That was the by-product of allowing police support staff to stop supporting and start taking over. What percentage of staff were now non-sworn police officers?
Was it any wonder the majority of detectives went off site to buy food from local bakeries, butchers, and fish and chip shops? They mocked the food of the desk jockeys. They mocked their contribution.
Sam returned with two cups of tea and two oat bars.
‘No thanks,’ Ed said, as Sam passed him a cereal bar. ‘I like to stay fit, but there are some things I draw the line at.’
Sam laughed as she bit into the snack, putting the one Ed had refused into her handbag. He really was a dinosaur.
She broke the silence. ‘We need a way to flush him out.’
‘You know as well as I do that the best way to do that is for one of our victims to agree to his request for a meet,’ Ed said.
Sam nodded, chewing in slow motion. He was out there, somewhere. They just needed to catch him. Fast.
At Sam’s suggestion, Ed found himself walking out of the police station towards her car. A drive around the Gull and Conifer estate might explain why these particular victims, in their particular houses, had been selected. Did the houses back on to fields? Were they close to other properties or were they a little distant from their neighbours? Did they have large hedges, giving a degree of ‘cover’ from passers-by? Did they have a back garden gate, a fence, anything which would make it difficult for witnesses to see? Were they close to a main road along which their man could quickly travel?
In the car park they bumped into PC Louise Smith.
‘Hi Louise,’ Sam said, smiling broadly. ‘How’s things?’
‘Good. Just coming in for a meeting with Force Intelligence. One of our busy burglars is getting released next week.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Ed said. ‘Get the shite back inside as soon as, before they ruin your crime figures.’
‘Yeah, something like that,’ Louise smiled, her hair blowing in the wind. ‘See you later. Got to dash.’
‘I’ll give you a ring. Sort out that drink,’ Sam shouted.
Louise, who was already at the door, waved her arm in acknowledgement.
‘Is Dave Johnson still seeing her?’ Ed asked.
‘Think so.’
‘He needs to watch himself. Her ex-husband’s an odd fucker.’
‘Really?’
‘Quick with the verbals. Bit of a bully by all accounts.’
‘She never mentioned it to me.’
Ed opened the passenger door of Sam’s recently purchased, bright blue Audi A5 Quattro Sport and lowered himself on to the white leather sports seat. The smell of new leather filled the interior and there wasn’t a speck of debris on the black carpet or the factory-fitted mats.
As the engine growled into life, Sam adjusted the heating controls and switched on the electrically heated seats. She felt comfortable cocooned in the cabin of this car.
‘Good girl, Louise,’ Ed said.
‘Should have been promoted years ago, but she’s not interested.’
‘Bonny girl too… Nice car, Sam. What size engine’s in this?’
Happy to drive around in his VW Golf these days, he had in years gone by driven powerful German cars: big BMWs, large Mercs, and an old Porsche or two.
‘Four point two V8,’ Sam told him as she checked her mirror.
‘I’m impressed,’ Ed said, meaning it. ‘A nice girl like you being a petrol head.’
Sam accelerated away and Ed instinctively grabbed the interior door arm. They both laughed, releasing the tension the investigation was causing.
Too often they found themselves staring into the abyss of human depravity and needed a laugh. Black humour had always played its part in the police.
They had to blow off steam.
When Sam’s interview was broadcast on one of the local radio stations through the Audi’s Bang and Olufsen speakers, the laughing stopped, both listening intently. It was time to get serious again.
Ten minutes later they were travelling around the estates, visiting the victims’ houses in turn.
Ed stared out of the passenger window at the vast spread of suburbia. ‘Christ, look at all these houses. Two hundred years ago this town was nothing more than a fishing village around a natural harbour.
‘In my time it’s expanded beyond all recognition. Houses…the marina…new roads everywhere. Once again we’re looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.’
‘Aren’t we always?’ Sam said, keeping her eyes ahead. ‘And failure is not an option.’
