if we could have prevented it.’
Walking to his office, Sam remembered the words of David Greene, the Head of ‘CIVITAS’, The Institute for the Study of Civil Society, at the time of the London Riots of 2011.
The present generation of police leaders gained promotion by mastering the art of talking about ‘issues around’ racism or bearing down on hate crime ‘going forward’. Learning the management buzz words of the last few years has not produced leaders able to command men in a riot. The injuries sustained by officers show that we have plenty of men and women prepared to be brave when needed, but they are lions led by donkeys who listened a bit too intently to the sociology lectures about ‘hate crime’ at Bramshill police college.
She was convinced this description applied to many police leaders – if the cap fits and all that – but Trevor Stewart wasn’t one of them. A career detective who had scaled the dizzy heights, he was a leader and a decision maker but streetwise, cunning and invariably two steps ahead of everyone else. He looked after number one, and Sam felt he viewed her as inferior to her male counterparts.
She gave an overview of the latest attack, what was known about the first one, and why she thought that the same man had committed both.
Stewart reclined his chair. ‘This second attack ups the ante. He needs arresting, soon as, but be careful about placing too much emphasis on behaviour. I’m all for innovation, but sometimes the old ways, checking and doubling checking, are still the best.’
‘We’re not putting too much emphasis on it, but it’s worth exploring,’ Sam said.
‘That’s what they thought years ago on the Wimbledon Common murder,’ Stewart said, pushing home his point.
‘There’s a big difference, Sir. We haven’t employed anybody, these are my own thoughts.’
‘Just be careful, that’s all. Don’t get sidetracked. Don’t take your eye off the ball.’
Sam outlined the media strategy and what she hoped to achieve. Trevor Stewart agreed that she should perform the role of Senior Investigating Officer on both rapes and asked to be kept updated of any developments, promising her any support she needed with additional resources.
Striding along the corridor, Sam was deep in thought. Stewart gave the impression he had complete faith in her. No hard questions, no investigative interference, only promises of support. That said, she knew she was only as good as her last job. One botched investigation would see her moved sideways to a desk job, joining the ranks of those who separated the green paper clips from the yellow ones. Nobody was indispensable, certainly not someone who blew a major investigation. These investigations received the most media coverage and posed the biggest threat to reputations. Get it wrong and she knew she was out. And his new drinking buddy wanted her job.
‘How much smoke and mirrors was going on in there?’ Ed asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Chris Shaw never said a word. Stewart’s like a smiling assassin. Don’t take your eye off the ball. Nice little threat there.’
‘We do our job, we’ll be okay. Chris Shaw is intimidated by Stewart, and Trevor Stewart’s got more faces than the town-hall clock.’
Ed smiled.
Sam flung open the door to the HOLMES room, marched in, back straight, head up, her body language exuding confidence and authority. Ed caught the door before it bounced back off its hinges into his face.
Sam shouted: ‘Okay. Listen up.’
Everyone stopped talking, took a seat, or leaned against the desks as Sam walked to the far wall before turning to face them.
‘Jason’s briefed you all. We’ll be putting a press release out soon. Not only am I interested in anybody coming forward who may have seen anything at the relevant time of the attacks on Kelly and Danielle, I also want anybody who has suspicions about family members, friends or neighbours to come forward. I’ll be asking anyone who’s had windows broken which they have not reported to the police, to contact us. Dave will run the office.’
Dave Johnson would be the HOLMES room Office Manager making sure everything Sam asked for was done and done properly.
‘Check for CCTV cameras in the area, and that includes private shops and houses that may have them fitted. Dave, get me a list of known sex offenders living on the Gull and Conifer estates. I want all of the victims re-interviewed and that includes those who had their windows broken. I want to know their ha
bits, associates, the places they go. I want to know if they know each other. I want to know every detail, however trivial they might think it is.’
Ed looked around. Everyone was staring at Sam. She really did know how to command a room.