Ed turned to face her. ‘Yep. Trevor Stewart made that abundantly clear.’
‘And as ever, the buck stops with me,’ Sam grimaced.
‘Pressures of rank. Think of the pension,’ Ed smiled.
There was nothing obvious to suggest the location of the properties was paramount in the rapist’s selection process.
The loud, ticking clock was approaching 4pm when Dave Johnson walked into Sam’s office.
‘In the last 25 minutes we’ve had calls from two women on the Gull Estate. Each has recently had a window broken and both of them live alone.’
‘Shit,’ said Sam quietly. ‘We were right. Any more details Dave?’
‘I’ve sent a crew to each house. Kirsty Sneddon had her window re-glazed that same night. Emily Sharpe had her window repaired the day after.’
‘Ages?’ Ed asked.
‘Can’t remember off the top of my head, but early to mid-20s. I’ll know more once the detectives get back to me.’
‘Keep us posted. Thanks,’ Sam said.
Ed was first to break the silence.
‘Two more broken windows. Neither of the women attacked, or you would’ve expected them to have said something when they called in. Or not called in at all.’
‘Yeah, I don’t doubt that,’ Sam nodded in agreement. ‘These latest girls, what are their names again?’
Ed looked at his notes. ‘Emily Sharpe. Kirsty Sneddon.’
‘I’ve no doubt neither Kirsty or Emily were raped,’ Sam said.
Pausing, she leaned back in the black leather captain’s chair, her weight causing it to recline slightly. Her voice was noticeably quieter when she spoke again.
‘What I do think, though, is that we might have two unreported rapes. We may have two very frightened young women out there, and somehow we’ve got to get a message to them that it is okay to come to us. That we want to help them.’
Chapter Fifteen
Amber Dalton was standing barefoot, slicing fruit on her kitchen bench as the interview with DCI Parker was broadcast over her laptop. The knife narrowly missed her foot as it crashed to the floor. Amber grabbed the bench with both hands, knocking over the small white breakfast bowl. Feeling the sobs welling up from deep inside, she dropped to the floor, back against one of the units, knees tucked under her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. Her chest heaved and shoulders shook as she breathed with jerky gasps. Her hands clenched into tight fists as she let out a howl. Pummelling her head, she was oblivious to the juice from the freshly cut pineapple dripping slowly and rhythmically from the bench on to her blonde hair.
‘Worthless! Dirty! Why didn’t you fight back? Why did you let him touch you? Let him have you? You’re better off dead. Why haven’t the police caught him?’
The stinging in her hands stopped her hitting herself and her arms flopped by her sides. She felt no pain on her head, but knew it would come later. She wanted to confide in someone, but who? She had no family in the North East, having moved to take up a new position in local government last October. She had become friends with a couple of girls in the office but wasn’t close enough to tell them about ‘him’. Even if they were best friends, she wasn’t convinced she would have said anything. She couldn’t even face telling her mother. She was dealing with it alone. Alone. Like she was when ‘he’ got into her home.
In the three weeks since the attack, she had barely left the house, only
to the supermarket for essentials and the doctor’s surgery. Out at 9am but back in with all the doors and windows locked an hour later.
Under the impression she was depressed, her GP had no idea about the cause; she hadn’t disclosed the rape, instead blaming her anxiety on the new job in a new area. Amber had no idea when she would be able to return to work. Her doctor had recently given her another sick note for two weeks, but she couldn’t think that far ahead. Getting through each day was all she could focus on at the moment.
The fist of the devil had punched through her body, and turned her inside out. Her world had changed forever. She was now living in a surreal vacuum, surrounded by normality, but not embraced by it. Sleeping during the day, she fidgeted in the armchair all night, every lamp, ceiling and wall light ablaze in every room, ensuring that darkness never invaded her surroundings.
End it, Amber. Just end it.
He knows where you live, what it’s like to have you. What if he wants you again?
Was it him on the phone? Has he got your number?
The call from an unknown number had come three days after the rape. No one ever called her apart from her mother; everyone else sent texts or used social network sites.
She remembered staring at the ringing, vibrating phone, her body shaking, biting her bottom lip until she drew blood. She knew it was ‘him’. She hurled the mobile across the room. The back flew off as it hit the wall, narrowly missing the TV, and the battery skidded across the floor. It was still there, mocking her to pick it up and put the battery back in.
She knew nothing about ‘him’ other than he got into her home, carried a knife, wore a mask and raped her.
Her routine of walking in well-lit streets, sticking to populated areas at night, using licensed taxis, never having one night stands… none of it had protected her in the one place she should have been safest.
Terry Crowther didn’t work Mondays. It was the quietest night of the week in the world of pizza deliveries. Crushing the white polystyrene chip tray, he threw it on to the kitchen bench and walked into the bedroom to search for his swimming trunks.
Swimming had become an escape from the taunts; most of the bullies couldn’t swim. Now, of course, it wasn’t just about the swimming. It provided the opportunity to ogle women wearing not very much.
If his luck was in, and it had to change sometime, he might find one who didn’t have a pound coin for a locker. If he was really lucky, and she put her clothes in without locking it, he might get the chance to steal a pair of knickers.
Duncan Todd was out of work again. He had been for a run around the Conifers Estate that morning before returning home and watching mindless daytime TV. He didn’t run for the pleasure. He ran to maintain his stamina so he could play football on a Sunday morning. Not that he played yesterday morning. He was too tired. He telephoned the coach and told him he was ill, but in reality, he was shattered.
After his run he sat through brain-numbing chat shows for almost two hours before deciding the Internet and porn sites would make better viewing.
Danielle had caught him one afternoon watching porn and gone ballistic. Now he could watch what the hell he wanted without fear of being interrupted. Knowing where Danielle lived was great news, not that there was any likelihood of them getting back together. She had made that abundantly clear, but he still harboured hope.
On Saturday night he had seen the pizza delivery guy at her door. Hiding in a doorway under the cover of darkness, he had watched her in those tight shorts chatting to him, no doubt flirting with him, giving him the ‘come on’. ‘Slag,’ he had said to himself. ‘You’ll fuckin’ get yours.’
When he ran past her house in the early hours of that Sunday morning, the house was in darkness.
Ed and Sam knew the 7pm debrief would take about an hour and a half. The numerous new lines of inquiry meant all the detectives would have a lot to contribute, each officer being asked to outline what they had done, what information they had gleaned. They would all play their part in piecing together the overall picture. Teamwork would bring them a result.
Dave Johnson had already started writing on the whiteboard with a black marker. The board was a focal point, a visual reference showing the names and addresses of the women who had been raped, as well as those who had their windows broken. Alongside each name was a photograph. The police photographic department had quickly printed the digital images of Danielle Banks, Kelly Jones, Kirsty Sneddon, Lauren Storey, Natalie Robson, and Emily Sharpe.
‘Okay,’ Sam shouted, standing next to the whiteboard. ‘Let’s get started. Six young women, all living alone.’
Seeing the quizzical faces on some of the assembled detectives, she continued without pausing. ‘You heard me. Six! Another two have come forward reporting broken windows. Neither was attacked.’
She moved across the whiteboard pointing at each picture individually, naming the women as she did so.
‘They are all very similar in age, all in their 20s, ages ranging from 22 to 26. While they’re all white, they’re not similar in appearance. Our rapist is not attacking a group of women who look alike, so we can probably rule out that he’s attacking women who remind him of a previous girlfriend. Six girls: two blondes, three brunettes, and a redhead, heights ranging from Lauren, who is 5’3’, to Danielle at 5’9’. Natalie wore glasses, the others didn’t. These girls were targeted not because they had any physical similarities. They were targeted because they were in their mid-20s and because they lived alone.’