‘Jason will remain as the interview adviser. I want to establish why these women were targeted? How did the rapist know they lived alone? Find out if these girls had had any unusual visitors or if they’ve employed any tradesman…plumbers, electricians, whoever. There has to be some sort of common denominator here. Not only did he know they lived alone, he knew that on the night of the attack they would be alone. How? Where is he getting the knowledge?’
She let everyone ponder that last question.
‘I want to know what the rapist talked about. How did he smell, what accent, if any, did he have? Did he smell of alcohol? I want to know everything. I think he lives locally. He’s visited the victims’ houses at least twice, once to break the windows and once to carry out the attacks. He knows the area. He must live close to them.’
Heads nodded around the room.
‘Dave, I want door-to-door around the scenes of the rapes and the addresses where the broken windows occurred. Get a trained uniform ‘house-to-house’ team to do that. Danielle’s window was broken on a Saturday. Did any of the neighbours hear the sound of breaking glass?’
Dave Johnson was writing Sam’s instructions as fast as he could as her words came firing from her mouth like bullets from a machine gun.
‘I want photographs of the two rape victims and the two girls who had their windows broken. I want to know whether the rapist is targeting these girls based on their physical appearance. We’ll have a debrief 7pm, but if any of you have any important information, for God’s sake don’t wait until then. Feed it straight into Dave Johnson.’
Sam was in full flow, focussed and fizzing with raw energy.
‘Dave, anything important I want to know about it. And fast. Any questions? No? Right, let’s get moving.’
Detectives shuffled back their chairs and rose to their feet. Peter Hunt approached Sam and said the press release had gone out. Local radio and one of the regional TV news stations wanted an interview and could be at the office within 10 minutes.
Sam agreed. She wanted to get her message into the public domain as quickly as possible.
She nipped into the toilets and checked her make-up. She liked to feel feminine, even in the male-dominated environment of Senior Investigating Officers.
Sam did three local radio interviews, two over the telephone and one in her office with a reporter, and a piece to camera for TV outside in the open air. There was nothing difficult about these interviews. As she expected, everyone asked if the attacks were linked and Sam responded self-assuredly that she was keeping an open mind, that it was too early to make the connection, although the fact they had occurred in the victims’ homes was some cause for concern.
She asked everybody to be extra vigilant about the security of their houses and urged people with any information or suspicions to contact the police. Sam stressed that it was always best to remove keys from the door locks. She didn’t want intruders getting into homes by breaking the glass in a door and reaching through for a key carelessly left in the lock.
He nodded at his Roberts radio and acknowledged that Sam Parker sounded good, but now wasn’t the time to dwell or allow himself to be distracted. Buttoning up his coat, he conceded the interview signalled the end of getting in by breaking windows, but he had expected that. Women would be extra vigilant now. They would report broken windows and have them fixed immediately or, even worse, allow the police to hide in their houses, catching him when he returned.
He was well aware he didn’t have the nerve to approach a woman in public, control her and the situation, and make her compliant. He had to apply his mind to another way of getting in.
Strolling around the Gull Estate, hands thrust deep into the pockets of the blue reefer coat, cheeks red and tingling, the fleece-lined beanie pulled tight over his ears, his eyes searched for anything that might spark up an idea. The heavy air hadn’t dampened his mood and the eerie quiet of the frost-covered streets allowed his mind to process the images he could see.
The white trees, stiffened plants, and frost-covered lawns took him back to winter walks with his dad and his right hand involuntary left his pocket as if to take hold of his father’s. His eyes glassed over as he remembered snowball fights and sledging. Walks with Dad were designed purely for fun, but now, in this real world of adults, things were different. He would have fun with the girls, but the serious side had to be attended to first: how to get in?
He saw her pushing the buggy towards him, wrapped up in her red woollen coat, her white knuckles and red fingers on the plastic-coated handles, the young child asleep under the blankets. She walked past, eyes down, without any acknowledgement, even though he had gone to school with her for five years. Hannah Fletcher. She wouldn’t remember his name.