She sat on a desk at the front of the room and took a sip from a bottle of sparkling water.
‘I believe we may have at least two other rape victims out there. Finding them is now a major line of inquiry. Tomorrow, I’ll front another media appeal. This time I’m going to talk in a very general way about the crime of rape itself.’
She planned to talk about the effect rape has on its victims and how the police used officers who were specially trained in the investigation of sexual offences to interview them. She would say how some women found it difficult to report such a hateful crime to the police, but that without the bravery of these victims, the offender would never be caught. She would urge victims to find the courage to come forward.
‘I’ve got have another mobile from the Telecomms Department and tomorrow I’ll publicise that number. Anyone calling that number will know they will speak to me.’
Exchanges of information began flying around the room.
A seated detective spoke. ‘A cricket ball broke Emily’s window. She hung on to it. We’ve got it now. It’s been dusted and they’ve managed to get a partial print. It looks small so it’ll probably belongs to a kid or a woman. Emily picked it up off the floor so the print could even be hers. We’ve taken her prints for elimination.’
Dave Johnson interjected. ‘The other victims didn’t know how their windows were broken, although Kirsty thought one of the rocks from her rockery had been moved. Maybe that had been used to break her window.’
The sergeant in charge of the house-to-house team was next to speak.
‘A Mr Noble lives directly opposite Danielle. He’d been up most of the night in his front room, reading. He got out of bed about 1am and didn’t go back until 5.15am. He’s adamant he didn’t hear any vehicles during the time he was out of bed.’
‘Interesting,’ said Sam.
The debriefing highlighted none of the young women had had any unusual visitors in the weeks leading up to their attacks. None of them were known to each other. They didn’t go to the same sports clubs, pubs or restaurants.
Bev Summers, a detective who had undergone formal training in the investigation of sexual offences, raised her hand and said she had spent the best part of three hours with Danielle at her parents’ house.
‘One thing she did tell me was that she had a pizza delivered on the night of the attack. The pizza was from Romeo’s. The reason I mention it is that Danielle described this guy as a real creep, someone who makes her feel ve
ry uncomfortable. That night she shouted ‘what are you looking at?’ to him.’
Sam stood up. This sounded very interesting.
All eyes were on Bev Summers.
‘She also lost a white thong some time ago, and she’s now convinced he stole it. He was stood at the kitchen door with a pizza when she went back inside to get her purse. She was about to put some washing into the machine and the washing basket was near the back door. She remembers the thong being in the basket and she’s not seen it since.’
Ed spoke up. ‘Before we leave tonight, can we telephone each of our victims and ask if they’ve ever had a pizza delivered to their homes. If they have, ask where they ordered them from.’
Dave was writing it all down. He looked up. ‘There are a total of 13 sex offenders living on the Gull and Poplars estate.’
‘Let’s reduce that number to only include males aged between 17and 31,’ said Sam. ‘I believe our rapist will attack women approximately five years either side of his own age. The victims range in age from 22 to 26. That, and the fact that he has to climb through windows, suggests he’s reasonably young and fit.’
‘Okay,’ Dave said, glad of any lessening in the workload. He flicked through his notes and continued: ‘We’ve got a load of CCTV footage from local shops, and one private house. They use VHS tapes, which record on a continuous loop, so not only do the tapes get overused and produce pretty poor images, they record over everything every 24 hours. The tapes will only be of any use in the investigation into Danielle’s attack.’
‘The usual problems,’ Sam said.
Dave nodded. ‘We’ve been to the council’s CCTV control centre and asked to see all the relevant digital images.’
Seizing CCTV was easy. The skill came in deciding what the parameters would be, and which images, from which camera, should be viewed first. If Sam and Ed didn’t give this careful thought, they could find themselves lost in a mountain of CCTV footage which would take weeks, even months, to examine.
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 10