The coat concealed the contours of her body, but he had seen her in the summer, wearing a short bright lime-green dress, and she was still worth shagging, kid or no kid. He had never considered seeing someone with a child, but it could work. Too young to shout for help, the kid would provide a good bargaining tool. What delights might be on the cards? How far would she go if she thought he would hurt her precious youngster?
Forty minutes after turning off the radio, he was no further forward with a new method of entry. The sun, more a cape gooseberry than a summer burning orange, was having as much effect on the ground frost as it was on his creativity.
God, this estate is vast. How many single women live here? What a playground, your playground, full of playmates. But you need to get into their bedrooms to play.
His eyes darted between the houses, the driveways, the side roads, the wheelie bins, the phone lines, everything and anything, seeking out that Eureka! moment. One spark. Just one.
Looking upwards, he sighed and turned for home, accepting that today wasn’t the day. Forcing the issue could lead to life changing, disastrous, consequences. He would content himself with looking at the licences, reading his notebook, and mentally replaying his time with one of them. The walk back would allow him to ponder which one would have the starring role. The high-pitched siren in the distance warmed his core in a way the winter sun couldn’t; he knew the police car wasn’t coming for him.
Diagonally across the road, a green Vauxhall Corsa pulled on to a driveway and a hint of recognition made him shorten his stride. Shuffling past the car at a pace normally reserved for funeral processions, he read on the rear nearside panel ‘Mrs Muck Out’.
He had seen these vehicles on the estate; cleaning ladies, working in people’s homes.
Stopping, he bent down on one knee and pretended to fasten his shoelace. The middle-aged woman, wearing a green smock, got out of the car and his Eureka! moment hit him like an ocean wave crashing on to a falling surfer. She approached the plant pot next to the front door, raised it slightly, and pulled something from underneath. She opened the front door and his breath visibly burst into the air, his hands shaking. Could it really be this easy? Did people really leave the keys to their homes under plant pots in this day and age? Were they so blasé, so stuck in their ways, that crimes being committed didn’t stop them leaving their house keys for their cleaners?
He was too isolated, sticking out like a sirloin steak at a vegetarian wedding. He needed a safe place to watch without appearing suspicious. It was irrelevant who lived there. His only concern, the only information he needed, was whether the cleaner replaced the key under the plant pot. He had no idea how long he would have to wait but there was no alternative. An empty bus stop may not be ideal, but at least it provided a reason for his prolonged presence should any prying eyes be watching.
Sixty-five freezing minutes later she left the house. He saw her lock the door and bend down next to the plant pot.
The plan was simple; follow the cleaners
and see which houses they went to. His previously compiled and comprehensive list of the names and addresses of single women on the estates would need to be cross-referenced against those the cleaners visited. It would take a lot of time and effort, but the rewards…
He accepted this method would seriously reduce the amount of potential lovers, especially when he eliminated the houses that had alarms fitted, but it would increase his chances of avoiding detection. And that was paramount.
Power-walking through the streets to get the blood circulating, his surveillance mission in the cold had reaped enormous dividends.
What was it his dad used to say?
Always find time to wander, son. It clears the mind and lets the ideas grow.
His mind was his true playground, not this estate. His mind was where he carefully nurtured and tended, a vigneron growing ideas instead of vines. Perhaps he grew more in his mind than in his allotment?
That phrase – ‘playmates’ – flew into his thoughts. What a great word, just like those models in the Playboy magazines. Looking up, he smiled, hearing Louis Armstrong serenading the visions of his own past playmates.
Chapter Fourteen
Sam suggested a cup of tea in the canteen.
Alone at a white Formica-topped table Ed shook his head, bewilderment spreading across his face. Gone was the permanent blue haze of cigarette smoke, a feature of those 70s canteens. Gone were the corned beef or steak pies, gammon steaks and roasts, all served with mash or chips or a combination of both. These days it was like stumbling into a nutritionist convention… printed menus detailing how many calories were in each minuscule portion, herbal teas, and low fat yogurts.
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 9
